ONCE AGAIN, McCoy noted, there were four of them in the briefing room. However, with Spock absent, Scotty had been brought in to round out the diplomatic team.
Clearing his throat, the captain addressed the group. "As you know, we'll be arriving shortly at Alpha Maluria Six, a Federation member planet and the site of a certain amount of civil unrest."
Farquhar's frown, which seemed like a perpetual thing now, deepened. McCoy was pleasantly surprised when the ambassador reserved comment.
"As you also know," Kirk went on, "Ambassador Farquhar has been assigned the task of settling this unrest." He regarded Farquhar. "Ambassador, would you like to describe the situation?"
Farquhar grunted softly but derisively. "The situation," he insisted, "is not simply one of unrest, Captain; it borders on civil war."
Straightening in his seat, he seemed to warm to the topic despite himself. "The planet has two main religious groups, the Manteil and the Obirrhat. Historically, the two populations have coexisted quite peacefully. It is only in recent months that they've come into conflict, over a herd of docile beasts in the region.
"The dominant group, the Manteil, believes that the animals carry the souls of long-deceased holy men. As a result, it insists on allowing the beasts access to anywhere and everywhere as they go about their seasonal migrations—including an ancient city historically important to both religions, which happens to contain the holy places of the other religious group, the Obirrhat."
"And th' Obirrhat," said Scotty, "take offense at th' idea of beasts in th' vicinity o' their sacred places." He paused, his eyes alight with curiosity. "But why's this only now become a bone o' contention? Presumably, both th' beasts and th' holy places have existed for some time."
The ambassador nodded. "Very astute, Mr. Scott. As it happens, the Manteil's sacred beasts were dying off some years ago, until the Federation provided them with a medicine to cure them of their plague. Thanks to us, the beasts are now more plentiful than ever, which is why they've begun to broaden the path of their migrations to include the city's thoroughfares and the Obirrhat's sacred precinct." He shot the Starfleet officers an ominous look. "When the first beasts passed through, some days ago, there were heated protests. But the main part of the herd is still on its way. When it passes through …"
He let his words hang in the air. They had the desired effect, eliciting visions of religion-inspired chaos and carnage.
McCoy held up a hand. "Let me get this straight," he said. "These people are ready to go to war over whether or not some animals have the right to walk in the streets?"
"To put it succinctly," Farquhar told him, "yes. But remember—to the Manteil, these are more than just animals. These are the souls of their ancestors. And to the Obirrhat, these aren't streets, they're parcels of sacred ground."
The doctor snorted. "And we're supposed to keep them from each other's throats?"
"Precisely," the ambassador returned. "As a member planet, the Malurians have the right to ask the Federation for assistance. And we are providing that assistance—though by the time it arrives, it may be too late to prevent a good deal of bloodshed." With that last thought, he glanced meaningfully at Kirk.
The captain ignored the implication. "Any other questions?" he asked.
McCoy shook his head. So did Scotty.
"In that case," said Kirk, "this meeting's adjourned. I'll have Lieutenant Uhura let you know when we establish communications with the planet."
Without bothering even to acknowledge the captain's last remark, Farquhar got up and left the briefing room. As the doors whispered closed behind him, McCoy turned to his exasperated captain.
"He's got the dramatic exit part down pat," the doctor noted. "Now if only he'd polish up on those soliloquies a bit …"
* * *
"Approaching Alpha Maluria Six," Chekov announced, as soon as the captain emerged from the turbolift.
"Slow to half-impulse," Kirk instructed.
"Slowing to half-impulse," Sulu echoed, making the necessary adjustments.
On the forward viewscreen, Alpha Maluria Six was a gradually expanding ball of green and blue, swaddled in sweeps of white cloud. Class-M all the way. Beyond the planet, and partially eclipsed by it, loomed the mysterious purple sphere of its single moon.
At warp six, they'd been able to complete the trip from Beta Canzandia in less than five days—though with Farquhar's constant complaining, it had seemed like that many weeks.
Kirk turned in his chair to face Uhura. "Hail the first minister, Lieutenant. Let him know we're here."
"Aye-aye, sir," his communications officer responded.
Before the captain could face front again, the turbolift doors opened and Ambassador Farquhar stepped out. He looked stiffer than ever.
For a moment, his eyes flicked in Kirk's direction. Then he focused his attention on the viewscreen.
"I see you got my message," the captain told him, resuming his original position. "We should be ready to beam down in a matter of minutes."
Kirk anticipated a blistering response. He wasn't disappointed.
"I've been ready to beam down for days now, Captain. Believe me, there will be no delays on my account."
The captain refused to take the bait, though it was getting harder and harder to refrain. "I'm happy to hear that, Ambassador."
"There's a response to our hail, sir," Uhura reported.
"Thank. you, Lieutenant." Kirk pointed to the screen. "On visual, please."
A moment later, the image of the planet was replaced by that of its highest official First Minister Traphid. Kirk recognized his image from the holos he'd been studying. Like all Malurians, his skin was as black as ebony, with weblike patterns around the mouth and chin area. Silvery-pale eyes looked out at the captain from cavernous sockets that made them appear even smaller than they were.
Kirk spoke up. "Greetings. I'm James T. Kirk, captain of the Enterprise. I believe you were expecting us, First Minister."
Traphid returned his greeting: "Blessed be your every incarnation, Captain. We have indeed been expecting you."'
It was the response Kirk had been told to look for. But there was something about the first minister's tone of voice that seemed wrong, out of kilter.
What's more, the textured skin around Traphid's mouth seemed to be twitching. Kirk was certainly no expert on Malurian facial expressions, but he couldn't escape the feeling that something was amiss.
"Oh, no," Farquhar whispered.
There, the captain thought. That confirms it.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk observed the ambassador's approach. "You see?" he rasped, too low to be heard by the first minister. "We took too long. We're too late."
Ignoring Farquhar, though that was no easy task under the circumstances, the captain concentrated on Traphid. "You seem discomfited, First Minister. Am I to understand that the discord has intensified?"
Traphid made a strange, gulping sound deep in his throat. "One might say so, yes. Please, beam down to our government hall. I will elaborate."
Kirk inclined his head. "As you wish."
As soon as the first minister's image faded, replaced again by that of Alpha Maluria Six, the captain rose from his chair and headed for the lift. He didn't have to ask Farquhar to accompany him; the man was on his heels like a predator running down its prey.
"Mr. Sulu," Kirk said, "you've got the conn. Ask Dr. McCoy and Mr. Scott to meet me in the transporter room."
"Aye-aye, Captain," Sulu acknowledged.
The lift doors opened and Kirk entered, with the ambassador right behind him. Turning, the captain could see the quick shuffle of personnel on the bridge—Sulu taking the command chair while a female ensign moved smartly to replace him at the helm.
Then the doors closed. Before Kirk could even tap the button representing the transporter deck, Farquhar had launched into his diatribe.
"I told you there was no time to waste, Captain. I told you time and time again." The ambassador locked his arms across his chest, as if he couldn't trust his hands not to damage something otherwise. He glared at Kirk, his jaw muscles working. "Now the conflict has escalated, and who knows to what extent."
The captain regarded him as calmly as he could. After all, as annoying as the man's manner was, he wasn't entirely wrong. The conflict had escalated, and a good deal more quickly than Starfleet had anticipated.
"Ambassador," he said, "I suggest we wait to see exactly what has transpired among the Malurians before we formulate any opinions."
Farquhar snorted, looked at the ceiling and shook his head. "Sure, let's wait. Why not? As if waiting wasn't what got us into this mess."
Kirk sighed, silently urging the turbolift to move a little faster. It was going to be a long trip to the transporter room.
The Malurian Hall of Government was a hexagonal space with six long windows alternately tinted green and violet. The walls were made out of some dark variety of stone, with tiny threads of something like silver running throughout. A gray polished-metal ring with six spires hung suspended from the ceiling, its form echoed by a round table with six chairs directly below it.
Kirk and his party materialized in a shaft of bluish light that filtered in through one of the windows. Traphid and three other robed figures were waiting for them.
As the two groups came together, Farquhar took the initiative. "First Minister," he said, touching his index and middle fingers to his temples.
Traphid returned the gesture. "You must be Ambassador Farquhar."
"I am." With a sweep of his arm, Farquhar indicated the captain, McCoy, and Scotty, pausing briefly as he identified each one in turn. "These are my colleagues from Starfleet—Captain Kirk, whom you've met; Dr. McCoy, and Lieutenant Commander Scott. They have been dispatched to assist me in my mission."
Bones leaned close to Kirk and muttered: "We're his assistants?"
Gradually, over the last couple of days, McCoy had come to seem like his old self again. There was none of the standoffishness the captain had sensed just after their departure from the research colony. Whatever it was that had been bothering him, he seemed to have come to grips with it.
"In a nutshell, yes," Kirk muttered back.
Traphid looked to his own colleagues. "Allow me to introduce my fellow ministers, Entrath, Ilimon, and Dasur."
Farquhar looked at the first minister soberly. "And the others?"
The skin in the lower part of Traphid's face did that twitching thing again. "Regrettably, Menikki and Omalas have absented themselves from these premises indefinitely. They have resigned their positions as ministers."
The ambassador nodded. Without a hint of the criticism he'd dished out back on the ship, he expanded on Traphid's explanation. "Menikki and Omalas were Obirrhat; they represented that portion of the population on the council."
"I see," Kirk replied. He engaged the first minister. "And the reason for their departure?"
Farquhar didn't like the idea of the captain speaking directly to the Malurians; that much was certain. But he kept his objections restricted to the sullen look in his eyes.
Traphid regarded the captain. "Earlier, you asked me if our discord has intensified. The fact is, it has intensified to the point of bloodshed. Finding no satisfaction in this chamber, the Obirrhat have taken their arguments to the streets. There have been riots; the rioters have been arrested. But those who instigated the violence—Menikki, Omalas, and others like them—have gone into hiding."
The ambassador's brow creased. "You have no idea where they are?"
The first minister shrugged. "We suspect they are still here in the mother city. But it is only a suspicion; there is no evidence of it."
"That is unfortunate," Farquhar said. "It will complicate matters considerably. However, we can still work toward a solution, even without the Obirrhat in attendance."
Traphid and the other ministers didn't look overly encouraged by Farquhar's suggestion.
"As you say," the first minister replied, "we can work toward a solution."
"You know," Kirk suggested, "it might not be a bad idea for us to visit the Obirrhats' holy places, just to see what they're like. And I'd like to get a look at your sacred animals t—"
"There's no need for that," Farquhar interjected, smiling pleasantly—or at least, the captain thought, that must have been the man's intention. "I'd like to see the holy places as well, but I don't think the first minister would look kindly on our disturbing the beasts."
"On the contrary," Traphid remarked. "If you are to help us, you must get a feeling for the things we hold dear. I will make arrangements for you to see both—the holy places of the Obirrhat and the sacred herd."
Only a slight ruddiness in his cheeks betrayed the ambassador's pique. He touched his fingers to his temples again.
"As you wish, First Minister."
Carol Marcus would have sworn she was alone in her garden, planting new neighbors for the remaining fireblossoms, until some sixth sense prompted her to look up—and see Mr. Spock standing at the entrance to the enclosure.
Gathering her composure, she asked, "Have you been there long?"
The Vulcan shrugged, though it was a more subtle gesture than a human would have made. "Just a few moments," he responded. And without offering anything more, he slowly scanned the garden.
His eyes were darkly inquisitive. And it wasn't only by sight that he explored the place; every so often, his nostrils flared as if he were breathing in the commingled scents.
But had he really come to sample the botanical variety, or was he on to her? Had he stumbled cross the truth about David, despite her efforts to prevent it? She couldn't be sure, not just by looking at him. Vulcans didn't exactly wear their hearts on their sleeves. Nor could she very well ask.
But she wasn't comfortable with the silence, either. So she said: "I understand you're making good progress with G-seven."
Spock nodded. "Some—though not as much, or as quickly, as I had hoped." He indicated the Klingon specimens with a tilt of his head. "And you?"
She smiled as pleasantly as she could. "Plugging away. Trying to see if we've got anything tough enough to keep up with the fireblossoms."
For a moment, he scrutinized the Klingon plants, and his eyes seemed to lose their focus for just an instant. The first officer straightened, his lips fattening in a frown, as if he felt guilty about abandoning his work even for a minute, then he returned his attention to her.
"Thank you," said the Vulcan formally, "for allowing me to enjoy your garden."
This time, it was Carol's turn to shrug. "My pleasure," she told him, though she couldn't mean it under the circumstances.
As Spock walked back to the lab dome, she sighed like a balloon with a slow leak. Apparently, her secret was still safe.
From the playground, the domed colony buildings in the distance looked like pearls half buried in the ocher-colored ground. And the lab dome, David noted, looked like the biggest pearl of all.
That's where his mother was, probably. Unless, of course, she was in her garden.
The lab dome was also where Mr. Spok was bound to be, talking with Dr. Boudreau about the G-7 unit, which was about all he'd done since he got here nearly a week ago. Mr. Spock was supposed to fix something the unit was doing wrong—though Dr. Boudreau didn't seem to think it was doing anything wrong.
It was all kind of confusing. But it was also important, especially to David's mother, so he tried to understand it. Sometimes he even joined his mom in the lab for a while, listening as she explained what kind of problem she was facing that afternoon and how she was trying to solve it.
Unfortunately, he couldn't visit the lab today, even if his mother was in it. He was supposed to avoid Mr. Spock as best he could—just as he'd had to avoid all the other people from the starship, when they were still here.
The only exception had been Dr. McCoy. Everyone else was off-limits.
His mother hadn't made it very clear why any of that should be. In fact, she hadn't seemed entirely sure herself. But she'd emphasized it over an over again, so David knew it was a big thing to her. Even if he didn't have any other reason, he guessed that one was good enough.
"Hey, Marcus!"
He turned. Riordan was sitting on one of the top rungs of the playground's white plastic monkey bars. Pfeffer and Wan were twisting themselves around a couple of the lower rungs, while Medford and Garcia tossed a football back and forth.
"Daydreaming again?" Riordan jeered. "How come you're always a million miles away?"
David didn't answer. He just walked over to the white plastic swingset and sat down on one of the swings.
"My dad says daydreamers never get anywhere," Pfeffer added, looking to Riordan for approval. "He says they dream their whole lives away."
"Sounds right to me," the older boy decided. Then he whispered something down to Pfeffer and they both laughed, their breath making white puffs on the air.
Since the fissure-jumping incident, their jabs at him had become more frequent. He imagined he could hear what they were whispering.
… father … got no father …
Planting his feet and launching himself backward, he began to swing. Immediately, the air felt even colder against his face. And as he kicked higher and higher and lost himself in the hard, blue sky, he found it easier and easier to forget Riordan and Pfeffer and their little cruelties.
In fact, if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself somewhere else. He could almost make himself think he was back on Earth.
That's where he was born, where the whole human race started, before it expanded out into space in a thousand different directions. And it was green there, lush and full of life—full of grass and trees and birds and animals.
Not like the planets his mother had taken him to over the last several years, places that had no growing things, or so few there might as well have been none at all. Some were cold like this one and some were hot, but none of them was even the least bit like Earth.
"Hey, Marcus!"
It was Riordan's voice, of course. No doubt he'd seen another opportunity to call David a daydreamer and was pouncing on it.
This time, though, David would keep his dream intact. He would stay inside it, happy and safe. And Riordan could shout himself purple—he wasn't going to get the satisfaction of a response.
"Hey, Marcus! Marcus!" That was Pfeffer, joining in on the fun.
Ignore it, David told himself. Don't give in. Don't let them take your green place away from you.
"Marcus!
The last yelp hadn't come from either Riordan or Pfeffer. It was a girl's voice—Medford's.
David opened his eyes. The other children were clustered around the swingset, their eyes drawn to the colony buildings. He looked that way also and saw a bunch of dark figures making its way from dome to dome. From a distance, they looked as tiny and harmless as any of the colonists.
But they weren't colonists. And they weren't the Starfleet officers, either. As David leaped from the swing and landed on the sandy ground, he saw a flash of light among the domes and heard someone down there cry out.
That's a cry for help, he realized. And that flash came from some kind of weapon. But why? Why would anyone want to hurt the colonists?
And then, while he was still trying to put the pieces together, he heard Pfeffer moan a single word that explained everything.
"Klingons."