STAR TREK: TOS #44 - Vulcan's Glory

by D. C. Fontana

  Her voice came on instantly. “Number One here.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Bridge.”

  “I’m coming up.”

  When the lift doors swished aside for him, Number One turned to look at him from the command chair. “Something wrong?”

  “Just something odd.” He moved to her side and stood there, thinking about it. Her restless little move in the chair brought his attention back from his musings. “Sorry. I realized I’ve been seeing it the past couple of days and not paying much attention to it,” he said abruptly. “Have you noticed that a lot of our crew members seem to be smiling a lot lately?”

  “Phil ...” she said dangerously. The warning was implicit in the tone of her voice: Don’t waste my time.

  [198] “Oh, I don’t mean just happy. The ones I’m talking about have this fatuous little half-smile on their faces, and their eyes look kind of glazed.”

  “Are you suggesting this crew is bazorged? Smashed? Looped? Three sheets to the wind? Drunk?”

  “Well, not on duty. It’s the off-duty ones I’m seeing.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “They have all the signs of being sloshed to the gills.”

  She thought it over, then nodded briskly. “All right. Haul in everyone who’s suspect and check them over. Off duty is one thing, but if anyone came on duty in that condition, it could present a danger to ship operations.”

  “I suspect it’s that new hooch. Inside gossip says it’s all over the ship.”

  “Source?”

  “For the hooch? Nobody’s talking on that one. The stuffs too good.”

  Number One sniffed and shook her head. “It’s no good if it affects the crew like this. Get on those exams, Phil. It’s important we find out exactly what’s happening.”

  T’Pris had been excused from other duties to concentrate on her investigation into other possible suspects. She had opted to tap into the library computer from her station in the biology lab, and she had been busy at it for hours.

  When she came off duty on the bridge at four o’clock, Number One decided to see if T’Pris had [199] made any progress. As she entered the biology lab, T’Pris was taking a brief break from the computer, rubbing eyes that were tired from staring continuously at the screen.

  Number One smiled at her encouragingly. “You don’t have to spend every minute on this, Lieutenant. Take an hour break and relax.”

  “No, I cannot. It is important to our honor that I discover who else other than a Vulcan might have committed this murder.”

  “Have it your way, then. Have you found anything, any leads at all?”

  “I ordered up detailed personnel records on every crew member. Not just the service jackets—personal history. The kind of thing Starfleet has in depth on every member of the fleet.”

  Number One raised an eyebrow. “That information is strictly classified.”

  “Yes, but we are discussing a murder here. On Commander Orloff’s request, Starfleet has opened the records of personnel on this ship to me. I believe I might have found an interesting line of information to pursue. Something promising, but I do not have it all yet.”

  “Notify me when you do.”

  “As soon as I can verify all the data.”

  Number One nodded to her and left the lab. T’Pris hurried back to her station and renewed her pursuit of one little thread of information she had discovered, one that promised a revelation if her assumption was correct.

  * * *

  [200] Phil Boyce was studying one more overhead diagnostic screen as the patient in hand lay on the sickbay bed smiling vacuously and staring into space. He sighed and ran his instruments over the body one more time; they confirmed what the overhead was telling him.

  “All right, you can get up,” he said. The crewman remained prone, smiling. Boyce gestured to the assisting nurse. “Give him a hand, Nurse Blayton.” He turned away to find Number One waiting for him at the sickbay door. He jerked a nod toward his office. “Come on in.”

  The exec slumped down in a seat across from Boyce and waited. Boyce sat down and shook his head. “Never saw anything like it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Technically, they’re all drunk as skunks. Alcohol content in their blood is sky high. There’s some disorientation, a certain loss of motor and speech reflexes, but no physical discomfort. There is one little thing that bothers me because I can’t figure it out.”

  “It’s the little things that kill you, Phil. What is it?”

  “They all admit to consuming engine-room hooch, but every one of them swears he had no more than two drinks. Of course, they don’t seem to remember much after that, but one or two drinks shouldn’t have this effect on people—not all of them, anyway.”

  “You and I each had a glass of that hooch not too long ago. I wasn’t affected. Were you?”

  “No, but then the symptoms indicate we might not remember whether or not we were affected.” Number One threw him a warning look, and he amended his [201] statement. “I know I wasn’t. I had minor surgery to perform that afternoon, and Blayton confirms my memory that I was functioning normally. But remember, you and I only had a half-shot apiece, not full glasses of the stuff.” Boyce tapped his fingers on the desk, running it through his mind again. “All I can think of is some kind of contamination. I’ve never seen anything like it. Usually the stuff is potent but no more harmful than a double shot of Saurian brandy. This is something different.”

  Number One sighed and shifted her weight in the chair. “So it seems as though another search is in order, this time for a contaminated still.”

  “Couldn’t you just order the culprit to come forward in the interests of public health?”

  “You know damn well the making of engine-room hooch usually has a blind eye turned on it, but it’s still illegal. The bootlegger can face a stiff demerit penalty, possibly loss of a commission. You don’t think the contamination is deliberate, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. This effect is so unusual, I don’t think anyone could’ve planned it.”

  “So, a mistake. I don’t believe in penalizing an honest mistake if I don’t have to. We’ll have to find the still, though, and disable it, and then broadcast the reason for our action.”

  “What about the search for the Glory?”

  Number One somberly shook her head. “No sign of it. This ship has been swept, dusted, and polished inside and out looking for it—and nothing.”

  “It has to be here.”

  “I agree, unless someone destroyed it—and I can’t [202] imagine why anyone would do that, not after killing for it.”

  Now she had it. T’Pris was elated. Here was the trail that led to the answer. It was a matter of logic, once one saw all the facts laid out. It was late; she had not taken a break to eat or rest for hours, but the exhilaration of the hunt gave her the adrenaline surge she needed to keep going. Her attention was so deeply rooted in the puzzle she had been slowly unraveling that her reflexes were just a fraction slow. She didn’t realize someone was behind her until the very last moment. Then she heard the soft scrape of a boot sole on the hard deck.

  The pungent smoke of cookfires rose over the kerra trees of Tisirah Oasis as the women prepared supper for the men in the dusk. It had been five days since Silene and Bardan had disappeared, four since the man known as Krees had gone looking for them with his mutant aides. Melkor Aliat had sent word back to his household and his shop that he would not return until Bardan’s fate had been determined. A number of the townsmen who had accompanied Aliat this far had returned to Sendai, but several friends remained with him. They would have pitched a lonely camp under the trees with only bedrolls and a borrowed cookpot had not Ingarin insisted on having them join her family for meals. With that courtesy extended to strangers, Shinsei Farnah could not avoid inviting them to sleep under cover of the family tent.

  After an initial wariness, the two fathers found a [203] number of subjects to discuss—and
a number of common opinions they shared, especially in regard to trade. Both men sadly had come to the conclusion that their children were lost to them forever. If Indallah Krees and his strange assistants returned, the fathers were convinced it would be with the bodies of their son and daughter. Ingarin and Makleh Berendel kept their own counsels and with far more faith than the men.

  Ingarin was presiding over her daughters-in-law as they prepared the evening meal, when she suddenly straightened, alert and listening. “What is it, Mother?” one of the young women asked, but Ingarin shushed her. Gradually, it could be heard, far off but distinct. The wind carried the soft tinkle of many small bells, all jingling in a gentle rhythm.

  “Someone comes from the Druncaras!” The cry came from a lookout posted high in a kerra tree. The entire camp surged as one to the edge of the oasis to see who it was.

  They came along the trail from the Druncara Range slowly. The pack animals were so heavily laden that they could move no faster than an ambling walk which sounded the cheerful bells attached to their harnesses. No less than thirty animals made up the caravan, each watched over and chivied along by a brawny mutant. Pike, Spock, Endel, and Ars Dan rode the meercans borrowed from Farnah, pacing sedately at the side of the caravan. Silene and Bardan led the party mounted on meercans richly caparisoned with beautifully woven exotic cloth of bold colors laced with metallic thread.

  [204] Farnah stared along the road, shading his eyes with one hand. “It’s them! They’re alive!” he cried. He clapped Melkor Aliat on the shoulder. “It is them!” He scowled suddenly as he looked a little closer at the approaching animals. “On my two best meercans ...”

  Silene and Bardan led the caravan into the oasis. Pike had thought there would be cheering, but the nomads and the few townspeople among them were quiet, warily drawing back away from the mutants. If the mutants were aware of it, they gave no sign, merely prodding the pack animals along with intricately carved walking sticks. The two young people stopped near the tents and dismounted, tossing the reins of their mounts down in a ground hitch. The pack animals halted behind them, Pike and the others sliding off their mounts and moving after Silene and Bardan.

  Silene reached out toward Bardan, and they approached their fathers hand in hand. Ingarin sized up Bardan with a nod of satisfaction. The boy had some strength to him, or her daughter would not have chosen him. He was a good-looking lad, and Silene seemed to be deferring to him, something she would never do if she did not respect him.

  “Father ...” Bardan began.

  Aliat and Farnah moved forward at the same time, reaching out to enfold their children in their arms. “You’re well? You’re unharmed?”

  “Yes, yes,” Silene assured Farnah. “We were well treated.”

  “You young whelp, you’ve caused us a great deal of [205] worry.” Aliat shook his son’s shoulder, dropping into irritation now that the danger was over. “Bad enough you ran off without any consideration for me or our business. But to run off for this girl—”

  “She ran off for me.”

  “The more fools the both of you, then,” Farnah snapped. He grabbed Silene’s hand and started to pull her away toward the main tent. “Come then, Silene, back where you belong.”

  Silene dug in her heels and yanked hard, breaking free of her father’s grip. “No!”

  “Daughter—”

  “Shinsei Farnah, I suggest you address the new mutant ambassadors in a more respectful manner,” Pike said quietly but pointedly.

  Farnah and Aliat turned toward him, both staring in astonishment. “What?” Farnah stammered. “What?”

  “What do you mean, mutant ambassadors?” Aliat demanded.

  “I mean exactly what I said, Trader Aliat. Panlow, the mutant leader, has adopted Bardan and Silene as his children.”

  “What!” Farnah roared.

  Pike ignored the angry bellow and went on. “And he has given them the power to speak for him among you, to trade with you.”

  “Trade with the mutants?” Aliat snorted in derision. “What could they possibly have to trade that we might want?”

  “They’ve brought a few offerings with them which you might care to examine.” Pike winked at Silene.

  [206] The girl gestured to the mutants beside the pack animals. They immediately began to unload the packs, spreading ground cloths on which to lay out the merchandise for inspection. The nomads and the townsmen gathered closer in curiosity. Pike had to admit Panlow’s men played their parts well, bringing out the different items one by one and then adding to each pile, every piece different and more intricate than the previous.

  The onlookers began to whisper, to nudge each other. Silene and Bardan moved among the mutants, picking up and displaying items so that they could be better seen. There were glittering gemstones, some rough and some faceted, some of them set in intricately wrought gold and silver jewelry; luxuriously thick furs, several made into hoods and capes; richly colored and glazed dishes, jars, goblets, and pots. A gasp went up among the nomads when a mutant laid out a small armory of steel-bladed knives, swords, and lances.

  Bardan smiled and took a jug from one of several set out on a ground cloth. He uncapped the jug, caught up two of the pottery goblets, and poured a ruby liquid into each. He graciously offered the goblets to his father and Farnah.

  “The wines of the highlands are especially fine,” he said smoothly. “The soil and the weather there are all particularly conducive to the cultivation of grapes.”

  The two older men sipped hesitantly at first and then appreciatively. Farnah stared into the goblet, rolling the sip of wine around his mouth and then swallowing. “It is rich and full-bodied,” he commented to Aliat. “Not sour and thin like your wines.”

  [207] Aliat scowled at the critical remark. “Not harsh enough to remove paint and tan ucha hide like yours, either,” he shot back. He turned to Bardan. “We can offer ten keshels for each gallon jar of this wine.”

  Bardan’s eyebrows rose. “Father, there is no need to be insulting. The mutants are prepared to trade, not to give their goods away.”

  “It was a fair offer!”

  “Not for wine of this quality, which no one else has.”

  “We offer fifteen keshels for each gallon jar,” Faraah suddenly said.

  “We could be the exclusive dealers in Sendai, Bardan,” Aliat insisted. “Surely the sole distributor should get a discount.”

  “Perhaps,” Bardan agreed. “But our clients—that is, our people—have no desire to have any exclusive distributors dispensing their merchandise. They will deal fairly with all who wish to trade.”

  “Twenty keshels for each?” Farnah put in.

  Bardan smiled at him. “Silene’s father is as wise a man and as clever a trader as she has told me. Twenty keshels a jar is a good price. How many will you want, Shinsei Farnah?”

  “A moment, my son. I, too, wish to place an order,” Aliat said.

  “At twenty keshels a jar, of course,” Bardan replied firmly. “I cannot possibly take less.”

  “Oh, very well. Twenty a jar.”

  “Done.” Bardan smiled. He brought out a bead counter and a writing sheet to keep track of the orders and the prices. “I would also like to have you sample [208] the crystal wine, an outstanding white wine I believe you will enjoy ...”

  Pike, Spock, Endel, and Ars Dan stood quietly aside, watching the progress of the trading. Everyone was openly interested in the items on display. The women were particularly taken with the furs and silken cloth Silene was busily showing them. She called up her mother and Berendel and draped them both in yards of fine material to demonstrate how well the colors looked, how softly the cloth fell.

  “You know, Spock, I have a feeling those two kids are going to handle their new responsibilities pretty well.”

  “I agree, sir. They are not quite the same children who ran away to defy their parents and please themselves,” Spock said quietly. “They have made choices that have placed them here. They chose
to run away to make their own lives. They chose to trust the mutants who carried them off. They chose to accept the role of ambassadors and negotiators between the mutants and their own people—a good indication they were ready to take on an adult role in their lives.”

  Pike studied the trading scene before him. The nomads had started to bring out some of their trade goods. Aliat and his townsmen begged for time to return to Sendai and bring back merchandise of their own. Silene and several mutants were marking off spaces where booths could be set up around the oasis pool.

  Bardan climbed up on a large rock at poolside and called for quiet. “There is a great deal of bartering to [209] be done here. You all have merchandise to sell and trade. We have begun to lay out booth spaces, enough for all. In four days’ time we will conduct a trade fair here. Anyone with goods to sell will be welcome. But tonight, we will celebrate the bonding ceremony of Silene to me and me to her!”

  There was a cheer of approval from most of the onlookers, including Ingarin and Berendel, Pike noticed. Shinsei Farnah and Melkor Aliat were not quite as happy as everyone else, but they would have to make the best of it. Their children were determined to work out their own future.

  “I don’t think we should allow ourselves the luxury of staying for the wedding, Spock. These people are well on their way to building an integrated society by themselves, and I think we should leave them to it.”

  “Will they not notice our disappearance, Captain?”

  “They know I’m a wanderer, Spock, and the rest of you are mutants. No one will really question our slipping away.”

  Spock nodded, his eyes on the happy couple in the middle of a group of well-wishers. That should be the way he and T’Pris celebrated their togetherness. He was formally bound to T’Pring, but there were ways to end the betrothal, even now. They were frowned upon, but they were legally acceptable. Sarek would be furious, Amanda would be disappointed, but Spock would finally feel satisfied in himself. He had felt uneasy about T’Pring for a long time—her coldness and her distance made him uncomfortable with her. He knew he had never loved her; he had desired to [210] please her to honor his obligation. It was only their parents who had chosen to try to join them. T’Pris was the woman who owned his heart. T’Pring would never be more than someone who had been assigned to marry him. If they married, she would keep up the appearances expected of her—but only on Vulcan. T’Pris would be with him, united in their careers as well as in marriage. It was better ended between him and T’Pring, and the sooner the better.