Worlds in Collision (4 page)

“It doesn't
appear
to be anything. Some addle-brained nincompoop just tried to beam up an operating accelerator field and I'm trying to trace the coordinates.”

Spock reached over and punched in a series of numbers. Scott read them on the locator grid.

“That's the Cochrane University of Applied Warp Physics,” Scott said.

“Yes,” Spock concurred. “I believe you'll find that the ‘addle-brained nincompoop' you are searching for is the professor emeritus of multiphysics there. Professor Zoareem La'kara.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “Of all people, surely he'd know what happens when ye bring an accelerated time field within interaction range of aligned dilithium?”

“Of course, Mr. Scott. Which is why he is a nominee for the Nobel and Z. Magnees Prize in multiphysics.”

A paging whistle sounded. Uhura's voice announced, “Bridge to Captain. I have a message from the Cochrane University, sir. Professor La'kara says he is
still
waiting to beam up with his equipment.”

“Thank you, Uhura,” Kirk answered. “Tell him we're working on it.” Then to Spock and Scott he added, “Well,
are
we working on it?”

“Captain, an accelerator field is a tricky beast. If a fourth-dimensional arm of dilithium impinges upon a domain of artificially increased entropy, why all the power our engines produce would be sucked back three and a half seconds, rechanneled through the crystals, and then sucked back again. The feedback would be infinite and…” Scotty shuddered as he contemplated the resultant destruction of the ship's warp generators.

“The fact remains, Captain, that Professor La'kara has devised a prototype shielded accelerator field that reduces the interaction range with aligned dilithium to a few meters instead of kilometers. The ship's systems will be in no danger.” Spock turned to Scott. “The published literature is quite extensive.”

“In theory I'll admit it sounds good, but I've nae read any results of a
stable
shielded accelerator and there'll be nae more than
one
fast-time field on board this ship while I'm chief engineer, and that will be
my
dilithium crystals.” Scott folded his arms across his chest. Spock did the same. Kirk sighed. He realized a command decision was clearly called for.

“Mr. Scott, you will beam aboard Professor La'kara and all his equipment
except
for the accelerator-field device, right away.” Scott smiled smugly. “Mr. Spock, you and Professor La'kara will then provide Mr. Scott with a complete description of the accelerator and answer
all
his objections to having it on board. At which time, Mr. Scott, you will beam the device on board and we will continue on to Starbase Four to pick up our last group of nominees. Understood?”

“Captain, if I may—”

“But, Captain, surely ye canna—”

“Fine. Glad to hear it. Mr. Sulu, I believe your station's on the bridge.” Kirk and Sulu headed for the door. Scott tapped a finger on the control console. Spock raised an eyebrow. Kirk turned at the door.

“Should I leave security here to keep an eye on you two?” the captain asked.

“ 'Twillna be necessary,” Scott said.

Kirk waved the security team out and left with Sulu. Scott uncovered the carrier-wave reset switch, entered his security code, then guided the beam to lock on to La'kara's coordinates on the grid, filtering out the accelerator-field signal. “As the poet said, Mr. Spock, ‘Today I shoulda stood in bed.' ”

“I fail to see how that would be a comfortable position.”

Scotty's moan was hidden beneath the rich harmonics of the transporter effect. He could already tell it was going to be one of those missions.

Starfleet blue, Starfleet blue, gods how he hated it.

Chief Administrator Salman Nensi stared at the wall across from his desk and wished he had a window, or even a decent viewscreen, anything to break the monotony of that damned expanse of regulation wall covering. But whatever shortcomings Starfleet had when it came to interior design, at least it tried hard to learn from its mistakes.

The chief administrator couldn't have a window because his facility, Memory Prime, was one of the most secure installations the Federation had ever constructed. Since the Memory Alpha disaster, the entire concept of libraries being unshielded and fully accessible repositories of freely available data had been rotated through four dimensions and come out backward. Nensi doubted that even the soon-to-arrive-
Starship Enterprise
could make much of a dent in Prime's dilithium-powered shields, let alone penetrate the twelve kilometers of nickel-iron asteroid to reach the central Interface Chamber and the Pathfinders before the photon batteries blasted the ship to atoms. No wonder Memory Prime had been chosen as the site of the quadrennial Nobel and Z. Magnees Prize ceremonies, where one well-placed implosion device could plunge the Federation into a scientific dark age. Nensi reluctantly decided security was a small price to pay for not having a window.

The intercom screen on his desk flashed and his Andorian assistant appeared onscreen. His blue antennae dipped in sympathy and his thin, almost nonexistent lips attempted to form a sympathetic frown. “Your ten-hundred appointment iss here, Sal.”

“Give me a minute,” he said to H'rar, “then send him in.”

“Ah, Sal, I'm afraid thiss time it'ss an
it.”
H'rar winked out.

“Oh gods,” Nensi moaned. Three more months and he would retire, head back home, and do some serious fishing. Mars had never seemed so enticing. He sat up straight and forced a smile as his door slid open and his ten-hundred rolled in.

It was a standard research associate, essentially no more than an oblong box, two meters by one by one, with a sloped front end that made it resemble a general service shuttlecraft. Hundreds of the associates trundled through the dome corridors and underground tunnels of Memory Prime, carrying supplies in their manipulator appendages or hauling equipment in their carts, carrying out maintenance work and research assignments, efficiently freeing both the staff and the visiting scholars for more creative work.

Of course, the associates were painted that same damned powdery blue. Too many Vulcans on the design committees, Nensi thought. Logical, cost effective, and boring.

The associate stopped on its treads in front of Nensi's desk and extended an eyestalk from the appendage bay on its top surface. A ready light blinked on and off.

“I had expected a negotiator from the interface team,” Nensi began.

“This module is authorized to present the requests of the interface team and to relay the administration's response.” The associate's voice was surprisingly natural, without the deliberately programmed mechanical abruptness of regulation conversant machines. Someone was patching in unofficial reprogramming. A dangerous situation if carried to the extreme.

“I'm concerned that by being forced to have this meeting with an associate, no conclusion can be reached in the ongoing dispute,” Nensi said diplomatically, though he knew he didn't have to worry about hurting the machine's feelings. It wasn't as if he were dealing with one of the Pathfinders.

“A conclusion
can
be reached. You may agree to the interface team's requests.”

“And am I to take it that you are, in return, authorized to agree to my requests?”

The machine had to process that one for a moment. Evidently the answer was no, for it simply repeated its opening statement.

Nensi resigned himself to the fact that nothing was going to be accomplished today and asked the associate to state the team's requests.

“One: All direct-connect Pathfinder interface consoles are to be replaced with the new designs as previously presented. Two: The attendees of the Nobel and Z. Magnees Prize ceremonies are not to be allowed any primary access except that which accredited delegations have already applied for. Three: The Starfleet chief technician is to be replaced immediately with an enhanced member of the interface team. Candidates' names have been placed in your correspondence circuits.” The machine hummed to itself for a moment. “What is the administration's response?”

The administration's response is to take early retirement, Nensi thought. But his reply was responsible, and truthful. “One: The existing interface consoles are less than a standard year old and I don't have it in the budget to authorize another replacement so soon. Two: The interface team would be wise to consider having
all
the attendees discover the full potential of this facility, despite the disruption to normal services that might entail. Remember that when those scientists go home, they're all going to want to run projects through here and that will create pressure for increased funding
and
corresponding improvement of facilities. And three: I am a Federation appointee and the position of chief technician does not come under my jurisdiction. The interface team will have to take that up with Starfleet. I will arrange to have the proper forms placed in
your
correspondence circuits.”

The team had obviously anticipated Nensi's response because the associate did not even hum for an instant. “This module is authorized to announce that beginning at twenty-six-hundred hours, the interface team will commence an unscheduled emergency core dump as an essential test of the system's backup integrity. All projects will be suspended at that time until further notice.” The eyestalk began to descend.

Nensi felt a large mass lift from his shoulders. He had been a Federation administrator for more than thirty years. Bureaucratic blackmail was an arena he knew well.

“I have not finished,” Nensi announced.

The eyestalk instantly reversed and slid back into the raised position. The ready light was blinking more rapidly now, indicating that the machine was probably in the throes of a programming conflict. It had concluded that Nensi had made his response and then delivered the ultimatum as it had been instructed. However, it had just been informed that it had acted improperly. In the old days, Nensi thought nostalgically, smoke would have been pouring out of its cooling vents by now.

“Continue,” the machine finally said.

“I have only stated the
official
administration response. However, my job function is to provide for the smooth running of this facility, and therefore I'm authorized to make deviations from official policy provided I believe it is in the best interests of all who work at this facility. Do you concur with my job description and responsibilities?”

The associate hummed. Nensi guessed it was requesting procedural files from the personnel databanks. “You have stated an accurate synopsis,” it said.

“Then you must also concur that I cannot deliver my response until I have conferred with representatives of all groups who work here.” Nensi tried not to smile as the noose tightened.

“This module has stated the requests of the interface team. You have represented the policies of the administrative staff. There are no other groups with which to confer. Clarify your response, please.”

“I have to know what the Pathfinders think of all this.”

The machine hummed for a good three seconds. “The Pathfinders are not a working group as defined in the Federation Standard Labor Codes.”

“I'm not suggesting the Pathfinders are standard. Check their status at this facility. But don't bother searching the equipment databanks. Search personnel.”

It took eight seconds this time.

“This module reports a programming conflict and has logged it with central monitoring. This module withdraws the announcement of an emergency core dump at twenty-six-hundred hours. When will you be prepared to deliver your response to the interface team's requests?”

“When may I confer with a Pathfinder? And before you tell me the waiting list is already more than two years long, search Memory Prime's emergency procedures regulations. As chief administrator, I can claim access at any time during an emergency. And I hereby declare this an emergency.” Nensi couldn't resist adding, “Authorize that, you little pile of transporter twistings!”

It took twelve seconds this time. Nensi thought that might be a new record for associate access time. Most planetary histories could be transferred in fewer than thirty seconds. “A member of the interface team will meet with you this afternoon to clarify the situation.” Nensi thought he detected a note of defeat.

“Tell the team that's what I thought we were supposed to accomplish in this meeting in the first place.”

The ready lights winked out and the eyestalk descended with a sigh. “This module is withdrawn from service.” Its treads weaved unsteadily and it bumped against the wall as it rolled out the door. Unfortunately, Nensi couldn't tell if any of its Starfleet-blue paint had rubbed off on the Starfleet-blue walls.

H'rar appeared in the open doorway. “It iss fortunate that they only arm the associatess with stun prodss in the biolab,” the Andorian said in his whispery voice. “Do you wish to consume coffee while you plot your revenge?” All of life was a life-or-death conspiracy to an Andorian. After three decades in Federation bureaucracy, Nensi found it an endearing trait.

Nensi nodded at the offer of coffee. “Please. And get me the chief technician's office.”

“I point out that you typically only wish to reminisce about Marss when you are having a bad day,” H'rar said. “I thought you were victoriouss in thiss encounter.”

“That was just round one,” Nensi said, leaning back in his chair to stretch his spine. “If I'm finally going to get a chance to talk with one of those things down there, I'd like to go in with someone who knows what she's doing.”

H'rar pushed a handful of fine white hair from his forehead. “I wass not aware that the interface team would allow her to talk with the Pathfinderss after she decided she would not undergo enhancement.”

“They may not like it,” Nensi agreed. “But she's the top expert in these systems. If the team does try to shut us down during the prize ceremonies, she'll be the only one who can keep us going.”

“It will be what you call a ‘tough job.' ”

“She's a tough person, H'rar. Only survivor of the Memory Alpha disaster.”

H'rar nodded respectfully and stepped back to his desk. In less than a minute Nensi's intercom beeped.

“Mira Romaine on line, Sal.”

Here goes,
Nensi thought as he reached for the accept button at the base of the screen. If this scheme doesn't work out, I'll be back home fishing on the grand canals so fast they'll have to name a warp factor after me.

 

“I still can't believe they want me fired,” Starfleet Chief Technician Mira Romaine said. “Can you, Sal?”

Sal's answer dissolved in the rush of the transporter effect as the two of them disappeared from the main pad of the interface staging room and reappeared twelve kilometers deeper into the asteroid that housed Memory Prime.

Transporter beams, guided through the normally impenetrable mass of the asteroid by a monomolecular-wave guide wire, were the only way for people to go into or out of the central core area. The scientific community still had not totally recovered from the destruction of the Memory Alpha cores. Current data from the more established planets had been easily reassembled. Historical data, especially that collected from the innumerable lost probes sent out during the initial haphazard expansion of the Federation, were still being tracked down on a hundred worlds, from antique databanks and collections of actual physically printed materials, for reintegration into the central dataweb. The reconstruction project was years from completion, and librarian technicians such as Romaine feared that some data had been lost forever.

“Yes, I can believe it,” Sal answered with a cough. He hated the feeling he got if he was transported while moving. Even talking was enough to make his jaw muscles and lungs feel as if they were full of microscopic feathers.

He followed Romaine over to the scan panels by the entrance door. The whole transfer room they were in was a transporter pad. If their palm prints didn't match the patterns stored in the security banks, they'd be automatically transported to a holding cell.

“Look at it from the interface team's point of view,” Sal continued as the security door slid open. “You're an outsider. Most of them have been happily tending the Pathfinders for years on Titan, on the Centauri worlds, the HMS
Beagle,
and wherever else they were stationed. Some of them are the third and fourth generation of their family to interface. And then along comes some hotshot from Starfleet who refuses to have the implant operation that defines their lives. Of course they don't want you around.”

Romaine stopped in the tube-shaped tunnel with all its conduits and power guides exposed for easy servicing. Her aquamarine eyes narrowed as she stared at Nensi.