Faces of Fire

by Michael Jan Friedman

  "But we got him," the red-haired youth protested. "We had him right where we wanted him."

  "Perhaps," the Vulcan replied. "There is no way of knowing what might have transpired if I had not intervened."

  "We'll do it again, this time without any help," the dark-haired boy suggested. "And you'll see how easy it is."

  Spock shook his head. "I cannot allow a repeat of the maneuver. It is too dangerous. Even the slightest miscalculation could mean your deaths."

  They looked at him with hard eyes in hard faces. "Our parents are fighting for their lives," the black girl reminded him. "If it means helping them, why shouldn't we do the same thing?"

  "I am certain," the Vulcan said, "that your parents would prefer you to remain safe—to retreat into the hills as far as you possibly can, and to stay there until help arrives."

  "And what about you?" asked the blond boy, the leader. "What are you going to do?"

  It was the one question Spock wasn't prepared to answer. "I do not know yet," he said.

  "You're going to try to help the people back in the colony," the dark-haired boy accused, more certain of it than the Vulcan himself was.

  "If circumstances allow," Spock agreed, "I will make an attempt to do so."

  "And won't your chances be better," the blond one suggested, "if you get some help?"

  It was almost logical. The Vulcan gave the youngster credit.

  "My chances of helping your parents will be greater, yes. But my chances of losing you will also be greater. It will be a trade-off."

  The boy shook his head. "We're not just going to run away and hide." He licked his lips. "We've proven we can help, and we're going to—with you or without you."

  Spock cocked an eyebrow. The child had the kind of courage one didn't find too often, even in adults. What's more, he seemed to be an inspiration to the others. The Vulcan sighed. Apparently, he had little choice in the matter. If the children could not be convinced to retreat to a safer place, he would have to protect them. And the only way to do that was to join forces with them.

  It was not a situation he found appealing. However, the alternative—letting them brave the danger on their own—was even less so.

  "All right," he said. "We will work together. However, you must follow my directions. If we are to lay traps for our pursuers, they must be more efficient than the one that caught him." He tilted his head to indicate the Klingon who lay unconscious in the back of the cave.

  The children looked at one another. The black girl nodded.

  The blond boy turned back to Spock. "You've got a deal," he said.

  It was settled. "I will need to know your names," the Vulcan told them. "Mine is—"

  "Mr. Spock," the blond one said, perhaps a little too quickly. And then, realizing his error, added, "I know."

  "And yours?" the Vulcan asked.

  For the first time, the youth seemed reticent. Finally, he said, "David."

  "I'm Pfeffer," the redhead chimed in.

  "Garcia," offered the dark-haired boy.

  "Medford." That came from the black girl.

  Finally, "Wan."

  Spock couldn't help but notice that they all used their last names. All except David. He was the only one who'd given the Vulcan his first name. And reluctantly, at that. Spock filed the fact away for future consideration.

  As Kruge eyed the human called Boudreau, the man shook his head. He seemed sincerely puzzled. "I don't understand. I thought I'd explained this already to Mallot."

  The Klingon scowled. He laid the blunt tip of his long, thick finger on the colony administrator's chest and pressed against the bone. "You may have explained it to Mallot, human, but you have not explained it to me."

  They were standing outside the dome in a cold wind. Though the Klingon was hardly dressed for the weather, he didn't feel any discomfort. He was distracted by his thirst for knowledge.

  If G-7 was truly a weapon, he needed to know more about it. And he wanted to hear about it from the man who had developed it—not from Mallot, who, being a Klingon, would almost certainly have his own ambitious agenda.

  "Very well," said Boudreau. "What is it you wish to know, exactly?" His expression changed. "Maybe you should tell me what you know already, and I can go on from there."

  Kruge couldn't see anything wrong with that approach. "I know," he began, "that a pack of your children are missing. A child named Riordan told us as much."

  He looked for another shift in expression and was rewarded. Obviously, Boudreau had known about the children. And now he knew that the Klingons knew.

  The second officer went on. "I know that these children have stolen the G-Seven unit, which was at the heart of your installation. And I know that the G-Seven device is a weapon of considerable might, which you do not wish to fall into the hands of your enemies."

  A strange thing happened then; It seemed to Kruge that the human almost smiled. Then the Klingon figured it out: the smile was feigned. To throw me off the track.

  He glared at Boudreau. "Now it's your turn to educate me."

  The human looked at him. "What is your name?" he asked.

  That took the Klingon by surprise. "Kruge," he snarled. "Why do you ask?"

  The prisoner shrugged. "I just wanted to know the name of the man who is going to kill me."

  Kruge could feel his black eyes narrowing, bringing his brow down lower. "And why do you think I will kill you?" he asked.

  "Because I'm about to tell you that what you believe is a lie—or really, a number of lies. And I don't expect you will like that very much."

  The Klingon's lip curled. "Try me," he said.

  "All right," Boudreau replied. "To begin with, there are no children in the colony besides Tim Riordan, no matter what he told you. No doubt he lied because he was scared. And frankly, I can't blame him for that."

  Kruge looked at him askance. "No children? How can that be? Our sensors picked them up."

  The human seemed to hesitate, or was it the Klingon's imagination? Then he said, "They're only echoes. Ghosts. At least, those are some of the things we call them when they foul up our ships' sensor readings."

  "Ghosts?" the Klingon repeated. "You mean sensor artifacts?"

  "That's right—artifacts. Things that appear to be there but aren't. It has something to do with magnetic field anomalies. So you can look high and low for those children you recorded, and you'll never find them."

  Kruge pondered that. "Then who took the G-Seven unit?"

  "That," said the terraformer, "I don't know. Who's missing?"

  The Klingon frowned. "Besides the children—the ones you say aren't there—no one. Everyone is accounted for, except the Riordan whelp." He licked his lips. "Perhaps the boy was lying all along. Perhaps he hid the device himself." He could feel himself growing angry just contemplating the possibility.

  "I don't think so," the human said. "You've seen him. Does he seem like the sort of child who would risk his life to keep that unit from you?"

  Kruge frowned again. "Admittedly, he does not. Then who?"

  "Unfortunately," Boudreau told him, "I can't help you there. But I can tell you this I wouldn't be too concerned about the G-Seven. It's hardly what I'd call a weapon, or even the basis for one."

  Kruge was unconvinced. What kind of fool did the human take him for? Did he think the Klingon would simply accept his word at face value? "Then why has it been stolen—and at great risk?"

  The human shrugged a second time. "Again, I don't know for certain. But if I were to venture a guess, I'd say it was to prevent you from developing a countercapability. After all, we will eventually bring along our terraforming technology to the point where we can alter an entire planet. I wouldn't put it past the Klingon Empire to try to undo our alterations, just to keep the Federation from expanding its sphere of influence."

  Kruge thrust out his chin. "That is not the Klingon way; at least, it is not the Gevish'rae way." But the Kamorh'dag? He would have to speak to Vheled of this�
�it almost seemed like something they might try.

  Kruge spat on the ground, to show what he thought of the option Boudreau had described. "If we wished to remove the Federation from a world, we would do so. Nor would its environment make it any more or less difficult for us."

  "To be honest," Boudreau told him, "that comes as a surprise to me. More to the point, I think it would come as a surprise to the person who took the G-Seven unit" He shrugged. "So you see, it doesn't really matter what you would have done with the G-Seven. What matters is what our thief thought you would have done."

  Kruge pondered the administrator's words. After a moment or two, he decided they were worthy of further scrutiny. He grunted. "You will return to your dome now."

  Boudreau nodded. "As you wish," he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THIS TIME, when they visited the sacred precincts of the Obirrhat, no one even glanced in their direction.

  It was more than a little strange, after the hostility they'd encountered only the day before. Almost like being invisible, the captain mused.

  He made a mental note to describe the experience to Bones. After all, it was the doctor who had equipped them with facial prosthetics and subdermal dyes and optical overlays designed to make them look like Malurians.

  Then it had just been a matter of having ship's stores whip up some garments, the loose-fitting variety favored by the Obirrhat, and voilà! Two denizens of the sacred precinct.

  Now the only question was how long the prosthetics would last before the itching forced him to rip them off his face. Why couldn't the Malurians have had features a little easier to wear?

  "How's yours feel?" Kirk asked his companion.

  Scotty grunted. "Like I've got my face caught in a vise. If I'd known it was goin' to be this uncomfortable—"

  The captain darted a look at him. "You'd have done it anyway." His facial muscles started to form a smile, but the prosthetics inhibited it.

  The engineer shrugged. "Aye, I suppose ye're right."

  Kirk pointed to the open-air market they had glimpsed during their official visit. The crowd wasn't as thick as before; some of the merchants were even starting to pack up their wares. But then, it was almost dusk, and the market evidently didn't stay open at night.

  "Looks like as good a place to start as any," he said.

  Scotty nodded. "After you, sir."

  The Scots accent and the Malurian visage seemed wildly at odds with one another. But then, neither one of them would pass for a native if they had to talk much. They would be wise to restrict any conversation with true Malurians to as few words as possible.

  As they approached the market square, the captain scanned the individual stalls. Some offered fresh vegetables. Others displayed long, ornate robes of a vaguely religious-looking nature, and still others showed metal or ceramic cookware. If there was a statue near a booth, and it still had a limb or two, it was used as a display fixture for the merchant's wares.

  It smelled different here than in the other parts of the precinct. In a moment, Kirk saw why. One corner of the plaza was piled high with overflowing containers of garbage, and some of it looked ripe enough to have been around when the buildings' foundations were laid.

  Personally, the captain mused, I think the cubaya would have liked it around here. Plenty to eat. But then, what do I know? I'm just an ignorant offworlder.

  Feeling a tug on his sleeve, he turned to Scotty. The engineer pointed to a spot about midway across the far side of the marketplace.

  There was an open doorway there, with a number of Obirrhat standing just inside it. They all appeared to have mugs in their hands. As the humans watched, others came to patronize the place.

  "I may nae know much," the engineer said softly, "but I can spot a drinking establishment a mile away."

  Kirk grunted. "And information flows fast and loose where there's liquor to loosen the tongue."

  Scotty looked at him, screwing up his Malurian brow in concentration. "James Joyce?"

  The captain shook his head. "Montgomery Scott. Shore leave on Gamma Theridian Twelve. That little place by the river, with the pretty barmaids and the birds flying around in the rafters."

  "Ah," said the Scotsman. "Right you are. I dinnae remember the quote, but I remember the barmaids just fine."

  Somehow, Kirk didn't think this place would be quite as frivolous as the one on Gamma Theridian Twelve. But then, they weren't here for a vacation.

  "Come on," he told his companion. "Let's see if we can't find a few loose tongues."

  Crossing the plaza, they walked up to the open doorway as if they belonged there. Some of the Obirrhat stopped their conversations and glanced curiously at the newcomers as they entered, but no one challenged them.

  Inside, they found much what they had expected—meager lighting, shadowy corners full of tables, and a steady, vaguely conspiratorial drone of voices. Much like any other public house the captain had visited.

  However, there was one way in which this place was different. There was no bar. And for that matter, now that Kirk had a chance to think about it, no waiters, either.

  Yet there were men with mugs in their hands. Obviously, they'd gotten them from somewhere.

  "Captain …" Scotty murmured.

  "I know," Kirk replied, careful to keep his voice down. "Where does a man get a drink around here?"

  It was by no means a casual concern. Without mugs in their hands, they stuck out like two very sore thumbs—a condition hardly conducive to the clandestine gathering of information.

  Some of those at the corner tables were starting to look at them—warily, the captain judged. Of course, it might have been his imagination, but if they stood there much longer, trying to figure out what to do next, everyone would be staring.

  Kirk was on the verge of making a quick exit when a youngster seemed to pop up from out of nowhere. He held his hand out palm up and peered at the captain.

  The captain peered back. "Yes?" he prompted.

  The boy's skin twitched between his cheeks and his jawline. "Don't you want a drink?" he asked.

  Damn, Kirk thought. So that's how it works.

  "I very definitely want a drink," the captain said. "And one for my friend here as well."

  "Of course," the youngster responded. "I'll get one from Phatharas—he never waters them down." But he didn't move yet; he just looked meaningfully at his open palm.

  Taking the hint, Kirk reached into the pocket of his tunic and withdrew a couple of pieces of Malurian currency. While much of the planet's economy operated through electronic funds transfer, a primitive system in and of itself, those in the environs of the capital employed an even more ancient method of wealth transfer—metal coins, like those used centuries earlier on Earth.

  Fortunately, coins such as that were easy to replicate. The captain handed over the ones he'd been carrying, hoping that they'd be about the right amount. He gathered from the way the boy's eyes lit up that he'd paid more than he had to, but not so much as to arouse suspicion.

  "Be quick," he told the youngster, "and the rest is for you." He said it as if a big tip had been his intention all along.

  Nodding eagerly, the boy took off. Kirk watched him go out the door, and wondered fleetingly if he'd just been had by a junior-grade con man. After all, he had no guarantee that his emissary would return.

  Then again, others had viewed the transaction, and no one had seemed to think it was unusual. Taking Scotty by the arm, the captain indicated an unoccupied table in the darkest of the place's four corners.

  The Obirrhat at the neighboring tables scrutinized them as they went by, hardly bothering to conceal their interest. Still, as at the door, no one stopped them or questioned their reason for being here, despite the fact that they were obviously strangers. In a close-knit community-like this one, that fact wouldn't go unnoticed for very long.

  They sat. And a moment later, much more quickly than Kirk had expected, the boy returned with a tray. There wer
e two mugs on it, which he balanced easily.

  Looking around, he spotted his clients in their new location and brought their order over. Lowering his tray onto their table, he removed the mugs from it and set them down before the captain and Scotty. Then, with a glance—perhaps by way of thanks, perhaps to see if they wanted anything more—he departed.

  Raising his mug, the captain sampled its contents. The liquid within was milky, spicy, and quite cold—a strange combination, but in this case a pleasant one. And if there was alcohol or any other stimulant in the mixture, he couldn't detect it.

  "Not bad," he remarked to Scotty.

  The chief engineer shrugged. "It could use a little sprucin' up, if ye know what I mean."

  Once again, Kirk was tempted to smile. And once again, his prosthesis prevented it.

  For a little while, they sat there, nursing their drinks, while the captain tried to think of the best way for them to start a dialogue with some Obirrhat. Finally, unable to come up with anything particularly clever or original, he opted for the direct approach.

  Turning to one of the patrons at the next table, he engaged the man's eyes. The fellow raised his mug a couple of inches in response.

  "Good day," Kirk suggested, raising his own mug.

  "There've been worse," the Obirrhat agreed. "On the other hand, there've been better."

  Among the common people, unlike in the Hall of Government, there were none of those fingers-to-temple gestures Farquhar was so fond of; Kirk knew that from his mission briefing tapes.

  "You're new here," the Obirrhat observed.

  The captain nodded. "Visiting,actually."

  "Hell of a time to visit, what with all the trouble that's going on."

  "Actually," Kirk replied, "it's the trouble that's prompted the visit."

  That piqued the man's interest. "Oh? Got family here you're worried about?"

  The captain paused a moment, as if reflecting. "In a sense," he said at last. "I mean, we're all brothers here, aren't we, when you come right down to it?"