Gemini (17 page)

“No one,” said Kirk, firmly.

“Unless—” Spock began.

“I know,” nodded Kirk, solemnly. “Unless he's been captured and it's been forced out of him. But if that were the case, wouldn't his captors have requested a meeting of some sort?”

“Logical,” conceded Spock, “but they also know you would be extremely wary of any such lure, given your last experience planetside, which the guilty parties in this matter are doubtless aware of by this time.”

“This first communication may be just a way of setting you up for more,” said McCoy. “If it really is from Peter, what the devil is he doing on Nador?”

“Probably trying to get to the bottom of this mess,” said Kirk. “Probably in over his head, as usual.”

“If that's true,” said McCoy, stifling a yawn, “we'll probably hear from him again, and soon, asking for help.”

“We can only hope,” said Kirk.

“Captain,” said Spock, “I find the timing of the message somewhat suspicious, coming as soon as it did after the false message intended to pit you and the Nadorian security forces against each other.”

“I considered that, too,” said Kirk, “but it may be that Peter, wherever he is on Nador, knows of that altercation. Citizens were injured by it, it made the news, and a sharp boy like Peter could have put two and two together. Plus, if this second message were a forgery, wouldn't it have tried to draw us into another trap?”

“It may be that that assumption is what the plotters are counting on,” said Spock, “to lend credence to their next communiqué.”

“That may be,” replied Kirk, “but until the authenticity of this message has been disproved, I will assume this is a genuine, if somewhat truncated, note from my nephew.”

“That is an exact reversal of the usual method of establishing a proof,” said Spock.

“That's the way we Kirks sometimes do things.” He looked at the three of them, and Lieutenant Palmer, who was standing not far away. “Not a word of this to anyone without my express permission. Understood?”

“Aye, Captain,” came four replies.

“Good,” said Kirk, briskly. “Spock, any progress with that transmitter?”

“Lieutenant DeSalle and I have made some progress in its restoration, sir, but full success is some distance away.”

“Keep on it. Bones, the twins?”

“Healing nicely, so far,” said McCoy. “I'm beginning physical therapy with them tomorrow—assuming I can keep my eyes open.”

“In that case, you may return to your quarters, with my thanks and apologies. Unless,” he eyed them slyly, “you care to join me in a nightcap.”

None of them did. Just as well. Kirk returned to his quarters, his mind racing, his heart lighter than it had been in days, and fell asleep in minutes.

* * *

“This is remarkable,” said Prince Delor.

“It is like looking into a mirror,” said Prince Abon.

“From any other set of twins I'd call that a cliché,” replied Dr. McCoy, “but from you two—well, there's a first time for everything.”

The relative youth of the twins had aided greatly in their recovery, McCoy knew, and the increase in their strength and vital signs was certainly encouraging. But McCoy also knew that the twins, like any person who had been on the receiving end of a life-changing condition, whether massive disfigurement, spinal-cord damage, or loss of sensory input, had not yet fully come to grips with the permanent change in their status. And when they did, that would be the first real danger to their recovery.

The twins had slept for hours after the operation, and had seemingly taken the news of their separation in stride. But McCoy knew better, knew that it hadn't really sunk home yet; he could only hope he was there when it did.

For royals, the princes made pretty good patients. They had taken a shine to Nurse Chapel, whom they flattered endlessly in vain attempts to wangle special privileges. Only occasionally, when they demanded something they couldn't have—such as returning home or even news of how their kingdom was faring under Regent Lonal—did they become moody or truculent. And on those rare occasions, Nurse Chapel was able to jog them back to normal spirits, not by catering to them, but by treating them exactly the same as she would any other patient.

It's the novelty of that that worked,
McCoy thought.
Probably the first time anyone talked to these boys like they were normal.

Then it occurred to him that this was the first time in their lives that they
were
normal—or at least, within hailing distance of that state.

They had been confined to bed for the first couple of days after the operation, giving their systems a chance to recover, to take up the work caused when they were finally weaned off sterilite. They had wanted to get on their feet right away, of course, but McCoy had firmly vetoed that, feeling the twins needed a chance to get slowly accustomed to their new physical status.

When they were able to get out of bed, McCoy had produced a couple of wheelchairs partially controlled by thought impulses—some of the younger officers referred to them as “Pikes,” a term he took extreme exception to—thinking the chairs would serve a dual purpose, not only helping them to get used to the revised structure of their bodies, but enabling their spinal nerves to grow accustomed to transmitting along new neural passageways to take the place of those severed in the operation.

“Surely not a mirror,” said Delor. “No mirror I have ever viewed distorted my features that much.”

Abon was dumbstruck for a moment, then broke out laughing. McCoy even got a chuckle out of that, more from his own surprise at Abon's reaction than a sharing of Delor's joke. McCoy wasn't at all sure Delor had been joking.

In fact, though, McCoy and Chapel had both noted small differences in the twins that enabled them to be told apart. Such differences were small, but subtle. Abon had a minute but distinguishable cleft in his chin, while Delor's mouth was just a trifle wider than his brother's. McCoy wondered if anyone had noted such discrepancies before, since no one person had ever been able to see the twins face-to-face at the same time.

“All right now, we're going to try a little work on the parallel beams,” said McCoy, preceding Abon, Delor, and Chapel into a medical lab on the other side of his office. He tapped buttons on the console set into one of two facing tubular structures that each held two lenses. Once activated, two rays of solid light, modified tractor beams, shot out from the lenses, to meet seamlessly in the middle. “Who's first?” he asked, cheerily.

“You wish me to balance on beams of light?” asked Delor, dubiously.

“It does not seem safe,” added Abon.

“It's perfectly safe,” said McCoy. “Here, I'll show you.” He stepped between the two beams of light, gripped them, his palms facing down, and pushed his feet off the floor a few inches. “There, you see?”

“I see, but I am not convinced,” said Abon and Delor simultaneously. The twins turned to each other and grinned at their impromptu chorus.

“Believe me, it's safe,” said McCoy. “It's been used for years, by hundreds of thousands of people. I wouldn't let you use it if it weren't safe.” From somewhere behind him came a kind of muffled snort. “Something funny, Nurse Chapel?” said McCoy, not turning.

“No, Doctor,” replied Chapel, through clenched lips.

From McCoy's office, the entry tone sounded, and Chapel, thanking whatever force sent them a visitor, ran to answer it.

“All right, who's first?” asked McCoy, rhetorically. “You,” he said, pointing to Abon. “Give it a try, Your Highness.”

“I don't think I'm ready,” said Abon, all humor gone from his voice.

“Of course you are, come on,” said McCoy, chidingly. He wheeled Abon to one of the tubular structures, between the parallel beams of light. “There, give them a feel. I've reduced the gravity to seventy-five percent of Nadorian normal, just to give you a head start.”

Abon gingerly reached up and touched the beam of light on his right, the fingers of his hand splayed as if passing them through a spray of water. He had obviously expected his hand to go right through it, despite McCoy's example, but his hand tightened about the beam and remained there, despite any pressure he could bring to bear.

“There, you see?” said McCoy encouragingly, from the side. “It's not going anywhere. Now get your left hand up there.” Abon did so, grasping both beams tightly. “Good, good. Now get your feet underneath you on the floor and just stand up. We'll take it easy for today, that's all you have to do.”

Abon's expression did not share the ease that McCoy's voice conveyed, but the cleft in his chin narrowed as his jaw clenched. McCoy took that as a sign that he resolved to do his best. He gripped the beams even more tightly, and pushed up, hearing the faint hum of the wheelchair as it moved a few inches back.

“Oh, hello, Pataal,” said Nurse Chapel, as the girl entered McCoy's office. “Captain Kirk said you might be dropping by.”

Pataal nodded, nervously, clearly uncomfortable in this chamber of strange devices. “I would like to see Their Serene Highnesses, if I may,” she said, tentatively.

“I'm sure you would,” replied Chapel, brightly. “Please, this way.”

“I have brought them a gift,” said Pataal, her voice a little brighter. “A box of their favorite sweets from the palace chef.”

“I'm sure they'll appreciate that,” replied Chapel.

“Good, good,” said McCoy to Abon. “Now get your arms under you. Don't lock your elbows, that'll lift you off the floor.”

“I am trying, Doctor,” replied the prince slowly, between exhaled breaths.

“Don't look at your hands, look at your feet. That's what you need to see. Just a little lower, and—”

With a cry that betrayed more horror than any he had felt during the assault that placed him here, Prince Abon's left arm went out from under him and he fell to the floor.

“Don't struggle,” said McCoy, running to his patient. “I'm right here—”

“Abon!” shouted Delor, on seeing his twin collapse like a rag doll. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair, pushing himself forward.

“No, dammit, stay where you are!” shouted McCoy. “You're not ready to—” True enough, Delor likewise fell to the floor.

A shriek shattered the air; McCoy turned to see the Lady Pataal standing there, an expression of pure terror on that part of her face that wasn't covered by her hands. She started to run forward, dropping the box of sweets.

“Nurse, get her out of here!” thundered McCoy.

“Woman, leave us!” shouted Prince Delor.

“But my princes—”

“Are you deaf? Leave!” shouted Abon, his tone equal parts reprimand and self-loathing.

Despite himself, McCoy watched as Chapel pulled her back, and the doors to the therapy room hissed shut, like the door of a prison, crushing the box of sweets between them.

“Dammit,” said McCoy fervently, surveying the two young men who lay writhing on the floor before him. Days ago they had been conjoined, but healthy, happy, and capable of facing the world on its own terms. Now—well, he had to do what he did, he only hoped they could forgive him. “Gravity at twenty-five percent,” he called, moving to Abon, who was closer, and flailing like an overturned crab.

* * *

“I'm so sorry,” said Nurse Chapel. “I shouldn't have let you in without Dr. McCoy's permission.”

“They ordered me out,” said Pataal, not hearing Chapel. “They did not want to see me.” Tears began to grow in the corners of her eyes, which shifted from side to side nervously, surveying this place where her princes had been changed into something new and bizarre.

“They're very proud men,” said Chapel.

“Then how can I help them?” asked Pataal, her voice agonized. “How can you help someone you care for if he refuses to let you?”

“You poor thing,” said Chapel, suddenly, as her voice broke. She grabbed Pataal and hugged her, as Pataal wondered why her new friend the nurse was crying, too.

I
T WASN'T AS THOUGH
Captain James T. Kirk didn't like showing off the
U.S.S. Enterprise.
On the contrary, he loved to display the
Enterprise
like a proud parent showing off a beautiful child, telling visitors what his ship could do, the power she—and by extension, he—could command, the nearly incalculable speeds she could achieve, the energies she was capable of bending to her use. He took special pleasure in giving tours of the ship, revealing little-known trivia about her past missions and the total number of parsecs she had traveled, all the while conveying to friends that the
Enterprise
was an excellent ally to have on your side and, to foes, that she was an opponent to be dreaded.

But he hated having events on his ship happen without his express permission; it was like freeloaders coming and living in your house without your permission.

Not that he regarded Their Serene Highnesses, Princes Abon and Delor, as anything akin to freeloaders. The attack that had laid them low had been delivered while he was their host; he regarded that as an insult someone would pay for when this whole business was resolved, hopefully very soon.

No, Kirk saved his disdain for the technicians—seemingly hundreds of them, though the actual number was quite small, and constantly under the supervision of Chief Giotto and Lieutenant Sinclair—that had been assigned to the supervision and production of the planetwide broadcast of Their Serene Highnesses to the people of Nador.

“Admiral,” Kirk had said earlier to Admiral Fitzgerald, in his most persuasive tone, “I assure you, my engineer and his technicians are quite capable of supervising the dissemination of a simple holographic wave transmission.”