STAR TREK: TOS - Prime Directive Page 12

  Palamas was not up to debating Spock. In fact, Kirk decided, there was no one onboard who was. The only reason McCoy kept trying was because he didn’t know any better. Upset now, but trying not to let it show, the lieutenant conceded the argument. “I do think a case could be made for treating an unthinkable war as a natural disaster of the worst kind, but a Starfleet lieutenant is not the person to do it, Mr. Spock. It’s just that I shall be very sad if we are forced to do nothing as we witness an entire race commit suicide.”

  “As shall I, Lieutenant,” Spock said, and Kirk knew it was a rare admission for him to make to someone he did not know well.

  Palamas watched Spock for a moment, as if realizing what it took for the Vulcan half of him to comment on his feelings, then nodded at Kirk. “I think I’ll pass on that drink for now, Captain. I ... have to prepare for tomorrow’s briefing.”

  It was Kirk’s turn to concede. It was apparent he would not be spending the next few hours in her company and he would not dream of trying to change her mind. “I’ll look forward to hearing it,” he said graciously.

  Palamas said her good-byes, then headed back down the corridor, away from the lift.

  McCoy watched her go, unconsciously duplicating Spock’s pose by placing his hands behind his back as well. “Well, at least someone on this ship has feelings about our job.”

  Spock’s face rested in his habitual, neutral expression. “And at least she does not allow those feelings to interfere with the proper performance of it.”

  Kirk saw McCoy and Spock narrow their eyes at each other, preparing to launch into yet another round. “Gentlemen, I believe we were headed to the doctor’s cabin,” he said to interrupt them. “Perhaps we can continue our discussion of [113] ancient history there.” He began walking toward the turbolift and heard McCoy and Spock fall into step behind him in silence. For the moment, peace had returned to his ship, even though he knew it wouldn’t last. Because Lieutenant Palamas wouldn’t be the only crew member who would be upset if the Enterprise were forced to do nothing but watch as a world destroyed itself.

  But it won’t come to that, Kirk told himself. It can’t come to that.

  He was a starship captain.

  He would not allow it.

  TWO

  Of all the strange and miraculous discoveries humans had made in their expansion into space, perhaps none had been as initially unexpected as the revelation that life was literally everywhere.

  That knowledge had grown slowly with each step outward that humans had taken: life on Earth; fossils on Mars; space-borne organisms blowing in the solar wind; plant analogues on Titan; and then the Icarus’s surprising first contact with the Centaurans and the subsequent discovery of all the other spacefaring civilizations.

  At first, the realization that the absence of life was the exception to the rule was greeted with doubt and disbelief. There was maddeningly inconclusive evidence to suggest that perhaps some planets had been deliberately seeded by an ancient and more advanced race, unofficially known as the Preservers, and that, as a result, the natural incidence of independently arisen life could never be known. But, more often than not, detailed bioanalyses demonstrated that life was an almost inevitable by-product of planetary development throughout the galaxy. And since planets themselves had been shown to be a virtually inevitable by-product of stellar [115] formation, contemporary scientists were more surprised not to find life than to find new forms around any given star.

  The other startling discovery about life, which was also accepted as an inevitable by-product of universal principles throughout the galaxy, was the degree of evolutionary congruence it exhibited. If a planet had a thick enough atmosphere, then it had creatures that could fly. If it had free water, then it had creatures that could swim and extract oxygen through gill-like structures. And if a planet had existed peacefully for enough millennia without major extinctions or drastic ecological upheavals, then as surely as dilithium crystals extended into the fourth dimension, that planet would give rise to intelligent life. According to the latest Federation estimates, there were millions of such planets existing in the galaxy, and to contemplate the hundreds of millions of other galaxies wheeling beyond the great barrier surrounding the Milky Way was to experience a sense of wonder about life which could overwhelm even the orderly minds of Vulcans.

  But there was more than wonder and new scientific knowledge accompanying the Federation’s realization of the universality of intelligent life, there was also the burden of great responsibility. Because, for every civilization which was more advanced than those making up the Federation, there were a hundred which were less so. And every one of those less-advanced worlds would, in time, have been overwhelmed by the Federation’s superior technological culture and well-intentioned aid and enlightenment—unless drastic measures were taken.

  Thus, for the good of intergalactic peace, to acknowledge the uniqueness of each culture without prejudice, and in recognition that each intelligent lifeform must be free to choose its own future, the Federation created its most severe, most troublesome, yet most honorable and sacred commandment: Star-fleet’s General Order Number One.

  The principle was this: The Federation would never allow itself to act as judge and jury to a developing alien culture. Only [116] when cultures had developed to an appropriate point where they could withstand exposure to an interstellar community would they be informed of the Federation’s existence.

  To set conditions of development, to monitor emerging civilizations, and, when conditions were right, to break the conspiracy of silence, the worlds of the Federation authorized Starfleet to form one of its most important branches. It was called Starfleet’s First Contact Office, and the beings who ran it, above all else, were the keepers of the Prime Directive.

  With more relief than Kirk thought he had ever before heard in his helmsman’s voice, Sulu announced that the Enterprise had achieved standard orbit around the moon of Talin IV. Evidently, Kirk wasn’t the only one who sensed what Sulu felt, because the entire bridge crew, with the exception of Spock, applauded.

  “Well done, Mr. Sulu.” Kirk spun around in his chair. “Lieutenant Uhura, when will we be able to raise the FCO?”

  “Coming up on the horizon in three minutes, Captain. Subspace tightbeam standing by to send and receive.”

  “Very good.” Kirk swung back to face the main screen, enjoying the feeling of having the ship come alive around him again. This trip had been the longest five days he had ever spent on her. “Let’s have some scenery on the screen, Mr. Chekov.”

  “Aye-aye, Keptin.” The viewscreen image changed to show the sunlit surface of Talin’s moon moving eight hundred kilometers beneath the ship. It was a typical, airless planet—heavily cratered, studded with sharp, unweathered mountains and swept with dark seas of ancient lava flows. It reminded Kirk of Earth’s Moon, back in the old days, before it had been spoiled by overdevelopment. At least Earth’s Moon was one of the last worlds to have been treated in such a way. It might take a long time, but the success of the Federation had shown that humans were capable of learning how to change their behavior, as individuals and as groups.

  Chekov abruptly turned away from his board. “Keptin, there [117] is a space wessel approaching. Three thousand kilometers, sir. And we are closing fast.”

  “Spock? An FCO shuttle?”

  Spock peered into his science station scope where complex data from the ship’s sensor networks were holographically presented without interference from the bridge’s main lighting. “Difficult to say, Captain. With the blackout conditions, we are forced to rely on passive sensor systems only. No indication of impulse propulsion.” He looked up. “No indication of any kind of propulsion.”

  “Could it be a meteoroid?” Kirk asked.

  “No, sir,” Chekov answered. “Light-reflection profile indicates a regular shape. Definitely artificial.”

  “Then is it a Talin lunar satellite?” Kirk tapped his hand on the arm of his chair.


  “It is not in lunar orbit,” Spock said. He turned back to his scope. “However, the trajectory does indicate Talin IV as its likely launch point.”

  Kirk stepped from his chair to look over Chekov’s shoulder at the deviation plotter. “We know the Talin have sent three missions to their moon. Is there any way we can determine if there’s a crew on board the approaching ship, without using our sensors?”

  “Not with certainty at this distance,” Spock said. “However, I am running a comparison of the vessel with known schematics of Talin lunar satellites and crewed vessels.”

  Kirk turned to the communications station. “How are we doing with that tightbeam to the FCO, Uhura?”

  “One minute to horizon, Captain. But, sir, if that is a Talin lunar mission, the FCO would have warned us about it with an emergency pulse.”

  “Assuming they knew about it, Lieutenant. Spock? How about a guess?”

  “I have computer confirmation. It is definitely a Talin spacecraft, Captain.”

  “Is there a crew?”

  “I am endeavoring to determine that. However, the ship is [118] not a standard configuration. I am running a thermal profile and—”

  “Keptin! I am detecting a radiation signature.”

  Kirk rapped his fist against the top of Chekov’s chair. If it was an uncrewed vessel, then there was no need to be concerned. However, if there was a chance of a Talin space explorer seeing the Enterprise, he would have to break orbit. Unfortunately, that would mean contacting the FCO by unshielded transmissions which they had been warned might be detected, if not understood, by Talin-based receivers. Kirk still wanted to get all the details about that unlikely technological possibility. “Is it radiation from an energy generator, Chekov?”

  “It is not radiating strongly enough for the amount of fissionable material on board, sir.”

  “Spock?”

  “The spacecraft is pressurized with a sizable percentage of empty volume. Seventy percent chance that there is a Talin crew on—”

  “Sulu! Take us out of orbit now. As much impulse as you can manage without using deflectors.”

  The helmsman’s fingers flew over his board and the image on the viewscreen suddenly showed stars as Talin’s moon dropped away. At the low speed at which Sulu had changed the ship’s trajectory, the inertial dampeners didn’t even have to compensate. The ship turned without a vibration.

  “No change in the Talin wessel’s course, sir. Thirty-five hundred kilometers and increasing.”

  Kirk went back to his chair. “Uhura, how soon before we’ll be in tightbeam range of the FCO outpost again?”

  Uhura looked up from her controls, one hand holding her earpiece in place. “Sir, I did get a few seconds of transmission from the outpost before we broke orbit.”

  “And ... ?” Kirk didn’t like the look on Uhura’s face.

  “I’ll run it through again, sir.” She hit the playback control.

  There was a burst of static, then a rough and angry male voice said, “... Enterprise. Pull away! Pull away! That is a crewed [119] Talin vessel! Damn you, Enterprise! Why aren’t you listening on the emergency channels? Get out of there! Get ...” It ended in another rush of static.

  “And that’s all we managed to get, sir.”

  Kirk gripped the arm of his chair. “Why haven’t we been listening on the emergency channels, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir, we have been listening. But we have received absolutely no emergency broadcasts—or any other kind—for the past five days.”

  Kirk joined Uhura at her station. “Then how do you account for what that transmission just said?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Scan the channels now.”

  Uhura punched a command sequence into her main board. Nothing.

  Kirk read the status displays. “All the equipment checks out.”

  Uhura froze. “Are you questioning my ability, Captain?”

  “No, Lieutenant,” Kirk said diplomatically. “But you did assign your post to less experienced officers several times in the past few days. Perhaps ... something was missed.”

  Uhura was not going to accept that explanation. “I programmed this system myself, Captain Kirk. If any emergency transmission had been received, then automatic recordings would have been made and the computer would have alerted whoever had the conn, as well as me, regardless of who was at this post.”

  Spock came up behind Kirk. “Uhura’s system was quite foolproof, Captain. She had me review the program code before assigning junior officers to the station. If the communications log does not indicate the reception of an emergency broadcast, it is because none reached us.”

  “It might be equipment trouble at the FCO outpost, Captain,” Uhura suggested. “They wouldn’t be able to use it very often, so they might not be aware of any deficiencies.”

  “That is a possibility,” Spock concurred.

  [120] Kirk accepted their judgment. He was not inclined to argue with specialists—at least not his own. “All right. But we know their line-of-sight tightbeam transmission works.” He left the communications station. “Mr. Sulu, how soon can you get us back within tightbeam range of the outpost?”

  Sulu looked at Spock. “Mr. Spock, may I use full impulse once the Enterprise is on the farside of Talin’s moon?”

  “I shall have to perform the calculations to determine the length of time residual-ionization effects from the deflectors would be detectable versus the rotational period of the moon itself.” Spock remained silent for three seconds. “Yes, provided you resume slow impulse within seven hundred and eighty-three kilometers of the farside cut-off and remain at least five thousand kilometers distant from the Talin lunar craft.”

  Sulu turned back to his board. “That’s fifteen minutes to reach the farside ... twenty seconds to cross it ... another six minutes, then ... we’ll be in range within twenty-three minutes, Captain, taking up a polar orbit to avoid the other ship if it does come around.”

  Kirk looked with admiration at both Spock and Sulu. “Lay it in, Mr. Sulu. And Uhura, keep monitoring the emergency channels. In case they correct their equipment problem,” he added.

  Uhura smiled at the apology. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  Precisely twenty-three minutes later, the subspace tightbeam broadcast from the FCO outpost came through again, and whoever was on the other side was still angry.

  “Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise. This is FCO Outpost 47 on scrambled tightbeam at—”

  “Outpost 47, this is Captain Kirk of the Enterprise. You apparently are having some equipment prob—”

  But the FCO was interested in only one thing. The angry voice cut Kirk off in mid-sentence. “Did they see you, Kirk?”

  “The Talin lunar vessel?” Kirk asked.

  “Of course the Talin vessel! Put your science officer on. I want a full log download of the encounter. And so help me, if [121] you’ve compromised this outpost by your incompetence, I’ll see that—”

  Kirk glared at the moon’s surface on the main screen. No one talked to him that way. “Who is this? Identify yourself.”

  “There’s no time for any more stalling, Enterprise, “the man snapped. “We need that download now so we can tell how much damage you’ve done. Stator rel!”

  Kirk was surprised to hear the FCO contact swear in the Orion Trader’s Tongue. He held up his hand to signal Uhura to cut his next words from the commlink. “Spock, could the Talin crew have seen us before we changed orbits?”

  “Almost impossible that they achieved a naked-eye sighting. They would have to have been looking directly at us, and tracking us with optical magnifying devices. However, given the state of Talin technology, there is at least a two percent chance that some automated navigational camera recorded an image of us. If that is the case, then at worst they will not know they have photographed an alien vessel until the images are processed on their return to their homeworld. At best, we could be dismissed as a chromatic aberration.”

&
nbsp; “That’s something we can handle,” Kirk said. He signaled Uhura again. “Outpost 47, identify yourself.”

  The voice at the other end knew that the commlink had been severed on the Enterprise’s end and his irate tone had risen sharply. “Download your encounter log—now!”

  But instead of responding in kind, Kirk sat back calmly in his chair. “Outpost 47, regulations require that you identify yourself, to enable us to know that you have not been compromised or taken over by an alien force.”

  “There’s no—”

  This time Kirk had Uhura cut the FCO off. “If you do not identify yourself, then to avoid further contamination of the alien culture, we are authorized to abandon this outpost.”

  Uhura opened the channel again. “I’m going to report you, you—”

  Uhura closed the channel. “And I am going to report you,” Kirk said. “Enterprise out.”

  [122] When Uhura toggled the channel open again, there was only dead air. Then, the unidentified man came online again, much more subdued. “Very well, Captain Kirk of the Enterprise.” Kirk heard the man pause in an attempt to prevent an angry edge from building in his voice again. “For the record, Captain, I am Dr. Alonzo Richter, Special Advisor to the FCO.” He paused, to let the name sink in. And it did.

  Kirk turned to Spock. Spock raised both eyebrows.

  Silently, Kirk mouthed the words, “Did you know?” Spock shook his head.

  Richter continued. “And now, Captain Kirk, would you be so kind as to have your science officer download your karskat encounter log?”

  “Downloading,” Spock announced, ignoring Richter’s use of the Andorian word for ‘misbegotten.’

  “Very good,” Richter said flatly. “And I’ll expect to see you here within the hour, Captain. Within the hour! Depending on the analysis of your log, we will either discuss your mission on behalf of the FCO, or why I should not report you to Command for a violation of the Prime Directive. Richter out.”