USS Sovereign
The Rescue of
Christopher Thomas Robinson
by Parker Gabriel
(Parker_Gabriel@juno.com)

THE RESCUE OF CHRISTOPHER THOMAS ROBINSON

  IT WAS A BITTERLY COLD DAY IN PHILADELPHIA, BUT THERE WAS PLENTY OF HEAT IN ONE PARTICULAR BUILDING. Inside that building, Christopher Thomas Robinson adjusted his monster maroon outer tunic and sky inner tunic for smooth fit on his stocky frame. As he did, he thought about the numerous political horror stories he was hearing from the handful of friends he had made in the Vulcan Science Academy’s Earth campus.

“Those politicians running the UFP have no idea how to play their games without resorting to race hatred,” he grumbled. “Now the Military Staff Committee Director is dead, and God knows who’s still on his side against humans--or ’Earthlings,’ as he called us. Typical Andorian contempt--they keep calling their Federation entity the ’Epsilon Indi Star Empire.’ Trouble is, now that they’ve got a government elected by the many, their Emperor doesn’t have any real power any longer.” He rose from his seat. “Try telling any of that to Sidre Ael Sardelas before he died at the hands of his own underlings, though. It was like talking to a brick wall.” He struck an intercom switch on his workstation. “Robinson to Star Fleet Medical--how soon will that suspension capsule be ready?”

“It’s ready now, Ensign,” came the response. “You’re all set to play Rip Van Winkle.”

“Thanks, Crewman Hudson,” Robinson said. “Which ship is gonna launch my capsule into space?”

“That’d be the Sovereign, of the Belknap’s class. Its registry number is NCC-2505.”

“Not the Enterprise? Not the living legend that was originally built under Contract Number 1701? I can’t believe that.”

“I’m afraid it’s true, sir. But why does it have to be the Enterprise?”

“Because I’m a veteran of service aboard that ship, however brief my service was or however quickly it was cut short. I was an astrophysicist’s mate on that ship in March of 2288, when Khan Singh escaped from his exile on the planet Menkar and tried to avenge the death of Lieutenant JG Marla McGivers-Singh. When I was checking how warp power consumption would affect the results of observations I was making, we came under attack. I took a fragment of metal in the eye when the hull got shot out, and it got infected as I helped my shipmates out of the engine room. That was how my right eye went blind, and I was decorated with the Karagite Order Of Heroism on James Kirk’s recommendation for ignoring personal safety to help my shipmates out of that radiation hazard. My service on that ship should at least count for something.”

“Yes, sir--I’ve read your record. Just tell me one thing--why didn’t you let Dr. McCoy save your eye?”

“Because, Crewman, the recovery from the surgery would have kept me off duty for over a year, and this Fleet needs people like me. When my eye healed from what little he could do, Dr. McCoy told me that one day, because I had not had the surgery that could save the optic nerve between my brain and the eye, I would lose its vision. That happened less than a month ago, and I’ve managed to cope with it; it’s the price I paid for being a hero during battle. An eye that can see isn’t worth nearly as much as the lives of your shipmates.” He tapped the black cosmetic patch over his right eye.

“But sir, you’re a mathematics Uni-Star and a library science Duo-Star in the Vulcan Legion Of Honor! There aren’t that many humans who can make that boast. Why throw away your record of academic excellence?”

“A Tri-Star, to be precise, Crewman, since I have a degree in meteorology as well now.” Robinson sat down facing the viewer. “It’s not being thrown away--I’m just taking it to a time where it’ll be appreciated more than it is now.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Robinson signed off. Taking a phased-energy rectifier pistol into his right hand and securing it to his black cincture, he planted eight power cells inside his cincture and two others inside his regulation boots.

“When I’m going, I’ll need to be armed in case there’s some sort of hostility going on between the Federation and some other community of worlds we’ll only just be learning about in that time.”

Robinson still found it difficult to believe he would be boarding that vessel as a passenger, not as a crewmember. He kept his hand on his uncharged phaser.

Then the transporter effect took hold of him, and he felt himself fading.

In the transporter room, Robinson was met by two security guards--ANDORIAN security guards!

“Oh my God--has Sardelas’s evil contaminated this ship as well as the Federation Council?”

“Not at all, Ensign,” said the taller of the two, the right-shoulder-strap and left-sleeve pins of whose outer tunic indicated that he was a lieutenant by grade. “His ideas are out of favor with the majority of our people. For example, I would never put you down just because you’re terran.”

“I prefer the term ’terrestrial,’ myself. Now do you believe you could explain your reason for meeting me here?”

“Captain’s orders,” said the other, whose outer tunic bore the pin of a lieutenant commander on the right-shoulder strap and the left sleeve. “You’re to be taken to the suspension pod under armed guard. There are a.handful of people, all members of the crew of this vessel, who would rather see you dead than see you leave this century alive.”

“May I at least prepare my phaser for use?”

“By all means.”

Robinson broke a power cell out of his left boot, then withdrew a cartridge from his phaser’s grip. This he loaded with the power cell. That done, he loaded the cartridge into the grip with a loud crack. Then he pushed forwards a plate on the top of the unit, pulled a smaller phaser unit out of it, and snapped open the lock plate on the bottom of it. Into this he loaded another power cell, this one broken out of his cincture. Then he slammed the lockplate closed, reinserted the small phaser unit into the large phaser with a loud click, closed the large phaser, and jammed the unit back onto his cincture.

“Does your captain have safety protocols in place that prohibit firing the phaser on a higher setting than stun?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Robinson groaned inwardly. That would not protect him very well, for if these assassins were as dangerous as he had been warned they would be, they would have to be killed.

On the realization of that fact, the shorter Andorian walked over to the wall and thumbed the intercom switch.

“CaboDraca to Bridge. Captain, could you disable phaser safety protocols?”

“As you wish,” responded a female voice. There was a pause, and soon, the voice of the Commanding Officer added, “Phaser safeties are now off-line. If you have to kill, you are now cleared to do that.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. CaboDraca out.” The guard, who had identified himself as Lieutenant Commander CaboDraca, turned to Robinson. “We only recently had our ship’s official emblem switched to a dragon from a phoenix. For myself, I suspect that emblem is going to carry over into the next century.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The three headed down the passageways, heading for the photon torpedo launching bay. There were already medical personnel standing by; these would induce the state of suspended animation on him before the pod was jettisoned.

Once in the photon torpedo room, Robinson was shown his capsule. It resembled an ordinary terminium photorp housing.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“You won’t need that much on your journey,” CaboDraca said.

“That’s for DAMNED sure, you filthy EARTHLING!” interrupted a new voice, one that was thick with rage and hate. All three turned around to see a third Andorian, armed with a phaser rifle, barging into the photorp bay. His outer tunic’s right-shoulder strap bore the pin of a lieutenant junior grade.

“Stand down, Lieutenant--that’s an order!” snapped CaboDraca.

“I take NO orders to do ANYTHING from ANY Earthling-lovers like either of you two--DEATH TO ALL EARTHLING-LOVERS AND TRAITORS!!!” spat the third Andorian, opening fire.

“DOWN!” yelled the photorp crew chief, addressing the others in the bay. CaboDraca went down with a serious burn in his lower left leg. Robinson, horrified, fired his phaser pistol.

Amazingly, even though the ensign was hopelessly outgunned and could only see his target out of a single eye, the single shot from his phaser pistol brought the gunner down with an ugly, gaping hole burned through his chest.

The Andorian dropped his phaser rifle as he toppled over and crashed to the floor in death.

Standing in place, visibly shaken, Robinson tried to ride down a wave of nausea that was sweeping through him. The trouble was, the nausea he felt had a compounding element--terror. Having stared death in the face had made him realize how mortal he really was, and he was now scared to death.

“Ensign, front and center!” CaboDraca snapped through his agonizing pain.

Thankfully, that snapped Robinson out of it. Turning to the injured Andorian guard, he murmured slowly, “Is it...over?”

“I thought you were supposed to be somewhat timid,” CaboDraca gasped in amazement. “I never saw ANY human display such courage!”

“You--you mean I dared! I actually dared!”

“That you did, Ensign. That you did.”

The other Andorian guard was visibly stunned. “You killed a criminal representative of our race with only a phaser pistol!”

“It was either violate General Order Two myself or fall victim to someone else who was violating it. In other words, it was kill or be killed.”

“But he had a phaser rifle! You were outgunned ten to one! That isn’t my idea of courage--it’s more like suicidal stupidity!”

“Don’t you go begrudging Ensign Robinson his own survival, Lieutenant Shrenn,” CaboDraca said. “Lieutenant Tholon was totally undeserving to be one of our kind. He still maintained Sardelas’s evil, and he was one of those few traitors against the Federation--and our own people--who never stood trial when the reforms of 2289 were being implemented.”

“We’d better get under way soon,” remarked the Andorian addressed as Shrenn. “Never can tell who ELSE may want our passenger reduced to so much frozen meat in interstellar space.”

"Get into the suspension capsule,” CaboDraca ordered Robinson. “It’s equipped with a heavy-duty deflector shield to protect you against space itself.”

“With pleasure, sir. But do you have any way to track it?”

“No,” Shrenn reassured him. “It has neither transponders nor a recorder marker, just as you requested.”

“Excellent,” Robinson said with a grin. “But before you seal the capsule, would either of you say that I won in this instance because I dared?”

“More than that, Ensign,” was CaboDraca’s smiling response. “I would actually say that it was your having dared at all that won this day.”

There was a set to Robinson’s jaw that belonged on a much more experienced face. “This is a fact that I’ll have to remember wherever my capsule goes, whoever recovers it, whenever I emerge from suspension, or after however many years.”

“And what is that, Ensign?” both Andorians wanted to know.

“Who dares, wins.”

Without another word, he entered the capsule. With him he took his phaser pistol, which he brought, with his right hand, to a position on his chest that made him look as though he could fire it again at any time.

The medical personnel who had been ordered down when Lieutenant Tholon had opened fire now clustered around him. From his vantage point outside their circle, CaboDraca could not see what any of them were doing.

At length they closed the pod. CaboDraca limped over to it and looked inside.

Christopher Thomas Robinson looked as though he were asleep.

Once in deep space, the pod was jettisoned. The red trace it made as it left the photorp tube was brilliant to see, and Shrenn was impressed as he watched from the Main Bridge. But CaboDraca, who was watching its release through the viewport of his quarters, knew that he would never see the human who slumbered inside it again.

“Any worrd on what that object is, Selek?” she asked the Vulcan who joined her on Deck 4. Because the Caitian language consists of multiple soft tones, spoken with a deep, purring resonance, the ailuroid biped who was properly addressed as Captain Siandierra had difficulty adapting to phonetic languages like UFP Standard English.

“Preliminary sensor analysis seems to indicate a photon torpedo housing, but there is no sign that it ever carried any matter or antimatter on board,” responded the native of 40 Eridani A's first planet in a flat, mechanical voice. “Oh, and there is one other set of readings I cannot account for if I presume it to have been a weapon.”

“And that would be?”

“Human life-signs. But they are extremely faint, and register at the lower edge of vital minimums for humans.”

Siandierra knew of few objects like that. She was, however, familiar enough with them to recognize what they were. After all, her people the Caitians had themselves had to use such objects to escape the near-destruction of Cait in the recent wars between Gornar and Kzin, wars which had left 15 Lyncis II almost completely uninhabitable.

“Mr. Selek,” she asked point-blank, “could this be a suspension capsule we’ve picked up on ourr sensorrs?”

“Given the recent history of your people, that is a logical possibility which cannot be ruled out.” Selek raised one of his upswept eyebrows. “If we can bring it aboard and revive the human who is apparently in suspension inside it, we may learn what motivated him or her to do such a thing.”

“That’s exactly what I was about to orrderr, Selek. Make it so.”

“Uh, Captain--” The two turned around at the sound of a new voice, a female voice.

It was Siandierra’s Executive Officer. This particular officer was a were-bat, a humanoid being who possessed many of the physical characteristics of terrestrial bats. She had been created in a series of experiments in genetic recombination that had been conducted at the Star Fleet Medical Research Center on Earth. These had produced many non-viable monsters who had not survived, but there were even more success stories to be told as a direct result of them. Hers was one of them, a success story that had involved the splicing of human DNA with bat DNA. This had produced fifteen monsters who had died before she survived.

She had been given the name of Sybil Sixteen for three reasons. The first reason for her name was because of how the previous fifteen monsters had all died. They had not been able to handle the mental strain of being both human AND bat, just like a patient with multiple-personality disorder on old Earth; "Sybil" had been the cover name of perhaps the best-known case. The second was because her birth and life were the result of the sixteenth experiment along the lines of the other fifteen. And the third was because the human.geneticist who had created her had also been named Sybil--Dr. Sybil Keyes, who had used her own DNA as the basis for all the experiments. The bat who had contributed his DNA had belonged to Dr. Vladimir Vladimirovich Potemkin, a veteran of service aboard Captain Pavel Andreievich Chekov’s starship, which had also named Potemkin. Since Sybil Sixteen was a genetic construct, the Federation President had had to grant her permission to join Star Fleet. Now a commander in the Fleet, Sybil had what had been called “battitude.” This was what humans referred to as attitude, but since she was as much bat as woman, it was battitude in her case. Her blood-yoked outer and platinum inner tunics both had slits in the back to permit her large gray-brown wings to fit through them with ease.

These wings were now folded neatly as she walked towards the other two.

“What is on your mind, Commander Sybil?” Selek asked blandly.

“Well, Selek, I don’t know much about suspension capsules, but I wonder about the motives of whoever used this one--if it even is one.”

That gave Siandierra pause. For all they knew, this pod could have an assassin aboard, waiting to take out some high-ranking member of her command crew.

“Miss Sybil does have a point, Captain,” Selek conceded. “We have no idea what danger may be sealed inside that pod, waiting for some unwary blunderer to set it free.”

“Then we’rre just gonna have to see to it that any would-be killerrs are met with an arrmed securrity guarrd, won’t we?” With that Siandierra tapped her com-badge. “Captain to FrrioDrraca--we are brringing the unknown object aboarrd. RReporrt to the SickBay with yourr best team.”

“On my way,” said the voice of the security officer identified as FrioDraca.

“First things first, though, Captain,” Selek advised. “Before we can open that pod, we must first actually bring it aboard.”

Again Siandierra tapped her badge, but this time she said into it, “FrrioDrraca, cancel that orrderr. RReporrt to Trransporrterr RRoom One, and again, brring yourr best team.”

“Already there,” said FrioDraca’s voice.

The Commanding Officer, Executive Officer, and Science Officer were inside the transporter room within minutes. A crewman, outfitted in a bronze-yoked black outer tunic over a platinum-colored inner tunic, was working the controls.

“I have transporter lock,” he reported.

“Enerrgize.”

The crewman waved his hand down the three touch-pad sliders. As he did, a column of scintillating light formed in the center pad of the transporter platform. Within seconds, that column solidified into a two-meter-long canister.

“An old-style photon torpedo tube,” Sybil noted. She turned to the Andorian standing next to her, who was armed with a cobra-headed phaser pistol. “When you alerted us to that metal object, FrioDraca, I wondered if you weren’t getting homesick.”

“Me? Not a chance,” said the Andorian addressed as FrioDraca, a lieutenant junior grade who was outfitted in the same bronze-contrasted uniform as the transporter technician. “The Empire won’t need my services again for a while yet.”

“Trry telling that to yourr old loverr when next you see herr.”

“Now wait a minute, Captain! There was absolutely no damned way FrioDraca’s fiancee coulda known he was in Star Fleet!”

“Numberr One,” Siandierra growled, “if you don’t rrestrrain yourr battitude, I’ll have yourr wings surrgically amputated--without anesthetic. I know how much it means to you to be a werre-bat, and you wouldn’t want me to deprrive you of that, would you?”

Sybil hanged her head, which resembled a cross between a severe yet beautiful human female and a terrestrial brown bat.

“No, ma’am.”

“Now that we have that settled...” Siandierra turned to FrioDraca. “Brring that capsule to SickBay. As soon as the doctorr opens it up and rrevives whoeverr is inside, you will be able to question him at yourr leisurre.”

FrioDraca seized the capsule and, using his Andorian mega-strength, hoisted it over his head, then balanced it on his shoulder. “Lead the way, ma’am,” he said.

Siandierra gestured with her right arm. As she did, the blood-yoked black sleeve of her outer tunic brushed against the pod. This caused a light to go off inside the pod.

“By the Prrey! We haven’t much time!” the captain gasped. “That kind of light on a suspension capsule means only one thing--the suspension and life-supporrt systems arre malfunctioning!”

Through the gap between her tunic and breeches, her orange prehensile tail was whipping about out of control, like a fire hose on which the fire-fighters had lost their grip. “To the SickBay, FrrioDrraca, and double-time it! If therre’s anyone in therre, we can’t just let that someone die!”

FrioDraca was already fleeing Transporter Room One on a dead run. ”GANGWAY!” he called ahead of himself. “Coming through, coming through! Man in suspension and jeopardy!”

As he, Sybil, and Siandierra watched him run, Selek shook his head. “I still cannot get over how Andorians are capable of such amazing feats of physical strength,” he confessed.

Sybil retorted, “That, Mr. Selek, is because you are a Vulcan!”

In the SickBay within the minute, the doctor was prying open the suspension capsule, having had to use a surgical laser scalpel on it.

“It’s fairly obvious that whoever is inside this capsule wanted NOT to be found till he reached an entirely new century,” he pointed out.

“All of you stand by,” FrioDraca warned his team. “I don’t want any of you getting into harm’s way needlessly.” With that he walked in front of the just-opened capsule. As he did, the doctor shot the man inside it with a hyposprayer, and the man stirred inside the capsule and opened his left eye. As he did, all present could see that his right eye was covered with a black patch that strapped around his head. He turned his head in an attempt to get his bearings--and nearly panicked.

“We’ve lost! Sardelas’s people are in power! The reforms failed! Oh, Lord Of Hosts have mercy on my soul--I’m a dead human!”

“Calm down,” FrioDraca tried to reassure the man. “I’m not gonna harm you--”

“YOU’RE LYING IN YOUR TEETH!!” the human spat angrily. “That’s exactly what ALL Sardelas’s interrogators say--BEFORE they start with the threats, the false accusations, and the torture! In the name of the God whose existence you’ve tried to make us all forget, don’t any of you Andorian.monsters have even the least respect for the decency of sapient life??”

“I believe the majority of Andorians do, though I cannot vouch for them,” said a flat, mechanical voice from his left, “but I CAN vouch for our Chief Security Officer, Lieutenant J.G. FrioDraca.”

The human’s panic broke, and confusion replaced it. “A Vulcan?”

“That is affirmative, Ensign,” the bland voice answered. With that the Vulcan walked over to the left of the Andorian he had identified as FrioDraca. “Commander Selek, Science Officer of the U.S.S. Sovereign.”

“The Sovereign! I should have known!” the human murmured. “It was a starship named Sovereign that launched this suspension capsule into space in the first place. What year is this?”

The Vulcan, with all the lack of flappability of his people, did not miss a beat with his response. “This is the year Two Thousand, Three Hundred and Seventy-Two. Assuming you were placed in suspension of animation in the year Two Thousand, Two Hundred and Eighty-Nine, you have been in suspended animation for eighty-three years. You are now in the Twenty-Fourth Century.”

“And now you’re telling me that in the year 2372, I’ve been rescued from that suspension by members of the crew of another ship named Sovereign?”

Selek nodded once.

“And you referred to that Andorian as FrioDraca?” the human went on. He was again answered with a single nod. Then he turned to the Andorian. “Tell me, FrioDraca, have you ever heard of CaboDraca, who was a security guard on Sovereign NCC-2505?”

“Who?” the Andorian gasped, horror-stricken.

“Light Commander CaboDraca, who was one of my armed escorts into the photon torpedo room of the Belknap-class Sovereign. Did you know him?”

FrioDraca was almost trembling as he responded. “He was my grandfather.”

“WHAT??”

“He told me, when I was a boy, about how he had been one of two armed escorts of a human named Christopher Thomas Robinson. It seems this Robinson was so sickened at the political turmoil brewing in the Federation that he decided to leave the Twenty-Third Century behind.”

“The Andorian Scandal,” said the human knowingly. “James Kirk had unwisely recommended Sidre Ael Sardelas for a post on the UFP Military Staff Committee in 2245, and had had no idea that Sardelas was bigoted against humans like me.”

“He was a power-hungry scoundrel,” FrioDraca noted. “I remember that much from Grand-Father’s stories of that time.”

“Did he walk with a limp?”

“No, he didn’t,” FrioDraca said. “But he did have a scar.”

“Where?”

“His lower left leg, where phaser energy had burned it.”

“How did he get that scar?”

“Shot with a phaser rifle by a lieutenant j.g. named Tholon.”

“He was with another Andorian, a certain Lieutenant Shrenn?”

“How did you know that?” FrioDraca asked. “Unless--”

“Unless I was that human the two were escorting?” said the human. “That’s exactly who I am, sir.” Then he stepped out of the capsule, barely managing to find his footing, and got to his feet. Assuming a rigid stance of attention, he lowered the phaser pistol in his right hand to his side. Then, infusing a stiffness and formality into his tone, he snapped, “Ensign Christopher Thomas Robinson, Astrophysicist’s Mate, service number Sierra Charlie Charlie dash four-seven-one-zero-six dash Papa Golf six-four-zero-one dash one-one-Alpha, sir!”

Siandierra came over to face the human who had just identified himself as Christopher Thomas Robinson. “Arre you the same Chrristopherr Thomas RRobinson whom an ancestorr of my ship’s counselorr took on as a passengerr, with instrructions to allow him to drrift in space till he was rrescued by a ship of the line?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Robinson answered stiffly.

“Consider yourself rescued, then, Ensign,” Sybil said as she came round to come face to face with Robinson.

“I’m Captain Siandierrrra Beautelier of the U.S.S. Soverreign,” said Siandierra, pronouncing her family name “boh-TELL-ee-ay.” She gestured to her left. “This is my Firrst Officerr, Commanderr Sybil Sixteen.”

Robinson took note of the huge gray-brown wings that were protuberant from the back of the Executive Officer’s uniform. “You’re a were-bat, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“As you werre, Ensign. You don’t have to keep acting as though you’rre still underrgoing yourr Academy prrobationarry perriod.”

Robinson relaxed visibly. “I suppose I’m long past that stage, eh?”

“That you arre, Misterr RRobinson. That you arre.”

“But I’ll need retraining. Some of my knowledge is very badly dated. For example, I knew the Mendel Institute, with the backing and support of the Federation Scientific Research Council, was conducting experimentation on merging sapient and non-sapient species. Its hope was to create sapient races of were-animals. These would retain human intelligence, yet they would be able to live comfortably on Class M planets that are otherwise hostile to human life. It was the Mendel Institute’s plan to seed colony worlds with these were-animals, yet when I left the Twenty-Third Century, they were having only limited success for two reasons. First, the human DNA kept rejecting the non-human DNA as foreign. Second, the hybrids who were viable were sterile, in the sense of not being able to produce offspring.”

“Well, I can have kids,” said the were-bat. “Even if you were the dad, they’d be my kids.”

“Another example is my having almost panicked when the first face I saw on emerging from suspension was that of an Andorian. The political situation in this galaxy can’t possibly have stayed that constant.”

“Ensign,” said FrioDraca, “let me reassure you that I officially wash my hands of the treachery and underhandedness of those few natives of Fesoan.” He pronounced his home planet’s indigenous name “FEE-sohne.”

“That is a tremendous relief to hear,” Robinson confessed.

“Sidre Ael Sardelas might have claimed to be one of my people, and Lieutenant J.G. Tholon might have claimed to be, but they were not my people. It didn’t matter what they looked like--they were not Andorians, which is what humans like you call my people.”

“Be that as it may, I need a complete medical examination,” Robinson said. “And some food. After all, I haven’t eaten or drunk anything in years, even though it feels to me as though only hours have gone by, and I am starving.”

That medical examination took place less than ten hours later. Lieutenant Dr. Michael Keemer, the Chief Surgeon, broke bottles of eyedrops out of a locker in the SickBay. He had been kind enough to allow Robinson to use his office as a pro tempore dining room.

“You certainly can eat, Robinson,” he said as he prepared the culture sample holders. “Four men couldn’t have held down that meal you ate in my office.”

“Well, Doctor Who,” was the response, “I literally hadn’t eaten a bite of food or drunk a drop of water in eighty-three years! I was positively starving!”

“What’s with this ’Doctor Who’ bit? Not that I mind the nickname, but for your information, Ensign, my name is Michael Keemer, not Doctor Who!"

“I didn’t know your name when you opened my capsule. All I knew was that you were a doctor; only a doctor would have known enough to use a surgical laser scalpel on my capsule. That was how I designed it.”

“Well, you’re here now to take a test for hypersensitivity to Retinax eyedrops. They can restore vision to eyes with some acuity problem like nearsightedness or farsightedness. They can even restore flexibility to presbyopic eyes.”

“Only...there’s a problem.”

“You’d better believe there’s a problem. If you prove to be allergic to any of them, I wouldn’t be able to recommend them to you without running the risk that you’d blind yourself permanently.”

Sybil was in her quarters, to which she had given the decor of a cave. FrioDraca was with her, and the two were conducting a run-down of Robinson’s permanent service record.

“Hmm,” said the were-bat. “The service number he gave checks out perfectly. It says here he holds a Uni-Star, a Duo-Star, and a Tri-Star in the Vulcan Legion Of Honor in mathematics, library sciences, and meteorology respectively. So he was born on Earth, eh? And in Philadelphia?”

“That city is on the North America continent of Terra,” FrioDraca reminded her. “It was one of the few cities of Terra to survive the Post-Atomic Horror of the 2040’s relatively intact.”

“Look here!” Sybil noted. “His parents steeped him deeply in the lore of Star Fleet in general and that of the Enterprise in particular!”

“Well, they had only seventeen years to steep him in that kind of lore,” FrioDraca observed. “They both died in 2274 when his mother’s Class Three passenger ship crashed into a planet. She had considered herself an interstellar ’gypsy’ cab driver and an interstellar bus driver, and she prided herself on a perfect safety record.”

“Yeah, perfect--except the damned ship crashed into Terra Nineteen, killed everyone aboard, and tore away the planet’s atmosphere in an anti-matter explosion!” Her wings flapped out to her sides in disbelief. “The only crash of his mother’s life and it has to go and be the crash that kills both of his parents--AND wipes out a whole planet in the bargain! How do you like that?”

The two reported their findings to Siandierra within the hour.

“The only son of United Federration News Serrvice corrrrespondent Donald John RRobinson by Madeline Carrtwrright, masterr of herr own Class Thrree passengerr ship?” was her response.

“Yes, ma’am,” FrioDraca pointed out. “He was particularly devastated when they died, and enlisted in Star Fleet as a common crewman.”

“But he had enough ability to impress his drill instructors quite favorably,” Sybil added. “They enrolled him in the Academy.”

Siandierra read from a personal-access displayer. “I rread herre that he found the courrses easy.” She looked up at the two. “But since he was an orrphan, it often distrracted him, and he made few frriends durring his studies.”

“That didn’t stop him from being graduated with honors, ma’am,” FrioDraca reminded her. “And guess what--he’s an actual veteran of Enterprise service!” The Chief Security Officer shook his head as though he still did not believe it. “Now, I’m a difficult officer to impress, but I have to admit that I am impressed.”

“The Wrrath Of Khan Noonian Singh,” Siandierra remembered painfully, recalling a page from the Enterprise’s history. “James Kirrk had a boatload of childrren on boarrd, and RRobinson was one of those childrren.”

The buzzer sounded.

“Come.”

Keemer entered the Commanding Officer’s quarters, which were reminiscent of a cat’s lair. As he entered, he barely missed Siandierra’s exercise post. She used this “scratching” post for her daily workouts, which she conducted before reporting for Main Bridge duty. This post was built with several cross-bars, and in her exercise routines, she would stretch her muscles as she pulled at any of these or at the post proper.

“I have the results of Robinson’s tests, Captain Siandierra.”

“Yourr findings, Doctorr?”

“I can’t recommend Retinax to him.”

“Oh my God.”

Robinson had had the results of the tests read to him.

“I’m afraid it’s true, Ensign,” Keemer confessed.

“What use would it be to have a blind crew member on board? Because if what you’re telling me is true, that would have happened if I had used the Retinax on myself.”

“I’m a doctor, not a shaman,” explained Keemer.

“Doctor Who, would you mind not using that phrasing in my presence? It reminds me too much of Leonard ’SawBones Pill’ McCoy.”

Keemer blushed through his dark complexion. “Oh, damn it. I’d forgotten that.”

“A common mistake. It was he who told me, after I refused surgery that could have saved the vision in my right eye, that though my eye would heal, I would one day lose its vision.”

“You opted to have a shrapnel fragment removed from your right optic nerve, but refused the surgery that could have prevented the eye from going blind?”

“That operation would have kept me off duty for a full year, and Star Fleet needed personnel like me something desperate at the time.”

“So you just had the fragment removed. You sacrificed the vision of your own right eye for the good of the Fleet.” Keemer rolled his eyes. “You were damned lucky that infection didn’t spread to your other eye.”

“An eye that can see isn’t worth nearly as much as the lives of your shipmates. Since it took place a year and three months after the shrapnel injury which caused it, I’ve been wearing the total blindness of my right eye, not as a badge of honor, but as a scar from battle. As I’ve told you, I sustained the injury which led to that blindness as a direct result of the Wrath Of Khan Noonian Singh.”

“Not only an Enterrprrise vet, but a warr herro too?” Siandierra was saying.

“Karagite Order of Heroism, one of Jim Kirk’s own old decorations,” Sybil noted. “It was Kirk himself who recommended it. As you know, that decoration is given to those personnel who save the lives of their compatriots after they themselves have been wounded, and ignore their own personal safety--AND their combat wounds--to get other personnel out of harm’s way.”

All this puzzled Siandierra. Why would an Enterprise vet, and a decorated war hero listed on the Fleet’s honor roll of wounded-in-action personnel at that, leave the Twenty-Third Century for the Twenty-Fourth?

“Maybe the reason he left his own time for ours has something to do with the Andorian Scandal of 2289,” FrioDraca suggested.

“Perhaps you could tell us more about that,” Sybil suggested.

“He alluded to Sidre Ael Sardelas. That impostor pretending to be one of my people was indeed bigoted against humans, about whom he always spoke with contempt. He called them ’Earthlings,’ a term he knew that terrans would hate at least as much as he hated them. To him, anything and anyone who was NOT from Fesoan was not fit to live, and humans would never be from Fesoan since they are not insectoids like my people. In order to carry out his insane plot, he had subjected many prominent Federation officials and Star Fleet flag officers to all manner of corruption, using false promises of power, wealth, or greatness.”

“None of which he had any intentions of keeping.” Siandierra felt her stomach turning. “Yourrs must have been an ugly historry.”

“It was. My people are the reason the Prime Directive became necessary in the first place. Ours was the third civilization actually visited by Earth explorers, a visit that was made by the Earth ship Pax Galactica, and the results of that visit were disastrous. My people were in a feudal state at the time, and when the Pax Galactica visited our planet, the royal guard behaved as if we were at war against Earth. They took its crew prisoner, tortured them into giving up Earth technology, and finally, once my people had that technology, slaughtered the Pax Galactica’s crew. Then my people tried to claim credit for Earth’s technological advances and started blaming the people of Earth for everything evil in the Universe!”

“That must have gone over poorly with Earth,” Sybil noted.

“This anti-Terrestrial bigotry led the League of Systems, when it officially started the business of settling interstellar disputes in 2129, to make a rather poor attempt at outlawing interference with alien life and culture. Unfortunately, the League was so politically weak at the time that it could not enforce that law. Bigotry against the people of Earth.also held up my people’s admission into the then brand-new United Federation of Planets when the Federation was formed in the second year of the Romulan War, 2161, till that year was almost over.”

“And look at you now. It’s difficult to imagine Starr Fleet orr the Federration without yourr people.”

“That didn’t stop Sardelas from trying. He planned to plant his own cousin, Shalla Mkei Thone, aboard the second starship named Enterprise when she was named its Chief Security Officer. He hoped she could be his agent against the Enterprise, since its crew could have stopped him easily.”

“But she betrayed him, didn’t she?”

“Exactly. She was as loyal to the Federation and the Fleet as she was to Fesoan, and her view still remains that if you are an Andorian, you cannot be disloyal to the Federation without also committing treason against Fesoan.”

“The poorr Federration. The Prrey knew how it could have surrvived having so many of its officials and admirrals comprromised, as Sarrdelas said he had done beforre his arrrrest, and whose names he named.”

“Wasn’t he assassinated by his own men before he could stand trial?”

“His assassins were enraged at the failure of his great mission and his betrayals of his Federation puppets. But he had named such high-echelon names that the entire Federation almost wrecked itself with suspicion and mistrust.”

All this caused Sybil to gag. “No wonder Robinson left the Twenty-Third Century,” she said as she tried to recover herself. “All that political turmoil would sicken me.”

Just then, there came a voice from FrioDraca’s com-badge. “First Lieutenant FrioDraca, did you hear all that?”

Tapping his com-badge, the Andorian Chief Security Officer snapped, “I get the picture, Sergeant. As you were.”

One of FrioDraca’s personnel had shown Robinson to the Marine staging area, where a Star Fleet Marine Corps full-dress uniform hanged on one wall. Robinson, who had not changed clothes since emerging from suspension, was impressed as he compared the Marine full-dress uniform to his own standard-duty uniform, which last was now hopelessly obsolete for its intended purpose.

“So your Class A-Primes are an all-black version of my old Class B&Cs,” he noted. “Do you believe there would possibly be a place for me in the Corps?”

“Why not ask FrioDraca? He’s in charge of our Strike Group.”

“What do you call your ’Strike Group,’ as you referred to it?”

“The Dragon Scouts. Our unit number is 791.”

“Seven Niner One,” Robinson echoed. “If I join, I hope I don’t have to make much use of any training I get. The best soldiers train not to fight, but to have no need to fight. It’s like martial arts--expert martial artists never have to prove it.”

“You said a mouthful, Second Lieutenant.”

“Sir, I’m not a Star Fleet Marine yet, and my grade is ensign, not second lieutenant!” Robinson was not comfortable at being treated as a Star Fleet Marine before he believed he had earned that privilege, but the guard interpreted his saying so as a direct personal insult.

“It’s my duty to recommend personnel for the Corps, Robinson, and you’re starting off on the wrong foot with me--as far as the Corps is concerned, at least. You have just embarrassed our Officer-In-Charge.” The guard tapped a com-badge. “First Lieutenant FrioDraca, did you hear all that?”

“I get the picture, Sergeant,” came FrioDraca’s voice. “As you were.”

The guard, referred to as a Star Fleet Marine sergeant, turned back to Robinson. “You have lucked out. Our OIC will deal with you himself.”

Robinson had no idea how FrioDraca would deal with him, nor had he any time to consider it. For just at that moment, the klaxon he had been dreading since his right eye became blind sounded.

The sergeant seemed stunned, and hastily added, “I said our OIC would deal with you himself, but this way?”

But Robinson was already on his way out the door on a dead run. “Come on, Sergeant! Get moving! It’s a red alert!” As he fled the staging area, he found an intercom unit and tapped it. “Robinson to Captain Siandierra--exactly where IS my battle station?”

The response came to him with gratifying speed. “Siandierrrra herre--why not take a battle station on the Main Brridge? You’ll be side-by-side with FrrioDrraca.”

“On my way--Robinson out.” With that he fled for the turbolift which had brought him to the Marine staging area and scrambled aboard it. As its twin pocket hatches dogged behind him, he yelled in continuation, “Main Bridge, double-time!”

The turbolift shot to the Main Bridge at twice its normal speed. When it dumped him out onto Deck 1, Robinson barely managed to get his bearings. Gratifyingly, when he did, he beheld the welcome sight of Lieutenant FrioDraca standing behind the arched console. Siandierra was sitting in the command chair, with Sybil by her right side and Selek to her left. A flight control, or “conn,” officer was seated in front of Selek’s position, and a second officer sat in front of Sybil. Robinson guessed that this officer held a post that had been brand new in his original day, that of Operations Management Officer, which post he now also assumed to be commonplace in this day.

“Just the man I wanted by my side,” the Andorian said. “You’ll be to my right.”

“Hmm...variable-layout touch-pads. This should be interesting.”

“Target on main viewer,” Sybil snapped crisply. The viewer lit up with the image of a vessel whose configuration was unknown to Robinson.

Unwilling to take chances, he asked, “Permission to fire?”

“Denied till furrtherr notice.” Siandierra was somewhat thoughtful in her response. “Let’s see just what they want firrst.”

As if in answer, there came a glow from one of the most forward sections of the other ship.

“Energy buildup on the port bow,” FrioDraca said. “Could be their disruptors.”

“I’ll considerr that furrtherr notice,” the captain said. “Belay my prrevious orrderr.”

Robinson snapped bolt upright. As he did so, one of his hands accidentally struck a touch-pad in front of him. To his horror, he realized that it was a phaser bank igniter.

The beam of reddish energy shot from the forward underside of the Sovereign’s saucer and struck the other ship at the point where the energy buildup was taking place.

A tremendous flash erupted from that point.

When it cleared, one of the lights visible along the bow of the other ship had dimmed.

Then another flash erupted from the light itself.

When that cleared, the other ship had an ugly, gaping hole torn in its hull.

“A Cardassian Galor-class ship,” FrioDraca noted. “And it apparently had orders to destroy us.”

“Well, I have to hand it to you, Frrio,” Siandierra said approvingly. “You hit exactly the rright tarrget on that ship.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it wasn’t me who fired that shot. It was Robinson.”

“RRobinson?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well,” Sybil noted, “that Cardassian isn’t staying around to try to figure out what other ideas we may have left.”

As they all watched, the other ship, which FrioDraca had identified as a Cardassian Galor-class ship, turned and disappeared from the Sovereign’s field of view at warp speed.

Robinson just stood in position, stunned, still not quite able to believe that it was he who had fired the shot that had scared the Cardassian vessel off.

“These Cardassians, if that’s what they’re called, don’t seem to me to be the type to be scared off easily,” he noted. “The Klingons are no less tenacious, and for years, they were the greatest military threat the Federation had to face off against, back in my old time.”

“They’re our very uneasy allies now,” FrioDraca noted. “And whether they stay that way depends on the whims of the Chancellor of their High Council.”

“I don’t know,” said Robinson. “They’ll most likely go through at least three distinct turnovers of government before their empire is overthrown completely. But when it is, we’ll have to be there to help pick up the pieces on behalf of the Federation.”

“We could use an officer with your kind of judgment and insight,” Sybil told him. “Welcome aboard, Ensign Robinson.”

Siandierra addressed her Operations Management Officer, saying, “Ops, rrecorrd RRobinson’s commission in Starr Fleet rreactivated, and list him as--as--” She broke off awkwardly. “Ensign, what duties would you like to be assigned?”

“Intelligence Officer,” Robinson said. “The Federation Intelligence Agency is always looking for such personnel as Commander Sybil described me as being--personnel with my kind of judgment and insight. I’ll be submitting my application for service in the FIA as soon as possible.”

“As Intelligence Officerr,” Siandierra said to her Ops Chief. “Both effective immediately.” She then turned to Robinson himself. “Now, Misterr RRobinson, you will serrve on this ship, and you will learrn it inside and out. Yourr battle station will be herre, on the Main Brridge, and you will be authorrized to sound rred alerrts.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” With that he turned to FrioDraca. “With your permission, sir, I wish to enlist in the Star Fleet Marine Corps as a second lieutenant. I have learned skills in the past, and I can put them.to good use in the present.”

“As Intelligence Officer, you will report to me, since Intelligence falls under Security. As a Marine, you will be issued a rifle, since every Marine is primarily a rifleman and is so trained, and you will need to test your proficiency on the firing range in our staging area.”

“I’m on it.”

“I’ll see to his retraining,” FrioDraca volunteered.

“And you will need to give up the wearing of that uniform,” said Selek as he turned to Robinson. “I am afraid that, since it dates from the Twenty-Third Century, it is not only obsolete but also looks woefully out of place in the Twenty-Fourth.”

“I’ll get a new uniform from ship’s stores within the hour. There’s just one condition for my changing uniforms.”

“And that is?” Sybil asked.

“That this old one is cleaned, but not altered otherwise. I want to keep it intact, as a touch-point with my old time.”

“Granted.”

Robinson left the Main Bridge of the Sovereign to begin his retraining, get a new uniform, and catch up on eighty-three years of changes. FrioDraca followed him

“By the way,” he asked as the two left the Main Bridge, “this is the prototype of the Sovereign class, but under what Naval Construction Contract number is it registered?”

“This vessel’s registry is NCC-75000.”

“There have been that many ships built since Star Fleet was chartered? Incredible.”

FrioDraca smiled. “For a ship to be contracted for and for a ship to be registered as actually built are two different things.”

In the staging area, Robinson was given his new duty uniform, whose outer tunic had a bronze yoke. FrioDraca secured a single gold pin to the mock-turtle-necked collar of Robinson’s platinum inner tunic, but he did not add a duplicate of the gold-edged black one that also adorned his own inner tunic’s collar.

“The reason you only got a single gold pin is that you’re still an ensign,” he explained to the human he would be retraining. “When you make lieutenant j.g., then you get the gold-edged black pin.”

Robinson nodded. “I understand.”

“Scuttlebutt from the Star Fleet QuarterMaster General’s office has it that we’ll be issued uniforms of a new design in a matter of weeks. When we are, you’ll be expected to switch to the new design.”

“Will do.”

FrioDraca led Robinson to a large locker marked “ARMORY.” Unsecuring its lock with a magnetic key, he opened it.

Inside the armory locker, there were a number of phaser rifles. The Andorian took one down from the rack on which they were kept and handed that rifle to Robinson.

“I told you earlier that every Star Fleet Marine is primarily a rifleman by training, and you will be no exception to that rule. This is your rifle. For the next two weeks, while you are undergoing retraining, you will live with this rifle. You will sleep with it. You will eat with it. And you will never allow it to be more than two meters from your.grasp.”

“And at the end of those two weeks, will I be able to consider myself a Star Fleet Marine?”

“That’s exactly the purpose of the retraining I’ll be giving to you. You’ll be assigned to Special Operations, which includes Intelligence.”

“I’m gonna want to undergo cross-training in the other specialties.”

“You’ll get that.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“During this course, we make a sacred deal. I’m promising to train you as a Marine officer; that’s my part. You’ve gotta promise that you’re gonna learn, and that what I order you to do, you’ll do, with no questions asked; that’ll be your part.”

“Aye, aye, sir. We have a deal.” Robinson was thinking to himself, This’ll be just like Hell Week in the Academy. I got through that; I can get through this.

FrioDraca was thinking, Retraining Robinson shouldn’t be that difficult. Academy curriculums haven’t changed THAT much in all these years, but there’s been an element added to Marine training that he doesn’t know about yet--the Crucible. If you can beat that, you can beat just about anything.

But the two weeks passed with little difficulty. Robinson was physically dead on his feet by the end of that time, but mentally exhilarated. He had been burned clean in the Crucible, and he was now a Star Fleet Marine with all the duties and privileges, and bound to all the traditions, of that service.

On the fifteenth day after Robinson’s rescue, a man outfitted in an all-black uniform, reminiscent of the monster maroon he had been wearing when he first boarded the Sovereign, boarded the Main Bridge. In his hands he held a phaser rifle, and on his head he wore a black beret which was adorned with the Delta-Shield, UFP-Seal and Anchor of the Star Fleet Marine Corps.

“Well, look at you,” Siandierra remarked. “A Starr Fleet Marrine!”

“My duties are to serve you and carry out your orders. And as both your Intelligence Officer and a Special Operations Officer in the Star Fleet Marine Corps, I intend to do exactly that.”

Sybil shot back, in something of a wise-cracking way, “Don’t tell me, let me guess--you’d be willing to take an oath to that effect, wouldn’t you?”

Robinson’s response was in a voice like steel. “I just did.”

“Does the newly-assigned Second Lieutenant Robinson consider himself to be, essentially, a rather humorless man, as humans go?” Selek wanted to know.

“Oaths and obligations are no laughing matter, Commander Selek, nor are they things that I have ever considered worthy of being taken lightly.”

“I have the impression that you and I will cooperate quite well indeed, Second Lieutenant.”

“The feeling is mutual--if Vulcans like you consider it wise to speak of feelings.”

A series of short screeches came from Sybil’s throat. Robinson regarded her, and saw that her jaws were opened in a wide, toothy grin that.contracted her jaws with each screech. A were-bat’s idea of laughter, he surmised.

“Laugh it up, Number One,” he said aloud. “If you’ve actually taken the training yourself, you can easily understand that I found it an ordeal that was worth the suffering.”

“I’m surre it was,” Siandierra noted. “Now get out of that full-drress uniforrm and into yourr duty uniforrm.”

“Aye, ma’am.” With that Robinson left the Main Bridge.

From that day, to be sure, there would be difficulties for all hands involved; that much was inevitable. But now, Christopher Thomas Robinson felt that the U.S.S. Sovereign, that Type II exploration dreadnought which was the prototype starship of its class and whose sister ships included the sixth to bear the name Enterprise, was his new home.