Gemini (12 page)

“Aye, sir,” said Sinclair.

“I only hope that's enough,” said Kirk. “I'd be happy to let whoever's behind this get away with it if it would just stop his attempts. But I don't think—Yes, Commissioner?”

Commissioner Roget had neared them, waiting at a sufficient distance to avoid the appearance of eaves-dropping—a safe orbit, thought Kirk, dryly.

“Captain,” said Roget, his voice lowering in proportion to his nearness to Kirk, “while I realize the ticklishness of the situation, I have to point out that Their Serene Highnesses' party is growing extremely restless.”

“Has it escaped their notice that we're investigating an attack on the persons of ‘Their Serene Highnesses'?” asked Kirk, with more anger than he had intended.

“Certainly not,” said Roget, in a mollifying tone. “But I wonder if there is anything more to be learned in your investigation. Several of the party have already begun protests through the proper diplomatic channels. Which,” he added, with a wry twist to his mouth, “is greatly facilitated by the fact that the conduit of such protests is confined in the same room with them.”

“I see your point,” said Kirk, conciliatorily. He turned to Spock and Giotto. “Is there anything else we can learn?”

Spock shook his head. “Any such measures we might take would be locking the barn door after the equines have been stolen—if I am using the colloquialism correctly.”

“You are, sir,” said Giotto, suppressing a smile. “Captain, I agree with Mr. Spock, there's no reason why we shouldn't let these people go.”

“You have something in mind?” asked Kirk.

“Let's put it this way: We should give them a lot of line,” said Giotto, “but that doesn't mean we can't reel them back in if we need to.”

“I understand,” said Kirk, nodding slowly. He turned and walked toward the Nadorian party, the
Enterprise
staff and Commissioner Roget trailing in his wake. “You have my most abject apologies for the prolonged delay,” he said. “As citizens of Nador, I trust you will understand my zealousness to apprehend anyone who might wish to do harm to Princes Abon and Delor.”

“We may leave?” asked Counselor Hanor, who had a tendency to cut to the heart of the matter.

“You may,” said Kirk. “Of course, I do retain the right to recall any of you at any time, should new evidence be discovered.”

“Do you always deal so high-handedly with citizens of a sovereign planet, Captain?” asked Counselor Docos.

“I do when murder is attempted aboard my ship, Counselor.” When Docos made no reply to that, Kirk stood to one side and swept a hand toward the doorway. “Again, I apologize for the inconvenience, and hope—”

“What of the princes?” asked Pataal, in a voice that sounded very much like that of a child.

Kirk nodded, and went to the wall intercom. “Kirk to bridge. Any word from McCoy?”

“No, sir.”
Kirk, expecting Uhura to answer, didn't recognize Lieutenant Palmer's voice at first. Then he realized that hours had passed, and another shift had taken their posts. He shook his head; it felt like years.
“Shall I try sickbay?”

“Negative, I don't want to—” From somewhere behind him came a muffled gasp; he always assumed it had come from Pataal, but never found out with any degree of certainty. The doorway of the lounge had opened, and someone entered.

“Bones?” The doctor was almost unrecognizable; he seemed to have aged a decade or more. He walked with a slight shuffle, and his eyes were smears of dirty blue, with masses of wrinkles under them. He wore a clean, new tunic whose crisp faultlessness only emphasized how tired he looked. McCoy spoke very rarely about his past; still it seemed to Kirk that at this moment McCoy must very much resemble his father. And he remembered a fact he often forgot: Despite his youthful demeanor, Leonard McCoy was no longer a young man. “Bones, what is it? Are the princes—?”

“Their Serene Highnesses are resting peacefully,” said McCoy. His voice sounded like a recording of it, played through several layers of subspace static.

“They—they live?” asked Regent Lonal. His recent authoritativeness seemed to be ebbing away.

McCoy looked at Kirk, who nodded. McCoy took a deep breath before he spoke. In that moment, Kirk would have given a great deal for the abilities of a class-A telepath.

“They do,” he said. The Nadorian party changed little in their demeanor; a pair of eyes closed here, a chest rose and fell there. Still, it was as if the tension of a coming storm had broken with the first clap of thunder. Whatever happened after, at least they knew.

“And their condition?” asked Hanor, slowly, her manner not betraying which answer she wanted to hear.

“Oh, how are they?” shouted Pataal, pushing to the front of the crowd. “Are they crippled, or—?”

“I had to separate them,” said McCoy, dully, as if he himself still hadn't fully comprehended what he had had to do.

For an instant, the room was totally silent, as devoid of sound or of the potential for sound as any interstellar gulf Kirk had ever flown.

“The negotiations … ” said Counselor Docos, hesitantly.

“The tribes … ” said Counselor Hanor, emphatically. Her ugly face was without expression. She suddenly seemed like one of the statues her planet's past had produced, lifelike, but not alive.

“The handover,” said Sylvan Roget, more loudly than any of them. “Captain, will this adversely affect the handover?”

“I don't see how it can not affect the handover, Commissioner—but, of course, the health of the princes must come first.”

“They must be transferred to Nador,” said Regent Lonal, rapidly and in a low voice; it was a moment before Kirk realized the official was talking to himself.

“Like hell!” said McCoy. He had fallen into a silence that seemed almost a comatose state. Everyone in the room was surprised to hear him speak, especially in the fiery voice he reserved to deal with things he deemed beneath his contempt. “Those boys are staying right where they are,” he said, his eyes sweeping across the crowd. “If they get through the next twenty-four hours they might have a fighting chance at a full recovery. But no one is moving them. Is that clear?” For some reason, he looked at Kirk, who held his hands at chest height, palms out. There were certain fights he could pick with McCoy with a fair chance of winning, but he knew this wasn't one of them. Nor, if McCoy felt this strongly about it, did he see any need to.

“They will need security,” said Securitrix Llora, the sharpness in her voice a challenge.

“We'll work it out,” said Chief Giotto, evenly, not picking up the gauntlet. “Security details can consist half of your men, half of ours.”

“That would be acceptable,” said Llora, slowly.

“I don't like the idea of your gun-booted troops messing up my sickbay,” said McCoy, “but you've got a point. We will work it out, yes.”

Kirk released his breath; for McCoy, this was a major concession.

The party began to drift slowly to the doorway, the long night beginning to catch up to them now that its strain had been dissipated. Kirk stood by the doorway, bidding farewells to the few members of the entourage who met his eyes. He took special care to see if Securitrix Llora would look at him, and if so, what her gaze would say. She did meet Kirk's gaze. Her eyes were so dark that they seemed almost not to reflect light.

That look told Kirk nothing; it was as if she had paid no attention to him at all.

With the Nadorian party gone, Kirk turned to take one last look at the room before sealing it off.

There he saw a young woman, sobbing to herself, more from exhaustion and relief than grief.

“Please,” said the Lady Pataal, approaching McCoy, hands outstretched. “May I see them?” She stood before McCoy, extended her hands beseechingly, and began to sink to her knees.

“Here, we'll have none of that,” said McCoy, an undercurrent of sympathy beneath his gruffness. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he stooped and, gripping the girl by her upper arms, lifted her back to a standing position. “You can have a brief glimpse of them,” he said, in a low, soothing voice, “but just a brief one, understand? They'll be asleep anyway.”

“Thank you,” she sobbed, smiling at the same time.

Barrows walked up to Pataal and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I'll go with her.”

“Are you sure it's safe to allow a visit?” asked Kirk after the two women left.

“Between Giotto's people and Tonia, it'll be fine, I'm sure, Jim,” replied McCoy, wiping a hand across his eyes. “Don't worry,” he said, looking at Kirk, “I'm not going to take any chances with their health—not after what I just pulled them back from.”

“Are you all right, Bones?”

“Fine,” said McCoy, with an unconvincing nod. “I just need a little rest. Can't pull those all-nighters like I used to.”

“Who can?”

McCoy nodded and smiled, but made no motion to leave.

“Is everything all right, Bones?”

“I'm beginning to become a little concerned about the princes' recovery, especially after such a complex operation. Some of their readings are a little off, and I'd rather be safe than sorry.” McCoy absently scratched the replacement tissue over the wound in his forehead. “Nadorians are humanoid, of course, but they're not actually human, any more than Vulcans. I'm running an analysis of the Nadorian genome and their DNA through the medical computer, just to make sure I'm not overlooking anything. But a genome analysis will take some time, even with our computers.”

“Can't you ask the palace physician for that?”

“I did. But in such a delicate situation, I'd rather depend on my own data.” Kirk nodded; in matters like this it was best to give the doctor his head. McCoy turned to leave, but Kirk placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Go a little easy on yourself, Doctor. You've saved two lives today, you've earned a little rest.”

Despite his exhaustion, he managed a grin. “Are you writing prescriptions now, Captain?”

“Consider it an order, if you like,” replied Kirk, matching the grin. McCoy shuffled out, navigating, Kirk would have bet, more on instinct than will.

Suddenly, Kirk's own limbs began to feel leaden. He realized that it wasn't sudden at all, just the effects of the accumulated tension built up over the last few hours, having come to no resolution. He closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose, then rolled his head around.

“Are you well, Captain?”

“Spock.” Kirk hadn't realized the first officer was watching him—another example of his fatigue. It was a safe bet to assume that Spock was always watching everyone. “Just … tired.”

“Understandable.” At Spock's side hung his tricorder, with its deadly addition. “With your permission, Captain, I should like to utilize the services of Engineer Scott when alpha shift begins.”

He had heard that tone in Spock's voice before. “A plan?”

“A theory. Perhaps nothing more.”

Kirk left the lounge with him and they made their way to the turbolift. It was like walking through water. “Use anyone you need. And keep me posted. This has turned out to be one sweet mess—if you understand the colloquialism.”

“I do.” The lift opened on deck five and Kirk disembarked, virtually dragging himself to his quarters, feeling, as his father would have said, like three days of bad—

He realized suddenly that he hadn't heard from Peter for hours, his nephew's presence on the ship driven entirely from his mind by more pressing concerns. He realized that, in a way, it was a compliment to the boy, the tacit assumption that he no longer needed a baby-sitter, or a chaperone. Still, he should call him.

He peeled off his shirt, which felt as though it had been grafted to him, and sat in his desk chair, by the wall intercom. “Kirk to Peter Kirk.”

No answer. Of course, it was late. But the damage had been done, so …

“Kirk to Peter Kirk. Peter, are you there?”

No answer. “Kirk to bridge.”

“Palmer here, sir.”

“Has anyone reported seeing my nephew in the last few hours?”

“Let me check, sir … . No, Captain, no report. ShallI institute a shipwide search?”

“I'm sure that won't be necessary, thank you. Kirk out.”

Kirk's fatigue left him as though it had never been. He put back on his shirt, left his quarters, took the lift to the guest deck, and overrode the security lock when there was no answer.

The room assigned to Peter was nearly undisturbed, the bed unused. Kirk looked around the chamber keenly; there was something gone that should be here, something missing that ought to be obvious.

Something, that is, besides Peter. Peter Kirk was gone, as surely as if he had crumbled to dust and been swept into space.

“H
ERE YOU ARE, SIR
,” said Commander Scott, pointing to a screen diagnostic of the transporter system. “The lad beamed down to the planet at 2135 hours.”

“That was after the attack,” said Kirk, as the realization hit him.

“Aye,” replied Scotty, stifling a yawn. He respected Jim Kirk as he did few other people in the galaxy, and not just because of his rank; he would have charged a Klingon armada for him—and, come to think of it, he had done that and a good deal worse—but he wondered if it had been really necessary to be called from a warm bunk, after hours spent making sure the
Enterprise
had been put back together correctly after the attack, just to read a bloody transporter diagnostic screen.

Then he remembered how he'd feel if his own newborn nephew—also, by some odd coincidence, christened Peter—were gone, his whereabouts unknown, on a planet whose conduct toward Federation citizens, let alone Starfleet personnel and their blood kin, was chancy at best.