Faces of Fire

by Michael Jan Friedman

It was plain that the fellow caught his drift. He nodded. "That's the way I feel." He indicated the pair seated across from him. "In fact, that's how we all feel."

  Kirk turned to Scotty. "You see? I told you we'd find a good reception in this place."

  The engineering chief grunted approvingly. "I never had any doubt of it. After all, this is the sacred precinct. If ye canna find solidarity here in these tryin' times, where can ye find it?"

  Their newfound friend sighed aloud. "Times are trying, all right. Just yesterday, the damned Manteil marched a procession of offworlders through the precinct—along with a couple of armed guards. It was a slap in the face, I tell you—a reminder of how little they respect us."

  One of his companions chuckled. "True. But we taught them they couldn't do that kind of thing. A couple of our boys came out shooting—even took one of the guards down."

  The first Obirrhat made a gesture of dismissal. "That was nothing to be proud of. We lost two to their one, and they weren't much older than the mugrunner who got you your drinks. I count it more of a pity than anything else."

  Kirk frowned in sympathy, nor was it entirely an act. He'd hated to see those Obirrhat youths cut down as much as anyone else.

  "At least we showed them," the second man piped up. "At least we didn't let it go unnoticed, like we've done in the past."

  The first Obirrhat dismissed that idea as well. "So what? Are they going to stop treating us like something less than men? Are they going to cease their abuse of the sacred ground?"

  The third man at their table, who had been silent up until now, spoke up. "They'll never stop that. Not unless we make them."

  "Granted," the first Obirrhat replied. "But there's time enough for that." His eyes momentarily lost their focus. "And no need to lose young lives in the process." As he emerged from his brief reverie, he turned to the captain and Scotty again. "But then, you didn't come here to listen to us argue, did you?"

  Kirk shook his head. "With all due respect, no. One can hear the same arguments wherever there are Obirrhat, I think." He looked around, as if leery of spies. "Though there are some in the precinct I'd give much to listen to."

  All three of his listeners nodded gravely. "I believe I know who you mean," the first man said.

  "Do you know where we might find them?" Mister Scott asked.

  The question met with a mixed reaction. It seemed to Kirk the men knew, but were reluctant to give away such important information.

  On the other hand, he and Scotty were passing themselves off as representatives of another region. And communication among the various Obirrhat communities was essential if they were to stand up to the Manteil.

  In the end, opportunism won out over caution. "If you like," the third Obirrhat offered, "we can take you to them."

  "We would like that very much," the captain told them. "In fact, the sooner the better."

  The Obirrhat exchanged glances. "Why not now?" the second one said.

  They reached an unspoken consensus. Almost at the same instant, they raised their mugs and drained them. Kirk and Scotty did the same. With all the spice in their drinks, it wasn't easy, but they managed.

  "Come," said the first Obirrhat, and made his way toward the door through the growing crowd. The disguised humans followed, and the other two Obirrhat brought up the rear.

  Outside, it was full sunset. The sky in the east was a riot of golds and greens, and the dying light was reflected on the ancient walls of the market square. It gave the place an ethereal quality that was almost startling and hard to reconcile with its very earthly appearance during the day.

  The third Obirrhat, the taciturn one, must have seen the look in the captain's eye. "Beautiful," he said, "is it not?"

  Kirk nodded. "Indeed."

  "It's the first time you've seen it?"

  "The first time," the captain echoed.

  "In that case," the Obirrhat remarked sincerely, "I envy you a great deal."

  They crossed the plaza, with its tables and booths now empty of merchants, retracing some of the steps Kirk and Scotty had taken just minutes earlier. However, instead of heading for the broad thoroughfare, the Obirrhat led them to another exit, the narrowest street they'd seen yet. Truth to tell, it was little more than an alley.

  As they entered the cool, deep-shadowed space between the buildings, the captain could see that the passage eventually terminated in a cul-de-sac. So their destination had to be somewhere before that point—one of the various doors that opened on the alley—though none of them looked particularly auspicious.

  Of course, that would be the whole point—to look inauspicious. If you're hiding something or someone you don't do it in a place that draws attention to itself.

  About halfway to the dead end, the second Obirrhat turned to Scotty. "Where did you say you were from again?" he asked.

  "We didn't say," the engineer told him. "But as it happens, we're from Torril."

  The man nodded. "Never been there myself," he commented. "Nice place?"

  "The nicest," Scotty answered.

  Good going, Kirk thought. Very smooth.

  Naturally, they'd done some research on the geography of the region and picked a likely town as their point of origin. But not truly being natives, they had to avoid in-depth conversations about the place.

  As it happened, the second Obirrhat didn't have a chance to inquire further, because the first one stopped and knocked sharply on a small, wooden door. There was a distinct pattern to the knock, too—two raps close together, followed after a second or two by another, and finally three more in succession.

  The door opened. A pair of silvery eyes caught the light, flickering as they glanced from one caller to the next.

  "It's all right," the second Obirrhat said. "They're friends from Torril come to have a word with us."

  The sentinel grunted, turned to others deeper within, and barked something the captain couldn't quite make out. Then he gestured for them to come inside.

  They entered, moving slowly because it was difficult to see—and even more so after the door closed behind the last of them, cutting off the light filtering in from the alley. Reaching out instinctively, Kirk felt a wall and followed it.

  They continued that way for what seemed like a long time, considering how small the precinct buildings looked from the outside. The captain used the time to think about what he was going to say to Menikki and Omalas, who might not give them a whole lot of time to communicate once they learned whom they'd invited into their hiding place.

  He was still mulling over his choice of words when a small flare of blue light-erupted off to his right. A moment later, a second flare erupted on his left. Even before his eyes adjusted to the illumination, the captain could see that whatever corridor they'd been traveling had opened into a large room. It was full of Obirrhat—perhaps a dozen of them, not counting the ones he and Scotty had come in with. In fact, the newcomers were surrounded by them.

  The second Obirrhat stepped forward and indicated his companions with a sweep of his arm. "A couple of visitors," he said, "from Torril, come to confer with our leaders."

  One of the others in the room eyed them in the glimmering light. "How interesting," he remarked. He looked at Kirk. "I am from Torril. And I've never seen you before in my life."

  The captain cursed inwardly. They hadn't taken into account the possibility that delegations from other cities might have begun to arrive already in the precinct—though in retrospect, it seemed a rather large oversight.

  A moment later, Scotty paid for their mistake. One of the Obirrhat behind him delivered a crushing blow to the back of his head, driving him to his knees. As the engineer crumpled, Kirk whirled, expecting more of the same.

  His expectation was on the money. Moving to his right, he eluded the rock-wielding fist that would have laid him out alongside Scotty. Then, gripping his attacker's wrist with both hands, he pivoted, dropped to one knee, and flung the man over his shoulder.

  Screaming at th
e pain of his broken wrist, the Obirrhat hurtled into two of his onrushing compatriots. Hoping to take advantage of the confusion, the captain went for his unconscious engineer, aiming to scoop him up in his arms and make for the exit.

  Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way. Though he managed to reach Scotty without anyone intervening, he'd barely lifted him off the ground before something hit him hard in the side of the head.

  His last thought, before he lost consciousness, was that all McCoy's hard work had been for nothing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  "THEY DID WHAT?" blurted Farquhar, standing at the other end of the doctor's office in sickbay.

  McCoy scowled, hating the idea of having to spill the beans—though it didn't seem as if he had much of a choice. "They went back to the precinct."

  "Back to the—" The ambassador sputtered. "By themselves?"

  McCoy nodded reluctantly.

  "Were they out of their minds?" Farquhar raved. "The last time we were in the precinct, we were almost killed." He held out his hands, as if he expected an explanation to drop into them. "What in blazes were they thinking?"

  McCoy shrugged. "Probably that they'd be able to end this conflict sooner if they had some input from the Obirrhat side."

  "Wait a minute," the ambassador said. "They went to meet with the Obirrhat? Just like that?"

  "No, not just like that," the doctor told him. "They took some precautions first, of course."

  "Precautions? What kind of precautions could keep them safe from a pack of bloodthirsty rebels?"

  It sounded like Farquhar's objectivity was starting to slip, Bones noted. But then, getting stoned within an inch of his life will do that to a man.

  "Precautions," he repeated. "Like some minor facial surgery to make them look like Malurians."

  The ambassador looked at him, amazed. "You performed surgery on them?"

  McCoy felt himself getting angry. "Damn it, it was the only way to give them a shot at finding Menikki and Omalas. I figured—"

  "So it was your idea."

  "Yes, it was my blasted idea. They needed to get close to the missing ministers. This was a way to do that."

  There was silence for a moment. "But now you're worried," said Farquhar.

  "You think Id be telling you all this if I weren't?" McCoy harrumphed. "They were supposed to have been back by now. Something's happened to them. I can feel it in my bones."

  "And what would you have me do about it?" the ambassador asked, smiling suddenly. "Tell the council?"

  The doctor nodded. "That's exactly right. The council may be the only hope they've got right now."

  Farquhar looked at him as if he were crazy. "I meant that as a joke. If the council were to send a squad into the precinct right now, it might destroy what little chance for peace still exists."

  "And if they don't," said McCoy, "the captain and Scotty may be goners."

  The ambassador shook his head. "No. That's not how it works, Doctor. We can't risk the lives of thousands, maybe millions, to save a couple of foolhardy Starfleet adventurers."

  Bones advanced on Farquhar. "Those foolhardy adventurers saved your bacon not so long ago," he rasped. "You can't just write them off like that!"

  "I wasn't the one who told them to go back to the precinct," the ambassador shot back. "I wasn't the one who suggested they risk their lives!"

  That stung. For a moment, the doctor thought he was going to slug the other man. Judging by the expression on Farquhar's face, he thought so too.

  But in the end, McCoy didn't do any such thing. Because as much as he hated the idea, he knew that the ambassador was right.

  "You win," he muttered, turning his back on Farquhar.

  "I … win?" the ambassador repeated. He sounded incredulous.

  "Yes, damn it. You win. We won't go to the council." He grunted helplessly. "We'll just keep our fingers crossed and hope that Jim and Scotty come out of this alive."

  For a little while, neither man spoke. Finally, it was Farquhar who broke the silence. "Jim? You call your captain by his first name?"

  The doctor looked back at him over his shoulder.

  "Is there anything wrong with that?" he asked.

  The ambassador shrugged. "No, nothing. It's just that …" He shrugged again. "I just didn't think it was done. Protocol and all that."

  "You know," McCoy said, "there's more to life—and diplomacy—than protocol, Ambassador."

  For the first time since they met, McCoy had the feeling that Farquhar was listening to him, really listening to him. Then the old stiffness came back into the man's spine and he tugged down on his tunic.

  "I'm going to beam down alone," Farquhar told him. "If the ministers ask, I'll say that the captain and his people were required on the ship. To . . . to address some sort of technical problem."

  "Fine." The doctor didn't care a whole lot what excuse the ambassador gave the council. He was too preoccupied with thinking of another way to help his friends.

  "Dr. McCoy?"

  "Mm?"

  "I just want you to know that I'm concerned about them as well." He bit his lip. Captain Kirk and Mr. Scott are brave men. If there's any justice, they'll come back safe and sound."

  Bones glanced at him, more than a little surprised.

  "Thanks," he said.

  Farquhar cleared his throat. "You're welcome." Then he turned and exited the doctor's office.

  "What kind of trap are you making, Mr. Spock?" It was Garcia who'd asked.

  The first officer replied succinctly. "An efficient one."

  Under Spock's painstaking guidance, the disuptor's pale blue beam cut a precise and continuous path through the vein of foliated rock—not unlike shale or schist on Earth—that was part of the hillside. Fortunately, this form of mineral accretion was plentiful in this region.

  The Vulcan tried to concentrate on his work and not to dwell too much on the number of Klingons he and the children had sighted in the last few hours. Obviously, the net was tightening around them; every moment they spent out here in the open was a flirtation with disaster.

  The children, on the other hand, showed no sign of concern. They stood at a safe distance and looked on, their faces dyed a pale blue by the glare of the disruptor beam.

  It would not do, he realized, to let them see apprehension either in his expression or in the curtness of his answers. They took their cue from him, and panic was the last thing they needed.

  Far better, under the circumstances, to let them in on what he was doing step by step, as if he were a teacher, and they his students. Yes, he thought. That is the approach I must take.

  Unfortunately, while he often held informal seminars on various subjects for new additions to the science section, the first officer had no experience with a group this young. He could only hope that his illustrations were understandable to them.

  "On Vulcan," he explained, "there is a predator called a le-matya. It lives in the hills. But in times of drought, when its natural prey becomes sparse, it grows bold and comes down to the plains to forage. Then traps must be set, or the le-matya will steal even household pets."

  Pfeffer looked up at him. "You mean like dogs and cats? To eat them?"

  Medford made a face. Obviously, the idea didn't appeal to her.

  "Not dogs and cats," said Spock. "But their Vulcan equivalents. And yes—to eat them. That is how le-matyas live—by hunting for their food."

  As the first officer continued to cut his way through the rock, finding the disruptor only slightly more awkward than a phaser, he recognized the smell of ozone—the same smell he'd encountered on Earth during summer storms. Interesting, he mused, despite all the other matters he had on his mind. The disruption process had some similarities to the application of simple static electricity.

  The most important result, however, was that it worked. He would be finished in a matter of moments.

  "Of course," he resumed, "on Vulcan, we have access to dead tree branches and leaves. Here we must
be somewhat more innovative."

  He turned momentarily from his labors to look again at his audience. The children were still watching with great interest.

  Finally completing his task, he removed his finger from the weapon's firing pad. Instantly, the disruption barrage stopped.

  Now came the difficult part, he thought, the part that required some finesse. He would have to separate the various laminate leaves of which the rock was constructed—originally, disparate materials that had been deposited by whatever forces shaped this planet millennia ago.

  Kneeling, he sighted the disruptor along the fault lines of the top layer and the one directly beneath it. Then he depressed the firing pad again.

  "When I am done," he announced, "you will be able to pick up the pieces. That is how light they will be."

  The beam lanced out and sliced the leaves apart, starting with the left-hand edge and working its way to the right. A few seconds later, the top laminate was free.

  Terminating the beam, Spock stepped back to judge his handiwork. By that time, the children had already begun to approach the rock for a closer look.

  Pfeffer looked up at the Vulcan. "Can we touch it? Is it hot?"

  "You may indeed touch it," Spock assured him. "You may even lift it up."

  The boy's eyes lit up with a mixture of awe and disbelief. Taking the edge of the laminate in his hands, he pulled at it experimentally.

  It moved easily. More easily, in fact, than even the Vulcan had expected. Encouraged, Pfeffer pulled it off the rest of the rock.

  "Careful," Spock warned. "It is brittle. And we do not want it to break. Not yet, at any rate. Ms. Medford, would you give Mr. Pfeffer some assistance?"

  Complying eagerly, Medford picked up the other end of the leaf. Together, she and the red-haired boy carried it down to the strip of level ground at the convergence of this hillside and the next.

  "Can I help carry the next one?" Wan asked.

  "I see no reason why not," Spock replied. "For now, however, you must stand back again."

  Wan, David, and Garcia did as they were told. Once they were safely out of the way, the Vulcan applied his disruptor beam to the separation of the next two leaves.