2292
Kirk paused the turbolift. “A word, Lieutenant, before we go any further.”
“Captain?” Saavik asked, puzzled.
She, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy were en route to the transporter room to begin the process of exchanging crew members with the Romulan and Klingon vessels, per the Osori’s instructions. Saavik had volunteered to serve as an observer-slash-hostage aboard the Klingon bird-of-prey for the duration of the voyage to Nimbus III. This was her first major diplomatic mission, and she was determined to excel.
“I just want to make certain you aren’t having any second thoughts regarding this assignment,” the captain said. “No one would think any less of you if you were, considering”—his voice faltered almost imperceptibly—“what you went through that other time you were surrounded by Klingons.”
She understood what he alluded to. Only seven years had passed since she’d been literally taken hostage by Klingons on the Genesis Planet. During that ordeal, she had found herself moments away from death before being forced to watch as Kirk’s only son, David Marcus, was brutally slain before her eyes. David, for all his very-human faults, had become a friend. She still regretted his death.
“We have already discussed this,” she said stiffly, uncomfortable with this line of inquiry. “I am fully prepared to carry out my duty.”
“No one doubts that,” McCoy said gently, deploying his bedside manner as though she was in need of it; she found this vexing. “But why put yourself through this if you don’t have to? It’s not too late to find somebody else to take a road trip with the Klingons.”
“I believe there is a human saying about ‘getting back on the horse,’ ” she observed. “Starfleet officers expect to face mortal peril at times. I can hardly expect one negative experience, no matter how harrowing,” she added, not wishing to minimize David’s murder, “to limit my ability to conduct future assignments.”
She challenged McCoy calmly, betraying no trace of discomfort or embarrassment. “Unless, Doctor, you consider me psychologically unfit for this mission. In your professional opinion, that is.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” he backtracked. “You’re fit as a fiddle, mentally and physically, and as ridiculously level-headed as the next Vulcan. We just thought this particular task might be rough on you, for perfectly understandable reasons.”
“Your concern is not necessary, Doctor. In any event, I am the logical choice. Commanders Chekov and Uhura are needed aboard the Enterprise to assist with the Osori and our other guests, while Lieutenant Logovik is perfectly capable of manning the helm in my absence. Furthermore, as noted, I do have firsthand experience in dealing with Klingons.”
“That’s what we’re worried about,” McCoy grumbled.
Saavik repressed a very un-Vulcan-like flash of irritation. She appreciated that the captain and the doctor had her best interests at heart, and she could only imagine how difficult this discussion must be for Kirk, considering the tragic loss of his son. She did not envy him having to play the gracious host to a Klingon observer for the length of the voyage to Osor.
“What about you, sir?” she asked Spock. “Do you also share these worries?”
“Your abilities are not in dispute,” her mentor stated, to her private relief; she would not want to think that he considered her emotionally compromised by her trials years ago. As first officer, Spock was beaming over to the Romulan ship as part of the crew exchange. “Only you can judge whether you are prepared to endure the company of Klingons for a prolonged interval.”
In truth, the prospect held little appeal, but that was scarce reason to warrant special treatment in this instance. The mission was what mattered, not her personal comfort level or lack of same.
“I do not require a pleasure cruise, only an opportunity to further our goals to the best of my abilities.” She gazed squarely at Kirk. “I will not disappoint you, Captain.”
He smiled wryly. “That’s all I needed to hear, Lieutenant.”
The turbolift resumed its course, and they soon arrived at the main transporter room, where they found Chief Engineer Scott already in attendance, assisted by two transporter technicians. The procedure ahead, which involved simultaneous beam-ins and departures between three ships, was complex enough to require three operators at the transporter controls, which were located behind a clear protective screen. Scott had naturally insisted on overseeing the exchanges himself, while an honor guard of four security officers were also on hand to “greet” the new arrivals and ensure their good behavior. Saavik suspected that Chekov would have also preferred to be on hand to supervise the security arrangements, but he was presently in command of the bridge.
Kirk strode into the transporter room. “Everything in order, Mister Scott?”
“Aye, Captain. Transporter controls and coordinates are synchronized with their equivalents on those two ugly birds across from us, although I don’t mind saying that took some doing, and not just because Romulans and Klingons are hardly the most agreeable souls to work with.” Exasperation showed on his rotund, mustached countenance. “Between you and me, I’d rather share a pint with a Gorn than haggle with those high-handed, obdurate schemers and ruffians.”
His fretful attitude would have troubled Saavik had she not become accustomed to Scott’s mannerisms. The engineer typically fussed over the ship and its systems like an Arcturian eagle tending its nestlings. She felt confident that Scott and his team had matters well in hand, and had no choice but to assume that the Klingon and Romulan technicians were equally adept and prepared.
“Your forbearance is duly noted, Scotty.” Kirk positioned himself near a wall intercom unit. “Are we ready to make the swap?”
Scott nodded. “As soon as we lower our shields, Captain, while hoping to heaven our friends out there lower theirs as well, instead of using us for target practice as soon as we drop our guard.”
“It would be illogical for either the Harrier or the Lukara to attack at this critical juncture,” Saavik pointed out. “Why would they wreck this entire operation, destroying their chance to ally themselves with the Osori, simply to fire on a single Federation starship? The cost of such an action would far outweigh the reward.”
“There is that,” Scott conceded. “In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose.”
“Just so,” Kirk said. “We’ve all come this far already, the Klingons and the Romulans included.” He gestured toward the waiting transporter platform. “Spock, Saavik, please take your places.”
“Gladly, Captain.”
She stepped confidently onto the platform, and Spock did the same, occupying circular transporter pads at opposite ends of the platform. The plan was for them to beam to separate locations at the same time, even as a Klingon and Romulan beamed aboard the Enterprise from their respective ships.
“Kirk to bridge,” the captain said into the wall unit. “Inform the Harrier and the Lukara that we are standing by for the exchange.”
“Acknowledged,” Uhura replied. “They are ready to initiate the countdown.”
“Signal to start the timer. Chekov, lower shields at mark zero.”
“Aye, Captain. You may expect Russian-quality precision on our end.”
Chuckling, Kirk turned toward the departing crew members. “Bon voyage, my friends. Enjoy your cultural exchange with our distinguished fellow travelers—and try not to start any wars. I’ll see you both on Nimbus III, two weeks from now.”
“Vulcans do not start wars,” Spock reminded him.
“Without reason,” Saavik added, by way of a witticism. Humans, she had learned, often employed humor to defuse tense situations, such as after awkward conversations.
Kirk rewarded her effort with a faint smile. “Don’t forget to write.”
She was mentally composing a suitable rejoinder when the staticky tingle of the transporter beam enveloped her.
Instants later, she found herself in the murky confines of the Lukara’s transporter room, facing a most unwelcoming welcome party. A complement of armed Klingon soldiers, their expressions ranging from sullen to surly, glowered at her, looking far too indistinguishable from the Klingons who had once held her captive. A dim incarnadine glow suffused the scene, while the air seemed marginally thicker and hazier than aboard the Enterprise. A notable stench, redolent of Klingon, caused Saavik to regret that the Klingons had never seen the need to master olfactory cloaking. Conspicuously absent was Captain B’Eleste, who had apparently not deemed it necessary to greet either of the observers on their arrival.
Klingon hospitality leaves much to be desired so far.
A sideways glance confirmed that she was not alone on the transporter platform. As expected, a Romulan occupied a pad less than a meter away from her. A junior officer, she estimated, roughly the same age as her. He was tall, poised, and well-groomed, his hands clasped behind his back as he coolly maintained a formal posture. He met her regard with a distinctly disdainful expression. Regrettably, this came as no surprise to Saavik; despite their common ancestry, Romulans and Vulcans had been at odds for much of their recorded history, and that ancient enmity persisted to the present, something she knew too well from her harsh childhood on Hellguard, a failed Romulan mining colony. She declined to acknowledge his scorn.
“Clear the platform!” a nameless Klingon sergeant barked at them. “Submit to inspection!”
She and the Romulan stepped down from the platform and were immediately subjected to a scan by two more Klingons, wielding sensor wands.
“We are unarmed,” Saavik informed them, “as stipulated.”
Nor had she brought along a tricorder or communicator as an agreed-upon precaution against espionage; there was to be no covert scanning of vital systems or technology while they were aboard. Only a few personal effects and changes of clothing had been allowed; a travel case carrying these items was to be separately beamed over to the Lukara via the cargo transporters. She expected to be reunited with her luggage after it had been thoroughly inspected by the Klingons. Accordingly, she had packed nothing of a classified or confidential nature.
“So you say!” the sergeant snarled. “Security demands we see for ourselves!”
Their word alone deemed insufficient, she and the Romulan were both scanned and patted down for weapons or contraband. The Romulan endured the process with only a sour expression indicating his displeasure. “By all means, take your time,” he said archly, a patrician tone indicating aristocratic roots. “I wouldn’t want to rush you.”
“Clean!” an inspector finally pronounced them, stepping back from the visitors.
The Romulan sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose. “Would that I could say the same.” He yawned theatrically, covering his mouth as he did so. “Are we done yet?”
“No!” the sergeant growled. “Medical! Confirm these aliens are free of disease!”
“Of course. That’s why I’m here.”
A middle-aged Klingon stepped forward, bearing what Saavik assumed to be a medical tricorder of Klingon design. Short and bald, with bushy gray eyebrows, he wore a leathery gray lab coat over his military uniform. His bearing and body language struck Saavik as less ostentatiously aggressive than the other warriors, perhaps because he was a healer as well. She wasn’t sure she’d ever met a Klingon doctor or medic before.
“Is this necessary?” she asked. “Our transporters’ biofilters are programmed to detect and eliminate any infectious agents, and I assume your own transporters are similarly equipped.”
“Just a formality,” the doctor said, his voice deeper than even the average Klingon’s. Age had furrowed his brow, making his ridges stand out even more prominently. “Unless you’d rather remain in quarantine for the duration of your stay aboard our ship?”
“That would not be my preference,” Saavik admitted. “Please proceed, Doctor.”
“Kesh, son of Khull,” he said as he scanned her with the tricorder, which emitted a grating buzz in place of the subdued hum of a Starfleet model. “Chief medical officer.”
She appreciated his attempt at hospitality. “Lieutenant Saavik.”
“Ah, yes, the half blood,” the Romulan said. “Who takes refuge among humans no less.”
Clearly, her reputation preceded her. She did not find this remarkable; Romulan intelligence was nothing if not thorough. It stood to reason that they would have compiled dossiers on the Enterprise’s bridge crew prior to this mission. Her intimate involvement in the Genesis crisis might have also placed her on their sensors.
“Half blood?” Kesh raised a shaggy eyebrow.
“I am half Romulan, although raised as a Vulcan.” She turned toward the Romulan. “And you are?”
“Subcommander Taleb.” He lifted his chin as though he was accustomed to his name conveying privilege. Having deigned to answer her query, he now addressed Kesh instead of her. “Why is your captain not here to welcome us?”
Kesh concluded his scan of Saavik and moved on to Taleb.
“Captain B’Eleste is not one for socializing while on duty. She remains on the bridge to monitor our communications with the Osori.” He lowered the tricorder as he finished scanning the Romulan. “No bacteria, viruses, or biotoxins detected. You’re both cleared to board, although we must schedule a visit to the medbay in the immediate future so I can conduct a more thorough health examination, per protocol.”
Taleb scoffed. “So you can study our weaknesses for military gain?”
“That’s hardly necessary,” Kesh said. “Generations of conflict have provided us with no shortage of enemy combatants to examine, living and dead. There is little about Romulan, Vulcan, or human physiology that we don’t already know.” He eyed Saavik quizzically. “Although I confess I’ve never had the opportunity to examine a Romulan-Vulcan hybrid. Simply as a matter of scientific curiosity.”
“Indeed,” Saavik said diplomatically.
With the inspections complete, she expected that they would be escorted to the bridge or perhaps shown their temporary quarters aboard the Lukara. Instead they were kept under guard in the transporter room while the bird-of-prey went into orbit around Osor after receiving word from the Osori that the exchange had been completed to their satisfaction and they were ready to dispatch their envoys to all three orbiting vessels. Captain B’Eleste finally made an appearance in the transporter room, indicating that the arrival of the Osori envoy ranked higher in the captain’s priorities than greeting her earlier visitors.
“It would seem the Osori is the guest of honor,” Saavik commented.
“And this surprises you?” Taleb mocked her. “We are inconveniences, tolerated only out of necessity.”
“Merely an observation, nothing more.”
“A blindingly obvious one if you ask me.”
“Then it is good that I did not. Ask you, that is.”
Saavik was starting to think that keeping company with a shipload of Klingons was going to be preferable to spending time with this insufferably arrogant Romulan.
“Prepare to receive the envoy.” B’Eleste ignored both Saavik and Taleb as she focused on the task at hand. Seen in person, the Klingon captain was even more imposing than she’d appeared on the viewscreen, at least a head taller than Saavik. She flaunted her authority by brandishing an abbreviated painstik as a baton or swagger stick. “Without delay.”
The sergeant consulted the transporter controls. “The Osori have not lowered their planetary defenses, Captain.”
“I suspect that will not be necessary,” Saavik said, recalling Spock’s discovery that the Osori energy shell was only a one-way barrier. Her predication earned her an appraising glance from B’Eleste and was vindicated as, within moments, the Osori took control of the Klingon transporter control remotely. A shimmering column of scarlet energy manifested upon the transporter, then coalesced back into matter.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the Osori said. “My elders can be quite fussy sometimes.”
The figure on the pad bore some resemblance to the Osori as depicted in ancient Arretian pictographs and illuminated manuscripts. She appeared reptilian or possibly amphibian in nature, her face, arms, and legs covered by scintillating orange scales that gleamed even in the subdued, ruddy lighting of the Klingon ship. She was triocular, with one spherical, amphibian-like orb nestled in her forehead and one each at her temples. She was slight and slender, appearing almost childish in contrast to the looming Klingons. Her attire consisted of a metallic mesh poncho, slippers, and elbow-length gloves that seemed to glisten like liquid mercury. A lilting soprano voice had a musical quality to it.
“You may call me Cyloo.”
“Welcome to the Klingon Bird-of-Prey Lukara. I am B’Eleste, daughter of Glukra. Captain of this vessel.”
Gruffly delivered, the greeting seemed positively effusive for the Klingon leader. Or so Saavik thought.
“And such a ship!” Cyloo glanced around excitedly, as though even three eyes were not enough to take it all in. “I can’t wait to explore every corner of it!”
Despite the Osori’s reputed immortality, she practically radiated youthful high spirits and curiosity. Saavik wondered how old she actually was.
Cyloo’s central eye lighted on Taleb and Saavik. Her face lit up even more than it already had. “And you must be my fellow passengers!”
Saavik found “passengers” more appealing than “hostages.” She came forward to greet the Osori, being careful not to appear to intrude too much on Captain B’Eleste’s moment.
“I am Lieutenant Saavik of the Starship Enterprise, on behalf of the United Federation of Planets.”
“And I am Subcommander Taleb of the Romulan Star Empire.” He smiled and bowed at the waist, displaying more charm than Saavik would have thought him capable of. “It is a privilege to make your acquaintance, Madame Envoy.”
“Cyloo, please!” she insisted. “I’m sure we are all going to be the best of friends!”
Saavik feared her expectations were overly optimistic.