DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc. The story contents are the creation and property of Cheree Cargill and is copyright (c) 2005 by Cheree Cargill. This story is Rated PG.

THE GAMESTERS OF TRISKELION: THE NAME OF FREEDOM

Cheree Cargill

Stardate: 3215.1, Personal Log, First Officer Spock recording.

It has long been my habit to patrol the ship at all hours so that I might efficiently observe and supervise all three watches of the 24 hour day. Because I do not require as much sleep as humans, I am regularly able to inspect the various departments during times and in situations that might otherwise go unvisited by other officers. The observation lounge has become a regular site on my tour because its isolation and secluded nooks have made it a favorite trysting place for young crewmembers who should be on duty or attending to legitimate responsibilities.

The grapevine, of course, acts quickly and, when I am abroad on my rounds, the word is hurriedly spread that "the Ghost walks" and most crewmembers are studiously at their stations when I arrive. Likewise, the observation lounge is invariably deserted on third watch. Still, I often find it amusing as well as profitable to be seen in one part of the ship, then unexpectedly appear in another, once the warning has gone out. I had recently begun to suspect that the lounge was once again in use as a so-called lover's lane and I determined to visit there tonight.

It seemed a perfect time for a third watch inspection. We are on our way back to Gamma 2 following the rescue mission to retrieve Captain Kirk, Lieutenant Uhura and Ensign Chekov from their abduction to Triskelion. Fortunately, none suffered more than superficial injuries and all are resting comfortably in their quarters this evening.

Or so I assumed.

I entered the lounge quietly and paused before the lift doors to listen, analyzing the quietness for any sounds that might indicate any unauthorized activity. For a few minutes, nothing seemed amiss and I began a nearly silent walk through the facility, alert for any noise. A faintly drawn breath snapped my attention to a high-backed booth and I prepared to deliver a stern reprimand as I strode toward it.

Abruptly my step faltered and I cut off my speech as I saw who occupied the booth. Lt. Uhura peered up at me, her face wet and her eyes swollen and red. She was dressed in a long, printed caftan and her hair was slightly mussed, as if she had been in bed then appeared here, straight from that location.

"Mr. Spock," she said in an apologetic tone and swiftly wiped her face. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll leave--"

"What is wrong, Lieutenant?" I asked, concerned. This was so unlike her usual behavior that I was caught unprepared.

"Nothing, sir. Nothing." She began to rise, but I motioned her back down and seated myself opposite her.

"You are obviously distressed, Lieutenant. I wish to know what has upset you." I folded my hands on the table between us and waited.

For a moment, she was silent, her eyes lowered. Finally, she visibly roused herself and brought her gaze up to lock onto mine. "Triskelion," she stated, matter-of-factly. "That's what has me upset."

"Of course," I nodded. "Since the debriefing is not until 0900, I have not heard all the details of your ordeal. Do you require treatment in sick bay? Do you require Dr. McCoy's services?"

"No. I'm not hurt physically. Just some bumps and bruises." Uhura's brows lowered over her deep brown eyes and her gaze shifted slightly to one side, her thoughts obviously going back to the planet we'd just left. "No, it's my pride that's hurt worse, I suppose."

"Your pride?" I repeated, a bit puzzled. "I understand it was a traumatic experience for you--"

"No, Mr. Spock, you don't understand." Her eyes snapped back up and there was fierce dignity and determination on her face. "I'm a black African woman, Spock. They abducted me, put a chain around my neck and sold me on an auction block! Can you fathom what that did to me?"

Suddenly I understood it all too well. It was bad enough for the Captain and Chekov, but they were Caucasian men from historical backgrounds that did not include centuries of slavery, of whole peoples being stolen away to enforced servitude and hard labor. Little wonder that it had affected Uhura more than they.

Her jaw tightened at my expression of enlightenment and her chin lifted. "Let me tell you a story, Spock," she said. "My great-grandfather was born in Detroit, Michigan. His name was Albert Johnson. An American name. An English name. His great-grandfather was born in Tupelo, Mississippi. And his great-grandfather was born in Valdosta, Georgia. After that, we don't know. But one thing is certain - somewhere along the line, somewhere back in the 18^th or 19^th century, all of our family was born in Africa. We didn't migrate by choice."

I nodded silently, almost afraid to interrupt her. She licked her lips and continued, "My great-grandfather had nearly forgotten that fact. That he was a descendent of slaves. Then one day he ran into a friend who worked in genetics. The friend was part of a project to trace the racial and historical roots of various groups. He asked my great-grandfather to be a part of it and he agreed. The result changed Albert's life. The DNA studies that friend did enabled Albert to discover where he came from. I mean really came from! Back to the countries and regions and tribes in Africa where his ancestors had been abducted by slavers. Albert was so moved that he decided he had to go 'home'. He had to see those places for himself and see if he had any true family there."

Uhura paused and drew a shuddering breath. "When he stepped out of the shuttle in Dakar, it suddenly dawned on him that he was the first one back, the first of his stolen family to return to African soil and breathe African air and stand underneath an African sky. He was truly home and he knew then and there that he wouldn't be going back to North America."

She stopped again and wiped away the tears that had returned to her eyes. I waited silently, realizing how painful and cathartic this was for her. When she spoke again, it was in a softer tone. "Albert Johnson was no more. The slave was finally gone. He changed his name to Albert Uhuru. Do you know what that means, Spock?"

"Yes. It's Swahili for 'freedom'," I answered softly.

"That's right. He never knew a real family name, though he did visit some of the areas where his ancestors had been sold into slavery. Sadly, it was probably by other black Africans, enemy clans to their own. West Africa is still very unstable, despite the best efforts of the United Earth Charter to bring peace to the area. Albert eventually resettled in Mombasa in the East African Republic and married my great-grandmother there. She was Bantu and Albert adopted her people as his own. We've been there ever since, proudly proclaiming with our name that we are free and won't be owned by anyone." She wiped her eyes again and smiled feebly. "So, you see, why this whole experience on Triskelion sort of unsettled me."

"Thank you for telling me this, Nyota." It had long ago become a personal moment and I addressed her as I would a friend. For she is a friend and her story touched me more deeply than I would ever admit. "Now, perhaps you should return to your cabin and attempt to sleep. Come, I will walk you back."

She nodded and we rose from the booth. Our route to her quarters was quiet and we did not speak. She glided along with queenly grace and I decided that she was aptly named. Freedom, indeed. She personified it.

After I had left her at her door, I returned to my rounds, but I gave only a cursory nod to the other areas I inspected. My mind was at work on another topic. There is still widespread slavery in our area of the galaxy. The Orions are major slave-traders and, since they have never joined the Federation, they are outside of our laws. Slavery is one of their major industries and they traffick in it openly. The Federation has been attempting to stamp it out for over two hundred years, with no success.

I eventually returned to my cabin and donned my meditation robe and lit the incense of reflection. There had to be a way to eliminate this insidious trade in living flesh. A way to cut the legs from under it.

I knelt and began the recitations. It was a problem that I would meditate upon, dissecting the logistics of it until somewhere, somehow, I found an answer. Uhura had given me a great deal of food for thought.

THE END