Star Trek 11

by James Blish

  "Angry, Spock? Or frustrated, perhaps?"

  "Such emotion is quite foreign to me, Doctor. I was merely testing the strength of the door."

  McCoy nodded. "For the fifteenth time."

  Spock came close to showing irritation. Disdaining to answer, he turned from the door, again inspecting the cell for some possible weapon or escape route. Watching him, McCoy's eyes softened. After a space, he said gently, "Spock . . ."

  Spock turned, expecting a jibe for what was clearly his frantic anxiety for the safety of his captain. And though McCoy shared it, he had another matter on his mind at the moment.

  "Spock, uh . . . we've had our disagreements . . ." Because he was leveling, he was deeply embarrassed. ". . . or maybe they're jokes. As Jim says, we're often not sure ourselves. But . . . er . . . what I mean to say is . . ." He hesitated again. "Well, what I mean is—"

  "Doctor," Spock said, "I'm seeking a weapon or an escape method. Please be brief."

  "I'm . . . trying to say you saved my life in the arena."

  Spock nodded. "Quite true."

  That fact mutually acknowledged, he resumed his examination of every possibility of their cell.

  McCoy blew up. "I was trying to thank you, you—you pointed-eared hobgoblin!"

  "Ah, yes," Spock said. "Humans do suffer from an emotional need to show gratitude." He gave a small nod. " 'You're welcome' is, I believe, the correct response." He moved off, still searching. "However, Doctor, you should remember that I am motivated solely by logic. The loss of our ship's surgeon, whatever I may think of his relative skill, is a loss to the efficiency of our vessel and therefore to—"

  McCoy interrupted. "Do you know why you're not afraid of dying, Spock? You're more afraid of living. Every day you stay alive is one more day you might slip—and let your human half peek out." He lessened the distance between them. "That's it, isn't it? Insecurity! You wouldn't know what to do with a genuine, warm, decent feeling!"

  Spock wheeled—and this time McCoy caught him at it. There was an instant when he actually saw Spock composing his face into Vulcan impassivity. Then the instant was gone—and Spock raised an eyebrow.

  "Really, Doctor?" he said.

  McCoy thought, "I am very fond of this man." What he said was, "I know. I'm worried about Jim, too, Spock."

  For the moment, anyway, their captain was safe. He was also hungry. And seated beside Drusilla on a couch, he was making excellent inroads on the tray of food she insisted on holding for him. It was a long time since he's tasted roast pheasant. And the wine was good wine. After all, food was food and wine was wine, unlikely to be up to tricks. As to the girl . . . Hunger and thirst appeased, he took his first good look at her.

  "You've noticed me at last," she said. "I was becoming concerned. I am ordered to please you."

  Kirk sipped more wine. "Good," he said. Then he pointed to the roast pheasant's remains. "Excellent. And you?"

  "Superb, I'm told," she said, straight-faced. "But then, men lie, don't they?"

  Kirk eyed her. Then he leaned back against the couch. "I've seen strange worlds, strange customs," he told her. "Perhaps here this is considered torture."

  She moved close to him, placing the tray on the table. "Torture? I do not understand. I have no wish to see you tortured in any way." She kissed him. "At the first sign of pain, you will tell me?"

  "You'll be the first to know," he said. He took her in his arms and returned the kiss with interest.

  Up on the Enterprise, Scott was tiring of misery. He was rapidly transforming it into the kind of productive anger that opens up new vistas for action.

  "How long since we've heard?" he asked Uhura.

  "Nine hours, forty-one seconds, sir." She indicated the viewing screen. "It's almost dark there. We'll see the city lights coming on soon."

  "Mr. Chekov, take over the scanners. Lieutenant Uhura, give him a hand." He returned to the command chair, still hesitating. On the other hand, no order had said he couldn't frighten whoever it was down there who was causing bad trouble for his captain and the landing parry. It might do no good. Yet it just could be salutary to suggest what a Starship could really do if it got serious.

  He made up his mind. "Lieutenant Uhura, pinpoint the city's power source locations." He paused before he added, "Mr. Chekov, type the power, the load factors—and how much our beams must pull to overload them."

  "Captain . . .."

  Sprawled in sleep on the alcove's bed, Kirk came instantly awake at the sound of Claudius' voice. He had started to roll, protecting himself when he saw that the little man was alone, just standing there, a newly benign look on his face.

  "You've had a harrowing time on our planet," he said. "I'm not surprised you slept through the afternoon." He left the alcove to go to a table. "Sorry I was detained. Shall we have our talk now?"

  He was pouring wine. Kirk followed him, distrust rising again at sight of the armed guard posted just outside the door. Offered wine, he shook his head. Claudius went on. "Oh, one of the communicators we took from you is missing. Was it my pretty Drusilla by any chance?"

  Kirk didn't answer. Merik had entered the room. Claudius, pointing to Kirk, said, "See if he has the communicator."

  Still silent, Kirk permitted the search, "Not that I would have punished her badly. I would have blamed you, Merik," Claudius said. He lifted his goblet. "You're a Roman, Kirk—or should have been. It's not on his person?"

  "No, Proconsul." Merik addressed Kirk. "He said a 'Roman.' You've just received as great a compliment, Jim—"

  Claudius interrupted. "Care for food, Captain Kirk?"

  Kirk saw that Merik, pointedly uninvited to sit, was shifting uncomfortably. "Thank you, I've eaten," he said.

  "I trust there was nothing you required that you didn't receive," Claudius said.

  "Nothing. Except . . . perhaps an explanation."

  "I'm sure our world seems as strange to you as yours would seem to me." He looked up. "Since you are a man, I owe you this immediately. You must die in a few hours."

  He swallowed. "And also because you are a man . . ." He became conscious of Merik's presence and a flicker of something like contempt passed across his face. "You may leave us, Merik. The thoughts of one man shared with another cannot interest you."

  Merik almost responded to the open insult. Then he decided that for him silence was golden. He left the room; and Claudius, resuming, said to Kirk, "And since you are a man, Captain Kirk, I gave you some last hours as a man. Do you understand?"

  A small smile on his lips, Kirk said, "Let's say . . . I appreciated it."

  "Unfortunately, your defiances in the arena were seen by the television audience. We must demonstrate that defiance is wrong."

  "Of course," Kirk said.

  "But because I have learned to respect you, I promise you will die quickly and easily."

  "Naturally, I prefer that. And my friends?"

  "Of course, you'd ask that. And, of course, when their time comes, the same." Summoning guards, he gestured to Kirk. "Take him to the arena." A comforting afterthought occurred to him. "We've preempted fifteen minutes on the early show for you," he told Kirk. "We will have a good audience, full color. You may not understand the honor, since you are centuries beyond anything as crude as television."

  "I recall it was similar," Kirk said.

  They hadn't bound his hands. He needed them to hold his sword and shield. From the arena's entrance, where Spock and McCoy had waited, he would see Claudius moving into the Observers' Booth above him. Guards, supervised by the Master of the Games, pushed him past a big man in gladiator dress. He recognized Flavius. The two were exchanging glances when Merik's voice, speaking to one of the guards, said, "I'll speak privately with the prisoner."

  The Master of the Games was annoyed. "Impossible," he said shortly.

  "I am still First Citizen. You will obey me!"

  The announcer spoke. "Stand by . . . ten seconds."

  The Master of the Games, completely ig
noring Merik, moved Kirk out into the arena's center. Desperate, the man who'd betrayed himself, shouted, "Too late to help you, Jim! I'll do what I can for your friends!"

  The announcer, on signal, was speaking into his microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Before the first heat tonight, a simple execution. But keep your dial turned to this channel—there's lots of excitement to follow . . ."

  Claudius leaned over the booth's edge. "Master of the Games, make it quick! A single thrust!"

  The veteran drew his sword. "Don't move," he told Kirk. "You'll only die harder."

  As he lifted his weapon to strike, there was a wild cry. "Murderers!"

  Flavius had raced into the arena, sword raised high. The startled Master of the Games wheeled to meet the onslaught. Guards were running to block the gladiator's rush; and Kirk, moving fast to help him, had almost reached him when every light in the place went out, plunging it into near darkness. Kirk hesitated for a split second. Then he used the dimness to fell a guard with a "space karate" blow. Another lunged for him. A smash with a sword butt sent him sprawling. There was a burst of submachine gunfire. Kirk, close to Flavius now, cried, "The cells! Which way?"

  "The barred doors across . . ."

  Flavius was cut down by another splatter of bullets. Kirk, realizing his danger, dodged a sword slash—and seizing the guard, spun him around to face the source of the gunfire. The man stumbled forward into the guard with the gun. He was thrown off balance—and Kirk, grabbing the gun, clubbed himself free. The lights came back as he reached the barred doors at the other side of the arena.

  He was seen. Guards shouted. A submachine gun blast struck near him. He turned, firing a burst himself. It silenced the gunner. Kirk fired again at the heavy lock on the barred doors.

  Their cell was at the middle of a corridor. "Look out!" Kirk yelled to them. His gun spit bullets at the cell's lock.

  Spock kicked the door open and McCoy cried, "Jim! Are you all right?"

  "What did they do to you, Captain?"

  "They threw me—a few curves, Spock. Perhaps it's better if I don't talk about it now . . ."

  He'd heard the sounds of pursuit. Guards had followed him, running. A javelin hurtled past them. Kirk aimed the gun. The men halted but one in the rear was raising the muzzle of his . . .

  "Hold!"

  It was Claudius. Guards ranged behind him; he stood at the other end of the corridor. In both directions escape was cut off.

  "We're in each other's line of fire." Claudius spoke to the guards. "Swords only."

  Both groups of guards, swords high, were moving in.

  "But I can use my gun," Kirk said. "And in either direction, Claudius."

  As he eyed the little Proconsul, he saw that Merik had joined him. Claudius moved away from him. "I pity you, 'Captain' Merik," he said. "But watch. At least see how men die."

  A guard with a javelin raised his arm. Kirk whirled with the gun. It gave a click on an empty cylinder. The guards charged. Kirk downed the first with his gunstock.

  Spock reached for his dropped sword and McCoy picked up the javelin beside him.

  Merik came to a decision. Death was nearing the Enterprise men. They were fighting now back to back. Merik pulled the missing communicator from his pocket, clicking it open. "Starship, lock in on this place: three to . . ."

  With a shocked look on his face, he staggered. Claudius withdrew the sword he'd driven into him. Merik glanced at his seducer; and choking on blood, whispered into the communicator, "Three to beam-up . . . emergency . . ."

  As he fell, he threw the communicator to Kirk over the heads of the guards. The dead Bob Merrick of the Space Academy had finally made peace with himself. Already, before Claudius' astounded eyes, Kirk, Spock and McCoy were dematerializing into dazzle. Then even its sparkles were gone.

  Kirk was dictating into his Captain's Log.

  "Note commendation to Engineering Officer Scott for his performance in commanding this vessel during my absence. Despite enormous temptation and strong personal feelings, he obeyed the Prime Directive. His temporary 'blackout' of the city below resulted in no interference with its society and yet saved the lives of myself and the landing party. We are prepared to leave orbit shortly."

  He punched his "off" button. Beside him, Scott, his face red with embarrassed pleasure, said, "Thank you, Captain. I'll see to the engines."

  As he entered the bridge elevator, Spock and McCoy stepped out of it.

  McCoy, approaching the command chair, said, "I just saw on your report that Flavius was killed. I'm sorry. I liked that huge sun-worshiper."

  Spock spoke earnestly. "I wish we could have examined that belief of his more closely, Captain. It does seem illogical that sun-worshipers could evolve a philosophy of total brotherhood. Worship of the sun is almost always a primitive superstition-religion . . ."

  Uhura had overheard. She turned from her console. "I'm afraid you have it wrong, Mr. Spock. All of you . . ."

  Three pairs of eyes were on her. She went on. "I've been monitoring old-style radio waves and heard talk about this brotherhood religion. Don't you understand? Not the sun in the sky . . . the Son—the Son of God!"

  McCoy protested. "But when we mentioned stars, Septimus said they worshiped the sun up there."

  But Kirk's face was thoughtful. "In most of our own religions, don't people tend to look upward when speaking of the Deity?" He paused. "Caesar and Christ . . . they did have both. And the word is spreading only now down there."

  "A philosophy of total love, total brotherhood," McCoy said.

  Spock nodded. "It will replace their Imperial Rome. And it will happen during their Twentieth century."

  Remembering the arena's ferocity, Kirk said, "It would be something to watch, to be part of."

  "How stupid of me not to have comprehended!" Spock exclaimed.

  McCoy looked at him. "I tend to go along with that, Mr. Spock."

  "Doctor . . . the next time I have an opportunity to save your life—"

  "—you'll do the logical thing, save me." McCoy smiled. "Comforting to know that, Spock."

  Something good had happened between the two, Kirk thought. He was glad. Both men were dear to him. It was high time they admitted how dear they were to each other. Though he knew how little their sparring meant, it was a waste of time that could be better spent. On the other hand, who knew? There were many ways of revealing affection.

  He turned to Chekov. "Take us out of orbit, Mr. Chekov. Ahead, warp factor one."

  "Aye, sir. Ahead, warp factor one."

  Kirk looked at the viewing screen. The Earth-like planet that had confused itself with the Roman Empire was a diminishing pinpoint of light. Then it was gone.

  DAY OF THE DOVE

  (Jerome Bixby)

  * * *

  Though the planet had said it was under attack by an unidentified spacecraft, the Enterprise landing party had found only black dust, white rocks and strange clumps of moving plants. Its tricorders—McCoy's as well as Chekov's—refused to report any evidence of a colony or of people who could have signaled the message. Yet they had existed.

  Kirk stooped for a handful of the black, powdery soil. "An SOS from a human settlement—one hundred men, women and children. All gone. Who did it? Why?"

  As if in reply, his communicator beeped. "Spock here, sir. Sensors have picked up a Klingon ship closing in fast."

  "Deflectors on, Mr. Spock! Protect yourselves. Total response if attacked." He closed the communicator, his face grim. So that was the answer—Klingons. They had destroyed the settlement. But Spock had more news of the Klingon ship. "Trouble aboard her, Captain. Evidence of explosions . . . massive damage. We never fired at her."

  "Maintain full alert, Mr. Spock."

  Behind his group the air was collecting into dazzle. Six Klingons in their stiff metallic tabards were materializing, their weapons aimed and ready. Their leader was the first to assume full shape. His hard, slant-eyed face distorted by fury, he reached out and
swung Kirk around. "You attacked my ship!" he shouted. "Four hundred of my crew—dead! My vessel is disabled. I claim yours! You are prisoners of the Klingon Empire for committing a wanton act of war against it!" He nodded to his men. "Disarm them!"

  Kirk had recognized the harsh, Mongol-like features. The Klingons' Kang. "We took no action against your ship," he said.

  He'd been hustled into line with Chekov and McCoy. Kang paced before them. "For three years your Federation and our Empire have been at peace . . . a treaty we have honored to the letter . . ."

  Kirk protested again. "We did not attack your ship.".

  "Were the screams of my men imaginary? What were your secret orders? To start a war? You have succeeded! Or maybe to test a new weapon. We shall be interested to examine it!"

  Kirk said, "There was a Federation colony on this planet. It was destroyed."

  "And by what? I see no bodies, no ruins. A colony of the invisible!"

  "Perhaps a new Klingon weapon that leaves no traces. Federation ships don't specialize in sneak attacks!"

  Along the ground near Kang a small, mushroom-shaped crystal was floating. Its swirling red color was concealed by a white rock and a faint, ugly throbbing came from it.

  Kirk's patience was ebbing. No denial of guilt seemed able to penetrate the heavy bones of Kang's hairless skull. "You lured my ship into ambush with a false Klingon distress call!"

  Kirk stared at him. "You received a distress call? We were the ones who received it!"

  "I don't propose to spend any more time arguing your fantasies, Kirk! The Enterprise is ours! Instruct your Transporter Room. We are ready to beam aboard."

  "Go to the devil," Kirk said.

  "We have no devil—but we understand the habits of yours . . ." Still hidden among the rocks, the crystal's red glow brightened as Kang burst out, "I will torture you to death, one by one! Who will be the first? You, Kirk?"