Mosaic (37 page)

accident, and two of the vessels collided, killing the

pilots. Tom had risked his ship to prevent the mishap, but

to no avail. Admiral Paris was pale and grave the next day

when she entered the conference room where the review was

to be held. She went immediately to him. "I'm so sorry

about the accident, sir," she said. "It must have been hard

on Tom."

Paris nodded. "It's always difficult to lose people under

your commandI'm afraid you'll find that out eventually-but

it's one of the risks. Tom did his best, but sometimes

these things happen. He'll have to work through it, but in

the long run it will toughen him."

Kathryn nodded and then turned to stand at attention as

two other admirals entered. She was pleased to see that one

was Admiral Finnegan, whom she'd met so long ago on her

first trip to Mars, and with whom she'd had dinner the

night before her father and Justin were killed. "Good to

see you, Captain Janeway,"

said Finnegan. "Of course you know Admiral Paris, and this

is Admiral Necheyev."

Kathryn nodded to a trim, blond woman with sharp features

and piercing eyes. The woman exuded authority without

effort, a fact Kathryn found herself admiring; she wondered

if she projected that same easy confidence, and feared she

didn't. On this, her first command, she'd often felt she

had to work at being authoritative.

"We're just waiting for the tactical officer,"

continued Finnegan. He was going over some last-minute

figures." This remark puzzled Kathryn. Last-minute figures?

Regarding tactical operations? Why would there be any issue

with that part of the mission?

As her mind raced with these questions, the door opened

and a man walked in. He was a dark Vulcan, and didn't

appear to be a young person; yet he held the rank of

ensign. Admiral Finnegan turned to him genially. "Captain

Janeway, may I present Ensign Tuvok."

Kathryn extended her hand and felt it taken firmly by the

Vulcan. His eyes were dark, and seemed to Kathryn to be

opaque: they were not a window to his soul so much as a

barrier to it. He was erect and formal, his voice a deep

and fulsome baritone.

"Captain," he acknowledged simply, then set a stack of

padds on the table.

Admiral Finnegan called the review to order, made a few

complimentary remarks about Kathryn, then turned to Tuvok.

"The bulk of the review involves Mr. Tuvok's area of

expertise, so I'll turn the proceedings over to him."

Kathryn was puzzled-what was going on here?

Tuvok began to speak, and in a few minutes her cheeks were

flaming and her heart thudding in her chest: she was

furious. She worked to control her temper as the Vulcan's

rich voice droned on and on. "dis . . and tactical logs

indicate that there were no test firings, no battle drills,

and only two weapons reviews during the mission. All told,

there are exactly forty-three violations of tactical

procedures, ranging from the minor to those I would

consider significant."

With that pronouncement he set down his last padd and

folded his hands in front of him, solemnly regarding her. A

deep hush had fallen on the room, and Kathryn realized she

was going to have to defend herself. Admiral Finnegan

turned to her, and though his voice was quiet, it held no

hint of pliability. "You may feel free to answer the

charges, Captain." Kathryn took a moment to compose

herself, then stood. "Sir, I was raised in the traditions

of Starfleet. I learned the precepts of this organization

at an early age; I admire and honor them." She paused,

looking from one to the other, but studiously ignoring

Tuvok the Vulcan. "It has always been clear to me that

Starfleet is first and foremost an institution which is

dedicated to exploration and investigation. Its primary

responsibilities are the acquisition of knowledge, the

seeking out of new worlds, and the establishment of cordial

relations with other species.

"Those tasks represent the mandate we have created-a

mandate which is both positive and powerful." She looked

directly at Admiral Finnegan. "This is not, strictly

speaking, a military organization. It functions as such

only when there is a need for self-defense. The military

aspects of Starfleet-its command structure and

nomenclature, for example-are in place primarily as a

framework within which its members can function according

to clearly established guidelines."

Now she turned directly to Tuvok, looked him square in

those shielded eyes of his, and drilled into him. "Tactical

functions, weapons checks, battle drills-those are

activities I consider low-priority. As long as I am assured

that we are at the ready in case of attack, I see no need

to spend large amounts of time drilling the crew in the

mechanics of war. I am satisfied that the weapons systems

and the crew were ready for any eventuality, and as such,

that I fulfilled the tactical requirements adequately."

She and the Vulcan held a look for a long, quiet beat, and

then she turned to Admiral Finnegan. His face was devoid of

expression. He turned to Tuvok. "Any comment, Ensign?" he

asked mildly.

Now Tuvok stood, but Kathryn didn't sit back down. They

faced each other at opposite ends of a table, like

combatants squaring off in a gladiatorial ring. Kathryn's

heart was still hammering, but Tuvok was utterly composed.

He might as well have been ordering dinner. She'd never

understood Vulcans, never comprehended their icy reserve,

never really trusted the capacities of those who eschewed

emotion. Her humiliating tennis defeat years ago at the

hands of Shalarik suddenly enveloped her, reopening old

wounds. She was gripped with the determination that she

mustn't fail this time; this Vulcan could not best her.

"The captain's idealism is admirable, of course," he

intoned. "However, that very structure of which she speaks

is an absolutely essential component of a smoothly

functioning organization.

Regulations do not exist in a vacuum; they are in place for

specific and legitimate purposes.

Starfleet Command has set the rules and I am certain they

did not do so frivolously. We must assume that regulations

are established for the most definitive of reasons."

And now it was his turn to look Kathryn in the eye. "If it

is left to the individual to decide which rules are to be

followed, and on what schedule, then the rules cease to

have meaning. The only possible result is anarchy. The

smooth functioning that Captain Janeway speaks of so

eloquently does not come spontaneously; it comes at a cost

and that cost must be paid." Kathryn felt the eyes of the

three admirals on her. "Anything else, Captain?" queried

Finnegan. She took a breath and, still staring at Tuvok,

rebutted. "By its nature, the captaincy of a ship on a

deep-space mission requires flexible discretionary powers.

A captain must be able to confront unexpected circumstances

and have enough leeway to respond appropriately. Slavish

adherence to rules can undermine the very individuality

that has made the finest of Starfleet officers so

outstanding. Again-if the safety of the ship and crew is

not compromised, surely I have the latitude to apportion

time as I see fit." There was a long silence which neither

Kathryn nor Tuvok tried to fill. Admiral Finnegan sat back

in his chair. "If neither of you has anything more, you're

excused while we confer. Please wait in the corridor."

Kathryn and Tuvok nodded, then turned to exit. She could

feel her adrenaline pumping, fueled by anger and

determination. They took seats on opposite sides of the

corridor; Kathryn felt a lock of hair fall across her eye

and she jerked it back.

Damn her hair! She had to find a style that wouldn't betray

her, something that was neat, and professional. The

irrationality of worrying about her hair at a time like

this suddenly struck her, and she heard herself chuckle

aloud. Tuvok looked up at her. "Captain?" he queried

politely.

"Nothing," she retorted. She wasn't about to tell this

arrogant Vulcan about her problems with her hair. She was

sure he would find it utterly capricious that the subject

would enter her mind at this moment. But apparently he

didn't need her help in commenting on the human condition.

"It is intriguing to me," he intoned, "that humans so often

use that term to indicate its exact opposite."

"I beg your pardon?"

"At the very moment when there is clearly "something'

of some import affecting the individual, he or she will say

that "nothing' is bothering them. I am curious as to why

that would be."

Irritation was added to the other emotions Kathryn was

experiencing. "It's a way of protecting our privacy. I

don't necessarily want to share my innermost thoughts just

because someone wants to know what they are." Her voice

sounded harsh, even to herself.

But Tuvok merely reflected on her statement, then finally

nodded. "I see. Thank you, Captain.

That does clarify the matter." His manner was mild and

thoughtful, and Kathryn thought she had never encountered

anyone so annoying.

The door opened and Admiral Paris stood there, beckoning

to them. "You can come in now," he said. They returned to

their seats, not making eye contact as Admiral Finnegan

spoke.

"You are both eloquent and persuasive speakers," he began.

"We all thought we'd enjoy hearing you engaged in formal

debate." He smiled slightly at the prospect and the other

admirals followed suit. "However, our purpose today is not

to assess debating skills." He turned to Kathryn. "Captain,

you completed your first mission in fine style, and I'm

entering a commendation from Admiral Paris into your

record; he feels the pulsar data you compiled is of extreme

value."

"Thank you, sir."

"You show all the potential to become an able captain,

indeed. However, Mr. Tuvok here is quite right in his

insistence that tactical regulations not be ignored because

of your interpretation of Starfleet's charter. From now on,

you're to stick to the rules."

"Yes, sir." Kathryn was stung by the rebuke, but swallowed

her feelings. "However, we had a thought which might serve

everyone's best interests. We've been looking for a

suitable post for Ensign Tuvok, who is eager to return to

deep space. We've decided to assign him to your ship to

serve as tactical officer on your next mission."

Kathryn couldn't believe what she was hearing. This

imperious, condescending man on her bridge? This

stickler for rules on her senior stall? What could Admiral

Finnegan be thinking?

"We think you might balance each other well."

He looked at Kathryn and his merry eyes crinkled at the

edges. "And you'd be sure your tactical drills would never

go undone." He paused, then looked at them both.

"Well? What do you think?"

"I would be honored to accept such a post," said Tuvok

immediately. Kathryn felt Finnegan's gaze shift to her.

"I'd like some time to think it over, sir," she replied.

The admiral nodded genially. "Take all the time you'd

like, Captain. But realize-this decision has been made."

The three admirals gazed implacably at her and she felt

the blood rise to her face. "I see. Yes, sir. Thank you,

sir. May we be excused now?" Finnegan nodded, and she

turned on her heel and walked out of the room, back erect.

They could force this annoying officer on her, but they

couldn't make her like him, or treat him with anything

other than the disdain with which he treated her. With any

luck, after this one mission everyone would realize the

pairing was a dreadful mistake and Tuvok would be sent off

to serve on a ship that was commanded by a Vulcan-someone

who would believe his imperiousness to be an asset. Because

she certainly never would.

ALL THE BRIDGE CREW STARED IN

ASTONISHMENT AT THE viewscreen, watching as the brown cloud

rose from the planet, all but obscuring it from view. It

was densely thick, a solid mass of undulating matter that

spread relentlessly from the planet's surface, through the

atmosphere, and into space, toward the two ships now poised

in anticipation, their own conflict forgotten for the

moment.

"Captain," whispered Trakis, voice hoarse with anxiety,

"you must go. Now. Quickly. They'll overwhelm the ship.

They emit a caustic substance which will gradually

neutralize your shields and then eat through your hull.

They'll be inside the ship in an hour and they'll kill

everything that moves."

As she watched the approach of the brown sludge, Janeway

was tempted to agree. There was something almost unbearably

ominous about this vast aggregate. Her ship was in peril.