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

by Michael Jan Friedman

  By then, a couple of the Heiren had drawn their weapons and were returning the human’s fire. The others, realizing what was happening, went after the underclassman and the telepath.

  Unfortunately, Kirk couldn’t help his companions grapple with the enemy. The best strategy for him at the moment was to take out as many of the dissidents as he could.

  He aimed and fired a third time.

  For what could only have been a few seconds, chaos reigned in the square. The few innocents present ran away screaming, fearing for their lives. Dark blue beams lanced this way and that, spattering off wall [216] after ancient wall and slamming into body after robed body. Somehow, the lieutenant avoided being one of the bodies that were hit.

  Then, as if by magic, there were no other targets left for him to fire at, and no one left to return his fire. All but two of his adversaries were stretched out on the ground.

  Mitchell was exchanging jabs with one of the two who were still standing. The other was wrestling with the telepath, the pair of them too close for Kirk to draw a bead on the kidnapper.

  Cursing beneath his breath, he put his weapon away and started to go to the telepath’s aid. But before the lieutenant could get near the fracas, one of the two most important beings on Heir’tza reared back and planted his heel in his enemy’s midsection.

  The dissident doubled over, and the telepath chopped down on the back of his neck. A moment later, the kidnapper collapsed in a heap.

  At the same time, Mitchell landed a combination of his own—a right to the jaw and a left to the side of the head. When his adversary crumpled, having been knocked senseless, the cadet looked around for another one.

  But, of course, there weren’t any kidnappers left. Together, Kirk and his allies had polished them all off.

  The upperclassman had a strange inclination to applaud the work they had done. As it was, he found himself exchanging a look with his fellow cadet—an expression of pride, a recognition of all the two of them had accomplished to that point.

  [217] Words couldn’t have expressed the sentiment any better. At least, that was how it seemed to Kirk.

  Then the moment was over and the lieutenant turned to the telepath, who was massaging a set of knuckles he had scraped in the melee. “They didn’t tell us you could fight like that,” he told the Heiren.

  The telepath smiled, exposing long, white fangs. “I don’t often get the chance,” he noted.

  Suddenly, they heard voices from inside the warehouse. Angry voices—and a thunder of footfalls on the winding stairs.

  “Come on,” said Kirk, waving the telepath past him as he pulled out his weapon again. “We’d better get out of here.”

  After all, they had a ceremony to get to. And after all they had gone through, it would be a pity if they were late.

  As it happened, Mitchell and his friends crossed the plaza and lost themselves in the streets of Heir’at before the rest of the kidnappers could catch up with them.

  “We made it,” said the plebe, casting a look over his shoulder down a long, winding street.

  “Not yet, we haven’t,” Kirk responded. “We’ve still got a long way to go before we reach the temple.” He turned to the telepath. “By the way, which one are we headed for?”

  “The Eastern Temple,” the Heiren told him. “The closer one, as luck would have it.”

  “The Eastern Temple it is, then,” said the lieutenant. “Just stick with me and keep your eyes open.”

  [218] “I will endeavor to do both,” the telepath assured him.

  As Kirk led the way, ever vigilant, Mitchell came up alongside the Heiren. “So ... do you have a name?” he asked.

  His yellow eyes narrowing with amusement, the telepath nodded. “I do indeed. My name is Perris. Perris Nodarh.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Perris Nodarh. I’m Gary Mitchell. And our friend the pathfinder up there is Jim Kirk.”

  “Names I will have to remember,” the Heiren told him. “In fact, every Heir’och and Heir’tza will be obliged to remember them, if all goes well the remainder of this day.”

  The thought appealed to Mitchell. It appealed to him a lot.

  Being a hero, having alien schoolchildren honor his name ... none of those perks had even occurred to him when he took the test to enter the Academy. And he had just gotten started.

  “They told us which telepath would come from the Eastern Temple,” he told the Heiren, “but, frankly, I don’t recall what they said.”

  “And you wish to know which faction I represent?” The telepath seemed amused by the cadet’s honesty.

  Mitchell nodded sheepishly. “I suppose that’s what I was asking, in my clumsy way.”

  “I am Heir’och,” said Perris Nodarh.

  “So your kidnappers were Heir’tza?”

  “No.” The telepath shook his scaly head. “They were Heir’och as well, judging from what I could pick [219] up of their conversation. They seized me because they oppose the Reconciliation.”

  “Takes all kinds,” said Mitchell.

  “Yes,” said the Heiren. “Though I look forward to the day when all my people will be one kind.”

  It was slow, careful going for a while after that. Kirk forced them to skulk through narrow alleyways and slip from cover to cover, working their way toward the center of town at a pace that a Central Park box turtle would have been ashamed of.

  Mitchell found himself growing more and more impatient. He had an urge to speed things up, to make a beeline for the temple where the telepath was supposed to appear and the devil take the hindmost.

  But he curbed the impulse and kept his mouth shut—because like it or not, he knew the lieutenant’s approach was the right one. If they picked up the pace and ran into one of their enemies, all their good work might be undone in an instant.

  And none of them wanted that.

  So they kept to their indirect route until the streets they traveled became more crowded with Heir’tza and Heir’och, and they were able to blend with the general flow of celebrants. But even then, they moved more slowly than they would have liked, the city’s byways choked with unusually heavy traffic.

  Eventually, they emerged from a broad thoroughfare and caught sight of the Eastern Temple. Rising from a glittering sea of Heiren, the temple turned out to be an ornate, five-story building with a splendid, golden roof and a slender stone tower rising from each corner.

  [220] “We’re almost there,” Mitchell noted.

  The telepath nodded. “Thanks to you and your colleague.”

  Kirk didn’t say anything. He was too busy looking around for anything suspicious. But then, thought the plebe, he wouldn’t have expected any less from the man.

  The last few hundred meters were the toughest, as they wove their way through the densest part of the throng to the pall of the temple. And still they saw no sign of the telepath’s abductors.

  To Mitchell’s mind, there was nothing especially odd about that. They had gotten a head start, after all. With the crowd in their way, the kidnappers simply hadn’t managed to close the gap.

  Finally, they reached the pitted, stone steps of the temple. Though the building was open to anyone who wished to enter and pray, as ancient custom demanded, the only ones occupying the steps at the moment were a half-dozen security personnel in red-and-white uniforms.

  Kirk broke through the first rank of onlookers, opening the way for Mitchell and the telepath. Then, with a last wary glance at the crowd, he led them in the direction of the temple entrance.

  The entire way there, no one around them had been inclined to look under their hoods, so no one had noticed that the cadets weren’t Heiren. Apparently, the guards around the temple were a good deal more discerning. Within seconds, a pair of high-ranking officers had converged on Mitchell and his companions.

  [221] “You’re offworlders,” one of them noted bluntly, his eyes narrowing beneath his jutting brow ridge.

  “We’re Starfleet,” Kirk said.

  The
guards looked skeptical, to say the least. “What are you doing here?” asked the second one.

  “We were assigned to protect the Heir’och telepath,” the underclassman told them. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s him.”

  The Heiren looked past him at Perris Nodarh. The telepath removed his hood so they could see his face.

  “The Heir’och telepath,” the first guard echoed. He didn’t sound any less skeptical than before.

  “It’s true,” said Perris Nodarh.

  “So you say,” remarked the second guard, his eyes becoming slits. “But for all we know, you could be a Heir’och terrorist in a white robe.”

  “We came from the bakery,” Kirk pointed out hopefully.

  The Heiren shrugged. “That means nothing to us.”

  “That’s where the telepath was hidden,” the lieutenant insisted.

  “Or so you say,” came the response.

  Mitchell sighed. He had expected this to be the easy part.

  “Can’t you contact Minister Bintor?” he asked. “He would clear this up in a matter of—”

  He stopped himself. With advanced technology restricted in Heir’at, Ar Bintor might as well have been at the other end of the galaxy. They couldn’t contact him any more than they could contact Earth.

  The underclassman decided to change tacks. “Surely,” he said, “there’s someone inside the temple [222] who knows what the telepath looks like? The person in charge of things, maybe?”

  The first Heir’tza turned to him. “You would like to get inside the temple, wouldn’t you?”

  Kirk shook his head, obviously as baffled as the plebe was. “If you didn’t know what the telepath looked like or where he was coming from, how were you supposed to know when he arrived?”

  The guards glanced at each other, as if trying to decide how much to divulge. Finally, the second one spoke.

  “He was to be escorted here by Tev Nallor, Minister Bintor’s second-in-command. But, unless my eyesight has begun to desert me, Tev Nallor is nowhere to be seen.”

  “He’s probably back at the bakery,” Mitchell declared, “trying to figure out what happened to the telepath he was supposed to guard.” Something occurred to him for the first time. “Unless ...”

  “What?” asked the first guard.

  “Unless he was killed,” Mitchell finished.

  The security officers’ brows ridged over. “Killed?” echoed the first one, his voice taut with concern.

  “Yes,” said the lieutenant. “There were kidnappers. They seized the telepath. We rescued him.”

  The second officer snorted derisively. But he couldn’t hide his nervousness—at least, not from Mitchell.

  The plebe bit his lip. After all they had done, all they had risked, he couldn’t believe they were being waylaid on the temple steps, just a few meters shy of their destination.

  [223] What’s more, he didn’t like the idea of standing out in the open, unprotected from directed-energy fire. After all, the telepath’s kidnappers had already demonstrated their willingness to use such weapons—and they were probably edging closer to the temple at that very moment.

  “Look,” he told the guards, “there’s got to be some way to prove this man is who he says he is.”

  The first security officer smiled grimly. “He could read my mind. That would prove it.”

  The telepath shook his head. “I can’t make contact with an ordinary mind. I can only speak with another telepath.”

  Suddenly, Mitchell got an idea.

  “Then speak with me,” he said.

  Kirk looked at him. You? But you’re—”

  “A sensitive,” the underclassman reminded him. “At least, that’s how our friend here described it.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “Of course.”

  “What are you going on about?” asked the second guard.

  Mitchell turned to him. “One of you tell me something no one else could possibly know. Then I’ll turn around so my face is hidden, and the telepath will tell you exactly what you said.”

  “In other words,” said Kirk, in an attempt to clarify the proposition for the security officers, “he’ll use his power of telepathy to pluck the thought from your head?”

  “Exactly,” Mitchell confirmed.

  The upperclassman turned to Perris Nodarh. “Are you certain you can pull this off?”

  [224] “I believe so,” said the telepath.

  He didn’t sound entirely sure. But then, how could he be? There were no other full-fledged telepaths on Heir’och—and his attempts to communicate with the plebe had been limited to that one incident in the warehouse.

  Still, it was worth a try.

  “Well?” Mitchell asked the guards.

  The Heiren thought about it. They looked wary.

  “It could be a trick,” said the second one.

  “Time’s wasting,” Kirk pointed out. “And if this is the Heir’och telepath, do you want to be known as the pair who kept the great reconciliation from taking place?” He pointed to the crowd. “Do you want to have to explain yourselves to them?”

  Judging by the guards’ expressions, that put the matter in a different light. The first one made a gesture of surrender.

  “Let’s see what they can do,” he said.

  The second one nodded in agreement. “Indeed.”

  “Excellent,” Mitchell responded. He put his hand on the first guard’s shoulder as if they were old friends. Then he offered the Heiren his ear. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  The officer thought for a moment. Then he whispered, “My garden was trampled by the crowds.”

  The plebe nodded, then turned his back to the telepath. “All right,” he said. “What am I thinking, Perris?”

  He concentrated on the guard’s complaint as hard as he could, to the exclusion of all other thoughts. My [225] garden was trampled by the crowds, he mused. My garden was trampled by the crowds. ...

  For what seemed like a long time, there was no response. There was only the hum and crackle of the assembled onlookers, who must have been wondering feverishly what was going on.

  Come on, Mitchell silently encouraged the telepath. You can do it. Just concentrate, okay? My garden was trampled by the crowds. My garden was trampled by the crowds. ...

  Abruptly, Perns Nodarh spoke up.

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said sympathetically. “But then, such losses can be remedied. When the celebration is over, I would be glad to help you plant a new one.”

  Mitchell turned and saw the look on the security officer’s face. The Heiren’s yellow eyes were wide with amazement beneath his brow ridge, his skepticism gone without a trace.

  “That was it,” he muttered.

  “What was it?” asked the other guard.

  “Never mind,” said the first one. “We’ve got to get these three into the temple. Quickly.”

  Mitchell couldn’t have agreed more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “THANK YOU ONCE AGAIN,” said Shirod Lenna, Heir’at’s First Minister of Security. “Your intervention in this matter appears to have been most timely, Lieutenant Kirk.”

  The cadet nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  Their voices echoed in the Eastern Temple’s primary chamber, a huge room with lofty, vaulted ceilings full of small, flying creatures that resembled hummingbirds. Great events in Heiren history were depicted in glorious murals that covered the entirety of each wall.

  The tall, slender windows in the place were made of leaded glass that transformed sunlight into long shafts of various hues. They illuminated a raised, central platform of pink marble, as well as the several ranks [227] of wooden benches arranged in expanding circles around it.

  At the moment, the platform was occupied by the barefoot Perris Nodarh and a handful of humble attendants, who were dressing the telepath in a new white robe with blue trim. It was fortunate that the temple staff had had a supply of such garments on hand.

  After all, Pe
rris’s old robe had been soiled and torn in the fight at the warehouse, then rumpled in the course of his journey across Heir’at. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for him to wear it during such a grand occasion as the Reconciliation.

  Kirk, on the other hand, was still wearing the robe he had “borrowed” from the telepath’s kidnappers. True, it was a little the worse for wear ... but in the press of the crowd, no one was likely to notice.

  “What took place at the bakery is most unsettling,” Lenna continued. “Ar Bintor is a close friend of mine. And one of my wife’s nieces was serving as a guard there.”

  The lieutenant bit his lip. He didn’t know what to say to that.

  Not that he had never experienced a tragedy of his own. As an innocent teenager, he had witnessed the massacre of some four thousand colonists on Tarsus IV—the event that had earned the colony’s governor the infamous name Kodos the Executioner.

  But even then, he hadn’t lost anyone really close to him. His friends and relatives had remained unscathed on Tarsus IV and elsewhere. With luck, he [228] thought, he would be able to say that for a long time to come.

  “I didn’t see Ar Bintor before we left the bakery,” Kirk said at last, offering some hope. “It may be he wasn’t hurt after all.”

  The minister, a tall Heiren with a narrow, bony face, grunted softly. “I hope you’re right about that, Lieutenant. Just as I hope some of the kidnappers decided to linger about that warehouse, so we can catch them and try them for their crimes.”

  Kirk doubted it. Still, he kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t his place to tell a Heir’tza security minister about the likelihood of catching dissidents in his own city.

  His ears lying flat against his hairless, bronze skull, Lenna shook his head. “Fortunately or unfortunately, we Heiren live in a time of momentous change ... and change tends to take its toll on all of us.”

  “Tev Badris says he’s ready,” came an eager voice. It echoed wildly, almost irreverently, in the temple’s cavernous interior.

  Kirk turned to the entrance and saw Mitchell. The plebe held his arms up, his colorful reveler’s robe rustling like an old friend.