KIRK HAD BEEN AWAKE for some time before he realized the implications of that fact.
His first lucid thought was a chilling one: The Rythrian's found me. I'm back in his warehouse.
But no—he wasn't bound to the cot he was lying on. And while the room in which he found himself was plain enough, it was no warehouse.
Besides—the Rythrian wouldn't have brought me back. He would just have dumped me in that swamp and made an end of it.
He tried to get up, felt the pain of his wounds come awake with nauseating fury; stopped trying and lay back against his pillow.
There was a click and a sucking sound and a puff of smoke off to his right. Startled to find out he'd had company without knowing it, Kirk turned his head enough to see the man's face.
He had pale, pale hair, almost white, pulled tightly into a clasp at the back of his head. From there, it hung like a horse's tail.
His face was long and thin, sharp-featured, stubbly with a couple of days' growth. His skin was almost as pale as his hair. And he had a phaser on his belt.
"Feeling better?" asked the man, putting his little liquid-fuel lighter away. He drew a breath through his pipe, let the blue-gray smoke out his nostrils.
The captain grunted. "Feeling alive, anyway. Are you the one responsible for that?"
The man nodded almost indiscernibly. "I thought I heard someone cry out just beyond the main gate. So I went to investigate—and found you."
Then he had managed to get a yell out before he succumbed.
"I stepped on something," said Kirk.
"You certainly did," said the blond man. "We call it Malachi's Boot—after its first victim among the original colonists. It sends a paralyzing agent into the bloodstream. If I hadn't found you within a few minutes, administered the antidote … you just would have locked up inside. Heart, lungs, everything."
Kirk swallowed. "That's a new one on me. I'm grateful, Mister…?"
The man chuckled, sent smoke blossoming out the corner of his mouth. "Kaith," he answered. "Now, suppose you demonstrate some of that gratitude—and tell me why the Rythrian is so hot for your hide."
The captain met his gaze. "What makes you think he is?"
The blond man shrugged. "A couple of hours after I pulled you in off the road, a big fellow with a scar—one of the Rythrian's men—came looking for you. I said I hadn't seen any sign of you." He paused. "So?"
"He's mistaken me for someone who swindled him," explained Kirk. "After holding me for a while, trying to pry loose some information I didn't have, he decided to toss me in a bog. I escaped—and got as far as the place where you found me."
Kaith puffed judiciously on his pipe. "So you're saying that it's a case of mistaken identity."
The captain nodded, though it hadn't quite been a question.
"It's a good thing for you," said the blond man, "that I've no great love for the Rythrian. Otherwise I might have been convinced to turn you over." There was a crinkling at the corners of his eyes—signifying a joke?
"I need to talk with the portmaster," said Kirk.
The man's fine, silvery brows lifted. "Really?" He grunted. "But we haven't finished our talk yet." His free hand straying to his phaser, he gazed expectantly at the captain.
Kirk understood. He had hoped to divulge his identity to the portmaster alone—but it seemed he had little choice in the matter.
"My name," he said, "is Kirk. James T. Kirk. Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise—the Federation vessel now in orbit around your planet."
Kaith had no immediate reaction to the statement. But he also didn't take a puff of his pipe for a while.
"There is no Federation ship in orbit," he said finally. "At least, not anymore."
Kirk felt a trickle of ice water collect in the small of his back. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean," said the man, "that she's gone. Days ago. And there was no word from her about a missing captain."
Kirk's mind raced. Could the man be lying? He had no reason to—or none that was readily apparent, anyway.
But why would Spock take the ship out of orbit? And so quickly that there hadn't even been time for him to notify the authorities of the captain's disappearance?
Unless Starfleet Command had required it—because the Romulan situation had suddenly gotten way out of hand.
It was possible. But it would have taken a while to recall the crew from Tranktown. Surely, in that time, Spock could have informed someone that Kirk was missing.
It didn't make sense.
"You want to stick with that story?" asked the blond man.
Kirk frowned. "I am who I say I am." He leaned back, still trying to fit the pieces together. "If you don't believe me, you can check my voice pattern against the print in the portmaster's records."
Kaith got up, crossed the room to a small computer workstation against the wall. Quickly, he punched up the required data.
"Do you want me to speak now?" asked the captain. "So you can compare?"
Still studying the screen, the blond man shook his head. "Not necessary. Our entire conversation was recorded." After a moment. he looked up at Kirk.
"They match," said the captain.
"So it would seem," said Kaith, a hint of respect having crept into his voice.
"Then perhaps you'll let me see the portmaster now. If the Enterprise is gone, I'll need help in finding another ship to get me to her."
The blond man chuckled.
Kirk sighed. So even this is going to be difficult.
"Did I say something funny?" he asked.
The man nodded. "In a way, yes. You see, I am the portmaster."
The captain regarded him in the light of this new information.
Why not? he mused. He's not what one might expect in a portmaster—but then, Tranktown's not your usual port.
"Will you help me then?" he asked Kaith.
The blond man considered him for a moment.
"I don't see any reason not to," he said at last. And puffed expansively on his pipe.
Martinez swiveled in his command chair.
"Well, Mister Paultic?"
"I've done it, sir. I've made contact on one of the low-frequency bands." His brow screwed up a little as he listened. "The call's from a vessel called the Rheingold, sir. Freighter class."
"Are they in trouble?" asked the captain. He wondered if the Romulans had made their move at long last.
"Doesn't sound like it," said the communications officer. He paused, intent. "The transmission's not very clear, sir, but I think they're saying they have Starfleet personnel on board."
"Starfleet personnel … ?" began Stuart.
"No—that's not quite right," said Paultic. "They have news of Starfleet personnel. Yes—news. It's coming in a little clearer now."
"Can you establish visual contact?" asked Martinez.
"I'll try, sir," said Paultic. He made the necessary adjustments with admirable skill—for a human—and a few moments later the forward viewscreen filled with an image.
Even with all the interference scrolling from one end of the monitor to the other, it was obvious that the personage on the other end didn't miss too many meals. It was a frailty of which no android could be accused. Indeed, it would disappear with all other frailties when the androids made Doctor Korby's vision a reality.
"Captain Wilhelm Grundfest," said the obese figure, "of the Rheingold. To whom … the pleasure?"
"This is Captain Martinez of the U.S.S. Hood. Your transmission seems to be meeting with some interference. Do we understand correctly that you have some news about Starfleet personnel?"
"Yes … news," said Grundfest. "… a Captain James T. Kirk? Of the U.S.S. Enterprise?"
The mention of that name caught Martinez off guard—but of course, he didn't show it. Instead, he took stock of his bridge crew, noted gratefully that the entire shift was made up of androids—except for Paultic.
"What about Captain Kirk?" he asked.
The freighter captain smiled, his eyes sinking behind the mounds of his cheeks. "… currently a guest of the portmaster … Tranquillity Seven. While I regret … not explain the circumstances of his being there … he wishes very much to be reunited with his ship. And of course, as … the Federation, I agreed to carry the message … we net either the Enterprise itself or another Federation vessel."
Martinez nodded. "I see."
And so he did. The situation was rapidly taking on shape and texture for him.
The android Kirk would never have sent such a message—nor, for that matter, allowed it to go out if he could have prevented it.
Somehow, the real Kirk—the human Kirk—had survived the trap set for him by his counterpart. And finding his ship gone—the android having at least been successful in that—he had arranged for help.
How many vessels like the Rheingold carried his message? And how long would it be before one of them found another Federation starship?
How much longer after that before word reached Starfleet Command? Before someone began to wonder how Jim Kirk could be on Tranquillity Seven and on the Enterprise at the same time?
Martinez saw his concern mirrored in the face of his first officer. They exchanged knowing glances.
"… only too glad to be of service to the great Federation of Planets," continued Grundfest. "I have always … utmost respect for your diligence in … spaceways open for honest businessmen … myself."
"Yes," said Martinez. "Of course. Thank you for your assistance."
"… welcome," said the freighter captain.
In the next instant, his image faded.
As soon as it was gone, Martinez turned to his navigator.
"Bodrick, set a course for Tranquillity Seven." He leaned back in his command chair. "I want to get to the bottom of this."
"Shall I inform Starfleet that we are leaving our position?" asked Paultic.
"No," said the captain. "That won't be necessary, Lieutenant. I don't intend to be gone for very long."
He punched up security section on the panel by his armrest.
"Simmons here," came the answer.
"Mister Simmons, meet me in the briefing room," said Martinez. "It seems we've got an unusual situation on our hands."
"Aye, sir," said the security chief. "I'm on my way."
Martinez ended the conversation with a poke of his forefinger. He stood, making eye contact again with his first officer.
"Mister Stuart, I'd like to see you as well. Mister Banks, you have the conn."
As Martinez made his way to the turbolift, his first officer in tow, Banks slipped into the command chair.
* * *
"I don't know," said the android replica of Joaquin Martinez. "But we must get to him before anyone else does."
Simmons nodded. "Yes. That much is clear."
"And then what?" asked Stuart. "We certainly can't allow him to live. If Starfleet gets word that Kirk is on this ship—when he's officially in command of the Enterprise—the entire revolution will be placed in jeopardy."
Martinez nodded. "Kirk must die. Of course. But not right away. First, we need to determine the extent to which our leader's plan failed."
"Also, how much he knows," added Simmons. "And how much of that knowledge he has imparted to others."
"That shouldn't take very long to discover," said Stuart. He looked at the captain. "The human Martinez and Kirk rained together at Starfleet Academy, did they not?"
Martinez nodded. "They knew each other well enough for Kirk to confide in him. It should be a simple matter to find but what we need to know."
"And following that, an equally simple matter to dispose of him," said Simmons. He paused. "Who among the humans knows of Kirk's situation?"
"Paultic," said the captain. "So far, no one else."
"And no one else needs to know," remarked Stuart. "We can beam Kirk on board without resorting to help from the humans. Even present him with the honor guard due a visiting commander, so as not to arouse his suspicion—there are enough officers among us to carry it off."
"I'll make sure the corridors between the transporter area and his cabin are clear when he arrives," said Simmons. "So that no one else can say they saw him. Then, we can claim he never made it through the transporter—a malfunction."
"And I will deal with Paultic," said Stuart. "I'll tell him hat this has turned out to be a matter that demands secrecy." He frowned slightly. "It's too bad that we can't risk the death of another officer so soon after Vedra's."
Simmons grunted in agreement.
Martinez took in the other androids' comments, mulled them over. He required no more than a moment.
"Yes," he said. "That is how it will be done. Simply—and quickly. And when it's over, we'll blame it on transporter failure."
He got up, eyed his fellow officers.
"See to the preparations," he said.