The Vulcan jumped at Kirk’s raised voice.
“Sir, becoming irrational will not help matters.”
“My son has been kidnapped from a region under your jurisdiction. If I find out you’re in any way responsible for this atrocious breach of security… you have not begun to see me get ‘irrational.’” Kirk pointed to the control panel.
Vorrel changed the control configuration to a communications system.
A Vulcan voice answered at once. “Proceed.”
The prefect cleared his throat, studiously avoiding looking at Kirk. “I am Prefect Vorrel, Gateway Region. A crime has been committed against an outworlder. I require the assistance of the Ministry of Planetary Defense.”
“State the nature of the crime.”
Kirk heard every word the prefect said in reply as a knife wound in his heart. “A child has been abducted.”
“A state of emergency is in effect. That crime does not warrant the involvement of the ministry at this time.”
Enraged, Kirk charged around the desk to shout at the Vulcan on the screen. “That is unacceptable! My son is missing and Vulcan security records have been altered to hide the crime!”
The figure on the screen wore the red uniform of Vulcan’s Planetary Defense Force. She glanced away from the visual sensor transmitting her image, appeared to read something of interest.
“Voiceprint analysis identifies you as the human, James T. Kirk.”
“I am,” Kirk confirmed. Though he was usually reluctant to trade on any notoriety he had earned during his Starfleet career, under these circumstances, he’d use any advantage that might help him get the cooperation of Vulcan authorities.
“That is fortunate,” the Vulcan said. “We have been looking for you.”
And before Kirk could even ask why, he felt the familiar cool rush of the transporter effect as Prefect Vorrel’s office dissolved into light around him.
They have me, was his last thought before dissolution. Just like my son.
12
VOSTOK ACADEMY, MERCURY
STARDATE 58563.6
Picard staggered from the transporter pad. It had been an unusually rough beam-in. He felt disoriented.
A Starfleet medical technician was there to take his arm, steady him.
“Sir-do you know where you are?” the medic asked. He had raised his voice, as if he expected Picard to be unable to hear him.
Picard was puzzled by the question-not because he didn’t know the answer, but by the fact it was asked at all.
“Sir?” the medic prompted again.
Picard saw another medic a few meters away in the undersized transport chamber, aiming a medical tricorder in his direction. There was no one else present, not even a transporter technician.
“Vostok Academy,” Picard answered. The venerable outpost, deep beneath the surface of Mercury, was one of the oldest planetary research facilities in Earth’s home system.
“Do you know what stardate it is?”
Irritated now, Picard yanked his arm from the medic’s grip. “Fifty-eight five sixty-three. What’s this about?” He glanced back at the pad. It was still glowing, as if about to accept another beam-in. “Is something wrong with the transporter?”
“No, sir. But you were in the buffer for about ten minutes, and that can sometimes– “
“What?”
“Identity confirmation,” the medic beside Picard said. He looked to the medic with the tricorder. “Match?”
The second medic nodded. Only then did Picard notice that she carried a phaser at her side. The first medic had one, too.
“What is going on here?” Picard demanded.
The first medic ushered Picard toward a closed door. “You’re scheduled for a briefing, sir. That should answer all your questions.”
Then the doors opened and Picard felt himself propelled forward by a firm hand in the small of his back. The light gravity of Mercury, only a third of Earth’s, made him stumble again until his reflexes adjusted.
The corridor outside the transporter chamber was empty. It smelled damp and musty to Picard. The white walls were dingy, the light from the overhead panels decidedly blue. Combined with the absence of artificial gravity, the whole effect was one of age and neglect. Picard decided this must be part of the original outpost, which he thought had been abandoned as new extensions had been constructed.
A voice came from an unseen speaker in the wall, not his combadge.
“Captain Picard, please follow the corridor to your left.”
“Who are you?” Picard snapped. “Where’s Admiral Janeway?” The admiral had beamed down with Picard after the Enterprise had established standard orbit of the planet. He had expected that they’d arrive together.
“The admiral has already been processed. Please follow the corridor.”
“Processed?”
“Please, Captain, you’re delaying the next arrival.”
Picard suppressed his questions and temper with difficulty.
Proceeding along the corridor to his left, he stopped before an emergency pressure door. Paint flaked from it in sections, revealing thick coats that had built up one over another, giving the impression of a topographic model. To Picard’s eye, the door appeared to be an antique, dating from a time before forcefields, when atmospheric containment had to be accomplished solely by physical means.
“Stand close to the door, please.”
As Picard did so, he heard mechanical hums and clanks from the corridor ceiling; then a second thick door suddenly dropped down behind him.
His ears popped as pressure equalized in the small volume of air between the two doors.
An emergency airlock. Picard tabled the realization as the wheel-like locking mechanism of the first door rotated noisily. The moment it stopped, he felt a vibration in the floor, and the door slid open to reveal more of the corridor, and a Starfleet security team.
The commander of the team was a Betazoid, his large dark eyes unreadable as he approached. Behind him, waiting impassively, each with a hand on the phaser he or she carried, were four large humans, heavily muscled, as if they had been born on high-gravity colony worlds.
“Captain Picard, welcome to Mercury. Your right hand please.”
The Betazoid held a white device that Picard recognized as a modified medical monitor designed to be fastened around a patient’s wrist. It was old technology, not often seen on a starship, where sensors could monitor anyone in sickbay from a distance.
“I’m not ill,” Picard said.
The Betazoid held the monitor out to Picard, open like a manacle. “We know. While you were in the transporter buffer, your entire genetic and cellular structures were thoroughly analyzed. This monitor will enable us to maintain somatic continuity.”
“Somatic continuity?” Picard asked.
The Betazoid held up his right wrist. He wore a monitor.
Picard looked over at the security team. Each of them had a monitor, as well.
