by Laurence Yep
And he was the one who panicked and tried to stop. But it was already too late to stop his body, which was stepping in for its usually deadly blow. He felt the prince’s blade bite into his stomach beneath the cuirass; and then the prince thrust the sword point inward. Lord Bhima did not feel the pain right away. It was more like a pinching sensation.
So this is how the others felt, Lord Bhima thought to himself, as he sank to his knees, his sword dropping with a clink against the dirt. Fool, he said to himself idly, the blade will get nicked. And then he realized with a start that it really didn’t matter. “That draw is new.”
The ground itself seemed to be dissolving into a blur of red with the twilit air; but he forced himself to look [263] up. The prince’s disembodied head seemed to float above him. “It’s an offworld trick.”
A fire began to burn in his body and the flames seemed to eat at his heart and lungs so that he could barely gasp, “So you didn’t waste your time then.”
“No,” the prince said quietly, “I didn’t.”
And it seemed to Lord Bhima that the prince’s features darkened until his face was a familiar, shadowy mask. Lord Bhima forced himself to stay erect, refusing to bow to the Lord of the Underworld. “So it was you, after all,” he whispered inaudibly. “But it took you a long time before you beat me.”
The prince turned away, looking angrily at Rahu as the cause of it all. “Come, Rahu,” the prince said, “your sword. I’ll deal with you far more fairly than you would have dealt with me.”
Rahu twisted sideways. “You didn’t really think I’d give up so easily, did you?”
He signed to the wagon and the sinha emerged with a tensed bow, the arrow pointed unerringly at the prince. “I may have lost my swordmaster, but I have certainly upped the quality of my hostages.”
Dully, through a darkening haze, Lord Bhima heard the conversation. “You gave your word,” Lord Bhima called and was surprised at the pain that it cost him to speak.
“Then you were as naïve as the prince. I don’t intend to let our world go to perdition just on the result of a single duel.” Lord Rahu held his hand out toward the prince. “I’ll take that musical instrument you call a sword.”
Lord Bhima could feel the shadows clutching at him, trying to draw his soul into the ground. “Not yet,” he told them. “Not yet.” There had been very little honor [264] in this whole affair; but there was still one small thing he could do—and perhaps redeem a small fraction of his former reputation. Somehow from deep inside himself, he gathered up the last bit of energy left in his body and lurched forward. But he could not see Lord Rahu. He could only flail at the air in a blind rage. “I warned you that I wouldn’t let you use and then discard me.”
Lord Rahu easily managed to dance backward before the arrow hissed through the air. Lord Bhima’s body jerked as the arrow hit and he fell face forward.
“Down,” Urmi shouted.
And the prince threw himself face forward into the dirt as harquebuses fired with sharp, ugly cracking noises. Lord Rahu was knocked off his feet, arms flung out like a rag doll. More lead balls tore vicious holes in the wagon and the sinha.
The prince raised his head cautiously, but Rahu lay as still as Bhima. Spitting out a mouthful of dirt, he sat up. Urmi and Sulu were the first to come to him.
“So the guns decided things after all,” the prince said, sounding sad and puzzled.
Sulu had done his best to be cheerful during the victory banquet, but as soon as he could, he made his excuses and left. He walked slowly through the palace—past groups of servants busy scrubbing away the last signs of the massacre—until he came to the stairs leading to the observatory.
When Sulu entered, Mr. Spock looked up from the scroll that he was reading by the light of a lamp. “I thought you would still be celebrating, Mr. Sulu.”
Sulu hesitated. Mr. Spock was perhaps the last person Sulu would have picked for a heartfelt [265] conversation; but there was no one else. “Sir, I suppose you’ve heard about the battle.”
Mr. Spock rested the scroll on his stomach. “Why do you ask questions for which you already know the answers?”
Sulu felt uncomfortable staring down at Mr. Spock as he lay on his pallet, but Sulu would have felt equally uneasy if he had sat down in the nearby chair. “I took control of the prince’s army, sir, in direct violation of the Prime Directive.”
“It would seem so, Lieutenant. May I ask why?”
Sulu might have been talking to one of the statues within the chapel for all the expression on Mr. Spock’s face. “I couldn’t allow the prince to lose.”
“It isn’t our place to play favorites.” Mr. Spock began to roll up the scroll.
“But it was more than the prince, sir.” Sulu spread out his hands. “This whole world could have become a bloodbath.”
“Though probabilities of violence were high, we cannot be sure.” Mr. Spock added the scroll to a pyramid of scrolls beside him. “Nor can we be sure that Rahu would not have become a good emperor—or that some stronger, better form of union might have emerged from the chaos.”
Sulu felt like slumping in a chair, but he forced himself to stand. “And what are the probabilities of the latter two events, sir?”
“Low,” Mr. Spock admitted. “But even so, we are not allowed to influence events or shape worlds to suit our own purposes—however high-minded they may be.”
“Sir, isn’t choosing not to act an action in itself?”
“Yes, but that choice has been made for us.” Mr. [266] Spock folded his two hands together over his chest. “And by joining Star Fleet you have agreed to that choice.”
Sulu swallowed. Whatever contact they’d made between them—however small—now seemed to be gone. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Spock picked up another scroll and began to unroll it. “The Enterprise will be back within communication range in a few days. I suggest you let me do the talking.”
Sulu licked his lips nervously. “And what will you say, sir?”
Mr. Spock raised his eyebrows. “What I need to, Lieutenant.” And, raising the scroll so that it hid his face, he began to read. “Now I suggest you turn in. We have a great deal of work to do and I want to begin the first thing tomorrow morning.”
Though Sulu desperately wanted to discuss the matter more, he knew there was no use arguing with Mr. Spock. “Yes, sir,” he said and, pivoting on his heel, he left the observatory.
Epilogue
As Sulu sat at a table in the palace observatory and listened to the sounds of the palace below, the Federation with all of its rules and court-martial boards seemed far away. The mythic figures after whom the Angiran constellations had been named were carved into the marble walls and the floor was an intricate arabesque created from the signs that formed the Angiran zodiac. The ornate brass telescope stood on its pedestal, looking more like a cannon than an astronomical instrument.
But then Captain Kirk’s voice came loudly over Mr. Spock’s communicator. “McCoy and I are beaming down now, Mr. Spock, so don’t go running off.”
“I wasn’t planning on doing so, Captain.” Mr. Spock lay flat on his back upon a pallet on the floor of the observatory. Sulu had to admire his fellow officer’s calmness, but then he had done nothing as drastic as Sulu had.
With an uneasy feeling in his heart, Sulu stood and [268] came to attention as twin columns of sparkling light filled the room and he heard the familiar crystalline shimmering sound. McCoy gave a little jump when he saw how close he was to the telescope. “Good Lord. What’s gotten into Scotty? I could have materialized right in the middle of the thing.”
Kirk glanced at the telescope. “Well, you would have made an interesting centerpiece for the mess table then.”
“If I have to zap my atoms around through space, I expect a little sympathy at least,” McCoy grumbled.
“You are always welcome to walk,” Mr. Spock observed from his pallet.
Holding his medical kit in front of him like a shield
, McCoy strolled over to Mr. Spock. “Somehow I don’t think this is quite what the captain had in mind when he left you two behind. You were supposed to keep the door open, not kick it down.”
Sulu guiltily slid the cylindrical cap over the writing brush. He was sure that Mr. Spock had detailed his crimes when they had first opened communication with the Enterprise several days ago. “I realize that, Doctor.”
Kirk shoved the telescope experimentally. It swung easily a few degrees before he stopped it. “And do you also realize that diplomacy does not mean getting involved in the middle of a civil war—let alone stop a charging army?”
Every visible centimeter of Sulu colored. “Yes, sir. But—”
“But what, Mr. Sulu?” Kirk demanded.
Sulu knew that there could be no excuses for his actions. “Nothing, sir.”
“Tell me, Mr. Sulu.” Kirk balanced an arm on the [269] telescope’s pedestal. “Doesn’t the academy still require a study on xenopolitics?”
“It still does, sir,” Sulu admitted. It was, in fact, one of the tougher courses at the academy.
Kirk laced his fingers together. “And among other things, didn’t your instructor cover the rules governing intervention within another planet’s internal affairs?”
“Yes, sir.” Sulu felt as if he were being rehearsed for his court-martial.
“And you passed the course?”
“You know he did, Jim.” McCoy removed the bandage from Spock’s wound. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here.”
“I’ll put my explanation into my report.” Or, Sulu thought to himself, into his letter of resignation.
Mr. Spock looked up from the wax tablet on which he was making his calculations. “Captain, it isn’t like you to discipline someone after this much badgering. I must therefore conclude that the issue is now nonexistent.”
“Have you taken up mind reading at a distance?” McCoy reached for his tricorder.
Mr. Spock resumed writing on the wax tablet. “When the captain must bite someone, he bites quickly. He doesn’t bark a lot before he does it.”
Sulu stared in surprise when Kirk broke into one of his broad smiles. “Sir?”
Kirk straightened. He had been as startled as anyone to hear about his two crewmen’s troubles—and also perhaps a little guilty. It had been a big burden to place upon the young helmsman’s shoulders. And it was as much relief as anything else that had made him pretend to give Sulu a hard time. “I just wanted to make you sweat a little so that you’d think twice before you go off [270] and rescue the next prince and his planet. You may not have Mr. Spock to help you talk your way out of trouble.”
Mr. Spock finished the calculations and laid the tablet near Sulu’s foot so he could pick it up. “Am I to assume that Star Fleet command accepted my interpretation of matters?”
McCoy turned on his tricorder and began to examine the wound. “We just fed it into a computer to translate it into bureaucratese, and they answered in the same language. As far as we can make out, they’ve accepted your actions.”
“I simply applied logic to the situation—and referred them to a few of Professor Farsalia’s more abstruse works on the process of social change.” Spock reached toward the stack of blank wax tablets. “I’m glad that they saw reason.” Mr. Spock frowned as the doctor’s tricorder blocked his view of the tablet. “Doctor, I am trying to work.”
“And so am I, Spock,” McCoy snapped. “I’m the one who has to patch everyone up after they go barging around on some adventure.”
Mr. Spock began to work on the new tablet. “Somehow I don’t think a medical excuse would have made the bandits leave me alone.”
“But what did you say, Mr. Spock?” Sulu asked. He was still a little dazed at finding himself off the hook.
Mr. Spock spoke absently, almost in a monotone, as his mind concentrated on the next problem. “I simply explained to the captain that we happened to be with the legitimate head of the government. And”—Mr. Spock paused for a moment before he finished an equation—“I seriously questioned whether Rahu could be taken as a genuine rebel.”
[271] “He sure did a good imitation of one,” Sulu said. Apparently Mr. Spock hadn’t abandoned him after all.
“True political rebels do not act as if they were conducting a blood feud.” Mr. Spock fingered his stylus while he considered the next equation. “I made inquiries while I was his prisoner and as far as I could ascertain his chief policy was for revenge.”
McCoy snapped off his tricorder. “I think you’re splitting hairs, Mr. Spock.”
Mr. Spock wrote down the final part of the equation. “Mr. Sulu simply did what the prince would have done had he been conscious. In fact, I have been rather impressed by the energy the prince has thrown into creating a program of reforms.” Mr. Spock paused long enough to eye the doctor. “He has done remarkably well, don’t you think?”
“Are you hinting in your not-so-subtle Vulcan way that you were right and I was wrong about the prince?” McCoy examined the poultice on Mr. Spock with a professional curiosity.
Mr. Spock twisted his head so that he could consult an Angiran star map nailed to the wall. “The thought had crossed my mind, Doctor—as it has on so many other occasions.”
“I’ll just bet it has.” McCoy reached for his medical kit. “You’re only programmed to find out what’s right and what’s wrong.”
Mr. Spock’s eyes studied the star map critically. “Grant me a certain flexibility at least. Unlike a certain Lord Bhima, I do not insist that my way is the only one.”
“Well, you certainly do make a big noise about using your powers of logic.” McCoy selected an antibiotic suitable for Mr. Spock’s physiology.
[272] Mr. Spock looked back to his tablet. “I merely suggest to people that logic is the best strategy for dealing with life. But I am willing to acknowledge that there are other methods—even if they are less efficient.”
McCoy slipped the vial of antibiotic into the hypo-spray. “That’s right. We’re so inefficient because we spend all that time looking for happiness when we could be pondering such weighty problems as how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.”
Mr. Spock lowered the tablet abruptly. It was as if he had been setting up the doctor for this moment. “Even happiness may be relative, Doctor. My contentment comes with knowledge and the ultimate objective of knowledge is to learn about one’s self.”
McCoy made an adjustment to the dial of the hypo-spray. “Well, wouldn’t you be happier among fellow seekers?”
“No, Doctor. One can learn the most where two cultures overlap and where they differ. Such knowledge becomes clearest when there is a definite contrast—as light with dark, as a human with an ape, or”—Mr. Spock raised his tablet again—“as myself with you.”
Kirk crossed his calves. “I think you’ve just been insulted, Doctor.”
“I know I have.” McCoy set the hypospray against Spock’s leg and sent the antibiotic into Spock with a soft, serpentine hiss. “Well, that poultice actually seems to have kept away any infection, but this is just a precaution.”
“It’s rather fascinating how easy it was to replace you, Doctor.” Mr. Spock’s stylus began to scratch thin, spidery lines into the wax. “I simply headed for the nearest village and found a little old man who knew a [273] few herbal cures. A pity he went home to rebuild his village, or he might have been able to teach you something.”
McCoy removed the poultice and put it into a sample bag for later analysis. “He shouldn’t take any credit. Everyone knows how hard it is to kill Vulcans. All the little gears in their heads keep on turning mechanically even when their bodies have been dead for days.” But despite his harsh words, McCoy conscientiously began to clean the wound.
Chuckling to himself, Kirk motioned for Sulu to resume his seat. “I don’t know how Mr. Spock was, but Dr. McCoy’s been almost unbearable. He’s had all these psychological barbs growing into spines because no one else has a hide tough enough to take the
m.”
Sulu slid the cap from the writing brush and once again began transcribing the calculations from a wax tablet to a sheet of parchment. “I guess we had other channels for our aggressions, sir.”
The captain plucked at Sulu’s sleeve. “Even so, I don’t think it’s any excuse to be out of uniform.” Both Sulu and Mr. Spock were in the tunics, shorts and sandals of the prince’s army.
“It was either wear these outfits or wear rags, Captain. And since we didn’t want the Angirans to think Federation officers were underpaid, we let the prince’s tailor provide these.” On a separate piece of parchment, Sulu made a note for a series of lectures he would deliver to the Angiran astronomers.
Since the observatory door was open, Urmi knocked at the doorframe. “They were offered commissions in the imperial army, Captain, but they refused.” She strode into the room and they could see that she was wearing a plain iron cuirass. “I don’t know why. They [274] would have had their own tent and all the amma they could eat.” She smiled down at Mr. Spock. “Won’t you reconsider, Mr. Spock? Who will teach me about moons and planets?”
“Mr. Sulu and I are leaving behind more than enough material for you to study.” Mr. Spock lay the old tablet down on his stomach and reached a hand to the side, groping blindly for a fresh one.
Urmi picked up a new wax tablet and placed it in his hand. “But a piece of dry parchment won’t have half your charm.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” McCoy applied the new bandage over Spock’s wound.
The prince leaned against the doorway. Like Urmi, he wore a cuirass. “I rather suspect, Urmi, that Mr. Spock has had his fill of campaigning in the dirt and smoke.” He came over to Mr. Spock’s pallet. “Nonetheless, I wish you would stay longer.”
As if he were embarrassed by all this attention and wanted to hide it, Mr. Spock nodded his head to the prince and began to make new calculations. “The Enterprise is assigning a number of advisers to help you. And the Federation will be sending more. They will all be quite capable.”
