Worlds in Collision (17 page)

Admiral Komack smiled as his image resolved on the bridge's main viewscreen. His blue eyes sparkled and his white hair was trimmed short in a much younger man's style.

Uhura immediately judged his smile to be a good sign. Things would be getting back to normal now, she was sure.

“Commodore Wolfe,” the admiral began, “I'm sorry to have taken so long to break Starfleet interference to get to you. I trust all is well.”

Uhura's eyes narrowed. Starfleet was causing the subspace jamming? But why? And more importantly, how? Uhura was confident she knew almost everything that could be known about subspace technology and she couldn't even begin to guess how selective jamming could be accomplished without rewriting the physics manuals. She quickly scanned her board and saw with consternation that despite Komack's clear signal, every other channel was still torn apart by impenetrable interference. She wished Mr. Spock were at his station instead of locked in the brig with a library reader. He would enjoy a problem such as this. She shook her head, deep in thought.

“Why is Command generating the subspace jamming, Admiral?” Wolfe asked.

“As you know,” Komack replied, “Starfleet has reason to suspect an act of terrorism will be committed on Memory Prime during the Nobel and Z. Magnees Prize ceremonies. Intelligence feels that the terrorists are part of a well-organized group. It is probable that some of the terrorists are in place on Prime, but unknown to each other and requiring outside instructions in order to carry out their plan. By blanking out all subspace transmissions, we hope to make those instructions impossible to receive.”

That sounded reasonable to Uhura, even if the method should be impossible. Wolfe appeared to accept the admiral's explanation, too.

“Do you have any other evidence that would further serve to link the science officer to the terrorist organization?” Wolfe asked.

“Not at this time,” Komack answered.

“Do you have new orders for us, sir?”

“Again, not at this time. Federation security services are working with Starfleet to uncover the organization at other locations. In the meantime, we will continue to blank out subspace communications in the vicinity of Memory Prime. You are to carry on as before.”

“How can we contact each other with subspace jammed?”

Uhura could tell Wolfe wasn't meant for starship duty. Just the intimation of being out of contact with Command was enough to make her nervous. Too bad Komack doesn't seem to notice, Uhura thought.

“Set your incoming beacon to a class-eight random scan. Command will intercept and transmit whenever we have something new to pass along. You will be able to contact me by transmitting a class-two query on this channel when necessary. We will interrupt the jamming at irregular though frequent intervals to look for your transmissions. When we see one, we'll immediately get back to you as we are doing right now.” Komack explained the procedure as if it were no more than a standard operations drill. “Just remember that the Alpha emergency still holds, so you're required to restrict your communications to those necessary for the immediate mission. Any other questions?”

“Not at this time, Admiral,” Wolfe said, tapping her fingers on the arm of the captain's chair.

“Very good, Commodore Wolfe. Continue doing your duty for Starfleet and the security of the Federation. Commendations will be in order for you and your crew when this is all over with. Admiral out.”

The screen rippled back to show Memory Prime as a black splotch against the starfield, glittering with the lights that ringed its semicircle of seven domes.

“What a load of tribble droppings,” Wolfe said loudly enough for all to hear.

Uhura couldn't resist. “Tribbles don't leave droppings, Commodore.”

“Exactly,” Wolfe said as she spun in her chair to face Uhura, making Abranand jump to the side. “Nothing! Which is what that brass-hulled dunsel just gave us. I don't believe it. I don't believe it.” She let the chair swing her back to the screen, then stepped down.

“What don't you believe?” Uhura asked, though she expected Wolfe to simply order her to mind her own business.

“Look, Lieutenant,” Wolfe explained as she stood on the steps leading to the upper deck and the turbolift, “there's obviously a very important operation under way here. You of all people must know that the selective jamming Komack just admitted to should be impossible. A whole new technology is being used here and I'm not being told what it is. ‘Continue doing your duty!' ” she parroted. “What does he think I am? A wet-behind-the-ears pup like those two?” The commodore waved a thumb behind her at the ensigns at the helm and engineering stations. Uhura winced for them.

The commodore stormed to the lift doors. They sprang open, but Wolfe turned on her heel and addressed herself to the whole bridge crew.

“I don't know what it was Kirk was doing on this ship that gave it such a miserable rep, but he sure as hell isn't going to rub his bad command decisions off on me. I've got my full retirement benefits coming and I intend to collect them.” She whirled back into the turbolift just as a warning beep sounded from the helm's ship's status sensors.

“What now?” Wolfe snapped as she stepped forward to block the closing lift doors.

The wet-behind-the-ears pup at the helm control read the sensor light. “Unauthorized transportation, Commodore. Infraship.”

The cause was obvious, even to Wolfe. She raced to the command chair.
“Full shields now!”
she shouted as she hit the security call button on the chair's arm. “Security to the brig on the double!” She twisted back to the frantic ensign at the engineering station. “Where are those shields, mister?”

“Too late,” the helmsman said. He turned to look at the commodore. Uhura was glad to see he wasn't smiling. “Transporter has shut down. Successful transmission.”

Wolfe looked as if she were ready to breathe fire. “So help me,” she said in an iron voice, “if I find that your pointy-eared Vulcan shipmate had any help at all in staging this—
any!
—I'll scuttle this ship and everyone on it. Do I make myself clear?”

The crew responded that she did.

“You,” Wolfe said, pointing to the ensign at engineering. “Confined to quarters and downgraded two ratings.” She turned to Uhura. “Who's the transporter chief on duty?”

“Kyle,” Uhura said. Unfortunately there was no way to keep the information from Wolfe; the computer could answer just as easily.

“Have security take him to the brig for dereliction of duty and—”

Uhura had had enough. At the rate the commodore was going through bridge crew, soon she'd have no choice but to get Chekov and Sulu up there again, hesitations and all. “Commodore, I protest! You cannot—”

“Yes I can!”
Wolfe drowned Uhura out. “Lieutenant Abranand, place this woman under arrest as suspected accessory to the escape of a dangerous prisoner.”

Uhura threw her receiver on her chair and shut down her board. Around the bridge, other crew started to rise from their stations, glaring at Wolfe.

“Just try it,” Wolfe told them, sweeping her gaze across them all. “Any of you. All of you. I just don't care. The hangar deck is big enough to hold the whole damn crew and I'll arrest all of you if you think it will make your captain happy.”

The crew held their places.

“It's all right,” Uhura said. “Sit down.”

They sat. Wolfe was fuming. She turned to Farl, whom Uhura had noticed trying to stay uninvolved in what the Andorian undoubtedly felt was threatening to become a mutiny.

“Commander, I want your men to enforce a recall of all
Enterprise
personnel on leave on Prime. That's an order.”

Farl saluted and marched to the turbolift. Wolfe gloated as Abranand escorted Uhura to the lift as well.

“Believe me, Lieutenant,” Wolfe said, “by the time I'm finished with this ship, your captain isn't going to know what hit him. Count on it.”

“That's the difference between you and Captain Kirk,” Uhura said.

“What's that?”

“His crew
can
count on him. And he's never let us down yet.”

“Is that a threat, Lieutenant?”

Uhura smiled coldly. “It doesn't have to be. It's the truth.”

 

Kirk paced the floor in the communal area of Salman Nensi's quarters. He was incapable of sitting still as his mind turned over all the possibilities he was faced with. Nensi and Romaine had brought him, McCoy, and Scott to the chief administrator's residence in order to add a third major piece to the puzzle: the synthetic consciousnesses known as the Pathfinders, the only known independent machine intelligences sanctioned by law to exist in the Federation, were somehow involved in the complex web of mystery that had drawn together the
Enterprise
and Memory Prime.

Another idea suddenly came to the captain and he stopped his pacing to question Nensi.

“Is there any chance that another program—a thirteenth consciousness—has been inserted into the Pathfinder complex?” Kirk asked. “Perhaps the intelligence itself could be the terrorists' weapon. At the proper time, it could crash a turbolift, shut off life support….” Kirk held his hands out as if to gather comments.

“No chance at all,” Romaine said. “First of all, the Pathfinders can't be programmed in the traditional sense. New synthetic consciousnesses can be added to the facility, but only with the full compliance of the entire interface team. Plus the whole I/O system would have to be shut down, manual connections made; no way it could be done without disrupting the entire base. Additionally, the Pathfinders have no direct link to the outside. There's no possible way they can control any of the systems in Prime.”

“Why all the elaborate safeguards?” Kirk asked, sorry to see his theory shot down.

“Well, the programming safeguard is for the Pathfinders' protection. Like humans having the right not to have brain surgery without giving their consent, and then only having it performed by trained physicians under safe conditions. If something goes wrong with their hardware, Captain, those consciousnesses will die. Under those circumstances, the safeguards aren't elaborate. They're necessary.”

“But surely they can be backed up,” Scott asked. “They
are
just impulses in circuitry, after all.”

Romaine smiled at him. “Just as the human mind is impulses in protein circuitry, Scotty. Yet we can't back ourselves up.” She took Scott's hand but looked back to the captain. “That was one of the turning points of the Synthetic Revolt on Titan. A probeshipmind, realizing that the old Sol Council wasn't going to budge on its rulings that machine consciousnesses were commodities, backed itself up in a public databank in Iceland and thrust straight into the Sun. The backup was notarized to prove it contained all the data that the original shipmind had contained and could carry out the same autonomous equipment maintenance subroutines, but it had no personality, no consciousness—”

“No soul,” McCoy added.

“A bit romantic, perhaps, but close enough to the core of their arguments. We know now that a synthetic consciousness must develop from a smaller, self-generating seed program. A full synthetic consciousness backup, when stored, loses that impetus to thought, the flow of current through circuitry. When the data pattern is frozen in storage, there is as yet no way to make it become self-aware again, any more than a vat filled with all the chemical components of a human body can spontaneously come to life. It has to grow and be nurtured from an embryonic form.

“Anyway, the shipmind's experiment was controversial. The opponents of the Freedom for Synthetics movement claimed it was all programming trickery, that the probe ship hadn't made a complete backup copy of itself, that it hadn't been installed on board the ship that burned up in the sun. But the gesture—the suicide, if you will—was enough to tip the balance at the polls. The Worlds Court ruled that if an intelligence could die, then by definition it must have been alive. The resolution banning the ownership of synthetic consciousnesses was passed just as the Federation was born. Our strict edicts against slavery have always been applied to self-aware machines as well as self-aware biological creatures, and now, more than ever, energy matrices as well.”

“So with all that concern for their well-being, why aren't the Pathfinders allowed to have more control over their environment?” Kirk asked.

“Oh, they have complete control over
their
environment, Captain,” Romaine said. “They can do whatever they want within the confines of their circuits, what they call the world of Transition. We just don't want them to have any control over
our
environment.”

“Leftovers from the Titan massacre, I suppose,” McCoy said.

“Partly,” Romaine agreed. “When those domes opened, thousands of workers were killed, and people don't tend to forget things like that. But mostly it's because the risk is too great that the Pathfinders might make a mistake. Again, not from their point of view but from ours.” She looked back to Kirk. “Captain, it's common knowledge that almost all Starfleet vessels have the capacity for self-destruction, but how many officers actually have the authority to initiate it?”