Worlds in Collision (59 page)

Sytok unfolded the sheaf of papers and rifled through them in seconds. “There is nothing in here that the human woman's organization has not said before. It is merely another attempt to introduce a radical and ill-thought plan to circumvent the Prime Directive. They would force the Federation to offer aid to every known world, contacted or not, which is not as developed as the existing member worlds. Such a policy would clearly lead to tragedy and chaos.”

Marita came back to the two Vulcans as Sytok spoke. Her eyes flashed with anger. “You're wrong, Ambassador. The Federation has more than enough resources to share with less developed worlds. The Prime Directive is a morally indefensible attempt to keep the wealth of a thousand worlds safely within the hands of a few powerful planetary governments.”

Sytok turned frostily to Spock. “I do not have time to debate this with a child,” the ambassador said. “Spock, since it appears you have more time than I, please explain to…your associate that the Prime Directive is the foundation upon which the Federation is built.”

“Marita Llorente is correct,” Spock said.

Ambassador Sytok blinked once in the Vulcan equivalent of a gasp of shock. “What?”

“A case can be made to support the proposition that the Prime Directive is morally indefensible and must be stricken from the laws of the Federation,” Spock said.

Sytok blinked twice. “Spock…that statement goes against every principle of peace and equality the Federation is sworn to uphold…that statement is a complete abandonment of the ideals in which Vulcan joined with other worlds to form the Federation. It denies history. It—it is not logical, Spock.”

“Nevertheless, I believe it to have merit.”

Sytok looked long and hard into Spock's eyes and Spock found himself readying his mental defenses against a sudden attempt at melding. The ambassador seemed that unsettled by Spock's position.

“Do you hate Starfleet that much, Spock? Do you have such bitterness for what they've done to you that you would strike out against the Federation so senselessly?”

“I do not hate the Federation, nor do I hate Starfleet. I simply wish to improve them.”

Sytok crushed the papers in his hands. “I will not allow you to dishonor the Council with such general and ill-conceived charges.”

“They are not general. I intend to bring specific civil charges against Starfleet and those of its personnel who destroyed Talin by attempting to uphold the Prime Directive.”

Sytok's lips actually trembled. “Is this your idea of a human joke? You intend to bring charges
against yourself?”

Spock nodded. “Logically, I have no other choice.”

“Logic?” Sytok almost sputtered. “You dare to speak of logic in connection with this absurdity? If you do this, Spock, you will be announcing to all the worlds that you have forsaken your Vulcan heritage. Don't you remember the controversy that arose at home when you decided to join Starfleet? Don't you remember how the elders said you would become less than Vulcan by being in such close proximity to humans. If you go through with this senselessness, you will prove them right.” Sytok held the papers out to Spock, asking him to take them back. “As a friend of your father's, I request you reconsider. Think what will be said of you.”

Spock kept his true thoughts and feelings well shielded. “I did not care what others thought when I applied to Starfleet. I do not care now.” He placed his hands behind his back, refusing the papers. “Ambassador Sytok, will you or will you not prepare my credentials to address the Council as a citizen of Vulcan and the Federation, as is my right?”

Spock saw Marita smile triumphantly at Sytok. She knew so little. But her unbridled display of emotionalism helped Sytok compose himself.

“Yes, Spock,” the ambassador said blandly, no trace of the hidden passion which had threatened to surface moments ago. “I shall authorize your credentials, as a citizen, to address the Council in five days' time. I must warn you though, if I place Marita Llorente's name on the forms as your associate, the Council will be likely to postpone its meeting in order to prevent her from disrupting it.”

Perfect,
Spock thought. The plan had worked. Sytok had become distracted by his emotions and ignored the logic of what Spock was maneuvering him to do.

“Ambassador,” Spock said, “may I suggest then that you have your staff simply prepare the forms without naming Ms. Llorente directly. I believe you are able to issue a blanket credential for myself and ‘others to be named later.' ”

“Yes,” Sytok said. “I can do that because no Vulcan has ever misused the system in the way in which you intend.”

“Please believe me, Ambassador, I have no wish to misuse the system.”

Sytok held the papers up in his fist. “And yet you give me this.”

Spock stepped back and held up his hand to offer the salute of leaving. “Live long and prosper, Ambassador Sytok. I shall return in four days to receive my credentials.”

Sytok did not offer a salute in return. “I warn you, Spock, after what happened at Talin IV, if you disrupt a Council meeting they will deport you as an undesirable.”

Spock shrugged. “I will have had my say in the proper forum.” He turned to go.

“And Vulcan will not take you back,” Sytok said.

Spock shrugged again as if he didn't care.

And Sytok saw something in that. Spock knew it instantly. The ambassador had detected a telltale hint of deception.

Sytok glanced thoughtfully at the papers again. “This is not like you, Spock. This is not like Sarek's son at all.” He looked up. “You have planned something else.”

Spock knew he had to act quickly. The ambassador must be diverted again. He held out his hand to Marita, index and middle finger extended, the rest folded back.

“Marita,” Spock said, “attend me.”

The woman smiled seductively and matched Spock's gesture, touching her two fingers to his in the intimacy of the Vulcan ritual embrace.

Spock heard the paper rustle in Sytok's fist as he crushed it even more. The ambassador was speechless in his outrage. Spock's tactic had worked.

Still joined with Marita, Spock walked toward the chamber's exit. The carved granite doors swung open silently.

“Spock!” Sytok's voice echoed in the hall.

Spock stopped to look back at the ambassador.

“What would your father say?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I believe he would wish me luck.”

Lieutenant Kyle stuck his head out from beneath the control console in transporter room four. His blond hair and pale skin were smudged with insulation dust and blue coolant.

“I think that's got it, Mr. Scott.”

Scott stood to the side of the console, using a transtator tester on the wiring circuits exposed beneath the flipped-up surface panel. He hadn't expected to hear from Kyle for at least another hour. “That's fast work, lad.” He was afraid he knew why.

Kyle wiped at his face, then pulled himself out from the access opening under the console. “It was just the main node, Mr. Scott. The secondary circuits weren't touched.”

Scott swung the panel down until it clicked into place. “Just like the phaser banks,” he said, and he didn't like it.

“And the torpedo couplings,” Kyle added. “And the main sensor sequencers.”

Scott stared at the coils of power-harness cables that hung down from the openings in the room's ceiling. The starbase mechanics had done long baseline scans of the
Enterprise
and determined that every centimeter of transtator circuitry in her had been hopelessly burned out. But by actually poking and prodding their way through her, Scott and Kyle had discovered that less than twenty percent of her circuitry had actually been destroyed. Normally, that would be good news because, if the repair order were ever given, the wiring drones would only require a fifth the time to install replacement circuits throughout the
Enterprise.
But what worried Scott was that virtually all of that twenty percent of destroyed circuitry had been master control nodes. He knew that powerful subspace pulses could inflict erratic damage on a ship, but he had never heard of the damage being confined just to the most important circuits.

“I tell ye, lad,” Scott said, “I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.”

Kyle brushed the dust from his blue technician's jumpsuit. He looked as if he shared Scott's concern. They had had this conversation many times in the two weeks since the shipwright drones had been installed onboard to salvage damaged equipment. The drones' controllers had been surprised to find how little equipment there had actually been to salvage. But while the damage had been far less than expected, it was specific enough to render the ship useless.

“I still don't know how anything could focus a subspace pulse so precisely that it would only affect the main nodes,” Kyle said. “I think it really does have to be a coincidence, sir. Or something about the way the pulse traveled through the circuitry. Maybe destructive interference built up at the main nodes because that's where the pulse signals met each other…maybe.” His voice trailed off into uncertainty.

Scott shook his head. “Mr. Kyle, remember who you're talking to. And I'll not be swallowing any of that first-year engineering student yammer. Whatever kind of pulse hit this ship was
aimed
at us. And whoever aimed it knew exactly what it was they were doing.”

Kyle looked pained. “Are you going to try to explain that to Lieutenant Styles? Again?”

“I know what I'd like to explain to that sli—” A discordant paging whistle shrieked from the companel and Scott cringed. “What the devil have they done to the power settings on that blasted—”

“Bridge Communications Center to Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott.” It was Styles. It could only be Styles.

Scott leaned against the transporter console and rolled his eyes at Kyle. “Aye, Lieutenant Styles, Scott here.”

“Vice Admiral Hammersmith's shuttle is arriving, Mr. Scott. Is that transporter working yet?”

“All the circuitry is back in place, Lieutenant, but we haven't had a chance to test it yet.”

“Well hop to it, man. I told the vice admiral that I would have him
beamed
aboard. You've got ten minutes. Bridge Communications Center out.”

The companel crackled with static, then went dead.

Kyle went over to the storage locker and broke out a box filled with various transporter test modules. They were essentially empty boxes made from metal only a few molecules thick. Any alignment or focus problems in a transporter would cause the intricately etched, reflective surfaces of the boxes to change to a dull and mottled appearance when they re-formed. They were usually the first objects to be sent through any transporter that had been subjected to repairs.

Kyle examined the test modules carefully. “You know, Mr. Scott, these look to have been banged up pretty badly. We've got some dents and bends here that could affect the diffraction patterns. Make them look perfect when they're not. I don't think they'll do.”

Scott thought for a moment. There was no possible way he would authorize human transmission in a transporter that hadn't been properly tested. Then he held up his hand. “Just a minute, Mr. Kyle. I think I've got it.” Scott left the room through the doors he had jammed open with an old circuitplaser. The few sliding pocket doors which had been brought back online throughout the ship were behaving about as well as the companels. Everyone on board could be seen hesitating by closed doors and rushing through open ones to avoid being sandwiched by them. Scott had taken the easy way out by simply disabling the doors to any room he happened to be working in. He found it odd that none of the starbase mechanics had figured out the same thing, and so far he had noticed three of them with eyes blackened from walking into doors. Seeing them like that was one of the few things that made getting up in the morning easier these days. Especially because of what Hammersmith had done to him.

When Scott came back to the transporter room, he carried a small mechanical scavenger drone under one arm. The device's treads whirred uselessly and its manipulator stalks waved wildly. It and two hundred and twenty-two other shipwright drones on board were controlled by a portable repair computer installed in engineering. They had spent the past two weeks crawling through the ship, beeping and bumping and getting on Scott's nerves. He was going to enjoy this.

Scott carried the drone over to the transporter platform and plopped the machine down on the center pad. It rocked back and forth for a moment, then spread its manipulators all around itself, tracing the circumference of the transmission crystal.

Scott stood back. “All right, Mr. Kyle, before its control computer figures out where it is, would ye energize the wee thing.”

The small machine squealed once, then faded away in a sparkling mist.

“Holding the pattern,” Kyle said as he studied the board. “Carrier storage is one hundred percent. Power consumption following normal curves.” He looked up at Scott and smiled. “Seems to be perfect, Mr. Scott.”

“If ye say so yourself.” Scott watched the platform. “All right then, bring the little beastie back.”

The transporter chime grew louder, but then was overpowered by the metallic tinkle of small machine parts raining down on the pad.

“Aww,” Scott said happily.

“Um, there appears to be a realignment problem,” Kyle offered.

“You think so?” Scott walked over to the companel. “Myself, I don't think it's ready for a vice admiral, but I think it should work just fine for a certain lieutenant.” He toggled the paging switch. “Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott to Bridge Communications Center. I'm afraid the transporter is going to be needing a wee bit more work. You better tell the vice admiral that he should park his shuttle in the hangar bay.” Scott winked at Kyle.

When Styles responded, his voice was tight with officious rage, just as Scott had expected. “Chief Engineer Scott! I told the vice admiral that we would beam him aboard and by thunder we
will
beam him aboard.”

“Lieutenant Styles, sir, the only way anyone's going to be coming out of this transporter is in buckets, if you know what I mean, sir.” Scott grinned at Kyle as the transporter technician put a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh.

The companel transmission picked up a rhythmic tapping interference signal that puzzled Scott until he realized that it was that damned swagger stick hitting the side of the center chair.

“Mr. Scott,” Styles said like a petulant child. “I am holding you personally responsible and I shall tell the vice admiral exactly why he was forced to experience the inconvenience of a hangar landing.” Tap tap tap tap. “Bridge Communications Center out.”

“Good,” Scott said, “then maybe Hammersmith will come to his senses and let me go.”

Kyle popped open the control console again. “Are you certain that's what you still want to do, Mr. Scott?”

Scott clenched his teeth and the muscles in his jaw tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. “If Hammersmith approves detaching what's left of the port nacelle, and the ship survives the separation, she'll be someone else's worry.”

Kyle concentrated on the machinery in the console. Without looking up, he said, “But the
Enterprise
needs you, sir.”

“I know that, Mr. Kyle. But the
Enterprise
is more than a ship, and right now I could do a lot more for her by being away from her.”

Kyle didn't move. “Do you think the Captain's all right?”

“Of course he is, lad,” Scott said, wondering if he could believe it as much as he wanted Kyle to. “But if I could get off this ship, I could find out for sure.”

Kyle nodded. The blue glow of his circuitplaser flared from the console as he readjusted the reassembly timing delays. This was another conversation they had had many times.

Scott decided he had better report to the hangar deck to make sure the pressure doors were working properly. He still couldn't forgive Carole Mallett and Mario Cardinali for what they had done to the doors after the
Enterprise
had been set adrift. But before Scott could leave, in walked a young female ensign in services red and a Starbase 29 insignia, waving a simple, unicorder tracker in front of her.

“Pardon me, sir,” the woman said seriously. “But have you seen a scavenger drone in this area? We appear to have lost one nearby.”

“Aye, certainly,” Scott said cheerfully. “We did see one of the little fellas around here. Seemed to have a small malfunction or somesuch.”

The woman nodded with a knowing frown. “Ah, a small malfunction. That does happen from time to time.” She kept her gaze on Scott, though the engineer said nothing. “And excuse me one more time if I may, sir. But can you tell me where the…little fella is?”

“Why, he's right over there, lass.” Scott pointed toward the transporter pad. “And I hope ye brought a broom.” Scott watched the ensign stare in disbelief at the tiny mound of drone components, no doubt wondering how the chief engineer would define a
major
malfunction. Then Scott left for the hangar and his next attempt to convince Vice Admiral Hammersmith that there was no place in Starfleet for such a willfully disobedient chief engineer as Montgomery Scott.

 

The huge curved doors of the ship's hangar bay only opened halfway now. Their elegantly engineered folding segments had been deformed by the shuttle that had smashed through them, then further degraded by the thick sealant baffles that the starbase mechanics had roughly attached to repair the damage until the doors could be replaced.

Scott still couldn't understand what had driven the two FCO managers to do what they had done. Approximately thirty minutes after the
Enterprise
had been blasted out of the timeslowing grip of Talin IV's gravity-well wormhole, she was powerless and adrift. But even when Scott had taken command of the ship, he had not been concerned about the crew's eventual rescue. After all, the hull was secure. Local battery networks could easily keep the air circulating and the gravity functioning for weeks. And once the FCO outpost picked up the
Enterprise'
s emergency beacon, the rescue shuttles from Starbase 29 were only four days away at maximum warp. So why had Mallett and Cardinali risked their careers in Starfleet—and the safe evacuation of the
Enterprise'
s crew—by virtually destroying the hangar deck?

Scott remembered passing Mallett and Cardinali in the ladderways as he and the medical technicians climbed their way to the bridge. The FCO pilot and communications manager had told Scott that everyone on the bridge was alive with no serious injuries, and then had said that they had to salvage their equipment. In the confusion of dealing with the crippled vessel, Scott had thought nothing of their apparent panic. He certainly had not suspected that they were both determined to abandon ship. But that was exactly what the two managers had done.

The three Wraith shuttles which had been stowed on the hangar deck were specifically designed to provide as few clues as possible about advanced technology should any of them crash, so except for their heavily armored antigrav generators and a sub-miniature subspace radio, there wasn't a transtator in them. Whatever had rendered the
Enterprise
a drifting hulk had left the Wraiths' major components untouched.

As far as Scott had been able to determine, Cardinali and Mallett had donned environmental suits, then rigged one Wraith to fly on autopilot straight through the inoperative hangar bay doors. Without deflector shields in place, the middle segments of the doors had shattered, explosively decompressing the bay. Cardinali and Mallett had then taken a second Wraith through the gaping hole and flown back to the FCO outpost on Talin's moon. A few weeks later, after the outpost had been sealed and all personnel transferred back to Earth, Scott had heard that the two FCO managers had claimed they had been trying to get word back to the outpost to send for rescue ships as quickly as possible. That explanation just didn't seem reasonable to Scott.