IN THE DREAM, Kirk was being gripped by the shoulders and pushed into a chair. The room was blindingly white, and there was a pulsing, swirling light snaking around above him. He stared up at it and could not look away. It drank in his gaze, his thoughts, his feelings. Lab technicians in white coats shoved him down into the chair, over and over. Another technician, who was somehow Flint, stood in a glass booth, watching. Smiling, he turned a large dial. The light over Kirk shone brighter, swirled faster. A humming noise filled his ears and he let loose a violent scream …
The room and the chair disappeared, and Kirk was standing in a clearing. Dust blew in the air around him and settled in his hair, on his uniform. Kirk felt tremendously old. The gravity force seemed overwhelming. His back bent under the heavy load of his arms and hands. He felt as if the planet would draw him down, as if his bones and skin and teeth would crumble away into dust.
His focus shifted, and he became aware that he was encircled by angry children. They crawled out of the thick purple underbrush surrounding the clearing, children of all ages, from different planets, looking haggard and dirty. They were armed with stones, and sharpened sticks, and double-pronged knives, and primitive guns. Their eyes were furious.
A girl rose up out of the tall grass to lead them. She wore fatigues and carried a primitive shotgun. She seemed to be Miri … and yet was not Miri. Her hair was light blond and lifted high on her head in a ponytail, so that it came cascading down her neck and back. Her eyes were large, her face … seemed somehow familiar, and yet Kirk could not focus on it, could not grasp hold of her name. She raised her arm into the air and gave a cry for the children to advance. They crept along the ground, some slithering on their bellies, some on their hands and knees, their weapons in their hands and mouths. They hummed a taunting, menacing children's song to themselves as they moved in, tightening the circle around Kirk. The girl marched, her head in the air, and by her side a mechanical servant hovered, whirring menacingly.
The girl was now dressed in a shimmering gown, her eyes no less angry. "No one orders me!" She raised her fist and gave a cry for the children to fire, to attack …
Kirk woke up suddenly, feeling cold and sick.
He felt better once he had showered and dressed. He made his way along the corridor to his first officer's quarters, smiling wanly at passing crewmen. He pushed the buzzer outside Spock's door and pressed his fingers against the bulkhead. As the Vulcan said "Come in," the doors flew open. Spock sat facing Kirk, almost as it he had been expecting him. Kirk entered. He felt a blast of hot air hit him; the temperature controls in the cabin were set to approximate the desert air of the planet Vulcan.
"Well, Mr. Spock. I see you're off duty."
"Yes, Captain. Until 1400 hours."
"Any progress in Flint's experiments?"
"I should describe the outlook as hopeful, sir." Spock rose to his feet, watching Kirk intently.
"Well, that's good to hear. And I've just checked in with the bridge. Sulu tells me that the Sparrow has made several brief recent appearances. We can't pinpoint it, but we're at close range." Kirk paced about the room as he spoke. Then, he finally turned to face his friend.
"Spock. When we last visited Flint's planet … something went wrong … something happened down there that's veiled for me, that I'm suppressing, somehow. I feel tension with Flint, and some flicker of … resentment. I know he was reluctant to give us the ryetalin we needed when we first arrived. But it's more than that that's making me hate him. Yes, I hate him! I know there's something more."
Spock nodded slowly. "Yes, Jim. You had an experience on that planet which caused you a considerable amount of pain and stress, in which you felt that Flint manipulated you. You saw him as an opponent. Circumstances … have caused this experience to cease to be a memory for you." Then, in a slightly different voice: "You must trust me that it is the best way."
Kirk swallowed. He and Spock were both standing stiffly, not looking at each other directly. At last, Kirk spoke. "The memory has been … removed from my mind, then?" The thought could not but disturb him.
"No, Jim. It has been repressed, not erased. It is still in your mind, but blocked by an artificial … defense mechanism, so to speak. You were considerably distraught after our first visit to Flint's world, and I … chose a course of action that I only fully understand the implications of now." Spock looked down, as if studying the even carpeting beneath his boots.
Silence fell in the warm chamber. To know that one's mind has been entered and tampered with, that bits of memory are beyond reach, is a frightening thing. There was only one soul in the universe who Kirk trusted enough, from whom he could accept such news without anger or protest. He spoke at last.
"All right, Spock," he said mildly. Yet if the memory could not be restored, he at least wanted to know a little more. "But I read the report on the emergency trip to Flint's world. There was a girl, an android. I feel it was somehow involved …"
"It was."
"But how? It wasn't human. Yet I feel that there was some relationship involved, she was so …" Kirk frowned, shook his head sharply. "How could a cold computer's brain cause emotional tension, emotional involvement? How could it feel?"
"Feelings and emotional attachments can sometimes come from unexpected sources, Captain," Spock remarked tonelessly. In his steely gaze, Kirk could decipher nothing. He decided to give up.
"Well, at any rate," he said at last, "this simplifies my relations with Flint. I suppose. At least I have some clue now as to why I keep wanting to rearrange his distinguished face for him. If there are any new breakthroughs in penetrating his cloaking device, I'll be on the bridge." He turned to go. "Oh, and, Spock?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Thanks."
Spock looked down once more. "Perhaps you ought to reprimand me for taking the liberty of—"
"No. Try it again and I'll clobber you. But whatever memory you removed this time … it feels right. I'm better off not knowing." Kirk left the cabin.
Spock sank back into his chair. Though he was once again alone, his face still did not betray his great sense of relief that so much worry and uncertainty had been lifted from both their minds. But he picked up the Vulcan harp once again, and this time let its rippling stream of notes fill his cabin.
Violence had been breaking out in bursts on Boaco Six. In skirmishes between council forces and hostile street gangs on the streets of the city of Boa. In a failed attack on the ocean-crossing air-ferry to the other landmass. In a brutal attack on a small farming village.
Who was supplying the weapons for these attacks? How coordinated, how united were they? How much support from the Federation and Boaco Eight did they have? Each burst of shooting or explosion in the city played havoc with Tamara's nerves, as she waited for news of unfolding galactic events. A handful of years ago, they had declared victory, the war won at last! Why did it now seem never ending?
She traveled with old Mayori to the flattened desert plane where the Romulan equipment had been beamed down. The crates were arrayed below them in the blowing dust, as their air-skimmer touched down with a lurch. Agent Tarn had not stayed to say farewell after the shipment's arrival. This did not bode well.
But Mayori was defending the Romulans. "You, who always doubt, Tamara! You thought they would renege on their agreement. But here is the shipment they promised, as large as they promised, and on time."
Tamara helped him down. "The price in argea was high. But if the equipment is all here, it can make the difference. Both in skirmishes here on our world, and against Boaco Eight."
Young guards were standing by the large gray plastic crates as they arrived. They awaited their approach, and then, on a signal from Tamara, they began to pry the crates open with crowbars.
Mayori spoke as they watched. "We need these weapons. But they will not be enough to protect us in a galactic struggle. If the forces of the Federation are brought to bear on us, we need more than arms. We need an ally."
"Iogan is of your mind," Tamara said dully. "Perhaps even now he is negotiating such a deal."
The front of the first large crate finally gave, with an enormous crack! Despite her strained and pensive mood, Tamara looked forward to seeing the first gleam of metal within, to seeing the hi-tech Romulan machines wheeled out into the sun.
There was a layer of sawdust within the crate. The guards moved to brush this away, and it came crumbling to the ground.
More sawdust followed, spilling onto the maroon soil about their feet. It rained onto the guards, a quarter of the crate's contents. A shower of rust poured down after it.
Tamara Angel shut her eyes.
On the bridge of the Enterprise, Chekov scanned his console and seemed encouraged by what he saw. "The Sparrow has appeared three times in the last hour, sir, each appearance not far from the last one. It must be limping along at sub-light speed."
"Good. As it is, we're getting too close to Klingon space again. Let's hope the kids have sense enough not to tempt fate again that way. But the Sparrow's failing power doesn't seem to have caused the Flint device to malfunction permanently, does it?"
"No, sir."
Kirk hit the arm of his chair. Damn Komack. They never knew how these things worked at Starfleet Command. "The cloaking device will probably be the last thing to go," he said aloud. "Let's hope their life-support system hasn't gone critical yet. Mr. Sulu, please estimate how much power the Sparrow has left to sustain it."
Sulu did some computations for a vessel of the Sparrow's class, and the energy drain the Flint device would put on it. "Well, sir, the kids seem to be running a pretty fuel-efficient ship. But we don't know how much damage the Klingons did to them. Of course, now that they're traveling at sub-light speed, their fuel consumption rate has gone down … whatever kind of shape they're in, I'd say they can't have fuel to last more than another twenty-four hours."
"And possibly considerably less than that, correct, Helmsman?"
"Yes, sir."
A pretty yeoman brought Kirk coffee on a tray. He thanked her and sipped at it. "Lieutenant Uhura. Any report from Starfleet Command on the Boacan situation?"
"No, Captain. At least, no new direct reports on the conflict between the two planets. But the Federation has just declared that solar system a major crisis center, instead or a minor one. I've been picking up Starfleet news bulletins which say that the Federation concedes that it has underestimated the importance of the Boacan system. They're going to devote more energy to it, appoint a more important ambassador to Boaco Eight … there's going to be a general shakedown. Maybe some policy changes."
Kirk downed the rest of his hot coffee in one convulsive swallow. "Very interesting, Lieutenant. But our changes may come too late. Well, steady as she goes, helm. When Mr. Flint finds a way to penetrate his device, I want us to be bumper to bumper with the Sparrow."
Chekov looked around, perplexed. "Sir?"
Kirk smiled. "That's an old English expression. What I mean is, try to guess her heading and stay close to her tail. And let's try not to overshoot. I take it that the Enterprise is also traveling at sub-light speed?"
"Yes, sir. We're just feeling our way along."
"Fine." Kirk felt reassured by his talk with Spock. Back in control. Though it was unpleasant to realize that the flashes of nasty memory he'd been having were real, were only part of a disastrous episode in his life. If someone had to be the guardian of his most sordid or distressing secrets, too distracting or volatile for him, himself, to know them, he was glad that that someone was Spock. But still, if he could only … that girl, or robot or whatever it was …
The intercom whistled.
"Captain? Spock here. Mr. Flint has just informed me he has found a substance capable of outlining the Sparrow for us. Small fluorescent particles can be easily manufactured aboard the Enterprise in large quantities. If we flush them out of the ship, directing them at the Sparrow—"
"How do you propose to do that, Mr. Spock?"
"Mr. Scott and Mr. Flint are conferring on what the best method would be. They also have to rig up machinery to manufacture the particles. And they have to prepare the main hangar deck for possible transporter use."
"You want to use the hangar deck as a transporter? That's pretty risky, Spock. We've never done it before, that's not what it was designed for. I know it's possible in theory …"
"Mr. Scott seems to feel he can do it, Captain. He's lining the room with magnetic panels, and bringing in equipment kept in storage by the main transporter. We may need to transport the Sparrow aboard, as a last resort."
Kirk frowned. "There's no way we can penetrate the Flint device to get inside the Sparrow and get life readings on the children, so that we can beam them up individually?"
"No, sir. Getting an outline reading, a tracing of the exterior of the craft, seems the most we can obtain, as long as the children keep the cloaking device on. Unless they leave it off for a significant period of time or communicate with us directly, we cannot lock onto their individual coordinates."
"And you don't think a tractor beam would do it? We couldn't just open the hangar doors and pull the Sparrow aboard?"
"It is difficult to say, Captain, whether even a gentle tractor beam wouldn't destroy the Sparrow. It is a fragile, lightweight craft, and the odds are high that its structure was weakened in the clash with the Klingons that deprived it of warp drive."
"Better not risk it, then. Our best bet is still to try to get them to turn off the device."
"Indeed. And perhaps they will do this, once we've coated their ship with fluorescence and they see that escape is impossible."
"But just in case, you're turning the main hangar deck into an enormous transporter room for the whole Sparrow. An ingenious maneuver, Mr. Spock."
"Thank you, Captain. I shall be joining you on the bridge as soon as my services down here are no longer required. Spock out."
Kirk switched off the intercom. It was a relief to know that Spock was supervising the progress. The secret of being a good captain lay largely in being lucky, Kirk modestly reflected. And in having a first mate that one could depend on.