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Title: The Fruits of Diplomacy
Author: Gilshandros
contact: gilshandros@hotmail.com
Series: TOS
Part 1/4
For rating and disclaimer see introductory notes
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The Fruits of Diplomacy
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Captain's Log, Stardate 2032.9
We are on route to the Vouche System, to collect the
diplomats from Vouche II and convey them to negotiations
between the Vocherons and their long-term enemies, the
Sythenes. These two
peoples have been at war for
generations, but both have recently expressed a desire for
peace. The Federation
Senate hopes that peace between the
two will allow both to develop the stable world government
which would render them eligible for entry to the
Federation.
As the situation is still fragile, the Enterprise
will provide a neutral ground for the diplomatic talks.
Personal Log, James T Kirk, Stardate 2032.9
After the strain of our last mission, which put a lot of
pressure on both crew and ship, a diplomatic mission is
just what we need.
Although I anticipate considerable
strain on my temper, playing nice with two warlike
peoples shouting at each other over my conference table,
this should give Scotty time to get the engines overhauled
and complete some of the repairs we've been putting off.
Hopefully, I'll be able to stand down some of the crew on
rotation as well.
Although they'd never show it, the
absence of shore leave has hit them hard.
The same could be said for me!
I was looking forward to a few
weeks on a planet, or at least a Starbase, where Ann
Ridley and I could finally talk about things without a
red alert going off in the middle of the conversation.
Perhaps I can persuade Ann to stand her lab down for a
while, and she and her staff can join the light duty roster.
A bit of light duty and some time to ourselves is just
what the doctor ordered for crew and captain alike.
**********
"It's just what you ordered, Bones." Kirk said mildly,
trying not to laugh.
" 'Shore leave' is what I ordered!" McCoy said. ''Light
duty' isn't the same. It
doesn't even sound the same!
Listen to me carefully, Jim.
'Light duty'. 'Shore leave'.
See? Completely different vowel sounds. Totally opposite
consonants. And nowhere NEAR the same meaning."
"The doctor is essentially correct," Spock said,
drawing a
snort from McCoy.
"Although his linguistic analysis is
regrettably lacking in precision, he has articulated the
substance of the matter."
"Thank you, I think.
Jim, you can't keep these people
going like this! They
need a proper rest after Ser Etta,
not just a few hours more sleep!"
"I know that, you know that, and Spock apparently knows
that," Kirk said patiently. "If Starfleet knew that, we
wouldn't be having this conversation. There's nothing I
can do about it, Bones.
Just draw up the light duty
rotation roster on an as-needs basis and get back to me
when you're done." He stood up, stretched a kink in his
back where a bad fall on the last landing party had not
quite mended, and went on, "And now, if you gentlemen
will excuse me, I have a lot of reading to catch up on.
Three hundred years of military and political history, to
be exact."
"Captain," Spock said, "to be exact you would
have to say
'Three hundred and seventeen years of military history'. For
complete accuracy, using the Vocheron accounts of the these
most recent hostilities, three hundred and seventeen years,
three months, fourteen days and-"
"Spock." said Kirk wearily. His First Officer subsided.
"Is there any ship's business that can't wait until we're
underway?"
"No, Captain."
"Good. I'll be in
my quarters, gentlemen, catching up on
my education."
As Kirk left, McCoy turned to Spock. "Are you SURE there
isn't any ship's business Jim needs to deal with?"
"I believe that is what I said."
"The rescheduling in science section doesn't need to be
brought to his attention?"
"Scheduling has always been a matter for departmental
heads." Spock said.
"How about the four crew referred to Harb Tanzer in
recreation?"
Spock paused.
"There have been some adjustment
difficulties in science section," he conceded.
"however,
they are within my area of responsibility and do not need
to be referred to the captain."
"How about the falling efficiency levels?"
"Efficiency levels in Science Section are well within
usual parameters, Doctor." Spock said. "As you well
know."
"I was talking about the *future* fall in efficiency."
McCoy said.
"That would be illogical, Doctor." Spock said. "Since
efficiency has not fallen, discussion of a future, as yet
purely speculative, drop would serve no purprose."
"Don't give me that, Spock! What's going on down
there?"
"Doctor, the science labs are located on decks one
through seven inclusive, and cannot therefore be
referred to as 'down', in any sense of the word, from
sickbay."
McCoy gave up.
"Just remember," he said warningly, "if
those ratings *do* drop, as I expect they will, it WILL
be business for me as CMO, and I'll have no hesitation
about referring it to Jim to get to the bottom of it."
"I am sure you will act according to your duty." Spock
said coolly, and left.
Logically, he should have anticipated the
conversation.
The efficiency rates in Science, and the number of
crew suffering stress related ailments, were well
within normal range, not only for any Starfleet ship,
but also for the high standards of the Enterprise. He
had spoken the truth to Dr McCoy. However, he was
uncomfortably aware that this truth was not the whole
of the reality/truth about Science Section.
Efficiency was being maintained, and crew were keeping
up their physical and emotional health, because to do
less would be beneath them and their expectations of
themselves as Starfleet, Enterprise, and Science crew.
Spock was well aware, however, of the level of effort
that was required for his staff to keep their
performance up to the standards of 'normal' efficiency
was such as would usually produce exceptional scores
across the whole section - scores that would have both
the captain and Dr McCoy recommending he ease up.
Such effort could not be maintained indefinitely.
He was aware that his own efficiency required a
greater level of effort than it ought. But how to
explain his problem to the doctor? Worse still, how to
explain it to Jim?
**********
"Captain, the Vocheron Ambassador wished to speak to
you."
"Onscreen," Kirk said, and stood up from his chair.
At first sight, the Vocheron were not simply humanoid, they
were human. The
ambassador appeared to be a stately man of
advanced years, with a mane of white hair and an imperious
bearing. Kirk knew,
however, that this surface appearance
concealed vast differences in anatomy and physiology, and
so was prepared when the Ambassador opened his mouth to
speak and revealed rows in tiny tentacles instead of teeth.
"Kirrk." The Vocheron said, his voice slurring the
word.
"I am Ammbassador Tssyin, of the Vouche. Welcome to our
sspace, captain. I trust
you are readdy to receive myy party?"
"Yes, sir, as soon as we confirm your requirements,"
"Our needss are - ssimple." It was a terrible smile.
Kirk
was surprised at his own instinctive revulsion. After
all, Starfleet did not
post people to exploration missions
if they had any hint of buried xenophobia, and Kirk had
seen plenty of aliens in the past few years whose appearance
was bizarre by human standards.
"Then, ambassador, we'll be happy to beam you up as soon
as you're ready. Shall
we say five minutes?"
"Indeed. Ourr thankss for this sservice you do us."
"You're welcome.
Kirk out." He turned back
to his chair,
touched the intercom.
"Mr Kyle, prepare to beam the
Ambassador and his party aboard in 300 seconds."
"Aye, sir."
Another channel.
"Bones, they're coming aboard.
Meet me in
Transporter room two in three minutes."
"You always do things in a hurry, don't you," McCoy
grumbled, which Kirk took as a yes. He closed the channel,
said "Mr Spock?" and headed for the turbolift, Spock
on his
heels.
When the turbolift doors closed, Kirk turned to his First
Officer. "What's
your reaction to the Ambassador?" he
said.
One eyebrow went up.
"A brief observation over a view-
screen is not enough to drawn any logical conclusions."
Spock said.
"Not logical conclusions, Spock. Reaction. Impression."
"Immediate reactions are often deceptive." Spock said.
"Yes, well," Kirk said. "I find them often
reliable,
particularly from you."
"Perhaps, captain, because what you refer to as
'impressions'
are, in my case, the result of analysis of multiple minute
clues provided by body language and other aspects of
demeanour."
"Just because you won't admit to intuition," Kirk
said,
grinning, "doesn't mean I don't have faith in your
hunches."
"A most illogical statement, captain. However, to humour you-'
"*Humour* me!"
"Indeed, to humour you-"
Kirk turned to face Spock, grinning now. He felt a sudden
surge of affection for the Vulcan, who was regarding him with
an absolute poker face in which no-one could have read merry
mischief. "Humour
me, then."
"I also felt - unease." Spock was deadly serious now,
although how Kirk knew that he couldn't have explained
to save his life.
"However, this is a common and irrational
reaction to difference.
I would hazard the explanation that
the apparent similarity of the Vocherons to you and I being
so great, the evidence of difference is more confronting.
We should guard against such a reaction dictating our
actions."
Kirk nodded. It made
very good sense. Resolutely, he
pushed down the slight queasiness he felt at the memory of
that strange, tentacled mouth.
McCoy was waiting in the
transporter room, tricorder at
the ready.
"Put that away, Bones." Kirk said. "It's not polite to
scan Ambassadors without permission."
"But, Jim," McCoy said, sounding for all the world
like a
child forbidden a new toy, "no-one's ever had a chance
to scan the Vouche. This
would be the first chance to
get some data on their internal make-up, their -"
"I too feel a certain curiosity about the Vouche,"
Spock
admitted. 'However, the
captain is right. It would be
a breach of protocol to examine them here and now. It
may be possible for the captain to gain permission for
an examination at a later date."
"The two of you will drive me distracted." Kirk
said.
"I have to somehow manage all of this, negotiations and
all, end a three hundred year war - yes, all right Spock,
a three hundred and five year, seventeen day war, and
also persuade them to lie down on a diagnostic bed and say
aaaah?"
"Three hundred and -"
"Spock!" It
was a spontaneous cry from both humans, and
the Spock was silent, glancing from one to the other with a
suspiciously blank expression.
"We are seeking out new life, Jim." McCoy pointed out.
" And this is it."
"All right! All right!" As the first sparkles of the transporter
effect appeared on the platform Kirk drew himself up to be
credit to the Federation. "I'll ask them. Later."
There were three Vocherons on the transporter platform, the
ambassador and several others, one appearing female and the
the rest male.
"Welcome aboard, Ambassador." Kirk didn't offer to shake
hands with the Vocheron.
Instead, he lifted one arm shoulder
high and turned his palm outwards. The Vocheron matched
the gesture, and Kirk repressed a slight sense of queasiness at
the way the arm bent in not quite the right places. What's
the matter with me? he wondered.
"My sstaff," Ambassador Tyssin said, stepping down
from the
platform. "Aides
Kythis and Sachys. And our sservants.
"Welcome aboard, Kythis, Sachys. Gentlebeings." Kirk
said.
"We are pleassed to be here, Captain." one replied.
"This my first officer, Commander Spock, and the
Enterprise's
chief medical officer, Dr McCoy."
"Greetings," Tyssin said. "Thiss is a fine vessel, your
starsship. My
congratulationss to you."
"Well, *we* like her," McCoy said, beaming
ingenuously.
"Another thing we like, Ambassador, are these handy little
medical tricorders. You
see, you turn them on like -"
Kirk jostled the doctor's elbow and the tricorder fell to
the deck. "Ambassador," Kirk said, "Would you
care to see
your quarters?"
"That wwould be agrreeable." Tyssin said, and Kirk
signalled
to the security team at the door.
"This way, sir." said one, and led the Vocherons
out. When
the door closed behind them, Kirk turned to McCoy.
"I think you're the one who needs shore leave most,
Bones."
he said.
"You do, do you." McCoy said, with a look at Spock
that
Kirk couldn't read.
"You do, do you, huh?"
**********
Kirk stepped away from the rowing machine, his muscles
trembling with the pleasant lassitude of a long workout. Bones
had reminded him that he had been letting his exercise regime
go over the past few months, and that 'too busy' might have
applied when the Enterprise was under fire, but not at the
moment. As usual when he
started taking Bones' advice
after a period of letting things slide, Kirk was surprised at
how much better he felt for it.
From experience, he knew
that within a few weeks he would have forgotten the difference,
and when the next crisis came along it would be all too easy
to skip a meal, an exercise session or two... or three or four
or two dozen.
~Not this time,~ he thought firmly (as he had thought a dozen
times before). ~This
time I'll stick to it.~
On his way to the shower, Kirk paused to watch Hikaru
Sulu's martial arts class.
As he stood there, Lieutenant
Larssen took a blow to the stomach and doubled up, gasping.
Kirk had seen her here several nights a week since McCoy
had certified her fit to return to full duty, and on each
occasion she had been getting the stuffing beat out of her
by one or another of the hand-to-hand combat teachers.
Kirk was beginning to wonder if he should step in.
Larssen's determination in the face of her demonstrated
unsuitability might, by some, be considered admirable.
Kirk had long since passed that stage of life where a
willingness to endure pain for no purpose other than
stubbornness looked like anything other than stupidity.
Or instability.
Larssen flew through the air again, muttered something in a
language Kirk didn't understand, and got up. Resolutely,
she assumed the ready position, and failed to counter her
opponent's hip lock and shoulder throw. This time, she
rose more slowly, and again resumed the ready position
"Larssen, where did you come in your Academy hand-
to-hand course?" Sulu said to her.
"Last, sir."
"Step out a
minute." he said.
"Yes, sir."
She flushed slightly, bowed, and stepped
off the mat. Kirk saw
her shifting her weight to keep
the blood moving and her muscles from stiffening as
she watched Sulu walk around the other students as
they practiced in pairs, correcting a posture here, a
grip there. He hooked
the feet out from beneath one
ensign who habitually forgot to strengthen his stance,
and bodily shoved Mr Athende's opponent into the fray
when she kept back peddling instead of engaging the
Sulamid.
The result was predictable.
The woman got up
painfully, brushing herself off.
"A real opponent won't hang around waiting for you to
make up your mind if you want to fight or run," Sulu
warned, and she bowed, raised her hands, and leapt at
Athende again.
Sulu turned away as the Sulamid casually wrapped the
woman in a couple of tentacles and held her off the
deck, and walked back to Larssen.
"Look," he said, "Are you sure you want to do
this?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not everybody in Starfleet has to be able to disable
a dozen opponents without breaking a sweat. We have
security for that. And
the captain."
"I want to learn, sir."
He didn't sigh.
Quite.
"All right. Step
back in."
She did so, bowed, and again Sulu threw her
effortlessly.
"I pulled that one." Sulu said. "Are you sleeping?"
"No, sir." Larssen got up again. "I just - I can't
see it coming, sir. I never have been able to."
"Eighty percent of combat is anticipation." Sulu
said.
"I know, sir, I know that.
I'm *trying*."
Kirk could see she was.
The concentration on her face
was painfully obvious, to be replaced with a grimace
of pain when Sulu next move flipped her over his
shoulder.
Sulu helped her up.
"This is getting you nowhere." he
said.
"I don't know, sir." she said a little
breathlessly.
"That last one got me at least three feet."
Sulu laughed.
"Okay. Let's try it again."
Kirk shook his head, deferred the decision until he would
have a chance to talk to Hikaru Sulu about the amazingly
uncombative Lieutenant Larssen, and went into the showers.
He was meeting Ann Ridley for dinner, and he was close to
being late.
Of course, it was an even bet whether Ann would be angry
with him over lateness or angry because he wasn't and
she had an experiment she wanted to finish. Kirk stripped
off and stepped into the sonic.
He had been puzzled when
Ridley had requested assignment to the Enterprise,
although pleased she'd be aboard for longer and that
he would have the chance to spend time with her when
things were less ... tense than during the mission to
Ser Etta Six. The
benefits to her research had seemed
an inadequate explanation, given the degree of her
anxiety at being on board a ship of the line, although
Kirk had seen by the number of papers she had
published in the past few months that the benefits
were real and substantial.
Ridley's apparent about-
face had been further explained when it became clear
that she, too, wanted to explore the possibility that
the mutual comfort they had found with each other might
lead to a deeper relationship.
And, indeed, it might.
Except...
Except Ann Ridley did not belong on the Enterprise. She
did not belong on any starship, for that matter. Kirk had
tried to assure her that she would get used to it, that she
would learn to tell the difference between real danger and the
insecurity of inexperience, but she had not seemed to ... and
of course, there had been too much real danger over the past
few months for his words to do anything but ring hollow.
Standing at the door to her lab, Kirk could see Ann
sitting at her microbiological reader. The rest of
her staff had gone off shift, and the lab was dimmed
to night-shift lighting, so that she sat in a pool of
bright experimental light which burnt the edges of
her red hair rose gold.
She was so still Kirk held
his breath. It was the
only time he saw her still,
when she was working, and then she was so still he
could hardly believe she was breathing, all the
tension in her body gone.
"Ann." he said softly, and watched the transformation
happen as it always did, as her attention was pulled
away from her work. From
a portrait of calm
concentration she was suddenly all nervy motion,
hopping off the bench, her hands pushing her hair
back, flying to straighten her shirt, back to her
hair as its curls immediately sprang out of order
again. She darted across
the lab to throw her arms
around his neck.
"Jim!" she said, "I had no idea it was - mmmm - this
late."
Kirk put his arms around her and kissed her again,
enjoying the feel of her slender back beneath his
hands and the way she never failed to shiver with
delight at his touch.
She tugged him further into the lab so the door would
close behind him and keyed the lock. "You're late."
she whispered against his mouth, and he could feel
her smiling. "I'm a little hungry. And not for
chicken-with-almonds-and-don't-ask, if you know what
I mean." One hand
tickled the back of his neck and
the other traced a path down his spine to his ass.
He laughed, delighted to find her in a better mood
that she had been before work that morning. "I can
think of something - I'd rather eat - as well." She
gasped as he lowered his head to kiss her collarbone.
"Would you like to - dine - in more comfortable
surroundings?" Her
shirt was loose enough for him to
get his hands beneath it easily, sliding up over her
ribs to her breast and her already hard nipples.
"No, I think this will be - oh, lord - just fine.
Just fine." She
drew him across the room to the lab
bench and let go of him long enough to hoist herself
onto it. "Just -
fine..." she murmured again and
then as Kirk ran his fingers up the inside of her
thigh her eyes drifted closed and she stopped
talking.
**********
McCoy flicked the PADD to standby and closed his eyes. He
had always hated the way that resource restrictions on
starships made it impossible to print out everything he
had to read. The PADD
might have been designed to copy,
as close as was possible, the effect of print on paper
but as far as McCoy was concerned it was like saying
replicated coffee was as close as possible to freshly
ground beans prepared in a cafe in New Orleans.
"Not even in hailing distance," he muttered, rubbing
his
eyes. He would, he knew,
have felt less tired if his
hours of reading had revealed any of the information he
had been seeking. As far
as starfleet medical resources
were concerned, the Vocheron were a mystery. The Vulcan
Academy of Sciences Database (abridged version) was no
more informative, nor were the Federation Xenobiology
Institute Abstracts.
"I'm just going off shift, doctor," Christine Chapel
said
from the doorway.
"Anything I can get you on the way out?"
"A dead Vocheron!" McCoy growled, and she smiled.
"No luck?"
"No luck, bad luck, you name it. Come in for a moment,
Chris. Want a
drink?"
"Not really," she said, but she sat down opposite
him.
"There are other species with this kind of privacy taboo,
Len. Don't take it so
personally."
He poured himself a generous measure of bourbon, poured
one for her as well.
"I'll take it personally as long
as they're on my ship! What am I supposed to do if one
of them gets sick and refuses to let me use the medical
tricorder on them?"
"You're an old fashioned country doctor," Chapel said
with a smile, "I'm sure you'll think of something."
McCoy snorted, and then held out one hand as if taking
the pulse of an invisible patient. 'Now tell me,
Ambassador," he intoned, "just where does it hurt?"
Chapel laughed, and swirled the untasted bourbon around
in her glass. "I
was cross-referencing the crew
efficiency reports today," she began, "and -"
"Oh, lord." McCoy interrupted. "Don't tell me, let me
guess - my psychic powers tell me - " He covered his eyes
with one hand, and flung the other out dramatically. "Science
section has you concerned?"
"I'd be more impressed with your 'psychic powers' if your
initials hadn't been all over the files," Chapel said
dryly. "What's going
on down there, Len?"
"Spock has a problem," McCoy said. "Spock has a problem,
and it's not one he's going to be able to handle with
logic."
"What problem?" Chapel asked, leaning forward with a
frown.
"Spock's problem is about five foot one, with red
hair and green eyes and a way with her staff that
makes Ghengis Khan look like the model of a personnel
manager." McCoy
said sourly. "Spock's other
problem
is up on the bridge at the moment, sitting in the
centre chair and generally running the ship. Between
these two problems, Science Section is drifting further
and further towards a morale crisis. I can't butt in
until the efficiency ratings drop below normal.
Our illustrious leader doesn't know, or isn't asking,
whether there's anything for him to butt *into*, and
Spock the Inscrutable is trying to hold everything
together without involving the captain or admitting
that there just might be something a Vulcan Science
Officer can't do. My
personal impulse is to trot
down to Science and turn the lovely and intelligent
Ann Ridley over my knee, which if someone had done
more regularly about thirty five years ago might
have prevented this whole situation."
"Sounds like a fuck-up in process." said Chapel, and
thought that she might have that drink after all.
McCoy's eyes twinkled as she raised the glass.
"Don't hold back, Christine. Tell me what you really
think"
She grinned at him.
"I think we need a second drink."
McCoy poured it.
"Do you think I should meddle?"
Chapel looked at him in blank amazement. 'Excuse me."
she said. "I thought I heard you ask someone's opinion
before you leapt into something with both feet."
"I said," McCoy repeated, "do you think I should
meddle?"
"Who are you, and what have you done with the real Leonard
McCoy?"
"Don't be sarcastic, Chris, it doesn't become you. I
want your opinion. Your highly regarded, professional
opinion."
"As opposed to-?"
"As opposed to something you came up with using a ouija
board, of course."
"Nah," Chapel said. '*You're* the one with psychic
powers.
You know the captain better than I do." She paused, and
when she spoke again her voice was quieter, and there
was pain beneath the banter. "You know them both better
than I do. Wouldn't Mr Spock tell the captain if there
was a serious problem?"
"It's not a serious problem yet." McCoy said.
Chapel snorted.
"Don't chop logic with me."
"Thought you liked logical men." McCoy said sourly.
"Low blow." Chapel said. "You oughta know by now
that you can't win by fighting dirty."
"Yeah, all it ever gets me is a magical increase in
paperwork." McCoy said.
"Now, *that's* something
they oughta teach in medical school. Never piss
off your head nurse if you don't want to spend the
rest of your *life* signing reports in triplicate.
Best thing I ever did was teach you to forge my
signature. Second best."
He reached for the
bottle. "Best thing
was hiring you in the first
place, and I'm sorry, Chris.
You know I do it
because you can take it."
"I know." Chapel said. She smiled. "Not going to
get you out of that paperwork, though. And not
going to get you out of discussing the problem in
Science Section."
"It's not a serious problem."
"It's a *problem*, Len, and it's going to be a
serious one if it isn't handled."
"Let Spock handle it."
"If Spock was handling it, you wouldn't be
worried." Chapel said.
"*Will* he tell the
captain?"
"If it was a crew member, yes. Hell, if it was a
crew member, I'd tell Jim myself without a moment's
thought. Jim and I both
know Spock well enough to
know that if someone has a problem with him, it
isn't Spock that's causing it.
But this woman...
well. She stayed on the
ship to be with him. It
doesn't seem that casual."
"I heard she stayed on the ship because she was
having so much progress with her work. And I've
seen the output on that lab.
The rest of science
section may be lagging, but Lab Seven is
extraordinary."
"Well, she isn't charming it out of her staff. And
yes, maybe she did stay for her work, but she's
with Jim more nights than not these days, and if
that had nothing to do with her decision to stay
I'll turn in my certificate of Country Doctor's
Intuition. And I don't
know how things are going
with them, but if my country doctor's intuition
is worth a snowball in a supernova, it isn't quite
wine and roses right now.
*And* I'm guessing Spock
has some idea of that as well. He watches Jim
pretty closely."
"And so?" Chapel said.
"And so Ridley might just ask for reassignment any time
now. Or Jim might have already spoken to her. Or he
might speak to her off his own bat, and she might leave
the ship. Or maybe
they'll work it out and she'll get
some sense of proportion. Or they'll work it out and he'll
speak to her and she'll be all sweetness and light. I'm
not sure I want to go stamping into Jim's love-life in
my size fourteen meddler's boots when I don't quite known
what I'm stamping into."
"Mr Spock... is he not mentioning it to the captain for
the same reason?"
"Maybe. Add a dose
of stiff-necked Vulcan pride to that,
too... And -"
"And?"
McCoy looked at her, his fierce blue eyes suddenly
soft with memory.
"And neither of us will forget
Edith in a hurry, Chris.
Between us - what we did to
him. What if Ann Ridley
*is* what he needs?" He sat
back, drained his glass.
"Let it go for now, Chris.
I'm watching it. Let it
go."
"Okay." Chapel
said. "You're the doctor,
Doctor."
**********
Ann Ridley tucked her hands into her pockets and paced.
Only half past eight in the morning, or 830 hours as they
said in this stupid space navy, and already she was pacing.
She counted steps, seven, eight, nine across the lab, one,
two, three back again, and she was doing quite well at
concentrating on her feet and not on the Ensign at the lab
bench until he made that annoying little sound with his
tongue that he always did when he made a mistake, a sort
of a click, a cross between a click and a snort...
She was halfway through the sentence before she realised
she was shouting aloud.
"What the goddamn hell is it THIS time, huh? What have
you done THIS time?"
Ensign Thoas cowered away from her, but she was too
angry to feel anything but satisfaction. "Ma'am, ma'am,
I'm sorry, I just - I just slipped the mu spectrum readings
over the dionetrics line, I'm sorry, it'll just take a minute,
I'll re-run -"
"No, you bloody well won't! You'll leave it alone. I don't
have TIME for you to mess around with this series! Every
time I ask you to do something it takes three times as long
as if I'd just damn well done it myself! Just leave it, leave it
alone, I'll do it, get out, go on, leave!"
"Ma'am, I can fix it." he said shakily, and that was a
mistake. The top blew
off Ridley's temper like a
volcano and she started forward, fists clenched.
Thoas blenched, back away, and then turned and ran.
Ridley came to a stop in the middle of the room as the
door closed behind him, and then stalked to the bench
and gripped the edge of it to keep from hitting
something. The two crew members left in the lab sat
very still, and that was good.
If only they'd always
sit still and work instead of messing up her
experiments and making annoying little sounds to
announce that they had, maybe she'd be able to
concentrate on her job and not on riding herd on a
crowd of Starfleet incompetents!
Ridley stood motionless at the bench until the knot
in her gut loosened, and then with exaggerated care
she picked up the stool Thoas had knocked over as he
fled and seated herself at the bench. Soon, she was
absorbed in rerunning Thoas' series, flicking the
readings through smoothly, sorting and registering at
high speed. It was only
when she was completely
absorbed in work that she could forget her ongoing
fury at having to put up with "Science Officer" Spock
making decisions about how HER lab ran, could forget
the continuing infuriating irritations of working
with assistants who weren't trained for her type of
research.
Every time "Commander" Spock rearranged her lab
scheduling or gave her new staff it was like a
wrinkle in a sock that rubbed and rubbed inside a
shoe until it made a blister and then a sore.
Goddamn Spock could make those changes and give
those orders because this was a Starfleet vessel.
A damn Starfleet ship that might have high hopes
of being a vessel of exploration and peace but
was armed and armoured and equipped for war.
A starship was a fragile thing at the best of
times, Ann knew that very well.
The complex and
interdependent environmental systems, the warp
core that ran the whole thing, the calculations
that kept hull pressures within tolerable limits
- all required constant and careful tending.
Such a fragile, fragile balance - and how much
more fragile when someone was shooting at it?
The Enterprise was a ship that got shot at a lot,
a military ship. Every
time "Science Office"
Spock gave an order and the whole section jumped,
Ann was reminded of just how military the
Enterprise was. Only
when she was working, only
when something absorbed her enough to leave no
room for anything else, could Ann forget, ignore,
those reminders, that wrinkle.
Could forget the thinness of the hull between her
and the cold dark.
**********
"Well, you can't say they *impose*," McCoy said, and
it was half a complaint.
"I haven't seen more than
a glimpse of them since they came on board."
"They're probably afraid you'll come after them with
your tricorder." Kirk said.
"Have you asked them about that?"
"Not yet, no. I'm
waiting for a good time."
"Chicken." McCoy said.
"I fail to see," Spock said gravely, "how the
captain's concern
to avoid offending our guests makes him a terran avain."
"Oh, now, Spock, you're supposed to be on *my* side!
Don't tell me you're not as curious as I am about their
makeup.
And I wouldn't do that if I were you." McCoy pointed at
Spock's knight.
"That's an accident waiting to happen, trust
me, I'm a doctor."
"You're a doctor, Bones," Kirk said. "Not a chess
grandmaster."
"Well, it's my professional opinion that moving that knight
will be bad for Spock's mental health. I *really* wouldn't
do that if I were you, Spock."
"Fortunately, doctor, that is a state of affairs unlikely
to come
to pass." Spock said, and moved the knight. Kirk leaned
forward, trying to see what move McCoy expected him to
make.
"I'll tell you, Jim," McCoy said with a wicked grin,
"if
you promise to ask the Vouche *tomorrow* to let me have
a look at them."
"No deal, Bones."
Kirk said amiably.
"To seek out new life," McCoy said with mock sarcasm,
"isn't that what we're doing? And there it is, in the
guest quarters!"
Then, realising he had pushed too
far when Kirk lifted his head and gave him a blank
stare, McCoy raised his hands in surrender. "Okay,
okay. How's your history
reading going?"
Kirk groaned. "God
help me." he said. "There's
been
no serious attempt to draft a basic 'Voucheron
History 101' by anyone in the Federation - just a lot
of translations and science studies. Cultural
shifts, demographic patterns, changes in pottery
decoration five centuries ago - what I wouldn't give
for an overview!
McCoy chuckled.
"Serves you right for doing a
history major." he said.
"And I'm a little bit
pleased that you have a little bit of an idea what
it's like for me trying to put a medical file
together on these people without being able to do
basic anatomy. Who wants
another drink?"
Spock merely raised his eyebrow, not having had a first
drink. Kirk shook his
head.
"Not for me."
He hesitated, moved his bishop.
"I can't
stay for another game."
McCoy squinted at the board. "The way you're playing,
that's probably just as well.
Going somewhere?"
"A late dinner with Ann." Kirk said. Concentrating on
the chess board, he missed the glance McCoy shot at
Spock and the way Spock suddenly became 'extra Vulcan'.
"How is Ann?"
McCoy asked casually.
Kirk hesitated.
Normally, these two men would be
the ones he'd turn to for advice, or just for a
friendly hearing, or to be told he was being a
fool. However, Ann had
let him know exactly what
she thought of the idea of him discussing her with
Spock and McCoy.
~ "- and don't think
I wouldn't be able to tell
from that Vulcan non-expression just what he
thought! I have to *work* with those two, Jim!" ~
"She's fine." Kirk said now. "Fine."
"How's she adjusting to life on a starship?"
"Fine." Kirk said. "She's adjusting fine."
McCoy noted that the captain couldn't meet his eyes
as he said it, however.
**********
~I'm going to have to raise it with him,~ McCoy thought. ~I'm
going to have to, or else Spock's refusal to will keep him
from knowing about it until it's a formal disciplinary matter,
and that'll look bad on Spock's record. Dammit!~
"Is that all, doctor?"
McCoy focused on the PADD in front of him, and then looked
up at Corrina Larssen, seated on the other side of the desk.
"Are you sure
you're fit to be on active duty?" he asked
abruptly.
"Yes, doctor." Larssen said calmly.
"Hmmph." McCoy
studied the charts in front of him, although
Larssen knew they showed she was physically fit and she
also knew that McCoy himself had prepared them. "You
know, Lieutenant, I used to quite enjoy the quartet."
Larssen blinked, and felt rueful respect for McCoy's
deft blindside. "I'm glad to hear it." she said.
"I miss it, too.
When are you guys going to get together
again?"
"When the time is right," Larssen said.
"Your hands have healed."
"Yes, thanks to you."
"So why not now?
The crew could use a little concert.
It'd be good for morale."
"Perhaps we shall, Dr McCoy." She rose to her
feet. "If that's
all?"
"That's all," he said, and then suddenly reached
out and grabbed her left hand.
Turning it palm up,
he ran his thumb over the tips of her fingers, where
new skin showed pink and soft.
"I expect to see
some calluses here next time, Lieutenant. Or I'll
have to reconsider my assessment of your fitness.
You've been playing that thing, what, every day for 10
years?"
"Every second day or so for five," she corrected him,
and pulled her hand away.
"Which does not mean that a
break from playing indicates that I'm losing my marbles."
"Oh, no." he said.
"No, it doesn't. But I like
the
crew to act the way I expect them to. If you want to
give up the cello for good, I'd expect to hear a reason
from you. See my
point?"
"Yes." she said, and ducked out the door before he
could
go on.
She slipped in to the lab quietly, knowing that Spock
would have seen her appointment with McCoy on her schedule
when he drew up that week's roster, and knowing too that
Commander Spock would have neither forgotten nor expect
her to offer a reminder.
Brand waggled his eyebrows at
her as she came in, and took the first opportunity to
ask her why she was late.
"Seeing the doctor," Larssen said breifly, and held
out her hand with the faint tracing of scars still visible.
"What'd he say?"
"That I'm fit for full duty."
"Way to go," said Brand, and slapped her shoulder in
congratulation. Larssen
reflected, not the for the first
time, that she didn't seem to have the knack of either
forming close friendships with her fellow junior officers,
or keeping them at a distance. Brand, for example,
despite the fact that she outranked him, had a disconcerting
tendency to treat her like a sister: that is, with complete
familiarity when circumstances forced him into her company,
and total avoidance when they were off duty.
A request from Commander Spock interrupted her train of
though, and for the next few hours she was very busy with
a geospectral analysis of the latest lot of planet side
samples. When all the
samples were sorted, identified
and logged, she tipped them into the disposal tray at the
door. Attractive
specimens might be souvenired by crew
looking for something to send home - Dear Mom, thought you
might like this, it came from Omicron Ceti IX, love, your
offspring - and the rest would go to recycling to feed
the ship's expensive mineral habit.
Larssen looked at the chrono and blinked. No wonder it was
quiet. Alpha shift had
ended hours earlier. Now that she
thought about it, she had a vague recollection of Brand
saying goodbye and taking off through the door as if he
were late to dinner. The
lighting had gone over the ship's
night, that half-dimmed glow in between brighter spots along
the way that, deliberately or not, echoed night-lit planetside
streets. She took a deep breath, imagining as she often
did at this time of day that the air itself tasted different
during the night shifts, moister somehow as if the whole
of life-support was in on a conspiracy to reproduce a
diurnal cycle.
"Ms Larssen." said a voice behind her, and she turned.
Commander Spock stood in the door to his office, backlit
by his reading lamp.
"Have you completed the geospec?"
"Yes, sir. I just dumped the samples, but if you'd like
to check the results I can-"
"I am sure your analysis was thorough." he said, in
that
way he had which half-hinted that his confidence came from
the knowledge that, now he had mentioned it, any crew with
doubts about their concentration would make certain of each
and every reading before they turned in their report. "I
see Dr McCoy has pronounced you fully fit."
"Yes, sir, although he'll be calling me down again a few
more times over my hand."
Larssen said, mindful that
Mr Spock would prefer not to be taken by surprise by the
doctor's requests.
There was a pause, and Larssen was not quite sure whether
she had been dismissed or not. Just as she decided she had
been, and was about to finish clearing up before going off
shift, Spock said, "Are you - well - Lieutenant?"
"I believe - as well as can be expected, sir." she
said
quietly. He was no
McCoy, he would not press her, but she
was also aware that Commander Spock was perhaps the only
person on the Enterprise who knew the full extent of the
healing she needed to do.
And she could not lie to him.
Not, so much, because he would be able to tell, but because
it would be a betrayal of the understanding they had come to,
down in the blizzard
"Dr McCoy - wants to see calluses on
my hand." She held
her left hand out, fingertips up.
"From
the cello strings. Apart
from that, he seemed pleased
enough."
"Music is an excellent mental and physical
discipline." Mr
Spock said, and for a moment she thought he had not
understood McCoy's meaning.
Then he went on, "Although
many humans place unwarranted emphasis on the
emotionalism of music, on Vulcan it is considered as a
training for the body and mind in concentration and
precision."
"Yes, sir." said Larssen.
"Your shift is over, Lieutenant. You are free to
leave."
Spock said, and went back into his office.
"Yes, sir." Larssen said again, wondering if he'd
just agreed or disagreed with McCoy.
Back in her quarters, she looked for a while at the
cello case clipped to the wall.
McCoy, much as she
loathed to admit it, was somewhere in the vicinity of
the truth. She felt a
deep reluctance to touch the
instrument, had done so since she found out Bob Grenwood
had requested the string quartet to play at his service.
There was no reason for it, she told herself. The cello,
and the music, and herself, were the same whether Bob had
wanted his crewmates to hear Bach as his coffin was
fired out into space or not.
Beside the cello case was a dresser, and on the dresser
sat a small, worn, unidentifiable stuffed toy. Only an
owner's loving eye could have discerned that it had once
been a bear. Both eyes
were missing, and one arm, and
the ears were mere tattered stubs. Larssen picked it up.
"Well, Coochie?" she said to it. "How silly, am I, eh?"
Coochie looked blindly back up at her, and Larssen rubbed
her cheek against his remaining fur. Coochie had been the
one thing she had taken with her from Initar to Starfleet
Academy. She had felt
stupid taking him out of her duffle
and setting him on her bed in the Academy dorm, and while
she was a cadet he had stayed hidden in a drawer. Arriving
on the Enterprise, with the privilege of a junior officer's tiny
but private quarters, Coochie had resumed pride of place on
the dresser. Sometimes,
after a particularly bad day, Larssen
still took him to bed with her.
Look at you, she thought.
Running the risk of a psyche exam
with that perceptive meddler McCoy rather than standing up
to your own idiocy, and talking to a decrepit old stuffed
bear ... Is this the
behaviour of an officer and a gentlebeing?
"Sorry, Coochie." she said, as if he could have heard
her
thoughts, and set him down on the dresser again.
The instrument felt wrong in her hands as she took it down
and settled the scroll against her shoulder. What should
she play? Bach? Dvorjak? T'stlethsesan?
~Scales~, Larssen decided. ~Let's start with scales.~ She let her
fingers find the familiar worn places on the neck, and began
to play the simple
progressions, straining for precision,
focusing on concentration, trying to play as a Vulcan would.
**********
"Why don't you join us?" Kirk said.
"Thanks, but I see enough of Mr Spock during the day,"
Ridley said, not turning from her work. "And I'm sure you
have Starfleet stuff to talk about."
Kirk leaned in the doorway.
"Ann," he said, "how are
things going?"
"Just fine when I finish this last run and cross-reference
the results with the earlier series."
"But - generally?"
"Oh, *generally*!" Ridley said with a snort. "*Generally*
I'll be a lot happier when I manage to break my staff in to
work the way I need them to.
*Generally* I'll be just
thrilled when I have the same staff in my lab for more
than a week." She
looked up, and then relented. "I'm
fine, Jim, I just want to get this finished. Go on and
have dinner with your friends.
Everything's fine here.
I'm just - blowing off steam."
He moved to the bench to look over her shoulder. "More
heamecrit?"
"No, this is a tissue sample from radiation exposure,
Jim!" A long,
narrowed eyed look, and then she said in
a loud stage whisper "Are you sure you aren't playing
dumb about this stuff to get the teacher to explain?"
He smiled, kissed her cheek, then her lips as she turned
into his arms and raised her face to his. "Maybe." he
said when she pulled away reluctantly. "Wouldn't do
for me to admit it, though."
She laughed and ran her hand down his arm affectionately
"And here I thought you wanted me for my way with
bioscans."
"You do have *quite* a way with bioscans. I was reading
your last paper."
"On oxygen spikes in silicon life-forms under decompressive
force?"
"No, the one on DNA alteration disaggregated by radiation
type. Stop testing me, Ann." Perhaps he let the
flash of irritation show, although he had not meant to.
She pulled away slightly and turned back to her equipment.
"Yes, well, I'm glad it met with your approval,
Captain."
"Ann." he said, and when she didn't move,
"Ann. Come on.
I only meant to congratulate you. Spock said it was an
impressive piece of work with wide practical application."
"Oh, *Spock* said." she said brightly. "*Spock* said.
Well, I guess it *must* have been good work."
Kirk thought about asking her for a list of acceptable
remarks, so he could talk to her without always saying
the wrong thing. He
thought about asking her if it was
unreasonable for a science officer to offer, and a
captain to listen to, an opinion on scientific work
that might in application save the lives of crew-members.
He thought about asking her if she was sure she wouldn't
be happier if they dropped her off at the next Starbase
to make her way home by luxury cruiser.
Looking at her thin shoulders, rigid with some emotion
she would not admit to, he said none of those things.
"If you change your mind," he said, "we'll be
dining in
the Officer's Mess.
Night, Ann."
He put his hand gently on her shoulder, and after a moment
she covered it with her own.
"Night, Jim." she said, and sniffed fiercely.
At the door he looked back, but she was absorbed in her
work, and no matter how long he lingered she just sat
with her eyes pressed against the view piece, flipping the
samples back and forth.
**********
"Mr Spock!"
Professor Ridley's voice got the attention of
everyone in the lab.
Usually, her voice was exactly what
one would expect from her appearance: small, precise,
intelligent. At the
moment it had the impact of a
whip crack, and one look at the Professor told Larssen why:
Ann Ridley was in the grip of a fury truly frightening to
behold.
"Mr Spock!" she snapped again, and as the Science
Officer
emerged from his office, Ridley added "About bloody
time!"
Out of the corner of her eye, Larssen saw Yeoman Brand's
eyebrows go up until they nearly disappeared into his
hairline. She could
almost feel the breeze created by his
flapping ears. Without
changing expression, Larssen
elbowed him hard in the ribs and began to whistle the
first tune that came into her head. It was an old junior
officer's trick : when it becomes likely that you are about
to witness something your superiors would rather you didn't,
remind them you exist.
Tactfully. She elbowed Brand
again
and he joined in, bravely following her through the cello
part of Beethoven's second string concerto, innocent of key.
"I am sick and tired - " Ridley was saying, "of
having my
lab staff disrupted by schedule changes designed to make
YOUR lab run more smoothly.
I would appreciate a little
consideration into the running of my lab when you get it
into your head -"
Desperately, Larssen began to sing the music aloud,
la-la-laing through the complex fingering of the entreact
with a will.
"-into your head that-" Ridley had to raise her voice
to
make herself heard over the noise "you are no longer the
only scientist of merit on this ship! I insist that in
future ALL decisions - WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP!"
There was an moment's frozen silence. Larssen could tell,
by the ferocious itch between her shoulder blades, that
Ridley was staring at her back, but she resisted the
temptation to turn.
"Mr Brand," Larssen said sotto voce,
out of the corner of her mouth.
"I suggest you take
today's samples down to cryo."
"But they -"
"I suggest you do it now, Mr Brand." Junior Officer
Embarrassing Incident Management Rule Two: if inadvertent
eavesdropping cannot be avoided, spare whoever you can.
Brand took the hint, snatched the sample tray and bolted;
Larssen wished she could order herself to leave as well as
Brand. Footsteps came
towards her and she fixed her eyes
on the readout before her.
She had no desire to become a
target for Professor Ridley's anger, but sitting
here sticking out like a sore thumb wasn't much of a
way to avoid it. The
footsteps stopped behind her and she
nearly jumped out of her skin when the voice that spoke
was the precise, polite tones of Commander Spock.
"Lieutenant. Mr
Brand will require assistance in with the
cryo storage unit."
Bless his Vulcan hearing! Larssen thought, forgetting that
she had been blasting it the day before when he'd overheard
her filling Bai'tin in on the episode of 'The Blue Moons
of Tauree' Bai'tin had missed the night before. "Yes, sir!"
she said smartly, snapped to attention and went out the
door at creditable double-time, picking up an impressive
speed for a standing start.
"I cannot believe," Ridley said. "that in ANY
laboratory,
let alone one on a military vessel, such conduct would be
tolerated. I'd have
those two on report before they got
back here! What are they doing going to cryo in the middle
of a shift anyway?"
Spock turned, his face closed.
"I do not advise you on the
conduct of your staff, Professor." he pointed out.
"I don't need your advice, *Mr* Spock." As always, she
refused to use his Starfleet titles or rank, choosing to
emphasise his lack of academic title instead. Spock, of
course, felt no irritation at this petty ploy, and now he
simply regarded Ridley impassively.
"I agree that any disruption to your work is
unfortunate,"
he said, "however laboratory staff schedules are frequently
disrupted by ship's business.
I have endeavoured to provide
you with as consistent a staffing schedule as possible in
the circumstances."
"Rubbish! Your
staff hardly ever change, and I haven't had
two the same for the past month!"
"My staff rarely change because disruptions to the ship's
schedule interrupt my work as well as theirs. If I were to
transfer Ms Larssen, Mr Brand and Mr Bai'tin to your staff,
I would be obliged to find replacement staff for you the
next time those three were required for a landing party or
other ship's business."
"You're not obliged to do anything, damn you, you're the
next
best thing to God in this department and you're only saying
that to have an excuse to transfer them out like all the
other staff you've transferred out! I'll have those three in
my lab from tomorrow and they'll stay - I WILL NOT tolerate
any more problems caused by breaking in a gaggle of new
Starfleet fools, hear me?"
"Indeed, Professor, my hearing is excellent." Spock
made no
response to her accusation of dishonesty. "Unfortunately,
I cannot spare any of my staff at this point in my work.
When the current geological survey compilations are
complete, I will examine the situation again."
"You will examine the situation NOW, mister." she
said. "I
want those three in my lab TOMORROW or I will know
the reason why!"
She turned on her heel and marched out, oversetting a lab
stool on the way. As her
footsteps died away, Spock
picked up the stool and, unusually, sat down on it. Professor
Ridley was becoming an increasing disruption to the smooth
operation of his section.
Her work was indubitably valuable,
but her assumption that she had a prior call on Enterprise
crew and equipment was proving difficult to accommodate
without pointless confrontations.
He considered arranging the staff schedule as he had
previously intended to, and letting the matter take
its course.
Unfortunately, its course would doubtless
be (both by Starfleet procedure and interpersonal
dynamics) direct to Captain Kirk's desk.
Spock did not want to place his captain in the position
of adjudicating between the Enterprise's first officer
and the Enterprise's chief civilian scientist. Even
less did he want to place Jim Kirk in the awkward position
of having to chose between reprimanding either his
friend or his lover.
Consequently, he had made the
decision when Ann Ridley had made her first complaint
to handle the matter entirely within the Science Section.
In retrospect, that had been a mistake. Now, on Ridley's
side at least, it had turned into a full scale feud.
Spock was not sure if this was the Professor's standard
behaviour, or if she was motivated by personal hostility,
but he suspected the latter.
Certainly, one reason for
the frequent rotation of staff in to and out of her
laboratory was the deleterious effect the Professor had
on morale and efficiency.
And now, this latest demand for Bai'tin, Brand - and
Larssen. If he had been
human, Spock might have
sighed. When it first
became apparent that the
Professor was difficult to work with, he had
considered assigning Larssen to laboratory seven
in the expectation that she would both handle the
Professor's behaviour and provide a stabilising
effect on the rest of the staff. He knew from her
file, however, that both Dr McCoy and Harb Tanzer of
Recreation were monitoring Larssen, an indication
that they believed she had not fully recovered from
Ser Etta Six. It would
be no service to her to
assign her to Professor Ridley, if that were the case.
Spock reached for the comm., and paged Larssen and
Brand to return to duty.
When they came in, he motioned
Larssen to his office, and closed the door behind them.
"Please be seated, Lieutenant." he said. "Professor Ridley
has made a staffing request.
She has requested that you,
Mr Brand, and Mr Bai'tin be assigned to laboratory seven
for an extensive period of time." He paused. "In the
hope
that it will contribute towards establishing a - more stable -
working atmosphere in this section, I am considering granting
her request. However, I
do not think that assigning reluctant
crew to work with the Professor will have that effect.
Therefore, I must ask you - are you willing to accept
such an assignment?"
No. Larssen thought instantly, but she said: "Of course,
sir."
She expected him to dismiss her immediately, but he
looked at her a moment longer.
"Please speak freely, Lieutenant."
The thought of spending all her working hours with
Ann Ridley made Larssen flinch.
The woman's brittle
temper was well known to science staff. Larssen
uessed, though, that Spock was currently caught in a
difficult position between the captain and the
scientist who, despite her individual reputation,
was nonetheless the captain's woman.
"I'm sure I can learn a great deal from Professor
Ridley." she said.
"See that you do not learn too much." Spock said
dryly.
"And see, Lieutenant, that if you find your position -
untenable - you report the situation to me."
"Yes sir," she said.
"Would you like me to do so if
Brand or Bai'tin find things similarly - difficult."
"I consider that appropriate." Spock said. "Thank you,
Lieutenant. You may
go."
************
"I could do it," Ridley said, and Kirk was afraid she
might not be joking. "I'm a civilian, I'm not tied up
with all these silly Starfleet rules, and -"
"No." Kirk said, a little more loudly than he'd
intended,
and winced. Ridley
jumped up off the bed and began pacing,
and in other circumstances Kirk might have enjoyed the view.
"This is so stupid!" she burst out. "This is all supposed
to be about new knowledge, and you're all tiptoeing around
when there's a chance to get some information that nobody
has ever managed to get!"
"We have other considerations," Kirk reminded
her. "Peace
in these two systems, an end to a war that had cost thousands of
lives. Surely that's
worth a little patience."
"Well, you wouldn't have to *tell* them," Ridley said,
hands
on hips. "I could
just lurk around in the corridor and sort
of scan them when they weren't looking. They'd never notice
me."
Kirk refrained from laughing at the image she conjured up.
"What if their objection to being scanned is based on some
sensitivity they have to the tricorder output?" he
said.
"They might be able to feel it - it might even cause them
pain."
"You could ask them."
"And if they weren't telling the truth?"
She glared at him.
"That's not the reason, though, is it?"
"No. It's one of
the reasons, but it's not the main one.
The main reason is that they've told us they object to
tricorder scans, and we respect their wishes."
"Hmmph." Ridley said, and let Kirk take her hand and
draw her back to the bed.
"Just once I'd like to find
a situation where the starfleet general orders make
life easier."
Kirk laughed. "Me
too," he said. It came out with less
lightness than he'd intended.
"Me - too."
*******************
Captain's Log, Stardate 2035.2
We are entering the Sythene system, ready to collect
the second diplomatic team for these peace talks. To
date, the Vocherons have been polite and reasonable,
raising our hopes that the negotiations will go smoothly.
To Dr McCoy's disappointment, they have explained that
they have a religious objection to being scanned by
medical tricorders.
Personal Log, Captain James T Kirk
The Vocheron have kept themselves very much to themselves
for the duration of the travel between Vouche and Sythene.
They seem to be an extremely private people, and I confess
I've been somewhat relieved that they don't wish to mingle
with the crew. Although
I share McCoy's disappointment at
the lost chance to add to our knowledge of the Vocheron,
their appearance is ... unsettling, and doesn't grow less
so on further acquaintance.
I bear in mind Spock's admonition,
not to let an irrational reaction affect my judgement, but -
well, they give me the creeps.
Not very grown up for a Starship captain, eh? Oh well, a few
days more and the negotiations will be over, and we'll be taking
them home. And then,
with any luck, shore leave.
*********
"Ambassador."
Kirk stepped forward a little, when
the Sythene party hesitated.
"As I said, welcome
aboard. Won't you please
step down from the platform?"
Slowly, Ambassador Trygian did so. He looked around
the room, staring suspiciously at first Kirk, then
Spock, and then the other Enterprise crew, before finally
turning his scrutiny on the transporter console and the
walls.
Kirk waited patiently.
Although this did not seem typical
behaviour for a species which had been starfarers for
centuries, there was nothing to be gained by rushing the
Sythene beyond their desired speed.
"Could you all - could you all open your mouths,
please."
the Ambassador said. "I realise this is impolite, but it
is necessary."
Of course, Kirk thought, he's paranoid enough to
believe we might be Vouche plants. He set an example
for the others by opening his mouth until he thought his
jaw would crack. The
ambassador examined Kirk's teeth
carefully, and then turned and looked into the mouths of
each of the other crew members.
"Thank you," he said at last. "We have been at war for a
long time." For an
instant, Kirk thought the ambassador
meant to say more, but instead Trygian turned to the
others of his party of envoys.
"They are not Vouche."
he said. "Come
down."
Obediently, the others stepped from the platform,
keeping close together.
They were startlingly different
from the almost-human Vouche.
Short and stocky, they had
deeply mottled, ridged skin.
Their eyes were without
apparent pupil or iris, and Kirk had trouble telling
where they were looking until they turned their heads.
"Where are the Vouche?" The ambassador asked.
"They are currently in their quarters. Would you like
to see -"
"No. We would
not. Where are their quarters?"
"Guest quarters on D deck." Kirk said, maintaining his
patience and his smile with a little bit of effort.
"Where are our quarters?"
"Also guest quarters on D deck."
"How far from the Vouche?"
"A corridor away - that's about 150 yards."
"Not far enough. You must house us elsewhere."
"Ambassador, we shall do out best. How far away from the
Vouche quarters do you wish to be?"
"As far as possible.
The other end of the ship."
Kirk smiled and smiled, and kept his eyes warm and
welcoming. "Of course.
Will you excuse me please?"
He went into the corridor and took out his comm.
"Kirk to quartermaster." he said.
"Singh here, captain.
How can I help you?"
"Mr Singh, I need storage bay 87 cleared out, and
transformed to guest quarters for our Sythene party."
"Yes, sir."
"How long will it take?"
"How long do I have?"
"Between fifteen minutes and an hour."
There was a small, very telling silence.
"Yes, sir. Singh out."
Kirk went back into the transporter room.
"Gentlebeings," he said, "Who would like a tour
of the
observation deck?"
Trygian turned to him.
"Are the Vocherons there?"
"I'll find out." Kirk said. "Computer, location of
the Vocheron ambassador and party."
"Working," said the computer. "Vocheron
Ambassador and
party are currently in guest quarters on D deck."
Ambassador Trygian nodded.
"Very well. I confess I
am curious about this ship of yours. But will your
computer tell us if the Vocherons leave their quarters?"
"I can arrange that."
Kirk said.
"Then please do so."
Kirk gave the necessary instructions, and then
gestured to the door
"This way, Ambassador, gentlebeings,
please."
As they walked down the corridor, Kirk said as casually
as he could, "You will of course see the Vocheron
Ambassador for the negotiations?"
"Of course," Trygian said, his powerful legs churning
to keep up with the longer limbed humans. "Of course.
It is merely that we do not wish to be - taken unawares."
"I see." said Kirk, who wasn't quite sure he saw at
all.
He was even less sure that he saw the next day, when
the negotiations commenced.
Ambassador Trygian and
his party were late, so the Vocherons had been waiting
for nearly an hour.
Ambassador Tyssin showed no signs
of impatience, however, simply watching the door
unwaveringly.
When the Sythenes did arrive, they were in biocontainment
suits, the sort of suit a Starfleet scientist might wear
to work with hazardous or unknown biological contaminants.
Kirk allowed himself a blink before he rose to the
occasion, indicating the chairs prepared for the Sythene
party, chosen for their suitability to the Sythene anatomy.
The ambassador and his aides, without a word, and without
turning away from the Vocherons, dragged their chairs away
from the table and arranged them so that they were next to
the door, as far away from the Vocherons as possible.
Then they sat, and suddenly each Sythene produced a sidearm,
which they aimed at the Vocheron.
Aware of Security bristling behind him, Kirk cleared his
throat and said: "Ah, Ambassador? It's not usually
Federation practice to negotiate while armed."
"Ohhh, let thhhhhem," Ambassador Tyssin said, showing
no sign of being disconcerted.
He smiled widely then,
and the Sythenes drew a little closer together. "We don't
mmmmind. It will all be
the sssame in the ennnnd."
It sounded more like a threat than an expression of
good will. "Ah,
Ambassador Trygian." Kirk said.
"Really,
we would appreciate it
if your party did not point their
weapons actually *at* the Vocherons."
"What you appreciate is not our concern." Ambassador
Trygian said, not turning his head from the Vocherons. "We
are here to negotiate, but we are prepared to defend
ourselves."
"My security people can defend you against any threat
offered to you," Kirk said.
"No, I think not."
Trygian said, and then, obviously
dismissing Kirk and his concerns from his attention,
leaned forward slightly and said: "I presume, Tyssin,
you have a list of mandatory outcomes. Perhaps you had
better simply tell us what they are and we can get this over
with."
Tyssin smiled again, his mouth tentacles writhing.
"Ahhh, nnno, little one.
That is nnnot the way negotationssss work."
Kirk sat down in a chair near the door, carefully out
of the way of everybody's line of fire. He could feel
the beginning of a headache coming on.
*********