Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [5]
At the moment, he was listening to the Starfleet cultural anthropologist who sat across the table from him in the Zapata’s conference room. Gibbs, the man’s name was.
“In many ways,” said the anthropologist, stroking his brown brush of a chin beard, “the Stugg are a people of contradictions. They showed openness when they originally invited Starfleet to visit their world seventy-five years ago, leading to Admiral McCoy’s encounter with them. On the other hand, they have since asked all Federation personnel to leave their world temporarily on four occasions—with no explanation.
Drake, the tall, red-haired captain of the Zapata, nodded sagely. “Of course, none of the other periods of isolation lasted more than a standard month. Until now.”
Admiral McCoy hadn’t grown particularly fond of Drake. While the other four attending the conference— besides Drake and McCoy himself—were a collection of diplomats and Federation cultural contact “experts,” the captain was at least reputedly a man of action. Yet he’d allowed the meeting on his ship to drone on in no particular direction.
“That’s true,” agreed Carmen, a painfully thin, dark-haired woman who’d made a career out of conflict mediation. “There is no precedent for an isolationist period of this duration in our experience with the Stugg.”
Megipanthos, the director of the Federation’s scientific exchange program, took a deep, noisy breath. Obviously, thought McCoy, the man had trouble with his sinuses. That, and he could stand to lose some weight.
“However,” Megipanthos began—giving the impression that he was going to contribute something really important—”as we discussed, we have seen other unexplainable behavior in our dealings with the Stugg.”
McCoy sighed, not bothering to hide it. In his day, he had watched starship captains size up a problem in an instant and spend whatever time they had—which usually was precious little—executing a brilliant and effective course of action.
And then there was this.
“How does the Prime Directive apply here?” Gibbs asked.
“Actually,” replied Gildenstern, the woman from Federation legal affairs, “it doesn’t. It’s just not an issue. We have had contact with the Stugg for many years.” She frowned suddenly. “Of course, they could invoke the Prime Directive …”
“Perhaps, in a sense,” said Gibbs, “they have invoked the Prime Directive.” He seemed downright excited by the idea. “Perhaps their silence is their way of invoking it.”
The admiral silently groaned.
Carmen considered Gibbs’s comment for a moment— a long moment, McCoy noted—before responding. “Well,” she replied, “Federation law broadly defines how a culture may invoke Prime Directive protection. So it is possible.”
“But not certain,” Captain Drake added, with a certain ominousness.
That was the last straw. McCoy would not let this charade go on for another minute. He had wanted to— hell, he’d insisted on participating in this mission to get away from the drudgery of Starfleet command. And here he’d run smack-dab into the same old mind-set dozens of light-years away.
“I know,” he said. “Why don’t we just go to the Stugg capitol, beam down, and damned well ask them?”
An embarrassed silence descended over the room. When Drake broke it, he spoke to McCoy in the same tone he might have used in reasoning with a recalcitrant child.
“An interesting idea, Admiral.” Drake leaned back in his chair. “Has your direct experience with the Stugg provided any insight into why that might be successful?”
The admiral made no effort to match the captain’s soft, polite tone. “My direct experience as a Starfleet officer for over one hundred years has been that one should never overlook the obvious.”
Drake turned to the anthropologist. “What do you think, Mr. Gibbs?”
The man shrugged. “Well,” he replied, stroking his beard again, “with respect to Stugg interpersonal relationships, in certain social situations it is imperative for an individual