Faces of Fire

by Michael Jan Friedman

  As Kiruc walked up to the front door, Zibrat and Torgis followed closely behind. They were greeted at the door by Karradh's housemistress, an elderly woman named Wistor with a narrow face and deeply set eyes. Once Karradh's wet nurse, Wistor had been elevated to her present position of authority after the previous housemistress's death—or so the story went.

  "You are expected," the woman said. Her voice was stronger than Kiruc would have guessed. "I greet you on my lord's behalf." She indicated the interior of the house with a movement of her withered hand. "Would you like to come in?"

  "I would indeed." Kiruc told her.

  Wistor turned and led them into the reception hall. Like the exterior of the house, it was very much in keeping with tradition. The smooth, wooden walls were covered with weaponry, most of it antiquated and well worn. Freeform metal sculptures filled the corners of the room, at once fitting in with the weaponry and providing a contrast.

  Torches blazed in blackened braziers, throwing up streams of oily, ebony smoke that commingled in the exposed wooden rafters. Each torch threw its own set of shadows, so that Kiruc felt as if he were moving amidst an army of ghosts with each step he took.

  Wistor stopped in the center of the hall and turned to Kiruc. "You will wait here. Karradh will be with you presently."

  She did not wait for him to acknowledge the information. She simply resumed her progress across the reception hall. At the far end, there was a semicircular doorway that led out into the water garden. She vanished through it.

  After a moment or two, Karradh filled the doorway with his bulk. Except for the advanced graying of his whiskers, he seemed no older than when Kiruc saw him last, though that must have been a good five or six years ago—when Kiruc's father had been alive, and Karradh had been master of security for the Second Fleet. That meeting had been quite productive. Kiruc hoped this encounter would prove likewise.

  "Welcome," Karradh said in his booming voice, approaching his visitors with a bit of a limp. The hall reverberated with his enthusiasm. "It has been a long time, Kiruc."

  Kiruc grasped the older man's hand. Karradh's grip was as firm as ever. "Too long, friend of my father."

  The former security master looked to Zibrat and Torgis. "Kiruc's friends are my friends," he announced. He gestured to an alcove off the main hall, where a wrought-iron table and chairs awaited in the soft light of a standing brazier. "Make yourselves comfortable while I entertain my guest."

  There was nothing impolite about the suggestion; bodyguards did not take part in private conferences. Nor did anyone anticipate trouble here. Karradh had been a friend of Kiruc's family for some years. Nonetheless, both Zibrat and Torgis shot glances at their master.

  With a curt, almost imperceptible nod, Kiruc gave them leave to do as Karradh said. Satisfied, they headed for the alcove and the table.

  The older man looked at Kiruc. "Do you permit them to drink while on duty?"

  The younger man shook his head. "I used to, but not anymore. Times have changed, friend of my father."

  Karradh grunted. "So they have." He took Kiruc by the arm and led him in the direction of the semicircular doorway. "Fortunately," he went on, "you and I are under no such restriction. I think you will enjoy the ale. The keg was opened only yesterday."

  As they emerged from the doorway, Kiruc nodded approvingly. The water garden was laid out in the lap of the mist-laden hills, according to classic design precepts, with every form and texture of movement represented. Here, two channels clashed and eddied, azure with reflected firelight; there another gurgled with white foam about some dark rocks; and in a third place, there was the the hissing glamour of a waterfall, made ruddy by the rays of the setting sun. There were levels and levels, as far as the eye could see through the gathering haze. Squat, spiky shrubs, gray boulders, and graceful, overhanging dwarf willows worked in harmony with the water courses, hiding the least interesting portions from view. And of course, there were the torches held forth by dark, cunning shapes—metal abstractions of demons from Klingon mythology, half hidden in the intricate shadows—which did the additional duty of keeping away biting insects.

  All in all, quite pleasing. Kiruc said so.

  "I am glad you like it," the older man responded. "For better or worse, I have had a great deal of time to cultivate it, now that I have retired from the fleet." He showed Kiruc to a table made of flat stones, that sat on a peninsula extending into a miniature lake. As they took their seats, Kiruc noticed the tiny whirlpools that came and went along their shore. Marvelous, he mused. He wondered if Karradh would tell him the secret of creating them some day.

  Karradh poured the ale from a crude wooden pitcher into ceramic goblets. They drank. The former security master was right, Kiruc mused. The ale was sharp, enjoyable; it attacked the taste buds like a warrior.

  "Ahh," Karradh said, replacing his goblet on the table. "Impeccable."

  Kiruc nodded. "And even more delicious, I'll wager, for your having snatched it from the hold of a Romulan ship."

  The older man's eyes narrowed. "You know that story, eh? Good. It should be known. It was a glorious victory. A model for future encounters with the Romulans." Wiping his bearded lips with the back of his hand, he drummed his fingers against the tabletop. "Speak, Kiruc. You didn't come here to chew the fat off the bones of old war stories."

  The younger man smiled. "True." He paused. "At one time, Karradh, you were privy to a great deal of information. Some say even more than the emperor himself."

  Karradh shrugged slyly. "It was my job, my duty, to be well informed. Though I would not say I was more knowledgeable than the emperor, at least not to his face." He measured his visitor with his black, stony eyes. "What sort of information were you looking for?"

  Kiruc told him, in the vaguest terms possible. He was particularly careful to avoid any further mention of Kapronek. Nor did his host ask for additional information. He seemed quite comfortable with the vagueness.

  "The Gevish'rae," Karradh repeated. "I, too, have been concerned about them. I am glad to see I am not alone."

  "Yes," Kiruc replied. "Now all we need is a way to penetrate their defenses. To disrupt their movement."

  The older man looked at him. "It seems to me," he said, "there is a young Gevish'rae named Grael, of the Nik'nash clan. A little more than a year ago, he committed an indiscretion—an act of violence directed against his own kinsmen. A play for power, you understand, if a rash one. The act never bore fruit, but neither was it discovered." Karradh leaned forward. "One armed with knowledge of this indiscretion might find Grael willing to do his bidding. After all, if other in the Nik'nash clan got wind of his treachery …" His voice faded meaningfully.

  "Grael," Kiruc echoed. "I will remember the name." He smiled. "And what about you, friend of my father? Is there nothing I can offer you in return for your assistance?"

  Karradh shrugged. "I am Kamorh'dag. In working against the Gevish'rae, you work on my behalf." His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "However, if you are bent on showing your gratitude, there is one small favor you might render me."

  "Ask," the younger man advised him, "and if it is in my power, it will be done."

  The former master of security poured them more ale. The mists were rolling down the hillside as darkness fell, mingling with the trees and shrubs of the water garden, deepening the mystery in them.

  Having finished pouring, Karradh looked up. His eyes reflected the firelight. "I have a son, Kell. He serves as second officer on the battlecruiser Fragh'ka, and does a damned good job of it. The first officer is a man by the name of Kernod, by all accounts a capable individual as well. However, for Kell to move up in the ranks …" As before, he let his voice trail off.

  "Kernod must meet with an accident."

  "Precisely." A pause, in which the older man showed some discomfort. "The normal way of the world would be for my son to perform the task himself. However, Kell is not always as ambitious as he should be, and he has a great respect for Kernod.
Left to his own devices, I fear, Kell would remain a second officer the rest of his days."

  "You need say no more," Kiruc assured him. "Kernod will be eliminated at the earliest opportunity. And there will be no connection between your clan and the assassination."

  Karradh nodded. "I am grateful," he said.

  Kiruc waved away the suggestion. "It's nothing. As the expression goes, it is easier to defend oneself with two hands than one."

  The older man grunted. "You're a student of Kahless."

  "I am," Kiruc confirmed. He picked up his goblet. "To Kell."

  Karradh followed suit. "Yes. To Kell. And to the Kamorh'dag."

  They drank.

  As Kirk stopped before the door to McCoy's quarters, he announced himself: "It's me, Bones."

  There was no reply.

  Strange, he thought. Had the doctor forgotten the invitation he'd extended only this morning? It wasn't like McCoy to let something like this slip his mind. Starfleet regulations, maybe. On occasion, the name of a planet or two. But never a date to shoot the bull.

  Maybe he's fallen asleep, the captain decided. He was about to announce himself again, this time a little louder, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed someone approaching.

  Turning, he saw his chief medical officer dressed in sweat-soaked gym togs. The man didn't look any too happy; he was walking with a decided limp and he had a dark bruise just above his left eye.

  "What happened to you?" Kirk asked him.

  McCoy swept away the question with a swipe of his hand. "Don't ask."

  Suddenly, the captain remembered their discussion of a few days ago, before Farquhar came on board and started turning things upside down. "Bones, this doesn't have anything to do with that remark I made about your being out of shape, does it?"

  The doctor stopped in front of his door and glared at his friend. "I said don't ask. And don't expect me to get within fifty meters of that gymnasium, either. A man could get killed there."

  The door slid aside with a soft whoosh and Kirk followed McCoy inside. "If you want," he suggested, "we could make it another time …"

  "No," the doctor told him firmly, wincing as he started to strip off his top. "I'll just be a few minutes. Relax. Make yourself at home."

  Then he turned the corner and vanished from sight. A moment later, the captain heard the hard hiss of the shower.

  It didn't take long, however, before he followed Bones's instructions and relaxed. Sometimes, Kirk mused, he felt more at ease in McCoy's quarters than in his own. After all, in his own quarters, there was always the temptation to work—to finish up odds and ends he hadn't gotten to while on the bridge, or to get a head start on the next day's agenda.

  But here, in the chief medical officer's suite, there was no such temptation. Not that he couldn't have signed on to the computer system from McCoy's terminal as easily as from his own; it was just that it didn't seem appropriate, any more than catching a nap in Sulu's botanical garden or having dinner in engineering. This was a place for old war stories, for shared meditations, for exchanges of clever witticisms. And let's face it, Kirk told himself—for escape. These days, he needed one. Even if he wasn't about to say so out loud, he'd had about all he could take from Ambassador Farquhar. The man had been harassing him and his officers at every opportunity, plying and replying his case for skipping over the colony on Beta Canzandia Three and heading straight for Alpha Maluria Six.

  Fortunately, the one officer Farquhar hadn't approached was Bones—perhaps because, at some level, he sensed the doctor's dislike of him. And that made McCoy's quarters more of a haven than ever, for the duration of the captain's visit here, he was safe from the ambassador.

  Smiling at the thought, he lowered himself into McCoy's easy chair and considered the furnishings: the matched set of intricate phornicia shells, which symbolized the healing arts on Magistor Seven as the caduceus did on Earth; the large and ostentatious oil painting of a graceful antebellum mansion, reputed to be somewhere on the outskirts of Atlanta; the miniature black knight Yeoman Barrows had sculpted for him—rearing charger and all—just before her transfer to the Potemkin.

  Barrows. Kirk grunted. Now there had been a—

  His observations were interrupted by a familiar grumbling from the next room. A moment later, McCoy appeared in a Starfleet-issue black jumpsuit. Looking at least a bit more sociable than before, he rumpled his hair, which was still damp from the shower.

  "Bones—"

  The doctor peered at him through narrowed eyes, one of which had swollen up. "Let's pick another topic, shall we?"

  The captain held his hands up in surrender. Fine. Whatever you say."

  McCoy headed for his bar, which was amply stocked, as usual. He selected two glasses from a bidden compartment and plunked them down on the counter in front of him. "Name your poison," he said.

  "Brandy," Kirk replied, getting up again—no easy task, considering the amount of stuffing in—McCoy's chair—and crossing the cabin.

  "Saurian?"

  "What else?"

  "Saurian it is." The doctor selected the appropriate container—a rather elegant one the captain hadn't seen before.

  "Nice decanter," he remarked.

  "Just got it," McCoy explained. "It was a gift. From Cal Forrest, an old med school buddy." Taking the top off, he poured ample quantities into both glasses. Then he replaced the lid on the decanter.

  Kirk picked up one of the glasses and swirled its contents around, watching the patterns the brandy made as it slid down the inside of the glass. "Cal Forrest, eh? I don't believe I've ever heard you mention him."

  The doctor chuckled. "Cal's one of those people you don't see for a long time, but when you do it's as if you saw him just yesterday. You know what I mean?"

  The captain said that he did.

  McCoy lifted his glass. "To old friends," he said, and sampled the brandy.

  Kirk did likewise. After taking a moment to savor the bittersweet flavor of the liqueur, he set his drink down on the bar.

  "Good?" the doctor asked.

  "Very good," he answered. Bones seemed to have forgotten his ornery mood. But then, Kirk's company often had that effect on him. Even as he watched, the doctor's eyes seemed to light up.

  "And while we're on the subject of old friends … ," he said.

  The captain looked at him. "What about them?"

  "I came across an interesting name on the Beta Canzandia colony roster that was sent out to us. Meant to mention it earlier, in fact, except Farquhar has been keeping you so busy with his infernal litany about Alpha Maluria Six, I didn't have a chance." He muttered a curse. "Lord save me from little minds . . ." His voice trailed off as he became lost in thought.

  Kirk tried to remain patient. "Bones?"

  "Mm?"

  "The name. An old friend, you said."

  McCoy met his gaze. "Right. Sorry. It's Carol Marcus."

  It caught the captain by surprise. "Carol Marcus?" he repeated.

  Actually, she was a lot more than an old friend. Carol had been someone special—someone with whom he'd come damned close to initiating a permanent relationship, until their careers got in the way.

  And she was on Beta Canzandia Three. Small galaxy, wasn't it?

  McCoy tilted his head to one side. "What's that grin about? Thinking of picking up where you left off?"

  Before Kirk could answer, a beeping sound invaded McCoy's quarters. The two men looked at one another.

  McCoy said: "You know what that's about, don't you?"

  The captain nodded ruefully. Apparently, he wasn't so safe here after all. Heading for the doctor's intercom unit, he laid his hand over the metal strip.

  "Kirk here."

  "Sir, I dinnae like to interrupt yer personal time, but—"

  "It's all right, Scotty. What's up?"

  As if he didn't know.

  "Captain, it's Ambassador Farquhar."

  Kirk sighed. "What about him, Scotty?"

  Abruptly
, the ambassador's voice replaced the chief engineer's. "I'm perturbed, Captain. I thought you understood the urgency of my mission."

  McCoy rolled his eyes.

  "I understand it quite well," Kirk replied. "What leads you to believe otherwise?"

  "Lieutenant Commander Scott does," Farquhar told him.

  "Now wait just a bleedin'—"

  The captain cut him short. "Not to worry, Scotty. Ambassador, just what is it Mr. Scott told you?"

  He could picture Farquhar drawing himself up to his full height. And Scotty's expression of frustration as he looked on, unable to defend himself.

  "That the Enterprise is traveling at warp six."

  Kirk saw the problem. "And you'd like our speed to be greater, I suppose?"

  "Certainly. The faster we reach Beta Canzandia, the faster we leave Beta Canzandia. That is, unless you've changed your mind about going there first."

  The captain smiled grimly. "No, I haven't changed my mind. What's more, I have no intention of increasing our speed."

  An uncomfortable pause. "And why is that, if I may ask?"

  Kirk could feel a dull ache starting over the bridge of his nose. "Because I wish to conserve some power for tactical reasons. As I'm sure Mr. Scott would have told you, if you'd given him a chance, Beta Canzandia is situated in fairly close proximity to the Klingon Empire. And while there hasn't been any trouble in that star system historically, I'm not ruling out the possibility of it."

  The ambassador made a derisive sound. It was loud enough to be heard clearly over the intercom system.

  The captain ignored it. "I trust that explains the situation to your satisfaction?"

  "It explains it," Farquhar answered, "but by no means to my satisfaction."

  Kirk was formulating a response to the remark when the intercom suddenly went dead. Obviously, the ambassador saw no purpose in continuing the conversation.

  Just as well, the captain told himself. He might not have liked what he was about to hear.

  Turning back to McCoy, he shrugged. "Sorry about that, Bones. Now, where were we?"

  "Carol Marcus," the doctor reminded him. "I was asking if you had any intention of fanning the embers."