SURVIVAL

 

[Prologue-Chapter 3 ] [Chapters 4-7 ] [Chapters 12-15] [Chapter 16-Epilogue]

 

Chapter Eight

 

Chacol came for them shortly after sunrise. Sulu had set watches as a customary precaution, but nothing had disturbed them during the night. McCoy had obliged with the ice water and had included in the delivery an analgesic to relieve Sulu and Chay of their heat-induced headaches. They had all enjoyed a pleasant sleep; the hammocks were woven of a soft, gaily dyed rope and were surprisingly comfortable and cool.


Now the landing party put the tiny receivers of the translators into their ears to prevent Chacol from hearing the mechanical voice once it began to translate; Sulu wanted to listen for a while before revealing the nature of the devices at their waists. Hopefully something Chacol might say would suggest the right moment.


Chacol led them outside, heading back to the common and the pond. They scanned randomly as they walked, able to describe the village more completely to the team who had reassembled in the briefing room on board the Enterprise. It could not have housed more than two hundred residents, and looked like a smaller version of the old cities the searchers had located; the design and construction techniques were identical, though this village was only two hundred years old, not two thousand. And yet, Jameson's tricorder had dated the stone table in Chacol and Tenna's room at over a thousand years old. Except for size, the most noticeable difference between the old and new villages was cosmetic; beyond the simple touches like brightly painted doors there was little decoration here--no intricate carvings or mosaics. The buildings were plain in comparison with those in the old cities, unfinished.


"This architecture certainly suggests that the two civilizations are related," Jameson commented. She itched to investigate a building at the river's edge that sported a water wheel similar to that in the old city--except that this wheel churned and splashed in a nearly full channel. "And that table in our quarters could have been moved when the inhabitants relocated."


"Architecture can be copied, Lieutenant, and furniture moved by anyone."


Reluctantly Jameson had to admit that Spock was right. They would need something besides physical appearance to determine the relationship between the two cultures.


In the early morning cool the villagers were taking care of routine chores. Most headed into the fields, farming tools propped on their shoulders or hauled in carts; several looked with interest at the five strangers but did not approach them. The few domestic animals tended to be large beasts of burden--rather resembling plump, hornless oxen--perhaps because they offered the greatest return in labor for an investment of feed and care; but Sulu did spot an elderly woman mending garments on her porch with a creature something like a cross between a cat and a small monkey draped across her shoulders. Chacol led them into what Sulu had assumed was the library, which turned out to be not a library at all but a large empty room with evenly spaced stone columns for support. Several small groups of children sat in circles around adults; some of the children glanced at the newcomers with curious excitement, but the adults regained their attention with a gentle command.


When Sulu described the scene, Denison agreed that it must be some sort of school. "That's a good sign," the sociologist said. "In primitive societies there's very little segregation of children into schools, very little pursuit of knowledge for its own sake; they're too busy teaching their kids the skills of food production and manufacturing."


A thin, wiry woman who looked to be about Chacol's age was waiting for them at the far end of the room. Her hair came the closest to Chay's blond that they had yet seen, and her eyes were violet blue. Chacol introduced her as Atik. She gave the same crossed-arm bow that Chacol had given in the Old City, and the five humans copied it politely. Chacol began to speak, and the translator receiver came to life in Sulu's ear. It was not yet fully functional but putting together the words and phrases it did render with their host's gestures gave Sulu an adequate translation.


"Mr. Spock, he's brought us here for language lessons!" he reported with delight.


"An encouraging development, Mr. Sulu," Spock replied calmly, but Sulu could hear the excited buzz of the contact team in the background. "They wish to communicate and are taking deliberate steps to make it possible. I think we can now feel certain that they mean you no harm." The contact advisors concurred with his evaluation, for once no one urging caution.


Sulu studied Chacol thoughtfully. Play it by ear, Spock had told him. To Sulu, Chacol seemed an unflappable man. He had not hesitated to walk up to the shuttlecraft. If he could accept a machine that could fly he should be able to accept one that could talk; one was no more magical or wondrous than the other.


The tiny green light on the translator now indicated ready. He took the receiver from his ear and replaced it in the device so it would now be two-way; Chacol would understand every word. He spoke slowly and quietly. "Chacol, this is a translator. It allows us to talk to each other. Can you understand me now?"


Chacol's expression changed, but subtly--a noticeable tightness about his mouth, a slight lifting of his eyebrows, a definite widening of his eyes. Then slowly his lips parted in amazement as he realized what he had just heard. He was silent for a long moment, his eyes fastened on the little machine that Sulu held between them.


Then he spoke softly, one word, and there was a quick intake of breath as the device translated, "Yes."


Sulu smiled in encouragement. Chacol took a slow, deep breath and traded glances with Atik, who shared his quiet astonishment. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then his eyes fell on the translator and he did not speak.


Sulu understood. "I can turn it off if you'd like to speak privately." Chacol nodded, and Sulu touched a switch; the green light went out. Chacol turned back to Atik and spoke rapidly. Atik replied with equal intensity and seemed to be disagreeing, but finally she bobbed her head in a reluctant nod. Chacol turned again to Sulu and motioned for him to turn the device back on.


Sulu did so. "It's working now."


Chacol's expression was now open and friendly. He spoke, as always, in a calm voice that reminded Sulu of Spock. He was uncertain at first, not yet accustomed to the metallic, somewhat monotonous sound of his translated voice, but then he proceeded smoothly.


"Can you tell us where you come from?" he asked, and though the question was predictable his phrasing was so odd that Sulu faltered in his reply.


"We're--uh--from far away," he said awkwardly. Now to prevent Chacol from asking for specifics. "We discovered your Old City only a few days ago. It's very beautiful." He hoped to prompt them to a helpful reply, and he was not disappointed.


"Sashna Velda," Atik said, and the translator, unconscious of the sad irony, rendered, "Island City." She continued, "Our ancestors lived there long ago." Sulu heard Jameson's small, satisfied sigh. That was one question answered.


"Why were you there yesterday?" Chammu asked Chacol.


"Atik and I are teachers, and every year one of us takes the older students to Sashna Velda to see the city and read in the archives." Sadness shadowed Chacol's face. "To learn what we were before the rivers began to die."


"That explains why those tables are still there," Chammu said, and the two nodded. "Can you read all the tablets and scrolls in the archives?" he asked at Jahns' prompting. "Are they written in the same language you read and speak now?"


The two Ishanne traded glances. "Of course," Atik replied, obviously puzzled. "There is minor variation in vocabulary, but they were Ishanne, we are Ishanne. How could there be a difference in our languages?"


"A continuous civilization for over two thousand years?" Chammu could not contain his incredulity; few societies could claim such a feat. "With no changes in language or social structure?"


"Why should we wish to change them?" Chacol asked reasonably. "Many hundreds of years ago we decided that we were pleased with the society we had created and that we should not allow it to change."


Sulu saw another opportunity and began to work his way toward it. "Chacol, Atik, we'd like to learn more about your society. Would your people be willing to answer our questions and show us around your village? And maybe you'd like to learn more about us?"


Their eyes lit up with unmistakable delight. "Oh, yes, Sulu," Chacol said eagerly. He took a quick, almost involuntary step forward, and Sulu remembered the same indication of contained excitement when he had requested a ride in the shuttlecraft. "Sulu--might we be able to meet other humans as well as yourselves? There are so few of you, and so much we would wish to learn."


Sulu could have laughed out loud. Here he was fretting about how to get the contact team involved and all along, far from fearing humans, the Ishanne wanted more!


"Chacol," he said happily, "I think I can assure you a steady stream!"





Uhura had never had the conn for such a long time. She had been in charge of first shift for three full days now, ever since Spock and the contact team had beamed down to join Sulu and his party. Even though Sulu had had second thoughts, Uhura still envied his cleverness in getting off the bridge. He no longer had to look at the lovely planet rotating majestically on the viewscreen, its very beauty a source of sadness. She envied her replacement at communications, Lieutenant Palmer, who--in addition to being able to sit with her back to the viewscreen--by monitoring all frequencies and by signaling the surface every fifteen minutes could take direct action in the search for the captain.


But the worst part about being the center of bridge activity was that when Spock periodically called in to request a status report, Uhura was the one who had to answer, "No change, sir."


She had been watching him when Scott reported the disturbing results of his initial tests on the transporter, had seen all expression drain from his face, the emptiness in his eyes. She saw how when he returned from Sickbay he looked at the command chair with that empty stare a long time before he sat down. Her heart had gone out to him.


It had been eight days now. They all hoped, of course, but there weren't many who believed that Kirk might still be alive, even if he had beamed safely down. She, too, had stared long and hard at Kirk's chair before she could bring herself to sit in it.


She swiveled around in the big chair, surveying what was, for now, her bridge. Her gaze fell on Chekov. He had been so happy when the sensors began functioning optimally that she had stopped worrying about him, but after only a day or two of higher spirits he again looked terrible--eyes red, shoulders slumped. Other technicians were free of transporter repair worries now and could relieve him, but still he worked overtime, and still he blamed himself.


After shift, Uhura stopped off at Sickbay to enlist McCoy's aid. To her relief, he immediately shared her concern. "It's ridiculous for him to feel that way," the doctor said firmly. "If he had made any glaring error, Spock would have let him know about it in no uncertain terms. And anyway, Spock told me how tough it is to trace a transporter beam, especially in a mess of fluctuating readings like we're in here."


She nodded vigorously. "Exactly. But Chekov won't listen to me, so I was hoping you would mention it to Mr. Spock and ask him to speak to Chekov about it."


"Why don't you talk to Spock?"


"Mr. Spock has been rather--unapproachable during the past week, sir--"


"So I've noticed," McCoy interrupted, and Uhura had the feeling she had hit a sore spot.


"Besides," she finished, "I think he'd probably take a request from you more seriously than from me."


"Well, I don't know about that," McCoy drawled dubiously, thinking that perhaps just the opposite was the case. He smiled. "But I'll be glad to speak to him when he comes back on board."


"Thank you, sir." She stopped, wondering whether to mention something else, then forged ahead. "You might also ask him if he's gotten any rest. Every time I call the bridge to check on communications, he's always there--sometimes in the middle of the night."


"And why are you awake in the middle of the night, Lieutenant?" He waved away her flustered reply. "Never mind. I don't think many of us are sleeping well these days. But don't you worry--I'll see what I can do about Chekov."


Uhura thanked him warmly and went off to her quarters, feeling a little lighter of heart.

 





"I believe it would be unwise to push them, to demand too much from them so soon."


"You are much too cautious. They are very friendly."


"Yes they are--I don't dispute that. But friendliness and trust aren't necessarily the same."


"You don't trust them, then? Are you afraid of them?"


"No, no, not at all. I don't fear them and I do trust them. I believe that they do not trust us."


Chacol stared at Atik, perplexed. The idea that the humans might find his people wanting in some way had not occurred to him. And he was not sure how to interpret Atik's uncharacteristic suspicion.


"I don't understand what you mean, Atik," Tenna said in her soft, gentle voice. She sat at Chacol's side in the spacious building that tonight served the village of Cambron as a meeting room. "Why shouldn't they trust us? We haven't done anything to harm them; it is not our way. Surely they can see that."


The first general meeting held in Cambron since the arrival of the human visitors three days before was lasting late into the night. The old physician Relaphta had called the meeting, but he had not been alone in feeling the need for some formal discussion of the momentous event. All the hundred and forty adults in the village were present, having left the smallest children in the care of the older ones. At first every comment was positive; by now all Chacol's neighbors had had at least one extended conversation with at least one of the humans, and they were all openly impressed with the respect the visitors showed toward their hosts, the pains they took to disrupt Cambron's routine as little as possible. But when he had expressed his desire to know more about their guests, Atik had objected, surprising them all.


"I don't mean that kind of trust." She stood at the front of the room where her listeners, seated on cushions on the floor, could see her easily. "They know we're no threat to them, but they're reticent about themselves and their culture. They're studying us and our culture, our present and our past. They're very careful what they ask and how they ask, careful not to insult us inadvertently, careful not to reveal too much of themselves." Nods and murmurs of agreement greeted her assertions. "All their care must be for a reason, and if we trust them we must believe that their reason is sound."


"Are we never to ask questions, then, never to assert ourselves?" Chacol demanded.


"You asked them already where they came from," Relaphta said testily. Relaphta said everything testily. "They didn't answer you then. What makes you think they'll answer you now?"


"They know us better now--"


"Perhaps they're protecting us," Atik suggested. "They're obviously more advanced than we are in some ways. They might be afraid of overwhelming us with knowledge we can't assimilate."


"We've accepted their advanced abilities thus far," Chacol countered. "And there is no knowledge we can't assimilate."


"I know that," Atik replied, "but do they? To them we must seem quite primitive, and in some ways we are, compared to what we once were. They've been here only three days. Sulu promised that we would learn more about them. I believe they will tell us about themselves when they are ready." She looked pointedly in Chacol's direction. "Until then they are our guests and we should respect their privacy."


Atik was right, he realized as he walked later down the torchlit avenue. He was too impatient, always wanting to know now. But he was so curious about these humans! He yearned to ask, where are you from? how did you get here? what is your home like? and--above all--how long will you stay? They had said nothing about coming to live near his people. Could it be that they would simply ask their questions and go? In only three days they had become a part of his life, and they would leave a great emptiness if they left. He had met quite a few of them now--the original five, of whom all except Sulu had returned to their other duties; the six who had replaced them; and Spock, who looked different from any of the other humans. Chacol remembered that meeting with particular delight. All the humans seemed surprised at his easy acceptance of a visitor who was different even from themselves. Now and then an Ishanne was born who lacked a limb, or whose body bore some deformity, but they were not ridiculed or feared. Did the humans think he would run from Spock merely because his ears were pointed? That was perhaps the most puzzling aspect of the humans' behavior: they stepped so gently. Why did they always seem to brace themselves for a fearful or hostile reaction? Did people mistrust each other so where they came from? Perhaps they would want to stay with the Ishanne after all.


Sulu especially had been warm and friendly from the first, though clearly hesitant to admit the abilities of the shuttlecraft or the device at his waist. Had he thought that Chacol would not notice that eight other voices came from the device at one time or another? But apart from Sulu's curious reluctance to reveal the whole truth about his people and their capabilities, the meeting had gone well. Chacol and his students had watched the humans for a long while before approaching them, wondering who and what they were and why they were in the archives. It was soon obvious that they were there to learn, which immediately endeared them to their observers. The group had quickly reached the decision to meet them. But even though the newcomers had been reading in the archives, they could not understand him. At first this confused him but he soon learned to communicate with them using gestures. He was still embarrassed to remember that the only awkward moment had been caused by his own impatient curiosity. He should not have been so forward as to ask to ride in the flying box. But to stand next to a flying machine, to touch it, and not to ask--at that moment such self-control had been beyond him. It had been so long since any Ishanne had flown. Many generations ago a few had managed short flights in woven baskets lifted by cloth bags filled with hot air. The theories and designs were all in the archives, but their application had been lost in the face of more pressing concerns. Sulu, however, had guided the exchange past Chacol's clumsy mistake. He had even taught them an important human word: friend. When Chacol had learned via the translator and Sulu's lengthy explanation all the shades of devotion and responsibility contained in that one word, he was profoundly moved that the humans had come here to be friends with the Ishanne.


Sulu had stayed, but Chacol had been very sorry to see the others depart; apparently humans divided up their duties much more rigidly than the Ishanne were accustomed to do. The three called "archaeologists" asked permission to return to Sashna Velda to continue their study of Ishanne history, and when he had explained to them that permission was not an issue, that knowledge was for everyone, they had seemed oddly pleased by his quite unremarkable answer.


Chay had returned to the flying box they called a "shuttlecraft"--the translator could find no Ishanne equivalent--to search for the human called Kirk who was lost in the desert. As soon as he could talk to Chacol Sulu had asked whether the Ishanne had any word of Kirk. Chacol had answered no for Cambron, but there were many villages and word traveled slowly among them. He shared their deep concern for their lost friend; the open deserts were harsh and not to be faced alone. He had offered to enlist his people's help in the search, but Chay had declined with thanks, saying that the humans could search much faster in their shuttlecraft. Having seen it fly Chacol could well believe it.


His walk around the village had returned him to the pond. Its banks were deserted; the few who had gathered on the common after the meeting had gone sensibly to bed. The bright moon cast animated shadows of the leafy trees that grew near the water's edge. He heard quiet voices; coming closer, he saw Sulu and Denison sitting under a tree, Denison speaking into one of the black rectangular boxes. It was called a "tricorder," and Chacol had decided that its purpose was to store information. He often saw the humans talking into their tricorders or pointing them at something and looking at the little window on the front, and sometimes they manipulated the controls and a narrow strip of paper with writing on it emerged from the top. It seemed a wondrous little machine, but though it fascinated him he resisted the impulse to ask how it worked. He sighed inwardly. Probably they wouldn't tell him.


"Hello," he said, using one of the human words he had learned.


Smiling, they returned his greeting. All the humans had wider smiles than the Ishanne, but Sulu's was especially pleasant; the skin at the outside corners of his eyes wrinkled in such a way that he always looked happy about something. Chacol liked him. He sat down opposite them and waited for the "sociologist" and "pilot" to ask him something. Questions were inevitable, but he didn't mind. He only wished he could ask his own.


"You're out late," Denison began. "I thought you folks were early risers."


"We are, but our discussion took more time than is usual."


"I noticed everyone going into the school--or meeting hall. I suppose that building serves many purposes. Do you meet often?"


"Whenever one of us suggests it. We meet perhaps two or three times in a ten-day span."


Sulu's eyebrows rose. "That's a lot of discussion. Is that how you govern yourselves, then? Or do you have elected officials?"


The translator had some difficulty with the term, and talked around the idea. What it said only baffled Chacol, who listened carefully, frowning. Finally he said, "If you mean someone who makes rules--?" Sulu nodded. "--then no, we have no 'elected officials.' If something needs to be done, whoever is best prepared does it. If it must be discussed we meet and discuss it. There are rarely any changes, but we all must agree on them."


"Consensus government," Denison said. "A wonderful system when it works, and it seems to work beautifully for you. Do other villages have the same system?" Chacol nodded. "What happens when several villages must decide an issue together?"


"One village discusses and decides its course, then sends a representative to present its case to the other village or villages. Sometimes the representative must travel to and fro several times, but usually one journey suffices."


And on and on. They seemed in a mood to ask many questions tonight. How did you govern when your cities were larger? Were there no conflicts between leaders, or were there even then no leaders? Were your cities ever larger than the ones we have discovered? Chacol answered them all willingly, happy to share information about his home and his people and their past. But finally the lateness of the hour began to press upon him.


"Sulu, Denison, I must say good-night. It is late, and Tenna will wonder if my walk has taken me to the next village."


They stood with him, full of apologies. "We tend to lose ourselves in our work sometimes," Sulu said with a grin.


"I know it must be tiresome," Denison added, "answering so many questions. The willingness of you and your people to sit and talk for hours on end makes our job much easier. I hope our appreciation is obvious."


Their expressions were more open than Chacol had ever seen them; perhaps fatigue made it more difficult to maintain the customary human reserve. He had promised Atik that he would wait, and he would, but he said, hoping to elicit some information indirectly, "We are enjoying your visit with us. I only wish that other villages might also have a chance to meet you." Denison traded a glance with Sulu, and Chacol realized he had touched on a sensitive area. He finished softly, "Perhaps in time."


"Perhaps," Denison repeated, but his tone held no promises, and Chacol knew he did not imagine the wistfulness in Sulu's smile.





Watching Chacol walk up the empty street to the room where he and Tenna were staying with friends, Denison said wearily, "He just had a dozen opportunities to ask us about our government and our history and he didn't. I don't understand. They're so willing, even eager, to answer our questions, but they ask none of their own. And it isn't because the questions don't occur to them--that folkmoot tonight was no coincidence. If we'd had some warning we could have monitored it." At Sulu's frown, he added, "Sometimes being sneaky is part of the job, Lieutenant. I don't like it either, but we've got to learn about these people one way or the other. When they don't ask questions we miss out on a lot of what they're thinking."


"Yes, sir--I guess I see your point."


At first Sulu had been thrilled and honored to be allowed to stay with the contact team; Denison thought that some continuity was advisable, and Chacol seemed especially drawn to the first human with whom he had interacted. But the team had spent the last three days in a state of continual frustration, though not for want of effort. In those three days they had learned that Ishanne society was completely egalitarian, with no division of responsibilities on the basis of gender or class. Children were raised communally by the village, and deliberately socialized to share and be reasonable and cooperative. They were also sent regularly for extended stays in other villages to find mates; the Ishanne understood enough about genetics to know that they must avoid inbreeding. Complete specialization was nonexistent; even Relaphta, the physician, was a potter or a weaver when he had no patients to care for. The rivers were the primary lines of communication; boatmen continually carried news and personal messages between villages, living on the rivers and given room and board when they arrived. The Ishanne were terrific planners and organizers, and because of their emphasis on analysis and discussion, any given individual was able to provide the complete history of and justification for any action the village had ever taken, and for most major decisions the Ishanne as a whole had ever made. In hours and hours of conversation with these generous, giving people, the contact team had learned so much about them, but not the answer to the critical question. Were they cosmos-aware?


"They're so welcoming and friendly--why can't we just ask them if they know what a planet is, or a star--if they believe there's life 'out there'?"


"We'd be flirting with Prime Directive violations for one thing, not to mention personal danger." Denison leaned back against the rough bark. "For many cultures the heavens are the home of their deity or deities, and religion tends to be a touchy subject among primitive peoples. There's a story they tell to people who think they want to become contact specialists, a true story, about a team who beamed down to Ponchar VII a few years ago. They were shot for blasphemy when they neglected to announce as soon as they materialized that they did not claim to be gods simply because they descended from the skies. They said 'hello' first." Sulu's eyes widened. "So," the sociologist continued, "you see why we have to tread especially carefully on the very point we desperately need an answer to, for our own sakes as well as theirs."


"Yes, sir, but--" Sulu paused uncertainly.


"Go ahead, Lieutenant. All comments welcome."


"Well--I know I'm new at this, sir, but I'd hardly call the Ishanne primitive."


"Neither would I. But so far they haven't given us any openings I'd feel confident jumping through. They bring up agriculture or government or education, so we know those are safe subjects. But they haven't mentioned their religious beliefs or asked any questions about our origins. On the other hand, really serious taboos are usually obvious from the first when you know what to look for, and we haven't sensed anything like that. Right now I'd guess it's fifty-fifty one way or the other, but those odds are a little low for my taste."


"Yes, sir." Sulu tossed a pebble into the pond, staring gloomily across the resulting ripples toward the forbidding desert plain. "But Starfleet will want more information soon, won't they?"


"I'm surprised we haven't heard from them already. They must be holding back for the captain's sake. But if we can't give them anything conclusive, and soon, they'll pull us out. No successful contact, no need for a geo-survey, no need for us to be here." Denison made a last tired note into his tricorder before he snapped the case shut and said with conscious irony, "Sweet dreams, Lieutenant."


"You too, sir."


Even the soft moonlight revealed the desolation just beyond the comfortable little village, and out there was one man whose rescue might depend on the contact team's success. Sulu sighed. He'd forgotten what sweet dreams were like.

 

********************

 

Chapter Nine

 

"Gentlemen." Spock entered the briefing room where Scott, McCoy, and Giotto awaited him and sat at the head of the table. "Mr. Scott," he began with his typical disdain of small talk, "we have determined that the sensors still are not operating at one hundred percent efficiency. Have you found this to be true of the transporters as well?"


Scott nodded despondently. "I'm afraid so, sir. There are spots where intense mineral concentrations coincide with gravity fluctuations and distort the readings just enough that it's too dangerous to transport there. If we boost sensor power enough to read the worst areas we throw off the recalibration. We'll just make sure those areas are carefully searched visually."


Giotto was nodding confirmation. "Fortunately there aren't many of them relative to the total area we have to search."


"Very well," Spock said, trying not to display the irritation that he felt. "Evidently we must simply tolerate the remaining distortion. Mr. Giotto, your report on the search."


"Now that the sensors and transporters are repaired, we've been able to make some real progress," Giotto said, "but it's still very slow--short of twenty percent. We've got sensors, shuttlecraft and flitters, a few landrovers, and at any given time fifty pairs of crewmen with field glasses. Everyone who isn't already working twenty-four hours a day on something else has spent some off-time down there. And even with all that we won't finish inside two weeks if we have to search it all."


McCoy frowned, not liking the sound of that. "What do you mean--'if we have to search it all'?"


"I recommend that we don't," Giotto replied evenly. He turned to Spock, knowing that his next words would not find calm reception with the doctor. "Sir, the captain had just one day's supply of water in his softsuit; if he didn't reach water within a day or two after that ran out, he didn't make it. At this point we should concentrate our efforts where he most likely would have found water: the rivers."


"There are oases," Spock pointed out.


"There are," Giotto conceded, "but very small and very uncommon. Odds are he wouldn't find one. And there are so few of them the ground searchers could check them all in a few days."


"But--you can get water by digging," McCoy protested, appalled that Spock seemed to be taking Giotto's suggestion seriously. "What if Jim has survived away from a river or an oasis? You'd be stranding him!"


"It's unlikely," Giotto said matter-of-factly. "The aquifers are very deep, not much use to a man on the surface." His tone held no optimism. "My recommendation stands."


Spock nodded. "Understood. If we alter our search pattern as you suggest, how long will it take to complete the search?"


"A week at the outside."


"A considerable improvement," Spock commented, "but I do not believe we will have a week unless the contact effort yields positive results."


"And what if we decide the Ishanne aren't ready for contact?" Scott asked. He disliked always playing the pessimist, but they must consider all possibilities, no matter how disturbing.


"In that case, Starfleet will assign us elsewhere."


"But they can't order us to leave Jim here!" McCoy fumed.


"Doctor," Spock said patiently, "Starfleet will assign a search vessel. They will not allow Captain Kirk to remain on this planet for fear of contaminating the native society."


"But how long will it take a ship to get here?"


"A week at least," Giotto said, "and that's if Starbase 15 has one available. Three or four weeks if they have to get a ship all the way from Marinius. "


"Four weeks!" McCoy exclaimed in dismay. "Spock, that's unacceptable. If Jim's sick or injured he could die before a search ship arrives. And even if he isn't hurt now, every day, every hour he's alone down there increases the risk. Even if he stays put he'll have to eat, and we've identified at least a dozen common plants so far that are poisonous to humans."


"I share your concern, Doctor," Spock assured him. "But if Starfleet orders us to depart we must obey, no matter that we wish otherwise."


"Mr. Spock, have you heard from Starfleet yet?" Scott asked before McCoy could accuse the Vulcan of not caring.


Spock had briefly considered informing his senior officers of his delay in reporting to Starfleet. But he was, to put it mildly, bending the rules, and when his action was discovered he must be the only culpable party. "Not yet," he said smoothly, for it was, of course, true. "But they will undoubtedly contact us soon."


It was not until McCoy was back in his quarters after the evening briefing that he realized he'd forgotten to talk with Spock about Chekov; he was so upset by the idea of leaving Jim alone on Ishan that all other concerns had flown from his mind. He called the bridge, but Spock wasn't there, nor was he in his quarters or his office in the science lab. McCoy snapped off the 'com with irritation. He was not about to chase the elusive Vulcan all over the ship. As far as he knew Spock still deigned to appear on the bridge in the morning to get the day started; he would catch up with him then.





"Bridge to Mr. Spock."


"This is Spock."


"Uhura here, sir. We've just received a message from Commodore Elsenbrach at Starbase 15, requesting an update. Uh--she reminds you that your report is late, sir," she added uncomfortably.


"Thank you, Lieutenant. I shall attend to it."


"Yes, sir. Bridge out."


Spock noted automatically that Lieutenant Uhura was thirty minutes early for first shift, and returned his attention to his computer screen. He had left the bridge and its routine duties in Uhura's capable hands for three days now and had spent most of his time on the planet surface; as acting captain his first duty was to the Ishanne contact. But concentrating on the contact effort meant that his "off-hours" were spent skimming various reports from Jameson and the other archaeological teams as well as his assistants' cogent summaries of the geological data. The extra work was his own choice, and perhaps not entirely necessary. But he was a scientist, and he did not want to separate himself completely from the ongoing research.


Always, however, no matter how hard he worked or how many reports he read, he could not escape the nagging worry for Kirk. He remembered how, at first, he had had surprisingly little trouble dismissing the percentages he himself had calculated. Yet on this, the ninth day of Kirk's disappearance, he found it more and more difficult to ignore the odds. All night he had weighed Giotto's recommendation, pitting possibility against probability. To deliberately cease searching so much of the area where Kirk might be fighting for survival . . .


He had not yet decided when he shut down his computer and started for the bridge.





When Spock stepped from the turbolift at precisely 0800 Uhura hardly had a chance to say "Good morning" before he was speaking to her, his increasing tension no longer allowing him time for the customary pleasantries. Instead of his usual formal greeting, he was saying, "Lieutenant, perhaps later in our shift you would like to beam down to join the contact team. Mr. Denison suggests that adding a few more crewmen of different disciplines might increase our chances of learning critical information. Your expertise in communications and your facility with language would make you a valuable additional member of the team."


Uhura's face grew warm with pleasure at his compliment. "Thank you, sir. I'd love to join them."


"I will relieve you this afternoon so that you may do so." He turned toward the science station, and was surprised to see Lieutenant Sorensen still in the chair. Uhura stiffened, dreading the next few minutes. Spock was obviously not in a relaxed mood. "Where is Mr. Chekov?" he asked.


"He just called in, sir. He's on his way." Spock looked faintly disapproving, but only nodded and said nothing. He had started again for the science station when she impulsively stood and said, "Sir, Ensign Chekov's been working very hard--" Spock turned and lifted a curious eyebrow, but at that moment Chekov came onto the bridge and Uhura withdrew to her board, pleading silently to Spock, Please don't say anything to him. He's never ever late.


But Spock simply looked Chekov over once and waited patiently for him and Lieutenant Sorensen to log in and out. If he noticed Chekov's haggard appearance he gave no sign, but neither did he reprimand him. Uhura sent him a silent thank you.


"Ensign," Spock was saying. "I believe we must tighten our sensor search to the rivers only. It is most unlikely that the captain could have found water at any other source. Search in a band fifty kilometers to either side of each river; that is probably as far as the captain could have traveled on the water supply he carried with him. Individual oases can be searched visually by the personnel on the surface."


"But," Chekov protested helplessly, "ve vill miss wast areas vithin transporter range. The sensor beam could go right by him."


"That is a possibility even with a systematic search," Spock pointed out. "This adjustment will focus our most effective search tool where the captain is most likely to be found. Inform Commander Giotto of our change in pattern and coordinate with his surface teams."


"Yes, ser," Chekov said glumly, unable to hide his hopeless expression. And indeed, as the days passed and there was no indication that Kirk had even beamed down safely, Spock himself was finding it more and more difficult to hang onto his single thread of hope.


He went to the command chair on the lower level but did not sit down, and thumbed the log tie-in. "Captain's Log, Stardate 7033.1. First Officer Spock still in temporary command. We are continuing our contact with the Ishanne. Though our overall evaluation of these people is quite positive, we still have no conclusive evidence that they have considered the possibility of life on other worlds. It will be most unfortunate if we are forced to abandon our newly formed relationship with them. Aside from the mineral wealth of their planet, which the geological survey continues to confirm, the cultural wealth of their society is impressive, and their egalitarian, cooperative social structure contains many lessons for even our so-called 'advanced' societies. We must also consider that the longer we remain among them the more difficult it will be to withdraw smoothly."


McCoy came onto the bridge just then and, with a glance at Chekov and a reassuring smile at Uhura, waited for Spock to finish. She smiled back, relieved.


"Our search for Captain Kirk has yielded nothing." Spock's tone had taken on an edge. "Since fully ninety-seven percent of the area of the planet surface we must search is completely waterless--" He looked for a moment at the viewscreen, at the world that was a painter's palette from orbit, but a nightmare upon closer view. "--logically we must by this time presume that the captain is dead." He said it flatly, abruptly, and when he spoke again his voice was unmistakably weary. "Nevertheless, we will, of course, continue our search for the duration of our stay here. We are tightening our search area to the rivers in the hope that we might find some evidence there of the captain's survival."


Spock switched off the log record, the deliberate motion of his hand carrying a kind of finality. He turned to ask what McCoy wanted, but found that the doctor had left the bridge; possibly he had been called to Sickbay. If the matter was important McCoy would seek him out again. Giving it no further thought, Spock studied the subdued crewmen around him. Their silence was a telling response to his words. Perhaps he should not have made this particular log entry on the bridge; he could have recorded it in his quarters with no one here the wiser. But it was just as well that they had heard it. Word of the first officer's bleak conclusion would spread throughout the ship, and they would begin to accept.





Though she was surprised by the apparent hopelessness of Spock's log entry, and though she felt for Chekov, who stared at his sensor screen clearly thinking why do we bother, Uhura would have been all right if she had not turned and seen the stunned, stricken look on McCoy's face. It was the look of a man who has just been told that his best friend has died unexpectedly, and his stumbling exit from the bridge was such an overwhelming manifestation of his grief that she had to struggle to maintain her composure. Later that morning during a ten-minute break from the command chair--she thought perhaps she understood why Spock had not sat down for that log entry--she retreated to her quarters. Once there it caught up with her, the weight of the sadness that had settled over the bridge while Spock had recorded his entry and that lingered for a long while after he had gone. Alone, she sank into a chair and wept. She had not known she was so close to believing Kirk dead, but her reaction to Spock's log entry--which, after all, said nothing that had not already occurred to everyone on the ship--told her that her own hope was fading, too.


Cursing her too-compassionate nature, she pulled herself together and headed back to the bridge, steeling herself to once again sit in the captain's chair. At the other end of the corridor coming toward her she saw Christine Chapel. Please don't ask me what happened or why my eyes are red, she thought. I'll lose it again.


But Chapel was not a mind reader. "Nyota, what happened up there? Dr. McCoy wasn't gone ten minutes and then he came back snarling and snapping-- We're ready to put him in a cage!"


Uhura sighed. "It--hasn't been a good morning," she admitted with Vulcan understatement. "Mr. Spock as good as--well, he did say the captain is probably--dead, and poor Dr. McCoy was right there. He took it hard--he looked shocked, almost as if it was the first time he'd heard."


The irritation in Chapel's blue eyes was replaced by a look as compassionate as Uhura's own. "I've been worried about him lately. He's been so cheerful for the most part, as if he was fooling himself. Something Spock said to him that first day, I thought. But now this." She frowned. "I wonder what Spock really thinks."


Uhura shook her head. "We'll never know." She checked her chronometer. "I've got to get back, Christine. I hope Dr. McCoy will be all right."


"Me too. I'll keep an eye on him. Thanks for telling me."





Her shift was over, but Chapel still sat at her desk. She told herself that she wanted to make some notes on her algae experiment, but when she heard McCoy open the liquor cabinet in his office for the second time in half an hour she knew she was kidding herself. McCoy was her real concern right now. During the day he had become more and more withdrawn, alternately savage and silent. Everyone on the Sickbay staff was used to McCoy's moods, but this was extreme behavior even for him. He had gone up to the bridge twice more--looking for Spock, he said--and returned in a cold fury and with no explanation. And ever since his shift had ended he'd been closed up in his office. She hadn't really been concerned until she'd heard the cabinet door slide open. She'd never known him to drink alone.


When the cabinet opened again she knew she should do something; she was trying to work up her head nurse's nerve when she heard quiet footsteps in the diagnostic area. Peering around the corner, she saw Spock approaching the inner offices.


"Is Dr. McCoy in?" he asked her. A thoroughly unexciting question, but her pulse raced all the same. Would she ever grow out of the ridiculous wistfulness she felt when she heard his cool voice and sensed again the walls he had built?


Her eyes shifted uneasily toward the closed door. He's drinking himself into a stupor and he's in a hellishly mean mood and you probably shouldn't go in, she thought, but she could hardly say that to one superior officer about another. "He's in his office, Mr. Spock," she replied neutrally.


"Thank you, Miss Chapel."


Did he know that when he walked by she drank him in, his lanky form so close to her in the narrow doorway that they almost touched? And then he was past, his even steps crossing to McCoy's office, and she returned from the hopeless, helpless romantic flight he always set off in her. She was back at her desk at the end of a long day that was about to get even longer. She watched McCoy's office door slide open in response to the pressed buzzer, watched Spock step inside, and waited.





McCoy looked up; his eyes, angry and bloodshot, widened. "Well." His expression was peculiar, his tone insolent. "So Jim's dead, is he?"


Spock frowned slightly. McCoy's attitude was not at all what he had expected. "The odds seem to suggest that he is," he replied carefully.


McCoy's expression turned nasty. "Damn you, even now you have to quote odds. What are the odds you'll ever grow a heart?" His eyes were blue ice. It was very quiet in the small office.


McCoy had been drinking, Spock realized. That explained why Nurse Chapel had looked so uncomfortable when she directed him to the doctor's office. There would be no reasoning with him, then. Nevertheless, Spock felt he should try to explain. "We must not ignore the results of Mr. Scott's tests or our own search results. The odds of the captain's survival have steadily decreased since his disappearance, and are now sufficiently low that we should begin to prepare ourselves for the worst." The thought occurred to him that perhaps McCoy had not heard his entire log entry; he had left in rather a hurry, Spock remembered, understanding now what had driven him from the bridge. "Doctor, we are, of course, continuing to search."


McCoy laughed softly, an ugly sound. His eyes glittered. "Based on a teeny tiny probability? That's not very logical, Mr. Spock. And we all know what a logical man you are, how you cling to logic, use it to shield yourself from life--from feeling--"


Spock maintained his even temper, but with effort. He knew that McCoy was simply taking out on him his anger at his own helplessness, but he was pushing hard, and Spock's own nerves and self-control were frayed. This conversation must end. Without a word he turned to go.


McCoy's voice stopped him in the open doorway. "Very gracious of you to come back aboard, Spock, to share your grief--"


Spock had had enough. "My grief is none of your concern," he snapped. Immediately ashamed of his outburst he stifled his anger, but his dark eyes were flint. He said harshly, "You are chief medical officer on board this vessel. I suggest you conduct yourself accordingly. If we do find the captain your skills may be needed."


The meanness in McCoy's expression crumpled; he sagged in his chair and no longer seemed aware of Spock's presence. "All McCoy's horses and all McCoy's men couldn't put Jim back together again."


Spock's anger melted when he saw the tears in McCoy's eyes.  He hoped for the doctor's sake that he would not remember this episode in the morning. He left silently, and saw Christine Chapel standing next to her desk. Her mortified expression told him that she had heard at least some of the unpleasant exchange. He could think of nothing appropriate to say to her, so he simply nodded and left her to do what she thought best.


Chapel disappeared into the lab and came back with a hypo full of ethanol suppressant. She used it on McCoy before he could object, then waited until it was clear he had control of himself again. When she spoke her voice was cold. "I hope you're proud of yourself." He looked up sharply, full-bodied, sober anger in his eyes, but she didn't care. "I don't know why you think you're the only one who's hurting. Who are you to wallow in your grief? You're the only one he can turn to now and you've just cut him off." She was so disgusted her voice was shaking. "First-class professionalism." She flung the hypo onto his desk and left before he could say anything in reply.





Uhura sat with Atik on the sparse, gray-green desert grass of the common, watching the preparations for the concert. She had beamed down in the midafternoon after Spock had relieved her on the bridge. Rolf Jahns, whom she knew well because of the natural overlap between communications and linguistics, immediately took her in hand and squired her around the village. She met Atik and Chacol and crabby old Relaphta, and Tenna and the delightful children, and many more warm and wonderful people. She knew not to mention space and starships, but she had the immediate and continually strengthening impression that even if these people had never before considered the existence of other stars and planets and life forms, they would not be at all bothered by such a notion.


Jahns had told her something of what he had learned about the Ishanne language. Its structure was simple, the Ishanne having deliberately--as they seemed to do everything--simplified it so that the rules of grammar and spelling were far less elaborate than in any language in the linguistics banks. Once you learned the alphabet you could spell anything in Ishanne, since all words were spelled phonetically. Verbs were not conjugated; adjectives were not complicated with masculine and feminine forms. The vocabulary, however, was extensive, so that the language was like a game which is easy to play but difficult to master: easy to learn enough Ishanne to speak it correctly on a basic level, but a challenge to express oneself with something approaching eloquence.


But Jahns and linguistics could not hold her attention completely. Atik, who over the past few days had been more and more drawn to the humans despite her earlier reticence, soon discovered that Uhura shared her interest in music and dance and invited her to sit with her at the story-dance celebration that evening, planned especially for Cambron's guests. The Ishanne did not have written literature; they told their stories orally or in dance. Most of their works were very old; they tended to be historical and educated as they entertained. The rare new additions to the artistic heritage of the Ishanne were usually story-dances; any important event in the life of a village was likely to find its way into the repertoire. Atik, her eyes twinkling, told Uhura that Ponila was already working on a story-dance about the visit of the humans, but was unsure how to choreograph the ungainly movements of the coolsuits. While they were waiting for the concert to begin, Atik gave a demonstration of what the coolsuit choreography might look like, and her exaggerated movements were so oafish and clumsy that Uhura and those around her laughed and giggled until they nearly fell over.


Everyone in the village had gathered on the common. There were a number of guests; other Enterprise personnel had been added to the contact team besides Uhura. Looking around she saw more members of the sociology and psychology staffs, and a few people from various engineering departments; the archaeological teams had also arrived for the festivities. The humans were interspersed throughout the crowd of Ishanne, a tribute to the camaraderie the two peoples shared.


But there were two others conspicuous by their absence. Searching the crowd, Uhura noticed that neither Spock nor McCoy was present. She had seen Spock earlier, but was surprised that he had not stayed long. He never missed a concert on board ship if he could help it, and sometimes even performed informally. But he had not been himself lately--indeed, who had? He tended to be unnecessarily abrupt, his conversations all business. And Spock putting off sending in reports? Unthinkable. She wondered if Dr. McCoy was aware of how hard Spock was taking the captain's disappearance. The doctor's distress was painfully obvious, but Spock usually covered well. It was only the minor deviations in his customary behavior that gave any clue to what he was feeling; she doubted Spock himself was even aware of them. Would McCoy notice? It was natural that the two of them should be closer now, draw together as people do in a crisis. But Chris Chapel had just told her in confidence that Spock and McCoy had had one hell of a fight, and Uhura too was worried by this development. For if Spock could not share even a little of what he was going through with Kirk's other closest friend, he would have no one. And he would find little comfort in his own lonely thoughts.


The musicians began setting up, and Uhura tried to discard her morose mood. The instruments were made of wood, animal hide, bone, metal, and even ceramic. Someone blew a single note and the crowd hushed at the signal. The music was slow, fluid, rhythmic, primal; it echoed in the empty avenues and down the river bed, surrounding and moving among the enthralled listeners. Uhura closed her eyes and let it flow over her, some of the bass notes so soft and low she felt rather than heard them. Atik had told her that the piece was a dirge for the death of Raka, who had lived in the village of Hagedon and had died during the long migration of his people to find a new home when the waters receded. It was a desperately sad work, and Uhura found herself close to tears as the last chord shivered and faded in the air.


The grieving strains made her think again of Kirk. She almost believed she could look over the crowd and find him sitting as always with Spock and McCoy. Kirk's first love was always his ship, of course--the challenge of exploration, of the unknown that it represented. But now and then even he needed to relax, and he was often drawn to the peace and quiet of pastoral civilizations such as this, where the pressures of command could for a while be left behind. She remembered his appreciation of this world's beauty from orbit, how he had eagerly anticipated beaming down to see what was here. It was a shame that he would never know. He would have liked these people.


The music had stopped. Uhura opened her eyes, blinking back her tears. This was not the place for grief. She watched the story-dancers move into the open space in front of the musicians, where the ground had been carefully scraped level to provide them safe footing. She could sense Atik's anticipation. Atik was a dancer herself and knew the upcoming story well, but she had performed at a previous presentation and it was another's turn tonight. She had explained that everyone performed at one time or another, either as dancer, musician, or storyteller. When Uhura had tried to convey the wondrous delight in reading a good book, Atik was appalled--the pastime was so solitary.


The story-dance was similar to ballet, but contained much more pure pantomime that was very easy to follow. Uhura was soon in awe of the dancers' flexibility and grace. She had had some dance training herself and began to realize that they performed movements that would be impossible for the human body to duplicate. She must remember to ask Pakka-sa if the skeletal structure of the Ishanne was inherently more limber.


Then she forgot about analysis and simply lost herself in the story. This was the companion piece to the dirge, both created by Raka's daughter Geyra some four hundred years before and played on instruments unchanged from her time. The dance was an exhilarating, joyous celebration of life and renewal. The villagers had found a new home, and begun to build again. But the main themes of the lament were interwoven throughout, a reminder that Raka had not lived to see the rebirth of his home, and this time Uhura could not hold back her tears.

 

********************

 

Chapter Ten

 

They were coming for him.


Kirk tried desperately to throw off paralyzing disappointment and gear himself to the demands of combat. At this distance his phaser was useless. If he had been more cautious, if he had been able to surprise them he might have had a chance to approach quietly and take them on one at a time. Even one-armed he could have stunned each of them with a large rock. At a range of a centimeter or two even the weak phaser beam would do considerable damage to a Klingon skull. But he had not been cautious and he had no advantage of surprise. His time had run out and they were coming. He looked around frantically for anything he could use as a weapon.


Positioning himself behind a boulder at the top of the hill, he threw rocks and threw them hard, thanking the fates that his right arm was uninjured. He could do little damage to their bodies; Klingon uniforms were so heavy and stiff they were almost like armor. He aimed for their heads, and they scrambled for cover from their mad foe. Their reactions were slow at first; it probably wasn't every day that a Klingon soldier had rocks thrown at him. But Kirk knew that his advantage would be short-lived. The soldiers returned fire, scarring a great deal of the terrain around him, and the blinding brightness of the green disruptor beam told Kirk that their weapons were set to kill. Then a very lucky throw knocked the disruptor out of one Klingon's hand several meters into the open. He tried for it, but Kirk caught him in the neck with a large rock and he withdrew.


Just then the other Klingon seemed to realize the absurd nature of the confrontation and blasted Kirk's sheltering boulder into smithereens. Kirk was thrown backward by the force of the disruption, all the wind knocked from him, his body peppered by shards of rock. Dazed, fighting for breath, he tried to get to his feet but they were upon him, their disruptors leveled. He sank back to the ground, all energy gone.


The two soldiers spoke to each other briefly, and though Kirk could not understand all of their conversation he did gather that they were surprised to find a human here. Then they did not know about the Enterprise. That knowledge was some comfort to him even as he realized that he himself was in serious trouble. For if the Klingons did not know the Enterprise was in orbit here, then the Enterprise did not know about the Klingons. He could forget about the cavalry. He wondered who the soldiers had thought they were fighting. They searched him and removed the phaser, square cloth, and pole. They gagged him and bound his hands tightly, and when they realized he was too disoriented to walk they bound his ankles, tying them to his hands for good measure. With characteristic contempt for non-Klingon species, they dragged him roughly to their vehicle and placed him in full sun, and since his hood had fallen back again in the fray on the hill he knew he was in for another blistering sunburn.


He fought to clear his thoughts, but all he felt at the moment was despairing fury at himself. This vehicle obviously was not a Starfleet shuttlecraft--it wasn't even the right color--and if he had approached the summit of the rise slowly instead of charging up shouting at the top of his lungs, he would not have blundered full speed into an extremely dangerous and totally avoidable situation. Objectively he knew it was unreasonable to expect any other reaction after so many days alone, but he could not help upbraiding himself for his recklessness. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire--


But chewing himself out was a waste of time. He was in this predicament and he had to find a way out. He managed to work his way to his knees, and tried to look around without losing his precarious balance. The pearl-gray vehicle, larger than a shuttlecraft but of the same boxy shape, consisted of a control-laden cab in front of a large rectangular tank. A thick black tube stretched from the tank's roof to the river, and he heard the soft hum of machinery and creaking from the metal tank as it filled with thousands of liters of water. What were Klingons doing on Cinnus with a water lorry? They must be servicing a large installation, and on this planet it could only be a mining operation. So Starfleet's fears of a Klingon presence on Cinnus--the fears he had so casually dismissed--were justified.


He must warn the Enterprise. The lorry should have some sort of communications equipment. If he could loosen his bonds enough to free his hands--


But just then his captors came to sit directly in front of him in the shade cast by some boulders. They spoke loudly and laughed, looking toward their prisoner, and Kirk guessed that what they said was unflattering to him or to humanity in general. He closed his eyes and turned his head away. After a minute or so they tired of baiting him and subsided into quiet discussion. Since he was no longer consciously trying to ignore them he found himself drawn to the sound of their conversation. It seemed a lifetime since he had heard voices. He opened his eyes and watched them and listened to their rough, barking language, and was strangely soothed by their presence.


When the lorry tank was full the soldiers dismantled the suction tube and closed the hatch on the roof, then stuffed the equipment and Kirk into a storage compartment in the back. There was barely enough room for him, even twisted and tied into a pretzel, and he was wedged against the doors. In the cave-blackness he felt the lorry begin to move, traveling slowly over the rutted and rock-strewn terrain. Even though the lorry was light in color the temperature rose quickly in the compartment and he was soon drenched with sweat. He was also running low on air; the compartment was sealed against dust and sand--probably not completely airtight but close enough to make him labor for each breath.


He was nearly unconscious when through the fog he felt the lorry make a wide, slow turn and come to a halt. He heard footsteps and voices outside. After a few minutes the doors opened and he was blinded by the sudden glare. Rough hands grasped him by his shoulders and legs and pulled him out, dumping him to the ground. What little wind he had left was knocked from him again and he lay there gasping until a shadow fell over him. He looked up at black boots and trousers and a metallic tunic almost like chain mail. The ceremonial dagger that was used far more often than its name implied. Broad shoulders, thick neck, angular features, and the faint bulge of vestigial vertebrae down the center of the forehead. The black eyes were cold and clear, the posture arrogant. This one's the boss, Kirk thought, and struggled to his knees. He would not face this Klingon wheezing on the ground like a fish out of water. He set a defiant look on his face and waited.


The commander asked a question, and though Kirk was not fluent in Klingonese he understood a little. "Who are you?" An aide standing next to the commander spoke with an odd, soft voice and Kirk caught the word for Starfleet. The commander looked closer at the softsuit. He drew his disruptor and Kirk stiffened, his eyes riveted on the weapon. Was he to be killed outright, the Starfleet uniform his death sentence? But the commander reached down and with the nose of the weapon nudged the material at Kirk's neck, exposing the command line insignia. Kirk was thankful that the gold pin which designated rank was long gone, ripped off in one of his innumerable falls. If they knew he was a ship captain they would take him too seriously, but posing as a lower-ranking officer he might have a chance.


The commander spoke again, this time in Standard. "Who are you?" Kirk continued to glare at him in silence. The Klingon kicked him in the stomach, hard, and repeated it without raising his voice. "Who are you?"


Doubled over and fighting for breath, Kirk shook his head. A kick in the jaw snapped his head backward and he reeled. Steadying himself, he looked up, directly into the muzzle of the commander's disruptor. It was, not surprisingly, set to kill.


"Who are you?" The weapon touched his forehead.


Kirk maintained his defiant pose a few seconds longer, then slumped. The shift in his position put a few centimeters between his head and the disruptor, but the Klingon moved his arm forward and once again the metal nozzle pressed into Kirk's skin. When he spoke, his voice was tired, defeated.


"Lieutenant James Carlson," he said, and made up a serial number.


"And why are you here?" The commander's voice was cool, smooth, professional.


"I'm with the U.S.S. Shelby--third helmsman. We're making a routine survey of this planet--mapping, analysis, that sort of thing." His speech was punctuated with coughs and hoarse gasps that he did not have to fake. "All the minerals here make readings from orbit nearly impossible, so we were flying over some of the heaviest deposits to get closer readings, and we crashed." He shrugged sullenly, his bonds making the movement difficult. "The other guy died and I made it." He was trying to be talkative enough that they would think him a weak and harmless fool, but not so much that they might think his story a lie. He hoped that his dismissive attitude toward the fictional crewman's death would either raise him in the Klingons' estimation or--if they remembered that humans characteristically placed a higher value on life than they themselves did–make them think him such a poor excuse for a Starfleet officer that he could not possibly know anything of significance.


"What sort of ship is the Shelby?" the commander asked.


Kirk looked at him with half-hearted defiance, then let his eyes travel to the disruptor in the Klingon's hand. "Just a science vessel," he admitted reluctantly. "Fifty or so on board." This was perfectly true, and the commander probably had that information in his files. What he would not know was that Shelby was currently on assignment at the other end of Federation space.


"Will they look for you?"


"I don't know. I've been missing for quite a while. They've probably given up by now." Voicing his own very real fear, Kirk could not have controlled the waver in his voice if he'd tried. "We were due at Starbase 19 a week ago."


"I see." The commander smiled coldly and withdrew the disruptor. "Thank you. You have been most helpful--Lieutenant." The sarcastic edge to his tone as he said the word made Kirk shiver. He assumed a guilty expression and dropped his eyes to the ground, as a man might who was ashamed at having cooperated with the enemy to save his own skin.


The commander conferred with his aide, whose soft, sibilant speech reminded Kirk of a snake. They glanced at their captive a time or two, evidently deciding what to do with him. After a brief discussion the commander walked away, leaving the aide in charge. He gave orders in turn to the two soldiers who had delivered Kirk. While one kept his disruptor trained on Kirk the other cut the cords binding his ankles and tying them to his hands, but left his hands tied behind his back. He then drew his weapon and backed away from Kirk, flanking his other side. Kirk struggled to his feet slowly, clumsily. They needn't have worried that he would try anything. The cords had been very tight; his feet were almost numb and his balance was uncertain. His stomach was in knots, his jaw ached, and he felt as if he had whiplash. He was exhausted from his long, frantic run and terribly stiff from being crammed into the lorry. He would do well to be able to stomp on their toes.


The guards prodded him in the spine and he shuffled forward, wincing as the feeling rushed back into his feet. They directed him toward a wide opening in the face of a rusty-red cliff whose shadow was beginning to fall across the flat desert floor. The cliff was streaked with the same quartzlike mineral he had seen several times on his journey. Though it had seemed familiar he had not been able to identify it, since he usually saw it only after it had been extracted and processed. But knowing the Klingons would not mount an elaborate operation in hostile territory without very good reason gave him all the explanation he needed. They were mining dilithium. Klingon sensors were not typically as sensitive as those of the Federation, but they were evidently good enough to reveal the riches of Cinnus II.


The relatively dim light and cooler temperature inside the mine opening was a tremendous relief. One of the guards pressed a button on a waist-high control console, and the opening was instantly rimmed with the glow of force field indicators; judging from the degree of shimmer the field was a strong one. The guards prodded Kirk again and pointed toward an elevator housing at the back of the rock chamber. On the way they passed two ladder shafts on the left and, to the right, another large chamber which housed two water lorries. One was the vehicle he had discovered; he remembered that it had driven off during his conversation with the Klingon commander. One for backup, then. He wondered how often one or both of the vehicles went out. Perhaps he could manage to steal one--


The lift was slow to respond to the summons, and from the guards' resigned expressions Kirk gathered that its creeping ascent was the norm. He turned casually, taking in his surroundings. Inside, away from the weathering sun, the orange-red rock walls were a deeper, richer hue than the cliff face. The floor was fairly smooth, ground down after the chamber had been blasted into the rock. The entry was not very large, housing only the two water lorries, the control console, and a few assorted machines; most of the mine must be below ground. Periodically he heard the muffled rumblings of explosions deep in the earth beneath him. Between the lorry chamber and the elevator a small tunnel stretched back into the cliff--perhaps an alternate entrance, though it was too narrow to accommodate the lorries. He could now see another ladder near the tunnel; all three ladders looked to be three-sided below floor level and single above, where they continued upward into ventilation shafts or possibly lookout posts.


The lift finally came, and as the doors closed behind him Kirk wondered how long it would be before he saw daylight again. After descending only to the third of the fifteen levels designated on the controls the lift jerked to a stop and opened onto a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor lined with small cells, each secured with a force field of the same strength as the one above. One of Kirk's guards gave his weapon to the other and pushed Kirk down the corridor to a cell some thirty meters from the elevator. The armed guard stayed where he was, covering Kirk with both disruptors. In the cells were members of a dozen races, most of which Kirk had never seen. Undoubtedly they were all from Klingon worlds, probably here as slave labor. It was Klingon practice to subjugate whole populations to support their slave economy; for that reason alone, those in the Federation who favored working toward an alliance with the imperial government at Klinzhai faced resolute opposition.


Kirk's guard turned him slightly so he could release his hands. As he turned, the dim corridor lighting fell fully on his face.


"Captain Kirk!"


Kirk froze. He looked up and saw a Rigellian--a Rigellian?!--prisoner at his cell door, shock and dismay plain on his face.


What the hell was a Rigellian--a Federation citizen--doing here? Kirk clamped down on his sudden fury. Not now, he told himself, not now. Nearly choking on the desire to shove the guard into the nearest force field, he said to the Rigellian with as much nonchalance as he could muster, "Sorry, wrong man. My name's Carlson."


The guard's hands on Kirk's wrists had ceased their movement and out of the corner of his eye Kirk saw him exchange a glance with his partner down the hall. The guard finished with Kirk's hands, cut the force field across the cell opening and shoved him through, and reactivated the field before he could recover his balance. The guard eyed him carefully for a moment, then rejoined the other at the lift doors. Kirk knew they would now check whatever records they had brought with them for a holograph of a Starfleet captain named Kirk. He would know soon enough whether his ruse had failed.


When the guards had left the Rigellian spoke again. "Forgive me if I mistook you. You see, you much resemble a ship captain I once met--and I was so pleased to see a familiar sort of face."


Moved by the understated longing in the man's tone, Kirk had to make himself turn his back. "No problem," he muttered. He waited until the Rigellian had withdrawn from the doorway before he stepped closer to the cell opening. He did not want to allow the man a chance to study his face closely and decide that he was indeed the Captain Kirk whom he had encountered before. Kirk had had only a brief look at him but he knew very few Rigellians and could not place this one; they must have met at some large affair a long time ago.


He looked up and down the corridor as far as he could see beyond the edge of the door, pressing so close to the field that his face reddened with its energies. Anyone who ran into these force fields would get a mean shock. He saw nothing in the corridor. No guards? Then he answered his own question. Even if someone did get out of the cellblock and past the entry force field, where would he go? The planet was uninhabited. But since there were no guards there might be surveillance in the blocks. Until he knew he would have to watch what he said--another reason for delaying conversation with the Rigellian.


Though the cell was much cooler than the temperature outside, the air was very close and made it seem warmer than it was. He could not remember what it was like not to sweat. He peeled off the top half of the softsuit for comfort and found that he was bleeding in a dozen places from the flying bits of rock, but none of the cuts seemed serious. There was no furniture in the cell, only a small sink and a hole in the floor which he presumed was the toilet. He sat down on the floor, taking the opportunity for a little rest; again he ached all over. As he sat his perspective changed and the dim light from the corridor glinted off something in the corner of the cell. With a start he realized that he was not alone, that another being sat in the corner, watching him--a male humanoid with copper-colored leathery skin and brilliant green eyes. Kirk had never seen anyone quite like him and assumed he must be from one of the Klingon worlds. He could not read the expression on the man's face--was it fear or hostility? He spoke to the alien but received only silence and the intent stare in return.


Giving up for now, Kirk splashed water on his face to help him stay awake in the stuffy cell. He realized that his only hope of learning anything about the mine and its administrators lay with the Rigellian, the only prisoner in the block who spoke Standard. Soon he would have to question him, but once he gave the Rigellian another good look he would be certain of his new neighbor's identity. And anything Kirk said to keep him from blurting out his certainty might arouse the suspicions of anyone monitoring the cellblock.


He was still mulling over this particular dilemma when he was distracted by a noise from the corridor. He got up stiffly and stood at the doorway, leaning as close to the force field as he dared, craning his neck to see farther down the corridor. The elevator doors opened and two Klingons stepped out. They too were cautious: one stayed by the open elevator with both weapons while the other came unarmed into the block and stopped in front of Kirk's cell. It was the commander's aide.


As he cut the force field the aide's eyes glittered like black diamonds. "You will come with me--Captain Kirk." He spoke in heavily-accented Standard. When he smiled the points of his teeth showed, making him look even more viperous.


Kirk shrugged back into the softsuit. His glance fell on his motionless cellmate, whose green eyes had not left him. When he stepped into the corridor, the alien suddenly said, "Tastaf." So, he was willing to communicate after all. But now it was too late. The guard turned Kirk and bound his hands behind his back with an especially nasty kind of wire restraint; Klingons never bothered with humane treatment for prisoners. Kirk found himself again facing the Rigellian, whose long, sensitive features were a study in horror and shame.


The elevator descended to the thirteenth level and opened onto a wide corridor whose smooth red sides indicated that it had been drilled, not blasted. At this level the occasional explosion was nearer, and Kirk heard the constant hum of machinery--drills, no doubt, and processors. As they walked they passed a shaft housing a three-sided ladder that must be one of those he had seen in the entry chamber on the surface. Tunnels branched off in various directions, presumably to the mine workings. He tried to begin a mental map of the layout of the mine but found it difficult to concentrate on direction and relative position; he knew they were taking him to their commander, probably for interrogation, and he sweated with fear at the thought. The only other time he had been in the hands of the Klingons, on Organia, he had not known enough to be truly afraid. It was during their mission to Organia that he and Spock had learned about the new mind-sifter from Commander Kor. Spock had survived it because of his powerful mental shields, but he had assured Kirk that no human could. It was the favorite toy now of Klingon interrogators. More than one Federation agent had been picked up on the fringes of the Empire wandering aimlessly, disoriented and lost, their minds and personalities gone along with their knowledge. If his captors planned to subject him to a mind-sifter he should steal a disruptor now and turn it on himself. Far better to die quickly than to betray the Federation and survive as only a shell of a man.


Abruptly they turned into a short corridor and stopped at a black door with gold lettering. Another elevator and ladder shaft were only a few meters away at the end of the corridor. At the aide's knock a curt voice answered from within and the door slid open. The aide escorted Kirk into a small room containing no furniture but a desk and a chair. The only other opening to the room was a door to Kirk's left; it was closed. In the chair facing Kirk sat the commander. He stood and raised his hand, palm outward, in a salute tinged with mockery.


"Welcome--Captain James T. Kirk." He smiled an arrogant, victor's smile. "I am Commander Kyris. My second, Kahna." The aide did not bother with even a mocking salute. He looked coldly at Kirk for a moment before he withdrew.


"Just a minute," Kirk protested. "I'm Lieutenant Carlson of--"


Kyris burst into laughter. Most Klingons looked strained when they laughed, as if their faces weren't made for it, but Kyris looked natural, at ease. "My dear captain, if you were ever a lieutenant it was a very long time ago. Can you not recognize one who commands when you meet him?" He smiled. "I can."


Kirk said nothing, waiting. Kyris appraised him with deep-set black eyes shadowed by black bifurcated eyebrows. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes creased the dark bronze skin. This Klingon had survived in a harsh society long enough to show his experience in his face. "Your performance outside was very clever, Captain, but ineffectual," the commander said. He reached down lazily and turned the screen of his desk computer terminal toward Kirk. On the screen was a holograph of Kirk with notations underneath; Kirk recognized the attire he had worn on Organia.


"A good likeness, do you not agree?" Kyris sat down, the loss of height taking nothing away from his powerful bearing. He swiveled the monitor toward himself once again and smiled proudly at it. "Do not blame the kuve," he told Kirk. "I did not need his identification of you. I was already checking my files; he simply made the task easier." He leaned casually back in his chair. "Commander Kor should have used the mind-sifter on you when he had the chance, but then you would not now be my prisoner." Kirk felt the blood drain from his face and hoped that Kyris would not notice.


The commander was studying the information on the screen. "Because of Kor's hesitation--the soft fool--we know little about you except your reputation. To have been so deeply involved in the unpleasant Organia affair you must be a trusted Starfleet officer." Again he smiled, an irritating, chilling habit.


He pressed a button and Kahna stepped into the room. The commander spoke to him, and Kirk heard his own name and something about treatment. Kahna looked at Kirk and scowled in distaste but left without argument.


Kirk had stood all the while in silence, watching his enemy. Kyris feigned indifference, but Kirk could sense his excitement. A starship captain must be quite a prize. Though alone with his prisoner, Kyris was charming and confident--and why not? Kirk was hardly able to fight back. The wire that bound his hands was known as livewire; its use was officially banned within Federation borders. It would not react to the pressures of normal movement, but it would begin to tighten at the strain of a determined attempt to escape. The idea of one's hands being slowly severed was enough to restrain even the most intractable prisoner. Kirk kept his arms very still.


He wondered what was in the room to his left. The armory, perhaps? A control room? If so the communications center might be there too. If only his hands were bound in front of him! Despite the wire he could move on Kyris and perhaps get into the room. But with his hands behind his back he dared not try it. Besides, the room could be just a storage closet. He could not act without more information.


Kyris' attention had turned back to Kirk. "You're very quiet, Captain."


Kirk smiled faintly. "I'm sorry if I seem rude, Commander." He enjoyed Kyris' raised eyebrows at his coolness; the commander would never know the effort it took. "Anyway, you're doing fine without me. You speak my language well."


"Thank you, Captain," said Kyris, obviously not taken in by the flattery. Kirk had not expected that he would be. "Our dream-learning tapes are very efficient. I daresay you have some knowledge of my language as well."


Kirk took the opportunity to thrust. "It is unavoidable. So many of your people come into our hands."


Kyris' eyes widened a fraction but otherwise his expression did not change. He regarded Kirk for several seconds. "I begin to understand Kor's hesitation," he said finally, and his tone left no doubt that it was a compliment.


The door buzzed. Kyris pressed a control and a slim Klingon in a loose black tunic strode into the room. He ignored Kirk, marched up to Kyris and spoke to him in an insubordinate tone. Kyris snapped him down and the other, thoroughly disgusted, shut his mouth.


"My medical officer," Kyris explained to Kirk. "He will treat your wounds, though he is not pleased with my order. Even in these modern times an untended wound can be dangerous. I would not want you to die of blood poisoning before we have learned what we can from you."


"I appreciate your concern," Kirk said with insolent politeness, but changed his mind when the MO's ungentle ministrations began to hurt worse than the cuts.


Kyris sat forward and placed his leather-clad forearms on his desk. "I will tell you my plans for you, Captain Kirk. I believe that, were our situations reversed, you would do the same for me." Kirk nodded once, gritting his teeth as the MO dug in to remove a splinter of rock from his shoulder. "We are going to question you, of course, but unfortunately we have no mind-sifter here with us--not foreseeing a use for one."


Kirk fought to keep his expression neutral, but Kyris needed no external sign to guess his thoughts. "I see you are relieved, Captain. You should be. And of course you are thinking that you can resist any other method we might employ. Your confidence is admirable, Captain, but misplaced. The mind-sifter is relatively new; we managed for quite a long time without it."


The MO finished his job and jerked the softsuit back into place; Kirk's entire torso was smarting from his treatment. Kyris said something to the MO about questions or questioning and the MO cast an appraising eye over his former patient. When he left he looked more pleased than when he had come in, and Kirk had a good idea who his interrogator would be.


"Many specialists really prefer the old methods, in fact," Kyris was saying. "They resisted the introduction of the mind-sifter. My medical officer is of this old school." He added almost paternally, "He really is very good. But in case your confidence is not misplaced, Captain, let me add that when our supply ship next arrives, whatever is left of you will be taken to Klinzhai to the emperor. There are more mind-sifters there than you would care to count. So," he finished lightly, "you will tell us what we wish to know, here or there."


His manner was casual, but Kirk could sense the steel underneath. Mustering every shred of his faltering self-confidence and arrogance, he said coolly, "You'll never get me to Klinzhai." He managed a smile of his own that was calculated to disarm and infuriate his enemy.


The smile faded from Kyris' face, but he covered further reaction by calling in Kahna and the guard and giving them a slew of orders. While the guard checked Kirk's bound wrists, Kyris said, "You will accompany Kahna. I need not tell you what those wires will do to your hands if you resist." For the first time his tone carried a threat. He again leaned back in his chair, and the smile returned. "We will see what we can learn with our less elegant methods."

 

********************

 

Chapter Eleven

 

McCoy sat alone in his dimly lit office, the brandy bottle untouched on the desk before him. Sickbay was quiet; Enterprise was wonderfully healthy this week, and all the inpatient beds were empty. There was no soothing, hypnotic hum of diagnostic machinery, no muted voices of attendants. Outpatient services had had some business, but not enough to keep his mind off the fact that Jim Kirk was gone.


He reached out to the brandy bottle and turned it absently round and round, his gaze losing focus. He did not hear the soft footsteps, or see Christine Chapel pause in the doorway. She watched him a long moment, then moved on.


He had taken a break that afternoon and wandered up to the bridge. Plenty of hypnotic clicking and humming there. Uhura was again in the command chair, its bulk engulfing her petite form. Elbow propped on chair arm, chin propped on hand, she nodded a greeting but didn't seem in the mood for talk. He thought her eyes looked red.


A movement to his right caught his eye. Chekov rose from his seat at the sensor station. He stretched, touched his toes a few times, and sat back down heavily. His eyes were red, too, but, McCoy suspected, from a different cause. Uhura was right. He must talk to Spock, and soon, whether he wanted to or not.


Scott came up once to check something at the engineering station. He pressed a button and gave a brief order to someone down below. In the funereal silence his voice sounded unnaturally loud.


McCoy envied them their tasks. They at least had work to do. He had watched them for a while, finding some comfort in their activity, the façade of normalcy it provided. But the silence soon affected him--the silence of people suffering loss, each afraid to be the first to say what they all most feared--to finalize it, make it real. They hung on--they searched because of that tiny chance, but their belief in that chance was not strong enough to shield them from the horrifying, numbing dread that their captain had died--had died not, as he deserved and would have wished, a hero's death, but as a drained, dried-out husk on a desert planet, or as millions of dissociated atoms in the icy vacuum of space.


At length, McCoy could stand the silence no longer and had retreated to his office, where he contemplated the shifting blues of the brandy in the bottle on his desk. He had not had a drink since he had behaved so shamefully toward Spock.


He had hardly seen Spock during the past several days--a briefing or two, not much more. Ever since the transporters had been repaired, the Vulcan spent most of his time on the surface, appearing on board ship only once or twice during the day. Reports said they were finding great things down there, miracle rocks and the like, but Spock's place was here. He should be on board, seeing his crew through this most difficult of times. Instead, he had left the sensor search to others.


Abruptly McCoy shoved the brandy away. Damn the cold-blooded bastard, anyway. Was he just covering, or did he in truth feel nothing?





In the deck five mess, Spock studied the latest departmental reports. Though the mess was not his preferred work environment, he had eaten very little in the past several days and his body needed sustenance. He ate his customarily spartan vegetarian dinner with his eyes fixed on the computer screen.


McCoy found him there late in the day, and stood by the processors a moment, coffee in hand, watching him. As usual, the first officer sat alone. Well, best get it over with, McCoy thought, embarrassed to remember his hesitation at the door when he saw that Spock was in the room. Chris Chapel occasionally had a bigger mouth than she should have, but this time she was right.


Spock looked up at his approach, one eyebrow faintly arched. He instructed the computer to hold. "Doctor."


McCoy fidgeted, then blurted, "Spock--I'd like to apologize--for what I said last night. I--well--I hope you know I don't really believe--uh, I mean--I know you're doing what you can--" He stopped in the face of the Vulcan's impassive stare.


Spock leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Do not be overly concerned, Doctor. I am accustomed to emotional outbursts from my shipmates." He added dryly, the eyebrow rising higher, "From some more than others."


McCoy accepted the gentle rebuke with more grace than usual and said ruefully, "Well, at least they don't usually get that intense." He glanced around the room, which was beginning to fill up now with crew coming off-shift. "Spock, I wish you'd accept my apology instead of leaving me standing here like an idiot."


"I assure you, Doctor McCoy, that my intention was not--" Spock gave it up and motioned to a chair. "Very well. I do accept your apology. Won't you sit down?"


Relieved, McCoy sat--and had no idea what to say next. He realized suddenly that most of his conversations with Spock had always been three-way, with Jim. "It was hard to hear that log entry," he said abruptly, his eyes on his coffee. "I guess I just took it out on you."


Spock did not reply at first, and McCoy thought the Vulcan was letting him know that the subject was now closed. But after a moment Spock said quietly, "I understand. The entry was difficult to make."


Chris Chapel's big mouth indeed, McCoy thought, and was ashamed that, even drunk, he could have said the things he'd said. Oughta be horsewhipped. Intensely embarrassed by the ensuing silence--though Spock seemed to feel no awkwardness--he struggled to find something to say. Then his eyes fell on the screen Spock had been studying, waiting patiently for its operator to return to his task. "Those look like sensor readings."


"They are. I am engaged in rechecking all of our sensor readings during the last eight-hour period, recorded for that purpose." He pointed to the screen with a long finger. "You see the remaining interference here, and here. And the modified sensors now bring in so much information so quickly that there is the danger of missing a faint indication--"


"Do you mean you've double-checked all the readings you've taken since this started?"


"Mine, Mr. Chekov's, and Ms. Sorensen's."

 

McCoy remembered Uhura's remark that Spock often seemed to work late these days, and his own badly mistaken belief that he had delegated the sensor search, and wanted to apologize all over again. Worry gentled his voice as he asked, "Spock, have you had any sleep since Jim disappeared?"


"You need not concern yourself with me, Doctor. I am quite capable--"


"I am chief medical officer aboard this ship, and you are as much my concern as anyone else on the Enterprise--more so at the moment since you're acting captain!" He stopped, flustered, remembering his insinuations of the previous evening. Spock's expression told him he was remembering, too, and with some amusement, but mercifully the Vulcan made no reference to McCoy's discomfiture or its cause.


"As you are well aware, Doctor," he said with the exaggerated patience of one who is forced to repeat something innumerable times, "Vulcans are capable of functioning without sleep for long periods. And now if we may leave this irrelevant subject--" McCoy scowled, but decided it wasn't worth pursuing. Spock took his silence as assent and went on, "I did have a purpose in coming to your office last night. I tried to reach you during the day but you were not in."


"I was probably on the bridge looking for you--and not finding you," McCoy said, his disapproval evident. "Several times."


"It is unfortunate that this mission requires that I spend so much time on the surface," Spock conceded.


"Too much time, Spock. You should be on the bridge--at least on the ship. Your presence is important now."


"I do not understand."


"They've lost their captain--or they think they've lost him." McCoy's voice caught but he continued resolutely. "With you gone all the time it's as if they've lost you, too. There's no continuity." Spock seemed to be considering this, and McCoy added, "You've put a terrific burden on Chekov, too."


"Mr. Chekov was forced to work longer hours for several days," Spock admitted, "but he handled the extra responsibility well. And now that the transporters are repaired and other technicians are free--"


"That's not what I mean," McCoy interrupted. "Chekov was the one who had to look for Jim's transporter beam. He's got himself on the rack because he didn't trace it and we lost our only real chance of finding him."


"That is most illogical," Spock said dismissively. "The sensors were not functioning optimally at that time and we did not yet know the extent of the problem. It is clear now that under those conditions it was impossible to trace a transporter beam."


McCoy sighed. "Have you told Chekov that?"


Spock was genuinely baffled. "Doctor, Ensign Chekov is an intelligent man with no little experience of sensor operation. He does not need to be told the obvious."


"Yes, he is intelligent, but he's also young and human, and humans of good conscience will often blame themselves even when something is beyond their control."


Spock raised an eyebrow. "That seems an unfortunate tendency," he ventured, beginning to see where McCoy's argument was leading.


"Will you talk to him? Explain that it's not his fault?"


After a moment, Spock nodded, reluctant to confront Chekov's misguided emotions but conceding the necessity. "I will make an attempt. But if Mr. Chekov is intent on blaming himself my intervention may be useless."


McCoy shrugged. "Maybe. But you owe it to him to try." At Spock's nod, McCoy sat back in satisfaction. "Now, what did you want to see me about?"


"Our contact team is gathering more and more medical and biological data on the Ishanne," Spock replied, changing the subject smoothly. "If your time is not taken with other duties, it would be a great service to our efforts here if you would begin to coordinate that data. Your general knowledge makes you well suited for the task."


McCoy was taken aback by the first officer's open expression of confidence in his abilities. "Thank you, Mr. Spock," he said, startled into formality. "Things are a bit slow right now. Most of us have been tied up with analyzing air and water samples for the medical recommendations for colonists, but that's all finished now. They wouldn't have to use filters after all, though I guess it'll be a moot question if the contact doesn't work out."


"I am pleased you are free to participate," Spock said. "I believe the village physician, Relaphta, will especially enjoy meeting his human counterpart. It occurs to me that a discussion of medicine with him might lead to a discussion of general differences between the Ishanne and ourselves. You might be able to glean some crucial information by approaching the problem from an indirect angle."


"I'll certainly try," McCoy promised. The conversation died for a moment, and Spock began to close down the computer terminal so that he could relocate to the quiet of his quarters. Then McCoy said softly, "Spock, do you think we should have a service of some kind?"


Spock regarded him with a quizzical frown. "Such a service would be most premature, Doctor. We have no proof that the captain is dead." He found it odd that McCoy of all people should suggest it.


McCoy was confused. "But your log entry--"


"My log entry was merely an update of factual information. The captain's chances of survival decrease with every day that passes. The log must be kept current."


"But you said that logically we must presume--well, you know what you said. Don't you believe that?"


"What I believe or do not believe, Doctor, is irrelevant. One may recognize the logical path without necessarily following it." Spock regarded him evenly, and if McCoy hadn't known better he would have suspected that Spock was daring him to make something of it. But before he had a chance to respond to the Vulcan's tantalizing comment the intercom whistle interrupted them.


"Bridge to Mr. Spock."


"Spock here."


"Commodore Elsenbrach wishes to speak to you, sir." To McCoy, Uhura sounded as if she knew what the call was about and wasn't enjoying being in the middle.


"I will take it here, Lieutenant."


"Yes, sir. Go ahead."


The computer screen was filled with the image of the Commodore's strong-featured face. She did not look happy, and the fact that she was using the power for a direct transmission from Starbase 15 instead of tape delay was proof.


"Commander Spock, your report is several days late. Why?"


Good evening to you, too, Commodore, McCoy thought--and then realized the import of what she had said. Spock late? With anything? It simply wasn't possible. Starbase's receiver must be out, or--


"My apologies, Commodore. I have been most remiss in my duties. I shall send my report immediately." McCoy's jaw dropped, and he hoped his flabbergasted visage was not visible on Elsenbrach's screen.


The commodore's features softened a little at Spock's contrition. "I was surprised when my first reminder didn't do any good." First reminder? McCoy wondered. This had been going on a while. Then memory clicked and he understood, and watched Spock's performance with eager interest.


"But then I remembered your earlier report about Captain Kirk's disappearance," Elsenbrach continued, "and I realized that you've had other things on your mind."


"I assure you, Commodore, that Captain Kirk's disappearance has not affected my ability to function effectively," Spock protested stiffly, obviously miffed by the very idea. "My delay in sending the reports was simply an oversight. It will not happen again."


Elsenbrach clearly did not credit his objections, but was appeased by his assurances. "Very well, Commander. See that it doesn't. These reminders should not be necessary. Elsenbrach out."


Spock said nothing after the connection was broken, merely continuing to gather up his tapes, but McCoy thought he looked faintly relieved. "Damn you," he said affectionately, and was not taken in by Spock's climbing eyebrows. "I seem to remember asking you to try for just a few days." Spock's eyebrows settled back into place but he admitted nothing, meeting the doctor's you-can't-fool-me look with a confoundingly neutral expression. McCoy finally pressed, "Logic has a lot of give to it, doesn't it?"


He was beginning to think Spock was going to evade the issue entirely when the first officer at last said quietly, "Occasionally."


McCoy's smile was faintly triumphant but he let it go, and simply enjoyed his temporary rapport with Spock. It was rare that he felt this close to the Vulcan--and, he thought regretfully, look what we've had to go through to get here. Watching Spock with something akin to fondness, he cheered himself with the thought that they could bicker again tomorrow.





Cambron was quiet tonight, Chacol thought as he walked in the empty streets past dark windows. But Cambron was always quiet. Why, these days, did he expect it to be different? He wanted the whole village to share the same intense anticipation he felt at the presence of the humans. Probably they did, he thought ruefully, but simply did not display their excitement so openly. All he knew was that he was as happy as a child who has made new friends. But these new friends kept their feelings and thoughts close, making them intriguing and frustrating at the same time. He felt as if he were waiting for something momentous--but, he asked himself, hadn't the momentous event already happened? They are here. Is that not life-changing enough?


He walked by the room where the humans were staying. They had offered several times to bring their own shelter and food so that he and Tenna could return to their room, but in meeting it had been decided that it was more welcoming for Cambron to provide room and board for their guests. The humans had graciously accepted the arrangement, but Chacol had felt all along that they were willing to do so because their visit was temporary, because they would not stay.


He heard a door open and turned to see Sulu standing on the porch. Sulu waved, and Chacol waited while he came over. For some reason Sulu seemed especially relaxed, sauntering casually, both hands thrust into pockets. "Do you mind if I walk with you?"


"Please do," Chacol said warmly.


Sulu fell into step beside him, knowing that the eyes of his six colleagues were riveted on them as they passed through the pools of light cast by the lamps at each dormitory door. They listened in, too, via Sulu's open communicator. Spock's call telling them of Elsenbrach's transmission had cast a gloom over their dinner, and in the ensuing discussion Denison and the other contact specialists had decided that there was no point in delaying any longer. Since he and Chacol had come to know each other fairly well, Sulu had been elected to approach him. He was honored to be entrusted with so delicate a task, but at the same time he wished heartily that Denison or someone else more experienced was in his place; knowing that Scott was standing by in case a quick beam-up was necessary only made him more conscious of the risk he was taking. He rather wished Denison hadn't told him about Ponchar VII.


"We've enjoyed our stay here very much," he said, his sincerity helping to hide his nervousness. "Your people have been so friendly and welcoming."


Please don't go, Chacol thought, immediately fearful that Sulu was leading up to saying good-bye. "You are most welcome to stay as long as you like," he said, as calmly as he could.


Sulu's gaze dropped and he watched the ground in front of his feet for a full minute. Then abruptly he stopped and turned to face his host. "Chacol, there's something I have to tell you. I hope it won't upset you too badly. But sometimes between friends it's best to come straight to the point."


Very worried now that the humans would soon leave--what other news could Sulu have that might distress him?--Chacol knew that he must satisfy his curiosity about them. It meant breaking his promise to Atik, for which he would be brought fairly to task, but at this moment he did not care. "Yes, Sulu," he said quickly, "but may I ask you something first?"


Startled by Chacol's sudden inquisitiveness, Sulu stammered, "Of--of course." He imagined that he could feel the sudden tension among the contact team even through the dormitory walls.


Chacol stepped forward impulsively. His face was now bathed in lamplight, his features clear, and Sulu realized that the visitors weren't the only ones who had been holding something back. "Sulu," Chacol said, trying to keep his voice steady, his cobalt eyes searching Sulu's face, "all these things you have--the tricorders, the coolsuits, machines that fly and that talk. Ishan never had these things." Sulu struggled for outward calm, holding his breath. "You are not from Ishan, are you?"


"No," Sulu said softly, and waited. He was conscious of sweaty palms, racing pulse.


Chacol was rigid with tension. "You are from the stars." It was not a question.


Several heartbeats later Sulu breathed again, cautiously. The next exchange was critical. How would Chacol react to this knowledge? "Yes, we are," he said, and knew that in the Enterprise transporter room Scott's hands were sweating, too.


Chacol blinked twice, slowly took a deep breath--and smiled. His face showed no fear, only a deep contentment, and much of the restraint Sulu had always sensed in him was gone. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice rich and full. "I wanted to ask before you left."


Sulu, trying to keep from sagging in relief and act as if this was all quite expected, was unable to resist being a bit playful. "Oh--are we leaving?"


Chacol's face clouded with alarm. "I thought you were. Else I would never have asked. I would have waited for you to tell us in your own time." He cast his eyes down, miserable. "Please forgive my impatience. Atik is right; it is an ever-present fault."


Sulu wanted to smile, to laugh, to throw his arms around Chacol and his dignity, but with effort he restricted himself to a grin. "Don't apologize. That's what I wanted to talk to you about!"


"Then--you have no plans to leave?"


Sulu grinned and looked behind him at the contact team now gathered on the porch in front of their door. Even at this distance he could tell they were ecstatic. Jahns and Pakka-sa had their arms around each other's shoulders, Andros and Vescu and O'Rourke were applauding quietly, and Denison was talking excitedly into his communicator. "Chacol," Sulu said happily, "if your people invite us, we can stay as long as you like."





Orderly as they usually were, the Ishanne knew when to set rules aside, so here they were in the meeting hall just after sunrise when they would ordinarily be at their work, and Spock knew that the next few hours might change the future of this civilization and ensure one man's survival.


Before the meeting began the contact team were surrounded by questioners young and old; even Atik had finally gotten over her hesitation and forgiven Chacol for his impertinence. Chacol studied Spock's features, for the first time with open curiosity. "You are different from the humans, from one of the other worlds Sulu told us about."


"I am from Vulcan. It is a desert world, much like your own."


"Vulcan," Chacol repeated. "Sulu spoke of Vulcan. He says that Vulcans are philosophers and that yours is a homogeneous society, older even than ours."

 

"He is correct.  Perhaps there will be time for me to tell you something of my planet."


Chacol's eyes crinkled up. "I would be delighted.  Do your people have a ritual greeting?"

 

Spock showed him the ancient hand gesture, palm outward and fingers spread in pairs.  McCoy, who had never managed to duplicate it, grimaced when Chacol copied it without difficulty.  "When we part from one another," Spock said, "we use the same gesture and say, 'Live long and prosper.'"

 

Chacol gave a thoughtful nod.  "An elegant sentiment.  'Prosper'--does your world value wealth?"

 

"We wish spiritual prosperity rather than that which is economic or materialistic."

 

"We, too, value the wealth of the spirit, the soul.  I think your people and mine must be alike in many ways, Spock."  This notion seemed to please him.  He glanced into the large room. "Everyone is here now. We should begin."


And this time, "everyone" meant everyone, including the children. Once Chacol's first question had been asked and answered the night before his curiosity had been boundless. He and Sulu joined the other members of the contact team on the porch and talked of space and starships, other planets and civilizations, until Chacol realized that every villager must learn these things. He had left to spread the news, and all had agreed that a general meeting must be called at once.


The presentation took very little time. Spock briefly presented the case for the United Federation of Planets, which consisted for the most part of assurances that the areas of greatest interest to the Federation were well away from those inhabited by the Ishanne. He also asked them to consider what they would like in return for granting mining rights to the Federation. The Enterprise delegation then withdrew and waited outside on the common.


Chacol came to them less than thirty minutes later. Several of his neighbors followed him out and waited on the porch of the meeting hall, and the buzz of continued discussion still drifted from the doors and windows behind him. "You are most welcome to establish your mines on our world," he told them. "I understand, of course, that you must speak to the other villages as well, but I believe you may take Cambron's consensus to be typical. Our only concern is that if the mines are located so far away there will be no opportunity for interaction with your people. We would regret that." His gaze shifted hopefully from Spock to Sulu and back again. "Could some of your people stay in our villages? Surely there is more studying to be done?"


"I believe that could be arranged," Spock replied, and Sulu assured him heartily, "There's a lot more studying to be done."


"Good. I will tell the others." Chacol's eyes were animated, his face softened by a beatific smile. "Spock, Sulu, we have long believed that the other stars in the sky are home to life, as our star is home to us. But we knew our people would never be able to reach the stars, and thought never to know if we were correct. Now you tell us that there are thousands of worlds like ours which are home to many different peoples. I wonder how many peoples of those thousands of worlds have lived to see their most cherished beliefs proved true."


"Chacol," Spock asked curiously, "when did you first suspect that we were not from your world?"


"When we saw the shuttlecraft we wondered, but we thought you might simply be from elsewhere on Ishan. After all, much of our world is unfamiliar to us. But we could not understand your hesitation to tell us of yourselves if that were the case. Your continued reticence only strengthened our impression." He sighed with happy serenity. "And now we must send word to the other villages. Messages downstream can be delivered quickly by boat, but upstream messages are slow. It will take some time for all of the villages to discuss your proposition and let you know their decisions."


Spock had been considering that very problem. "There is a faster way," he said. To introduce the Ishanne to the transporter seemed somewhat precipitate, but-- "We shall use the shuttlecraft."


Chacol absolutely beamed.





"Twenty villages in one or two days," McCoy commented as he and Spock stepped out of the turbolift onto the bridge late that afternoon. "This will be like an old whistle-stop tour."


"An apt analogy, Doctor," Spock replied, needing only a few seconds to recall the reference. "Our tour will be an improvement, however, since we will not make promises we do not intend to keep--as your train-riding politicians were wont to do."


"You've got a point there," McCoy agreed. "And I'm glad to hear you admit that humanity has improved in some small way."


"Yes, but how much damage did you do before you improved?" Spock countered. He headed for the sensor station, leaving McCoy scowling next to Uhura's comm board. It was tough to get the last word with a Vulcan.


Spock halted behind Chekov and a little to one side. "Status, Mr. Chekov?"


"No change, ser. Scientific data continues to be promising and is automatically relayed to the appropriate departments." He did not quite sigh. "Nothing new in the search."


Spock studied the readings quietly for a moment over the ensign's shoulder, then said as if to himself, "It is most unfortunate that our initial attempt to locate Captain Kirk's transporter trail was doomed to failure."


"Ser?" Chekov sounded genuinely puzzled.


Spock was aware that both Uhura and McCoy had taken a sudden interest in the conversation. "Once we learned the degree of interference from Ishan's gravity imbalances it was obvious that the sensors could not have traced something as elusive as a transporter trail prior to modification. Don't you agree, Ensign?"


Chekov was so tired he almost did not grasp the significance of Spock's remark at all. But a moment after his automatic "Yes, ser" his head lifted and he seemed to be thinking very hard. And after another moment his eyes closed briefly and his shoulders, for the first time in days, relaxed.


That boy will sleep well tonight, McCoy thought, trading a happy glance with Uhura.


Again at her station after most of another day in the command chair, Uhura felt as if her concerns were being eased one by one from her shoulders. Spock and McCoy had seemed in a companionable humor when they left the bridge that morning and the mood had evidently lasted throughout the day. She would have to pass that cheering news onto Chris Chapel, who was not succeeding in hiding her worry for a certain Vulcan's emotional equilibrium. And now Spock, undoubtedly at Dr. McCoy's prodding, had said just the right thing in just the right way to Chekov, who looked as if he was finally letting himself off the hook. Uhura was beginning to feel a bit optimistic herself when her comm circuitry signaled the call they all had been dreading.


"Commodore Elsenbrach, sir," she said to Spock, her eyes wide with apprehension.


The first officer settled himself in the command chair before he nodded to Uhura. She touched a control and on the viewscreen the forbidding beauty of Ishan was replaced by Elsenbrach's broad, equally forbidding features. McCoy found himself wishing that there was a way to use only part of the screen in visual communication: a face that was a meter high was intimidating, especially when it belonged to an angry commodore.


"Mr. Spock," Elsenbrach began curtly, "I sincerely hope that the circumstances described in your report have been rectified."


"To which circumstances do you refer, Commodore?" Spock asked innocently, and McCoy, knowing he was visible on Elsenbrach' s screen, tried not to smile. Spock really did have gall, he admitted to himself, and thought poignantly of Jim.


"Unauthorized contact with a developing civilization in direct violation of the Prime Directive, as you very well know. You have withdrawn from all interaction with these people by now, I assume."


"Quite the contrary, Commodore," Spock replied. If he was nervous he gave no sign. "We have just today secured mining rights and received permission to leave contact and archaeological teams behind. The Ishanne are most eager for a colony to be established here, as long as there is frequent association between our people and themselves."


"I see," Elsenbrach said coldly. She sat back in her chair. "I realize, Commander, that I will be receiving a complete report--eventually--" McCoy could have sworn that Spock flinched. It would be a long time before the Vulcan lived down his deliberate tardiness. "--but please explain now how all this developed." The commodore's expression, to which Spock was seemingly oblivious, said that his explanation had better be good.


It was. Spock succinctly summarized the events since his last report, emphasizing with subtle but, to McCoy, obvious pleasure the fact that the Ishanne had suspected the true nature of their guests from the very first meeting. His eloquence was impressive. "Tomorrow," he concluded, "we will begin to visit a number of other villages in two-person teams, contact personnel and Ishanne. We cannot personally journey to every village ourselves, of course, but we can go to a representative sample of some of the largest. The contact team will continue the visits after the Enterprise has departed. We have every reason to believe that we will be welcomed with the same eagerness for contact that we have found at Cambron."


To McCoy's astonishment, a slow change had come over Elsenbrach's severe features. "Well," she said when Spock had finished, "I'm convinced," and no one doubted her words or her smile. "Congratulations to you and your team on a beautifully handled contact situation." Spock gave a gracious nod. "So far, though," Elsenbrach continued, "you haven't told me what the Federation is giving these people in return."


"That has not yet been decided, Commodore. They have asked for nothing; indeed, they claim to need nothing. Their lives are simple, but rich. They seem uninterested, for example, in technological development."


"Well, you'd better find something, Mr. Spock," she said firmly. "We can't take and not give back, whether the Ishanne mind or not. Very bad public relations."


"We will, of course, pursue the matter," Spock assured her. "In the meantime, in recognition of our responsibility toward a vulnerable society such as this, it is our recommendation that we proceed with contact under protected status. Do you concur, Commodore?"


Elsenbrach looked startled. "You people have done your homework. Protected status hasn't been invoked in years." She thought for a moment, then nodded. "It certainly seems to apply here, though. Understand, Mr. Spock, I'm not the final authority on contact matters--that's the sector representative of the Federation Council. He's a reasonable man, though; consultation is usually just a formality. Proceed as if you have approval, and I'll get back to you later with a definite."


"Very well, Commodore. I shall await your call."


Before Elsenbrach's face had completely faded from the screen, McCoy was bouncing happily on his toes. "Well, she turned out to be a good sort after all. Now we don't have to worry about departure orders!"


Spock swung around in the command chair. "Clearly, until she heard my report of the most recent developments the commodore was quite ready to order us to withdraw--despite the positive indications and consequent recommendations in our previous report. Mr. Denison's concerns were very well founded."


McCoy's buoyance subsided. "And if you hadn't held your report--" His voice trailed off.


"I have never understood why Starfleet's base commanders are so often unwilling to accept the recommendations of field officers who are trained for the precise purpose of being able to make decisions without constant deferral to higher authority."


"There you go again," McCoy scolded good-naturedly, "expecting logical behavior from bureaucrats. You should know better by now." He shrugged. "But that problem, at least, seems to be solved. Can I buy you dinner, Spock? You can have roots and leaves and I'll have real food."


Surprised by the invitation, Spock hesitated briefly, then rose. "Very well." To Chekov, he said, "Ensign, I shall relieve you at the sensors tomorrow morning so that you may join one of the contact teams. Report to Mr. Denison for assignment when you beam down."


"Yes, ser." Chekov, McCoy was glad to see, obviously now felt he deserved a day off.


"Lieutenant Uhura," Spock continued, "before you beam down tomorrow, please instruct Personnel to prepare a shipwide shore leave rotation. I would like for all crew members to have at least a few hours away from their increased duties."


"Aye, sir." When Spock and McCoy had left the bridge, Chekov said to her, "They seem to be getting along pretty vell--finally. I think they are more friends than they admit."


That Spock and McCoy had had words was not general knowledge, Uhura knew, but it had been obvious to anyone who worked with them regularly that the two, consciously or unconsciously, had avoided each other since the captain's disappearance. "It's good to see. They need each other right now." She was pleased that Chekov was making casual conversation again; he had not done so in days. More weight lifted. "Pavel, how about dinner when we get off watch?"


"Okay," he said eagerly, his weariness of the last eleven days all but gone. "Chinese."


"Italian," she countered, as starship personnel will who like to entertain the fantasy of an actual restaurant aboard ship, instead of unappealing slots in the walls.


Chekov shook his head. "Chinese."


"Italian."


"Chinese" . . .

 

********************

 

Continue to Chapters 12-15

 

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