by Greg Cox
“I quite understand.” Number One allowed the prime minister to play to the camera. “You need to look out for your people’s interests.”
“Exactly so!” Flescu beamed sunnily. “I knew we would see eye to eye.”
Number One trusted that the holographer would be retired at some point, perhaps when it came down to working out the unexciting logistics of preparing the ryetalyn for delivery to the Enterprise, but for now she would have to go along with the political posturing and hope that Flescu eventually had all the footage he needed for his reelection campaign. Then, maybe, she could finally get on with her actual mission.
“So I understand that the Enterprise is en route to Cypria as well,” Flescu said. “I’m told there was an emergency involving a Cyprian vessel?”
Number One nodded. She had informed the Cyprians of the Enterprise’s detour during Kepler’s approach to the planet while first explaining the purpose of her mission.
“That is correct. The Enterprise responded to a distress signal from a Cyprian spacecraft, the Ilion. The ship could not be saved, but I’m happy to report that there were no fatalities. The survivors are now safely aboard the Enterprise and are being looked after by Captain Pike and his crew.”
Number One chose her words carefully. The captain had briefed her regarding the outcome of the rescue mission and the thorny issues that had arisen since. She was reluctant to volunteer too much information at this juncture, but the Ilion was a Cyprian vessel after all. She could hardly keep them in the dark regarding the fate of one of their own ships and its passengers.
“Well, I suppose we can be thankful no one was killed and that the Enterprise was able to rescue the survivors.” Flescu turned to one of his aides. “What do we know about this ship, the Ilion?”
The aide consulted a handheld device. “A small trading vessel currently registered to a Soleste Mursh.”
Number One was impressed at how quickly the aide retrieved the information. The Cyprians’ computer networks could apparently give Starfleet’s data libraries a run for their money.
“Mursh . . . Mursh,” Flescu murmured. “Where do I know that name from?”
As before, the aide soon had the information at his fingertips. “The Mursh family was among the victims of a Klingon raid ten years ago. The father killed, a child apparently abducted. Soleste Mursh is the eldest child.” The aide squinted at the device. “She’s offered a standing reward for any information leading to the recovery of her missing sister, Elzura, for several years now. She’s apparently quite intent on finding the lost girl.”
“Of course.” Flescu snapped his fingers. “The attack on the lunar mining facility. A terrible tragedy, for both the family and all of Cypria. It was appalling incidents like that which made it clear we needed to bolster our planetary defenses so that such a grievous atrocity could never happen again.” He presented a resolute profile to the holographer. “I’m proud to say that we have no suffered no such raids under my watch.”
Number One wondered if she should mention that the Ilion was destroyed while attempting to outrun a Klingon battle cruiser. Perhaps not at this moment.
“You said there were survivors,” Flescu recalled. “Plural. Who else beside the Mursh woman?”
Number One hesitated, but saw no way to duck the matter. The Cyprians deserved the truth, which would surely come out once the Enterprise returned Soleste Mursh to her people. It would not do for them to discover that the landing party had withheld crucial information from them, not if the Enterprise was still counting on Cypria’s help with regards to the ryetalyn.
“A second Cyprian woman was rescued,” she divulged. “There is reason to believe that she may, in fact, be Elzura Mursh.”
Flescu’s eyes lit up. He turned eagerly toward his staff. “Did you hear that? Find the rest of the family and get them here right away.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “We need to arrange a proper homecoming!”
His entourage scurried to carry out his orders, filling the tram with a hubbub of muted voices speaking into assorted communications devices. Number One suppressed a frown; the prime minister clearly saw political gain in the possible return of Elzura to her homeworld, but the Illyrian worried that he did not have all the facts and that this distraction might get in the way of her mission. First and foremost, she needed to remain focused on the ryetalyn.
“You should be aware,” she said, “that there are complications.”
Something in her tone got his attention. He regarded her warily, his broad smile growing more forced.
“What sort of complications?”
Six
“Let me get this straight,” Pike said. “The Cyprians are now refusing to provide us with the ryetalyn?”
“Not until ‘Little Elzy’ is returned to them,” Number One confirmed. Her somber visage occupied the viewscreen in the briefing room. “There’s some concern that you might choose to ‘appease’ the Klingons by giving Elzura back to them.” Regret tinged her voice. “I’m sorry, Captain. Perhaps I should not have fully informed the prime minister of the particulars of this matter.”
“It was going to coming out eventually,” Pike assured her, not wanting his first officer to blame herself for a situation that had turned sticky the moment he’d chosen to beam the Ilion’s passengers aboard. “Outside of keeping Soleste Mursh in solitary confinement, and cut off from her own people, I’m not sure how we were going to keep the whole Elzura/Merata mess under wraps. And lying to the Cyprians at the same time that we’re asking for their help hardly sounds like a shrewd diplomatic move to me.” He sighed. “We’re just going to have to play the hand we’ve been dealt.”
Spock gave him a puzzled look. The young officer was seated at the conference table along with Pike and Doctor Boyce, while Yeoman Colt was also present to take notes on the meeting. As this was primarily a medical and diplomatic matter, Chief Engineer Barry was not in attendance. Spock voiced his confusion. “Hand, Captain?”
Pike guessed that Vulcans weren’t into card games.
“A human idiom, Mister Spock. Remind me to explain it to you later.” He turned his attention back to Number One. “I don’t suppose you can convince the Cyprians to treat the ryetalyn as a separate issue?”
The fever was spreading like wildfire through the ship, testing sickbay’s ability to keep up with it. At last count, at least a quarter of the crew was showing signs of infection, amounting to some fifty men and women in the early stages of the disease. Many were still trying to keep working at their posts, but they were fighting a losing battle. Even the ones that were still on their feet were hardly at peak performance.
“I’m doing my best,” Number One said, “but passions are running high regarding this issue, and there’s a political dimension as well. Prime Minister Flescu is running for reelection, and my impression is that he wants very much to be the leader who welcomes the long-lost child home, not the man who let the Klingons take her back.”
“Terrific,” Pike said. “As if an irate Klingon general and his bloodthirsty ‘daughter’ aren’t difficult enough, now we have to deal with politics, too?”
That cage on Talos IV was starting to seem positively cozy by comparison.
“I’m afraid so, Captain,” Number One reported. “Trust me, I don’t like it any better than you do. Frankly, things are starting to get a little tense here.”
“Understood,” Pike said. “Watch yourself, Number One, and keep me posted. Enterprise out.”
The screen went blank as he cut short the transmission. He looked away from the viewer to address Spock and Boyce.
“All right, gentlemen, let’s take stock of our situation. We have a deadly fever raging through the ship, a Klingon battle cruiser on our tail, and an ill-tempered hot potato in our brig. And now, according to Number One, the Cyprians are refusing to help out unless we turn over Merata or Elzura or whatever we want to call her. Thoughts?”
“For what it’s worth,” Boyce said, leading off, �
��I can confirm that Elzura Mursh and Merata are indeed one and the same. I ran that DNA comparison you asked for, and Merata is definitely related to Soleste, beyond any reasonable margin for error.”
“Well, that settles that,” Pike said, “but we’re still left with a big problem. Both the Cyprians and the Klingons want her back, and neither side is going to be happy until they get her. With us stuck in the middle.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Colt said, speaking up, “but shouldn’t that be her decision?”
Pike didn’t mind her adding her own two cents to the discussion. Despite some initial awkwardness when she’d first taken over as his yeoman, replacing an old friend lost on Rigel VII, Colt had proven to have a good head on her shoulders. He was glad she felt comfortable enough to speak her mind.
“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple,” he replied. “Beyond the potentially dire consequences of antagonizing the Klingons or the Cyprians, we have to remember that Elzura was abducted against her will as a child, no matter what she’s been raised to believe since. Who knows how that’s affected her?” He looked over at Boyce. “I don’t suppose you had a chance to do a full psychological analysis while she was choking you?”
“Hardly,” the doctor said with a snort. “But you raise a valid concern. There’s a psychological phenomenon identified on Earth centuries ago, Stockholm syndrome, that suggests that, under certain circumstances, a hostage can come to sympathize and even identify with her captors. Given that Elzy was only seven years old when she was carried off, she might not be thinking clearly, nor looking out for her own best interests.”
“There is also the fact,” Spock observed, “that under Cyprian law Elzura is legally a minor and her family can rightfully claim custody of her.”
“I’m not sure Merata would agree,” Pike said, “let alone General Krunn.”
The Fek’lhr had stuck to the Enterprise like glue, even as the Federation starship had resumed course for Cypria III. At present, the battle cruiser was staying just beyond weapons range, but Pike wasn’t sure how long they could expect Krunn to show restraint; the Klingon commander was unlikely to give up until he had his “daughter” back, while the Cyprians were bound to object to a Klingon warship tailing the Enterprise all the way into their territory. This whole situation was a powder keg just waiting for somebody to strike a match.
Of all times for so many of my crew to be flat on their backs, Pike thought.
Boyce eyed him with concern. “What are you going to do, Chris?”
“Good question, Doctor.” Pike rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “We’re still several hours from Cypria III. Perhaps Number One can still talk the Cyprians into compromising, at least where the ryetalyn is concerned.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Boyce said. “No offense, Mister Spock, but in my experience, emotion usually trumps logic, especially when it comes to family and politics.”
“No offense taken, Doctor,” Spock replied evenly. “I fear I cannot dispute your assessment. More’s the pity.”
Pike wondered what it was like for Spock to explore a universe that so seldom lived up to Vulcan standards of logic and discipline. From what Pike had seen of sentient life throughout the quadrant, Vulcans were practically unique in their commitment to logic over emotion. Then again, Spock did have a foot in both camps, not unlike Merata. They were both the products of two wildly different cultures and races. And Spock seemed to deny his human heritage almost as vigorously as Merata rejected her Cyprian roots.
“I suppose helping ourselves to some ryetalyn without the Cyprians’ permission is out of the question?” Boyce suggested hesitantly. “Just asking.”
Pike understood that the doctor was only thinking of his patients and the overall health of the crew. “I appreciate your position, Doctor, but even if we wanted to just go in and grab some, the planet’s formidable defenses would make that a very dicey proposition. Nor do I believe that Number One and her team are in any position to steal some.” Four crew members holed up in a government building could hardly function as a covert strike team. “Beyond that, Starfleet is not in the business of raiding independent worlds, not even uncooperative ones.”
“I know, I know.” Boyce sighed wearily. “It’s just that this is a matter of life and death, Chris, for more good men and women than I want to count. In the long term, this blasted fever is as dangerous as any space battle.” He glanced at the exit. “In fact, I should really be getting back to my sickbay, if that’s all right with you.”
“You’re dismissed, Doctor.” Pike looked around the table. “You, too, Yeoman.”
Boyce and Colt rose from their seats and headed out into the corridor, while Spock remained seated at the table. “You wish me to remain, Captain?”
“That’s correct, Mister Spock. I need a few more minutes of your time.”
Spock regarded him attentively. “If this is about the opening on the Intrepid, I confess that I have been preoccupied with more pressing matters—”
Pike brushed that aside with a wave of his hand. “No. That can wait. This is about Merata.”
Spock gave him a puzzled look. “Merata?”
“For better or for worse, that young woman is the center of this storm. Somebody needs to get through to her, get her side of the story, so we can figure out where she really belongs.”
“But is that what matters here?” Spock asked. “With all due respect to her personal well-being and autonomy, there are significantly larger issues at stake: the lives of the crew, the risk of war with the Klingons, the Federation’s relations with Cypria III, and perhaps even the safety of the landing party. It may well be that, in this instance, the needs of the many outweigh what is best for one particular individual.”
“Perhaps,” Pike said, seeing his point, “and it may come down to that, but all we’ve gotten from her so far is threats and violence and angry outbursts. If I’m going to play Solomon with regards to her future, I’d like to have a better idea of whose fate is in my hands.”
This time Spock caught the reference. “As I recall, Solomon solved his dilemma by threatening to slice the disputed child in two. That option strikes me as inadvisable in our present circumstances.”
Pike assumed that was a joke.
“I’m inclined to agree, which is why I’m delegating you the task of getting to know this girl and finding out who she really is, Merata or Elzura or none of the above. We need to find a way to get past her hostility and understand her.”
A hint of a frown appeared on Spock’s stoic countenance. “I hope you are not suggesting a mind-meld, Captain.”
Pike shook his head. Mind-melds were still mysterious to him, but he understood that such a telepathic merging was a profoundly intimate and even dangerous procedure. He was not about to ask that of Spock—or Merata—unless it was a matter of life and death.
And maybe not even then.
“Just talk to her, Spock. Try to forge a connection.”
“If you think that best, sir, but I have to ask: Why me? Surely there are others aboard the ship better suited to the task. I am a science officer, not a counselor or psychologist, and need I remind you that Vulcans are hardly known for our sociability?”
“And yet your father is a diplomat, isn’t he?”
Spock stiffened. “I am not my father.”
Pike thought he detected a slight edge to Spock’s voice. It was subtle, but it was there. Pike wondered if maybe there was some bad blood between Spock and his father, and if this had anything to do with Spock’s half-human nature.
“Maybe not, but you’re all I have right now.”
Spock continued to resist the assignment. “Perhaps Doctor Boyce . . . ?”
“The doctor has his hands full in sickbay,” Pike said. “Number One is stuck on Cypria III, in the middle of a potentially volatile situation, and I’ve got a ship full of angry Klingons to keep my eyes on. I’m sorry, Spock, but somebody has to deal with Merata, and I’m afraid
you’ve drawn the short straw.”
“I understand, Captain.” Spock sounded resigned to the task, but still somewhat skeptical about his prospects. “I will endeavor to carry out your orders, but . . . she is a Klingon, sir, in all but genetics. It is doubtful that anyone, let alone a Vulcan, will be able to establish a productive dialogue with her.”
“You may be surprised, Spock.” Pike didn’t want to get too personal, but he couldn’t help thinking that Spock’s own dual heritage might ultimately help him relate to their controversial guest. “Call it a hunch, but I’m hoping that maybe, just maybe, you and Merata will be able to find some common ground after all.”
Spock arched an eyebrow. “If you say so, sir.”
Seven
“Lives are at stake, Prime Minister. Every hour we delay puts the crew of the Enterprise in greater jeopardy.”
Number One argued with a life-sized holographic transmission of Flescu in the VIP suite of her temporary lodgings in Sapprus. She and the rest of the landing party had been put up in Envoy House, a downtown residence reserved for visiting dignitaries. The five-story wooden building overlooked a spacious plaza, and its balconies offered excellent views of the city, but Number One was presently focused on the three-dimensional figure “standing” before her in the suite’s richly furnished living area. A projector in the ceiling made it seem as though the recalcitrant politician was actually present and not simply speaking to her from his own offices across town. The resolution quality was impressive; aside from the occasional flicker, the hologram appeared almost tangible.
“I sympathize with your predicament,” Flescu said, “but my hands are tied. Ever since the news leaked that Elzura had been rescued from the Klingons, all of Cypria has been united in its conviction that she be brought home at last and not returned to the brigands who brutally stole her in the first place. I have no choice but to reflect the will of my people.”
