by Greg Cox
“Comply with their request, helmsman,” he instructed Mohindas, before turning toward the science station. “What’s the story with our Klingon friends?”
Weisz peered into his gooseneck monitor. “They’re still shadowing us, Captain. Not quite within weapons range, but close enough as to make little difference.”
“Maintain minimal shields,” Pike ordered. He disliked the extra energy expenditure involved; standard policy was only to raise shields in the event of a genuine emergency, but he didn’t want to tempt the Klingons into launching a sneak attack in an attempt to recover Merata. “And keep a close eye on them.”
“Will do, sir,” Weisz said. “I can’t imagine doing otherwise.”
Pike visualized the Fek’lhr hanging in space somewhere behind them. He hadn’t really expected Krunn to turn back at the border of the Cyprian system, but it was still worrisome that the Klingons had followed them all the way here, practically into orbit around Cypria III. He could only assume that the Cyprians’ defense forces had detected the battle cruiser’s approach and were already on high alert. More than ever, Pike felt like he was sitting on top of an overloading laser pistol that could explode at the slightest provocation.
Cypria III came closer to view. He could make out at least three moons now and a couple of artificial defense satellites. The Enterprise entered into a stationary orbit above the planet’s eastern hemisphere and Pike’s gaze was drawn to the equator, where the landing party was presently located. Night was creeping across a lush green continent glimpsed through drifting wisps of cloud cover. Sapprus, the capital city, was not visible from this distance, but Pike knew it was there.
“Get me Number One,” he instructed Garrison, “but employ maximum encryption. We don’t want anyone listening in, least of all the Klingons.”
“Understood,” the petty officer said. “Hailing landing party now.”
It was vitally important that Krunn not find out about the fever raging aboard the Enterprise, which the Klingons would correctly see as a weakness to exploit. He glanced around the bridge again, just to make certain that there were no obviously sick or infected crew members in view, and spotted a shaky-looking technician replacing some burned-out control circuits over by the navigation subsystems. Pike could hear the man wheezing as he forced himself to keep working. He sounded like a leaky air-pressure manifold.
“Dorgan. Go get some coffee. You look like you could use a break.”
It said something about how sick Dorgan was that he didn’t put up a fight. “If you say so, Captain.” He walked stiffly to the turbolift, as though every muscle ached. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time.” Pike waited until the man was safely out of sight before checking with Garrison. “Have you made contact with the landing party?”
“Affirmative, sir,” Garrison replied. “Opening frequency now. Full encryption protocols in place.”
Number One appeared upon the viewscreen. She looked tired, Pike thought. He couldn’t remember how late it was in Sapprus right now. He hoped he hadn’t woken her.
“Welcome to Cypria III, Captain,” she greeted him. “Is this transmission secure?”
Clearly she had also grasped the importance of not advertising the outbreak aboard the Enterprise. It probably wouldn’t even do for the Cyprians to realize just how dire the situation was becoming. That might simply increase their determination to use the ryetalyn as a bargaining chip to force him to turn over Merata to them. He glanced at Garrison, who nodded back at him.
“You can speak freely, Number One,” the captain assured her. “Any progress to report?”
“I wish,” she sighed wearily. “You may have come all this way for nothing, Captain.”
Not necessarily, Pike thought. They would have needed to return Soleste Mursh to her home planet in any event. “The Cyprians are still playing hardball about the ryetalyn?”
“I’m afraid the matter of Elzura is rapidly becoming a planetary obsession, Captain, fanned by the Cyprian media and various political factions. There have already been public demonstrations and marches demanding Elzy’s immediate return to Cypria.” She sounded as though she was already tired of debating the issue with her hosts. “The ryetalyn may be our top priority, but the Cyprian people are much more concerned with what becomes of Elzura.”
Pike found her report troubling. He recalled a similar controversy on New Hiraji several years back, over the custody of some refugee children with family on both sides of a bitter planetary conflict. Neither side had wanted “their” children raised by the enemy, resulting in unrest, inflamed rhetoric, and, ultimately, a tragic escalation in hostilities. Pike could see this situation with Elzura turning ugly fast.
“What about the safety of you and the landing party? Do you need to return to the Enterprise?”
If push came to shove, would the Cyprians even allow the Kepler to depart with the landing party? Nobody had said anything about holding Number One and her team hostage in exchange for Merata, but Pike had to consider that possibility. Would they be able to get close enough to the planet to beam them up instead?
“I appreciate your concern, Captain,” Number One replied, “but I dislike leaving a job unfinished. I have another meeting with the prime minister scheduled for tomorrow. I am not optimistic that he will change his mind, but . . . we need that ryetalyn, sir.”
“No argument there,” Pike said. “Would it help if I met with the prime minister face-to-face?”
He was reluctant to leave the ship under the present circumstances. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck down on the planet if the Enterprise got caught in the middle of a shooting war between the Klingons and the Cyprians, but if a personal meeting could possibly end the stalemate . . .
“You belong on the ship, sir,” Number One said. “With all due respect to your personal charisma, your presence would not change the politics here on the ground, nor douse the passions this controversy has ignited. But there is one thing I can ask of you.”
Pike was both relieved and disappointed to hear that his beaming down to the planet would not make any difference. “What’s that, Number One?”
“The remainder of the Mursh family—the mother and the younger brother—are en route to the capital. They want to visit the Enterprise to meet with our guests.”
Pike could see that. If he had one relation in sickbay and another newly rescued from the Klingons, he’d want to see them, too.
“What’s your take on this, Number One?”
“It strikes me as a reasonable request, sir. And it may buy us some goodwill with the Cyprians. A gesture of good faith as it were, showing honest respect and compassion for the family involved.”
“I agree,” Pike said. “Instruct the Cyprians to make the necessary arrangements. Tell them we’re happy to welcome the Murshes aboard.”
If nothing else, Soleste would doubtless be happy to be reunited with her family. He just hoped the family’s arrival wouldn’t complicate an already volatile situation. How exactly would Merata react to meeting her biological family again, after all these years? That was bound to be awkward at best.
“I’ll inform the Cyprians immediately,” Number One said. “And how are matters aboard the Enterprise, if I may ask?”
“Just as you’d expect,” he replied carefully. Encryption or no encryption, he wasn’t taking any chances. The last thing they needed was for the Klingons to find out about the outbreak aboard the ship.
Especially since he was starting to feel a bit feverish himself
* * *
“I trust your new accommodations are to your liking?”
Spock had finally convinced Merata to accept better lodgings, exchanging the brig for confinement in one of the ship’s guest quarters a short time ago. The key to overcoming her resistance had been to offer her a greater degree of privacy rather than comfort; the latter was a decadent human luxury, the former could be viewed as a sign of respect.
As the Enterprise w
as primarily an exploratory vessel, not a pleasure cruiser, the modest stateroom was only slightly less spartan than her cell in the brig. Intended for the occasional passenger, it was furnished with a single-sized bed (which could also double as a sofa), a personal viewer unit mounted in a sturdy triangular housing in the center of the room, a desk, a couple of chairs, and a computer terminal, the last of which had been disabled to prevent Merata from attempting to signal the Fek’lhr or gaining access to any of the ship’s vital systems. Curved metal walls were relieved only by a few shelves and storage compartments. A sealed door cut her off from the corridor outside. Food slots offered her access to the ship’s galley. A small supply of recreational reading, translated into Klingon by the ship’s computer library, had also been provided. Spock wanted to think that Merata would take advantage of her confinement to acquire a greater familiarity with Federation history and literature, but suspected that was wishful thinking.
“It will suffice,” she decreed, casting a scornful gaze over the quarters, “until my father reclaims me over your bloody remains. Should you survive, expect no mercy because of this meager courtesy.”
Spock had not anticipated anything in the way of gratitude from Merata. It was enough that she had not yet attempted to kill him, despite the absence of a force field between them. He judged that significant progress in itself, even as he kept one hand on the grip of his laser pistol to discourage any sudden attacks. He stood by the doorway, watching with a reasonable degree of caution as she inspected the compact stateroom. The weapon waited at his side, not aimed at her, but ready to be employed with sufficient speed if needed. In addition, a security guard was posted outside the door to ensure that she remained confined to quarters.
“I am pleased that it meets with your approval,” he said. “The temperature and gravity can be adjusted to suit your preferences.”
She turned to face him, her arms crossed defiantly atop her chest.
“What pleases you does not concern me, Vulcan. To what do I owe the dubious honor of this visit?” She offered him one of her customary sneers. “Or should I call you ‘half-breed’ or ‘mongrel’ instead? Is that why you are here, to entertain me with sad tales of your polluted bloodline and your embarrassing human mother?” She snickered coldly. “What sort of female willingly mates with a cold, unfeeling Vulcan? I’d sooner wed a Denebian slime devil.”
Spock declined to be baited. He had heard worse things said of his mother back on Vulcan, but knew that Amanda required no defending. His mother’s character and integrity were beyond reproach.
“I merely wished to inform you that your sister has asked to see you.”
Her smirk gave way to a frown.
“And what makes you think that I have any interest in seeing her?”
Spock noted that she no longer attempted to deny her kinship to Soleste. This, too, he took as promising.
“Curiosity?” he suggested. “It has been many years since you last met as sisters, discounting your tumultuous reunion on D’Orox. Are you not at least intrigued by the prospect of seeing her again?”
“Why should I be?” She affected an indifferent tone. “That was another life, long past and all but forgotten. We are no longer who we once were. What have we to say to each other now?”
“That you cannot know until you try.” He appealed to her warrior’s pride. “Are you afraid to encounter her again?”
“You question my courage? A risky strategy, Vulcan.”
“There are many types of courage,” he replied. “Courage in battle is one. The courage to face one’s past, and one’s true self, is another.” He saw her face begin to flush with anger and hastened to qualify his remarks. “I am in no position to judge your own brand of valor. Only you know what is truly in your heart. But your sister is injured and poses no threat to you. She is no longer your opponent.”
“No, just my kidnapper,” Merata said harshly. “If not for her, I would still be back in the Empire and not held captive on this accursed vessel.”
Spock refrained from pointing out that, if not for the Klingons, she would not have been abducted and raised as a Klingon in the first place.
“That is correct,” he conceded. “But, while I do not pretend to be well-versed in Klingon ways, it was always my understanding that the Empire took family honor and obligations very seriously. Would a true Klingon turn her back on her kin?”
“But she is not Klingon!”
“No, but she is your sister by blood.” He looked her squarely in the eye. “Does not that count for something?”
Merata had no ready answer. Growling in frustration, she shook her fists in the air and stomped around the small chamber for a few moments before coming to a stop directly in front of him. Spock waited patiently for her to regain her composure while keeping a firm grip on his laser pistol. He hoped that removing her from the brig had not been a faulty decision on his part.
“What would you do, Vulcan?” she challenged him. “If you were in my place?”
Was Merata genuinely soliciting his advice? Spock believed this to be the case, despite her characteristically aggressive tone and body language. Her possibly sincere query placed him in the unwelcome position of having to relate to her in a highly personal manner once more—and opening a door he would have preferred to have left shut.
“I have a brother,” he confessed. “A half-brother, to be precise, on my father’s side. He chose to reject his Vulcan heritage and follow a different path. I have neither seen nor heard of him for more than a decade. I cannot even be certain that he is still alive.”
The forbidden topic felt strange upon Spock’s tongue and triggered memories he had done his best to bury. As a boy, Spock had idolized his half-brother’s fierce intellect, but after Sybok renounced logic to explore the forbidden realm of unchecked emotion, Sybok had been more than simply banished from Vulcan. It was as though he had ceased to exist. He had vanished from Spock’s life, never to be spoken of again.
“And have you searched for him?” Merata asked. “This renegade brother of yours?”
“As your sister searched tirelessly for you?” Spock shook his head. “No, I have not. Nor have I ever breathed a word of him to another . . . until this very moment.”
“And am I to feel flattered by this confidence?” She examined him warily, searching his face for clues to his intentions. “Is this some subtle ploy to win my trust and trick me into forgetting that I am your prisoner?”
Spock deflected the accusation. “You asked me what I would do in your case,” he reminded her. “I am simply drawing upon my own experience.”
“And?” she pressed him. “What would you do, Vulcan, if you crossed paths with your absent brother once again?”
An unlikely prospect, Spock reflected. The galaxy was a vast expanse, replete with worlds both known and unknown. Sybok could be almost anywhere, assuming he still lived. It defied probability that they would ever meet again.
But if they did . . . ?
“I do not know,” he admitted. “But I like to think that I would not hesitate to hear him out.”
“Easy for you to say, Vulcan. Your brother did not steal you from your home like an Orion slave trader!”
“She may have felt she had no choice, under the circumstances.” He maintained a neutral tone and expression. “In the end, it is your decision.”
She glowered at him unhappily. Her fists were clenched at her sides.
“That is little help to me, Vulcan.” She nodded at the pistol at his side. “Best hold on to your weapon, if you know what is good for you.”
He fully intended to do so.
Nine
“You test my patience, Pike! Hand over my daughter—and the criminal who abducted her—before I unleash the might of the Empire against you!”
Krunn’s bellicose visage filled the viewscreen. His harsh tone made Pike’s head hurt even more than it already did, but the captain refused to be bullied. Although feeling suspiciously tired and achy
, Pike rose from his chair to stand defiantly on his own two feet. His head throbbed dully, the pain bouncing back and forth between his temples while taking frequent rest stops behind his eyes. His throat was scratchy.
“I told you before,” he said. “No decision has been made regarding the ultimate disposition of either of our guests. It appears the situation is more complicated than you originally led us to believe.”
In fact, Pike had already decided that under no circumstances was he going to turn Soleste Mursh over to what passed for Klingon justice. Merata/Elzura, on the other hand, posed a more troubling dilemma.
“There is nothing complicated about it!” Krunn insisted. “My daughter is being held captive aboard your ship and you are harboring her kidnapper!”
“The Cyprians disagree,” Pike said, neglecting to mention that the Cyprians also had the Enterprise over a barrel with respect to the ryetalyn. “As far as they’re concerned, your people abducted Elzura Mursh in the first place, and her sister was merely rescuing a child stolen from her family many years ago.”
Krunn offered no apologies. “The spoils of war. If they had wished to keep what was theirs, they should have fought harder to defend it. Would they have preferred that we left the girl for dead?”
“That doesn’t change the fact that your ‘daughter’ was born a Cyprian,” Pike said.
“The past is the past,” Krunn said. “Merata is a Klingon now, and a daughter of my house.” He held up his hand to display a faded, crescent-shaped scar between his thumb and forefinger. “You see this mark? Merata did this to me with her teeth when she was just a child.” Paternal pride could be heard in his voice, as though he was bragging about a baby’s first word or step. “Tell me that she does not have the soul of a Klingon!”
