Mudd in Your Eye

by Jerry Oltion

  "He's bluffing," said Narine. "Blow the whole mess to bits for all I care. They can't do anything about it. They're a couple of tired old farts who hate the idea of change, that's all."

  Kirk smiled at her. "I tend to agree. But it's not my place to force it on them. I believe that's your job."

  "Hah. Right again, much as I hate to admit it. Go on, then. Go back to your people and keep on living." She turned away and sank back into her chair, once again a wizened, silent old crone.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  MCCOY HATED THE NOTION of leaving Kirk behind while the Enterprise went off in search of Stella Mudd, but if he truly was trapped inside that infernal computer as Spock seemed to believe, then McCoy supposed there was little more they could do for him on Distrel. Spock was the computer expert, and if he said Kirk couldn't be sprung from his prison without Stella, then it probably couldn't be done.

  It gave McCoy the creeping jeebies just thinking about it. Stuck in a transporter buffer, not even as a beam of elemental particles, but just as information in storage. A cosmic ray could flip a bit somewhere and he could emerge with purple eyes or an extra nose—or far more likely as a blob of unrecognizable gray goo. McCoy had attended the autopsies after a few transporter accidents, and he didn't want to see any more.

  And then, as if having Kirk stuck in there wasn't enough, there were all the Nevisians who had died after the android had locked things up. A couple thousand of them at least. They weren't as dear to McCoy as Kirk was, but a couple thousand lives was a couple thousand lives, and McCoy was a doctor. If there was anything he could do to help save them, he was morally obligated to give it his best shot.

  And on top of all that there was the Prime Directive problem, though McCoy wasn't so sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, the Nevisians' perpetual war disgusted him as few things he'd seen in his travels had, but on the other hand it was their war, and they had every right to keep on with it if that was what they wanted to do. No doubt a Starfleet tribunal would think so, and even though Mudd and his android had caused the actual damage, the Enterprise was so inextricably tied to them that everyone would go down in flames over this.

  So here they were on this wild goose chase. He just hoped they could actually find Stella. They had no idea where on York III she was, or what her living situation might be. Harry wasn't cooperating at all, and Spock was reluctant to turn Sulu loose on him again until they knew whether or not they needed any more information from him. It might be a simple matter of accessing a database and calling her comm number—or it might not.

  When the Enterprise dropped out of warp McCoy went up to the bridge to see which it would be. Lieutenant Uhura was already busy at the comm station talking with the local government authorities, and Spock was back at his science station poring through planetary records as fast as Uhura could access them for him. For lack of a better place to sit, Harry Mudd occupied the captain's chair, and while he no doubt would have relished the position in other circumstances, he was clearly uncomfortable there now. He fidgeted and examined the controls in the armrest, as if looking for the one that might get him out of the situation.

  McCoy felt a bit uneasy at seeing him there, too, though he knew full well that Mudd could cause no more mischief from the command chair than from anywhere else. It was the authority, not the chair, that gave a captain control of the ship, and Mudd had none of that.

  "How goes the search?" McCoy asked, taking his usual stance beside the chair.

  Spock looked up from his monitors. "I find no record of Stella Mudd more recent than three years ago, at which time she applied for a legal divorce in absentia."

  "She divorced me?" Harry asked indignantly.

  Spock said, "Yes, but that was two years earlier. This appears to be the second husband to abandon her."

  "More like dropped her like a pound of antimatter, you mean," Mudd said. "I wonder who the poor bugger was."

  "His name was Bischoff," Spock told him.

  "Bischoff!" said Mudd. "Hah! Serves him right. He conned me out of a starship once on Silva Five."

  "It appears he turned that starship into quite a fleet," Spock said, examining the database again. "He is listed here as one of the wealthiest people in the system, former owner of an interstellar cargo and passenger transport service that spanned most of this sector."

  "Hah," Mudd sniffed. "It was all my ideas that got him there." He frowned. "You say 'former owner.' What happened to him?"

  "He apparently took his flagship on a personal cruise to an unstated destination, and never returned."

  "He'd had enough of Stella," Mudd said. "I suppose she got everything in the divorce?"

  "Yes," said Spock.

  "So she's rich again, is she?" Mudd rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

  "Again?" McCoy asked him. "Did you marry her for her money?"

  Mudd laughed. "Me? Doctor, I'm surprised at you. Of course I married her for her charming personality."

  "Unfortunately," said Spock, "she used some of her newfound wealth to purchase a new identity, which is apparently legal here. We cannot learn that identity unless we show conclusive evidence of past criminal activity."

  "Yes, that was always one of the things I liked about the Hoffman system," Mudd said, leaning back in the captain's chair. "Unfortunately they kept raising the price, but they're true to their word. You really can't find someone's new identity once they've cleared their felony check and paid the fee." He sighed. "Too bad. We probably could have located her otherwise."

  McCoy snorted. "Spare us the crocodile tears, Harry."

  "Sincere or no," Spock said, "he does seem to be telling the truth about the procedure for penetrating the new identity. Unless we can convict her for a felony crime committed in her previous life, the government will not release her new name to us." He paused, thinking, then said, "I can scan through news records of the past three years and correlate them for matching photos, but it will take days, and the odds of success are slim."

  "I've got a better idea," said McCoy.

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. Uhura, get me the head of this identity bureau. Not some flunky, but the top person. Tell them a Starfleet medical officer wants to talk to them about a priority-one contamination problem."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Doctor," said Spock. "May I remind you that misuse of your rank is grounds for your own arrest?"

  "Who said I was going to misuse it? I'm just going to—Hello." The main viewscreen lit up with the image of an impeccably dressed man in his forties or fifties, seated behind an enormous wooden desk. No papers marred the glistening surface. Good. That meant he was probably a figurehead. But one with power, McCoy hoped. He said, "I'm Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy, aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise. I'm investigating an outbreak of Nevisian Stasis Syndrome in a nearby star system, and I need to talk to one of your citizens."

  "Nevisian Stasis Syndrome?" the official said, frowning. "I have never heard of it."

  "Not surprising," said McCoy. "I just discovered it. It's a completely debilitating condition that until now had always been mistaken for death. I've discovered that the victims can be revived, but I'm missing one crucial piece of information."

  "Information which our citizen possesses. I see. And this citizen has no doubt purchased a new identity, or you wouldn't be talking to me about it."

  "That's right."

  The bureaucrat leaned forward. "Nice try. Yours is one of the more inventive I've heard recently. Nevisian Stasis Syndrome; that's one for the memoirs. But we take privacy quite seriously here. Sorry." He reached forward to cut off the signal, but McCoy stopped him before he could touch the switch.

  "And Starfleet takes epidemics quite seriously," he said. "I have the authority to quarantine this entire star system indefinitely to prevent health risks to the rest of the Federation. I hate to do that, since I know how hard it can be on commerce, but galactic security has to come first. Sorry." He mimicked the bureaucrat's insincere apology. Spock l
ooked like he was about to protest, but McCoy shut him up with a warning glare.

  The bureaucrat leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. "Hmm. Well, under the circumstances, I suppose I could contact the person you are looking for and explain the situation, and let them decide whether or not to reveal their identity to you."

  "That would be a start," McCoy said. "Make sure you impress upon her the seriousness of the situation."

  "You can be sure I will. What is this person's former name?"

  "Stella Mudd."

  He narrowed his eyes. "That name seems familiar. Just a moment." He tapped his desktop a few times, and McCoy realized he had a built-in data monitor. It took him a second to find the information, but they knew when he'd done it by the involuntary gasp he made.

  "Looks like you've found her," McCoy observed. "Unfortunately, I have." The man took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and said, "Just a moment." This time when he reached for the comm switch, it was merely to put them on hold. Instead of the usual still picture of most hold screens, his was a running ad for the Hoffman system, showing barely clothed people strolling along a beach, dining by candlelight, shopping in a busy market filled with goods and alien proprietors from throughout the Federation, all over a caption reading, "Business as usual on York III."

  "You used to live here?" McCoy asked Mudd.

  He squirmed, embarrassed at having yet another aspect of his past exposed. "Well, everyone needs a place to hang his hat, you know. This was… convenient."

  "I'll bet it was."

  Mudd laughed. "Don't get all high and mighty. You'd fit right in here, the way you handled that situation. Nevisian Stasis Syndrome. An excellent story. I didn't know you had it in you."

  McCoy shrugged. "You do what you have to do."

  "Doctor," said Spock, "surely you're aware that you have no basis for quarantining this system."

  "I never said I did," McCoy told him. "I just said I had the authority to, which is true."

  Mudd stood up from the captain's chair. "It looks like you won't be needing me any further," he said nonchalantly. "So I'll just nip down to my quarters for a quick—"

  "Sit down, Harry," said McCoy.

  "But—"

  "Sit."

  Harry sat. A moment later the screen came to life again, not with the bureaucrat, but with the living, breathing—no, wheezing—face of Stella Mudd. The years had not been kind to her, or else Harry had been when he'd provided the androids with a description of her to build their replica from. Her hair was now an improbable color of reddish purple that could only have come out of a bottle, and her skin had the artificially tight sheen of someone who had been under the protoplaser a few times too many. Behind her, dozens of white-clad people—they looked like maids—scurried back and forth with towels, sheets, and cleaning equipment. It looked like she was in a hotel laundry room, though what a wealthy person would be doing there was hard to imagine.

  "All right," she screeched, her voice like a sliding door with a piece of metal caught in the crack, "what's going on he—Well, if it isn't my long-lost Harcourt. I was wondering how long it would take you to find out I was rich again. Come back for another slice of the pie, have you?"

  Mudd seemed to shrink in his chair. "Um, hello Stella. I, um, well, actually, that was the furthest thought from my mind."

  "I bet it was," she said. "Well let me tell you, you no good, gold-digging, sorry excuse for an ex-husband, I'm back on top again and I'm going to stay there this time. Without you."

  "Yes, dear. That's quite all right. In fact, I'm very happy for you." Harry seemed to perk up again at the thought that the feelings might be mutual.

  She squinted at him. "You seem to be fairly well off yourself, though captain of a Starfleet ship doesn't exactly seem like you. How'd that happen? I'd have expected to see you in the brig instead."

  "My dear," said Harry, puffing himself up and sitting straighter in the chair, "perhaps you have forgotten your own gentle words of advice, given to me so long ago, but I assure you I have never forgotten that I should always attempt to make something of myself. This is just a temporary phase on the way to far greater things." He looked over at McCoy and winked ever so slightly with the eye that faced away from the viewscreen.

  "Very temporary, if I know you," Stella said. "Well if you didn't come slinking back for a handout, then what did you come for?" Behind her, a woman carrying a pile of towels collided with a man carrying a tray of wineglasses. Both towels and glasses went to the floor, the glasses smashing into glittering shards. Stella whirled around, appraised the situation instantly, and shouted, "You're both fired! Get out of my hotel! You—" she pointed at another woman who cowered nearby, a hypersonic cleaner in her hands, and at another man holding a sheaf of papers "—and you, you've just been promoted. Clean up that mess. And the rest of you, get back to work!" She turned back to the viewscreen. "Sorry, but you know how it is. You just can't find good help these days."

  Mudd looked to Spock, and then to the rest of the bridge crew. "Yes, it's difficult, isn't it?" he said.

  McCoy couldn't tell if he was being snide to her, to the bridge crew, or both, but in any case he ignored the slight and said, "Speaking of help, that's why we're here. We need your assistance in a matter of life and death."

  "You do?" Stella seemed genuinely surprised to hear that. Evidently she had thought the whole story was fabricated just to reach her.

  "We really do," McCoy told her. "We've got thousands of people whose lives depend on taking you back with us to the Nevis system."

  "Why me?" she asked suspiciously. "What can I do that you can't?"

  "You can be yourself," McCoy said. "You don't have to do anything but go there and beam down to the surface with us. It'll be perfectly safe, and we'll bring you right back. But we've determined that of all the people in the galaxy, you're the one we need to solve our problem."

  "You're kidding. Somebody needs me?" She was shocked at the very concept, and obviously flattered. Apparently nobody had ever told her they needed her before.

  "Lives depend on you," McCoy said.

  "Well…I don't know." She preened herself and gestured over her shoulder. "I'm needed here, too, you know. This place would fall apart without me."

  McCoy suspected it would run considerably smoother without her hand in all the details, but she obviously loved micromanaging dozens of employees. She had found the perfect position for a woman who loved to tell people what to do. But McCoy knew where the chink in her armor had to be. He said, "Oh, certainly someone with your managerial skills has a second-in-command who could look after things for a few days."

  She nodded slowly. "Of course I do. It's just that it's such short notice, and I—"

  "And you would have the chance to catch up on old times with Harry," said Spock. "Certainly there must be some things you wish to say to him after all this time."

  Harry blanched at the suggestion, but he smiled bravely.

  Stella smiled back, but it was the smile of the leopard just before the pounce. "I just might at that," she said. "Let me pack a bag and I'll be right up."

  When she switched off, McCoy turned to Spock and said, "Spock, that was inhuman. Even Harry doesn't deserve that."

  Spock replied, "It appeared that she was about to back down. I achieved our objective, did I not?"

  "Yes, but the price…"

  Harry slumped down in the captain's chair. "Bodyguard," he whispered. "You promised me a bodyguard."

  Chapter Twenty-five

  KIRK ARRIVED in the throne room. The place looked like a war zone, and in fact it was. The Prastorians had gutted it, set afire everything that would burn, and smashed the rest. The Grand General would be a long time rebuilding from this invasion.

  If he was even alive. Was anybody left in the palace? It seemed deserted. "Hello!" Kirk called out, his voice echoing off the soot-blackened stone. He wished he had some kind of weapon to defend himself with in case the wrong people answered his ca
ll, but that fear vanished when a Distrellian soldier stepped into the throne room and immediately bowed low.

  "My lord hero," he said, still looking at the floor. "Welcome."

  Must be the rainbow robe, Kirk thought. They apparently didn't see many of them around here. "I need to talk with the Grand General," he said. "And with my—the Enterprise."

  "Yes, sir," the guard said. "The Grand General is right this way. Unfortunately the Enterprise has gone away."

  Gone away? Had they given up searching for Kirk and the others already? That didn't seem like Spock. Or McCoy. They would stick around until they were absolutely sure there was no hope that anyone had survived. Of course the evidence probably looked pretty overwhelming, but still.

  He followed the soldier, who looked straight ahead as if afraid the sight of a genuine Arnhall Hero would blind him, through blast-pocked hallways to a much smaller throne room where the Grand General sat directing repairs to his palace. He looked up when Kirk entered the room, then scrambled to his feet.

  "You've come! Thank the Gods. We…wait a minute." Recognition wiped away his relief. "Captain Kirk?"

  "The same," Kirk said.

  "But…are the comp—uh, the Gods awake again?"

  "The computers?" Kirk asked.

  "The, uh, the arbiters, yes." He waved his hands toward the door and said to his court, "Leave us, please."

  Silently, everyone got up and walked out the door, and the soldier who had escorted Kirk there closed it behind him on his way out.

  When they'd left, Kirk said, "You don't want your people to know that their fates lie in the circuits of a computer in your basement? Why not?"

  "Because I just learned of it myself, and I'm trying to decide what to do about it," said the Grand General. "Sit, please." He waved at a chair, and sat back down in his own. "I take it you have been to Arnhall, then. I hadn't expected that, since you were killed trying to escape. When you didn't reappear on Prastor, we assumed you were stuck in the—your Mr. Spock called it a 'pattern buffer'—along with everyone else."