Music of the Spheres

MUSIC OF THE SPHERES A Star Trek Novel by Margaret Wander Bonanno Historian’s Note: The events of this novel begin immediately following the final frame of The Voyage Home. One might imagine James T. Kirk, having instructed Sulu to “see what she’s got,” settling back in his chair and musing upon the almost-fate of Earth. Between the end of the Prelude and the beginning of the first Fugue, there is a hiatus of several weeks, perhaps only to allow sufficient time for news of the Praetor’s death to reach Starfleet and the Federal Council. “Do you still play chess, Kirk?” Sarek asked as if casually before removing himself from the scenario entirely. “Whenever I have the time, Ambassador,” Kirk replied, knowing Sarek would not waste words on trivia. “I suggest you will have much time on this mission,” Sarek said cryptically. “Be mindful always of the importance of the king...” # PRELUDE “And the waters prevailed without measure upon the earth...” In the center seat on the bridge of a spanking new starship designated NCC-1701A, Captain James T. Kirk watched the blue-and-white confection that was his home planet recede in the rear viewscreen. The waters, in fact, no longer prevailed. Cloud cover and planet-wide temperatures had returned to within normal parameters. Floodwaters had receded from all but the most low-lying regions. There were the isolated food and medical-supply shortages to keep off-planet transports working overtime, and people were still being advised to boil or irradiate their drinking water until groundwater could be certified pure but, on the whole, Earth had been lucky this time. And so were we, Jim Kirk thought, so were we! His thoughts turned to the shakedown cruise ahead, and to the promise of extended shore leave thereafter. There was one place on Earth he knew of that the floodwaters would barely have touched. As soon as we get her shipshape and home, Jim Kirk thought, I’m going to go climb a rock! # Aboard the soon to be departing science vessel Clarke, Dr. Gillian Taylor was talking for the last time with her staff at the newly-established New Cetacean Institute off Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. Once the Clarke left Earth, George and Gracie would be entirely in their care. Gillian hoped to be back before Gracie had her calf, but even if she wasn’t, she was confident her two beloved humpbacks couldn’t be in better hands. “You’re sure about that?” she asked the wet-suited figure on her commscreen. “Affirmative,” the solemn figure replied with typical Vulcan certitude, disregarding the seawater dripping from the lank hair plastered against her fluted ears. In her brief time in this century, Gillian had come to love Vulcans, and not only for their certitude. “At least, Dr. Taylor, I am as sure as Gracie is, for it was she who communicated it to me.” “Okay, then. Can’t get any surer than that!” Gillian said cheerfully. “In that case, double her vitamin supplement, and see what you can do about those barnacles on her chin, will you? They must itch like hell. Oh, and I meant to ask: how’re you coming along with the language?” “Slowly, Dr. Taylor. George assures me my syntax is flawless, but indicates I speak with a distinctly dolphin accent.” The one thing she didn’t like about Vulcans, Gillian decided, was the she could never tell if they were kidding. “Well, there you are!” she said, playing along. “You know what they say about being judged by the company you keep.” “Indeed.” “Okay, listen, kiddo, I have to go, if I can figure out how to shut this thing off. We’re leaving orbit in about an hour. I’ll send you a postcard from Mer. Taylor out.” # In Communications Central of TerraMain Spacedock, Commander Kevin Thomas Riley, Starfleet Diplomatic Corps, watched Enterprise slip elegantly through the spacedoors before returning to what he’d been doing before she powered up, which was harassing the comm officer who had been trying for three hours to raise a particular private transmitter in Cairo. It had been exactly three hours and one minute since Riley had beamed off the Reliant-class vessel Sadat, back from a fruitless peacekeeping effort between Zeon and Ekos. He’d been trying without success to raise the Cairo transmitter ever since he’d heard about Earth and the Probe. “Keep trying!” he urged the frazzled young comm officer, who frankly had better things to do. “You have to understand, sir,” she explained patiently, “communications are still in a tangle planet-side. Even where the multi-phasics are back up and running, there’s a logjam with everyone trying to get through at once.” “Never mind!” Riley barked, forgetting that he was supposed to be a diplomat even when he wasn’t getting paid for it. “Maybe I can hitch a ride on a cargo transporter and beam straight down.” That’s a good way to get fried, the comm officer wanted to tell him, be decided not to. Anything to get him off her neck. # Knee-deep in the rubble of a millennia-old city on one of the barrenest of the Empire’s newly-acquired colony worlds, Dajan glanced up from his scrutiny of a weatherworn petroglyph to discover a pair of jackbooted feet planted on the rim of the retaining wall above him. The archeologist had to squint against the dull red sun to discern the true shape of the shadow-figure standing in the boots. It was the sublieutenant from the guardian vessel which had dogged his research ship the entire way here. Why am I not surprised? Dajan wondered. “What is it?” he demanded imperiously, in the precise tone his elder brother Delar had taught him to use with sublieutenants and their ilk. “A summons, kerDajan, from the Capital. All scientific missions are herewith recalled.” “For what purpose?” Dajan’s glass-green eyes snapped with fury. He had barely begun! He stood, abandoning his perusal of the petroglyph, thought he did not yet put his magnifier away. Oh, how he longed to flash it upward into the sublieutenant’s eyes, claiming later that it was an accident! But he was not yet that far rehabilitated. And his sister was still in the Capital, her position far more vulnerable than his own. “I was not told,” the sublieutenant answered with a touch of smugness, “therefore I cannot tell you. But your ship departs within the hour. Be on it, or be marooned here.” In his departure, the sublieutenant managed to loosen enough scree from the top of the retaining wall to all but bury the petroglyph. # HAPPY 500TH, LUDWIG VAN! proclaimed the banner all but covering the porticoed facade of Lincoln Center’s Philharmonic Hall, flapping indolently in the New York City breeze. Inside, beyond the chandeliered elegance of the ornate lobby, through the muffled doors which silenced street noises, down the raked and plushly carpeted aisles to the airy blondwood stage, the barely controlled chaos of a musician’s rehearsal was in progress. Salzburg and Vienna, Tokyo, Sydney and ShiKahr might boast their own celebrations of the Beethoven quinticentennial, but the New York Philharmonic had garnered the most offworld soloists, and consequently the most extensive Federation-wide publicity. Tickets had gone on sale as much as a year before the repertory was announced. The rep was simple and straightforward: the Nine Symphonies, performed by a full orchestra playing twentieth century acoustic instruments; the combination was unusual enough to attract a great deal of attention. And while the festival itself was months away, and most of the soloists would not arrive until the week before, preparations were feverish. # Admiral Robert Harvey Caflisch, head of Starfleet Operations, strode purposefully across the broad, sunny plaza of Starfleet Command HQ San Francisco, on his way to a top secret meeting with Admiral Cartwright and the UFP President. In the wake of what was being called, with a touch of gallows’ humor, the Second Deluge, Caflisch had barely overcome his fear of stepping into the shower; he had hoped for a brief respite to get his fleet back online before the next crisis. No such luck. And as if life weren’t complicated enough, an added complication wearing dark Vulcan robes stepped out of the shadow of the Sciences building where, incredibly, a maintenance robot was still sucking up stagnant flood water, and fell into step beside him. “Ambassador Sarek!” Caflisch did not succeed in keeping his constant state of surprise out of his voice. “I thought you’d returned to Vulcan days ago.” “So I had intended,” Sarek replied, his eyes straight ahead, his face unreadable. “But in view of the information about to be imparted to you by Commander Starfleet, I deemed it more logical to remain here for the present.” Caflisch felt the hair prickle at the back of his neck. No one but Starfleet top echelon and the President of the UFP was supposed to be privy to the level of information Cartwright possessed. He wasn’t about to ask Sarek what he knew or how he knew it; Sarek would not have told him if he had. The two crossed the sunny plaza in tandem and in silence beneath a cloud-free sky. Bob Caflisch suppressed a sudden chill. Neither Cartwright nor the Federation President seemed surprised at Sarek’s arrival, though the President looked as if he were about to object to his presence, then changed his mind. Without speaking, Cartwright activated the tape preset in his deskscreen, and the four viewed it in silence.

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