Child of Two Worlds

by Greg Cox

  Unarmed save for the stuffed toy lizard, she faced her treacherous brother across the sprawled forms of both Spock and their mother. A fury equal to his set her blood aflame. Alone among her Cyprian kin, Junah had never sought to find common ground with her. His hatred of all things Klingon, and blatant disgust at her upbringing, had made them enemies from the start.

  She should have known it would come to this.

  “You’d best set that laser on kill, then,” she taunted him, “if you mean what you say.”

  He glanced down at the unfamiliar weapon. His fingers fumbled with the settings on the barrel.

  “Catch!” She hurled Forko at him with all her strength. The toy smacked him in the face, throwing off his aim. He fired wildly and a red-hot beam sizzled past Merata to burn a hole in the empty bed while she sprang at him like an unleashed grint hound, knocking him onto his back. He fought back furiously, striking her face with the pistol so hard that she tasted blood, but she grabbed his arm and bit down on his wrist until he released the weapon, which went clattering across the floor. Pinning him to the floor, she bloodied his face with her bare fists, exulting in her wrath. After days of bitter frustration and confusion, it felt glorious to finally do battle against a deserving foe. The thunder of the space battle waging outside was like war drums, spurring her on to victory. To his credit, Junah refused to surrender, demonstrating that they had at least one trait in common, but the outcome of the contest was never in doubt. No Cyprian youth was a match for a true Klingon warrior.

  “Barbarian!” He spit at her through broken teeth. “Filthy animal!”

  “Hold your ignorant tongue!” she shouted back. “You have no idea who I truly am or what it means to be Klingon!”

  Groping for something to shut him up, her fingers latched on to Forko, which had landed barely within arm’s reach. She snatched up the stuffed toy and pressed it down on his face so that he couldn’t breathe. He thrashed wildly and tugged at it, trying to yank it away from his mouth and nose before he suffocated, but she just pressed down harder, holding it in place.

  “Choke on this, ‘little brother’ . . .”

  “Elzy! Stop!” Rosha stumbled toward them, clutching her head. “You’re killing him!”

  That’s the idea, Merata thought, relishing her victory. It was past time she reminded all concerned that they crossed a Klingon at their own peril. Junah’s frantic efforts faded as his flailing limbs lost their strength. Bloodshot silver eyes bulged in panic. Only a few moments more and his slanderous tongue will be still forever.

  “Stop it, please!” Rosha took hold of Merata’s shoulders and tried unsuccessfully to pull her away from Junah. “You can’t do this. He’s your brother!”

  “Not much longer!” Merata fought an impulse to knock the older woman away. “He chose this fight. This is his doing, not mine!”

  “Please, Elz—Merata! I’m begging you! I can’t lose another child!”

  The naked pain and desperation in her mother’s voice tugged on Merata like a tractor beam, staying her hand. Letting out a howl of frustration, she flung the toy across the room. Junah gasped for breath, sucking in air as though he had never tasted it before. Merata wondered if he appreciated her act of mercy or how much it had cost her.

  Most likely not.

  “Thank your mother for your worthless life,” she said, before knocking him unconscious, much as she had the doctor before. “I’m not sparing you. I’m sparing her.”

  She rose to her feet and stepped away from her defeated foe. Rosha rushed to embrace her.

  “Bless you,” Rosha said tearfully. “I knew he was wrong about you!”

  Merata gently pushed her away.

  “No. He wasn’t.”

  Twenty-four

  “Wake up, Vulcan! I need you!”

  Something slapped Spock hard across the face as an urgent voice shouted at him. Blinking, he struggled to orient himself, even as full consciousness eluded him. Merata’s blurry face leaned over his. She slapped him again, harder this time, and a primordial anger flared within him, slipping the reins of culture and discipline. He reached up and grabbed her wrist before she could strike him again, squeezing it until she winced in pain. Bones ground against each other.

  “Let go!” she exclaimed. “Release me!”

  The violence of his action shocked him back to himself. Regaining his self-control, he let go of her wrist and looked around. His vision came into focus as he quickly took in the sight of a bloodied Junah lying unconscious on the floor of Merata’s temporary quarters. His muscles stung from what he recognized as the lingering effects of a laser set on stun. The memory of Junah helping himself to the pistol came back quickly to the recovering Vulcan, who climbed hurriedly to his feet. Violent jolts shook the guest quarters, forcibly reminding him that the Enterprise was under attack. The floor seesawed beneath his feet. Random articles were strewn about the room. Red alert sirens sounded outside.

  “What has happened here?” he asked. “Quickly, please.”

  Merata did not waste words. “My brother made to kill me. I stopped him.”

  Spock saw with relief that Junah’s chest was still rising and falling, although he had clearly taken a beating at his sister’s hands. He observed Merata closely, noting her blood-stained knuckles, an ugly bruise upon her cheek, and the pistol in her grip.

  “You did not kill him?”

  Merata shrugged. “His mother persuaded me otherwise.”

  “That’s true,” Rosha confirmed. She knelt by her injured son, wiping the blood from his face with a cloth from the lavatory. “She could have killed him, but she chose not to.”

  Fascinating, Spock thought, although more pressing matters asserted themselves. “You said you needed me. How?”

  She held the pistol at her side, not threatening him with it. She shook the circulation back into her bruised wrist, where he had gripped it before. Spock regretted his momentary lapse. He would have to work harder at keeping control of his emotions, even under the most arduous circumstances.

  “I don’t belong here, Vulcan. Isn’t that obvious now?” She indicated the battered form of Junah. “There is no place for me on Cypria III. Even my own brother could not accept me as I am, and I nearly killed him for it. I wanted to kill him. I still do.”

  Spock believed her. That was the Klingon way, after all.

  “But that was in self-defense,” Rosha argued. “You can’t blame yourself for retaliating like you did, considering . . . what you’ve been taught.”

  “I regret nothing . . . and everything.” Anguish rang out in Merata’s voice. “I’ve tried to kill my brother, fought and saved my sister, and betrayed my Klingon father, firing on a soldier under his command, acting on his orders. I cannot live like this, Vulcan, torn between two peoples, two families.” Desperate eyes implored him. “Tell me you don’t understand that, Spock of Vulcan.”

  That was the first time, Spock noted, that she had ever addressed him by name. And, yes, he knew exactly what she meant.

  “You are a child of two worlds,” he agreed, “but only you can choose your own path.”

  “I have chosen. I am Klingon, and I must live as a Klingon. There is no other way.” She offered him the stolen pistol. “Can you help me return to my people, Spock, before more blood is spilt?”

  She made a convincing argument, but Spock had to consider the larger picture. The Enterprise still needed ryetalyn to stem the fever rampaging through the ship, and letting Merata go back to the Klingons would almost certainly eliminate any chance of securing the Cyprians’ cooperation. On the other hand, the hostile battle cruisers were arguably the more immediate threat at the moment. Logic dictated that a cure to the fever would do the crew little good if they were killed or captured by the Klingons first, especially if the Klingons succeeded in reclaiming Merata anyway. At this point, he calculated, the odds of ever trading “Elzura” for the ryetalyn were becoming too minimal to factor significantly into the equation.

  �
��I believe I have determined the proper course of action.” He accepted the laser pistol from her. “But we will have to work together and with all deliberate speed.”

  “Wait!” Rosha protested. She stared anxiously at Merata. “Are you truly going to do this? Leave us again, after all these years?”

  Merata spared a moment to address the grieving woman. “You know I have to,” she said, with more gentleness than Spock would have previously guessed a Klingon capable of. “You saw with your own eyes what just happened, what’s been happening ever since Soleste found me and tried to bring me back to Cypria.” She shook her head. “That homecoming was never meant to be. It’s better this way. You have to see that now.”

  Rosha’s moist eyes looked back and forth between her children. A look of pained resignation came over her face. She nodded sadly.

  “You won’t forget us, will you?”

  “Never,” Merata promised. “I will honor the memory of the family we once were and keep you in my heart all the way to Sto-Vo-Kor. And, please, take comfort in the knowledge that I am where I choose to be. You need not worry about what has become of me anymore.” Her voice caught in her throat. “Tell my sister to stop looking for me, for her sake as well as mine. Tell her . . . that Elzy is safe and well. That little girl does not need to be rescued.”

  Rosha nodded again. “I will.”

  Rapid-fire blasts from the Klingon warships shook the Enterprise like an animal caught between the jaws of a predatory sehlat. Along with the two women, Spock lurched clumsily across the wildly pitching floor of the chamber. He braced himself against the central viewer unit while readily imagining the crisis on the bridge. Spock did not need access to his science station to know that the Enterprise’s shields could not long withstand this relentless barrage.

  General Krunn has all the advantages, Spock thought. We are fighting a losing battle.

  He cleared his throat. Although reluctant to rush the emotional parting between the two women, time did not allow for long good-byes. “My apologies for interrupting, but we must make haste if we hope to avert further hostilities.”

  “You are quite right, Vulcan.” Merata turned away from her mother without protest; Spock suspected that she had no desire to prolong the difficult farewell. “Let us proceed, by all means. What is our strategy?”

  But Rosha was not quite ready to see her daughter depart. “Wait, before you go—” She retrieved the stuffed lizard from the floor and held it out to Merata. “You can’t forget Forko.”

  Orange smears stained the toy’s scaly hide. Spock arched an eyebrow, but Merata accepted the sentimental offering as though it was unblemished by her brother’s blood. She tucked it under her arm.

  “I’ll keep him safe,” she promised. “You may rely on that.”

  Spock couldn’t tell if she was only humoring her mother or not.

  * * *

  “Mister Spock? Do you require assistance?”

  The security officer, going about his business, was obviously startled to find Spock escorting Merata at gunpoint down the shaking corridor. He regarded the Klingon warily while eyeing the stuffed lizard under her arm with understandable confusion.

  “Negative, Ensign,” Spock replied with his usual measured calm. “I am transferring the prisoner to the brig. You may continue with your duties.”

  Ensign Williams accepted Spock’s explanation. “Yes, sir. If you think you can manage the Klingon on your own.”

  Spock found himself grateful for the widespread myth that Vulcans could not lie. In fact, while his people certainly placed great value on the truth, they were also fully capable of subterfuge when logic dictated its use. The needs of the many often outweighed a strict adherence to veracity.

  “I have the situation fully under control, Ensign.” Spock’s laser pistol remained aimed at Merata’s back. “On your way, mister.”

  Another salvo from the enemy punctuated Spock’s command. Williams missed a step as the deck reeled beneath them. The lights dimmed for a moment, so that only the flashing red annunciators lit up the quaking hallway. The blast served to remind the ensign that he had other places to be.

  “Aye, aye, Mister Spock!”

  Spock repressed a sigh of relief as Williams hastened to carry out whatever vital task required his attention. If nothing else, the rapacious fever had significantly cut down on the number of personnel roaming the halls, which worked in Spock’s favor at this moment. He hoped to avoid too many inconvenient encounters of the sort that had just transpired; the fewer people who were aware of his present activities, the better. It was just as well that the guard posted outside Merata’s quarters had been called away to help defend the ship against the battle cruisers. That had eliminated one variable from what was already a risky endeavor.

  “You lie well for a Vulcan,” Merata observed in a low voice. “Your human half showing through?”

  He saw no need to tarnish his homeworld’s reputation. “Let us say so.”

  Fortuitously, they made it to the turbolift with no further complications. The door slid shut, hiding them from scrutiny. Spock gripped the control handle, which activated at his touch. He lowered the pistol in his other hand.

  “Hangar deck.”

  The lift descended rapidly, bypassing the brig while moving down and across the ship toward the entrance to the hangar deck. Spock passed the pistol over to Merata, exploiting the fact that there were no security sensors in the turbolifts. He spoke freely while he could.

  “From this point on, our story must be that you somehow overpowered me.”

  “A Klingon overpowering a Vulcan?” Merata chuckled. “Who could doubt it?”

  He hoped the captain and Starfleet would feel likewise. Never before had he deliberately violated the chain of command in this fashion. He resolved not to make a habit of it.

  Unless absolutely necessary.

  The lift dropped them off outside the hangar deck, which still bore a few scars from the Klingons’ sneak attack hours ago. Merata shoved him roughly through the doorway onto the deck ahead of her. Brandishing the laser pistol, she marched him across the hangar toward the waiting Cyprian shuttlecraft, Climber One. Spock held his hands above his head, so that he would clearly resemble a hostage to any onlookers in the control booth above them. He feared this would not reflect well on his record.

  “Move, Vulcan!” She prodded him forward. “I won’t ask again!”

  An anxious voice sounded over the public-address system: “Halt where you are! Lower your weapon, and keep away from the spacecraft!”

  Merata fired a warning shot into the air. “Do not hinder me . . . or the Vulcan dies!”

  In fact, the laser was set on stun, or had been when Spock had turned it over to her. He trusted Merata not to take this performance too far.

  “Do as she says!” He kept his hands in the air as he raised his voice to be heard by all present. “Clear the deck! That’s an order!”

  A handful of overworked technicians scurried to safety, leaving him and Merata alone on the deck. Spock noted that much of the damage done to the site by the Klingon boarding party had already been repaired. A replacement observation window shielded the flight controllers, while the outer space doors appeared in working order. No debris or Klingon remains littered the floor of the hangar. He trusted that the shuttle was operative as well.

  Commendable, he thought, as well as convenient.

  Acting as though he was under duress, he opened the hatch to the shuttle’s cockpit and climbed inside.

  “Are you certain you can pilot this craft?” he asked sotto voce.

  “Watch me.” She confidently took her place at the helm and closed the hatchway before activating the control panel and engines. As they surged to life, she turned to look at Spock. Their eyes met in communion. “Many thanks, Spock of Vulcan, for your hospitality . . . and understanding.”

  He refrained from offering a traditional Vulcan salute, lest the gesture be observed and cast doubt on the scenario the
y had labored to create. Only the slightest tip of his head acknowledged her words. “Live long and prosper, Merata, daughter of the Empire.”

  She snorted at the salutation, which was doubtless too pacifistic for her tastes. “And may you die honorably in battle, but preferably not today.”

  He appreciated the sentiment, to a degree.

  “I have done what I can,” he told her. “The rest is up to you . . . and Captain Pike.”

  She nodded grimly. “And my father.”

  Twenty-five

  “Captain!” Garrison sounded startled. “I’m receiving a transmission from Climber One.” A nonplussed expression conveyed his bewilderment. “It’s . . . from Merata, sir.”

  Merata?

  Pike recalled that the Cyprian shuttlecraft was still stowed in the Enterprise’s hangar bay, and so apparently did Number One.

  “What’s she doing on the hangar deck?” Number One asked aloud. “Last I heard, she was confined to quarters.”

  Pike could think of only one possible explanation.

  Spock.

  The Vulcan had never responded to Pike’s urgent requests to bring Merata to the bridge, and Pike had been too busy and too short-handed to send anyone in search of him. That might have been a mistake . . .

  “Let’s hear her,” he said tersely. Short of breath, barely able to stay upright, he hoarded his words as though he was running out of them, which he probably was. “Tie her in.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Merata’s face appeared on the viewscreen. There was a nasty ocher bruise on the left side of her face, but she still looked better than Pike felt. Her sardonic voice burst from the speakers

  “I have taken your pet Vulcan hostage, Pike, and commandeered this shuttle. Know that I will shortly attempt to exit your ship at top speed. I suggest you open the space doors and lower your aft shields or the consequences will be most uncomfortable for all concerned, including Mister Spock.”