A contest of principles, p.14
A Contest of Principles, page 14
“If you say so.”
She let the devices fall to the dusty cement floor. F’lun targeted them with the twice-stolen disruptor. A crimson beam disintegrated the transponders. He smirked at Spock as the glow of the atomized capsules faded away.
“So much for that. Bet you thought you could outsmart us.”
“It seemed worth the effort,” Spock replied.
“So now what?” Chapel asked, rolling down her sleeve. A bouncer reclaimed the medkit, laser scalpel and all.
“Now we talk, but not here,” F’lun said. “You have questions, we have questions, so you’re coming with us.”
His gaze darted to a trapdoor at the rear of the room. Evidence of a lower level, Spock speculated, or an underground escape route leading to another location? He considered whether to resist or not. With his Vulcan strength and Starfleet combat training, he might be able to subdue their foes, despite their greater numbers, but there was no guarantee that neither he nor Chapel would be harmed in the melee, and even if they should make their escape unscathed, it would not bring them any closer to the answers they sought.
“Will we find Doctor McCoy where we are going?” he asked.
“You’re asking the wrong person.” F’lun adjusted the disruptor, switching it to the lowest setting.
“Seriously?” Chapel said. “Again?”
F’lun aimed the weapon at them. “See you on the other side.”
The blast ended Spock’s cogitations for a time.
Thirteen
Vok
“It is a fake, obviously,” General Gogg stated.
His campaign headquarters was located in a former government armory, a site presumably chosen for its symbolic and historic significance. Kirk and Tanaka had beamed down to a closed-door meeting with Gogg in his personal suite. Campaign posters displaying the General’s stern, unyielding visage adorned the walls. His face also appeared, rather more ignominiously, on a viewscreen displaying the recording provided by Lom during his interrogation aboard the Enterprise. The recording was paused at a point right after Gogg could be seen and heard ordering the attempt on Doctor Ceff’s life.
“I want to believe that, General,” Kirk said carefully, “but the recording has held up to examination so far.”
Gogg sat behind a spartan steel desk, his stiff posture rendering him almost as immobile as a granite statue. His habitual scowl deepened.
“I give you my word that this recording is a fabrication,” he said. “I never authorized the attack on my opponent. I never uttered the words on that tape.”
“And yet the recording exists,” Kirk said. “I can’t ignore that.”
Gogg bristled. “Are you questioning my word?”
“That’s not for me to say,” Kirk said. “I’m simply doing my duty in sharing evidence that has come into my possession.”
“How convenient for you… and the Federation,” Sozz said, his voice dripping with contempt. The General’s aide-de-camp stood behind and to one side of Gogg. “We all know which candidate you are rooting for. How do we know you didn’t fake that so-called assassination attempt?”
Kirk took offense at the suggestion. “Commissioner Dare is in our sickbay now, recuperating from a near-mortal wound. Would you care to see her medical records?”
“Perhaps,” Sozz said, not backing down.
“That will not be necessary.” Gogg overruled his subordinate. “I regret that the commissioner became a casualty in this conflict. I trust she will recover?”
“So it appears,” Kirk said. “Thank you for asking. At the risk of pushing my luck, however, I can’t help noticing that you often frame this election as a literal battle for Vok’s future. A diligent prosecutor might ask why wouldn’t you resort to violence to achieve victory? All’s fair in war, correct?”
Gogg did not mince words. “If I wanted Doctor Ceff dead, she would be dead, and I would certainly not enlist some… mountebank… to carry off the operation instead of a properly trained soldier. Moreover, I am not so oblivious to the political realities of this new democratic era as to think that there would not be repercussions, electoral and otherwise, to disposing of Ceff in such a manner. For better or for worse, we live in a time that frowns on naked displays of force. Assassinating Ceff would be poor… public relations.”
He uttered that last term as though it left a bad taste in his mouth.
“But if you truly believed you might lose the election,” Kirk pressed, determined to get to the truth, “what then?”
“I have no intention of losing,” Gogg answered. “I am entirely certain we can and will win this war without shedding a drop of Vokite blood.”
“Lom thinks so, too,” Kirk said, “yet he still claims you ordered him to assassinate Doctor Ceff.”
“I do not know this Lom.” Gogg turned toward Sozz. “Do we know this performer? Is he one of ours?”
“Not that I know of, General.”
“No matter,” Gogg said. “He is obviously a liar, intent on slandering me.”
He spoke as though that settled the matter. If only, Kirk thought.
“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that, General. While aboard the Enterprise, Lom voluntarily submitted to a psycho-tricorder test, which confirmed that he’s telling the truth as far as he knows it.”
Gogg harrumphed. “Your test results are in error.”
“Unlikely,” Kirk said. “When properly operated by a trained technician, as it was in this circumstance, the tricorder scans the subject’s brain waves to detect any signs of hypnosis, amnesia, or deliberate deception. Lom passed the test with flying colors as it were.” Kirk had sat in on the session personally to make certain it was administered according to protocol. He nodded at Tanaka, who handed him a data disk. “I’ll spare you a long lecture on the science involved, which is not my field of expertise to begin with, but all the technical details and readings are contained on this disk. You’re free to have your own scientists examine the test results in depth. In fact, I encourage you to do so.”
He laid the disk down on the desk in front of Gogg, who pointedly ignored it. “I don’t need any scientists to know this man is lying.”
“It’s not just his word against yours.” Kirk glanced at the viewscreen, which still held the incriminating shot of Gogg. “There’s also the recording.”
“I told you before,” Gogg said impatiently. “It’s a fake.”
“Again, that’s not what the science says.” Kirk could tell he was on thin ice with Gogg, but this might be his only opportunity to have a frank, face-to-face exchange with the man regarding the charges leveled against him. Kirk wasn’t about to waste that chance, not where an assassination plot was concerned. “We considered the possibility that the recording might be a hoax and ran an in-depth voiceprint analysis on the audio component of the footage, comparing the voice on the recording to existing voice samples from your public speeches and interviews. I regret to say that our computer concluded that the voice on the tape belongs to you, with only a five percent margin of error.”
Spock would have been more precise, Kirk knew, but unlike his absent first officer, the captain was not inclined to quibble over decimal points. He also declined to mention that Uhura was personally reviewing the voiceprint data, just in case the computer missed something. No need to open that door unless Uhura found something worth passing along.
“Five percent,” Gogg echoed. “I see.”
“We can probably get even more precise results,” Tanaka said, “if you would agree to submit a fresh voice sample, reciting the text from the recording to eliminate certain variables. Of course, we can’t compel you to provide such a sample, but—”
“Don’t waste your breath.” Gogg rose from his chair, standing tall before them. “Brain scans, voiceprints. Enough with all this talk of computerized tests and readings.” He looked Kirk in the eye. “Stop hiding behind your bloodless technology, Kirk. What does your gut tell you? Do you believe me or your machines?”
In truth, Kirk wasn’t sure what he believed. Despite the evidence, something about this whole scandal still felt too pat to him. Why would Gogg deny what he freely confessed on the recording—and vice versa? Spock would no doubt urge him to rely on the science, to a degree, but McCoy would surely urge him to trust his feelings instead. As usual, Kirk felt stuck in the middle.
“What I think doesn’t matter,” he said. “That’s up to the voters and your own authorities to decide. My priority is simply to ensure that the election is a fair and peaceful one, which means not sitting on any evidence regarding threats of violence, no matter who it may or may not implicate.”
“In other words,” Gogg said, “you’re perfectly ready to spill this poison into every ear, but you refuse to take responsibility for your actions.” He gazed contemptuously at Kirk. “And to think I once judged you an honorable soldier.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Kirk replied. “I’m doing you a courtesy by informing you of the tape’s contents in advance, before the news goes—”
His communicator chimed urgently, demanding his attention. He flipped the device open.
“Kirk here. What is it?”
“Sorry to interrupt, Captain,” Uhura said, “but you should know that Lom’s story and the recording have been leaked to the press. The footage is all over the planet’s news and social communication networks.”
“Damn it,” Kirk muttered. So much for getting out ahead of the story. “I appreciate the heads-up, Lieutenant. Kirk out.”
He put away his communicator while bracing for the storm ahead. The news had been bound to break eventually, but he’d hoped for more time to manage the situation—and perhaps confirm Gogg’s involvement in the assassination attempt—before the accusation went public.
Tanaka gulped. “Did I just overhear what I thought?”
“I’m afraid so,” Kirk said. “The cat is out of the bag.”
There was no need to inform Gogg and his aide of the development. Other campaign staffers were already bursting into the suite to alert Gogg to the news. Alarmed, Sozz employed a control panel to switch the display on the viewscreen to various planetary news sources. Multiple windows opened up on the screen, proliferating at a geometric rate, so that they kept shrinking in size in order to accommodate yet more outlets. Every window displayed the damning footage, which was obviously fast on its way to becoming ubiquitous.
Gogg clenched his fists at his sides. A vein pulsed at his temple. “You were saying something about courtesy, Kirk?”
“This leak was not of my doing,” Kirk said, wondering who had spilled the beans prematurely. “But it was inevitable. You’re going to have to address these charges and soon.”
“I don’t need advice from you,” Gogg said, visibly fuming, albeit in a characteristically clamped-down way. His jawline was so tight that it was a wonder that he could spit out any words at all. “This meeting is over.”
“Please, General,” Tanaka began, “you have to understand—”
“I said, this meeting is over.”
Kirk couldn’t blame Tanaka for trying to unruffle Gogg’s feathers, but he knew a losing battle when he saw one. It was time for a strategic retreat. He flipped open his communicator again.
“Kirk to Enterprise. Two to beam up.”
Fourteen
Ozalor
“How long is this going to take?” Jemo asked.
“Long enough to get it right,” McCoy said. “Now sit still while I run these scans.”
Jemo sat impatiently on a stool as he scanned her with his medical tricorder, seeking a baseline against which he could compare Avomora’s readings. A study nook in the guest suite had been converted to a makeshift clinical laboratory, complete with a computer terminal and other equipment supplied by the palace at McCoy’s request. The setup was no match for the lab back in his own sickbay, and the technology was at least a generation behind Federation standards, but it would have to do. Ozalor was modern enough, even if his tricorder was probably the most sophisticated diagnostic tool on the planet.
“All right,” Jemo said. “If this will help you help Avo, I’m game.”
“You and the princess go back a ways, I gather,” McCoy said, making conversation as he worked. “What’s the story there, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Your basic rags to slightly better rags story,” she quipped. “Never knew my father, but my mom worked as a servant in this very palace and I used to tag along after her. One afternoon, out on the south lawn, Avo choked on a piece of hard candy while having a picnic lunch. Everybody else stood around like dummies, afraid to lay hands on her royal personage, but I was only eight years old and didn’t know any better, so I just ran over and whacked her hard on the back, dislodging the half-eaten candy, which went flying from her lips.” Jemo grinned at the memory. “My bold move impressed Count Rayob, who saw potential in me, I guess. He took me under his wing, trained me, fashioned me into an instrument to protect the Yiyova. If we’re being honest here, he’s the father I never had.”
“And Avomora?” McCoy asked.
“She was six at the time I smacked that candy out of her, but we’ve been friends ever since. She’s more than just the Heir to me. She’s like my kid sister.”
“Sounds like she’s lucky to have a friend like you in her life,” McCoy said, warming to his unwanted babysitter. “Can’t be easy being the Heir to the throne, even without having serious health issues.”
McCoy thought of his own daughter, Joanna. It was one of his lasting regrets that he had not been there as she was growing up. Like Avo, Joanna was an only child. He wanted to think that she’d had friends and confidantes like Jemo when she needed them.
She could do worse, he thought.
His hand scanner whirred as he took some up-close readings of Jemo’s eyes, optic nerves, and frontal lobes. Looking the bodyguard in the face, he noted again the diagonal scar marring her features.
“You know,” he said delicately, “I don’t mean to offend, but I could easily fix that scar of yours. It would be a very simple procedure.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said. “That scar is a badge of honor. I won it fair and square.”
“In defense of the throne?” he guessed.
“Nah. In a fight over a girl.” She flashed him a wicked grin. “Won the girl too.”
“I don’t doubt it,” McCoy said. “Forget I said anything.”
“Said what?” she replied.
He didn’t press the point. This was hardly the first time he’d encountered this kind of resistance to cosmetic surgery, or even to a more serious wound. A Capellan warrior was apt to challenge you to a duel if you even suggested stitching him up, as McCoy knew from painful experience, and then there was the time he’d made the mistake of offering an anesthetic to a Gorn.
Nearly bit my head off… literally.
He wrapped up his scans and traded the tricorder for a hypospray. He inserted an empty ampule into the device and set it for extraction. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a physical sample of your blood as well.”
He approached her with the hypospray, but she hopped off the stool and raised her arm defensively.
“Not so fast! How do I know you’re not trying to drug me so you can make a break for it?”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” He handed the device to her, with the business end pointed toward him. “But feel free to examine it first.”
“Like you wouldn’t try to get away if you had the chance.”
“And where the devil would I go?”
“You tell me. You Starfleet types are supposed to be clever.” She gave the hypospray a thorough inspection before returning it to him. “This looks legit, though.” She rolled up her sleeve, which wasn’t strictly necessary, then held out her arm. “Try not to drain me dry, okay?”
“Do I look like a bloodsucker? All I need are a few cc’s.” He pressed the head of the hypospray against the crook of her arm. “You may feel a slight pinch.”
The device hissed and the ampule filled in a heartbeat. McCoy noted that Ozalorian blood was a lighter shade of red than the stuff in his own veins. Closer to orange, really.
“There we go. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Jemo shrugged. “I’ve had worse sneezes.” She examined the extraction site. “Hmm. No scar.”
She sounded mildly disappointed.
“Sorry about that,” he said.
“I’ll live,” she said. “Now what?”
“Now I get down to work, comparing your results to Avomora’s.” He sat down at his workstation, only to glance at the nearest food dispenser, which was on the other side of the adjacent living room. “But first some coffee, I think.”
“Let me.” She crossed the suite to the slot. “You should eat something, too, to keep your strength up.”
She wasn’t wrong there. McCoy’s stomach grumbled at the thought of food. He was starting to develop a taste for Ozalorian cuisine. She returned moments later with a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of spiced fruit biscuits, which she insisted on sampling first.
“You’re really going to keep tasting my food?” he groused.
“Can’t be too careful,” she said with her mouth full. “You’re a threat to Vumri’s power and position. I wouldn’t put it past her to have one of her bootlickers tamper with the food processors.”
McCoy looked longingly at the biscuits. “I could just scan it first.”
“But would you know what to scan for?” She took a long draw of coffee, then checked her pulse for any adverse side effects. “You don’t know our world, our recipes, or our native poisons. Trust me, you’re safer this way.”
She had a point, he conceded. “What about your safety? That doesn’t concern you?”
“You end up poisoned on my watch, I’m going to wish I went first.”
She finally placed the food and coffee on McCoy’s desk, away from his medkit and other equipment, before retreating to a nearby sofa from which she could keep an eye on him. She unsheathed her ionic blade and fished a fresh chunk of agate from a pocket to whittle on.
