The Kobayashi Maru Read online

  Sulu grinned, and rounded the last corner before Sunside's entrance. Nearly thirty cadets looked up at his entrance, but no one volunteered a greeting until Sulu released his own grin and waved. "Hi."

  "We're taking a poll," called an extremely long-legged youth from the back of the room.

  Sulu laughed. "Can I defer my response for an hour?"

  "They may kill us before then," someone else suggested. Another replied, "I think that's why he asked."

  The conversation spread to another dozen cadets, and several inventive ideas were voiced as to the name's true meaning. Another twenty cadets joined them over the next forty minutes, Perez-Salazar among them, and Sulu was still trying to explain the gist of the guessing game when a small, trim commodore interrupted the discussion.

  Her mere entrance proved enough to bring the room to its feet. After accepting a moment of the entire bloc at rigid attention, she called them at ease and sat herself on the edge of a table.

  "Well, that was impressive!" Her dark, Mediterranean eyes were quick, and as calm as a midnight sky. Sulu liked her instantly. "I'm Commodore Rachel Coan, and I'll be your bloc commandant while you're here at the Command School. You are Cadet Bloc W. You're here today because I, personally, wanted to make sure you all understood why you're in command school." She nudged a cadet near her with one foot. "How about you? Why are you here?"

  She answered without hesitation, "Because I want to command a starship someday."

  Coan nodded, turning to the rest of the room. "You—" She singled out another from the rear. "What about you?"

  "My parents made me."

  Amusement stirred through the bloc at that. "All right…That's honest, at least." Then Coan's eyes caught on Sulu's. "And you?"

  His mind became a hissing white void. Despite that, he heard his voice say, "To see if I can."

  Coan nodded, but didn't comment on his answer. "Okay," she said, standing. "You seem to be an honest bunch. That's good—I like honesty. I expect it. Okay?" Half the gathering expressed confusion, the other half nodded. Coan crossed the room, gesturing as she spoke for various cadets to relocate themselves.

  "Right now, we're going to perform the first of many scenarios you'll be forced to endure during your time here. This one's called Galactic Politics!" Groans answered her announcement, and Coan's grin grew wider. "Get used to it," she cautioned. "It's the second oldest profession in the cosmos."

  Everyone laughed.

  "Now," Coan continued, "when I give the word, each of you is to check your computer to find out which planetary system you represent. Someone will be Earth, someone else Vulcan, someone else Klingon, or Andorian, or Altarian, et cetera, et cetera." A handful of cadets stood to help her drag a table toward the center of the room. "The Klingon and the Romulan empires will sit at this table with the Federation." She pulled a random collection of chairs into a wandering circle farther out from the table. "The Federated planets will sit here. Since the Federation and the Empires control most of the galaxy's resources, those people will get to make decisions regarding the disposition of those resources. The rest of the Federation can help, of course, but…" And here her eyes glinted with playful malice. "The Federation and the Empires can talk at will. To each other, to anyone else they want to. The Federated planets can talk at will among themselves, and to anyone not seated at the table. However, they can't interrupt the three main powers at the table, and they can't take any action without the consent of the leading three."

  She retrieved another chair and placed it far away, against a distant corner. "The Vulcans," she went on, "who are frequently viewed as having the answer to most of the galaxy's problems—" This was greeted with mild amusement. "—sit here. They can only interfere with galactic politics once every half hour, but have a wide range of possible activities. Each time another planet requests aid from them, however, their half-hour wait starts anew."

  "This sounds pretty complicated," someone ventured, and Coan stretched her hands out to either side in a helpless shrug.

  "Real life politics isn't like playing jacks," she explained. "All I'm trying to do is simulate some of the restrictions and tensions existing in the real life arena. You'll find details specific to your own situation in your computer. I'll be here to answer questions. Just stick with me, okay?"

  No one said anything. Moving back toward her original seat, Coan nodded. "Everybody check their computer now to get your assignments, objectives, and limitations. This simulation will continue for two hours, or until somebody accomplishes something." She flashed them a sudden, delighted smile. "Let the games begin."

  Others about the room were already chuckling or moaning about their assignments by the time Sulu thumbed his retrieval button. The little computer screen flashed a series of code, and a column of print started its slow bottom-to-top scroll.

  MENAK III

  TECH LEVEL: Three.

  Sulu pursed his lips pensively. Tech level three meant no subspace radio capabilities, and no warp drive—rudimentary hyperdrive at best. He hoped his objectives didn't involve any long-distance negotiations or travel.

  FEDERATION MEMBERSHIP: Menak is not eligible, due to her current political climate.

  AFFILIATIONS: Long-standing trade relations with Carstair's Planet.

  Carstair's—a frontier world inhabited by four species' bail jumpers and troublemakers. Sulu sighed.

  HISTORY: Mineral-poor Menak III depends heavily on Carstair's for raw materials, interplanetary and interstellar relations with wealthier societies, and infusion of medical and food production technology. Menak III is approaching the end of its second industrial revolution; sweeping political reorganization and economic upheavals are the results. The current parliamentary government is threatened by a separatist religious faction which believes a return to "simpler times" would be in Menak III's best interests. Menak III's political leaders do not agree.

  RULES OF PLAY: You can only communicate with the Federation through Carstair's Planet…

  Sulu looked up from his computer to scan the room. A dozen other cadets craned looks left and right, as though trying to identify their allies by facial feature alone. Sulu noted that two of the table's three inhabitants were in place. Perez-Salazar sat at one end; Sulu felt some sympathy for whomever Fate chose to share that galaxy with her for the next two hours.

  "Who's Carstair's Planet?" he called congenially, turning back to his own affairs.

  On the floor across the room, sitting with his back against the wall, a dark-skinned Maori jerked his head up in ill-humored surprise. Glittering black eyes darted left and right. "Who asks?"

  Sulu attempted his most disarming grin, and waved. "I'm Menak III." Settling back into his seat, he continued with his reading.

  …You can only communicate with the Federation through Carstair's Planet; you may communicate with any non-Federated planet you choose. Since you lack subspace radio capabilities, all communications must be made via old-style radio waves. To simulate this, you may only contact other planets by written notes, passed from you to whomever you are contacting. You may not leave your seat.

  OBJECTIVES: The Federation has the resources to alleviate many of Menak III's economic and health problems. All you want is a chance to speak, one-on-one, to a Federation representative.

  Sulu nodded. Looking about, he saw a table near the main door, apparently stocked with props for their scenario: a painted scepter, assorted colored and numbered tokens, writing implements and a great deal of paper, the mother board from some electronic device (the Carstair's Planet Maori cadet took this), and a wheel. Sulu abandoned his seat to collect some paper and a pen, then settled in only a few chairs away from Carstair's—to facilitate communications. After a single nervous, unhappy glare, the cadet ignored him.

  Sulu tucked his feet up under himself on the chair, until he was firmly seated, tailor-fashion. Licking the point of his pen with a flourish (and then deciding not to do that anymore), he composed his first communiqué:
/>   Carstair's—Everybody's dying here, we aren't having a terrible lot of fun economically, and we understand you have some pull with the Federation Council; I'd desperately love a visit from a Federation representative. Any help at all would be appreciated.

  Love,

  Menak III

  He smiled, resisted the temptation to line the bottom of the note with "hugs-n-kisses" X's and O's, folded it into a neat little square, and turned to the young woman next to him. "Would you hand this down to the planet on the end, please?"

  Before she could reply, Coan interposed herself between them and plucked the note from Sulu's hand. "Foul, Menak," she informed him, grinning. "You can't talk to a neighboring planet—you've got to write."

  Sulu took the note back from her, annoyed. "You mean I have to write her a note just to ask her to pass this note?" That struck him as ridiculously restrictive.

  Coan only nodded. "That's what I mean. Try again."

  Sulu's second note was short and to the point—"Help! I'm being held prisoner in a complex Starfleet scenario! Please pass this note to Carstair's Planet (the social butterfly to your right) before it's too late!"—and the 'transmission' to Carstair's was quickly on its way.

  Carstair's gawked at the note, stared in almost horror at the cadet who'd last touched it, and finally directed a black-eyed glare down the length of chairs at Sulu.

  Sulu waved again, and smiled. This was going to be a long game.

  "I'll bet you've got quite a wait ahead of you."

  Sulu craned a look over his shoulder, finding Coan still standing nearby, watching Carstair's. "Carstair's can't approach the Federation Council without at least one Federated planet to support him. That's not always easy under normal circumstances—Narv's lack of social graces isn't going to work in your favor."

  Sulu sighed and glanced back at the cadet. Narv was already kneeling near one of the outlying Federation chairs, talking, quietly but gruffly, with the inhabitant. "What am I supposed to do in the meantime?" he asked Coan. "My planet's got a lot of problems!"

  Coan leaned over to tap Sulu's pad of paper. "Sketch something. You can sell the art to other planets and upgrade your economy."

  Sulu perked up at the suggestion. "Is that allowed in this scenario?"

  Coan's laugh was cheerful, but not reassuring. "No. But you might be able to buy yourself lunch with the proceeds."

  "What about paper airplanes?" Sulu twisted in his seat to follow her progress as Coan started to move away.

  "No!"

  He flopped back into his seat with a sigh; he'd expected as much.

  Seven minutes—and ten elaborate paper airplanes—later, Carstair's and Rigel V made their way up to the main Council table. Sulu sailed his last airplane in the general vicinity of an equally bored cadet (who'd been returning fire with clever, chittering paper constructions that reminded Sulu of kamikaze crickets), and settled in to observe Carstair's plea on his behalf.

  Rigel and Carstair's waited another full minute before the Federation delegate finally turned to them and demanded, "What do you want? Can't you see we're trying to agree on negotiation formats?"

  The cadet snorted noisily and thrust a piece of paper up at the Federation cadet's face. "A list of demands," he growled. "For my people."

  "Who are you?" The Federation glanced at the list, then deposited it atop the table between himself and the two Empires. Perez-Salazar plucked it up and studied it in silence.

  "Carstair's Planet," Rigel V volunteered. Then, flashing the Federation a ridiculously wide and stunning smile: "I'm Rigel V—already a member in good standing with the Federation."

  "Great." The Federation's enthusiasm seemed limited. "We'll consider your requests and get back to you."

  "All services are sorely needed," the Carstair's insisted when the Federation would have turned away. "I insist upon immediate attention!"

  Perez-Salazar uttered something brief and sibilant. "These requests are ludicrous!" she exclaimed, pitching the paper back at Narv. The rumpled sheet caught the air and fluttered erratically off to one side. "You want missile technology, computer assistance, access to our data centers…!"

  "The Federation's data centers," the Federation reminded her firmly. "They aren't asking for anything from the Klingons!"

  Perez-Salazar twisted her mouth and narrowed her eyes. "Racism again? You don't feel the Klingon Empire has anything to offer?"

  Sulu covered his smile with one hand. Perez-Salazar was the Klingons—he should have guessed.

  "Nothing that we can't offer more safely!" The Federation handed Narv back his note. "Go sit down. We'll get to you."

  "I ask little," Carstair's insisted. When the Federation didn't answer, the cadet turned to face Vulcan on the opposite side of the room. "If I cannot appeal to your less compassionate neighbors, then I appeal to you, logicians, for recognition."

  The three at the main table uttered simultaneous inarticulate cries while Vulcan looked to Coan for direction. The monitor shrugged mutely.

  "You idiot!" the Romulan Empire howled.

  "Hey!" Coan barked. "There'll be none of that around here! This is just a game!"

  The Romulan Empire wilted noticeably, weaving her hands into angry baskets in front of her. "Sorry, sir…"

  Coan was still frowning as she nodded to Vulcan. "Start timing your half hour again."

  "Aye, sir."

  And that ended Carstair's first round of negotiations.

  Sulu made sure a note was waiting for the Carstair's by the time he returned to his seat.

  What happened to my requests? Fifty million more people have died around here! Don't I need food more than you need missiles?

  Narv's lips moved through the message slowly. Once finished, he scrawled a brief reply across the bottom, crushed the paper into a ball, and threw it back at Sulu. Sulu untangled the note to read what he already suspected it said: "NO." He flicked the ball away from him, and started on his notes again.

  Hi! I'm Menak III, a small, insignificant, and technologically underdeveloped planet in the Murasaki sector. Carstair's Planet is ignoring me, and I'm bored. Wanna start a war?

  He folded the note into his most careful aircraft yet, and sailed it across the room into Orion's lap with the delicate precision only a born helmsman could command.

  Orion's automatic reply was a chittering cricket. Sulu quickly folded a second plane, scribbling across the wings, "Read the first airplane!" and bounced the second plane against Orion's chest. Orion blinked twice, raised his eyebrows, then set about trying to locate the message plane among all the others. He found it, dismantled it, and read it. The reply arrived in Sulu's lap less than a minute after Sulu's secondary launch.

  Sulu unfolded the plane and scanned the answer.

  Sorry—Orion is officially hostile toward Menak III. If I get into ANY kind of war, it'll probably be with YOU! Better luck next time.

  Orion II

  A chittering cricket—bearing the proclamation, "I am a primitive thermonuclear device. Ka-BLAM!"—quickly followed up the note. Orion returned Sulu's startled look with an apologetic shrug, but didn't retract the mock bombing. Sulu dismissed him further, and Orion went back to folding his toys.

  Carefully tearing off the bottom part of the page, Sulu eliminated Orion's negative response. Somewhat more tattered, but still flight-worthy, the airplane looked like the only survivor of Orion's last message. He aimed it at random, hoping chance would help him find a sympathetic government on his own side of the room. The plane bounced into the lap of a stocky, redheaded female four seats away. Picking it up, she asked, "What's this?"

  Sulu captured her attention with a friendly wave. "It's an old-style wave radio transmission—I'm reaching out to my fellow man."

  She smiled, but sailed the plane back at him. "I'm tech level two—I don't have the capabilities to receive an interplanetary transmission. Sorry."

  Sulu plucked the craft out of the air with one hand. Frustrated, he turned to the room at large
and called, "Is there anybody with a tech level four or better who isn't hostile to Menak III and wants to start a war?"

  Even as the room burst into laughter, Coan called, "Foul, Menak!" from the other end of the room.

  "But—!"

  "Foul!" Coan was smiling, but didn't relent. "You have to pass notes, or you can't communicate at all."

  Sulu fingered the nose of his aircraft unhappily, slouching into an exaggerated pout for Coan's benefit. "Do I even have to send notes to you?"

  Coan snorted briefly with laughter. "You can't send notes to me."

  "Why? Who are you?"

  "I'm God. Now hush!"

  Sulu had delivered his war offer to half the participants on his side of the room by the time Carstair's gained the Federation's attention for a second time. "We're considering!" the Federation irritably assured Narv before he could even speak.

  "These are matters of much importance." Narv's tone of voice could have indicated anything from fury to pleasant neutrality.

  The Federation collected Carstair's note, but didn't read it. "More missiles?" he inquired acerbically. Rigel V winced. Beyond him, a line of fidgeting delegates stretched nearly into Vulcan's lap.

  "Consideration of Carstair's application," Narv persisted. "We wish to be as Rigel—Federated into your ruling body."

  "Starfleet doesn't rule," the Federation began, and Perez-Salazar amended hotly, "Tell that to the Romulans!"

  "Hey!" The Romulan Empire leaned across the table in front of Earth to scowl at Perez-Salazar. "The Federation does not have us henpecked!"

  "I never said they did!"

  And so ended Carstair's second approach to the Federation Council.