Fic: The Plebe, Chapter 17

[elliewood]

The Plebe, Chapter 17
All Aboard -- About Face -- Three on a Match

Had Spock predicted that Admiral Barnett’s own professed affection for his little country mouse would gain Pike and himself immediate approval of their plan, he would have been disappointed. Barnett had instead fixed him with a fretful scowl from across the broad surface of his desk.

“Authorize a ship and security forces for…what? Breaking up a romantic weekend?” Barnett wagged his finger at Spock, the normally jovial gesture colored with annoyance. “You saw as clearly as I did what they were up to the other night. As long as the off-campus authorization is legitimate, I say, let them have their fun. I see no reason for us to interfere.”

“Sir, if I may.” Pike stepped forward to draw Barnett’s gaze away from the slight flush that crept upward from the black collar of Spock’s uniform. “The interference may be unnecessary, but we have no way of knowing whether this is really just a weekend visit. Someone sympathetic to the Klingons would be pretty interested in what Jim overheard in our meeting yesterday.”

“‘Someone’ meaning Pat Finnegan. Are the two of you crazed? Do you have any other proof, other than this message attachment theory?”

Pike shook his head reluctantly as he glanced at Spock, expecting the same response but seeing only a fixed stare instead as he responded to Barnett's irritation with a touch of his own. “Am I to understand that you will authorize neither the use of a fleet jump ship nor of two security personnel in this effort?”

A snort from Barnett was the only reply. “Spock, I don’t know what bug’s got up your behind, and I don’t care. Unless you have something else for me, I’m not sending an armed guard to the home of a career Starfleet officer to go chasing after a cadet with a valid off-campus pass.” He rose from his desk and signaled to his patiently hovering yeoman. “Comm ahead to Bambinelli’s; tell them I’ll have the chicken and waffles.”

“The cadets are not at the Finnegan home. Neither is the commodore.”

Two faces swiveled simultaneously toward Spock; Pike spoke first. “How do you know that?”

“I contacted the concierge at the Presidio, who confirmed that no one has entered or exited the commodore’s residence since he departed from those premises last evening. Alone.”

Barnett pursed his lips, one arm already in the sleeve of his overcoat. “What time was that?”

“19:42. Twenty-one minutes after Cadet Finnegan sent him a message requesting that he make up a bed for an unnamed guest.”

“You really have been snooping, haven’t you?” At Spock’s silence Barnett chuckled humorlessly and fastened his collar. “So our young man overhears intel about our fleet deployment, and an hour or so later is whisked away to some secret location by a family of spies. Is that your story?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“So where do you think these covert operations are being carried out?”

Spock ignored the sarcasm. “Unknown at this time. I have searched the database for other properties owned by the commodore and have found none. I have also attempted to trace Cadet Kirk’s communicator signal, but it does not appear to be operational. I am maintaining surveillance.” He reached below his coat to pull out his PADD, swiped at its screen, and frowned. “I stand corrected. The cadet's communicator was activated at 11:14 this morning. A series of pings. And another, identical signal at 11:15.”

“Signal?” Pike craned his neck to peer at Spock’s PADD. “Are you sure?

“A discernible pattern is reproduced several times.”

“Can you trace its location?”

“I will need the admiral’s station to do so.”

Barnett sighed and stood aside to allow Spock access to his desktop. “Be my guest.” He squinted down toward where Spock’s PADD now rested on the desk as he pulled on a pair of fleece-lined leather gloves. “This pattern. A series of pings, short, then long, repeated four times.” Some of the annoyance gave way to thoughtfulness. “And again.”

“Old-style telegraph code. AAAA.” Pike’s eyes widened; he seized Spock’s forearm. “Get those coordinates. Sir, we need that ship right now.”

“Why?” The disquiet that Spock had expected from Barnett was finally beginning to surface. “Does it mean something?”

Pike nodded once, his answer directed at Spock. “AAAA is an old naval distress signal. He’s under attack.”

 

***

 

The interior of the public shuttle car had been dimmed to allow an unobstructed view of the scenery outside, the unforgiving flatness of the Great Plains that would shortly give way to the rolling folds of Minnesota. Through the semi-darkness Jim could make out Finn’s sleeping form, his limbs splayed carelessly about as he reclined on the bench, the exhaustion on his face mirroring what Jim felt on his own. And in the moment before sleep claimed him again, Jim unfolded his own body to creep closer to Finn, to put one arm around him and rest his head on his chest and sink back into a welcome security. But his sleep was uneasy, the temperature in the car dropping as they moved over the frozen lakes below, the warmth of the body beside him insufficient to ward off the growing chill; he could feel the skin beneath his cheek goosepimpling as Finn shifted uneasily in his sleep, the cold becoming uncomfortable to him as well. And as hard as he tried to go back to sleep, he found himself only growing more aware and increasingly colder until he had no choice, the shivers that racked his limbs rousing him by force.

He dragged unwilling eyes open to see the kindly face of Cameron. “Are you awake at last, Human cub?”

The Klingon was standing before him as he lay on the sofa in the cabin’s main room, a crewelwork pillow propped under his left arm, his once sodden shirt now only slightly damp. He must have been unconscious long enough for the warmth radiating from the fireplace to dry it, although an impenetrable layer of cold seemed to remain; he clamped his jaw closed against the chattering of his teeth and stared back upward in silence. Beside him on the matching easy chair, the soldier whose leg he had injured inclined his head toward him and gave him a familiar, almost approving, nod over his braced knee. Beyond, he saw his erstwhile avenue for escape now blocked, the door barred on the inside by the hulking presence of the other two guards. Of Finn or his father, there was no sign.

He tried to push himself up to sitting and couldn’t help the cry that escaped him at the attempt, not at the ache on the side of his head but at the creaking pain that sliced through his shoulder. Cameron shook his head in regret.

“You have damaged yourself. Sadly we have nothing with us that will either heal the bone or ease its discomfort.” He chuckled as he drew up one of the ladder-backed chairs to seat himself next to Jim. “Your species has such a soft exterior, it is difficult to imagine how any of you can survive even one day without incurring such injury.”

“We do all right, thanks.”

The dry gasp lacked the confidence he would have hoped for. Cameron spoke in Klingon to the soldier behind him and received an answering grunt of laughter in return. “I translated your response for him. He is pleased with your courage, as am I. But James,” he added, leaning in closer, “it is as I have already said. You have been brave enough. Look at the result of your attempt to escape us. My comrade is injured, you are even more so, and neither of us have gained anything. There is no sense in avoiding my query any longer.”

“Maybe not. But at least I won’t hate myself for being a traitor.”

“Your loyalty is misplaced. Your Starfleet will crumble before us, not because of inferior might but because of a lack of objective.” Cameron stood and turned to nod at the soldiers standing by the door. “Help our young friend to stand.”

The world greyed out as Jim, supported by the pair of guards, pushed himself to his feet; he swayed between their combined bulk for a moment until the weakness passed, then followed Cameron back to the square kitchen table to seat himself, swallowing the groan of distress at the sound of his collarbone grinding against itself. They had been busy, he saw; the table had been cleared of the breakfast dishes and repopulated with a confusing array of wires all linked to a central, blinking box.

“It is a sort of mind scanner,” Cameron explained as the guards began to tie Jim’s ankles to the chair legs. “A portable prototype of a much larger device we have developed. It identifies neural pathways that contain information of interest and extracts that information, regardless of the will of the subject. I need only ask you what it is I want to know, and the scanner will examine each pathway in turn until the ones that contain the relevant data are found.” His expression regained some of its former sorrow. “It is somewhat disingenuous of me to refer to it as a ‘scanner.’ Truly, it is more of a sifter, in that it only preserves the desired neural links. Those that are irrelevant are, I regret to say, discarded.”

He waited while Jim digested that information, then bent to lean in closer. “James, listen to me. You understand what this will mean, do you not? Your mind will be destroyed, little by little, and the harder you fight to keep the information from me, the more of your mind will be irretrievably lost. And it is all for nothing, because we will eventually find what it is we want to know. Is it not better to simply tell me, before any permanent damage is done, what it is you know about Starfleet’s planned aggression in the Neutral Zone?”

His throat felt choked with dust, all steadiness gone as the words came out in a quivering whisper. “Go to hell.”

The injured guard across the room chortled and slapped his thigh; the other soldiers paused in the middle of strapping down Jim’s wrists to grin in response. Cameron did not smile at the exchange.

"Of course he is afraid, you imbeciles. There is no glory in taking a path one does not fear to walk." He knelt down to check the tightness of the ankle bindings for himself, then paused, one hand on Jim's knee. “We do not have such a thing in our mythology, this concept of eternal punishment. But I will be pleased to meet you again in the afterlife, should we be so destined." He stood and nodded at one of the guards to begin the process of attaching the innumerable wires to Jim’s scalp; the other retreated back to his post by the door.

the harder you fight to keep the information from me

So it was possible to resist the mind sifter, if only temporarily. Jim closed his eyes against the sight of heavy fingers affixing electrodes to his frontal skull and played with the illusion that he could hold the machine off, at least give it a plenitude of other thoughts to waste its efforts on, to gain enough time for someone to figure out where he was and what was happening. But his secrecy had been effective, his brief note to Mitchell insufficient information for anyone to locate him even if they suspected a reason to do so. The utter hopelessness of his situation suddenly yawned open before him.

how can I fight it how do i do that what can i

spock

A bedroom door creaked above his head, and he opened his eyes to see the commodore and Finn descending the curved staircase. Finn’s eyes met Jim’s, then turned away quickly toward his father as if for assurance.

“Gentlemen, welcome.” Cameron smiled at them and gestured toward the sofa as they reached the first floor. Finnegan patted his son on the shoulder before taking a seat; Finn moved toward Jim and looked down at him, unreadable eyes the color of water.

“My dad told me that Barnett asked you to spy for him. Is that true?”

“Yeah, to find the source of a security leak, which happens to be your dad.”

Finn sank to one knee, his eyes level with Jim’s. “You’ve got it wrong. The real traitor is Barnett; he’s the one that’s leaked intelligence to the Klingons, not my dad. He’s the one that brought them here to interrogate us.” He looked over to his father. “They got to Dad last night before we arrived, told him they’d kill us unless he cooperated. You need to do the same. That’s the only way we all get out of this.”

Despite the agony in his shoulder, Jim managed a sardonic smile. “You really think we’re all getting out of this?”

“They’re letting us go, you too if you tell them what you overheard. They promised.” He gazed up at Cameron, who nodded in agreement.

“Your friend is correct. Once you tell us what is is we want to know, you will no longer be of any use to us. Naturally we would then release you.”

“Naturally.” The smile was tinged with derision. “You can believe that if you want.”

“I want you not to get hurt any more. Jim, please.” He leaned forward to place his hands on Jim’s forearm, his face suddenly grey with grief. “You can’t want this, for them to ruin your mind just for one piece of information that they’re going to get anyway. All your hard work, everything you’ve already accomplished and everything you’ll do in the future, it’s all going to be destroyed for this one meaningless thing. Please.”

spock i am here

The tangle of wires made it difficult to shake his head, but he did so, slowly. “Nothing is meaningless. I’m doing what I have to.”

Finn stared at him a few moments longer, then rose slowly to his feet. “All right. Then you’ll forgive me for doing what I have to do, too.” He stepped back and turned to face the commodore. “Dad, I’ll be outside. If that’s okay,” he added with a questioning glance at Cameron.

An order was barked out; the soldier with the injured leg heaved himself out of the easy chair to approach Finn and systematically pat him down the front while his comrade, his handiwork completed, checked the back.

“I have instructed my men to accompany you. They are, of course, armed. I trust you will not do anything foolish.”

“No, just going for a smoke.”

The guard’s gloved hands had already found the pack of cigarettes; they held it to their noses and sniffed at it warily before handing it back to Finn and pushing him in front of them toward the door. The cavern of hopelessness again opened wide as Jim waited for the backward glance but received none, the door closing behind them before Cameron turned to look down at Jim with a mournful smile.

“It is always thus with the courageous, is it not, James? Abandoned to our lonely struggles.” He moved toward the table to place his hand on the small, twinkling box and the tiny switch on its side. “This is your last opportunity to change your mind, my friend. Will you not consider telling me the truth, now, before I am forced to take it from you?”

He had no answers left and could only shake his head again. Cameron nodded in resignation.

"You do great honor to your house this day, little man. Your name will be remembered."

spock i am here come find me

And flipped the switch.

 

***

 

The relative aridity and sparseness of vegetation on his home world made Spock’s occasional childhood visits to Earth a delight of the senses, and were it not for his most illogical foreboding on this occasion, the sight of the Finnegans’ cabin nestled among the dense, snow-dusted trees would have brought some of that youthful enthusiasm back. But as it was, the thrum of anxiety that had begun with his discovery of Jim’s absence from class that morning had deepened to a sensation too intense to allow the appreciation of the natural beauty surrounding him.

He wedged himself on the low fork of an ironwood tree and trained the sight of his phaser rifle at the cabin’s door. There had been no sign, as they had approached the cabin on foot, of any unusual disturbance on the property; the Rover, its own dusting of snow lighter on the hood, had clearly been driven up the night before, the tracks of its tires now only subtle parallel grooves in the snowy road below. The footprints leading to and from the cabin door were fresher than the tire tracks, consistent with the morning’s exploration he knew the cadet would have enjoyed. The number of prints, though, seemed excessive for only two people, at most three if the commodore had come here when he vacated the Presidio the night before. And one set of footprints seemed to stagger drunkenly off the side of the cabin’s porch. Curious.

His finger lay motionless on the trigger as he listened to the nearby sounds of Pike and the two security guards Barnett had granted them. It was a strange concept for him, the fact that Humans had ever managed to become the dominant predator species on this planet; their footfalls were so loud, the rustle of their restless, squirming limbs so obvious that it was difficult to envisage how their prey could ever fail to be aware of their presence. It would have been more logical, he thought, for Humans to be the species that evolved as vegetarians.

He silently checked his communicator.

pikecr: No activity but keep them forward

It had been the correct decision to request Pike’s assistance. He nodded inwardly with something like satisfaction and refocused on the cabin door. Nothing for several minutes, then an unexpected swing inward. Spock felt the breath seize in his throat, his index finger contracting minutely on the trigger, and waited.

A tall, pale Human appeared in the open doorway — Finn, wearing only in a long-sleeved shirt and pants against the cold and holding a small package in one hand. He was followed closely by two darker individuals, both wearing winter jackets and knit caps pulled low over their foreheads, the bulges beneath their coat flaps possible indications of weaponry. One of them appeared to have sustained some sort of leg injury, perhaps sports-related.

He watched Finn for any signs of distress as he pulled a book of matches from where it lay wedged in the box, bent over his cupped hands to light his cigarette, then leaned back to inhale the smoke. He saw none.

pikecr: Who the hell

spockst: Unknown

Silence for several moments before Finn spoke between exhaled puffs of blue-grey smoke.

“Any of you guys know Standard?”

“Some,” the slighter of the two responded. “They, no.”

“Mm hmm.” He lifted the pack of cigarettes toward them. “Want to try one?”

Eager nods indicated that his companions were not strangers to tobacco. They each tore off a glove to accept the proffered cigarettes; Finn dropped the butt of his own to the porch deck and ground it out with the toe of his boot before taking another for himself.

“Here, guys. Get in close. I only have one match left so we’re going to have to share.”

He struck the match and held it to the first stranger’s cigarette, his tone conversational. “This is bad luck, you know. Old wartime superstition. Breathe in.” His companion inhaled as the match touched his cigarette and smiled as the coal brightened. “Because the enemy can spot you on the first light. Second one — “ He paused to light the other man’s cigarette, receiving a nod of appreciation as it glowed in turn. “ — gives them a chance to draw a bead on you. And the third one.” He lit his own cigarette and raised his eyes directly to Spock’s rifle, his pupils through its sight constricted to pinpoints as he shook the match dead.

“Fire.”

 

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