SURVIVAL

 

[Prologue-Chapter 3 ] [Chapters 4-7 ] [Chapters 8-11] [Chapters 12-15]

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

"--Come in, Enterprise."


Utterly dumbfounded, Spock stared--they all stared--at the comm speaker.


"Enterprise! Anybody there?"


So that's why Uhura had let out a gasp a few seconds ago! Grins began to appear all around as Spock said very slowly, "Spock--here."


Kirk's voice responded, robust, cheerful--alive. "Spock! Hello! How's things?"


"Captain!" The bridge erupted into whoops, whistles, back slapping, hugs and kisses. Chekov sagged in his chair, his grin threatening to split his face apart. Uhura punched the button to Sickbay through tears of joy, and even Spock was smiling. "Couldn't be better, sir." He took a deep breath before he spoke again and relaxed his convulsive grip on the chair arms, and though his next words were quite ordinary he could not completely remove the rich undercurrents of feeling from his voice. "There have been some interesting developments since you were last with us."


"Me too--you won't believe--"


"Jim!" Joy and concern were mingled in McCoy's voice as he patched in. "Are you all right? My God, Jim, you scared us all half to death!"


"Appropriate phrasing, Bones. It's good to hear your voice."


"Ditto," McCoy said, calming a little. "Jim, are you all right?"


"At the moment, never better. Don't worry, you'll get your chance at me. Spock, the shuttlecraft accident--what happened? Did the crew make it?"


Spock's eyebrows rose. "No, sir," he said, and his surprise that Kirk knew of the accident kept him from sounding as serious as he should have. "Lieutenants Martha Franklin and Robert Hooks were killed. Mr. Scott has determined that Columbus suffered a complete power failure, but does not yet know the cause."


"I know what caused it." Kirk sounded grim. "Some sort of disruptor weapon located in a Klingon dilithium mine."


"Klingons?" McCoy broke in.


"Indeed?" Spock's eyebrows climbed higher, but he held his curiosity in check. "We have discovered no sign of their presence here."


"They're very well hidden. When Sulu was surprised to see my disruptor I figured you didn't know. Anyway, a supply ship is expected in a few days--keep the sensors on long-range scan."


"Sir," Spock broke in before Kirk could form another sentence; the captain did not seem inclined to volunteer an explanation. "How did you learn of the Klingon mine and the shuttlecraft accident?" he asked, knowing he would not be pleased by the answer.


Kirk's hesitation told Spock that whatever had happened to him he did not want to go into it with an avid audience. "That's a long story, Mr. Spock," he said, almost predictably. "But I've been an honored guest in that mine for a couple of days. Schedule a briefing in one hour and we'll bring each other up to date. If there's no emergency--?"


"No, sir--all quiet."


"Good. Then I'll do an errand before I come up. I've got to give someone a ride home." There was a long pause, as if he might add something, then, abruptly, "I'll see you soon. Kirk out."


There was quiet on the bridge for a moment, then McCoy's voice, rougher than usual, came once again from the speaker. "Spock, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know when Jim beams aboard."


"Of course, Doctor." Spock's voice was oddly gentle.


"Thanks. McCoy out." He almost did not complete his last word before he broke the connection.





Kirk realized that his grip on the communicator was white-knuckled, and he found himself curiously reluctant to return it to its owner. "I'll--hold onto this, Mr. Sulu. It gives me a feeling of security."


"Yes, sir," Sulu said, smiling at Kirk's little joke that was not a joke at all.


Kirk then turned to Tastaf, who had waited patiently off to one side during the reunion, and motioned him over. He ached to return to his ship, but his responsibility to Tastaf was more pressing. As he made introductions, Sulu and Chay both crossed their arms over their chests and gave a little bow. Tastaf's eyes widened but he returned the bow, and their smiles, without hesitation.


"I take it, Mr. Sulu, that you have already met the inhabitants of this planet," Kirk said. Their lack of surprise on first seeing him with Tastaf had been ample evidence.


Sulu and Chay traded meaningful glances. "The Ishanne, yes, sir," Sulu replied. "That's a long story, too, but we have made contact, they understand all about us, and everything's all right."


"I see I have a lot to catch up on. Well, that's what briefings are for, if Dr. McCoy lets me out of Sickbay long enough to hold one." He had seen their glances toward his nearly motionless left arm, but they had known better than to mention it when he did not. "Mr. Sulu, let's give Tastaf an experience I think he won't soon forget. I hope he can find his village from the air--it's just twenty or thirty kilometers downriver, if I understand his directions."


"Yes, sir," Sulu confirmed, starting for Challenger. "Rodden. We visited there the other day, so we dropped in this morning and asked about you. They hadn't yet seen you so we began to work our way toward you." He stopped suddenly and turned to Chay, and saw that the same thought had occurred to his co-pilot. He said to Kirk, "At Rodden they mentioned that they had someone missing, too. For about a month in our terms."


Kirk looked at Tastaf in dismay. Had he been imprisoned in the mine that long?


"We never thought--" Chay was saying, and Sulu's eyes traveled again to the disruptor. Kirk could see them putting it all together and gave a little not-now shake of his head.


Sulu nodded, and Kirk was beginning to explain to Tastaf what was in store for him when the helmsman said, "Just a minute, sir," and bounded into the shuttlecraft, returning with a universal translator. "All programmed," he said, handing it to Kirk.


Kirk accepted it with delight, switched it on and said to Tastaf, "You should be able to understand me now. Can you?" Eyes popping with amazement but not fright, Tastaf gave a tentative nod. "The translator allows me to understand your language, too," Kirk prompted.


Tastaf thought a long moment. He wanted the first real words he said to this man to be more than just words, more than just questions or answers. He wanted to express some small part of what he felt, of the bond he had forged with this stranger from a foundation of shared adversity, a friendship which, though of recent origin, had already reached a level of communication and cooperation that few ever know.


He stepped forward until he stood close to Kirk, and his brilliant green eyes searched Kirk's face. "Kirk, you were lost, alone, were you not?"


Kirk swallowed hard. "Yes."


Tastaf reached out, took Kirk's right hand in his and brought it up until they stood with hands clasped at chest height between them. "We are life friends," he said quietly. "If you had not been found, you would have shared my home. You would have been welcome."


Kirk's grip on Tastaf's hand tightened convulsively. "Thank you." The sudden sting of grateful tears made him release the handclasp abruptly. His emotions were raw, and Tastaf's warm willingness to take him in pushed him once again to the edge of self-control. To the two helmsmen he said, "Sulu, Chay, prepare for departure." His eyes were still on Tastaf's face. "Thank you," he said again, and Tastaf nodded, understanding.





Tastaf listened as avidly as Kirk did to Sulu and Chay's story of their first contact with Chacol and his students in Sashna Velda. While he listened he looked at the viewscreen, eyes wide with wonder--though he did confide to Kirk that after his experiences of late very little could overwhelm him. When they reached Rodden, Tastaf thanked Sulu and Chay, and with Kirk stepped out onto the sand in the fading light. He looked toward the small cluster of people gathering in front of Rodden's meeting hall and on the common in the shadow of the towering red cliff. "I wished for you to see my village, Kirk.  But you will want to rejoin your own people now."


"Yes. I have a great deal to tell them. Tastaf--" Kirk hesitated, knowing a warning was imperative but not wanting to frighten Tastaf or his neighbors. "Tastaf, the Klingons will try to find me."


Immediately Tastaf grasped the significance of his words. He glanced toward the knot of villagers. "Will they come here?"


"I don't know," Kirk answered honestly. "If they were following us along the river they'll find where the shuttlecraft picked us up. In that case I would expect them to go back to the mine to prepare for defense or escape. But to be on the safe side I'm going to station some of my people around your village. If there's any trouble they'll be right here and more can arrive in minutes." He too looked over toward the patiently waiting crowd, impressed by their self-restraint. "It's your decision whether to tell your people. In any case, by this time tomorrow you won't have to worry about the Klingons at all. We'll remove them in the morning."


"I understand." And then Tastaf said simply, "Mida."


Kirk nodded. "Mida."


"I wish I could be there with you."


"I appreciate that.  Under other circumstances you might have been. Tastaf, after this is all over, I'll be back. Now that we can understand each other, we have a lot to talk about." Tastaf's smile was eager and warm, and Kirk reached for his hand, lifting it into the ritual clasp.


Tastaf's grip was firm. "Come when you can, Kirk." He started toward the common and was soon surrounded by his waiting friends and family.


Kirk leaned into the shuttlecraft and Chay informed him, "Mr. Scott's standing by to beam you aboard, sir." He tried to ignore the chill that traveled his spine at the thought of using the transporter again, but his expression must have given him away because Chay added, "The transporter's been in use for days, sir--no trouble."


"Thank you, Mr. Chay," Kirk murmured, not a little embarrassed for needing the reassurance. He kept Sulu with him, stationed Chay at Rodden until Giotto's people arrived, and then took out Sulu's communicator.


"Kirk to Enterprise." Damn, it felt good to say that. "Two to beam up, Scotty."





Kirk stepped off the transporter platform into a welcoming committee. Before he could say a word McCoy enveloped him in a great bear hug, which he joyfully returned. Scott himself was at the controls, taking no chances; he hurried to join in, wringing Kirk's hand and pounding him on the back. And there was Spock, infinitely tolerant during all the hugs and backslapping, who finally came forward to his captain and said calmly, "Welcome aboard, sir. You are truly an alarming sight."


Kirk looked at him a long moment. He knew that whatever Spock was feeling would not be displayed here, if ever, but there was something warm and welcoming in the Vulcan's serene gaze. "Thank you, Mr. Spock. I'm very glad to see that you're still here." The impulse to throw his arms around the Vulcan was so strong Kirk knew he was about to topple over the edge again. "I can't wait to hear how you managed it," he added, to lighten the mood a bit.


"I believe you'll find it an interesting lesson in bureaucratic manipulation, sir."


"He means Vulcan deviousness, Jim," McCoy interrupted, grinning and bouncing. "I know I learned a lot about what makes some people tick." He shot a loaded glance at Spock, who returned it inscrutably.


Further jest was cut short by the whooping and flashing lights of the yellow alert signal, followed immediately by Chekov's voice over the transporter console speaker. "Bridge to Mr. Spock."


There was no question who would answer. "Kirk here. What is it, Mr. Chekov?"


"Captain! Welcome aboard, ser! Uh, sensors show an object approaching on orbital trajectory at extreme range. We'll have an identification in five minutes, ser."


"On my way. Kirk out." He and Spock, Sulu following, headed for the door.


"Jim, I want you in Sickbay!"


"Later, Bones!" Kirk called from the corridor. Frustrated, McCoy glared at Scott, who shrugged in sympathy. For now, the reunion was over.





The bridge crew at yellow alert could not indulge in the kind of welcome they would have liked as Kirk stepped out of the turbolift, but Uhura did announce, "Captain on the bridge," and those who were not monitoring critical readings stood at attention.


Touched by the unaccustomed formality, Kirk stood on the upper level a moment and returned their salutes. "Thank you all," he said, and they returned to their tasks, but he was aware of their eyes on him more than was usual. He was acutely conscious of his scruffy appearance. Bearded and sunburned and bruised, he was hardly the public relations image of a starship captain. At least he'd had a bath that morning, and the softsuit was reasonably clean; Tastaf had pulverized a white root into a serviceable soap. He sat very straight in his command chair, luxuriating in the feel of the firm seat against his thighs, the cushions at his back. He was so happy to be there he flinched only a little from the startlingly beautiful world on the viewscreen. Well, he had wanted to see it up close . . . He turned slowly in the chair, resisting the temptation to give a good kick and swivel around and around until he was dizzy with delight. He surveyed his bridge, drinking in every station. Uhura was still watching him as his eyes fell upon her and he returned her charming smile with a wink. Spock manned the sensors, Chekov having relinquished them with no complaints. The young navigator fairly leaped to rejoin Sulu at the helm/navigation console, muttering with every intention of being heard, "I hope I remember how to do this." It was business as usual, a comforting sight to Kirk's weary body and soul. He could have sat there and watched them for hours.


"Vessel is now within range of identification." Spock's cool dry voice broke his mood. "It is by configuration a Klingon freighter, still on an orbital trajectory."


"They're early," Kirk said, his casual comment serving mainly to release some of the sickening tension he felt at learning that he had been several days closer to the waiting mind-sifter than he had thought. "Is she armed?"


"Impossible at this distance to separate propulsion and weaponry readings, Captain. The Klingons do customarily arm their freighters, though with by no means the firepower of even a small battle cruiser."


"Let's raise shields, then, Mr. Chekov. Arm phasers, Mr. Sulu." They acknowledged, and Kirk added to Spock, "Do they know we're here?"


"Negative, unless Klingon sensor capability has markedly improved."


"All right. We'll see what happens when they do know."


The bridge settled into a waiting quiet. Kirk usually hated waiting. He liked to move, to take command of a situation. But now he found himself enjoying the wait, the mounting tension, the expectant calm. This was all part of his job, and right now even the smallest, most annoying parts of that job were sustenance.


"'The freighter has come to a halt, Captain," Spock said several minutes later.


"They've seen us."


"Very likely. Sensors now indicate that the ship is armed more heavily than is usual for a freighter, but we still outgun her."


"Lieutenant Uhura, has there been any communication between the freighter and the mine?"


"Not a peep, sir."


"Then the mine doesn't know that the freighter's already here. And the freighter doesn't dare contact the surface; they have no way of knowing whether or not we've already discovered the mine." Kirk eyed the screen cagily. "Let's make sure things stay that way. Hailing frequencies open, Lieutenant. Audio only." In his current state he would make an unimposing image on a Klingon viewscreen.


"Go ahead, sir."


"Klingon vessel, this is Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the Federation starship Enterprise. You have violated Federation space. What is your reason for doing so?"


There was no immediate reply; Kirk's finger hovered over the red alert button. "What is it?" he murmured. "Fight or flight?" He could see Sulu and Chekov computing phaser firing patterns with unseemly eagerness, and admitted to a certain trigger-happiness on his own part. He did not really want to have to spend valuable time in battle with a freighter when there was far more important work to be done on the surface, but all the same--maybe just one little propulsion unit--


Uhura's speaker crackled to life, interrupting his vengeful thoughts. "Enterprise. We are experiencing difficulty with our navigational systems--" Yes, of course you are, Kirk thought. "--and have inadvertently entered Federation space. To avoid further misunderstanding, we ask that you give us a heading to return to our own territory."


Kirk's hand relaxed a little. "They're very good," he said to no one in particular. "Well, since we're all being so nice to each other, go ahead and oblige them, Mr. Chekov." He signaled to Uhura to reopen the channel. "Klingon vessel, you should now be receiving navigational data. Can we be of further assistance?"


"We are receiving navigational data. We need no further aid. Thank you, Enterprise."


"Our pleasure," Kirk said sweetly. "Enterprise out."


They waited as the Klingon freighter turned around and began its long trip home. Five minutes later it was out of identification range; in ten it was off Spock's screens entirely. Kirk finally said, "I guess they didn't want to play with the big kids today." Tension eased on the bridge; heartbeats slowed, shoulders relaxed, breathing was normal once again. "Maintain alert status in case they return, but it looks as if they're willing to let their comrades take the fall all alone."


"The mine personnel were very likely considered expendable from the beginning," Spock suggested. "An effort to avoid diplomatic incident, perhaps."


Kirk swung his chair around toward his first officer. "They've already got more of a diplomatic incident than they bargained for. There are Federation citizens in that mine--several traders and an ambassador's aide, and we're getting them out. Make sure Giotto's at our briefing--"


"McCoy to bridge."


"--which will be held on schedule, whether McCoy's finished with me or not," Kirk declared, but he could tell that Spock's money was on McCoy. Sighing, he thumbed the switch. "Yes, Bones?"


"Is our latest crisis over, Captain?" McCoy asked politely.


"Seems to be, Bones. Why?" Kirk returned, equally politely.


"Don't play innocent with me," McCoy growled. "If I have to come up there and drag you kicking and screaming--"


"All right, all right, I'll be there in a minute. Kirk out." He knew that the yellow alert was all that had kept McCoy in Sickbay instead of hovering over him on the bridge. "Spock, you have the conn. I want to know if anything out there or on the surface so much as twitches. That mine is under a huge dilithium-rich cliff a few kilometers--east, I think--from where Columbus went down. Find it; keep an eye on it. Jam any attempt at long-range communications. After McCoy's through we'll consider our next move."


"Yes, sir."


Kirk headed toward the turbolift, but found he couldn't just walk off like that, not without saying something. He turned on the upper level of the bridge, ready to speak, but saw all their eyes on him again, and words failed him. He shared a long look with Spock and in the end simply nodded and stepped into the lift.


He could not count all the "Welcome aboard"s and "Good to have you back"s that greeted him on the way to Sickbay. It was almost too much for him and he was relieved to duck through the doors. Christine Chapel ushered him into the examining room and added her own heartfelt "Welcome back, Captain."


McCoy, waiting impatiently, said, "It's about time. How I'm supposed to keep you in one piece I'll never know."


"Just by being your usual brilliant self, Bones. But don't let it take too long. Spock's setting up a briefing--I'll want you there, too."


"It'll take as long as it takes," McCoy retorted in a don't-mess-with-me tone. He was scanning Kirk with one of his handheld whirring instruments. "What'd you do to that arm?"


Kirk had tried to cover in the transporter room, but McCoy had noticed anyway, his sharp eyes running over Kirk in a quick spot examination. "Scotty dropped me."


"What?"


"I materialized in mid-air. I fell--I don't know--eight or ten meters. Onto rock."


"My God!" McCoy stared. "I've seen where you fell--it was bad enough thinking you materialized on the ground and just slid!" Awful what-ifs ran through his mind. He said soberly, "You're a lucky man, Jim."


Kirk had no response to that. It was true, and he knew it. McCoy' s eyes held his for a moment, and then the doctor said brusquely, "Well, let's see what the rest of the damage is."


Kirk had not lain on anything soft for so long he almost fell asleep on the firm diagnostic bed while McCoy ran him through his machinery, repairing bruises, abrasions, skin damage from repeated sunburns. But then the doctor roused him with poking and prodding and questions; as Kirk recounted every indignity his body had suffered, McCoy's craggy features grew grim. "Goddamn livewire," he said, treating Kirk's wrists, "every civilized race quit using that ages ago." When Kirk, with a shiver of remembered pain, told him about the interrogation, McCoy's grip on the diagnostic readouts was white-fingered. Muttering to himself, he ran his neurological scanners slowly over Kirk's left arm and shoulder, while Kirk sat and sweated. Modern medicine could work a lot of miracles, but there were limits; if a serious injury went too long without treatment a complete repair was sometimes impossible. But finally McCoy, calmer now, stopped muttering and smiled. "You've got one severed nerve, probably cut by the broken bone--not a bad job setting that, by the way; it's healing nicely--and other nerves in your arm and shoulder were badly compressed, but a little regenerator will take care of it. The general trauma to your nervous system will make you stiff and achy for a while--twinges and muscle spasms. If it's too bad, come see me."


Kirk slid off the table, still smarting from the shoulder injection. "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction." He headed for the door but turned. "Bones--" he began, but couldn't finish it. He wasn't very good at sentiment and neither was McCoy.


But McCoy understood. He bobbed his head once, his blue eyes gentle. "Welcome back, Captain." And then, before they both got too maudlin, he added, "You gonna clean up before the briefing, Jim?"


"No, I'll make more of an impression this way!" Kirk said jovially. "Come on, Bones, we're late!"





The briefing went quickly considering the amount of information exchanged; Spock, knowing Kirk badly needed rest, kept things moving. Kirk was amazed at the amount of work that had carried on in his absence. Phillips and the other geologists had completed a feasibility study of commendable detail, and Jones' archaeologists now knew more about the Ishanne than the Ishanne knew about themselves. Denison reported on the progress of his contact teams, and Kirk was glad to learn that Tastaf was a typical example of his people. He looked forward to meeting more of them, especially Chacol, whose calm acceptance of visitors from another world had given Spock the justification he needed to stay and continue the search for his captain. Scott outlined the plan for the reallocation of water resources and reported that his "lads" would soon be ready to begin. Nothing had yet been said to Cambron's residents, Spock wishing to avoid building up false hope, but Denison was planning to break the news the following day. Kirk was very pleased he had not missed an event so momentous. Spock mentioned briefly his running battle with Commodore Elsenbrach--Kirk planned to get a detailed report on that later from McCoy--and Giotto described the search procedures he had directed. As they spoke in turn, Kirk delighted in the smooth operation of the vessel, how his crew had managed to handle so many different tasks under Spock's skillful direction. He knew from experience that it had taken more than a few sleepless nights on Spock's part to achieve it.


"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," he said when Spock indicated that his portion of the briefing was over. "I'm glad to see that you all managed quite well without me. At least I think I'm glad."


Everyone (except Spock) chuckled, and Uhura assured him, "Oh, but we'd much rather manage with you, sir." Her tone clearly said, I know you aren't fishing for compliments but I'm giving you one anyway; her radiant smile was a tonic.


"I appreciate that, Lieutenant. And now it's my turn. Mr. Giotto, we're going to need Security's services particularly on this one." He told his own story quickly and without embellishment, not much wishing to relive any of it. But he told them all he knew of the Klingon mine; even the smallest detail might give Giotto the critical piece of information he needed to develop an effective plan. "Right now we've got surprise on our side. Kyris will assume that the Enterprise is still in orbit because of the shuttlecraft, but unless his men were on our trail today he doesn't know for sure that I'm back aboard. I've told you everything Mida told me about that mine, everything I saw and heard. I want us in position at planet dawn. There are too many lives at stake to delay." The security personnel guarding Rodden had reported no trouble as yet, but Kirk was certain it was only a matter of time. Kyris would not give him up easily.


"I'll get on it right away, sir," Giotto said confidently. "We'll need a pre-attack briefing."


"Call it when you're ready." Kirk stood, trying to hide his weariness. "Until then I suggest the rest of us try to get some sleep." He was conscious of all of them standing at attention as he left the room.





Kirk went to his quarters for the first time since he had come back aboard ship, eagerly anticipating a hot shower. He really couldn't stand himself any longer. The face he saw in the bathroom mirror startled him: reddish-brown beard, half-healed sunburn, dark circles under bloodshot eyes. He had to have some sleep. He cleaned his teeth twice and then shaved, exposing the darkened, peeling skin on the right side of his face. A haircut would have to wait, but being clean-shaven again made him feel much less seedy. He turned on the shower and was mesmerized by the sight and sound of seemingly endless water. He applied shampoo and soap liberally, imagining that he could feel them scouring the accumulated dirt from his skin and hair.


And then, with nothing but the mundane to occupy his mind, all the emotions he had held at bay for the last few hours overwhelmed him. For several minutes his body was racked with violent shaking, becoming more insistent the more he tried to fight it. Finally he managed to turn off the shower and towel himself dry, having to lean against the wall for balance. Regaining some measure of control, he pulled a uniform out of a drawer and put it on. The tunic was fine but the pants were too big; according to McCoy he had lost sixteen pounds. He called down to quartermaster's and ordered new pants a size smaller, wondering why he felt it important enough to bother with this late. It was nearly midnight, and if Bones knew he was still awake he would probably show up with a sedative. Kirk sat down on his bunk, his legs suddenly too unsteady to support his weight. What was wrong with him? Here he was back on the ship, back home--everything should return to normal. Why couldn't he relax and get some sleep? He had been tense for two solid weeks, always alert for any new threat. But here he was safe; his quarters and the corridor outside were quiet–


That was it. It was too quiet. He had struggled so hard and for so long to get back, but here he was in his cabin shut away from everything and everyone who meant anything to him. He was home, and he'd had no time to enjoy it. Ignoring the loose fit of his trousers he went for a walk. On the bridge he found the second shift crew on duty--a whole new group of people to welcome him back aboard. He made his way next to Engineering, and all the way down from the brain of his great ship to her heart crewmen welcomed him home. A longer tour would have to wait, but just a thirty-minute walk through the most vital sections of the ship seemed to help him feel that all was well.


In his cabin, where he found his new pants waiting for him, he stretched out on the bed and tried to sleep, but again it was no use. He touched the intercom button. "Bones, you awake?"


"I am now." McCoy did not seem surprised by his call.


"Were you before?"


"Yeah. Want some company?"


"I could use some."


"Be there in a minute."


McCoy arrived in Kirk's dimly lit quarters bearing, predictably, a decanter of Saurian brandy and two glasses. Kirk, doodling on the desktop with his forefinger, eyed him defensively. "You think I need that?"


McCoy sat down, poured, and pushed a glass across the desk. "You sounded as if you might." Kirk downed the glass in one gulp. "Careful, your tolerance is probably down." Kirk got up and began pacing toward the door. McCoy remained seated, watching. "What's wrong, Jim?"


"Oh, nothing." Kirk's words were edged with impatient sarcasm. He turned and came back toward the desk. "I just can't relax. And--well--I really had the shakes an hour ago. Still do, a little." He was glad the dim nighttime lighting covered the flush that rose to his face. "What's the matter with me, Bones? I sit in here and it's too quiet. So I go for a walk and everybody--I mean everybody--salutes or says welcome home or glad you're back and it's all--too much somehow." He sat down again, poured another drink, shrugged, and smiled sheepishly. "So I came back here and yelled for help."


McCoy moved the brandy out of Kirk's reach. "Two's enough," he said gently. "I'm afraid I don't have much to offer. Sounds to me like you're just having trouble getting back to normal. Jim, one of your great gifts as a commanding officer is your ability to adjust quickly to new situations. The experience you've been through was so extreme your psyche is having trouble realizing it's over."


"You make it sound so simple."


"Well, it is. But simple isn't necessarily easy. As for the crew--reunions can be stressful in their own way. They'll get used to having you back."


"They're so--giving. It's flattering and touching and--embarrassing all at the same time." Kirk waved in the direction of the corridor. "Thirty people must have said hello and welcome aboard just on my walk tonight."


"Then you've got less than four hundred to go." Kirk sighed, smiling wearily. McCoy went on, "You might not realize, Jim--Giotto couldn't go into much detail--but almost all of the crew were down there at one time or another, doing what they could to help in the search. Even if they could just add another pair of eyes with field glasses, they were there."


Color and expression drained from Kirk's face. He stood abruptly and took a few quick steps away from the desk, clamping down on the feelings once again welling up inside him. When he could speak he said quietly, "Thanks for telling me, Bones."


McCoy collected his brandy and glasses and came to stand at Kirk's side. "I thought you should know." He headed for the door. "You'd better try again to rest at least a little while. If you need something to help you wind down--"


"It's probably no use at this point. Giotto will be calling his pre-attack briefing any time now."


As if on cue, Kirk's intercom whistled.

 

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

 

Chapter Seventeen

 

At planet sunrise pairs of riflemen clad in softsuits beamed down in firing position to present as small and as prepared a target as possible when they materialized. Kirk found himself flat on his belly next to Spock, perfectly positioned behind a small mound of earth eighty meters away from the mine entrance. Such delicate placement would have been impossible if Spock and Chekov had not invested so much time in modifying the sensors, and Scott's work on the transporters had enabled the assault force to beam down well inside the Klingons' perimeter.


Kirk and Spock were at a slight angle to the mine entrance. Ten meters to their right Connors, Giotto's best marksman, lay very still, the shield control panel in her sights. Next to her, Holmes' eyes were riveted on his tricorder screen. Lifting his head slightly, Kirk could see motionless crewmen to his left and right. He knew Giotto had placed thirty on the ground and another ten on the cliff above the mine entrance to cover the ventilation shafts, but spotted only twelve; they were well camouflaged. The red sun at their backs was in the eyes of any guards, hiding the transporter glitter; the hum of equipment constantly echoing and vibrating throughout the mine would have masked the slight noise of beaming; and according to Mida the Klingons' sensors were all but blind within a hundred-meter radius. Kirk's awareness of these advantages, however, had done nothing to keep the wait for the all-clear from the first rifle team to beam down from seeming endless. Now he shifted a few rocks from under his hips and settled in to wait again. The sun climbed higher and it was soon uncomfortably warm, despite the protection of the softsuit. Sweat ran in tickling rivulets down his back and dropped off his nose onto the sand. Spock, lying perfectly still next to him, did not perspire, and the Vulcan's obvious ease made Kirk all the more miserable. He saw Connors trying to stretch her neck and back without letting the control panel out of her sights, and sweated for her, too.


So far there had been no orders from the command post on a rise a little higher than the others. Giotto's plan A was based on the assumption that the water lorry went out every morning. When the shield went down he would assign targets to his rifle teams and give the command for them and Connors to fire. By taking out the shield control and all visible guards at once they would maintain their surprise advantage. By the time the Klingons realized the shield could not be reactivated, the attackers would be well inside the mine. The force had been in position for nearly two hours, waiting in silence.


It was possible that they waited in vain. Spock's concern that Kyris, knowing that Kirk was on the loose, would not risk the second lorry unless necessary might be justified. Mida had said that the huge emergency cisterns held two weeks' supply of water if strictly rationed and recycled--and Kirk was sure Kyris considered his kuve expendable in an emergency. But they could not wait; the freighter might return with a battle cruiser or two, or Kyris might move on Tastaf's village. Lorry or no, the assault team would have to act soon. Giotto manned a phaser cannon at the command post, ready for plan B, a direct frontal attack.


Kirk was checking his chronometer again when Holmes reported quietly that the shield was off. After a moment Giotto instructed Connors to wait until a few Klingons had gathered outside the mine entrance. Kirk's pulse quickened. Then, as figures moved into view followed by the lorry, came Giotto's terse instruction. "Captain Kirk, far left, at my signal." Spock was assigned the lorry driver, someone else the passenger, and so on until all the visible targets were designated. Kirk, his aching shoulders forgotten, aimed his phaser rifle at a figure that in his sights jumped close enough for him to see the cocky expression on the young soldier's face. The soldier seemed to look right at him; the rifles and anything else metallic were coated with a non-reflective substance, but Kirk was careful not to move, taking no chances.


"Fire!" Giotto commanded, and at the edge of his sight Kirk saw Connors' phaser beam dart into the mine. At almost the same instant Kirk's target whipped his head around toward the sound but before he could take a step or draw a weapon Kirk fired and the young Klingon fell in a heap. Kirk was aware of the others firing in quick bursts, but by the time he had squeezed off his shot and looked up the only people firing second bursts were those who could see directly into the mine entrance. In five seconds it was over.


They waited, but no alarm sounded, no disruptor beams lanced their way. There was no movement from the Klingons on the ground. "Shield controls eliminated," Holmes confirmed softly after the last phaser burst had died, and Kirk breathed again.


"That's it, Captain," Giotto reported briskly. "So far so good. We got eleven."


"Good work, Mr. Giotto," Kirk acknowledged, keeping his voice low, and to Spock he said, "Eleven--that's almost half the total number of guards, if Mida's estimate of thirty was correct. Some of them must have been up getting some air."


"Yes," Spock agreed. "We have been most fortunate." He sounded as if he did not believe their good fortune would last.


"I know," Kirk said. "The hard part's ahead of us."


Giotto waited a few more seconds, studying the entrance with field glasses, then said, "All looks quiet. Teams A and B move in."


Kirk and Spock went in with Connors' team, approaching from the left, while Alvarez, Giotto's assistant security chief, led her team in from the right. It seemed to take an age to cover the eighty meters to the huge opening in the cliff. At any second a guard might emerge from a ladder shaft or elevator, see the havoc outside, and sound the alarm before he could be silenced. The two teams moved quickly, purposefully. Though it frustrated him that he was not in the vanguard, Kirk knew that his half-healed injuries made him something of a liability in this assault, knew that McCoy had seriously considered pulling medical rank, and he tried to be content just to be taking part. This one was personal, and he would have hated to be kept out of it.


The teams made it to the entrance without incident and slipped inside, stepping over the motionless bodies of stunned guards. Spock made certain that the control console just inside the entrance was the charred wreck it appeared to be, while pairs of officers moved toward each lift and ladder shaft. At Alvarez's "All clear," Giotto and the remaining attack force began to move in. Two officers would station themselves at the mine entrance in the unlikely event of trouble from stray soldiers in the desert, and four would be responsible for moving the stunned guards far enough away from the cliff that Scott could get an accurate fix and transport them to the brig; even his modified transporters could not beam through both the strong gravity fluctuations and heavy dilithium concentrations. The rest would form up in teams to go down into the mine after the remaining guards.


A few steps ahead of the others, Kirk went to call the lift at the far end of the entry corridor, the one that would take him directly to Kyris' office. He was nearly there when its doors began to open. He froze, then ducked behind some machinery and crept closer. Inside the lift were Kahna and Kyris, about to step into the chamber. Kirk set down the phaser rifle and drew his pistol; in the tighter area it would be easier to use. He stepped out in front of them, phaser leveled. "Drop them."


Startled, the two Klingons stiffened and stared at him. Their weapons were at their waists. Kirk enjoyed the play of emotion on their faces as they realized that they had walked unprepared into an all-out Federation assault led by an escaped prisoner. Then the moment passed. Kyris' features settled into a waiting look, cool and calm, but there was a tightness around Kahna's eyes, a tension in his arm and hand that Kirk did not like. He watched for the slightest movement. "Drop them," he said again.


Suddenly Kahna reached for his weapon, stepping forward out of the lift and to the left to draw Kirk's fire away from Kyris. Though Kirk was mentally prepared his physical reflexes were slow; he just barely avoided being hit as he threw himself left and down out of Kyris' line of fire and under Kahna's, firing simultaneously at Kahna. Kahna staggered and fell, but the nerve spasms caused by the phaser stun clenched his fingers on the disruptor trigger and the beam lanced into the lift car. Kirk heard Kyris' scream and picked himself up in time to see the commander reach uncertainly for the control panel in the lift, the left side of his tunic burned away. Kirk lunged but came up short, the doors closing inches from his outstretched hand. He hammered at the outside control, knowing it would be several minutes before the car could travel to the bottom of the mine and back up to answer his summons. The wait would be nerve-wracking, but he knew he couldn't descend the ladder any faster even with both arms at full strength, and he had just dealt his left another blow by landing on it in his dive away from Kahna's fire.


Connors and Holmes, alerted by the sounds of weapons fire, were on their way at a run to investigate, Spock right behind them. Kirk motioned toward Kahna's unconscious form. "Holmes, put some restraints on him and have him beamed to the brig. Connors, call the other elevator, then get six more security people to form up over here."


While the officers hurried to comply with his orders Kirk turned to Spock. "A run-in with Kyris and Kahna.  Kyris is wounded--badly, I think. He knows we're here now--we can't put off getting the workers out. They're our first priority. I'll take some security people in with me; we'll get things started on the upper levels. Then I'll take two with me down after Kyris and we'll evacuate the workers on shift. Spock, I don't have anything to go on but a hunch, but I know Kyris and I don't think he's just crawled away to die. He's up to something. If I were in his shoes I would be. Send the workers to the ship as soon as they come up from the mine, and get everyone else away from the immediate area as soon as possible. That includes you and McCoy--is that clear?"


"Sir," Spock said urgently, knowing it was useless, "request permission--"


"Denied. I need you up here." Kirk's tone softened a bit. "You have your orders, Mr. Spock. Kyris is mine."


"Yes, sir." Spock's eyes held Kirk's for another second, then he withdrew to follow his orders.


Kirk quickly explained to the eight security officers now gathered around him the necessity of releasing the workers immediately rather than after all danger of their being hurt was past as Giotto had planned. He paired them off and assigned them floors, keeping Holmes and Connors with him. After the three of them had dealt with the guards in the lowest part of the mine and started the evacuation of the on-shift workers, he would need a veteran officer to go with him in search of Kyris. The man could be anywhere in the maze of levels and tunnels below.


Kirk paced furiously in front of the lift doors. He could not have explained his sense of urgency. But he knew the Klingon commander too well to expect him to simply give up. How badly was he wounded? Did Kyris have time to destroy machinery, collapse tunnels? He knew he had lost the battle; he would not want the spoils of victory to fall into Federation hands, especially into the hands of the human who had beaten him.


Kyris' lift returned first. Kirk rushed in and hit the controls so quickly that he almost left his security team behind. At level three he pushed the hold button, then opened all the cell doors from the wall panel, demonstrating those controls to his team. He led them down the hall past bewildered workers to Mida's cell. The Rigellian, off shift at this hour, was asleep, but at the sound of footsteps he awakened quickly and got to his feet. When he saw who had released him his eyes grew very bright.


"Captain, you are safe! I had not hoped to know your fate so soon!"


His handclasp was strong and Kirk returned it with equal relief that Mida had not somehow been blamed for his and Tastaf's escape, but there was no time for reunions now. Kirk gave his orders to the security squad quickly, trusting that Giotto's Security briefing had given them the layout of the cellblocks. "There are workers on at least the first six levels. Use the lifts only for those too weak to climb the ladders. Tell them to be careful of sporadic weapons fire when they reach the top, and you watch out for stray guards. Keep everyone calm, but hurry. I have a feeling we don't have much time. Understood?" They all acknowledged. "Go. We'll take care of this floor." The three pairs started down the nearest ladder shaft, leaving the open lift for Kirk and the two lieutenants.


Kirk's attention turned to the waiting Rigellian. "Mida, I need your help again." Mida nodded tensely, struggling with the conflicting emotions of joy at being freed and concern that all was evidently not well. "Take the people on this floor up the ladders. My first officer is in command on the surface. He's a Vulcan--maybe you remember him--Mr. Spock. He'll give you further directions when you get up there. Is that clear?" He looked hard at the Rigellian, unreasonably hoping to see the same confidence he saw on the faces of his security officers.


"Yes." Mida managed what he hoped was a calm, steady smile. "Do not worry."


Kirk had to smile in turn at the bureaucrat reassuring the soldier. "Mida--thank you."


The bureaucrat nodded. "Luck to you, Captain."


Kirk returned with Holmes and Connors to the waiting lift, and Mida began shouting orders to the workers, who were nervously waiting for someone to tell them what to do. A few daring souls, including Mida's gray cellmate, stuck their heads cautiously around the door frames. As the doors closed Kirk could see several workers finally coming out of their cells in response to Mida's exhortations. If it takes that long for all the floors–


"Captain." Holmes pointed to a puddle of brownish-red fluid in the rear corner of the lift. "It's blood, sir--fresh."


Kirk squatted down beside him for a closer look. "We missed it before--there were so many of us in the car. If Kyris lost that much blood in a short elevator ride, he's got nothing to lose now." He stood, massaging his stiffening left arm with his right. He had had time for breakfast and a nap and had cadged a stimulant from McCoy, but he was still tired, bruised, and sore, and now he was following a wounded lion into his den. "Connors, you'll come with me after Kyris. But first we get those people out." Both officers nodded resolutely.


The lift ground to a halt and the three exited cautiously, Connors at point, Kirk–unwillingly--in the safer middle position, Holmes in the rear. They headed toward the mine workings, the boom of machinery drowning their footsteps. There should be only four guarding the shift, if the scene Kirk had witnessed was typical.


"Attention!" Startled by the sudden sound of Kyris' rough voice, Kirk flattened his back against the wall. Holmes and Connors flanked him, phasers ready. After a long pause, Kyris' voice continued over the intercom, sounding weaker now.


"All personnel who are still in the mine." Kyris spoke slowly, pausing after every few words. "Procedure zero zero has been implemented. Proceed to the escape ship now. That is my last order." An extended pause followed the warning, then Kyris continued hoarsely, "You have--" and Kirk's translator said, "eleven point two two minutes." Nothing further came from the speakers.


It was as clear an announcement of an auto-destruct order as Kirk could wish for. The set look on his lieutenants' faces told him that they knew it, too. He spoke quietly, urgently. "Well, now we know what he's up to. You two will have to see to the on-shift workers. There will be panic in there now--they heard that message, too. Be careful, and do what you have to do to maintain order."


"Sir--we can't leave you--!" Connors protested.


They always say that, Kirk thought with affectionate irritation. He let the irritation show in his voice. "They're your responsibility now.  Go." They hesitated another fraction of a second, then went.


Kirk was already hurrying down the corridor toward the nearest lift, knowing it could deliver him to level thirteen and return before the workers were ready for it. Each car could carry perhaps ten or twelve people; he hoped it would be enough, for few of the malnourished workers would be able to complete a fifteen-level climb. In the lift, out of hearing of any guards who might be rushing to safety, he took out his communicator.


"Spock here." The Vulcan's calm voice carried a grim undertone. "We heard the announcement, sir."


"Yes. He's set a destruct device of some sort. I don't know what or where it is, so all I can do is find Kyris and persuade him to disarm it. I've only got about ten minutes now."


"Jim, you can't--" cried an anguished voice.


What was McCoy doing there? "No arguments, Doctor--there isn't time. Spock, get those people out of the mine, and warn Scotty about the escape ship. Kirk--"


"Jim, for God's sake, be careful!"


"As always, Bones. Kirk out."


He cut the transmission before they could try to talk him out of what he was attempting. And what chance did he have, anyway? Since when could you persuade a Klingon to do something purely for the humanity of it? But he had to try; there were more lives at stake than his own. If he failed there might still be time for him to climb out--if he could make the climb. He wondered what the destruct device was. Explosives, most likely. Klingons tended to like violent, noisy exits, and explosions would have the added benefit of keeping the mine and a great deal of partially processed dilithium out of Federation hands. Kirk was gambling that the destruct signal was centrally controlled; Kyris, wounded and slow-moving, had not had time to reach separate detonation sites. The control room, next to Kyris' office on thirteen, was the only place to try.


The lift stopped and the doors slid open. Kirk pressed back into the darkest corner. The lift anchored a right angle; the corridor he faced was empty, but to his left he was blind. He considered blanketing the area with a wide stunning beam, but phaser fire would give him away to Kyris and any guards farther down the corridor. Deciding that he would rather hold onto the slight edge a quiet arrival would give him, he took a chance and dove low through the doors, half sliding, half rolling across one leg of the L and into the other. No disruptor fire met his attempt, and when he peered cautiously around the corner he saw only another empty corridor. He was glad now that he had not used phaser fire unnecessarily. Perhaps he still had a tiny advantage. Kyris would certainly be expecting him, but he would not know exactly when. Holding his phaser with a relaxed but firm grip he moved softly down the red-walled corridor.


He saw no one. Guards and workers alike seemed to have vanished. Even the noisy mine machinery had subsided; the atmosphere was eerie, expectant. He was now only ten meters from Kyris' office.


"Eight point nine seven six minutes."


Kirk jumped at the combined voices of the intercom system and the translator at his waist. The irregular countdown was disconcerting, but infinitely better than none at all.


As he passed the ladder shaft he scanned quickly inside it, looking up--no one. Crossing the corridor, he advanced on Kyris' office door, back to the wall, phaser on stun--though he would not use the weapon unless absolutely necessary.  If Kyris was indeed badly wounded, even a light stun would probably kill him, and Kirk needed Kyris alive; he had no other means of canceling the destruct order in time. He hoped his persuasive skills were a match for Klingon notions of honor, a confusing concept to the human--and humane--mind.


Passing quickly in front of the office door, he covered the small room with his eyes and his phaser.  This room, too, was empty. Kyris was in the adjoining control room, then. Dead already, Kirk wondered despairingly, or waiting, disruptor ready? He entered the office and moved toward the connecting doorway, his steps almost soundless in the desert boots.


But all his time-consuming caution was ultimately in vain. His approach to the door was necessarily at such an angle that he could not avoid casting a slight shadow across the floor in front of the opening. Kyris' voice, when it came, was no surprise. "If your weapon is in your hand when you round the corner, Captain, I shall fire. My disruptor is set to kill."


Now Kirk could hear the ragged breathing and knew what the effort to speak had cost Kyris. His immediate reaction was to discount the Klingon's threat; surely Kyris would wish to gloat before he died. But to take that chance seemed foolish. Kyris had misjudged him once; he had let the game go on one round too long, and Kirk had escaped. Perhaps this time he truly would shoot to kill. But Kirk hesitated to put the phaser down out here, out of reach where he could not see it once he went through the door; to do that would leave him at Kyris' mercy. The commander's voice had seemed to come from the middle of the room. He was seriously--perhaps mortally--wounded on his left side; surely he would be seated. Kirk bent low and slid the phaser into the room, aiming blind for a spot behind Kyris and to his right.


"Seven point eight five four."


He straightened, took a breath, and stepped through the door.





McCoy, in response to Spock's orders to beam aboard ship, had sent his medical team up from their position behind the command post and then jogged over to the mine entry to find out what had happened. Hearing about Kirk's encounter with Kyris made him wish that he hadn't. "But we can't beam him up out of there if he gets into trouble!"


"He knows that very well, Doctor."


"Going down after Kyris in his condition," McCoy fumed. "He's the last person who should be down there! I really hoped he'd come to his senses and stay out of things."


"As we have both known for quite some time," Spock replied dryly, "it is not in Captain Kirk's nature to 'stay out of things.' As to the other, the captain knows the layout of the mine better than we do and he knows Kyris. He has the best chance of defeating him on his own ground."


McCoy opened his mouth to argue, but just then the first wave of refugees appeared from the ladder shafts. Spock positioned himself at one opening and McCoy at another to direct the disoriented, half-blinded workers who staggered up and out. They sent them to an area away from the cliff that Giotto had hastily set up for mass beamings with the cargo transporters. Once the first few workers found their way the procedure settled into a smooth rhythm, twenty or so beaming aboard at the same time. Under these circumstances it was probably fortunate that the workers were conditioned to obedience.


Spock was inclined to agree with Kirk's suspicions about Kyris' probable reaction to the Federation assault. He would try to find some way to retaliate. But how much time would he need? How much time did they have to organize an evacuation from the mine? Barring a truly cataclysmic explosion, those on the surface most likely were safe from serious injury no matter what Kyris was planning, but those in the mine could be in great danger. He did not allow his thoughts to linger on the fact that one of them was his captain.


Soon after the deluge began a man detached himself from the crowd of workers and made his way over to Spock, who recognized him at once from Kirk's description. "Mr. alba Lannafel."


"Please call me Mida, Mr. Spock. And tell me how to help."


"Our situation here is unstable. I cannot guarantee your safety if you stay."


"This I understand." Mida returned the Vulcan's gaze steadily.


Spock nodded. "Very well." He pointed to where Giotto was now establishing beamup areas for the smaller transporters. "Direct some of these people over to Commander Giotto in groups of six." Mida gave him a slight smile of gratitude and got to work.


The operation proceeded smoothly. Streams of workers continued to pour from the ladder shafts, and Giotto demanded--over Scott's wails of protest--full- capacity operation of all transporter. The ship's engines performed without the slightest glitch, providing the power to beam up wave after wave of confused kuve. McCoy's people were on hand in all transporter rooms to offer explanations, assurances, and, if necessary, sedatives.


There came a lull after the kuve from the first couple of levels reached the surface, and Giotto reported to Spock that they seemed to have beamed up roughly a third of the total worker complement of the mine. Two Klingon guards, their hands bound, emerged from one of the shafts followed by the security officers who had apprehended them. More workers were nearing the tops of the ladders, but there was time for a few deep breaths and a call from Scott, who said that transporters were not meant to work this hard but that his were handling the demand nicely.


Into that moment of relative calm came Kyris' announcement of the destruct order, and all optimism fled.





Kirk took in the control room at a glance. Most of the panels were dark now, in sharp contrast to the blinking and beeping of two days before. One board continued to operate. Kirk's gaze fastened on it briefly--the destruct controls, he hoped. Perhaps a well-placed phaser beam . . . And there was the phaser, perfectly placed two or three paces behind Kyris and to his right. He fixed its position in his mind and did not look at it again.


He studied the Klingon commander. Pale and drawn, Kyris sat rigidly in his chair, his feet braced wide apart for balance. His eyes were unnaturally bright, his sharp teeth bared slightly by the agony he suffered. His breathing was shaky, but the right arm and hand resting on his thigh held the disruptor without a tremor. His left arm and hand also rested on his lap, but the hand was curled into a claw and the arm jerked occasionally. The left side of his shirt, visible under the remains of his tunic, was soaked with blood. Disruptor wounds spread from cell to cell and it was impossible for the body to stabilize such a massive wound without medical aid. Kirk hoped that Kyris wouldn't lose consciousness before time was up.


Kyris returned Kirk's stare with a calculating look of his own. Kirk knew he was exulting at having caught his enemy in the destruct cycle, at the chance to see defeat in the Starfleet captain's eyes. He wondered what approach might have the best chance. Directness, possibly. It would be useless to beg from this man.


"I don't really care if you want to stay down here and die," he said abruptly, "--though we could save your life if you'd let us. But you must delay the destruct so my people can get the workers out."


For a moment Kyris seemed confused. Then he said slowly, "The kuve. I had forgotten them."


Kirk began to fear that he had failed already. He took a step forward, halting as the disruptor twitched. "Remember them now," he urged. "Tell me how to delay the destruct." He took another tentative step, this time toward the control panel. The disruptor followed his movement, but Kyris said nothing. As Kirk took a third step, the address system spoke and the translator said, "Six point seven three two minutes."


Kyris said softly, "Stop, Captain. You will not reach the panel before I fire."


Kirk turned on him.  "Then you might as well fire now, because I won't stop." Their eyes locked. "You should know that by now." His tone was deceptively gentle, slightly taunting.


Kyris did not rise to the bait and refused to be hurried. "Tell me, Kirk," he said, his voice weak but clear, "how did you know the moment to escape? I was--" His breath caught and his eyes closed as a spasm of pain wracked him; Kirk tensed but the eyes opened again before he could move. "I was," the commander continued, his voice rougher now, "about to confine you to your cell. I did not intend to let you out again."


Kirk's smile matched the commander's own in arrogance. "I suspected as much. It's what I would have done."


Kyris nodded slowly. "I would have come after you. I would have combed villages one by one until I found you. You could not have escaped--that way."


"I rather thought that." Kyris was stalling, Kirk knew, buying time. He tried a change of tactic. "What sort of destruct system is it, anyway? If I'm to be killed by it, surely I have a right to know."


Kyris considered for a moment, then apparently decided there was no harm in revealing it.  "Explosives will destroy the nuclear generators and processors, and the resulting radiation will render the mine unusable."


"Efficient," Kirk had to admit. Anyone caught in the mine might survive explosives, but not radiation leakage. He continued in a more persuasive tone. "Look, you've got me trapped down here with you, and your guards have at least a chance of escape. There's no honor in murdering mine workers. They're no danger to you if they're free. What have you got to lose by letting them go?"


Kirk spoke rapidly, and the delay while Kyris found the strength to reply was unbearable. "My ship," the commander said finally in a seeming non sequitur.


"Your ship?"


"In the Black Fleet. Do you know of the Black Fleet, Captain?"


"I've heard of it." The Klingon afterlife--eternal, glorious war.


There was another pause. Kirk listened to Kyris' rapid, shallow breathing, and marveled at his tenacity. As he watched Kyris fade before him he could believe that somehow the man had channeled all his remaining energy into the arm and hand that held the disruptor so steadily. He felt no real sympathy for Kyris, and yet it was hard to see a strong figure dying such an ugly death.


"One must meet death," Kyris said, his voice stronger, fuller after the long pause, "with his eyes open and with honor." Another wrenching pause, then, "If one brings an enemy, that is a greater honor. You are my enemy. If I delay for the kuve, I delay for you as well. I do not have the time to be generous." His face seemed more alive, less frozen, as he said dismissively, "They are only kuve."


"They are men and women, sentient beings who don't deserve to die this way!" Kirk pleaded, unable to hide his frustration any longer.


"I must say this to you, Captain," Kyris said, ignoring Kirk's outburst. "I wish that I had had a mind-sifter here to question you, but I am also thankful that I did not have to watch you be destroyed in that way." He gasped for breath. "Do you--understand?"


Kirk's eyes widened a little. "Yes," he said, surprised and in an odd way honored. "I appreciate the compliment."


"Five point six one minutes."


"Your time goes, as does mine, Captain." Kyris' voice was barely above a whisper now; the conversation had taken its toll. Kirk now wished that Kyris would pass out. But the black eyes were still bright; the commander would probably last those five and a half minutes. Kirk gave up trying to change the attitudes of a lifetime.


Without another word, he dove low for the phaser. Kyris saw the flicker of the hard hazel eyes toward the weapon on the floor and fired. But his reaction was a fraction of a second too slow. Kirk was already moving; the beam just barely caught him across the backs of his thighs and exploded one of the inactive panels. He rolled, came up behind Kyris with the phaser in his hand, ready. But, as he had anticipated, Kyris could not turn to fire to the right without losing his uncertain balance and falling from the chair. The disruptor hung uselessly toward the floor. Kirk, moving quickly now, wrested the weapon from Kyris' still surprisingly strong grip.


"You have no time, Captain," the commander said harshly. "No time."


"We'll see about that," Kirk muttered, taking aim with the phaser at the one lit panel. A sudden thought struck him and he hesitated, turning to look Kyris straight in the eyes. "If I fire, will I set off the explosions?"


Kyris made him wait for the answer, but finally sagged a little in the chair and said, "No."


"Three point six six minutes."


Kirk searched the Klingon's face a few more seconds, and believed him; Kyris was too arrogant to cower behind falsehood. He fired with relish, and the panel disintegrated in a dramatic display of sparks and flames. Regarding the dark, scorched mess with satisfaction, he cheerfully gave the all clear to those waiting on the surface. Then he faced Kyris once again, not pointing the phaser but keeping it ready. The burn across his legs was already smarting badly as the cell disruption began to spread, but he would be in Sickbay for treatment long before it became serious.


"In your condition you can't be moved," he said to Kyris, "but I'll send down a medical team. The Black Fleet will have to wait a while for you."


Kyris' drawn features shaped the characteristic smile for the first time since Kirk had entered the room. It was a weak but knowing smile, and it left Kirk cold. "I think not, Captain. I am surprised that I have survived this long. In any case, I do not want your help." Kyris' tone was so scornful Kirk was sure he would have spat on the floor if he could have summoned the strength.


He had to admit that the commander was probably right. Only Kyris' face seemed alive now. His right arm, formerly so steady, still hung immobile from his shoulder; he could not even return it to his lap. Kirk turned to go but hesitated at the door, feeling he should say something--not to the inhumane being he could not understand, but to the soldier and strategist he respected. "If we don't make it back to you in time--safe passage."


Kyris nodded and seemed about to speak when a mechanical voice broke in that Kirk had not expected to hear again. "Two point two four four minutes." He froze, sickened, and knew he should have been warned by the smile.


"Once the destruct is set, it can be stopped or delayed only from the central computer itself. These are--merely access terminals." Kyris' voice was little more than a whisper now, but his smile broadened slightly to reveal his sharp teeth. "I will see you in the Black Fleet, Captain."


Kirk spared him one last look, an accusing, hate-filled look that nevertheless held more than its share of admiration. He had no time to get to the central computer and Kyris knew it. Almost involuntarily he gave the Klingon commander a nod--of assent? Even Kirk could not have identified the feelings crushing him at that moment--perhaps the fear that defeat was at last upon him, as well as the refusal to accept it. He turned and raced for the ladder, knowing that Kyris waited alone in the control room, his eyes open.





Kirk's wounded legs were already stiffening by the time he reached the ladder shaft across from Kyris' office. He knew his fading strength could not get him out in time, but if he got far enough away from the reactors, far enough above the explosions, perhaps he could hang on to the ladder and survive. He had let Spock know that he had failed, that the system was still armed.  At least those on the surface could be sure of safety, and the last of the on-shift workers were on their way up with Holmes and Connors, the guards having deserted their posts at Kyris' order to escape; he could only hope they were able to climb faster than he was. He cursed Kyris, cursed his smugness and deceit, but knew that if their positions had been reversed he too would have played the game until its final seconds, would have taken as many enemies with him as he could.


"One point one two two minutes." It was his last warning. He quit thinking about Kyris, thought only about climbing, forcing his good arm to pull and his legs, on fire from the disruptor burn, to push at double time. His progress was agonizingly slow, his limbs too weak to climb two rungs at once. He slipped frequently. He had no real way of knowing if the shaft was the safest place to be or a death trap.


He made it only to level twelve. The first explosion shook him badly; his grip loosened, his boots slipped and he swung precariously for a second or two, trying to find the rungs of the ladder which tilted with the heaves of the earth. He lost his grip and fell, but grabbed frantically and caught himself, hanging by his right arm just below thirteen. Other explosions followed with frightening speed and he could not regain his hold; the shock of the blasts buffeted through the shaft, tore him from his flimsy lifeline, and dashed him senseless to the floor. He lay still while the world shook and fell apart around him.

 

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

 

Chapter Eighteen

 

"Dr. McCoy?"


McCoy started, came awake mumbling, and peered bleary-eyed at Christine Chapel, who didn't look much more alert than he felt. "The captain's regaining consciousness," she said with a tired smile.


At once fully alert, McCoy hurried in to find Kirk stirring weakly under the light cover. All the readings on the scanner above the bed were acceptable, and Kirk's color was good and his breathing even. As McCoy looked down at him Kirk's eyes flickered open, closed, opened again. His gaze was erratic and unfocused for several seconds, then his eyes fastened on McCoy's face. He blinked once, twice, and took a couple of deep breaths, as though marshalling strength for a costly effort. Finally he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "Make it?"


McCoy put a hand on his shoulder, thinner now than it had been. "Yeah," he said, a catch in his voice, "you made it. We all made it."


Kirk's eyes closed again and he was soon asleep. A small, satisfied smile lingered on his lips.


"Doesn't surprise you, does it?" McCoy muttered to the sleeping form. "Well, bucko, it surprises the hell out of me."


He and Spock had stayed in the mine entry even through the first distant explosions, McCoy taking out his helpless frustration by shouting to those below to hurry, to climb faster. When they emerged he all but shoved them toward the entrance. Spock, his expression bleak and cold, hauled workers up as if they were weightless. When the Vulcan's mental clock reached the thirty-second mark he ordered all personnel away from the area, but McCoy refused to leave--though he wondered when the earth would swallow him up or the mountain collapse around him. The first tremors were slight, gently rocking the earth underfoot. Ominous rumblings drifted up the deep, narrow shaft. The next tremors threw McCoy to his knees, but Spock seemed rooted upright. The last climbers, Connors and Holmes among them, managed to hang on and finally pulled themselves out of the shaft exhausted. McCoy would have stayed even then, but Spock's hand on his arm was steel.


The wait in the transporter room for the tremors to subside was intolerable, but finally an anxious landing party beamed down clad in protective suits. While Giotto and his assistants hurried to set shields at the mine entrances and ventilation shafts to prevent radiation from dispersing into Ishan's atmosphere, Spock and McCoy directed their tricorders down the ladder shafts. It was Spock who found the faint flicker that might be life readings amid the strong radiation contained in the second shaft. The ladder was too mangled by the explosions for them to climb down, so McCoy had to wait again while Spock ordered a self-anchoring winch and lines from the ship. With Giotto operating the winch, they threaded their way through the metal maze that looked like something out of an engineer's nightmare, and soon they could see the bottom of the shaft and, in the circle of light from Spock's powerful torch, Kirk's half-buried body, bloody and broken.


It had taken nearly an hour to get Kirk into Sickbay. Spock's superior strength had made short work of the rocks and debris crushing his torso and legs, but the hopelessly wrenched ladder blocked the upward path of a stiff stretcher. Spock and Giotto, armed with cutter beams, hung in harnesses in the cramped confines of the shaft while Connors operated the winch. The three worked quickly to cut away the protruding sections and remove them, but more than once as Kirk's hold on life wavered McCoy had feared their haste would not be enough.


He gave Kirk's shoulder an affectionate pat and, after updating Spock, who had checked in at Sickbay at least three times in the past several hours, finally stumbled off to bed.





Spock stored the reports that for the last two hours had held his attention incompletely. McCoy's call had been a most welcome interruption. He turned off the computer terminal, even that small movement slow and sluggish. He could allow himself to be tired now. He dimmed the lights, changed into a plain black robe, and lay down on the firm bunk in the small sleeping area. The rich, deep red velvet that draped the walls absorbed the soft light of the firepot that burned continually on the low shelf. He had long known that for humans the color red symbolized blood, passion, war--not inappropriate to Vulcan's violent past even though Vulcan blood was green. But McCoy had once informed him gleefully that in psychological terms red also represented sublimation--the modification of the natural expression of an instinctual impulse in a socially acceptable manner. To Spock this was simply a curious coincidence. For him the dark, rich hue was calming. Surrounded by the soft, sensual fabric he lay motionless, relaxing his muscles one by one. He had not slept in two weeks.


Twice in those two weeks he had feared his captain dead. At the beginning he had indulged in the shamefully emotional speculation that he would have had some sense of Kirk's death--that if the ultimate separation had occurred Kirk's mind would have called to him and he would have heard. Because he had felt nothing, he had allowed himself to hope that Kirk might be alive. He had even gone so far as to try to reach out himself. Finally, however, his Vulcan training, though embarrassingly delayed, had asserted itself and forced him to acknowledge the humiliating error of which he was guilty.


But all the considerable mental rigor he possessed could not rid him of his fear for the man who was both captain and friend. His relief at Kirk's safe return was undeniable, as was his renewed worry when Kirk was trapped in the mine. The quick reversals of extreme emotion had tested him greatly, and the last several hours had seemed, even to his relentlessly objective perceptions, to drag. But now it was certain Kirk would recover, and Spock briefly allowed himself to admit to the pleasure he would feel at once again assuming his place as Kirk's second.


His eyes closed. Tonight he would sleep.





Kirk woke gradually to the familiar sounds and smells of Sickbay. He tried to move--nothing much, just a slight turn of his head to look around--and at first thought he could not do even that. His leaden muscles resisted so firmly that he groaned with the effort. Footsteps approached and McCoy appeared by his bed.


"So you've decided to rejoin us."


Kirk drank in the craggy face, the kind blue eyes, the crooked smile. "I thought I just dreamed being alive."


"No dream." McCoy checked Kirk's readings and looked pleased. "Though you sure tried hard enough to get yourself killed. No skull fracture, no concussion--you must have managed to protect your head when you fell--but you do have broken ribs, a cracked tibia, severe radiation exposure, internal bleeding from the rocks that fell on you, not to mention those disruptor burns." He stopped, satisfied that Kirk looked properly chastened. "I want to know just how many lives you've got, Jim."


"I guess we'll find out someday, won't we?" Kirk's flippant words were a defense against McCoy's morbidity; the appalling damage report on his own body had shaken him, as it was intended to. "Can I sit up?" he asked, before McCoy could accuse him of taking the whole thing too lightly. McCoy nodded and with his help Kirk worked himself to a sitting position; his arms shook with the effort. "How long have I been out?"


"About twenty-four hours. And before you ask, you're going to stay here at least another twenty-four--I don't care if the entire Klingon fleet shows up. No arguments," McCoy ordered as Kirk opened his mouth to protest. "After that, we'll see."


Kirk felt suddenly trapped at the thought of being confined to Sickbay, but he had to admit that at the moment he probably couldn't even make it to the door. "Okay, Bones. But I want to see Spock right now."


"Deal." McCoy started for the wall intercom.


"Bones?" McCoy turned at Kirk's quiet voice. "I thought for a while there--I wasn't going to see you again." The blue eyes met his, and he saw in McCoy's half-hearted smile that he had thought the same--and not for the first time. "It's nice to be wrong now and then."


Spock arrived in response to McCoy's summons in just minutes, his alacrity the only clue that he felt more than professional concern for his captain's health. He did not sit down, but stood at the foot of Kirk's bed. "I am pleased you are in somewhat better condition than when I last saw you, Captain," he said in that light, formal tone he always used when he was not going to admit to the emotions he was feeling.


"Thank you, Mr. Spock," Kirk said, matching his formality with his voice but not with his eyes. The Vulcan's businesslike attitude wasn't fooling anyone; McCoy had just happened to mention to Kirk that Spock had already called Sickbay twice that morning, and Uhura had tattled to the doctor about Spock's unsuppressed joy when Kirk's voice had first been heard on the bridge. Kirk's eyes strayed briefly to McCoy's and back, and a slow, affectionate smile stole over his face and stayed there throughout Spock's visit.


But he was not so far gone in his emotional wallow that he could not appreciate the good news Spock was delivering. The assault group had suffered no casualties, not even Connors and Holmes after that last terrible climb. The brig held twenty-one Klingon guards, including Kahna--"Is he the one in the perpetual snit?" "That's him, Bones." If the information Giotto had gleaned in his interrogation of the prisoners was accurate, eight guards were entombed with their commander in the mine. The escape ship had not been used; Security had discovered the small fighter and its vertical ascent shaft and had secured the access even before Kyris' last order; the craft was crammed into the hangar deck and would be delivered to Starbase 15. The workers remained in the cargo hold, provided with food and bedding, not under guard exactly but under constant supervision, a precaution of which Kirk approved. Though they had his sympathy, their loyalties were uncertain; until they made their individual decisions whether to begin a new life in the Federation or to return to servitude, they were a risk and would not visit even unrestricted areas of the ship without escort.


He wanted to ask more questions, to enjoy a longer talk with his first officer, but McCoy ordered Spock away as soon as all the major points had been covered. "The rest you can read," he said sternly, pointing at the long-necked miniature viewscreen at one side of the bed. "That's what those things are for."


Kirk shrugged helplessly at Spock, even that small movement causing little black dots to swirl before his eyes. "McCoy's law," he said, trying to keep the fatigue from his voice. He was actually looking forward to a little rest--but only a little. "At least now I can catch up on all those reports. Flag anything important; otherwise I'll just read them in order."


"Yes, sir," Spock acknowledged, and turned to go.


"Spock?"


"Sir." The Vulcan waited expectantly for whatever emotional comment was on its way.


"It's good to see you."


Spock's eyes held Kirk's for several seconds. "Likewise, sir."


Kirk's smile broadened and Spock gazed at him inscrutably. He then took his leave, but not before once again checking the readings above Kirk's bed and waiting for a reassuring nod from McCoy. Kirk sighed, knowing he would have to endure two mother hens for the next couple of days.





Chacol's mouth worked but no sound emerged. He tried again and managed, all in a rush, "You can do what?"


Sulu grinned and spoke more slowly and distinctly. "We believe that we can make it possible for the people of Cambron and Rodden to live in Sashna Velda again." The two villages were the closest to the old city, and their populations together would fill Sashna Velda to two-thirds its capacity, leaving plenty of room for growth. "Our engineers finished the plans this afternoon."


They sat on the porch steps in front of Chacol and Tenna's room, the music and conversation from the usual evening gathering on the common a pleasant background to their quiet exchange. Again Sulu had been delegated by Denison and his team to serve as chief intermediary, but this time he welcomed the job.


Chacol's expression became no less incredulous, but he was able to speak more steadily. "I know you would not say such a thing lightly, Sulu. I know you would not tease about this." His voice and eyes begged for reassurance.


"Absolutely not! We wouldn't raise your hopes unless we were sure of success." Sulu studied Chacol's face. "Please--will you let us do this for you?"


Chacol thought intently for several long minutes. Could this really be happening? Could the human visitors, who had been on his world for only a short time, really make such drastic changes so easily? He looked around at the plain, colorless buildings that were a constant reminder that the Ishanne hadn't the time anymore to decorate on a large scale. They must now content themselves with pots, jewelry, toys--things that could be finished quickly in their limited spare time. He thought of the extensive archives in Sashna Velda, all the knowledge contained in the thousands of scrolls and slabs. For all its friendliness and warmth, Cambron was only a sad imitation of the old cities. Chacol had been born in Cambron, had expected to die here. "Such--sudden change," he murmured. And then, smiling, "Sashna Velda."


Cambron met later that night with Spock and the contact team and listened to Scott and Lieutenant Ling, the hydrologist, outline the technical processes involved in bringing water up to Sashna Velda. Many questions were asked and answered, but the Ishanne were as expeditious as they were orderly; after only minor deliberation it was agreed that the following morning ground would be broken in the dry river bed upstream from Sashna Velda. Rebirth had begun.





Kirk slept restlessly. Nightmarish images of sand and sun and black tunnels and pain flickered at the edges of his dreams. With relief he woke in the early morning, thinking of Tastaf. He knew that Spock had informed Tastaf, sending Sulu since the two had already met, that the Klingon threat had been eliminated. But he wanted to see Tastaf himself; he was troubled by the sense of things left unsaid, the feeling that he had thanklessly abandoned a comrade--his "life friend."


He lay still for a little while listening to the quiet. The Sickbay chronometer said 0518. On impulse he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, holding on to the frame. He was wobbly so he let go cautiously, but when he managed to walk across the room and back without feeling faint, he was encouraged to do something for which McCoy would have his hide. Hunting through the cabinet that held patients' personal effects, he found the softsuit he had worn on the attack, now clean and repaired and looking almost like new. He was lucky; if McCoy had suspected he would go awol he would have padlocked the cabinet. He dressed, his movements slow and careful, and sneaked out of Sickbay in the direction of the main transporter room, where he collected a communicator and translator. The night shift operator told him that the Ishanne hadn't yet seen the transporter effect and that she'd put him as close as she could to Rodden. She programmed her board and said, "You'll be about fifty meters upstream, sir, out of sight around a bend. "Energizing."


Fifty meters! Kirk was thinking in dismay as the transporter room was quickly replaced by the clear, pleasantly warm air of Ishan in the early morning. In his condition fifty meters might as well be a continent. Well, this was his idea. He took his time, not pushing, his slow pace giving him the chance to enjoy the lovely landscape freed from the oppressive awareness that he might never again see any other. In the shadow of the low mountain that Rodden mined for copper ore, he came upon a teenage boy at the riverbank, scooping up shellfish with a net. I could have used that, he thought wryly. Seeing him, the boy came forward and gave a polite arms-crossed bow.


Kirk did the same. "Can you tell me where to find Tastaf?"


A curious frown creased the boy's forehead. "Are you Kirk?"


"Yes, I am."


The boy's smile was quick and fleeting on his lips but remained in his eyes. "I am Maked. Tastaf has told us about you." He propped his net against a rock. "Come. I will take you to him."


"I don't want to interrupt your work," Kirk protested. "If you'll just tell me--"


"Friends are more important than work," Maked said wisely, and led the way into the village. Kirk held the pace fairly well, but he was pale and sweating by the time Maked brought him to an open yellow door at the far end of one of the long buildings. He went in without knocking while Kirk waited in the doorway. Eight or ten young people, both men and women, were eating breakfast together in a large, sparsely furnished room. Colorful hammocks hung from the ceiling along two walls and Kirk got the distinct impression that he was in a singles' apartment.


"Kirk!" Tastaf rose from the plain stone table and joined Kirk on the porch. The others looked up and smiled but did not intrude. "I am surprised to see you so soon--Sulu told me you were badly hurt." He examined Kirk closely, but did not know enough about humans to decide if Kirk looked ill or just tired. "Should you be here?"


"No," Kirk admitted, wiping sweat from his forehead; the salt stung a little on the new skin. "In fact, I expect to be caught any minute. But I wanted to see you, and if we just sit down and talk, I'll be fine."


"A moment, then." Tastaf stepped inside and emerged with a plate full of food. "Come." He led the way toward the river, not far from his door; they sat down facing the water under some stubby trees and leaned against boulders already warm in the morning sun. Tastaf set the plate on the coarse grass between them. "For you, too." He pointed to one of the items on the pile. "This is the same fruit we ate on our journey, only dried. But it is all safe for you to eat."


"How do you know?"


"Some of your people met with us late yesterday afternoon to tell us about Sashna Velda. They tested many of our foods at the gathering last night."


"How did your village react to our suggestion?"


"There were a few reservations, but these were soon overcome. We had to reach consensus for such a change, of course." He said it casually, in blissful ignorance of how difficult it is for a group of humans to come to a consensus about which restaurant to go to for dinner, much less whether to relocate a town. "I had no reservations," he added, with charming self-satisfaction.


"You don't think there will be any problems?"


"Momentous change--even for the better--always brings unforeseen issues," Tastaf conceded. "You, for example--your very presence on our world has irrevocably altered our lives. I was imprisoned by the Klingons and might have died there--" He paused, and his eyes said, but for you-- "--but I would not return to isolation. I would not give up my knowledge of you and your worlds. If there are problems we will solve them. We are a strong, decisive people. We have made our society and we will keep it whole."


Kirk wondered if he was that impassioned and forceful when he sang the praises of the Federation and what it stood for. "With that attitude you won't have any problems." He suddenly realized that he was famished, and began to sample everything on Tastaf's plate with enthusiasm. Good food, rest, fresh air--warm but dry and not uncomfortable--were all helping to heal him. He stretched out on the bank and looked around. Wispy little brushstroke clouds drifted in the deep blue sky; the huge red mesa laced with malachite-filmed copper ore dwarfed the mills and dormitories placed at a wide bend in the river. "Tell me about Rodden," he said to Tastaf. "What do you do?"


It was the most idyllic and renewing morning he had enjoyed in a very long time. Tastaf told him about the life he would have led here. Kirk would have learned about mining and milling and metalworking, to look forward to the arrival of the message boats that traveled the rivers, to the periodic gatherings with other villages that were as much matchmaking opportunities as anything else, maybe even to participate in a story-dance or a group chant. Tastaf was studying to be a physician, thus his detailed knowledge of wild plants--though he explained that, as with every other trade, anyone knew enough to get by. He was acquainted with Relaphta in Cambron, though he seldom saw him, and was eagerly anticipating working with him when the two villages combined in Sashna Velda.


In his turn, Tastaf asked about the Federation and Earth and what exactly did a starship captain do? The important things about Federation policy and ideals he already knew; his neighbors had told him about Sulu and Chacol's presentation when he returned. Kirk now spoke of the many and varied member worlds of the Federation, and about protected status and the Prime Directive and the reasons for the perennial conflict with the Klingon Empire. He told Tastaf about Earth: its astounding variety of peoples and places, cities and wilderness, rainforests and deserts, icefields and volcanic islands, mountains and salt flats, tundra and temperate zones. And about Iowa and wheat fields and how grown up he had felt the first time he could see over the tops of the young stalks. How he had wanted the stars all his life, sleeping in the open fields and dreaming of traveling through endless night. The Academy, Starfleet service, Enterprise.


"Someday perhaps I will see those things," Tastaf said, absorbing it all like a sponge. "But first we must restore our own cities."


"When a mining colony gets established here, a lot of those things will come to you," Kirk told him.


Tastaf smiled, and then abruptly the smile faded. "Kirk, if you had not eliminated the Klingons, what would have happened?"


Kirk had spent a great deal of time considering that very question, both in his cell and back aboard ship. "Kyris was making plans to come after me. His men probably would have come to your village first--it's nearest."


Tastaf absently drew little figures in the sand with his finger. "I thought I had escaped," he murmured, and Kirk remembered how when they had begun their journey on foot Tastaf had seemed to put his ordeal behind him so completely. He watched the realization sink in that the ordeal might have been only just beginning. Tastaf stopped drawing and looked up. "And they would have done to us what they did to you--and to me."


"Yes, I believe they would." Conjecture, but based on long experience. Within certain parameters, Klingons were fairly predictable.


"We would have resisted." Tastaf spoke firmly, but with a chill he remembered the light-weapons, and what he himself had done with one, and in his eyes was the question, Could we?


"It's possible." Kirk had thought about that, too. "We had four disruptors--they're powerful weapons. But their power isn't limitless. If the Klingons had managed to capture me, Kyris would probably have killed some of your people as a punitive measure. And even if we repelled a first attack they would have come again. We would have had to destroy the whole mine--disrupt their communications, make their government think they'd been caught by the Federation--to make sure your people would be left in peace. Maybe we could have done even that, but not without time and not without great cost--in lives."


"All that effort--for you." Tastaf frowned, trying to comprehend. "Why do they want you so badly?"


"Not me specifically. They'll take anyone who happens to be around. I know a lot that the Klingons would like to know about the Federation's military preparedness, strategy and tactics, that sort of thing." The translator kept talking after Kirk stopped, evidently needing many more Ishanne words to convey military concepts, and that more than anything else brought home to him the impossibility of the situation he would have faced. How could the Ishanne possibly have resisted the Klingons when they had no words for--and therefore no experience of--fighting or resistance against an oppressor?


"Yours is a life," Tastaf said after mulling over what he had learned, "I think I would not want."


Kirk laughed softly. "In some ways I don't blame you. It suits me--but if I couldn't have my own, if I had been stranded here, yours is a life I would gladly have shared." His expression and tone turned grim. "But I would have brought great danger to you and your people. I couldn't have done that."


Reading Kirk's face, and remembering what he had said about the Prime Directive, Tastaf felt a vague alarm. "But what else could you have done?"


"If I had thought there was no way for us to resist them--" Kirk took a breath, his whole being resisting the very thought of surrender. "-- I would have had to give myself up to them if I thought it would save your people. I'd have escaped in transit to Klinzhai." Or made sure I died trying. "That is how I would have obeyed the Prime Directive."


Tastaf sat quietly for a moment. "Your Prime Directive is a harsh rule," he said at last.


"Too harsh, sometimes; sometimes not harsh enough. But in the end it is just. Or strives to be, anyway."


Into the thoughtful silence that followed Kirk's communicator bleeped. "Uh oh," he muttered, taking it out gingerly as if it might bite him. "Kirk here."


"Goddamn it Jim get back up here before I come get you and I don't care if Tastaf's seen a transporter or not!"


"Bones, I'm fine--"


"I've got a Vulcan on my side--" McCoy warned.


"All right, Bones, all right." Kirk tried to sound contrite. "Five minutes, I promise. Kirk out."


Tastaf was obviously at a loss. "Kirk--some of those words did not translate. The first one, for instance, and 'transporter'--"


"The first word," Kirk said, swaying a little as he got to his feet, "is a curse, in this case a manifestation of extreme bad temper on the part of my chief medical officer. It is not usually uttered in polite company."


Tastaf rose as well, hands poised to steady Kirk if he should seem about to faint. "You are not polite company?"


Kirk laughed. "Not at the moment as far as Dr. McCoy is concerned. And a transporter is simply a very fast way of getting back to my ship."


"You must go now?"


"Yes, I've been caught. But I'll see you again at the gathering." He regarded Tastaf for a moment. If the Ishanne were going to be dealing with the Federation they would have to get used to transporters; they might as well start now. Besides, he wasn't sure he could manage another fifty-meter walk in Ishan's higher gravity and the morning's steadily increasing heat. "Tastaf, the transporter effect is a little scary the first time you see it, but all it's doing is picking me up here and taking me to the ship. Don't be frightened."


Tastaf gave a trusting nod. Kirk spoke a command into his communicator and Tastaf heard a faint hum. Then Kirk began to sparkle and fade, and Tastaf needed Kirk's reassuring smile as he stood and stared, awestruck.





McCoy was justifiably furious, and he hadn't been fibbing about his alliance with Spock; the Vulcan, standing by the console, regarded Kirk severely, then withdrew to the bridge when McCoy marched his incorrigible patient away. But after checking him over again thoroughly and making him rest all morning, McCoy did let Kirk out of bed that afternoon to conduct the memorial service for Bob Hooks and Martha Franklin. The chapel was filled to overflowing with red-shirted security officers, almost the entire department. A few others were there as well, among them Sulu, who had not known Hooks and Franklin well but had been deeply touched by their efforts to cheer him up. All eyes were on Kirk as he climbed the two steps to the chapel podium with effort. It was the first time most of those assembled had seen their captain since the assault, and their restrained but obvious pleasure at seeing him alive and whole was in heartrending contrast to the reason for their presence there. "It is my sad duty," Kirk began, and, watching the pale, drawn figure, McCoy was struck with the cold realization of just how close they had come to holding such a service for Kirk. The sickening feeling stayed with him throughout the somber hour, and afterward when Kirk, his face set with quiet grief, said stonily, "I'm going to the bridge," McCoy made no objection.


Spock, seated in the command chair, greeted Kirk with both eyebrows raised. "Captain?"


"I'm on a pass from Sickbay," Kirk informed him. The first officer nodded politely and vacated the chair, though the concern in his eyes did not escape Kirk's notice. Knowing he had sounded a little abrupt, Kirk added, "Doctor McCoy's orders are no crises, Mr. Spock." His forced levity helped him to bounce out of his black mood, and by the time he had sat for an hour in the chair that fit so well he was ready to face the rest of the day in bed. He stood and stretched carefully, and was just about to turn the bridge over to Spock voluntarily when, with unfortunate timing, McCoy stepped out of the turbolift.


"I was just coming, Bones," Kirk hastened to assure him, but could tell that McCoy did not believe him.


Joining the doctor on the upper level of the bridge he halted there. This time he would not leave without telling his crew what there had not been time to tell them before. "Intraship," he said to Uhura. She nodded, touching the appropriate switch, but Kirk did not see her hand stray slightly to the right.


"This is the captain--" he began, and that was as far as he got, because the shouts, cheers, and whistles of over four hundred crewmen on twenty-seven decks erupted onto the bridge. He blinked in surprise, and then had to blink again from another emotion. Uhura returned his startled look with a shameless grin. McCoy was smiling benignly, and Spock somehow managed simultaneously to look sympathetic with the sentiment and disapproving of the outburst.


Kirk tried again, and the din subsided as he began to speak. "Thank you all for the warm welcome, which Lieutenant Uhura very kindly and deviously allowed the bridge to hear. The lieutenant's days in the command chair have obviously gone to her head." Her grin grew wider. "I've been catching up on all the activity while I was away." He made it smoothly through the euphemism. "I'm very pleased with the way you carried out a mission beset with unexpected difficulties." In fact, he was damned proud of them, but he was a believer in understated praise. "I'm told," he went on, with a nod to McCoy, "that a great many of you participated in the search effort. I'm most grateful, even though I'm sure it was because you were afraid your next captain wouldn't be such a pushover." His gaze traveled the bridge, taking in each face one by one, the faces that for a while he had feared never to see again. They all regarded him with such quiet satisfaction at the rightness of his presence there among them that he was suddenly overwhelmed, and his resolve to get through this speech without breaking collapsed. "It's good to be home," he finished quickly. "Kirk out."


The answering cheers followed him off the bridge.

 

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

 

Epilogue

 

For the first time in two hundred years, Sashna Velda was alive again. The wide avenues swarmed with people; with the help of Enterprise's transporters and shuttlecraft the residents of Cambron and Rodden had been moving in for three days, even while construction of the waterway was in progress. Scott and Ling and their engineers had had a continual audience throughout all the digging and drilling of the past several days, and on the evening that Scott had scheduled the opening of the pumps hundreds of Ishanne waited in expectant silence.

 

The pumping and regulating equipment was placed only fifty meters upstream from the mill. Scott had offered to install the equipment far enough upriver to be out of sight of the city or to camouflage it in some way, but Sashna Velda's new residents would have none of that.  "To hide the machine that will save us would be ungrateful and unthinkable," Relaphta had declared, speaking for them all and warming Scott's heart with their appreciation. So the equipment was placed in the open, unadorned, wonderfully incongruous and somehow appropriate.


Kirk and McCoy stood nearby, waiting for the engineers to finish their last-minute fine tuning. Spock had volunteered to take the bridge, preferring to avoid such a blatantly emotional event. "Good," McCoy commented. "If he were in charge of this he'd just turn the thing on and be done with it." Scott and his cohorts, on the other hand, were up to something. He and Ling would whisper conspiratorially and then chuckle, glancing over their shoulders at the waiting crowd.


Finally Scott nodded to Ling and came over to Kirk and McCoy. "That's it, then," he said proudly. "We're ready."


"What does it take to start it up, Scotty?" Kirk asked.


Scott shrugged. "Push a button. Why, sir?"


"Let one of our hosts have the honor."


"Aye, and why didna I think of it myself?" He walked over to where Chacol stood with Tenna and Relaphta several meters away and put the idea to them.


"Chacol should be the one," Relaphta said at once. "He met you first, and brought you to us." Everyone within earshot agreed, and Chacol came forward, eager and humble at the same time. Scott indicated the proper control and told Chacol what to do, then stepped back.


The red sun was just beginning to sink below the bluish peaks of the low, distant mountains as Chacol reached out almost reverently, as he had toward the shuttlecraft, and pressed the small button. With a force that made him jump clear, the pump shot forth a roaring stream of water into the riverbed. Scott had directed the nozzle of the pump as nearly skyward as it would go so that the water spurted high before it fell, and the cool spray rained on the nearest onlookers. Dripping, Kirk and McCoy wiped water from their eyes and traded indulgent smiles. After the first gasps of surprise from nearly everyone, a cheer went up from the hundred or so human members of the crowd. For the most part overwhelmed, the Ishanne watched the impressive fountain against the dramatic backdrop of the desert sunset in awed silence. They had known of the plan to revitalize Sashna Velda for days, had considered and prepared for it. But actually seeing it begin was something else again.


"Good work, Scotty," Kirk said, enjoying the cold shower and raising his voice to be heard over the rushing water and the cheers. "I'd say everyone approves."


"Thank you, sir," Scott replied, puffing out his chest. "We thought the occasion called for something special. We put some pressure on the water in the regulator holding tank--that's all. It won't last long, but it's a pretty sight, isn't it?"


"Scotty," McCoy teased, "don't you think this is just a little bit sentimental?"


"Aye!" Scott said with a happy grin.





Sashna Velda, Island City.


That night on the riverbank common Sashna Velda's new residents held a gathering in honor of the crew of the Enterprise. A staggering array of food and drink was spread out on the wide verandas, much of it, at Uhura's suggestion, brought by the humans to spare the Ishanne as much work as possible. But their hosts had managed in the midst of moving two villages to prepare a great deal on their own, refusing to be outdone.


It would be days before the villagers would finish moving in, even though not all of them were relocating. Some planned to stay in Cambron and Rodden partly because two perfectly inhabitable villages should not be left to deteriorate, and partly to supply Sashna Velda for a year or two until the reborn city became self-supporting. There was a tremendous amount of work still to be done. The river channel itself would not be full until sometime tomorrow; biologist Pakka-sa would then restock it with the same plant and animal species whose remains she had discovered in samples of the river bottom. There were buildings to repair, irrigation systems to reconstruct, and crops to plant. They must get the mill working; Jameson had calculated the proper rate of flow for the most efficient operation of the wheel and the pumps had been set accordingly. Upstream, Ling and two hydraulic engineers monitored the pumping equipment surrounded by a score of Ishanne who would serve as their apprentices and learn the principles behind the development of the artificial river.


The most radical tangible change the Ishanne would face was the alteration of their accustomed methods of communication. Sashna Velda was isolated from communication by water; overland would suffice for a while, but was much too slow for long-term use. Chammu had instructed Enterprise's linguistics computer banks to translate some basic hot-air ballooning texts into Ishanne; a few boaters who regularly carried messages from Cambron and Rodden had already volunteered to make the switch to ballooning as soon as it was possible.


In the light from a hundred torches, Tenna led a group of very small children, hardly more than toddlers, to the river's edge and explained to them what was happening. They had all seen rivers and ponds before, of course, but, looking wide-eyed at Tenna, they seemed to understand that this was something new and wonderful. They reached out and brushed their fingers across the surface, then waded in and splashed about with infectious energy.


Kirk, watching them from a little distance away, chuckled softly. He raised a mug of tea to Spock and McCoy, seated next to him on the sandy bank. "To new beginnings."


"Hear, hear," McCoy echoed.


Spock sipped from his mug as well, though they knew that to drink in response to a toast was a concession on his part. As usual, a strap crossed the Vulcan's chest, but this time it did not belong to a tricorder, but to his exquisitely crafted Vulcan harp. At the request of Sulu and Uhura he had consented to play for Chacol and Atik and a few others at the gathering tonight. He also would finally have the time to tell them something of Vulcan, as Chacol had asked him days before.


McCoy, too, carried something with him, a gift for Relaphta. He had shown it to Kirk only when the captain asked what it was, and Kirk was surprised to see one of McCoy's few hardbound medical texts, an introductory manual with pages of anatomical drawings. "That's very generous, Bones," he had said with no trace of teasing. McCoy had shrugged, not looking at him. Gruffly he said, "He'll enjoy it. I can get another one anywhere." Kirk knew that was not entirely true. Hardbound books were uncommon on starbases, Enterprise's usual shore leave stops, where computers were the only practical way to store data; to find a specific volume without custom ordering would be difficult. But Kirk said nothing more, as he had said nothing when Spock had explained the presence of his harp. He would not be the only one to leave friends behind.


Sudden anticipation stirred the crowd and signaled the three that the main event of the evening was about to begin. They separated, Spock joining a group of which Chacol and Atik were a part and McCoy heading for Relaphta's circle. Kirk stood alone near Spock's group and watched the story-dancers take their places on the performance area of the common, the desert floor scraped and leveled now for the first time in generations. A solitary horn announced the performers' readiness to begin. Kirk was riveted by the tale told in dance and mime of the arrival of the humans and the resettling of Sashna Velda. The story unfolded in loving detail and was alternately amusing and wondering. Kirk had no trouble recognizing Sulu, Chacol, Spock, and the rest of the characters in the drama, and though he had only read about the contact in various succinct reports, when the dance was over he felt as if he had been there after all.


"I see you've been immortalized, Mr. Sulu," he called to the helmsman, who was seated in Spock's group between Chacol and Uhura.


"Yes, sir." He grinned. "I wish I'd known it was all so easy while it was happening!"


Kirk, who had been on a few contact teams himself, knew exactly what he meant. "I hope someone thought to record the performance."


"I did, sir," Uhura said, holding up a camera. "I wouldn't have missed that coolsuit choreography for the world!"


Keeping his eyes open for sight of Tastaf, Kirk drifted then from group to group, wanting to experience as much of these people as he could before he was forced to leave--for Enterprise had received new orders and would be breaking orbit before morning. During the previous three days he had met most of those he had read about in the accumulated reports, and even in that short space of time he had come to share his crew's affection for these people. They were so refreshingly reasonable and sensible--in stark contrast to those who had sought to exploit their world. He could understand the desire of some of his crew to live among them for a while. All six of the contact team, Ling and his engineers, and several archaeologists, including Chammu and the reclusive Jones, had opted for stays of a year or more on Ishan; their supplies had already been beamed down and stored in Sashna Velda. Kirk felt as if he was losing half his scientific staff. But that's what we're out here for.


"Captain!" Kirk turned to see Mida, relaxed and smiling for the first time since he had met him, zigzagging toward him among the little knots of people. Wringing Kirk's hand, he pronounced, "You look well."


"Thank you. I think Dr. McCoy is now convinced he can work miracles." Kirk had seen Mida only briefly in the past few days; the Rigellian had stayed in the cargo hold with the workers, trying to convince them to accept asylum in the Federation. Quite a few had done so and had been placed in the custody of the psychology staff, but according to Mida many simply could not believe that their lives could be so much better. "I was glad to hear that your cellmate has asked for asylum. I owe him a great debt--as I do you. Mida, I want to thank you again for all your help--and especially for what you did to throw Kyris off our scent." Kirk had read Mida's report of the aftermath of the escape--how the Rigellian had faced Kyris' anger in the cellblock and helped ensure that the commander would send the lorries out to search. "You took a big chance."


Mida read in Kirk's expression his astonishment that a man who normally fought only at the negotiating table could have been equal to such a situation. "You were the spark, Captain," he said quietly. "I had been in their hands for so long without resisting. It was time I did something."


"I like your timing. And," Kirk admitted with a smile, "you've made me reconsider my opinion of diplomats. Have you contacted your government?"


"Yes. They are, of course, incensed, and have lodged formal protests with Orion, Klinzhai, and the Federation Council. If Ambassador Ormis and the remainder of our party are still alive, surely they will be released. We shall see."


"Yes, we shall see," Kirk said, though privately he doubted that anything much would be done without severe pressure from the Federation.


For a while he and Mida joined Spock's group, arriving just in time to hear the first officer play his harp for thirty minutes or so for his enthralled listeners. Kirk was always surprised by the beauty of Vulcan music--technically superb, of course, no sloppy phrasing; unemotional, but easy on the ears. Spock then fulfilled his half-promise to Chacol and spent another thirty minutes discussing Vulcan society and culture. The similarities to their own--the emphasis on reason, conformity, deliberation, emotional equilibrium--were not lost on his Ishanne listeners; they found his descriptions fascinating. But you won't find a party like this on Vulcan, Kirk thought.


He found his way eventually to a medical confab with McCoy, Relaphta, Chapel, several Ishanne whom he did not know, and another familiar face: Tastaf, who smiled delightedly when he saw Kirk and made room for him to join them. They were engaged in a lively discussion about folk medicine of various cultures, McCoy and Chapel telling the others about the practices on other worlds and Relaphta comparing his techniques with those of physicians in other Ishanne villages. When McCoy had introduced him to Relaphta the day before Kirk had soon realized why the two got along so well: the old physician could match McCoy barb for barb.


When the topic of conversation changed Tastaf pulled Kirk aside and said, "I saw the story-dance, Kirk. It is a wonderful story."


Kirk looked out over the crowd seated in the glow of torchlight, almost every circle made up of both Enterprise personnel and Ishanne. "Yes, it is."


"But the story has another half. Eis of my village is creating a story-dance to tell our part." He added wistfully, "I wish you could be here to see it."


Surprised and touched, Kirk said, "So do I. But I'll ask Denison to make a recording of it for me. I'll be able to see it someday."


"A recording?"


"A visual record--a reproduction. Almost as good as being there."


Tastaf's eyes widened in amazement. "You can do that, too?"


Kirk nodded, amused. "I thought you said nothing would surprise you anymore."


Looking out at the rising water, Tastaf gave a rueful shake of his head. "I was mistaken." His expression grew serious. "I want to tell you something, Kirk. I looked for you earlier, but there were so many people-- The night after you and I talked I called a meeting and told everyone what you said about the Klingons. They already knew the story of what happened to us, and I asked them what they would have done if the Klingons had come for you." He regarded Kirk steadily. "We decided that we would not have let you go with the Klingons. Whatever was necessary, we would have protected you."


From any other Ishanne Kirk would have accepted the assurance gratefully but thought, You don't know what you're saying. But Tastaf knew. He had been a prisoner of the Klingons, had experienced the life of a kuve. He knew exactly what he was saying. "Thank you, Tastaf," Kirk said softly, deeply moved. "That means a great deal to me."


Tastaf stayed with him and they continued their conversation of several days before, talking intently, jumping from one subject to another trying to cover as many as they could before Kirk's imminent departure. The party lasted long into the night and was showing no sign of slowing when the last rotation of crewmen reluctantly began to say their good-byes at about 0200 shipboard time. Cylindrical glows appeared and disappeared, the Ishanne now as comfortable with the transporter as they were with the humans' other tools.


Tastaf's words still rang in Kirk's ears. Looking around at the Ishanne--strong, determined people with a clear sense of right and wrong--he began to feel more optimistic about their chances against the Klingons. "You asked me the other day if we could have beaten the Klingons," he said to Tastaf. "I think we might have done it."


Tastaf's chin lifted and his shoulders drew back with pride.  Then his attention was caught by someone beaming away nearby, and his expression became sad. "You must go soon?"


"Yes, I'm afraid so." Few Enterprise personnel remained now besides those who were staying behind, and the gathering, though still lively, had lost some of its spark.


"Your Federation--" Tastaf began.


"Our Federation," Kirk reminded him.


Tastaf smiled, liking the sound of inclusion. "Our Federation--is vast, and you are sent to all parts of it.  I think I will not see you again, will I?"


Kirk had been asked that question on a hundred different worlds, but never had it been so difficult to answer. "It isn't likely. Once a mining colony is established you'll have more visitors here than you'll know what to do with. But no, I probably won't be back." Tastaf's bleak countenance made him add, "On the other hand, where I come from there's a saying: 'It's a small world.' People say that when they run into someone they know in unexpected or unlikely situations. Until the colony is going strong ships will have to visit periodically to resupply the base here and make sure everyone's healthy. It's possible that I can get the Enterprise assigned to one of those visits."


Tastaf took his hand in the ritual clasp. Kirk knew by now just what such a gesture meant among these undemonstrative people; he returned Tastaf's firm grip with strong pressure of his own. "Then that is what I shall hope for," Tastaf said quietly.


He stepped back, and Kirk went to join the last few people waiting to return to the ship. Uhura, blinking back tears, was embracing Atik; McCoy shook hands with Relaphta, who held his book very close; Spock and Sulu bowed to Chacol, who returned their bows solemnly, a wistful expression on his face.


Denison and Pakka-sa and all the rest had gathered to see them off. Some were emotional, all were clearly excited at the beginning of a grand adventure. Kirk expressed his regret at losing them and wished them all well, Denison promised to record Tastaf's story-dance, and then it was time. They all watched, and some waved, but as the beam took him Kirk's gaze was held by emerald eyes, and it was as if he still felt the pressure of Tastaf's hand.





"You're pretty quiet, Jim," McCoy said on the nearly deserted observation deck a couple of hours later. "We'd better go and let you get some rest. Come on, Spock."


Kirk roused himself. "No. Stay, both of you." He had taken the bridge for a while to get the Enterprise under way for Starbase 15 and on to her next mission, and then the three had met here for a nightcap--was it still called a nightcap, Kirk wondered, when it was already four in the morning? "I'm all right." McCoy's scrutiny made him honest. "Well, I'm tired, but I haven't seen you two much for the past few days. What's the point of being home if there's no one to talk to?" He looked sleepily out the port at the warp-induced illusion of distant stars streaking by. "You know," he said, turning to them in sudden realization, "I can't get enough of people these days. I stay on the bridge or go to the mess when I'd usually work in my quarters. I've even been more patient with mistakes. If I'm not careful I really will get a reputation as a pushover."


"Don't worry," McCoy soothed. "You're just so glad to be back you love everybody. It'll go away soon and you'll be your old self again." Kirk narrowed his eyes good-naturedly. "Speaking of rest, Jim," McCoy went on, "Spock could use about a week off. He's been working day and night."


Kirk did not doubt it, but it was unusual to say the least to find McCoy mother-henning Spock. Here was his chance to tease back. "That's very nice of you, Bones, to be so thoughtful toward Mr. Spock."


"Thoughtful, my foot," McCoy growled, caught. "I just don't want him so tired that he tells us going through a supernova won't hurt us."


McCoy's protestations did not fool Kirk for a minute. Ever since his return it had been evident that his two closest friends had come to some understanding in his absence. But when he had asked McCoy about it--only half in jest--the doctor had been most definitely embarrassed that Kirk had noticed the rapprochement and had assured him it was only a temporary aberration. Kirk had a pretty good idea of part of the cause. Spock could not afford to remain as aloof as he might prefer if he was to command effectively, and McCoy was simply too professional to shut himself away from his CO. And there was something more, Kirk knew, but they would never admit it and he respected them and valued them too much ever to press.


"Even if I were completely deranged, Doctor," Spock was saying frostily, "the navigational sensors would prevent such a disaster. I assure you, Captain, that I am in no need--"


"Spock, you know that I hold Dr. McCoy's medical opinions in very high regard. If he says you should have some time off then by all means--"


Spock knew very well that his leg was being pulled--a curious figure of speech; he must research its origin--but, admitting to himself that rest would not be inadvisable, he gave in more or less gracefully. "I shall take one day," he announced, and Kirk and McCoy exchanged a triumphant wink.


Kirk took a swallow of brandy, aware that if he didn't watch his intake he was going to fall asleep right here, and gave Spock some relief by changing the subject. "I liked the Ishanne very much. I must admit I envy Denison and the others." His eyes sought the star-filled port again; he had been too long away from the infinite view. "Just a little."


McCoy punched up a plate of cheese and crackers from a nearby synthesizer. "What about the Klingons, Jim?"


"We'll drop our prisoners off at Starbase 15 along with Mida and the mine workers, and then it's out of our hands. The Federation will lodge a formal protest, which I'll bet will get them just about as far as the Rigellian government will get with theirs. My guess is this will get pretty mean before it's over."


"You know," McCoy mused, scowling, "in the old days something subversive like this would have led to hostilities and maybe even to war."


"That's the trouble with the Organian--or any enforced peace," Kirk said. "You know the limits. On the one hand, it's comforting to know that there will be no war with the Klingons. But on the other hand, they--and we--can get away with a greater degree of offense because each side knows there will be no escalation."


"You may be certain, Captain," Spock said with grim confidence, "that someday the Organians will tire of curbing the excesses of two such backward and maladjusted species, and then we might find ourselves wishing for that enforced peace to return."


"Good point," Kirk conceded. "Let's just hope it's later rather than sooner."


"Jim--" There was some hesitation in McCoy's voice; he understood that this was a subject Kirk might not yet wish to discuss. "--what was Kyris like?"


But Kirk was not as sensitive as all that. "I don't really know, Bones." Another question he had mulled over during his endless hours of recovery in Sickbay. "Arrogant, irritating, cold. Mida said he was too good for this post. I agree. He boasted that he'd have his own ship when his tour here was done. I wouldn't want to meet him in battle. He had an uncanny knack for psyching out an opponent. Sometimes I thought he was reading my mind." He lifted his glass a little. "A worthy opponent, and a dangerous one."


McCoy snorted. "You can save your admiration, Captain. I'm glad he's buried in his own mine. Serves him right to lose."


Kirk cocked an eyebrow at him. "Did he?"


"You got away--"


"Barely."


"--and you got everyone out," McCoy said firmly, raising his voice to cut off any more disclaimers. "That's winning in my book."


Kirk shrugged modestly, but McCoy could see the faint pride in his expression. "He destroyed the mine."


"Not necessarily," Spock put in. "Mr. Scott believes that with the equipment carried on an engineering vessel the mine can be decontaminated and reopened with only minimal effort. A fortunate circumstance, as that appears to be a particularly rich vein of raw dilithium. And we will be able to investigate the power draining weapon."


"I guess we'll uncover a few Klingon bodies, too, then," Kirk said. "They'll have died for nothing. Sorry, Bones, but I can't help but sympathize with Kyris for that. If I hadn't made it out of that mine, at least I'd have died knowing it meant something."


"Commander Kyris undoubtedly believed the same at the moment of his death," Spock commented neutrally. McCoy was unmoved, but Kirk's face softened slightly, for in some deep part of himself he was glad.


He took a long drink of the brandy, shaking his head slightly. "It's all beginning to seem like a dream."


"It wasn't." McCoy's voice was rough with sudden emotion. The two clipped words held all the days of cruel uncertainty, all the worry, the joy at finding Kirk alive and the anxiety of sending him off again into battle--to have him return near death.


Kirk knew the cold emptiness he would have felt if their positions had been reversed, if McCoy or Spock had been missing. Quietly he said, "They do say it's hardest on those left behind."


McCoy glanced at Spock, and something passed between them--a moment of shared experience and sentiment that Kirk knew he might not witness again. It was McCoy who spoke, but clearly he spoke for both of them. "I could write the book."





Captain's Personal Log: Stardate 7041.3.


It is late for me, but getting on toward first shift. The ship is waking up. I can hear footsteps in the corridor, voices here and there, the small sounds of my crew going about their routines. Business as usual. Home. I feel like opening the door to my cabin and just watching. McCoy tells me it's no surprise that I'm reluctant to be alone and that slowly the feeling will pass. Likewise the nightmares that still trouble my sleep. I suppose it would be odd if I didn't suffer nightmares. I have never felt the constant, unrelenting fear that I felt on Ishan--or the inexpressible joy. The phrase "emotional roller coaster" comes to mind. To know the two extremes was an--enlightening experience, but one I wish never to repeat. I am both proud that I responded well to a hellish situation, and horrified by the many ways it could all have gone wrong. I wonder, too, how many lives I have, and how many I've just used up.


We are now en route to Starbase 15, and then to the Pricania system. Something about a trade dispute with a neighboring system. Spock has most efficiently routed the relevant data to my file for review before we arrive, but I confess I'll need a long nap before I can face such dry reading. Mediating in a trade dispute sounds rather tame after our latest assignment, but then I was the one who scoffed at Starfleet's concerns about Cinnus II. Who knows what we might find?


On Ishan I found a friend.


In this job one gets used to saying good-bye. I've learned not to become attached to people I meet in my travels. I tend to look forward, to new worlds, new civilizations--never back. But this time, good-bye was never harder.

 

 

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Author's note:  I've based the Klingons in this novel primarily on the Star Trek episode "Errand of Mercy," by Gene L. Coon, and John M. Ford's The Final Reflection (New York: Pocket Books, 1984).  I am also indebted to How to Survive on Land and Sea, by Frank C. Craighead, Jr., and John J. Craighead, revised by Ray E. Smith and D. Shiras Jarvis (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1984), and We Die Alone, by David Howarth (New York:  Ace, 1955).

 

And last but not least, one more note of special thanks that I couldn't mention earlier because it would have been a major spoiler:  to John Colicos, the first, best Klingon.

 

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© 1990 by Karen A. Beckwith, revised 2003

 

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