STAR TREK: TOS #85 - My Brother's Keeper, Book One - Republic

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “Despite the distance between them, the situation grew more and more volatile, more and more tumultuous. Eventually, it flared into an interplanetary war, which was waged on and off for nearly a century. A bloody, savage thing, as I understand it.”

  Aren’t they all? Mitchell wondered. But he refrained from posing the question out loud.

  [162] “Even after a truce was declared,” said Bannock, “bad feelings prevailed for decades. Blood feuds claimed victim after victim, sparking new blood feuds. And both planets remained armed camps, ready to explode at the first sign of treachery.

  “It was only over the last fifty years or so that elements of both factions began trying to bring their people together again.” The captain frowned. “Unfortunately, their efforts were undermined by hatred and mistrust. They kept taking one step forward and two steps back.”

  “I have seen that dance before,” said Tarsch, his words slurred and garbled by the obtrusive presence of his Vobilite tusks. “It is never a very pleasant thing to behold.”

  “No, it’s not,” the captain agreed. “Eventually, even the strongest proponents of Heiren reconciliation began to think their efforts weren’t amounting to anything.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Gorfinkel.

  “Then,” Bannock continued, “someone found an answer to the problem. It was in the Heiren gene pool, of all places. You see, the Heiren species had produced a powerful telepath or two in every generation, as far back as anyone could remember.”

  That got Mitchell’s attention. After all, his flashes of insight were a distant cousin to telepathy. Or so he’d always believed.

  “Such an individual,” said Bannock, “could help his or her faction cut through the mistrust. He could read the minds of the other side and get a sense of their intentions. Unfortunately, that would only help [163] the faction to which the telepath belonged. The other one would still be operating very much in the dark.”

  “Unless both factions produced a telepath,” Mangione suggested.

  “Exactly,” the captain responded. “Two telepaths would ensure honest relations between the Heir’tza and the Heir’och—and a reconciliation couldn’t help but be far behind. Or so the theory went.

  “Three generations later, the Heiren finally have an opportunity to put their theory to the test. Each side has produced a full-fledged telepath. Respected voices among both the Heir’tza and the Heir’och are saying it’s time for their species to come together again.”

  Tarsch tilted his head. “You sound skeptical.”

  Bannock shrugged. “Frankly, Doctor, it’s none of my business whether these telepaths are the answer or not. My job—and yours—is to apply some Starfleet expertise to the proceedings.”

  “Which you’ve yet to describe,” Rodianos reminded him.

  The captain rewarded him with a crinkling of the skin around the corners of his mouth. It was as close as Mitchell had ever seen the captain come to a bona fide smile.

  “I’m getting to that,” Bannock said. “Now, from what the Heiren tell us, this is the way it’s supposed to work ...”

  According to age-old Heiren custom, Bannock explained, all signatories to an important pact were supposed to prove their good intentions by showing themselves in a public place. In accordance with that custom, the two telepaths would make their [164] appearance on Heir’tzan, in the bustling capital city of Heir’at.

  “There are two ancient temples in town,” the captain said. “Each telepath will show up at one of them. Then, at a preappointed time, they’ll take off their shoes and approach one another along the city’s main thoroughfare, allowing everyone to get a good look at them.

  “Eventually,” Bannock pointed out, “the telepaths will come together at the Heir’tzan government building. Since the place is equidistant from the two temples, they should arrive there at the same time. And the rest, as they say, will be history.”

  Brown shrugged. “Sounds simple.”

  Mitchell thought so, too.

  “It’s not,” Bannock told the engineer. “Understand, not everyone on both sides wants this event to take place.”

  “Those blood feuds,” Mangione reminded them.

  “Exactly,” said the captain. “From what I’m told, some people may be willing to spill blood to nip the ceremony in the bud. And given the archaic bent of the Heiren and the rigid nature of their ceremonies, they’ll probably have plenty of opportunity.”

  Rodianos leaned forward on his chair. “Tell me more.”

  “Spoken like a true security officer,” said Bannock. He rubbed the palms of his hands together in a way Mitchell found vaguely annoying. “Apparently, each temple is more than a kilometer from the government building. That leaves our telepaths vulnerable for a [165] good, long time. The capital is heavily populated to begin with, and it’ll be even more mobbed during this historic event, so you can forget about any attempts at crowd control.”

  “I’ll say,” Mangione remarked.

  “To compound the problem,” the captain went on, “the temples can’t be closed to their congregations at any time, so the telepaths have to be hidden elsewhere until the moment the ceremony begins. Several sites will be selected and guarded—though only two of them will actually be used as hiding places. The rest will serve as decoys.”

  Brown shook his head. “Tougher and tougher.”

  “Finally,” Bannock told them, “in the name of Heiren tradition, no one in the city is allowed to use modern technology—not even the people charged with guarding the telepaths. That means no phasers, no communicators, no beaming in or out.”

  Silence reigned. It was Kirk who broke it.

  “Will the Heir’tza—or for that matter, the Heir’och—hurt a telepath from their own faction?” he asked.

  “Good question,” said Bannock. “I’m told they’ll stop short of inflicting bodily harm on their own faction’s telepath ... but they may not have a problem with kidnapping him.”

  “Which,” Rodianos noted judiciously, “would be only slightly more difficult under such circumstances.”

  The captain nodded. “To tell you the truth, I’m not thrilled about the whole thing. Our crew isn’t up to [166] this kind of mission. We don’t have the training or the experience. However, I’ve been assured by Command that we’ll only shoulder part of the responsibility for security. Most of it will fall to our Heir’tza hosts.”

  “So what will we be doing, exactly?” asked Gorfinkel.

  Bannock told them. Of course, Mitchell didn’t pay much attention to what the man was saying until his name came up.

  “Cadets Kirk, Yudrin, and Mitchell,” said the captain, “will be assigned to help out at the bakery.”

  The underclassman wasn’t sure he had heard Bannock correctly. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  The captain focused on him and him alone. “The bakery, Mr. Mitchell. I assume you know what a bakery is?”

  The cadet could feel his cheeks flushing. “Yes, sir,” he replied as calmly as he could, “I believe I do.”

  “Good,” said Bannock. “The bakery in this case is an ancient structure not far from one of the temples. It’s also one of the places where one of the telepaths may be hidden until the time of the ceremony.” He eyed Kirk, then Phelana, then Mitchell. “I hope you all understand the importance of maintaining security in this building?”

  “Aye, sir,” Kirk answered.

  “Absolutely, sir,” said Phelana.

  Mitchell didn’t like being treated like a child. “It’s where the telepath may be hidden, sir. As you just said, sir.”

  Bannock glared at him, but didn’t take the bait. [167] “I’m told there will be plenty of Heir’tza guards in and around the place. But don’t let them do all the work. Pull your weight, just as you would anywhere else.”

  “And if there’s trouble?” asked Mangione.

  The captain grunted. “You’re to defer to the Heir’tza security officer in charge. And under no circumstances whatsoeve
r are you to leave the vicinity of the bakery. Is that clear?”

  “Clear, sir,” said Kirk.

  “Very clear, sir,” replied Phelana.

  Mitchell hesitated. “Under no circumstances, sir?”

  “That’s correct,” said Bannock.

  The plebe wondered about the wisdom of that. “Even if it directly bears on the success or failure of our mission?”

  The captain’s mouth became a thin, straight line. “Are you making an effort to try my patience, Cadet?”

  “No, sir,” Mitchell answered honestly. “I was just trying to understand your orders, sir.”

  “In that case, I’ll say it again. Under no circumstances are you to leave the vicinity of the bakery. No circumstances at all. Do you understand my orders now, Cadet?”

  Mitchell wanted to tell the captain how little he cared for the man’s tone. However, he managed to keep a lid on his feelings. “I do, sir.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Bannock.

  “I’m sure, sir,” said the underclassman.

  “Good,” said the captain, pulling down on the [168] front of his tunic. “I’ll sleep much better knowing that.”

  Kirk lingered outside the briefing room until Mitchell came out. When the other cadet saw him standing there, he walked right by him, seemingly oblivious of the lieutenant’s existence.

  The upperclassman wasn’t surprised. After all, he and Mitchell hadn’t spoken for nearly a week—and it was Kirk, after all, who was responsible for that state of affairs.

  But whether he liked it or not, they had to talk now.

  “Mitchell,” said the lieutenant.

  The other cadet stopped and turned to him, a look of suppressed resentment on his face. “Yes, sir?”

  Kirk frowned. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know why the captain threw us together any more than you do. What I do know is we’ve got a mission to carry out. That’s got to come first. The mission—not what’s taken place between you and me.”

  Mitchell quirked a smile. “All right. I’ll buy that.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “Just so we understand each other.”

  “That we do,” said the younger man. Then, with a look that accused, he walked away.

  Kirk swore beneath his breath. He hadn’t wanted to cast Mitchell aside like an old shoe. He hadn’t wanted to hurt the man’s feelings.

  But it would have meant his career if he had gone on being friends with the underclassman. It would have meant disappointing not only himself, but also Captain April and Admiral Mallory.

  [169] And, no matter what, he had promised himself he wouldn’t do that.

  “Jim?” said a feminine voice.

  The lieutenant saw that Phelana had joined him. “Mm?”

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  He watched Mitchell negotiate a bend in the hallway and disappear from view. “Fine,” he told her, “just fine.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  TO KIRK, the Heir’tza capital looked liked a fairy-tale kingdom—a place that had been plucked out of the Arabian Nights book his mother used to read to him when he was a boy.

  Standing beside a high, narrow window, the lieutenant gazed at the splendor of Heir’at’s skyline. It was morning, a couple of hours past dawn, and the city’s tall, narrow towers and teardrop-shaped roofs shone furiously in the brazen sunlight.

  Flimsy green and blue pennants fluttered on high, arching streetlamps. Balloons painted in iridescent colors rose from weighted baskets on every corner. Scarlet and silver banners, draped from window to window, proclaimed the beginning of an age of trust and harmony.

  It was a time of great optimism for the Heir’tza—[171] this world’s scaly, bronze-skinned inhabitants—and their equally scaly brethren, the Heir’och. Members of both factions had festooned themselves with all manner of finery to celebrate the reunion of their peoples.

  Kirk could see them from his vantage point on the second floor of the bakery—one of Heir’at’s most ancient buildings, apparently. The Heiren in the streets below him looked so exuberant, so festive, it was difficult to imagine there might be dissidents in their midst—people ruthless and coldhearted enough to commit murder if it meant throwing a monkey wrench into the telepaths’ reconciliation ceremony.

  Of course, if the dissidents could smell what the lieutenant was smelling at the moment, they would forget all about the ceremony. In fact, they might forget their own names.

  After all, the ovens in the basement two floors below him were working overtime to satisfy the celebratory needs of the Heir’tza, filling the rest of the building with the rich, buttery aroma of doughy pastries sweltering on hot stones. Just thinking about it made Kirk’s stomach growl.

  Phelana leaned closer to him. “I know one of the telepaths could be hidden downstairs,” she commented sotto voce, “but it’s going to be difficult to concentrate on anything but that smell.”

  “It already is,” he told her.

  Apparently, the bakery’s fragrance was having a similar effect on the Heir’tza security operatives who shared the meeting room with them. Their yellow [172] eyes had narrowed to slits and their pointed ears were lying flat against their long, hairless skulls.

  Mitchell must have been enjoying the smell, too. But he wasn’t saying anything about it. In fact, he hadn’t said anything about anything since the three cadets had transported from the Republic to the planet’s surface a half hour earlier.

  The lieutenant sighed, wishing things had turned out differently, wishing he and the underclassman could have remained friends. For one thing, it would have made this mission a lot less uncomfortable for them.

  And for Phelana as well. Unlike Kirk, she barely knew Mitchell, but the plebe wasn’t speaking to her any more than he had to. Guilt by association, the lieutenant mused.

  Just as the thought crossed his mind, Ar Bintor walked into the room. The Second Minister of Security for Heir’at was a squat, bowlegged fellow with thick, muscular arms and legs and a brow ridge any Heir’tza would have been proud of.

  The assembled security operatives gave the fellow their undivided attention. Despite the allure of the smells wafting up from below, Kirk tried his best to do the same.

  “I know you’ve all been briefed in advance,” said Bintor, “but let me tell you again how important this operation is. What happens on the streets of Heir’at today can lead to the kind of peace our forefathers could only dream about—or it could just as easily lead to war and bloodshed. The outcome is entirely up to us.”

  [173] A murmur of acknowledgment ran through the ranks of the Heir’tza. Kirk and his fellow cadets just nodded.

  “Some of you may be tempted to relax,” the minister continued. “After all, none of us knows where the telepaths are hidden, myself included, and this is only one of several possible locations. Nonetheless, I will demand the utmost vigilance of you—for if one of the telepaths is hidden here, and we allow him to be captured or killed, we will be branded villains and worse for many years to come.”

  Kirk didn’t doubt it. What’s more, he had no intention of being branded a villain or worse, especially when his behavior on Heir’tzan reflected on the entire Federation.

  “Does everyone understand his or her assignment?” asked Bintor. He looked deadly serious, his ears flared and his eyes wide and round.

  Kirk didn’t. He raised his hand to signify as much.

  “Your pardon, Second Minister,” he said, “but my colleagues and I haven’t received an assignment yet.”

  Bintor took in the three Starfleet cadets at a glance. “You’re correct, Lieutenant. I will cure the oversight immediately.” He seemed to give the matter some thought. “You will establish yourselves across the street from the bakery’s north wall.”

  “All three of us?” asked Mitchell.

  “All three,” the minister confirmed. Then, as if he felt that was all the cadets needed to know, he turned again to his fellow Heir’tza.

  “Your pa
rdon,” Kirk said a second time, “but isn’t it possible to find a better use for us?”

  [174] Bintor looked at him. “Such as?”

  “I don’t know,” the lieutenant replied. “But you have two teams deployed along the north wall already.”

  The security official’s chin came up. “I have two teams deployed along every wall.”

  “All the more reason,” Kirk pressed, “to move us to another position. For instance, one closer to the telepaths’ route.”

  Bintor’s wide nostrils flared even wider. “My associates, the third and fourth ministers, have attended to that. In fact, we have attended to all our projected needs.”

  “But, sir—” the lieutenant began.

  “To be blunt,” the Hier’tza went on, raising his voice over the human’s objection, “I see your presence here as a mere gesture on the part of your Federation. Were you not apprised of that understanding?”

  Kirk frowned. “I was not, Minister. What I was told was that we would be pulling our weight, which is what we still hope to do. In fact, I thought we might start by—”

  “It is not necessary for you to think,” Bintor told him, his eyes flashing in his scaly, bronze countenance. He smiled a broad but humorless smile, baring small, upward-curving fangs. “It is only necessary for you to obey.”

  The lieutenant didn’t appreciate the sentiment. On the other hand, Bannock had told him to follow the Heir’tza’s directives.

  [175] His smile fading, the security minister turned slowly to face his native operatives. “Now,” he said, “is there anyone else who has a question about his or her assignment?”

  No one did.

  “In that case,” Ar Bintor told them, “you may disperse and report to your assigned positions.”

  The Heir’tza operatives began filing out of the room, followed by the security minister himself. That left the three Starfleet cadets looking at each other. Mitchell and Phelana looked frustrated.

  Kirk was frustrated, too, for all the good it would do them. He shrugged, as if to say, There’s nothing more I can do.

  Phelana seemed to understand that. But not Mitchell. He shot the lieutenant a look of dissatisfaction.