STAR TREK - TOS - 48 - Rules of Engagement

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

BY

PETER MORWOOD

POCKET BOOKS New York London

Toronto . Sydney bkjo Singapore This book

is a work of fiction. Names,

characters, places and incidents are either the product

of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual

events or locales or persons, living or dead,

is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET

BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon and

Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas,

New York, NY 10020

Copyright Q 1990 Paramount

"STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of

"119 0 * Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a

division of Simon and Schuster Inc., under

exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form

whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books,

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York,

NY 10020

ISBN 0-671-66129-9

First Pocket Books printing February

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

POCKET and colophon are registered

trademarks of Simon and Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.s.a. This book is

dedicated to The Miami Cruisers and "The

Toronto Celebrants and to walk-on players

everywhere Historian's Note

This adventure takes place sometime between the

events chronicled in Star Trek The Motion

Picture and those related in Star Trek it The

Wrath of Khan. Readers may wish

to consult those two movies, as well as the televi-

sion episode "Errand of Mercy," as referents.

Chapter One

To Morrow, Randolph H., Admiral,

Chief of Staff (opera tions), Starfleet

Command. From James T. Kirk, Captain,

NCC-1701 U.s.s. Enterprise, inbound

Star Base 12. Sub ject Border zone

3-39, with special attention to Organian

influence, it any. Body Sir, I am pleased

to report at the end of this present tour of duty that

the Enterprise has com pleted a full

exploratory patrol of the above sector without

incident I can advise Starfleet that although we were

scanned by Klingon vessels on three (3)

occasions [3/72 5.3, com5.83, com5.91

refer], at no time was any overt or covert

hostile maneuver or activity directed at this

ship and that as a consequence of this atypical Klingon

reluctance to under take offensive action, this sector

may presently be regarded as one of the Organian

Treaty Zones, with all policing and protection

appertaining thereto. With regard to the Informa tion

received by Fleet Command (ref dispatch SFC/PST

2624301 dated SID 2107.16) it is

my opinion that the Organian Peace Treaty is

being honorably maintained. End.

Captain's personal log, stardate 2213.5

It appears that, whether through Organian or some other

influence, such as Klingon Imperial policy, this

particular area of the frontier corridor is at

peace. The Enterprise is on a heading away from

sector 3-39 and on course for Star 1 RULES

OF ENGAGEMENT Base 12, where her crew will be

able to clear some of their accumulated shore leave and

enjoy the period of RandR to which they are entitled.

This may involve pulling rank, but in this instance I

regard such an act as being in a good cause. This

last mission has turned out to be both

nerve-wracking and boring. However, there are more

relaxing places to be bored than the Klingon

Neutral Zone. Unfortunately, there is no

way to tell how actively the Organians will

enforce their treaty without an actual outbreak of

hostilities. No comment needed about that. End entry.

THE WORDING of both dispatch and log entry seemed

fine, but James T. Kirk looked carefully at

both for one final time before committing one to a

transmission chip and the other to secure storage. This

mission had initially been a simple one

involving astrography charting and stellar analysis.

However, proximity to the Neutral Zone had given

the mission a flavor of espionage, which made

Kirk distinctly uncomfortable. He had felt the

same way and for the same reason on several occasions

in the past; the longago mission into Romulan space

to "acquire" a cloaking device was one instance that

kept coming back to mind. It had been necessary and even

vital to restore the balance of power, but espionage

and intelligence missions invariably left a bad

taste in his mouth afterward, and that one's flavor had been

particularly nasty. A bit like the past three

months along the patrol corridor of debated

space that separated the Federation from the Klingon

Empire. Astrography, maybe; but the

Klingons. never took kindly to exploration in what

they regarded as their own backyard. They called it

spying and reacted accordingly. And since there were no

recorded ineastances of Organian enforcement of their

treaty restrictions in this sector, there was always that

nigeagling suspicion that maybe they didn't

enforce, at 2

least not here, and when the Klingons found out about it

... Well, apparently the Organians did

enforce the treaty. Or the Klingons hadn't

found out that they didn't, which wasn't quite the same thing.

At least nobody had tried to blow anyone else

to plasma. One more mission successfully concluded.

Home, James, and don't spare the horses.

Kirk smiled thinly at the notion. Home, in this

instance, would be Star Base 12, and the horses were

crystalline dilithium. At least James

remained more or less the same. He stood up,

pulled on his tunic, and then, as the desk-mount

communicator chirped, made a sound that might have

been a little grunt and sat down again. "Screen

on," he said. "Allfinished, Jim?" Dr.

McCoy grinned at him and Jim repeated the little

grunt, knowing what was coming next. "One grunt for

yes and two grunts for no. was The chief medical

officer was evidently in a fine mood, no different

from any other member of the crew, now that the Klingons

and the boredom and the possibility of unpleasantness were

being left farther behind with every second that passed. One

bit of unpleasantness, however, remained to be dealt

with.

"Yes, Bones, I'm all through. Just the rest of the

paperwork to deal with, and then-was

"Then, Captain, I'll expect you in

sickbay in ten minutes for that full

checkup you've been avoiding. You're already two

weeks overdue, and you're holding up our schedule

down here. his

James T. Kirk rolled his eyes, but with

McCoy watching from the screen with that knowing little smile

on his face, it was beneath Kirk's dignity

to rummage for any more excuses. "Make it

fifteen minutes?" 3

"Fifteen. McCoy out. his

The screen went blank, and Kirk let out the

groan he had been repressing. Flag rank,

years in the center seat, multiple decorations,

commendations, and mentions in dispatches and he still hated

medical examinations with the passion that others reserved for

toothaches and taxes. Jim grinned a tight little

grin that any dentist would have recognized, never mind

Fleet medics with specializations in psychiatry,

and looked at the desktop with its controlled clutter

of pad screens and report-data chips. Just this

once he wished there was some real paperwork-on

actual paper that could be scrunched up and flung

vigorously into a real metal wastebasket with a

real and very satisfying thunk. He hadn't been able

to spare the time to do anything but captain the ship and

oversee the crew members who were collating

the mass of data that always accumulated when a

Federation vessel ventured anywhere near hostile

space, and his inactivity showed. Especially around his

waist. McCoy would have words with him about that. Kirk

moved a few things, straightened edges, shifted

items from one place to another-but he didn't clear

the desk. He had come to regard that as unlucky.

An omen, perhaps, of an extended shore leave-like the

last one, two and a half years behind a desk console

as chief of Starfleet Operations-or a reminder of

Fleet Admiral Nogura's ruthlessly clear

desktop. His last serious visit to Nogura's

office had lasted no longer than the three minutes

he had anticipated. . That had been long enough for him

get his ship back. Keeping it, and staying fit enough

to keep it, was his business now.

"Heart, respiration, blood pressure,

reflexesthey're all fine, Jim. Of course,

you're a little overbled

weight, but you don't need me to tell you that.

Too much time sitting in the captain's chair and not enough

watching out for the captain's health." McCoy glanced

a final time at the readouts, then switched off the

analysis unit. "You're off duty, I

presume?"

"Since an hour ago. I'm working on my own

time."

"Me, too. Bringing my schedule up to date."

Bones grinned and opened the drinks cabinet that-with his

own brand of sympathy or sarcasm, as

required-was as much a tool of his profession as

any number of anabolic protoplasers.

"'Take a little wine, for your stomach's sake and your

other infirmities." Not so often, in your case, but

when they arrive they're beauties and you hate them."

"I don't like to be sick."

"Quite so. Romulan ale?"

"Kill or cure, eh? I thought you mentioned

wine, not illegal substances." I "I merely

quoted an authority for my prescription. And this

is purely medicinal. Here you are."

Jim sat down at McCoy's desk and eyed the

glass warily as he took it. Its contents were the

same rich, clear blue as a gem-quality

sapphire and looked beguilingly innocent. He

knew about Romulan ale and how deceptive that

innocent look could be. There were any number of

drinks that seemed as harmless as distilled water ...

though none of them, he reflected wryly as the blue

ruin scorched its way down his throat, were quite

as murderous. "Feeling better?"

""Bettee is not how I'd put it, but yes.

I think." Jim got to his feet, put the glass

down very gently, as if it might explode, and

picked up his uniform tunic. "I'll be in Rec

One. I want to see how the crew's doin g, now that

we don't have Klingons breathing down our necks."

"Sensible idea. I could make a good

diagnostic psychiatrist out of you, Jim."

"I've already got a job, Bones. Don't

bother." He pulled on his tunic and glanced back

at McCoy as he walked out the door. "I'm a

starship captain, rememberTt

Rec Deck One was in its usual state-noisy

and full of off-duty crew members enjoying their first

truly tension-free time off since mission's end.

Kirk paused just inside the doorway, unnoticed

as yet, and cast a near-patemal eye over his

crew. It was a feeling that came over him now and

again, more and more often as he grew older and the new crew

members became younger with every fresh posting from the

Academy. There were those, of course, who were unable

to provoke the captain's fatherly interest simply

by their fresh-faced youth. It was difficult, for

instance, to look at a Sulamid ensign or

an Eyren or Lieutenant Naraht and say which

particular section qualified as the "face," much

less whether its complexion might be called fresh.

Craggy, perhaps, in Naraht's case. Now, there was

one crew member who could manage a stony poker

face with no effort at all. Of course there was a

game of poker going on. Three, in fact. And

four games of chess, including one of the interestingly

explosive 4Do variety that was reaching a

flashily apocalyptic endgame even as he

watched. The cheerful computer-generated phutflash of

pieces annihilating one another didn't

completely drown out someone's voice saying

"Check" comanother popping flash of light as

punctuation-"and mate," with the sort of enormous

satisfaction that usually accompanied credits

changing hands. Heedless of such nominally

intellectual pursuits, the usual mixed bag of

people had gathered in the largest

conversation pit and were indulging in a noisy

sing-along that included all of the keys of Z and

several contrapuntal a cappella variations. They

were always at least a semitone off pitch as they chased

their theme up and down what had to be a sliding

scale. The lyrics-which, given the

circumstances, were not surprisingly something

scurrilous about Klingons-were of a piece with the

melodyonly worse.

That sort of reaction was almost a standard response

to the end of a duty tour near any of the Neutral

Zones, with the butt of the humor shifting from Romulan

to Klingon as occasion demanded. The same response

was manifested in the games played in both the main

and the repeater holo tanks. Before and during the

mission, Jim had seen games based on the

historic dramas of a dozen cultures; computer

generated artwork ranging from Terran

Post-Impressionist to Vercingetorig

architectural design, which also had a certain

Post-Impressionist look to it; and some of the more

humorous games held in the Enterprise

datastorage facilities. But now that the mission was

over ...

He didn't need to move from where he was lounging

quietly by the door to know what was being played this time.

The sounds of cheering, jeering, explosions, and music

told him all he needed to know. This particular game

had started life as a sober, serious and very

businesslike Andorian-designed sim ulator

program for helm training on their little

atmosphere-capable customs cutters. Its

cartographi cally correct land- and starscape

subsystems had formed a pleasant evening's

relaxation for anyone aboard the Enterprise who

wanted to be in full control of a small ship every

once in a while. And then somebody-Kirk

suspected the Sulu-Chekov team

had put a word in Harb Tanzer's ear and come up

another optional subsystem that had nothing to do with

landscapes. Instead of In-Flight Training,

Tri-D Simulation 22715.33-its earlier

dryly descriptive title-the game had become

as screechily noisy as any of the old-style

video arcade games and was now known only as

Space Cadet. It was as realistic as careful

programming could make it, even though the design

criteria for every ship it featured had been stretched

to, and once or twice beyond, all the presently

accepted limits. Sulu had done the same thing

once before, with his notorious and never beaten 3.0

version of Simulated Sublight Maneuvers for

DeepExploration Starships. But recently he had

crosslinked the two games and started to tweak all

of the Klingon and Romulan ship

capabilities toward optimum for each vessel's

class, and as a result, Space Cadet was fast

becoming known as the Most Evil Game in the Known

Universe.

There were five Klingon ships in the tank right now;

they were engaged in confused, confusing, and

spectacularly messy combat against a Federation

fleet of twelve. All seventeen vessels were

performing exactly as their full-size counterparts would

have done. For the sake of fairness the enemy ships

wore only the plain gray-blue of the Klingon

Navy rather than the jazzy yellow and black warp

nacelles sported by Sulu's enhanced designs.

Beyond that, realism took a holiday, for instead of

shipboard quiet or the absolute silence of

space, the holo cube providedat players"

discretion, naturally-thrilling music, gunfire, and

an abundance of main-drive sound effects.

"Yes, Captain, they're at it again.

Coffee?" Harb Tanzer had a cup in each hand.

He held one out to Jim without taking his eyes off the

performance of the twelve crewmembers who "flew"

against far from the 8

worst that the master games computer could throw at

them. "Thanks, Mr. Tanzer." Jim

took the coffee gratefully; with luck, its

caffeine would do something to offset the effects of

Romulan ale on an empty stomach. "Looks

as if you're being kept busy down here." The chief

of recreation wiggled the flat of his free hand in a

yes-no-maybe gesture. "The Rec facilities

are busy, but I've had an easy time of it. Most

of them know exactly how they want to spend their time

without needing me to tell them how. Like that, for instance."

Lieutenant Athende from Maintenance executed a

neat firing pass, producing the first big jump in the

game's score tally. The maneuver was greeted with

cheers and a quick and dirty rendition of a fanfare.

Coiling four of its tentacles in a gesture of

pleased excitement, the Sulamid twiddled its

console pad with three of the remaining tentacles and

sent its ship into a flashy victory roll. One

of the Klingon vessels responded like a shark in

bloodied water; it whipped around in a turn tight

enough to set off inertiacompensation warnings aboard any

ship flown, then fired a bracketing salvo of

disrupter bolts from its forward batteries. Athende

forgot all about being pleased with itself and began

concentrating again on staying un-blown-up.

The Klingon's brother-ships reacted

to Athende's first strike by following their consort into a

rightechelon formation that brought all of their forward

weapons to bear on the Sulamid's ship.

"Uh-oh," said Jim under his breath as the Klingons

locked into firing position, then laughed aloud as

Athende directed its ship into a simultaneous

pitch and yaw that not only took it out of the direct

line of fire but left the rightmost Klingon vessel

on a collision course with one of its own consorts.

As the entire Klingon 9

formation broke every which way, the halo tank's voder

cried "Hurrah!" in a tone that could only be

described as sarcastic, then produced another of

those brassy fanfares that sounded like a jazz

trumpet full of molasses. "The music was your

idea, I presume?" said Jim as the horrid

echoes died away.

Harb smiled. "The simulator was fine, but I

thought the game version lacked something"

"Like razzing the players when they score a

point?" "Captain, just wait till someone loses.

Oh, it can produce more subtle music if that's

what they want. This bunch doesn't."

Right then there was a small but impressive

explosion from the games tank, where two of the

other Federation pilots had plainly not been watching

where they were going and had rammed first each other and then the

second Klingon cruiser at a game speed of

.73c. This time the voder played the first ten notes

of Haydn's Funeral March at four times proper

speed and finished with a flatulent chuckle.

Jim cleared his throat and looked at Harb, whose

face was carefully devoid of expression except

where the laugh lines around his eyes made their

telltale crinkles. "Lieutenant Tanzer,"

said the captain, sounding like a man who was choosing his

words with care, "you are, without a doubt, sick."

"Why, thank you, sir. I'll keep up the good

work." He might have said more, but right then there was another

fairly rude noise, this time not from the games

tank. It came from the ambient-sound system of the

holography stage. "Good," said Harb, sounding

relieved. "He's got it working at last." "Uh,

Lieutenant, is this something I should be warned about?"

"No, sir, it's just more of Mr. Freeman's

imageprocessing work. You remember the archived

two10

D material that he started rechanneling a while

back?" "He's still at it? I was under the impression

it was up and running. What's the problem?"

"Well. . ." Harb took a reviving swallow

of his coffee. "Jerry told me the image-enhancement

and data-reprocessing chips have had a little trouble at

the base scan level. They refuse t6 read

anything but standard-format tapes."

"So? Everybody in the Federation uses standard

tapes nowadays." "Everybody in the Federation,

aye," said Harb enigmatically. He didn't

explain further, but Jim suspected that he was about

to get all the answers he wanted.

The holo stage made another noise,

remarkably like that of a man clearing his throat. Or,

more accurately, like Lieutenant Jerry Freeman

clearing his throat. He was standing in front of the

holo's main control console holding its all-call

mike in one hand and a tape cartridge in the other.

Almost everyone on the rec deck w as looking in his

direction, and even the Space Cadet game had

been set on pause. Jim couldn't help noticing

that the crew members who had noticed his presence were

dividing their attention more or less equally between Mr.

Freeman and the captain-as if they were expecting

something interesting to happen in both directions.

"Friends, gentlebeings, and audience," said Jerry,

smiling like man satisfied with a job well

done, "you've been very patient. You've waited, and

now here it is mayDuj BortaSo!"

Even though he had been expecting a surprise

of some sort, Jim knew that his face probably

twitched most satisfyingly at the news that a

Klingon space opera was about to have its Federation

premier on his rec deck-and at the sound of

high-phase

Tlhinganaase being spoken on board the

Enterprise again. It had always meant trouble in the

past, or at the very least an unwanted ripple in

shipboard routine. He smiled, the humor of the

expression perhaps a bit thinner than Lieutenant

Freeman's efforts deserved; but right then Jim

wasn't thinking about Freeman or about rescanned

sterry tapesi We were in Star Base 12's area

the last time, too, he thought, before most of this crew

had even entered the Academy. Certainly before any

of them knew of Klingons as anything but "the enemy

"comcardboard cutouts marked "villain. was It was a

long time ago, but now it seems like yesterday. I

wonder how many of these children read The Final

Reflection before they joined Starfleet?

Certainly a great many of them had read it since and

then, not content with fiction, had raided the

ship's library for anything else that they could find on

the subject of the Klingons and their empire. According

to library records, a lot of the reading had taken

place while the Enterprise was in the Klingon

patrol corridor. Jim had noticed the increased

turnover in data and hard copy printouts and had

been sufficiently concerned to pay a visit both

to Rec One and to sickbay. Recreation was a

subdepartment of Medicine, and Harb Tanzer

reported directly to Dr. McCoy on anything

concerning the crew's leisure activities that might

in his opinion indicate something amiss about their

physical or mental health. There were attitudes

and states of mind concerning, and held by, the nominally

fictional characters-both Klingon and Terran-in The

Final Reflection that could have had an unfavorable

effect on morale. If that had happened, Jim

wanted to find out sooner rather than later. The two

conversations-one could scarcely refer to anything so

informal as a staff meeting-had laid his 12

apprehensions to rest, and with the peaceful conclusion of the

mission he had thought no more about them. Until now.

"Battle Cruiser Vengeance? Coincidence, do

you think?" he said very softly, for Harb's ears

only.

"Half and half. I'd say that the patrol

mission had something to do with it, but those old tapes have

been available as xenosociological material for

years. Ever since the Federation ambassador to the

Empire brought them back from the Klingon homeworld

when he was recalled. Nobody ever bothered to look

at them until Mr. Freeman decided to run them

through his conversion program." Harb's amused

expression changed, growing just a bit more serious.

"Captain, I don't know of any restrictions

covering nonclassified material from nonaligned

sources."

"Such as Klingon space operas?"

"Especially Klingon space operas. Have you

any objections to it being run? I mean, would you like

an advance viewing to check it for. . ."

"Propaganda? Threats to morale? Improper

conduct? I don't think I need to worry." Harb

STAR TREK - TOS - 48 - Rules of Engagement

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