A BRILLIANT LIGHT. Kirk flinched from it, felt pain carve its way through his flesh.
He looked down, saw that he was bound—hand and foot, to a heavy chair. Off to the side, he could make out dark, wooden crates, piled nearly to the top of a high ceiling. Something scurried among the crates, as startled by the light as he was.
He forced himself to look back, saw a figure silhouetted in the light. A doorway? he asked himself. Yes. With sunlight streaming through it. Then the figure moved toward him, and others appeared behind it.
Three of them altogether. One of them slammed the door shut, and suddenly the light was gone.
"It's about time you woke up," rasped the one who'd come in first.
Kirk's eyes were still confused by molten afterimages. But he recognized the voice.
"Where am I?" he asked, awakening yet another pain—his one in his jaw. It felt as if it had been broken.
"Nowhere you want to be," said Scarface. "That's for sure." One of the men behind him chuckled.
"What about my friends?" asked Kirk. "The two who were with me?"
The big man grunted.
"You ask a lot of questions," he said, "for someone who's not in a position to ask any. Or is that just what starship captains do? Ask a lot of questions?"
He laughed that hard, harsh laugh that Kirk had heard in the bar. When he was done, he wiped his mouth.
"Tyler," he said. "Get me a chair."
One of the other men moved, found a chair by the wall. Dragged it across the floor until he could give it to Scarface.
The big man stood it backward in front of Kirk. Then he sat, straddling the seat, wrapping his huge arms around the backrest.
His eyes, only a couple of feet from the captain's, seemed to glitter.
"Now," he said, "you gonna drop this starship crap? Or maybe you need some more encouragement?"
"It's not crap," said Kirk, as evenly as he could. "And you still haven't told me where my friends are."
The big man grinned, pulling his scar taut across his cheekbone.
"Wrong answer," he said.
Kirk saw it coming, but there was nothing he could do about it. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his side, still bound in the chair. His jaw was a throbbing agony and the taste of blood was strong in his mouth.
A moment later, Scarface wrestled Kirk's chair erect again. And pulled his over, so that their positions were restored.
The big man peered at him through narrowed eyes, and again the captain could smell the zezalia seeds. "Want to change your mind?" he asked, in a voice like stones grating together.
Kirk thought about it.
Obviously, he wasn't going to convince his captors of the truth. For whatever reason, they genuinely believed he was someone else—someone who had double-crossed them in a dilithium deal, judging by the words that had passed in the bar.
But then, he didn't have to convince them—did he? When Spock realized he was missing, there would be a search. Possibly, there was one already under way.
All he had to do was stay alive until they found him. Buy some time. And since the truth was losing its effectiveness in that regard, why not try the other approach?
"All right," he said. "You win. What is it you want to know?"
"What do you think?" asked Scarface. "Your dilithium source. That is, if it really exists."
Kirk eyed him, managed a smile.
"It exists, all right."
The big man leaned a little closer. "Then where is it?"
"That depends," said the captain.
"On what?"
"On who's asking."
Scarface reddened, but he contained his temper.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I want to see your boss. The Rythrian."
The big man's brow furrowed. "Why? You think he'll be any easier on you?"
Kirk shrugged. The ropes cut mercilessly into his arms, but he kept the pain to himself.
"I need some assurances," he explained. "And he's the only one who can give them to me."
The captain knew he was taking a chance. He was putting Scarface in a position where he'd look bad, ineffectual. Rather than go crawling back to his boss empty-handed, he might just decide to beat Kirk to death—and claim afterward that his captive wouldn't talk.
But the other two men were looking on, and they were Kirk's aces in the hole. Either or both of them might tell the Rythrian what really happened—that Kirk was ready to spill the beans, but Scarface killed him in anger. And thereby cheated the Rythrian out of his dilithium a second time.
The big man's face twisted with indecision.
"Well?" asked Kirk.
Scarface glared at him. His right hand, inches from the captain's throat, opened and clenched—as if it had a will of its own.
For a brief moment, Kirk thought he'd gone too far.
Then, abruptly, the big man rose and headed for the door. The captain squinted again at the sudden flood of light, saw his tormentor disappear into it. The other men followed on his heels.
And this time, the door closed quietly.
Kirk breathed a sigh of relief.
That was close, he told himself. Too close. But it seems I've bought myself some of that time.
As it turned out, Kirk received more time than he'd bargained for. Hours passed, though he had only a vague sense of how many. And a pit grew in his stomach, reminding him that it had been too long since he'd eaten.
It was time enough to ponder his situation, to try to unravel the series of events that had brought him to this estate.
Who was it these men were really after? Did he resemble Kirk as closely as they thought?
And where was he now? Light-years away, probably, having purchased a berth on a cruiser with the money he took from the Rythrian.
There was time enough, too, to recall the details of that first brawl in Tranktown. After a while, he even remembered how it had started.
There had been a young woman, and a man who had tried to thrust his company on her. Naturally, Kirk had taken the side of the woman—even after he'd found out the man was her husband.
He'd have to tell Bones, he resolved, when he saw him again.
If he saw him again? No. Too maudlin.
Yet he couldn't forget how he'd gone hurtling through the air, as limp as a Cyrilean invertebrate, as bloody as a Vulcan sunset. The scene kept replaying itself before his eyes, over and over again.
And what about Scotty? Was he all right?
Were the two of them prisoners as he was, held in some warehouse room like this one? Perhaps just the other side of one of these walls?
Damn. What was taking Spock so long? Even if McCoy and Scotty had been taken prisoner, there must have been witnesses in that bar. People who had paid some attention to the altercation—who might have recognized Scarface, or heard the Rythrian's name come up.
Of course there were. But would they come forward? Or would fear of the Rythrian keep them in the shadows?
And without at least one witness, how would Spock or anyone else know where to look for him?
His heart sank.
For the umpteenth time, he tried to loosen the knots that held his wrists. But whoever had tied them had done a good job. All he accomplished was to inflict more pain on himself.
It was right about then that he heard the scurrying thing—heard its claws ticking against the floor as it darted across the room. A couple of heartbeats later, there were sounds outside the door. Voices.
The door opened.
But this time, there was no outpouring of light. It was as lark now outside the room as it was inside.
The Rythrian came in alone, shut the door behind him. Like all his race, he was tall and slightly awkward—by human standards. And the loose flaps of skin that were his ears seemed to flutter as he walked.
He came up to Kirk without speaking, lifted the chair that Scarface had sat on, and drew it back a ways from his captive. When he had achieved the distance he required, he put it down. It took a while for him to make himself comfortable in it.
Kirk's impulse was to speak first, to take the initiative—but he thought better of it. As ignorant as he was, he'd put his foot in his mouth likely as not.
No, it was the Rythrian's place. Let him open the negotiations.
After a moment, he did just that.
"I understand," he said, "that you have decided to divulge your dilithium source."
"Of course," said the captain. "In time. And under the right circumstances."
The Rythrian stared at him for a moment. No doubt, it was not the response he had expected.
"You speak as if you were in a position to bargain."
"A man with a dilithium source," said Kirk, "is always in a position to bargain. Or so I've been told."
Again, a pause. Kirk watched his captor, tried to gauge the effect of his remarks. But the Rythrian's expression didn't seem to have changed any.
"And what sort of circumstances do you seek?" he asked finally.
"Freedom. The opportunity to complete the deal we made."
The Rythrian shook his head from side to side, stirring his earflaps.
"You will be free," he said, "after we confirm your source. Any other arrangement is impossible."
The scurrying thing made scraping noises where it hid among the crates. The Rythrian appeared not to notice.
"I don't want to seem suspicious," said Kirk. "But after I tell you my source, what reason will you have to keep me alive? Won't you be tempted to make an example of me—to make sure no one else thinks of deceiving you?"
"Certainly," said the Rythrian. "But that does not mean I must kill you. All that is required is that I damage you—and he extent of that damage is still largely up to you."
"And the quickness with which I divulge my source."
"Precisely. Tell me now, and you may walk again someday. Force me to wait, and …" He let his voice trail off meaningfully.
"It is not much of a choice," said Kirk.
"No. But it is more of a choice than you deserve."
Kirk met his gaze.
"And if I did give you my source, you're confident that you could establish a relationship with him?"
The Rythrian shrugged.
"Why not? Money is money."
"Is it? Dilithium theft from a Federation mine is a serious crime. It could get a man a dozen long years in a penal colony."
He let that sink in.
"My source knows me, trusts me. If someone else approached him, he'd probably suspect an investigation—and disappear as quickly as possible."
The Rythrian's mouth opened—and stayed open. A sign that he'd gotten his captor's attention?
"As a result," Kirk pressed, "no source. No dilithium. And no profits."
The Rythrian snorted—derisively, he thought.
"And I am to believe you?" he asked. "After you have proven yourself untrustworthy?"
"That was a mistake," Kirk conceded. "I won't make it again."
Another snort—perhaps less emphatic than the first?
"If I let you deceive me twice, it will cause irreparable damage to my reputation. I cannot allow that."
Kirk felt his case slipping away.
"Then send along a chaperon," he said, "to keep me honest. Or come along yourself. The more the merrier."
The longest pause of all.
"Perhaps," said the Rythrian. "I will think about it."
And he left.