Constellations (14 page)

“I do. And if it was any
one
of us against Wilder, you'd be right. But
three
of us know what happened. We know what time Kwan went to see the prime minister, and we know what time she came back.”

“But that's circumstantial,” Robinson said. “It doesn't prove Kwan didn't beat on the detainee, or that she didn't order someone else to do it.”

“It's one more piece of the puzzle, and one more fact that puts pressure on Wilder.”

Robinson kicked at the ground. “Without
proof,
we've got nothing.”

“That's what I thought, that we're subordinate officers, questioning a commander's integrity. No way can we claim he's lying without being able to prove it.” Chekov's eyes narrowed. “But that's not
good
enough! If we let this go, not only does Wilder get away with it, but we have to live with knowing we let him.”

“I've wanted to be in Starfleet since before I could
say
‘Starfleet,' and now you're telling me to risk throwing it all away for something we can't prove?”

Chekov ran a hand through his thick mop of hair, trying to conjure a persuasive answer. But there wasn't one. This wasn't that kind of argument. Either these guys got it, or they didn't. And Chekov had a sinking feeling they didn't. “I'm not telling you anything, Robinson. But I know what I have to do.”

“Throw away your career?” said Robinson as he hurled another rock.

“Starfleet is what we
do,
it's not who we
are.
Whether I wear this uniform or not, I have to look at myself every day and know that my integrity was stronger than my fear. We're young, and we're learning something we need to learn—that there won't always be proof when you need it. Wilder lied. We know it. If we don't stand up, then a liar gets to define the truth. And I can't let that happen.” Then Chekov turned and walked away without looking back, feeling very much alone.

When he got to the main courtyard, he saw McCoy standing with Wilder at the shuttle, ready for departure. “Let's go, Chekov.”

“Thanks for your help, Doctor,” Wilder said as McCoy climbed up and through the hatch. “Sorry for what you went through.”

“No harm, Commander. Once the Federation goes over the information I got from Rivaj and the dissidents, maybe it'll eventually make your job easier. Sorry about your captain.” McCoy ducked inside the shuttle cabin.

Chekov paused with one foot up on the ladder and looked Wilder square in the eye. “This isn't over, Commander. I will report what I know to Captain Kirk and Starfleet.”

“It won't matter,” Wilder said in a dead voice. “You can't win this one.”

His expression revealed what Chekov suspected—that Wilder was going to be one tortured soul. By contrast, Chekov felt at ease about how he'd handled things. He'd done his best to get the guards to step forward; he'd given Wilder every chance to do the right thing. In the end, he realized he couldn't control their choices, just his own. His report would tell everything that really happened, and whatever the consequences, he would have no regrets. He was just about to step in and shut the hatch behind him when a voice called from across the compound: “Chekov—wait!”

Chekov and Wilder both turned to see Robinson walking slowly toward them, with Bjorklund trailing a few yards behind. Chekov glanced at Wilder, whose face remained impassive.

“As you were, men,” Wilder said, without much force.

Robinson averted his eyes. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled. “We need to see Dr. McCoy.”

Chekov stepped aside and McCoy peered out through the open hatch. “What's going on?” he asked, glancing from one man to the next, searching for a hint.

“Ummm, Doctor,” Robinson said, “you're the ranking officer here. Me and Bjorklund, we need to report to you about…an incident.”

Chekov gave Wilder a probing look. “Unless Commander Wilder wants to tell you himself.”

Wilder stared right back at him. “Without loyalty, there'd be no discipline in the service.”

“Correction, sir,” Chekov said, “without respect for the truth, discipline and service mean nothing.”

Wilder turned to his young guards. “You boys sure about this?”

“What the hell are y'all talking about?” McCoy growled impatiently.

Chekov cleared his throat and waited for Wilder to speak first. When he didn't, Chekov said, “The prisoner—”

“—was tortured,” Wilder interrupted, “and I was responsible.” Standing ramrod straight, he confessed everything. Robinson and Bjorklund reluctantly confirmed the account, and Chekov added his corroboration.

“Captain Kwan died because of me,” Wilder said to McCoy, his shoulders finally sagging under his burden. “Leaving this stain on her record, on top of that…I can't do that. But I just want you to know, I did what I thought I had to do to save you, Doctor. I'm ready to face whatever punishment Starfleet chooses.”

Under these extraordinary circumstances, nobody—least of all the flustered McCoy—seemed quite sure what to do next. So, for several awkward seconds, nobody did anything.

“Doctor,” Chekov prompted, “I think you should secure his weapons and place him under arrest for violation of Starfleet's code of conduct. And we should take him back to the
Enterprise.
”

McCoy nodded. “Well…all right then, Chekov. Do it.”

 

En route to rendezvous, Chekov and McCoy transmitted advance reports to Kirk, who relayed them to Starfleet Command. By the time the shuttle docked and Wilder was escorted to the brig, Kirk had Starfleet orders to transport him to the nearest starbase for court-martial. A new officer team would be dispatched to assume command of the outpost on Tenkara. In addition, the information given to McCoy by the dissident miners was already under review by regional Federation officials overseeing the Tenkaran project.

Once Kirk had read their full reports, he and Spock met with McCoy and Chekov in the captain's office. “Your assessment is pretty blunt, Ensign,” Kirk said warily as he skimmed the file on his computer screen. “I quote: ‘The mission on Tenkara is being compromised by the Federation's dysfunctional relationship with what may be a corrupt local government, and by counterproductive tactical restrictions placed on Starfleet personnel stationed there.' Do you want to…reconsider…before I send it to Starfleet?”

“I may only be an ensign, sir, but I know what I saw there,” Chekov said without hesitation. “No, sir. My report stands.”

Kirk smiled. “Good. There's an old saying: ‘Truth fears no trial.' If you believe it, and you can back it up, say it—no matter who doesn't like it. From what Dr. McCoy's told me, you showed both brains and backbone on this mission. You've set yourself a pretty high standard. I'll expect you to live up to it.”

“Thank you, sir. I'll try.”

“All right, Ensign. Dismissed.”

Chekov turned to leave, then stopped and turned back with a sigh. “Captain, ever since the…the explosion…”

Kirk nodded and finished the sentence for him. “You've been afraid of making mistakes.”

Chekov seemed relieved that Kirk said what he couldn't. “Yes, sir.”

“I'm afraid mistakes are in our DNA.
Trying
to be perfect is all well and good, as long as you understand it's an unattainable goal.”

“
Expecting
to be perfect,” McCoy said, “now,
that's
a fool's errand.”

“Mistakes are inevitable,” Spock added, “especially for humans.” He ignored McCoy's dirty look.

“Mr. Chekov,” Kirk said lightly, with a humorous glance at Spock, “we're
all
going to make mistakes as long as we're breathing.”

Chekov sighed again. “A lifetime of mistakes…that's what I have to look forward to?”

“Think of it as…a lifetime of
lessons.
Mistakes are how we learn to do better.”

“I know I did the right thing,” Chekov said, “so why don't I
feel
better about it?”

Kirk smiled again. “Sticking your neck out in defense of the truth can be…unsettling.”

“Ensign,” Spock said, “your decision to report misconduct by a senior officer was entirely logical.”

McCoy gave Chekov's shoulder an avuncular squeeze. “Just remember what the Bible says: The truth shall make you free.” He paused for effect: “But first, it'll make you
damned miserable.
”

Spock's eyebrow arched. “Doctor, I am thoroughly conversant with Earth's New Testament. The common biblical quotation does not include your addendum.”

“Well, it
should
have,” McCoy shot back.

“Ahh…King James,” Kirk said drily, “as revised by Leonard McCoy.”

Jeff Bond is Executive Editor of
CFQ (Cinefantastique)
magazine and covers film music for
The Hollywood Reporter
and
Film Score Monthly
magazine. He is the author of
The Music of Star Trek
and is coauthoring an upcoming book on makeup artist Rick Baker. He briefly glimpsed a few minutes of
Star Trek
during its original third season in 1968 and began watching the first syndication package of the show around 1970 in his hometown of Defiance, Ohio, where he eventually drove his family crazy by watching and rewatching every episode of the series dozens of times. He studied creative writing at Bowling Green State University and held down exciting jobs at the Holiday Inn and Kinko's before moving to Hollywood. There the knowledge and experience he had gained by ignoring his mother's advice to go outside and get some exercise instead of watching TV could finally bear fruit, and he has been able to interview many of his childhood heroes, like Charlton Heston, William Shatner, John Williams, Jerry Goldsmith, Sigourney Weaver, Richard Matheson, and others. His beautiful and understanding wife, Brooke, continues to put up with his hobbies, which include filling his garage full of spaceship models and action figures, listening to loud movie soundtracks, and becoming speechless with excitement at meeting old character actors like William Windom and Morgan Woodward. Jeff and Brooke currently reside in Burbank, California, with their cat, Burbank.

James Kirk's thoughts hit a wall as the door to his cabin buzzed. “Computer, pause recording,” he commanded as he hit the intercom button on his desk. “Come,” he said, unlocking the sliding cabin door.

He wasn't surprised to see Leonard McCoy grinning at him from the open doorway. “No dress uniform today, Jim?” the doctor asked as he entered the cabin. Kirk stood up from his desk and cast a sideways glance at the
Enterprise
chief surgeon.

“No, but if you're eager to get into one I can arrange it,” Kirk said. He sighted a familiar-looking cylindrical container in the doctor's hand. “What's that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Altairian rice wine,” McCoy said. “I believe it's the commodore's favorite. For some reason there's a case of this stuff in the cargo bay.”

Kirk shook his head ruefully. “I swear I'm going to put Chief Still-well on report. Is everyone on the ship in on this?”

“Jim, you've earned your crew's respect. Let's just say there are quite a few of them who take an interest when they find out who it is out there that
you
look up to.”

Kirk felt uncomfortably transparent. “Falcon Merrill was a childhood hero of mine,” he said disapprovingly. “When I became a captain myself I put away childish things.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” McCoy said. “The fact is I grew up reading about Merrill, too. Five starship commands and two diplomatic appointments; not too many people have a career like that.”

Kirk's intercom whistled:
“Bridge to captain.”
Kirk thumbed open the channel.

“Kirk here.”

“Approaching Space Station M-33, Captain,”
Spock's voice came.

“On my way.”

 

They were halfway insystem when Kirk and McCoy exited the turbolift. Kirk slowed slightly as he stared at the image of Veletus V, the system's lone gas giant dominating the main viewer. The planet was a looming sphere of banded gray and green, but an immense, triangular smear of crimson blocked more than a third of its surface from view. The orbiting cloud was far larger than Kirk had imagined it would be. “The Ifukube Veil,” Kirk said as he stepped down and settled into his command chair.

“Affirmative, Captain,” Spock said from his science station. “Named after twenty-second-century astronomer Kenji Ifukube, the cloud is composed of ionized hydrogen and other trace elements, held in orbit around Veletus V by a combination of the planet's magnetic fields and the gravitational loci of its five moons.”

“Wouldn't something like that normally take the form of rings, Mr. Spock?”

“Over millions of years, yes,” Spock said. “The Veil was formed far more recently, although we have not yet determined precisely how.”

As the image grew with their approach, Kirk could see the shape of Deep Space Station M-33 in the screen's lower right-hand corner: a collection of glinting metal cones connected by concentric rings. Even after two years sections of the station remained under construction. Indicators on the screen pointed out a series of dozens of satellite substations surrounding the Ifukube Veil and the gas giant itself: remote drones of the space station designed to monitor the condition of the hydrogen cloud and the complex gravitational forces around the planet.

As Kirk stepped down toward his command chair, his eyes still fixed on the screen, he saw a flash of light like an electrical discharge crawl across a small section of the hydrogen cloud, illuminating it from within.

“Fascinating,” Spock said, dividing his attention between the screen and his hooded science station viewer. “Extraordinarily active.”

“Aye,” Montgomery Scott agreed from his engineering station. “There's enough charged hydrogen in that cloud to power a fleet of starships.”

“Message from M-33, Captain,” Uhura announced. “I have Commodore Merrill for you.”

Kirk glanced at McCoy, who'd stepped down to stand next to the captain's chair. “You want the honor, Bones?”

“It's all yours,” the doctor said. Kirk punched his command chair intercom.

“This is James Kirk of the
Enterprise;
it's a pleasure to speak to you, Commodore.”

“
Well, if it isn't the
Enterprise.” Julius Merrill's unmistakable voice, familiar from dozens of recorded speeches, filtered through the chair speaker.
“Nice to hear from you. We were damn near running out of toilet paper out here.
”

Kirk smiled. “I hope we can provide better supplies than that,” he said.

“Captain,” Sulu interrupted. “We're picking up two Tholian vessels converging at the edge of the system, moving at extreme speed.”

“Excuse me, Commodore,” Kirk said. “Course, Mr. Sulu?”

“Sir, they're changing course now, heading directly toward the fifth planet and M-33.”

“Their speed is approximately warp seven, Captain,” Spock said, peering into the hooded viewer on his sciences console. “At that rate they will be in weapons range of the station in two minutes.”

“Contact those ships, Uhura. Warn them off.”

“Trying, sir,” Uhura said.

“Sound red alert,” Kirk snapped. “Mr. Sulu, plot an intercept course and get us between those ships and the station; increase speed to warp seven-point-five.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Spock, why didn't we sight those vessels earlier?” Kirk demanded, swiveling to look at his science officer. “I'm assuming the Tholians don't possess cloaking technology.”

Spock straightened and turned toward Kirk. “Vessels were too small to register on our sensors until they reached the edge of the system, Captain,” the Vulcan explained. “Their configurations indicate Tholian design; however, they are far smaller than any Tholian vessels we have previously encountered.”

“Kirk, don't intercept those ships!”

Kirk tore his attention from the tactical display on the screen ahead of him as Merrill's voice registered.

“Excuse me, Commodore? Their course certainly seems to indicate a hostile intent.”

“I said, don't intercept them,”
Merrill barked.
“My people can handle this.”

“Sir, with respect, the
Enterprise
is far better equipped—”

“Just follow my orders, Captain. Back off now, and keep your distance until this is over.”

Kirk frowned, his nerves on fire at the sight of the Tholian vessels careening into the star system. It made no sense for Merrill to refuse his help…but it made even less to argue tactics with a man of the commodore's experience.

“No reply from the Tholian vessels, Captain,” Uhura said. “They may be unable to respond.”

“Unable?” Kirk asked.

“The Tholians designed diplomatic language specifically for our translator technology, Captain,” Uhura explained. “Only vessels designated for border patrol and diplomatic duties use it. Our ability to translate Tholian standard languages is limited.”

“Mr. Sulu,” Kirk said quietly. “Come about; program a parallel course to the incoming vessels at seven-hundred-thousand kilometers.”

Sulu glanced back at Kirk for a second but didn't question the order. Kirk watched the Tholian vessels close the distance to the gas giant, pointing like two arrowheads at M-33. The Tholian ships bulleted into the system in tight formation, curving away from the space station and toward the swath of red gases a thousand kilometers past it. Just as the ships were about to penetrate the Veil, energy surges flashed between the network of satellites fringing the cloud, forming a barrier that both tiny craft now crashed against. The
Enterprise
scanners focused in sharply on the Tholian vessels as tractor beams from the drone system damped their forward momentum. One of the vessels managed to wrench free of the tractor beams and penetrate the Veil, disappearing inside the cloud. The other ship hung suspended between two of the Veil satellites. Spock looked up from his science station. “The remaining Tholian vessel has been immobilized, Captain,” he said.

The bridge crew watched as the drones shunted the alien ship between overlapping tractor swaths, efficiently maneuvering the vessel for kilometers at a pass until the M-33 station's own tractors could take over and draw the ship toward a spherical holding bay. Kirk shook his head, marveling a little at the tactical efficiency on display.

“All clear,
Enterprise,” Merrill's voice returned.
“You can come back on approach.”

“You made that look like a drill, Commodore,” Kirk said.

“Captain, out here we've got nothing to do
but
drill. We're preparing to receive you; transporter coordinates transmitting now.
”

Kirk got out of his chair. He'd been expecting a bored old man eager to share stories, but the encroachment of the Tholian ship, no matter how elegantly handled, had thrown him. Now he wasn't quite sure what he was getting into. “Spock, Bones: with me.”

 

The operations center of M-33 was big; it dwarfed the
Enterprise
's bridge, but there were only three or four more officers inside the domed chamber than there were in Kirk's command; that and the high, vaulted ceiling gave the room a strange, denuded quality, like a forest clearing somewhere. Kirk's pupils dilated at the wash of red light from the Ifukube Veil flooding through a broad viewport that dominated half of the ops center. He could see the glint of the station's drones surrounding the gas cloud even from here, as well as the swollen curve of Veletus V behind it.

A tall, gaunt Andorian stepped forward from a group of officers as Kirk, Spock, and McCoy glanced at their surroundings. “Captain Kirk,” the blue-skinned alien said. “I am Commander Thavas. Welcome aboard M-33.”

Kirk looked around expectantly, but Merrill was nowhere to be seen. “I thought Commodore Merrill might be here,” Kirk said.

“The commodore is waiting for you in his office, Captain,” Thavas replied. “If you will follow me.”

Kirk spared a last glance at the operations center and noted Spock too studying the layout and the hum of activity as several screens showed the Tholian vessel being maneuvered into a holding bay. If this was an emergency, Kirk thought, the station's crew was doing a pretty good job hiding it.

They walked down a large, long corridor toward Merrill's office, past technicians still at work on pressure seals, evidently expanding this section of the station. Then they were ushered down a shallow flight of stairs to the entryway to Merrill's inner sanctum.