God help us, the captain mused, if we actually have to get out of here on foot. Before long, it'll be a blasted gauntlet.
As if to give force to his fears, Kirk felt something strike him in the back, hard. He winced but kept going, mindful of the numbers against them. McCoy was hit, too; he uttered a curse, though it was too low for their pursuers to pick up.
After the next intersection, Kirk noticed, the character of the buildings began to change. His earlier assessment was correct—they were within a couple of blocks of the precinct limits.
And still no help from the Enterprise. Come on, Kyle, he breathed.
Yet another projectile came slanting down at them, catching the ambassador on the side of the head. When he turned to the captain, fright and indignation fighting for control of him, there was blood trickling down from his temple.
The man was going to run. Kirk could see it in his face.
He tightened his grip on Farquhar's arm. "Don't do it," he told him. "Don't even think about it."
Thrusting his chin out, the ambassador endeavored to do as he was told. But his lower lip was trembling; clearly, he was barely able to contain his outrage.
The stoning continued. At one point, a small child even ran up in front of them and hurled a pebble at Scotty, then jeered before running away again. But they endured it, were even grateful for it, because as long as the Obirrhat only used stones, they had a chance. And all the while, they were buying time for the transporter chief.
Finally, however, someone hurled a piece of rock too big to dismiss. McCoy must have been looking back at their antagonists, because it struck him in the forehead, hard enough to make his knees buckle and oblige Scotty to catch him. For an instant, the doctor appeared to be unconscious. Then, with the engineer's help, he managed to gather his feet beneath him and stagger on, blood streaming down his face on both sides of his left eye.
Still, the captain thought, McCoy was lucky. Thrown with a little more enthusiasm, that rock could have killed him.
Looking skyward, Kirk made another silent appeal to Kyle: Beam us up. Chief! What's taking so long?
The stoning got worse—heavier and harder. The captain took a shot in the back of the head that made him bite down on his lip. He tasted blood; before he could spit it out, another missile smashed him in the side of the knee.
They weren't going to last much longer. The Obirrhat were getting more vicious with each barrage. Soon, one or more of them would fall to the ground, and that would be the beginning of the end.
The second intersection loomed in front of them. But before they could reach it, it filled up with rock-wielding Obirrhat who blocked their path.
There was nowhere to go. They were trapped.
Suddenly, without warning, their Manteil guard whipped out his phaser and played it over the crowd in back of them. Not knowing that he'd adjusted it to a nonlethal setting, they fell back immediately, as some of the Obirrhat in the front rank collapsed to their knees.
That's when all hell broke loose. The Obirrhat in the intersection hurled their stones and screamed a vow of vengeance for their brothers' deaths.
The Manteil turned to fire his weapon at them as well, but a well-aimed hunk of rock caught him in the jaw and ruined his aim. Off-balance, burdened by his comrade's body, he went down.
Nor was there time to go scrambling for the phaser. There was barely time enough for Kirk to set himself as the Obirrhat in the intersection rushed them, bellowing as they came.
He wasn't going to give up, the captain told himself. He'd faced worse than this a hundred times and gotten through it somehow. That's what he told himself. But in his heart, he had to concede that this might be the exception that proved the rule.
And what a way to go—at the hands of a mob, probably more scared than he was—fighting over a bunch of dumb beasts who didn't have a clue they were being fought over. He could almost have laughed.
Then he saw the Obirrhat closing with them, and he decided against it. As the leader of the charge brought a piece of rock back, preparing to bludgeon him with it, Kirk shuffled his feet to avoid the blow. The rock shot forward and missed, but the Obirrhat behind it wasn't going to be so easy to elude. As the captain braced for the impact of bone against bone…
Nothing happened.
And then he realized why. He was no longer standing in a narrow street in the Obirrhats' sacred precinct, he was on a platform in the Enterprise's transporter room. What's more, Scotty and Bones were with him, though both of them had seen better days. And so was the Manteil guard, along with his tragic burden.
Dr. M'Benga, Nurse Chapel, and a trauma team had been waiting alongside Kyle for the landing party's arrival. As Kirk and the others came staggering off the platform, each of them found a pair of arms to lend support.
"I'm all right," the captain told the two burly nurses who'd come to his aid. "Really, I'm fine."
"I'll be the judge of that," said M'Benga. He turned to the nurses. "See him to sickbay. And don't let him pull rank on you."
"That's right," McCoy muttered, as another pair of sickbay personnel ushered him off. "Be careful with him; he's a slippery devil." And he winked, bloody face and all.
Kirk was glad to see the doctor still had enough of his wits to poke fun at him. Sighing, he allowed himself to be escorted to sickbay with the others.
Chapter Twelve
THE LOWER HALF OF Traphid's face was twitching as McCoy had never seen it twitch before. "I cannot say how much I regret what happened," he told them. "It was …" He searched for the right word, then shook his head in defeat. "I should have anticipated such a turn of events. I should have dispatched more guards to escort you."
Once again, there were eight of them in the hall of government: McCoy, Jim, Scotty, the ambassador, and the four Malurian ministers. The tension in the air was almost palpable.
"You acted as you saw fit," Farquhar replied—diplomatically, of course. He had a dermaplast patch over one eye. "There is no need for self-recrimination, First Minister."
"And with all due respect," the captain added, "even a couple dozen guards wouldn't have been able to keep the Obirrhat in line after what happened to those two young men."
True enough, McCoy thought. Hell, the presence of the guards was what had caused the whole thing. If they'd been unescorted, they might not have roused such a furor.
Traphid frowned. "Yes. Their deaths were unfortunate." His voice hardened. "As was the death of our guardsman. It appears the Obirrhat have gotten their hands on a supply of phaser pistols. We will have to find their source and cut it off."
"In the meantime," the ambassador remarked, "I think we've seen all we need to see. The time has come for us to sit down and talk—to see if we can't work out a solution to all this."
The ministers looked at him. "Of course," Traphid answered. But it seemed to McCoy he had even less confidence in the suggestion than before. "We may begin this afternoon."
Farquhar nodded. "Good. It's best we get started as soon as possible."
"First Minister," Kirk interjected, "I'd like to make a recommendation."
The ambassador smiled sweetly in his direction. "We'll meet with the council this afternoon, Captain. We can present our recommendations then."
"People may be dying as we speak," the captain reminded him. "If we can temporarily defuse the situation, we can prevent that."
Farquhar was about to press his case, McCoy thought, when Traphid raised his hand. "I would like to hear the captain's recommendation," he said.
Yet another rebuke, the doctor noted. When would the ambassador learn?
Kirk turned to Traphid. "I know how closely you embrace your religious beliefs, First Minister. And if the situation were not so potentially explosive, I would not presume to raise this issue. But would it not serve everyone's interests, including those of the cubaya themselves, if you were to keep the animals away from the sacred precinct for a short while?"
Farquhar reddened. "Captain—"<
br />
Kirk continued, speaking calmly yet forcefully, despite the incipient protest. "I know I'm asking a lot, First Minister. However, this is a unique problem, and unique problems call for unique solutions."
Traphid and his colleagues listened, their expressions unreadable, at least to McCoy. But the ambassador wasn't nearly so attentive.
"Captain, I believe we are overstepping our bounds. We didn't come here to remold the cultural values of—"
"What's more," Kirk plunged on, "there's the safety of the beasts to consider. Imagine if the Obirrhat had chosen to attack the cubaya that came through in the first wave, instead of waiting and hoping for a solution. They could have slaughtered the animals wholesale." He eyed the first minister. "Perhaps the next time, they will."
McCoy nodded. Tell 'em, Jim.
"Captain," Farquhar rasped, noticeably perturbed now, "that will be quite enough." He turned to Traphid. "First Minister, I must apologize for this man's affront to your traditions. It is inexcusable, and it will not happen again, I assure you." With this last comment, the ambassador turned back to Kirk and glared. The captain glared back.
Farquhar's finally done it, the doctor thought. He's even gotten to Jim Kirk—and that's not an easy thing to do.
Traphid made a gulping sound, drawing everyone's attention. He addressed the captain. "As you say, unique problems call for unique solutions. I will concede as much."
McCoy tried to contain his surprise. Was it possible Kirk had actually pierced the Malurian's dark-ages mentality and let some light in?
"But Captain," the first minister went on, "the ambassador is correct in one respect: you misunderstand our traditions. The cubaya are not simply beasts to us—they carry the living incarnations of our most sacred leaders. There will be no discussion of curbing the rangings of the cubaya. Not for a day; not even for a minute."
The doctor's hopes crumbled as fast as he'd built them up. He should have known better, he told himself.
"As for their safety," said Traphid, "we are concerned. However, we will meet that concern with increased security measures." He paused. "I am the first to admit that this is not an ideal solution, given the volatility of the Obirrhat population in the sacred precinct. But until an ideal solution presents itself, it will have to do."
McCoy cursed inwardly. In other words, he thought, thanks for the help, but next time keep it to yourself.
The captain bit his lip. He seemed on the verge of trying again, maybe using a little different approach. But he must have thought better of it, because all he said was, "I would have been negligent in the performance of my duty if I'd failed to make the suggestion."
The first minister nodded. "I understand." He looked to the ambassador. "This afternoon, then."
"This afternoon," Farquhar confirmed.
When the Klingon entered the rec dome, where half of them were being held, Carol's stomach muscles clenched. She fully expected him to announce that they had caught and killed the human children in the hills, and disposed of them in whatever way Klingons disposed of corpses.
But instead, he asked, "Which one of you is Yves Boudreau?" His words were clipped and guttural but otherwise fairly easy to understand.
The colony administrator raised his head. There was a purplish swelling at the corner of his mouth, where one of the invaders had hit him, and a dark cut over one eye, where he'd been clouted for not responding quickly enough to the one called Mallot.
"Something else? I've told them all I can," he muttered wearily.
That wasn't quite true, of course. Boudreau hadn't given them much more than broad strokes when it came to the G-7 unit.
Nor would he be required to, apparently, until they had recovered the unit. And that was missing, if their captors were to be believed—although they didn't seem to know what had happened to it.
Carol didn't know either, but she had her suspicions. When she'd seen her fellow colonists being rounded up, Mr. Spock wasn't among them. And if anyone could take the one-of-a-kind unit and carry it off with him, it would be a Vulcan.
Of course, she couldn't come out and ask their captors if Spock was missing too, any more than she could ask about David and his friends. Because if the Starfleet officer had eluded the Klingons—and maybe taken G-7 with him—she didn't want to give him away.
Helping Boudreau to his feet, Carol instinctively placed herself between him and the Klingon. After all, the administrator wasn't a young man; the next blow might do irreparable damage.
"Stand away, woman," growled the newcomer.
"What do you want with him?" she asked.
The Klingon's bony brow bunched with anger. "That is none of your concern. Now stand away or you will wish you had."
"It's all right, Carol," said Boudreau. "There's no point in resisting."
He was right; she knew that. But it didn't make it any easier for her to watch him walk by and out the entrance to the dome, followed closely by the Klingon.
The room they occupied was almost as large as the Hall of Government, and with its tall, stained-glass windows, just as impressive, too. A table was set for them on the far end, though their food hadn't arrived yet.
"How could you have done such a thing?" the ambassador asked through tightly drawn lips. "How could you have even contemplated it?"
His back to Farquhar, Kirk shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
He tried to concentrate on the stained-glass images and not on the ambassador's voice. That way, there was at least a chance he'd get through this tête-à-tête without blowing up.
"A good …?" Farquhar sputtered. "It could hardly have been a worse idea." He shook his head. "That's the problem with having ship's personnel participate in diplomatic endeavors."
"Indeed?" Scotty said. McCoy muttered something as well.
The captain could only imagine the kind of looks they were giving the ambassador. He would have liked to do the same. But he wasn't gomg to take the bait. He wasn't. He was going to memorize every detail of these fine, stained-glass works of art—right down to the number of cubaya in them, which was considerable.
"Indeed," Farquhar replied, without looking at the engineer. His attention was still riveted on Kirk. "We've already forfeited the possibility of meeting with the Obirrhat, thanks to your misguided set of priorities. Would you have us alienate the Manteil as well? Remember our job, Captain—to bring the two sides together. How would you do that? By aligning both of them against us?"
Kirk focused on a particularly loathsome-looking pair of the Manteil's holy beasts. He thought they were mating, but he couldn't be sure; the style was far from realistic.
"Are you listening to me?" the ambassador demanded.
The captain took a deep breath, then let it out. "It's my job to listen to you," he said. But it's not my job to like it, he added silently.
"Then I suggest you open our afternoon meetings with an apology to Traphid and his fellow ministers for trampling on their beliefs."
Kirk felt a surge of anger. He bit it back. "Apologize?" he echoed.
"That's right. I want them fully cooperative when the talks begin, not harboring a resentment it'll take days to overcome."
The captain looked at McCoy, then Scotty. They looked back sympathetically, no doubt wishing there were something they could do to help him.
But there wasn't. They knew that. And so did Kirk.
"Apologize," he said again. He regarded Farquhar. "You don't think we've apologized enough to them already—for arrving when we did, for wanting to see the beasts and the sacred places at the heart of their dispute, even for taking up their time with suggestions they rejected? You don't think they're a little tired of hearing us apologize?"
The ambassador's eyes narrowed. "Captain, some days ago, you expressed a reverence for the wisdom of following orders. Your orders at this moment, I believe, are to assist me in these negotiations." A pause. "Unless, of course, you're refusing to do that—in which case I will be certain to include the
fact in my report to the Federation Council."
Kirk didn't give a damn about Farquhar's report to the council. He did, however, give a damn about following orders. Or, at least, enough of a damn not to fly in the face of them because of his personal predilections concerning the ambassador.
"All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll … tender an apology." The words left a bad taste in his mouth.
Scotty cursed beneath his breath. McCoy just shook his head.
The ambassador nodded, satisfied. "I thought you'd come to your senses."
The captain flashed back to his conversation with Carol back on the colony world. She'd asked him if he was happy, if he would trade his captaincy for something else. What might he tell her if she asked that question of him now?
Farquhar cleared his throat, like a rooster crowing over his victory. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll see what's keeping our lunch. Diplomacy always makes me hungry."
And with that, he strutted out of the chamber, leaving a razor-edged silence in his wake. Scotty was the one who finally broke it.
"Of all the self-important, narrow-minded, stubborn fops I've met in my day …"
"You can say that again," McCoy told him. "And a lot more, if you like—though you still won't cover the subject adequately." He scowled. "I had him pegged from the moment I laid eyes on him."
Kirk nodded. "So you did, Bones. And I was foolish enough to try to talk you out of it."
"Obviously," Scotty continued, "he's forgotten ye saved his worthless hide not sae long ago."
"Worthless hide indeed," remarked the doctor.
The captain sighed. "It's not the personal humiliation that bothers me so much. It's the fact that the fate of this world is in his hands. I just wish there were something we could do to defuse the situation before the death toll starts to mount." He frowned. "If only there were a way to get in touch with those two Obirrhat ministers—what were their names? Menikki …"
"And Omalas," the engineer supplied.
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