Faces of Fire

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Chapter Four

  THE ROOM WAS CIRCULAR, made of dark, red-veined stone, with columns that only half emerged from the walls to support a great sandglass dome of a ceiling. The dome was ablaze with the ruddy fury of the setting sun, though it offered little in the way of illumination.

  As Kiruc entered, he saw a dancer. She was only half concealed by the scarlet veils that swirled around her.

  On the divans that lined the walls, scores of Klingons glared at her with lust in their faces. There were shouts of approval, lewd comments, hoots of laughter at some joke that was making the rounds.

  So supple were the dancer's movements, so suggestive, that at first Kiruc thought she might have been an Orion. Then she wove herself into a cluster of divans where the yellow brazier light was stronger, and he saw that her skin was more blue than green. And at second glance, her features were wrong as well—her eyes too far apart lips too full, her hairline half a handsbreadth too low.

  A Laurudite, he decided. She must have been second generation, too. It had been years and years since they'd seized any ships full of Laurudites.

  Nonetheless, she executed a good imitation of an Orion, undulating to the rhythm of a hidden drummer—or more likely, a recording of one. Reaching into the pouch beneath his tunic, which hung by a leather thong from his neck, Kiruc withdrew an imperial and flung it at the Laurudite's feet. She glanced at him briefly, her eyes flashing gold fire in the flickering luminescence, and bowed to sweep up the tribute as if it were only another part of her dance. With infinite allure, she tucked it into a gossamer harness she wore beneath her breasts. Until he saw the coin disappear, he hadn't even noticed the harness—that's how cleverly it was concealed by the flutter of her veils.

  Kiruc smiled to himself. It had been some time since he'd visited the pleasure compound at Tisur. For the most part, it was one of those frequented by the young, those who had not yet acquired a subtlety of tastes when it came to female companionship. Hence the Laurudite, while in a more refined compound there would have been an Orion.

  Not that the intimacies offered in this place were repulsive to Kiruc; far from it. In fact, if he hadn't had a specific reason for coming here, and a serious one at that, he might have been tempted to relive some of the coarser pleasures of his youth. Maybe even purchase the services of the dancer for an evening—he had liked the way her eyes glittered when she beheld him.

  A husky voice: "My lord?"

  He turned to the pale, almost white Mitachrosian who stood before him, her slender figure draped in long, blue robes, her hair a purplish silver. Apparently, she was in charge here—the agent of the owner, who was reputed to be a member of the council, though these things were never common knowledge. Like all of her kind, the Mitachrosian was tall; her eyes, as blue as her garment, were almost on a level with Kiruc's own. Two tendrils protruded from beneath her jawline on either side of her face; they wriggled as she spoke.

  Not particularly attractive, he noted. But then, in her position, she didn't have to be. She just had to have a good head on her shoulders and a little bit of charm.

  "Would you like a divan brought out for you, lord? Those out already are all occupied. Or may I offer you a private booth?"

  There were other options as well, but she would not offer them. It was considered impolite, and some people came here only for the music and the dancing and the strong drink. Klingons took enough orders in the course of their lives; they didn't come to a pleasure compound to be told what to do, or even to have it suggested to them.

  "A private booth," he told her. He leaned closer, to be heard over the din. "I am meeting someone. He may already be here."

  The Mitachrosian nodded. She smelled faintly of fireblossoms. "Yes. A young man. He arrived just a few moments ago and told me you would be coming soon after. Follow me and I'll take you to him."

  She led Kiruc out of the round main chamber and down one of the corridors that projected from the room, like a spoke from the hub of a wheel. There were booths on either side of the corridor. The Mitachrosian stopped at the fourth one on the right and knocked on one of the wooden uprights.

  A moment later, the opaque, blood-red curtain that concealed the booth was drawn aside. A pair of eyes took them in; a head nodded, shaking a mane of hair worn long and braided at the ends. The braids marked the man as a Gevish'rae; he had a goblet in front of him.

  "Bring me whatever he's drinking," Kiruc told the Mitachrosian.

  Nodding, she vanished discreetly. Drawing the curtain aside even more, Kiruc slid into the booth opposite its occupant. Yellow eyes glowered at him in the light of a squat candle on a dull silver tray.

  "You are Kiruc," the younger man said.

  It wasn't a question, but Kiruc answered it anyway. "Yes. And you are Grael." For a second or two, he let it stay at that.

  "You called me here for a reason," Grael prodded. "Or was it just to trade pleasantries?" He grunted as if at a private jest, but his bravado wasn't heartfelt. Kiruc had ended his message with but two words: I know. But it had been enough to put Grael on notice.

  "No," the older man replied at last. "It was not to trade pleasantries. I have work for you to do. And make no mistake, you will do it. Or I will place you in a position a wise man fears above all others: to be hunted by his own clan."

  Grael's eyes narrowed. "What could possibly make them want to do that?"

  Kiruc smiled "You already know, or you wouldn't have risked your reputation responding to a Kamorh'dag's invitation. But I understand. You wish to test the weight of my threat." He sat back comfortably on his bench. "Somewhat more than a year ago, I believe, you arranged the assassination of your older cousin, a man named Teshrin. If he died, you would have succeeded him as head of your clan, young as you are."

  "You lie! Grael spat.

  Kiruc leaned forward again. He showed his teeth, though he kept his voice down. "Don't interrupt me again, Gevish'rae, or you'll regret it."

  Grael's eyes smoldered, but he remained silent.

  "As I was saying," the older man went on, "you arranged your cousin's murder. He was traveling to Szlar'it for a secret meeting of clan elders. You hired a handful of men to kill him and his mate, instructing them to make it look as if they'd been accosted by robbers. However, the men you hired never made it that far; they got drunk and became embroiled in a fight along the way—one that proved fatal to all but one of them. So Teshrin was never accosted at all. And of course, he never knew about your plan to replace him."

  The muscles in Grael's jaw worked. "How did you discover this?" he hissed.

  Kiruc shrugged. "The assassin who survived, of course. Some months later, he found himself in the dungeon of a fairly prominent Kamorh'dag, for reasons I will not go into. To earn the Kamorh'dag's mercy, he offered information. As it turned out, it was enough to get him his freedom."

  The younger man nodded. "How much do you want?"

  Kiruc looked at him. "How much? As in money?"

  "If not money," he growled, "then what did you come here for?"

  The older man smiled with half his mouth. "Why, your cooperation, of course. Only a small thing compared to what you dared before."

  "What I dared has no meaning," Grael said. "Nothing happened."

  "And by this time, no doubt," Kiruc commented, "you're glad of it. You've seen that the leadership of the clan is not a thing to be taken lightly. It's a responsibility, a great weight—one that would deprive you of pleasure compounds like this one, which is what men your age really want. And having come to this realization, you would go to great lengths to make sure your cousin survives." Kiruc paused for effect. "But what was done was done; the attempt was made. And Teshrin won't care that it never succeeded. All he'll care about is that his cousin plotted to murder him."

  The younger man had turned a shade paler as Kiruc spoke. He licked his lips. "If I do as you say," he asked, "how will I know that my secret will remain a secret?"

  Kiruc nodded. He had expected that questi
on. "A fortnight after you've carried out your task, you'll find the head of the man who survived under the im'pac tree on your estate."

  Grael shook his head. "And what proof do I have that the matter will end there? If he opened his mouth to the Kamorh'dag who imprisoned him, and to you, then who else might he have spoken to? And how do I know you won't betray me—or that the other Kamorh'dag might not someday see fit to do so?"

  The older man snorted. "You don't. But at least you'll be one head closer to burying the matter. That's something, isn't it?" He leaned back again. "And besides, what choice do you have? If you don't cooperate, I will most certainly betray you."

  The Gevish'rae nodded reluctantly. "I see." His eyes found the candle flame. "I will settle for the head of the assassin, then. Tell me what I have to do."

  Kiruc told him. The whole time, Grael continued to stare at the candle, as if he could not contemplate treachery and look into a man's eyes at the same time.

  Kiruc didn't blame him. He didn't think he could have done it either.

  When he was finished, the younger man nodded. "It will be done."

  "Make certain that it is." Kiruc rose. "Incidentally, Grael, I would not count too much on the men you have posted outside—the ones you hired to kill me. You see, I am older than you, and wealthier. I was able to hire better men, and more of them."

  To his credit, the Gevish'rae didn't say anything. He even managed a small smile.

  "Remember," the older man told him. "And make no mistakes. Your life depends on it."

  Then he pushed the curtain aside, left the booth, and walked away down the corridor. As he passed other booths, each with its mystery, its own secrets, Kiruc pondered the seeds he had planted.

  Would Grael do as he'd been instructed? Kiruc believed he would. He would do anything to save his life, even if it meant compounding his earlier treachery with another one.

  In Grael's place, Kiruc would simply have poisoned himself. It would have been the only honorable thing to do.

  But then, Kiruc mused, I am a Kamorh'dag, and better acquainted with matters of honor.

  When Kirk materialized in the colony's main dome, alongside Spock, McCoy, and Christine Chapel, there were two people waiting to greet them.

  One was Yves Boudreau, whose gray goatee and deep-set eyes he recognized from holographic representations in the Enterprise's computer files. The man was even taller and more distinguished-looking in person than he'd appeared in the holograms.

  The other was Carol Marcus.

  It was all the captain could do to focus on the colony administrator first, as protocol demanded. Extending his hand, he said: "I'm Captain James T. Kirk. Pleased to meet you, Doctor."

  Boudreau took the hand and nodded. "And I you, Captain. I'll tell you right from the start, I'm not one of those administrators who thinks periodic medical checkups are a pain in the proverbial ass. Our work isn't so urgent we can't spare a moment or two to protect our health."

  Not one to mince words, was he? Kirk liked the man instantly.

  Boudreau indicated his colleague. "I understand you and Doctor Marcus have met before?"

  Uncertain of how much Carol had told her fellow colonist, the captain simply nodded. "That's true."

  She smiled. "Good to see you again, Jim."

  Kirk smiled back. "Likewise."

  It seemed to him Carol hadn't aged a day. She was wearing her hair a bit shorter, and there was a hairline scar just below her mouth that hadn't been there before. But outside of that, she was just as he remembered her.

  And what did she think of him? He looked into her eyes, but he couldn't tell. They were impenetrable, as if she'd put up a shield there.

  He must have been engrossed too long in his observations, because before he knew it, Bones was shaking hands with the colony administrator. "Leonard McCoy. I'll be conducting the medical exams with the help of my nurse here, Christine Chapel."

  Chapel looked a little surprised when Boudreau took her hand as well. "It will be a pleasure to have you with us, Nurse. I believe one can never surround oneself with too many beautiful women—as Dr. Marcus can attest."

  Expressed by someone else, it might have sounded like an attempt at an entrée to a more intimate encounter. However, Kirk didn't read it that way. It seemed to him Boudreau just had a habit of speaking his mind.

  Nor was Christine the least bit uncomfortable with the praise. "Thank you, Doctor. It's nice to be … er, appreciated."

  As she spoke, she cast a glance at Spock, who had remained a paragon of patience while the humans around him exchanged pleasantries. Kirk winced at the oversight.

  "And this," he said, "is my second in command, Mr. Spock. He's also the Enterprise's science officer, so he'll be the one to report on your progress here."

  Boudreau evidently knew enough not to try to shake the Vulcan's hand. "Mr. Spock," he said, inclining his head slightly.

  The Vulcan responded in kind. "I am looking forward to our working together, Doctor. I have followed your work closely over the years."

  Boudreau smiled. "Have you now?" He looked approving. "In that case, I'm certain we'll get along quite well, Mr. Spock. Quite well indeed."

  "It pleases me to hear that," the first officer returned. And then, changing tacks: "I would like to get started as soon as possible."

  "Of course," the terraformer assured him. "I will accompany you myself." He turned back to McCoy. "We have cleared out an unused storage dome for your use I trust it will be suitable as an examination area.

  Bones shrugged. "As long as it's clean."

  "It is that," Boudreau said. "Carol, why don't you show the doctor and Nurse Chapel to their accommodations? And then, after they're taken care of, perhaps Captain Kirk would like to explore the Bois de Boulogne."

  "Bois de Boulogne?" the captain repeated. "As in the park at the outskirts of Paris, back on Earth?"

  "One and the same," the administrator confirmed. "I miss the city of my birth. Of course, our Bois de Boulogne is somewhat humble compared to the original. But on this world, it is the grandest forest of all."

  Kirk nodded. "In hat case, I look forward to it."

  "Then it's settled," Boudreau told him. "And after all your endeavor are under way, we'll meet again for dinner. Agreed?"

  McCoy looked at the captain, as if to say: the less time we have to spend back up on the ship, the better.

  "We'd be honored," Kirk replied.

  As if on cue, his communicator beeped. With a glance at McCoy, he reluctantly flipped it open.

  "Go ahead, Scotty."

  There was no mistaking the tone of exasperation in the engineer's voice. "Sir, I hate t' bother ye, but …" A pause. "It's the ambassador again."

  The captain sighed. "What is it now, Mr. Scott?"

  "He's insistin' that I leave you down there and take the ship to Starbase Seven."

  "Starbase Seven?" Kirk was at a loss.

  "Aye, Captain. He's figured out that he can make better time with the Hood—and she's currently at Starbase Seven on shore leave."

  Kirk frowned. It sounded like the kind of thing he'd have to deal with in person, unless he wanted his ship spirited out from under him.

  "Have Kyle beam me up," he said. "And tell the ambassador I'll meet him in the briefing room in five minutes."

  "Aye, sir." Scotty sounded more than a little relieved.

  The captain turned to Boudreau and Carol. "Sorry. It looks like we've got a bit of a bureaucratic problem."

  "Quite all right," the colony administrator told him. "I've encountered my share of those."

  Kirk smiled wistfully at Carol. "I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check on the tour, Dr. Marcus. But with any luck, I'll be down again in time for dinner."

  She nodded. "I understand."

  It wasn't the first time he'd heard her say that, not by a long shot. But then, understanding was one of the things she used to do best.

  Boudreau's laboratory was housed in the colony's central and large
st dome. As Spock followed the doctor inside, he took in the facility at a glance.

  Along the curve of the wall, there was a continuous rank of some thirty work stations, about two-thirds of which were currently occupied. Some of the colonists looked up for only a second or two and went back to their computations. Others stared a little longer.

  "My staff," the doctor told Spock. "All experts in their fields. You say you've followed my work, Commander. You weren't just being polite, were you?"

  "Not at all," the Vulcan replied. "In fact, I have read every monograph you ever published."

  Boudreau made a face. "Even the early ones? Where I postulated that radiation could be used to encourage amino acid formation?"

  Spock nodded. "Yes, even the early ones. Nor is there any need to be embarrassed, Doctor. While your findings were erroneous, as you have apparently come to concede, they were nonetheless fascinating."

  The doctor affected a shudder. "You're too kind, Mr. Spock. Fascinating was hardly the word for them."

  "It is a word that seems appropriate to me," the Vulcan said. He directed his attention toward a smooth, shiny cylinder suspended halfway between floor and ceiling by a lattice of long, narrow tubes. "After all, your early efforts laid the groundwork for the G-Seven unit."

  Boudreau turned toward the unit as well, and smiled. "Yes. I suppose it did at that."

  Together, they approached the G-7 cylinder and inspected it more closely. About a meter long, with a diameter about half its length, the G-7 reflected their visages in its flawless surface.

  "You have been pleased with the results?" Spock asked.

  "I have, yes. But then, I am principally concerned with the reproduction rates of the specimens under study—rates that have well exceeded our expectations. In the Bois de Boulogne, which is our oldest experiment, we've gone through six annual cycles in a little more than a year. And in Sherwood Forest, named by our head mathematician, Dr. Riordan, the specimens have multiplied at an average annual rate of seven times."

  "Impressive," said Spock.

  "I agree. However, if you ask Dr. Marcus about our results, she'll tell you that the specimens' oxygen production is not what it might be. And I must concede her point, though I believe it is limited. If our specimens are reproducing like mad, what difference does it make if each produces a little less oxygen than it should? In the end, we will still get what we want—an atmosphere breathable by most species in the Federation."