Heart Of The Sun Star Trek 83

by George Zebrowski

  Well, that’s a start, Uhura thought. Maybe there was more warmth in the Tyrtaean woman than her culture allowed her to express.

  * * *

  “I think we’re ready to run that test now,” Christine Chapel said.

  Leonard McCoy nodded at the nurse. They sat in one of the library’s data retrieval areas; their small screens and consoles were set on a flat surface before them, linked to the library’s data heads. The plain wooden furniture in the room lacked cushions, but provided some comfort along with support.

  If all went well, McCoy thought, they would soon be able to download the new medical data base. Annoying as it was to be working with this cursed machine, his job was relatively easy, certainly simpler than the work Lieutenant Commander Scott or Ensign Cathe Tekakwitha had to do. Scotty was in the basement chambers of the library with his engineers, installing new data modules while taking care not to lose any old data that might still be retrievable. Ensign Tekakwitha was in charge of the team that was working on the restoration of lost historical and cultural data; she had left that morning with Aristocles Martin and a few Tyrtaean historians to interview several older citizens for the library’s oral history records.

  Restoring the colony’s medical data base presented no great difficulties. There was, as far as McCoy knew, no medical knowledge that was unique to Tyrtaeus II that had not already been taken by the Federation’s subspace data harvesters. The Tyrtaeans should end up with exactly the same medical data base they had lost.

  He had actually enjoyed his sessions with this world’s physicians; once they got down to exchanging medical yarns, and notes about odd cases, he could almost forget that they were Tyrtaeans. Their records revealed that the average Tyrtaean was extraordinarily fit and healthy well into old age; these were not people inclined to indolence and self-indulgence. Usually they needed medical treatment only for injuries resulting from accidents or for illnesses that took a sudden unexpected turn for the worst, and almost all of them had acquired some knowledge of medicine, since they considered it foolish to be entirely dependent on a physician for medical treatment. The physicians here did not have many of the latest medical tools, but they were the sorts of doctors who did not like to rely too much on their instruments anyway, a quality McCoy could appreciate. He had developed a special liking for one old curmudgeon named Elliste who, like most of the medical personnel on this planet, had acquired great expertise in orthopedics. “Anybody who wants to know the upper limits of what human bones and joints can take ought to come here,” Elliste had said, “because no Tyrtaean takes his aches and pains to a doctor until he’s got no choice. I’ve seen folks who slapped on their own splints and homemade braces and just kept on going until they finished whatever they had to get done first.”

  McCoy’s communicator beeped softly; he pulled it from his belt, snapped it open, and said, “McCoy.”

  “Scott here. You can start that test on the third section now, Doctor—those new data modules are up and running.”

  “We’ll do that as soon as Christine’s finished with the second section.”

  “Aye. Scott out.”

  It saved him and Nurse Chapel time to work behind Scotty, running the tests after the engineer confirmed that each new section was ready to be checked. Both McCoy and Chapel knew as much about data base tests as they did about biological organisms. In two or three weeks, when all the modules were reset, the incoming subspace download would start. After that, the final tests would be run on the data directly from the Enterprise bridge, with the ship’s computer.

  “Computers can get ill just like people,” Scotty had said to McCoy the other day. “Just feed them a lot of wrong ideas and wait for the flow of unexpected synergies to produce something that no one understands. And the closer a computer is to human capabilities, the sicker it can get.”

  If any further problems were encountered during these tests—always a possibility with these occasionally ornery computers—Tyrtaeus II would be without a usable data base for at least three weeks, possibly four. Apart from the physicians, the Tyr-taeans whom McCoy had met during his four days in Callinus had seemed increasingly irritable as time went on. He wondered what bothered them more—their dependence on their library’s data base or their need for Starfleet’s help in repairing the system.

  McCoy concentrated on the screen in front of him, rechecking each module as Chapel ran the test. No glitches, no error messages—everything seemed to be going well. The damned machine was behaving itself today. He might as well be grateful for that, since this particular tour of duty had turned out to be even duller than expected. The people of Emben III, who had a reputation for histrionics, had certainly lived up to it while their data base was being restored; every small setback had resulted in public scenes of tears, recriminations, and bitter denunciations of the Federation’s criminal carelessness by members of the Embenian Council. On Cynur IV, the normally cheerful and friendly inhabitants had gone out of their way to be rude. But at least those worlds had offered some diversions. The theaters of Emben III offered some of the best productions of Shakespeare to be found anywhere, and the Cynurians seemed to have a festival of some sort nearly every week. The Tyrtaeans of Callinus, from what McCoy had seen, did little except work, eat, and sleep.

  Self-reliance, they called it. What was the point of a self-reliance that made a person try to emulate a machine?

  “The second section is operational,” Chapel announced, but McCoy had already noted that on his screen. By the time the two were finished running the tests on the third section of modules, Scotty had spoken to McCoy again over the communicator. The rest of his engineering team had beamed back to the Enterprise; he needed a break and a meal before the next round of work, and was going to see what the city of Callinus had to offer. McCoy and Chapel decided to join him.

  They shut down their operations, left the data retrieval area, and entered the outside gallery. Scotty came toward them down the long, wide corridor, with Wellesley Warren at his side. McCoy could hear the young Tyrtaean’s laughter even at this distance. The man had to be something of an eccentric and misfit by this world’s standards; Wellesley Warren laughed easily, smiled more often, and didn’t shy away from shaking hands or uttering a friendly greeting, as most Tyrtaeans did. But he was much more restrained when other Tyrtaeans came near, as if he could show his wanner nature only to the crew of the Enterprise.

  Life here couldn’t be easy for him, McCoy thought. Yet Wellesley Warren was also one of Myra Coles’s trusted aides. If he had been able to win her respect, then obviously he had been successful at concealing qualities his people would see as weaknesses. It was puzzling, but maybe there were other relationships here that escaped the usual, and more than one Wellesley Warren.

  “Where are we headed?” Christine Chapel asked as Scotty approached.

  “Wellesley here advised us to try Redann’s Tavern,” Scotty replied. “It’s just across the square.”

  “You could go to Doretta’s Cafeteria if Redann’s is crowded,” Wellesley Warren said, “but it’s three streets down, and, frankly, the food at Redann’s is better. You’ll be served—er, welcome there.” McCoy reminded himself that there were places that would probably not welcome them. “Ask for the special—it’s always the best thing on the menu.”

  “Coming with us?” McCoy asked.

  “I have to meet with Myra and a team of historians.” Warren was one of the people working on restoring lost cultural data. “Enjoy your lunch.” The Tyrtaean hurried toward a staircase on their right.

  “When’s the rest of your team beaming back here?” McCoy asked Scotty.

  “Most of them will be back this afternoon,” the engineer said, “but Mister Spock needs a couple of engineers to work with him aboard the ship. He requested the two who are best at sensor system analysis and repair.”

  “He’s already got Ali Massoud,” McCoy said; Lieutenant Commander Massoud, a methodical young science officer who had won several commen
dations and also Spock’s respect, was on duty with the Vulcan. “You’d think that would be enough help.”

  It had surprised McCoy that Kirk had sent Spock back to the Enterprise two days ago; the Vulcan and the Tyrtaeans seemed made for one another. But maybe the captain preferred to have his second in command aboard his ship, and Spock seemed anxious—if a Vulcan could feel anxious—to continue his observations of the unknown object, which was unexpectedly persisting in its sunward course.

  “He’s very curious about that thing,” Nurse Chapel said.

  “He sounded unusually interested when he spoke to me,” Scotty said, “and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was even a wee bit worried about it.”

  * * *

  Redann’s Tavern, housed in a stone structure near the Callinus Administrative Center, turned out to be a large room filled with plain wooden tables and long benches.

  “This is a tavern?” Scotty whispered as they sat down at a table near the back of the room. “Seems more like a study hall.”

  “Or a prison mess hall,” Christine Chapel murmured.

  “Maybe the food and drink will be worth it,” McCoy said.

  The waiter who took their order was a grim-faced man in a black tunic and trousers. He brought them three plates of meat and dark bread and three mugs of an amber-colored beverage, along with three knives.

  McCoy made a sandwich of his meat and bread, cut it in half with his knife, and took a bite. The meat was well-cooked, probably boiled, without gravy or seasonings. “This is the special?” he said, keeping his voice low. “If this is the best dish on the menu, I’d hate to see the worst.”

  Christine Chapel took a bite of her bread, then grimaced. “I had a childhood friend whose mother always used to complain that the foods that were best for you always seemed to taste the worst. She would have considered this bread very healthful.”

  Scotty sipped from his mug. “Tastes like watery tea. You’d think an establishment that calls itself a tavern would have something stronger to offer.” He sighed. “These people make even Vulcans seem jolly.”

  McCoy chuckled, earning himself several blank stares from four men at a nearby table. “I don’t think anyone here knows what a joke is,” he said, then took another bite of his sandwich. “Well, here’s one joke—this meat!”

  “I don’t know which is funnier,” Scotty said with a straight face, “the food or the drink.”

  But the food satisfied McCoy’s hunger, and the tealike beverage warmed his stomach and lifted his spirits a little, and he tried to think in a more fairminded way. Maybe the Tyrtaeans weren’t quite as dour as they seemed; maybe you had to get to know them before they loosened up. The physicians had certainly seemed more congenial while they were sharing their medical lore. Wellesley Warren was a friendly enough fellow, and there might be others like him. Myra Coles obviously respected her young aide; McCoy, during one meeting with them both, had seen how attentive she was to Warren’s ideas about recovering lost historical data. Maybe she wasn’t as cold and humorless as she appeared to be. Dig down deep enough, and no one knew much about anyone.

  * * *

  Kirk had been given quarters in a five-story hostel adjacent to the library. This building, which housed visitors to the capital city, was the closest Callinus had to a hotel, although it seemed more like a monastery. His small, bare room contained a narrow bed with a firm mattress, one shelf jutting out from a whitewashed wall, and a tiny closet. The lavatory, shared with anyone else staying on this floor, was at the end of the hallway. Uhura and Cathe Tekakwitha also had a room on this floor; except for having two shelves and two beds, it was exactly the same as his.

  He sat on the bed to pull on his boots, then stood up. He and the other Enterprise officers on duty here did not really need quarters on the planet; he could come and go from the starship just as easily as he could walk over to the library complex. But Uhura had agreed strongly with him that it was best to accept the offer of hospitality, as they had on the other planets they had visited. To refuse might seem insulting, and the Tyrtaeans had seemed especially insistent. Perhaps, Uhura had surmised, the offer of a place to stay was also one of the few ways that the Tyrtaeans could demonstrate some friendliness.

  “And there’s another thing,” the lieutenant had continued. “Have you noticed how it’s almost always Myra Coles who deals with us, while Aristocles Marcelli keeps his distance? Cathe Tekakwitha says that whenever she has to work with him, he says as little as possible—hours can go by with hardly a word. Apparently a lot of his political backing comes from those who are hostile to the Federation, who think that they might be better off on their own.”

  “So what do you conclude?” Kirk asked.

  “I suspect Coles is keeping the lid on.”

  Kirk knew of the separatists, and had endured an unpleasant encounter with a Tyrtaean data retrieval specialist whose son was a cadet at Starfleet Academy. Kirk had uttered some pleasantries about the respect the few Tyrtaeans serving in Starfleet had won for themselves during the short time their world had been a Federation member; the Tyrtaean man had scowled at him. “He didn’t go with my approval, James Kirk,” the man had replied, “and if he ever comes back here, I won’t see him. Those young people go off, and once they’ve seen Earth and San Francisco, Tyrtaeus II and Callinus aren’t good enough for them. Either they come back with a lot of impractical notions they picked up from other people, or they don’t come back at all. That’s one reason I think the anti-Federationists are right.”

  “Coles,” Uhura went on, “may share a lot of her people’s insularity, but she seems adamant about not leaving the Federation. She’s probably the closest thing to an ally we have here.”

  “Which isn’t saying much,” Kirk murmured.

  “I think she’s trying, Captain. In any case, Marcelli seems ready to exploit any distrust of us that exists. That makes it even more important to be amenable to any suggestions Coles makes, and to accept all forms of hospitality. She needs all the help she can get.”

  Nonetheless, Kirk had diplomatically pointed out to Myra Coles that he did not want to put her people to any trouble, and that he and his crew could easily beam back and forth from the Enterprise. “And be dependent on the transporter?” she had replied, lifting a brow in the way Spock often did. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “We all have to depend on the transporter,” Kirk had said.

  “What if there’s a malfunction? What if some glitch keeps you and your people from beaming back here?” Her voice had risen slightly, and he had reminded himself how unused to transporters these people were. To allow one’s body to be converted into matter and beamed to a distant point was not something that came easily to Tyrtaeans; it required too much trust and dependence. “It might only delay the completion of your work here by a few hours or days while the transporter’s repaired, but every day counts now,” the Tyrtaean leader said more softly. “We must have our data base up and running as soon as possible.”

  He could not argue with that, accepting that restoring the data base quickly was the political achievement she needed most; but he had beamed back to the Enterprise on the sly a few times already. Sometimes, after a day spent in the company of Tyrtaeans, he just needed to see some smiling faces, and to unwind without having to worry that any friendly gesture might give offense. Of much more concern was the fact that Spock had become very curious about the enigmatic object that was moving toward the Tyrtaean sun. Kirk had begun to worry more about the object himself, even while trying to concentrate on the work of this mission; any unknown had to be regarded as a possible danger. It was already an important find; how important or dangerous waited to be determined.

  Lieutenant Uhura and Ensign Tekakwitha would already be at the library. Kirk left his room and took the lift down to the small lobby. As usual, it was empty, and for good reason. It contained no furniture, as if the hostel’s management wanted to make sure that no one would be tempted to loiter there. He remi
nded himself that he and his crew would not be on Tyrtaeus II much longer, a week or two more at most. Enduring oddities, irritations, and what seemed to be lapses in taste, would soon come to an end. Compared to some of their missions, this one could almost qualify as a vacation; he might as well take advantage of that.

  The weather, as usual, was clear and dry, the air clean and cool. The Tyrtaeans certainly could not complain about their climate, Kirk thought. People strode through the square, backs stiff, eyes gazing straight ahead. Tyrtaeans moved as if they had no time to waste and knew exactly where they were going; he had never seen anyone wandering aimlessly, and even the children he saw on their way to classes had purposeful looks on their faces.

  Kirk nodded in greeting, as he always did, to the people who passed him in the square. Most of the Tyrtaeans ignored him, but two men and a woman nodded back, and two boys hurrying past actually dared to smile.

  As he approached the library, he thought again of Myra Coles. It was rare to meet a woman so unconscious of her own beauty—so much so that he did not have to fear that any graceful compliments or friendly gestures on his part might offend her, because she simply ignored them. She never let down her guard, even when he gave her his undivided attention, but he wondered if she might be a woman with banked fires. She seemed more at ease in the company of Wellesley Warren; a truly cold person would not have chosen that congenial young man as an aide.

  There was no place to eat at the hostel, but the Tyrtaeans had set up food slots in a small room next to the library gallery for the Enterprise personnel and any Tyrtaeans working with them. Kirk helped himself to a late breakfast of a hot, brown beverage that smelled of chicory and a bowl filled with a substance that resembled gruel. McCoy was just getting up from a table with Wellesley Warren; the doctor muttered something under his breath and Warren laughed. The two men clearly got along; Kirk had often seen them together.

  “How’s it going, Bones?” Kirk asked.