McCoy included his data along with the C and D patients’, racking the samples and plugging his tricorder into the lab computer for analysis only seconds before Jim called.
“Kirk to sickbay.”
McCoy stepped to the com. “Yes, Jim.”
“Bones, senior staff meeting, main briefing room. We need to talk about the Sphinx, and I want your opinion on something Spock found.”
“What’s that?”
A pause. “I’m not sure yet,” Jim said.
Another mystery? The deaths, the stranger, the cloak reading . . . they had enough to deal with already.
“I’ll be right there,” McCoy said, glancing over at the processing computer. His patience was limited when it came to his own health, but it would take at least an hour for the samples to be tested for all the standards, longer if the computer picked up something exotic. He’d go to the meeting, have dinner, and check the reports before bed, the prospect of an early evening feeling more like a necessity than a choice.
Admit it, Doctor, you’re not happy with your endurance results. You’re getting older, that’s all, no shame in that.
McCoy ignored the smarmy inner voice as he left sickbay and headed for the briefing, but he couldn’t entirely ignore the rather disheartening thoughts it had raised. His last full physical, only six months ago, he’d had the stamina and lung capacity of a man in his early thirties, not too bad for a forty-plus geezer such as himself . . . but the three minutes of pedal-pushing he’d just suffered had felt like running up the side of a mountain with weights on.
And now I’m tired and my feet hurt, he thought, stepping onto the turbolift, and if this is what I have to look forward to for the next hundred years or so . . .
. . . you could start watching what you eat and getting a little more exercise, you really should once you hit forty, the smarmy voice interjected, but he’d already heard enough from that particular collection of brain cells.
Hell with it, he thought as the turbolift stopped on deck three, the doors opening, he’d retire soon enough and take up napping full-time, maybe invest in one of those personal all-terrain transports that the very old hopped around in back on Earth. He’d make house calls in style.
As he walked down the deck’s main corridor to the briefing room, nodding at a few passing crew members, he realized that his feet actually did hurt. They felt swollen, edemic; maybe all he really needed was a new pair of boots and a vacation. Jim was always pointing out how much he needed a decent holiday, which was true, but also a fine example of the pot calling the kettle black. The captain turned a deaf ear to his chief medical officer’s advice about taking a break, talk about stubborn.
McCoy walked into the briefing room and took his seat, nodding pleasantly at Sulu and Uhura, who were chatting about one of the helmsman’s botany experiments. Mr. Scott sat across the table from him, looking a little worn out. After the afternoon he’d had, McCoy wasn’t surprised; the engineer worked miracles with warp drive, lucky for all of them, but excluding the captain’s, his job was probably the most consistently stressful on board.
Jim and Spock showed up a moment later, Spock carrying a very small, very damaged-looking data chip that he set on the table before sitting down. The captain remained standing. McCoy recognized the look of absolute determination on Jim’s face, his eyes sparking with an almost rebellious intensity, and wondered if he’d talked to Starfleet yet.
The captain nodded at Spock, who picked up the chip again, passing it to Mr. Scott.
“Several hours ago, I discovered this information chip on board the Sphinx,” Spock said, “which I believe belonged to the unidentified killer of Captain Casden. The chip was in a storage locker in an unused compartment, along with packs of field rations, bottled water, and several tools—the hiding place of a stowaway saboteur, perhaps. Trace DNA from the unknown man was found on the locker, and on the chip itself. As you can see, the chip has been badly damaged, melted beyond the point of functionality.”
Scott passed the chip to McCoy, who knew the punch line already. “And yet somehow, you managed to make it function, didn’t you, Spock?”
The science officer turned his cool gaze to the doctor. “In fact, after several hours of work, I was able to salvage only two words from the corrupted chip . . . though I do appreciate your high estimation of my skills, Dr. McCoy.”
Before he could respond—a sentiment along the lines of don’t-flatter-yourself—the captain stepped in, steering them back on track.
“The two words are ‘from thirty-one,’ ” Jim said, looking at each of them in turn. “Does that seem familiar to anyone? Think carefully, it could be important.”
McCoy gave it a few seconds before shaking his head. He supposed he could come up with something given time, but it didn’t ring any bells.
“It could mean anything,” Sulu said, expressing exactly what McCoy was thinking. Scott and Uhura both nodded.
“As I’ve already told the captain, the computer listed one hundred seventy-one thousand, nine hundred and forty-two references to the number thirtyone, not including stardates,” Spock said. McCoy opened his mouth to ask if Spock meant the ship’s computer or his own brain when Jim intervened yet again.
“As all of you know, there are a number of questions regarding the Sphinx that we don’t have answers to,” he said firmly. “The unidentified man on the bridge, Mr. Scott’s discovery of the graviton field, how she ended up a runaway in the first place—and now this. The answers are out there, somewhere—but as much as I want to find them, I received a text message from Starfleet less than an hour ago, a response to our 1500 report regarding the thirty-eighth passenger and the possible cloak connection . . . telling me that they would be appointing another investigation team.”
McCoy frowned, exchanging a confused look with Scotty, who shook his head in disbelief. It explained Jim’s obvious discontent.
“That doesn’t make any sense. Did they say why, Captain?” the engineer asked.
“No, but as soon as this meeting is over, I’m going to find out—a private communication link with the closest HQ station, so I can hear it for myself,” Jim said, nodding at Uhura. “And since it appears I’m going to have to sell them on the idea of letting us continue, I was hoping one of you might recognize the ‘thirty-one’ reference. Anything I can use to convince them would be helpful, since our good record doesn’t seem to be enough.”
The captain controlled himself well, but the anger was there, barely hidden. McCoy knew from experience that Jim had already heavily invested himself in solving the mysterious tragedy—not necessarily his healthiest trait, getting emotionally involved so quickly, but it was also one of the things that made him an inspired captain.
There were a few guesses as to what “thirty-one” might mean, a brief update from each department, and the meeting was over. Jim said he’d let everyone know Starfleet’s final decision as soon as he heard it, and excused himself from the room with a curt nod. Uhura left with him, shooting an uncertain glance back at the rest of them as they stood up from the table.
“What’s this all about, Mr. Spock, do you have an idea?” Scotty asked worriedly.
Spock hesitated before speaking. “I wouldn’t care to speculate at this juncture, Mr. Scott.”
“In other words, no,” McCoy jabbed, but his heart wasn’t in it. He still felt tired. The one consolation was that Spock seemed even less inclined to go the rounds.
“Gentlemen,” Spock said, and left without another word. Sulu shrugged at them and quickly followed.
“Care for a bit of dinner, Doctor?” Scott asked, but McCoy shook his head, wiggling his sore toes.
“Actually, I think I’m going to go soak my feet,” he said, and smiled a little. He was off-duty until morning, and all he had to look forward to for the next several days was logging patient numbers and test results for a large group of basically healthy people. He abruptly decided that his own physical results could wait until he got a good night’s sleep.
“I think I’m finally starting to figure out that I’m not as young as I used to be, Mr. Scott.”
Scotty smiled ruefully. “Aye; ain’t it a bugger?”
He asked Lieutenant Uhura to connect him with the nearest command base, only a sector away, and pipe it straight to the private office closest to the bridge. It had occurred to him that security considerations might have played a part in Starfleet’s decision not to use the Enterprise, perhaps something they would reveal to him on a secured line.
Kirk stood next to the office’s small wall screen, his arms crossed as he waited for Uhura. The room was cool and seemed obnoxiously bright, though he knew his anger and impatience tended to make him irritable and hypersensitive, another fine combination of emotions. Starfleet didn’t want them to conduct the investigation? Fine—but he’d know why, he deserved as much after the hoops they’d jumped through to save the Sphinx.
Through the speaker beneath the screen, Uhura informed him that a Commodore Jefferson had been reached at Starbase 27, and that the connection was being relayed through a DS transmitter. Kirk thanked her and dropped his arms as he turned to face the screen, not wanting to come across as overly confrontational before hearing the whole story.
There was a toneless stutter of sound and the blank screen became a picture, the head and shoulders of a distinguished older man, his silvering hair slicked back from a well-lined brow, a friendly expression on his tanned face.
“Captain Kirk, I presume,” he said, in a light voice that matched his polished demeanor. “Carl Jefferson. It’s a pleasure to meet you, though you’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands.”
Surprised, Kirk smiled, in spite of his intentions. He hadn’t heard that one before. “The pleasure’s mine, sir. You’ll forgive me if I come straight to the point, Commodore—have you been apprised of our current situation?”
Jefferson nodded. “I believe so, Captain. We received a copy of your report filed, ah, 5462.1, 1500 hours, from Starfleet Command, and their response. You’ve been asked to continue on to your next destination, Deep Space Station M-20, with the U.S.S. Sphinx in tow. There will be an inquest team waiting to receive the ship, though I don’t know who has been officially appointed to lead the investigation, not at present. Does that describe your current situation?”
“Yes, sir,” Kirk said, studying the man’s open, pleasant face, withholding judgment for the moment on his sincerity.
“Is there a problem, Captain? Were the orders unclear?”
“The orders were clear, sir, but not the reason for them,” Kirk said, throwing as much diplomatic charm as he could into the words. “We have the ship with us . . . and having already begun an exploration into the loss of the crew, and the near-destruction of the ship itself, I’m wondering why we haven’t been asked to continue.”
Jefferson sighed. “Of course. I’d wonder the same thing, in your position. I hope you understand, it’s not a question of your competence, or the abilities of your crew. . . . Captain, did you know Jack Casden?”
“No, but I’ve read his file,” Kirk said. “Several commendations, a solid record . . . he appeared to be well thought of as an officer.”
“He was, throughout most of his career,” Jefferson said. “Nine years since his first command. But what wasn’t noted in his file were his political leanings. Captain Casden was a strong proponent of the Federation making peace with its enemies, Romulans and Klingons, among others. Practically an activist. He thought the Federation should disarm, to set the example of pacifism and nonviolent confrontation.”
Kirk frowned, crossing his arms. “I don’t know that I agree with his proposal, but it’s a noble sentiment. There are a number of Federation societies that oppose the use of force, except in the most extreme circumstances.”
“And if it was just a sentiment, I’d agree completely,” Jefferson said. “But for Casden, it was more than that. It appears that he may have been in unauthorized contact with the Romulans. About two weeks ago, HQ Admin was running a routine check of stored computer logs from a number of starships—and someone noticed that some of the Sphinx’ s assignment reports had been tampered with. A more intensive search turned up computer evidence that over the past two years, the Sphinx has made three separate excursions into the Neutral Zone, from the Lantaru sector.”
“Computer records aren’t that difficult to falsify,” Kirk said slowly. An image of Ben Finney flashed through his mind and was gone, leaving a whisper of sorrow in its wake.
“No . . . but three days ago, just as an investigation into Casden’s activities was being put together, the Sphinx disappeared,” Jefferson said, his expression grim. “No contact at all until you found them—”
“—coming out of the Lantaru sector,” Kirk said, all the pieces falling into place. A meeting with the Romulans would explain the graviton field . . .
. . . and the unidentified man could have been a spy for the Romulans. Maybe they decided they didn’t want Casden around anymore. Or maybe Casden decided he couldn’t live with the depth of guilt that his treasonous behavior had inspired, and decided to take his Romulan contact down with him.
Along with his crew? No, it had to be the Romulans . . . except how did he get his own men to go along with crossing into the Neutral Zone, not once but three times?
“The unknown person you discovered was undoubtedly Casden’s contact,” Jefferson continued. “And as for the graviton reading, it’s simply not possible that the Sphinx came about it innocently. Starfleet Intelligence has just opened a research facility to study cloaking technology, but that’s on one of Neptune’s moons. Nereid, I believe.”
The commodore was apparently unaware of the Enterprise’ s involvement in obtaining the Federation ’s only cloaking device, though Kirk wasn’t surprised. The assignment had been highly classified . . .
. . . and maybe that’s how Casden explained it to his crew—a secret Intelligence mission. If they trusted him, they might have gone along with it.
“So. As I’m sure you now understand, Starfleet is planning a thorough investigation into all of this, one that could take weeks or even months to complete,” Jefferson said. “As I said before, your qualifications to handle the inquiry are not in doubt—rather, it’s a matter of time and resources.”
“I understand,” Kirk said, “and I appreciate your candor, Commodore. I’ll send our final summary along to Starfleet Command.”
“Fine, that’s fine,” Jefferson said smoothly, smiling. “Was there anything else, Captain Kirk?”
“Actually, there is. My first officer found a data chip that apparently belonged to the unidentified passenger—”
“Oh?” Jefferson sat up straighter, his smile fading. “That wasn’t mentioned in your report. Is there anything on it?”
The commodore’s casual, friendly air suddenly seemed forced, and for a half second, Kirk felt a tiny stir of doubt—but it was gone just as quickly. The news about Casden’s seditious activities had obviously affected him, making him unaccountably paranoid. Jefferson was a Starfleet commodore, for God’s sake.
“Not really,” Kirk said. “The chip was badly damaged, what we did get could mean anything—two words, ‘from thirty-one.’ ”
The commodore shook his head, his smile returning. “You’re right, that could mean anything. Well. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Captain, but I’m afraid I have some other business to attend to. . . .”
“Of course,” Kirk said. “Thank you for your time, Commodore.”
Jefferson leaned forward, reaching toward the screen, and the picture dissolved. Kirk stood for another moment, thinking about Jack Casden, about pacifistic zeal carried too far. The ideals of peace were worth working toward, certainly, but reality wasn’t ideal . . . something that Casden hadn’t discovered until it was too late.
The road to hell . . . It was sad, but it made him angry, too. Regardless of politics, right or wrong, a captain was responsible for the lives of his crew. Leaders had to hold themselves to a higher standard than most; men made mistakes, and a man who led others had to do better than that, even if that sometimes meant denying his own humanity.
Like R. M. Merrick. Or Garth of Izar . . . or Ron Tracey, or Matt Decker—
He frowned, dismissing the disturbing train of thought, not liking where it was headed. They had a science conference to get to. Kirk headed for the bridge, turning his focus to ship’s business—but try as he might, his focus kept wandering back to the reality of Jack Casden and how common it was, that well-meaning people could become so very lost.