Faces of Fire

by Michael Jan Friedman

But she couldn't stay here, Carol told herself. It was only a matter of time before the Klingons got around to searching the enclosure. And when they did, she would share whatever—

  Suddenly, she remembered: David. Where was he?

  In the hills, she thought, not without a pang of relief. Along with the other children. Safer—at least for the moment.

  Of course, they wouldn't remain that way for long. All the invaders would have to do is access the computer's personnel files, and they'd know, that the children were missing. They were all on the colony roster—not the one that had gone up to the Enterprise, with her' son's name purposely left off it, but the master list, the one that was on the central computer, in the lab building the Klingons had just evacuated.

  Strangely, it was only then that her heart began to race. Because she knew that the children had a chance to stay out of this—and that if she did nothing else, she had to purge their identities from the files.

  Maybe then, she could think about sending a call for help, though the communications center was way on the other side of the installation. And though the Enterprise, the nearest Federation ship, would take days to respond.

  But first, the lab. She had to get to the lab.

  Even as she was screwing up her resolve, she saw more flashes, followed by a terrible, plaintive wailing, a sound like mourning. It was cut off abruptly, before it could run its natural course.

  She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. Bastards, she thought. Bloody bastards.

  After that, however, there were neither flashes nor cries. She counted the seconds, not only to measure the time but to calm herself. If she was going to do anyone any good, she had to have her wits about her.

  Carol had counted to two hundred before she dared to poke her head out of the enclosure again. There was no one around—neither Klingons nor colonists. Now was the time. Praying no one spotted her, staying low, she made her way across the flat, open space between the garden and the lab-dome entrance.

  It couldn't have taken more than a few heartbeats, but it seemed like forever. Then she was at the door, waiting for it to admit her. Come on, she urged it silently. Let me in, damn it!

  An eternity later, the door slid aside, revealing the interior of the lab. Carol only got a vague impression of the carnage the Klingons had caused before she slipped inside and pressed her back against the interior wall.

  Letting out a breath, she took a moment to gather herself again, then headed for the nearest work station. En route, she couldn't help but notice that many of the monitors had been smashed. Stupid and unnecessary, she mused, as she reached her destination. The marauders had jeopardized all the colony's hard work by giving vent to their destructive natures.

  Fortunately, some of the work stations had escaped unscathed. With any luck at all, the central processing unit had remained undamaged as well.

  Then she noticed something else. Or more accurately, the lack of something.

  The G-7 unit was gone. The latticework of energy-transfer tubes that dominated the center of the lab had a gap in it a meter long. Carol swore beneath her breath. No doubt the Klingons were dismantling it at this very moment, to see what was so special about it. And in the process, undoing all that Dr. Boudreau had accomplished.

  After all, there was only one G-7 unit in the entire galaxy. If it were accidentally destroyed, it would take years to build another.

  Bastards. Turning her attention to the terminal in front of her, she went through the routine of activating it. Her fingers danced over the keyboard; it was second nature by now. A moment later, the screen lit up. The central processor was fine—at least for the time being. Now all she had to do was call up the colony personnel directory. And hope that she could complete the task before a Klingon decided to walk in on her. Moving with feverish speed, she entered the required command.

  As soon as the directory appeared on the screen, she began deleting the names of the children in alphabetical order. First Roberto Garcia, then David Marcus, Keena Medford, Will Pfeffer, Timmy Riordan, and finally, Li Wan.

  She'd done it. David and the others were safe—at least as safe as she could make them. Wiping her brow of the perspiration that had accumulated there, Carol stored the directory and signed off. The terminal hummed slightly as it powered down.

  Briefly, for just a fleeting moment, it occurred to her to try to join the children in the hills. She'd gone unnoticed so far; maybe she could slip past the invaders and make good her escape.

  She grunted softly. That would be the coward's way, Carol. And as scared as you are, you're no coward. She had an obligation to the other colonists, the children included, to stay with her original plan and send for help.

  But as she moved toward the exit, the door to the lab dome slid open unexpectedly. Stopping dead in her tracks, heart smashing against her ribs, she saw the grinning Klingon who filled the aperture with his bulk. She clenched her teeth as he aimed his disruptor at her.

  For a long moment, Carol stared at the Klingon, certain that her next breath would be her last. The muzzle of his disruptor loomed in front of her, made gargantuan by her imagination.

  But her luck held. He didn't press the trigger. He just gestured for her to come outside.

  Thank God, she thought. Suddenly, sharing the fate of her colleagues didn't seem so terrible—compared to the alternative.

  What's more, the Klingon didn't seem to have guessed that she'd been up to anything. He hadn't even glanced in the direction of any of the work stations.

  Buoyed by the knowledge that she'd bought the children some time, Carol moved out of the lab dome. A fraction of a second later, her captor followed.

  Chapter Ten

  "ARE YOU CERTAIN? Vheled asked.

  Gidris nodded. "Quite certain. Of course, Mallot has only had a day to examine all the research data—hardly sufficient time. But it is fairly obvious, even to a neophyte, that the facility's central unit—the device that makes possible accelerated plant growth—is missing."

  Vheled grunted. "Then one of the colonists must be missing as well."

  His first officer looked perturbed. "There is no one missing," he reported. "In fact, we have rounded up one individual too many."

  The captain of the Kad'nra leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk before him, the desk that had so recently belonged to one of the colonists, until Vheled had commandeered that person's dome and made it his headquarters. "Too many?" he echoed. "How is that possible?"

  Gidris scowled. "I cannot say for sure. But I suspect his age was a factor. He is twelve years old."

  "Too young, perhaps, to be listed as an official member of the colony?"

  "That is my guess," Gidris agreed. "Particularly because he is the only nonadult in the colony."

  Vheled thought about it. "The Federation maintains lists of all its equipment components … why not an individual, no matter how young he is?" He shook his head. "There must be another explanation."

  His first officer searched for an answer. "Computer input error?" he ventured.

  The captain made a sound of disgust. "Speculation is a waste of time, Gidris. Bring me the boy. Maybe he can tell us himself."

  "Damn," Kirk muttered.

  "Ye can say that again," Scotty joined in. "I've never seen such a herd."

  "The cubaya here are most numerous," their Manteil guide agreed, not without note of pride in his voice.

  "No," said McCoy, "The stars are numerous. These critters are legion."

  A huge, blue-green valley spread out before them, one of a series of valleys that seemed to stretch to the horizon. In the valley was a broad river, sparkling in the bronze light of Alpha Maluria. And in the river, crowding it from bank to bank, both upstream and down as far as the eye could see, were the cubaya, the beasts at the center of this world's religious conflict.

  There were five of them there on the ridge: the three Enterprise officers, Ambassador Farquhar, and their guide. All of them were mounted on fleiar—tall, spind
le-legged creatures with long, droopy ears and doglike snouts. The fleiar were well-trained; they stood almost completely still, despite the stiff, swirling winds that drove the ground cover in gentle waves.

  The cubaya, by contrast, seemed fat and clumsy as they breasted the river current, their migrational imperative aiming them straight for the mother city. From Kirk's vantage point, they looked like small walruses with short, muscular legs instead of flippers. Their coats ranged from a russet color to a very dark brown.

  Not a very attractive animal, at least not to the captain's eye. But then, it wasn't the beasts' beauty that commended them to the Manteil. It was their spiritual significance.

  "Would you care for a closer look?" asked the guide.

  "Absolutely," the ambassador replied. "Please, lead the way."

  The Manteil, whose name was Ebahn, urged his mount down the slope. Farquhar made sure he was the next to fall in line, though he looked stiff and more than a little awkward trying to maintain his balance.

  As Kirk and his officers prepared to follow, McCoy cast the captain a look. "Who does he think he's impressing?" the doctor muttered.

  Kirk grunted. Fortunately, the ambassador's one-upmanship games bothered him somewhat less than they did McCoy. With a flick of the reins that the Malurians employed to guide their mounts, not unlike those used on horses back on Earth, he encouraged his animal to follow Farquhar's.

  As they descended the slope, the wind shifted and they were surrounded by a less than pleasant odor—something like a chicken egg left too long in the sun. Nor was it difficult to track down the source.

  The cubaya, the captain guessed. It had to be. They not only looked ugly, they smelled ugly. Some of the nearest cubaya looked up at them, as if they'd heard Kirk's mental assessment and taken offense. However, they didn't seem the least bit daunted by the intrusion.

  Ebahn called back over his shoulder: "Do not worry about getting too close. They are used to seeing riders around." He pointed upstream, where the captain could barely make out a pair of Malurians mounted as they were. "We have men and women patrolling for predators along various stretches of the river."

  "I see," the ambassador replied. "That's very interesting."

  McCoy groaned—too softly for Farquhar to notice, though Kirk was close enough to hear it distinctly. What's more, Bones had a point—the ambassador was laying it on a little thick. But then, Farquhar wasn't the first diplomat who'd been polishing apples so long he found it hard to know when to stop.

  "Actually," their guide went on, "the predators themselves are not the biggest danger. At least, not in the way you may think." He pointed to the grassy ground cover, bent flat now under a sudden gust. "It is the wind, which carries the predators' scent. The cubaya may look lethargic now. But if they should catch the smell of a gettrex, you will find them most active." He made a fluttering sound with his tongue—the equivalent of a sigh, the captain guessed. "If we did not provide protection for the herd, as our fathers did before us, more cubaya would die in stampedes than in the jaws of the gettrexin."

  Scotty, who'd been quiet for the most part, shot the captain a glance. "Begging your pardon, sir, but doesn't that give us a solution to the problem?"

  Kirk started to ask the engineer what he meant. But before he could get a whole word out, he stopped himself.

  Scotty smiled. "Ye see what I mean, Captain?"

  Kirk nodded. "Indeed I do."

  Farquhar wheeled his fleiar around and approached them. "Is this something I ought to know about?" he asked.

  "Absolutely," the captain told him. "Mr. Scott here may have come up with an answer—a way to satisfy both the Manteil and the Obirrhat."

  "And that is?" the ambassador prodded.

  Scotty told him.

  Farquhar frowned.

  "Well?" McCoy said.

  The ambassador nodded sagely. "It might work. I'll send word to the Council to expect us."

  "Your name?"

  The human child swallowed. Vheled recognized it as a sign of fear.

  "Timothy Riordan," he said.

  The captain of the Kad'nra looked to his first officer. "There are two Riordans listed in the colony personnel file," said Gidris. "One is Martin, the other Dana."

  Vheled fixed his gaze on the boy. The swallowing became more pronounced.

  "How is it," he asked, "that you are not listed with the others?"

  Timothy Riordan—if that was truly his name—shook his head. "I don't know," he said.

  Vheled exchanged glances with his second-in-command Gidris, it seemed, was of the opinion the boy was lying. The captain wasn't so sure.

  "The truth," Gidris urged, placing his hand on Timothy Riordan's shoulder. "Or I will see to it that you suffer."

  The boy's eyes grew red and wet as they looked up at the Klingon. His nose stated to run.

  It was amazing how easily human children could be broken. Vheled had heard it in the accounts of other captains who'd had dealings with Federation colonies, but he hadn't believed it. And now that he saw it with his own eyes, he felt his gorge rise. Suddenly he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  "Come," he told the boy. "You are hiding something. What is it?"

  Timothy Riordan sobbed. "I told them to come back," he said.

  Vheled leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees and his face was mere inches from the human's. "Who? You told who to come back?"

  The boy caught a ragged breath. "David. And the others." He looked up, eyes wide with fright. "I told them, but they wouldn't listen."

  Gidris tightened his grip on Timothy Riordan's shoulder. "The one you call David—and teethe others. Who are they?"

  "They're kids. Like me."

  "And they took the G-Seven unit?"

  Suddenly the boy looked confused. "G-Seven?" he repeated. He shook his head. "No. The G-Seen unit is in the laboratory dome."

  Vheled's first officer snarled. "Do you mean to tell me you don't know what happened to the unit? Before you answer remember—your life depends on what you say to us."

  Timothy Riordan looked from one to the other of them, sobbing again. "I don't know anything about the G-Seven—I swear it." And then: "Pl-please don't hurt me. Please."

  The captain was caught between anger and revulsion. "Enough, Gidris. More than enough. He dismissed the human child with a backhanded gesture. "I cannot watch this display of cowardice any longer."

  Timothy Riordan turned a bright shade of red. Stung by my words? the Klingon wondered. Maybe now he will show some courage.

  But nothing happened. The boy just looked away.

  That, Vheled thought, was why the Federation would ultimately have to yield to the empire. The humans and their allies were weak. They didn't have the stomachs for confrontation, while Klingons thrived on it.

  "Take him away, I said."

  Obediently, Gidris dragged the boy out of his chair and flung him in the direction of the door. Timothy Riordan stumbled, recovering only long enough to shoot Vheled a miserable and frightened glance. Then Gidris shoved him out of the dome altogether, leaving the captain alone with his thoughts.

  The Klingon shook his head. If one of his sons had turned out like the human child, he would have died long ago—at his father's hands.

  Pushing his revulsion to one side, he asked himself what his next step should be. There was only one answer.

  Despite Timothy Riordan's protestations, the other human children—who had also failed to show up in the computer files, apparently—must have taken the G-7 device. And if that were so, they had to be found.

  As before, Traphid and his colleagues were waiting for them. This time, however, Kirk and his party didn't transport into the hexagonal hall. They simply walked in, albeit past a squad of security personnel.

  Again, there was the exchange of gestures, carried on symbolically for both groups by Traphid and Farquhar. The first minister seemed a bit more impatient than the last time the captain had seen him; so did t
he other Malurians.

  "Matters have taken a turn for the worse," Kirk guessed.

  Traphid looked at him. "You are perceptive, Captain. As the cubaya approach the mother city, the rioting is spreading to other cities across our world. We restore order in one place only to find the Obirrhat have created chaos in two others." His face twitched; if anything, it was even more pronounced than before. "The casualties are mounting. The Obirrhat are very stubborn."

  And they're not the only ones, Kirk thought. But he kept his opinions to himself.

  "I'm sorry to hear that," the ambassador remarked, reminding his companions of who was in charge here. "But we may have found a way to resolve your dispute."

  "So I understand," the first minister replied. "Please, present your solution."

  For a moment, the captain thought Farquhar might turn the conversation over to Scotty, or at least credit the man for having had the idea in the first place. As it turned out, he had no intention of doing either.

  "It seems," the ambassador began, "that we must dissuade the cubaya from treading on the sacred ground of the Obirrhat—and by some means other than physical force. You agree?"

  Traphid thought for a moment. "In principle, yes. As long as you understand that it is not only force per se that we object to, but in general anything that may displace the cubaya against its wishes."

  "Understood," Farquhar told him. "Now, we understand the cubaya have a strong negative reaction to predator scents," the ambassador began. "In short, they run from them."

  "True," Traphid confirmed.

  "If this is the case, why not domesticate one or two of these predators and leave them in the vicinity of the sacred monuments?" Farquhar smiled ingratiatingly. "This way, the cubaya will not be harmed, but they will be encouraged to stay away—in keeping with the Obirrhat's needs."

  McCoy and Scotty stood on either side of Kirk. He darted a glance at each of them in turn. As long as he was in charge here, no one was going to be grimacing at Farquhar's approach, no matter how sickly sweet it was.

  The ministers looked at one another. For a moment or two, they conferred in subdued tones. Then they regarded the ambassador again.