Dwellers in the Crucible

by Margaret Wander Bonanno

  There was a long silence, punctuated only by the Deltans' mournful chanting.

  "T'Shael?" The human's voice was soft, controlled, without self-pity. "What's going to happen to us?"

  The Vulcan turned and, as if it were a gesture natural to her, brushed a lock of tangled hair from the human's brow.

  "I do not know," she said.

  "Analysis, Bones?" the Admiral said to McCoy. "How do you read her?"

  "Who? You mean the High Commissioner of United Earth?" McCoy asked innocently, giving the title the high-falluting tone it deserved. He had definite opinions about Jasmine alFaisal, all right, but would keep them to himself while Spock's ears were in the vicinity. "I'll reserve judgment for the time being, Jim."

  "That is most unlike you, Doctor," Spock commented drily. "Such restraint from one who is noted for his ability to reach what he himself would call 'snap judgments.'"

  "Yes, I'm surprised at you, Bones," Jim Kirk chimed in. "You're not going mellow on us, are you? Have you noticed, Spock, how he seems to be mellowing in his old age?"

  "Indeed, Admiral, his characteristic vitriol has recently become tempered with—"

  "If you two are quite finished," McCoy grumbled, pretending to be more annoyed than he was. "I was about to say that I think the High Commissioner is a damn fine actress. Either that or she really is as cold as a witch's—"

  Kirk and Spock exchanged glances.

  "Predictably hyperbolic," Spock said.

  "Yes," Kirk said thoughtfully. "But his assessment happens to coincide with mine. The lady is quite an iceberg."

  Some kinds of stress were easier to deal with than others. The Red Alert mentality of a genuine emergency left one no time to think. One did, and left the qualms and second thoughts, the trembling hands and collywobbles, for later when things calmed down. Their present assignment, ferrying a delegation of VIPs on what was probably a fool's errand and keeping them entertained in transit, with Scotty "recuperated" and back on board but Sulu still unaccounted for, left one little to do but think. And get the collywobbles. Kirk had been off his feed since they'd picked up the last contingent on Delta IV; McCoy and Spock were sparring just to take his mind off it.

  The relatives of the kidnapped Warrantors, led by Jasmine alFaisal, had taken it upon themselves to initiate contact with the Romulan Praetor. While the Federation Council, having already refused to negotiate with the Rihannsu on their own terms, could not officially sanction such activity, it also could not permit so many important government officials to go sailing off on their own. The Enterprise had been pressed into service to escort the delegation to and from its meeting with the Praetor's representative, and to provide the necessary show of force to prevent any misunderstandings on the part of the Rihannsu or their allies.

  Enterprise's sudden "rehabilitation" would throw the Rihannsu a curve, and Uhura could still continue her misinformation blitz ("throwing tinfoil in the radar," she'd called it; only Kirk, student of old Earth wars, got the joke). Still, command under such circumstances would give anyone the collywobbles.

  "If I understand your metaphor completely, Admiral, might I suggest that an iceberg presents less than one-sixth of its surface to the casual observer?" Spock said quietly as the three wended their way to yet another evening reception, the last before their arrival at the highly classified neutral world where the Praetor's representative was to meet with them.

  "Meaning you think there really is a woman under that stone facade?" Kirk asked.

  "Meaning she is here in a personal capacity, not an official one; therefore she is far more concerned about her daughter's welfare than her 'public' demeanor might indicate," Spock, who knew all about stone facades, observed.

  "Since when did you become an expert on the human psyche, Spock?" McCoy demanded, still groping for a comeback to the accusation of hyperbole. "Next, you'll be hanging out a shingle."

  "Doctor, I submit that twenty-eight-point-seven-three years of continuous exposure to the species has provided me with at least a working knowledge—"

  "Gentlemen!" Kirk said testily, and they ground to a halt. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we?"

  When they both looked properly contrite, he continued.

  "What I want to know is why there was no representative from Vulcan. Spock?"

  "Vulcan abides by the official Federation position, Admiral. As a consequence no representative was sent."

  "But the Vulcan Warrantor must have someone to speak for her, in an unofficial capacity at least. Who's her relative on the Council?"

  "T'Shael of Vulcan has no living relatives. She is a volunteer Warrantor, in place of one whose services are required elsewhere. It is a not uncommon practice."

  "And typically Vulcan," Kirk mused. "Do you know whose Warrantor she is, though?"

  "Indeed," Spock said, stepping aside to permit the Admiral to enter the reception first. "She is Warrantor for Vulcan's Ambassador-at-large, in the place of his only son."

  It took a while for it to sink in. Kirk turned sharply to stare at Spock.

  "She's Sarek's Warrantor—in your place?"

  "Precisely."

  "Then why the hell aren't you or Sarek going with the others?" Kirk demanded heatedly. "Certainly somebody should! Why didn't you tell me this before?"

  "Because it was never my intention to meet with the Rihannsu, Admiral. Neither my government nor T'Shael herself would expect it. This meeting can only serve to exacerbate the Warrantors' captivity. Vulcan abides by the official Federation position, and so do I."

  "And you said the Romulans wouldn't succeed in creating dissension among us!" McCoy butted in. "You've just contradicted yourself right there!"

  "Doctor, I submit—"

  "Bones—"

  "Admiral Kirk!"

  The voice was Jasmine alFaisal's, and while it was not loud, it was piercing enough to carry across a room filled with other voices. The High Commissioner herself was making her way toward them under full sail.

  "We'll continue this discussion in my cabin, later, Mr. Spock," Kirk said shortly before the formidable personage descended upon them.

  "As you wish, Admiral," Spock said, and even Kirk couldn't read the expression on his face.

  Stone facades indeed.

  "Starbase XI, this is Enterprise; come in, please. Personal Theta Z-36B, Uhura here. Tamerlane, are you still awake, honey?"

  Static and the beginnings of a picture. Uhura sat back in her chair and waited for it to settle in.

  "Tam here, Enterprise. Sitting up with a teething baby. How are you, Nyota?"

  Mai-Ling Hong's husband and small son materialized on the screen. The baby was chewing his fist and fussing.

  "I'm fine," Uhura responded sympathetically, watching the little face pucker unhappily. "Qir'lal root."

  Static. Or a clumsy Rom intercept wave.

  "—didn't get that last, Nyota. Say again?"

  "Qir'lal root. Vulcan import shops carry it. Rub some on his gums and it'll take the sting out. Poor baby! How's Mai?"

  They chatted for a while, Tam soothing the baby and the Rom wiretap making snow around the edges of the picture the entire time. If only their technology matched their rapacity, Uhura thought almost sadly. The baby eventually fell asleep, snuggled against his father's shoulder, one tiny fist clutching Tam's luxurious Tatar beard.

  "So where're you guys headed now, or can't you talk about it?" Tam asked sociably.

  The snow at the edges of the screen fluctuated nervously.

  "Well, I really shouldn't," Uhura confided. "But Code 4's still safe, isn't it?" More fluctuations. "We're in charge of bringing the VIP's to their meeting with the Romulans."

  She hoped the term "Romulans" singed their pointed ears.

  "No kidding? Sounds halfway important. But boring."

  Uhura laughed musically.

  "Boring? I've had to have three new gowns made up. Formal receptions every night. I'm only on the bridge tonight because I begged off with a hangover. And th
ere's this one delicious type attached to the Deltan delegation—"

  She went on in some detail while Tam and the Rihannsu listened attentively.

  "Some fun!" Tam said a little enviously. "Some of us get to party all night and the rest of us sit home with the baby. No justice in this man's universe."

  He paused, and their eyes met despite distance and static. Here it comes, Uhura thought.

  "Still, I bet it's dull without Hikaru around," Tam said. "You think he's happy since he's gone civilian?"

  Between them they could almost hear the Rihannsu operatives scurrying through their files to find Sulu, Commander Hikaru, Retired.

  "The money's certainly a whole lot better," Uhura said, hoping Starfleet Command was getting this as well as the Rihannsu. "But I think he misses the excitement."

  Ironic, she thought, considering any one of a thousand possible scenarios Sulu could be embroiled in at that very moment. She called upon all of her considerable acting talent and put on her best smile for Tam's sake, and to lull the Roms.

  "Speaking of old friends, Tam. As in the type who go by the book? Has anyone heard from our mutual friend D'Artagnan? The Admiral's been asking for him."

  She pictured the Rihannsu scrambling through their dossiers and wondered if any of them had ever read Dumas; they might actually enjoy it. Not that they'd appreciate the reference; they were nothing if not literal minded. Good! she thought. Keep them busy.

  "Funny you should ask," Tam said deliberately. "Because a lot of people at this end have been asking too. But no, nothing. Not a word."

  Damn! Uhura thought. Damn, damn, damn!

  "But I'll keep an ear to the wind, as they say," Tam promised.

  "Okay, honey," Uhura said cheerily, fighting to keep the smile in her voice. Oh, Hikaru, where are you? "I'd better go or the Admiral'll be on my tail for personal calls again. Give the baby a kiss for me. And don't forget the qir'lal root."

  "Thanks, Nyota. I'll look into it."

  "Enterprise out."

  The Rihannsu decoding clerk glanced up from her linguanalyzer into the discontented eyes of her superior.

  "We come to the conclusion that it is probably worthless, Centurion," she reported obsequiously. "Another meaningless social broadcast, just as the female aboard Enterprise stated."

  "Show me," the Centurion said tersely. "Call up the suspect elements. I want to see them for myself."

  The decoding clerk did not dare object. She punched up the transcript of the dialogue between Uhura and Tam, extracted the terms the linguanalzyer deemed worthy of study. The Centurion read aloud.

  "'Qir'lal—a benign, edible-fruited thorned succulent indigenous to System Eridani, roots used for medicinal—'

  "All very well," she snapped, interrupting herself. "Or perhaps an oblique reference to the Vulcan prisoner, Ie? Or to her representative among the delegation?"

  "But, Centurion—"

  "Silence! The question was rhetorical and did not require your opinion."

  The decoding clerk subsided into silence and the Centurion read on.

  "'Guys—a colloquial collective referent which may include female as well as male.' Well. Typical of this androcentric species. What else?

  "The reference to Code 4 is probably innocent," she answered her own question. "We'll leave it at that."

  Will we? the decoding clerk wondered. If it were me, that's the first thing I'd suspect. But since both the linguanalyzer and my Centurion concur, and I am only a decoding clerk—

  "I surmise its naivete because of the direct mention of the former crewmember, this Hikaru Sulu," the Centurion explained off the clerk's skeptical look. "Surely they would not reveal his whereabouts so freely if they suspected we had broken their code."

  "Surely not, Centurion."

  "Well. The references to gowns and to the sexual prowess of Deltans are probably just what they seem, typical humanoid hedonism, but we'll double-check them anyway."

  Yes, of course, the clerk thought. We will.

  "And what, kindly tell me, is a 'hangover?'"

  The decoding clerk explained. The Centurion snorted in disgust.

  "Hedonism!" she repeated. "Orgies in deep space. This is how seriously they take their mission?"

  The decoding clerk did not answer.

  "And what is this expression about 'keeping an ear to the wind?' Well?"

  The decoding clerk became suddenly animated.

  "I researched that one most especially, Centurion. It is a colloquialism native to Earth, particularly to the geographic area whence the male at the starbase derives his origins—"

  She stopped, hoping for a crumb of praise; that last item had required considerable work, and she was inordinately proud of it. But praise was not forthcoming.

  "It is sometimes varied as 'an ear to the ground,'" she went on, resigned. "Referring back to a time when the race employed certain herbivarous quadrupeds as war machines and the sound of their hooves could be discerned by an enemy over some distance by means of—"

  "Ie, Ie!" the Centurion barked impatiently. "Have you Vulcan blood? What is your point?"

  The decoding clerk blushed green. She did not have to sit here and be insulted.

  "Only that the reference to 'ears' might be a code word for us, Centurion," she said, recovering herself. "Considering humanoids' preoccupation with such superficialities and their own stunted aural appendages," she added hastily.

  "Well!" the Centurion said after some thought. "But what does the reference mean? 'An ear to the wind.' Well, what?"

  "I am still working on that, Centurion," the clerk said long-sufferingly.

  "Well. Work, then." The Centurion stared at the linguanalyzer, dissatisfied. "D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan. The 'analyzer at least states it is a proper name. But whose? You are certain there is no such person in any of the personnel files?"

  "Negative, Centurion. Not in Starfleet. Not in Special Section. Not among known civilian operatives."

  "Well. Or not well. We will study it further." The Centurion was visited with a sudden fit of manic laughter which made her subordinate glance at her in alarm. "I like the importance they place on the delegation's meeting with 'the Romulans,' as they insist. If only they knew who we were sending!"

  The decoding clerk looked up at her hopefully, waiting for an explanation; mere decoding clerks were not privy to Court gossip. But the Centurion did not deign to explain.

  "Code this and send it back to Cryptoanalysis," the Centurion said, restored to her normal discontented self. "Let them run it through one more time. Well?"

  "At once, Centurion," the decoding clerk said dispiritedly, anticipating another day's work at the least.

  Defense Minister Lefv and the Foreign Minister were gossiping behind their hands in a safe corridor well beyond the Holy. Each had survived in the Praetor's party long enough to be spared intracranial listening devices.

  "—the very fact that he is a eunuch should make it self-evident that he is nobody," Lefv was saying. "But of course one cannot expect humanoids to appreciate such subtleties."

  "Obviously not," the Foreign Minister tittered. "But the Praetor's chamberlain, sent to speak to the delegates as His Representative! How too original!"

  "The thought of them speaking their heartfelt pleas to him who draws His bath and picks up His soiled linen—oh, spare me!" Lefv giggled, then grew grave. "It's the only thought that's given Him any pleasure recently."

  "Well, considering that one's suicide—" The name of Dr'ell, once heir apparent, would never be spoken again. "—one can understand."

  "That's nothing to do with it," Lefv said knowingly. "It is this: He is displeased with the disposition of this hostage business because the Consul is displeased, and She is displeased because the Emperor, All-Glory-to-His-Names, has condescended to acknowledge its existence and He, All-Glory-to-His-Names, is displeased. Therefore—"

  "It is time," the Foreign Minister interrupted, indicating the wall chronometer. Such talk made him uneasy, and
the Praetor expected them to be punctual.

  They descended the aisle into the Holy to find the Praetor, in the foulest of humors, awaiting them. He had not even bothered with Unseen this time, but lay stretched out on his couch, his chamberlain massaging his temples.

  "Leave us," the Praetor said, his voice reduced to a tired croak. "Oh, and—" he raised one long-nailed hand in a languid afterthought, "have her sent for at once. Direct shuttle from her flagship if necessary. If anyone can redeem us from this—detritus—it is she."

  "At once, Excellency," the chamberlain said, but the Praetor had already turned his attention to Lefv and the Foreign Minister.

  Kirk almost wished he hadn't insisted Spock come to his quarters after the reception, which had seemed to go on forever. The Deltan delegation—there was an entire flock of them, all interrelated in some intricate consanguinity only a Deltan genealogist could fathom—had pestered him with endless questions which of course he couldn't answer, and Jasmine alFaisal had latched onto his arm with an aggressiveness even his celebrated charm couldn't deflect.

  "You know more about this than you're telling me, don't you, Admiral?" she had asked pleasantly enough, a drink in one hand and fairly glittering with as much jewelry as she could comfortably carry around; there was something, too, about the High Commissioner's personality that glittered, eclipsing her jewelry when she wanted it to. "More than you're telling any of us. Military secrets? Espionage? How much am I allowed to pry out of you?"

  "As much as you think you can, Commissioner," Kirk had replied, equally pleasantly, though this woman set his teeth on edge. "I'm certain someone in your position knows as much as I."

  "And what makes you think they didn't clamp a security lid on the entire matter before they took the trouble to wake me and inform me that Cleante was missing?" she demanded.

  Her voice was not entirely steady; the glittering armor seemed less bright than at first glance, possibly vulnerable in spots. Perhaps Spock's iceberg metaphor had been accurate.

  "I used to think I had considerable influence," she went on, almost to herself.

  She was staring vaguely past Kirk's shoulder, her drink forgotten, the reception forgotten, her stone facade all but forgotten, even her auditor forgotten except that she needed him to justify the sound of her own voice.