STAR TREK - TOS - Probe

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Star Trek - TOS - Probe
PROLOGUE
In its five hundred millennia of existence, the entity had been given many names. Some had called it
Probe; some, Messenger or Wanderer. Some, such as the silicon-based creatures of the Orphan star
cluster, whose metabolic rate was so slow as to prohibit meaningful communication with most star-faring
intelligences, had called it Traveler.
But its creators had not named it. They did not name machines, even one of this magnitude and
complexity, one whose centuries-long building had consumed all their energies and half their world.
Instead, they had described it: Seeker, they had called it, for that was its function, to seek another race
like their own. Communicator, they had called it, for that also was its function, to communicate not only
with others like themselves but with any who might someday become like themselves.
Protector; they had called it, for that, too, was to be its function, and Nurturer and Recorder.
But Seeker they had called it most often, for that was its ultimate purpose: to find, somewhere in the
galaxy, a race the equal of their own, with which it could Speak in the True Language. When that day
came, it would return, bringing with it the message that they were no longer alone in a universe that
seemed to favor only the scurrying mites that had, before the Winnowing, dominated the waterless areas
of their own planet.
But in its half million years, it had found none. In the waters of hundreds of worlds it had found primitives
who held the promise that, in another million years, they might be able to Speak, might become capable
of learning the True Language.
The blue world the entity had recently departed had held such primitives for millennia. Time and again it
had returned, listening to their evolving story, etching their rudimentary recitations into its crystalline
memory, observing, prompting them in the direction of Speech. But then they had fallen silent. No
amount of calling, no intensity of prodding, had brought forth a response until, finally, the creators'
instructions had said: Prepare the world for new life. Whatever the cause of the primitives' extinction,
remove it; insure that it will neither recur on this world nor spread to infect other worlds.
But the instructions had barely begun to be implemented when the primitives had reappeared, had raised
their planet-bound voices in joy.
The entity had stopped, considering the puzzle.
Its creators had included neither instructions nor explanation for such a circumstance. Had the primitives
made a sudden evolutionary leap? Had they developed abilities even the creators had not possessed,
enabling them to leave their world and return, unseen, at will? Or had another race even more advanced
than the creators found them, transported them to some other world, and then returned them?
There were no answers. The primitives were still primitives, little different from their ancestors a thousand
years before. When questioned, they would speak only of enclosed spaces and chaos and then freedom.
The machines that darted through space like the mites that rode them had not the power of Speech, nor
did they respond in any fashion to the True Language except to become silent and motionless.
In the end, the creators' instructions, incomplete as they were proving to be, had left no choice for the
entity but to move on, to continue its search, continue its monitoring of other primitives on other worlds.
But it would return, not in another millennium but in a decade, for that blue world now occupied a special
place in the entity's crystalline memory, a place occupied by no other world. There were unanswered
questions there, the kind of unanswered questions that implied not the small uncertainties of the position
or spectrum of a star but the possibility of danger, certainly to the primitives, perhaps to the entity itself.
Perhaps, even, to the creators.
Only once before in its five hundred millennia of existence had such danger arisen. For a few milliseconds
the entity attempted to reconstruct the events of that brief period of danger and destruction, but failed.
The crystalline memory was damaged-and unlike its physical structure, those lost memories could not be
regenerated.
And in their absence, despite the questions-the possibilities-that circled soundlessly, endlessly in its
ever-evolving crystalline pathways, the entity could only continue on its mission.
Unknowing, it moved forward, skirting the edge of the Neutral Zone that separated Federation territory
and that space claimed by the Romulan Empire.
ONE Jim Kirk was glad he'd come home alone. It gave him the chance to fall in love all over again.
He'd been halfway across the galaxy and back, seen more different. kinds of cities in a year than most
Starfleet officers saw in a lifetime, from metropolises vast enough to swallow the North American
continent whole to villages rustic enough to have come out of an old Swiss woodcut-and still, there was
no place like San Francisco.
He'd decided to adopt it as his hometown his first day at the Academy, when he and Gary Mitchell went
running up and down the rolling hills of the old city. The years he'd spent here, on and off, since returning
from the Enterprise's first five-year mission had only strengthened his feelings for the place and its people.
The Presidio, Haight-Ashbury, the new city that housed Starfleet headquarters-there was half a
millennium of history here that Kirk liked being a part of. Earlier in the day, he'd walked by his old
apartment that overlooked the Bay... and been reminded of his days here as Starfleet's chief of
operations. It occurred to him that now there were few places in the city he could walk that didn't bring
to mind some memory, weren't connected to some person or past event. If Spock and McCoy had
taken him up on his offer to spend a couple days here, the last few days would have been very different.
Which was why the sight of Golden Gate Park on this, his last morning on Earth, came as such a surprise.
Everything was so lush, so overgrown, it was like walking into the middle of a tropical rain forest.
Rhododendrons leapt out of carefully planted terraces to spring across his path, grass covered the slate
path beneath his feet, and (though he knew this must be his imagination) even the trees along.Kennedy
Drive seemed several meters taller. All residual effects of the monsoonlike rains brought on by the Probe,
just a few short weeks ago.
Scientists were saying that growth patterns across the planet would be affected for another few years.
The Probe, after all, had almost sent the Earth back into another ice age. Worldwide, many of the
immediate effects of its visit had receded-cloud cover and planetwide temperatures had returned to
within normal parameters, and floodwaters had receded from all but the most low-lying regions-but the
repercussions of the Probe's visit would be felt here, and elsewhere, for a long time to come.
Well, if the repercussions were all like this, Kirk didn't think that would be such a bad thing.
On a patch of concrete before him, a sudden gust of wind scattered a cluster of sea gulls fighting over a
crust of bread. Even the air smelled fresher, he decided, almost as if the rains had somehow washed
clean the entire planet. He'd noticed it out in Yosemite, too-a sense of renewal that pervaded the entire
park, from the old sequoia forests Spock had been so intent on studying to the top of El Capitan. Kirk
was glad for the chance to spend time on his homeworld these last few days-but he could feel the
restlessness building up inside him.
All I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by.
And still, that was all he wanted. He'd gotten the word from Starfleet Command yesterday afternoon-a
whole new sector of the galaxy was being opened up, and he and the Enterprise were being considered
to spearhead its exploration. Right away he'd made an appointment to see Admiral Cartwright-and you'd
better start hightailing it if you plan to make that meeting, he thought, noticing the sun overhead-to
persuade him that his ship was the correct choice.
And it was his ship-he'd finally made his peace with that. Enterprise-A had done everything he'd asked of
it last mission-of course, it wasn't the old Enterprise, but then (as Dr. McCoy kept reminding him) he
wasn't the old Jim Kirk, was he? Nothing was the same as it had been twenty years ago, and he wasn't
complaining. There was a truce now, however uneasy, with the Klingons, and even the Romulans were
quiet.
A sudden squawk and a flap of wings distracted him, and Kirk looked up to find he'd walked into the
middle of the gulls' feeding session, almost tripping over one in the process.
Talk about having your head in the clouds. Better get your feet back on the ground and over to Starfleet.
Whistling happily (if somewhat off=key), James T.
Kirk made his way out of Golden Gate Park toward the city of San Francisco proper.
The rising sun glinted off the surface of the Coral Sea and sent light splashing among the crystalline waters
of the great lagoon that lay between the Barrier Reef and Australia proper. Were he not due to leave
within hours, Spock would certainly have taken the time to explore those waters, which boasted a wealth
of colorful marine life unmatched in this part of the world. But he would have to leave that for another
time.
This last day of his leave, the Vulcan had come to observe George and Gracie-the two humpback whales
the Enterprise had transported through time from the twentieth century-in their home at the New
Cetacean Institute, off Australia's Great Barrier Reef. Other considerations aside, Spock was fascinated
by these extraordinary leviathans, who had not their like in Vulcan's shallow, turbulent oceans.
As he lowered himself from the edge of the newly constructed platform at the reef's edge into the water,
several hundred meters out to sea George leapt high in the air and slammed back into the water sending
fountains of spray and massive ripples in all directions. Spock pushed off from the platform's underwater
supports and began swimming, the only sound in the early-morning silence that of his limbs slicing through
water.
And then, suddenly, there was whalesong: it held no cadence or melody that Vulcan or human ears
would recognize as such, and yet the "feel" of the sound, despite all the logical objections Spock's mind
automatically raised, was that of a song- A saga. George's "voice" was clear and strong: anyone listening,
even swimmers as far away as the other end of the Great Barrier Reef over fifteen hundred kilometers
distant, would have heard his tones, pure and undistorted. But there were none left who could understand
him, none with whom his saga, if such it was, could be shared.
Five hundred years ago, Spock knew, the songs of a thousand thousand humpbacks had crisscrossed
beneath Earth's oceans. Before the advent of humans in large numbers upon the seas and more
specifically, the invention of the screw propeller, cetacean life-forms had possessed an extraordinary
communication network. For millennia the seas had been filled with a complex tapestry of underwater
sound, its uncounted strands woven around the planet, each a never-ending, constantly evolving saga.
For such they must have been. Enduring anywhere from five to sixty minutes, they were memorized and
passed from pod to pod. Old songs were repeated, new songs added, every year. One whale could
communicate with another across distances up to twenty thousand kilometers-literally anywhere in the
planet's oceans.
Then had come "civilization." By the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Spock's studies had
revealed, the incessant background noise of commercial and military steamships-reverberating at the
twenty hertz frequency that lay at the very heart of the massive creatures' vocal range-had made it
impossible for them to sing to each other over distances of more than a few kilometers. It was thought
this was why so many species had engaged in mass beachings during the twentieth century. They were
disoriented, unable to warn each other away from shallow water. The threads of song had been broken,
the global tapestry torn.
And then the singers themselves were gone.
Until, finally, two were returned, not out of any sense of rightness or guilt-though the captain undoubtedly
experienced those feelings on behalf of his twentieth century ancestors-but out of self-interest.
Self-preservation.
They had been returned, not for their own sake, but to save Earth from the Probe's destruction, and
George's song, simple though it was, had done just that. The Probe had left, retreating to the vastnesses
of the galaxy out of which it had appeared, never to be seen again.
Or so a relieved Starfleet seemed to want to believe.
Spock, logically, felt otherwise. All the evidence indicated the Probe-or others of its kind-had visited
Earth in the past. How else could it have known and produced the whalesong? Its last approach must
have been when whales were plentiful, before Earth's science was capable of detecting its presence. Five
hundred years ago? A thousand? Ten thousand? He had no way of knowing. But this time it had found a
world that had changed. It had found only two of the creatures it had apparently sought, and those two, it
must have noted, had appeared out of nowhere. If it had been prepared to destroy an entire planet
because of their absence, it was only logical to assume that it would be concerned for the welfare of
those two, that it would return not in another thousand or ten thousand years but within months or years,
certainly within the lifetimes of the whales themselves.
It was this logic that had brought Spock here, to the two beings on Earth that had communicated with the
Probe, the two beings that might have learned something, no matter how slight, about the Probe's
purpose or its plans. He harbored no illusions that his task would be easy, that he would learn everything
he wished to learn. There would be no words, any more than there had been words exchanged when, in
the tank in twentieth-century San Francisco, he had learned of Gracie's pregnancy. He had said, when
questioned about his knowledge, "She told me," but that was not strictly accurate. "I learned it from her"
would have been more precise, just as, amid the death and pain of the mining tunnels of Janus VI, he had
learned the truth from the silicon-based mind of the injured Horta.
At best there would be images, feelings, none of which could possibly mean the same things to a hundred
kilogram, half-Vulcan starship officer that they meant to a fifty-ton, air-breathing water dweller without so
much as an opposable thumb to manipulate its environment. He would have to experience what he could,
what George would be willing-or able-to share with him. He would have to interpret. In the end, much as
it offended his logic, he would have to guess.
The water heaved in another series of majestic ripples. As if George had sensed not just Spock's
presence but his purpose, he had approached, breaking the water less than a hundred meters distant,
then submerging and coming to an almost complete stop a few meters below the surface, his great head
directly beneath the Vulcan.
Breathing deeply, Spock dived.
Knee-deep in the rubble of a millennia-old city on one of the barrenest of the Romulan Empire's newly
acquired colony worlds, Dajan glanced up from his scruti- ny of a weatherworn petroglyph to discover a
pair of jackbooted feet planted on the rim of the retaining wall above him. The archaeologist had to squint
against the dull red sun to discern the true shape of the shadow figure standing in the boots.
It was the sub lieutenant from the guardian vessel that had dogged his research ship the entire way here.
Why am I not surprised? Dajan wondered.
"What is it?" he demanded imperiously in the precise tone his elder brother had taught him to use with sub
lieutenants and their ilk.
"A summons, kerDajan, from the capital. All scientific missions are herewith recalled." "For what
purpose?" Dajan's glass-green eyes snapped with fury. He had barely begun! He stood, abandoning his
perusal of the petroglyph, though he did not yet put away his magnifier. Oh, how he longed to flash it
upward into the sublieutenant's eyes, claiming later that it was an accident! But he was not yet that far
rehabilitated. And he had to be careful for his sister's sake, for her position was even more vulnerable
than his. She was still in the capital, where intrigue and backstabbing and petty revenge constituted a way
of life. A whisper was all it would take to send he: tumbling back down the slippery slope to
unorthodoxy.
"I was not told," the sub lieutenant answered with a touch of smugness, "therefore I cannot tell you. But
your ship departs within the hour. Be on it, or be marooned here." , In his departure, the sub lieutenant
managed to loosen enough screen from the top of the retaining wall to all but bury the petroglyph.
From the bridge of the Enterprise-A, Dr..Leonard H. McCoy watched the blue-and-white confection
that was his home planet glide peacefully by on the viewscreen. Very peaceful, considering what had
happened there only a short while ago. There were the isolated food and medical-supply shortages to
keep off-planet transports working overtime, and people in certain areas were still advised to boil or
irradiate their drinking water until groundwater could be certified pure, but on the whole, things on planet
Earth were pretty much back to normal.
As were things aboard the Enterprise.
"Available twentieth-century selections coming up on-screen now, Doctor." The thickly accented voice
belonged to Commander Pavel Chekov, who sat at the science station before McCoy, punching buttons.
"A very important period in the history of Western music. Significant composers include"-he paused the
scrolling display for McCoy to read some of the names listed there- "Shostakovich, Prokofiev,
Miaskovsky, Strauss..." He frowned at the display a moment, then continued reading. "Khachaturian,
Volkonsky..." McCoy leaned over the display and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Do I detect a slight bias
here, Mr. Chekov?" "Bias, sir?" Chekov turned back to McCoy, the look of puzzlement so pronounced
that the doctor couldn't help but wonder if it, like the occasional thickening of the Russian's accent, was
100 percent genuine and not at least partly the continuation of a "game" that had started in his days as an
ensign on the old Enterprise. But then, McCoy thought ruefully, there were those who had voiced similar
suspicions about himself and his exchanges with Spock. There were even times, after all the years and
adventures, when he himself would be hard put to give an unequivocal answer.
"Almost every one of the composers you've mentioned is Russian, Mr. Chekov," McCoy pointed out.
Chekov shrugged. "It is a well-known fact, Doctor. Russian contribution toward twentieth-century
Western music is substantial. Concepts of atonality, dissonant harmony, computer-generated
composition..." McCoy leaned back against the guardrail circling the bridge's command deck and tuned
out the musicalhistory lesson. Half an hour ago, he'd come to the bridge, planning to take advantage of
Starbase One's extensive facilities to update the ship's on-board musical library. Chekov had been on
duty and immediately volunteered to aid the doctor in his task. So far, much to McCoy's consternation,
their review of Starbase One's selection had produced little that was not tinged with a distinctly Slavic
flavor.
"Shall I instruct the computer to initiate transfer?" Chekov asked. "I would suggest a sampling of some of
the recent interpretations of Shostakovich's works in particular." "No, no," McCoy said. "Let's skip
ahead, Chekov. I'm interested in more recent compositions." "As you wish, Doctor." Chekov swiveled
back to the science station. "Twenty-third-century works now coming up on-screen." "Ah," McCoy said.
Now that was more like it. He smiled, recognizing most of the names now scrolling by. "Now this is
music. Salet of Vulcan, Evanston, Penalt-" He frowned. "Vigelshevsky?" "Anton Wigelshevsky, Doctor,"
Chekov said. "Why, he is this century's most famous composer of electronic music. His wariations on a
theme by Prokofiev-1 cannot believe you have not heard of him." Before McCoy could give his opinion
of "all that electronic hooting and braying," he was rescued by the sound of the bosun's whistle.
"Probably Dr. Chapel," he said, stepping quickly to the captain's chair and toggling on a switch. "I
promised her the five-dollar tour of the new sickbay before we shipped out." But it wasn't Chapel.
Instead, the viewscreen before them filled with the image of a dark-haired Starfleet ensign.
"Starfleet Operations. Admiral Cartwright for Captain Kirk." Chekov and McCoy frowned at each
other. McCoy spoke first. "The captain isn't here. But I understood he already had an appointment to
meet with the admiral later this afternoon." "Thank you," the aide said brusquely. "One moment." The
screen darkened for a few seconds, then the aide reappeared. "If the captain checks in, please have him
contact the admiral immediately. Starfleet out." The screen went dark again and stayed that way. McCoy
frowned. "Now what do you suppose that was all about?" "Captain!" Sulu called, bounding out of the
shadow of the Sciences building where a maintenance robot was polishing the structure's transparent
aluminum facing.
Kirk smiled as the helmsman caught up and fell into step beside him. The two strolled across the broad,
sunny plaza of Starfleet Command HQ Central. "Mr. Sulu, where've you been? I've been trying to get in
touch with you all day." "Out enjoying the city." Sulu grinned, all enthusiasm. "It wasn't much fun when the
rain was coming down, but it's sure had some beautiful side effects. So, ready for the grand tour of
Chinatown?" "Er... that's what I've been trying to get in touch with you about. I'm afraid our little outing
will have to be delayed for a while. Cartwright's schedule cleared, and I managed to get in to see him
early." "No problem, Captain." Sulu's expression remained doggedly cheerful. "I don't mind waiting out
here in the sunshine." "Why don't you come along?" Kirk paused at the entrance to Headquarters and
motioned the helmsman inside. "It certainly won't hurt to have someone else there to support my case."
Sulu paused in the doorway, dark eyes wide. "If you're sure the admiral won't mind..." "He won't mind,"
Kirk said easily. He felt certain Cartwright had already chosen the Enterprise to lead the exploration; it
would simply be a matter of the admiral's announcing the fact, and Kirk's thanking him. Cartwright
certainly wouldn't have managed to clear time so quickly in order to argue against it. "I asked for the
meeting, after all." They walked briskly to the central turbolift; within one minute, no more, they stood at
the outer office leading to Cartwright's. The admiral's door was shut, but an aide rose at the sight of Kirk
and Sulu.
"Captain Kirk to see Admiral Cartwright," Kirk announced confidently, smiling pleasantly at the aide.
But the aide-a young human female with dark hair and features severe enough to be Vulcan-did not
smile; in fact, she looked decidedly worried. "Captain Kirk, sir. The admiral's been trying to reach you."
She pressed a toggle on her desk console. "Admiral, Captain Kirk is here." The admiral's door slid open.
Cartwright's mellow baritone filtered through the intercom. "Tell him to come in." Kirk raised his
eyebrows in surprise and nodded at Sulu, who glanced uncertainly at the aide, then followed the captain
into Cartwright's inner sanctum. The aide's protests were cut off as the door snapped shut behind Kirk
and Sulu.
They were greeted by a second surprise: Cartwright was not alone. The admiral sat, not at his desk, but
at a nearby conference table across from the white-haired President of the Federation Council. And from
their furrowed brows, it was clear that whatever had come up was serious indeed.
"Admiral. Mr. President." Kirk nodded in turn at each man; Sulu followed suit. "I believe you both know
my helmsman, Commander Sulu." Cartwright gave a distracted nod, barely glanced at Sulu; the President
looked as if he were about to object to the commander's presence, then changed his mind and released a
small smile of welcome.
"Gentlemen, sit." Cartwright motioned for them to take a chair. "I know, Captain, that we were supposed
to meet about an entirely different subject, but there's something I want you to hear." He rose, went over
to his desk, and stooped to press a control.
A burst of static erupted from the console speakers; Cartwright grimaced. "Sorry. The transmission's of
poor quality because we had to hyperaugment the volume, and his voice is distorted because of the
scrambling devices used." Kirk strained to sift the words from the static.
"To friends across the Neutral Zone: I have news. You would know it soon enough through normal
channels, but better you hear it now, for it has already changed relations between us. The Praetor is
dead." Jim Kirk glanced sharply at Cartwright, who nodded slowly.
"For a time," the distant voice went on, "there will be chaos in the Empire. There is opportunity amidst
this chaos, to be sure: perhaps an understanding between our two peoples can be reached. Bring this
news to all among you inclined to work for peace, and be wary of those who would stop its spread or
distort its meaning: unfortunately, censorship is one of the many things our empires have in common." The
static increased, gradually drowning out the transmission. Cartwright pushed the control, ending the
message.
"How recent is this report, Admiral?" Sulu asked.
"As recent as a subspace squirt from the heart of the Empire received at three this morning," Cartwright
answered, his sculpted, dark face looking ashen, suggesting that it had gotten him out of bed and he'd
been hounding the decoders from that time to the present.
Kirk shook his head skeptically. "There've been rumors of the Praetor's impending death since Hector
was a pup, or at least as long as I've been in Starfleet. I suppose even a Romulan can't live forever, but
even so, he's only third in power-" "Third in rank, but first in power," the Federation President
interjected, his tone indicating that he took the report very seriously. "There is no question among those
who know but that the Praetor rules the Empire. Or ruled it, while he lived." "If we can trust that
message," Sulu interjected.
"Nothing Romulan can be trusted completely," the President said. "However, we have received
information from this same source in the past, and it has always proven out in the long run." "In any
event," Cartwright said, "regardless of personal feelings any of us may have, we have no choice but to
assume it may be true-and to prepare accordingly." In the Empire, there was no doubt of the Praetor's
death. The press of the crowd in the streets of the capital bore witness to it and threatened to produce
deaths of its own as every element struggled to reach and enter the Hall of Columns to view the body and
be seen expressing earnest sorrow at the passing.
Jandra herself would soon have to join them, though she would at least not have to endure the physical
danger represented by the impatient mob of "mourners" she had seen from the windows of the Citadel
quarters she shared with her husband, Tiam. It was possible, she supposed, that for some very few the
"mourning" was genuine. For most, it was-it had to be!-the necessary show of Orthodoxy, nothing more.
As for her own thoughts, they were occupied-as they had been since she had first been informed of the
"honor" to be bestowed upon her-almost exclusively in trying to thread her way through the maze of what
the death and the subsequent summons might mean to her. It had come with stunning suddenness, almost
as sudden as the "reforms" with which the Committee seemed to be trying to overwhelm the very Empire.
For years, her "rehabilitation" had exhibited little more progress than Tiam's career, but now, in a matter
of days- "An official flitter will come for you," Tiam interrupted her thoughts, trying not to posture too
obviously in the glass as he arranged the mourning ribands over his uniform insignia. "I've had a place
cleared on the roof to avoid the mob." "What music will they require?" Jandra asked, careful to keep her
voice neutral, her hands unclenched in her lap; tension was bad for them and would affect her playing.
"The flitter pilot will bring it." Tiam turned in her direction. Jandra's heart quickened. She remembered
when the marriage had been arranged, and how she'd raged and wept for days when told it was the only
possible route to rehabilitation for herself and her family. Yet, when she first saw Tiam, her rage had
dissipated somewhat. At least he is handsome, she remembered thinking at the time. That was before she
knew the rest, before she realized that the road back to Orthodoxy was exceedingly slow, that, though
her alliance with Tiam allowed her back from the Provinces, she was as much an outsider as ever.
"Undoubtedly the Lerma requiem will be required," Tiam went on solemnly. "Lerma has been longer on
the Orthodox list than any of his contemporaries." "Of course," Jandra replied without itlflection, thinking:
Lerma is so bland that no one, not even the Praetor, could have objected to him.
So she had been summoned to play at the Praetor's funeral. Romulans were masters of irony, but this,
Jandra thought, was beyond irony. This Praetor, who was a swine and a murderer, who by the most
conservative estimates was responsible for a million deaths or "disappearances" among his own kind, not
to mention untold incursions against alien citizenries, this Praetor whose own order had sent her elder
brother on an impossible mission whose failure required his execution, her parents' ritual suicide, and the
un-Orthodox stigma placed upon her and her surviving sibling-this Praetor presumed to reach her even
beyond his own death and require that she offer him her music.
"It is quite an honor," Tiam emphasized, not for the first time. "I do not need to tell you there will
beuncertainties-in the coming days. I was made a middle-level administrator by this Praetor's favor. Who
knows what I may achieve with his successor, provided he is pleased with me and mine? And I have
been told on good authority that several elder musicians were passed over in your favor." He eyed her as
if expecting an expression of gratitude. When none was forthcoming, he shrugged. "As for me, I have
already been made privy to something that-" He fell silent abruptly, as if realizing that, in his need to
boast, he had slipped into dangerous territory.
Jandra held her silence, unaware of Tiam's momentary apprehension. She still reflected on the "honor" he
insisted she was being done and wondering how he dared say such words to her. He of all people knew
her family's past, knew she had married him solely in order to win rehabilitation for herself and her
brother. How that fact must gall him even now, she thought with some slight satisfaction.
She looked up from her hands in her lap to see that Tiam was watching her narrowly.
"You're indolent," he accused her. "Have you somequalm-about the honor assigned you?" "I will play,
Husband." Jandra fought to keep the resignation out of her voice. "More than that you need not know."
Commander Hiran of the bird-of-prey Galtizh was the very model of restrained military mourning as he
received official notification of the Praetor's passing. Only when he was safely in his quarters did he allow
the hint of a smile to soften the lines of his broad, rough-hewn face.
"So they have finally let the news out," Hiran said. "Did they think they could keep it a secret forever?"
He turned to stare directly at Subcommander Feric, who stood in the doorway of his quarters, hands
clasped behind his back. His newly appointed first officer shrugged.
"They kept his illness secret for years." Hiran nodded absently, letting his gaze roam over the Galtizh's
personnel roster, now displayed on his computer screen. He noted that he and Feric had now been
serving together for almost four years-how was it the man had managed to remain such an enigma to him
for so long?
Probably because he answered every question put to him as succinctly as that one. Gods, but it was
strange to have to ferret information out of your first officer. He couldn't help but contrast the long, silent
gaps in his conversations with Feric to the animated discussions he'd enjoyed with Ren. There was no
doubt but that he far preferred an honest, heated, exchange of opinion.
But then, there was no doubt he had far preferred Ren.
It was still strange to look~at the roster and not see her name, listed beneath his. Still strange to be in this
cabin, alone. And-back to the matter at hand-still strange to have to ferret out information from his first
officer.
"The next few weeks will be interesting," Hiran offered. "Do you think we will be called back,
Subcommander?" "Anything is possible." Feric hesitated. "Particularly in times of transition. Rumors
abound." Hiran nodded. He supposed that, right now, that was as definitive an answer as he could have
expected.
Even from Ren.
"So, Spock," McCoy said as the door to sickbay hissed shut behind them, "did you have another meeting
of minds or did you just get wet?" "Neither characterization accurately portrays the encounter, Doctor."
"I didn't mean- Look, Spock, just tell me what you found out. You did find out something, didn't you?"
"Of course, Doctor. George and Gracie are both quite pleased with their new surroundings, but they-"
"About the Probe, Spock! The Probe!" "As I was about to say, Doctor, I was unable to glean anything
definitive. At best, I was aware of what humans might describe as impressions." "The same kind of
`impressions' you picked up back in San Francisco that let you know Gracie was pregnant?"
"Approximately, Doctor. That impression, however, was much stronger, much more specific, in all
likelihood because it regarded a natural biological function with which Gracie was familiar. The Probe
and its actions, however, were totally outside their experience, as were many of our own actions in
bringing them here from the twentieth century. In fact, if my interpretations are correct, the two events are
not totally and clearly separate in their minds." "You're saying they can't tell the difference between us and
the Probe?" "To some extent, yes, Doctor. We are both associated with events totally outside their
normal experience." McCoy frowned, then shrugged. "I guess I can see how they might think the Probe
sent our Klingon clunker down to pick them up the way the Enterprise sends a shuttle to pick someone
up. If they knew about the Enterprise and shuttles, which they don't. Do they?" "Almost certainly not,
Doctor. One of the few impressions I was able to uncover that clearly related to the Probe and not to our
intercession in their lives was one of a feeling of familiarity, of other beings physically not unlike
themselves. But beyond the feeling of familiarity, there was also one of comfort, or perhaps security, not
just for the present but for the future." "Meaning what? That that thing is piloted by some kind of
superwhales and it told them it's going to watch out for them?" "That seems to be how George and
Gracie feel. There were also indications of something that might have been anticipation, perhaps for future
contact with the Probe or some similar device." McCoy exhaled audibly. "So it is coming back. Or
sending for its big brother." "I do not believe that anyone familiar with the events in question doubted that
it would return at some future date, Doctor. My limited findings only move the probable time of that
return much closer to the present." McCoy shook his head, uneasily remembering, first, the unexplained
call from Starfleet and then the abrupt summons from the captain to meet both him and Commander Sulu
in the transporter room, which was where they were heading now. "You don't suppose that's what Jim is
so anxious to see us about?" "I do not believe so, Doctor. My first act upon returning to the Enterprise
was to avail myself of the latest subspace communiquds regarding the Probe's course and location. It is
continuing its outward course in the direction of the First Federation and thus far shows no indication of
turning back." McCoy snorted. "So it's someone else's problem for a while. Well, I wish them luck."
Spock's eyebrow arched minutely, but he said nothing as the door to the transporter room hissed open
before them and he saw Sulu and the captain materializing.
The funeral lasted two nights and a day. In that time, thousands upon thousands appeared to sign the
Book of Death and pass before the wasted waxen figure in its upright sarcophagus in the Central Septum
of the Hall of Columns. In that time, lacking food or sleep, Jandra performed, and almost as many
marveled at her tireless brilliance as expressed their grief over the event that gave her the chance to
display it.
She alternated among the three instruments best suited to elegiac music-the three-stringed bahtain, the
twelve-stringed plekt, and the all-but-impossible onestringed the'el. She worked her way through the
repertoires of Lerma, Talet, and Mektius without missing a note or repeating a single work.
Her person captivated her audience as much as did her music, as the passers spread her history from one
to the next. Wife of subCenturion Tiam, some whispered, and twin of kerDajan the archaeologist. A
twin! marveled those new to the information. And was she the elder? Told she was, they were pleased:
Well, that explains it!
But wasn't there an elder sibling as well? someone asked.
It was a reasonable question, in that clearly neither Jandra nor her twin was in the military. But the silence
spread up and down the line of mourners.
摘要：

StarTrek-TOS-ProbePROLOGUEInitsfivehundredmillenniaofexistence,theentityhadbeengivenmanynames.SomehadcalleditProbe;some,MessengerorWanderer.Some,suchasthesilicon-basedcreaturesoftheOrphanstarcluster,whosemetabolicratewassoslowastoprohibitmeaningfulcommunicationwithmoststar-faringintelligences,hadcal...

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