Fables of the Prime Directive Read online

  His smile, Carol noticed, did not extend to his eyes, but she had the impression it wasn’t unfriendliness. It was wariness, perhaps even weariness. A traveler’s eyes. “I am Carolabrama, and this is my sister, Domenica.”

  “I am pleased to meet you. You were lucky, Lady Domenica. A few turns ago, and the priests would not have let you stand before them so brazenly.” He held up a dirty hand to stop her protest, a protest Corsi didn’t know to make. “Forgive the word, ‘brazen,’ but it is one that the Siblings of Baldakor had much occasion to use but recently. When their god lived among them.”

  “Their god,” Abramowitz repeated. “Not yours?”

  Jarolleka smiled bitterly. “Not mine. Never mine.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I am of Ajjem-kuyr.”

  “When the god began sending his lizards out to the other cities and villages, farther and farther every turn, only Ajjem-kuyr refused to bend the knee. We were the home of the Academy, a place of reason and philosophy. At the Academy, we had taught that the gods were mere stories, meant to explain natural phenomena. Why did the rains come? What were the stars? Why did people die? There was no reason to believe in the gods. When had they ever shown themselves to mortals? Only in old fables.”

  Jarolleka tapped the burning logs of the campfire with a stick. Beside him, Abramowitz and Corsi chewed quietly on their rations. “You didn’t believe in the gods?”

  He shrugged. “They might live somewhere, I suppose, but if so they don’t concern themselves with us.” He spat suddenly. “Until the God Who Blesses and Condemns arrived with his lizards, all scales and black armor and horns.”

  “And then the Academy began to believe, I imagine?”

  The Corotican smiled. “No, not at all,” he said with quiet pride. “At first we asked why the god would come to live among mortals, when the stories say the gods live a life of bliss in paradise? He said he came to bring things to better our lives, and certainly Baldakor prospered. Better medicine. The stench of the city, a stench we never realized was there, disappeared. More food.”

  “Sounds good,” offered Corsi.

  “Too good, and all explainable through natural laws. There were no miracles. An Academician from a hundred years ago drew many of the same conclusions about farming, and she was no god.” He shook his head. “We still refused to bend the knee, even when Ushpallar threatened to call his fellow gods. More lizards, and shape-changers. Mighty spirits.” Jarolleka’s tone was sarcastic, his shoulders hunched and tense. “Still we refused. Worse, I think, we began to implement many of the ‘miracles’ in Ajjem-kuyr, which the god had brought to Baldakor. That was the last blasphemy, I believe. To think that we mortals could achieve the work of the gods? Unthinkable!” He laughed without humor. “Unallowable.”

  “What happened?” asked Carol, spellbound despite herself. A world on the cusp of a renaissance, only to be held in the grip of enforced superstition.

  Jarolleka looked into her eyes, and Carol saw a barely concealed pain. “I can’t tell you,” he said at last. “I can only show you. It’s the only way you could ever understand.”

  Chapter

  5

  As far as the eye could see, the ground had been turned to a rough and lumpy glass, dully reflecting the Corotican sun back into the blue sky. There was no life, no birds in the sky above, nothing skittering along the ground below. There was no smell to the place at all. “Now we know where that ambient radiation came from.” Corsi’s voice remained impassive and neutral, but Abramowitz knew it concealed the same deep horror she herself felt at such utter devastation. If this was Ajjem-kuyr, literally nothing had survived the Dominion’s assault. It had undoubtedly taken less time to destroy the town than it had taken to deliver the threat.

  “You’re wondering how I survived the vengeance of Ushpallar.” Jarolleka shrugged languidly. His eyes were glazed, not showing any of the bright curiosity or quick wit Abramowitz had come to expect of him in the three days it took to reach the site. “It was quite…fortunate, really. I was away, visiting one of the nobles on the Qrantish Coast. He wanted someone to tutor his youngest son.” Another bitter laugh escaped his lips. “As it turned out, I was turned down for the post.” He glanced over at the women. “Ushpallar’s priests advised against my employment. I returned in time to see a bright cloud erupt over the heart of Ajjem-kuyr.”

  “I am sorry for your loss,” said Carol, meaning every word.

  He shrugged again and glanced at Vinx and Lauoc, who were examining the edge of the destruction, where the grasses and shrubs of the surrounding plain grew smaller and sicklier, until there was no growth at all and the ground itself grew glassier. If Jarolleka had been at all disturbed by the sudden appearance of Domenica’s “brothers,” he had never shown it.

  “Did you have any family in the city?” asked Abramowitz tentatively.

  “My elderly mother. I had just managed to buy her a home in the city, and only moved her from the country the year before.” There were no tears; Carol wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the man was still in some form of shock, even years after the event. “I lived here for a month after my return. I don’t know why. I never found another survivor. I would have been content with even a single page from one of the Academy’s books, floating charred on the breeze.” He smiled, his lips pale and thin, shaking his head slowly. “And still I do not believe they were worthy of my worship.”

  Carol nodded. “I am so sorry,” she repeated.

  “There was nothing you could have done in the face of their power.”

  She shot him a look, guilt racing coldly along her spine. We abandoned this sector, without a fight, because of the Prime Directive, she thought. Our most sacred law, designed to protect the innocent on pre-warp worlds. She stared again at the shimmering devastation, like a motionless and chill northern sea stretching out to the horizon. Some protection.

  It was only after a moment of indeterminate length that she noticed he was watching her with faintly curious eyes. “I’m still sorry,” she answered at last. “Even if it wasn’t my responsibility.” Did her voice break on the last word?

  “I believe you,” he said, and turned away to walk along the edge of the destruction. He nodded as he walked past Vinx, who was working on building a fire against the approaching night. The Iotian security guard restricted himself to a nod, rather than risk confusing the native with his peculiar manner of speech. Vinx was a native of Sigma Iotia II, a planet famously contaminated by outside influences. Their culture had obviously adjusted by now, though.

  Carol sat on a fallen log, after testing its strength. It was ossified somehow, almost as strong as stone, and no creep-crawlies were disturbed by her actions. Even past the obvious signs of Ajjem-kuyr’s death, there was very little alive except for the thin and colorless grass. Judging that Jarolleka wasn’t coming back right away, Abramowitz surreptitiously took out her padd.

  She called up the Sigma Iotia records, not certain why she was bothering. She knew the Prime Directive debate inside and out; but something had been bothering her since her conversation with Captain Gold. While the Prime Directive, Starfleet General Order Number One, seemed set in stone, in practice it led to a confusion of policies and results. The same captain could save a pre-warp planet threatened by a faulty sun, and a month later watch, with somber but grim resolve, as another planet in similar straits was destroyed. On paper, the Directive was simple; in the breach, it was anything but.

  What do you do when a planet is contaminated, but nowhere near ready for further contact?

  Abramowitz stole another glance at Vinx. Sigma Iotia seemed as good as place as any to start looking for answers.

  Personal log, Lieutenant Michael

  Theivamanoharan, Stardate 7822.4

  Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that Starfleet’s cultural specialists have spent the last twenty years following James Kirk around. True, this particular mess isn’t really his fault, but his solution left something to be
desired. He’s turned the Federation into a protection racket, collecting a cut of the profits gathered by the planet’s mob bosses.

  Granted, the profits have been steered into creating a more democratic and open society, with free elections and a growing planetary consensus. The Iotians might even be ready for an official first contact within fifty years, and Federation membership soon after that. But that’s only because the Federation Council threw so many of us at the problem after Enterprise left; call it collective guilt over the damage wrought by the Horizon’s unintended gift of a single book, Chicago Mobs of the Twenties. The Iotians were quick to emulate the culture they found in the book (why couldn’t the Horizon have left Pride and Prejudice , I ask?), but once adopted, some of these cultural patterns have proven to be lasting. Speech patterns, for instance; talk to any Iotian and it’s like being in a twentieth-century Mafia film.

  Much of the progress made has been from encouraging a small subculture, which has found its model in Eliot Ness and other so-called “untouchables.” Iotians like Kall Porakan have worked to form honest police forces that bridge the gaps between the mob-controlled territories. These police forces have formed the basis for a rudimentary planetwide government, kept honest by their allegiance to the ideal they found reading between the lines of Chicago Mobs .

  All in all, I can report that from an unpromising beginning, the Iotians are making this work. A word of caution is always necessary, however: we still don’t entirely understand the mechanisms by which the Iotians filled in the sociocultural gaps in their book. How much was guesswork, how much was precontact? It might be decades before we understand everything. Despite my cautious optimism, I can’t recommend expanded contact at this time.

  That didn’t sound so bad, thought Carol, stealing another glance at Vinx. Sigma Iotia eventually won a place for itself in the Federation. But not all such cases turned out so well.

  Mission Report, Commodore Göller, Stardate 34675.8

  It is with deep sadness that we report the loss of Lieutenant Shewer Freeman, U.S.S. Crockett , while on assignment on Zeon in star system M43 Alpha. Lieutenant Freeman showed great courage under Ekosian fire, assisting local evacuation efforts and ensuring the survival of the Federation cultural team assigned to the planet.

  As you’re aware, Admiral, the Zeonian culture was nearly eradicated by their neighbors, the people of Ekos, in 2268; the actions of James Kirk prevented a genocide at that time. The situation was created by John Gill, a Federation historian who defied the Prime Directive in an attempt to create the perfect planetary government, based on a combination of progressive ideals and an ancient national socialist political model. The political model proved overwhelming, and Dr. Gill died denouncing the government he’d created. Captain Kirk had, at the time, expressed optimism that peaceful relations between the planets could be restored, and Ekos returned to its own cultural roots.

  It was not to be. Both Ekos and Zeon eventually became xenophobic and aggressive as a result of their experiences with Gill and the Federation; further, cultural contact with the Klingon Empire resulted in an arms race which led to full-scale conflict by 2287. The withdrawal of Klingon interest following the explosion of Praxis did nothing to alleviate tensions. Federation cultural teams, accompanied by security contingents, worked behind the scenes to broker a peace. Lieutenant Freeman died trying to fulfill those ideals.

  I recommend immediate withdrawal of all Federation personnel from the system until the Ekosians and the Zeoni are able to achieve peace by themselves. You can’t win them all, Admiral.

  My condolences have already been sent to Lieutenant Freeman’s family.

  Two relatively contemporary contact situations, two attempts by the legendary Kirk to solve the problem, two very different outcomes. What was it Soloman had taken to joking lately? A fifty-fifty chance for everything. There will either be peace, or there won’t. A culture will survive, or it won’t.

  Carol’s next entry was a familiar one.

  Mission Report, Carol Abramowitz, Stardate

  47532.7

  Damn if I didn’t see this one coming. Nikolai Rozhenko went and broke the Prime Directive while observing a pre-warp civilization. Surprise, surprise.

  Assigned to observe a village on Boraal II, reports from the Enterprise indicate that Rozhenko fell in love with a local woman, married her, impregnated her, and then found himself with a conflict of interest upon learning of the planet’s imminent destruction by atmospheric dissipation. He tricked the Enterprise into evacuating a village (his village, needless to say) to a similar M-class planet, Vacca VI.

  Have I said I’m not surprised yet?

  It’s not that I don’t have any sympathy for Nikolai or the Boraalans; of course I do. I frankly don’t see why Jean-Luc Picard was so adamant about allowing the death of the Boraalan culture when, in exactly similar circumstances, he acted to save the inhabitants of Drema IV from tectonic instability. I suspect it might be the record deposit of dilithium found on Drema, but maybe I’m just cynical.

  You asked me for recommendations, Commander, and having spoken with Nikolai I have to say that he won’t be budged. Further, the solution he found seems workable, barring anything unforeseen being discovered on Vacca. I further wonder what it is you expect me to counsel. Take it on ourselves to fix the cultural contamination by blowing up Vacca VI? What’s done is done, it seems to me, and what makes me so angry is that it’s the exception that makes a mockery of the rule. Why Boraal or Drema and not Cholmondeley III or T’Lakana?

  Is Starfleet enforcing General Order Number One, or are we pleased when we’re tricked into breaking it?

  I was so young, thought Carol, wincing as she read her own angry words. She realized now what she only half-knew then: it wasn’t Rozhenko she was angry at, irresponsible and arrogant though he was. It was Starfleet and the Federation, creating a law that they barely knew how to administer, and the meaning of which seemed to keep changing depending on which way the winds were blowing. Lord only knew what Commander Uxmen had really made of it, but as far as Carol knew the Boraalans (or Vaccans or whatever) were still there, dancing attendance on their savior Nikolai.

  And so the log entries continued: planets saved, planets destroyed but witnessed, planets that made contact too soon and either prospered or failed utterly. Of course things were always trickier in reality than in theory; her years with the S.C.E. had taught her that. She knew now to give Starfleet some credit for trying to make sense of the Prime Directive, and further she acknowledged that the Federation got it right at least as often as they got it wrong. The fact remained, however, that when they did make efforts at fixing cultural contamination, it was usually because the Federation had somehow been responsible for that contamination in the first place. It was about cleaning up your own mess.

  On Coroticus, the Federation could only be held responsible through indirect and perverse reasoning. For decades, the Federation and Starfleet had taken their responsibilities toward the Coroticans seriously, protecting them from the power struggles and economic necessities of the galaxy’s citizens until such a time as Coroticus would be ready to join the family. But the day had come when Coroticus had been in the path of a power potentially greater than the Federation itself, and although the Dominion at least hadn’t handed the planet over to the Cardassians or the Breen, they had muddied the waters. By destroying the Ajjem-kuyr Academy, it looked to Carol as though the Dominion had set back the planet’s cultural and scientific development by centuries. What had looked like a nascent renaissance had become a glassy, radioactive dead end.

  The question now wasn’t the rights and wrongs of Federation withdrawal or Dominion aggression. Captain Gold was right about one thing—the Federation hadn’t been able to protect Betazed from Dominion occupation, much less Coroticus. No, the choice was now much more stark: interfere again and try to put the Coroticans back on course, or wash her hands of it?

  I wish Vance was here. The deputy chief of security had b
een more than a lover to her the last few weeks—since the very Teneb mission that Gold had thrown in her face before departing the da Vinci—he had been a friend and confidant. Vance Hawkins was an excellent listener, someone she could talk a problem out to without interruption. There were few on the da Vinci who were adept at the noninterrupting part, and it was one of many aspects of her relationship with Vance that she treasured. But, because of their relationship, he was assigned to head up the security detail on Sachem II.

  “You look troubled, doll.”

  Carol glanced up and realized that Vinx had somehow come up behind her without her hearing. The big man with the brash accent could be silent when he wanted to be. “Just thinking.”

  “About these Coroticans, right?”

  Nodding, Carol was grateful he’d said that rather than asking if she was pining for Vance. Not that their relationship was anything like a secret, but the Iotian was hardly somebody with whom she’d talk about her personal life.

  The security guard shrugged languidly. “It’s a tough break but it can work out okay. Look at us Iotians, we’re livin’ the high life now that we’re in with the Feds.”

  “Don’t you ever feel a little lost? Don’t you ever wonder what Iotia would’ve become without that book?”

  He grinned. “The Book changed everything, and that’s no lie. But it gave us the stars. Before the Book we were alone in the universe, wonderin’ what the score was. Sure there was some trouble, some mooks ate lead, but then capo Kirk came along and wham! We was in business, and the stars was ours.” He touched his forehead as though he expected to find a fedora on his head, and winced comically when he didn’t find one. “It’s all growing pains, Doc. Every species has them, ours are just different. Unique. Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, ain’t it?”