to stare thoughtfully at the area outside the gates. Discarded holosigns
and placards still littered the area, but all the demonstrators were
gone ... where?
Sarek, remembering the shock of touching Induna's altered mind,
repressed a shiver. The sun had vanished behind clouds, and the breeze
was now chilly ...
Peter James Kirk rifled through the selection of clothes available to
him and swore impatiently. This is ridiculous, he told himself, and
reached for a clean uniform. You don't spend this much time dressing for
a date!Or did he? It'd been long enough since his last real date that it
was hard to remember. Running a hand through his sandy-red hair, he
sighed disgustedly. Well, maybe you do. Who cares? Make a decision, and
let get out of here. He'd be late if he didn't hurry.
Your big chance to finally meet Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan, he thought,
feeling a flare of nervous excitement, followed by chagrin. Yeah, and
won't he be impressed if you're late?
He'd first become acquainted with Sarek through the Vulcan's writings
and speeches, some of which were mandatory reading at Starfleet Academy,
where Peter was currently a senior cadet. Then, when he'd attended a
talk the diplomat gave at the Academy two years ago, Peter had found
Sarek's approach to diplomacy so interesting, he'd studied the
ambassador's eminent career during his spare time. Having met the
ambassador's son many times gave his interest a personal aspect.
It was ironic, really. His uncle, Jim Kirk, had spent years working
beside Sarek's son, Captain Spock. If things had worked out right, no
doubt Spock, whom he'd met many times during his uncle's sporadic
visits, would've been happy--or the Vulcan equivalent--to have
introduced Peter to his father. If things had worked out right ...
Well, Peter mused, things had worked out well enough for someone who'd
lost his parents tragically at the age of seven.
He glanced at their picture, taken on Deneva just months before their
deaths. George Samuel and Aurelan Kirk were laughing, their hands on
their gangly son's shoulder. Their twenty-five-year-old mementos still
traveled everywhere with him, and thanks to family albums and vid
records,
Peter had a clear recall of his mother's voice, his father's sense of
humor, although his actual rearing had been entrusted to his late
grandmother, Winona Kirk.
Peter was nearly halfa head taller than his uncle, and built on slender,
rather than stocky, lines. His hair, which as a boy had been a deep
auburn, had lightened over the years to a sandy red. Much to his relief,
his freckles had also faded, though any exposure to the sun brought out
a rash of them across his nose and cheeks. His eyes were a bright, clear
blue, like Earth's sky at midday. Until his mid-twenties, he'd been
gangling and awkward, but the years--and Starfleet's self-defense
training--had solved most of that.
These days Peter moved confidently, even, at times, gracefully.
He'd inherited his looks from his mother, but the rest of the Kirk
legacy that sometimes sat too heavily on his shoulders came straight
from Uncle Jim. Staring at the cadet's uniform he was holding, Peter
wondered if that was why, at the age of thirty-two, he was still in
school.
Peter Kirk hadn't decided on a career in Starfleet until he was in his
mid-twenties--almost a decade after most cadets entered the Academy.
He'd spent that decade attending the best colleges, gaining degrees in
xenolinguistics and xenocultural interfaces with minors in
Terran/xenopolitical interaction, before deciding that he would finally
follow the family tradition and join Starfleet. While Uncle Jim had
always encouraged his varied interests, and never tried to influence his
choice of careers, everyone else had automatically assumed he'd pursue
Command track. He'd done so, though Peter was sure that he'd never
possess his uncle's calm air of command.
We'll find out soon enough if you're a real Kirk, Peter told himself
mockingly. After all the degrees, all the varied quests for knowledge,
and these last few years in Starfleet Academy, Peter was, at last, in
the final stretch. The past two weeks had been one grueling exam after
another--most of which he'd aced. Just like a real Kirk. He'd had one
just this morning, and that, too, he'd completed successfully.
Now there were only two more to go. One tomorrow, and the last a week
from Friday. Then, three d ays after that, the final. The big one. The
Kobayashi Maru.
He realized he was crushing the clean uniform in his hands and put it
back. Why did he have to think about that now?
Because you can't ignore it anymore, it's just a few days away. They've
completely reprogrammed the simulation.
There's a whole new situation, a whole new setup--and nobody knows
anything about it. But that hasn't stopped them from taking bets as to
whether or not you'll be the second Kirk to beat the no-win scenario. He
rubbed his face tiredly. He had to stop worrying about it. It was just
another test. Wasn't it?
The odds are twenty to one against you. Just being a Kirk isn't any
guarantee of success, mister.
He shook his head, trying to shed his pessimistic musings.
The chrono chimed softly, yanking him back to his immediate problem. He
had to get ready for lunch. He was meeting Surev, a young Vulcan he'd
befriended while researching Sarek's work. Surev had invited him to have
a meal at the Vulcan consulate because Sarek might be there, having
arrived yesterday. Surev was distantly related to Sarek's aide, and
while he was careful not to make a commitment, the young Vulcan thought
he might be able to arrange an introduction. Peter was really looking
forward to shaking hands (or rather, offering the Vulcan salute) to the
diplomat he so admired. Lunch at the Vulcan consulate would provide a
welcome respite from the drudgery of studying and finals. Maybe, for
just an hour, he could forget about that damned Kobayashi Maru.
That2 what you need to do, just forget about it, Peter decided. Forget
about the Academy, Uncle Jim, ancient history, the whole thing. Reaching
into his closet, he grabbed a stylish suit, a piece of "civilian" garb
he hadn't worn in months. He wanted to seem totally professional in ease
he was introduced to Sarek. Peter wasn't normally self-conscious about
being an older cadet, but today he didn't want to risk being prejudged.
He didn't want to be Peter Kirk, Jim Kirk's nephew who's only now
graduating Starfleet Academy. He just wanted to be another Terran who
could discuss some of Sarek's ideas with him knowledgeably.
Donning the suit quickly, he smiled. The colors made his eyes bluer.
Hey, who knows? he thought wryly. You can meet a lot of interesting
people at the Vulcan consulate. I've seen some really nice-looking
female attachds going in and out ... Of course, that was an area where
he and Uncle Jim differed. Unlike the elder Kirk, Peter's luck with
women was less than fabulous. Maybe that's so
mething that comes with
age.
As he adjusted the suit so that it hung right, then quickly combed his
hair, he turned on the vid link to catch a glimpse of the news. Sarek
might be featured on the noon report.
Instructing the link to search for any reports about Vulcans, Peter
tensed when the headline EMBASSY PROTEST flashed on the link.
As Peter watched, images of San Francisco's Vulcan consulate--his
current destination--filled the screen.
"The Vulcan presence on Earth," a fair-haired, attractive female
reporter said solemnly, "has rarely generated controversy, but the peace
that normally surrounds this quiet enclave was shattered today as the
Keep Earth Human League announced their intentions to surround the
consulate day and night."
Peter stood transfixed as the view of the front entrance of the stately
domed building came on-screen. A group of humans were clustered before
the elegant gates, at least three dozen men and women, more than a few
holding small children. Some carried traditional placards mounted on
poles, while the rest brandished the more common holosigns. The image
focused on one nondescript bearded man who had a holosign hovering over
him that read, EARTH
BELONGS TO HUMANS--LET'S KEEP IT THAT WAY! Another sign came into view
that said, JOIN THE KEEP EARTH HUMAN LEAGUE TODAY!--SAVE EARTH FOR YOUR
CHILDREN!
Peter stared in consternation, although this wasn't the first time he'd
heard of the KEHL. But he'd had no idea that this fringe-lement movement
had been able to lure in enough members to mount such a large
demonstration.
The reporter approached an attractive young woman in a shiny silver coat
whose holosign read, VULCAS Trunk Tmy'RE
O SMART--AREN'T YOU SICK OF BEING PATRONIZED? Beside her stood a young
boy with a hand-lettered sandwich board that simply demanded, VULCANS
C,O HOME!
"Excuse me, Lisa Termant," the reporter asked the woman respectfully.
"You're one of the leaders of the San Francisco branch of KEHL. Tell our
viewers why your organization is staging this vigil in front of the
Vulcan consulate."
"Members of the Keep Earth Human League are Terrans who have finally
come to their senses," the woman told the journalist earnestly. She was
of medium height, a little stocky, with dark skin and big black eyes.
Her features were chiseled and delicate, except for a rather square
chin, and she moved with confidence, as though she knew exactly what she
was doing in life and how to go about it.
"Our president, Induna," the demonstrator continued,
"has called for a show of our support, so we have assembled." She
indicated a tall, very dark-skinned man, probably African, who was
standing near the consulate gates, lecturing to the crowd. "Vulcans are
trying to take over our Federation, and make humans into second-class
citizens," Termant continued. "We won't stand for it any longer!"
"But, Ms. Tennant," the journalist continued reasonably,
"most Terrans consider Vulcans our loyal friends, our closest allies.
Many of Earth's politicians have been quoted as saying that we need
them, that they're the most civilized people in the galaxy."
"I doubt seriously," the woman retorted coolly, "that we need friends
the likes of Lieutenant Valeris. It's clear to us that she was the
ringleader of the terrible plot against Earth, that she was working for
the renegade Klingon general, Chang."
Peter shook his head. The Romulan ambassador, Nanclus, and the two
Starfleet officers, Admiral Cartwright and Colonel West, had also
conspired with General Chang to assassinate the Klingon chancellor,
Gorkon. Uncle Jim and his medical officer, Leonard McCoy, had been
falsely accused and convicted of the crime, then sentenced to hard labor
on the prison planet, Rura Penthe. It was strange, Peter thought, that,
although the crime had only happened a month or so ago, the public's
memory of those events appeared to be altering. Lately, even the media
had a tendency to downplay the roles played by the humans and the
Romulan, making it seem that General Chang and Lieutenant Valeris were
solely responsible.
"Lieutenant Valeris," the KEHL leader continued, "is merely an example
of the kind of subtle espionage Vulcans have been guilty of for years.
But now the KEHL is on to them. There are chapters of the KEHL springing
up all over--even on some of the Terran colonies. And we know exactly
what we're dealing with!"
"What do you mean?" the journalist pressed.
"Everyone knows," Termant elaborated, "that Vulcans are telepaths.
Lately, it's becoming increasingly obvious that they're using their
abilities to influence minds, and make susceptible humans do things
against their own kind!
Those politicians that are so quick to defend Vulcans are, no doubt,
their unwitting victims. After all, everyone knows how easy it is to
influence a politician's mind!"
Hard to argue with that, Peter admitted grudgingly. But the notion that
Vulcans would use their telepathy in such an unethical way outraged him.
"The Keep Earth Human League is gaining new members every day," Termant
told the reporter smugly. "We are funding our own candidates to run in
local elections, people who are not so easily influenced. It's only a
matter of time before the Vulcan conspiracy is completely exposed. Our
vigil here is to let them know their days on Earth are numberedt"
The woman's self-assurance shocked Peter. She didn't have that wild-eyed
look of lunacy he usually associated with the off-kilter KEHL.
An old woman suddenly stepped in front of the reporter, demanding the
journalist's attention. "Vulcans are the spawn of the devil," she hissed
viciously. "Satan marked 'em as his own, anyone can see that. Don't you
have eyes, woman?"
Now, that had to be a founding member, Peter thought.
He realized his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. Didn't these people
realize how crazy they sounded? What was wrong with them?
The crowd rallied around the Tennant woman. "Keep Earth Hu-man! Keep
Earth Hu-man!" they chanted. Angrily, Peter slapped the vid off switch.
Why did those nuts have to picket the consulate today, when Sarek would
be there?
Good thing the Federation provided security to all off-world embassies
and consulates. He felt confident that Security had the situation well
under control. Yet, even though the vid link was now silent, Peter
imagined that he could still hear that hate-filled mantra.
As the cadet left his room to head for the consulate, he found himself
mulling over the news report. The KEHL had been around for centuries,
ever since Zefram Cochrane invented the warp drive, and humans made it
into space and met the Vulcans for the first time. It was nothing more
than a small group of hard-line xenophobes. But lately, the KEHL was
another story altogether. He wondered if Starfleet Security was mounting
an investigation of their recent activities. If the KEHL kept gamering
members and publicity
at the same rate in the coming months, they could
turn out to be a real problem.
Peter moved quickly out of his apartment and onto the streets that
surrounded the Academy. If he hustled, he could still arrive in time to
meet Surev.
As young Kirk turned the corner to approach the familiar consulate, he
was shocked to find that the crowd of protesters he 'd watched on the
noon report had grown even larger.
While some of the people massing around the curving, neutral-colored
compound must have been simply curious onlookers, there were now so many
holosigns that the floating messages were blending all together into a
huge mass of gibberish.
Peter slowed as he neared the gates, watching the Starfleet Security
forces as they worked to keep the crowd from getting too close to the
entrance. Was the mob actually going to rush the gates? Near the
sculptured metal portal Peter spied Surev, but the Vulcan wasn't looking
toward him, so he didn't bother to wave. Surev's attention was turned in
the opposite direction, and Peter peered to see what he was looking at.
He squinted. Was that ... could that possibly be ... Sarek himself?.
Peter realized it was the ambassador himself standing safely behind the
gates, with his aide, Soran. Surev had arranged it! He was actually
about to meet Sarek!
As Peter tried to skirt the fringes of the throng, a tall figure pushed
his way through the opening crowd. Peter recognized the president of the
KEHL.
Now Sarek and the KEHL president were face-to-face.