PART II

Chapter 5

Kirk, forewarned by Uhura of his admiral's displeasure, elected to take the call in the briefing room and not on the bridge. Command wanted Spock present, too, for whatever information was to be conveyed, a dictate made so specific it piqued both their curiosity. Uhura put the call through and the waspish features of Admiral Komack appeared on screen.

"Captain. Commander."

"Sir." If Komack looked this out of sorts, then it augured nothing good for any impending mission.

"Gentlemen, we have a situation that has come to a head on Matli."

Spock's presence for this briefing fell into place. This was all about Gurad, then. He'd surmised as much, indeed would not be much of a starship captain if he were unaware of the political fallout of Vulcan's efforts to settle a new colony in this sector of space. The colony, a close match to their parent world, a veritable home away from home, prospered. Gurad, however, lay close to Matli space, and the Matli had taken it amiss Vulcans should have the temerity to colonise a world so close to their own territory, no matter Gurad was a world incompatible with Matli physiology. Matli, it seemed, possessed even less tolerance for thin air and hellish heat than Terrans.

He met Spock's eye, aware a Vulcan diplomatic delegation had been allotted the task of defusing Matli antagonism. From where Komack was heading, he presumed that delegation had met with less than stellar success.

"The Vulcan delegation, Admiral?" Spock asked, proving he was already on the same page and his captain was not the only one who kept up with political developments.

"They have missed three scheduled check-ins with their superiors on Vulcan." Komack let out a huff of air, a sign of suppressed annoyance. "The last contact from the Vulcan delegation, and not through their normal channels, was that the Matli had manufactured a grievance and placed them under arrest for delivering a great insult."

"Insult, sir?" Apposite or not, a memory of Ambassador Sarek's abrasive personality surfaced in his mind.

"Their communication was curtailed, Kirk, a lot of it garbled. The delegation's leader seemed to say something about refusing a marriage contract, but like I say garbled, so don't take that as verbatim. Somehow the Vulcan High Council heard of Enterprise's presence in the area," and Komack features morphed into an outright scowl, which probably meant T'Pau had been pulling strings behind the scenes, "and they have specifically asked she and her crew lend all aid and assistance in rescuing what we now assume are Vulcan captives."

No wonder Komack's nose was so out of joint; the admiral loathed the notion of Starfleet dancing to Vulcan's tune, and there was always the potential for a mission going belly-up and Starfleet left with egg on its face and managing the political fall-out for years to come. He could pretty much guess his instructions: a quiet, efficient extraction, with a minimum of fuss and no casualties on either side. Nevertheless, he would have Komack spell it out.

For the record, then. "Admiral, how much force am I authorised to use in pursuance of this mission?"

"The minimum consistent with achieving your goal, Captain!" Exactly the sort of non-answer answer he'd expected; it still galled.

Beside him, Spock stirred in his seat and addressed Komack in his most severe, most formal bearing that bespoke his own disapproval of their superior's winning way with words. "Admiral Komack, we shall require a copy of the delegation's last transmission."

"Already taken care of. Enterprise's communications officer should have that by now, together with a full report of the delegation's objectives and the scope of their mission. You will also find additional material from Federation Intelligence and what Vulcan observers have been able to tell us, an abstract of what they believe has been going on in that sector." Komack's scowl deepened. "They're for the attention of captain and first officer only. Understood?"

"Aye, Admiral," they said in impromtu chorus.

Komack gave them a curt nod. "Get it done, Kirk. Komack, out."

The screen turned dark and he let out a breath of his own annoyance. "Well, Mr Spock, that was short and sweet."

"Indeed, Captain."

He reined in his temper and, after a pause for a calming breath, hit the comm panel switch. "Kirk to bridge."

"Sulu here, sir."

"Mr Sulu, lay in a course for the Matli homeworld. Warp factor six." He would not have the engines strained; they might need all of Enterprise's power at her destination and for that he would need to keep his girl in fine fettle.

"Aye, sir."

"ETA?"

Chekhov said something he could not make out and Sulu added, "Twelve hours and fourteen minutes, Captain."

He thanked Sulu and turned his attention back to his first officer. "Alright, Spock, let's see what sort of mess has fallen in our lap."

xxx

Kirk sat in his quarters, eyes blurring with his efforts to concentrate on the information on his computer screen. Rubbing at his eyes probably wouldn't help; a conviction he should ask McCoy for help increased by the day, just that it would not be this day, not yet. Two hours out from Matli and he still knew not what to make of the material he'd been given to digest, a monstrosity of dubious and ambiguous intelligence. Nothing meshed. Questionable intelligence. Imagine that?

Spock, too, shared his assessment of the data. His first officer might prefer to engage his efforts in the relative certainties of scientific endeavours, nevertheless his political instincts were sound, something that ceased to surprise, after he discovered his friend's family background. He'd left Spock to analyse the Vulcan delegation's last communication, because it was utterly lost on him, a mess of Vulcan, interspersed with white noise, the quality so bad, the universal translator retreated in a magnificent sulk, and would have no truck with such impossible antics.

He eyed the empty coffee carafe on his desk. He needed a break, and a refill and a sandwich wouldn't go amiss either — he'd missed breakfast — so he headed off to main rec. He found McCoy there and settled in the seat opposite him, staring down the doctor's pointed perusal of his meal.

"You able to talk about what we might find on Matli, Jim?"

"Some of it. Damned if I know what to make of most of the stuff that's been marked as restricted, Bones. It amounts to a resounding 'we know nothing'."

"You'll get there." McCoy stared down at the cooling dregs of his own coffee. "Have we heard anything else from the Vulcan delegation?"

"Not a peep."

"Gurad is ready to send healers our way if we need them."

"Yes, I heard, but I'd rather not set off the Matli with Vulcan ships in their system, no matter how innocuous the passengers. Let's hope we don't need them." He munched into his sandwich, which put an effective halt in the conversation.

As reports went, that which detailed the delegation's mission objective amounted to a particularly turgid and indigestible exemplar and, aside from numbers — the delegation comprised five members of Vulcan's diplomatic service and one accompanying spouse — as he'd said to McCoy, it told him little. The delegation's mission was described in terms of assuaging Matli fears of what Vulcan expansion near Matli space meant, perhaps even to offer the carrot of trading opportunities with Federation worlds and the protection of said trade by Starfleet.

The intelligence reports, on the other hand, as usual were fat on theory and thin on real detail, although they did underline there had been no sign of Matli shipping in Federation space for the best part of three months, as if the Matli anticipated making an enemy. No reprisal impoundment of their shipping by Federation bureaucrats for them. No siree. But it seemed hardly credible the Matli should have suspended their entire trading fleet, so who were they trading with? The non-aligned worlds appeared to be the answer, a considerable proportion with the Orions, a lesser considerable proportion with the Gammenor Primacy, the latter an answer that gave him pause. He polished off one triangle of his sandwich, while he thought through the ramifications of that.

The Federation first encountered the Gammenori some nineteen years previously. In the intervening years, the Federation had very little to do with this newly discovered fellow tribe of space-farers, largely because they aggressively patrolled their borders, evincing little desire to extend diplomatic ties or even negotiate new trade routes. The Federation threw out any aspirations of pursuing friendly relations, when further study elicited the disturbing information their new neighbours were a society in which creeps like Colonel Green and Herr Schicklgruber would feel right at home; rumours, never substantiated, circled that the Gammmenori traded in the flesh of sentient beings, and in the early days of Gurad colonisation, a small number of Vulcan ships had disappeared, but no proof the Gammenori were responsible for those losses existed.

He paused mid chew. No one ever thought to match intelligence reports of the ebb and flow of Matli trade with movement of Gammenori vessels? It seemed hardly credible. Then again he might be barking up the wrong tree.

"What?" said McCoy.

"Got an idea." He put down the remains of his sandwich, dabbing at his hands with a napkin and steered a path toward a bulkhead with a comm panel. He palmed the comm switch and called up the bridge. "Uhura, I have no information on who exactly the Vulcans attempted to contact in the Matli government to discuss release of their people. Find out, please. Also, I want Gammenori comm chatter monitored until further notice."

"Gammemori, Captain?"

"Gammenori."

"Aye, sir." If his request startled Uhura, she was too professional to show it

"In the meantime, I'd like you to open a channel to the offices of T'Pau of Vulcan and inform her staff I should very much like to speak with her. I'll take the call in my quarters."

"Aye sir." Less of a surprise with missing Vulcans to be repatriated.

He dropped back into his seat at his and McCoy's table. "Go on, ask," he said to McCoy, who was doing a poor job of hiding his interest.

"T'Pau?"

"No one in the Matli government has deigned to return Vulcan's signals. I think the situation cries out for a more compelling imperative to garner said government's full and undivided attention."

McCoy's brows drew together. "And T'Pau will help with that? How?"

"Remains to be seen, but I have something in mind and it can't help to ask."

"And I can see you're not going to tell me any more." McCoy gave him a mock glower. "Oh, you tease, you."

He grinned, stuffed the remains of his sandwich in his mouth, grabbed what remained of his coffee and gave McCoy an airy wave. His good mood lasted until he made it back to his quarters and the morass of information to be wrangled into some sort of explanatory narrative. He summoned up all his patience, looked at what the intelligence reports, mostly Vulcan reports, said about Gammenori and Matli shipping movements and was glad he did. Interesting. Still, never had he been so happy to take Uhura's call; it rescued him from an impending headache.

To his surprise, T'Pau herself was on the channel. A surprise, since the old trout, had troubles aplenty, beset by political adversaries of an isolationist persuasion; less astounding was the impassive gaze she bestowed on him, betraying none of those concerns.

He did not dwell on pleasantries and got straight down to business. "Ma'am, we'll be arriving at Matli within the hour, but that is not why I am calling. What sort of terms are you on with the Orion syndicate?"

T'Pau tilted her head in a manner reminiscent of Spock. "What do you have in mind, Kirk?" Interesting to hear her speech shorn of antique flourishes.

So much for his brilliant idea. The matriarch's difficulties at home presented an unexpected hitch to his plans. The High Council had placed her under investigation; she did not elaborate why, and he had not the temerity to enquire, but it did mean she was not normally allowed outgoing communications. Enterprise's current mission presumably qualified for an exemption. Damn.

Fortunately, T'Pau had a solution. "Kirk, you may contact the Orion attaché on Vulcan. As Terrans might say, he owes me a favour. Mention my name."

He proffered his thanks and T'Pau signed off.

As it happened, the Matriarch of Vulcan and the Orion attaché, an astonishingly receptive and accommodating person, proved easier nuts to crack than Admiral Komack, who was a lot less inclined to listen to an uppity captain.

"Order Farragut and Apollo to sector…" Komack's jaw worked for a moment, while his brain wrapped itself around his request. "Two ships, Kirk!" Komack said, attesting to his solid grasp of arithmetic. "Kindly explain to me, Captain, why the hell I should do this?"

"Of course, sir, I quite understand if Command has not the resources to carry out patrols at this time." Resources were not a problem. He knew that. Komack knew that. "The Vulcans have a stake in this and, it occurs to me, they may very well be prepared to undertake the patrols themselves." A risky strategy, this, to raise the spectre of a perception Starfleet wasn't doing everything in its power to help Vulcan in its cause. In the current political climate on Vulcan, the Federation Council exerted itself to do all it could to assist T'Pau in warding off political rivals, who sought to reduce the Matriarch's status to that of figurehead alone. Only a fool would take the risk of blighting one's career prospects by doing anything to weaken T'Pau's position. Who was Enterprise's first officer again?

Komack ground his teeth. "What will this patrol achieve? I say again, Captain, why the hell should I do this?" he asked, more for the sake of form.

And so explain he did and, while Komack might have agreed to his plan, the admiral conveyed an unsettling feeling he was allowing him enough rope to hang himself.

"Anything else, Captain?"

"Sir, I would convey to Farragut's and Apollo's captains they should not be bashful about making a noisy entrance and turning the place upside down, when they get there." Shake that tree.

In that Komack, at least concurred, ascribing to the principal if one were to do a thing, it should be done thoroughly. Komack gave him a final curt nod and signed off, which left him staring at the intelligence material again.

He huffed. He needed more data, a great deal more data, but for the moment he had done what he could.

xxx