AS SPOCK'S FINGERS probed the bundle of nerves at the juncture of neck and shoulder, the Klingon went limp in his grasp. Letting go, he watched the inert body slump the rest of the way to the ground.
There was blood on the Klingon's face, the result of a head wound, which may have been a factor in the ease with which Spock snuck up on him. However, it wasn't until Spock took stock of the children who stood around him—three boys and two girls, their clothing covered with red dirt, each armed with a rather substantial-looking rock—that he put all the pieces together.
"'This was a trap," he concluded.
There was a distinct note of surprise in his voice, perhaps even admiration. He immediately regretted, the untoward display of emotion.
One of the boys, a child with black, hair and narrow. features, nodded eagerly. "Yessir," he said, spitting the word out so quickly that Spock could barely understand it. "We spotted the Klingon coming a long way off, so we were ready for him. We got ourselves all dirty and hid in the last cave 'cause we knew he'd try the biggest one first, and when he went in we came out with our rocks and waited for him, and—"
Spock held up a hand. "You need not explain further. I believe I understand the nature of your stratagem."
The boy stopped, though he seemed disappointed. Spock was sorry for that, but there were more important matters to be dealt with right now.
Despite everything, the Klingon hadn't dropped his weapon. Lowering himself into a squat, Spock wrested the disruptor from his adversary's fingers and tucked it into the sample pouch he wore slung over one shoulder. Then, slipping his hands beneath the Klingon's armpits, he drew him up almost to a standing position. Finally, Spock lifted one of the man's arms and draped it over his shoulder.
"What are you doing?" asked the darker of the two girls.
"I am concealing him from view," the Vulcan answered. "In fact, it would be a good idea for us all to conceal ourselves from view. At some point, perhaps very soon, this one's presence will be missed and his comrades will initiate a search for him."
A boy with blond hair nodded. He turned to the others. "Come on. Let's pick up our rocks and bring them back inside the cave."
Spock noted the boy's alertness. At least a couple of the stones had blood on them; that clue alone would have been enough to give them away to any Klingon who came to investigate.
What's more, no one hesitated to follow his direction. Obviously, he was their leader, maybe the one who'd come up with the idea to turn the tables on the Klingon.
The Vulcan watched for a moment to see which of the openings the children used as they hid their missiles. As it turned out, it was the cavern just beyond the one the Klingon had entered. Apparently, that was also the egress from which the children had issued as they pelted their victim.
Following them in, Spock headed for the back of the cave, where the slanting ceiling and the dirt floor converged. Kneeling, he deposited his burden there and checked the Klingon's pulse.
Still strong. Despite his wound, he was in no danger.
On the other hand, he wasn't about to wake up for a while. The nerve pinch usually left its victims unconscious for three or four hours.
Spock checked the Klingon's belt for food. Usually, Klingon warriors carried a small amount of it with them out in the field. He wasn't disappointed. A pouch held a number of heavy, brown grain pellets. Not esthetically appealing, but they would have to do.
Extracting the pellets, he joined the children, who had already begun to sit down in a circle nearer the front of the cave. They looked at the alien fare greedily—five hungry faces that seemed much too young to be battling Klingons.
The first officer distributed the grain pellets and watched the children wolf them down. He kept none for himself.
But the blond boy handed half his allotment back.
"You have to eat, too," he said.
Spock shook his head. "My needs are different," he explained, which was accurate, if only in the strictest sense.
The child had probably never met a Vulcan before, nor did he have any reason not to believe Spock. Shrugging, he gobbled down the remainder of his pellets.
"You have not had access to food in some time," the Vulcan observed.
"We had some snacks with us," explained the third boy, who had red hair and freckles. "We took 'em whenever we went up into the—" He looked around at the others, then amended his comment. "Whenever we went up to the playground. But the snacks ran out, and it's been pretty hungry here ever since."
The boy with black hair leaned forward. "What's going on back at the colony?" he asked. He swallowed but maintained his composure for the most part. "How are our parents?"
Spock wished he could give him an answer. "I know very little more than you do," he replied. "I left the installation shortly after the Klingons arrived."
One of the girls, a slight youngster with pale skin and delicate features, started to pose her own question. But she must have thought better of it, because she closed her mouth and looked at the ground.
Seated next to her, the other girl asked: "Did you see them kill anybody?" Her gaze was steady, but there was no concealing the trepidation in it.
The Vulcan shook his head. "I did not. Nor do Klingons generally kill unless they must; they are not as bloodthirsty as some would have us believe." He sighed, ever so slightly. This was not a subject he enjoyed discussing with children. Nonetheless, they deserved the truth. "However, I cannot rule out the possibility of fatalities."
The youngsters looked at one another. Some were better at concealing their fears than others. The blond boy seemed to be the best of all. There was something about him that Spock found familiar—something, perhaps, in the way he held himself, or in the way his eyes narrowed as he listened. The Vulcan just couldn't put his finger on it, and the mask of grime on his face didn't make his effort any easier.
The boy spoke up. "Why are the Klingons here, anyway? What are they after?"
"This world is not all that distant from the recognized boundaries of the Klingon empire. It is possible that they are merely asserting their right to it." Spock paused. "However, it is far more likely that they have received intelligence about the nature of the colony's work, and wish to seize whatever new technologies have been developed."
The youngster grunted. "That makes sense."
"What does not make sense," Spock told him, "is your assault on the Klingon who was pursuing you."
The children looked at him as if he'd just told them he was a Klingon himself. Perhaps he had been too abrupt in changing topics; that was still an area of human conversation in which he was less than adept, despite the practice his mother had provided during his childhood.
"But we got him," the red-haired youth protested. "We had him right where we wanted him."
"Perhaps," the Vulcan replied. "There is no way of knowing what might have transpired if I had not intervened."
"We'll do it again, this time without any help," the dark-haired boy suggested. "And you'll see how easy it is."
Spock shook his head. "I cannot allow a repeat of the maneuver. It is too dangerous. Even the slightest miscalculation could mean your deaths."
They looked at him with hard eyes in hard faces. "Our parents are fighting for their lives," the black girl reminded him. "If it means helping them, why shouldn't we do the same thing?"
"I am certain," the Vulcan said, "that your parents would prefer you to remain safe—to retreat into the hills as far as you possibly can, and to stay there until help arrives."
"And what about you?" asked the blond boy, the leader. "What are you going to do?"
It was the one question Spock wasn't prepared to answer. "I do not know yet," he said.
"You're going to try to help the people back in the colony," the dark-haired boy accused, more certain of it than the Vulcan himself was.
"If circumstances allow," Spock agreed, "I will make an attempt to do so."
"And won't your chances be better," the blond one suggested, "if you get some help?"
It was almost logical. The Vulcan gave the youngster credit.
"My chances of helping your parents will be greater, yes. But my chances of losing you will also be greater. It will be a trade-off."
The boy shook his head. "We're not just going to run away and hide." He licked his lips. "We've proven we can help, and we're going to—with you or without you."
Spock cocked an eyebrow. The child had the kind of courage one didn't find too often, even in adults. What's more, he seemed to be an inspiration to the others. The Vulcan sighed. Apparently, he had little choice in the matter. If the children could not be convinced to retreat to a safer place, he would have to protect them. And the only way to do that was to join forces with them.
It was not a situation he found appealing. However, the alternative—letting them brave the danger on their own—was even less so.
"All right," he said. "We will work together. However, you must follow my directions. If we are to lay traps for our pursuers, they must be more efficient than the one that caught him." He tilted his head to indicate the Klingon who lay unconscious in the back of the cave.
The children looked at one another. The black girl nodded.
The blond boy turned back to Spock. "You've got a deal," he said.
It was settled. "I will need to know your names," the Vulcan told them. "Mine is—"
"Mr. Spock," the blond one said, perhaps a little too quickly. And then, realizing his error, added, "I know."
"And yours?" the Vulcan asked.
For the first time, the youth seemed reticent. Finally, he said, "David."
"I'm Pfeffer," the redhead chimed in.
"Garcia," offered the dark-haired boy.
"Medford." That came from the black girl.
Finally, "Wan."
Spock couldn't help but notice that they all used their last names. All except David. He was the only one who'd given the Vulcan his first name. And reluctantly, at that. Spock filed the fact away for future consideration.
As Kruge eyed the human called Boudreau, the man shook his head. He seemed sincerely puzzled. "I don't understand. I thought I'd explained this already to Mallot."
The Klingon scowled. He laid the blunt tip of his long, thick finger on the colony administrator's chest and pressed against the bone. "You may have explained it to Mallot, human, but you have not explained it to me."
They were standing outside the dome in a cold wind. Though the Klingon was hardly dressed for the weather, he didn't feel any discomfort. He was distracted by his thirst for knowledge.
If G-7 was truly a weapon, he needed to know more about it. And he wanted to hear about it from the man who had developed it—not from Mallot, who, being a Klingon, would almost certainly have his own ambitious agenda.
"Very well," said Boudreau. "What is it you wish to know, exactly?" His expression changed. "Maybe you should tell me what you know already, and I can go on from there."
Kruge couldn't see anything wrong with that approach. "I know," he began, "that a pack of your children are missing. A child named Riordan told us as much."
He looked for another shift in expression and was rewarded. Obviously, Boudreau had known about the children. And now he knew that the Klingons knew.
The second officer went on. "I know that these children have stolen the G-Seven unit, which was at the heart of your installation. And I know that the G-Seven device is a weapon of considerable might, which you do not wish to fall into the hands of your enemies."
A strange thing happened then; It seemed to Kruge that the human almost smiled. Then the Klingon figured it out: the smile was feigned. To throw me off the track.
He glared at Boudreau. "Now it's your turn to educate me."
The human looked at him. "What is your name?" he asked.
That took the Klingon by surprise. "Kruge," he snarled. "Why do you ask?"
The prisoner shrugged. "I just wanted to know the name of the man who is going to kill me."
Kruge could feel his black eyes narrowing, bringing his brow down lower. "And why do you think I will kill you?" he asked.
"Because I'm about to tell you that what you believe is a lie—or really, a number of lies. And I don't expect you will like that very much."
The Klingon's lip curled. "Try me," he said.
"All right," Boudreau replied. "To begin with, there are no children in the colony besides Tim Riordan, no matter what he told you. No doubt he lied because he was scared. And frankly, I can't blame him for that."
Kruge looked at him askance. "No children? How can that be? Our sensors picked them up."
The human seemed to hesitate, or was it the Klingon's imagination? Then he said, "They're only echoes. Ghosts. At least, those are some of the things we call them when they foul up our ships' sensor readings."
"Ghosts?" the Klingon repeated. "You mean sensor artifacts?"
"That's right—artifacts. Things that appear to be there but aren't. It has something to do with magnetic field anomalies. So you can look high and low for those children you recorded, and you'll never find them."
Kruge pondered that. "Then who took the G-Seven unit?"
"That," said the terraformer, "I don't know. Who's missing?"
The Klingon frowned. "Besides the children—the ones you say aren't there—no one. Everyone is accounted for, except the Riordan whelp." He licked his lips. "Perhaps the boy was lying all along. Perhaps he hid the device himself." He could feel himself growing angry just contemplating the possibility.
"I don't think so," the human said. "You've seen him. Does he seem like the sort of child who would risk his life to keep that unit from you?"
Kruge frowned again. "Admittedly, he does not. Then who?"
"Unfortunately," Boudreau told him, "I can't help you there. But I can tell you this I wouldn't be too concerned about the G-Seven. It's hardly what I'd call a weapon, or even the basis for one."
Kruge was unconvinced. What kind of fool did the human take him for? Did he think the Klingon would simply accept his word at face value? "Then why has it been stolen—and at great risk?"
The human shrugged a second time. "Again, I don't know for certain. But if I were to venture a guess, I'd say it was to prevent you from developing a countercapability. After all, we will eventually bring along our terraforming technology to the point where we can alter an entire planet. I wouldn't put it past the Klingon Empire to try to undo our alterations, just to keep the Federation from expanding its sphere of influence."
Kruge thrust out his chin. "That is not the Klingon way; at least, it is not the Gevish'rae way." But the Kamorh'dag? He would have to speak to Vheled of this—it almost seemed like something they might try.
Kruge spat on the ground, to show what he thought of the option Boudreau had described. "If we wished to remove the Federation from a world, we would do so. Nor would its environment make it any more or less difficult for us."
"To be honest," Boudreau told him, "that comes as a surprise to me. More to the point, I think it would come as a surprise to the person who took the G-Seven unit" He shrugged. "So you see, it doesn't really matter what you would have done with the G-Seven. What matters is what our thief thought you would have done."
Kruge pondered the administrator's words. After a moment or two, he decided they were worthy of further scrutiny. He grunted. "You will return to your dome now."
Boudreau nodded. "As you wish," he said.