Star Trek - Unification Part 1

Unification.

by Jeri Taylor.

Chapter One.

ADMIRAL RUAH BRACKETT had a secret.

Not a terribly profound one, and nothing that would ever interfere with her duties as a fleet admiral of Starfleet Command. But it was a secret nonetheless and she enjoyed keeping it. There was something t.i.tillating about indulging a private idiosyncrasy that was known to no one.

She felt a momentary twinge of guilt as she and her young aide strode into the transporter room of Starbase 234, for her mission was of such importance that she should not be thinking of her personal pleasures. The message she carried had been deemed too important to risk on subs.p.a.ce and was to be delivered only in person. The security of the Federation might be at stake-and yet the foremost thought on her mind was her antic.i.p.ation of the next few moments.

"Well, Lieutenant, shall we do this?" She addressed her young aide, Severson, who was looking a little pale under the freckles which dusted his face. Lieutenant Severson, she knew, wasn't looking forward to the experience of transporting from starbase to starship; he claimed it was altogether unpleasant and in fact made him queasy. He suffered it stoically because as her aide there was no way to avoid the process, and after having garnered this plum a.s.signment, he wasn't about to risk it because of transporter nausea.

"Yes, Admiral." He waited until she had taken her place on the pad, then stepped on beside her. They made an unusual pair-the tall, regal admiral with her close-cropped brown curls and the smaller, carrot-headed young manrebut in fact they worked effort-lessly together, and for that Brackett was willing to tolerate his frailty with the transporter.

"Let us know when you're ready, Chief," she said to the transporter engineer, a seasoned veteran from the planet Nason Barta. He was remarkably fast at entering molecular codes because of the ten digits on each of his appendages.

"I am prepared, Admiral Brackett. Please give me your command." Brackett smiled. The moment was here.

For the secret was that she loved being transported. She knew most people found that it produced no response whatsoever, physical or emotional; others, like Severson, became queasy or disoriented and felt it actively unpleasant.

For Brackett, it was a transcendent experience. The conversion of her molecular structure into a subatomically dissociated matter stream created a sensation that was rapturous: a mystical-spiritual- s.e.xual experience all wrapped up in one powerful phenomenon. Her consciousness remained intact dur-ing the transport, of course, and in that breathtaking instant of dematerialization and materialization she sensed that she brushed against something unknowable, some mysterious, powerful force that existed only in that brief and sublime moment. She often felt she was a breath away from grasping, from understanding it-but then it was over and she arrived at her destination. And always, she longed for the next time. "Thank you, Chief. Proceed."

Severson tensed beside her, and Brackett closed her eyes, focusing on the intense experience that was to come. A roaring sound in her ears signaled the beginning of the dematerialization process, and there was the brief, flashing swirl of light and then the sensation of swooping into a void-then blackness.

A second, a fraction of a second-how long was it? Majestic feelings overwhelmed her; was she soaring? Tumbling? Ascending? There it was, that unknowable something; she was reaching out for it, a second more and she would touch it...

"Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Admiral Brackett. It's good to see you again."

She looked into Miles...o...b..ien's cheerful Irish face and smiled automatically. It seemed as though she were swimming up from a dark crystal pool, and she preferred to remain within its remarkable depths. But of course she had business to attend to.

"And you, Chief O'Brien." She looked around lYansporter Room Three, still light-headed, getting her bearings. And there was Picard.

She smiled as she saw the familiar face. Jean-Luc Picard was an incredibly attractive man with handsome, chiseled features; he had some time ago lost his hair, except for a closely trimmed fringe around the sides, and as far as she was concerned the baldness added to his virile image. She admired and respected him-but she was also deeply drawn to him on a feral, primitive level. Maintaining the bearing and reserve of a superior officer was always difficult around this man, though she was sure he was unaware of that fact.

"It's good to see you again, Captain."

"And you, Admiral Brackett."

"Shall we?" she asked, and he gestured her ahead of him through the transporter room door; they exit-ed, followed by Severson, who was as pale as a ghost and drawing deep breaths of air to keep from throwing up.

When they had reached the bridge and entered the captain's ready room, she turned to Severson. "You're excused, Lieutenant." The matter she had come to discuss was not for anyone's ears but Picard's.

The captain moved toward his replicator. "Would you care for refreshments? Tea, perhaps?"

She smiled. She knew this man, knew what was going on inside him, knew what he was truly feeling in spite of his remote, detached manner. "You're a cool one, Picard," she said.

He turned to her, quizzical, an eyebrow lifted, his look asking the question for him.

"I know you well enough to know that you're burning with curiosity about this summons of mine. And yet you almost manage to convince me that your only concern is a cup of Earl Grey."

"And I know you well enough to know that you'll only tell me what you want to in your own good time. So we might as well have tea."

She smiled as he held her look. They were old friends; they'd had these fencing matches many times before. In fact their first encounter-when they were both cadets at Starfleet Academy-had been on the debate team. They delighted in opposing each other with vehement arguments, and then switching sides and going at it again. During the course of their careers they had continued the friendly rivalry and Brackett always found herself looking forward to the match.

So if Jean-Luc Picard wanted to pretend nonchalance, she understood the gambit. But she held the upper hand this time; she knew the startling reason for this meeting, and perhaps she would make him wait for a few moments before she revealed it.

"I apologize for the mystery, Captain," she began, "but we must attempt to contain the information I'm about to reveal to you-at least as long as possible."

He regarded her calmly, waiting with no perceptible indication of curiosity.

"Three weeks ago, one of our most celebrated amba.s.sadors-an adviser to Federation leaders for generations-disappeared. He left no word of his destination."

And still he waited, gazing at her patiently. She moved toward his desk and quickly activated the computer console there.

"Eight days ago, intelligence reports placed him on Romulus-and I a.s.sure you it's an unauthorized visit." She keyed an instruction and then said, "Computer, initiate linkage between this terminal and Starbase computer system alpha-two-nine."

"Linkage complete," responded the computer voice pleasantly.

Brackett busied herself for a moment with computer instructions, wondering if Picard would interject a question. When he did, it was minimal. "A defection?" he queried, in the most even of tones.

"If it is, the damage to Federation security would be incalculable." She tapped a few more times and then gestured for him to look at his monitor.

A blurry image appeared on the computer screen- it seemed to consist of several figures but none was distinguishable. Picard leaned in, trying to decipher it.

"Taken on Romulus, by long-range scanner," said Brackett. "Computer, enhance image in section four-delta."

The computer whirred and the blurred images began to come into focus. The peripheral images were still fuzzy, but the central figure gradually came into sharp relief.

Admiral Brackett looked for Picard's reaction as he found himself looking at the unmistakable image of Spock of Vulcan-dressed in Romulan clothing.

Spock, a revered figure in Starfleet history. Spock, the renowned amba.s.sador. Spock, venerated architect of peace in the galaxy. Was he a defector to the Romulans?

Picard stared at Brackett in astonishment, and she could not resist a wry smile. At least now she had his attention.

Chapter Two.

COMMANDER WILL RIKER was so wrapped up in his thoughts as he strode the corridor of Deck Eleven that he ran right into Ensign Gretchen Naylor. Their shoulders b.u.mped and he snapped out of his reverie to find the tall brunette with pale green eyes looking at him in surprise.

"Excuse me, sir, I should have been more careful-"

"It's my fault, Ensign. I was a million light-years away and I wasn't watching where I was going. You okay?"

"Just fine, sir." She smiled and held his gaze with her amazing eyes, and the tall, bearded officer found himself wondering if Ensign Naylor had engineered this little mishap. He realized he had been noticing her quite a bit lately, though always in the most innocuous of circ.u.mstances. She had been in Ten-Forward, the ship's lounge, a few times when he was there, and in Engineering when he had held a consultation with Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge. She wore a gold uniform and might be a.s.signed to any area of ship's operations; he realized he had no idea what it was she did.

"What's your post, Ensign?" No reason not to familiarize himself with the crew of the ship; that fell well within his duties as first off~cer. It was only Naylor's green eyes and her generous, full-lipped mouth that made him feel as though this were a more personal inquiry.

"Security, sir. I work with Lieutenant Worf in R and l-recon and intelligence." Her smile was direct and straightforward, lacking any hint of innuendo. Riker liked that smile. His mind shot forward to the two of them in Ten-Forward, heads bent together in quiet conversation, Naylor's mouth parted as she listened, little tendrils of dark hair falling forward as she leaned toward him...

"Very well, Ensign. Carry on." Riker heard himself dismissing her and saw a momentary flicker of something-disappointment?-in her eyes. He nod-ded and walked on, wondering if she stood and stared after him, perplexed by his abrupt departure. He didn't look back to find out.

Now was not the time to indulge in a shipboard flirtation. He knew himself well enough to know that his feelings were particularly vulnerable at this point, and an innocent friendship might rocket out of control. That was dangerous on a starship, a small community where everyone knew everyone else. An intense love affair could go wrong, leaving an uncomfortable residue; on a ship millions of light-years from port such a situation could create the kind of friction that spread like the Circa.s.sian Plague and under-mined morale and efficiency. Riker had learned iron self-discipline in order to avoid such troublesome situations.

For he was feeling restless again. That was the most precise term he could find for the vague miasma that overcame him from time to time. It wasn't intense, it wasn't dire, it wasn't profound. Just unsettling.

The first thing he always noticed was a slight tendency to become distracted. Sitting on the bridge, hearing the routine cadence of orders given and received, he would find that he had missed a few minutes of activity because his mind was in an Alaskan wood, hearing the crunch of his footsteps on icy snow.

Craving for certain foods was another symptom. He would be almost overcome by longing for hot oatmeal with cinnamon, a bubbling potato ca.s.serole, or steaming split-pea soup-all warm, filling dishes that his father used to make on cold winter nights.

And then, inevitably, his mind would turn to thoughts of his own command.

It was a matter Riker thought he had resolved, and it annoyed him that it kept creeping back, like an irritating sound that can't be completely blocked. His decision to stay on the Enterprise as first officer was a conscious choice that completely satisfied the rational part of his mind. His reasons were sound and he had comfortably come to terms with them.

Why, then, this nagging refrain? Why this occasional lapse into introspection and doubt? Riker liked tidiness in his life, and this refusal of his feelings to be neatly compartmentalized distressed him.

What he needed was an adventure. His own adventure. They were even now racing through s.p.a.ce to-ward Vulcan, hoping to discover the events leading up to Amba.s.sador Spock's strange disappearance. But that was the captain's mission, and though he would do everything he could to support and abet that mission, it was not his.

Riker stopped outside Holodeck Two, his mind still tumbling with these unwelcome thoughts. The holodeck had been his destination, for he often came here when he was feeling restless, and usually found some measure of satisfaction in an hour or two of music. Music had the power to quiet his mind, to restore his serenity, and to rejuvenate his enthusiasm. It made the difference in his life.

What program would he choose tonight? He'd often lost himself for hours playing trombone with a simu-lated New Orleans jazz group. But ever since the appearance of the remarkable female holofigure Min-uet in that program-and her reemergence in the elaborate scheme of the alien child Barash-the puri-ty of that music had been compromised.

"Earth," Riker found himself saying after he had keyed instructions to the holodeck computer. "Memphis, Tennessee. Year, 1925. A honky-tonk called Stumpy's."

"Program complete," came the dulcet tones of the computer, and the doors to the holodeck slid open.

The noise and the smoke greeted him immediately. The babble of happy voices was welcoming; the smoke not so. It was necessary background for a bar on Earth in the twentieth century, of course, and holodeck technology had long ago found the means to re-create the smoky atmosphere without injecting dangerous particulates into the air. Still, Riker found it incomprehensible that people long ago had systematically occluded their lungs with the foul-smelling stuff and considered it a mark of sophistication.

He walked into Stumpy's-a tiny place crowded with tables-and saw a room of smiling faces turn toward him. There were welcoming calls and a smat-tering of applause and encouragement as Riker walked toward the piano standing on a makeshift platform.

"Willie... tinkle them things, Willie..." This from a gravel-voiced black man with white tufts of hair over each ear.

"They'd rather hear you, Stumpy." Riker smiled at him. "I'm not in your league."

"Naw, naw... you got the licks, man."

Riker sat down at the piano and let his hands drift over the keys for a minute, getting his bearings, letting himself absorb the atmosphere. This was where the blues was born, and he was now a part of that energy and excitement, the unique creativity that spread throughout the South of the United States in the early part of the twentieth century.

His hands came down on the keys and the patrons of Stumpy's became quiet. Riker started slowly, gen-tly, letting the music come from inside, not imposing anything but simply letting it happen. His pain, his restlessness became part of the music and were lifted out of him and into the air of the funky little club in Memphis. The people listening absorbed the music, sensed the intensity of the feeling within it, let it wash through them and reflected it back until everything was one huge, shared experience, music and hurt, music and longing, music and aspiration turning and twisting with one another- "Captain to Commander Riker."

Riker opened his eyes as the clipped tones intruded into the holodeck. It was always the rudest of awaken-ings, the invasion of the outside into the fantasy experience, but it was the price one paid for serving on the Enterprise.

"Freeze program," he instructed the computer, and the patrons of Stumpy's became instantly stilled. He touched his communicator. "Riker here, sir." "Could you join me in the conference lounge?" "Right away, sir." Riker rose from the piano and cast one last glance around the honky-tonk. So much for the restorative powers of nmsic. He would sum-mon the discipline to function as he must, providing his best to his captain.

Of course, there was always the possibility that the captain's summons might signal the beginning of an adventure. His adventure. Something difficult and mysterious that would test his mettle, summon his talents and hone them in rarefied challenge.

There was a new spring to his walk as he left the holodeck and hurried toward the turbolift, contemplating these possibilities.

But the next hour with the captain was spent helping him trace through intelligence reports detail-ing Amba.s.sador Spock's last two decades of activity. Negotiations, mediations, arbitrations-there was a well-chronicled history of Spock's ceaseless efforts as an architect of peace. If there were seeds in his public behavior of a defection to the Romulans, they were well buried.

Riker enjoyed these meetings with the captain. He respected the well-honed process that Picard brought to any endeavor: Picard would examine thoughts, tumbling them around in his mind like a gem polish-er, extracting something here, buffing something there, until he could put them all together into a codified whole. It was always stimulating, and always challenging, to interact with him.

But it was a demanding process. Riker stretched his legs and then looked at the captain, realizing that he had been at this for hours even before Riker arrived. Weariness hung over Picard like a veil. "We'll be coming into orbit around Vulcan in less than an hour, sir," Riker said. "You may want to get some rest."

"Yes, yes, of course, you're right." But he didn't move. Riker saw the captain's eye caught by another padd on the table, and knew that, although Picard was tired, his mind was still churning.

"We should notify Sarek's wife of our plans," suggested Picard.

"All taken care of, sir. She'll be waiting for your signal to transport on board." Riker had talked with Perrin, Sarek's human wife, by subs.p.a.ce. "And Sarek?"

"She says he is too ill to join her."

"Not unexpected. The man is dying." There was an undertone of sadness to the words. Riker recalled the meeting of those two several years ago, when Sarek, suffering from the rare affliction Bendii's syndrome, came aboard the Enterprise and created havoc by inadvertently projecting his emotions onto the crew. Riker almost smiled as he remembered himself and the captain snapping and snarling at each other, and the patrons of Ten-Forward engaging in a barroom brawl. The outcome of that experience, of course, had been a mind meld between Sarek and Picard, which allowed the venerable amba.s.sador to maintain control of his emotions long enough to complete an important negotiation. The mind meld had linked Sarek and Picard in extraordinary intimacy, and Riker had no doubt that the captain was carrying some residual effects of that liaison.

"And I have the... honor," Picard continued, "to bring him the news that his son may have betrayed the Federation."

Riker sensed, from instincts developed after long a.s.sociation, that the captain wanted to talk further. He needed a sounding board to reflect his thoughts and feelings. It was a role Riker played comfortably and well. "How well do you know Spock?" he asked.

He waited patiently as Picard rose from the table and paced toward the windows, gazing at the spectacular sweep of the stars as the Enterprise raced by them at warp speed. "I met him only once. What I know of him comes from history books and of course the mind meld with his father."

"That must cover a lot of ground." Riker couldn't imagine what a mind meld would be like, but it had to have given the captain a source of insight into Spock.

But the captain smiled wryly, and said, "Not as much as you'd imagine. Sarek and Spock..."

He hesitated, and seemed reluctant to go further. Then he looked at Riker and said, simply, "Well, sometimes, fathers and sons..."

"Understood," answered Riker. He knew Picard was aware of his own tortured history with his father. He had no difficulty imagining other strong-willed men having similar difficulties. But he couldn't help but wonder what problems of Spock and Sarek the captain was privy to.

Picard finally rose, and Riker was glad he was taking the time for a break before they reached Vulcan. They were at the door when Picard suddenly turned back, as though remembering something, and picked up a padd.

"There was one other thing," he said. "Take a look at this."

Riker took the padd and scanned its contents briefly as Picard continued, "Something that turned up dur-ing the intelligence sweep on Spock. What do you make of it?"