Child of Two Worlds (Star Trek: The Original Series)

by Greg Cox

  “Sorry for the interruption, Doctor,” Pike said, approaching Boyce. “But I understand one of your other patients has regained consciousness?”

  Boyce nodded. “She’s just starting to come to.” He handed a patient’s chart over to a nurse, along with some brief instructions, before turning back toward Pike. “This way.”

  He escorted Pike and Spock toward the surgical recovery ward, just off the main examination room, while briefing the captain on the status of the injured Cyprian, who was being kept isolated from the quarantine zone. Cyprians were supposed to be immune to the fever, but Pike agreed with the doctor’s decision to keep an alien of unknown intention apart from the other patients. Sick crew members and overworked nurses didn’t need a stranger in their midst.

  “You need to go easy on her, Chris,” the doctor said. “She’s in pretty bad shape. Radiation burns, broken ribs, a few punctured organs, aggravated by a bad case of transporter shock. I had to perform emergency surgery to staunch the internal bleeding.” He frowned at the memory. “That close call on the Ilion really did a number on her. She’s lucky to be alive.”

  “But she’s talking?” Pike asked.

  “Says her name is Soleste Mursh,” the doctor informed him, “and that Ilion was her ship, but that’s about all I’ve gotten out of her. She insists on speaking to you.”

  “Fine with me,” Pike said. “I’m eager to hear her side of the story.”

  “I confess to a certain curiosity myself,” Spock divulged, “regarding both our guests.”

  Pike glanced around sickbay. “And the other woman? Merata?”

  “Doctor Boyce found no serious injuries to her person,” Spock reported, “so I took the liberty of having her confined to the brig.”

  “The brig?”

  Krunn’s not going to like that, Pike thought.

  “Given her violent behavior and prior attacks on members of the crew, it seemed a reasonable precaution,” Spock said. “As you humans say, better safe than sorry.”

  Pike noted, not for the first time, that Spock spoke of humans as though he was not half-human himself. Despite being born of a human mother and a Vulcan father, Spock had been raised on Vulcan as a Vulcan and clearly identified as such. He made every effort to distance himself from his human roots, aside from signing aboard a starship crewed almost entirely by his mother’s people. Pike had never seriously discussed the issue with Spock, who seemed to value his privacy, but the young science officer’s very presence on the Enterprise was something of a paradox, or so Pike occasionally thought.

  “Good call,” Pike said. “So how come she came through that fracas unscathed while your other patient took such a beating?”

  “Dumb luck?” Boyce guessed. “Possibly she was confined to a different part of the ship, or didn’t get struck as hard or as head-on by a disruptor impact or an explosion onboard. Maybe she landed on her butt instead of her head or missed being winged by a flying piece of debris.” He threw up his hands. “Who knows? You know how it goes, Chris. One man walks away from a shuttle crash, while his copilot doesn’t. It’s a crap shoot sometimes.”

  “A crap shoot?” Spock asked.

  “Random chance,” Pike translated, not too surprised to find out that Vulcans didn’t gamble. I wonder if Klingons believe in luck.

  The captain made a mental note to check on Merata after he interviewed her alleged kidnapper, whom he found waiting in the recovery ward. Due to the shortage of beds, she was still tucked into one of the surgical biobeds beneath an insulated metallic sheet. Pike took note of her singed hair and eyebrows, as well as the artificial crystal eye in one socket, before glancing up at the life-signs monitor mounted over the head of the bed. He was no doctor, but her vitals appeared stable, if weak, just as Boyce had reported. She’s been through a lot, he gathered, but better off here than in the hands of the Klingons.

  “Hello,” he greeted her. “I’m Captain Pike. You wanted to talk to me?”

  She tried to sit up, but the effort obviously hurt her. She bit down on her lip to keep the pain inside. Boyce hurried over to assist her.

  “Take it easy there.” He helped her up into a sitting position. “You’ve been through surgery. No sudden movements, all right?”

  “Never mind me,” she said, grimacing, before fixing her gaze on Pike. “My sister? Is she safe?”

  Pike was taken by surprise. “Merata is your sister?”

  “That’s not her name!” Anger flared upon the patient’s face, blazing through the pain and weakness. “Her name is Elzura. Elzura Mursh. And she was stolen from us nearly a decade ago!” She leaned forward and grabbed Pike’s arm. “Please tell me you didn’t let the Klingons take her again, not after I’ve searched for her for so long!”

  “The individual in question is still safely aboard the Enterprise,” Pike assured her, “but I’m slightly in the dark here. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  “The beginning,” she said bitterly. “Would that be before or after those Klingon savages tore apart my family?” Her tone and expression darkened as she recounted her tale. “It was about ten years ago, as we reckon time on Cypria. The Klingons had embarked on a campaign of terror and harassment, trying to drive our colony from ‘their’ territory. Oh, they never formally declared war on Cypria, and the Empire always played dumb regarding the attacks, but we all knew who was behind the raids, the sneak attacks on our factories and farms and outlying facilities. The marauders barely tried to conceal their identities, lest we fail to get the message . . .”

  Pike could believe it. The Klingons were an aggressive species, and they didn’t always rely on outright conquest to expand their Empire and influence. Sabotage, assassinations, forced alliances, and propped-up puppet governments were among the weapons in their arsenal, along with plenty of ferocious warriors eager for blood and glory. He could easily see the Klingons trying to make life very uncomfortable for the Cyprian colonists.

  “My father ran a mining facility on our primary moon,” she continued. “He was there, looking after little Elzy, when the raiders attacked without warning or provocation. He was killed by the Klingons along with everyone else, their bodies left to rot, but my sister’s remains were not found among the dead. Recovered security footage showed one of the marauders carrying her off, even though she fought back as hard as she could.” A note of pride entered her voice. “You should have seen her, Captain, standing up to the Klingons, refusing to surrender. But she was only seven years old. She never stood a chance against those monsters!”

  Pike’s imagination painted a vivid picture of a brave little girl up against a party of hostile Klingons, who were intent on slaughtering everyone in sight. It occurred to him that the Klingons might have been equally impressed by the child’s courage and spirit. Perhaps that was why they’d spared her? Perhaps even adopted her?

  “I’m very sorry, Captain Mursh,” he said, sympathizing with the woman’s tragic story. Pike had no siblings that he knew of, but he’d lost his mother and stepfather back on Elysium years ago. “It must have been hard for you, losing your father . . . and your sister.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” she said, “and please call me Soleste. I’m no captain of any great spacefaring vessel. More like a homeless tracker, searching for the sister taken from me so long ago.”

  Pike contemplated her artificial eye. He wondered if she’d lost the real one in the raid on the mining facility, or perhaps later in her travels. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you survive the Klingons’ attack?”

  “I was away at college at the time. School was out, however, and I was supposed to be back home with my family, visiting over the break, but I’d selfishly chosen to hit the beaches with my friends instead.” Emotion cracked her voice. “I should have been there, fighting beside my father, protecting Elzy, not partying the night away while my family was under attack. I could have done something!”

  Boyce placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “Chances are, you would ha
ve just died along with the others. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “Easier said than done.” She stared bleakly into the past. “Everyone told me that she was as good as dead. That we should mourn her and move on, that we should just forget about her, but what kind of person abandons her own flesh and blood? I had to find her and bring her home, no matter how long it took!”

  It was impossible to miss the sheer intensity in her voice. Soleste Mursh was clearly a driven woman and apparently had been for many years. Pike wondered how much she’d sacrificed on her decade-long quest. Her future? Her prospects? Maybe even an eye?

  “Ten years I searched for her, rooting through every filthy Klingon hellhole between here and Qo’nos, posing as a dealer in kevas and trillium. Ten years of false leads and wild-goose chases and not a few double-crosses.” Her finger traced the outline of her missing eye. “Until I finally found her on D’Orox, an obscure military outpost light-years from here . . . only to discover that she had become one of them! That she actually thought she was a Klingon!”

  Pike was starting to get the picture. “So you abducted her.”

  “I rescued her,” Soleste insisted. “I saved her and was taking her home at last, until that battle cruiser caught up with us. I tried to get away, pushing Ilion to its limits, but . . .” She looked Pike in the eyes. “You have my gratitude, Captain. If not for you and your crew, neither my sister nor I would have ever seen Cypria again. Your heroism will not be forgotten, by me or my people.”

  Pike couldn’t help thinking that this might help when it came to obtaining the ryetalyn from the Cyprians. They owe us one.

  But what about the Klingons?

  “I’m afraid it may be more complicated than that,” he said. “From what I hear, your sister didn’t act like she wanted to be rescued.”

  “She doesn’t know any better. She was just a little girl when those barbarians stole her. They’ve had a decade to brainwash her, to make her forget who she is and where she came from.” Bitterness dripped from her voice. “Would you believe she didn’t even recognize me? Her own sister?”

  “She certainly gave no indication,” Spock confirmed, “that she was aware of your kinship when she attempted to murder you in the transporter room.”

  Soleste winced at the memory. Spock’s bedside manner left something to be desired, Pike reflected. No surprise there.

  “I had to stun her to get her off the planet,” Soleste admitted, “and keep her restrained while we attempted our escape. But it will be different once we’re back on Cypria and reunited with what’s left of our family and her true people. We can help her remember who she really is and where she belongs. Our family will be whole again.”

  Possibly, Pike thought, although he suspected that it might be a less than rosy homecoming, in more ways than one. How would the folks on Cypria react to the fierce “Klingon” warrior in the brig, and vice versa? “You have more family on Cypria?”

  “Yes. My mother and my little brother. They were also away the night of the attack. Lucky for us, I suppose, although it never really felt that way . . .”

  Pike recalled that the Kepler was still en route to the Cyprian system. At last report, Number One and her party were making good time, although they were still several hours away from reaching their destination.

  “Please, Captain, let me take Elzy home. I’m begging you!”

  Her nails dug into his arm with surprising strength. He gently disengaged them.

  “I’ll take it under consideration,” he promised. “After I talk to your sister.”

  * * *

  The corridors felt unusually deserted as the three men made their way to the brig, which was located a deck below, in one of the most heavily protected sections of the ship. They passed the occasional crew member going about their duties, but the halls were nowhere near as bustling as Pike was used to. The spread of the fever was already taking its toll on the crew’s readiness, with growing numbers sick in bed or unable to report to their posts, while those uninfected were wisely avoiding public spaces unless required to by duty. Ordinarily, it was not uncommon to see off-duty personnel roaming the halls in casual attire, pursuing various leisure-time activities, but not today. Pike guessed that any available rec rooms, gardens, and galleys were ghost towns. They caught an empty turbolift while Pike conferred with Spock and Boyce.

  “Are we certain that Merata is actually Elzura Mursh?” he asked. “And that Soleste isn’t mistaken or fooling herself? She’s clearly obsessed with finding her stolen sister, so we can’t rule out the possibility that she’s merely convinced herself that our prisoner is Elzy, whom she hasn’t actually laid eyes on for a decade or so.”

  “It has been ten years,” Spock agreed, “and Elzura was only a child when last seen. If she is still alive, she would be much changed by now, particularly if she has been raised and groomed by Klingons.”

  “Well, I can run a DNA comparison to verify any familial ties,” Boyce said, “but Merata is definitely Cyprian. Her teeth have been filed to points, her eye color has been cosmetically changed, she’s had an ear job, and the scarring on her forehead is clearly intended to emulate Klingon brow ridges, but I’m guessing that Merata and Elzy are one and the same.”

  “I need more than guesses, Doctor,” Pike said, more brusquely than he intended. “I need to know for certain.”

  If Boyce was bothered by the captain’s tone, he didn’t show it; it took a lot to ruffle the well-seasoned doctor. “Understood. I’ll get right on that DNA test.”

  “Thanks,” Pike said, softening his voice. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you there.”

  The older man shrugged. “You’ve been dealing with Klingons. It’s bound to rub off on you.”

  “Are you suggesting, Doctor,” Spock asked, “that the Klingons’ bellicose attitudes are contagious?”

  “Let’s hope not,” Pike said. “Especially where our prisoner is concerned.”

  The turbolift dropped them off on the next deck and they marched rapidly to the brig, where they found a single security officer stationed outside a force-shielded cell. Pike noted with concern that the guard looked a bit under the weather. He was pale and trembling slightly. His eyes were watery.

  “You all right, Ensign?” Pike asked.

  “I’m fine, sir,” the guard insisted. “Just a slight headache, sir. That’s all.”

  Pike doubted that. “Call for another guard, and report to sickbay once your relief arrives.”

  “Really, sir, I can manage—”

  “You heard the captain,” Boyce interrupted. “I want to get you checked out, although you may have to take a number.”

  The guard knew better than to argue with the captain and the ship’s doctor. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Pike and Boyce exchanged worried glances as they walked past the guard to the nearest detention cell, where, on the opposite side of an invisible force field, a young Klingon woman paced restlessly back and forth like a caged animal. Her dark eyes widened at the sight of Spock. Rage contorted her face.

  “You! Vulcan!”

  She lunged at Spock, only to be repelled by an electrostatic charge. Energy crackled and flashed at the impact, the shock of which knocked her backward but did nothing to douse her fury.

  “Cowards! Reprobates! Do you fear to face me without a wall between us? Release me at once, and I may spare your miserable lives!” She glared at Spock. “Do not think you will catch me unawares again, Vulcan. You will pay dearly for placing your unclean hand upon a true daughter of the Empire. Heed my words: I will not be so delicate when I have my own hands upon your throat. You will choke to death on your own sickly green blood!”

  Spock took her threats in stride. “Fascinating,” he observed. “A typically Klingon response.”

  “I am a Klingon, you cold-blooded Vulcan petaQ.” She swept her gaze over Pike and Boyce before sneering at Spock once more. “What are you doing on a human vessel, anyway? Do they keep you as a pet . . . or a spare comp
uter?” She let out a derisive laugh. “The whole galaxy knows that your people lost control of the Earthers more than a century ago and now watch impotently as your former charges eclipse your fallen glory!”

  “That’s enough.” Pike stepped forward. “If you have any trouble with my people, you can take it up with me.”

  She grudgingly acknowledged him. “And you are?”

  “Captain Christopher Pike of the U.S.S. Enterprise . . . and your host for the present.” He indicated the force field between them. “My apologies for confining you to our brig, but your actions in the transporter room forced our hand.”

  “Spare me your sniveling excuses! You are wise to fear me!”

  She threw herself at the force field again, as though hoping that sheer fury would be enough to overcome it, or perhaps simply as a show of defiance. She howled in frustration as the shield stubbornly resisted her efforts. She pounded her fists against the invisible barrier.

  Much like I did in that cage on Talos IV, Pike thought. He couldn’t blame Merata for being upset over her captivity. He hadn’t taken it much better himself.

  “I understand that you were beamed aboard the Enterprise against your will,” Pike said, “and under adverse circumstances. I can arrange to provide you with more comfortable quarters if you agree not to cause any more disturbances.”

  She snorted at the very idea. “Save your breath, human. I want nothing from you but your blood. I will not trade my vengeance for mere comfort. I am Klingon!”

  So you say, Pike thought, but the facts tell a different story.

  He took a moment to take a closer look at the prisoner. At first glance, she certainly appeared Klingon enough, but if you looked closely you could possibly see the Cyprian behind the bared teeth, leather garb, and guttural curses. The ridges on her forehead, for instance, were indeed scar tissue and not bone, while her earlobes, which were largely obscured by her wild black mane, could have been surgically trimmed down to Klingon proportions. Different species aged at different rates, which made assessing the ages of aliens a tricky proposition, but she struck him as young, maybe even adolescent, which made her the right age to be Elzura. And was it just his imagination or could he detect a distinct resemblance to Soleste Mursh, perhaps along the nose and jaw?