by Laurence Yep
Sulu slowly straightened up. “You tipped me off when you said the draw was like a samurai’s.”
The prince took a step backward. “So you’ve killed me. But how?”
His right hand still holding onto the hilt, his left hand held the blade. He could feel the slight tingle from the magnetic field that protected his palm. “There may not have been anyone to teach me Japanese swordfighting when I was a kid, but some of the worlds had large libraries of old films. That’s from a classic by Kurosawa called Sanjuro.”
“I wish I had seen it as a boy.” The prince raised his sword in a lazy circle and guided it expertly into the sheath. “It would have saved me many a drubbing from Lord Bhima.”
Sulu started to take the sheath out of the belt. “I doubt if he’d approve of that little trick. It’s hardly tournament form.”
“Perhaps not, but he would be intrigued by trying to come up with a counter to it.” The prince went into panku. “And it may be just the thing I need to deflate his ego a bit. You must show me how to do that.”
“How about having some lunch instead. I can always show you tomorrow.” Sliding the sheath over the sword, Sulu tried to hand it back to Bibil.
“No, please, Sulu.” The prince stepped forward to [23] place his gloved hand on Sulu’s wrist. “Show me how to do it so I can practice on my own then.”
The prince had such a breezy manner that it was a shock to realize he could take anything so seriously—in fact, almost desperately. “It’s just a little trick. Why is it so important to you?”
“It shouldn’t be, but it is.” Embarrassed, the prince let go of Sulu’s wrist and his voice tried to resume its normal, languid tone, but there was still an anxious edge to it now. “Do you know what my family nickname is?”
“Your Highness.” Bibil glared his disapproval.
“Sulu and I are both loners in search of something. He’ll understand.” The prince tried to draw his sword out in slow motion and bring his left palm behind the sword blade. But his arms wound up as a tangle in front of his face. “At home, I’m called the Shadow Lord, because I was of such an insubstantial character, as they say. And on our world that would be more of an insult than on yours.”
Sulu looked down at his own shadow, remembering the fighting in the prince’s own room. In the faint light favored by the Angirans, a shadow was neither as dark nor as sharp as it would be under normal Terran conditions. “I would think that the less you have of a thing, the more you would value it.”
“To a mystic, yes; to a politician, no.” Refusing to be discouraged, the prince sheathed his sword again.
Since the prince seemed determined to practice all day until he got the knack of the trick draw, Sulu decided that his stomach could wait. Walking over, he grabbed the prince’s left hand and guided it to the sheath. “But your stock will have to go up. After all, [24] you’re coming back with all this knowledge to help modernize your world.”
The prince watched as Sulu forced the mouth of the sheath to tilt downward. “All my learning will count less than a good, quick draw.”
That earlier, boyish self responded to that idea as it had earlier to the challenge with the sena. “Then I’d love to visit your world,” Sulu said wistfully.
The prince gave a little bitter chuckle. “And I wish I were free to stay on Earth another twelve years so I could take more courses and gather degrees like a bouquet of flowers.” He drew his sword out again slowly, bringing his left palm up behind the blade. “It’s a shame we can’t trade places.”
By a great effort of will, Sulu forced himself to be more pragmatic—for the prince’s sake as well as for his own. “Well, at least I can teach you that little trick.” Sulu squatted down to help adjust the Prince’s legs. “Try bending your legs more when you take that step forward. The idea is to come in low beneath your opponent’s sword.”
It was a thoughtful Kirk who stepped into his quarters to meet with McCoy and Mr. Spock. After a good deal of reading about Angira and spending time with the prince, he was still no closer to a decision about the mission to Angira. “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen, but I let the prince talk me into a little fencing match.”
McCoy stared at Kirk’s fencing outfit. “What were you doing? Wearing him out for Sulu? Isn’t there enough mayhem in the universe without trying to turn one another into swiss cheese?”
Kirk took off his fencing jacket. It had bound Kirk about the shoulders so that he pumped his arms now in [25] slow circles, enjoying the luxury of being able to move freely once again. “It’s the best way I can think of to get to know Prince Vikram in such a short time. He’s a bundle of contradictions. He’s got a real competitive edge when it comes to fencing; but beyond that ...” Kirk simply shook his head.
McCoy crossed his legs. “I know. He’s charming enough, but I don’t see how anyone could expect him to pull Angira single-handedly into modern times. I just wish some of those bureaucrats would realize that they’re dealing with people, not abstract sociological principles.”
Kirk eased himself onto his bed. The prince had put him through a short but thorough workout. “I just wish they’d quit treating the Enterprise like a toy train that they can shuttle around at their convenience. First of all, we’re supposed to drop the prince off on Angira and leave a small group behind to modify the astronomical charts.”
McCoy laced his fingers together over his knees. “Well, at least it’s a step in the right direction for Angira.”
“But we’re also supposed to take medical supplies to Beta Carinae.” Kirk lay down, leaving only his feet dangling over the edge. “That means that the party we leave behind will be on their own.”
McCoy kicked his leg up and down. “Take some free medical advice, Jim: Don’t worry so much or you’ll get an ulcer. You’ve seen the reports on Angira. The imperial government is as stable and progressive as they come.”
Kirk frowned. “I’d still better send the most capable people.
“And for that reason I think I should be sent to [26] Angira.” Spock turned the list of volunteers toward the captain as if he could read it at that distance. “And yet my name has already been crossed off the list.”
Kirk rested his forearm over his eyes. “I need you, Spock. What if something happens on board the ship during the run to Beta Carinae?”
“You will deal with it as efficiently as you and the crew always do,” Mr. Spock said smoothly. “The mission to Beta Carinae, while urgent, is not particularly hazardous. You can certainly spare me long enough for a short stay on Angira.”
Kirk should have known better than to argue with Mr. Spock. He lowered his arm so he could look at his science officer. “Just why did you volunteer in the first place?”
Mr. Spock angled his head downward. His fingers smoothed the sheet of paper that contained the list of volunteers. “I confess to a certain professional curiosity.”
Kirk found himself balancing on a fine edge. Even if Mr. Spock would never have admitted to such a Vulcan sin, he had a strong sense of pride. “That isn’t a sufficient reason to let you leave the ship.”
Mr. Spock took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “I have already pointed out the lack of logic to such an assumption. May I ask the captain if there are any other reasons for refusing my request?”
McCoy shook his head in disbelief. “You really can’t see it, can you?”
Mr. Spock blinked his eyes in annoyance as if McCoy had just tried to shine a bright light on him. “Perhaps you can instruct me, Doctor.”
“I’d be happy to.” McCoy let his foot drop to the [27] floor with a thud. “Spock, just how long can you hold your breath anyway?”
Spock frowned. “I fail to see what that has to do with my ability to revise the Angiran star maps.”
“It’s got plenty to do with it.” McCoy leaned an elbow on the conference table and rested his cheek on his hand. “You’re the last person that Jim should send to Angira with the prince.”
Mr. Spock slipped into a more
formal, rhetorical fashion—as if he knew just how much more it annoyed the doctor when he spoke that way. “The Angirans have asked the Federation to help them adjust their astronomical charts, which have become hopelessly complex. For one thing, their astronomers have created an elaborate system of epicycles to account for the movements of the planets. As a result of that and other erroneous theories, their astronomical maps are more exercises in geometry now rather than in astronomy. I should think they would be pleased that I can redo their charts more efficiently than any scientific team from the Enterprise. Besides, the fewer visitors, the less likelihood of violating some part of their elaborate etiquette.”
McCoy tapped his fingers against his cheek. “It’s not the quantity of visitors that counts. It’s the quality. If revising the charts was the only problem, we could feed the data into the ship’s computers and have the information for them in no time. But the revisions also have to be explained to the Angirans.”
Mr. Spock drew his eyebrows together as if puzzled. “If I was sent to Angira, I would perform all my duties correctly.”
McCoy sat back. “I wish you’d get it through your [28] thick Vulcan skull that correctness isn’t the only virtue in the universe. There’s also such a thing as tact.”
Mr. Spock arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps if I saw you display it more often, I might understand it better.”
McCoy closed his eyes. “Spock, I’m just trying to save you from yourself.” His eyelids blinked up suddenly. “The Angirans invited us to revamp the charts because they have a passion for astrology, not for precision. They don’t do anything—from the burial of the poorest peasant to the accession of an emperor—unless the stars are favorable. They wouldn’t let Prince Vikram return until all the astrological signs were right.”
“I’m already aware of that fact, Doctor.”
McCoy leaned forward. “Well, I know you, Spock, and your obsession to tell the truth. You won’t get through the first lecture without telling the Angirans just how stupid astrology is. And so they’re going to be mad enough to stuff you into a cannon and shoot you back into space. And since the Enterprise won’t be back from Beta Carinae for thirty days, Angiran time, you’re going to have to wait quite a while for a rendezvous. So I repeat: How long can you hold your breath?”
Captain Kirk ran his fingers thoughtfully over his mouth and then lowered his hand. With the memory of that morning’s fencing match in mind, Kirk said, “Whoever else we send, I think we ought to include Sulu.”
Mr. Spock twisted his head slightly so that he could look at Kirk with his right eye—as if that movement could help him read the mind of his captain. “Mr. Sulu is junior to officers with more diplomatic training.”
“But as chief helmsman, he has some knowledge of [29] astronomy.” Kirk sat up, supporting himself on his hands. “And besides, he gets along with the prince, so he might be able to help the prince make the transition to living on Angira again. I want things to go without a hitch. Angira opened its door a little bit by sending the prince to the Federation for his education. Now it’s opened its door a little wider by inviting us to help revise their astronomical charts. I want to make sure that the door keeps opening wider—maybe the acceptance of technical advisers or even an exchange of ambassadors.”
“With all due respect to a fine officer like Mr. Sulu, I need no such help,” Mr. Spock said firmly. “It would be a duplication of effort and a waste of a fellow officer’s time.”
The doctor was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Anyway, Spock, why would someone like you want to go down to Angira? You’ll be surrounded by fops like Prince Vikram.”
Except for the quickness with which he responded, it would have been difficult to tell what delight Mr. Spock took in correcting McCoy. “First of all, I am intrigued by any culture in the process of reforming itself; but I am especially interested in the way an individual like the prince can effect those changes.”
“Come on now,” McCoy sniffed. “I admit that Prince Vikram is an amusing fellow over cocktails, but a world shaker?”
Mr. Spock pressed his hands against the table.
“ ‘Fops’ do not survive the jump from one era to another as the prince did when he left Angira for Earth. He has an unfortunate propensity to chatter and play the clown at times, but from our conversations, I have ascertained that he has also learned a good deal. [30] And that calls for a flexibility of mind and a firmness of purpose.”
“Oh, yes?” McCoy smirked. “I gather from his own remarks that his family sent him off because he was the most expendable. His brothers and stepbrothers were needed to help his father control Angira. Now how can you expect anyone to listen to him?”
“That is precisely what I wish to see.” Mr. Spock looked directly at the captain, as if the words were meant more for him than for the doctor. “Here is a person who now literally lives on the edge between two cultures, neither belonging wholeheartedly to Angira nor the Federation.”
McCoy tipped his head back and looked down his nose at Mr. Spock. “A marginal man, Mr. Spock.”
Mr. Spock’s reply was calm and considered. “In effect, yes.”
McCoy straightened up again. “Like yourself, in a way?”
Mr. Spock pressed his lips together in a thin frown. “The prince and I are hardly the same.”
“For which the prince ought to thank his god or gods heartily,” McCoy declared. He looked at Spock appraisingly. “I wonder how you’d handle a situation like the prince’s. You’d need more than logic and reason.”
“I think you underestimate both the prince and myself,” Mr. Spock said quietly.
Kirk balanced the political objectives of the mission against the interests of his own science officer. Perhaps the doctor was closer to the truth than Spock was willing to admit. At any rate, it must be important to Spock, or he would never have insisted so strongly on going. As he stared at his first officer’s carefully controlled face, Kirk wished he also had the ability to [31] touch minds so he could understand what this mission really meant to Mr. Spock.
Was it worth risking both their careers? Spock seemed to think so; and so, despite his own misgivings, Kirk felt he owed it to Spock to send him on the mission. Perhaps he would regret it later. “Well”—he exhaled slowly—“a smart peddler puts at least one foot in the doorway. We’ll shove in two: Mr. Spock and Mr. Sulu.” He grinned at his science officer. “You can do the revisions while Sulu explains them to the Angirans.”
“But just what are you peddling, Jim?” McCoy nodded his head toward Mr. Spock. “The Vulcan School of Charm over here or”—McCoy raised a fist and pretended to wave a sword—“Sulu’s vegetable slicers?”
“Neither.” Kirk smiled. “We are selling a certain kind of perspective. A-n-nd”—he drew out the word—“I would hope the grace to go with it.”
Captain’s log, Stardate 1831.5:
I have decided to detach our chief helmsman, Lt. Sulu, for duty on Angira with Mr. Spock. Their principal assignment will be to revise that world’s inefficient astronomical charts; but their secondary task will be to cement ties of friendship further between Angira and the Federation. In the meantime, the Enterprise will continue on to Beta Carinae to deliver much-needed medical supplies.
Chapter One
Sulu had seen the palace many times in the prince’s tri-d’s; but he had not expected to see it in person. And the small tri-d’s had not prepared him for its massive scale. Beginning with a citadel dominating the fertile plains below, the palace had grown until it seemed to have swallowed up an entire ridge of hills. Walls, pillars and even the delicate towers and spires had been hewn from stone the same blood red color as the hills, so that the palace of Angira seemed to sweep across the green plain in either direction without apparent end under the dwarf sun. He felt a sense of elation at having managed to come this far—almost as if he owned the view himself.
And when Sulu turned back to the prince’s suite of rooms, the sense of power and wealth was almost ov
erwhelming. The ceiling was of silver embossed with hunting scenes so cunningly done that the animals seemed ready to leap down from the ceiling. And the [33] marble walls and pillars were intricately carved to resemble trees and shrubs. “It’s almost like a forest that’s had a magical spell cast on it.”
The prince was dressing before a full-length mirror in an ornate, gold frame. “Next to politics, my people’s greatest passion is interior decorating. We are fortunate they had only marble and silver rather than plastic.”
“The collar, Mr. Sulu.” Mr. Spock, as impeccable as ever, nodded toward Sulu’s dress tunic.
Red-faced, Sulu looked down from the ceiling. Aware that Mr. Spock’s eyes were calmly inspecting him for other flaws, Sulu felt like the rawest academy plebe again. As a result, his fingers seemed twice as large and clumsy as they did up the collar which had somehow come undone.
It was like the gracious Prince Vikram to forget himself and his own worries in order to put a friend at ease. “You see, Hikaru. You should wear the soropa. There are no buttons, seals or zippers to fight—only the pull of gravity.” He held up his arms as his servant helped him wind the meter-wide, four-meters-long band of precious flame silk about his waist and loins. The tail end would be wrapped around his waist like a sash.
Sulu tried to smile encouragingly. “I should have learned how to dress myself by now.” When Mr. Spock raised his eyebrows to remind Sulu of their conversation before they had beamed down, Sulu quickly added, “Your Highness.”
Prince Vikram clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Must you begin the titles so soon?”
Bibil wound the silk cloth once around his master’s [34] shoulder. “But you are the ninth in line to the throne,” he said in a mild reproof. Though he fussed with the prince in his gruff way, he really seemed to care about him.
Annoyed, the prince shoved Bibil’s hands away. “Which means I am never to have responsibilities, only to be carted out for state banquets like a floral display.”
