A contest of principles, p.8
A Contest of Principles, page 8
“Who was that individual?” Spock asked.
“Nothing but an irresponsible muckraker and all-around pain,” Wibb said, scowling from the front seat. “He delights in airing dirty laundry without any care for its effect on public morale.” The inspector turned his face forward. “My apologies for the unpleasantness.”
“But how did he know about Doctor McCoy?” Chapel asked.
“I have no idea,” Wibb said, “but I fully intend to find out. This matter is far too delicate to have wild reports made public before we are ready to make an official statement.”
Spock was less concerned with public relations than with what else this Colc might know. “Is it possible he has access to information that could prove useful in locating Doctor McCoy?”
“You give him too much credit,” Wibb scoffed. “He’s a squalid purveyor of gossip and speculation dressed up as journalism. Don’t waste another moment taking him seriously.”
The inspector’s low opinion of the reporter appeared unshakable, so Spock kept his own counsel for the time being. He observed the city from inside the car as it negotiated the congested downtown traffic. The view did nothing to alleviate his dismal first impression, although he now noted that the city streets and sidewalks appeared only marginally less locked down than the police headquarters. Armed troopers were a visible presence, posted at intersections and patrolling the neighborhood. Security checkpoints and barricades slowed both vehicles and pedestrians. Looking closer, Spock saw that O’Kdro was still scarred by the violent conflicts of the past and present. Scorch marks defaced walls and buildings. Craters, patched with varying degrees of success, pocked the pavement. A now-vacant lot was strewn with rubble. A gutted cathedral awaited restoration. The lingering residue of the civil war, he wondered, or the results of more recent terrorist bombings?
He felt the absence of his phaser rather more keenly.
Along with Copernicus, Galileo was also parked at the main spaceport on the outskirts of the city. Both shuttlecrafts were a potential source of fresh armaments, Spock reminded himself, should the need arise.
“Ah, here we are.”
The groundcar pulled up in front of the Capital Hotel, whose ornate facade conveyed an impression of faded elegance, undercut by the bars over the windows and the armed sentries posted at the entrance. Wibb peered at the sidewalk.
“No more annoying tattlers,” he muttered. “Praise the Prime.”
The door opened automatically for the passengers, who disembarked from the vehicle. A fringed awning shielded them from the rain, which was growing heavier, as Wibb hurried them past the guards into the lobby, which also held on tenuously to its prewar grandeur. Another elevator brought them to a brace of interconnected suites on the hotel’s top floor. The luxurious accommodations certainly appeared to be more comfortable than the shuttlecrafts; Spock made a mental note to rotate shifts between the hotel and the spaceport, so that the same crew members were not left guarding Galileo and Copernicus indefinitely. A few scattered items, such as Starfleet-issue microtapes and a medkit, confirmed that Chapel and Levine had occupied the suite in the days prior to the rescue team’s arrival. Spock’s gaze fell on a desk viewer in a work alcove.
Convenient, he thought.
Wibb saw them installed in the suites before briskly making his farewell. “Please avail yourselves of the hotel’s amenities, including the food service, saunas, entertainment library, and gymnasium. I particularly recommend the nutfruit stew, which is a delicacy not to be missed.” He made his way toward the door to the hall. “In addition to the Capital’s top-flight private security, I am also posting additional guards in the hall and lobby, simply as an added precaution.”
“That may not be necessary.” Spock indicated Levine and Godwin. “We do have our own security team after all.”
“Minus their weapons,” Wibb said, indulging himself with a smirk. “Allow us an excess of caution with regard to your safety.”
Spock could already see the onerous presence of the Bureau troopers as a possible impediment to his plans, since he had no intention of remaining sequestered in the hotel. He judged it impolitic to mention those plans.
“If you insist,” he said mildly.
“I do,” Wibb said. “I very much do.”
Spock suspected that the troopers were meant to keep an eye on the Starfleet personnel in more ways than one. No doubt they would be reporting back to Wibb on the landing party’s movements.
“And with that I take my leave, for now.”
Wibb gave them a polite bow before departing, leaving Spock and Godwin alone with Chapel and Levine for the first time since Copernicus’s arrival on the planet. Spock glanced around the suite.
“May we speak freely?” he inquired.
“Aye, sir,” Levine reported. “I swept the premises for monitoring devices first thing. Found a few concealed bugs, but they’ve been disabled.” He chuckled quietly. “The Bracons haven’t said anything about it. Guess it would be awkward to admit that they tried to spy on us in the first place.”
“Well done, Mister Levine,” Spock said.
“I almost wish that Chief Inspector Wibb would object, so I could give him a piece of my mind.” Emotion colored Chapel’s voice now that she felt free to voice her true feelings. “You see what we’ve been dealing with, Mister Spock? Trying to find out what Wibb and his people are doing is like pulling teeth the old-fashioned way. Sometimes it feels like Wibb is just humoring us.”
“He does appear to be less than amenable to involving us in the investigation,” Spock agreed, “although it is unclear whether he is actively attempting to obstruct us or if he is simply being excessively territorial.”
“Either way, he’s not going to make our job any easier,” Godwin said.
“Indeed,” Spock said, “which behooves us to find alternative sources of information.”
He crossed the suite to the work nook and activated the desk viewer. “Computer,” he addressed it.
“Welcome to Guest Services,” a robotic male voice replied. “How may I assist you?”
“Can you access public databases and news sources?”
“Affirmative.”
“Request contact information for the following individual: D’Ran Colc, Bracon Free Press.”
If the police could not assist them, perhaps the press could.
Seven
Vok
“I demand political asylum!”
“You’ve got some nerve,” Kirk shot back at the would-be assassin, who was now in custody aboard the Enterprise. He faced the man across the table in a briefing room near the brig. “You attacked a Starfleet officer, you critically injured a Federation diplomat, and you expect asylum aboard my ship? Think again.”
The spear thrower had been identified as a native-born Vokite named Lom. A pair of stone-faced security guards were on hand to maintain order during the interrogation, while the ship’s computer recorded the proceedings. Steve Tanaka was also present, filling in for Dare. The injured commissioner, currently recovering in sickbay after being operated on by Doctor M’Benga, was watching remotely from her sickbed. Kirk’s hand, now bandaged after being treated with an anesthetic balm that also promoted healing, still smarted enough to gnaw at his temper.
“But I wasn’t after you or that Federation woman,” Lom insisted. Dark hair and eyes contributed to his matinee-idol looks. He was still clad in his theatrical outfit, although his cape and belt had been confiscated along with the rest of his personal effects. A bruised jaw served as a souvenir of the flying kick that had taken him out of commission down on the planet. “You just got in my way. I was after Ceff… as a political act.”
“Sorry,” Kirk said. “An assassination attempt is not going to earn you any kind of special status or protection, not on my ship.”
They were lucky that Lom had failed to murder Doctor Ceff. Kirk could only imagine the strife that might have erupted on Vok had the candidate actually been assassinated. As it was, the incident was bound to exacerbate the volatile emotions surrounding the election. Kirk had briefly been in touch with both campaigns in the aftermath of the incident, but he suspected that more consultations would be needed. According to Uhura, the Enterprise was being besieged by hails demanding details and updates regarding Lom. Not that Kirk could really blame the interested parties on the planet; he had plenty of questions himself.
“Did anyone put you up to this? Were you working alone or with others?”
Lom smirked at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Answer my question, mister! You’re not going anywhere until I get some answers.”
The man’s expression darkened. He clearly didn’t like being bossed around.
“You have no authority over me, Starfleet! I report to the General!”
Kirk stiffened. “What do you mean by that?”
“I did nothing wrong!” Lom said defiantly. “I was merely following orders… from the General himself!”
The General?
Kirk was staggered by the implications of what he had just heard. He traded worried looks with Tanaka. He had to be careful here; too much was at stake to risk any sort of misunderstanding.
“Let me get this straight. You’re saying that General Gogg personally ordered you to attack Doctor Ceff?”
“That’s right.” Lom leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed atop his chest, as though daring Kirk to call him a liar. A cocky grin lifted his lips. “And I can prove it.”
Kirk frowned. “How?”
“Get me my gear and I’ll show you,” Lom said.
Kirk nodded at a security officer, who fetched the items in question. He watched alertly, along with the guards, as Lom removed a data disk from a compartment on his belt. The man handed the disk over to Kirk, who accepted it warily.
“No tricks?” Kirk asked.
“No tricks,” Lom said. “I want to see your face when you watch this.”
The disk was Vokite in origin, raising compatibility issues with the Enterprise’s systems.
“Allow me, Captain,” Tanaka volunteered. It took a few minutes, which Kirk sweated out impatiently, but the young man managed to transfer the disk’s contents to the ship’s computer. An additional layer of encryption protected the file, but Lom gave up the password without hesitation. Tanaka looked at Kirk. “Ready when you are, sir.”
Kirk braced himself for the worst. “Computer, display data provided by the prisoner identified as Lom.”
“Displaying.”
An image appeared on the room’s main viewscreen. Kirk saw Gogg grimly facing forward in what seemed to be a transmission from an unspecified location. His stentorian tones issued from the screen:
“You understand what is expected of you? It has been arranged that your troupe will perform at one of the enemy’s public spectacles. You will then have a tremendous opportunity before you to strike a decisive blow at a mortal threat to our great world. You must not let it pass by.”
“And in exchange?” Lom’s voice asked from offscreen.
“Fear not,” Gogg said. “Your family will be rewarded under the new regime, no matter what becomes of you. You have my word on it.”
The recording ended abruptly, the screen going blank.
“Is that it?” Kirk asked.
“Recording complete,” the computer replied.
“You see,” Lom gloated. “I’m not a criminal, I’m a patriot.”
“One does not necessarily exclude the other,” Tanaka said. “Sad to say.”
Kirk had to agree with him, but he remained puzzled by what they had just witnessed. “I don’t understand,” he said to Lom. “Even if General Gogg was behind it all, why would he allow you to record this… and why would you share it with us?”
“It was a show of good faith,” Lom said. “I believe in the General and his promises, but he wanted to go on record for the sake of my family, so there could be no question of the rewards due them once he took power.” He sneered at Kirk. “Just you wait. After the election, I’ll probably get a medal along with a pardon. I’ll be honored for my valiant effort on behalf of the cause… even if that subversive witch survived because of you and your Federation commissioner.”
Kirk remembered Dare crying out in pain as the javelin struck her in the back. A medal was the last thing Lom deserved. Kirk shook his head, still trying to make sense of Lom’s confession. Was he so convinced of Gogg’s victory that he didn’t realize what a blow this revelation could be to the General’s campaign? Or was Lom simply determined to justify his actions by proving that he was acting under orders from Gogg?
“I wouldn’t count on him getting elected,” Kirk said, “not if what you say is true.”
“Tell me about it,” Tanaka said. “This is a bombshell that could blow up Gogg’s chances of winning the presidency.”
Lom didn’t look too concerned. “You outworlders underestimate the General’s support among the actual population, as opposed to the radicals and revolutionaries. When the time comes, the true voice of Vok will be heard.”
“If you’re so confident of victory,” Kirk asked, “why bother assassinating Doctor Ceff?”
Lom shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. And who am I to question the General’s orders?”
Scowling, Kirk issued an order of his own.
“Take him back to the brig.”
Eight
Ozalor
“The coast is clear,” Jemo said. “Let’s go.”
McCoy’s new hosts hustled him down a back corridor toward the afflicted Heir to the throne. They were, by their own admission, in no hurry to advertise McCoy’s presence in the palace, let alone on the planet, given Ozalor’s lack of formal relations with the Federation, not to mention the little matter of a Starfleet officer having been forcibly abducted from Braco. To avoid attracting undue attention, McCoy had been made to change into local attire. A short-sleeved brown tunic, along with white slacks and sandals, were apparently everyday summer garb. His makeover also included a fake beard, since apparently Ozalorian men did not go clean-shaven in adulthood. The disguise itched like the devil. He fought the urge to scratch at it, while hoping that he would not be sticking around long enough to grow the real thing.
I have no intention of going native if I can help it, he thought. Or even if I can’t.
At least his medkit and medical tricorder had been returned to him, albeit concealed within an inconspicuous briefcase. McCoy toted the case as they made their way through a series of service hallways, which they largely had to themselves, aside from an occasional member of the palace staff passing them on errands of their own. Rayob’s authority granted tacit permission for McCoy to traverse the palace in his company; the disguised doctor drew a few curious glances from stray passersby but nothing resembling suspicion. Nevertheless, Jemo scouted ahead while Rayob and McCoy followed closely after her, with Rayob walking directly behind McCoy while quietly urging him on. His phaser, confiscated by his captors, was tucked beneath the majordomo’s belt to ensure McCoy’s compliance. Rayob had displayed the weapon to McCoy prior to their leaving the guest suite.
“Hasten, Doctor,” he said in a low voice. “I would prefer not to tread these halls any longer than necessary. Vumri has eyes and ears everywhere.”
“She’s that popular?” McCoy asked.
“Hardly,” Rayob answered. “Vumri has no friends, only pawns and opportunists, who either fear her rising power or hope to benefit from it.” Contempt colored his voice. “Alas, there will always be those who chart their course by the prevailing winds alone, with no heed to conscience nor duty.”
“Got it,” McCoy said. “Folks are already planning to ride her coattails.”
“Precisely,” the majordomo said. “Unless you can change the way the wind is blowing.”
No pressure there, McCoy thought. “About that, even if I can help your sick princess, how long exactly do you intend to keep me around as your ‘guest’?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Doctor.” His expression defined inscrutable. “You have yet to even examine your patient.”
McCoy scowled. He wasn’t looking to become the new royal physician indefinitely; he already had a steady job on the Enterprise, which he fully intended to get back to at the first opportunity.
“You’ll forgive me if I find that answer evasive,” he said.
“Consider yourself forgiven,” Rayob said wryly. “In any event, here we are.”
They caught up with Jemo in front of a large ornate archway that was filled by a tall silver mirror that reflected the corridor behind them. Jemo stepped forward and rapped gently on the mirror, producing a bell-like chime. Moments later, the silvered glass shimmered and the image of a woman replaced the visitors’ reflections. A portrait of elegant middle age, she had dark hair done up in a bun and was dressed rather too expensively to be a minor servant, at least on the basis of McCoy’s limited exposure to the palace’s residents. She scrutinized them with a haughty expression. Her tone reflected annoyance.
“Yes?”
Rayob came forward, leaving Jemo to watch over McCoy.
“Good afternoon, Madame Bilis. We wish to call upon the Yiyova if she will have us.”
The woman in the mirror peered at McCoy. “And who is the stranger?”
“An honored guest, whom I hope to present to Avomora.”
Bilis, whom McCoy gathered to be a governess or chaperone of some sort, balked at the suggestion. “Now is not really a good time.”
“Is she unwell?” Rayob asked.
“Not so much,” Bilis hedged. “That is, I mean—”
“Why don’t we leave the matter to Her Highness to decide?” He spoke more sternly, as though to remind her that being majordomo carried some weight. “If you will kindly convey our request to your mistress.”
Bilis caved. “Of course, sir.”
She vanished from the mirror.
“Who was that stuffy grande dame?” McCoy asked.
“Bilis, one of the Heir’s attendants.” Rayob sighed wearily. “She can be overzealous when it comes to protecting Avomora’s privacy.”
