Gemini (2 page)

“I have a brief glimpse of them on sensors, Captain,” said Spock, peering into the viewer at his station. “Off the port bow.”

“Tractor beam, those coordinates,” said Kirk, urgently.

“Ineffective,” said Spock, a moment later.

“Why haven't they attacked?” asked Chekov, tensely.

“If you were a vessel that size, would you want to take on a starship?” replied Sulu. “They're probably trying to put as much space between us as possible.”

“Don't make that assumption, Mr. Sulu,” said Kirk. “Appearances can be deceiving, after all.”

“Aye, sir,” said Sulu, suitably abashed.

Kirk hoped they wouldn't have to learn that lesson the hard way. Even as he sat he felt his blood rise, and his pulse quicken. As there had always been when these physiological signs made themselves known in humans since they first crawled out of the sea, there was a choice to be made, panic or fight. Kirk had learned the hard way, many years ago, that only fight would do them any good. More, he had to be an example to his bridge crew. The threat seemed minor, yes, but the one foe you turned your back on would be the one to stab you there.

“Spock,” Kirk said, “link tractor beam to sensors, so they function together.”

“Understood,” said Spock coolly. He continued to peer into his viewer as his long fingers worked the buttons at his console, not unlike a pianist at his keyboard. “Accomplished, Captain,” he said, a moment later.

Kirk nodded. “Now if sensors get a taste of them, we'll—”

Almost instantly Spock's console beeped. “We have them,” said Spock.

“Expand tractor field, divert all available power to it,” snapped Kirk.

“They're firing,” said Sulu.

A moment later the bridge rocked like a sailing ship on choppy seas. The crew reeled a little, but maintained their positions.

“I read their weaponry as missiles,” said Spock, turning from his console. “Conventional, but quite powerful.”

“We can take a little punishment, just keep our grip on him,” said Kirk. “Go to red alert.”

“They are attempting to break free,” said Spock, working his console quickly.

Kirk punched a button on his chair arm. “Engineering,” he rasped, “increase power to tractor beam.”

“We're tryin', Captain.”
Montgomery Scott's voice crackled over the intercom.
“But she's fightin' like a fish on a line. Hard t'believe a ship that small can have that much power.”
On the viewscreen, tractor beams struggled to contain something between them, like hands groping in the dark. Kirk peered anxiously as, within the tractor field, the configurations of a vessel began to firm … .

“Establish phaser lock,” said Kirk, urgently, “raise shields and fire!”

The
Enterprise
lurched again as, on the viewscreen, the tractor beams dissolved.

“Damage report,” said Kirk.

“Minor damage to the port hull,” replied Spock, after a moment. “Unless they are able to mount a concerted attack, their assaults are more annoying than efficacious, unless our shields collapse or we are incapacitated.”

“Neither is a state of affairs I anticipate,” said Kirk, stiffly. But he left his chair and strode the bridge, bearing a frown of concentration, trying to quiet the pounding of his blood. To let them escape would weaken the name of the Federation in this section of space (and if it occurred to James Kirk that the same risk existed to his personal reputation, he did not acknowledge it).

“Too bad we can't just cast a net for them,” said Sulu, under his breath.

Then he turned, to see Kirk smiling. “Perhaps we can, Mr. Sulu,” said Kirk. “Spock, all available power to sensors, widest possible dispersal.”

“Captain, such dispersal will be virtually useless with our shields up—”

Kirk nodded, tautly. “I did say ‘all available power,' Mr. Spock. Drop shields.”

Spock's fingers played over his console effortlessly.

“And link
phasers
to sensors,” said Kirk, softly.

Spock's left brow notched up a bit, as he nodded.

“Uhura, tie your console in with Spock's,” said Kirk. “Monitor those sensors. If so much as a stray meteorite touches them, I want to—”

“Contact, Captain,” said Spock. “Sensors have been breached.”

The ship shimmied slightly as the phasers fired, seemingly toward open space. For a long moment, it seemed they would simply disperse into random background radiation …

… then a flash of energy as they struck something.

“Fire,” said Kirk, clenching a fist.

Another fusillade and something became visible out there. “Maximum magnification,” said Kirk, urgently.

There it was, a ship, small but capable-looking, listing to one side like a man staggering from a blow.

“Tractor beam,” said Kirk. “Before they can—”

“I'm reading transporters,” said Spock.

In an instant, Kirk was back at his chair. “Kirk to transporter room! Intercept that transporter beam! Don't let them—”

“Sorry, sir,”
crackled back the voice of Mr. Kyle.
“They were too quick for us. They're gone.”

“Raise shields!” said Kirk. “They'll—”

Abruptly, the ship erupted like a giant piñata struck by an unseen bat. For a long moment black space was painted purest white, as if by a minor star that coalesced, ignited and went nova all in the span of an eye-blink.

Even though the viewscreen automatically dimmed, the flash was still painful. Then nothing was left but floating debris.

“No organic remains,” said Spock, peering into his viewer. “Mr. Kyle was correct, its crew is gone. Quite probably to planet Nador, which is barely within transporter range.”

“Beam in as much of that debris as you can get,” said Kirk, pointing at the screen. “I want all available knowledge about these people.”

“Acknowledged, Captain.”

“Damage report?”

“Minimal,” replied Spock, after checking the reports coming in from the ship. “The missles were unable to penetrate our shields, or our hull when we were unshielded. No appreciable damage.”

“Except to our pride,” muttered Kirk, seating himself. Then he took a deep breath. Their assailants had escaped, but the ship and crew were safe. Maybe McCoy was right, maybe he was too hard on himself. Maybe. “Secure from red alert. Viewer ahead, continue plotted course.”

The planet Nador occupied the center of the screen now, growing larger with each second, a piebald sphere of blues and greens, not unlike a place across the galaxy which most of the
Enterprise
crew called home.

“Standard orbit, Mr. Sulu. Lieutenant Uhura, open a channel to the Nadorian palace. Standard greetings.”

“Transmitted, sir, I have a response,” replied Uhura several seconds later.

“On screen.”

The lovely view of the planet they now orbited dissolved, to be replaced by the interior of what was obviously some sort of official building. In the background Kirk caught a glimpse of what he thought was a human figure, but was instead an elegantly carved statue, then turned his attention to the face of the magistrate, which occupied most of the screen. A middle-aged man bordering on elderly, he had the uncertain air of a man who had been used to commanding authority, but had found, rather recently, that his power base had eroded out from under him. The man on the viewscreen began the conversation with an odd mixture of sympathy, respect, and very mild contempt for his subject.

“Captain Kirk, welcome to Nador. I am Lonal, acting regent for Their Serene Highnesses, Princes Abon and Delor.”
He said this firmly and courteously, then, at the end, added a rather incongruous and—Kirk thought—rather servile smile, almost as an afterthought.

“Greetings, Regent Lonal,” said Kirk, putting on his diplomat's face. “Captain James T. Kirk of the
U.S.S. Enterprise,
representing the United Federation of Planets. I bring you best wishes from the Federation Council.”

“Most welcome, I am sure. May I convey the wish of Their Serene Highnesses to your and your senior staff to dine at the Royal Palace this evening? Their Highnesses are quite anxious to meet you.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Regent Lonal. We look forward to meeting Their Serene Highnesses. Kirk out.”

The screen want blank and Kirk turned to Spock.
“‘Their
Serene Highnesses'? They rule this planet jointly?”

“They have, and will again,” replied Spock, “if the populace decides to reject Federation membership. Little is known of the princes aside from the facts that they are identical twins and are, if I am correct, thirty years of age.”

“I am sure your figures are quite correct,” said Kirk dryly.

“Thank you, Captain,” said Spock, with no trace of irony.

“Captain,” said Sulu, turning in his chair, “why not ask the regent about that ship?”

“I'd rather broach a subject like that face-to-face,” said Kirk. “I assure you, that matter has not been forgotten. In fact … Uhura, open a channel to Commissioner Roget's quarters.”

“I have him, sir.”

“On screen.” The screen flashed on again, this time to show a definitely elderly man whose white hair was retreating rapidly, leaving behind large blue eyes and a wide, smiling mouth, as if the features of his face were expanding to take up the space left by the retreat of his hairline. Kirk noted another statue in the background of the expansive room, placed between a bookcase and a huge desk that looked from its sheen to be of a fine Saurian hardwood. It was something of an effort, Kirk realized, with minor irritation, to keep his concentration on Commissioner Sylvan Roget; the workmanship of this statue, like the one in Regent Lonal's office, was such that he kept watching it out of his eyes, almost expecting it to move at any second.

“Commissioner Roget, I'm Captain—”

“Captain James T. Kirk.”
The old man smiled warmly.
“Good to see you, Captain. The palace just transmitted details of the banquet tonight. My wife and I look forward to making your acquaintance here, and on the journey back to Earth.”

“Thank you, Commissioner, the
Enterprise
and my crew are at your service. I wonder, before the banquet tonight, if I might consult with you on a somewhat delicate matter?”

If Roget was taken aback by this request, his years of ambassadorial training would not permit him to show it.
“Certainly, Captain. Why don't you beam down to the embassy and we'll discuss it?”

“Captain,” came the voice of Spock, “according to strict protocol, your first footfall on the planet should be to greet representatives of the planet's government.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spock, I'm aware of that,” replied Kirk, patiently. Spock was a good friend and the best first officer in the fleet, but he had an occasional tendency to state the obvious. “Commissioner, why don't you be my guest aboard the
Enterprise?
We can have a quite proper talk, with—” He did not look at Spock. “—all the i's dotted and the t's crossed.”

“I'd like that very much, Captain. Would it be too much of an imposition if we began beaming aboard a few crates of our personal effects?”

“Not at all, Commissioner. See you in a few minutes, Kirk out.” He stood thinking for a moment, then punched a button on his chair's arm. “Kirk to sickbay. Bones, any customers after that little dustup?”

“Not a one, Jim. Who were they, anyway?”

“We're still trying to puzzle that out. Have time for a little unofficial reception for Commissioner Roget?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Meet us in the transporter room in ten minutes. Kirk out.”

“T
HIS IS REALLY
excellent ale, Captain,” said Commissioner Roget. He held his glass up to the light in the officers' lounge, and it seemed as though the blue aura of his glass was conferred not from the room's lighting filtering through the liquid, but from his eyes, the eyes of a young man. “Romulan, I presume?”

“If I were to answer that, “said Kirk, blandly, “I would make the commissioner complicit in a crime. The possession of Romulan ale is, of course, illegal.”

“Then, since I have no wish for my last act as a Federation official to be the arrest of a starship captain, we had better do all we can do dispose of the evidence,” replied Roget, reaching for the bottle.

“Allow me,” said McCoy, pouring the commissioner a generous measure of the liquid, and a dash more for himself.

“Then you do plan to retire, Commissioner?” asked Spock.

“I've had a wonderful career,” said Roget. “I've been witness to history and upheld my post as best I could. Yes, the admission of Nador to the Federation is an admirable last act for my career.”

“You're sure Nador wants to be admitted?” asked Kirk.

“It'd be damned ungrateful of them if they didn't,” said Scotty, emptying his glass. He professed no fondness for Romulan ale but, Kirk noticed, he didn't often turn it down. “After all, the Federation spent years helpin' them improve their planet by education, industrialization, cultivation—”

“True, Mr. Scott,” said Commissioner Roget, patiently, “but the Nadorians do have the right to turn down membership. And to force them would be against everything the Federation stands for.”

“Aye,” grumbled Scotty, “but it would still be damned ungrateful of 'em.”

“Scotty's an engineer, not a diplomat,” said McCoy, dryly.

“And thank God for it,” said Scotty, fervently, reaching for the bottle. “Give me a warp-drive engine, cranky and temperamental as she may be, instead of a room o' bureaucrats any day o' the week—” He stopped, remembering his audience, and looked up, sheepishly. “Beggin' your pardon, Commissioner, I meant no offense … ”