Yurnos
“Approaching the planet, Mister Spock.”
Chekov piloted Galileo toward Yurnos, which was clearly visible through the shuttlecraft’s forward ports. Spock had been engaging in silent meditation in the copilot’s seat, but roused himself as they neared their destination. The planet—which even from a distance appeared much less arid than his native Vulcan—appeared to grow in size as the shuttle headed toward it at sublight speed, slowing as they passed a solitary moon. A polar aurora illuminated the planet’s higher latitudes; Spock recalled that Yurnos had an unusually dynamic magnetic field.
“Thank you, Ensign.” Spock cleared his thoughts for the mission ahead. “I assume you have fully briefed yourself on the planet during our transit.”
“Of course, Mister Spock.” He recited what he had learned with the enthusiasm of a student anxious to impress his teacher. “Yurnos is a Class-M planet inhabited by a primitive humanoid species that look much like, well, yours truly. From what I gather, their technology is roughly equivalent to that of, say, eighteenth-century Europe or Russia. They are still a long way from developing a warp-capable civilization and are therefore protected by the Prime Directive. The plant that concerns us, nabbia, grows only in a certain region in the northern hemisphere of the planet. Efforts to cultivate it elsewhere have proved problematic; it’s theorized that nabbia thrives only under very specific environmental conditions, related to the climate, the atmosphere, the native flora and fauna, and certain rare nutrients in the soils, including—”
“That is sufficient, Ensign. I commend your diligence.”
Spock was already familiar with all relevant data concerning Yurnos and nabbia, but was pleased that Chekov had educated himself on the topics. Spock considered the young ensign a protégé of sorts. Despite his youth and unfortunate emotionality, Chekov had the makings of a fine Starfleet officer. Doctor McCoy had once accused Spock of being a bad influence on Chekov, but Spock preferred to think that he was training Chekov to achieve his full potential by encouraging him to think like a scientist.
“Thank you, Mister Spock.”
Spock scanned the planet as they approached its atmosphere. The Yurnians’ modest level of technological development could be seen by the absence of radio waves and other electromagnetic transmissions, as well as the lack of any artificial satellites in orbit around the planet. He easily detected a homing signal coming from the Federation observers who had alerted the Enterprise to the problem on Yurnos. He locked onto the signal and transmitted the coordinates to Chekov before hailing the source of the signal.
“Galileo to Federation outpost. We are approaching your location. Anticipate landing in approximately three-point-seven minutes.”
“Received, Galileo,” a female voice replied. “We’re ready for you.”
Spock had been in prior communication with the observers, a husband-and-wife team of cultural anthropologists, so they were anticipating Galileo’s arrival. There was no danger of the Yurnians intercepting the transmissions, as they had yet to even discover electricity, which made communicating with the observers relatively uncomplicated. Similarly, there was little risk of Galileo being spotted above a certain altitude, although Spock intended to exercise extreme caution anyway.
“You may begin your descent,” Spock instructed. “Take care to avoid coming within view of any large population centers.”
“Understood, Mister Spock. We will sneak in quietly like thieves in the night.”
“I would have preferred a less larcenous comparison. Proceed.”
They angled down into the atmosphere, Galileo’s shields and sturdy duranium hull protecting them from the heat of reentry. The desired coastline was cloaked in darkness as it came into view. Spock had deliberately calculated their course and speed so that they would arrive at the observers’ location late at night, the better to elude detection by anyone gazing up at the sky. As they exited the cloud cover, Chekov switched off the shuttle’s running lights and navigated by sensors alone. As they had been told, a homing signal led them to a small mill on the outskirts of a nearby seaport. Spock’s keen eyes made out the mill and various adjoining buildings, including a farmhouse, a silo, a stable, and a large stone barn. Temporary landing lights flared in the darkness, guiding them toward the latter. Spock glimpsed a pair of tiny figures on the ground, peering up at the shuttle.
The anthropologists, Jord and Vankov, he assumed. Formerly of the University of Catulla.
The barn door was open to receive Galileo. Spock estimated there was sufficient clearance to allow the shuttle to pass through the entrance, but it would be a tight squeeze. With all due respect to Chekov, he found himself wishing that Sulu was piloting instead.
“Would you prefer me to take control of the helm?” he asked.
“Nyet, Mister Spock.” Chekov confidently steered Galileo into the barn. “Just like entering the hangar deck.”
The shuttle touched down on the packed-dirt floor of the barn. Spock and Chekov emerged from the spacecraft into warm, muggy air and the pungent odor of manure. Oversized rodents, the size of horses or cattle, occupied nearby stalls. They rose up on their hind legs and chittered in alarm at the shuttle’s arrival. Spock knew from his research that the beasts, which were taxonomically akin to ground squirrels, albeit of much larger proportions, were a common form of domesticated livestock in this region. Silky fur, ranging in color from russet to gray, coated their slender bodies. Large eyes and bushy tails no doubt made them appealing to most humanoid sensibilities. Federation files labeled them megamarmots, frequently abbreviated to simply “marmots,” which was the closest translation of the actual Yurnian name for the species. Prominent incisors indicated a tendency to gnaw.
“Hush now! Go back to sleep!” Jord quieted the animals by stroking their tufted ears. “There, there, nothing to worry about. Just some visitors, that’s all.”
Spock recognized the tall, middle-aged woman from the Federation database. A pair of archaic bifocals rested atop her nose. She wore simple linen garments that had presumably been sewn by hand. She turned toward her husband, who was similarly clad. He was busy collecting the portable landing lights, shutting them off one by one as he did so. Somewhat shorter than his wife, he had the beginnings of a pot belly. A missing tooth hinted at the barbaric dentistry of the planet. Apparently Vankov had sacrificed the tooth in order to maintain his cover among the Yurnians.
“Vankov!” she said. “Hurry up and close that barn door before somebody sees!”
“It’s four in the morning, and the nearest neighbor is kilometers away,” he observed. “Who’s going to see?”
“Never hurts to be cautious.”
“Fair enough.” Vankov stowed the lights in a wooden barrel before tugging the barn door shut from the inside. Hanging lanterns, smelling faintly of fish oil, illuminated the spacious stone structure. “Wouldn’t want anyone to know we’re hiding a spaceship in our barn, even if they wouldn’t know a Starfleet shuttlecraft if they saw one.”
“Indeed,” Spock said. “Too early exposure to spacefaring beings and civilizations is exactly what we are here to prevent.”
He introduced himself and Chekov to the couple. Jord looked him over. Worry creased her brow.
“We’re going to have to hide those ears as well,” she said.
“All in good time,” Vankov said. “Why don’t we take this into the house and let the livestock get back to sleep.”
Spock was inclined to agree. Vulcans possessed an acute sense of smell, more so than most humanoids, so the earthy aroma of the barn did not encourage him to linger. He made certain Galileo was fully powered down and secure before allowing their hosts to escort them out a side door, where a short walk brought them to the farmhouse: a simple wooden structure with a slate roof and a brick chimney. After the long voyage from Baldur III, Spock appreciated the opportunity to stretch his legs and was almost disappointed when they entered the home moments later.
Perhaps there will be time for a stroll later.
Oil lamps lit a parlor on the ground floor, where they settled around a polished wooden table in front of a large empty hearth. The window shutters were drawn for privacy’s sake, despite the seasonal heat, which was far more humid than the invigorating warmth of Vulcan, at least as far as Spock was concerned. A carpet bearing a colorful geometric design protected the floor. A mechanical timepiece ticked regularly on the mantel; Spock noted that the Yurnians divided their day into ten equal hours. This struck him as admirably decimal.
“Sorry for the summer swelter,” Vankov said, “but at least you missed the rainy season. I swear, this whole place turns into mud for months at a time. I hope your flight was a smooth one?”
Spock deduced that Vankov was the more gregarious of the pair. “It passed without incident, thank you.”
“Can I help you to some chilled tea from the icebox?” Vankov asked.
Spock raised an eyebrow. “Nabbia tea?”
“Naturally.”
Chekov looked uncertainly at Spock before replying to Vankov. “Er, well, that’s very generous of you, sir, but—”
“At ease, Ensign,” Spock said. “Nabbia is not contraband here on Yurnos, where it is a natural part of the planet’s ecosystem, so no ethical or legal issues attach to partaking of it in this context. We may accept our hosts’ hospitality with a clean conscience.”
Chekov shrugged. “In that case, some tea would be most welcome, sir.”
“But not to excess,” Spock cautioned, recalling that the tea was said to be mildly intoxicating. He judged, however, that courtesy outweighed temperance in this instance, and one small cup apiece would do neither him nor Chekov any harm. And it had been a long trip from Baldur III.
“Stay where you are,” Vankov said. “I’ll be right back.”
A sample of bootleg nabbia, provided by Mayor Poho’s police force, currently resided in a storage compartment aboard Galileo. Spock had already made a cursory examination of the tea, taking note of its chemistry and genetics, but had yet to actually experience it brewed as a beverage. He was mildly curious to see what drew the smugglers to Yurnos.
True to his word, Vankov quickly returned with the refreshments. Spock found the notorious tea slightly sweeter than his taste, but not unpleasant. There was little documentation on the effects of nabbia on copper-based blood, so he wondered if he would benefit from its oxygenating effect. A medkit, complete with a hand scanner and reader tubes, resided in Galileo’s stores; it might be informative to compare his and Chekov’s blood-oxygen levels later on.
“A bit stuffy in here,” Vankov said. “Perhaps I should open a window.”
Jord shook her head. “What if a carriage happens by and wonders what we’re doing up so late, entertaining strangers?”
She eyed Spock’s ears again, but refrained from commenting on them. Not for the first time, Spock regretted that Vulcan ears were relatively uncommon in the Alpha Quadrant. He was proud to have inherited his from his father and his father’s fathers, but they did occasionally pose a problem when visiting worlds where Vulcans and Romulans were unknown.
“I suppose you’re right,” Vankov said to his wife. “Forgive the lack of interior temperature controls, gentlemen. We avoid using advanced technology except when absolutely necessary, even when we have no reason to believe we’re being observed. If we allowed ourselves modern conveniences, it would be too easy to fall into the habit of using them too often and imprudently. One stray Peeping Tom spies me using an antigrav lift to lift a bale of hay, and the jig would be up. Chances are, we’d find ourselves on trial for sorcery.”
“And that would be the best-case scenario,” Jord stressed. “Better we be hanged as witches than exposed as aliens.”
“Better in the larger sense,” Vankov clarified. “Not so much for us, personally.”
Spock approved of their caution. “I understand that you have been dwelling here for sixteen years?”
“Eighteen by the local calendar,” Vankov said. “We’ve made a home here in order to study the Yurnians up close and personal. It’s been an amazing opportunity to observe a barely industrial society as it develops in real time. We’re confident that our work will someday lead to a fuller and more nuanced understanding of Hodgkin’s Law.”
“Eighteen years,” Chekov said. “Doesn’t it get lonely?”
“We have each other.” Vankov reached across the table to take his wife’s hand. “And it’s not as though we’re hermits spying on the natives from behind a camouflaged duck blind or something. We’re on good terms with our neighbors, the folks in town, our customers, and so on. We enjoy their company, even if we have to hide the fact that we’re not actually from this planet.”
“And, to be clear,” Jord added, “we take pains to stay out of local politics and community affairs, always erring on the side of caution for the sake of the Prime Directive. We won’t even take a stand on a new tax or tariff for fear of interfering with the natural evolution of their society.”
“Which is not always easy,” Vankov said. “It can be hard—very hard—sometimes to just sit back and watch these people, whom we’ve come to know so well, make grave mistakes or endure injustices. Or to watch them suffer and die from medical issues that could easily be treated by modern science. Or even to just hold your tongue when you see them doing things the hard way, when a simple technological innovation would make their lives so much easier.” He sighed ruefully. “But . . . you’re in Starfleet—you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Indeed,” Spock said. “The temptation to intervene can be a powerful one, but logic dictates that primitive cultures must be allowed to develop in their own way and at their own pace. My own people have understood that for millennia.”
Chekov nodded. “Although the Prime Directive, as we know it today, was first written in Russian.”
“Come again?” Vankov looked at Chekov as though wondering if the tea had gone to the younger man’s head. “You can’t be serious.”
“You must forgive Mister Chekov,” Spock said. “His pride in his heritage sometimes gets the better of him.” He gave Chekov a warning look. “It is a human eccentricity. Some, I believe, find it amusing.”
“Never mind,” Chekov said sheepishly. “We were saying . . . ?”
Vankov let it pass. “In any event, it is good to have visitors with whom we can speak freely. I’m sorely tempted to keep you up the rest of the night talking galactic affairs. Do you really think that the Organian Peace Treaty is going to hold? And is it true that Baldur III might join the Federation?”
“Both interesting topics,” Jord said, “but not what these men are here to help us with.”
“You are correct,” Spock said. “We should address the matter at hand . . . unless you would prefer to wait until morning?”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “We keep our own hours, and this has been brewing long enough.” She rose from the table. “If you’re done with your tea, please follow me.”
A stairway in the kitchen led to the basement, which was packed with belongings suitable to the planet and its current level of civilization: baskets, barrels, glassware, winter attire, a broken spinning wheel, a snow shovel, and other accoutrements. Cobwebs clustered in the corners, but the dirt floor and stone walls were dry rather than damp. A cooler temperature prevailed than upstairs.
“It is rather more comfortable down here,” Chekov said. “I approve.”
Jord approached a framed oval mirror that was mounted to a wall. She paused in front of it. “Requesting access to nerve center. Identity code: five-jay-five-zee-five-delta-nine.”
The silvered mirror lit up as though enchanted. A luminous green beam scanned Jord to confirm her identity.
“Access granted,” an automated voice replied.
A panel slid open in the “dirt” floor to reveal another stairway leading to a hidden subbasement. Jord started toward it.
“Move briskly,” she advised. “The hatch will close behind me in exactly three minutes.”
It was like stepping through a time portal from the past to the twenty-third century. They soon found themselves squeezed into a compact control room that looked as though it belonged on the Enterprise instead of buried beneath a rustic farmhouse. A computer station boasted a large rectangular viewscreen while a secondary work station presumably allowed both Jord and Vankov to make use of the nerve center at the same time. Glazed enamel walls and a tile floor provided a clean, sterile environment, although Spock noted that some local form of arachnid had managed to spin a web in one corner of the ceiling anyway. Intended for only two people, the control room could barely accommodate four.
“This whole setup is rigged to self-destruct,” Jord assured them, “should anyone besides Vankov or I find their way in here. Explosive charges will reduce the entire place to atoms, leaving no trace of evidence behind, just to be safe.”
Vankov winced at the picture she painted. “Like I said, we’re strict about abstaining from modern technology in our everyday lives, but we do need the proper equipment to conduct our work and to stay in touch with the universe beyond Yurnos, as when we contacted the Enterprise for instance. We’re not going to preserve our data on parchment.”
“Naturally,” Spock said. He recalled having been marooned in Earth’s past without access to the tools and materials he was accustomed to. “One can hardly expect you to make do with stone knives and bearskins.”
“Technically, there are no bears on Yurnos,” Vankov said, “but, yes, exactly.”
“I take it, however, that this equipment is not the cultural contamination you were concerned about,” Spock said. “You have something else to show us.”
“I’m afraid so.” Jord removed a box from a storage compartment. “Take a look at this.”
The box contained an eclectic assortment of objects: a tin can, a safety razor, a matchbook, a Klingon dagger with a stainless-steel blade, a trillium bracelet, a three-bladed Capellan throwing star, a vial of some unspecified tablets, and an unopened bottle of Antarian glow water, albeit with the identifying label peeled off. It went without saying that the more exotic items were not native to Yurnos, and he suspected that the same applied to the more mundane artifacts. He inspected the razor.
“I take it that these objects are not consistent with the present technology of this region?”
“Not one of them,” Vankov confirmed. “Granted, things could be worse. We haven’t found evidence of anything ridiculously egregious, like a phaser or a communicator, which suggests that the smugglers are showing some restraint, perhaps in order to keep a low profile?”
“Nevertheless,” Jord said, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that even the most seemingly harmless bit of contamination can yield serious consequences. Minor changes snowballing into major shifts in culture and technology.”
“Mind you, nothing cataclysmic seems to have occurred yet,” Vankov said, “but you can see why we were worried enough to contact Starfleet, especially when we got word that the Enterprise was already in the vicinity.”
“I concur with your assessment.” Spock put down the razor and inspected the matchbook instead. He noted that only three matches remained. “May I ask how you obtained these objects?”
“By hook and by crook, mostly,” Vankov said. “Traded for some of them, outright stole some of the others. We’ve been keeping our ears to the ground, alert to gossip and rumors about unusual ‘foreign’ objects turning up.” He glanced at the box. “Spotted a local bravo showing off that Klingon blade in a tavern. Won it off him in a game of chance.” A smirk lifted his lips. “I cheated, of course.”
“He had no idea of its true origins,” Jord explained. “He thought it was simply from some exotic faraway land on the other side of the world. Fortunately, Yurnos is a large enough world, travel-wise, that distant lands might as well be on another planet, as far as the average resident is concerned.”
“Lucky for us and them,” Chekov said. “As long as no ambitious trader decides to set sail across the ocean in search of more trillium or glow water. They would be in for a big disappointment.”
“Which is exactly the kind of unintended consequence we need to avert,” Jord said, “by stopping the influx of such items before the Yurnians’ future is irreparably altered in ways impossible to foresee.”
Spock considered the problem. “And you believe this contamination is related to the illegal trade in nabbia?”
“So we assume,” Jord said. “That’s the only thing smugglers from other worlds have ever really wanted from Yurnos. It’s always been minor concern in these parts, but ever since Baldur III suddenly became a major port of call, the problem seems to have escalated to an alarming degree.” She gestured at the box of contraband. “We’ve collected all these items in just a matter of months.”
“A reasonable supposition,” Spock said. “We spoke with the leader of the Baldur III colony, who reluctantly confirmed that the ongoing flood of new arrivals to the planet has spurred a commensurate increase in the demand for nabbia.”
“And what do they intend to do about it?” Jord asked indignantly. “I don’t begrudge Baldur III their windfall, but the Yurnians shouldn’t have to pay for their new prosperity. Baldur III is a system away from Yurnos; these people shouldn’t be affected by what happens there for centuries at least. Can’t they—or Starfleet—do something to shut down the black market for nabbia?”
Spock chose not to mention that Mayor Poho had other priorities. “That is what we are here to investigate.”
“Do you know who is behind this?” Chekov asked.
Jord shook her head. “People like to show off their new toys, but tend to get tight-lipped when you ask where they came from. We suspect that the folks who actually received the contraband from the smugglers liquidate them quickly, converting the rare ‘foreign’ oddities to the local currency as soon as they can via the black market, possibly through a variety of middlemen. In short, they’re covering their tracks well.”
“There’s a thriving underground economy hereabouts,” Vankov elaborated, “mostly devoted to avoiding various taxes, including those on foreign and imported goods.”
“To the extent,” Jord said, expanding on the topic, “that most people prefer to look the other way when it comes to smuggling and under-the-counter trading.”
“And we’re reluctant to blow our cover,” Vankov added, “by poking around and asking too many questions. We run a mill and mind our own business, at least as far as Yurnians are concerned. We can’t run around interrogating people like constables or tax collectors, at least not without attracting unwelcome attention.”
Spock understood the delicacy of their position. They had invested a good portion of their lives to embedding themselves in this community without violating the Prime Directive. It would be unfortunate, if not tragic, if years of work were undone by their efforts to curb the illegal trade between the two planets.
“Let us take the lead in the investigation,” he suggested. “As strangers, we are bound to attract a degree of attention regardless, so we have less to lose if we appear too inquisitive.” He noted Jord’s worried brow. “Not that we intend to behave in too conspicuous a manner. Subtlety and stealth are called for under the circumstances. Isn’t that correct, Ensign?”
“Absolutely, Mister Spock. This is not our first undercover mission on a primitive world. We will be nothing, if not discreet.”
Spock considered the logistics of smuggling items on and off Yurnos. “You do not have a spacecraft of your own, correct?”
“That’s right,” Vankov said. “This was always intended to be a long-term study, so we were dropped off here by a research vessel many years ago. The idea was always that we would arrange to be picked up by another ship if and when we chose to leave Yurnos at the completion of our work.”
Jord frowned. “You weren’t suspecting us of being involved with the smuggling, were you?”
“That would be illogical, given that it was you who alerted us to the problem in the first place.” Spock examined the primary computer station, noting that its functions included various sensor controls. “No, I was merely reviewing the number of known space vessels coming and going from Yurnos. Have you a means of detecting any ships approaching or departing the planet?”
“In theory.” Vankov indicated the console. “We’ve been monitoring Yurnos’s orbits for signs of the smugglers’ vessels, but have been unable to detect any traffic within transporter range of the planet, let alone any ships or shuttles coming in for a landing.”
Chekov scratched his chin. “Are you certain your sensors are functioning properly?”
“They picked up your shuttle’s approach with no problem,” Jord insisted. “But, as far as we can tell, Galileo is the first spacecraft to visit Yurnos in months, if not years.”
Spock made a mental note to inspect the observers’ sensor array in the near future, but it was entirely possible that the equipment was as fully operational as Jord maintained. The smugglers could hardly count on the observers’ sensors being out of order, provided they were aware of the anthropological team’s presence on the planet at all.
“Logic dictates, however, that the smugglers must have a means for transporting goods back and forth between Yurnos and Baldur III, and that those means would necessarily involve one or more ships. The question that then arises is how precisely have the ships eluded detection all this time.”
“What can I say?” Vankov threw up his hands. “It’s a mystery.”
“So it appears,” Spock stated, “but one which I intend to solve.”