by Greg Cox
“Better in the larger sense,” Vankov clarified. “Not so much for us, personally.”
Spock approved of their caution. “I understand that you have been dwelling here for sixteen years?”
“Eighteen by the local calendar,” Vankov said. “We’ve made a home here in order to study the Yurnians up close and personal. It’s been an amazing opportunity to observe a barely industrial society as it develops in real time. We’re confident that our work will someday lead to a fuller and more nuanced understanding of Hodgkin’s Law.”
“Eighteen years,” Chekov said. “Doesn’t it get lonely?”
“We have each other.” Vankov reached across the table to take his wife’s hand. “And it’s not as though we’re hermits spying on the natives from behind a camouflaged duck blind or something. We’re on good terms with our neighbors, the folks in town, our customers, and so on. We enjoy their company, even if we have to hide the fact that we’re not actually from this planet.”
“And, to be clear,” Jord added, “we take pains to stay out of local politics and community affairs, always erring on the side of caution for the sake of the Prime Directive. We won’t even take a stand on a new tax or tariff for fear of interfering with the natural evolution of their society.”
“Which is not always easy,” Vankov said. “It can be hard—very hard—sometimes to just sit back and watch these people, whom we’ve come to know so well, make grave mistakes or endure injustices. Or to watch them suffer and die from medical issues that could easily be treated by modern science. Or even to just hold your tongue when you see them doing things the hard way, when a simple technological innovation would make their lives so much easier.” He sighed ruefully. “But . . . you’re in Starfleet—you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Indeed,” Spock said. “The temptation to intervene can be a powerful one, but logic dictates that primitive cultures must be allowed to develop in their own way and at their own pace. My own people have understood that for millennia.”
Chekov nodded. “Although the Prime Directive, as we know it today, was first written in Russian.”
“Come again?” Vankov looked at Chekov as though wondering if the tea had gone to the younger man’s head. “You can’t be serious.”
“You must forgive Mister Chekov,” Spock said. “His pride in his heritage sometimes gets the better of him.” He gave Chekov a warning look. “It is a human eccentricity. Some, I believe, find it amusing.”
“Never mind,” Chekov said sheepishly. “We were saying . . . ?”
Vankov let it pass. “In any event, it is good to have visitors with whom we can speak freely. I’m sorely tempted to keep you up the rest of the night talking galactic affairs. Do you really think that the Organian Peace Treaty is going to hold? And is it true that Baldur III might join the Federation?”
“Both interesting topics,” Jord said, “but not what these men are here to help us with.”
“You are correct,” Spock said. “We should address the matter at hand . . . unless you would prefer to wait until morning?”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “We keep our own hours, and this has been brewing long enough.” She rose from the table. “If you’re done with your tea, please follow me.”
A stairway in the kitchen led to the basement, which was packed with belongings suitable to the planet and its current level of civilization: baskets, barrels, glassware, winter attire, a broken spinning wheel, a snow shovel, and other accoutrements. Cobwebs clustered in the corners, but the dirt floor and stone walls were dry rather than damp. A cooler temperature prevailed than upstairs.
“It is rather more comfortable down here,” Chekov said. “I approve.”
Jord approached a framed oval mirror that was mounted to a wall. She paused in front of it. “Requesting access to nerve center. Identity code: five-jay-five-zee-five-delta-nine.”
The silvered mirror lit up as though enchanted. A luminous green beam scanned Jord to confirm her identity.
“Access granted,” an automated voice replied.
A panel slid open in the “dirt” floor to reveal another stairway leading to a hidden subbasement. Jord started toward it.
“Move briskly,” she advised. “The hatch will close behind me in exactly three minutes.”
It was like stepping through a time portal from the past to the twenty-third century. They soon found themselves squeezed into a compact control room that looked as though it belonged on the Enterprise instead of buried beneath a rustic farmhouse. A computer station boasted a large rectangular viewscreen while a secondary work station presumably allowed both Jord and Vankov to make use of the nerve center at the same time. Glazed enamel walls and a tile floor provided a clean, sterile environment, although Spock noted that some local form of arachnid had managed to spin a web in one corner of the ceiling anyway. Intended for only two people, the control room could barely accommodate four.
“This whole setup is rigged to self-destruct,” Jord assured them, “should anyone besides Vankov or I find their way in here. Explosive charges will reduce the entire place to atoms, leaving no trace of evidence behind, just to be safe.”
Vankov winced at the picture she painted. “Like I said, we’re strict about abstaining from modern technology in our everyday lives, but we do need the proper equipment to conduct our work and to stay in touch with the universe beyond Yurnos, as when we contacted the Enterprise for instance. We’re not going to preserve our data on parchment.”
“Naturally,” Spock said. He recalled having been marooned in Earth’s past without access to the tools and materials he was accustomed to. “One can hardly expect you to make do with stone knives and bearskins.”
“Technically, there are no bears on Yurnos,” Vankov said, “but, yes, exactly.”
“I take it, however, that this equipment is not the cultural contamination you were concerned about,” Spock said. “You have something else to show us.”
“I’m afraid so.” Jord removed a box from a storage compartment. “Take a look at this.”
The box contained an eclectic assortment of objects: a tin can, a safety razor, a matchbook, a Klingon dagger with a stainless-steel blade, a trillium bracelet, a three-bladed Capellan throwing star, a vial of some unspecified tablets, and an unopened bottle of Antarian glow water, albeit with the identifying label peeled off. It went without saying that the more exotic items were not native to Yurnos, and he suspected that the same applied to the more mundane artifacts. He inspected the razor.
“I take it that these objects are not consistent with the present technology of this region?”
“Not one of them,” Vankov confirmed. “Granted, things could be worse. We haven’t found evidence of anything ridiculously egregious, like a phaser or a communicator, which suggests that the smugglers are showing some restraint, perhaps in order to keep a low profile?”
“Nevertheless,” Jord said, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that even the most seemingly harmless bit of contamination can yield serious consequences. Minor changes snowballing into major shifts in culture and technology.”
“Mind you, nothing cataclysmic seems to have occurred yet,” Vankov said, “but you can see why we were worried enough to contact Starfleet, especially when we got word that the Enterprise was already in the vicinity.”
“I concur with your assessment.” Spock put down the razor and inspected the matchbook instead. He noted that only three matches remained. “May I ask how you obtained these objects?”
“By hook and by crook, mostly,” Vankov said. “Traded for some of them, outright stole some of the others. We’ve been keeping our ears to the ground, alert to gossip and rumors about unusual ‘foreign’ objects turning up.” He glanced at the box. “Spotted a local bravo showing off that Klingon blade in a tavern. Won it off him in a game of chance.” A smirk lifted his lips. “I cheated, of course.”
“He had no idea of its true origins,” Jord explained. “
He thought it was simply from some exotic faraway land on the other side of the world. Fortunately, Yurnos is a large enough world, travel-wise, that distant lands might as well be on another planet, as far as the average resident is concerned.”
“Lucky for us and them,” Chekov said. “As long as no ambitious trader decides to set sail across the ocean in search of more trillium or glow water. They would be in for a big disappointment.”
“Which is exactly the kind of unintended consequence we need to avert,” Jord said, “by stopping the influx of such items before the Yurnians’ future is irreparably altered in ways impossible to foresee.”
Spock considered the problem. “And you believe this contamination is related to the illegal trade in nabbia?”
“So we assume,” Jord said. “That’s the only thing smugglers from other worlds have ever really wanted from Yurnos. It’s always been minor concern in these parts, but ever since Baldur III suddenly became a major port of call, the problem seems to have escalated to an alarming degree.” She gestured at the box of contraband. “We’ve collected all these items in just a matter of months.”
“A reasonable supposition,” Spock said. “We spoke with the leader of the Baldur III colony, who reluctantly confirmed that the ongoing flood of new arrivals to the planet has spurred a commensurate increase in the demand for nabbia.”
“And what do they intend to do about it?” Jord asked indignantly. “I don’t begrudge Baldur III their windfall, but the Yurnians shouldn’t have to pay for their new prosperity. Baldur III is a system away from Yurnos; these people shouldn’t be affected by what happens there for centuries at least. Can’t they—or Starfleet—do something to shut down the black market for nabbia?”
Spock chose not to mention that Mayor Poho had other priorities. “That is what we are here to investigate.”
“Do you know who is behind this?” Chekov asked.
Jord shook her head. “People like to show off their new toys, but tend to get tight-lipped when you ask where they came from. We suspect that the folks who actually received the contraband from the smugglers liquidate them quickly, converting the rare ‘foreign’ oddities to the local currency as soon as they can via the black market, possibly through a variety of middlemen. In short, they’re covering their tracks well.”
“There’s a thriving underground economy hereabouts,” Vankov elaborated, “mostly devoted to avoiding various taxes, including those on foreign and imported goods.”
“To the extent,” Jord said, expanding on the topic, “that most people prefer to look the other way when it comes to smuggling and under-the-counter trading.”
“And we’re reluctant to blow our cover,” Vankov added, “by poking around and asking too many questions. We run a mill and mind our own business, at least as far as Yurnians are concerned. We can’t run around interrogating people like constables or tax collectors, at least not without attracting unwelcome attention.”
Spock understood the delicacy of their position. They had invested a good portion of their lives to embedding themselves in this community without violating the Prime Directive. It would be unfortunate, if not tragic, if years of work were undone by their efforts to curb the illegal trade between the two planets.
“Let us take the lead in the investigation,” he suggested. “As strangers, we are bound to attract a degree of attention regardless, so we have less to lose if we appear too inquisitive.” He noted Jord’s worried brow. “Not that we intend to behave in too conspicuous a manner. Subtlety and stealth are called for under the circumstances. Isn’t that correct, Ensign?”
“Absolutely, Mister Spock. This is not our first undercover mission on a primitive world. We will be nothing, if not discreet.”
“I hope so,” Jord said.
Spock considered the logistics of smuggling items on and off Yurnos. “You do not have a spacecraft of your own, correct?”
“That’s right,” Vankov said. “This was always intended to be a long-term study, so we were dropped off here by a research vessel many years ago. The idea was always that we would arrange to be picked up by another ship if and when we chose to leave Yurnos at the completion of our work.”
Jord frowned. “You weren’t suspecting us of being involved with the smuggling, were you?”
“That would be illogical, given that it was you who alerted us to the problem in the first place.” Spock examined the primary computer station, noting that its functions included various sensor controls. “No, I was merely reviewing the number of known space vessels coming and going from Yurnos. Have you a means of detecting any ships approaching or departing the planet?”
“In theory.” Vankov indicated the console. “We’ve been monitoring Yurnos’s orbits for signs of the smugglers’ vessels, but have been unable to detect any traffic within transporter range of the planet, let alone any ships or shuttles coming in for a landing.”
Chekov scratched his chin. “Are you certain your sensors are functioning properly?”
“They picked up your shuttle’s approach with no problem,” Jord insisted. “But, as far as we can tell, Galileo is the first spacecraft to visit Yurnos in months, if not years.”
Spock made a mental note to inspect the observers’ sensor array in the near future, but it was entirely possible that the equipment was as fully operational as Jord maintained. The smugglers could hardly count on the observers’ sensors being out of order, provided they were aware of the anthropological team’s presence on the planet at all.
“Logic dictates, however, that the smugglers must have a means for transporting goods back and forth between Yurnos and Baldur III, and that those means would necessarily involve one or more ships. The question that then arises is how precisely have the ships eluded detection all this time.”
“What can I say?” Vankov threw up his hands. “It’s a mystery.”
“So it appears,” Spock stated, “but one which I intend to solve.”
Nine
Baldur III
“Any word from Spock and Chekov?”
McCoy joined Kirk on the bridge, where the captain was reviewing some requisition requests on a data slate while Yeoman Landon stood by waiting for him to sign off on the documents. Frequent trips to the planet’s surface to consult with the mayor and her advisors had put Kirk behind on his paperwork, so he was taking the opportunity to catch up while he could. He looked up from the slate to reply to McCoy.
“They’ve arrived on Yurnos and have made contact with the Federation observers. That’s all Spock has reported so far, but their mission is proceeding.”
“Well,” McCoy said, “let’s hope they’re having an easier time of things than we are. Although I feel sorry for Chekov, having nobody but Spock for company.”
“Captain,” Uhura interrupted. “I’m receiving a distress signal from the planet. It’s from Lieutenant Baines.”
Kirk recalled that Jack Baines was heading a small security team that had been assigned to assist the local authorities in maintaining order on Baldur III. All thought of requisitions and reports fled Kirk’s mind as he handed the slate back to Landon and turned toward Uhura.
“Pipe it through, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.”
Baines’s voice emerged from the speakers: “Hailing, Enterprise! Please respond!”
“We read you, Baines,” Kirk said. “What’s happening?”
“We’re in hot water, Captain. Got called in to deal with a claim dispute between two rival groups of prospectors, both of whom insist the other was trespassing on their turf. Things started out ugly and came to blows fast.”
Kirk could hear shouting and commotion in the background, as well as the tension in Baines’s voice. He sounded like a man under fire.
“We tried to break it up, sir, but, to be honest, there’s too many of them and not enough of us. We could really use—”
A harsh smacking noise, followed by an inarticulate grunt, cut Baines off in midsentence. A metallic clang
suggested that his communicator had fallen onto a hard surface.
“Baines?” Kirk asked urgently. “Baines! Do you read me?”
Shouts, screams, thuds, and crashes seconded Baines’s report of a violent altercation underway. A sudden high-volume crunch sounded like thunder on the bridge, causing Kirk and the others to wince, but was immediately replaced by static, which Uhura mercifully muted.
“I’ve lost the signal,” she said. “I believe the communicator is no longer operative.”
Kirk visualized a heavy boot stomping on the device, or some similar impact. “Did you get a trace on the signal’s origin before it was cut off ?”
“Captain, I have the location.” She consulted the computer. “It appears to be a wilderness area one hundred thirty kilometers outside the city.”
Lieutenant Painter looked back at Kirk from the helm. “Perhaps a wide-dispersal phaser blast, set on stun, to pacify the entire site long enough for us to rescue our people and secure the scene?”
“Creative thinking, Mister Painter,” Kirk replied. “But pergium mining plus a phaser burst add up to an explosive combination. We’re not going to be able to resolve this from on high.” He instantly decided on a course of action. “Uhura, transmit those coordinates to the transporter room.” His finger jabbed the intercom button. “This is the captain speaking. Dispatch a security team to the transporter room on the double.”
He sprang from his chair and started for the turbolift. “Bones, you’re with me.”
“You bet I am,” the doctor said. “Just hope I’m not too late for Baines.”
Landon hurried after them. “Permission to accompany you, Captain? To document the incident?”
Kirk remembered how she’d handled herself during that business with Vaal on Gamma Trianguli VI. Come to think of it, a record of this mission might come in handy in the event of any future investigations or legal proceedings regarding Starfleet’s intervention in the dispute.
“All right, Yeoman. Just keep a sharp lookout.”
