Why in blazes is nobody doing anything to stop this guy? McCoy thought. Whatever bizarre cultural practice was playing out here evidently trumped Subteer Usaak’s strict no-weapons-for-the-guests policy.
Then the doctor noticed that the pieces of dripping Capellan fruit in his hand were growing unpleasantly warm and sticky. This is never going to work, he thought.
The sword in Plait’s shaking hands seemed to oscillate like a tuning fork. In spite of that, the science officer continued to stand his ground with courage, neither retreating nor advancing. Or perhaps he simply couldn’t move.
“I have granted you the gift of combat, Earthman,” Huuk said at length. “As well as the right to claim the first blood.” The warrior seemed to be confused, or perhaps even insulted, by the science officer’s failure to mount an immediate attack.
“Uh . . . thank you?” Plait said. His feet remained planted, as though they’d thrown down roots.
Huuk sighed and shook his head. “Very well then.”
Without uttering another word, the warrior began his barehanded—yet obviously still deadly—advance.
Time’s up, McCoy thought. Hoping that nobody among the nearby Capellan observers had succeeded in smuggling in a kligat, he called out with as much volume and authority as he could muster.
“Hey, Huuk! Over here, you big gorilla!”
Turning on one heel with the grace of an Orion dancer, the huge warrior suddenly modified his advance—which meant that he was now headed straight for McCoy. Behind Huuk, Plait allowed the heavy sword to fall, point first, to the ground. The science officer instantly collapsed against the pommel, inadvertently forcing the blade far enough into the ground to give King Arthur second thoughts about trying to yank it free.
Terrific, McCoy thought. Best not to count on any help from the rear.
“Mak-Koy,” Huuk said as he continued his approach, his tone vaguely chiding. “Why have you interrupted the urgent business I have with your fellow Earthman, Plaat?” In typical Capellan fashion, the warrior’s pronunciation introduced a glottal stop that bisected Lieutenant Plait’s surname, splitting its single syllable into two.
“Because,” McCoy said, “you also have the same business with me.”
Huuk stopped less than two meters from McCoy, his wide brow crumpling in a convincing display of bewilderment. “I do not understand.”
McCoy held up the dripping, pulpy morsels he’d taken from Jeen’s basket, turning them this way and that to make them glisten in the firelight. “Then I’ll explain. But first, I really ought to thank your sister for the fruit.”
With that he popped a chunk of fruit into his mouth and ate it.
Huuk’s confusion abruptly vanished, replaced by that weird death’s-head smile. He started to close the small gap that separated him from the doctor, clearly delighted to have found an additional recipient for his “gift.”
McCoy shook his left arm to loosen the metaphorical ace he’d just hidden there, literally up his sleeve. Nothing happened. Damn these Starfleet uniforms! he thought just as Huuk caught him in a bear hug, hoisting him off his feet as though he weighed no more than a rag doll.
Fortunately, the Capellan had neglected to pin the doctor’s arms below the elbows. That gave McCoy the split second he needed to use his right hand to tear his left sleeve open from wrist to elbow. A small gray cylinder tumbled out, and he batted at it in clumsy desperation.
After twice bouncing out of his grasp, the object fell into McCoy’s right hand—just as the doctor came to the near-panicked realization that Huuk was about to turn him into a missile.
Huuk lofted him over his head, giving McCoy almost a bird’s-eye view of at least half a dozen burning braziers and red-hot fire pits—along with Lieutenant Plait’s astonished, upward stare and the countless Capellans who stood by watching this weirdly lopsided wrestling contest.
McCoy shut his eyes tightly and slapped his right hand against the Capellan’s neck with as much force as he could muster. He felt as though he’d just punched a boulder.
Ignoring the lightning bolts of pain that coursed up and down his arm, he held his improvised weapon in place until he heard its reassuring hiss, which Huuk’s exuberant battle cry drowned out half a heartbeat later.
Easing his grip on Huuk’s neck, McCoy let the spent ampule tumble away. The ethereal fingers of a night breeze combed his hair, and a strangely tranquil sensation of weightlessness engulfed him.
Interlude
STARFLEET HEADQUARTERS, SAN FRANCISCO
Stardate 8130.5 (March 22, 2285)
“Fascinating,” Spock said, his right eyebrow rising as he walked through the spartan near-emptiness of his living room. McCoy thought the usually unflappable Vulcan looked almost impressed. “You incapacitated a fully grown Capellan male by means of a concealed hypospray.”
“Sometimes you just have to make use of whatever’s handy,” McCoy said. “Improvising under difficult circumstances is written into my family’s DNA, going back to the days when Captain William Frederick McCoy made his living smuggling Bahamian whiskey.” He grinned at Spock and raised his bottle of Romulan ale for emphasis.
The Vulcan responded by downshifting into a mildly scolding tone. “Laudable though your actions may have been, Doctor, they could be interpreted as constituting at least a technical violation of Subteer Usaak’s weapons policy.”
After pausing to take another swallow directly from the bottle, McCoy said, “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I wasn’t the one who smuggled the sword into the feast. Besides, Spock, you have to remember how the Capellans think about weapons. To a Capellan warrior, a sword is a weapon. A dagger or a kligat is a weapon. But a little gray cylinder that doesn’t even have a cutting edge . . . well, that’s a lightningbeast of a whole different color.”
“Indeed. But how did you determine the appropriate dosage?”
“I’m a doctor,” McCoy said, slightly nettled by the question. “I made my best guess.”
“Were there any lingering aftereffects?”
“Well, Doctor Wieland diagnosed me with a second concussion, if that’s what you mean. And when I came to in my tent the next morning, I had a sore hip and a bad sprain in my right wrist.”
“I was referring to the Capellan warrior you anesthetized,” Spock clarified, as though lecturing an obtuse cadet.
“Huuk came through that little misunderstanding like a champ. You know from firsthand experience how tough the Capellans can be, Spock. It’s damned difficult to kill a Capellan on purpose, much less by accident.”
Spock’s curiosity overcame his reticence. “According to my understanding of Capellan courtship customs, Huuk was required to try to kill anyone who accepted an offering of food from a closely related Capellan female.”
Nodding, McCoy said, “His sister, in this case. Because I accepted Jeen’s token, I was obliged to accept Huuk’s.”
“The ‘gift of combat,’ ” Spock said, his words colored by an understated yet obvious feeling of distaste.
“Oh, come on, Spock. You’re a fine one to talk. I was one of the groomsmen at your wedding, remember? You Vulcans can swing sharp objects with the best of ’em.”
“Vulcans take no pleasure in such things,” Spock said.
Realizing he might have gone a little too far, McCoy tried for a graceful backpedal. “Point taken, Spock. Sorry.”
“Given the length of your stay on Capella IV, I am surprised that you and Lieutenant Plait were so inadequately prepared for indigenous social situations,” Spock said, neatly sidestepping both the insult and the apology.
With a shrug that offered no excuses, McCoy said, “Sometimes we humans have to learn these things the hard way.”
“And what became of Lieutenant Plait?”
“Fortunately for him, Huuk had also had a fair amount to drink that night,” McCoy said. “Enough to blot most of the evening’s unpleasantness from his memory.”
Spock nodded. “Alcohol-induced amnesia.”
McCoy took another swallow from his bottle as he prepared to deliver the next portion of his narrative.
“Yeah,” he said. “Lucky bastard.”
Nine
CAPELLA IV
Stardate 813.8 (November 16, 2254)
The twin suns had already risen by the time McCoy exited the small tent that the landing party used both as a lab and as a makeshift storage depot. Although Lieutenants Plait and Girard both continued to make considerable use of the cramped space to perform their ongoing analysis of the planet’s geological potential, McCoy was coming to realize that he preferred to work in his own tent. He’d noticed weeks earlier that Doctor Wieland had been avoiding the work tent as well, probably for much the same reason.
Stacks of boxes sat gathering dust in that tent, a galling reminder that the medical aspect of the Alpha Aurigae mission was on a slow glide path to certain failure. An abundance of perfectly serviceable medical supplies lay neglected and ignored, unused for no better reason than the indulgence of a warrior society’s ingrained superstitions and antiscientific taboos.
The previous week’s surprise dead-of-night coup d’état—during which Subteer Usaak’s former lieutenant, Keer, had killed and replaced his former liege—had caused numerous deaths and serious battle injuries. But neither the wounded nor their families had sought out either McCoy or Wieland for medical attention, probably out of deference to the newly installed Subteer Keer, whose tolerance for change did not match that of his late predecessor.
So much for the allergy remedies and the hangover cures, McCoy thought. I suppose I should thank my lucky stars that Keer hasn’t ordered us banished.
Or worse.
Stepping out of the tent’s shadow, McCoy checked his chronometer and saw that nearly three hours remained before he was due to return for the midmorning staff meeting. Since he had little else to do at the moment—and certainly no patients to see—McCoy decided to kill at least some of that time wandering around the camp, trying to understand these enigmatic people a little better. Though the suns wouldn’t reach their zenith for another several hours, he needed both hands to shade his eyes against the glare.
This revealed the presence of a familiar figure, seated on a nearby boulder. Deciding that his walk could wait for a while, McCoy approached.
“Why the long face, Naheer?” Though the Capellan boy was sitting, his height still surpassed that of the doctor.
“My uncle tells me I am growing swiftly,” Naheer said, blinking with incomprehension. “But I did not realize he was speaking of my face.”
McCoy sighed quietly. “Never mind. I meant that something is obviously bothering you.”
Naheer looked impressed. “You are very perceptive, Mak-Koy. Or perhaps I must apply myself harder to the warrior’s art of keeping his own counsel.”
Or maybe you’re just not cut out to be a warrior, McCoy thought. It was a pity that this society afforded so few options to someone as intelligent and capable as this lad had proved himself to be over the past few months. In McCoy’s estimation, Naheer had the potential to become an outstanding physician.
If only he lived in another place, or perhaps in another time.
“What is it, Naheer?” McCoy said, prodding very gently. “What’s wrong?”
Naheer took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. At length, he said, “Can you help me to understand females?”
Unbidden images of Jocelyn, Joanna, and Nancy flashed across McCoy’s mind. “Maybe I’m not the best one to ask.”
“I feel more comfortable speaking of this with you than with any of the others,” Naheer said.
“Doctor Wieland has a lot more experience than I do.”
“Dok-Tor Wee-Land is far too old to understand. Before his arrival here, I did not even know that anyone ever got that old.”
Ouch, McCoy thought.
“This is about Jeen of the Miir Tribe, isn’t it?” he said.
Naheer nodded. “I thought she would wish to bond with me one day.”
“That’s funny. I could have sworn you were trying to steer her at me.”
“She wished that as well, Mak-Koy. But I knew you would not want her.”
McCoy smiled. “You are very perceptive, Naheer.”
“And yet I do not understand Jeen,” Naheer said, a look of sadness clouding his wide brow.
“Don’t be embarrassed about that, son. First, she’s a lot older than you.”
“That is not important,” Naheer said petulantly. “I will be fully grown in less than a season.”
“There’s another obstacle in your path. If I understand your customs correctly, the only way to Jeen is through that killer kinsman of hers, Huuk. I’d sooner pick a fight with my grandmother’s tractor than tangle with him again.”
“By next season, Huuk will no longer have the advantage of me.” Naheer’s broad chest swelled, as if to prove his point.
“But Jeen will probably have moved on by then,” McCoy said.
“Perhaps,” Naheer said. “Perhaps not.”
McCoy could see that the time had come to start walking the tightrope between pep talk and hard reality. Taking a seat on the boulder beside Naheer, he said, “Listen, you’ll be amazed someday at how quickly what you’re feeling right now has faded away completely. The everyday details of building your life and your future won’t give you a lot of time to dwell on the past.”
Naheer shook his head slowly. “We Capellans do not build our lives, Mak-Koy. Our traditions build them for us.”
Though the previous week’s political reversal bolstered Naheer’s argument, McCoy felt obliged to take the opposite side of the argument.
“Are you sure about that, Naheer? Look around you. Your world may be about to change in some very fundamental ways.”
The boy shook his head. “At night, do Gaar or Baan ever veer from the ancient skypaths they have traveled since the beginning of time? Does the son not always follow the father? Does the distance between them ever shrink or lengthen, either in the sky above us or on the earth beneath our feet?
“Like the red stars of the Skyfather and His son, nothing will ever change here.” Naheer fell silent, as though he’d suddenly exhausted his daily allotment of words.
“You can’t stop believing that your world is capable of changing for the better,” McCoy said. Sometimes that hope was the only thing that kept him going.
Naheer’s eyes became deep pools of sadness. “When I was small, I told my father I wanted to follow the path of the tribal talekeeper. Though he forbade it, one of the tribe’s matrons encouraged me in secret. She helped me gather much of the lore concerning Skyfather Gaar and His son, Baan. She even shared some of the songs and sagas with me. But because her knowledge was limited, she could take me only so far.”
“Talekeeper,” McCoy repeated. It occurred to him that he hadn’t spent enough time speaking with Naar, the old woman who currently filled that function in the camp. The endlessly curious Lieutenant Plait always seemed to monopolize her time. “I think that might be just the job for you.”
Naheer shrugged. “Perhaps. But I shall never know. The matron who helped me has been dead for nearly half a season now. There is no one to persuade my uncle to ask Naar to grant me an apprenticeship.”
Nearly half a season, McCoy reflected. A little rough mental arithmetic converted that to a span of at least four Standard years—almost half the time Naheer had been alive.
“I tried to entice Jeen with some of the tales the matron gave me,” the boy continued. “But she told me that she knew them already. She said she found the stories too inflexible, too unchanging—like our world. Perhaps she is right about both.”
“I think I understand a little bit about how rigid your culture can be,” McCoy said. “I had some similar experiences back home. But even on Earth, a man can stitch a new ending onto an old story. Or maybe even weave something entirely original out of whole cloth.”
“I am not certain I understand.”
Naheer stared up into the sky, his countenance taking on a contemplative cast. “Perhaps you are right. Thank you, Mak-Koy.”
A harsh, angry male voice sliced through the ensuing silence like a hard-hurled kligat. “Where have you been, Naheer?! Subteer Keer’s hunting party waits!”
Naheer sprang to his feet, his cheeks reddening. He had obviously lost track of time. “I will be there presently, Uncle.”
McCoy remained sitting on the rock, watching as the boy strode over to Efeer, who held two spears and looked even more stern than usual, if that was possible. Within moments, uncle and nephew were marching in lockstep, just like Skyfather Gaar and His son, Baan, straight out of Capellan myth. They soon joined a group of at least a dozen other hunters, all of whom bristled with spears and blades of varying lengths.
One large, distinctive figure was the clear focal point of the entire gathering.
Subteer Keer, McCoy realized. No wonder Efeer sounded so pissed off. Getting an invite to the royal fox hunt from the new Grand Panjandrum probably isn’t something that happens to him every day.
McCoy got to his feet and resumed his interrupted stroll. He had no idea if he’d really gotten through to the boy about the possibility—much less the sheer necessity—of change. All he could do was try to take his own advice.
And continue to hope that things would get better.
• • •
Joining the loose circle formed by Doctor Wieland, Lieutenant Commander Aylesworth, and Lieutenants Shellenbarger, Plait, and Girard, McCoy sat cross-legged on one of the many oversized pillows that comprised the bulk of the tent’s furnishings.
Wieland opened the meeting by addressing everyone at once. “The Yegorov is due to return for us within the next couple of weeks.”
Star Trek: The Original Series: Seasons of Light and Darkness Page 6
