KIRK ACCEPTED A DOCUMENT from Yeoman Chaney, glanced at it. Something to do with communicator parts. He signed it and handed it back.
"Thank you, sir," said Chaney.
"Thank you," said Kirk.
He sat back in his command chair and surveyed the activity all around him. Uhura coordinating the recall of the crew from Tranktown, Spock taking bio readings of the planet's all-but-uncharted arctic region, Sulu making minute corrections in the ship's orbit.
It felt right, familiar, down to the almost imperceptible hum of the Enterprise's impulse engines. As if it had been he, and not his human predecessor, who'd logged thousands of hours in this very spot—made thousands of decisions, given thousands of orders.
The turbolift doors opened behind him, and a moment later Ensign Chekov circumnavigated the bridge. As he took his seat beside Sulu, he shot the helmsman a look of disappointment. Smiling wistfully, Sulu returned it.
Neither man was happy, of course, at having his shore leave terminated so abruptly. And being only human, they would evidence their displeasure in small ways.
An android crew, however, would never have exchanged those glances—for there would have been no disappointment to communicate. In fact, there would have been no need for shore leave in the first place.
"Captain?"
Kirk swiveled, faced Uhura. "Yes, Lieutenant?"
"I've been in touch with everyone now. And their coordinates have been relayed to engineering."
"Thank you," said the android, turning to the next station along the perimeter of the bridge.
Spock's position, he saw, had not changed. The Vulcan was still bent over his science console, his stony features bathed in a bluish glow.
"Will you be much longer, Mister Spock?"
He asked the question as the human Kirk would have asked it—in the form of a good-natured gibe.
In response, his first officer looked up and straightened a little. Though the interruption must have annoyed him at some level, he gave no hint of it.
"I have accumulated all the basic information I require," said Spock. "It is not necessary to delay departure on my account. However, I will continue to record additional data until we actually leave orbit—unless the captain has some other duty in mind?"
"None," Kirk assured him. "Please proceed."
Without another word, Spock hunched again over his computer screen.
Now there, Kirk told himself, was a specimen it would be difficult to improve on. One already free from the shackles of emotion, dedicated to the standard of rational behavior.
Physically, however, he was nearly as frail as the others. He required food, oxygen, insulation from the cold of space. He could be stricken by disease, irreparably damaged through the use of force. And in time, he would simply die of old age.
Androids, of course, had no such liabilities.
Turning forward again, Kirk was reminded of the current situation by the great, green slice of planet on the viewscreen. He depressed the button that would put him in touch with the transporter room.
"Kyle here," came the response.
"How's it going down there, Mister Kyle?"
"No problems, sir. We should be beaming the last group aboard in ten or fifteen minutes."
"Good," said the android. "Let me know when you're finished, will you?"
"Aye, sir," said Kyle.
Kirk pressed the button a second time, ending the conversation.
"Sir?"
It was Uhura again. She'd waited for him to finish before she addressed him—as considerate as always.
He smiled. "What is it, Lieutenant?"
"A communication from Starbase Three," she said.
Good. It was about time that he received a message from Starfleet—something he could use as a stalking horse.
"I'll take it in the briefing room," he told her.
Uhura looked at him. She knew it was not a priority message—that he could have received it right there on the bridge. But she was too good an officer to question her captain's decisions.
"Aye, sir. I'll open up a channel."
As Kirk rose from his command chair, he saw that Spock was looking at him too. Not with suspicion, he thought, but with readiness—in case the captain wanted him to come along.
But Kirk gave him no indication of that. And by the time he reached the turbolift, Spock was again intent on his computer screen.
The turbolift was empty, but the corridor that led to the briefing room was not. It was almost time for a change of shifts, and the walkway was crowded with crewmen en route to their various stations.
He was a little surprised when one young woman came right up to him—obviously for the purpose of speaking with him. She was tall, dark-haired, perhaps a trifle lacking in grace. Her uniform told him that she was an ensign—one assigned to engineering.
But a rapid scan of his memory files turned up no knowledge of her. No friendship with the captain, no special relationship. Not even a nodding acquaintance.
"Captain," she began, "I …"
He held up a hand, cutting her short.
"I don't mean to be brusque, Ensign, bur I'm on my way to the briefing room. Can this wait?"
She seemed taken aback, but she recovered quickly. 'Uh … yes," she told him. "Of course, sir."
"Good." He flashed her a smile and continued down the corridor.
The briefing room was just a little farther on. When he got there, he pressed his hand against the plate that would only respond to a member of the command staff. If even a detail in one of his fingerprints was appreciably different from his predecessor's, the door would not open.
But of course, it did.
Kirk entered, sat. Contacted Uhura.
"All right, Lieutenant. Ready to receive."
"Relaying, sir."
The android had expected to see the face of Admiral Straus, the officer in charge of Starbase Three. Instead, his second-in-command, Commodore Darian, appeared on the screen.
"Kirk," said the commodore. "Good to see you."
"Likewise, Commodore."
"You know," said Darian, "this really wasn't necessary—for us to speak in private, I mean. The admiral just wanted to keep you abreast of the Romulan situation."
Kirk feigned puzzlement. "Then why did you send a priority message?"
Darian shook his head. "I didn't."
The captain grunted. "I'd say it was Uhura's mistake, but she so seldom makes one. I guess I just heard the word 'priority.'" He took a deep breath, exhaled it. "And here I figured that matters had gotten out of hand with the Romulans, and that we were being called to the border."
"Nothing quite so dramatic," the commodore assured him. "There has been increased activity along the border—as if the Romulans were somehow upping the ante. But—to draw out the metaphor—they still show no signs of laying their cards on the table. Nothing's happened that could clearly be called a hostile action."
Kirk nodded. "Then my orders, I assume, are the same?"
"Exactly the same. Remain in the sector. Stay close to the border bur not too close. Except for that, it's business as usual."
"Duly noted," said the captain.
"Actually," said the commodore, "I only half expected to find you on the ship. I had a feeling you'd be planetside, enjoying your leave."
Kirk cleared his throat. "Unfortunately," he said, "I had to cut our leave a bit short."
Darian's face showed his surprise. "I see." He paused. "Any particular reason?"
"There was an incident," said the android. "No permanent damage to the participants, as it turns out. But it was enough to sour me on the place." He shrugged. "It'll all be in my report."
"Of course," said the commodore.
Kirk didn't like the set of the human's brows. He seemed to be thinking—wondering, perhaps, what kind of incident would have justified such a decision. It seemed necessary to provide a distraction.
He consulted his file on Commodore Darian, updated with information from Kirk's personal log. It took only a fraction of a second to find something appropriate.
"But enough of my troubles," said the android. "What's this I hear about a population problem at Starbase Three?"
It took Darian a moment before he understood what Kirk was talking about. When he finally got it, he smiled tiredly.
"More boys," he said. "Not one, but two. You'd think after all this time, the law of averages would have snuck a girl in there." He sighed. "What's a progenitor to do?"
Kirk chuckled. "Give my regards to your wife."
"I will," said the commodore. "Darian out."
As the image faded, the android put in a call to Uhura.
"Aye, sir?"
"Lieutenant, would you ask Mister Spock to meet me here in the briefing room?"
"Certainly." A pause. "He's on his way, sir."
"Thanks, Uhura."
Silence then. Or not quite silence, for there was always the hum of the ship's engines.
The Romulans.
Fortunately, the Captain's Log had described the current situation quite fully. But then, Kirk had been efficient—for a human.
The Romulans will bear watching, he told himself. They are crafty, shrewd. They are aggressive.
All alone in the room, he laughed softly to himself.
To this extent, at least, he thought, I have something in common with the humans—a desire to see their Federation preserved. For if it falls to the Romulans, how can I rule it?
The irony appealed to him.
He was still pondering it when the door slid aside for Spock. As the Vulcan entered, the android ordered his facial features.
"Sit down, Spock," he said.
With an economy of motion, the first officer pulled out a chair and eased into it.
"I've just had some disturbing news," said Kirk. Between the captain and Spock, preliminaries would have been a break with custom. "You remember Midos Five?"
"I could hardly have forgotten," said the Vulcan, "in so short a time. A Class-M planet, uninhabited but for a Federation mining and processing colony." Then, after a moment, "What kind of disturbing news?"
Kirk scowled. "Apparently, colonists have been disappearing."
Spock's eyebrow climbed. "Disappearing?"
The android nodded, still scowling. "People vanishing without a trace. Kidnapped, they say, though it may be worse than that. And no one can seem to figure out how, why or by whom." He paused. "Governor Chewton has called on Starfleet for help—and we've been selected to provide it."
"I see," said Spock. Nothing more.
Kirk wondered what was going on behind that well-known Vulcan calm. Concern for the colonists? Curiosity as to the cause of the disappearances?
No matter. It was obvious what Kirk's reaction would be.
He shook his head. "Damn it—those are good people, Spock. Why do they have such rotten luck? First, that explosion a year back, with all those fatalities. And now something like this." Again, he cursed.
Spock looked at him. Restraining himself from a comment about luck and its absence from the Vulcan lexicon? Kirk believed so.
"It is," said the first officer, "most disturbing." Then, when he was certain his captain had finished with him, he rose. "I'll inform Mister Chekov of the course change," he offered.
"Thank you," said the android. "I appreciate it."
As Spock departed, he couldn't have seen that Kirk's smile had returned.
When McCoy opened his eyes, the P'othparan was sitting beside him again.
"Damn," said the doctor, the thickness of his tongue making it difficult to speak. "Haven't you got anything better to do than watch old bones mend?"
He looked around, realized that he'd been removed from the critical-care unit. Also, his pain was gone—completely. Which meant that he could stand a lower dosage of painkillers.
He regarded K'leb.
"I know," he told him. "Now that our roles are reversed, you want to see what kind of patient I make."
The youth smiled, surprising the doctor.
I know he doesn't understand English, he mused. So what's he smiling at? My psychic tone?
McCoy frowned.
"Well," he said, "I won't keep you in suspense. I make a lousy patient—as you're about to find out."
Despite the lack of feeling in his fingers, he found the button that would summon a nurse. He pressed it—probably too hard.
Christine must have been off duty, because Hwong showed up instead.
"Problem, sir?" asked the Chinese.
"I need some water," said McCoy. "My mouth's dry. And adjust the dimorphene input a couple of milliliters—so I can start to reacquaint myself with my nervous system."
"The water's no problem," said Hwong. "But Doctor M'Benga left strict orders not to adjust the inputs."
"Blast M'Benga," said McCoy. "This is me talking—and I want the dimorphene turned down."
But Hwong wouldn't be intimidated. "Sorry, sir. As long as you're incapacitated, Doctor M'Benga is in charge." He shrugged apologetically. "I'll go get you some water."
McCoy shook his head from side to side—as much as his restraints would let him.
"I knew they'd turn on me," he told the P'othparan. "First chance they got."
The shush of an entrance door told him that someone had just entered sickbay. A moment later, he saw who it was.
"Well," he said, "if isn't the Pied Piper of Tranktown. Lead any unsuspecting souls into dens of iniquity lately?"
As the captain approached McCoy, he exchanged glances with the P'othparan. The doctor could tell by the expressions on both their faces that the rift between them hadn't gotten any narrower.
"I see that you've got some company already, Bones. I guess I'll find another time to visit."
"Nonsense," said McCoy. "There's no reason I can't have two visitors at once. I'm not that weak, for Pete's sake."
Kirk shook his head. "It wouldn't be fair, Doctor. The young man obviously has dibs on you." Inclining his head slightly in K'leb's direction—a polite good-bye—he started away.
"Not so fast," croaked McCoy, louder than he should have. Thanks to the dimorphene, however, he didn't feel the pain it would otherwise have caused him.
Kirk stopped, frowned—looking for all the world like a trapped animal.
"You're not going anywhere," said the chief medical officer. "This is a prime opportunity for you to get to know K'leb better. To resolve whatever's troubling him once and for all."
The captain sighed. "Please, Bones. Let me take care of that in my own time … in my own way."
What could McCoy say? He cursed under his breath.
"All right, Jim. Do it your way. But for the love of God, do it already!"
The captain nodded. "I will, Bones. I promise." Another quick glance at the P'othparan—and a moment later, he was gone.
"Sheesh," said the doctor. "You'd think that …"
But K'leb was already up out of his seat. He was staring at the entranceway Kirk had just passed through.
"What is it, son?" asked McCoy.
The boy didn't answer. He looked scared, though. Just as scared as he had been in the gym, according to Jim's report.
"K'leb?"
But the boy wasn't responding. His gaze was fixed on that entranceway. And after a couple of quick, shallow breaths, he followed in the captain's footsteps. No word of farewell, nothing.
McCoy grunted, suddenly visitorless. "Boy. It's really feast or famine around here, isn't it?"
As K'leb emerged into the corridor, he looked both ways to make sure the thing was already gone. Thankfully, it was nowhere to be seen.
His blood pumping hard in his temples, he made for the machine that took him from deck to deck. What had K'liford called it? Tur … bo … lift?
Some of the people in the hallway started to hail him, but he shot past them—slipping on a worn spot in the decking in his haste, righting himself with an outflung hand. Ignoring the occasional call that clung to his heels, echoing down the corridor.
When he reached the lift, its doors were just about to close. Lunging, half shoving a female crewman out of his way, he made it inside just in time.
He found himself sharing the lift with three ship's people—one of whom he recognized. Normally, he would have been glad to see Uh'ura. She had a kind face, a pleasantness, a warmth.
But now, all he could think of was finding K'liford. Only he could be made to understand what was wrong. Only he would know what to do about it.
Quickly, he punched the button for the level he wanted. Then he fell back against the wall and locked his eyes on the indicator.
When Uh'ura greeted him, he did not respond. He could nodt. He was too full of dread, too full of knowing to acknowledge anyone or anything else.
And then a terrible question came to mind.
Would K'liford believe him? He hardly believed it himself—hardly believed such a thing was possible. And he had felt it.
The question still plagued him when the lift doors opened. It dogged him as he hurried down the winding hall toward K'liford's cabin.
In the privacy of his quarters—no tiny cubicle, like the one he had occupied on the Hood, but a cabin befitting the status of command—the android sat at his personal workstation and rummaged through file after file. It took him less time than it would have taken a human. Less time, even, than it would have taken a Vulcan. And yet the task seemed to drag on interminably.
Worse—when he was finished, he still hadn't been able to identify the crewman with the pale hair and the bronze skin. Though there were quite a few nonhumans serving on the Enterprise, he was familiar with all their races and their physical characteristics—and none of them matched the description of the being who had been standing at the doctor's side.
The being who had looked at him in that strange way. As if he could see right through me, he thought.
As if he knew me for an impostor.
He had been unprepared for such behavior. It had placed him at a disadvantage. So once he wriggled free of the situation, he came straight back here—to determine the nature of any threat this crewman might represent.
His initial efforts having failed, however, he decided to change tacks. If the being in question was not included in the personnel files, perhaps he was not a crewman after all. Perhaps he was only a guest on the Enterprise, outfitted in ship's togs for one reason or another. And a guest would likely be mentioned in the captain's log.
After a few moments, he found what he was searching for: a reference to a rescue, a beaming up of an injured T'nufan, a stay in the Enterprise's sickbay. More … a problem with local custom, stemming from the rescue. A call to provincial high minister. And a solution to the problem: the rescued one's temporary commission as a Starfleet ensign.
Interesting.
But it did not explain why the T'nufan—K'leb—had looked at him as he had. Was there a particular closeness between K'leb and the captain, perhaps born of the "adopted father" bond? A closeness that had allowed him to somehow see through the android's disguise?
If so, there might be a record of that as well. Kirk tapped in the code for the captain's personal log.
Sure enough, a menu of recent entries included one that concerned the T'nufan. The android brought up the appropriate file, leaned back in his chair, and scanned it.
So. The T'nufan had demonstrated a fear of the human Kirk—though the basis for that fear had not been apparent at the time of the log entry. Nonetheless, it was obvious from the words Kirk had used that he felt some degree of responsibility for K'leb's attitude toward him.
Was that what McCoy had been referring to?
This is a prime opportunity for you to get to know K'leb better. To resolve whatever's troubling him once and for all.
Had the captain's problem with the T'nufan been that widely known?
Apparently so.
Now he understood why K'leb had seemed so repelled by him. It was only his normal reaction to Kirk—nothing more.
Still … he would keep an eye on the T'nufan. His priority, of course, had to be the next phase of his plan—the part that would take place on Midos Five.
But K'leb was a quantity with which he was less than completely familiar—and Kirk didn't like unknown quantities.