TWG - USS Sovereign - Nibble, Nibble, Tail and Tribble

USS Sovereign
Nibble, Nibble, Tail and Tribble
by Parker Gabriel
(parker_gabriel@juno.com)

THE U.S.S. SOVEREIGN WAS CONSTRUCTED TO BE CAPABLE OF A WIDE VARIETY OF MISSIONS ON BEHALF OF STAR FLEET, AMONGST WHICH WAS ASSISTING WITH COLONIZATION EFFORTS OR PROVIDING AID TO EXISTING COLONIES. One such colony was the agrarian colony of Gault, which had been the world where Worf puqloD (Son Of) Mogh and his foster brother, Nikolai Sergeievich Rozhenko, had grown up together. Commander Christopher Thomas Robinson, the Sovereign's Intelligence Officer, had never before visited this world. But its linkage to two starships named Enterprise, NCC-1701-D, of the U.S.S. Galaxy V's class, and NCC-1701-E, of whose class the Sovereign was the prototype ship, made it of interest to him. This was an interest that Telsek K'Mar did not share with him. Telsek, who was half Vulcan and half Romulan, had taken over as the Sovereign's Chief Security & Tactical Officer after the death in action of Commander FrioDraca, an Andorian nobleman whose immediate deputy he had been. Recently, Telsek had been promoted to captain of security; the right side of his bronze inner tunic collar now bore four circular gold pins to Robinson's three.

"I do not fully understand your veneration of the Enterprise, Christopher," Telsek was remarking to his predecessor's protege as both were eating their lunches in the galley of the Sovereign. Owing to Vulcans's strict vegetarian dietary preferences, he was eating a bowl of cucumber-and-tomato salad, with a side of plomeek soup. Robinson, for his part, was nursing a half-kee bowl of chili. "Nor do I see any logical reason to share it. It has not been my experience that starships are any better than the personnel serving in their crews."

"That's just the point," Robinson countered. "The Enterprise is the most famous of all ships in Star Fleet because it had crew members who were in a class by themselves."

"Yes, but you seem to be making its voyages the final word on Star Fleet. They were not the final word by any stretch of the imagination or according to any logical argument, and they will never become so. This is because good personnel are still being killed in the line of duty, and the voyages of the Enterprise are no help to them."

"Not even with the voyages of the Enterprise now being required reading for every Federation citizen, to be learned about and studied along with the Standard Interstellar Symbols System and the ABCs of childhood?"

Chief Warrant Officer Elvass D'Qing, whom Telsek had newly appointed as Tactical Officer in his own stead, joined them at the table. "What you're eating looks delicious, Robinson," he said.

"It's a longstanding Terrestrial favorite," Robinson explained. "We call it chili." He spooned a large spoonful into his mouth. "Hopefully, it's a warrior's food."

"We will see about that." Elvass made his way over to the food replicator. "Roqegh blood pie," he ordered, "with a side of chili."

"Why not skull stew?" Telsek asked. As he spoke, it was possible to surmise that he was shuddering inwardly from all these primitive, blood-stained practices only if those who so speculated were familiar with Vulcan culture.

"Because some of the ingredients in skull stew can't be replicated using Federation replication patterns," Elvass explained as he brought the roqegh blood pie and the chili to his place at the table. "Besides, I haven't eaten roqegh blood pie in months, and I am starving for it."

"Knock yourself out," Robinson urged. But the odor of the roqegh blood pie was already making his own stomach churn. It was all he could do not to gag, and he could only wonder how Klingons tolerated that substance as a meal course.

Elvass carved a piece of the roqegh blood pie and served it to Robinson. "You will find that roqegh blood pie is an acquired taste."

"I can certainly believe that," Robinson confessed as he dug in. He found it rank in flavor, sure enough, but not unlike knockwurst and Wiener schnitzel sausages--and those were foods he liked. He ate the piece served to him with gusto. "Delicious," he added once he had finished it off. "I begin to understand why Klingons have such an appetite for it."

"Hahahahahaha!!" Elvass laughed. "I'll make a Klingon of you yet, Robinson, you mark my words!" He dug into the chili. "You're right--chili is a warrior's food." He ate with gusto.

"With all respect, gentlemen, I find it appalling that either of the two of you, most of all both, should engage in such a neanderthaloid practice as the eating of animal flesh."

"You have to bear in mind, Telsek, that we're essentially half-savage--Klingons as well as humans," Robinson reminded his OIC. "Even your own father, who's Romulan, eats animal flesh regularly without compunctions."

"Only because my mother is no longer alive to disapprove of his dietary choices."

Siandierra Anjulee Beautelier was sorting through documents on isolinear optical chips in her ready room aboard the Sovereign. The recently-promoted vice admiral had long years of experience as a Class One capital starship captain to her credit, but she was discovering the hard way that starship captaincy and Star Fleet admiralty required entirely different abilities. It was enough to make her wonder why she had even applied for promotion in the first place.

All Of One, the de-assimilated Borg drone who had been awarded the grade of commander in Star Fleet and assigned as Executive Officer of the Sovereign less than five years before, entered Siandierra's ready room. As he did, the recently-promoted fleet captain asked, "Can I do anything to assist you, Admiral?"

"No, Numberr One. I can manage by myself forr now." She looked up from reading a document that she had been reviewing. "But evidently, the agrrarrian planet Gault can't at this time. I have been rreading a rreporrt that its Goverrnorr submitted to Starr Fleet thrree days ago. Its majorr grrain plantation is sufferring a blight fungus that will rrenderr the harrvested crrop inedible."

"Therre is one. We arre within interrception rrange of a frreighterr whose warrp drrive has malfunctioned, and its carrgo is exactly such a grrain." Her clawed fingers danced on a touch panel. "Siandierrrra to Brridge--can you contact Starr Fleet Operrations Contrrol forr this rregion?"

"Done," said the voice of Commander Joseph Horton, Chief of both Communications and Flight Con operations. Within the minute, Siandierra found herself in touch with Admiral Griv, a Tellarite flag officer and former starship captain who was known for his can-do attitude.

"I've just read the report from the Governor of Gault," he said as soon as Siandierra had identified herself. "It's quite a shock."

"I had hoped that we could interrcept the frreighterr whose warrp drrive is off-line," Siandierra said. "Perrhaps we can take overr the carrgo trransporrt meant forr Gault."

"That was exactly what I was thinking, Siandierra," Griv agreed. "In fact, I was about to order you to the freighter's last known position for just that purpose when you contacted me."

"One thing you and your crew should know--the grain that the freighter was carrying as cargo is called octo-triticale."

"Another thing--it's a Ferengi freighter," Griv pointed out. "Its crew had already paid a staggering price in gold-pressed latinum for the octo-triticale in the first place. They'll want you to pay enough gold-pressed latinum to reimburse them, and then some."

"And once you have the grain on board, lay in course for Gault and engage maximum warp. I have no wish for a famine on Gault to disturb my conscience."

The Sovereign was on course to rendezvous with the Ferenginarian freighter. Its command crew was in the Main Observation Lounge--"the main briefing room," as Robinson liked to call it.

"What do you know about octo-trriticale, Commanderr RRobinson?" Siandierra was asking him.

"Octo-triticale," Robinson noted, "is obviously a triticale-rooted wheat-and-rye-based hybrid grain, just like quadro-triticale. But exactly how the agronomists and agrarians who hybridized it into existence managed to grow a grain with--unbelievably--a staggering eight DISTINCT lobes PER KERNEL, and still enable that hybrid grain to grow more plants per hectare, is beyond me."

"It was obviously not that difficult for them," Science Officer Commander Dr. Selek remarked. "Triticale, when first hybridized into existence in Twentieth-Century Canada, was prevented from reproductive sterility by spraying its seedlings and the field in which it was planted with colchicine."

"Colchicine? Good Lord! That's a gouty-arthritis medication when used in small doses! What were the agrarians of the time doing using a potential poison like that?"

"As I understand it, Commander, it is only a poison in large doses, or if burned. Colchicine has proven to be a highly effective fertilizer for more than one cereal crop of Earth origin when used that way on other planets. Apparently, it worked for quadro-triticale as well."

"As far as I know, ma'am, the Ferengi had stored the grain in cargo modules, seeing as they had planned to sell it to the Gaultian colonists," Chief Engineering Officer Fleet Captain Traci Giorgianni, herself newly promoted, explained. "Those modules should fit on board without much difficulty."

"How long do the Gaultians have?" Chief Surgeon Commander Dr. Sybil Sixteen asked.

"At the rrate at which the blight fungus is destrroying theirr cerreal crrops, I give them two months at best," was the response. "Afterr that, the planet faces famine."

"What is the minimum amount of grain the Gaultians will need to avoid planet-wide starvation?" This from Telsek.

"We don't know yet," Siandierra confessed. "The Ferrengi ship was apparrently carrrrying sixteen metrric tonnes of seed grrain."

"I may know the origin of octo-triticale," Robinson remarked, "but I don't know how high the yield per hectare is of quadro-triticale, least of all octo-triticale."

"This is not an agroship, and we are essentially not a crew of farmers," Selek reminded him. "Few hands aboard could provide those statistics if challenged on the matter."

"But I'm supposed to be ABLE to provide those statistics, being the ship's Information Officer and all that." The out-of-his-time human was visibly frustrated. "At times like this, I feel rather foolhardy."

"Stupid, I mean," the Twenty-Third Century survivor added. He eyed his section's Officer-In-Charge. "Maybe that's why I don't often get the need to know that helps a spy do his job effectively."

"One problem with having such a need to know is the vulnerability to jumping to conclusions," said Telsek. "Another is that judgment can only take those who possess it so far."

"To yourr stations, all of you," Siandierra broke in. "This brriefing is adjourrned."

Once the Commanding Officer was back aboard the Main Bridge, Horton asked her, "Do we have coordinates on that freighter, ma'am?"

Siandierra handed him a personal displayer in response. "We do indeed have them; herre they arre, on this PADD. Lay in courrse to rrendezvous with the frreighterr--ahead warrp seven, Mrr. Horrton." She returned to her command chair and sat down.

Robinson had taken a seat at one of the two Main Bridge Sciences stations. Selek sat next to him at the other, his a critical bearing. "What are you searching for, Commander?" he asked.

"Information correlating this mission to a near-disaster at Deep Space Station K-7, the Infinity Station," Robinson answered. "To quote the punchline of a bad joke that goes all the way back to Earth of the past, I've got a bad feeling about this." He wasn't smiling as he spoke.

"The Intelligence Officer is not the kind to make jokes or wisecracks about these kinds of affairs, Counselor," Selek reminded the Betazoid. "If he says he has what he calls a bad feeling about them, then he does." He turned to the station where he sat. "His mention of what he called the Infinity Station, which he equated with Deep Space Station K-7, has raised a rather disturbing possibility for the potential outcome of this mission."

"Hail the Ferrengi as soon as we rreach hailing rrange," Siandierra said. "Inforrm them that I will be boarrding theirr frreighterr." She glared at All Of One. "Alone."

The Sovereign needed barely half a day to reach its rendezvous point with the Ferenginarian freighter. Robinson was disturbed to realize that it was a marauder, one of the most feared vessels in what amounted to the Merchant Marine Star Fleet of the Ferenginar Alliance Of Merchant Kingdoms. But it did appear to be severely hobbled in terms of velocity.

"Sensors indicate that the Ferenginarian warp drive is inoperative, just as Admiral Griv said," he reported. "They also indicate the presence of octo-triticale in its cargo holds, stored in standard cargo modules--approximate total mass, sixteen metric tonnes."

Horton carried out Siandierra's orders to hail the freighter with the message that she would board it, alone. The response he got back on the hailing band puzzled him, and he asked, "Captain, do we even have gold-pressed latinum on board?"

"Yes," was the response. "I always knew that supply we werre carrrrying would come in handy."

"Get it, then," Siandierra ordered. "Brring it to Trransporrterr RRoom Thrree." She rose from her command chair. "Notify the DaiMon of that marrauderr--I'm coming aboarrd."

"Denied, RRobinson. I prromised to boarrd alone, and I will not brreak that prromise."

"Your presence there will not be needed anyway, Commander," said Telsek. "The captain will not be beaming into any hazardous areas, and hence, the armed escort will not be necessary."

"As you wish, ma'am," Robinson said with audible chagrin that indicated he was agreeing under protest. "Standing down."

It didn't take Siandierra long to work out the details with the Ferenginarian DaiMon. She needed to pay him only half the quantity of gold-pressed latinum she had with her--a quantity that amounted to five hundred of the one thousand bars that she had.

"It has been a distinct business doing pleasure with you, Captain," said the DaiMon, whose name was Trect. "Remember me to all the hew-manns in your crew."

"I have not felt so useless in years," Robinson was grousing within the hour as the octo-triticale was being beamed on board in the cargo modules containing it. "I feel almost like a fifth wheel on some wagon that should have only four."

"Are you being objective about this, or are you allowing your emotions to run away with you, Mr. Robinson?" Elvass admonished him sharply. "One of your people's great orators, I believe you call him Cicero, noted that they also serve who only stand and wait."

"He also told the story about the Sword Of Damocles," was Robinson's retort. "According to that story, a king once had a flatterer sit under a sword that was hanging above his head by a single hair, to show him the dangers that monarchs faced. So you see, Chief Elvass, it isn't just feeling useless that worries me. It's the possibility that Admiral Siandierra could be bringing a whole new Sword Of Damocles on board. Or even opening such a box as Pandora, out of curiosity, opened in spite of all the warnings that her husband, the Titan Epimetheus, gave her not to open it; in that case, who knows what manner of evil could be released from it?"

Indeed, Siandierra had a broad toothy smile on her face. As she approached them, Elvass became conscious of a low trilling purr, which irritated him to no end.

"Forget the noise, Chief Elvass--what's that horrible stench?" Robinson complained, holding his own nose.

Siandierra noted, "The Ferrengi DaiMon, Trrect, gave me this crreaturre in exchange forr a single latinum strrip. He called it--" As she brought it out, the apparent ball of fur reared back from Elvass with an angry spitting hiss, evidently smelling the Klingon's distinctive odor.

"We're carrying a cereal crop on board, Captain! If that tribble gets to it--" Robinson found he could not go on.

"Captain, you heard both Elvass and me mention tribbles when I was court-martialed," Robinson insisted, finding his voice again. "That creature is an ecological parasite! Start with one tribble, give it even a gram too much food, before long you'll have ten, then a hundred, then a thousand--ten young to a mean-average litter, twelve-hour gestations, and a metabolism nine-tenths geared to reproduction--in three days, a single tribble can breed almost one point eight MILLION offspring!"

"They destroyed a shipment of quadro-triticale intended for Sherman's Planet--can you imagine what they'll do to that octo-triticale we're shipping to Gault?"

"As captain of this vessel, you of all sapients should be familiar with the Interstellar Commerce Regulatory Statute and the penalties it prescribes for transporting, or uncontrolled breeding, of non-intelligent livestock proven harmful to human life." Robinson's voice had a pleading tone. "Do you really want us all to be confined to prison planets for twenty YEARS EACH?"

Siandierra found that she could not answer. Already, she had had to brig Robinson himself for his failure to follow chain of command. If the tribble she had obtained for that single latinum strip got out of control, the board of inquiry that might be convened as a result would roast her alive. And her Intelligence Officer, who was also her Information Officer, had just pointed out a key provision in the Interstellar Commerce Regulatory Statute. If there were two qualities Robinson possessed in abundance, his judgment and his insight were those two.

"You take carre of it," she said. "The one thing I will not perrmit you to do is kill it. Otherrwise, you may carre forr it as you think best."

Elvass, his face twisted in distaste, took the tribble from his Commanding Officer's clawed fingers, and found that he was able to ignore its angry spitting hisses and its repulsive stench.

"It is my hope," he grumbled, "that tribbles cannot eat Klingon food such as I have managed to obtain on board this vessel."

The Klingon's hopes were dashed twelve hours later, when he found himself caring for eleven tribbles the very next morning. If he had had problems with only one tribble, then these were now multiplied elevenfold, just as Robinson had warned.

The Intelligence Officer was on his way to his post in the Star Fleet Marine staging compartment when he heard the cacophony of angry spitting hisses. He sounded the buzzer.

The double pocket hatches undogged. No sooner did they than Robinson gasped in horror. "All I can say is that we'd better keep them away from that octo-triticale," he blurted.

"Before we can even attempt that, we have to know how DaiMon Trect managed to do the same on board his freighter, and we don't."

"I don't so wish," Robinson shot back. "Just tell me two things. First, didn't the Klingon Empire once manage to bring about the extinction of the tribble? And second, if it did succeed in doing that, how was the extinction of the tribble undone?"

"I'll answer the second question first," said Elvass. "It happened when the Defiant was transporting the so-called 'Orb Of Time' from the Cardassian Union to Bajor. When it did, Arne Darvin managed to smuggle himself on board, posing as the human merchant Barry Waddle. He used the Orb to send himself and the Defiant back to the time of the incident aboard what you call the Infinity Station. You see, Darvin blamed James Kirk for the humiliation he suffered after his failure in halting the Development Project for Sherman's Planet."

"Which project failed anyway because an active anti-Organian underground had been deeply in place for a long time. Its purpose was to see to it that both sides, Federation and Klingon alike, always stayed in constant violation of all the conditions of the 'treaty.'" Robinson deliberately made the word "treaty" sound hideous and nasal, a clear expression of his personal contempt for what he did not recognize as a legitimate political agreement. "They sabotaged the attempted Federation and Klingon settlements and stayed fiercely politically independent of both authorities. I wouldn't be surprised either if they were the genetic bio-engineers of that virus with which Darvin deliberately infected that quadro-triticale, or if they were the people who actually informed Cyrano Jones about tribbles in the first place."

"That they were indeed both of those, I have no doubt. Anyway, Darvin hoped to prevent his own past humiliation by assassinating Kirk and destroying the tribbles that were eating the infected grain and preventing it from actually getting to Sherman's Planet. He hoped to merit a statue in our Hall Of Warriors." Elvass snorted in derisive laughter. "Ha! Darvin a warrior? He lacked even enough courage to show his own face to Nils Barris when he obtained that post as Barris's assistant!"

"A number of Klingons were undergoing surgical alteration to facilitate infiltration into UFP space and deceive the UFP about what Klingons really looked like. After 'The V'Ger Incident,' so to call it, many Klingons opted to reverse the procedure, since the Ey'mar's Commanding Officer had not undergone it before he faced the entity that called itself V'Ger." The Intelligence Officer pronounced the ship's name "AY-marr."

"Be that as it may, personnel of the Defiant brought back live specimens of tribble when they returned from the past--and in so doing, undid all the hard work the Empire had done eradicating those parasites." Elvass gestured towards all eleven of the tribbles for which he now had to care, all of which were still making their presence heard with angry spitting hisses at what they perceived as his body stench. "Now I find that they've even acquired a taste for Klingon food."

"You spoke of the hard work that the Klingon Empire did eradicating the tribble. I'm rephrasing my first question: What did that work involve?"

"While you were slumbering in suspended animation waiting for another ship of the line to rescue you, my people's government was dispatching hundreds of its warriors to track down tribbles throughout the known galaxy. We even dispatched an armada to the Iota Geminorum star system to obliterate its fourth planet in November of 2293, the month before the First Khitomer Accords were negotiated. When we learned what the Defiant had done, High Council Chancellor Ghou'ron was enraged beyond words. His own grandfather had participated, during the Twenty-Third Century, in our quest to exterminate that ecological menace, and almost every Klingon child learns in school about what parasites tribbles were."

That was when condition-yellow tracer lights winked on amidst the standard lighting.

"But why?" Robinson tapped his communicator badge pin. "Robinson to Bridge--Captain, can you explain the yellow alert?"

"Rraaooowww...it's possible," Siandierra conceded thoughtfully. "We'll be securring forr ion storrm stations--it's just too bad that we won't be able to send ion pods into the storrm."

"Don't we have nine classes of drone probes aboard that can help us navigate through ion storms as effectively as a dedicated ion pod, with a crew member inside, once could?"

"Well phrrased," Siandierra commented. "We'll send out a Class IX prrobe forr the purrpose."

"What worries me is how the grain modules are gonna hold up under the strain. If any of them rupture, then it's nibble, nibble, tail and tribble."

"That tribble you gave Elvass to care for yesterday has spawned a litter. And get this, Captain--they eat Klingon food now." He addressed the chief. "I'll be on the Main Bridge in Telsek's absence."

Aboard the Main Bridge, the Commanding Officer froze in horror. "The Prrey help us!"

As Robinson was informing Siandierra that the tribbles Elvass was caring for now ate Klingon food, Telsek was at the entrance to the main cargo hold, reading the manifest.

"That octo-triticale is in danger of tribble attack, judging by what happened in Chief Elvass's quarters," he mused. "If the tribbles he accidentally bred get to any of the cargo holds, especially this one, through the air vents, they may eat the grain and multiply out of control." He looked up from his console as a junior guard approached his location, right hand behind his back.

"I'm not so sure about that, sir," said the ensign. "I just found this near an air vent, in a cargo hold near Chief Elvass's quarters." As he was speaking, he brought his right hand forwards from behind his back and held up a tribble.

The Sovereign gave a sickening lurch at just that moment. Both men were knocked to the deck.

"All Of One to all stations--ion storm in progress," the voice of the exec announced on shipwide as Telsek and the junior guard attempted to regain their footing. "All hands to ion-storm stations."

"Telsek here--what to do about the grain? I am outside the main cargo hold with a Security Division ensign, and we suspect possible tribble contamination." As he was speaking, he picked up the tribble from the deck. "We cannot secure the grain or watch for tribbles at ion-storm stations."

"We will cope with the tribbles once we are through the ion storm." The voice of the Number One was stern. "We can do nothing else before then."

"Understood." Telsek turned to the ensign and handed him the tribble. "To your ion-storm station. For now, at least, mine is here."

"I only succeeded in intercepting one tribble, sir," the younger man warned. "Chances are, there may be others that I might have missed."

In the cargo hold closest to Elvass's quarters, where the ion storm prevented watch for tribbles, one was now at a cargo module, one of two modules that had already toppled over and broken open in the storm. It was eating the octo-triticale hungrily, glutting itself.

"Launch a Class IX prrobe," Siandierra ordered, "so we can at least navigate thrrough this mess. And stand by to invoke isolation prrotocol in case we sufferr a hull brreach."

Selek was already tickling the touch-pads at his primary station. "Probe ready for launch, Captain. When should I release it?"

"Isolation protocol on full standby," said Giorgianni. "And Captain--you'll be pleased to know that I have my damage-control teams ready for action, too."

Boarding the Main Bridge, Robinson said, "Intelligence Officer Robinson reporting, Captain--should we energize tactical deflector shields?" He was already heading for the tactical console.

Robinson immediately commenced to tap the relevant touch-pads on the security-tactical console. "Making it so--angling tactical deflector shielding to intercept heaviest ion bombardments."

From his own station at Flight Con, Joseph Horton reported, "Probe launch standing by. Sciences, stand by to transfer launch control."

"Launch control at your word, Flight Con," Selek said as his fingers danced on the pads.

The red streak of the probe, barely visible against the roiling chaos of blue, white, green, and yellow on the main viewer, shot through that visual maelstrom as the Sovereign lurched again, this time at its stern, as though a runabout had crashed vertically into the fantail cove of its star-drive section. Robinson was thrown forwards against the security-tactical console, and Selek toppled out of his chair at the Sciences Station he was operating. Both recovered quickly.

"Minor casualties on Deck 5," Giorgianni reported. "No hull breaches, but tribble contamination reported in cargo hold on Deck 5."

"That's one of the cargo holds where we stored that grain when we took it aboard," Robinson observed, not looking up from the console. "Nibble, nibble, tail and tribble."

"Commanderr RRobinson fearred that the trribbles would eat the grrain," Siandierra reminded her Chief Engineering Officer. "It seems they arre indeed doing just that."

"We're gonna be stuck with hundreds of thousands of tribbles in a matter of hours, in other words," Giorgianni groaned. "And there's no way to stop them while we're at ion-storm stations."

"As I said before, Chief Engineer," All Of One reminded her, "we will wait till after we clear the ion storm before we deal with the tribbles."

Downcast, Giorgianni nodded meekly. She knew better than to argue with the de-assimilated Borg drone on matters of duty.

"I'll take personal charge of disposing of any dead tribbles," Robinson interjected. "Even as I warned about them, dealing with them after they die will be my responsibility."

"Robinson, don't tribble the captain!" Giorgianni snapped sharply, clearly angered.

"What matters now is getting through the ion storm," Selek reminded all hands aboard the Main Bridge. "The probe is relaying data to my stations, and we should be able to employ that data to plot a relatively safe course through this storm." He tapped pads. "Bringing up the extrapolations of that data now." The screen at his console changed configuration. "Captain, if you will look here..."

Siandierra rose from the Command Con and walked over to the first Sciences Station. "What am I seeing?"

"That green line on the star-map," was the response. "That is our safest course."

The Commanding Officer studied the map. "Horrton, can you make any sense of this?"

Rising from the Flight Con station, Horton also walked over and studied the map. "I have." He returned to the Flight Con station, where his fingers danced on the touch-pads. "Laying in course." He looked up. "Recommend we follow it manually, and on impulse power, in order to minimize additional damage." As he spoke, Siandierra returned to the Command Con and sat back down.

"Impulse power," Giorgianni said. "How much do you believe we need for the purpose, Captain?"

"That decision is not entirrely up to me," was the response. "Mrr. Horrton, you'll have to keep adjusting powerr as we prroceed."

"I had already figured as much," Horton responded. "Hang on--it's gonna get bumpy." As he spoke, he took the Sovereign through the ion storm, constantly needing to readjust speed and course. To Robinson, at the very least, it felt like dancing barefoot, on rotted eggs and hot metal, to Grieg's In The Hall Of The Mountain King, a particularly fast piece of "classical thunder." As the Sovereign tried to negotiate the storm, he tried with might and main to keep the tactical deflector shields properly angled. He did not always succeed in this effort.

In the cargo hold, there were now one hundred and twenty-one tribbles eating the grain that had spilled from the broken modules. Evidently, the octo-triticale was doing something to them that was preventing them from behaving exactly like normal tribbles.

The Sovereign, using only its impulse drive, needed more than an hour to negotiate the course through the ion storm that Selek had worked out. Giorgianni's damage-control teams had their hands full for over two hours after that, even as Giorgianni and her engineering complement were running themselves ragged from bypassing on-board ship's systems that they could neither repair nor reconstruct.

But even as they succeeded in this work, they found themselves facing yet another crisis: During the ion storm, the two cargo modules had toppled over, broken open and spilled a metric tonne of grain into the cargo hold on Deck 5 where they were being kept. Then a tribble had commenced to get into the grain and eat it. Now there were one thousand, three hundred and thirty-one tribbles, and they all hungered more than ever. All Of One, who noticed this unfortunate phenomenon first, was visibly astounded at what he found when he and Robinson entered the cargo hold.

"These most definitely aren't normal tribbles," Robinson said. "Even when they destroyed that quadro-triticale intended for Sherman's Planet, they didn't multiply this fast--their metabolic rates must be at warp speed by now."

"That is not logical, Commander," All Of One chided him. "Metabolism cannot exceed the speed of light in its functions."

"A figure of speech, All Of One," the out-of-his-time human retorted. "What I mean to say is that those tribbles are losing control of their own metabolic rates."

"Could that be the reason they are multiplying so much more rapidly than normal?"

"It makes sense. I'm getting the impression that those agronomists and agrarians know more about what makes octo-triticale such a unique grain than they were willing to reveal to any of us." The Intelligence Officer tapped his communicator badge pin. "Robinson to Bridge."

"No." This from All Of One. "Some have actually escaped from the cargo hold and are probably heading to the food processors. Commander Robinson believes that the grain might have boosted the metabolism and reproductive rates of the tribbles."

"Seeing as we keep the majority of on-board compartment temperatures relatively cool, my guess would be Warp Engineering."

"Warmth," Robinson speculated. "As in from warp-engine heat exchangers. When those devices are not in actual operation, they leak just enough waste infra-red radiation to generate surface temperatures of approximately twenty-five degrees. No amount of insulation can prevent that."

"And if they werre so insulated, they would be rrenderred useless forr heat exchange."

"Do you want Chief Engineer Giorgianni to keep the warp engines running at idle?" Robinson proposed. "That way, the waste infra-red radiation would keep the surface temperatures of those heat exchangers well above seven hundred and fifty degrees--too hot for the tribbles to tolerate."

"Burrn the trribbles? Not on yourr life!" Siandierra sounded horrified at the idea. "We need as much fuel as we can sparre to get to Gault in time!"

As Robinson and All Of One were discussing options with Siandierra, the tribbles were making their ways out of the cargo hold. Now All Of One reported, visibly disturbed, "They are escaping!"

"Siandierrrra to Securrity--fall back and let the trribbles pass. I say again: Let the trribbles pass!"

"If they arre headed forr the Warrp Engine RRoom, we may be able to contain them therre."

Not all the tribbles swallowed the bait of warmth that the heat exchangers of the warp engines had to offer them. Some diverted to Selek's Sciences Laboratories on Decks 7 and 8.

Fleet Captain ShadowRunner, Giorgianni's Assistant Chief Engineering Officer, watched with alarm as the tribbles entered the Warp Engine Room. A garou, or werewolf, from an Earth colony whose inhabitants had undergone, and conducted, numerous genetic bio-engineering experiments after deliberately marooning themselves in the colony's distant past, he was now in homid, or human, form. "Why should we allow those tribbles to enter this Warp Engine Room when we should rather destroy them?" he was asking Giorgianni as the tribbles made their way across the deck.

"It's apparently the captain's hope that we can somehow contain them here till we figure out what to do with them. Hopefully, we can leave them on a Class M planet with possible predators or other hostile living conditions to keep their rate of reproduction under control."

"That will have to wait till after we deliver the grain to Gault," ShadowRunner noted.

"Yes, it will. In the meantime, we'll have to work on completing repairs to our own damage from that ion storm."

"No," said Giorgianni. Addressing all hands within range of her voice, she went on, "Attention, all nonessential personnel--evacuate Warp Engine Room and transfer as much control to automatic as feasible." She then tapped her communicator badge pin. "Bridge--Giorgianni here. And so are most of the tribbles. We will be retaining only a skeleton crew in Engineering."

"I'll stay here," said ShadowRunner. "This compartment can't function without either of us."

"What protocols are in place till we've dealt with those tribbles?" Robinson asked. He and Vice Admiral Siandierra were in her ready room.

"We'll be operrating in rreduced powerr mode," Siandierra said. "That means rreplicatorr usage is to be severrely rrestrricted, forr one thing."

"Not at prresent. If we gain a deadline, the Goverrnorr will inforrm us of that deadline perrsonally."

In his Sciences Labs, Selek was having difficulty conducting some of his biological experiments, because tribbles were interfering with the work he was doing. As he proceeded with the studies, he had to pick tribbles out of his samples no fewer than eight times.

In the Star Fleet Marine staging area, Telsek's attempt to drill the members of Strike Group Number Seven Hundred And Ninety-One was not going well at all because tribbles were interfering with his cadence calls. He was finding himself having to deliver the by-the-numbers commands at higher volumes than he preferred because tribble mewing kept drowning him out otherwise.

Then, just as it seemed that matters could not become any more apparently difficult, they did. Horton received a message from the Gaultian Governor.

"Captain, message from Gault," he reported in alarm. "The Governor's just reported directly that the blight plague is mutating--and spreading."

All Of One snapped to the import of the moment. "Engineering, All Of One here. Try to find some way to extricate the tribbles from the warp-engine heat exchangers. We need warp speed available in a matter of minutes, hours at most, or the Gaultians will not survive."

Elvass was already assisting in the attempts to extricate the tribbles from the warp-engine heat exchangers, without having even heard the message from the Main Bridge. His hands were safely encased in a pair of thick protective gloves, so that he could avoid touching either the heat exchangers themselves or any of the tribbles. Robinson was also in the Warp Engine Room, and likewise assisting in the efforts; his hands were bare.

"We'd be engaging warp-drive already, Captain," the Intelligence Officer reported in harried tones, "but I'm afraid we're a little busy at this point!"

"Engage warp drive now?" Robinson groaned. "Captain, we can't do that! We're still trying to extricate the tribbles from the heat exchangers! If we engage now, we risk cremating at least one of them alive in the infra-red radiation waste output!"

"Killing them isn't worth the effort at this stage," Elvass corroborated. "They can only fight back by breeding more and more of their own kind. They may be parasites, and they may be prolific, but tribbles are not an enemy that will fight back. There may be the satisfaction of exterminating parasites in destroying tribbles, true enough, but there is no honor in fighting an enemy that cannot, and will not, fight back."

"Oh, come on, Captain--you're thinking almost like a Kzin now," Giorgianni retorted. "Tribbles don't even have eyes or ears! How in the name of hell can you aggravate them with sound?"

"They may not have eyes orr earrs," Siandierra explained, "but they do have epiderrmises, yes? And if a crreaturre has an epiderrmis, it has a sense of touch."

"So all we have to do is find sounds or vibrations that'll behave like itching powder when we play them near tribbles." Elvass brightened. "I'll have Selek get to work on it right away." He pulled off his right glove and tapped his communicator badge pin. "Elvass to Sciences Labs."

"Selek here," came the Science Officer's gratifyingly swift response. "Is there anything I can do for you, Chief Elvass?"

Selek looked around himself with his radiation-weakened eyes. "That I do," he confirmed. "Indeed, they are all over my laboratories. Some of them are so close to my warmer instruments that I have been forced to recruit my science-library assistants to pry them out of the heat sources."

"Siandierrrra herre," the Commanding Officer broke in. "I want you to take some of the trribbles to yourr acoustics laborratorry, if you have none therre alrready. Trry to find a sonic vibrration that will irrrritate and aggrravate them--and without killing them, mind you. We want to keep the trribbles alive so that they can be left on a planet wherre they will have population contrrols."

"I am on it, Captain," Selek said, picking up a container filled with eleven tribbles. He turned to his intercom panel and tapped a touch-pad. "Selek to Engineering--is there any chance you can assist me in designing a hand-held vibration generator?"

"Not if you wish to control and project the vibrations, which is what we wish to do with this device."

"That, and project the vibrations. There can be no possibility of actually hearing the vibrations, which will make the task even more difficult."

"Can do," Giorgianni said. She got up from her desk and left the Warp Engine Room. It took her less than five minutes to reach Selek's Sciences Labs.

Selek was at his main computer console when Giorgianni entered his Sciences Labs. The screen appeared to show some sort of schematic display that the Chief Engineer did not recognize.

"I have been attempting to draft plans for the vibration projector," the Science Officer explained to her. "However, I cannot quite modulate the frequency to non-lethal levels. Do you believe Mr. Telsek could help me with this?"

Telsek joined the other two within two minutes. He had an antique Romulan disruptor pistol with him, along with tools for field-stripping it. Handing it over to Giorgianni, he handed Selek a tripolymer sealant-ruggedized isolinear optical chip.

"That chip contains the plans for the older disruptors," he explained. "They actually worked as what could be called sonic masers."

"Theoretically sound," Selek conceded. "They had non-lethal settings, I presume?"

"Yes, they did. What was most effective was that the sonic vibrations were easy to control with the force-setting dials, wheels, and/or levers."

Giorgianni looked skeptical. "That would take care of the control, sure. But we're also gonna need to determine appropriate frequencies that are gonna work in the future and use those frequencies to calibrate this contraption. And we're gonna need to do all that fast! Otherwise those tribbles are gonna jam the heat exchangers so that they can't work at all."

Telsek and Selek nodded knowingly. They both knew what she meant when she said that. Without functional heat exchangers, the cold matter-antimatter intermix would detonate the warp core--and the Sovereign along with it.

For three hours, the two Vulcanoids and the human technologist with whom they were both working labored on the portable, tunable short-range vibration projector that would be employed to drive the tribbles out of the heat exchangers in the Warp Engine Room. Finally, they had a device that they were convinced would work. It resembled a black box with dials, a lighted display, and two tuning forks at one end. Giorgianni took their vibration projector back to the Warp Engine Room, turned it on, and twisted one of the dials.

If the vibrations were too high, the tribbles would be killed; if too low, it would have no effect.

But before long, she was getting results. Bringing the projector to the heat exchangers and turning it to full intensity, even as she tuned the vibrations, she finally succeeded in bringing about what all had hoped would be the case--a mass exodus of tribbles. Moving like a massive patchwork carpet with numerous tiny feet, they made their way across the deck towards the main entrance hatch of the Warp Engine Room. "That should be the lot of them," Giorgianni noted.

"I'll stay behind to extricate any stragglers still clinging to the heat exchangers by hand," Robinson volunteered. "If we've missed any, we'll know it instantly."

Horton tapped the touch-pad. All of a sudden, the red-alert klaxon sounded--as did a bloodcurdling scream from the speakers. "YEEOW!!"

"That's Robinson!" Though All Of One was Borg, he did retain some human emotions, having once been human himself, and his dark-brown-complected face was now creased with alarm.

"Take the Brridge--I'll be in Warrp Engineerring," Siandierra snapped. Turning to the Flight Con station, the Commanding Officer added, "And get us back underr impulse powerr."

Just outside the Warp Engine Room, Siandierra found Sybil and some members of her team, including a young doctor she did not recognize, tending to Robinson, whose right hand was badly burned. With his left hand, the Twenty-Third Century survivor pointed to a charred tribble corpse, and Siandierra gagged on the stench.

Selek was studying the tribbles that had successfully been extricated from the heat exchangers with the vibration projector, and his bearing was now one of open puzzlement at what he had found. "Captain, this is most odd. These tribbles are dead!"

Briefly turning away from tending to Robinson, Sybil examined others using the hand-held scanner of her medical tricorder. "So are these. In fact, most of them are dead." She had a visibly disturbed expression. "Those that are still alive won't be for long."

"A logical assumption is that there is something in the grain that has killed them. Another is that the grain itself has somehow killed them. I make these assumptions because when we actually built the vibration projector, we specifically designed it so that it could not be used to kill them."

"Selek, I want the trribbles and the grrain analyzed. I want to know what killed these trribbles!"

"We still have not yet figured out what is keeping them alive." He picked up two tribble corpses. "However, if we find anything that may be important, we will inform you."

"That isn't gonna do us any good, Captain," Robinson groaned. "This mission is ruined. And Star Fleet is gonna hear about it once we've failed. When it does, it's gonna convene a board of inquiry and roast the lot of us alive."

"It'll only convene that boarrd of inquirry if we do fail!" Siandierra corrected him. "And on my ship, failurre is NOT, and will neverr BECOME, an option forr this mission!"

"If you will excuse me, Captain," said Selek. "Dr. Sybil, would you care to join me in my labs?"

When the two returned three hours later, Selek was armed with a series of interesting results to report to his shipmates.

"Autopsies of the tribble corpses disclosed the presence of an incompletely liquefied blend of hydrochloric acid and octo-triticale in the tribbles's stomachs, in addition to various carbohydrates, proteins, fatty acids, and various other organic biochemicals in partial solution in both endocrine metabolites and hydrochloric acid. Surprisingly, the autopsies disclosed no toxins of any kind."

"Apparently, the octo-triticale is a better grain than even its developers thought it was. It is obviously so rich in various nutrients that it overloaded the metabolisms of the tribbles that ate it. As they ate it, they were taking in nourishment too fast for their metabolisms to keep pace."

"They ate themselves to death," Robinson remarked, stunned. "On two whole cargo modules filled with grain, those tribbles actually ate themselves to their own deaths!"

"We may have found just such a trribble-rresistant grrain as agrrarrians have been looking forr since the Klingon Empirre's successful extinction of the trribble was accidentally undone, then," Siandierra noted. "My compliments to the hybrridizerrs of octo-trriticale."

"Just more proof that it doesn't pay to pig out," Sybil remarked, unable to restrain her glee.

"But what if the rest of that grain we're carrying actually gets to Gault? What happens then?" Robinson asked, a frightened expression on his face. "The Gaultians can't trust themselves to use restraint in consuming the octo-triticale any more than those tribbles could!"

"I'm afraid I've gotta differ with you, ma'am," the out-of-his-time human shot back. "We don't even know how rapidly that octo-triticale's gonna grow once it's introduced into the Gaultian ecology. For all we know, the octo-triticale could end up running wild on the Gaultians, and choke off all the other cereal crops that planet grows."

"I am afraid Commander Robinson does have a point, Captain," Selek conceded. "The Earth grass called zoysia does offer a reason for caution with this cargo. You heard him surmise correctly, when we were being briefed about it, that it is called octo-triticale because each kernel has eight lobes. Each lobe of an octo-triticale kernel is a potential seed. If it reaches Gault, the Gaultians will have to use caution to avoid losing control of their cultivation of the grain from its seeds."

"Then therre rremains the matterr of the trribbles on boarrd. I want those crreaturres off my ship. I do not carre if it takes everry hand on boarrd; I want them off my ship!"

"I've been tending to that on a comparatively petty scale," Robinson explained. "But if the scale is to be grander, then it will take every hand on board." He scratched at the newly regenerated skin of his right palm, which itched him fiercely. "Every hand who hasn't had to have his or her skin wholly or even partially regenerated, I mean."

"I'll be distributing duplicates of the vibration projector to all hands," Giorgianni said. "We can confine the few tribbles that are still alive to cargo modules that we can retrofit for the carriage of livestock. That way, we'll be able to get them to a 'safe' planet unharmed."

Giorgianni regarded him with a peculiar, but insinuating, expression on her own face. "Are you gonna tribble the captain?"

As the Intelligence Officer was getting up from his chair, he decided to respond to Giorgianni's statement in kind. "I hope not."

Robinson headed to one of the cargo transporters after he had left Selek's briefing and realized that the tribbles had eaten themselves to their own deaths on the octo-triticale. Entering the rarely used compartment, he powered up the console.

"I cannot be sure, Captain. Perhaps he needs some method of coping with our present situation that will appeal to his interest in the past. He and I were discussing Gault and its relationship to his favorite ship, the Enterprise, before all this occurred."

"You don't suppose he would hide anything rreminiscent of the Enterrprrise on boarrd, do you?" Siandierra was clearly worried.

"FrioDraca knew him better than I did, ma'am," Telsek reminded his Commanding Officer. "From what little I remember of Frio's few statements about Christopher Thomas Robinson, there are few things I would have no reason to believe he would do."

"We have no otherr way to find out than by searrching his quarrterrs. You'rre with me."

"There may be something hidden in Commander Robinson's quarters that does not belong there. We are going to search for it, if it is present."

"Perhaps I can help you," the Science Officer volunteered. Tapping his communicator badge pin, he said, "Computer, scan Commander Robinson's quarters for any possible contraband."

"That says exactly nothing," Siandierra hissed. "RRobinson is my Intelligence Officerr; he would know how to conceal contrraband frrom the computerrs on boarrd my ship."

"Robinson could be hiding contraband of some sort?" Elvass blurted, having overheard Siandierra. Turning, he called out to ShadowRunner, "Could you help us rifle Commander Robinson's quarters?"

Coming up behind Elvass, ShadowRunner nodded. As the four made their way towards Robinson's quarters, Sybil and Horton joined them in the passageway. So did several other crew members, including the doctor who had treated Robinson's burned right hand.

Giorgianni had left the Warp Engine Room. She noted Robinson heading down the passageway, and his anxious look puzzled her to no end. "Is there anything wrong?" she asked him.

"You tell me. It isn't like Admiral Siandierra to abandon the Main Bridge at a time like this, when we still haven't reached Gault with that grain yet. We can go to warp at any time, and all our CO needs do is give the word. Do you have any idea where she might have gone after leaving the Main Bridge?"

"I'm not sure. I think I saw her heading towards Deck 4; I was on my way to inform her that my people have the last of the living tribbles in confinement."

"Deck 4? Where I have my living quarters?" Stopping a passing Intelligence Section crew member whose tunic collar bore the silver markings of a petty officer, Robinson asked him, "Do you know where the captain is, Petty Officer?"

"She headed to your quarters, Commander." The petty officer seemed worried as he regarded the de facto chief of the Section in which he served.

"Well, sir, she seemed to be searching for something," said the petty officer. "She's turning over every cubic meter of space you don't normally use." With that he left the two and headed on his own way, taking a direction opposite from theirs.

"Every cubic meter of normally unused space, that petty officer said? Including the empty storage locker in my quarters?" Robinson asked rhetorically, horrified. "But I've been storing the tribble corpses there till I have the chance to transport them into empty space!"

"Evidently that doesn't matter to the captain--or else she doesn't know about it," Giorgianni noted. "She thinks you're hiding something in there that shouldn't be there."

"You're blamed right I am--tribble corpses that I haven't beamed into space yet! Come on!!"

Giorgianni favored Robinson with a wink and a grin, which the Twenty-Third Century survivor did not return in kind. His memories of what had happened to James Kirk aboard the Infinity Station were all too vivid.

"Come on!!" Robinson shouted again, louder this time. "We've gotta stop the captain!!"

"Don't you get it? If she unbattens and undogs the hatch to that storage locker--"

The look of horror on his face suddenly made the problem strike home for Giorgianni, and she snickered.

As they reached his quarters, Robinson found Siandierra, with Selek, Elvass, Telsek, Horton, ShadowRunner, Sybil, and several others nearby, unbattening the hatch to the locker. Robinson turned pale with horror, but Giorgianni was grinning wickedly.

But he was too late. As he watched, cringing in anguish at what he knew would have to result, Siandierra undogged the hatch to the storage locker--and an avalanche of tribble corpses spilled out of it directly on top of her face, head, and "frontside," knocking her to the deck.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" the Intelligence Officer groaned, aghast, as the heavy load of tribble corpses inundated his Commanding Officer. Telsek favored him with a harsh stare of profound disapproval that was evident even through his stony expressionlessness. ShadowRunner rolled his eyes upwards. Elvass grimaced, with wrinkled nose, from the stench.

"Not in time--we were just not in time!" Robinson went on, his voice a wail of agony and frustration. "I had already planned to clean up this mess anyway--this is just gonna give me extra work."

Giorgianni had a wicked gleam in her eye as she admonished Robinson with a wide toothy vicious grin, "I'll thank you not to tribble the captain that way again."

After a long pause, raucous laughter could suddenly be heard. Robinson spared a glance at its origin and was aghast to recognize Chief Warrant Officer Elvass as the laugher.

It was quite obvious, and indeed blatant, to the out-of-his-time human exactly what had just happened.

The chief, ignoring the stench of dead tribble, which Robinson had to confess revolted him something fierce as well, had seen the sight of the Commanding Officer buried in dead tribbles as the punchline of an infamous slapstick gag that Robinson had always hated--that of someone opening a door to some sort of compartment and having what was inside it inundate him or her.

Looking around in horror, the Intelligence Officer could see all the non-Vulcan personnel present, even Siandierra, sharing in the laughter.

He turned and fled screaming in horrified anguish from his own quarters, leaving the command crew standing where it was, its non-Vulcan members convulsed in regular fits of hysterics and laughing as hard as at the slapstick antics of clowns at a circus. But even as he was fleeing down the passageway, screaming in anguish, his own horror knowing no bounds, Robinson could still hear the laughter of all non-Vulcan hands who had witnessed the horrible tableau in his ears, mocking and heckling him.

VERY SPECIAL THANKS TO MR. DAVID GERROLD, WITHOUT WHOSE STORIES, "THE TROUBLE WITH TRIBBLES" AND "MORE TRIBBLES, MORE TROUBLES," ON WHICH MR. IRA STEVEN BEHR, MR. HANS BEIMLER, AND MR. ROBERT HEWITT WOLFE BASED THE SOURCE STORY FOR "TRIALS AND TRIBBLE-ATIONS," WHICH MR. RONALD D. MOORE AND MR. REN� ECHEVARRIA DRAMATIZED FOR TELEVISION, THIS STORY COULD NEVER HAVE BEEN WRITTEN.