Star Trek: The Original Series: The Shocks of Adversity (17 page)

“The interests of individual persons or groups will inevitably be in conflict with
the interests of others,” Spock allowed. “But actual conflicts can be avoided, if
both parties are willing to do so.”

“Are you suggesting the Domain is not as interested in avoiding these conflicts as
the Federation is?” Kirk asked.

Spock nodded. “I believe the evidence to date supports that contention.”

Kirk shook his head. “No, Spock. You’re suggesting that these people will turn on
us, that we were wrong to ever trust them. The Federation was built on trust. There
would be no Federation if humans, Vulcans, Andorians, and Tellarites hadn’t all learned
to trust each other.”

“This is true,” Spock admitted. Indeed, there had been numerous times prior to the
formation of the Federation when the trust among the founding members had been severely
tested. “But as one of your countrymen once advised, ‘Trusting too much to others’
care is the ruin of many.’ I am only advising that you not give them more trust than
they have earned.”

The captain did not immediately say anything in response, and Spock turned and left
him to the privacy of his reflections, trusting he would make the proper judgment.

*   *   *

Deeshal had commented more than once about the size of the
Enterprise
’s sickbay, but it wasn’t until McCoy visited the medical facilities aboard the
814
that he understood how drastic the difference was. “My freshman dormitory room at
Old Miss was bigger than this,” he joked as he got his first look at Deeshal’s examination
and emergency treatment room.

“Defense Corps efficiency,” Deeshal said. McCoy had to admit, there didn’t seem to
be a wasted cubic centimeter in the tiny space. The walls were lined with cabinets,
all meticulously labeled and color coded. On the deck, he noted the seams where a
table could be raised if needed, and above, an array of lights and sensor pods. Deeshal
pressed his hand to a panel by the door, which opened to reveal a library computer
interface. “I’ve got the passenger and crew manifest lists of the
043
, finally.” He started reading off the information. “There were seventy-one Goeg,
twenty-two—”

“Are.”

Deeshal turned. “What?”

“There
are
seventy-one Goeg,” McCoy said firmly. “Don’t write them off yet, Doctor. We need
to keep a positive outlook, and keep hoping for the best.”

Deeshal’s head bobbed up and down as he said,
“You’re right, you’re absolutely right. There
are
seventy-one Goeg, twenty-two Luriq, seventeen Rokeans, eleven Abesians, nine Icorrs,
and three Urpires.” He typed in a sequence of instructions on the keyboard embedded
on the inside of the panel doors. “All right, we’ll want at least two hundred units
of pelazine ready. . . .” He clicked another key to bring up a new screen on the computer
monitor, and then scowled. “I have only seventy-seven units in inventory.”

“Pelazine,” McCoy said, referring to the Starfleet-issue data slate he carried. “Okay,
this looks like a variation on cordrazine; our lab will have no trouble synthesizing
all you need.”

“Excellent,” Deeshal said with a soft sigh of relief. “And your tri-ox is close enough
to our oxygenation enhancer that we don’t need to worry about that.”

“Lucky, that,” McCoy said, his thoughts turning to the patient who had proven that
similarity. Lieutenant D’Abruzzo was almost fully recovered, though the healing of
his arm had slowed down considerably in the last day or two. McCoy had resisted releasing
him, but once their rescue got under way, they would need every bed they could get.

Deeshal continued, “We also should have a liter of diomotin on hand for the Urpires . . .
for all the good it’ll do us,” he added under his breath.

“What does that mean?” McCoy asked.

“Urpires are notoriously fragile physically,” Deeshal told him. “Plus, there are none
in the Corps, and I’ve never had to treat one.”

“Well, you never had to treat a human before last week, either,” McCoy reminded him.

“That was luck, like you just said,” Deeshal said with a sigh. “Giving D’Abruzzo that
injection was no more than a calculated gamble on my part. If anyone deserves credit
for saving that man, it’s you and Christine.”

McCoy scowled at the younger physician. “Doctor, again: you have to stay positive
here. You don’t have the luxury of doubt. I’ve never treated an Urpire before either,
or a Goeg or a Liruq or any of the species on that transport.
I’m
relying on
your
help here. And Christine is relying on your help.”

The mention of Chapel’s name had the intended effect on Deeshal. “Right,” he said,
lifting his head and squaring his shoulders. “Right, so . . . if your lab can take
care of the diomotin and the pelazine, I can have the rest transferred from our stores
over to the
Enterprise
.”

“Sounds like a plan,” McCoy said, making notes on his slate, and also making a mental
note to thank Christine.

*   *   *

By the time they reached it, the Goeg Domain Civil Transport Class I/
043
was already dead.

Kirk had joined Laspas in the
814
’s command center, and as soon as they were in visual range, he knew it was too late.
He, along with Laspas, Satrav, and the rest of the crew, stared in horrified silence
at the image displayed on the central viewscreen. The transport’s hull was still partially
intact, thanks to whatever crew member had managed to eject the warp core and antimatter
stores. But the secondary blast that had been detected, they now saw, was the ion-pulse
impulse engines. The entire aft portion of the ship had been ripped away, opening
large sections to vacuum. As Laspas issued a code command to scan for life signs,
Kirk mentally reviewed the ship specs he had studied while they were in transit. Without
warp or impulse engines, the vessel would have been left on emergency battery power
only. And those batteries had a maximum life of only twenty hours, meaning any passengers
that might have survived the explosion would have run out of breathable oxygen long
before their arrival.

“Negative, code 4-9,” said the Icorr officer at the main sensor station.

“Repeat code 4-9,” Laspas ordered, without pulling his fixed glare away from the screen.

A funereal silence filled the crowded space. “Negative, code 4-9,” the officer repeated.

“Kirk,” Satrav said, also not turning his eyes from the screen, “while I don’t believe
your Starfleet sensors will detect anything different than ours will . . .”

Without letting him finish, Kirk pulled out his communicator and signaled the
Enterprise
. “Mister Spock, scan the transport for any evidence of life signs,” he said. Given
the advantage the Domain sensors had over their own in the Nystrom system, Kirk was
just as doubtful as Satrav, but if there was the slightest chance . . .

“Negative, Captain,”
Spock reported back after several seconds.
“We are detecting one hundred twenty-eight bodies in and around the vessel, all deceased.”

“Acknowledged,” Kirk said quietly as he folded his device shut and looked to Laspas.
“I’m sorry.”

“All for nothing.” The words rattled in Satrav’s throat before being forced through
his clenched teeth. “This is what we all had our hopes raised for. To find . . . this . . .”

Laspas finally turned from the image of the transport and toward his exec. “Satrav . . .”
he said in a muted, sympathetic tone, “code 10.” Satrav nodded and marched for the
command center exit, doing his best to maintain his dignified, commanding air. “His
daughter and her family were lost in a similar accident,” Laspas told Kirk in a low
whisper as they watched the older man’s shoulders sag as he disappeared behind the
closing door.

Kirk didn’t know what to say in response to that. What words were there at a time
like this? How many people had he lost over the years? How many
more had he failed to save? “I’m sorry there wasn’t more we could do,” he finally
offered.

Laspas nodded. “As am I, James,” he said, and then fell silent, standing with his
back to the viewer, unable to bear the sight anymore.

The stillness that had taken the command center was then shattered. “Commander!” one
of the Domain officers called from her station. “Code 1-7!”

Hearing that, Laspas instantly pushed his mournfulness aside and spun to the viewer
again, as if expecting that some immediate threat had suddenly appeared there. When
he saw the image was unchanged, he wheeled back on the crew member. “Clarify!” he
practically roared at her.

“I executed a series three scan on the area of the breach, Commander,” she said, “and
I’ve detected residual evidence of weapons fire. The transport was defending itself
against something at the time the reactor was ejected and detonated.”

Laspas considered his junior officer with narrowed eyes. “First Hand Asmar, I don’t
recall issuing a code 4-70,” he said.

“No, Commander. I . . .” She faltered for a second, then said, “It was when the Starfleet
officer—Sulu?—looked deeper into the sensor data that we learned the transport vessel
was still partially intact. I thought doing the same now, we might discover . . .”

“Code 4-71!” Laspas called out urgently. “The
Enterprise
, too, James! Scan for any subspace distortion trails leading away from this area!”

Kirk was momentarily caught off guard by the vehemence of that order, but gathered
himself and withdrew his communicator again. “Spock, it looks like the transport may
have been attacked by another ship. Scan for any sign of another warp vessel leaving
the area.”

“We are currently on one of the Goeg Domain’s primary space routes, Captain,”
Spock pointed out.

“Understood, Spock. Run the scan.”

“Positive code 4-71!” called out a Liruq sensor technician. “Seven-five-one-two mark
three-six-nine-eight, bearing four-five-one-two mark nine-nine-eight-five.”

“Spock, did you copy that?” Kirk said into his communicator.

“Affirmative, Captain,”
he answered.
“Scanning those coordinates. . . . Confirmed, sir. Detecting a recent subspace trail
deviating from any established local space lanes.”

“The Taarpi!” Laspas said. “Code 2-44!”

Kirk felt the deckplates under his boots vibrate, and saw the image of the dead transport
slide below the bottom edge of the center viewscreen and disappear. He snapped his
head to Laspas as the vibrations gained in intensity. “What is code 2-44?” he demanded.

“Pursuit course,” Laspas told him, his lips curling up in something other than a smile.
“We’re going after the
pyurbs
, James!”

Laspas led Kirk out of the command center into a small ready room situated just on
the other side of the forward bulkhead. Like the rest of the vessel, the commander’s
private retreat was small and efficiently laid out, with a narrow bunk, a workstation,
and a head. It did boast a few personal touches, like the framed photograph on his
desk that showed him as a younger man posing with an older couple Kirk assumed were
his parents. On the small stand beside the bunk sat one of his Kawhye books, an illustration
of a Geog
gaat
and rider embossed on its cover.

Once they were both inside, and the door shut behind them, Laspas moved close in the
cramped space and pushed his muzzle toward Kirk’s face. “James, we are going after
them,” he said in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

Kirk held perfectly steady, and met the other man’s eyes with equal resolve. “I am
still the captain of my own ship! The
Enterprise
is severely damaged; she’s not fit for a hostile engagement. You do not have the
authority . . .”

“I have all the authority I need!” Laspas roared. “They murdered over a hundred civilians!
I have the duty to go after them, and make them answer for this atrocity!”

Kirk countered Laspas’s rising frustration by keeping the tone of his own response
calm and level. “You cannot unilaterally commandeer my ship and take it into an armed
confrontation!”

“Then I’ll have all the connectors cut, and set you and your damned ship adrift!”

Laspas’s threat hit Kirk like a fist to the gut. “You wouldn’t do that,” he said,
feeling none of the calm confidence he conveyed.

To his immense relief, he was right to call Laspas’s bluff. “Damn it, James,” the
commander said, deflating. “These are the same
pyurbs
who attacked your ship back at Nystrom. Why in Erhokor’s name are you opposing me
on this?”

“We’re both in this together, Laspas. I can’t let you simply push me to one side and
take this kind of action unilaterally, without any regard for my ship or my people,”
Kirk said.

“I have no less regard for your ship and crew than I do for my own,” Laspas insisted,
sounding slightly wounded.

And perhaps that’s the problem,
Kirk thought to himself, recalling the conversation he’d had with Spock earlier.
He quickly dismissed that ungenerous estimation. He knew Laspas better than that.

Or he thought he did.

“I’m not a diplomat, James,” Laspas continued, and tried to pace the tiny space. “It
is not my intention to deny you what is yours. But I’m not one for negotiating. I’m
a commander of the Defense Corps. When action needs to be taken, I act.”

“Diplomacy is not exactly my strongest suit, either,” Kirk told him. “We’re very much
alike, you and I, Laspas. So I know you can understand why it’s so difficult for me
to be in the position I’m in, and to have no control over my own command.”

“I do understand,” Laspas agreed, and Kirk could see in his eyes that he did in fact
empathize with him. Then he fixed Kirk with his sharp, intense eyes. “But if you were
in my position? If it were a hundred humans who had been murdered?”