SCOTT BOLTED UPRIGHT, SPUTTERING.
Immediately, he wished he hadn't. His head felt as if it were about to explode. Moaning softly, he wiped icy drops of water from his eyes.
And looked up into the face of James T. Kirk.
"Scotty? Are you all right?"
The chief engineer felt the side of his head, flinched when he touched the spot where he'd been hit. His fingers came away with a pinkish-red ooze on them.
"M'poor head," he said. "A' think a' broke it."
"Scotty," said the captain, "we've got to get out of here. Can you walk?"
"Aye," he said, looking around him. The fight seemed to have run its course, with only a few stragglers still picking themselves up out of the debris—spurred by the sound of approaching sirens. "Wha' happened? Where's Doctor McCoy?"
Kirk frowned deeply as he got a hand under Scott's armpit. "I found him, but he's not in good shape. We've got to get him back to the ship—quickly."
Fear for McCoy shot adrenaline through Scott's veins. Allowing the captain to help him, he staggered to his feet.
His brain felt as if it were too big for his skull, and the pain brought on a wave of nausea. But he managed to quell it as Kirk led him through the confusion of shattered furniture and broken glass.
In the dim light, he couldn't see very well. He was almost on top of McCoy before he knew it.
Nor had the captain exaggerated—the doctor was barely breathing. His eyes were puffed closed, his face distended and dark with bruises. Blood still seeped from a gash in his forehead.
Scott knelt over him, gripped McCoy's shoulder—as if he could penetrate the man's unconsciousness, reassure him somehow.
"Damn," he breathed. "He got th' worst of it, all right." He watched dully as Kirk whipped out his communicator.
"Kirk to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise."
For a moment, there was no answer. The sirens seemed to get louder, closer.
The last thing they needed, Scott knew, was to get nabbed by the local authorities. Tied up in red tape, there was no telling when they'd be able to get McCoy to a medical facility.
Finally, Spock's voice came through over the communicator. "Is something wrong, Captain?"
"I'm afraid so," said Kirk. "Three to beam up—immediately. And I want a stretcher brought to the transporter room on the double." He scowled, glanced at the doctor. "McCoy's been hurt."
"Aye, sir," said the Vulcan. And an instant later, "Stand by to beam up."
Whoever was on duty in the transporter room knew what he was doing. Scott barely felt even a tingling before his molecules were whisked across space.
They materialized in a nearly empty transporter room, populated only by the single engineering officer assigned there.
Kirk felt McCoy's neck for a pulse, scowled as he surveyed the pale, blood-smeared face.
"Sir?" asked Mister Scott, kneeling beside the android. Concern for the doctor was etched into his face.
"It's weak," said Kirk, "but at least he's got one." He looked up, acting as frantic as the real captain would have been. "Where's that trauma team, damn it?"
The engineering officer switched on the intercom. "Transporter room to bridge," she said. "Transport completed, but we need medical assistance here as soon as …"
Before she could finish, the doors split open and Doctor M'Benga charged through them, followed by a trauma team.
M'Benga made a quick check of McCoy's vital signs before he signaled the others. Ever so carefully, two men lifted McCoy onto the gurney, even as the rest of the team hooked him up to the life-support unit.
That accomplished, M'Benga glanced at Mister Scott. "You don't look so good either—but we only brought one gurney. Can you make it without one?"
Scotty nodded. "A'll make it fine. Just see t' Doctor McCoy."
"Good," said M'Benga. Again he signaled, and the paramedics started to move. A moment later, they had McCoy out the doors and headed in the direction of the turbolift.
Kirk looked up as if he'd just become aware of another presence in M'Benga's office.
"Oh," he said. "It's you, Spock."
The Vulcan gazed across sickbay at the critical-care unit, in which McCoy lay ensconced.
"Has the doctor regained consciousness yet?" he asked.
Mind your own business, Mister Spock. I'm sick of your half-breed interference, do you hear?
Kirk found the urge to say it greater than he'd thought it would be. Nonetheless, he resisted it. Nodded soberly, instead—as one who had been through an ordeal might have nodded.
"He opened his eyes for a little while just a minute ago. And he appeared to recognize us—M'Benga, Chapel, and myself." He paused for effect. "According to M'Benga, he should be fine. It'll just take a while. He suffered a rather serious concussion, along with some nasty internal injuries."
Spock nodded. "And Mister Scott?" he asked.
"Sent to convalesce in his caben. Fortunately, he fared lot better than McCoy in that brawl."
"As did you yourself," observed his first officer.
Kirk searched Spock's face for a sign of suspicion, found none. But then, he told himself, a Vulcan wouldn't show anything anyway.
He would have to be careful with Mister Spock. In the human Kirk's estimate, no one knew him as well as Spock did. Not even McCoy, with whom he spent more time.
Yes. Very careful.
"I was lucky," said Kirk. He chuckled bitterly. "Though if anyone should have gotten hurt, it was me. I was the one who had been there before. I knew that part of town was dangerous. And I let Bones and Scotty talk me into going there anyway." He glanced at the doctor's sedated form through the transparent separation. "If I had exercised an iota of good judgment, McCoy wouldn't be lying there right now."
Spock raised an eyebrow. "Is this a display of human guilt?"
Kirk snorted. "Call it taking responsibility, Spock."
"Taking responsibility?" asked Spock. "Toward what end, other than self-recrimination?"
"The point is, I was wrong." The android shook his head. "And I'll be damned if I'll let this happen to anyone else in my command." He paused—for effect. "Spock, I want all shore leaves canceled, effective immediately."
Spock evinced no overt reaction to Kirk's decision—but his hesitation was in itself an indication that he was troubled.
"Captain," he began, "may I speak freely?"
"Go ahead," said Kirk.
"I myself feel no particular attraction to Tranquillity Seven, as you know. But that is not the case with the rest of the crew. They have looked forward to this shore leave. Moreover, they have been in need of a respite from their duties for quite some time. Might I suggest that instead of canceling leave altogether, we merely limit it to a designated area—encompassing only the safer parts of town?"
Kirk pretended to consider the suggestion. But he had his own reasons for wanting to move on.
"No," he said finally. "There will be those whose curiosity will get the better of them." He grunted. "I should know." And in a more confident tone, "We'll find another place for shore leave, after this business with the Romulans has been settled. In the meantime, nobody beams down to the planet's surface. And have Uhura contact those already down there as quickly as possible."
Spock seemed reluctant, but he nodded. "I'll see to it," he said.
Kirk showed him a wan smile. "Thank you, Spock. I think I'll stay here awhile longer."
"As you wish," said the Vulcan. He turned on his heel and left M'Benga's office.
The android watched him stride across sickbay. Saw the doors open and close again behind him.
He doesn't suspect, he told himself. None of them do.
And why should they? Was he not a perfect replica of Captain James T. Kirk, down to the last fingernail?
Nor would the original Kirk ever be seen again. He had made certain of that with his choice of business partner.
The Rythrian had a reputation for using violence when he thought he could profit by it. Having finally caught up with the man who'd stolen from him, he could hardly let him live—it would invite others to try their luck. The only prudent move was to kill him.
And what then? Kirk thought. Will I still be a replica when the human Kirk is dead? No. For how can one be a copy when there is no longer an original? I will be the only Kirk in existence.
Perhaps he was already. It pleased him to think so.
Everything has gone so smoothly. The entire first phase of my plan has proceeded step by step to this result.
Could even Korby have succeeded as he had succeeded? Could even the Creator have accomplished this?
Control of the Enterprise?
On the other side of sickbay, Nurse Chapel appeared—to check up on McCoy. Even from here, Kirk could read the display above the patient. His life signs were stable.
After a few moments, Chapel noticed him sitting in M'Benga's office. She waved.
He waved back.
There was only one more thing for him to do. Not a test, for certainly he had passed all the tests he needed to.
It was more of a gesture.
He felt impelled to do it now. To finally claim what was his.
But it was necessary to keep up appearances. So he would remain here for a while, appearing to worry about the fate of Leonard McCoy.
Then he would take his place on the bridge.