Star Trek - Unification Part 9

Spock and Picard were standing at one of the small tables that dotted the floor of the dinglh. They had been standing casually there for several minutes and had already ordered soup-almost the only thing that was ever available. Spock knew that the powerful denizens of Romulus dined each night on sumptuous delicacies; the ordinary man stood in line for a crown of bread and a chunk of gristle.

Spock would have preferred to be here alone; he had hoped to convince Picard to transport back to his Klingon ship and then return to Federation s.p.a.ce. An affair like this was best handled without outside interference and with as few partic.i.p.ants as possible. The delicacy of the situation made a Starfleet captain's presence troubling, indeed.

Spock looked at the trim, fit man opposite him, registered his grave, intelligent eyes and his a.s.sured bearing, and reflected that, all his misgivings notwith-standing, if Starfleet felt they had to send someone, this had undoubtedly been a wise choice.

He had never met Jean-Luc Picard, but he had of course heard of the captain of the fleet's flagship. His reputation heralded him as a man of courage, erudi-tion, and compa.s.sion, and in their brief encounter Spock had no reason to doubt any of those qualities. To those he might add perceptivity, articulateness, and tenacity.

All the same, he made Spock uneasy. And he wasn't sure why.

Spock disliked not being able to objectify his instinct; it was like an elusive mote in the eye that can't be seen or extracted but continues to irritate nonetheless. What was it about Picard that he found so disquieting?

Perhaps it was that Picard's att.i.tude about the possibility of unification was simply not logical. Spock was sure that the Federation and its representatives could only benefit if his mission were successful, and he did not doubt that Picard would ultimately be supportive of such a movement. So there was no reason for Picard to disapprove of his goal.

But he did. That was it-Jean-Luc Picard thought he was an impressionable fool for having entered into this endeavor.

Perhaps that is why Spock seemed to hear his father's voice whenever Picard voiced his concerns about the reunification talks. Sarek, too, had never given credence to Spock's beliefs that there were some Romulans who wanted peace, who wanted to live in reborn harmony with their Vulcan cousins. It had been a lifelong source of conflict. And now here was this Picard, echoing that same att.i.tude. In a way, it was fascinating.

In a corner of the dinglh, Spock saw the man with the flower moving idly toward them. In a moment he was pa.s.sing their table, and as he did so he casually placed the blossom in a gla.s.s of water, then deposited it in front of Spock.

"Allow me to brighten your table," Jaron intoned, and Spock nodded noncommittally. "Jolan tru," added the man, and moved on. The Romulan greeting, which meant variously "good day," "best wishes," or "good luck," was a neutral one shared by all. It connoted no political allegiance or leaning, though Spock knew the man was a member of the movement.

He turned back toward Picard, his voice quiet; fortunately, a hushed conversation drew no attention, for everyone spoke in guarded tones in this city. "The Senate has adjourned. Pardek will be here shortly." He glanced toward the pink lagga blossom. The flower is a signal."

Picard nodded. Spock knew the Starfleet captain was curious to hear Pardek's message, for it would signal either an end to or a continuation of Spock's objective. Picard's eyes carefully swept the interior of the food center; Spock was pleased that he was ever on the alert. "Just how widespread is this movement?" asked the captain.

They had been talking, before D'Tan's flower had arrived, about the remarkable events that were tran-spiring here in the Romulan system. Picard had listened carefully, gathering in the information Spock provided him, asking intelligent questions. He seemed to be intrigued by Spock's revelation of an active, pervasive underground of those who longed for reunification. "I am told," replied Spock, "that there are groups in every populated area."

He stopped as he felt the arrival of the matron: he had not seen her here before and was unwilling to take the chance that even a whispered conversation might he overheard. The woman sat before them bowls of gletten, eyed the flower, looked hard at them, and then moved off.

"The spread of these groups has become a serious concern to the Romulan leadership," Spock then continued.

"Serious enough for the leaders to suddenly embrace a Vulcan peace initiative? I have a difficult time accepting that."

In that sentence, Spock heard the intransigence and stubbornness that disturbed him. He admired the fact that this captain had courage; he would never be intimidated into altering his position. But could he not embrace the possibility of change? Was he thoroughly inflexible?

"I sense you have a closed mind, Captain," he retored. "Closed minds have kept these two worlds apart for centuries."

He saw Picard give him a look that suggested puzzlement. Perhaps he had spoken a bit sharply. Spock continued, determined to win his support. "In the Federation, we have learned from experience to view the Romulans with distrust. We can either choose to live with that enmity or seek an opportunity to change it." He paused and looked at Picard with his most penetrating gaze. "I choose the latter."

Picard seemed unaffected by the stare. "I will be the first to cheer when the Neutral Zone is abolished, sir. 1 only wonder if this movement is strong enough to reshape the entire Romulan political landscape."

Again, it was a familiar tone that Spock heard from this man. Surprising that it did something to his stomach that was vexatious.

His eyes shifted and fell on the flower in the gla.s.s, already wilted and gasping in the Romulan heat. "One can begin to reshape the landscape with a single flower, Captain."

He didn't look at Picard to see what response that observation had produced, because he had noticed D'Tan approaching, his wiry child's body full of angles and joints. He was carrying something.

"Jolan tru, Mr. Spock," he said. D'Tan always spoke as though he were half out of breath, probably because he never walked when he could run. "Look what I've brought you."

"This is my friend D'Tan," Spock told Picard. "He is very curious about Vulcan."

"h.e.l.lo, D'Tan." Picard's voice was friendly, if somewhat cautious. Spock sensed a man who, though warmhearted, was not comfortable with children.

D'Tan handed Spock a book and he turned it in his hands. It was worn, with a cover made of wood that had been carved by hand, and pages that were smudged and brittle. "It is very old," ventured Spock. "Where did you get this?"

"They read from it at the meetings. It tells the story of the Vulcan separation-"

A new voice knifed into the conversation, startling them all. "You should not bring that out here, D'Tan. You've been told many times."

They turned to see Pardek approaching, his benign face a ruddy red from the heat. D'Tan looked sheepish and took possession of the book once more. "I just wanted to show it to Mr. Spock," he said lamely.

Pardek's smile was not threatening. "Off with you. We will see you later tonight." D'Tan's eyes sought Spock's, as though to feed from him once more before he left. "Will you tell us more stories about Vulcan?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Spock, and enjoyed the smile that D'Tan gave him in return. Then the boy sprinted off, hurling back over his shoulder as he did, "Jolan tru."

Spock saw Pardek casting his practiced eye around the denizens of the food center and lighting on the grim-faced old woman who had brought their gletten. "Perhaps this is not such a good place to talk," he murmured, and the three moved casually out of the court and into the colorless world of the Romulan streets.

Spock knew that most of his countrymen, and most Federation members for that matter, would find the dark, somber pa.s.sageways of this city bleak and depressing. Ironically, he did not. The vast, rugged beauty of Vulcan, with its ocher deserts and its jagged red mountains, had instilled in him a love of s.p.a.cious-ness and light. Why, then, his appreciation of these squalid pa.s.sageways where little light intruded? The dark facades of the structures were ominous, the corridors narrow and constricting. The people all dressed in pallid clothing and their expressions were quietly despairing. There would seem to be little to cherish in these desolate streets.

But Spock had a palpable sense of the spirit that lurked beneath; a knowledge that, behind those joy-less faces, burned the eagerness for a new order. There was a river of desire that ran unseen beneath this city, a wellspring from which more and more would soon be drinking. That such a flame could burn in these woeful alleyways seemed remarkable to him, and imbued the surroundings with a unique beauty whose essence was almost tangible to him.

The three men walked the street, heads down in Romulan fashion. Pardek cast a glance toward Picard.

"And what do you think of your enemy, Captain Picard?"

Picard gave him a look that was not accusatory yet had an intensity that surprised Spock. "These people are no one's enemy, Senator." How true, thought Spock, and if only someone wouM tell that to all the governmental authorities and all the military leaders. The people were rarely each other's enemies...

Pardek smiled an acknowledgment. "Many of my colleagues fear what the people have to say. But I have learned to listen carefully." Pardek paused a moment, formulating his thoughts. "Children like D'Tan are our future. Old men like me will not be able to hold on to ancient prejudice and hostility. These young people won't allow it."

Spock glanced at Picard, to see what effect these words were having on him. Picard seemed to be listening intently.

"Now that they've met their first real Vulcan," continued Pardek, "it has only inspired them more. I'm sure that is evident to you, Spock."

"I did not antic.i.p.ate such a pa.s.sionate response to my arrival," admitted Spock, remembering the near delirious joy with which some people at meetings had greeted him,.

Pardek smiled. "Romulans are a pa.s.sionate people. Vulcans will learn to appreciate that quality in us."

"If we are successful," added Spock, curious that Pardek seemed so optimistic today. Were there new developments? That question was answered an instant later when Pardek looked at him with a smile that crinkled his merry eyes. "We will know soon," he declared, not without a certain pride. "The proconsul, Neral, has agreed to meet with you."

Spock was pleased to note that Picard seemed amazed by this announcement.

Chapter Thirteen.

FOR RIKER, the week at Qualor Two had pa.s.sed like a day. After the astonishing explosion of the smuggler's ship, the Enterprise had gone into synchronous...o...b..t around the planet in order to investigate. Klim Dokachin had put the full resources of the formidable Zakdornian computer system at their disposal, as well as the combined sensibilities of several dozen of his colleagues to whom the desecration of their surplus depot was tantamount to sacrilege.

Riker found, after his initial period of discomfort with Dokachin's officiousness, that the rotund little man was a treasure. He had taken the theft of his ships and his materiel as a personal affront, and would leave nothing undone in order to uncover the perpetrator. The Zakdorn were methodical and fastidious to a fault, but in a case like this they were of inestimable value.

He and Gretchen Naylor had spent hours with Dokachin at a computer console, tracking manifests and logs. They had uncovered a trail of lost materiel that went back well over a year, and which included sensor arrays, deflectors, computers, armament, and almost anything else integral to the fitting of s.p.a.ceships.

And then there were the two missing ships: the T'Pau, the quest for which had begun this whole adventure; and the Tripoli, the huge cargo ship that had been used to store equipment that was routinely stripped from starships consigned to the depot.

It was, reflected Riker, an ambitious and remarkably clever plan. The Tripoli-they weren't sure how yetmhad quietly been slipped from its docking s.p.a.ce. Whenever shipments werebeamed to its coordinates, the smuggler's ship apparently took its place and received the goods, then warped away with no one the wiser.

"It seems to me that would mean there was a collaborator on the surface," mused Riker. They were on board the Enterprise, seated in one of the small security offices on Deck Nine; Riker was leaning back in his chair, absorbing the information Gretchen was relaying to him, mulling it over, worrying it like a pup with an old sock. "The computer would have to have been reconfigured to indicate the Tripoli was still there. Unless the locking coordinates were showing on the computer, whoever was programming the transport would have known there was nothing there."

Gretchen was nodding, her glossy black hair pulled back today into a thick braid. Riker noted idly that he liked that look on her. "I think there was someone else involved, too," she was saying. "So does Dokachin. He's written a scanning program to look for patterns in computer usage during the last year. He'll cross-reference the usage patterns with personal and duty logs to find who might be responsible."

Riker nodded his approval. "We need to find that person. They might be our only link to whoever it was that piloted the smuggleifs ship."

"Dokachin will transport on board at fifteen hundred hours," said Gretchen. "Maybe he'll have some results by then."

"That leaves time for lunch," said Riker, realizing that it had been hours since breakfast. "Join me?"

"We have a replicator in the conference room," offered Gretchen. "We can eat and continue to study files." She rose and Riker grinned as he got to his feet. Naylor set a pace that few could match; she was single-minded in her diligence. He wondered if she was always this absorbed in her work. If so, he doubted that she had any friendships, male or female, for there would be literally no time to formulate them.

He also realized that for all the hours they had spent together this week, he knew remarkably little about her. She was friendly and cheerful, but other than sharing first names, they had exchanged no other personal information. Riker decided to do something about that.

She ate sensibly, as he somehow knew she would: a vegetable salad and rice bread; he opted for an omelet even though he'd never quite adapted to the taste of replicated eggs.

'Td rather have them fresh," he admitted, and she looked at him in mild surprise. "You mean-cook?" she queried.

"I enjoy cooking. Not all the time, mind you, but I make a mean omelet myselfi" "With what?" She sounded genuinely mystified. "With whatever I can find... eggs, vegetables, that kind of thing. It doesn't happen often." He was silent for a moment, dousing catsup on the omelet. Replicated catsup was even stranger than eggs, but somehow the two complemented each other.

"I've never cooked," she stated flatly. "My mother didn't cook. No one in my family has ever cooked. I don't understand-it just seems like a waste of time."

He smiled. This was not an uncommon att.i.tude. In fact, it was becoming rarer and rarer to find anybody -especially in Starfleet-who had ever partic.i.p.ated in any kind of food preparation. "To me, it's a creative outlet. Every time I make something, I try to vary it a little, so it never comes out the same way twice."

"Why?" Her brow was knotted in a frown.

He shrugged. "Aren't there things you just like to do... for no reason except that it gives you pleasure?"

She considered. "I like to work. That gives me pleasure."

"I mean besides work. Music, art, reading, sports..." He paused, remembering the fragrant hills of her home, and offered, "Gardening."

"Definitely not that. I saw enough of gardens in Indiana to last me all my life." She looked up at him and smiled, and he could see flecks of another color- gold?-in her eyes. "You have to realize, I knew from the time I was a little girl that I wanted Starfleet. I knew what it would take to get accepted to the Academy, and I vowed I wouldn't let anything get in my way."

Riker nodded. He knew what it took; he had put in years of preparation himself. But somehow there had been time for sports, for playing the piano, for reading. Even, in the crisp wilds of the snowy Alaskan forests, time just to walk and dream. Maybe that had been his mother's legacy: his father certainly never condoned giving time to daydreams.

"My parents were incredibly supportive," she went on. "The whole family was. My brother and my sister took over my ch.o.r.es so I'd have more time to study. Getting me into Starfleet was a family goal. They all sacrificed a lot to give me that chance, and I always felt I owed it to them to succeed."

She stirred vaguely at her salad. Riker found himself feeling sorry for her, this serious young woman with the overdeveloped sense of responsibility. He wondered if her family would enjoy knowing that she had given up everything in life that might be pleasurable except her work. Somehow he doubted it. They might be proud of her and gratified that the joint efforts had paid off; but surely they would want her to enjoy herself occasionally.

"Ensign, as your commanding officer, I have an order for you." Her head jerked up at this and she fixed him with a clear gaze.

"Yes, sir," she replied crisply. He almost smiled at her seriousness.

"I want you to find a hobby." She looked at him, perplexed. "Doesn't matter what, as long as you spend at least ten hours a week at it. And it cannot be work-related."

They were in the midst of discussing options, with Riker suggesting that he could teach her to play stand-up ba.s.s-she'd never heard of a stand-up ba.s.s -when Dokachin sent a message from the surface informing them that he had found the collaborator.

The culprit was a female Zakdorn named Gelfina. She seemed pathetic to Riker, with her wrinkled, squat body and her whiny voice. She sat wringing her hands nervously, and her eyes were already wet. He felt that anything but a gentle approach would be brutal.

Gretchen felt no such compunctions.

To Riker's amazement, she was an intimidating interrogator, hammering away relentlessly, unmoved by the Zakdorn woman's tears and unswayed by her excuses.

"We've identified your computer-usage pattern," snapped Gretchen. "We've matched your personal and duty logs with the files doc.u.menting the transports to the Tripoli. If you believe we've made a mistake you'll be given the chance to make a typical entry so we can see if the same pattern occurs."

Gelfina shook her head miserably. She knew that usage patterns for a race as precise and meticulous as the Zakdorn were as identifiable as fingerprints are on humans. No two people used a computer in the same way, and the technology that could recognize the user through his or her pattern was well established.

"Then you acknowledge that we have correctly distinguished your signature?" Gretchen's voice was adamant, and Gelfina nodded, snuffling a bit as she did.

"Then you admit that you forged the locking coordinates of the Tripoli into the depot's computer system?" The woman hesitated, looked around her, calculat-ing her chances of getting out of this. Riker saw her give that up when she turned back to Gretchen, and looked into those green eyes, blazing now with intent. Gelfina nodded.

"Why?" asked Riker. He was always interested in what motivated people to act in ways that were ultimately against their own best interest. But this question only caused Gelfina to dissolve in tears- huge, wracking sobs that caused her pudgy shoulders to heave and shudder.

Gretchen shot him a look. She clearly felt the question and its resultant histrionics had gotten in the way of her clean drive toward the truth. And she was right. But Riker was still curious. Gelfina's sobs subsided and, for the first time, she spoke.

"He was nice to me," she burbled. "He said I was p-p-p-pretty," and then she dissolved once more in tears. Riker realized his curious question had unlocked more than motivation, and Gretchen realized the same. She flicked her eyes toward Gelfina and backed away. Riker moved forward and sat in front of the miserable Zakdorn woman.

"Gelfina," he said softly. "I know this is hard on you. But we need your help. I think someone has taken advantage of you. Can you tell me who it is?"

She wiped large hands across her porcine face, and struggled for control. "He didn't take advantage of me... he cared about me. He understood me. He was the only one who ever treated me that way... and now he's dead!" That brought on another episode of wailing, and Riker waited patiently until she could continue.

He reflected on the scenario that was unfolding. Gelfina, a squalid, torpid creature whose job as a computer technician was probably all she could ever look forward to, was easy prey for a seducer. A few soft words, a compliment, an understanding ear... and a grasping man could have just about anything he wanted.

"He was on the ship that exploded," Riker deduced, and Gelfina nodded, rubbing the backs of her hands across her eyes, which were now red and swollen. "What was his name?"

"M-M-Melcor." She shuddered, as though to say the name would undo her again.

"And he asked you to configure the computer system so everyone would think the Tripoli was still docked in its s.p.a.ce?" Another nod. He sensed that Gelfina was becoming sullen again. "Do you know why he did it? What he did with the materiel he stole?" An emphatic shake of the head.

"Do you know whom else he dealt with?" Another no. Riker leaned in close, and took her now wet hand in his. "Gelfina," he said gently, "you've been very brave. I'm going to recommend that the Zakdorn authorities treat you with understanding. But I would very much appreciate it if you could tell me the name of even one other person that Melcor knew."