Disclaimer: Star Trek: The Original Series belongs to CBS, not me.


"Captain, it looks like the Carolina is just arriving too." Easing the Enterprise toward her assigned dock at Starbase 13, Sulu grunts. "If I didn't know any better, sir, I'd says she's trying to race us into port."

"Sounds like Sam Carmichael, all right. She still must not have figured out that there's no glory in winning a race no one else is running."

Sulu chuckles. "Yes, sir. Steady as she goes."

"Good man, Lieutenant."

Within a few minutes, we're docked and I'm headed for the transporter room with my new PADD. Once I meet with the station's portmaster to sign for the cargo—that shouldn't take more than a few minutes—we can take possession of the materials and be underway. If we're here more than a few hours, I'll be surprised.

Materializing on the starbase's transporter platform, I slide my cane over the edge and jog down to the main level. I've just started heading toward the door when movement reveals someone sitting in a lounge chair several meters away.

He stands, then calls out to me: "Captain."

"Commodore." I smile at Tucker from across the room and alter my course to intercept him. Although I initially had misgivings about working with a handler, I've come to like and respect him over the years. More than that, I trust him. "It's good to finally meet you in person."

I trust him because he's presented himself as my ally rather than attempting to actually handle me. Any reservations I have about him coming on board stem not from Tucker himself but from the Enterprise's history with having staff officers on board. The one hope that I have for avoiding similar problems this time is the fact that Tucker has read all of my reports about those incidents.

"The same here." Stepping forward to accept my handshake, he scuffs his right foot and nearly trips over it. But before I can ask if he's all right, he grabs my hand and pumps it as if nothing had ever happened—except that his thumb hooks underneath my hand rather than on the top. "Sorry to have held you up, and I'm even sorrier to have to meet you for this particular reason, but I am glad that we finally have a chance to meet."

"No need to apologize. Our schedule is flexible, and I have confidence that things with the Committee will work out." Not sure what to make of the upside-down handshake or the stumble, I turn my head to scan for the doorway, then gesture toward it. "We haven't been to this starbase in several years, but I seem to remember the portmaster's office being through that door and somewhere to the right."

"I was here twelve years ago, but I'm afraid I don't remember that trip, so I won't be any help. I'll follow you."

As soon as we start moving, Tucker's handshake and stumble become two pieces of a more complete picture. He keeps pace with me easily enough, but he limps heavily on his right side and there's something odd about the overall way he walks that I can't quite put my finger on. Curious. Although he never mentioned having a disability himself, it does explain the way he chose to interpret his role as my handler.

Several yards past the door, while I'm still getting my bearings in the starbase's central corridor, he says, "You're one of the few officers I've ever met who hasn't immediately asked the obvious question. Either that means Captain Carmichael called to warn you—" I adjust my trajectory to avoid ricocheting off the wall and cutting him off, and he says, "—or it means that you're concentrating."

I laugh. "Neither. It means that I get tired of that being the first question someone asks me." Despite the basic curvature of the corridor being the same as on the Enterprise, the starbase's corridor is narrower with a lower ceiling, which means that it has more reverberation than I'm used to. "Although you might be right in thinking that I should concentrate. I'm starting to remember this starbase now—the reverb here is killer."

"How did you manage last time?"

"Not very well. I had only been echolocating for six months or so. I didn't have enough experience to manage the reverb—plus we were on a tight deadline—so I let Spock lead. I have more experience now, and we have more time."

"You also have better equipment, don't you?" Comments and questions like that prove that Tucker really does read all the paperwork we send him, from meeting minutes to after-action reports. We just talked about the new signal transmitter prototype in our staff meeting last week.

"That too." The new prototype has user-adjustable controls, an integrated object recognition program, and an onboard reading program. I stop now to adjust the settings for the first time. "What's your secret for keeping up with all the paperwork we send you, Commodore?"

"Fortunately, I'm a fast reader. Admittedly, though, it's been a while since I reviewed the prototype drawings for the original signal transmitter, so would you mind refreshing my memory of how it worked?"

The device that we refer to as a signal transmitter actually consists of two transmitters, one just above and in front of each ear, connected by a tritanium band that wraps behind my head. Each transmitter emits a tone every two seconds, the left and right sides offset by one second, with a net effect of one signal per second. The sound of each signal is changed by what it encounters in the environment, so I know what's around me based on the changes I hear when it comes back to me. "The difference with this new model is that I can adjust how close together it sends out its signals, and I can adjust the volume manually."

"That's what you were just doing?"

"Right." Tucker and I have been in such close contact over the last five years that I sometimes forget he only knows us by our paper trail. "Think of each signal as flicking a light on and off; the closer together you compress the flashes of light, the better you see. Usually."

"I'm with you so far. The same, I guess, goes for volume—the louder the sound, the farther you see. Right?"

"Usually, yes. But when there's a lot of reverb, the louder, faster sounds actually make it harder to pick out useful information because everything is already amplified. In this case, slowing the signals down and lowering the volume makes it easier to concentrate."

"So with your old signal transmitter, how did you adjust the signal speed?"

"There was no way to slow it down, and I speeded it up by clicking my tongue to make the extra signals myself. Now I have four speeds—one signal every four seconds, the original speed of one signal every two seconds, one signal every second, or two signals every second—and four volume settings: low, medium, high, and automatic."

"How is it?"

I have to turn my head more to compensate for the slower, softer signal—directing the signals more deliberately at one wall and then the other—but it does give me a clearer picture of the curve of both walls. "That should do it."

"Very impressive. I understand now why you call Mr. Scott a miracle worker. But even so, two prototypes in a week seems like a fast turnaround time. Is he pushing because you're running out of time?"

"He wants all the prototypes approved before the end of the mission so the Committee can factor that into their decision." I start walking again, only to stop again another dozen meters later when the corridor splits, narrowing into an outer and an inner ring. Signage on one of the walls probably identifies which track I want; the difficulty is finding it. "Let's hope the reading program works as well as everything else has so far."

"What was wrong with the old one?"

"I had to be looking directly at the sign before it would read, which meant that I had to know where to look. In a situation like this, it was useless."

"Then let's hope this works. Take whatever time you need."

The left arm of my signal transmitter features a swing-down arm that lowers a bone-conduction earphone into position. On the forward edge of the earpiece sits a camera that feeds directly into an object recognition program and a reading program. If it works the way Scotty intended, the camera's wide-angle setting should allow me to scan for the directory. "I may have to ask you for help if this doesn't work."

"That's fine too."

Lowering the arm into place activates the integrated system. One scan of the corridor prompts a litany of information, far more than I actually need: "Starbase 13 Corridor A, 5.25 meters ahead, 10:00. Starbase 13 Corridor B, 5.25 meters ahead, 2:00." Directing a scan over my right shoulder in hopes of finding more specific signage turns up nothing, so I repeat the scan over my left shoulder. "Starbase 13 Corridor A Directory. Read?"

"Yes."

"Records Office, A10. Personnel Office A9. Security Office A8. Portmaster's Office A7. Quartermaster's…"

"Stop reading." I gesture toward the inner ring, where the corridor widens and the ceiling rises. The change in architecture dulls the reverb to a more manageable level, so I adjust my signals while we we're walking. "Now I'm looking for A7."

"That seemed painless from where I stand. I'm assuming that was what you were hoping for?"

"This is the first time in five years that I've been able to read just by looking around. I know Scotty understands that these little changes do make a difference, but I don't think he fully realizes just how big they are."

"Probably not. But you do seem to have a great crew, Captain."

"That's why I fight so hard for them." The device begins calling out room numbers as I scan. A signal from my right transmitter bounces off of a doorway on that side, and the computer announces, "A10." Another signal bounces off of a doorway on my left: "A9."

"It should be the next door on the left."

A signal bounces off of the door in question, and I look toward it. "A7," the computer says. "Read?"

"Yes."

"A7. Portmaster's Office, Commodore Henry Neilson."

"Here we are." I feel for the door chime on the wall, then listen for the response. I don't hear one, but the door slides open to let me step in.

"Commodore Henry Neilson, 3.5 meters, 12:00. Office chairs, 2.75 meters, 12:00. Desk…"

I push the arm back into its inactive position, inline with the signal transmitter band, because now it's more of a distraction than a help. By the time it tells me that there are chairs and a desk in front of me, I've already spotted them—two chairs, one on each end of the desk—as well as built-in shelving along the back wall. "Commodore Neilson? Captain James T. Kirk, USS Enterprise." I hold out my hand, expecting a handshake that never comes. "This is Commodore Ethan Tucker—"

"I'm aware of the situation." Neilson has already started retreating behind his desk. A small man, short and light, he moves with the ease of either an athlete or a dancer. "Sit. Tucker, are you capable of helping him find the chair, or do I need to do it?"

"I could if he needed me to."

"Thank you, Commodore, but that won't be necessary. I see both chairs." Since Tucker is the senior officer, protocol dictates that he should have the first pick of the seats. Still, just in case there's any question as to why I'm not moving toward one of them, I gesture toward both chairs. "After you."

Tucker moves toward the left-hand chair, so I take the one on the right, retracting my cane and reattaching it to my uniform once I'm seated. More sophisticated mobility devices do exist, and I've tried most of them at one point or another, but I like the simplicity and immediacy of the cane. It gives me details that my signal transmitter can't, details that bring the galaxy to life. But it's such a primitive device that I sometimes think people accustomed to power transfer their perceptions of it onto me. I get Neilson's reaction more often than I'd like.

"You manage surprisingly well, Captain."

"With all due respect, Commodore—I hold myself to the same standard as every other starship captain in the Fleet. There should be nothing surprising about me walking into an office and sitting down without help."

I'm struck by the difference between Neilson and Tucker. Aesthetically speaking, Neilson is more attractive: smaller, lighter, more graceful. Tucker is larger—both taller and heavier—and considerably less agile in the way he moves. Five years ago, I suspect their appearances might have fooled me. But from where I sit now, Tucker is clearly more attractive.

"Captain Carmichael and the Carolina will convey the cargo to Delta Kappa Six." Neilson taps the end of a folder laying on the desk between us. "The Enterprise has been reassigned to handle a more urgent situation. It seems that someone on the Personnel Oversight Committee believes you are best suited to the task. Do you have a way of reading sensitive documents, or does it need to be read to you?"

"Starships run on paperwork, Commodore. Of course I can read. I can access the print directly—" I gesture toward the folder. "—or a digital file, if you have one available."

"I'll have my secretary send it to you." He pushes the folder toward me, then reaches for the intercom on his desk.

Laying the file in my lap, I lift the paper file's cover with one hand and swing the reading device into place with the other. "Office of Starfleet Intelligence. Read?"

"Yes."

"Office of Starfleet Intelligence: Vice Admiral David Michael Mueller, Chief of Starfleet Intelligence. Report on breaches of the Romulan Neutral Zone in Sector F-013. Report prepared on Stardate 5617.8 by Captain Adoración Merlo, Commander Lincoln Thomas, Lieutenant Commander Vincente Davis."

While the computer reads, I lift the file just far enough to activate my PADD and check for the original message, but it hasn't arrived yet.

"On stardate 5610.1, a single uncloaked Romulan Bird-of-Prey was seen breaching the Neutral Zone in Sector F-013/02 and returning immediately to Romulan territory. On stardate 5613.3, two Romulan Birds-of-Prey were seen uncloaking in Sector F-013/02 in violation of the Neutral Zone and then returning toward Romulan territory. The cloaks were re-engaged after departure."

A new message appears in my document viewer, sent from Starbase 13, and I open it because these are the types of details I need to get my fingers on. It's one thing to listen to a living person present information, something else entirely to listen to a computer read. Reading things for myself, I can control the pace and stop to process what I'm reading. For instance, I find it interesting that the Romulans have reverted to using their old bird-of-prey design instead of the Klingon D7s that they've been using for a couple of years now.

Once the message appears underneath my fingertips, I swing the reading device back to deactivate it and close the paper file, laying it back on the corner of the desk. I skim to catch up with where the readout left off.

On stardate 5617.6, one uncloaked Romulan Bird-of-Prey was seen breaching the Neutral Zone in Sector F-013/02. Two additional Romulan Birds-of-Prey subsequently uncloaked in that same location, and all three returned to Romulan territory uncloaked.

Sector F-013/02 is not regularly patrolled by Federation ships and contains no Federation outposts or colonies at the request of the inhabitants of Menno Four, a star system located within this sector. Menno Four is a member of the United Federation of Planets, accepted for membership in 2204. Mennoans are extremely reclusive and prefer minimal contact with off-worlders. The only other inhabited world in this sector, Foscara Six, is not known to the Federation.

"Are you familiar with the Mennoans, Captain?"

"Yes. The Enterprise delivered an emergency supply of pharmaceuticals to their Minister of Medicine two Earth years ago."

"How did that encounter go?"

"The Mennoans can be challenging, but clear communication about what is and what is not negotiable goes a long way. We had no incidents." Romulans are breaching the Neutral Zone and he's worried about a possible diplomatic scuffle with a species of unarmed recluses?

"At least you have that in your favor. Have you reached the recommendations?"

"I should be done in a moment." That's the benefit of reading braille versus listening to a computer readout: I can carry on a conversation and keep reading at the same time.

Recommended actions:
- Notify Menno Four of Romulan activity within 2.5 AU of the Menno star system
- Explore Foscara Six to determine cultural readiness for first contact and/or applicability of the Prime Directive, including planetary defense capability
- Establish Federation presence in this sector immediately.

I shut the PADD off and move my hands away from the screen to let Neilson know that I'm finished. A couple of his comments have my full attention now. "Commodore, may I speak frankly?"

"Go on."

"The Enterprise has had successful contact with the Mennoans, handled more than 50 first contacts, and successfully negotiated encounters with the Romulans on three separate occasions. We were already in this sector. And yet—in spite of our qualifications—you seem to doubt our ability to handle this situation. I'd like to know why."

"Are you sure, Captain? You remember, of course, that you and I aren't alone."

That's an answer in and of itself—and the subtle shift of fabric moving in Tucker's chair says that he knows it too—but I push ahead anyway because I want Neilson to say it for the record. "Of course I'm sure. I have nothing to hide from Commodore Tucker. Why do you question the Enterprise's ability to manage a situation for which we are uniquely qualified?"

"I don't see the wisdom in sending the Fleet's best ship into a potentially deadly situation with a disabled skipper at the helm. You apparently have a very talented and competent crew, and you do seem to have gotten extremely lucky on a number of occasions, but a ship is only as good as her skipper. Your luck will eventually run out."

Tucker clears his throat. "If you believe that the Enterprise is unlikely to succeed, you have a duty to object to Starfleet's assignment. Why haven't you done that? Given the nature of this particular assignment and the enormous potential for risk to the Federation if it fails—"

"Six of the most important players in Starfleet politics decided that the Enterprise is worthy of the assignment. Who am I to argue?"

"The man on the front line whose starbase could be in jeopardy if this assignment doesn't succeed. If your objections are legitimate, it shouldn't matter who gave the assignment."

"You know as well as I do that questioning the Committee's decision would be political suicide. Unlike you, I have no intention of retiring as a commodore. Does that answer both of your questions?"

"It answers mine," Tucker says. "Captain?"

"Absolutely. Commodore Neilson, I do appreciate your honesty." I shift the PADD on my lap and re-extend my cane, making clear my intention to leave. "Is there anything else you can tell me about this situation, or are we free to get underway?"

"Fortunately or unfortunately, our sensors have detected nothing and I have no additional information for you. You can go."

"Thank you." Reactivating my signal transmitter, I head for the door and don't stop until after Tucker and I are in the hallway with a closed door between the two of us and Neilson. "I thought that went well."

"You got him to put his opinion on the record," Tucker says. "That's more than I expected."

"That's why I thought it went well."

"In fact, it went so well that I need to step down the hall to the communications office. With any luck, the starbase's computer will have been recording that meeting; if so, I want a copy of it for my report. The Committee needs to see that."

"I'm afraid I'll have to follow you this time. The communications office must have been listed further down the directory."

"A2."

A8 is directly across the hall from Neilson's office, so A2 should be three doors down on the right. Now that I have a number to look for, I activate the object recognition and reading program again. "So I gather that you've seen the report?"

"No, actually I haven't. May I?"

"You're telling me that that whole conversation was a bluff on your part?" The report wasn't marked Eyes Only, so I have no problem with Tucker seeing it. I just need to figure out how to hand it to him; that upside-down handshake still has me confused. A6. "Remind me not to play poker with you, Commodore."

"It was an educated bluff, but thank you. My office at Starfleet Headquarters is down the hall from the Intelligence office, so I hear rumors. I knew something serious was going on out in this neck of the woods. This close to the Neutral Zone, it had to involve the Romulans."

"That was still impressive. Which side should I hand you the report on—the left?"

"Yes, please." He stops walking long enough to receive it, then tucks it under his right arm. "Thanks. I'll have to hold onto it until we're stopped in the communications office."

"That's fine. Before you left Earth, did you have any inkling the Committee had changed our assignment?"

"I knew they were considering it, yes; I had just gotten done badgering them about it. I hadn't heard their final decision yet, though, and I certainly wasn't privy to the details of the alternative."

A4.

"You badgered them into changing our final assignment? Why?"

"Because the Enterprise is still the finest ship in the Fleet, and her captain isn't going to spend the next five years making cargo runs; he's going to spend them exploring and keeping galactic peace. I told the Committee that if they were genuinely considering letting you retain command, I needed to observe you carrying out a real assignment—something with stakes that mattered."

"So the fact that they reconsidered is a good sign." Mechanical Room. "It says I have a fighting chance."

"Exactly." Coming up on the end of the corridor, Tucker slows. "Here we are. Sorry for the delay in getting back to the ship, but Neilson's attitude is similar to some of the folks on the Committee itself. This is my way of letting you address them."

A2. "I appreciate that."

The door opens and I follow Tucker into the small office, disengaging the reading arm again. A young woman looks up at us from behind a desk, changing the direction of her voice. "Can I help you, Commodore?"

"Yes. We were just in a meeting with Portmaster Neilson. I need you to access the system log and save a copy of that meeting to a data card for me. I have a security authorization, if you need it."

"Yes, sir." The young woman punches a series of controls on her side of the console, then looks back up at us. "I'm ready."

"Security Authorization: Lambda-Zeta-Sigma 1-3-3-8-5-1-7 Alpha-Epsilon."

The computer on her side of the desk answers with a series of bleeps and whirs, then announces that it's working.

"It'll just be a minute, sir."

"Thank you." While we're waiting, Tucker pulls the folder out and flips it open. "Now that we have a minute, let's see what's brewing."

"I hope you don't have any houseplants back home that need watering, or pets that need to be fed. It looks like we're going to be out here a while."

The answer is a laugh. "Fortunately, I was born an optimist. I warned my wife that I could be gone a while if everything went well. And any assignment that involves both the Mennoans and the Romulans is guaranteed to take time."

"Especially when you throw a potential first contact into the equation."

After apparently scanning the report, he grunts. "The Foscari? Well, I'll be."

"Commodore?"

"You remember me pointing out earlier that you hadn't asked the obvious question?" He doesn't wait for my answer, just flips the folder closed again and hands it back. "Now's the time to ask."