Star Trek: The Original Series - 082 - Federation (14 page)

‘.’What do y’ou believe is of more concern to the Federation than the
eapons of the Romulan Empire?” Picard asked.

DaiMon Pol hesitated a moment. A sly smile began to grow.

But then he shook off the expression in anger and snapped his finers at someone offscreen.

Y\ second display area on the screen appeared beside the Fcrengi, displaying an image of a mechanical object.

Picard had a sudden flash of recognition. And of fear.

The object on the screen was an artifact—a dark and twisted assemblage of power conduits, junction boxes, weapon nodes, and hull metal laid out in a perverse system of maniacally redundant engineering. Picard had first seen its stvle of construction more than a year ago, at System J-25, seven thousand light-years from the Federation’s boundaries.

Whatever the object on the screen was, there was no doubt as to its origins. It had been created by the greatest threat the Federation had ever faced. A threat that even now was moving forward through space toward the Federation’s borders as Starfleet undertook the largest defensive buildup in the history of Earth and a thousand other worlds.

That threat was the Borg.

No member of the Federation had ever managed to lay hands on any sizable artifact of the Borg’s alien manufacture. The object on the screen might just hold the secrets of how to defeat them and save the Federation from assimilation into the Borg Collective.

Picard knew that whatever the price, he had to acquire that artifact.

And judging from the smirk on DaiMon Pol’s pinched face, the Ferengi knew it. too.

LONDON, OPTIMAL REPUBLIC OF GREAT BRITAIN, EARTH Earth Standard: June 21, 2078

Colonel Adrik Thorsen held out his hand to Zefram Cochrane with a friendly, cheery smile. “Mr. Cochrane, as you must know,” he said affably, “I have been looking forward to the pleasure of this meeting for a long time.” But Cochrane remained seated, his hands on the arms of the old wooden chair. He only stared at Thorsen, seeing the pale, handsome face he had seen a thousand times on update transmis-sions, fiche, and the networks—icy blue eyes, sleek blond hair, short in a military style, all the attributes of a demigod, a deranged fiend.

Thorsen slowly lowered his hand with a self-deprecating grin of good humor. If he felt slighted by Cochrane’s rejection, he didn’t show it. “I think we have a great deal to talk about” was all he said, in the slightly raspy voice that invariably made people strain to listen carefully, lest they miss anything, creating the impression that everything he said was worth hearing. Then he sat down on the desk behind him and made an offhand gesture to the guard behind Cochrane to step out into the hallway.

“Where’s Sir John?” Cochrane demanded. “And his driver?” “They’re simply waiting in another office,” Thorsen said easily.

-‘And believe me, I’m not comfortable holding them. But, I have to tell you, by avoiding that checkpoint… I don’t know, Zefram. The mood of the citizens today. They don’t want to think that the rich and the privileged are above the law.” He grinned obscenelY. it seemed to Cochrane, as if he were speaking as one equal to another. “And who can blame them, hmm?” Cochrane remembered the citizens he had seen lined against a x~all by’ the Fourth World mercenaries. “What’s the penalty for avoiding a checkpoint?” For the first time, Cochrane saw a glimmer of the real Thorsen.

The man’s face became expressionless, just for an instant, as if its mask had slid aside. But the practiced smile, perfected for the interyielders and the public, returned just as quickly. “Hard to say. I’m no expert on these matters. It all depends on mitigating circumstances, doesn’t it?” Thorsen stood up again, glanced away. adding, “If there are any, of course.” Cochrane stared at Thorsen as he in turn studied the posters on the wall. The office was in an underground section of the Battersea Stadium. Flat photographs of old baseball players with their bats and gloves were faded behind dust-streaked glass.

Newson, Jein, Delgado, Bokai… the names again stirred memories from Cochrane’s youth. A youth that increasingly seemed centuries past, not merely decades.

“It is a pity we’re not meeting under more favorable circumstances.” Thorsen said. He reached out to straighten a crooked team photograph of the Manchester Druids. “I’ve been getting the impression—surely unintended—that you’ve been trying to avoid me.” ‘q have been.” Thorsen paused to regard Cochrane, then walked slowly, menacingly, around him, returning to sit down behind the desk of some nameless administrator, long retired, along with the sport he had served. He folded his graceful, beautifully shaped hands before him on the writing surface. The office
vas lit with retrofitted emergency fixtures and the strong light from overhead cast clark shadows across his finely featured face. When he spoke, it was as if the words came from a death’s-head.

“Yet here you are at at last.” “Only because six of your zombies held fistguns on me.” “These are dangerous times, Mr. Cochrane. It would not serve the Republic well if it was learned that a noted visitor such as yourself had come to harm here.” Cochrane didn’t understand the game Thorsen was playing.

Nor did he care to learn what it was. “So now that I’m safe, am I free to go?” Thorsen opened his hands. “Of course you’re free to go. Any time.” To test the theory, Cochrane stood.

Thorsen remained seated. “Of course, I would appreciate a few moments to talk with you, but.. 7’ “But what?” “Nothing. I have work to do, too, Mr. Cochrane. These are busy times for the Republic. For the whole planet for that matter. And you were just a passenger in the limousine.” Thorsen sighed, as if with the burden of his office—an office which he had taken, not been given. “Of course, at some point, Sir John and his… ‘driver’ will have to be interrogated. And my troopers can sometimes get… carried away in their zealous pursuit of perfection.” Thorsen’s mask slipped again. “Shall I call for an escort so you can be on your way?” Cochrane remained standing. “I want to leave with Sir John and his driver.” Thorsen’s voice slowly colored with a terrible, restrained fury.

“And I would like to talk with you, sir. As I have wanted to talk with you for the past seventeen years. You at least owe me that much common courtesy if you expect me to show the same toward your friends.” Cochrane sat down.

Thorsen’s calm returned. “Better,” he said.

“What do you want to talk about?” “‘The time has come, the walrus said,’ hmm?” Thorsen replied playfully. His anger seemed to have vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “And what I want to talk about is… you and me. But I know we’re both busy men. In fact, I know a great deal about you.” Thorsen pursed his lips and stared down at his folded hands as if checking unseen notes. “To begin, you were born in what used to be the United States.” “The last I heard it was still there,” Cochrane said with a slight edge to his own voice. This man was dangerous, but Cochrane had difficulty accepting that Earth now allowed such arrogance as Yhorsen’s to so routinely threaten others’ well-being.

“Things change, Mr. Cochrane. Like your life. Raised in Hawaii. in London, India, Seoul—your parents were teachers, weren’t they, traveling the world? Then education at MIT.” Thorsen glanced up to give Cochrane a significant look. “Left after three years, no degree. Genius is seldom appreciated, as I well know. Then to Kashishowa Station on the moon, thanks to a grant from Brack Interplanetary. And finally swallowed up by useless. self-indulgent, private industry.” Cochrane locked eyes with Thorsen. “I go where my work takes Hie.” “Does that include Centauri B II?” Thorsen smiled horribly.

Cochrane did not look away although he wanted to, desperately.

“Alpha Centauri is my home,” Cochrane stated with an inward shudder at the thought of this man’s beliefs ever invading his world. It had taken four years to establish a self-sufficient farming community there that could support a fully equipped continuum-distortion research facility, and now the small colony was thriving. Cochrane was perhaps the first human to have ever said that another world was his home, but it was true.

“I am so sorry to hear that, especially from you.” Thorsen frovned slightly in disapproval. “I’m sure you’re aware that the sentiment here on my home is that anyone who leaves Earth in these turbulent, troubled times is a coward, if not an outright traitor, for abandoning one’s birthplace at the time of her greatest need.” Cochrane knew the argument all too well. Years ago, when he had finally decided to accept Micah Brack’s offer and establish a Cull5’ equipped facility on Alpha Centauri, he had taken part in the same debate a dozen times over, arguing from the other side, Thorsen’s side. In the end, Brack had convinced him otherwise.

And for the right reasons. Modern technology had made Earth too Small. For humanity to survive, it was imperative that it leave its cradle and establish itself on other worlds around other suns.

That way, Brack had finally persuaded Cochrane, even the destruction of an entire planet, by nature or by folly, would not doom the species.

“It is tragically wrong to believe that the advancement of humanity must proceed at the pace of its slowest members,” Cochrane said forcefully, thinking how ironic Brack would find this moment.

Thorsen looked troubled. He cracked his knuckles and the sudden noise in the tense, silent room startled Cochrane. “Are you suggesting that because I care about my home, because I care about saving the planet instead of abandoning it, that I am somehow holding back the species?” Cochrane was tiring of Thorsen’s game and the wretched restraint it required of him. “I am suggesting that your Optimum Movement has brought Earth to the brink of destruction and that because there are functioning, independent colonies on other planets, the species will survive despite your insanity.” The corner of Thorsen’s mouth twitched. “Because of my deep and abiding respect for your work, sir, I will overlook such treasonous slander. But I do suggest you choose your next words more carefully. As a friend of Sir John’s, anything you say will be held against him. And his driver. With most unpleasant consequences.” Cochrane resisted the impulse to strike the sneer from Thorsen’s handsome face. But this tyranny had to end. Someone had to take a stand.

“Just what is it you want from me?” Thorsen stared intently at Cochrane, as if to bend the scientist to his will by the force of his obsession. “I want you to help your real home, Mr. Cochrane. I want you to contribute to Earth instead of sucking it dry and abandoning it.” “I have helped Earth. There’s an interstellar community growing. New economic possibilities for mutual expansion. A whole new—” Thorsen suddenly slammed his palm against the desktop, making Cochrane jump. “A whole new mentality that says because Earth is no longer unique, it is permissible for it to be destroyed!” “It’s your Optimum Movement that’s doing that,” Cochrane snapped.

“On the contrary, sir—it is your greed and selfishness that is at fault.” Cochrane gripped the arms of his chair in frustration and rage.

This man was stupid as well as venal. “Then what do you want me to do’?! Go out and ask everyone to give back their superimpellors? Tell the colonists there’s been a mistake and would the>’ all like to come back to Earth now?” “Don’t be infantile,” Thorsen said coldly. There was more open threat in his manner now than there ever had been.

Cochrane forced himself to calmly try again. There had to be something he could do to help Sir John and Monica, and everyone else this lunatic held hostage. “You say you want me to contribute… then tell me how.” “I want, quite simply, the secret of the continuum-distortion generator.” Cochrane stared at Thorsen, not understanding the request.

“Complete information on the superimpellor is available in any library. Through the Cochrane Foundation, you can download plans for fifty different models at no charge. You can buy parts or fully assembled units or even complete spacecraft from a hundred different companies. Hell, man, if you’ve got fifty thousand Eurodollars for parts and two graduate students, you can build one for yourself in a week. Is that what all this is about?” Thorsen’s reply was slow and measured. “You misunderstand me again, Mr. Cochrane. It’s becoming a bit of a habit with you, isn’t it’?” Cochrane felt the hair on his arms bristle. He saw insanity in Thorsen’s empty blue eyes.

“I am not interested in escaping from Earth. Your fluctuating superimpellor holds no interest for me as a mode of transportation. But the continuum-distortion generator at the heart of it does.” Cochrane knew he had to be extremely careful. For Sir John’s and Monica’s sake, he couldn’t risk raising his voice again, not the way Thorsen was looking at him now. “Again, sir—the plans for my generator are available from any library, or from my Foundation, free of charge.” “I have been patient for seventeen years, Mr. Cochrane. Please, p/ease, don’t make me lose patience with you now.” Cochrane continued with as much composure as he could. It was obvious that Thorsen was about to reach some kind of decision point. “Then with respect, Colonel Thorsen, allow me to say that I do not understand your request. What exactly is it that you want.’?” Thorsen stood up, leaned forward on his knuckles, his face completely hidden in shadow.

“I want the secret of the warp bomb, Mr. Cochrane. And if you expect yourself and your friends to live to see the dawn, you will give it to me now.” Of all the emotions Cochrane felt at that moment, the most powerful was relief. He knew how precarious his position was, but at least he finally knew why Thorsen had pursued him with such obsession. And that obsession had been for nothing.

Cochrane looked at the madman with a steady gaze. “There is no such thing as a ‘warp bomb,’” he said. “Listen to me carefully: That’s an old, senseless rumor without a particle of truth to it.” But Adrik Thorsen shook his head. “On August 8, 2053, a pressurized dome one hundred kilometers from Kashishowa Station literally… disappeared from the face of the moon.” Cochrane sighed. It seemed that old tale would haunt him forever. Shortly after that event, he had appeared at a hearing of the Lunar Safety Board. His testimony had lasted for three days.

Weapons research was not allowed on the moon, which is how the rumors had presumably begun. His residency permit was threatened with suspension. But he had been able to convince the board that his work was not weapons-related. In fact, the explosion was proof that the continuum-distortion generator he was trying to perfect as a precursor to the superimpellor had no possible military application.