A contest of principles, p.7
A Contest of Principles, page 7
“That is foremost among the questions we need to answer.” Spock turned toward Wibb. “Has your investigation yielded any pertinent results so far?”
The inspector indicated the seats around the table. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I apprise you of the current status of the case.”
Spock and the others did as directed. “You have our full attention, Chief Inspector.”
“Our investigation is ongoing,” Wibb stated, remaining on his feet, “but as of yet we do not have a clear idea of what has become of your doctor.”
Spock was disappointed but unsurprised by the inspector’s statement, since he imagined Chapel and Levine would have been informed of any major breakthroughs had they occurred. “May I ask what you have learned?”
“Our forensic teams have thoroughly scoured the abandoned mining camp where the reported ambush occurred, finding no sign of Doctor McCoy’s body nor any pieces of same, nor any trace of human blood, all of which we take as very encouraging indicators that your physician is still alive. We are also now quite confident that the kidnappers and their captive are not hiding in any of the deserted structures or tunnels at the site. Indeed, we found evidence that a small aircraft was recently hidden in the surrounding hills, from which we surmise that the attackers absconded with Doctor McCoy while his companions were still unconscious.”
This struck Spock as a reasonable supposition. He remained troubled by how much time had passed since the abduction. McCoy could well have been shifted from any number of crafts and hiding places by now. It was even possible that he was no longer on Braco.
“What of the identity of the ambushers?” he asked.
“The snipers left little evidence behind,” Wibb said, “but it’s fairly easy to guess who is behind this heinous crime.”
“And that would be?” Spock pressed.
Wibb’s lip curled in disdain. “They call themselves the United Bracon Front, but they’re nothing more than a terrorist organization waging a guerrilla war against the Provisional Government with no concern for public safety or tranquility. Their methods are despicable: rioting, bombing, sabotage, and, yes, even kidnappings. They may have covered their tracks at the old mining camp, but the UBF’s grubby fingerprints are all over that cowardly sneak attack.”
A handheld remote rested on the conference table. Wibb used it to activate the viewscreen. A montage of vivid images, both moving and static, paraded across the screen: smoking ruins, debris, violent street demonstrations, bank robberies, hooded hostages being roughly tossed into the back of unmarked vehicles, and other disturbing snapshots of crime and civic turmoil. A bold green banner, emblazoned with the Bracon symbol for the number one, was brandished by many of the demonstrators. Spock assumed the grisly montage had been compiled for the landing party’s benefit.
“This group would indeed appear to be a logical suspect, well worth considering,” he said. “Yet am I correct in understanding that there is no actual evidence pointing toward their involvement?”
“Not yet, but there will be.” Wibb looked at Chapel. “You asked what kind of people would perpetrate such an appalling act, Nurse Chapel. Well, look no further.”
A click of the remote brought up a candid photo that appeared to have been taken by a security camera. The slightly blurry image depicted an orange-skinned woman in her midtwenties, clutching a disruptor rifle in both hands. A vest, tunic, trousers, and boots seemed both practical and well worn. A tightly bound green bandanna effectively concealed and controlled her hair.
“Meet Hynn V’sta. The ringleader of the terrorists… and our number-one suspect.”
Spock remained unconvinced, as well as increasingly concerned that Wibb had already made up his mind regarding the terrorists’ culpability in this affair, to the exclusion of other possibilities. It would be regrettable if alternative lines of inquiry were being overlooked because Wibb was overly focused on one specific theory.
“On the other hand,” Spock pointed out, “I gather that this particular dissident group has yet to claim responsibility for the abduction, or issue any demands for McCoy’s return? They have asked for no ransoms, no political prisoners to be released? They have issued no manifestos?”
“No, nothing of that nature,” Wibb admitted. “Frankly, I’m not sure what they’re waiting for.”
“Then what do you presume to be their motive?” Spock asked.
“Who knows?” Wibb shrugged dismissively. “To foment disorder, or perhaps create an interstellar incident that would embarrass the current government, making it look weak and ineffectual. They could even be trying to spark division among the ruling coalition. You never know with these fanatics. Bottom line: they just want to stir up trouble, pit Bracon against Bracon, Vokites against Ozalorians, just like in the bad old days.”
Spock had thoroughly familiarized himself with the political situation on Braco. After centuries of civil war and unrest, with some factions urging closer ties to Vok and others to Ozalor, the planet was presently administered by a provisional government supposedly representing both sides in equal numbers. The highest executive level, in particular, consisted of a ruling council comprised of two Bracons, from opposite factions, as well as one “advisor” each from Vok and Ozalor. In theory, this provisional government was meant to be a temporary compromise, holding power only until Braco’s final status was determined; in practice, this uneasy coalition had been the status quo for several decades now.
“Or maybe those filthy criminals just need a doctor to treat some loathsome disease they’ve contracted in whatever fetid lair they’re holed up in,” Wibb continued. “Or, worse yet, perhaps they need your medical officer’s expertise to devise some hideous new bioweapon.”
Chapel reacted in disbelief. “Doctor McCoy would never be party to such an atrocity!”
“Forgive me, Nurse Chapel,” Wibb replied, “but the UBF might not give him a choice. You have to understand these are ruthless individuals with no respect for civilized codes of conduct.”
“I must concur with Nurse Chapel,” Spock said. “Doctor McCoy has faced mortal threats before, and endured torture as well.” Spock vividly recalled the agonies McCoy had been subjected to on Minara II only two solar years ago. “I can also attest to the fact that he can be exceedingly stubborn when he wants to be.”
“If you say so, Mister Spock, but this is my world,” Wibb said. “You don’t know these bastards the way I do. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”
“Perhaps,” Spock conceded, “but you have never met Leonard McCoy.”
“True enough,” Wibb said. “I hope you’re right about him. In any event, the UBF surely had some malicious reason for setting that trap for McCoy.”
Spock considered the trap itself. “What of the supposed ‘emergency signal’ that lured our medical team to your world in the first place?”
He had already ascertained, after consulting with Lieutenant Uhura back on the Enterprise, that the alert had registered as authentic enough, transmitted directly to the ship on an appropriate frequency, complete with the proper verification codes from the Bracon emergency services agencies. There had been no reason to suspect that the original signal was anything but genuine.
“A total fabrication,” Wibb reported, “albeit cleverly disguised as an official distress call, narrowcast to the Enterprise specifically. We never even picked up on it until Miss Chapel and her guard alerted us to the ambush at the mining camp.”
Spock nodded. “Who would possess the capability to commit such a hoax?”
“Sadly, all too many people,” Wibb said. “Emergency distress codes and frequencies are not exactly closely guarded secrets, since that would somewhat defeat their purpose. It would be easy enough for a UBF infiltrator or collaborator to obtain the necessary parameters… and fake them as needed.”
Spock resolved to institute a new verification procedure for all future distress signals to the Enterprise once this immediate crisis was resolved. At present, however, he had a more urgent item on his agenda.
“With your permission, I would like to inspect the ambush site myself, as soon as possible, as that would be the most logical place to begin our search for Doctor McCoy.”
Wibb frowned. “I’m sorry, Mister Spock, but only authorized personnel are allowed access to the crime scene, which will remain sealed off as long as this case is active. I can assure you that the site has been meticulously searched. If there were any further clues to be detected, we would have found them.” He shrugged. “Granted, it doesn’t help that a thunderstorm or three has swept over the camp since the incident, complicating matters.”
“With all due respect to your own forensic investigators,” Spock said diplomatically, “surely there can be no harm in allowing us to conduct our own survey of the site? I am under orders from my captain to make every effort to recover our lost crew member, even if they may strike you as redundant.”
“I sympathize with your position, Mister Spock, but may I remind you that your captain has no authority here.” His posture stiffened. “To avoid any further confusion, let me make things perfectly clear. This is our world and our investigation. You are being kept informed as a courtesy to the Federation, but we will be handling this case, not you. In fact, I urge you strongly not to interfere.”
“We aim not to interfere,” Spock stated, “but to work with you to achieve our mutual goal: Doctor McCoy’s deliverance.”
“I don’t doubt your good intentions,” Wibb said, “but as outworlders, you cannot grasp the harsh realities of modern Braco. Frankly speaking, the last thing we need are well-meaning visitors mucking things up and getting into trouble. And I certainly don’t have the personnel to guarantee your safety if you go poking around those crumbling old mines.”
“I thought you said your people had already confirmed that nobody was still lurking in that ghost town,” Chapel said, quite incisively. “So why would we be in danger there?”
“Those old ruins and tunnels are hazardous in themselves,” Wibb said.
“We are prepared to take that risk,” Spock said.
“You may be, but I am not,” Wibb declared. “You lot are my responsibility and I’m not about to let anything happen to you under my watch. One missing Starfleet officer is enough.” He crossed his arms atop his chest. “The crime scene is off-limits, period.”
“I see.” Spock was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the inspector’s definition of cooperation left something to be desired. Although disappointed at being denied the opportunity to inspect the site himself, Spock took solace in the recognition that enough time had passed since the abduction that any surviving evidence might well have been washed away by the elements by now. It was even possible that the site had already been swept clean by the Bracon authorities in order to conceal some conspiracy or scandal they wished to keep under wraps. At this early stage of his own investigation, Spock could not afford to rule out any possibility, including a government cover-up.
“So what can we do?” Levine protested. “You can’t expect us to just sit by passively while one of our own is missing!”
“That is just what I expect, Mister Levine,” Wibb said. “Rest assured that the Bureau is on the case and will exert every effort to rescue your Doctor McCoy. Our agents are pressuring their usual informants as we speak. Mark my words, somebody out there knows where McCoy is, which means we will too… eventually.”
“And if the doctor’s captors are not the terrorists you suspect?” Spock asked. “What then?”
“We are pursuing other leads as well,” Wibb said, “but the UBF is behind this, Mister Spock. I’d bet my salary on it.”
“Vulcans do not engage in games of chance,” Spock replied, “nor do we reach conclusions before fully examining the facts.”
Annoyance showed on the inspector’s less-than-stoic features.
“This is not Vulcan, Mister Spock. You would do well to remember that.” He clicked off the video display. “I believe that concludes this briefing. As Nurse Chapel and Mister Levine can attest, accommodations for you and your entire party have been booked at one of our finest downtown hotels, only a few blocks from here. Allow me to personally escort you to your lodgings.”
It was a statement, not a request.
“Thank you, Chief Inspector.” Spock judged there was nothing further to be gained from the interview, given Wibb’s generally unhelpful attitude. “I suspect I shall have more questions for you as your investigation progresses.”
“As I hope to have happier news to convey in the near future.” Wibb gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
He led them out of the briefing room into the busy halls beyond. An old-fashioned elevator carried them down to the ground floor, where Wibb waved them past several layers of security, which, Spock observed, included checkpoints, force fields, and full-body scans. A response to the ongoing spate of terrorist attacks?
“Excuse me, Chief Inspector,” Spock said. “Now that we are departing your headquarters, may I request the return of our equipment?”
Wibb sighed. “I suppose there’s no harm in returning your tricorder to you, but the Capital Hotel has a strict no-weapons policy, the times being what they are. Only sanctioned security personnel are permitted arms. No exceptions.”
“Even when one Starfleet officer has already been forcibly abducted, not very far from here?” Spock argued. “I am quite certain I speak for my colleagues when I state that we would prefer to be able to defend ourselves if necessary.”
“What he said,” Levine added. “I feel naked without my sidearm.”
“The hotel is perfectly safe,” Wibb said. “We are not talking about a desolate ghost town in the middle of nowhere. The Capital boasts first-class security, which is exactly why we are lodging you there… at the taxpayers’ expense, I might add.”
“And what if we should venture outside the hotel?” Spock asked.
“I would not advise that.”
A very human sense of irritation tested Spock’s equanimity. Wibb’s seeming determination to keep the Starfleet contingent contained and out of the way posed an obvious obstacle to their mission. They could hardly expect to track down McCoy and his captors while confined to a hotel and obstructed at every turn.
Wibb snapped his fingers, then beckoned to a junior officer, who, somewhat grudgingly, returned Spock’s tricorder to him. Spock recalled a human saying about being grateful for small favors; as a point of fact, however, he was feeling little in the way of gratitude at the moment.
“I’m a busy man,” Wibb said. “Let us get on our way. The sooner you are securely ensconced in your suites, the sooner I can get back to finding your missing doctor.”
They departed the building via a back entrance, perhaps to avoid attracting excess attention, and Spock received his first street-level view of the city proper. Downtown O’Kdro did not appear particularly inviting. Austere gray buildings of steel and concrete lacked aesthetic appeal, an impression not helped by the overcast skies and drizzle. As a child of Vulcan, a world of intense light and heat, Spock found the damp, clammy atmosphere distasteful, although he easily repressed that reaction. Steel barricades cordoned off the alley behind the Bureau headquarters, where an armored groundcar waited at the curb. A uniformed trooper was posted beside the car. She slid open the car’s side door to reveal the passenger seats within.
“Kindly enter the vehicle,” Wibb instructed. “Our destination is only a short drive—”
“Inspector Wibb!” an insistent voice called out from one end of the alley, less than nine meters away. “A few questions, please!”
The request came from an apparent civilian on the other side of the barricade, who was holding up a recording device of some kind. Blond hair and stubble contrasted with his orange skin. A rumpled overcoat and a knitted beret provided partial protection from the light rain dribbling down from above. His accent clearly pegged him as a Bracon.
“D’Ran Colc, Bracon Free Press!” he identified himself. “Is it true that a Starfleet medical officer was kidnapped here on Braco? Is that why you’re hosting visitors from Starfleet?”
Wibb’s ruddy countenance darkened. “No comment,” he muttered, while briskly pointing out the reporter to the nearby trooper. She nodded and started toward Colc, who kept hollering his questions.
“Do you have reason to suspect the UBF? Does this have anything to do with the upcoming presidential election on Vok?”
Wibb turned his back on the reporter, ignoring the queries. “Into the car,” he ordered Spock and the others. “Promptly.”
“Commander Spock!” Colc shouted, trying another tack. “That is you, isn’t it? What is the first officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise doing on Braco, and at police headquarters no less? Are you looking for a lost crew member?”
Spock arched his eyebrow. “He appears unexpectedly well informed.”
“The car… now,” Wibb snarled.
More troopers converged on Colc, clearly intent on getting him out of the way. Spock reluctantly slid into the vehicle along with his companions while Wibb claimed the passenger seat next to the driver. Spock silently committed the reporter’s name and affiliation to memory, even as Colc loudly argued with the troopers.
“Hey, keep your hands off my newscorder! The public has a right to know what’s going—”
The car door slid shut, sealing Spock off from the clamor. He watched through the vehicle’s windshield as the troopers forcibly cleared Colc away from the barricade, which lifted to allow the car egress from the alley. Peering out through a one-way window, Spock saw Colc vigorously contesting his ejection as the car accelerated past him. A trooper seized the reporter’s newscorder and hurled it to the ground. A heavy boot stamped down on the device before the car sped away from the scene, leaving the confrontation behind.
