A contest of principles, p.16
A Contest of Principles, page 16
“Whatever,” V’sta said bitterly. “The whole world thinks we kidnapped you two and McCoy. Might as well milk that if we can.”
“There is an alternative strategy,” Spock said. “You can release us so that we can clear your name.”
V’sta shook her head. “Too late for that.” She nodded at Ohop. “Let me see that shameless load of propaganda again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He operated the control panel, restarting Wibb’s announcement from the beginning.
“My fellow citizens,” Wibb said gravely, “on behalf of the Bracon Tranquility Bureau, it is my sad duty to report…” zzzz, crackle, zzzz.
Static drowned out Wibb’s voice, only seconds before flurries of visual snow obscured the images on all the screens.
“Are you kidding me?” V’sta said. “Get it back!”
“Sorry.” Ohop looked up from the console sheepishly. “Working on it.”
Spock watched with interest as the aide removed the cover from the control panel to get at the apparatus beneath. Clearly under pressure, the man wiped perspiration from his brow as he applied a microspanner to the balky circuitry. Spock considered offering his assistance, but he was unsure if the gesture would be appreciated.
“Hang on,” Ohop said. “I think I’ve almost got it…”
A sudden eruption of sparks belied his assurances. Electricity hissed and Ohop stumbled backward, holding up his hands, which had clearly received second-degree burns. The spanner clanked to the floor. Wisps of white smoke rose from the exposed wiring. The acrid smell of burnt circuitry assailed Spock’s nostrils. Frightened by the commotion, Troxy sprang from the Vulcan’s arms and scuttled away. Another Bracon rushed toward the console with a compact fire extinguisher: a narrow-beam force field cut the circuitry off from oxygen, suffocating any remaining combustion.
Chapel hurried toward the injured man. “My medkit, hurry!”
V’sta nodded at F’lun, who returned the kit to the nurse, who promptly got to work treating Ohop’s burns. Spock knew the injured aide was in good hands. A hissing hypospray numbed Ohop’s pain, prior to Chapel applying an antiseptic spray to the burns to prevent infection.
“Feeling better?” she asked Ohop.
“Yes, miss.” He winced at the sight of his scorched hands. “Thanks so much for the quality first aid.”
Chapel turned to V’sta. “I’ve done what I could, but this man needs to be taken to an infirmary.”
“Sounds like good medical advice.” V’sta gave Chapel an approving look. “You handled yourself well here. You report to the infirmary too. We can use your skills there, I think, and not just for poor Ohop.”
Chapel glanced worriedly at Spock, no doubt reluctant to have them split up, but her professional ethics won out. “If you have patients in need of care, I can hardly say no.”
“I was hoping you’d feel that way,” V’sta said. “I’m seeing at least one silver lining to this situation already.”
“Forgive me if I’m not quite as enthusiastic.” Chapel looked over her shoulder as two nameless subordinates escorted her away from the command ledge. She looked back over her shoulder at Spock. “Be careful, Mister Spock.”
“I trust you to do the same,” he replied.
He watched with some misgiving as she descended to the ground floor of the grotto and then disappeared into a tunnel. Left to his own devices, he resolved to make himself useful, at least partially in hopes of earning V’sta’s trust.
“It seems you are in need of technical assistance as well,” he said. “May I volunteer my services?”
“Forget it,” she said without a moment’s reflection. “No way am I letting a Starfleet science officer, and a Vulcan to boot, get anywhere near our hardware. I wouldn’t put it past you to secretly transmit a distress signal or hack into our confidential files and communications. Maybe even sabotage our systems.”
“That was not my intent,” Spock said, while privately conceding that he might do so if the opportunity arose, purely in the interest of completing his mission. “I was merely offering you the benefit of my expertise.”
“Sorry,” she said. “From where I’m standing, the risks outweigh the advantages.”
More men and women rushed into the command center, anxious about Wibb’s broadcast and its possible consequences. V’sta was besieged by worried people wanting to know what she thought of the news, how she intended to respond to it, and what it meant for their movement. She spared a moment to address Spock.
“Seems we’ll have to continue our chat later. Thanks to your friend the chief inspector, I’ve suddenly got my hands full.” She nodded at Wibb and his cohorts. “Take him to the Pit.”
The Pit?
Spock found that label less than encouraging.
Sixteen
Vok
If only there were two of me, Kirk thought.
The word from Braco was not good. According to Lieutenant Levine, both Spock and Chapel had gone missing after attempting to make contact with an alleged terrorist group who might have been responsible for McCoy’s abduction, which meant that three of his crew were now unaccounted for and mostly likely in the hands of hostile parties. Levine had assured Kirk that a search was already underway for them, and Kirk had no reason to doubt that every effort was being expended to that end, but his first instinct was to immediately set course for Braco to take charge of any possible rescue operation. Spock and McCoy and Chapel were in danger; they needed their captain on the case.
And yet…
Down on Vok, equally urgent matters demanded his attention. Election Day was bearing down on them inexorably, one presidential candidate had been credibly accused of trying to have the other assassinated, Commissioner Dare remained in sickbay, and Braco was days away at maximum warp. He couldn’t just abandon his mission on Vok to go warping off to another planet in another system… could he?
“You found something, Lieutenant?” Kirk entered the briefing room, where Uhura had requested a meeting with him.
She was already seated at the conference table, while Lieutenant Palmer occupied her post on the bridge. A data slate, accompanied by a pile of microtapes, rested on the table before her, alongside a cup of herbal tea; Kirk had assigned her to personally review the voiceprint analysis of the recording in which the General could be heard ordering the assassination attempt. Uhura’s expertise in audio transmissions and universal translation programs, among other things, rendered her particularly well suited to the task.
“Possibly, Captain. Nothing conclusive, mind you, but there is something odd about these results.”
Kirk sat down at the table. “How so?”
“Well, it’s funny, Captain. Overall, the computer calculates a roughly ninety-five percent probability that the voice on the recording belongs to General Gogg, based on comparisons between the incriminating tape and other records of his voice, but here’s the odd part: that percentage varies significantly depending on which prior recordings you compare the Lom tape to, sometimes by as much as two percent.”
Kirk nodded. “Elaborate.”
“It’s like this. With some one-on-one comparisons, the correlation is almost exact, but with others… not so much. The computer averaged the results to achieve its final calculation, but when you take the analysis apart, piece by piece, comparison by comparison, the range of results is… unexpected.”
The possible implications of what she was saying, with regard to Gogg’s alleged involvement in the attack on Ceff, set Kirk’s mind racing, but he was careful not to get ahead of himself.
“I don’t pretend to be an expert on voice analysis,” he said, “but isn’t a certain amount of variation to be expected? I’m sure I’m raspier on some occasions than on others and may sound different on a tape depending on the acoustics, my age, my mood, and whether I’ve had my morning coffee yet.”
Uhura shook her head. “Not to this degree, Captain, and the computer is programmed to compensate for any such variables.”
That’s true, Kirk thought. As he understood it, even a deliberate attempt to disguise one’s voice could be detected by the computer. “So how do you explain this?”
“I’m not sure, Captain. It makes no sense. You shouldn’t find this much variation when comparing voiceprints of the same individual.”
Kirk understood what she was saying. His brow furrowed as he pondered the conundrum. “Unless… they’re not all from the same individual.”
She gave him a quizzical look. “Captain?”
“Lieutenant, it’s not unknown for public figures to sometimes employ doubles and decoys, either to foil their enemies or perhaps simply to manage an overcrowded schedule. Take Zefram Cochrane, for example. It’s believed that, after he achieved worldwide fame, many of his public appearances were made by doubles to free up the real Cochrane’s time so that he could concentrate on his research and experiments. Or look at Dame Ruklew of Motnos, who famously sent her clones into battle to bolster her reputation for bravery while she stayed safely out of the line of fire.”
Uhura grasped where he was going. “You’re thinking the ‘Gogg’ on the tape is a double, an impersonator?”
“That’s right,” Kirk said confidently, “and a damn good one.” The more he thought about it, the more plausible the scenario seemed. “That would account for the variations you detected. Presumably some, but not all, of the test recordings are of the impostor, not the General, and those are the ones that matched up exactly.”
“Now that makes sense,” Uhura agreed. “Well done, sir.”
“Well done yourself, Lieutenant. Please prepare a report summarizing your findings. I suspect I’m going to need it.”
“Aye, sir.” She looked over at him. “If I may ask, Captain, what are you planning to do with this information?”
Kirk rose from his seat, already thinking ahead.
“I believe I need to have another talk with General Gogg… about his alter ego.”
Seventeen
Ozalor
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Doctor,” Avomora said weakly. “I admit I was hoping not to require your attention quite so soon.”
The drapes were already drawn in the princess’s study, where she had retreated to her mobile comfy chair. Subdued lighting from the chamber’s incandescent crown molding illuminated her wan features, which were notably strained. The healthy vigor she had displayed in her father’s sanctum only the day before was just a memory.
“How are you doing?” McCoy asked as he and Jemo called on Avo. He scratched irritably at his fake beard, which he was still required to sport. “Or do I need to ask?”
“I feel another spell coming on.” She winced, only partly in anticipation. “A bad one, I think.”
“So soon?” Jemo asked. “Is it just me or are these spells becoming more frequent?”
“I wish it was just you,” Avo said, “but you’re not wrong.” She looked hopefully at McCoy. “Can you help me, Doctor Bones?”
“Possibly.”
Comparing her scans to Jemo’s, on top of a coffee-fueled crash course in Ozalorian biology, had actually yielded a breakthrough.
“From what I can tell, the root cause of your issues is a chemical imbalance in your brain, caused by a shortage of certain crucial neurotransmitters. Your brain tries to overcompensate by producing more of other chemicals, leading to a subtle disorder in your spinal fluid, aggravating your nervous system and triggering a cascade effect as one symptom leads to another.” He figured she didn’t need an entire treatise, complete with charts and footnotes. “Bottom line, it’s an ugly chain reaction, kicked off by a slight irregularity in your brain chemistry.”
Avo listened intently. “So why couldn’t our own doctors detect this?”
“Well, not to brag,” McCoy said, “but it’s hard to beat Federation sensors. Plus, in your doctors’ defense, it’s a tricky sequence of events, in that there are several steps between the low neurotransmitter levels and your actual symptoms, obscuring the diagnosis. One leads to the other, but only indirectly.”
Avo nodded. “So what can be done about it?”
He opened his medkit. “I’ve prepared a compound that should counter the faulty enzymes inhibiting production of the neurotransmitters in question. In theory, it will allow your brain to generate the chemicals it needs.”
“An interesting theory, Earthman, but only a theory.”
Vumri entered the study unannounced, accompanied by Bilis. McCoy could guess who had alerted the healer to the situation.
“What is she doing here?” Jemo protested.
“The Yovode thought it best that I be on hand for any experimental medical procedures, simply as a precaution should his daughter’s faith in you prove misplaced.” She smirked at McCoy. “You have already had the opportunity to observe me at my work. I trust you have no objection to returning the favor?”
“None whatsoever,” he said. “I have nothing to hide.”
Avomora shivered under her blanket, pulling it up to her shoulders. That simple movement made her flinch. A sharp intake of breath betrayed her pain.
“Please, Doctor,” she said, “can we proceed? I’m anxious to try your new remedy.”
Jemo sidled up to McCoy, looking rather more apprehensive than Avomora. “I have to ask,” she said in a low voice, “but are we sure about this? Maybe you should do more testing first?”
“I would if I thought it was necessary,” McCoy assured her. He had run numerous simulations on the computer to eliminate any possible risk factors, so he was confident of his conclusions within a negligible margin for error. “Ultimately, I’m just helping her brain produce enough of what it’s already supposed to have. I’m not adding anything to her gray matter that you don’t already have in yours.”
“Like that’s supposed to make me feel any better.”
Jemo looked on warily as he readied a hypospray, which was already preloaded with the compound he had synthesized in his temporary laboratory back in his suite. Jemo had secured the necessary raw materials at his request.
“So we’re not worried about any nasty side effects?”
“I’m not anticipating any.” He tilted his head at Vumri. “Besides, we have a healer on hand, don’t we? Just in case.”
“You had to remind me.”
“I trust you, Doctor Bones.” Avo eyed the hypospray hopefully. “Please hurry, before this spell gets any worse.”
Little did she know, McCoy reflected, that the clock was ticking in more ways than one. He and his mystery pen pal had been surreptitiously working out the details of his upcoming escape from house arrest. With any luck, he’d be out of the Summer Palace and off Ozalor soon. He would feel better knowing he’d cured Avomora before skipping town.
“No time like the present,” he agreed.
The hypospray hissed as it introduced the compound into her bloodstream. Avomora, in obvious discomfort, sank into her chair, closing her eyes. Trembling hands gripped the armrests.
“How long before it works?” she asked.
“The effect should be rapid. The imbalance is slight, if significant, so you can expect some relief soon.”
Avo mustered a smile. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Don’t thank me yet. But I’ll be happy to take a bow once you’re back on your feet again.”
Minutes passed, however, and rather than abating, Avo’s symptoms grew steadily worse. She curled up into herself, trying to keep as still as possible, despite the involuntary tremors and spasms racking her form. Her eyes were squeezed shut against even the faint glow of the molding. A tear leaked from one eye, wetting her cheek. Clenched jaws held back any cries or whimpers.
“What’s the matter?” Jemo asked. “Why isn’t it working?”
“I don’t know,” McCoy said, confused and frustrated. He scanned Avo with his medical tricorder, which confirmed that her physical distress was increasing, despite the formula he had administered. By now, the cells of her neurons should have already started synthesizing certain key peptides and nucleotides in sufficient quantities to make a difference. He didn’t understand. It should be working, damn it.
“This has gone on long enough.” Vumri strode forward. “We cannot allow the Yiyova to suffer any longer.”
“N-no,” Avo said, despite her anguish. “Give it more time.”
Her stubborn determination to stick it out for as long as it took testified to just how much she resented being so dependent on Vumri. Was that just a matter of pride and personal autonomy, McCoy wondered, or did Avo also have serious reservations about the healer’s influence over her father? McCoy had never discussed interstellar politics with the young Heir, but he couldn’t imagine that her enthusiastic curiosity about the galaxy beyond Ozalor meshed with Vumri’s hostile attitude regarding other worlds and ways. Certainly, Avo had seemed much more positively disposed toward visitors from beyond than Vumri was, by a country mile.
Still, he couldn’t watch her go through agony for no reason.
“It’s no use, Your Highness,” he said gently. “If it was going to work, it would have done so by now.” He stepped aside to let Vumri approach the stricken princess. “Let your healer help you.”
Avo opened her eyes, cringing as she did so. She gazed at the waiting healer with naked dismay. “But… the cure?”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” McCoy said. “Seems I spoke too soon.”
“Your bravery does you credit, Yiyova, but your ‘cure’ is merely a dream.” Vumri held out her palms. “Give me your hands.”
Avo persevered a few moments more before reluctantly grasping the healer’s hands. McCoy watched glumly as Vumri’s soothing touch once again eased the princess’s discomfort. A discreet tricorder scan verified that Avo’s vital signs were stabilizing. She sighed in relief as she slipped into what appeared to be a genuinely peaceful slumber. Vumri released her charge’s hands, which dropped limply into the princess’s lap. The healer tucked the blanket securely around Avo, then turned to face McCoy and the others. A compassionate façade barely masked her satisfaction at succeeding where McCoy had failed. Her upraised chin was practically aimed at the ceiling.
