Star Trek - Probe


PROLOGUE
In its five hundred millennia of existence, the entity had been given many names. Some had called it Probe; some, Messenger or Wanderer. Some, such as the silicon-based creatures of the Orphan star cluster, whose metabolic rate was so slow as to prohibit meaningful communication with most star-faring intelligences, had called it Traveler.
But its creators had not named it. They did not name machines, even one of this magnitude and complexity, one whose centuries-long building had consumed all their energies and half their world. Instead, they had described it: Seeker, they had called it, for that was its function, to seek another race like their own. Communicator, they had called it, for that also was its function, to communicate not only with others like themselves but with any who might someday become like themselves.
Protector; they had called it, for that, too, was to be its function, and Nurturer and Recorder.
But Seeker they had called it most often, for that was its ultimate purpose: to find, somewhere in the galaxy, a race the equal of their own, with which it could Speak in the True Language. When that day came, it would return, bringing with it the message that they were no longer alone in a universe that seemed to favor only the scurrying mites that had, before the Winnowing, dominated the waterless areas of their own planet.
But in its half million years, it had found none. In the waters of hundreds of worlds it had found primitives who held the promise that, in another million years, they might be able to Speak, might become capable of learning the True Language.
The blue world the entity had recently departed had held such primitives for millennia. Time and again it had returned, listening to their evolving story, etching their rudimentary recitations into its crystalline memory, observing, prompting them in the direction of Speech. But then they had fallen silent. No amount of calling, no intensity of prodding, had brought forth a response until, finally, the creators' instructions had said: Prepare the world for new life. Whatever the cause of the primitives' extinction, remove it; insure that it will neither recur on this world nor spread to infect other worlds.
But the instructions had barely begun to be implemented when the primitives had reappeared, had raised their planet-bound voices in joy.
The entity had stopped, considering the puzzle.
Its creators had included neither instructions nor explanation for such a circumstance. Had the primitives made a sudden evolutionary leap? Had they developed
abilities even the creators had not possessed, enabling them to leave their world and return, unseen, at will? Or had another race even more advanced than the creators found them, transported them to some other world, and then returned them?
There were no answers. The primitives were still primitives, little different from their ancestors a thousand years before. When questioned, they would speak only of enclosed spaces and chaos and then freedom. The machines that darted through space like the mites that rode them had not the power of Speech, nor did they respond in any fashion to the True Language except to become silent and motionless.
In the end, the creators' instructions, incomplete as they were proving to be, had left no choice for the entity but to move on, to continue its search, continue its monitoring of other primitives on other worlds. But it would return, not in another millennium but in a decade, for that blue world now occupied a special place in the entity's crystalline memory, a place occupied by no other world. There were unanswered questions there, the kind of unanswered questions that implied not the small uncertainties of the position or spectrum of a star but the possibility of danger, certainly to the primitives, perhaps to the entity itself. Perhaps, even, to the creators.
Only once before in its five hundred millennia of existence had such danger arisen. For a few milliseconds the entity attempted to reconstruct the events of that brief period of danger and destruction, but failed. The crystalline memory was damaged-and unlike its physical structure, those lost memories could not be regenerated.
And in their absence, despite the questions-the
possibilities-that circled soundlessly, endlessly in its ever-evolving crystalline pathways, the entity could only continue on its mission.
Unknowing, it moved forward, skirting the edge of the Neutral Zone that separated Federation territory and that space claimed by the Romulan Empire.
ONE
Jim Kirk was glad he'd come home alone. It gave him the chance to fall in love all over again.
He'd been halfway across the galaxy and back, seen more different . kinds of cities in a year than most Starfleet officers saw in a lifetime, from metropolises vast enough to swallow the North American continent whole to villages rustic enough to have come out of an old Swiss woodcut-and still, there was no place like San Francisco.
He'd decided to adopt it as his hometown his first day at the Academy, when he and Gary Mitchell went running up and down the rolling hills of the old city. The years he'd spent here, on and off, since returning from the Enterprise's first five-year mission had only strengthened his feelings for the place and its people. The Presidio, Haight-Ashbury, the new city that housed
Starfleet headquarters-there was half a millennium of history here that Kirk liked being a part of. Earlier in the day, he'd walked by his old apartment that overlooked the Bay . . . and been reminded of his days here as Starfleet's chief of operations. It occurred to him that now there were few places in the city he could walk that didn't bring to mind some memory, weren't connected to some person or past event. If Spock and McCoy had taken him up on his offer to spend a couple days here, the last few days would have been very different.
Which was why the sight of Golden Gate Park on this, his last morning on Earth, came as such a surprise.
Everything was so lush, so overgrown, it was like walking into the middle of a tropical rain forest. Rhododendrons leapt out of carefully planted terraces to spring across his path, grass covered the slate path beneath his feet, and (though he knew this must be his imagination) even the trees along .Kennedy Drive seemed several meters taller. All residual effects of the monsoonlike rains brought on by the Probe, just a few short weeks ago.
Scientists were saying that growth patterns across the planet would be affected for another few years. The Probe, after all, had almost sent the Earth back into another ice age. Worldwide, many of the immediate effects of its visit had receded-cloud cover and planetwide temperatures had returned to within normal parameters, and floodwaters had receded from all but the most low-lying regions-but the repercussions of the Probe's visit would be felt here, and elsewhere, for a long time to come.
Well, if the repercussions were all like this, Kirk didn't think that would be such a bad thing.
On a patch of concrete before him, a sudden gust of
wind scattered a cluster of sea gulls fighting over a crust of bread. Even the air smelled fresher, he decided, almost as if the rains had somehow washed clean the entire planet. He'd noticed it out in Yosemite, too-a sense of renewal that pervaded the entire park, from the old sequoia forests Spock had been so intent on studying to the top of El Capitan. Kirk was glad for the chance to spend time on his homeworld these last few days-but he could feel the restlessness building up inside him.
All I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by ....
And still, that was all he wanted. He'd gotten the word from Starfleet Command yesterday afternoon-a whole new sector of the galaxy was being opened up, and he and the Enterprise were being considered to spearhead its exploration. Right away he'd made an appointment to see Admiral Cartwright-and you'd better start hightailing it if you plan to make that meeting, he thought, noticing the sun overhead-to persuade him that his ship was the correct choice.
And it was his ship-he'd finally made his peace with that. Enterprise-A had done everything he'd asked of it last mission-of course, it wasn't the old Enterprise, but then (as Dr. McCoy kept reminding him) he wasn't the old Jim Kirk, was he? Nothing was the same as it had been twenty years ago, and he wasn't complaining. There was a truce now, however uneasy, with the Klingons, and even the Romulans were quiet.
A sudden squawk and a flap of wings distracted him, and Kirk looked up to find he'd walked into the middle of the gulls' feeding session, almost tripping over one in the process.
Talk about having your head in the clouds. Better get your feet back on the ground and over to Starfleet.
Whistling happily (if somewhat off=key), James T.
Kirk made his way out of Golden Gate Park toward the city of San Francisco proper.
The rising sun glinted off the surface of the Coral Sea and sent light splashing among the crystalline waters of the great lagoon that lay between the Barrier Reef and Australia proper. Were he not due to leave within hours, Spock would certainly have taken the time to explore those waters, which boasted a wealth of colorful marine life unmatched in this part of the world. But he would have to leave that for another time.
This last day of his leave, the Vulcan had come to observe George and Gracie-the two humpback whales the Enterprise had transported through time from the twentieth century-in their home at the New Cetacean Institute, off Australia's Great Barrier Reef. Other considerations aside, Spock was fascinated by these extraordinary leviathans, who had not their like in Vulcan's shallow, turbulent oceans.
As he lowered himself from the edge of the newly constructed platform at the reef's edge into the water, several hundred meters out to sea George leapt high in the air and slammed back into the water sending fountains of spray and massive ripples in all directions. Spock pushed off from the platform's underwater supports and began swimming, the only sound in the early-morning silence that of his limbs slicing through water.
And then, suddenly, there was whalesong: it held no cadence or melody that Vulcan or human ears would recognize as such, and yet the "feel" of the sound, despite all the logical objections Spock's mind automatically raised, was that of a song-
A saga. George's "voice" was clear and strong: anyone listening, even swimmers as far away as the other end of the Great Barrier Reef over fifteen hundred kilometers distant, would have heard his tones, pure and undistorted. But there were none left who could understand him, none with whom his saga, if such it was, could be shared.
Five hundred years ago, Spock knew, the songs of a thousand thousand humpbacks had crisscrossed beneath Earth's oceans. Before the advent of humans in large numbers upon the seas and more specifically, the invention of the screw propeller, cetacean life-forms had possessed an extraordinary communication network. For millennia the seas had been filled with a complex tapestry of underwater sound, its uncounted strands woven around the planet, each a never-ending, constantly evolving saga. For such they must have been. Enduring anywhere from five to sixty minutes, they were memorized and passed from pod to pod. Old songs were repeated, new songs added, every year. One whale could communicate with another across distances up to twenty thousand kilometers-literally anywhere in the planet's oceans.
Then had come "civilization." By the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Spock's studies had revealed, the incessant background noise of commercial and military steamships-reverberating at the twenty hertz frequency that lay at the very heart of the massive creatures' vocal range-had made it impossible for them to sing to each other over distances of more than a few kilometers. It was thought this was why so many species had engaged in mass beachings during the twentieth century. They were disoriented, unable to warn
each other away from shallow water. The threads of song had been broken, the global tapestry torn.
And then the singers themselves were gone.
Until, finally, two were returned, not out of any sense of rightness or guilt-though the captain undoubtedly experienced those feelings on behalf of his twentieth century ancestors-but out of self-interest. Self-preservation.
They had been returned, not for their own sake, but to save Earth from the Probe's destruction, and George's song, simple though it was, had done just that. The Probe had left, retreating to the vastnesses of the galaxy out of which it had appeared, never to be seen again.
Or so a relieved Starfleet seemed to want to believe.
Spock, logically, felt otherwise. All the evidence indicated the Probe-or others of its kind-had visited Earth in the past. How else could it have known and produced the whalesong? Its last approach must have been when whales were plentiful, before Earth's science was capable of detecting its presence. Five hundred years ago? A thousand? Ten thousand? He had no way of knowing. But this time it had found a world that had changed. It had found only two of the creatures it had apparently sought, and those two, it must have noted, had appeared out of nowhere. If it had been prepared to destroy an entire planet because of their absence, it was only logical to assume that it would be concerned for the welfare of those two, that it would return not in another thousand or ten thousand years but within months or years, certainly within the lifetimes of the whales themselves.
It was this logic that had brought Spock here, to the two beings on Earth that had communicated with the
Probe, the two beings that might have learned something, no matter how slight, about the Probe's purpose or its plans. He harbored no illusions that his task would be easy, that he would learn everything he wished to learn. There would be no words, any more than there had been words exchanged when, in the tank in twentieth-century San Francisco, he had learned of Gracie's pregnancy. He had said, when questioned about his knowledge, "She told me," but that was not strictly accurate. "I learned it from her" would have been more precise, just as, amid the death and pain of the mining tunnels of Janus VI, he had learned the truth from the silicon-based mind of the injured Horta.
At best there would be images, feelings, none of which could possibly mean the same things to a hundred kilogram, half-Vulcan starship officer that they meant to a fifty-ton, air-breathing water dweller without so much as an opposable thumb to manipulate its environment. He would have to experience what he could, what George would be willing-or able-to share with him. He would have to interpret. In the end, much as it offended his logic, he would have to guess.
The water heaved in another series of majestic ripples. As if George had sensed not just Spock's presence but his purpose, he had approached, breaking the water less than a hundred meters distant, then submerging and coming to an almost complete stop a few meters below the surface, his great head directly beneath the Vulcan.
Breathing deeply, Spock dived.
Knee-deep in the rubble of a millennia-old city on one of the barrenest of the Romulan Empire's newly acquired colony worlds, Dajan glanced up from his scruti-
ny of a weatherworn petroglyph to discover a pair of jackbooted feet planted on the rim of the retaining wall above him. The archaeologist had to squint against the dull red sun to discern the true shape of the shadow figure standing in the boots.
It was the sub lieutenant from the guardian vessel that had dogged his research ship the entire way here. Why am I not surprised? Dajan wondered.
"What is it?" he demanded imperiously in the precise tone his elder brother had taught him to use with sub lieutenants and their ilk.
"A summons, kerDajan, from the capital. All scientific missions are herewith recalled."
"For what purpose?" Dajan's glass-green eyes snapped with fury. He had barely begun! He stood, abandoning his perusal of the petroglyph, though he did not yet put away his magnifier. Oh, how he longed to flash it upward into the sublieutenant's eyes, claiming later that it was an accident! But he was not yet that far rehabilitated. And he had to be careful for his sister's sake, for her position was even more vulnerable than his. She was still in the capital, where intrigue and backstabbing and petty revenge constituted a way of life. A whisper was all it would take to send he: tumbling back down the slippery slope to unorthodoxy.
"I was not told," the sub lieutenant answered with a touch of smugness, "therefore I cannot tell you. But your ship departs within the hour. Be on it, or be marooned here." ,
In his departure, the sub lieutenant managed to loosen enough screen from the top of the retaining wall to all but bury the petroglyph.
From the bridge of the Enterprise-A, Dr. .Leonard H. McCoy watched the blue-and-white confection that was his home planet glide peacefully by on the viewscreen. Very peaceful, considering what had happened there only a short while ago. There were the isolated food and medical-supply shortages to keep off-planet transports working overtime, and people in certain areas were still advised to boil or irradiate their drinking water until groundwater could be certified pure, but on the whole, things on planet Earth were pretty much back to normal.
As were things aboard the Enterprise.
"Available twentieth-century selections coming up on-screen now, Doctor." The thickly accented voice belonged to Commander Pavel Chekov, who sat at the science station before McCoy, punching buttons. "A very important period in the history of Western music. Significant composers include"-he paused the scrolling display for McCoy to read some of the names listed there- "Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Miaskovsky, Strauss . . ." He frowned at the display a moment, then continued reading. "Khachaturian, Volkonsky . . ."
McCoy leaned over the display and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Do I detect a slight bias here, Mr. Chekov?"
"Bias, sir?" Chekov turned back to McCoy, the look of puzzlement so pronounced that the doctor couldn't help but wonder if it, like the occasional thickening of the Russian's accent, was 100 percent genuine and not at least partly the continuation of a "game" that had started in his days as an ensign on the old Enterprise. But then, McCoy thought ruefully, there were those who had voiced similar suspicions about himself and his exchanges with Spock. There were even times, after all the years and adventures, when he himself would be hard put to give an unequivocal answer.
"Almost every one of the composers you've mentioned is Russian, Mr. Chekov," McCoy pointed out.
Chekov shrugged. "It is a well-known fact, Doctor. Russian contribution toward twentieth-century Western music is substantial. Concepts of atonality, dissonant harmony, computer-generated composition . . ."
McCoy leaned back against the guardrail circling the bridge's command deck and tuned out the musicalhistory lesson. Half an hour ago, he'd come to the bridge, planning to take advantage of Starbase One's extensive facilities to update the ship's on-board musical library. Chekov had been on duty and immediately volunteered to aid the doctor in his task. So far, much to McCoy's consternation, their review of Starbase One's selection had produced little that was not tinged with a distinctly Slavic flavor.
"Shall I instruct the computer to initiate transfer?" Chekov asked. "I would suggest a sampling of some of the recent interpretations of Shostakovich's works in particular."
"No, no," McCoy said. "Let's skip ahead, Chekov. I'm interested in more recent compositions."
"As you wish, Doctor." Chekov swiveled back to the science station. "Twenty-third-century works now coming up on-screen."
"Ah," McCoy said. Now that was more like it. He smiled, recognizing most of the names now scrolling by. "Now this is music. Salet of Vulcan, Evanston, Penalt-" He frowned. "Vigelshevsky?"
"Anton Wigelshevsky, Doctor," Chekov said. "Why, he is this century's most famous composer of electronic music. His wariations on a theme by Prokofiev-1 cannot believe you have not heard of him."
Before McCoy could give his opinion of "all that electronic hooting and braying," he was rescued by the sound of the bosun's whistle.
"Probably Dr. Chapel," he said, stepping quickly to the captain's chair and toggling on a switch. "I promised her the five-dollar tour of the new sickbay before we shipped out."
But it wasn't Chapel.
Instead, the viewscreen before them filled with the image of a dark-haired Starfleet ensign.
"Starfleet Operations. Admiral Cartwright for Captain Kirk."
Chekov and McCoy frowned at each other. McCoy spoke first. "The captain isn't here. But I understood he already had an appointment to meet with the admiral later this afternoon."
"Thank you," the aide said brusquely. "One moment."
The screen darkened for a few seconds, then the aide reappeared. "If the captain checks in, please have him contact the admiral immediately. Starfleet out."
The screen went dark again and stayed that way. McCoy frowned. "Now what do you suppose that was all about?"
"Captain!" Sulu called, bounding out of the shadow of the Sciences building where a maintenance robot was polishing the structure's transparent aluminum facing.
Kirk smiled as the helmsman caught up and fell into step beside him. The two strolled across the broad, sunny plaza of Starfleet Command HQ Central. "Mr. Sulu, where've you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you all day."
"Out enjoying the city." Sulu grinned, all enthusiasm. "It wasn't much fun when the rain was coming down, but it's sure had some beautiful side effects. So, ready for the grand tour of Chinatown?"
"Er . . . that's what I've been trying to get in touch with you about. I'm afraid our little outing will have to be delayed for a while. Cartwright's schedule cleared, and I managed to get in to see him early."
"No problem, Captain." Sulu's expression remained doggedly cheerful. "I don't mind waiting out here in the sunshine."
"Why don't you come along?" Kirk paused at the entrance to Headquarters and motioned the helmsman inside. "It certainly won't hurt to have someone else there to support my case."
Sulu paused in the doorway, dark eyes wide. "If you're sure the admiral won't mind . . ."
"He won't mind," Kirk said easily. He felt certain Cartwright had already chosen the Enterprise to lead the exploration; it would simply be a matter of the admiral's announcing the fact, and Kirk's thanking him. Cartwright certainly wouldn't have managed to clear time so quickly in order to argue against it. "I asked for the meeting, after all."
They walked briskly to the central turbolift; within one minute, no more, they stood at the outer office leading to Cartwright's. The admiral's door was shut, but an aide rose at the sight of Kirk and Sulu.
"Captain Kirk to see Admiral Cartwright," Kirk announced confidently, smiling pleasantly at the aide.
But the aide-a young human female with dark hair and features severe enough to be Vulcan-did not smile; in fact, she looked decidedly worried. "Captain Kirk, sir. The admiral's been trying to reach you." She pressed a
toggle on her desk console. "Admiral, Captain Kirk is here."
The admiral's door slid open.
Cartwright's mellow baritone filtered through the intercom. "Tell him to come in."
Kirk raised his eyebrows in surprise and nodded at Sulu, who glanced uncertainly at the aide, then followed the captain into Cartwright's inner sanctum. The aide's protests were cut off as the door snapped shut behind Kirk and Sulu.
They were greeted by a second surprise: Cartwright was not alone. The admiral sat, not at his desk, but at a nearby conference table across from the white-haired President of the Federation Council. And from their furrowed brows, it was clear that whatever had come up was serious indeed.
"Admiral. Mr. President." Kirk nodded in turn at each man; Sulu followed suit. "I believe you both know my helmsman, Commander Sulu."
Cartwright gave a distracted nod, barely glanced at Sulu; the President looked as if he were about to object to the commander's presence, then changed his mind and released a small smile of welcome.
"Gentlemen, sit." Cartwright motioned for them to take a chair. "I know, Captain, that we were supposed to meet about an entirely different subject, but there's something I want you to hear." He rose, went over to his desk, and stooped to press a control.
A burst of static erupted from the console speakers; Cartwright grimaced. "Sorry. The transmission's of poor quality because we had to hyperaugment the volume, and his voice is distorted because of the scrambling devices used."
Kirk strained to sift the words from the static.
"To friends across the Neutral Zone: I have news. You would know it soon enough through normal channels, but better you hear it now, for it has already changed relations between us. The Praetor is dead."
Jim Kirk glanced sharply at Cartwright, who nodded slowly.
"For a time," the distant voice went on, "there will be chaos in the Empire. There is opportunity amidst this chaos, to be sure: perhaps an understanding between our two peoples can be reached. Bring this news to all among you inclined to work for peace, and be wary of those who would stop its spread or distort its meaning: unfortunately, censorship is one of the many things our empires have in common."
The static increased, gradually drowning out the transmission. Cartwright pushed the control, ending the message.
"How recent is this report, Admiral?" Sulu asked.
"As recent as a subspace squirt from the heart of the Empire received at three this morning," Cartwright answered, his sculpted, dark face looking ashen, suggesting that it had gotten him out of bed and he'd been hounding the decoders from that time to the present.
Kirk shook his head skeptically. "There've been rumors of the Praetor's impending death since Hector was a pup, or at least as long as I've been in Starfleet. I suppose even a Romulan can't live forever, but even so, he's only third in power-"
"Third in rank, but first in power," the Federation President interjected, his tone indicating that he took the report very seriously. "There is no question among those who know but that the Praetor rules the Empire. Or ruled it, while he lived."
"If we can trust that message," Sulu interjected.
"Nothing Romulan can be trusted completely," the President said. "However, we have received information from this same source in the past, and it has always proven out in the long run."
"In any event," Cartwright said, "regardless of personal feelings any of us may have, we have no choice but to assume it may be true-and to prepare accordingly."
In the Empire, there was no doubt of the Praetor's death. The press of the crowd in the streets of the capital bore witness to it and threatened to produce deaths of its own as every element struggled to reach and enter the Hall of Columns to view the body and be seen expressing earnest sorrow at the passing.
Jandra herself would soon have to join them, though she would at least not have to endure the physical danger represented by the impatient mob of "mourners" she had seen from the windows of the Citadel quarters she shared with her husband, Tiam. It was possible, she supposed, that for some very few the "mourning" was genuine. For most, it was-it had to be!-the necessary show of Orthodoxy, nothing more. As for her own thoughts, they were occupied-as they had been since she had first been informed of the "honor" to be bestowed upon her-almost exclusively in trying to thread her way through the maze of what the death and the subsequent summons might mean to her. It had come with stunning suddenness, almost as sudden as the "reforms" with which the Committee seemed to be trying to overwhelm the very Empire. For years, her "rehabilitation" had exhibited little more progress than Tiam's career, but now, in a matter of days-
"An official flitter will come for you," Tiam interrupted her thoughts, trying not to posture too obviously in the glass as he arranged the mourning ribands over his uniform insignia. "I've had a place cleared on the roof to avoid the mob."
"What music will they require?" Jandra asked, careful to keep her voice neutral, her hands unclenched in her lap; tension was bad for them and would affect her playing.
"The flitter pilot will bring it." Tiam turned in her direction. Jandra's heart quickened. She remembered when the marriage had been arranged, and how she'd raged and wept for days when told it was the only possible route to rehabilitation for herself and her family. Yet, when she first saw Tiam, her rage had dissipated somewhat. At least he is handsome, she remembered thinking at the time. That was before she knew the rest, before she realized that the road back to Orthodoxy was exceedingly slow, that, though her alliance with Tiam allowed her back from the Provinces, she was as much an outsider as ever. "Undoubtedly the Lerma requiem will be required," Tiam went on solemnly. "Lerma has been longer on the Orthodox list than any of his contemporaries."
"Of course," Jandra replied without itlflection, thinking: Lerma is so bland that no one, not even the Praetor, could have objected to him.
So she had been summoned to play at the Praetor's funeral. Romulans were masters of irony, but this, Jandra thought, was beyond irony. This Praetor, who was a swine and a murderer, who by the most conservative estimates was responsible for a million deaths or "disappearances" among his own kind, not to mention
untold incursions against alien citizenries, this Praetor whose own order had sent her elder brother on an impossible mission whose failure required his execution, her parents' ritual suicide, and the un-Orthodox stigma placed upon her and her surviving sibling-this Praetor presumed to reach her even beyond his own death and require that she offer him her music.
"It is quite an honor," Tiam emphasized, not for the first time. "I do not need to tell you there will beuncertainties-in the coming days. I was made a middle-level administrator by this Praetor's favor. Who knows what I may achieve with his successor, provided he is pleased with me and mine? And I have been told on good authority that several elder musicians were passed over in your favor." He eyed her as if expecting an expression of gratitude. When none was forthcoming, he shrugged. "As for me, I have already been made privy to something that-" He fell silent abruptly, as if realizing that, in his need to boast, he had slipped into dangerous territory.
Jandra held her silence, unaware of Tiam's momentary apprehension. She still reflected on the "honor" he insisted she was being done and wondering how he dared say such words to her. He of all people knew her family's past, knew she had married him solely in order to win rehabilitation for herself and her brother. How that fact must gall him even now, she thought with some slight satisfaction.
She looked up from her hands in her lap to see that Tiam was watching her narrowly.
"You're indolent," he accused her. "Have you somequalm-about the honor assigned you?"
"I will play, Husband." Jandra fought to keep the
resignation out of her voice. "More than that you need not know."
Commander Hiran of the bird-of-prey Galtizh was the very model of restrained military mourning as he received official notification of the Praetor's passing. Only when he was safely in his quarters did he allow the hint of a smile to soften the lines of his broad, rough-hewn face.
"So they have finally let the news out," Hiran said. "Did they think they could keep it a secret forever?"
He turned to stare directly at Subcommander Feric, who stood in the doorway of his quarters, hands clasped behind his back. His newly appointed first officer shrugged.
"They kept his illness secret for years."
Hiran nodded absently, letting his gaze roam over the Galtizh's personnel roster, now displayed on his computer screen. He noted that he and Feric had now been serving together for almost four years-how was it the man had managed to remain such an enigma to him for so long?
Probably because he answered every question put to him as succinctly as that one. Gods, but it was strange to have to ferret information out of your first officer. He couldn't help but contrast the long, silent gaps in his conversations with Feric to the animated discussions he'd enjoyed with Ren. There was no doubt but that he far preferred an honest, heated, exchange of opinion.
But then, there was no doubt he had far preferred Ren.
It was still strange to look~at the roster and not see her name, listed beneath his. Still strange to be in this cabin, alone. And-back to the matter at hand-still strange to have to ferret out information from his first officer.
"The next few weeks will be interesting," Hiran offered. "Do you think we will be called back, Subcommander?"
"Anything is possible." Feric hesitated. "Particularly in times of transition. Rumors abound."
Hiran nodded. He supposed that, right now, that was as definitive an answer as he could have expected.
Even from Ren.
"So, Spock," McCoy said as the door to sickbay hissed shut behind them, "did you have another meeting of minds or did you just get wet?"
"Neither characterization accurately portrays the encounter, Doctor."
"I didn't mean- Look, Spock, just tell me what you found out. You did find out something, didn't you?"
"Of course, Doctor. George and Gracie are both quite pleased with their new surroundings, but they-"
"About the Probe, Spock! The Probe!"
"As I was about to say, Doctor, I was unable to glean anything definitive. At best, I was aware of what humans might describe as impressions."
"The same kind of `impressions' you picked up back in San Francisco that let you know Gracie was pregnant?"
"Approximately, Doctor. That impression, however, was much stronger, much more specific, in all likelihood because it regarded a natural biological function with which Gracie was familiar. The Probe and its actions, however, were totally outside their experience, as were many of our own actions in bringing them here from the twentieth century. In fact, if my interpretations are correct, the two events are not totally and clearly separate in their minds."
"You're saying they can't tell the difference between us and the Probe?"
"To some extent, yes, Doctor. We are both associated with events totally outside their normal experience."
McCoy frowned, then shrugged. "I guess I can see how they might think the Probe sent our Klingon clunker down to pick them up the way the Enterprise sends a shuttle to pick someone up. If they knew about the Enterprise and shuttles, which they don't. Do they?"
"Almost certainly not, Doctor. One of the few impressions I was able to uncover that clearly related to the Probe and not to our intercession in their lives was one of a feeling of familiarity, of other beings physically not unlike themselves. But beyond the feeling of familiarity, there was also one of comfort, or perhaps security, not just for the present but for the future."
"Meaning what? That that thing is piloted by some kind of superwhales and it told them it's going to watch out for them?"
"That seems to be how George and Gracie feel. There were also indications of something that might have been anticipation, perhaps for future contact with the Probe or some similar device."
McCoy exhaled audibly. "So it is coming back. Or sending for its big brother."
"I do not believe that anyone familiar with the events in question doubted that it would return at some future date, Doctor. My limited findings only move the probable time of that return much closer to the present."
McCoy shook his head, uneasily remembering, first, the unexplained call from Starfleet and then the abrupt summons from the captain to meet both him and Commander Sulu in the transporter room, which was
where they were heading now. "You don't suppose that's what Jim is so anxious to see us about?"
"I do not believe so, Doctor. My first act upon returning to the Enterprise was to avail myself of the latest subspace communiquds regarding the Probe's course and location. It is continuing its outward course in the direction of the First Federation and thus far shows no indication of turning back."
McCoy snorted. "So it's someone else's problem for a while. Well, I wish them luck."
Spock's eyebrow arched minutely, but he said nothing as the door to the transporter room hissed open before them and he saw Sulu and the captain materializing.
The funeral lasted two nights and a day. In that time, thousands upon thousands appeared to sign the Book of Death and pass before the wasted waxen figure in its upright sarcophagus in the Central Septum of the Hall of Columns. In that time, lacking food or sleep, Jandra performed, and almost as many marveled at her tireless brilliance as expressed their grief over the event that gave her the chance to display it.
She alternated among the three instruments best suited to elegiac music-the three-stringed bahtain, the twelve-stringed plekt, and the all-but-impossible onestringed the'el. She worked her way through the repertoires of Lerma, Talet, and Mektius without missing a note or repeating a single work.
Her person captivated her audience as much as did her music, as the passers spread her history from one to the next. Wife of subCenturion Tiam, some whispered, and twin of kerDajan the archaeologist. A twin! marveled those new to the information. And was she the elder? Told she was, they were pleased: Well, that explains it!
But wasn't there an elder sibling as well? someone asked.
It was a reasonable question, in that clearly neither Jandra nor her twin was in the military. But the silence spread up and down the line of mourners.
No, of course not!
Never!
You must have been mistaken!
And the mourners passed the dais where she played, returning their attention to the motionless figure in the upright sarcophagus, who yet held sway over them, consigning music and musician to the background where they belonged.
Jandra played. Her head buzzed, her wrists and fingers were numb; she was beyond exhaustion. Sometimes she daydreamed, remembering another lifetime when she had been a child prodigy, playing for the great musicians of many worlds.
"Be grateful," more than one had told her parents, "that there is an elder to fulfill the military obligation. For this one is destined to be a musician!"
Sometimes Jandra wept, the tears splashing from her glass-green eyes to bathe the soundboard of the the'el or the bahtain.
How touching! the passers murmured then. See how moved she is, that she weeps for him!
Not for him! Jandra thought fiercely, save for the fact that he ever existed. Rather, I weep for them-my mother, my father, my brother . . . .
Among the worlds of the'Federation, of course, there was little weeping done for the Praetor. Instead, there was preparation, so that, by the time the official word promised by the static-shrouded voice actually arrived,
Starfleet had already doubled its patrols along the Neutral Zone and ordered its ships to the highest state of readiness. If the chaos in the Romulan Empire was to turn to outward aggression, the Federation would be ready to defend itself.
But then another call came through, a call and an invitation.
An invitation not to war but to peace.
TWO
Captain's Log, Stardate 8475.3:
What was once known only to Starfleet Command is now common knowledge: the Romulan Praetor, said by some to have been "third in rank but first in power" in governing the Empire, is dead. The official statement, issued by the Emperor's Legate and sanctioned by the Interim Government, states "natural causes after a long illness exacerbated by the burdens of office." To Romulan watchers everywhere in the Federation-and likely within the Empire as well-the "long illness" implies a slow-acting poison of one kind or another. Too slow-acting, some say. We shall probably never know.
In a somewhat unusual move for a government supposedly redefining itself in the wake of a leader's death, the Empire has tendered an offer of peace toward the Federation. In typically stilted terms that offer little concession, they request a meeting of minds on an uninhabited world of their choosing deep inside the Neutral Zone. While this is viewed
by the experts as more of a "feeler" than an actual peace conference, it is hoped it may lead to something on as grand a scale as the ongoing negotiations with the Klingon Empire. I have serious doubts, however, particularly in light of their "official" response to the Federation's earlier attempts to inform them of the fact that the Probe's course was bringing it dangerously close to Romulan space. They denied that it existed, and felt compelled to add that "any efforts to monitor movements of any ships within Romulan territory could be detrimental to the current effort to improve relations between the Federation and the Empire."
Meanwhile, the Enterprise, in Admiral Cartwright's words, has been chosen to be the ferryboat for the negotiations. We will bring the Federation's diplomatic liaison to the conference table and stand peacefully by. demonstrating as much goodwill as a Constitution-class starship is capable of. If experience has taught me anything, however, particularly with regard to the Romulans, it is that nothing ever goes as smoothly as the optimists among us would have it. And with a wild card like the Probe in the game, even now making its way deeper into Romulan territory, Mr. Scott's assurance that everything about the Enterprise will have been "made right" before we leave spacedock has never been more welcome.
Admiral Cartwright's briefing was originally intended for all of Enterprise's senior officers, but Sulu and Chekov had been working overtime to realign the aft thrusters, and Uhura had already come and gone, after having spoken briefly with Cartwright. Engineer Scott had assured the admiral that, with all due respect, he could be contacted at any time in engineering, providing Cartwright would pardon his French if he were caught under a recycling duct with coolant dripping
in his face. Ultimately it was Kirk, Spock, and McCoy who sat across the briefing table from a grim Cartwright and the President of the United Federation of Planets.
"Good morning, gentlemen." The President began to speak before Cartwright could do more than motion them to be seated. "The purpose of this briefing is to clarify your orders regarding the peace initiative to the Romulans, which are already on a computer feed to your vessel."
When there appeared to be neither questions nor objections, the President cleared his throat and went on. "Before we go any further, are any of you familiar with thd term perestroika?"
Spock pricked up his ears, canted his head slightly, and answered, "A coinage from Modern Russian, most precisely translated as `restructuring.' First employed, in tandem with the less easily defined term glasnost- '
McCoy sighed audibly and rolled his eyes.
"-which can mean either `openness' or `publicity,' depending upon the context, by spokespersons for the Soviet Kremlin during the latter half of the twentieth century, to specify a vast and pervasive liberalization of a heretofore strictly hierarchized Soviet government. This liberalization was to include the simplification of an unwieldy bureaucracy, the elimination of corruption among government officials, and increased efficiency and increased production in all areas of industry and agriculture. Whether it would have succeeded given time is still debated, since the failed coup that precipitated-"
"That will be sufficient, Mr. Spock, thank you," Admiral Cartwright cut in. "It is exactly this type of `restructuring' that is apparently-and I want to strongly emphasize the word apparently-taking place within
the Romulan Empire since the Praetor's demise. From the upper echelons to the Romulan in the street, our information indicates radical transformations.
"First the prisons were opened and all political prisoners were released," Cartwright went on. "Or all the political prisoners the Interim Government admits to, at least. Free trade has been established with nonFederation worlds on the far borders, and the so-called Banned Lists have been abolished. Philosophers and scientists, artists and writers, formerly forbidden to speak or publish under pain of death, are now considered Orthodox again . . . ."
"Dajan!"
The cry escaped Jandra's lips before she could help herself. She knew Tiam would be watching via the wall comm but did not care. She and her brother had not been permitted to see each other for five years. Let her spouse scowl and add to his store of grievances against her; her emotions could not be denied. She threw aside the bedcovers, where she had been languishing for days, and ran to him:
"Greetings, Little Sister!" He used their childhood nickname, though Jandra was in fact the elder by some six minutes, a significant distinction in a culture infatuated with twins. They embraced, and though they were of a height, he was the stronger and swept her off her feet.
They were both laughing and breathless when he set her down. "What? No cry of `My hands, be careful of my hands!'? Are we grown so sophisticated, or only jaded?"
"Only so glad to see you that it doesn't matter, Sib."
Delicately Jandra dabbed tears from her green eyes; seeing them mirrored in her twin's, she touched the handkerchief to his face as well. "What miracle permits
you to be here? I have been sleeping, for days it must be now."
She glanced at the chrono, which confirmed her fears.
"Three days," she went on with a grimace, "while the capital empties of mourners. A `collapse,' if you please, from `grief,' if you please, following the funeral and seven public performances thereafter. As if grief were more genteel than exhaustion. Enough! You are here. How is this possible?"
"Don't you read the `nets for anything beyond news of your recently reexalted self and the ambitious subcenturion Tiam?" Dajan surveyed the apartments, sniffing disapproval. No doubt decorated in his brother-inlaw's preferred stuffy style; he saw very little of Jandra here. "I've been declared Orthodox. Rehabilitated in full in the twinkling of an eye, and `under consideration for a project worthy of your august talents, kerDajan.' I may gag! Now, of all times, damn the luck! I was this close to translating the key petroglyph on T'lekan. Well, but I kept copies to pore over at my leisure. Assuming I shall have any, between fetes. I'd almost rather be un-Orthodox again. Parties-ugh! How do you stand them?"
"I do because I must." Jandra studied her hands. "It seems our fortune ever to be either condemned or coddled, Sib. Would that they would simply leave us to do what we do in peace!"
"So the rumors have proven true, Commander." Subcommander Feric offered his hand in congratulations as he entered Hiran's quarters on the Galtizh. "There is to be a peace conference, and you are to be a part of it."
"Perhaps. There is yet opposition to the Galtizh, as there is to the conference itself." Hiran shook his head
grimly. "No matter how much I favor peace, I cannot help but wonder if those who would do this are not overreaching themselves." He sighed. "But if they do not try, they will not succeed. But neither will they fail, and a failure will bring them down even more surely and more quickly than the actions of their enemies."
Feric nodded, but said nothing.
Tempted as he was, Hiran did not ask his first officer what he made of the proposed peace conference.
"Opinions, gentlemen?" Cartwright asked.
"Admiral, if I may . . ." Kirk took the floor. "It seems to me that change on such a vast scale as we've heard described could hardly have been orchestrated solely to impress us."
"We've given you only the bare bones of it," the President said. "Further examples are virtually endless."
"Examples are endless only when one lacks either the resources or the will to enumerate them," Spock interjected quietly. "I submit, gentlemen, that whether this perestroika is genuine or not is of greater importance to the Romulans themselves than to the Federation. Our most immediate concern, whether the reform is real or counterfeit, is to obtain a reliable answer to the question of who now rules the Empire, and how firm is his hand. It is only logical to assume that the Praetor's death has opened the way for a massive and perhaps prolonged power struggle."
"We have no hard data on that as yet," the President answered. "As always, they present a united front to everyone beyond their borders. There is a so-named Committee that has assumed the Praetor's duties, though we don't know who they are."
"Utilization of an Interim Committee is consistent with past law and precedent," Spock supplied.
"A Committee, gentlemen," the President reiterated. "Names and numbers unknown. And they are our only official contact within the Empire with regard not only to the proposed peace conference but to the accompanying scientific and cultural exchange as well."
McCoy's forehead pursed. "Damned unsociable, if you ask me. Not even a face to respond to."
Cartwright, obviously in no mood for McCoy's facade of public grumpiness, scowled. "Whatever skepticism we may reserve in our private thoughts, gentlemen," he said stiffly, "we are forced to treat this offering as genuine and respond in kind. The stakes-the chances of developing a meaningful peace between our cultures -are simply too high to do otherwise."
"Agreed," the President said quickly, wryly noting Kirk's almost undetectable smile and the darted glance he exchanged with the doctor. "That is precisely what we are here for, gentlemen-to insure that we make the most of those chances."
"Without giving away the store in the process," McCoy added, garnering another scowl from Cartwright.
"Without giving away the store in the process," the President repeated, smiling faintly himself while Cartwright only nodded, his scowl still in place. "Shall we proceed? There are a number of aspects to the agenda the Romulans propose, some of which I'm sure at least some of you will consider peculiar. For one, they appear determined that this will be seen as a full-blown cultural and scientific exchange mission, not just a first-step peace initiative. On the cultural front, they will be
represented by a full orchestra, and we are expected to provide the same. Performances, I understand, will alternate between the Enterprise and whatever ship the Romulans send."
"An excuse to get a whole shipload of Romulans on board a Federation starship," McCoy opined.
"Precautions will be taken, Doctor, you can rest assured," Cartwright snapped. "As will Romulan precautions doubtless be taken while their ship is overrun with Federation personnel."
"You mentioned other `peculiar' aspects, Mr. President," Kirk prompted, smothering another remark from McCoy.
The President nodded. "One you may find more offensive than peculiar, I'm afraid. One of their conditions regards the ambassador who will represent us at the conference."
All Enterprise eyebrows arched at that announcement. "You certainly don't mean," Kirk said disbelievingly, "that they're trying to tell us who they want our ambassador to be!"
The President shook his head. "Only who they suggest we not send."
"That should make it easy enough, then," McCoy snorted. "Whoever they don't want is our obvious choice, I'd say."
"Are you quite positive, Doctor?" Spock asked. "I believe there is a human folk tale involving a rabbit and a form of plant growth known as a briar patch-"
"Whether the Romulans have similar folk tales, I don't know," the President broke in, "but it does not apply to this situation. Their demand is not diplomatic posturing. They insist-and we have no reason to disbe-
lieve them at this point-they will attend no conference at which this particular ambassador represents the Federation."
"Have they given a reason?" Kirk asked.
"They have-and I must admit, there is a certain diplomatic logic involved. If talks involving an ambassador of his high level and brilliant reputation were to break down, it would be catastrophic, whereas if a lesser negotiator was involved . . ."
"`Don't start at the top'," Kirk commented. "If it fails at that level, there's nowhere else to go."
The President nodded. "Precisely. It was a common practice on Earth, where heads of state rarely met each other until lesser lights on both sides had paved the way, worked out all the details."
"And who is this top-level persona non grata?" Kirk asked.
"Someone I'm sure you all know." The President's eyes flicked toward Spock. "Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan."
McCoy blinked, then snorted. "So I was right. They really don't want him, and it's easy enough to see why. If anyone could see through whatever schemes they're going to try to pull, it's Sarek."
Kirk had to agree on that point. "Mr. President, the very fact that they refuse to deal with Sarek specifically tells us something."
"That they're not on the level!" McCoy snapped.
"Very possibly. However, as has already been noted, other possibilities do exist. It may be, for example, that while they are ready to deal with the Federation, they are simply not yet ready to deal with their own cousins, the Vulcans. In any event, as has also been noted before, we
have to take the chance. This merely means that we will have to be even more on our guard, if that's possible."
"So who's the acceptable second-stringer?" Kirk asked.
"Someone else I believe you also know," the President said, a faint smile flickering at his eyes, "one of Sarek's proteges. He should be here any minute. Should have been here several minutes ago, in fact. His name is Riley."
In his forties now, sporting a ruffian's salt-and-pepper beard, Commander Kevin Thomas Riley, Starfleet Diplomatic Corps, could still be as rakish, as brimming with Irish wit and charm, as his younger self had ever been. He could, that is, under normal circumstances. These, however, were far fi-om what he would consider normal circumstances, and he had never felt less witty or charming. And to make matters worse, he was going to be late-late for a briefing conducted personally by the President of the Federation and if that were not enough, attended by the senior officers of the Enterprise. Of all the times to have been caught in a traffic jam, just as he was rushing to the Cairo terminal in hopes of getting there in time to make use of the transporter slot he had managed to scare up when the summons had come. And now this `lift to the briefing room floor-it was surely the slowest in the Federation! It did not bode well for his new assignment.
Not that he had not developed major misgivings even before the omens had started. Kevin Riley, back on the Enterprise-the prospect was not a prescription to soothe his nerves, nor in all likelihood, those of Captain Kirk.
Never mind that it wasn't the same ship, that it was twenty years later, that he wasn't the same nervous young lieutenant. All the familiar faces would be there -Scotty, Spock, Uhura, and countless others-and that would make it strange. And it was still the Enterprisein spirit, at least-so the memories would be there as well, ghosts overlaying the spanking new corridors as he walked them.
But he could deal with that kind of strangeness. What Kevin Riley was really having trouble dealing with was his status as the most important person aboard the ship, the man around whom the entire mission would revolve. And if he found it hard to deal with, he wondered how James T. Kirk would feel.
After all, Riley had been an eager-to-please ensign the first time he'd met the captain. Kirk had forced him to specialize, gotten him an early promotion to lieutenant. When Malik had died in a landing party under his command, Kirk had nursed him through it. When his career was in tatters, Kirk had picked him up, dusted him off, and gotten him an entirely new one. Saved his life, really, if you thought about it. And now he was to be the representative of the Federation, nominally in charge of Kirk and his entire crew.
That was the kind of strangeness he wasn't sure he could deal with.
But he had survived his apprenticeship with Ambassador Sarek, he told himself firmly. And he had approached that assignment with even greater apprehension, he remembered, none of which had been allayed when his first meeting with the ambassador got off to what Riley considered a less than auspicious start.
"You recount here an incident while you were on active duty," were the first words out of the Vulcan's
mouth as he scanned Riley's personnel file. Riley himself, not yet invited to sit, stood and sweated. "You were given charge of a landing party wherein a crewman was killed by an indigenous predator. You claimed responsibility for the crewman's death and retired from starship duty for a time thereafter."
It was not a question, exactly, but the ambassador obviously expected a response of some kind. Riley swallowed and began, "As the officer in charge of the landing party, sir, it was my responsibility-"
"-to anticipate every possible contingency? To know future events in advance in order to counteract them? I think not, Mr. Riley. Do sit down."
Riley sat, but he did not stop sweating. When he'd asked for a transfer to Diplocorps, he'd expected at most the kind of posting he'd had with his former captain-a glorified secretarial job, attached to some commodore's office in the boondocks where he could learn the drill and maybe, by the time he was in his fifties, end up second-in-command at some remote starbase where the natives were mostly female and dark haired. He'd never expected to be assigned to Sarek, and he certainly hadn't expected Sarek to accept anyone less than a Vulcan as his 'fleet liaison.
"Humans have a certain-spontaneity-which I have frequently found of value," was the only explanation Sarek ever gave, and that only once, weeks later, when Riley, after a particularly frustrating day, had suggested that his posting might have been a mistake, the result perhaps of a computer glitch or a bureaucratic mix-up. "If you are uncomfortable with the posting," Sarek had gone on, "you may request a transfer at any time, barring our being in midcrisis at the time."
That first day, though, Sarek had said nothing as he
impassively read Riley's file from beginning to end. After what seemed like hours to Riley, the Vulcan had looked up and contemplated his erstwhile new aide.
"You have no family, Mr. Riley." Again, not a question but a statement of fact requiring something more than a nod as a response.
"No, sir, I don't. With the amount of traveling I do, it didn't seem fair to acquire any permanent attachments. And my biological family-my parents-were killed on Tarsus IV."
"I am familiar with the circumstances," Sarek said. "Do you believe this has any bearing on your choice of career?"
Riley nodded. Hell, yes, he wanted to say. But he supposed one didn't use that manner of language around an ambassador. This ambassador, certainly.
"I know I'd like to use whatever skills I have to prevent the kind of incident that gives rise to a monster like Kodos."
The answer seemed to satisfy Sarek, who folded his hands on the desktop and studied Riley in silence.
Riley thought he knew all about Vulcan silences: he'd survived a few under Spock in the early years. What was expected of him, he knew, was to wait, for however long it took-without flinching, fidgeting, looking bored, or otherwise implying that his valuable time was being wasted. He didn't know how long Sarek's silence lasted, although subjectively it felt like at least a year, and it was so complete that Riley occasionally imagined he could hear his beard growing. In fact, he began to wonder if the beard was the object under scrutiny.
He'd started it during his years as Kirk's secretary and become rather fond of it, fascinated with the range of colors it produced, from brown to red to what he still
believed was a premature gray. He wouldn't go so far as to say it made him look distinguished, but it made him feel less boyish, and that had to be an advantage to a diplomat, at least among humanoids who associated facial hair with maturity and/or dignity. In any event, he'd hate to have to part with it.
"Vulcans have a saying, Mr. Riley," Sarek said at last. " `A beard more often reveals than conceals.' You will therefore rarely encounter a bearded Vulcan. Do you intend to retain this-growth of yours?" There was, of course, no trace of emotion in either Sarek's voice or his features, nothing to give Riley the faintest cue as to what the correct answer might be.
"It can go if you dislike it, Ambassador," Riley offered at once.
He saw just as quickly that it had been the wrong answer.
"If you are to be my liaison with Starfleet, Mr. Riley, you must understand one thing: I have no patience with indecisiveness. It was one of your own revered philosophers who said, `Be thou either hot or cold. Be not lukewarm or I shall vomit you out of my mouth.' Not a pleasant metaphor, perhaps, but one with which I hold. You may be unsure, Mr. Riley, but never indecisive. Do you understand the distinction?"
"I believe I do," Riley had said after a long moment.
"I believe you do as well," Sarek had responded. The deal was done, and Riley kept the beard.
And learned. The learning never ended.
Bracing himself, Ambassador Kevin Riley exited the `lift and after only one false start, made his way toward the briefing room.
As if on cue, only seconds after the President's announcement concerning the identity of Sarek's replacement, the replacement himself hurried tardily and apologetically through the door. There were handshakes all around, those of Kirk and McCoy perhaps a bit warmer and hardier than the others. Admiral Cartwright, however, cut the greetings and reminiscences short and pointedly brought Riley up to date on what had been covered prior to his arrival.
When the admiral had finished and Riley had quietly taken a seat between McCoy and the admiral, Spock turned to the President. "I believe, Mr. President, you indicated there were other Romulan demands you felt might also be deemed `peculiar."'
The President nodded. " `Unusual,' or perhaps `unexpected' might be a better description. Nor would some be considered as much `demands' as `opportunities."'
McCoy snorted. "Since when have Romulans been known for offering anyone an `opportunity'? Unless it's an opportunity to die!"
Cartwright's scowl, apparently never far below the surface, staged another comeback while the President smiled faintly as he gestured to the admiral.
"The conference is to take place," Admiral Cartwright said, "on and in orbit around a planet the Federation designates Temaris Four." As the admiral spoke, an orange globe formed and stabilized in the air above the center of the briefing table, courtesy of one of the conference room's concealed holographic projectors.
"The Neutral Zone," Riley said, his eyes widening as he read off the navigational coordinate grid floating alongside the globe. "Why so far out, sir?"
"So they can have us all for breakfast," McCoy said
sarcastically. "I don't know about you all, but the odor of rat is getting stronger all the time."
Admiral Cartwright turned to face McCoy directly. "The odor of what, Doctor?"
"Commander McCoy," Kirk said hastily, glaring at his chief medical officer, "was simply reiterating his suspicion of the Romulans' motives."
"Damn straight," McCoy added.
"Regardless of the Romulans' reasoning, gentlemen," Spock volunteered, "this is a remarkable opportunity. Temaris Four is an archaeological site of great significance to both the Romulans and ourselves, but the fact that it lies within the Neutral Zone has kept it untouched by either side for a hundred years. For the Romulans to suggest such a world as the site of a meeting with the Federation, and for the Federation to agree, can be seen as, at the very least, an important symbolic gesture on both sides."
"Exactly, Mr. Spock," the President said. "However, the gesture appears to be more than symbolic. The Romulans are proposing, as part of the conference, at least the beginnings of a joint excavation. Or perhaps it should be called reexcavation. I understand the remains of an entire city were uncovered before the war forced everyone out."
"That is correct, Admiral, and it would indeed be more than a gesture, particularly if work was allowed to continue after the conclusion of the conference." Though Spock's voice was as even as always, it was obvious to Kirk and McCoy that he was as close to being openly enthusiastic as they had ever seen him. "The Temaris ruins are of great historical significance, Captain," he went on. "According to the records of the
original expedition, the city they uncovered was the single largest known remnant of the Erisian Ascendancy, as well as the most recent and therefore perhaps the best preserved. The Erisians themselves are also the object of intense debate and speculation. Several theories have been advanced as to their point of origin, and the reason for their apparent exodus from this part of the galaxy. Some have even conjectured that they did not leave at all but became the distant ancestors of Earthmen, or of Vulcans and Romulans."
McCoy snorted. "Every species this side of Antares has tried to claim the Erisians as kin or mentor at one time or another. It's been kind of hard to prove one way or the other, though, since no one's ever found so much as a toe bone, not even any statues or-"
"Thank you, gentlemen," Cartwright broke in impatiently. "The point is, this joint excavation, whether it lasts an hour or a century, brings us to another of the Romulans' `peculiar' requests."
"This whole setup is `peculiar,"' McCoy said, shaking his head, "and that's giving them the benefit of a hell of a lot of doubt, if you ask me. The next thing you know, they'll be trying to tell us what archaeologists to send."
Cartwright frowned, his eyes betraying a flicker of suspicion as he darted a glance at the President. "As a matter of fact," the admiral continued, "that is precisely what they are doing, at least insofar as the team leader is concerned."
"You're joking!" McCoy almost exploded before a dark glance from Kirk silenced him. Riley's face betrayed surprise, but he remained diplomatically silent.
"Dr. McCoy's reaction may have been . . . intemperate, Admiral," Kirk said, "but I can't disagree with the thought. Vetoing a particular ambassador I can
understand, but this- How is it the Romulans even know of a specific Federation archaeologist?"
"They have had dealings with her before," the President put in, "exceedingly unpleasant dealings. They say that their `request'-and this, unlike the matter of Sarek's absence, is not a demand-is an attempt on their part-and here I quote the Committee directly`to in some small way redress her legitimate grievance against those who once acted against her and her colleagues in the name of the Romulan Empire.' There was no mention of the symbolism that will attach itself to the situation, but they are obviously aware of it and will, I am sure, exploit it to the hilt."
"So who is it?" Kirk asked. "And has she agreed to be a symbol?"
"Her name is Dr. Audrea Benar. As to whether or not she will agree, that is what Commander Uhura has been dispatched to learn."
Uhura paused beneath the porticoed facade of Lincoln Center's Philharmonic Hall, realizing yet again that she did not really want to do what she was about to do. She was comforted only slightly by the further realization that, if she had not volunteered, someone else would be here in her stead, someone who would do the deed in a far more businesslike way. Perhaps Admiral Cartwright, perhaps even the President himself. Dr. Benar, faced with a straightforward, albeit apologetic, request from the likes of either of them, would be left with little choice, whereas, with a lowly commander making the request, offering to take the heat, even offering herself up as a buffer if the archaeologist was inclined to refuse . . .
Bracing herself, Uhura went inside, hurried purpose-
fully through the chandeliered elegance of the ornate lobby, and pushed through the muffling doors into the concert hall. Abruptly, she was enveloped in the barely controlled chaos that was the sound of a musicians' rehearsal in progress. Beethoven's Seventh, she realized a moment later as her ears adjusted to the hall's acoustics, which of course had been thrown completely out of kilter by the total absence of a suitably sound-absorbent audience. The first movement. Halting just inside the doors, at the top of the plushly carpeted aisle that led down to the airy blondwood stage where the entire string section was having at it, she listened.
There were, Uhura thought with sudden warmth, some things that never went out of style, and the works of Ludwig van Beethoven, performed live, were certainly among those things. After more than four centuries, not a year went by that did not see a Beethoven festival somewhere, if not here, then in Salzburg or Vienna, Tokyo or Sydney, not to mention the off=world festivals, some featuring instruments and arrangements that the composer likely never even dreamed of. It was hard to believe there had ever been a time-although, according to the history books, there had indeed been such a time-when the computerized descendants of Moog, with their prerecorded perfection, had been so in vogue that live performances, not only of Beethoven but of anyone, new or old, had been in danger of extinction. In the days-the dark days, to Uhura's mind-before the twenty-second-century renaissance of live performance, assembling enough professional musicians for a full classical orchestra such as this one would have been virtually impossible.
Watching the musicians, Uhura found herself marveling at the coordination, the discipline that was needed to
weld together all those dozens of disparate individuals and sounds. She knew music, even considered herself a fair to middling performer, but only as a soloist, only as a hobbyist. As a member of a professional ensemble, particularly one of this size and complexity, she would be hopelessly out of her depth.
Finally there was silence, punctuated by a gentle but authoritative tap of a baton as the slender female figure at the podium expressed her dissatisfaction -Uhura could not imagine why-at what she had just heard.
"Cellos," she began in a low, clear contralto that carried to where Uhura stood. "I'm aware of the arduous tempi in this section, but I assure you they can be achieved. May I remind you that the notation for the movement reads poco sostenuto vivace. By no definition I understand could your present rendition be construed as `vivace."'
There was a smattering of laughter at her dryness.
"Now again, please." She raised the baton as the musicians readied their instruments. "From the top, and-"
"Isn't she delightful?" someone stage-whispered at Uhura's elbow.
Uhura recognized the small, plump figure with the fringe of silver hair as Maestra Carmen Espinoza, the principal conductor herself, from the larger-than-life holos gracing the theater lobby. She was winded, as if she had run the entire length of the plaza.
"You must be Commander Uhura. But you're early! I was told not to expect you until this afternoon," she chided Uhura with the easy familiarity of someone aware of her own talents and her place in the scheme of things. "Don't you know artists are not morning people?"
She did not wait for an answer. "Come. Even I don't dare interrupt one of Audrea's rehearsals; I doubt anything short of the Second Coming could. I'm afraid you'll have to wait in my office, though I can at least offer you a cup of tea."
Uhura accepted the invitation-the delay-with some relief and followed the older woman down a labyrinth of corridors, backstage past the scene shop redolent with wood shavings and paint thinner where a massive backdrop for this season's Otello was under construction, and into what was apparently the conductor's office.
"Please excuse the mess," Maestra Espinoza apologized, seeming to address the cello, which had somehow taken up residence in her chair and which she now relegated to a far corner, making room among a clutter of music stands so that Uhura could sit on the divan while she programmed the servitor for tea. "I suppose I must ask what you've come about, though I can guess. Starfleet recently tried to commandeer my entire orchestra, but I was not to be budged. Now, if I have correctly interpreted their latest cryptic message, you have been sent to draft my best rehearsal conductor for whatever secret reason. Before you attempt to take her from me, I must tell you what a treasure Audrea's been."
A small bell on the servitor intoned a perfect A, indicating that the tea was ready; Maestra Espinoza poured, never losing a beat in her monologue.
"As you doubtless know, she came to us under somewhat . . . unusual circumstances, so I suppose it's only fitting she leave the same way." Espinoza smiled and returned the pot to the servitor. "You do know the story?"
"I'm afraid I don't," Uhura replied, more than willing
to listen. Like most, she knew the story of Kalis Three but little else, least of all how someone who was still one of the Federation's premier archaeologists had ended up here, conducting the New York Philharmonic. The media had been full of grossly sensationalized accounts of the year-long captivity of Dr. Benar and her archaeological team, of the "experiments" the Romulans had conducted on them all, of the brutal deaths of her colleagues, of her brother, and of her own final escape. Once she sought refuge on Vulcan, however, she had faded from public view. Her efforts to use Vulcan logic to rebuild her mind and her life were not as newsworthy -read "titillating"-as the events that had nearly destroyed them in the first place.
"Well then!" Espinoza settled back in her chair, unapologetically propping her stockinged feet up on the desk. "About a year ago-or was it two? No matterthe Philharmonic was in the process of planning a retrospective of the works of off-world composers-one performance to be devoted to each of six, as I recall. We had selected a most challenging Vulcan piece by Salet, which required an obsolete instrument-the tlakyrrand we were on the verge of substituting another instrument because, frankly, finding a virtuoso on the tlakyrr had us stumped. That is, until someone recommended we contact Smithsonian's xeno-archaeology department. They put us in touch with a specialist in ancient Vulcan musicology: Audrea Benar. Such talent, that one! In due course, I also learned that she had recently begun a private study of ancient Earth music, and particularly of conducting. I don't have to tell you how extraordinary a skill that has become even among humans in this push-button synthesized century. And Audrea's field of concentration, fortuitously enough, was Beethoven-no
surprise, as he is the one Earth composer Vulcans seem to find most simpatico. Someday I intend to find out why." She smiled. "Audrea's human, not Vulcan, of course-though after years of study there, she behaves so much like one of them I tend to forget."
Uhura nodded, smiling and wondering what Spock would have to say about such generalizations about Vulcan musical taste. His father's favorite composer, he had once confided, was not Beethoven but Mozart. Whether it had always been so, even before the crosscultural pollination of his marriage to Amanda, Spock had not said.
Maestra Espinoza sipped her tea. "But I'm squandering your precious time with my chatter, aren't I? It's the burden of the performing artist, you see. So accustomed to singing for our supper that we don't know when to shut up.
"But to be concise: Audrea has since become one of our rehearsal conductors-the best of the lot, I might add. The musicians respect her; there's a lot less carping and silliness when she's in charge. You know how musicians can get sometimes."
Espinoza paused as a faint chime, a precise octave above that of the servitor bell, sounded somewhere in the cluttered office. Some of the cheery brightness in her expression ebbed as she glanced in the direction of the door and stood up. "I believe that marks the end of the rehearsal, at least for the moment. If you would like to use my office to speak with Audrea . . ."
Uhura, also on her feet, shook her head. "Thank you, but there's no need for that. This won't take long." Whichever way it goes, she added to herself.
But it did. Or so it began to seem to Uhura as soon as, on the now-deserted stage, Espinoza introduced her to
Dr. Benar and then quietly, discreetly absented herself. Seconds stretched into minutes as Uhura expressed her admiration, then her sympathy, delaying, always delaying.
Finally they were seated in folding chairs, facing each other beneath a worklight. Benar tilted her head, blueblack brows forming a crease in an otherwise smooth, unlined forehead. Espinoza had been right: it was difficult to remember Audrea's earthly origin. Her manner, dress, intonation, were distinctly Vulcan: cool, subdued, precise. Were it not for the ears, she could easily be mistaken for one, with her dark hair and tall, slender build. Her spine, poker straight, did not touch the backrest of her chair.
"I assume," Uhura said, her soft voice seeming uncomfortably loud on the bare stage, "that you're aware of what's been happening in the Romulan Empire the last few days."
"I know of the Praetor's death, Commander."
"And nothing else?"
"I have sought out nothing else."
Understandable, Uhura thought, but it didn't make her job any easier. Carefully, she explained about the Romulan Committee, the apparent upheaval and reform within the Empire, and finally the general outline of the invitation extended to the Federation.
"I can safely assume," Benar said when Uhura fell silent, "that I would not be the first to urge caution." She spoke in the same dry tone she had used with the cellists, but with a tinge of brittle tension that had been totally lacking earlier.
"Nor the last," Uhura agreed. "The thing is, the Federation can't afford not to at least appear to take the invitation and all the rest at face value. If it turns out the
Romulans are even halfway sincere and the Federation balks, chances for a meaningful peace could be lost for decades. Even if this so-called Committee only represents one faction, that one faction needs whatever bolstering we can give it."
"Startleet suspects a power struggle within the Empire?"
"To the best of our knowledge, there's always a power struggle of some kind going on within the Empire," Uhura said with a rueful smile. "The Praetor's death has probably only exacerbated the situation. Not that we have any reliable firsthand information. Everything official coming out of the Empire so far shows a unitedand reform-minded-front."
"And my own role, Commander? I assume my experiences with a small contingent of Romulans on Kalis Three are not sufficient reason for Starfleet to deem me an expert on the Empire and to send a representative to consult with me before accepting or rejecting the invitation."
Uhura released an almost inaudible sigh. "That's not exactly the way it happened, but the invitation is the reason I'm here. And part of the Federation response is dependent on yours now, Dr. Benar."
And Uhura launched into an explanation, concluding with her hasty assurance that she would understand if, under the circumstances, Dr. Benar felt obliged to refuse. "And I'll do my best to see that Starlleet understands as well."
"That will not be necessary, Commander," Benar said after a moment's contemplative silence. "It would be both illogical and ungracious for me to refuse such an offer."
"Are you certain, Dr. Benar?" Uhura asked, noting the brittle emphasis the other woman had managed to place on the word ungracious without so much as a flicker of accompanying facial expression. "Your teamthe Federation team-would be working side by side with the Romulans at the dig. You would all be in day-to-day personal contact."
"I understand your concerns, Commander. Do you, however, understand the significance of this offer?" For the first time, a trace of emotion, what Uhura could only think of as a scholarly gleam in her eyes, cracked the Vulcan-inspired mask. "It was the mystery of the Ascendancy that first drew me to my field. I have personally worked on two Ascendancy worlds and have studied the recordings made on all, including those from Temaris itself before the war, before the Neutral Zone cut it off from all study, either Federation or Romulan. As I am sure you must know, Temaris holds at least one entire city, its ruins the best preserved and most extensive of any Ascendancy world, in or out of the Federation. To have access to that site, even under these conditions, is an opportunity that is at least as irresistible to an archaeologist as the opportunity to negotiate directly with some seemingly peaceful Romulans is to a diplomat. And the odds of my achieving some small measure, of success, of gaining some new bit of knowledge of the Ascendancy, are far better, I suspect, than the odds of your diplomats' achieving a similar measure of success."
Benar rose from the rehearsal chair with a small, distinctly human sigh and wistfully surveyed the vast empty concert hall as if for the last time.
"I am prepared," she said solemnly. "You may so inform your superiors."
Uhura felt a catch in her throat. Spock would be proud, she thought irrelevantly. 1 just hope she doesn't regret it-too much.
"You can inform them yourself," she said. "My shuttle's waiting outside."
Following the briefing, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy retired to spacedock's officers' lounge, where Spock ordered a round of Thirellian mineral water. Kirk smiled as he sipped and half-listened to his friends discuss the logic or lack thereof, the sincerity or lack thereof, of the Romulan proposals and demands. The real object of his attention, though, was beyond the clearsteel window, suspended at the very pinnacle of the spacedock. Luminous, hanging in the antigrav like some ethereal Christmas ornament: Enterprise.
Just steer the boat, Cartwright had said. In other words, trust Kevin Riley to fill the diplomat's role. The role I nudged him into, Kirk thought, remembering that then Riley had seemed too immature, too undisciplined ever to qualify for the Diplomatic Corps.
But that had been years ago; since then, Riley had not only made it into the Diplomatic Corps, he'd distinguished himself a dozen times over, thanks probably to the on-the-job training he had gotten from his years with Sarek.
Perhaps, Kirk admitted to himself, at least part of his uneasiness was due to a small amount of professional jealousy. He was glad to be the captain of the Enterprise again, glad to be out of the diplomatic troubleshooting business. But what a hell of a juicy assignment Riley had fallen into when the Romulans had declared Sarek ineligible-chief diplomat on the first peace conference with the Empire!
Kirk sighed inwardly, annoyed at himself. Jealousy was not, as Spock would point out if given the chance, logical. The important thing was not who got the glory. The important thing was to work together to see there would be glory-not blame-to be had when this was all over.
Taking another sip from the mineral water, Kirk let his attention drift again toward the clearsteel window and the starship that lay beyond it, waiting for him. Waiting for them all. Waiting for the mission.
Commander Kevin Riley-he still marveled at the "commander" now and then, despite everything-had just finished stowing his gear in his quarters aboard the Enterprise when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the open corridor door.
"Kevin?"
Riley looked up, and there was Sulu, the onetime swordsman of the helm.
"Thought you might like to head over to the lounge in spacedock, maybe grab something to eat," Sulu said, smiling his usual incandescent smile. "I think there's even some kind of party-a festival or somethinggoing on tonight."
"Sounds good," Riley said, returning the grin. He started for the door, then stopped. "Ddja vu," he said, eyeing Sulu suspiciously. "This isn't another one of Mr. Scott's surprise parties, is it? Like that one you dragged me to my first year on the ship-what was it called?"
"Robert Burns's birthday," Sulu supplied, clearly remembering the incident-particularly the horror Scotty had insisted against all logic was food, something he fondly called haggis-as well as Riley. "Don't worry about Mr. Scott. He's still busy making sure Chekov's
navigation computer talks to the sensors without an accent."
"All right, then," Riley said, clapping the helmsman on the shoulder. "Lead the way."
Hiran eyed Centurion Tiam, newly appointed delegate to the Federation, with less than enthusiasm. The younger man, his back to Hiran, stood at the room's single narrow viewport, making a show of contemplating the slowly moving starfield even though they were still in homeport orbit. Tiam's aide, Kital, old for a subCenturion and almost skeletally thin, stood by the door, hooded, unreadable eyes fixed on a spot midway between Hiran and Subcommander Feric.
Here was a pair, Hiran thought uneasily, that would bear watching.
According to the records Hiran had accessedcoupled with a few rumors and some intuition-Tiam had not only survived the Praetor's death, he had flourished in its wake, apparently through a mixture of serendipity and opportunism. Remarkably, he had never seen combat of any kind, neither border clashes nor the putting down of civil unrest, of which latter there had been more than sufficient under the late Praetor's ruthless policies. Until his recent promotion, Tiam's had been a life of midlevel administrative work, undistinguished work at that, but Tiam obviously meant to make up for lost time. His tone and bearing as he had swaggered into Hiran's quarters-and Hiran had rarely been proven wrong in his readings of such things-had told him as much, and the so-called "briefing paper" the aide had thrust at Hiran had only further lowered the commander's opinion. To the centurion's mind, the Galtizh was his battlefield, and whomever the Federa-
tion sent as their representatives were to be .his enemy. There was no way of telling what his sphinxlike aide thought.
Hiran dropped the paper on his desk. "Delegate Tiam."
The centurion turned from the viewport with deliberate slowness. "Yes, Commander?"
"Delegate Tiam," Hiran repeated, gesturing at the paper, "if there is one thing I do not need, it is a lecture on either the importance of our mission or the untrustworthy nature of the Federation."
Tiam shrugged off the implied reprimand. "I did not intend it as a lecture, Commander, merely a straightforward setting out of the assumptions from which I intend to operate as I conduct these proceedings. After all, if we are to be effective for the Empire, we must have a clear understanding of its . . . adversaries."
Hiran suppressed a sigh, wondering who on the Committee was responsible for Tiam's selection. Another "compromise" no doubt: necessary but nonetheless galling. But there was no point in pursuing the matter. Best to move on to more nearly neutral ground. He was stuck with Tiam, and Tiam was stuck with him. Neither was going to change. He would just have to make the best of it, as Tiam surely would.
"I trust your accommodations are satisfactory? It is not often we have civilian guests aboard, and while the rest of the musicians have been stowed in cadet quarters, we have had to knock out three subsidiary bulkheads to create a suite large enough for you and your wife. I trust she was pleased?"
"She will make do," Tiam answered flatly, vaguely irritated at the commander's presumption to such familiarity. As for Jandra . . .
At this point, he was sure his wife could hardly care less about the accommodations. After the years of un-Orthodoxy in the Provinces and then the years of rehabilitation, followed by years of virtual confinement in the Citadel, she was so entranced by the prospect of going anywhere that she had almost required sedation. A tent in the engine room would have sufficed so long as distance was being put between herself and the Citadel.
"I did intend to thank you, Commander, for providing us with three separate rooms. Her need to practice constantly would drive me to distraction otherwise."
"Mm," Hiran ruminated noncommittally. So that was not neutral ground, either. He had yet to meet Tiam's musician wife, but already she had his sympathy. He stood dismissively. "I shall look forward to hearing her play."
Tiam, no more eager than Hiran to continue, took the hint and departed after a last look out the viewport, his aide following a step behind. When they had gone, Hiran sighed heavily.
"Will there be anything else, Commander?" Feric asked.
Hiran shrugged. He wanted to talk to Feric about Tiam, about the suspicions he had regarding the ambassador, and the Temaris conference. No, strke that. He didn't want to talk to Feric.
He wanted to talk to Ren.
"No, nothing," Hiran said finally. He raised his gaze to Feric's. His first officer's eyes were steely gray and unreadable. "Dismissed."
Nodding sharply, Feric left the room.
THREE
Captain's Log, Stardate 8478.4:
The Enterprise and its crew continue to prepare for departure. No one is anticipating any difficulty in keeping to the ordered schedule, which calls for rendezvous with the Romulan vessel Galtizh in ten days' time. Spock has been in daily communication with the Starfleet HO team that is tracking the Probe and attempting to make sense of the masses of sensor readings taken during its near-disastrous journey through Federation space. He has also gotten permission to have a complete record of all such readings transferred to the Enterprise memory banks. Unlike the Starfleet team, he appears to have a theory as to the nature of the energy fields generated by the Probe, but he isn't sharing it with anyone yet. "It needs more study," he says, but then, by his lights, what doesn't?
On the diplomatic front, Commander Riley and his staff are already aboard, as is most of Dr. Benar's archaeology team and the musicians. The only major absence is that of
the "orchestra's" conductor, one Andrew Penalt, who, according to those who claim to know, has a reputation for grand and last-minute entrances.
The passengers already on board are proving an interesting study in diversity. Both the archaeology team and the musicians appear to have been selected not only for their knowledge and skill but to provide the more homogeneous Romulans with an object lesson in interspecies harmony. Or so the theory goes. There have already been heated arguments in both camps over matters so esoteric that even Spock has been hard-pressed to explain them. I only hope that Dr. Benar, whose abilities as a mediator in things both musical and scientific appear to be almost as great as Uhura predicted, will be able to keep up the good work. And that she will be able to retain her Vulcan-like objectivity once she finds herself alone on Temaris Four with the Romulans.
"Penalt and his staff are ready to beam on board, sir. Commander Riley respectfully requests your presence in the transporter room. And Mr. Scott reports the last of the archaeology shuttles has docked."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Kirk nodded toward Uhura's substitute at communications-Kittay, he remembered now. "Tell Mr. Riley I'm on my way." Catapulting out of his chair, Kirk inclined his head at the center seat.
"Mr. Chekov . . . ?"
"Aye, Keptin." Chekov took the conn without missing a beat in his intimate dialogue with the computer regarding mainstage flux-chiller status.
In the transporter room, Riley was waiting, along with a pair of ensigns. "I thought your conductor was on his way," Kirk said, noting the empty transporter circles.
Riley shrugged as he signaled to the lieutenant at the
controls. " `Impresario,' if you please. And he is on his way-now that you're here to welcome him aboard."
Kirk frowned. "I suppose I should know who he is, then. I have to admit, I'd never heard of anyone named Penalt before he showed up on our passenger list."
"You're not alone, Captain. Symphony for the Nine is the only composition of his that ever gained widespread recognition, and there are those who credit his wife of the time with more than the `moral support' he acknowledged the first time he conducted it."
Kirk shook his head. "Sorry, the name still doesn't ring a bell. Not that I'm a musical scholar."
"Suffice it to say, he's a composer, conductor, and pianist, and he's supposed to exercise all three abilities while on board-conduct the orchestra, take a solo shot at the piano, and begin composing some kind of musical `impression' of the proceedings."
"A real triple threat?"
"So his PR releases would have you believe. There are some, however-including his ex-wife-who say he has more political connections-and ego-than talent."
Before Kirk could reply, the "ready to transport" signal came up from the ground, and Riley hastily assembled his diplomat's expression of respectful welcome.
Kirk grimaced but followed suit as best he could. Moments later, two figures materialized at last on the platform. One was a broad but not overly tall, bearish hulk of a man who looked, Kirk decided, purposely rumpled, even his expression. Next to him stood a dark-skinned, reed-slender woman-probably half his age and certainly a third his mass. Another musician, Kirk assumed, noting her unconventional attire: a
rainbow-colored caftan that seemed to float about her like a mist and shifted colors whenever she moved.
"Maestro Penalt." Riley bowed from the shoulders. "Commander Kevin Riley of Starfleet Diplomatic Corps, at your service. May I present Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise?"
Penalt grasped Kirk's hand in a crushing grip. "Call me Andy," he said with a Midwestern twang that may or may not have been genuine.
Kirk kept from wincing as he returned the grip and made a mental note to see that the man had the opportunity to exchange grips with Spock before the trip was over. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Penalt."
"And this is . . . ?" Riley smiled at the young woman.
"Hm? Oh, uh, my protege, Anneke." Penalt dismissed her without so much as glancing at her; he turned and set his sights on Riley. "Riley . . . Riley . . . Always considered Irishmen to be common drunks, myself. Even wrote an operetta about it once."
Kirk shot a concerned glance in Riley's direction, but Riley's gracious expression never wavered. "The Drunken Irishman; I'm familiar with it. Understand the critics panned it," Riley supplied smoothly. "Have to do our diplomatic best to disprove the theory this voyage, sir."
"A lot of history to overcome there, Mr. Riley." Penalt turned to the two waiting ensigns, zeroing in on the woman, a pretty brunette. "Now, I wouldn't object if someone were to show me to my quarters."
"Ensign Smith will be happy to oblige," Kirk said, nodding at the male of the pair. "Ensign Carver," he added to the other, "you can report to Commander Scott on the shuttle deck. I'm sure he could use some help with the archaeology shuttle that just came in."
,,Kirk-"
"Yes, Mr. Penalt-Andy?" Kirk's most disingenuous tone coated the requested short-form name. "Is something wrong?"
Penalt scowled for a moment, then shrugged and seemed to relax. "No, nothing. I look forward to working with you. This has the makings of an interesting tour of duty, wouldn't you say, Captain?" Touching two fingers to his temple in a jaunty salute, he turned from Kirk and strode into the corridor, his "protege" and Ensign Smith hurrying after him.
Kirk shook his head wonderingly as he and Riley exited the transporter room and headed for the nearest 'lift. "What have we done to deserve `Andy' Penalt?" Kirk asked rhetorically. "Is he at least a good conductor, Kevin? Not that it will make any difference if he insults the Romulan diplomats to their faces."
"We'll have to make sure that doesn't happen," Riley said, but his expression was none too confident.
At least, Kirk thought, the musicians wouldn't be mixing with the Romulans the way the archaeological team would. Though God knows what Penalt might say from the stage by way of introduction to whatever he decided to perform.
Just then the turbolift doors hissed open to reveal Uhura.
"Captain, Commander." Distracted by her work, she looked up briefly from a datapad as they entered.
Kirk acknowledged her with a nod, and glanced over her shoulder at what she was jotting down. "Busy?"
"Oh, um, instrument status," Uhura said vaguely, jotting again. "Musical instruments, that is. Seems the Steinway got a little cranky going through the transport-
er, so the tuner's given me specific instructions for getting the other pieces up safely. I'm on my way down to the cargo transporter room now to supervise."
Kirk wondered what a Steinway was, but wasn't about to ask. He was having enough trouble thinking of schemes to keep Penalt under control without offending -too greatly-whatever Federation officials were responsible for Penalt being on the mission in the first place. And hoping that the conductor didn't have an opposite number in the Romulan delegation.
"Imagine it, Little Sister," Dajan exulted as the Galtizh sped toward its rendezvous with the Federation ship. "Not only are we permitted to see each other freely again, we have actually been selected for this voyage together! Rehabilitated, washed clean, deemed pure and Orthodox exemplars of our race, worthy to face the Earthmen and shame them with our brilliance. We have five years' worth of gossip to catch up on. Do you think we shall grow sick of looking at each other?"
"Once we arrive at this desolate rock, I doubt we shall see each other at all," Jandra said bleakly. She and Tiam had quarreled again this morning; the very engine room, several levels below, must have reverberated with it. It was humiliating to have one's private life bruited about the entire vessel, but the bulkheads were not soundproof and Tiam would shout. Naturally, when he shouted, she was obliged to shout as well. Now she was hoarse and irritable, and Tiam was off sulking, or telling his troubles to that provincial Hiran. She couldn't even remember what had started the quarrel, but then, she rarely could anymore. Anything would suffice, it seemed. Once she had merely asked the source of a computer recording she had heard him playing in his quarters one day, a
cacophonous blend of thousands of seemingly disparate sounds, yet some of which had seemed to bind themselves to her mind. "Never speak of them again!" he had shouted, almost apoplectic, and she never had, though the sounds still persisted in her mind when she would allow it.
"Surely you shall not be that busy," her twin protested. "You must pause at least to allow the Federation players to perform."
But she was not to be comforted. "Then I shall be locked in some makeshift practice hall, playing my fingers to the bone, not because of necessity but because those who watch over us still do not trust in my abilities. It was the same, always the same, during my years of atonement in the Provinces. And you shall be grubbing about in your precious Lihalla ruins, searching for gods know what."
He put a chiding smile on his face. "Temaris, not Lihalla. We have agreed to abide by the Federation designation for simplicity-Temaris."
"Whatever!" Jandra said indifferently, her mind on other things. "I wonder if there will be a piano aboard this Enterprise?"
"Tell me what it is and I'll tell you if they're likely to have one," Dajan offered, keeping his mood as sunny as his sib's was gloomy. "Is it one of those un-Orthodox instruments you involved yourself with in the Provinces?"
"More un-Orthodox than you know. From Earth, I was given to understand, a trophy of the early days of the war. The marvel is that it now seems to have been restored to Orthodoxy as quickly and easily as you and I.
>, Dajan laughed. "They wish to flaunt you, I suspect. It
would not cause me great surprise to learn that this once-illicit ability of yours was high among the reasons you suddenly find yourself once more in favor, once more allowed-even ordered-to perform for your loving public. What better proof of superior Romulan culture than a Romulan who can outperform humans on an instrument of their own design-as I have no doubt you could do, Little Sister. None of this, however, tells a cultural dunce like myself what type of instrument this piano is."
Jandra turned to the terminal, wondering if the computer library was as "restructured" as the society they now lived in appeared to be. She accessed "Music: Alien" and tried to call up piano on the screen. The computer balked; Jandra sighed.
"A keyboard instrument," she said, struggling to be more specific, to limn the size and shape of it, perhaps to conjure it in the rarefied air of the bird-of-prey's cabin. "Similar to a tra'am, yet not."
"Ah!" Dajan said, his monosyllable of choice whenever he would not admit that he did not entirely understand a subject. "But if it is, as you were told, a common Earth instrument, there will almost certainly be at least one among the assemblage of Federation musicians this Enterprise is bringing to us who will be expected to perform upon it. Therefore they will just as certainly bring one."
"Perhaps," she said, but her voice was lined with pessimism.
Dajan sighed. "After all that has happened, you still persist in gloomily expecting the worst. I know Tiam can be a trial, but he is not here. Only you and I, Little Sister, only you and I and a chance to dazzle the Federation musicians."
"It is not only Tiam," Jandra replied.
Dajan recognized the look. "Still grieving, after all this time?"
Jandra's eyes were baleful. "As should you, unless your loss is somehow less than mine."
"Will grieving bring them back?" Dajan dismissed it. "Life is for the living, Little Sister. While we live, we strive to restore their honor, and that will be done only through deeds, not through endless, unproductive brooding."
The shuttlebay was in chaos. Musical instruments from several worlds in their invariably cumbersome cases vied for space with whole shuttlecrafts of archaeology equipment, while garishly clad musicians chatted with less flamboyant archaeologists in field gear, voices caroming off the bulkheads. A spindly Andorian maneuvering crates that seemed beyond his wiry strengthDr. Benar's assistant, Sharf-acknowledged Kirk and Riley.
"Morning, Captain, Commander. Dr. Benar had to beam back down.; if you were hoping to speak with her. Some piece of equipment that can't be found. The usual. I'll let her know you were looking for her."
"No problem," Kirk said easily. "Just let her know about tomorrow morning's briefing."
"Will do, Captain."
Scotty stood in almost the exact center of the bay, arms folded, overseeing everything.
"Here, now-easy with that, lad. Careful not to unbalance her." Scott rushed over to help the Andorian heft a substantial-looking crate onto a nearby zero-g sled. "There." He slapped his hands together. "That should do you fine."
"The miracle worker, as ever, Mr. Scott." Kirk smiled as he laid a hand on his chief engineer's shoulder.
"Aye, sir," Scotty said proudly. "Commander Riley, good to see ye again after these many years." His eyes gleamed playfully as he and Riley clasped hands. "So, Commander . . . are ye goin' to be gracin' us this cruise wi' a wee song?"
The parts of Riley's face not covered by beard flushed bright pink, but his grin was good-natured. "I hadn't planned on it-though it might relieve you to know I've since taken voice lessons."
"And added to your repertoire, I hope," Kirk murmured, smiling faintly as he remembered the number of times he'd had to listen to Riley's acutely painful rendition of "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen."
"Well, if ye are, " Scott continued, "I'll warn ye now: I advised the ship's designers about that wee incident with your barricadin' yourself in the engineering control room . . . and they've made it near impossible to do again. I'll not be burnin' through any wall circuits this voyage."
"Foiled again," Riley said easily, and clapped Scott on the shoulder. "Well, Scotty, I'll just have to be more ingenious next time I come down with a disease that causes temporary insanity and try to take over the Enterprise. Right, Captain?" He winked at Kirk.
"Not my ship," Kirk said, still smiling. "Try someone else's."
"By the way, there was an ensign here a few minutes ago looking for you," Scott said to Riley.
"Handler," Riley replied instantly.
"Aye, that's the one. Tall, nervous type."
"I see him now." Riley craned his neck slightly. "Thanks, Scotty."
The engineer nodded as he moved off to continue his supervision.
Ahead of them, a gangly, young ensign with a shock of corn-silk hair was weaving his way through the jostling civilians like a backfield runner, shielding what looked like a Diplomatic Corps brief against his body as if it were a thrown pass. Riley and Kirk watched as the ensign got caught in a bottleneck, murmuring, "Excuse me, pardon me!" with desperate urgency as the civilians parted like a flock of sheep. Riley grimaced.
"Your new aide?" Kirk asked, trying not to smile.
"Awkward kid!" Riley answered by way of acknowledgment. "Means well, but awkward. If I could get my hands around the throat of the misguided personnel counselor who persuaded him he was Diplomatic Corps material, who then, in their wisdom, assigned him to me . . . !" He sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward.
"Makes you wonder," Kirk murmured, remembering another awkward, well-meaning kid he'd helped steer into diplomacy once.
"Handler, Ryan J.," Riley greeted him as the breathless, sweating youngster skidded to a halt barely ten centimeters from his nose, fumbling the brief into Riley's outstretched hand. "Ensign-as you were!"
Riley keyed in the proper code, opened the brief, and scanned it right there in the corridor while the kid stood by uneasily, avoiding eye contact with Kirk, uncertain what to do with his hands, much less his feet. Riley closed the brief, clearing his throat; Handler snapped to attention.
"You been cleared by sickbay yet?" Riley demanded. "We're less than an hour from departure."
"No, sir, I-the brief was top priority-no time." Handler's voice cracked, and he ran out of words.
"Handler?" Riley asked dangerously; only Kirk could see the fond merriment in his eye.
"Sir . . . ?"
"You're still here."
"Sir!" Handler turned on his heel and started back the way he'd come, though there were at least two shorter routes to sickbay.
"Poor kid's very nearsighted," Riley observed, his tone suddenly sympathetic as he watched Handler's retreating back. "Almost didn't pass the Academy physical because of it, and he needs a Retinax booster every six months. Still, even at Four-A and twenty-twenty, I don't see that as Diplomatic Corps material, do you?"
Kirk hid the twinkle in his own eye. "Stranger things have happened."
Eventually, all stations reported in ready. Handler got his physical, Scotty returned to engineering, Penalt kept a suspiciously low profile, and Kirk found himself on the bridge once more.
The ride out of spacedock was smooth and uneventful beneath Sulu's unerring hand, under considerably less harrowing circumstances than those in some more recent endeavors. There was something comforting, Kirk thought, about having a fully crewed, fully functional ship beneath you and a green light on the spacedoors. He was even looking forward to the mission. Ferryboat cruise it might be, but potentially one hell of an important one, for both the Federation and the Empire.
They cleared the spacedoors, and Sulu skeined her out like silk, under impulse until she was well above the ecliptic, clear of all planets and asteroids, then eased her into warp.
FOUR
"`Moderate' Romulans! Aye, Captain, that'll be the day!" Commander Scott rolled his eyes as he glanced toward McCoy and Spock, clearly confident of their agreement.
The briefing room was empty save for the four of them, who had all arrived early for Kirk's mission briefing on this, their second morning out of spacedock. The subject, which they had already been discussing all the way from the bridge, was the latest message from Admiral Cartwright, received only minutes earlier.
"Nonetheless," Spock pointed out, "if we are to believe the admiral's anonymous informant, just such a faction is in control of the Interim Government, holding most of the seats on the Committee."
"Even if it's true," McCoy put in, "it can't last. Cartwright's Romulan pal admitted that. There are a
dozen other groups waiting in the wings, and the only reason the reformers have gotten this far is a backlash against the recently departed Praetor. He was a nasty customer, even by Romulan standards, and this new bunch is taking advantage of the situation by pushing as hard and fast as they can before they wear out their welcome."
"What are you saying, Bones?" Kirk asked. "That we should have ignored their overture?"
"Of course not!" McCoy said. "I'm just saying what I've said all along-and what Cartwright's pal is saying, too, from the sound of that last message. Even if your reformers are for real, they may be overreaching themselves with this `conference,' so don't get too upset when it blows up in your face. And don't be too disillusioned if the opposition has slipped a few ringers into the delegation, so that if, miracle of miracles, things start going too smoothly, they can start lighting fuses."
"I'll take your paranoia under advisement," Kirk said, smiling. "Now, Mr. Spock, I believe you were about to let us in on your hypothesis about the Probe."
"I was, Captain?"
"Come on, Spock," McCoy said, turning on a conversational dime. "Are you going to keep this theory of yours to yourself until that blasted thing tries to eat another planet?"
Just before Cartwright's message, Spock had been filling them in on the Probe's movements. After passing within a few hundred parsecs of Starbases Nine and Thirteen, along the edge of the Neutral Zone, it was currently describing a leisurely arc through parts of old First Federation territory. Hyperchannel communiques indicated that the Probe was still behaving itself, content
to take the scenic tour of the First Federation. What was interesting was that it now looked like, if the Probe altered neither course nor speed, it would penetrate Romulan space about the time the Enterprise and the Galtizh were taking up orbit around Temaris Four.
"Bones is right, Spock," Kirk said. "Any theories, even half-baked ones, are better than none, especially if that thing gets ticked off again. And who knows-we might even have a few ideas of our own, once we find out what yours are. "
"As you wish, Captain. However, I would hesitate to dignify my speculations by calling them a theory."
"Whatever!" McCoy snapped. "Just talk to us."
"Of course, Doctor. As you know, Captain, the team at Starfleet Headquarters has done a thorough analysis of all sensor readings made during the Probe's activities in the vicinity of Earth."
Kirk nodded. "And they haven't figured out how it did any of what it did."
"They have not, Captain. In fact, they found no incontrovertible evidence that the Probe is responsible for the phenomena that accompanied its presence."
McCoy scowled. "We all heard and saw-"
"We heard and saw the effects, Doctor. We saw the oceans boiling. We heard the sounds. However, no one saw and no sensor was able to detect any form of energy being projected from the Probe itself."
"That's crazy!" McCoy protested. "Are you saying something else is responsible for everything that happened?"
"Of course not, Doctor, although it is a possibility. It is more logical to assume that the Probe is responsible but is using a form of energy that is undetectable except for its effects on the matter at which it is directed. It
would be analogous to a phaser beam vanishing at the muzzle of the weapon and reappearing only when it reached its intended target. As a result, sensors in the intervening space could not detect the beam's energy. The energy could only be detected through its effect on the target."
"That means," Kirk put in, "you couldn't even tell what direction the energy came from. Right?"
"Precisely, Captain. Nor could its propagation rate be measured. With electromagnetic and subspace energies, the time between the moment the energy is discharged and the moment it arrives at its target can be measured. With these unknown energies, there was no way of determining when the energy departed the Probe, only when it arrived at its target. However, an analysis of the effects of that energy indicate that they could be most nearly duplicated by some form of tractor beam."
McCoy's eyes widened. "You're saying that thing turned several cubic miles of ocean water into steam with a super tractor beam?"
"In effect, yes, Doctor. The readings indicate that the heating was accomplished by the direct physical acceleration of the water's component molecules, as if by an incredibly complex tractor beam, capable of affecting trillions of individual molecules simultaneously, as well as being capable of reversing polarity thousands of times a second in a seemingly random pattern."
"Sounds damned inefficient," McCoy said, obviously not convinced.
"On the contrary, Doctor, it could be extremely efficient. Heat is simply a measure of the energy levelthe motion-of the molecules of a substance. Setting those molecules in motion directly instead of generating a phaser beam, for example, to do the job indirectly
eliminates at least one step in the chain and therefore has the potential for increased efficiency. However, the process would be extremely complex."
Kirk, who had been frowning thoughtfully, said, "You make it sound like moving a sand dune with a million pair of microscopic tweezers, each one with a single grain of sand-as opposed to shoving it around with a bulldozer."
Spock thought a moment and then nodded. "Your analogy is basically correct, Captain. In any event, the sounds the Probe transmitted into the water-and into several starships-were produced in much the same way, except that, instead of the air and water molecules being accelerated in seemingly random directions resulting in heat, huge numbers of them were forced to move back and forth in unison, thereby producing sound waves. Computer simulations indicate that, with minor modifications, the Enterprise tractor beams could be used to duplicate the latter effect."
"So what's your theory, Spock?" McCoy asked impatiently. "So far you've just made the whole thing sound even more impossible than it sounded before."
"My speculation, Doctor, is that the energy utilized by the Probe is some form of mental energy, analogous to telekinesis. This speculation is based on, first, the thusfar-undetectable nature of the energy, and second, the impressions I received from George about the Probe. If you will remember, one of the few impressions I was able to obtain that was related exclusively to the Probe in George's mind was that of beings similar to himself."
"Your superwhales. I remember," McCoy said. "So how does that lead to telekinesis?"
"If we assume the impression is accurate, and if we further assume that these beings were in fact the builders
of the Probe, then we must ask ourselves how such beings would be capable of building it, or indeed, how they would be capable of building anything, lacking as they do any organs capable of manipulating objects external to themselves."
McCoy snorted. "For someone as mired down in logic as you are, Spock, that's a couple pretty big leaps. They never developed opposable thumbs, so they developed telekinetic powers in their place? And what then? They developed machines to amplify those powers?"
"It would be the logical next step, Doctor, just as beings with opposable thumbs developed machines to amplify the power of their own muscles."
"And as we developed computers to amplify the powers of our minds," Kirk put in, nodding. "If you buy the basic premise, it makes sense."
McCoy was working on his next objection when the briefing-room door hissed open and Riley and Sulu entered, both smiling energetically, Riley clutching his morning coffee protectively. Dr. Benar and Commander Uhura followed close on their heels, engaged in spirited conversation.
"There is evidence," Benar was saying, her plain, angular face showing an animation that dispelled much of the Vulcan aura that normally cloaked her, "that the Erisian Ascendancy cultures, so-called, shared some significant traits with certain Earth human cultures, though the Earth cultures were obviously far simpler. In some of his earliest papers on his discovery, Dr. Antonin Erisi himself pointed out a parallel with the Australian aborigines. They believed that when their totemic ancestors walked the countryside, they weren't only mapping it geographically, but musically, laying down trails of song with their footprints, so that if a thousand years
later someone learned the songs, he could find his way unerringly across a land he'd never seen. Erisian cities, on the other hand, were designed and built using principles that appear to underlie certain aspects of the music of many cultures, including those of Earth. Unfortunately, despite much rigorous mathematical analysis, no one can yet say they fully understand those principles, or even know precisely what they are. Nonetheless, they produce patterns that humans can learn to recognize, even predict in some rare instances. Those patterns, in fact, were what led Dr. Eris) to first suspect a connection among the Ascendancy worlds."
Falling silent, Benar took the seat across from Spock. As her eyes met his, she seemed to absorb his emotionless facade and restructure her own to match.
"Where do these `Exodus halls' you mentioned fit in?" Uhura asked, leaning forward as she took her own seat. "I understand every Ascendancy world has one, and that they may indicate where the Erisians went, even when."
Benar nodded, her features threatening to once again take on a distinctly un-Vulcan enthusiasm. "That is at present no more than a hope. No such halls have been found completely intact, but if conditions on Temaris are as reported, it may hold the first. Only ruins have been found prior to this, and the information gleaned has led not to worlds the Erisians may have migrated to but to a half dozen burned out cinders, destroyed tens of thousands of years ago when their suns underwent periods of instability, ranging from major flares to novas. Some of my colleagues have gone so far as to call these structures not Exodus halls but-"
"You're talking about the Erisians, right?" The hardy voice of Andrew Penalt broke in even before the door had hissed shut behind him and a bemused Chekov.
"Somebody told me this place we're heading for was one of their worlds once. Who are they, anyway?"
Kirk repressed an urge to roll his eyes skyward. "All right," he said, straightening in his chair. "Now that we're all here, let's get started."
In response, Spock activated the desk viewscreen, but before he could begin, Penalt was speaking. "Good idea. Look, Admiral, I don't want to worry anyone, but I've been checking out the `orchestra' I'm supposed to conduct, and I'll let you in on a little secret-they ain't no orchestra. Hell, I don't think more than two or three of them have ever even seen each other before they were shoveled aboard."
"They're all accomplished musicians," Riley said quickly, "and all have had years of experience in major orchestras. Admittedly, this particular assemblage has never performed as a unit, but for someone of your talents, Maestro Penalt, I'm sure it will be an easy task to fuse them into a coherent, if not brilliant, whole."
A momentary frown was hastily replaced by a jovial smile as Penalt turned to Riley. "Exactly what I was about to say, Ambassador." He glanced around at the others. "I just wanted you to know, if any of you drop in on any early rehearsals, there's a reason for the way they may sound. But I'll have everything whipped into shape by the time we have to face off with the Romulans."
Audrea Benar's lips parted as if to speak, but a moment later she clamped them shut and returned her even gaze to the viewscreen next to Spock.
"Understood, Mr. Penalt," Kirk said. "Now, Mr. Spock, if you'd care to proceed?"
"Thank you, Captain." The Vulcan paused a moment, waiting for everyone to focus on the viewscreen, now displaying the image of a Romulan commander. "What
information we have," he began, "has been supplied by the Romulans as part of the initial exchange."
"Which means it could be a complete fairy tale," McCoy put in.
"It is true, Doctor, that there is no independent verification, but that does not mean that some or all of the data may not be true. You are correct, however, in implying that we cannot rely on its accuracy. It is being presented as it was transmitted to the Federation. Its truth or falsity is not vouched for."
McCoy shrugged. "I suppose we should be thankful they're giving us anything. "
"This is Commander Hiran," Spock continued, indicating the Romulan face still on the screen. "He is from a military family extending back seven generations to a matrilineal grandsire. Being from the Provinces and without social connections, he has had to make his way solely on merit and without patronage-no easy matter. He distinguished himself recently for his role in putting down a particularly nasty rebellion with negligible casualties. Only one casualty, in fact." Spock's eyebrows lifted. "His first officer. And wife."
Kirk felt a sudden empathy for the man.
"I wouldn't think holding down enemy casualties would lead to promotion for a Romulan," McCoy said skeptically.
"That is perhaps why, Doctor, his subsequent assignments have been largely limited to border patrols and mapping expeditions. It might also explain why he is currently in command of a bird-of-prey rather than a larger vessel such as a battle cruiser."
"I see that his commands have also been remarkably free of intramural bloodletting," Kirk said, skimming the text that had appeared at the bottom of the screen.
"They even list some officers who followed him to the Galtizh from his previous command. And no notable advancement through the ranks by the unexpected deaths of superiors in any of his commands. Not that the publicity packet we've been given by the Romulans would include anything of the like, even if it were true." He studied the broad, smiling face on the screen. Odd, he couldn't remember ever seeing a smiling Romulan before. Hiran seemed more heavyset than the average Romulan; a pleasant-enough-looking fellow of Kirk's own age, if his guess was accurate.
"A straight shooter," he said quietly, realizing as he spoke he was developing an inexplicable admiration for his opposite number, the commander of the Romulan ferryboat Galtizh. Intuition? he wondered. Or wishful thinking? After the latest message from Cartwright concerning the possibility of an infiltrated Romulan delegation and a ship's crew of doubtful loyalty, caution was the watchword. And yet . . .
The next image on the screen was a different matter altogether. Nothing worth hoping for there. Harsh features, perhaps considered handsome by another Romulan, but with an imperious, self-satisfied expression, almost a smirk, something that had been totally absent from Commander Hiran's face.
"Centurion Tiam," said Spock, "promoted from subcenturion coincident with his appointment as chief negotiator to the Federation. The promotion would appear to be unusual in that no mention is made of battle experience, which is traditionally considered a prerequisite to becoming centurion."
"Probably knows where the bodies are buried." McCoy, of course.
"Perhaps, Doctor. However, the records we have been given indicate a distinguished academic record, including a degree in political science, prizes for fencing and gymnastics. He also received awards of merit for work in linguistics and etymology."
Spock glanced at the captain as Tiam's image was replaced by that of a startlingly beautiful Romulan woman. "Centurion Tiam's wife, Jandra, considered a premier musician, proficient in an unspecified number of instruments, including the piano."
"Piano?" Several eyebrows shot up, but McCoy was the first to speak, as he often was. "How the devil would a Romulan learn to play the piano?"
"If we are to believe the information given us, Doctor, several Federation musical instruments, including at least one piano, were part of the booty-though the Romulans do not call it that-from either the early days of the war or from before the war. In any event, she is reputed to be a virtuoso on many instruments but particularly on the piano."
There was a snort then, but for a change it wasn't from McCoy. It was from Penalt. Kirk didn't know the Romulan woman, but he hoped she was indeed the virtuoso her biography claimed-and that she would play rings around Andy Penalt.
"And this," Spock continued, bringing up another image, "is Jandra's brother, Dajan. He is the leader of the Romulan archaeological team, Dr. Benar."
Kirk turned surreptitiously to watch Benar as she was given this first look at her opposite number, the Romulan with whom she would be working closely for at least the duration of the conference. Was it his nervous imagination or was there a more-than-normal tensing of
her seemingly impassive features as she studied the image?
Betrayal! Tiam would shout if he could read her thoughts. And it was not just her own thoughts that would set him screaming, for it was one of the Citadel's toadying staff who had first planted the seed in her mind.
Unless it had simply been Tiam's way of testing my loyalty. Jandra shivered at the thought. It would be so like him, as if there were not already more than enough to drive them apart, to give him reason to wage new verbal assaults each day.
But no, she would not allow herself to believe such a thing. The man was merely one who, unlike Tiam, understood the importance of freedom, even though he had none of it himself. That is, in fact, probably why the man appreciated it, and why he recognized the lack of it in me, despite my seemingly "exalted" position. And he feels that 1, unlike him, have a chance at gaining it.
She shivered again.
But what of her dear sib? Their elder brother's actions -and his had not been a betrayal, only, at worst, a misjudgment of his superiors' intentions-had destroyed the family. Could what she now contemplated, whether it succeeded or failed, have any less effect on her brother? At best, he would be driven again into unOrthodoxy, perhaps killed. If only she dared to tell Dajan her scheme . . .
She shuddered, as much from indecision as from fear. She was a musician, not a politician or a soldier. Nothing should matter but the music, nothing in this or any other world. She should not have such decisions thrust upon her, decisions that could ruin her life or save
it, decisions that could send her brother once again into exile, or worse.
Oh, for a return to the innocent days of her youth, when music was all that mattered!
Her mind slid back to that first time she had brought her tiny fists thudding down on the keyboards of the elegant tra'am her mother kept in the second parlor (strictly for show; no one in the family could play it or cared to learn), only to be led away from it by the governess Kalih, with stern admonitions about where sticky little-girl fingers did not belong. Was it that very same evening, or only seemingly so because of a child's ability to telescope events in memory, that her father had brought the guests home and one of them knew how to play?
Jandra had hidden herself in the filmy wall drapes, watching and listening for what seemed like hours or only minutes, until Kalih had pounced on her and shooed her back to bed. Later, when all but the serious guests were gone, and those lay about on the divans in the good parlor discussing crop yields and trade embargoes, she had crept down the long corridor from the sleeping quarters and into the second parlor, hauled her small self up to the keyboards, and tottering sleepily but quite determined, reprised note for note every piece the visitor had played, to finish, grimly satisfied, aware of a doorway full of late-night Ministry functionaries, her father among them, staring gape-mouthed at the prodigy.
There followed tutors, lessons, travel and study with musicians, including one who secretly exposed his young pupil to the best of alien music: Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, the legacy of a human smuggler whose ship had
given partial rehabilitation, and now, suddenly, the rehabilitation was complete and she was specially selected to play before the aliens, the humans and their like. For the moment, at least, even her previously secret accomplishments were being treated as simply a facet of her genius, something with which a Romulan such as herself could impress the humans.
But she knew all too well how quickly, how capriciously her world could be turned on its head again. And she knew that, rather than being her own person, she was expected, like Tiam, to be a creature of the Empire, with no will of her own.
No freedom.
She shuddered again. She would have to decide, soon.
Soon, or not at all.
"We want to establish at least the appearance of trust," Riley said, "if not the complete reality." The briefing had moved on from the review of Romulan personnel to a discussion of procedures to be followed once in orbit around Temaris Four. "The first face-toface meeting will be on the planet's surface. We beam down with communicators only. No weapons. Security team on standby, to be beamed down only on Captain Kirk's direct order or my own."
"I don't like the sound of that, Commander," Chekov objected immediately, obviously recalling Cartwright's message bu