Fic: The Plebe, Chapter 16

[elliewood]

The Plebe, Chapter 16
Hit Me With Your Best Shot -- The High Road

 

“Dad." Finn's voice was taut. "What are they doing here?”

Jim looked down at his hands, willing them to lay his silverware down quietly and dab the syrup off his mouth with his napkin before turning to look at what he already knew was behind him: a trio of Klingons, one small by Human standards but with an unmistakable air of authority accented by the decorations on his uniform’s sash, the two that trailed behind him considerably burlier and dressed in nondescript Earth-style winter clothing. His practiced eye gave the leader about a ten kilo advantage over him with the henchmen outweighing him by at least forty.

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He stood then, the scrape of the chair legs suddenly loud in the silence of the cabin. Behind him, unseen but welcome, came the rustle of Finn rising as well. The smaller Klingon raised an eyebrow, more in amusement than surprise, and nodded in almost friendly recognition as he halted directly in front of Jim.

“Cadet Kirk. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

His voice was soft and cultured, even pleasant, the Standard almost unaccented; the smile that accompanied his greeting revealed white, even teeth that were not filed to points in the traditional manner of the warrior. Were it not for the forehead ridges or the garb of the Klingon Defense Force, he could easily have passed for Human.

“How do you know my name?”

“Gentlemen, please. Let us be seated.”

He pulled off his gauntlets and laid them on the table before seating himself in the last remaining chair, gesturing for Jim to do likewise. After one more backward glance at the other two soldiers and a quick swipe of his palms on the thighs of his jeans, he did so, nodding at Finn to do the same.

The Klingon leader smiled at what he surmised was an indication of Jim’s nervousness. “There is no need to be alarmed, young man. We only wish to ask you a few questions, after which we will leave you to your most charming repast.”

The key chips to the Rover and skimmer, he had noted in that one glance, were sitting in a pewter bowl by the front door of the cabin; the subsequent wipe of his hands had confirmed the presence of his folding knife and analog compass in the pockets of his jeans. His communicator remained upstairs in the duffel, a costly mistake.

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“My name is qo’Mher, but you may find that hard to pronounce. If you like, you may address me as Cameron. I am sure, as we are all friends here, that you will allow me to call you James.”

He met Cameron’s eyes with what he hoped was an open, cooperative air, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, the fingers ice cold against each other. “That’s fine.”

“I would like us to be finished in very short order so that we may all enjoy our morning.” The benign smile matched an almost friendly humor in his eyes. “James, do tell me, and truthfully mind you, what you heard during the admirals’ meeting in the library yesterday.”

His voice was still steady, but the effort to keep it so was increasing. “It’s like I told Mr. Finnegan just now. I didn’t hear anything. I was asleep the whole time until they found out I was there and woke me up.”

The humor darkened into something like sorrow. “Oh, come now. We both know that is not true. Do let us try again. It is most important that you be honest with me.”

“I am being honest.”

Had Cameron not removed his gloves, the backhand blow would have been far more damaging, but the sudden salt of a split lip and a dangerous backward tip of his chair, neatly blocked by the guards standing behind him, were the only consequences. Thus far, anyway. Jim ignored Finn’s stifled gasp and aimed a look of injured surprise toward Cameron as he wiped the trickle of blood with the heel of his hand.

“I thought you said we were friends.”

“We will be, once you cease your lying.” The hand that had just struck with surprising speed now reached into the armored vest of his uniform to pull out and toss a small tablet onto the table between them. Jim didn’t need to strain to see its display: a grainy, bouncing video of himself huddled in the wing chair, eyes clearly open as three men conversed behind him. The only audible sound was that of the breeze that apparently rocked the tiny drone as it recorded them through the glass wall of the library reading room.

Cameron’s face showed only regret, not the smug triumph Jim expected at the proof of his prevarication. “It is a pity, is it not, that your structures are so effectively soundproofed. Otherwise we would not even be here to disturb your little vacation.” He pushed the screen closer to Jim with one finger. “We understand each other now, yes? You will tell me what was said in this room.”

“I don’t remember.”

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“Hmm.” The finger now pointed to the figure of the fleet admiral who faced away from the camera. “Who is this man?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

That at least was true, but Jim doubted it mattered at that point. Cameron seemed to agree as he sat back in his chair, the sorrow still in his eyes and in the benevolent smile below them. “It is not my practice to interrogate children,” he sighed, “but I will, if need be, to get the information I require. We have techniques that will ensure that outcome, so why withhold it from me any longer? You have been brave enough.”

“Jim.” Finn’s cracked whisper floated to his ear from behind as he kept his eyes fixed on Cameron. “Please, just tell them, whatever it is. It can’t matter that much.”

Anger flared again, this time shot through with pity. Unsure which man it was directed toward, he squeezed out the single word through gritted teeth, not caring any longer that it belied his ignorance.

“No.”

Cameron patted the table in what seemed like satisfaction, his expression lightening again to one of good humor. “Very well. Your response is commendable, if unwise.” He looked up toward the guards standing behind Jim’s chair and gave a curt nod.

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Jim pushed back with all the strength in his legs, catching one of the warriors in the midsection with the high ladder back of the chair. The grunt of surprise signaled a fractional advantage, and he rolled off the chair to his right, pivoted to plant his right heel hard on the guard’s own booted instep, and bent to swing his upper body directly into the Klingon’s right thigh. The muted crunch of the knee giving way was a small triumph.

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The other guard was still reaching for his disruptor when Jim drove one shoulder straight into his lower abdomen, then thrust upward to flip him backward onto his comrade. The sound of their struggle to rise, eclipsed by Cameron’s gentle laugh of amusement, rattled in his ear as he bolted for the key chips and the door beyond.

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The heat of adrenaline was a welcome flush against the morning chill outside. He closed his fist around the key chips and extended both hands to vault over the railing of the cabin’s front porch to the temporary safety of the woods beyond, never seeing the fourth Klingon that had been posted outside by the door. The guard’s clumsy swing of surprise caught him right below the ribs on his left side, the weight of the forearm enough to cause him to stagger and slip into the railing, his momentum flipping him over it to fall headfirst onto the sloping forest floor below. He heard a snap as he hit the ground, the sound dulled by a sudden blurring in his head, and felt for a moment the shock of icy snow against his cheek.

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Odd how his body refused to obey, stubbornly resting instead on snow that now started to melt beneath him, the resulting liquid no longer cold but suffused with a dry warmth that enveloped him as it seeped through the flannel shirt, and suddenly he was back in bed, snuggled below a lofty comforter, one motionless hand curled in front of him, the chronometer beyond it reading 10:36. He blinked stupidly at the holo on the bedside table, watching as the image of a smiling Virginia Finnegan dissolved and morphed into the steel toe of a boot, its wearer pausing for a moment to study him before finally bending down to lift him up.

***

 

Over the next several years to come, Captain Christopher Pike would on multiple occasions both appreciate and benefit from Commander Spock’s powers of observation and superior inductive reasoning. But that morning, in his office at Starfleet Academy, Commander Pike could only shake his head in befuddlement at Lieutenant Spock’s odd request and even odder demeanor.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to come off-campus with you to go looking for one of your students because he’s not in your class today? A class that you yourself have just canceled? Do you know how many things wrong there are with that plan?”

He stared hard at Spock, noting that something in his bearing telegraphed an impatience that bordered on urgency as he stood before Pike’s desk. “Sir. It is my belief that the cadet’s safety is at risk.”

“Based on what, exactly?”

The words seemed both rushed and somewhat reluctant. “The cadet was signed out last evening by Commodore Patrick Finnegan.”

“So I would assume from that fact that Jim is spending the weekend with Ben Finnegan and his family. Not a surprise. They’re friends.” Pike shook his head again. “This isn’t like you, Spock. If you’re upset that Jim’s skipping your class, you deal with it via the normal channels, when he gets back. I don’t see any need to play the truant officer and collect him now.”

Although the Vulcan was characteristically still, he gave the distinct impression of shifting uncomfortably before speaking again. “Sir. It is my belief that Commodore Finnegan is the source of the intelligence leak from ops, and that his son is the unwitting conduit for the dissemination of that information to the Klingons.”

Unsure what Pike’s speechlessness conveyed, he waited, watching the blue eyes blink several times over before the commander spoke again.

“I’ll start with the smallest of the many issues I have with that accusation. Barnett’s been chasing his tail for months over this situation. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Spock closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to gaze directly into Pike’s. “I became uncertain of my own motivation in pursuing the trail of evidence I discovered.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Over the past several months, Cadet Finnegan’s communications from his father have been noticeably larger than what one would expect for standard messages. I traced this size discrepancy to encrypted attachments, invisible via the standard interface but discernible once I analyzed the messages at greater length. These attachments are subsequently propagated via Cadet Finnegan’s outgoing messages, messages that could easily be intercepted based on their non-secure status.”

“What…what’s in the messages?”

Spock closed his eyes again.

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“Nothing obviously incriminating. It is the invisible attachments that I believe contain the illicit data.”

“What size attachments? Containing what?”

“Two to three kilobytes, on average. Contents unknown without decryption.”

Pike's head sagged into one hand, the fingers wiping tiredly at his eyes. “You mean to tell me you’re accusing Pat Finnegan of treason based on a two Kb size discrepancy in his son's personal messages, and you can’t even tell me what’s in them?”

Spock raised one eyebrow. “I do not have the security clearance to decode encrypted messages or attachments.”

“You could have gotten that clearance from Barnett. You really need to nail this down before you start slandering a Starfleet commodore.”

“I do not engage in slander. I am merely repeating the facts, and my logical deduction based on those facts.”

“Facts that you’ve kept to yourself until now.” Pike sat back in his chair and looked up at Spock with angered disbelief. “Listen to me, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Pat Finnegan’s been here for years. I’ve known him since I was a cadet myself. We all went to his wife’s funeral, for God’s sake.”

Spock clasped his hands behind his back. “A more detailed investigation would indeed be required to provide the sort of evidence one would need for a formal charge. The preliminary indications, I admit, might be insufficient to convince Admiral Barnett of the commodore’s complicity.”

“What makes you think I believe you any more than he would?”

“Your association with and fondness for Cadet Kirk." The dark eyes grew visibly grave. "If I am correct, he is presently in the company of a traitor.”

“But even if you’re right, what would he — ” Pike interrupted himself to swear softly. “Shit.”

A strange ache lurched in Spock’s side. “Sir?”

“Jim was…he overheard some classified information yesterday. By accident. A briefing he shouldn’t have been in.”

“And the nature of that information?”

“Can’t tell you.” He rose to pull his overcoat off the coat rack. “But if you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, it’s possible Jim could be in some danger if someone knew that he was there.”

“So you agree to accompany me?”

“Get a hold of Barnett first, let him know we’re coming.” Pike shrugged on the overcoat. “And start thinking of some excuses to make if we end up ruining everyone's weekend for nothing.”

 

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