THE LOWER HALF OF Traphid's face was twitching as McCoy had never seen it twitch before. "I cannot say how much I regret what happened," he told them. "It was …" He searched for the right word, then shook his head in defeat. "I should have anticipated such a turn of events. I should have dispatched more guards to escort you."
Once again, there were eight of them in the hall of government: McCoy, Jim, Scotty, the ambassador, and the four Malurian ministers. The tension in the air was almost palpable.
"You acted as you saw fit," Farquhar replied—diplomatically, of course. He had a dermaplast patch over one eye. "There is no need for self-recrimination, First Minister."
"And with all due respect," the captain added, "even a couple dozen guards wouldn't have been able to keep the Obirrhat in line after what happened to those two young men."
True enough, McCoy thought. Hell, the presence of the guards was what had caused the whole thing. If they'd been unescorted, they might not have roused such a furor.
Traphid frowned. "Yes. Their deaths were unfortunate." His voice hardened. "As was the death of our guardsman. It appears the Obirrhat have gotten their hands on a supply of phaser pistols. We will have to find their source and cut it off."
"In the meantime," the ambassador remarked, "I think we've seen all we need to see. The time has come for us to sit down and talk—to see if we can't work out a solution to all this."
The ministers looked at him. "Of course," Traphid answered. But it seemed to McCoy he had even less confidence in the suggestion than before. "We may begin this afternoon."
Farquhar nodded. "Good. It's best we get started as soon as possible."
"First Minister," Kirk interjected, "I'd like to make a recommendation."
The ambassador smiled sweetly in his direction. "We'll meet with the council this afternoon, Captain. We can present our recommendations then."
"People may be dying as we speak," the captain reminded him. "If we can temporarily defuse the situation, we can prevent that."
Farquhar was about to press his case, McCoy thought, when Traphid raised his hand. "I would like to hear the captain's recommendation," he said.
Yet another rebuke, the doctor noted. When would the ambassador learn?
Kirk turned to Traphid. "I know how closely you embrace your religious beliefs, First Minister. And if the situation were not so potentially explosive, I would not presume to raise this issue. But would it not serve everyone's interests, including those of the cubaya themselves, if you were to keep the animals away from the sacred precinct for a short while?"
Farquhar reddened. "Captain—"
Kirk continued, speaking calmly yet forcefully, despite the incipient protest. "I know I'm asking a lot, First Minister. However, this is a unique problem, and unique problems call for unique solutions."
Traphid and his colleagues listened, their expressions unreadable, at least to McCoy. But the ambassador wasn't nearly so attentive.
"Captain, I believe we are overstepping our bounds. We didn't come here to remold the cultural values of—"
"What's more," Kirk plunged on, "there's the safety of the beasts to consider. Imagine if the Obirrhat had chosen to attack the cubaya that came through in the first wave, instead of waiting and hoping for a solution. They could have slaughtered the animals wholesale." He eyed the first minister. "Perhaps the next time, they will."
McCoy nodded. Tell 'em, Jim.
"Captain," Farquhar rasped, noticeably perturbed now, "that will be quite enough." He turned to Traphid. "First Minister, I must apologize for this man's affront to your traditions. It is inexcusable, and it will not happen again, I assure you." With this last comment, the ambassador turned back to Kirk and glared. The captain glared back.
Farquhar's finally done it, the doctor thought. He's even gotten to Jim Kirk—and that's not an easy thing to do.
Traphid made a gulping sound, drawing everyone's attention. He addressed the captain. "As you say, unique problems call for unique solutions. I will concede as much."
McCoy tried to contain his surprise. Was it possible Kirk had actually pierced the Malurian's dark-ages mentality and let some light in?
"But Captain," the first minister went on, "the ambassador is correct in one respect: you misunderstand our traditions. The cubaya are not simply beasts to us—they carry the living incarnations of our most sacred leaders. There will be no discussion of curbing the rangings of the cubaya. Not for a day; not even for a minute."
The doctor's hopes crumbled as fast as he'd built them up. He should have known better, he told himself.
"As for their safety," said Traphid, "we are concerned. However, we will meet that concern with increased security measures." He paused. "I am the first to admit that this is not an ideal solution, given the volatility of the Obirrhat population in the sacred precinct. But until an ideal solution presents itself, it will have to do."
McCoy cursed inwardly. In other words, he thought, thanks for the help, but next time keep it to yourself.
The captain bit his lip. He seemed on the verge of trying again, maybe using a little different approach. But he must have thought better of it, because all he said was, "I would have been negligent in the performance of my duty if I'd failed to make the suggestion."
The first minister nodded. "I understand." He looked to the ambassador. "This afternoon, then."
"This afternoon," Farquhar confirmed.
When the Klingon entered the rec dome, where half of them were being held, Carol's stomach muscles clenched. She fully expected him to announce that they had caught and killed the human children in the hills, and disposed of them in whatever way Klingons disposed of corpses.
But instead, he asked, "Which one of you is Yves Boudreau?" His words were clipped and guttural but otherwise fairly easy to understand.
The colony administrator raised his head. There was a purplish swelling at the corner of his mouth, where one of the invaders had hit him, and a dark cut over one eye, where he'd been clouted for not responding quickly enough to the one called Mallot.
"Something else? I've told them all I can," he muttered wearily.
That wasn't quite true, of course. Boudreau hadn't given them much more than broad strokes when it came to the G-7 unit.
Nor would he be required to, apparently, until they had recovered the unit. And that was missing, if their captors were to be believed—although they didn't seem to know what had happened to it.
Carol didn't know either, but she had her suspicions. When she'd seen her fellow colonists being rounded up, Mr. Spock wasn't among them. And if anyone could take the one-of-a-kind unit and carry it off with him, it would be a Vulcan.
Of course, she couldn't come out and ask their captors if Spock was missing too, any more than she could ask about David and his friends. Because if the Starfleet officer had eluded the Klingons—and maybe taken G-7 with him—she didn't want to give him away.
Helping Boudreau to his feet, Carol instinctively placed herself between him and the Klingon. After all, the administrator wasn't a young man; the next blow might do irreparable damage.
"Stand away, woman," growled the newcomer.
"What do you want with him?" she asked.
The Klingon's bony brow bunched with anger. "That is none of your concern. Now stand away or you will wish you had."
"It's all right, Carol," said Boudreau. "There's no point in resisting."
He was right; she knew that. But it didn't make it any easier for her to watch him walk by and out the entrance to the dome, followed closely by the Klingon.
The room they occupied was almost as large as the Hall of Government, and with its tall, stained-glass windows, just as impressive, too. A table was set for them on the far end, though their food hadn't arrived yet.
"How could you have done such a thing?" the ambassador asked through tightly drawn lips. "How could you have even contemplated it?"
His back to Farquhar, Kirk shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
He tried to concentrate on the stained-glass images and not on the ambassador's voice. That way, there was at least a chance he'd get through this tête-à-tête without blowing up.
"A good …?" Farquhar sputtered. "It could hardly have been a worse idea." He shook his head. "That's the problem with having ship's personnel participate in diplomatic endeavors."
"Indeed?" Scotty said. McCoy muttered something as well.
The captain could only imagine the kind of looks they were giving the ambassador. He would have liked to do the same. But he wasn't gomg to take the bait. He wasn't. He was going to memorize every detail of these fine, stained-glass works of art—right down to the number of cubaya in them, which was considerable.
"Indeed," Farquhar replied, without looking at the engineer. His attention was still riveted on Kirk. "We've already forfeited the possibility of meeting with the Obirrhat, thanks to your misguided set of priorities. Would you have us alienate the Manteil as well? Remember our job, Captain—to bring the two sides together. How would you do that? By aligning both of them against us?"
Kirk focused on a particularly loathsome-looking pair of the Manteil's holy beasts. He thought they were mating, but he couldn't be sure; the style was far from realistic.
"Are you listening to me?" the ambassador demanded.
The captain took a deep breath, then let it out. "It's my job to listen to you," he said. But it's not my job to like it, he added silently.
"Then I suggest you open our afternoon meetings with an apology to Traphid and his fellow ministers for trampling on their beliefs."
Kirk felt a surge of anger. He bit it back. "Apologize?" he echoed.
"That's right. I want them fully cooperative when the talks begin, not harboring a resentment it'll take days to overcome."
The captain looked at McCoy, then Scotty. They looked back sympathetically, no doubt wishing there were something they could do to help him.
But there wasn't. They knew that. And so did Kirk.
"Apologize," he said again. He regarded Farquhar. "You don't think we've apologized enough to them already—for arrving when we did, for wanting to see the beasts and the sacred places at the heart of their dispute, even for taking up their time with suggestions they rejected? You don't think they're a little tired of hearing us apologize?"
The ambassador's eyes narrowed. "Captain, some days ago, you expressed a reverence for the wisdom of following orders. Your orders at this moment, I believe, are to assist me in these negotiations." A pause. "Unless, of course, you're refusing to do that—in which case I will be certain to include the fact in my report to the Federation Council."
Kirk didn't give a damn about Farquhar's report to the council. He did, however, give a damn about following orders. Or, at least, enough of a damn not to fly in the face of them because of his personal predilections concerning the ambassador.
"All right," he said reluctantly. "I'll … tender an apology." The words left a bad taste in his mouth.
Scotty cursed beneath his breath. McCoy just shook his head.
The ambassador nodded, satisfied. "I thought you'd come to your senses."
The captain flashed back to his conversation with Carol back on the colony world. She'd asked him if he was happy, if he would trade his captaincy for something else. What might he tell her if she asked that question of him now?
Farquhar cleared his throat, like a rooster crowing over his victory. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll see what's keeping our lunch. Diplomacy always makes me hungry."
And with that, he strutted out of the chamber, leaving a razor-edged silence in his wake. Scotty was the one who finally broke it.
"Of all the self-important, narrow-minded, stubborn fops I've met in my day …"
"You can say that again," McCoy told him. "And a lot more, if you like—though you still won't cover the subject adequately." He scowled. "I had him pegged from the moment I laid eyes on him."
Kirk nodded. "So you did, Bones. And I was foolish enough to try to talk you out of it."
"Obviously," Scotty continued, "he's forgotten ye saved his worthless hide not sae long ago."
"Worthless hide indeed," remarked the doctor.
The captain sighed. "It's not the personal humiliation that bothers me so much. It's the fact that the fate of this world is in his hands. I just wish there were something we could do to defuse the situation before the death toll starts to mount." He frowned. "If only there were a way to get in touch with those two Obirrhat ministers—what were their names? Menikki …"
"And Omalas," the engineer supplied.
"That's right," said Kirk. "Menikki and Omalas. If we could find them, talk with them, see the matter from their angle, maybe we could get some fresh ideas."
Bones looked at him thoughtfully. "Worthless hide," he repeated. His face seemed to light up. "Hell, maybe there is a way."
"What are ye sayin', Doctor?" asked Scotty.
McCoy turned to the engineer. He tilted his head. "Hmm. I wonder . . ."
"Bones?" Kirk probed. "If you've got something on your mind, spit it out."
McCoy's eyes narrowed appraisingly. "You know," he said, "it might not be a bad idea at that."
And before either of his companions could ask again, he let them in on it.
Shading his eyes from the big white disk that loomed directly ahead of him, Loutek stopped to wipe his tearing eyes on his sleeve. How many hours of this could a man take?
Just a little longer, he told himself, and the damned sun will be out of your eyes. Just a little longer.
Of course, he'd probably only find another steep, gritty slope beyond it, just like the one he'd been climbing. Cursing, the Klingon resumed his ascent. Loutek hadn't been particularly fond of this assignment at the outset, and his disenchantment was growing by the minute.
First off, he didn't relish the idea of hunting children, particularly human children. There was no honor in it, no challenge.
Second, he hated the place itself. And not just the fact that the sun seemed to be in his face everywhere he went, sending probes of pain into his eyes. Much worse was the air, which, as cold as it was, seemed to suck the moisture out of his very pores.
Coughing for what seemed like the hundredth time, he hawked and spat. And then regretted it, for it only made his throat that much drier and scratchier.
Give me the homeworld any day, he mused. Give me the warmth and the mists and the towering trees for shade. Give me a place where a warrior can breathe.
Abruptly, a handful of pebbles came loose underfoot, sending him sliding a meter or so back down the escarpment. Loutek cursed, then trudged up again. It was as if the environment itself were conspiring to prolong this ridiculous search.
Moments later, more careful of his footing now, he came to the top of the slope. The glare of the sun made it difficult to tell at first what was up ahead. Squinting, he finally made it out—not another slope but a deep basin, a valley. Like everything else here, it was reddish brown; not only the inclining walls that defined the place but also the boulders that jutted out of the ground at irregular intervals.
More important, from Loutek's point of view, was that One of the walls was dotted with a series of what looked like openings. Sizable openings. Caves, he mused. Natural hiding places. And shelter from the biting winds—something one would need in order to survive for long up here.
His pulse sped up a bit in anticipation. If the human children were where he thought they were, he would not only put an end to this distasteful task, he would also be commended by the captain. And commendations led to promotions.
Taking out his disruptor, he almost laughed. It was ludicrous to think that he would need it to overwhelm a pack of human brats.
On the other hand, why make things difficult for himself? One glimpse of the disruptor would put to rest any hopes they might have of running away. Better to strike fear into them immediately than to actually have to use the damned thing later on.
Crouching low to minimize his chances of being seen, the Klingon picked out a line of approach. If he descended into the valley on the same side as the caves, the only way they could spot him would be if they had posted a lookout. And though there was no way of knowing if they had done that yet, since the darkness at the cave mouths was impenetrable, Loutek rather doubted it.
Klingon children would have done it, but Klingons knew a lot more about hunting and being hunted. The game of predator and prey was second nature to them.
Loutek made his way into the basin. Ignoring the cold and the blinding white sun, he kept as far to the right as he could, diverging from that plan only when he came across a boulder too big and smooth to climb over.
No sign of movement in the caves. No sounds. So they hadn't spotted him yet.
Of course, the caves could have been empty. There was always that possibility. But he didn't believe it. Being upwind, and probably not close enough to smell anything anyway, he couldn't be certain, yet his every instinct told him that there was someone hiding in those pokets of darkness.
He crept a little closer. Still no indication that he'd been seen. He grunted in disgust. Why didn't humans train their young to protect themselves? Did they expect the galaxy to be that benevolent to them?
Closer, still. The Klingon negotiated the largest boulder he'd come to yet, then a smaller one. He had to concentrate on being quiet now, on not dislodging anything that might roll down the hill and give him away.
Step by careful step, he narrowed the gap. The ground cooperated, throwing no surprises in his path. The whole effort was going very smoothly, he thought, very efficiently. And why not? He was Klingon, wasn't he? And not just Klingon but Gevish'rae.
Suddenly, even before he himself knew why, Loutek whirled and pointed his disruptor at a point directly behind him—a place where the big, empty basin met the cavernous blue sky.
There was nothing there. Nothing and no one. He scowled, casting a careful eye over the entire perimeter of the valley. Still nothing. His scowl deepened as he let the barrel of his disruptor drop to his side.
Klingons were taught to trust their instincts, their reflexes. But this time, he thought, his instincts had led him astray.
There was no one around here except for Loutek himself and the human children he was stalking. The other Federation intruders were all under guard back in their colony buildings. And there was no animal life on this world.
Therefore, no threats. Which meant his mind was playing tricks on him.
And small wonder, now that he thought about it. The way his head hurt from that piercing sunlight, it was no surprise his senses were a little muddled.
Turning back toward the cave, he gauged the distance he still had to cover. Less than a dozen meters, he judged. A matter of moments before he found what he was looking for. Working his way around one last boulder, Loutek approached the cave from an angle that would let him drop in front of it from above. There were still no sounds from within, but he didn't let that bother him.
If the cave was empty, which he doubted, he'd have lost nothing by his efforts. And if it was full of children, his discipline would be rewarded.
He just wished it weren't so dry out here. He wished this hunt were over already, so he could return to the Kad'nra and breathe again without abrading the inside of his throat.
A few more steps, and a few more beyond that, and Loutek was almost there. He avoided a spot where the dirt looked looser than elsewhere, moving a little farther upslope to find better footing. Then, having circumvented the problem area, he descended again.
Tightening his grip on his disruptor in anticipation, the Klingon crouched and laid his other hand on the ground to steady himself. He didn't want any slipups now, not after he'd made such a flawless approach.
Creeping forward, and forward again, he at last reached his destination, a small ledge directly above the first cave. Gathering himself, he dropped and twisted, training his weapon on the darkness within.
He had expected a cry of some sort, maybe an attempt to scurry past him. Neither of those possibilities materialized. In fact, there was no indication at all that the damned thing was occupied—just a cold breath of air that greedily lapped up the sweat on his feverish brow.
Of course, the humans could have been sleeping in the cave's recesses. In that case, they wouldn't have noticed him yet. The problem was, he couldn't be sure. After the blinding light of the sun, the interior of the place looked pitch black to him. Impenetrable. It would take a few moments for his eyes to adjust.
Squinting, concentrating, he waited. The seconds passed. Kahless it was cold out here. By comparison, the air in the cave had to feel balmy. Surely it wouldn't hurt to take a couple of steps inside. To get out of this hell of wind and brazen sunlight and into someplace more comfortable, if only for a moment.
Careful to stay alert, Loutek advanced into the darkness. His eyes had acclimated enough for him to make out vague shapes, though none of them were moving. Keeping his disruptor pointed at them, he advanced a little farther.
The shapes still didn't move, not even with the gentle rise and fall of the chest area that usually denoted sleep. Coming closer, he saw why.
They weren't living beings. They were just rocks, situated in such a way as to give the impression of head and torso, arms and legs.
He grunted softly. Funny how much the pile of rocks had resembled humans. He nudged one of the smaller ones with his booted foot, watched it teeter and roll away from its companions.
Funny indeed. Scanning the rest of the cave, Loutek found nothing else of even passing interest. Obviously, the children were in the other caverns, if they were here at all. The only way to know was to check. But he didn't move right away. He lingered, allowing the relative warmth of the cave to leech some of the stiffness from his tired muscles.
The Klingon grinned. It even felt easier to breathe in here, though there was probably no more moisture in the cave than anywhere else. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine being back on the homeworld, in his family's tiny water garden. It occurred to him how pleasant it would be to take off his boots and his heavy, leather body armor and drop into a scented pool for a while.
But duty called. Suppressing a growl, Loutek turned to the cave opening, where the blazing light had become more blinding than ever. His eyes felt as if they'd been stabbed; he had to look away.
He realized then that he would have to make the transition from light to darkness over and over again with each cave search—a tedious process at best, and at worst a painful one.
Unfortunately, the only alternative—to shut his eyes as he went from cave to cave—was impractical. He could just imagine one of the others, or even Gidris himself, coming upon him as he groped his way from one place to the next like a blind man.
Again, he spat—and again he regretted it. What a loathsome assignment this was. A loathsome assignment and a loathsome world.
Crossing back to the cave mouth, Loutek stood and stared out at the terrain. He couldn't discern a thing. It was a curtain of fire, a—
Suddenly a red ball of agony exploded in Loutek's temple. He dropped to one knee.
A moment later, a second ball of pain exploded in the back of his neck. The Klingon flung up his hands to protect himself, angry and confused and at least a little fearful of what was happening to him. Something big and heavy hit his right hand—the one that held the disruptor—but he hung on to the weapon anyway.
He had to see, he told himself. He had to see who was attacking him.
Squinting into the brazen glare, through the blood that was running down his brow and into his eyes, he made out a number of small forms swarming about like carrion creatures around a carcass. Pointing his disruptor at the nearest of them, he started to depress the trigger.
That's when he felt something on his shoulder and—whirled to look up at a form larger than any of the others. He barely had time to make out the features of a Vulcan before the darkness closed in all around him.