Baldur III
“Welcome to Jackpot City,” the mayor said.
The landing party, which consisted of Kirk, McCoy, and Yeoman Martha Landon, materialized in the town square, where they were greeted by a delegation of community leaders. Kirk’s arm itched where McCoy had administered a tri-ox compound right before they beamed down; Baldur III’s atmosphere was thinner than that found on most M-Class planets, being somewhere between Vulcan’s and Earth’s. It was breathable, but humans could benefit from a boost, just to avoid getting light-headed or short of breath. Kirk took a deep breath of the crisp fall air. So far the injection seemed to be doing the trick.
“Thank you,” he replied. “We got here as soon as we could.”
He took in the sights. The once-obscure colony had turned into a sprawling, ramshackle boom town almost overnight. Older buildings made of wood and stone and brick were surrounded by newer structures, including prefabricated steel barracks, several temporary shelters composed of quick-setting thermoconcrete, and more than a few grounded shuttles and spacecraft that had been repurposed as lodgings, trading posts, dance halls, and whatnot. Glancing around, Kirk was amused to see a vintage Kazarite escape pod being used as a sandwich shop. Twilight was falling in this corner of the planet, but the din of new construction continued even as the outdoor lights came on. Throngs of people, sporting the attire of many different worlds, roamed the bustling cobblestone sidewalks while groundcars cruised the streets. An air-truck zipped by overhead. Snow-capped mountains and wooded hills loomed in the distance.
“Soon as you could beats the alternative, in my book,” Mayor Margery Poho said. She was heavyset, bordering on chubby, with an easy smile, shrewd brown eyes, and graying dark hair. Creases around her eyes and mouth gave her face extra character. Casual attire indicated a preference for comfort and durability over pomp. A rumpled overcoat protected her from the elements. “We’re glad of any help we can get from the Federation.”
“Within reason,” an elderly member of the delegation muttered. He eyed the landing party warily. Appearing to be in his seventies, the man had a bushy walrus mustache, a ruddy complexion, and leathery features that suggested a lifetime of exposure to wind and sun, despite the wide-brimmed hat currently keeping his head covered. He walked with a cane, but showed no sign of infirmity. “And only up to a point.”
Kirk wondered what his issue was.
“Allow me to introduce two of my most valued advisors.” Poho indicated the old man with the cane. “This is Boyd Cahill. His family was among the original settlers on Baldur III.”
“And don’t you forget it,” he said. “And with no help from the Federation, I might add.”
Poho introduced her other advisor: a tall, rangy man clad in a faded burgundy jumpsuit. Long, unruly brown tresses escaped a tightly wound gray bandana. “And this is Navvan, who has emerged as a spokesman for our newer citizens.”
He dipped his head. “Welcome.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Kirk said. “Excuse me, but you’re a Troglyte, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” he said. “Many of my fellow miners have migrated to Baldur III in search of greater opportunities . . . and less prejudice against our people.”
Kirk couldn’t blame them. Back on their homeworld of Ardana, the so-called Troglytes had labored in the zenite mines, scorned and exploited by an elite class of cultured aristocrats. Kirk liked to think that the miners’ situation was improving, thanks in some small part to his own intervention a few years ago, but he also knew that it was unrealistic to expect generations of prejudice and discrimination to be overcome easily.
“And is the label ‘Troglyte’ still acceptable to you?” Kirk said.
“We are reclaiming the name, defining it not as a slur but as something to be proud of,” Navvan said. “There is no shame in laboring deep beneath the surface. We only insist on doing so for ourselves, not to benefit those who despise us.”
“Can’t argue with that,” McCoy said. “From what little I saw of Ardana.”
“Before or after the Federation meddled in its internal affairs?” Cahill said. “No offense, Navvan. I get that your people got a raw deal there, which you were dealing with on your own terms even before Starfleet stuck their nose into your business.”
Kirk chose to confront the man’s attitude head-on.
“You have a problem with Starfleet and the Federation, Mister Cahill?”
“Not at all,” the man said. “Long as they keep their distance.”
Poho sighed.
“You have to understand, Captain, that Baldur III has always been an independent colony, founded in part by people who wanted to forge a new life away from the Earth and its allies. There’s some concern that our recent windfall might make Baldur III more attractive to the Federation, which has largely let us be until now.”
Kirk valued her honesty.
“I won’t lie,” he replied in kind. “The Federation would be happy to have Baldur III join the UFP, and there’s a case to be made that this would be to our mutual advantage, but the choice as always is yours.”
“I knew it,” Cahill harrumphed. “Starfleet’s so-called aid is just a ploy to get their hands on our pergium. Once they get their foot in the door, we’ll never be rid of them.” He shrugged at the landing party. “Nothing personal.”
“That’s not the case at all,” Kirk said. “We’re here at your invitation.”
“For now,” Cahill said ominously. “But what happens when it’s time for you to leave?”
“Hush, Boyd.” Poho rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a crank. This is no way to greet our guests.” Changing the subject, she turned the collar of her overcoat against a chilly breeze. “Hope you don’t mind beaming down to the square instead of directly to my office. I wanted to show off Jackpot City: past, present, and future.”
She gestured broadly at the nascent metropolis, before calling their attention to the tall wooden building facing the square. Upright wooden logs supported the roof of the portico shielding the front door. Windows looked to be genuine glass instead of transparent aluminum. A clock tower, complete with a traditional analog clock face, topped the venerable-looking structure.
“Take a gander at Town Hall. It was the first permanent public structure erected on this colony, more than two generations ago. It’s still the center of the colony, even if we’ve also done our best to upgrade its tech over the years. That’s Baldur III in a nutshell: proud of our past, but looking forward to our future.”
“Spoken like a politician,” Cahill said. “Give me the past any day. Before all this craziness.”
“More like a pragmatist,” she retorted. “Baldur III is changing, whether we like it or not. The smart thing is to make the most of it, while preserving what really matters.”
“The promise of a new and better future is precisely what drew so many of my people to Baldur III in the first place,” Navvan said. “Some aspects of yesterday are best left in the past.”
Kirk had witnessed firsthand the way the Troglytes had been treated on Ardana. That past was nothing to hang on to.
“In any event,” the mayor said, “it’s getting a bit nippy out now that the sun’s going down. How’s about we move this indoors?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” McCoy massaged his arms to keep warm. “These Starfleet uniforms are good for most climates, but I’m kind of wishing I’d brought a sweater.”
“At least you’re not wearing a skirt, Doctor,” Landon quipped.
The blond young yeoman, who had been with the crew for three years, was along to record the meeting for posterity, while also being on hand to help out as needed. Kirk knew that she could hold her own in a fight, just in case a brawl broke out in the overcrowded boom town. Not that he expected violence, for certain, but you never knew. This was the frontier, after all.
“Always preferred trousers myself,” Poho said, “but to each their own.”
She led them into the building. An antique cage elevator brought them to the fourth floor, where a conference room proved a mixture of old and new. Handcrafted wooden furniture, which Kirk assumed to be carved from lumber native to the planet, was supplemented by a modern computer terminal, a viewscreen, and a convenient food slot. The latter quickly produced several mugs of steaming hot cocoa.
“To take the chill off,” Poho explained as they all sat down at the conference table. “By the way, Captain, I liked the way you handled that standoff in orbit earlier. Thanks for backing up our folks at the spaceport . . . and giving those hotheaded captains a good talking-to.”
“You heard about that?” Kirk asked.
“Don’t let my good looks fool you,” she joked. “I stay on top of things. Listened to that recording a couple of times, to be honest. Did my heart good.” She blew on her cocoa to cool it down. “Seriously, just having the Enterprise up there to keep the peace goes a long way toward stabilizing the situation up above.”
Kirk had left Spock in command aboard the ship for that very reason. Considering how volatile matters were beyond the planet’s atmosphere, he’d wanted the coolest head he knew keeping watch over the overcrowded orbits.
“Glad you approve,” Kirk said.
“I did and do,” Poho said. “Here’s hoping you can make a difference down here too.”
She shot a warning glance at Cahill, who refrained from comment. Foaming cocoa discolored his snowy-white mustache.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Kirk said. “Perhaps you can begin by telling us where you’re most in need of—”
The overhead lights dimmed for a moment before coming back on. The computer terminal beeped as it powered up again. Poho sighed in exasperation.
“Did I mention the brownouts?” she said wryly. “Our power grid is strained to the breaking point, what with all the new buildings and people, or so our engineers tell me. We’ve even had a few blackouts here and there. Nothing too serious yet, but folks are already getting tired of the random fluctuations and outages.”
“I don’t understand,” McCoy said. “Isn’t pergium used for generating energy?”
“Down the road, sure,” Poho said. “But first the raw ore needs to be refined and processed, power plants need to be built, the necessary infrastructure put in place.” The lights flickered again, earning a dirty look from the mayor. “Eventually, we’ll have energy to spare, but right now we’re still playing catch-up, and the sudden influx of newcomers is outpacing energy production.”
“Wasn’t a problem before all these offworld prospectors started pouring in,” Cahill said.
“Because you were just a backwater,” Navvan said. “Times are changing.”
“Who asked them to? Maybe some of us liked being a backwater.” He swept his gaze over all the assemblage, as though daring them to challenge him. “I was born and raised on Baldur III, and three generations of my family are buried here.” He nodded at the Troglyte leader. “How long have you and yours been here?”
“Does that matter?” Navvan asked.
“It does to me,” Cahill said, “and plenty of others I could name.”
“But not to everyone,” Poho said firmly. “Don’t forget, Boyd. My roots here are dug just as deeply as yours, and I don’t think we need to keep Baldur III frozen in amber just to keep things exactly the way we remember them. Tomorrow tends to kick yesterday out the door, which is the way it’s supposed to work, and, as long as I’m mayor, everybody’s opinion matters, no matter whether they were born in these parts or not.”
Navvan nodded. “Which is why you can count on my support, Mayor, and the rest of us ‘offworld prospectors.’ ”
“Nothing personal,” Cahill assured him. “Just have to speak my piece, is all.”
“Of course,” Poho said. “Why else do you think I keep you around?”
Kirk sat back and observed the dynamics in play. Listening to Poho manage her advisors, he was getting a much better sense of the divisions among her constituents, particularly between the newcomers and the descendants of the original settlers. At the rate people were arriving, the former would soon outnumber the latter; Kirk didn’t envy Poho having to try to keep both populations happy.
I need to avoid taking sides, he thought. If possible.
“My chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Scott, may be able to assist you with your power issues,” Kirk said. “I’ll have him beam down to take stock of the situation. Knowing Mister Scott, he’s bound to have some suggestions . . . and will probably want to take a hands-on approach to the problem.”
“And I’d like to find out more about how your medical facilities are coping with this crush of potential patients,” McCoy said. “I can’t imagine they’re any less overextended than your spaceport or generators.”
“You imagine correctly, Doctor,” Poho said, “although I wish I could tell you different.”
“So let me get this straight,” Cahill said. “The solution to having too many new people is to beam down even more new people to manage our affairs? Am I the only one who realizes how crazy that sounds?”
“And what do you suggest?” Navvan asked. “That the rest of us pack up our bags and leave? That the mines be shut down so you and your fellow nativists can all go back to logging and farming or whatever? That you just pretend the pergium was never discovered?”
“Well,” Cahill hedged, “I’m not sure I’d go that far, but . . .”
“But what?” Poho asked. “The genie is out of the bottle, Boyd. Captain Kirk and his crew are just here to help us get a handle on it.”
“Just saying that we need to make sure that handling the genie doesn’t mean turning the whole works over to the Federation . . . indefinitely.”
“Would that be so bad?” McCoy asked. “The Federation is an alliance, not an empire. What’s wrong with joining together for the common good? Plenty of other worlds are thriving as members of the Federation.”
“Good for them,” Cahill said. “But they’re not Baldur III.”
“Baldur III is not the Baldur III you remember,” Navvan replied. “Not anymore.”
“My point exactly!”
Kirk let the men argue among themselves, while silently hoping that the fractures in the community wouldn’t pose too much of a challenge in the days to come. From the look of things, he was going to have his hands full as it was.
He finished off his cocoa.