SURVIVAL

[Prologue-Chapter 3 ] [Chapters 4-7 ] [Chapters 8-11] [Chapter 16-Epilogue]

Chapter Twelve

Tastaf was awakened by footsteps in the corridor that stopped outside his cage. He sat up, pressing his back against the corner. The bright light of the invisible barrier in the doorway disappeared and something heavy fell to the floor inside the cage. The barrier-lights returned, and he heard muttering in the incomprehensible harsh speech of his captors. Then the footsteps receded.

He waited until he heard the elevator depart, then cautiously approached the door and the still figure bathed in the glow of the lights. The body was that of the other man who had been in his cage with him for a short time--when? He could not follow the passage of time down here in the dark, but it seemed hours and hours since the captors had taken the man away. The man lay crumpled, as if he had been thrown to the floor. Tastaf could hear shaky breathing. Alive, then, but hurt, if the man's body functions were the same as his own. But perhaps this race's breathing patterns were naturally ragged.

He found some wry amusement in his calm acceptance of yet another alien being. Sometimes it seemed just yesterday that there had been only Ishan, when he had never seen or heard of other than his own kind. Though his people had believed for generations that other worlds and peoples did exist, it was an abstract belief, intellectual and irrelevant to their everyday lives. Tastaf certainly had never expected to experience direct proof. But on this hunting trip he had come upon the three tall strangers who had seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see them. He had known at once that they were not from his world, though he could not have said how he knew. They looked different, certainly--dark and brooding, with bony protrusions on the forehead and skull; but somehow they were different, too. Before they spoke he suspected, and when he could not understand their speech he knew. They had captured him easily, for he had not known that he should run from them; they had brought him here to this cage, and since then he had not seen the sky.

He had seen more strange beings in the mine. He had known it was a mine even before he had seen its workings. The opening in the red mountain, the powered elevator that traveled down into the earth, the beings who left their cages clean but returned tired and dirty, and the muffled whump of distant explosions--all suggested a mine, though deeper, darker, and many times larger than any mine his people had. During his work periods below he had seen members of dozens of different species. None looked exactly like the man lying on the floor before him.

In the dim light he could not see facial features clearly, but he could make out pale skin and somewhat darker hair. The skin was cold and damp and the man shivered frequently. Tastaf covered him with his cloak, which the captors had let him keep, though they had taken his weapons and supplies. He wondered how many other worlds there were, out there in the stars, with people such as these who could make the elements do their bidding. None of the other workers--kuve, the captors called them--seemed in awe of the things that so amazed him. Invisible doors--he had learned quickly what the barrier-lights meant when he tried to step through what seemed an open doorway, and was thrown across the room, stunned. Weapons that killed with beams of light--he had seen one such weapon in operation when the captors were leading him here. The party had surprised a brasta feeding on a kill, and it sprang at them in rage. One of the captors had used his light-weapon and the brasta had flared into sunlight and disappeared. An animal so fierce and tenacious of life that Tastaf would have needed two drugged arrows to bring it down, the captor had caused to vanish in a heartbeat. He had not been afraid of them until that moment. Perhaps one day they would make him vanish, too.

They had taken him down into the mine, but he could not understand them when they tried to make him work the smelly, noisy machines that chewed rock. He tried and failed, and they struck him impatiently, and then put him to work carrying rocks and moving machinery. And always they brought him back to the cage, never outside into light and air. He could not guess at their plans for him, but he knew he could not survive in a cage under the ground.

He looked again at the man on the floor. This one had known freedom, he was certain. The other kuve all behaved as though being confined and doing the captors' bidding was an acceptable way of life to which they were accustomed. He could not understand this. His spirit cried out in pain at being confined in a dim cage locked away from sun and sky. But this one-- He had heard confidence in the voice when the man had spoken to him. But he had not even responded to the man's efforts. He had been so long alone that he felt only despair. Why should he allow hope to surface, only for it to be dashed into pieces? But this man had tried so hard to reach out that he could not help reaching out in turn just as the captors took him away, and he had felt doubly lonely when the man had gone.

Some time later the man stirred and moaned softly and fumbled at the cloak that covered him. Tastaf removed the cloak and opened the front of the man's bloodstained garment. He felt heat from the man's body and touched his face. It was hot now, hotter than Tastaf's own skin. But the man seemed uncomfortable; possibly this was not usual for him. Tastaf wet a corner of his cloak in the tiny basin and bathed the man's face and neck. It seemed to calm him; the restlessness ceased, and he slept quietly again.

What had happened to him? He had been dirty and bruised when the captors brought him to Tastaf's cage, but he had not been ill. The captors had taken him away and then returned him sick and unconscious. Had they done something to him? Why? And would they return for him, to hurt him again?

Suddenly the man slapped Tastaf's hand away from his face. His eyes were open, and in them was the desperate fear of a small wild animal terrorized by a hungry predator. Crying out incoherently the man backed away on the floor that was damp from his own sweat. He crawled until he could crawl no further, until he was wedged into the corner of the cage under the basin. Shocked and frightened by the man's terror, Tastaf tried to speak to him softly, as he might to a child who had just waked from a nightmare. But when he took tentative steps forward the man's cries only grew louder. He retreated, and the man seemed relieved. He backed farther, and sat in the opposite corner. The man's cries ceased abruptly, but he stared wide-eyed. Tastaf, breathing heavily and sweating himself, sat motionless and endured the stare until finally the man closed his eyes and the arm that had been wrapped defensively around his knees dropped to the floor.

After a time Tastaf approached the still figure hesitantly, but the man slept deeply now. His skin was cooler but not cold, his breathing slow and even, and there was about him a certain restful calm. Encouraged, Tastaf returned to his corner. He sat quietly, his back to the wall, and waited.

Kirk woke with a groan, dragging himself out of the fog of unconsciousness. He lay on something hard--what was he doing on the floor? He tried to sit up, and the room swam drastically. He struggled to think clearly. He couldn't see very well. Why were the lights so dim? Had there been a power interruption on board? He shoved himself to a sitting position and almost fell to the other side. His muscles were unsteady; constant slight spasms made it difficult to move. Had he been phaser-stunned? What--? Then his eyes fell upon the doorway with its perimeter of force field lights, and he remembered.

They had learned nothing from him, though not for want of trying. For hours they had kept at him, the agonizer administered methodically by the same medic who had earlier treated his wounds. Kyris was right; he was good. His technique was to apply the instrument to the major nerve trunks at the neck and the base of the spine, shooting flame throughout his victim's body. Kirk's every nerve had been over-stimulated to the point of numbness, and when feeling returned the medic had begun again. In the end he had to stop or risk burning his prisoner out completely.

Kirk had held out on will, his own powers of resistance bolstered by command conditioning and the certainty that they dared not do him irreparable damage here. That awareness had sustained him and protected him from the worst of the pain. Shivering, he closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting. Faces swam before him--Kyris, Kahna, the MO, his alien cellmate. Were they swimming, or was he? The medic reached with the agonizer, a seemingly innocuous little piece of plastic with a row of tiny conductors at its head that looked like teeth. No more, he thought, no more no more no more no more--

His eyes snapped open. Had he cried out? He did not know. He breathed in shaky relief. For now it was over. Now he must concentrate on recovery, and escape.

Suddenly there was movement in the cell, in a corner he could not see because of the glare of the force field lights. He cringed from the figure coming toward him. They were going to try again, now that he believed they were through. After the respite he could not resist anymore. He tried to back away but his exhausted muscles would not obey him. Then he realized that the figure was speaking quietly and caught the word "Tastaf." His cellmate. It was only his cellmate.

Tastaf sat down again, and Kirk spoke to him in both Standard and his meager Klingonese, but Tastaf just shook his head. Then he placed a hand on his chest and said, "Tastaf." He pointed at Kirk, a question in his eyes, and Kirk gave his name to the suddenly blurry face floating in front of him. He squinted, trying to focus. "Jimkirk," Tastaf repeated. Kirk shook his head, and groaned as dizziness assailed him. "Kirk," he whispered, sagging to the floor unconscious.

Tastaf bent over him, but before he could do anything to help he heard the elevator doors open and footsteps approach. Someone gave the curt order for the kuve to go out to work, but this time, instead of the kuve all being released at the same time, one of the guards first came to Tastaf's cell. The barrier-lights went out and the guard stepped into the cell, motioning to Tastaf to back away. Tastaf complied, but slowly, waiting to see what the guard would do to Kirk. Would he take Kirk away again? He tensed protectively, anger rising. Kirk lay motionless on the floor. The guard kicked him hard in the ribs, uttering a short harsh syllable. Before he could inflict further injury Tastaf was upon him, hurling him back against the wall away from Kirk's unconscious form. The guard, so astonished he was frozen for a second or two, retaliated with a vicious backhand across Tastaf's face. He was taller and heavier and the blow sent Tastaf reeling. Dazed, knees trembling, he braced against the wall and tried to keep his feet. The guard snarled at him but saw that he was no further threat. He nudged Kirk again with his boot but seemed satisfied that the prisoner was not feigning. Grabbing Tastaf by the shoulder he shoved him out into the corridor, not caring that Tastaf staggered and almost fell. The guard reactivated the barrier-lights and spoke to the other guard at the lift, who touched the control that released the remaining kuve. As the kuve were herded down the corridor toward the lifts at each end, the man across the hall to whom Kirk had spoken briefly tried to peer into Tastaf's cell but received a rough shove for his trouble.

Tastaf felt faint and wished he could sit down, but he stumbled along obediently as well as he could. He had shocked himself by his attack on the guard. He knew the guard had been equally surprised; he had offered no resistance from the moment he had been found near the river. Indeed, he had never in his life raised a hand in anger against another person, had never felt an angry blow against his own body until he had been brought here. But he could not stand aside and watch the guard beat a helpless man, a man who had already been badly hurt--though his body bore no new visible wounds, Kirk's pain was obvious. He wondered again why Kirk was maltreated by the captors. Anyone the captors held prisoner must be an enemy of the captors--and so, perhaps, a friend to other prisoners. Despite his efforts to prevent it, hope began to stir within him. Perhaps Kirk understood the captors. Perhaps Kirk could help him get home.

When Kirk woke again hours later it was from sleep rather than unconsciousness, and though he felt sick and weak he was not dizzy. Somehow he had bruised a rib, too. He sat up slowly and the room remained steady. He saw his cellmate sitting against the opposite wall, motionless, watching him, as he had done when Kirk first arrived in the cell.

"Tastaf," he said quietly.

"Kirk."

Tastaf did not smile, but his tone was warm and friendly. He had been brought back to the cage alone, why he did not know. He had hoped Kirk would be willing to try again to communicate, and had been disappointed and concerned to find Kirk still unconscious. But now Kirk was awake; he looked and sounded stronger and seemed to want to talk. Tastaf moved to the doorway, motioning for Kirk to join him. Kirk went over on hand and knees, the constant twitching in his muscles warning him not to try to stand, and in the light at the doorway they studied each other.

Kirk saw a short, sturdy humanoid with leathery, reddish-bronze skin. Tastaf's long hair was thick and the color of rust, his facial features subtle rather than pronounced. His right cheekbone was swollen with a bad bruise that looked new. But it was the look in the deep-set emerald green eyes that held Kirk's gaze; they were expressive eyes, and they burned with determination and something like pride.

With the light of the force field indicators now shining directly on Kirk's face, Tastaf could finally really see the new alien being. Kirk was noticeably taller than he, even seated, and broader, with powerful shoulders and arms. Except for severe sunburn on his face, Kirk's skin was indeed much paler than his own, but as there was a certain vibrance to it now that had not been there before, Tastaf was sure the paleness was normal. Kirk had lighter eyes and hair than did most of Tastaf's people, and he had short hairs on his face as well, all around the mouth and jaw. His facial features were more prominent, more defined than Tastaf's own, but again what held Tastaf's interest was the look of strength, of defiance in those light eyes. He knew instinctively that this man was a friend.

They were distracted from their mutual scrutiny by the shuffling footsteps of the other workers returning to their cells. Kirk noted that Tastaf had been returned to his cell earlier, the precaution allowing Kirk no chance to escape in the crowd of returning workers. When the workers were in their cells, the force fields were all reactivated simultaneously, presumably by a master switch near the lift. Kirk noticed that his door had not responded to the master command, and deduced that his cell's controls had been disconnected from the main relay. He frowned. This seemed a very cautious group of Klingons; they were taking no chances, and thus giving him none.

"Sir? If I may--"  The Rigellian was at the door to his cell, facing Kirk across the corridor, desperately apologetic. "Sorry I am to have caused you ill. I did not know--"

Kirk waved away the apology. "They were already checking their intelligence files, trying to match me up with a picture. It was just a matter of time." He still could not place the Rigellian. "When did we meet? I'm afraid I don't--"

"My name is Hatimida alba Lannafel," the Rigellian answered, his name reflecting the soft, rounded tones of his native language. "I was secretary to Ambassador Ormis. Your ship once visited the Rigel colonies and we met briefly at an official function. I am not surprised you do not remember--there were hundreds of guests."

"I remember the visit, though. Your people treated us royally." Kirk stared at alba Lannafel. "How the devil did you get here?"

The Rigellian sat down cross-legged, as if his story was a long one. "The ambassador and his party, including myself, were dispatched to the Orion homeworld to negotiate for new trade agreements. Our hope was that terms more favorable to Orion might persuade Orion pirates to prey less on our merchant fleets." He paused, and when he continued his voice was bitter. "However, Orion's relations with the Klingon Empire were more extensive than anyone in Federation trade bureaus had realized. Orion routinely supplies kuve--slave is a loose translation--to Klinzhai. Our party became part of the next shipment."

Kirk was outraged. "Do you mean to tell me that the Orions took a Federation ambassador prisoner and--and--sold him--!" He could not finish.

Alba Lannafel gave a grim nod. "Appreciation for your anger, Captain, but there is nothing to be done. We were separated, and I do not know what became of the others. More than a year has passed."

Now that the Rigellian's tale had stirred his memory, Kirk remembered a report of an ambassador's disappearance near Orion territory. An investigation had discovered nothing. He forced himself to calm down; fury would only cloud his judgment. "Mr. alba Lannafel--"

"Most call me Mida. Rigellian names tend to be unwieldy."

"Thank you. Mida, is there any surveillance in the cellblocks?"

"Not that I am aware. Surveillance is a part of the Klingon soldier's life, as you no doubt know. But I think that they would not bother with the cellblocks, though I cannot be certain."

"Then we'll have to be careful what we say. I need to ask you some questions, though. If they don't like it we'll find out soon enough." Kirk leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Mida, tell me about this place."

Tastaf drank in the sound of conversation. Though he could not understand the words, it had been so long since he had heard friendly voices in the usually quiet cage-row that just the rhythms of speech were comforting. The man across the hall had tried to talk to him on several occasions, but the glare of the doorway lights had made it difficult for them to see hand gestures and in the end they had given up. But evidently he and Kirk shared a language; they talked for a long time, Kirk seeming to ask questions, the other answering at length, and Tastaf could not help envying their easy communication. He had hoped to learn to talk with Kirk himself, but hearing conversation, even if it was not directed at him, was precious nonetheless.

As Mida talked, Kirk soon realized that the Rigellian's presence here was a blessing rather than the curse he had thought; the ambassador's aide was a trained observer, and in the ten months that this mine had been in operation he had observed a great deal. He and his fellow kuve not only worked the mine now, they had formed the labor force brought to Cinnus II to establish it; thus he knew the layout of most of the mine and the work and supply schedules. The mine was in continuous operation, the kuve in Kirk's cellblock assigned to one of the night shifts--though night and day meant little to them down here. Raw ore was loaded onto a freighter that came once a month to pick up the ore and drop off supplies--the same supply ship that would carry Kirk to Klinzhai for interrogation.

As mines went, this one was not very large, but for an operation in enemy territory that must be supported from home it was impressive. Spreading some two or three kilometers in every direction underground, it was fifteen levels deep. The mining equipment, though outdated by Federation standards, was the best that Klingon technology could produce, as were the considerably more efficient defensive shields. But secondary systems--lighting, maintenance, food services, plumbing, and so forth--were the least expensive that would suit the purpose. Much of it was obsolete and therefore expendable. Lighting was dim; general maintenance was inconsistent; sewage occasionally backed up into the cells. Food was supplied manually rather than by remote synthesizer, delivered only once a day by two armed guards and a kuve with a cart; the prisoners could ration their food allowance or eat it all at once, as they chose. Water was rationed as well, so many liters per day per cell, and automatically cut off when that allotment was reached.

The limited water supply was significant. The main force field was never turned off except to allow passage through it--and only the water lorries passed through regularly. One of the two lorries went out every day or two to collect enough water to refill the huge storage tanks which supplied the mine. The mine was twenty to thirty kilometers away from the river and the trip there and back took about three hours. Two or three guards usually went, but Mida did not know if they went at the same time every trip. Kirk had stumbled onto a two-guard lorry in the early morning; it was possible that all trips were made in the morning, that being the best time to do any outside work in the desert.

There were unfortunate, though predictable, gaps in Mida's information. He did not know the exact location of the control center, but he believed it was on one of the deeper levels, which fit Kirk's suspicions--and hopes--about the closed room off Kyris' office. Nor did he know the exact nature of any defensive weaponry the mine might boast.

Kirk forced himself to backtrack. Whether a surface attack force could get past the force field or the defensive weapons systems was irrelevant as long as he was stuck in the mine and unable to inform his ship of the Klingons' presence on Cinnus. The odds of getting to the surface and escaping using the water truck, the only powered transportation available, were very slim. The force field of his cell was impenetrable without weapons, the ductwork far too narrow to accommodate his body. According to Mida, the kuve were allowed out of their cells regularly only for work, and Kirk did not believe Kyris would be so foolish as to allow him the relative freedom of working in the mine in close proximity to tools and explosives.

The arrival of the monthly supply ship, with the attendant confusion created by the loading and unloading of ore and supplies, seemed upon first consideration the ideal, indeed the only, opportunity to try to escape. Supplies were beamed down from the ship, kuve transferred them to storage on level twelve, then brought the ore to the surface where it was beamed into the cargo hold. Mida explained that it was not possible to beam directly into and out of the mine because the heavy mineral deposits somehow confused transporter readings; surface beaming, however, was generally accurate as long as the beamdown site was some distance from the mine, a hundred meters or so. Kirk realized that this was very likely the cause of the transporter malfunction that had put him here, but spared no energy pondering it. That was Scotty's problem now.

Unfortunately, his only chance to use the supply ship as cover for an escape would be when he himself was being taken to the ship. He would be under heavy guard, and even if he did manage to break free his recapture would be inevitable unless he could manage to steal one of the water lorries. But the strongest objection was that the supply ship was his transport to Klinzhai for questioning. He must escape long before then, while there was still some slight margin for error. Mida said that the ship was due in a week. He had a week. That was all.

His greatest advantage was that the Klingons here were accustomed to kuve--people who for the most part had been born to this life and had no thought of trying to get away. Here they had food, water, shelter, and tasks to perform. Beyond that they did not think. And what did that say about the guards assigned here? This was a mine, not a battle cruiser; no first-class warrior would be assigned to such relatively menial duty, and according to Mida the soldiers here supervised more than guarded. Though he must be careful not to underestimate them, perhaps they would be unprepared for the efforts of one very determined starship captain.

But so far, he admitted reluctantly, he had seen little evidence of carelessness or laxity on the part of the guards. On the contrary, they took extra precautions when they escorted him anywhere. Their orders must be explicit, and those orders came from the top. While Kyris could not help gloating about his prize catch, Kirk judged him a careful, thoughtful professional who should not be taken lightly.

Mida's comments about cost persuaded Kirk that it was unlikely that the cellblocks were under constant surveillance. Monitoring systems were expensive; he must not forget that this was a mine, not a maximum security prison. The Klingons would not care what the kuve did in their cells as long as they worked hard and caused no trouble. And from what Mida had told him these kuve would not know how to be troublesome; resistance was simply beyond their understanding and capability. It was possible, of course, that surveillance apparatus had been hastily added to Kirk's cell. But he had seen no sign of a camera or microphone, and in the tiny bare cell they would be difficult to conceal. He was fairly certain that he could speak freely.

Even so, he must be cautious. He was not yet completely certain of Mida's loyalty. The Rigellian had been in Klingon custody for a long time; suppose they had managed to redirect his allegiance? It was very convenient to have in his cellblock a prisoner who spoke Standard. Was it a trap, or was it just luck the Klingons had neglected to circumvent? But Mida had said nothing suspicious, and the more he talked the more positively Kirk judged him. A Klingon plant would be trying to worm information out of Kirk, not the other way around. The other kuve, however, since they could not be counted as allies, must be counted as enemies.

"Mida," Kirk said, trying to gauge the Rigellian's expression through the bright force field lights, "do you want to get home?"

Mida regarded him evenly and with dignity. "If you are asking whether I will help you escape, the answer is yes, Captain."

Kirk smiled, certain now. "That's exactly what I'm asking. It's good to know I'll have an ally."

"I believe you may have two allies, Captain."

"Two?" Mida might be in contact with one of the other half-dozen or so Federation citizens--traders, most of them--he had said were in the mine.

"Your cellmate."

"Tastaf? Why do you think he's an ally?"

At the mention of his name Tastaf sat up from the doze induced by the long conversation, but he soon saw that Kirk was talking about him rather than to him. He sat back again. When Kirk was through there would be time.

"For the first time today I saw resistance from him," Mida was saying. "Hours ago, before our shift when you were still unconscious, one of the guards came into your cell and kicked you, probably to see if you were yet awake."

Kirk touched his chest gingerly. "So that's how this happened."

"Yes. Tastaf pushed the guard back against the wall, and the guard struck him."

"And that's how he got that bruise." Kirk turned to look at Tastaf, who, having heard his name again, was sitting forward eagerly, obviously trying to puzzle out what Kirk was saying. His interest was in glaring contrast to the lack of it in Mida's cellmate, who despite all the conversation around him had not even shown his face at the cell door, either totally indifferent or cowed by the unusual and suspicious activity.

"He also helped you when you were returned to the cell," Mida continued, "but at one point you were afraid of him."

"I remember that," Kirk said, frowning. "I think I was confusing him with my interrogators." He eyed Tastaf again. "You're right. That does seem strange behavior from a kuve, from what you've told me about them. Maybe he will be of some use. Do you know Klingonese, Mida?"

"Yes, Captain, all kuve must dream-learn the language. But Tastaf is not kuve. He has only been here a short time. I thought you knew--he is from this world."

"That's impossible--this planet is uninhabited."

"Ah, but that is what the Klingons thought. That is why they are not well-equipped to house prisoners. Only kuve."

No surveillance in the cells, no mind-sifter--Mida was right. They were ill-equipped. But as to the other– Hope burst to life, and Kirk's throat was tight when he spoke again. "Mida, are you sure he's from this planet? He's not just a new arrival from the supply ship--a replacement?"

"No, Captain, I am certain. There has been some discussion of this unexpected civilization among the guards. To my knowledge, Tastaf is the only one who has been captured."

Kirk's eyes were riveted on Tastaf, and in the smooth features and emerald eyes he saw deliverance. For days he had lived with the knowledge that his ship might be forced to abandon him here, that he might not be able to link up with any search parties that remained behind. He remembered his horror at the thought of years alone on this empty world. How could he possibly stay sane? Tastaf was his answer. If there were people here there was life beyond mere existence, a place. If he had to wait for rescue he would not wait alone.

Tastaf regarded Kirk expectantly. Kirk was staring at him with new intensity, something beyond the friendly, casual interest he had shown before. Now there was appraisal in the steady gaze, and surprising emotion--something deep and powerful, an easing of anguish-- Why should Kirk be looking at him with such feelings? He sensed that Kirk was planning something, and that he might play some part in it.

"Tastaf," Kirk said, when he was sure his voice would be steady. He reached out and gently touched the discolored swelling on the native's cheekbone. "Mida--" He pointed to the Rigellian across the hall. "--told me how you tried to help me earlier and got that bruise." He pointed to the floor where he had lain unconscious and mimed a shove of someone against the wall. "Thank you." He clasped Tastaf's hand, hoping that his warmth and gratitude would be conveyed even if the gesture itself wasn't common to both their species.

Tastaf nodded to show he understood. He wanted to tell Kirk he was sorry he had frightened him when he was semi-conscious and confused, but he did not know how to express complicated ideas nonverbally. He would have to wait, and follow Kirk's lead.

"Mida," Kirk said abruptly. "You said 'our shift.' Do you mean Tastaf works, too?"

"Yes, Captain."

"But how can he understand their orders if he doesn't know Klingonese? Do they use a translator?"

"For kuve? No, Captain, no translator. Tastaf does not understand them, and they are not patient trainers. That is not the first bruise he has received from them."

Kirk exhaled angrily. Damn them. "He won't get any more." His eyes shifted back to Tastaf. "You and I--" He pointed at Tastaf and then at himself. "--must learn to communicate with each other." He moved his hand back and forth between their mouths to suggest a flow of words.

Tastaf nodded eagerly. "Maht," he said emphatically.

Kirk smiled. "I guess that means 'yes.'" He nodded vigorously himself, indicated the motion of his head, and said, "Yes."

"Yes," Tastaf repeated.

"Yes," Kirk said again, more to himself this time as his mind leaped ahead, already considering what he must teach Tastaf, what words and phrases would be most helpful in their current situation.

Before he could begin the first lesson, however, the sound of the elevator reached him from down the hall. He looked across at Mida, his hand raised in question. On the assumption that they were not under surveillance--they had talked for hours and no one had come to stop them--the two of them had agreed not to speak to each other in the presence of any guard, so as not to remind the Klingons that there was someone in the cellblock with whom their prisoner could communicate. Through the glare of the force field lights of both cells he could see Mida making eating motions. Breakfast time, then. Suddenly Kirk was ravenous. He had last eaten the morning of his capture, and according to Mida that was at least twenty-four hours ago. He eagerly planned to eat his daily portion all at once today; he would ration carefully later.

But when the guard and kuve with the food cart reached his cell the guard silently motioned him out into the corridor, wired his wrists behind him, and shoved him toward the lift, where two more guards waited. Were they taking him for interrogation again? He kept his expression neutral; Mida and Tastaf were worried enough without having to see that he was apprehensive, too.

The infirmary that had conveniently doubled as an interrogation room was on level seven, and when the elevator continued to eight and beyond Kirk permitted himself a measure of cautious relief. To Kyris, then, he thought, but the lift went past the commander's floor and came to a bumpy halt at the fifteenth and lowest level. Puzzled, Kirk followed the first guard out of the lift and down the narrow corridor drilled into the belly of the mountain. The second guard walked several paces behind him, disruptor ready; Kirk knew he could not possibly get them both, even if his hands were bound in front of him. The growl of rock-eating machinery, punctuated by occasional explosions that made his ears ache, was very near.

They turned a corner and Kirk was assaulted by heat and noise and the acrid smell of hot metal. Kyris stood at a railing at the end of the short corridor, facing away from them, his posture arrogant even from behind. Turning expectantly at the sound of approaching footsteps, he smiled. "Captain," he said, "come and see what we have accomplished here." He sounded like the host at a cocktail party, or a company representative seeking government funding. The guards halted, allowing their prisoner to go on alone, but remained alert for any hint of trouble.

Kirk approached the rough metal railing beside Kyris and looked out and down into a huge chamber carved into the rock. He stood four or five meters above the floor; a treacherously steep and narrow rock stairway led down from the corridor into the chamber. Machines were everywhere, loud and foul-smelling; they burrowed into the dilithium-streaked rock and spat out great red chunks that kuve then lifted laboriously into processors. Several armed guards watched over the fifty-odd workers, looking bored and mean; Kirk could well imagine the pleasure they would take in "training" Tastaf. In its clamor and cruelty the scene was like something out of Dickens, but this was hundreds of years past the Industrial Revolution. He surveyed the operation, his anger growing.

"Why aren't they using antigravs?" he demanded.

"We have so few they can be used only for the heaviest tasks," Kyris answered easily, not in the least defensive.

Kirk watched a thin kuve struggle with a stone larger than a bowling ball, the stringy muscles of his bony arms straining. "How can you do this to people?" he asked quietly, almost to himself. "Don't you have any conscience at all?"

"Of course I have a conscience, Captain," Kyris replied genially. "But I don't waste it on kuve." He turned his back on the chamber and leaned casually against the railing, folding his arms across his broad chest; Kirk fought the urge to shove him over backward. "Please spare me your righteous indignation.  I am familiar enough with your history to know that some of your greatest and most revered civilizations built their empires upon slavery. You have no right--"

"I have every right!" Kirk snapped. "Yes, Earth had its share of slavery and we're not proud of it. But we left it behind hundreds of years ago. I've been in a dozen Federation mines. They're clean and quiet, cool and well ventilated. Those machines down there are a hundred years out of date!"

"They are brand new," Kyris informed him, his calm unruffled.

An explosion at the far side of the chamber vibrated the floor. Kirk's ears rang. "They're dangerous and should be replaced by safer models. How many workers have you lost in accidents since you've been here?"

"Fifteen or twenty, I suppose--an excellent safety record. So far from our territory workers are difficult to replace, and we must take extra precautions. Most mines do not go to such great expense."

"Fifteen or twenty in only ten months?"  Kyris was obviously enjoying Kirk's anger, which infuriated him even more. "Nobody dies in our mines anymore--we've eliminated the danger completely."

"Captain." Kyris pushed off the railing, impatient at last. "I did not bring you here for a sociological debate. I don't tell you your responsibilities; don't presume to tell me mine. Since this scene distresses you so, we'll continue our conversation in my office. Bring him," he said to the guards as he passed, then stopped and turned back to Kirk with a blithe shrug. "You see, Captain, I do have a conscience."

He continued down the corridor and turned out of sight, and after a last look at the appalling sight below him, Kirk followed. As a Starfleet officer he knew more than most in the Federation about the horrors of Klingon slavery, but visual records were few. To see firsthand the casual abuse of sentient beings as mere beasts of burden was far worse than reading about it in anonymous intelligence reports. He thought of poor Tastaf down there in that hole, faced with machines and processes far beyond his understanding, and swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to get these people out of here.

The guards showed Kirk into the commander's office just as Kyris was coming out of the adjoining room. The door remained open behind him and Kirk could see panels and consoles. It was a control room, then, and in it must be the communications equipment. He had to get into that room. Immediately he began to plan, but outwardly he was all attention as Kyris sat down facing him and regarded him evenly for a long moment before issuing a brief order to one of the guards. Neither spoke while the guard went to fetch a chair. Kyris then waved both guards out and the two were alone in the room. Kirk remembered Kor's assertion that even commanders were under constant surveillance, and wondered how long it would take Kyris' aides to respond if he should make a move for the control room door. He would need only seconds to contact the Enterprise once he identified the communications station.

"I'm sorry you did not enjoy my demonstration, Captain," Kyris was saying. He graciously indicated the chair. "Please sit down."

Kyris was smiling, and Kirk knew that the "demonstration" had provoked exactly the reaction the commander had expected. He would have preferred to retain whatever psychological advantage standing might give him over a seated man, but his legs, not completely recovered from the agonizer's overstimulation, were beginning to tremble. No doubt Kyris would be unimpressed with the difference in height anyway. "Thank you," he said politely, stepping toward the chair. "But I could sit more comfortably if my hands were in front of me."

"Yes, I'm sure you could," Kyris said pleasantly. He did not leave his chair.

Kirk sat carefully so as not to place too much strain on the livewire bonds. "Is this the part where you try to convince me that it's in my own best interest to volunteer my knowledge?"

"It is in your best interest, Captain, and you know it. But I know that you are not concerned with your own welfare. It is your precious Federation's welfare that you protect now, and I would not expect you ever to volunteer information that would compromise it. What we learn from you we will learn by force."

"You tried that. It didn't work."

Kyris leaned forward to activate his computer screen, and Kirk knew without seeing it which file he called up. "No, it did not," Kyris conceded. "I confess I was surprised. My medical officer is outraged, of course. No human has ever resisted him successfully." There was an odd trace of pride in the commander's voice, as if Kirk were a pet that had performed well for its master. "But before you become too pleased with yourself, Captain, I should tell you that few humans have come into his hands. He finds this frustrating."

"You'll understand if I feel little sympathy." What was it with Klingon commanders--were they all trained in verbal fencing? "You remind me very much of Commander Kor."

"That does not surprise me. Kor and I trained under some of the same instructors." To Kirk's amazement, his smile softened with what seemed to be genuine nostalgia; then his expression changed to disapproval. "You know, Captain, the only reason Kor was not forever disgraced for letting you slip through his grasp was the involvement of the Organians. Imperial High Command realized that the battle was lost before it was begun. However, they did reprimand him severely for not immediately questioning you with the mind-sifter once he discovered your identity. I would not have made that mistake."

Kirk believed him. "Then I am properly thankful that you don't have one with you."

"Yes, that is fortunate for you, isn't it? We were very restricted in what we could bring, and since we believed this was an uninhabited planet other equipment was more important."

"I suppose if you had known the planet was inhabited, you would have left it alone," Kirk said, and could have predicted Kyris' smile.

"Federation sensibilities again, Captain," the commander said contemptuously. "Actually, the native is tough and strong. If he is typical of his people they should make superb kuve. It is a pity we haven't the space to house them." He eyed Kirk from under his bushy eyebrows, obviously delighting in the captain's slow burn. But Kirk refused to respond predictably twice in an hour, and said nothing. Kyris' glance fell again upon his computer screen. "I regret that I do not have proper facilities for you, Captain," he said abruptly. "It is not fitting for a prisoner of your stature to be placed with kuve." Honest distaste was in his expression and tone. "The cell with the native was the best I could do." His eyes searched Kirk's face, as if he feared he had given offense.

Kirk shrugged, his eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. "It's tolerable," he said mildly.

He knew now that his and Mida's precaution of silence in the presence of the guards was justified. To Kyris everyone who worked in the mine was kuve. It was possible that he did not know or had forgotten that Federation citizens were assigned here. He certainly did not know that anyone in Kirk's cellblock could speak Standard. If he did, Mida would have been transferred immediately. Kyris' attitude also explained why he had not held this little chat in the cellblock. Besides his desire to prod Kirk to anger by showing off his mine, it was evidently beneath the commander's dignity to move among kuve; his prisoner must be brought to him. The fact that Kyris was willing to let him out of his cell at all suggested a slight carelessness that Kirk might be able to use.

Whatever happened to him and Tastaf, though, it seemed that Tastaf's people would be spared--at least for the present--the indignities and cruelties of being used as kuve. Controlling an entire population took many more soldiers than Kyris had at his disposal, and expanding the operation on Cinnus would greatly increase the risk of detection. Besides, the only society that could escape the notice of even badly muddled sensors was a small primitive one, and such a culture would be no threat to the invaders. Tastaf's proximity to the mine was evidently an isolated coincidence. His people would be safe if they did not cross the Klingons' path again.

Having learned something about his apparent freedom to plan escape with Mida and Tastaf, Kirk now wanted to learn something about his enemy. "How did you luck into this job?" he asked conversationally.

"Luck?" Kyris' smile was patronizing. "You are trying to irritate me, Captain." Kirk widened his eyes innocently, at which Kyris merely smiled again. "Know your enemy, eh, Captain? No matter. I am here because I have experience in intelligence and clandestine operations. But I have served on battle cruisers," he added with a haughty lift of his chin, "and I will again. In fact, I will have a ship of my own when I complete my duties here. Perhaps I will meet your Enterprise in battle one day--though it will no doubt lack the challenge of a battle with you."

"You'd have all the battle you could stomach," Kirk assured him, and he knew Kyris was amused by his fierce pride in his ship and crew.

"I wonder where your ship is." Kyris cocked his head, regarding Kirk with genuine curiosity. "You told us nothing during interrogation, but you did give us some information when you first arrived. Much of it was false, of course, but some undoubtedly was true. The best approach when trying to conceal one's identity is to tell as much truth as one can. You did look like a man who had been through some ordeal, and my men did find you in the desert alone. I wonder, Captain, if your ship is still in orbit here. Do they still search for you?" Kirk tried to keep his face expressionless, but something must have shown. "I see you wonder, too. What must it be like," Kyris asked softly, "to be totally alone, with only an enemy for company and comfort?"

Kirk let the commander think about it a minute. When he spoke his own voice was soft, but it held an edge. "I would gladly help you find out."

Kyris smiled broadly. "I am certain of it, Captain." He stood and came around the desk. "I am sorry our visit has been short, but I must see to business. I hope there is time for us to talk again before you are taken to Klinzhai."

Kirk rose, readying himself. Adrenalin and residual anger boosted his flagging energy; opportunity had made an appearance. "You'll never get me to Klinzhai," he said, as he had said once before, cheerful insolence in his tone.

Kyris was facing him, his back toward the control room. As he smiled and drew breath to reply, Kirk moved. Putting his head down he charged Kyris and drove him against the opposite wall two meters away, hard enough that the Klingon's head snapped back and struck the rock. The wind driven from his lungs, Kyris gasped for breath, unable to call his guards. Kirk brought the back of his head up like a fist under Kyris' jaw and heard a second crack of bone against rock. Kyris' knees buckled and he began to sag, and Kirk quickly finished the job with a kick to his chin.

There was no time for elation at the initial success of his desperate attempt; he was acutely aware of the unseen camera and knew he might have only seconds. Quickly he rolled onto his back, curling his legs to his chest, and managed to get his arms and hands in front of him; but his extreme movements had triggered the livewire and he could feel it beginning to tighten. Trying to ignore the tingling in his hands he lunged into the control room and located the comm console, reaching it in one stride. In an instant he determined that it was standard Klingon equipment; he knew how to operate it. His movements swift and sure, he found the correct switches and opened a channel. "Kirk to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise." There was no response. Shielded, then. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement in the doorway; Kyris was coming around. Where was the shield control? Too late, he saw it, just as strong hands dragged him from the board and whirled him around, putting greater strain on the constricting wires. Kahna faced him with his disruptor drawn and set to kill.

Behind him he heard Kyris stagger to his feet with a groan. In a few shuffling steps the commander was in front of him, clearly shaken. "I see I made a mistake in bringing you here, Captain." He glanced at the comm console with its blinking light indicating an open channel, and switched it off. "Almost a costly one." He took the disruptor from Kahna's hand and looked meaningfully at Kirk's bound wrists. "Those wires must be getting very tight."

They were; Kirk's teeth were gritted against the pain. "It's not so bad," he said as lightly as he could.

Kyris smiled knowingly. "It will not matter now." He raised the weapon.

A second can last an eternity. He's bluffing he won't fire he doesn't dare, Kirk thought, but he saw the tightening of Kyris' hand and knew he would. He had time to feel relief that at least now he could not betray anyone. Eternity ended in a bright green light.

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

Chapter Thirteen

When the four shuttlecraft descended from the sky just after sunrise, every inhabitant of Cambron stood and stared. They had waited for this moment, talked of it, written of it, dreamed of it, for many, many generations, and now that the visitors were actually here there was simply nothing to say. Their restraint was not conscious, as was a Vulcan's, but natural, a tranquility of spirit innate rather than imposed. They might not overtly display their emotions but neither did they suppress them, and they felt so deeply that the air was charged with their silent wonder.

The shuttlecraft pilots would transport the Federation/Ishanne ambassadorial teams to their first destinations, stay until they knew all was well, and then resume flying their designated search patterns until needed again for transport service to the next stop. The contact team members had each paired off with a native, and several other Enterprise crew members were also taking part; Uhura would travel with Atik, and Chekov with Hovet, a young metallurgist.

Chapel was officially on shore leave but with Denison's blessing had attached herself to biologist Pakka-sa and her partner Nilada; they were going to a village far enough north of Cambron that the surrounding area would have different plant and animal life, and Chapel wanted to collect samples. She was also looking forward to taking a small part in a contact mission, something that Sickbay personnel seldom had the opportunity to do.

"Christine!" She turned sharply, her packs and satchels swinging around and slapping against her; she was already badly rumpled from tramping through the desert scrub for the last hour. She was surprised at first to see McCoy, but then she remembered that he was supposed to meet with Relaphta this morning. She wondered if he was still angry--he had said little to her during the past couple of days.

"Good morning, Doctor," she said formally, though she did not come to attention; McCoy's staff had standing orders never to be at attention in his presence.

"What are you doing here?" he asked pleasantly. "You're supposed to be on shore leave."

"I am on shore leave, sir." His eyes widened at the "sir." She explained her plans.

"Doesn't sound like shore leave to me." McCoy smiled, but noticed her awkwardness. Abruptly he demanded, "Christine, why have you been pussyfooting around me for the last couple of days?"

She was so surprised at his question that her voice came out half an octave higher than normal. "Me? I've been expecting you to have me transferred to a supply ship on the fringe somewhere."

"What? Why, for heaven's sake?"

She stared at him, and then could not meet his eyes. Could he possibly have forgotten? Surely not. But he might have been willing to let it drop-- And now she had brought it up again. Nervously she fingered one of her straps. "Well, Doctor--um--the other night--"

"Oh." Realization dawned. "That." He had forgotten, sort of. Or maybe he just hadn't wanted to remember it. "Well, don't worry about that," he muttered. Embarrassment made him testy. "Christine, I don't transfer people who try to protect me from my own excesses." He bobbed up and down on his toes uncomfortably. "I really should have thanked you."

She smiled graciously, relief and affection evident in her eyes. "You're welcome." And then, unable to resist teasing just a little, she added, "Anytime."

He scowled. "Go get your leaves or bugs or whatever!"

"Both!" she called cheerily over her shoulder as she trotted off to join her team.

Chacol's slightly embarrassed but proud smile could not quite hide his agitation. All day yesterday he had contemplated accompanying Sulu and Chay with aplomb, but this morning when he had climbed into the shuttlecraft the enormity of what he was about to do almost overwhelmed him. Now he tried to calm the excitement that made his pulse race, the anticipation that seemed to suffocate him; but when Chay pressed the crucial series of buttons on the mystifying control panel and the engines of the craft hummed to life, he stiffened and gulped in a breath, gripping the edges of his seat.

"Chacol," Sulu said, understanding, "are you all right?"

Chacol managed a jerky nod. The engine noise was not loud but the subtle vibration seemed to resonate through his flesh and into his very bones. And then he did not know what he felt, for they were airborne and he looked down upon small figures that only seconds before had been his own size. Chay flew slowly over the entire village, giving him time to see everything from this new perspective. All of Cambron's residents had gathered on the common--watching me, as they would a bird. If only they could all be with him. Ahead in the bright distance he saw Galileo and wondered if Tenna, too, felt the same dizzying blend of emotions. That he could not share this with her was the only shadow on this wondrous morning--and he had to admit to himself that it was but a slight shadow.

"How do you like it?" Sulu asked him, grinning.

Chacol's eyes remained riveted on the screen. He spoke softly. "For the first time in living memory and beyond, some of my people are traveling through the sky." He was silent a moment, watching the desert formations as they flowed under him. Finally he added, "There are no words."

Then a wish struck him and he turned. "Sulu," he asked hesitantly, "may we fly over Sashna Velda?"

Sulu exchanged a smile with Chay. "Sure." Chay made a wide, slow turn and headed downstream along the dry riverbed. In minutes, rather than hours, they were approaching the city, naked under the burning sun instead of shaded by riverbank trees as it once had been.

"So soon!" Chacol exclaimed. He eyed Sulu and Chay. "To think we all might have been spared a long, hot walk," he teased, and they laughed. Movement on the screen caught his eye. "Look--someone is waving--but I cannot tell who it is."

"Watch this," Sulu said, and pressed a button.

Chacol gasped as the figure suddenly doubled in size. "Chammu," he said, recognizing the bare-headed man who waved hello from the square in front of the library. He waited until Chay had wiggled Challenger in reply, then studied the button Sulu had pressed. "Then this is not a window."

"No, it's something like the little screens on the tricorders, only more versatile," Sulu explained.

Chay completed the flyover of the city below and turned around to fly back toward Rodden, a hundred kilometers westward on the major trunk of the adjacent river system. Once again they flew over the wide streets of Sashna Velda. Chammu had gone into the library, and the city looked deserted. "So empty," Chacol murmured. "Lifeless."

For several minutes he said nothing further, only sat and watched the desert before him. Soon, however, his excitement returned and he was busy discussing with Sulu how they should approach Rodden. In less than thirty minutes they covered what would have been a three- or four-day walk, and the village was in sight. Rodden nestled between a bend in the river and a red wall of rock streaked with green and black; mine workings were visible on top of the cliff.

Following Chacol's suggestion, Chay passed several times over the village, flying low to call attention to themselves. The layout and design of the buildings was characteristic of the Ishanne, but Rodden was nearly twice as large as Cambron. Chacol informed them that it was one of the largest of Ishanne villages and had grown up around the extensive copper mine. "They are more assertive than we are," he commented. "They must be, to be heard in meeting." When twenty or thirty villagers had appeared and watched for a minute or two, Chay set Challenger down in the common, some thirty meters away from the group. As the three of them stepped out of the shuttlecraft, Chacol turned to Sulu and Chay and said earnestly, "Thank you."

"Our pleasure," Chay assured him. He and Sulu followed Chacol toward the group of ten who were approaching across the pale-green grassy field. The villagers seemed curious and maybe a little nervous, but unafraid. As they came closer, however, their surprise at seeing one of their own people emerge from this strange craft was obvious.

"Chacol?" The middle-aged man who led the group spoke uncertainly, but clasped his arms over his chest and bowed.

"Yes, Trinis," Chacol said, returning the greeting. "I have brought important news--news which could not wait for a runner or the boats." Trinis' golden eyes flicked over the strangers and their even stranger transportation, but he contained his curiosity and waited for Chacol to explain.

"Our people have long believed that the stars warm other planets and that those planets are home to life such as ourselves," Chacol said, unable to hide how thrilled he was to bring this news to Rodden. "You were taught this, as was I."

Trinis nodded. His glance moved from their faces to the shuttlecraft behind them and back again. It was clear that he was already beginning to comprehend but he was as restrained as Chacol and did not interrupt.

"These are Sulu and Chay," Chacol said, and the two of them bowed to Trinis in the Ishanne fashion. "They are called humans, and they are from another world."

Trinis caught his breath, and his companions stirred and whispered among themselves. He looked from the humans to Chacol and said, "Truly?"

"Truly."

A familiar expression of tremendous delight and satisfaction played over Trinis' features. He crossed his arms and bowed. "Welcome," he said, eyes shining, and even without a translator his tone would have carried his meaning. "Welcome."

Flushed and sweating, Chekov flung himself down on the grass between Atik and Sulu. "That's all I can remember right now, but I recorded it so I can learn the whole thing later." Chekov, a fan of folk dancing and rather good at it himself, had been demonstrating to an appreciative audience a dance he had begun to learn at Peteni, a village on the same river as Cambron but a hundred thirty kilometers to the northeast. The activities on the common tonight were more typical than the elaborate show presented two nights previously. Small groups sang or danced or played instruments or just talked, and a number of Enterprise personnel on shore leave rotation had beamed down to join in.

Chekov's partner Hovet slapped his thighs in approval. "Well done, well done. You learn quickly!"

"Thank you." Chekov ducked his head, mildly embarrassed at the praise. "There are parts of the dance, though, that I think I vill not be able to do. I don't think my body vill move that vay."

"You know, I was thinking that the other night at the story-dance," Uhura said, "but I forgot about it until now. I was wondering if the Ishanne skeletal structure is different from ours--more limber."

"Give the lady a prize," said a familiar gravelly voice. McCoy and Relaphta approached in time to catch the last bit of their conversation.

"You mean they are different?" Chekov asked, sitting up so the two doctors wouldn't seem upside down.

McCoy nodded. "You should see the anatomical drawings Relaphta has--as accurate as anything in a Starfleet medical text and prettier, too. The most noticeable difference is in the spinal column. Theirs is sturdier and more flexible than ours--Relaphta's never heard of a slipped disc. But there are some differences in the hip and shoulder construction, too, especially in the female skeleton."

"Stand up, Atik," Relaphta directed. Atik scrambled to obey. "And you, Uhura. We will demonstrate." Uhura got to her feet as well, thinking with a smile that though the Ishanne might not have official leadership, there were certainly those who wielded influence.

Small, wiry, and charmingly bossy, Relaphta positioned the two women next to each other and suggested movements that he himself could no longer perform. It was soon clear that Uhura, graceful and well-trained as she was, could not quite manage them. Atik's hips and shoulders rotated farther, allowing her arms and legs a greater range of movement. She could twist her torso farther as well, and her sideways movements were more sinuous than Uhura's.

"You see?" Relaphta allowed his models to be seated as McCoy looked on with amusement. Relaphta had ordered him around all day.

"Have you been with Relaphta since I saw you this morning?" Chapel asked.

"Guilty," McCoy admitted. "Couldn't tear myself away." He smiled down at his counterpart. "He's a good sport, though--answered every one of my questions and invited me back again." Relaphta harumphed, reminding Chapel of McCoy's characteristic reaction to a compliment. "Get Chekov to show you some Russian folk dances," McCoy suggested to the group. "They're pretty spectacular."

"Oh, yes, Pav, you must," Uhura seconded. "They'll love those."

"All right, but vait until I can breathe again." He grimaced, wiping perspiration out of his eyes. "Let's have some sit-down entertainment for a while."

"We're sitting down," Sulu pointed out, and ducked Chekov's playful swat.

McCoy excused himself then, Relaphta accompanying him. Atik watched them walk together to the edge of the pond, where McCoy bowed and went alone down the bank into the night, lighting his way with a fireless torch. She had always wondered where the humans went when they just walked away like that. Now she knew that they somehow returned to their vessel high above. Chacol was right, she admitted. It was better to know, to have their questions answered at last.

"You know who we need here," Sulu said, watching Maureen O'Rourke in a nearby circle try out one of the Ishanne stringed instruments, "is Mr. Spock. He plays his Vulcan harp sometimes in the rec room," he explained to Hovet and Atik. "He's very good."

"We must ask him," Hovet said eagerly.

"If he has time I'll bet he would," Sulu said. "I'll ask him when I see him."

"Your people have really made us feel welcome," Uhura told Atik and Hovet. "Not just Cambron, but the other villages, too. Several that we visited today are already planning gatherings for those of us who are staying. It's very generous of them."

"We have guests so seldom that it is always an excuse to plan a gathering," Atik explained. "Travel is a major undertaking for us. We will miss the speed of your shuttlecraft," she finished wistfully, and knew that she sounded very much like Chacol.

"What about hot air balloons?" Chammu asked. "They're mentioned in the historical record, but I don't think they ever became commonplace."

"No one knows how anymore and no one has the time to learn," Hovet said gloomily. "Other things are more pressing."

Like survival, Chammu thought, but though he said nothing the others must have thought it, too. They were all a little subdued after that, and not even Chekov's exuberant Russian leaps could completely lift the mood again.

In his quarters that evening, having once again relinquished the sensors to Lieutenant Sorensen, Spock read Giotto's daily summary of progress in the search for Kirk. The security chief's report was always concise and always negative: "No evidence discovered." Spock no longer tried to calculate odds, or even to examine his own beliefs about Kirk's chances. He knew that most of the crew believed that they still searched only because there was no reason not to. The disruptions caused by Kirk's disappearance had begun to subside and Enterprise was once again running smoothly. But she was a ship who had--probably–lost her captain, and even Spock could feel that she and her crew were subtly changed.

He turned his attention to the other reports which awaited him. The day's visits to other Ishanne villages had confirmed Chacol's prediction that the contact teams would receive fearless and enthusiastic welcomes, and Elsenbrach had reported that the sector representative had approved protected status contact for Ishan. The commodore was still concerned that the Ishanne had not yet asked for anything from the Federation--probably would not, Spock believed--but Spock, considering the geological and archaeological teams' reports, was beginning to realize that there was something the Federation might offer them.

Though only long-term study would yield definite answers, the geologists had theorized that, due possibly to a minute shift in the planet's orbit or angle of axial tilt, Ishan's recent harsh climatic changes were permanent. And without sufficient water, all life on Ishan was slowly dying. Already the Ishanne had been forced to move northward, following the receding rivers. Some had left their cities as recently as five or six generations ago--only yesterday to a civilization which had survived essentially unchanged for more than two thousand years. But they tried to locate new villages as near to the old cities as possible. It was the duty of teachers like Chacol and Atik to study the records left in the archives so that the accumulated knowledge of this very old civilization should not be lost. Despite these efforts, however, the Ishanne's cultural development had stalled. The arts, the sciences, manufacturing, and philosophy were all well represented in the records stored in the cities' libraries, but present-day Ishanne must spend too much time and energy on subsistence to retain or add to that knowledge. They had maintained high standards in those areas which had the most to do with the quality of their lives and their survival as a civilization: medicine, government, the care of their children, agriculture. But new artistic and philosophical works were rare, and scientific experimentation was almost unknown. Spock was struck most intensely by the fatalistic theme which had pervaded their literature for generations, that of the eventual, inevitable death of their civilization. Their art forms looked back, not forward, for they were at all times aware that whatever they accomplished would ultimately fade.

He turned off the computer screen, which long minutes ago had ceased to hold his attention, and placed a call. "Mr. Scott, if you are not otherwise occupied, could you come to my quarters? I should like to discuss something with you."

After a busy day in Sickbay repairing searchers who had run afoul of Ishan's heat or rocks or who had taken on too many transportations in too short a time, McCoy gave himself a mid-afternoon break. In the deck five mess he collected his coffee and chocolate doughnut from the synthesizer and walked over to where Spock sat reading from a table screen over a belated lunch. Spock motioned for him to sit down, and he did not miss the first officer's faintly disapproving air when he saw McCoy's snack. "Of course you never eat between meals," the doctor said tartly. "Spock, that isn't natural."

"Natural?" Both of Spock's slanted eyebrows rose fractionally. "I am not hungry between meals, Doctor. I eat enough at meals to satisfy my hunger."

"Well, so do most of us. I don't have to be hungry to want a snack."

"And if I should feel the need for a snack I certainly would not eat something containing almost no nutritional value," Spock added, so reasonably that McCoy wanted to throw the doughnut at him.

"Probably not. Spock, don't Vulcans ever do anything that's bad for them?"

"Not intentionally. It is a human trait I will never understand."

"We don't understand it either." With time-honored technique McCoy dunked the doughnut into his coffee and took a huge bite, savoring the blend of sweet and bitter flavors, then dabbed daintily with a napkin at the mess he made on the table. "But we know how to enjoy it."

An eyebrow climbed, but Spock did not waste further comment on minor human vices. "I read your informative report this morning, Doctor. Your opinion of Ishanne medical technique is most favorable."

"It should be. There's no superstition or mysticism at work here; their methods are purely scientific. I know I've only met Relaphta, but he claims to be a typical physician. They understand bacteria and infection, sterilization of instruments and dressings--and the surgical instruments are flawless. I wouldn't want to go back to cutting and sewing, but that's all they have and they do it well."

Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of Engineer Scott, carrying a fistful of data tapes. "I've go' those plans you wanted, Mr. Spock."

"Very good, Mr. Scott." He cleared the screen, and Scott sat down and inserted a cassette into the computer access slot. Spock sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Doctor, you may find this interesting."

There then ensued a conversation between the engineer and the science officer full of jargon so technical McCoy found it all but unintelligible. He was amazed yet again at all the work Spock had been doing. And Scotty, too--the transporters, and now this, whatever it was. He listened, and watched the animated diagrams on the screen, and gradually it all became clear to him.

"You're going to bring the water up from underground--back into the rivers!" he said finally, incredulous, breaking into something Scotty was saying about vacuum pumps and pressure-sealed valves.

"Aye," Scott said with pride, and then admitted, slightly downcast, "--well, only on a small scale. We can't handle what it would take to fill all the rivers again. That will take a fully equipped geological engineering vessel. But," --his irrepressible enthusiasm returned-- "there's a nice little underground reservoir near Sashna Velda. We've designed a circular system that taps that reservoir upstream and creates a flow past the town. We'll fill a few kilometers of the river so animals will benefit, too. Then we pipe the flow underground, purify it, and pump it out again. Most of the city is structurally sound; bring the water back and the Ishanne can live there again."

McCoy, not surprisingly, was skeptical. "But they won't know how to maintain the machinery."

Spock nodded. "True. We will leave engineers with the contact team, who, besides their usual duties, will help the Ishanne relocate. I believe there are enough members of Starfleet science sections who would enjoy a pastoral life to staff a small Federation base permanently."

"A few of my people are already interested," Scott said.  "And then an engineering ship will continue the process."

"The project will not be complete for several years," Spock added, "but when it is, we will have given the Ishanne perhaps thousands of years of life as a civilization."

McCoy frowned. "But won't the desert eventually win?"

"Of course. The forces of nature always prevail. The orbit of this planet, the established weather patterns--if we attempted to alter these factors we would cause more disaster for the Ishanne than we would alleviate. But by the time the Ishanne have seriously depleted their natural reservoirs, they may well be engaged in colonizing efforts of their own." Spock reflected a moment. "I must say the possibility pleases me. They are a sensible, aesthetic people. If their influence were to spread, there could only be positive effect."

McCoy stared at the screen for a moment, digesting all of this astounding information. The grandiose plan certainly had emotional appeal, but objections were inescapable. "Spock, have you got Starfleet and Federation approval for all this?"

"Not as yet. We must complete our geological survey and feasibility study first, to determine whether the mineral wealth of the planet will support such a project. If not, the Federation may want simply to relocate the Ishanne when their time begins to run out."

"That would be a shame, unless absolutely necessary. This is their home."

"Yes. A civilization's cultural characteristics are determined greatly by its environment. Remove the Ishanne from their native environment and their culture will change."

"You really think the Federation will gain enough from this planet to warrant the expense?"

"I do. Think of the riches of Earth even now, after so many centuries of humanity's plundering."

McCoy nodded thoughtfully. "Well, maybe. I hope it does work, for their sake."

"We'll make it work," Scott declared with his characteristic confidence.

The intercom whistle interrupted them. "Bridge to Mr. Spock."

"Spock here."

"Ser," Chekov said urgently, "shuttlecraft Columbus is missing. Ve are unable to raise her."

McCoy traded a troubled look with Scott as Spock asked, "When was the last communication?"

"Just over an hour ago, ser. I began to get confusing readings on the sensors--some sort of surge. I could not determine the cause. Hooks and Franklin were flying their search pattern near those coordinates so I sent them to inwestigate. They never reported in, and they don't answer our hails."

"I'll be there momentarily, Mr. Chekov. Spock out."

There was a brief, grim silence.  Then McCoy said, "So now we search for three."

"It would seem so." A crease had etched itself into Spock's brow. "Mr. Scott, please continue with the water recovery project. Now might be the appropriate time to assign a hydrologist to on-site planning."

"Aye, sir."

Spock left the room, leaving Scott and McCoy staring morosely at the plans that a moment before had been so inspiring.

"Maybe they're just having communications trouble."  McCoy's tone held no conviction.

"Maybe."

"Damn," McCoy whispered.

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

Chapter Fourteen

Time dragged.                                                                                                                         

Mida paced ceaselessly, distressed by Kirk's absence. The captain was hardly in good health now; if he was interrogated again he would be far too weak to escape in time. Mida already understood that if Kirk managed to escape he would do so alone, or with only Tastaf. He could not succeed if he was responsible for two lives other than his own, and as a Starfleet officer his greater obligation was to Tastaf and his people, caught in the middle as innocents usually were.

But though Kirk's presence might not mean imminent escape for Mida, it had rekindled a vigorous resolve in the diplomat that he had not felt in a long while. Once the ambassador's party had been taken within the boundaries of the Klingon Empire they were separated, and Mida's existence degenerated into a monotonous, stupefying routine of nothing but overwork and fitful sleep. He had been assigned to this mine, and gradually he became like the kuve who worked beside him: slow, dull-witted, docile.

Until now. Until a starship captain with a reputation for determination and tenacity appeared and asked, do you want to get home? Kirk's outrage at the Orions' and Klingons' treatment of Mida and his colleagues had energized him. Though he knew he could not accompany Kirk he had in his own mind committed himself to do everything in his power to help the escape attempt succeed--if Kirk got the chance.

Across the corridor Tastaf sank to the floor, weary of waiting. Mida stopped pacing and sat in an almost identical pose. Each took some comfort from the other's concern for Kirk, and from the fact that he did not wait alone.

For the second time Kirk woke on the floor, the room tilting crazily. His first thought was for his hands, again bound behind him; they felt whole, but he wanted to see them. He twisted his shoulders carefully.

"Your hands are still attached, Captain." Kyris stood over him, smiling; his cool exterior had returned. The two were alone in the control room.

Kirk mustered as much dignity as he could. "You seem in good spirits for a man whose operation was just about blown." His words were slurred; the heavy stun would take a while to wear off. He struggled awkwardly to his knees; his thighs were wobbly but he managed to remain upright, sitting on his heels. "I thought Klingons always shoot to kill."

"Usually we do." Kyris' smile became rueful. "If I had not remembered to change the setting on Kahna's weapon I would now be very embarrassed and you would be very dead." He looked over his shoulder. "Kahna." The aide stepped into the control room from the outer office.

Slowly, so that his speech would be clearer, Kirk said, "I'm flattered that you feel the need for insurance, Commander." He matched Kahna glare for glare.

"I cannot predict what you will try next, Captain. I have learned my lesson. Until I can transport you to Klinzhai--and I will get you to Klinzhai, Captain--I will take very good care of you. You will go with Kahna now."

Kirk tried to stand but his legs had no strength to push off the ground. It took Kyris' stern gesture to prod Kahna into helping him to rise, but he did so and pushed Kirk before him. At the doorway Kirk turned carefully and said, "If you survive your tour here and get your ship, perhaps we'll meet in battle someday."

Kyris' dark face held a curious mixture of triumph and respect, liking and perhaps a trace of regret. "By the time I command my ship, Captain, you will be only a memory."

The dim cellblock was quiet. Kirk sat against the wall, head back, legs outstretched, thinking. Hours had passed since he had been brought back to the cell. The effects of the disruptor stun had worn off and he had napped a little. Tastaf had made certain that the guard had left Kirk's ration, and after his stomach had settled he had eaten all of the tasteless food. He felt reasonably alert mentally, but still, as always, physically tired. He looked at Tastaf, sleeping in the corner with his back to the wall. Across the corridor, Mida dozed, too, in the stuffy atmosphere.

He had spent most of those hours teaching Tastaf some Standard, trying to anticipate which words and phrases the native must know to be of use in an escape attempt--for he was confident that there would be another opportunity; if none presented itself he would make his own. Simple action words were easy: stop, go, walk, run, sit, stand. Others were more difficult to demonstrate: follow me, climb or descend the ladder, help me.

Kirk had also tried to teach Tastaf some basic hand-to-hand combat techniques, all the while hoping he would not have to use them; though Tastaf was well-muscled he was much smaller and lighter than the average Klingon soldier. Kirk's concern went beyond size, however. Tastaf dutifully learned the holds and blocks Kirk showed him, but clearly he had never had to think about self-defense before; he might well be a liability in a fight, rather than any aid at all. Still, Kirk knew he could not leave Tastaf here. When he went Tastaf would be with him.

And what of Mida, a Federation citizen who had been a great help to him already? Escape would be difficult enough with only Tastaf to worry about. A second untrained civilian might ruin his chance completely. And he knew he would have only one more chance. If it failed, too, Kyris would chain him to the wall to hold him here. Of course, if his chance came while he was in Kyris' office or with the commander in the mine he would be foolish to try to come back for either of his allies; better to make good his escape and return in force. But if the opening came here in the cellblock, he would need diversionary cover, and there was no one but Mida to provide it. He could never explain to Tastaf what was needed.

Suddenly restless, he paced quietly, his frustration evident in the quickness of his strides, the tightness of his turns. He could do nothing until his cell door was open. So far it had been opened only for food delivery and for the guards to take him to Kyris. He thought it unlikely that he would see Kyris again. During their last meeting, even before Kirk's move on the control room, the commander had seemed dismissive. He had tried his best to squeeze information from his prisoner without inflicting damage that would interfere with a mind-sifter's delicate operation; now he would go back to running his mine and send Kirk off to Klinzhai with a clear conscience.

The chance would come, then, with a morning food delivery. He stopped pacing and stretched, feeling less restive. Now he had something like a plan. Tomorrow he would watch closely when the daily rations were delivered. These were guards in a mine, he told himself repeatedly; there should be a weak spot in their routine. He would find it tomorrow, and the following morning he and Tastaf would escape.

Abruptly all his energy drained from him and he had to sit down again. How could he think of escape when he couldn't trust his strength to remain constant? He couldn't even stand for more than fifteen minutes without feeling faint. And he had only tomorrow to rest.

The sound of the elevator doors startled him. He had not expected to hear them until breakfast. "Tastaf," he said quietly. "Wake up." In a few seconds Tastaf was at his side. Kirk listened to the approaching footsteps. Now, or wait? He was still tired and dizzy, in no shape to rush two guards.

Kahna appeared at the cell opening, the force field lights playing over the bony ridges on his forehead and casting weird shadows across his face. True to the pattern, he was unarmed. He waved the two prisoners back and deactivated the door only when they were several feet away. Then he himself stepped back and motioned to Kirk to accompany him.

Kirk tensed. "Why?" Kahna's reply might well determine his next move. If the supply ship was early he had no choice; ready or not, he would have to act now.  Behind Kahna, Mida edged nearer the force field of his own cell.

In a sour tone Kahna replied, "Commander Kyris wants to see you." He clearly did not appreciate again having to do escort duty.

His words banished from Kirk's mind all temptation to escape now. Kyris was expecting him; if he failed to arrive the alarm would be almost immediate. He nodded reassuringly at Tastaf, who stepped back, understanding that he must do nothing yet. Kirk, his wrists wired as usual, headed down the corridor to the waiting guard, Kahna following but staying out of his reach. In the quiet cellblock, Tastaf and Mida waited, listening to the thin echo of their footsteps.

"In here," Kyris said, and to Kirk's surprise Kahna and the guard escorted him into the control room. Kirk noted with grim amusement that this time Kahna remained with his commander, disruptor drawn and ready. "I brought you here to show you something, Captain." Kyris sounded as if he personally had fetched Kirk from his cell. "I thought you might be interested."

He directed Kirk's attention to a monitor above the control panel, and Kirk might have been standing with Spock at the library-computer station on the Enterprise bridge. But the sudden, awful pang of loneliness and uncertainty was erased when he saw that the image on the screen was a Starfleet shuttlecraft. The picture was snowy, the image marred by interference, but he devoured it with hungry eyes.

"They do search for you, Captain," Kyris said almost gently. There was something else in his tone--apology, perhaps--but before Kirk could wonder what the undercurrent was, on the screen the shuttlecraft suddenly lurched and dipped and was soon out of control. Horrified, helpless, he watched its erratic course, its terribly increasing speed as it went down onto unyielding rock and broke apart.

"No!" The word was wrung from his tight throat and chest. "No," he said again, this time little more than a whisper. Smoke and sparks billowed from the wreckage; green and pink puddles of coolants and lubricants began to form on the bedrock. He saw no sign of movement. "You did this," he said flatly, not turning.

"Of course," Kyris admitted openly; whatever regret might have been in his voice was not for the victims of the crash.

Kirk still had not turned around. "When?"

"Several hours ago--"

Kirk spun about, for a split second not caring about Kahna or the surveillance cameras, wanting only to smash Kyris' face in, to repay him for his casual cruelty. He found himself face to face with Kahna's disruptor. It was set to kill. Evidently Kahna thought himself immune from "embarrassment." Even if he was disobeying a direct order from Kyris, the commander probably would get the blame.

Kirk forced himself to rein in his temper. "The crash will be investigated. You'll be discovered."

"You saw their speed, Captain. They traveled several kilometers before they crashed. Your people will not find our perimeter. Besides, their investigation will show only that the craft experienced a complete power failure and went down. An accident."

"My people don't like mysteries," Kirk challenged.

"I'm sure they are admirably diligent," Kyris returned, cheerfully patronizing. "Nevertheless, even if they should find us, Captain, it will be too late for you." He nodded at Kahna, who pointed toward the door with his disruptor. After a second's hesitation Kirk obeyed.

"Rest well, Captain," Kyris said from behind him, a note in his voice Kirk had not heard before. He added a brief order to Kahna in Klingonese, of which Kirk understood only "ship" and "cell." Kirk glanced back and saw Kyris watching him, his expression unreadable.

As he and Kahna joined the guard waiting in the corridor and started toward the lift, Kirk tried to deduce the content of Kyris' order. Instinct, the instinct of a trapped animal, told him it was critical. What was Kyris' greatest fear? That Kirk would escape or manage to get himself killed before the supply ship arrived. He had been visibly unnerved by Kirk's near success in the control room early that morning, and he himself had said he would have been "very embarrassed" if he had accidentally killed his important captive. Kirk suspected the Empire's reaction to such carelessness might be somewhat stronger. How best to prevent another desperate attempt?

"Keep him in his cell until the supply ship arrives."

Kyris was through taking chances. His only mistake was a desire to gloat one more time. If he could not wring information out of his prisoner he could at least torment him. The commander's flashes of sympathy for him were genuine, Kirk believed, but they did not stand in the way of Kyris' desire to demonstrate repeatedly that he was in control. Sympathy had prompted him to show Kirk that his crew were still looking for him, but he did not hesitate to let Kirk see as well just how powerful and well-shielded his installation was, how easily he could destroy any investigators, how completely Kirk was at his mercy.

They were in the lift now, on their way up. If they got him back to his cell this time he would not get out again until the supply ship came. After his attempt to use the communications equipment in the control room Kyris was watching him more closely. The commander had taken greater care this time while Kirk was with him; he might well assign additional guards to the next food delivery. Fortunately for Kirk, the instrument of Kyris' psychological torture was not mobile, but in any case the commander would not have come into the cellblock. Again Kirk must be brought to him. Against all probability he had a better chance than he would have when food was delivered, and he owed it to the probable deaths of some of his crew. He would not waste it.

His pulse quickened. Sweat trickled down his neck. He tried to remain outwardly calm, tried not to let his increased tension warn his escort he was planning something. He had a bad moment when two other guards joined the lift on twelve. What if they were riding all the way to the top? He had no chance at all against four. He managed to control his sigh of relief when they exited the lift at the eighth level, where according to Mida there was a small lounge. He tried to look tired and resigned as the doors opened onto the familiar row of cells.

Now.

He waited for the usual shove forward, and when it came, instead of stumbling a few paces down the corridor as the guards expected, he resisted the shove and propelled himself backward, grabbing for the disruptor that was already in mid-pass. As his hand closed like a vise over the weapon he felt the first bite of the livewire around his wrists. Throwing himself back and to his left into Kahna, who was now unarmed, he twisted and aimed from behind his back at the other guard, whose disruptor was already coming to bear on him. Kirk fired, and the guard disappeared in a blaze of light.

Kahna, momentarily pinned to the wall by Kirk's weight, had Kirk in a determined full nelson and was pressing down on his neck with considerable force. Kirk could feel the Klingon's breath, hot and ragged with exertion. He still had the disruptor but its muzzle was forced downward between their two struggling bodies. His hands, the left of little use anyway, were growing clumsy as the livewire constricted; Kahna's hold was forcing his arms up and apart from behind, pulling on his wrists and tightening the wire still further. Bathed in sweat, Kirk strained against the nelson, neck and shoulder muscles screaming. He maneuvered Kahna slightly to the left and with a force borne of desperation slammed him backward, trying to catch him between the shoulder blades with the edge of the wall. But the Klingon's tunic was so thick the blow had little effect.

The wire had begun to cut, and Kirk could feel the disruptor slipping in his now-bloody hand. Much longer and the wires would cut through the main arteries. He gathered his remaining strength and heaved upward, lifting Kahna's heavy bulk slightly off the ground, enough so that he could take the two steps necessary to reach the first cell. Praying he wouldn't stumble and fall, he swung around and shoved Kahna against the force field, fighting the energy that was shoving back. The field hummed impressively and Kahna grunted from the shock. The grunt became a growl; tapping some reserve of strength, he seemed to double his pressure against Kirk's weakening neck muscles. Black spots haloed in light swam before Kirk's eyes, but somehow he resisted, somehow his thighs and back shoved harder, and a few seconds later Kahna's grip slackened. Kirk staggered and crashed to his knees under the Klingon's sudden dead weight.

Kahna's arms were still entwined through his. With difficulty Kirk extricated himself, rolled and got his hands in front of him, then grabbed Kahna's dagger and stumbled down to Mida's cell. He was aware of Tastaf pressed against his cell opening trying to understand what was going on, but right now he needed Mida. The Rigellian, who had heard the commotion but had seen nothing of the fight, was appalled at Kirk's appearance: disheveled, sweat-drenched, bloody. "Captain!" He was at Kirk's side as soon as Kirk deactivated his force field.

Kirk sank to his knees in exhaustion and pain, holding out his bloody wrists. "Mida," he gasped. "The dagger. Help me!" Mida knew how livewire behaved; he "killed" it, stopping the constriction, by severing the thin strand between Kirk's wrists. But the separate halves were still embedded in Kirk's skin. Mida took as much care as he could in his haste, but his efforts inevitably worsened the wounds; Kirk fought to keep from crying out as Mida bore down on the blade. Blackness began to cloud his vision, but he could still feel, and his breath came in hoarse sobs.

Finally it was over, and Kirk came fully to his senses to find his wrists bathed and bandaged in strips of Tastaf's cloak, his hands washed clean, and Mida and Tastaf seated by him, watching him anxiously. "How long have I been out?"

"Only a few minutes, Captain."

He had a little time, then. "Kahna?" His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"He is in your cell," Mida replied, pointing, and Kirk thought he saw light smiles of satisfaction on both their faces.

He tried to move his hands, with little success. They were still almost numb. Weak with astonishment at what he had just accomplished, he moved his head slowly from side to side, trying to ease the burning ache in his neck and shoulders. "It's a good thing Kahna didn't know how to use a nelson on a human, or I wouldn't be talking to you."  Kahna's ignorance of technique had probably also spared him a re-break of his left arm.

He looked hard then at both of them, studying the expressions on their faces: Mida, a diplomat, but toughened now by experience; and Tastaf, bewildered but wanting to help.  "Tastaf," he said, the strength beginning to return to his voice, "you're coming with me. We're going home." Tastaf understood enough to smile. "Mida--" He saw in Mida's set expression that the Rigellian was already prepared for what he had to say. "Mida, I wish I could take you out now, too, but I need a diversion and you're the only one who can communicate with the kuve. I'm sorry."

"Understood, Captain," was Mida's firm response. "What can I do?"

You can serve on my ship when this is over, Kirk thought, holding Mida's eyes with his own, then pulled his mind back to business. "I can't try for the control room again; when Kahna doesn't report they'll be ready. So I'll have to go up."

They helped him stand on shaky legs and he walked around, working the stiffness out of his neck and shoulders and bruised knees as he outlined his plan for them, trying not to sound as if the details were new to him, too. Worried that the guards, especially Kahna, would soon be missed, he spoke quickly to Mida, gaining confidence from the Rigellian's ready acceptance of his role. He gave Tastaf his simple instructions more slowly, making sure the native understood exactly what was expected of him.

His gaze settled on Mida, stationed now by the control box. Kirk realized full well what he was asking of the ambassador's aide. "Mida, I'll be back for you."

Mida startled him with a thumbs-up gesture--now where had he picked that up?--and smiled. "Luck to you, Captain!"

Kirk nodded, then positioned himself and Tastaf next to the ladder shaft opposite the lift. He carried Kahna's disruptor and dagger. At his signal Mida pulled the lever that would sound a system-wide general alarm and deactivate the force field doors of every cell in the mine. Kirk fervently hoped the kuve were not as timid about escaping danger as they seemed to be about everything else; the success of the first stage of his escape depended entirely upon them.

As the alarm sounded the force field lights went off and, after a brief hesitation, the kuve began to exit their cells. Even Kirk's cell door opened to the emergency signal; Kahna was no longer confined. Kirk leveled the disruptor at the still form and fired a heavy stun beam that combined with the shock from the force field should keep Kahna out for at least an hour or two.

Mida herded the kuve down the corridor to where Kirk and Tastaf were waiting to send them up the three-sided ladder. More kuve were already climbing up from below. Tastaf followed Kirk's lead as the two fitted themselves into the column of kuve and began to work their way up the ladder.

Mida waited until the last of the kuve from his cellblock were on the ladder and then started up himself. His orders were to keep the kuve milling around on the surface for as long as possible; keep everything confused. In truth he held little hope for the success of the plan; it counted on an extraordinary degree of luck, and on Kirk's ability, after only a few meetings with Kyris, to accurately predict the commander's reactions. But in Mida's brief experience of Kirk, luck did seem to travel with this man--luck, confidence, and an absolute refusal to quit. So perhaps there was a chance, after all.

Kirk climbed quickly, his left arm tucked into the front of the softsuit. His tightly bandaged right wrist was stiff and painful, but functional. Climbing one-handed amidst all the hurrying kuve and keeping an eye on Tastaf at the same time took concentration, but necessity gave him sureness in his movements. Necessity, and a certain exhilaration. He was hardly safe, but he was on his way out, in control now, acting instead of reacting. He was climbing on the side of the ladder that would give him a wall at his back when he reached the entry level three floors above. He needed that slight advantage, for he would not be stopping there.

The kuve climbing just above him stepped off the ladder into the entry. Kirk slowed and cautiously raised his head above the level of the floor. As yet no guards were nearby; the alarm had sounded only moments before and no doubt rescuing kuve was low on the list of priorities. Kirk climbed through the entry level in seconds, Tastaf just behind, stopping when both of them were above the ceiling. The shaft had narrowed to become simply a utility/ventilation shaft, the ladder only one section now, and there was not room for two men to climb easily.

"Wait here," Kirk told Tastaf quietly, and hurried higher. Far overhead, the equivalent of four or five levels, he could see the lights of the force field shielding the opening. There was no guard. Kirk was gambling now that there would be a switch nearby to deactivate the field from the inside, as there was at the main entry. This was a mine, not a prison; its defenses were designed primarily to keep people out, not in.

Sweating, chest heaving in the thinner air, he reached the top. The shaft was illuminated by sunlight and the indicator lights of the force field, but he did not see a switch. He had to deactivate that field. If there was no sign that he had left the mine Kyris might confine his search to the interior, and that would be disaster. Then he saw the switch, a meter below him; in his haste he had passed it. He pressed it, and the orange glow of the lights disappeared.

Now he must hurry. Though he heard no general signal, he had to assume that an alarm had gone off somewhere alerting the guards of a breach of security; he and Tastaf must get away from the shaft. Hanging on with his right hand he removed his feet from the rungs, pressed his ankles against the sides of the ladder, and slid down, intensely aware of the more than fifteen floors below him. But he rejoined Tastaf safely just as the last of the kuve on this ladder were arriving from the lower cellblocks. If he had been any slower finding the switch, he and Tastaf would have lost their crowd cover.

"Follow them," he said to Tastaf, pointing, and the two of them climbed down quickly to floor level and merged with the remaining frightened kuve. Keeping their heads down, they assumed the same submissive posture and headed through the crowd for the chamber where the water lorries were kept, not twenty meters to their left. Kirk ducked his head as a guard ran by just three meters from him. A moment later Mida had made his way over to Kirk to help maneuver the covering group closer to the lorries. Kirk hesitated briefly, but if he was right about Kyris, it should make no difference which lorry he and Tastaf boarded. They approached the nearest, looking around quickly to make sure the crowds of kuve in the chamber blocked them from any guard's view. Kirk sent Tastaf up the side of the lorry and into the tank through the hatch at the top. He shot a last look of thanks at Mida and quickly followed.

After an hour or so had passed the noise outside began to subside as the kuve were rounded up. Soon the Klingons would discover, if they did not already know, that Kirk and Tastaf were missing, and one of two things would happen: either they would be caught and tossed back into their cell, or they would escape when the lorries went out to search for them. Wiping sweat from his brow and fighting to stay awake in the still, hot darkness, Kirk hoped that whichever it was it would happen soon.

Mida's heart pounded so hard he could not see straight. Unable to be still, he paced erratically in his cell, tripping over his own feet. His hands shook. An hour ago his hands had been covered with Kirk's blood. Doubt assailed him. This plan could not possibly succeed. It was too outrageous, too risky. Kirk was hurt and exhausted and not recovered from the terrible battle he had fought in the corridor. He was functioning mostly on determination and adrenalin. And Tastaf, though through no fault of his own, was simply incapable of being any help. Desperate men were sometimes capable of extraordinary strength and courage, but this escape plan--the first stage, at least--had more to do with luck than ability. Kirk should have tried again for the control room; perhaps they would not expect it since he had failed in his earlier attempt. Perhaps–

The sound of the elevator's arrival brought Mida to the cell door. He could hear the voices of several guards. Kirk had not anticipated this. But Mida knew procedure here better than Kirk did; he himself should have expected the Klingons to question the kuve on this floor. He thought frantically. What could he do to divert them from the lorries? He himself would not be suspect. The others on the block would have seen nothing of his aid to Kirk except--

His eyes fastened on his Iliwirian cellmate, a weak, timid being who had not said a dozen words to him since their arrival on this planet ten months before. He did not even know the Iliwirian's name. In fact, the man was so pathetically silent that Mida tended to forget his existence. But he had been here through the long conversations with Kirk and through the escape. He had seen it all.

The harsh voices came nearer, and Mida recognized one that he heard infrequently but would never mistake: Kyris. If Kyris was willing to befoul himself by coming into the cellblock while Kahna was incapacitated, he was furious indeed. Mida looked again at his cellmate, pale and thin as all kuve were, as Mida was himself. The Iliwirian stared back, but at Mida's chin, not meeting his eyes. He would not know what Kirk's plans were since the conversations had been in Standard, but he could guess that Mida knew. It struck Mida then that the Iliwirian had not volunteered any information to the guards. But, in response to direct questioning, would he tell Kyris now?

Mida knelt beside him, advancing so quickly that the Iliwirian cringed. "There may be some hope of freedom," he said with quiet force, "if you help me. Do not contradict anything I tell Kyris. Do you agree?"

The Iliwirian hesitated, then nodded once, his eyes wide and finally meeting Mida's. The Klingons were only a few cells away, and Mida could hear the questions and the uninformative answers. He looked again at the gray-skinned Iliwirian and wondered whether he should be worried or encouraged by his enigmatic expression.

"Kuve!" A tall, burly guard appeared at the cell opening. "Come closer." Mida and his cellmate obeyed.

Kyris stood with his back to them, contemplating Kirk's empty cell. Kahna's body was gone, but Mida knew he was still unconscious or he would be with Kyris now. Kyris turned at last, his lips curled in disgust, his black eyes shadowed and smoldering. "The two in the cell opposite yours have escaped. What did you see?"

Mida waited breathlessly. What would his cellmate do? He had no assurance of release if he lied for Mida, and every assurance of punishment, perhaps death, if Kyris found him out.

The Iliwirian shook his head. "Nothing."

Mida breathed again, imperceptibly, and when Kyris turned his baleful stare toward him he also said, "I saw nothing."

Kyris exhaled audibly. "'Nothing, '" he repeated to his escort, his tone heavy with sarcasm. "They all saw nothing." For a moment he seemed willing to believe it, then he took a step closer to the cell and looked hard at Mida. "You. You are of the Federation." The Rigellian tensed but said nothing. Kyris' eyes brightened and he began to nod. "Yes, you are. Bring him for interrogation."

The guards deactivated the force field and pulled Mida into the corridor. He moved slowly, playing for time; if he could not avoid or at least delay interrogation then Kirk was lost. One of the guards pushed him down the corridor. "Wait!" Mida pleaded. "Wait, please--don't--"

"What do you know?" Kyris demanded.

"I saw him go up the ladder," Mida answered desperately. "Please don't take me--"

"Up the ladder? Why not down--toward the control room?"

"I don't know--I saw him go up--that is all I know!"

Kyris' eyes narrowed. "Was the native with him? Were they allies?"

Mida nodded vigorously. "Yes. Yes. I think so. They talked often in their cell."

"The native would know the desert well," the burly guard ventured to his commander. "They could be heading for his people."

"Perhaps. Or," Kyris added, studying Mida for telltale signs of deceit, "the open shaft is a ruse, and he plans to work his way to the control room. It is his only hope of contacting his ship. Set a watch on the control room, and remind the guards that he is armed."

Mida's heart sank. Kirk had predicted Kyris would suspect a trick, but he had also counted on the commander's thoroughness. Mida tried to think of some way to influence Kyris' actions, but he must be very careful or Kyris would realize he was being manipulated.

Then as the guard went to the wall intercom to comply, Kyris stopped him. "Send the lorries out to search as well. With Kirk anything is possible." Kyris' cold gaze rested again on Mida. "If you are lying--"

"I saw him go up the ladder!" Mida wailed, inwardly weak with relief and admiration that Kirk had anticipated Kyris correctly after all.

Kyris stared at him for several long seconds. Then he asked curiously, "Why do you give him away? He is one of your people."

In sudden inspiration, Mida said, "Because he promised to take me with him, and then he would not."

Kyris seemed faintly disbelieving, as if he thought such behavior on Kirk's part unlikely, and Mida feared he had overstrained his luck. But then Kyris nodded, as if he had resolved the question to his satisfaction. "Because you identified him, no doubt. Though I told him not to blame you." The commander sounded as if he believed his attempt to protect Mida from Kirk's supposed wrath had been very thoughtful. But then the humanitarian was gone. "Get back in your cell." Kyris eyed Mida contemptuously a few seconds longer, then stalked off, his heavy boots ringing in the corridor. The guards followed, the elevator doors shut, and the cellblock was once again quiet except for the occasional soft comment by a kuve. Kyris' rare visit had excited them enough to talk to each other.

Exhausted, Mida slid down the wall and sat with his knees drawn up to his chest. He was surprised to see the Iliwirian looking directly at him. "Thank you," he said quietly. His cellmate nodded, and the gray face gazed back at him with a new dignity.

The muffled slamming of doors woke Kirk from a fitful doze; he heard the other lorry drive away. Voices moved toward them. The lorry rocked as the doors of the rear compartment opened and closed. Kirk's every muscle knotted with tension.. Would the guards think to check the tank? When the sound filtered back to them of the cab doors closing, he heard a soft, shaky exhale across from him and knew that Tastaf, too, had been holding his breath.

The lorry lurched forward across the smooth entry and jolted onto the uneven desert floor, picking up speed. Kirk and Tastaf braced against the walls of the tank to keep from being thrown about and giving themselves away. The ragged wounds on Kirk's wrists burned fiercely as sweat soaked through his bandages, but the pain helped to keep him awake. The first part of his plan, to get out of the mine and away from Kyris where he would have to deal with only a couple of guards, was a success, but he was unable to summon the confidence he usually felt going into battle. He had a civilian to protect and no trained personnel; he could not help thinking of all the things that could still go wrong. Right now surprise was their only advantage; it would be so easy for Kyris to figure out what they had done and warn the soldiers in the lorry, taking that advantage away.

After two hours or so the lorry lumbered to a halt. Kirk had been feeling groggy as the air in the tank grew stale, but now, as he heard the guards--two, from the voices--get out and open up the rear compartment, adrenalin surged through him and he was completely alert. He sat motionless, listening. He heard none of the now-familiar sounds of the mine. They were outside then, hopefully well away from Kyris. He had not dared to open the hatch to check their position for fear an open hatch would show up on a control board in the cab. But now he was ready. He drew the disruptor and reached up. He and Tastaf would be most vulnerable as they came up and out of the tank. With luck he could pick off the guards before they were aware of his presence.

He felt a tap on his arm. In the darkness Tastaf suggested to Kirk by feel that he position himself on all fours so that Kirk could use his back as a platform. "Yes," Kirk breathed. "Good." He stepped up on Tastaf's back, surprised at how steady and solid the smaller man felt; he pushed against the hatch with his left shoulder and used his right arm and hand to wield the disruptor. Inching his way upward, he looked carefully through the small slit, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the blinding afternoon sun. His mouth opened in astonishment. They were at the river! Talk about luck; they were far away from the mine, and exactly where he and Tastaf would have headed. Kyris had evidently decided that as long as the lorry was out, it might as well bring back some more water. Two Klingons were at the river setting up the pump, intent on their work. He eased up out of the hatch, made sure the weapon was set on stun, and fired a long wide-beam burst. The two guards crumpled at the edge of the shallow water.

And that's it. They were safe. Kirk's eyes closed briefly in weary relief. But there was no time to be tired. Success energized him. The cab had to have communications of some kind. Maybe he could even reach the Enterprise, but if not, he could perhaps set an automatic broadcast that the sensors would pick up--if anyone's up there. He brushed the thought away. Everything was going well--why be pessimistic? "Tastaf, up please," he called, setting the disruptor down, and felt himself pushed up until he could sit at the rim of the hatch. He swung his legs up and over the edge of the tank--

--and found himself staring at a Klingon guard pointing a disruptor up at him. Three! his mind cried even as he launched himself down, kicking out at the guard's weapon as he tried to dodge the beam lancing toward him. He landed hard on one leg, wobbling. The beam burned a hole through the loose folds of the softsuit under his upraised arm and scorched the paint of the lorry behind him. He managed to grab the guard's wrist and brought his knee up hard, bruising the arm even through the stiff leather glove; the guard let go of the disruptor with a grunt of pain. Using his own weight for leverage, Kirk swung him by his wrist into the open doorway of the cab, and the guard fell backward over the seats, hitting his head on the control panel. He growled, scrabbled to one side, came up with another disruptor. Kirk was already lunging toward the disruptor on the ground, but he was off-balance, too slow, in the open. His strength and his luck had run out. But before the guard could level his weapon and fire, a bright green beam shot erratically toward him, disintegrating the control panel and ripping through the seats before catching the guard full in the chest. The body flared white and disappeared.

Instinctively Kirk whirled, backing away from the beam, but came to a shaky halt when he saw Tastaf a couple of meters away, legs spread in a perfect marksman's stance, Kahna's disruptor still pointed at the empty cab. He staggered over and gently took the weapon from Tastaf's trembling hands. "And I was worried about protecting you," he said ruefully. "Thank you." He clasped Tastaf's shoulder briefly, and Tastaf nodded in return as though he understood.

Steadier now, Kirk examined the lorry's control panel, hoping against hope that there might be something left; but the panel was completely destroyed, its individual functions unrecognizable. He suppressed his intense disappointment. Tastaf had saved the escape attempt, not to mention his life, and it was a long shot, anyway, that the lorry's communications equipment could have reached a ship in orbit. But to be denied even the chance to try-- Well, that's what he got for being so damned cocky. He collected all the disruptors and daggers and placed them near Tastaf, who still stood as Kirk had left him, staring at the burned, torn seats of the cab. Kirk stopped and placed a hand on his arm. "Tastaf?" After a second or two, Tastaf turned abruptly toward Kirk as if he had just heard him. "Are you all right? Okay?"

Tastaf closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. He had not meant to kill the captor, but he did not know the light-weapon. And though he tried, he could feel no remorse. He looked at Kirk a long moment, then let out the breath and said, "Okay."

Kirk took a moment to gulp down a badly needed drink from the river, then said, "Come on. Let's see if there's any equipment we can use."

They rummaged through the compartment at the rear of the tank, taking some tools and two small metal containers. Kirk found some strong cord and trussed up the two stunned soldiers exactly as he had been tied, resisting the temptation to tie them together at the neck. He and Tastaf dragged the guards into the shade of the lorry. They would be unconscious for some time, and once they freed themselves they would have to walk back to the mine. They would not come after him unarmed.

He found Tastaf again at the cab of the lorry, studying the damage he had caused. As he watched, the native's hand reached out and lightly touched the scorched metal. He wondered what was causing Tastaf's preoccupation with the incident. Perhaps the power of the alien weapon he had held in his hands? The disappearance of the body? More likely, he had simply never killed anyone before. Tastaf withdrew his hand, then stepped away to rejoin Kirk.

"We have to go now," Kirk said, "but first we're going to make sure they can't use this one again." He turned one of the disruptors on full power and sliced a huge gash in the wall of the tank. The disruptor had the power to destroy the lorry completely, but the wreckage, sitting in the sun, was the best signal to searchers he had yet managed. One disabled lorry would hardly force the Klingons to cease their mining operation, but it would make their stay there more inconvenient. Besides, it just felt good to blast it to hell.

Tastaf took a last look around the area and his eyes followed the trail of the lorry back toward the mine. Softly he said, "Mida." In the one word were questions Kirk could not begin to answer. But to assure Tastaf that he had not forgotten the Rigellian he nodded and repeated firmly, "Mida," and Tastaf seemed to understand. Then, turning--and Kirk could not escape the impression that he was turning his back on all of it, as if it had not happened--Tastaf pointed downstream and said to Kirk, "Home."

Kirk thumbed the safety on the disruptor and thrust the weapon with the others into his pockets. "Go on, then. I'll follow you."

Tastaf led the way downriver, setting what was for Kirk a brutal pace. He was tired, hurt, and stiff, and he felt lead-footed and clumsy. He had had too little sleep in the past two days. It would be so easy to trip and sprain an ankle or even break a bone. But they had at most several hours' head start over any pursuers. Kyris would learn of Kirk's successful escape when the lorry failed to return to the mine, if he did not know already. He would immediately begin a search from the disabled lorry's position. And if Kyris already knew his prize had slipped his grasp, Kirk and Tastaf might have only an hour's lead, or thirty minutes'. The uncertainty urged Kirk to keep up with Tastaf's purposeful steps.

And what about Tastaf? If he took Kirk to his village or town, there was nothing to keep Kyris from following them there. The shuttlecraft that Kyris had somehow destroyed was evidence that someone had still been searching for him early that morning. But if he were unable to make contact with any search parties and they departed, presuming him dead, he would need people to save his sanity, people with whom he could learn to communicate, with whom he could stay. He had had a taste of existence alone, completely alone on a world he had believed lifeless, and knew now that he would not have survived it.

On the other hand, he had no right to endanger Tastaf's people on his own account. The dilemma seemed to pound in his thoughts, demanding attention, until he realized that the pounding was caused by an ever-worsening headache. The softsuit's reflective material was not enough to protect him from the day's increasing heat. The pounding seemed audible, as if someone beat an inexorable rhythm on a kettledrum in his brain. For a moment he believed that he was still alone in the desert, that nothing had changed, that he was walking and walking, confused as to his purpose. He looked up and saw a figure ahead--Spock? No--no--he remembered now. Tastaf was far ahead of him, still keeping the same steady pace over the uneven footing. "Tastaf!" he called, and shrank away from the sound of his own voice.

Tastaf heard him and came jogging back, instantly concerned when he saw Kirk's flushed face and unsteady stance. "Kirk. Okay?"

"No, not really," Kirk said, careful to speak very softly. "Tastaf, I need to stop for a while." He started over to the meager shade of a small tree, but Tastaf stopped him with a hand on his arm. He pointed to the tree and shook his head, then pointed farther downstream and said, "Good rest." His eyes were animated and a smile played about his lips. "Good rest."

Kirk hesitated. Tastaf's invitation, though vague, was heartfelt, and Tastaf certainly knew this country. And this particular spot was not terribly inviting: only a dozen or so scrubby trees, the river little more than a stream. Tastaf held his hands up only a few centimeters apart, then pointed downstream.

"I hope that means it's not far." Kirk splashed some water on his face and drank long from the water pouch, and nodded. "Okay."

Again Tastaf led the way, but slower this time and only a few paces in front of Kirk, glancing back repeatedly. After only about a kilometer the terrain noticeably began to change. The river, though still only inches deep, widened until Kirk would have needed a running start to leap across it, and the increased volume of water supported slightly larger trees of greater variety. Rest here would be rather pleasant. But Tastaf kept going for another few hundred meters. Kirk began to realize that for several minutes now he had been hearing a sound that he couldn't identify, and Tastaf was leading them toward it.

Suddenly Tastaf broke into a trot. Intrigued by his enthusiasm, Kirk ignored his pounding head and did the same. They came to the edge of a small cliff and gazed down upon paradise. The river cascaded over the cliff into a bowl hollowed out of the rock that looked like every city child's dream of a swimming hole. Trees and shrubs of more varieties than Kirk had yet seen surrounded the bowl, their exposed roots clutching the rocks and drinking in moisture from the spray. The foliage was darker green than that of the sparse shrubs they had left behind, and bloomed with tiny, pale blue and pink bell- and star-shaped flowers. Clouds of insects flitted from blossom to blossom, drawn here by the rare bursts of color. Small gray birds twittered and hopped among the branches, with them several of the dun-colored species that had led Kirk to the river and saved his life. The sound of the falling water surrounded him, the rising mist enveloped him. He simply stood and stared.

"Follow," Tastaf said. Kirk nodded, expecting him to lead the way down to the water's edge. But Tastaf took two steps and launched himself off the edge of the cliff. He entered the water neatly in the center of the bowl and took so long to surface that Kirk realized the depression must be deeper than it looked. When Tastaf reappeared he moved out of Kirk's way and beckoned for him to join him. After studying the slopes on either side of the falls, Kirk decided that Tastaf's was indeed the easiest way down, and, clothes and all, jumped.

He fell, and for a split second remembered that other terrible fall, but the memory was jolted aside when he splashed into the deep dark water and sank down, down, feeling the water close over him, its coolness icy against his hot skin. He streamlined his body during his descent and it seemed he might never stop. But eventually, after what seemed a long, long time, he slowed, and with the rush of water past his ears gone the silence was complete. He hung there a moment, eyes closed, rejoicing in being wet, wet all over, immersed in water after days and days of barely enough for wiping off. Finally, he kicked hard and slowly drifted upward, prolonging the sensation until he had to breathe. He broke the surface gasping and flung the wet hair from his eyes to see Tastaf smiling at him, emerald eyes dancing. "Good?"

Kirk laughed, for the first time in nearly two weeks, his hurts forgotten. "Good!"

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

Chapter Fifteen

Scott stood with Spock in the blazing late afternoon sun next to what remained of Columbus' instrument panel. "We are fortunate that the craft did not explode or burn," the first officer commented, his words quiet and deliberate.

"Aye, fortunate." Grim sarcasm edged the engineer's brogue. Scott knew from the Vulcan's severe expression that he at least felt something. But as always Spock recovered quickly, and it was at times like this that his dispassion was most alien and difficult to bear. Scott blinked hard, still seeing Hooks' mangled body pinned under the shuttlecraft's bulkhead.

It had taken several hours to locate the debris; the craft had traveled some distance from the coordinates Hooks and Franklin had been sent to investigate. Its wreckage was strewn over an area of the rocky, broken terrain a hundred meters square, the sun reflecting off the scattered metal with brilliant stabs of light. "Maybe a navigational or propulsion systems failure," Scott speculated, shaking aside his somber mood; when he had a job to do he could be as single-minded as Spock. "That could explain why they're so far from where they're supposed to be."

"Perhaps the gravitational fluctuations were at fault," Spock suggested. "Mr. Chekov reported confused readings in this area, even with modified sensors."

"Aye, could be. We'll look into it." Scott frowned. "But in that case," he added, arguing against his own theory, "they should have had time to send a mayday."

"Maybe they couldn't." McCoy joined them in time to hear the tail end of the discussion. He was shaken and subdued; this part of his job never got any easier. "The autopsies will tell us if maybe fumes got inside--made them pass out. I'll let you know what we learn." The glittering transporter effect took him and his assistants, the fading shapes of the lumpy body bags at their feet terribly wrong.

Spock returned to the ship as well, leaving Scott to begin a thorough investigation. The engineer's crew, outfitted in coolsuits, were already walking the site with tricorders, looking for the smallest scrap of metal or plastic that might provide a clue to the cause of the crash. Scott would examine the main power systems himself. He grieved doubly, for the two young people who had died in the awful, unexplained accident, and for Columbus, which had served so well for so long. Stepping carefully to the smashed bulkhead, he laid a hand briefly over the black lettering of the craft's name, and then set to work.

Kirk felt a pang of disappointment as he dressed. The afternoon was waning, the shadows of the rootbound rock wall and the thick vegetation creeping over the surface of the dark water. When the temperature dropped a bit more he and Tastaf would have to leave the idyllic pool with its cool, healing water, but first they had time for a meal, and Kirk's mouth watered at the very thought. Tastaf had been traipsing through the underbrush for a while, and now emerged carrying fistfuls of greenery which Kirk recognized; he set those down and produced two pieces of rock from a pocket. Before Kirk could offer to start a fire with a disruptor Tastaf had one going, his eyes twinkling at Kirk's amazement. "You should see me work a food synthesizer," Kirk muttered good-naturedly, and set about doing his part. Soon he had collected three or four dozen of the small mussels and several pieces of the yellowish fruit which had sustained him for so many days. They roasted the mussels on skewers, and Tastaf cooked his greens in one of the metal containers. They ate heartily, returning to the river and trees for seconds; they had not eaten since the previous day's food ration ran out. Kirk avoided the greens, and when Tastaf wondered why demonstrated graphically what they had done to him. Tastaf sympathized with Kirk's earlier plight--though he obviously found his performance vastly entertaining. He held up a piece of red root and explained that by adding it to the cooking pot one would avoid illness. But Kirk, unconvinced, declined to try them.

They conversed haltingly while they digested their meal, teaching each other their respective words for waterfall, rocks, trees, sky, sand--vocabulary that had been irrelevant in the mine. When Tastaf taught him that his world was called Ishan, Kirk realized abruptly that soon he might have to learn more of Tastaf's language than a few words out of curiosity and to pass the time. Learning the planet's name somehow made the possibility of being stranded here more chillingly real--though the conviction never left him that he would be found eventually; he could not believe otherwise and still continue the fight.

His attention was captured by Tastaf's bustling about, drowning the fire, finishing his preparations for travel. When he had drifted out of the conversation he didn't know; he was more tired than he had realized, and just picking himself up off the ground seemed for a moment more than he could manage. His movements clumsy, he refilled the softsuit's water pouches that he had drained on the journey here. What he wouldn't give for a real nap in the quiet coolness by the pool, but Tastaf was naturally anxious to get home, and Kirk was equally anxious to put more distance between himself and any pursuers.

They started off, Tastaf again in the lead, taking care this time not to go too fast for Kirk. His own desire to get home gave him no right to expect even more of the man who had already given so much to help him. He knew very well that he owed Kirk his life; since he could deduce no reason for his capture in the first place, he had no reason to believe that his captors would ever have let him go. He would have died in the cage or in the mine, and soon, if Kirk had not brought him out with him. Kirk planned to return to the mine, Tastaf was sure; in his eyes when he parted from Mida was a promise. Tastaf had already decided that he would be with Kirk then, too.

Soon he would be able to teach Kirk his language and ask all the questions he had accumulated. He understood so little of what had happened to him. He believed that the captors--Klingons: he knew now what they were called--were from another world and Kirk from still another, and that they had some experience of each other. Kirk had never seemed confused or bewildered; even when he was badly hurt he did not seem to wonder why. But Tastaf wondered why there was enmity between them, why Kirk had talked to Mida and to no other kuve, and why Kirk was in the mine if he did not work. He also wondered if there were more of Kirk's people on Ishan; if so, those in other villages might know where they were. He would be able to help Kirk get home, as Kirk was helping him.

And if Kirk's people could not be found, or were not on Ishan? He and Kirk might travel for months and find no one who could help them. But while he was on Ishan, Kirk would not lack a home.

McCoy walked into the briefing room with a cup of very strong coffee, not surprised to see Spock once again reading from a computer screen. The Vulcan's off-hours were at the best of times unpredictable, and seemed these days to be nonexistent. Well, soon this mission would be over, whatever its outcome, and then they could all rest--and grieve.

He sank into a chair across from Spock. "I finished the autopsies," he said bitterly. "Negative, all negative. No trace of anything in their blood, no evidence of disturbance to brain activity other than that caused by the crash itself. They were two perfectly healthy people who died too young in a damned stupid accident. Twenty-three years old, both of them." He gulped his coffee. "You'll need to read their wills, write to their families, and so forth."

"Of course."

McCoy frowned at the Vulcan's matter-of-fact reply. "I'm sure it won't be any trouble for you."

Realizing that McCoy's ability to deal with the normal stresses of his duties had been compromised by his worry for Kirk, Spock said nothing. Then McCoy let out a weary sigh. "I'm sorry, Spock. I don't like autopsies." Spock accepted his apology with a nod. "Uhura said you wanted to see me."

"Yes." Spock folded his arms across his chest and took a breath as if steeling himself to discuss something unpleasant. "I wanted to ask you about the crew's morale. I am unfortunately not a good judge of their emotional state."

McCoy, eyes widening a bit, gave the Vulcan credit for recognizing the importance of something even when he himself did not understand it. "What happened today has been a blow, of course. But I think on the whole we're doing all right. The mission itself--all the activity--helps tremendously. Even searching for Jim--so many people can take part." He remembered his own reaction to having nothing to do at first but wait and dread the worst. "I'd say the crew are handling it all as well as can be expected."

"And you, Doctor?" McCoy stared in astonishment and Spock added almost defensively, "In seeing to the mental and physical well-being of the entire crew you must not neglect your own."

McCoy smiled knowingly, seeing through the Vulcan's attempt to mask his concern. "Worrying about them keeps me occupied," he said, and knew Spock saw through him, too. "I'm all right, Spock," he said, and then, with surprising ease, "Thanks."

After the first awful days he really had felt better, and he realized his healthier emotional state had a great deal to do with the man seated across from him now. Far from being angry or resentful toward the Vulcan, he almost looked forward to their meetings. Maybe some part of him was comforted by Spock's calm in the face of emotional storm. Comforted by a Vulcan: that could be a real danger signal.

"You seem to be holding up well enough," he prompted, unable to resist digging a little.

Spock's face took on his enigmatic look. "I am occupied by many different responsibilities."  His tone was neutral, but McCoy read in the words both answer and admission.

"They were interrupted by the intercom whistle. "Bridge to Mr. Spock." It was Chekov.

"Does he live up there now?" McCoy murmured.

"Spock here. Mr. Chekov, if I am not mistaken your shift ended over two hours ago," he said, conscious of McCoy's approving air.

"Yes, ser, it did, but I vas--vorking on something and stayed to finish. If you have a minute, ser, could you come to the bridge? I vould like to discuss vith you a reading on the sensors. It vill take only a moment."

"I shall be there shortly."

"Thank you, ser. Bridge out."

McCoy tagged along, coffee in hand, aware that in spite of his efforts to prevent excess sentiment, Spock's commanding presence, more frequent now, had once again made the bridge a second home to him.

Chekov practically jumped out of his chair to meet Spock when he and McCoy stepped out of the turbolift, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Ser, I vanted to tell you first--Dr. McCoy, I am glad you are here, too--ve have found the captain's communicator."

Spock stopped in his tracks, nearly getting splashed with McCoy's coffee; the doctor had to grasp his cup with both shaking hands. Uhura gasped and dropped her receiver. All the chairs on the bridge were turning, all eyes fastening on Chekov. Clearly he had broken his news to no one.

The first officer finally spoke. "Ensign, are you certain--"

Chekov grinned, pleased to bursting with both his news and its effect. "Yes, ser." He went back to the sensor station, Spock at his heels. "This is the reading I got, one hundred eighty-three kilometers from the beamdown point."

"A communicator homing signal," Spock said without hesitation.

"Yes, ser, but wery, wery faint. I vanted to be absolutely sure before I told anyone. I sent Connors and Holmes to the coordinates. They've been looking for over two hours, but they finally found it."

The first officer carefully studied the sensor screen, the all-important reading. McCoy had the distinct impression that Spock was stalling, taking the time to recover his equilibrium. McCoy himself was delirious with happiness, but Spock's silence made him wonder if he should be. They all waited for the Vulcan's reaction, any impulse they had to cheer or jump up and down or hug each other stifled by his iron control.

Finally he straightened from the screen. "Lieutenant Uhura, I would like to speak to Holmes and Connors."

"Yes, sir." No one spoke while she contacted them. "Go ahead, sir."

"Mr. Holmes, please describe what you have discovered."

"Yes, sir," Holmes said. "We had to work our way down a steep slope to get to Chekov's coordinates. The communicator was in a crack in the rock about five meters deep and no wider than my hand--we had to use a magnetic wire to get it out. It's getting dark now and harder to see, even with searchlights, but we think the captain materialized at the top of the slope and then slid down, losing his communicator in the fall. There's no sign of him now, so our working assumption is that he went to look for water. It's barren country, no water in sight. --Just a minute, sir. Connors has found something."

A brief pause, then: "It's--not so good, Mr. Spock," Connors broke in. "The captain's hurt; there's a lot of dried blood farther down the slope. There's a message, though--his initials and direction--northeast. It's carved in the rock, probably with a phaser." Her voice was tinged with optimism. "If he could do that he couldn't have been too badly hurt." There was a faint question in her tone, as if she wished very much for someone to confirm her hope.

But Spock would not be drawn into speculation. "You can track him at night?" the first officer asked evenly.

"Yes, sir. We have very good tracking equipment; Commander Giotto is beaming it down. It will be slow, though."

"Proceed as well as you can, Ms. Connors, and keep me informed. Enterprise out." Spock turned to Chekov. "Well done, Ensign." Chekov smiled and squared his shoulders; praise from Spock was infrequent and always well deserved. "I shall relieve you at the sensors," Spock continued. "You have already stayed on shift much later than necessary."

McCoy could tell from Chekov's expression that he would readily have manned the sensors all night, but it was hardly his place to insist. He relinquished his chair to Spock, who said to him, "Before you go, Mr. Chekov, you might wish to pass your findings on to the crew. You should caution them against undue optimism, however."

"Yes, ser, I vill." Chekov was clearly delighted--and appeased--to be the one to make the intraship announcement. Uhura, also working late again, willingly turned her board over to him.

McCoy said to Spock, "If the communicator was putting out a signal why didn't we receive it days ago?"

"It was much too faint.  It registered only when our sensor beam was trained directly on it."

They were interrupted by Chekov's happy announcement, which dutifully included Spock's caveat, then McCoy shooed both Chekov and Uhura off the bridge. There was little they could do now but wait, and both of them needed at least a dinner break. He then hovered over Spock at the sensor station, bouncing.

Spock eyed the coffee warily. "Doctor, if you are going to continue your piston-like motion, please step away from the computer station," he admonished. "The equipment's performance would be seriously compromised if you were to spill your coffee into it."

McCoy did as he was told, but refused to be subdued by the Vulcan's sternness. He waited impatiently for a few minutes, but when Spock showed no sign of abandoning his board finally could no longer contain himself. "Well, Spock, aren't we going to beam down?"

Spock's eyebrows rose. "Why should we do that, Doctor?"

McCoy was momentarily nonplussed. "Well--to see where Jim beamed down, of course!"

"I remind you that darkness has fallen on the planet surface. We would 'see' nothing clearly. Even with searchlights we would risk injury by clambering up and down a steep slope at night, and do absolutely nothing to aid the captain or the trackers. Here at my station I can perhaps be of some assistance." Recalling their earlier conversation, he added, "It is unfortunate that you do not have a similar task to occupy you."

McCoy grinned. "Don't worry, Spock. I know a good way to pass the time. I'll go find Scotty and share a celebratory drink. You're welcome to join us if you like," he added sincerely.

Why was it, Spock wondered, that when humans were not being unrelentingly pessimistic in a crisis they jumped to the most optimistic conclusion, even when it was the least justified by the evidence? That tendency only made the probable letdown much more painful. "Doctor, while I admit that finding the captain's communicator is a most welcome development, I must point out that it tells us only that he was alive thirteen days ago. He was thirty-seven kilometers away from a river, the only possible water source. Not more than two nights' walk if he was uninjured and traveling in a straight line in the right direction. But he was injured, and northeast is the wrong direction."

"Oh." McCoy's renewed optimism wavered. "Well--at least now we have a trail to follow. You were asking about morale; I'd say this is a big shot in the arm."

Spock's expression was grim. "Doctor, the trail will very likely lead us to his body."

McCoy bristled at Spock's cold reason. "Then we'll know, won't we?" he said flatly, his face set. "We'll find him, one way or the other. It's always better to know."

Spock considered a moment. "Yes. I must remind myself that humans deal poorly with uncertainty."

Studying his face, McCoy thought, And I'll bet at least one Vulcan, too. "Well," he said, the heartiness in his voice only partly forced, his optimism, though battered, returning. "I'm still going to have that drink, but I promise I won't get too carried away. You'll let me know--"

Spock nodded. He turned back to his sensors, and McCoy knew he would not be far from them until the search was over.

On Ishan at first light two cylindrical forms glittered into solidity at the edge of a lonely plateau.

"My God," McCoy breathed. Around and below him was waste. Deep blue sky met red rock at the horizon and in between was unrelieved barrenness. Beside him stood a cold, aloof figure. Spock had closed in on himself again, as he had after Kirk's disappearance; their companionable conversation of the previous evening might never have occurred.

"Commander Giotto!" Spock called.

The coolsuited figure far down the slope climbed up the cracked rock to meet them. "Not a pretty sight, is it?"

Aghast, McCoy stared at the grade of the slope.  "No wonder he fell."

"It's not too bad if you start at the plateau and step onto it, but if you materialized on the slope itself your feet would fly out from under you."

Spock had been surveying the area, forming his own bleak impressions. Now he said, "The communicator's location?"

"Down here, sir," Giotto said, leading the way. "Watch your step."

A stupendously unnecessary warning, McCoy thought as he picked his way down the pebble-strewn slope; Spock had been right about the futility of beaming down the night before. Sliding a little, he went to where another security officer marked the position of the message--and the blood--on the rock. He knelt and ran his medicorder over the brown stain just to confirm for the record that it was blood and it was Kirk's. Then his eyes fell on the letters carved just above the bloodstain: JK NE. Had they found his message too late?

McCoy would have bet that no one on the Enterprise or those of her crew on Ishan had slept well the night before. He and Scott, who had so far learned only what had not caused the shuttlecraft accident, had drunk some of Scott's finest whiskey to celebrate the end of uncertainty. Scott's professional pride was assuaged; his transporter had not permanently scrambled Kirk into atoms, as McCoy always predicted it would do to him. But more important to both men was the possibility--faint, but real for the first time--that Kirk was still alive. They drank to possibility, they drank to Jim Kirk, and then, leaving Scott to his mystery, McCoy went off to his quarters.

He had managed to doze off a few times, always waking suddenly thinking he had heard the intercom whistle. Finally he really did hear it while he was trying to read himself to sleep, the words on the screen meaningless. Spock called in the small hours to say that Kirk had inexplicably changed course and was now heading straight for the river. After that buoying news McCoy had slept well for a couple of hours only to get another call from Spock just before dawn, the Vulcan's somber voice reporting that Kirk had apparently fallen down another rocky slope and his movements had become aimless.

Connors and Holmes had tracked Kirk step by step, their sensitive equipment able to register the microscopic particles worn from his boots by the rough stone. The remaining shuttlecraft and flitters had converged on the new search area, hoping to spot him from the air. Twice they had located signal arrows in addition to one near the slope and were able to cut the distance Connors and Holmes had to cover on foot. The three complete arrows were carefully constructed, but in several places since Kirk's second fall stones that bore traces of his body chemistry had appeared together but in no recognizable formation; the inevitable disturbing speculation was that another head injury combined with advanced dehydration had muddled his thinking processes. As the trackers diligently followed the meandering trail, McCoy's heart leapt every time it seemed to turn toward the river, and sank leaden in his chest when it turned away. The suspense was agonizing, but he would willingly have endured it for days if only it meant Jim's safe return in the end.

"Doctor." McCoy had not heard Spock's approach. He stood, balancing carefully. "Lieutenant Connors has just called--"

McCoy's eyes closed in heart-stopping dread.

"--with some good news." McCoy looked hard and saw on Spock's angular features a warmer, more open expression than he had seen in two weeks. "Jim reached the river. He made camp and stayed for at least two days, and then moved on. Barring an unlikely disaster, he is alive." Spock's control was not complete; the last three words held unmistakable, immeasurable relief.

"Jim--" McCoy's thoughts were hardly coherent, and it was the Vulcan's strong hand that steadied him when the world suddenly blurred.

Kirk woke fuzzily to a hand on his shoulder and Tastaf's quiet voice. "Kirk, wake." He pulled his conscious mind up out of heat-drugged sleep to focus on Tastaf bending over him. Tastaf, after watching him struggle all night to keep up with even his slower pace, had sometime that morning insisted that Kirk stop to rest. Reluctantly Kirk had given in, and after a quick bath had stretched out in the shade of one of the fruit trees, making Tastaf promise to wake him at sunset.

But the sun was still full and hot. "What is it?"

Tastaf pointed to his ear and then overhead; Kirk listened, and heard the drone of engines somewhere toward the east, downstream. Fully alert now, he stood, searching the sky. The sound was approaching, and he directed Tastaf over to some rocks that might hide them from the craft. Tastaf looked apprehensive but determined, and obeyed without question. Kirk drew a disruptor and waited.

The hum of the engines came closer. The craft was flying slowly, suggesting that it was indeed a search vehicle. Kirk found himself breathing heavily, heart pounding, and tried to stifle the desperate hope that rose within him. His effort was of no use; the longer he listened, the more the engines sounded like those of a Starfleet shuttlecraft. He edged out from under the rocks, motioning with his hand for Tastaf to stay put. He had to see it, had to know. In the distance the afternoon sun glinted off something metallic, but in its glare he could not distinguish the shape of the object. He stood exposed on the riverbank, unable now to resist the hypnotic drone of the approaching engines.

And then the craft shifted position slightly, following a bend in the river half a kilometer away, and Kirk saw it in silhouette, saw the familiar boxy shape, and sudden tears blurred his vision. He waved frantically with his one good arm as the craft flew slowly over him. Had they seen him? The vegetation around him was fairly thick, and his softsuit was the same pale beige as the riverbank sand. Out on the red desert bedrock he would have been seen easily. The craft turned and began another pass, lower this time. In sudden inspiration Kirk aimed the disruptor and fired two quick bursts in the shuttlecraft's path. Low enough to be in range, it darted out of reach of the beams, then slowed. He held his breath, fighting down the sobs that threatened to tear at his throat. Then on the third pass the craft flew in a lazy zigzag. Kirk's knees gave out and he sank down into the soft sand at the water's edge. They had seen him.

He became aware of Tastaf's hand once again on his shoulder. "Kirk--okay?" Tastaf's eyes were on the shuttlecraft, now flattening the underbrush some ten meters away. Kirk looked up. "Yes. Yes. Okay! Tastaf, these are my people. Now I'm going home!" He hardly had time to register Tastaf's reaction. He rejoiced in the heat of the craft's engines, the vibrations pounding through his body. At that moment all that was good and wonderful and beautiful in his universe was embodied in Challenger's unprepossessing form.

Before the shuttlecraft's engine pods had fully touched down the door slid open and Sulu leaped out. "Captain!" he cried, crashing through the scrub. He was closely followed by Danny Chay and they were at their captain's side in seconds, but once there were not quite sure what to say. The brightness in their eyes matched that in Kirk's own and he solved the problem of protocol by disregarding it completely and throwing his good arm around both of them.

And then they were all talking at once–

"Dammit, Sulu, Chay, it's great to see you--where the hell have you been--"

"It's a good thing you fired those shots, sir--"

"We almost didn't see you--"

"Holmes and Connors would have caught up soon, though--"

"--stranding your captain on a godforsaken planet!" Words poured from Kirk in a flood; emotion made his voice unsteady. He kept a precarious hold on self-control only by reminding himself that these were, after all, junior officers and it wouldn't do to break down totally. "Is the Enterprise still here?"

Sulu's head bobbed. "Yes, sir. Mr. Spock had to battle Starfleet to stay, but he managed it."

Yes, he would. "Spock's all right, then? What about the rest of the landing party?"

"All fine, sir. You're the only one who had any trouble."

Relief made him giddy. "Of course."

"Ohmigosh--Sulu--"

"What is it, Mr. Chay?" Kirk demanded, trying without much success to pull himself together.

"Oh, it's all right, sir," Chay hastily assured him. "It's just that we haven't told them yet that we've found you."

"We were so startled by the shots," Sulu put in, "and then we saw it was you--" He suddenly saw that it was a Klingon disruptor in Kirk's hand, not a phaser, but immediately clamped his mouth shut over a startled comment. If there were Klingons around he would find out soon enough.

Kirk saw Sulu's realization and let him know with a nod that he appreciated his restraint. Time enough for that later. "Well, by all means, Mr. Chay, Mr. Sulu, let us remedy that." Kirk did not care that he was babbling but he forced himself to calm down enough to speak coherently into the communicator Sulu handed him. They were all three grinning like fools as Kirk opened the unit and spoke into it.

"Kirk to Enterprise--"

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

Continue to Chapter 16-Epilogue

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