LESLIE LEBRUN was surprised to learn that she qualified for a number of jobs. After she and Harry had begun to wrinkle like prunes in the hot water they had been given bright red clothing to identify them as new Prastorians and were sent on to the employment office for evaluation, where she discovered that her experience in starship security made her a shoe-in for a guard job on Prastor. Or, she had always liked to draw, and a quick sketch of the interviewer had delighted him with her unconventional use of line width and shading, enough so that he assured her she could easily support herself by selling portraits if nothing else. But according to his tests she also had the technical skills to assemble electronic equipment if she wished. Or—Lebrun blushed when he mentioned it—she could be a receptionist in a bathhouse.
"I mean it," he said when he realized the significance of her color change. "You look enough like us to be quite appealing, and just different enough to be exotic. Exotic is good in a welcoming agent."
"I'm sure it is," Lebrun said, looking away at the walls of the small office in which she and Harry and the interviewer sat. "But I don't think it's the job for me."
"Of course it is. You'd be wonderful at it," Mudd urged her, showing the first sign of animation he had expressed since learning that he was qualified to be a store clerk, a farmworker, a waiter, or a tax collector.
"And I'd be naked most of the time," she said to him in English. The words sounded odd to her after speaking Nevisian for the last few hours, but she didn't want the interviewer to understand her. "I need clothing for what I have planned."
"And what is that, my dear?" Mudd asked, also in English.
"Escape."
"What are you saying?" the interviewer asked.
"I was just reminding Harry why I couldn't take that job," she replied in Nevisian. "Religious reasons," she added when he started to ask. She turned back to Harry and said in English, "What do you say? Do you want to come with me?"
Harry sighed. "Considering my exciting opportunities for meaningful employment here, and the rather restrictive rules governing travel and communication, I believe I may be better off taking my chances on the Enterprise after all."
Lebrun had horrified their hosts by asking to be returned to the Enterprise, and they had both endured a lengthy lecture on the reasons why she couldn't, all of which had boiled down to "That's not allowed." So she had pleaded ignorance and promised to adopt a new life as she was supposed to, figuring she could make a break for it as soon as she had a chance. All she had to do was find a radio—or even make a simple spark-gap transmitter out of a battery and a wire—and send an SOS. The emergency monitors on the ship would instantly pinpoint her location, and a sensor scan would tell them who was calling for help.
But she would have to do it quickly, before the Enterprise left the system, or she would be stuck here forever.
"I believe my religion would allow me to work with electronics," she said to the interviewer. That should put her in contact with the equipment she would need.
"An excellent choice," he said. "And you, sir?"
"Could I try my hand at it as well?" Mudd asked.
The interviewer shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. You wouldn't be allowed to work together anyway, you understand. The rules demand that you be separated after your orientation so you can pursue new lives."
That could complicate things. If they separated her and Mudd, she would have to contact the ship on her own. That probably wouldn't be any more difficult than having his help, and in fact it might be easier without having to look out for him, but on the other hand he did have experience living on the fringes of society, and that could come in handy if they needed to hole up for a while.
She looked around the room again. A tiny, nondescript office, fairly well soundproofed from the others, no guards at the door. . . . This was probably the best opportunity she could ask for. In one smooth motion she stood up, reached across the desk, and yanked the interviewer forward by his hair, grabbing his throat in her other hand and squeezing to prevent him from screaming. Mudd actually screamed louder than the interviewer, but it was just a startled squeak.
Lebrun let go of the man's hair and grabbed one forearm. "Get his other one," she hissed at Mudd.
It took him a second to understand, and even longer to catch the flailing limb, but Lebrun kept her grip on the man's throat so it didn't really matter. His legs were pinned by his own weight now that she had him bent over the desk, and although he could no doubt work one free and start kicking the wall with it if he thought about it, he was in no position to do much thinking. His air and blood flow had been cut off; Lebrun only had to hold tight for a few more seconds before he collapsed onto the desktop.
"Was that really necessary?" asked Mudd when the man went limp. "Now we're fugitives already."
"You want to try getting by here on your own?" Lebrun asked. She tore off the man's sleeves and pant legs and began tying him up with the cloth—a trick she had learned in security training.
"I have done quite well on my own in the past," Mudd said proudly, but then he said, "But you're right, we must stick together."
After they tied up the interviewer, Lebrun went through his desk drawers and found a disruptor and a set of knobby metal tubes on a ring that had to be keys, which she pocketed even though she had no idea what they went to. At least she would have them if it turned out they needed them later.
"All right," she said to Mudd. "Now we go out the door like we just got the jobs of our dreams, and walk straight out of the building. Ready?"
He was panting a bit already just from the exertion of tying up the interviewer, but he wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded. "If we must."
"We must," she said, mimicking his precise enunciation. She grasped the door by its shiny glass knob—all the doors she had seen here were manually operated—and pulled it open. "Stay close," she said, and set off down the hallway.
Spaceship mechanic! Scotty rubbed his hands together like a land speculator about to close a deal on a whole planet. Perfect. He hadn't even realized that the Nevisians had spacecraft. They were apparently tiny little interplanetary things with no warp capability at all; designed, of course, for combat and nothing more, but they were spaceships nonetheless. The moment the Distrellians let him get his hands on one, he was as good as free.
Unfortunately, their inadvertent generosity didn't extend to the other Enterprise crew members. Chekov and Sulu had been given work in cartography and heavy equipment operation, respectively, while Captain Kirk had been offered only desk jobs. Management, to be sure, one of them coordinating battle plans, but it was hard to see how that would help them get back to the ship.
And they had to do that soon, before the Enterprise was sent on another mission somewhere else. Spock would no doubt have reported their deaths already, which meant that he was now awaiting orders, and at this distance from Starfleet those could come in less than a day.
They were in the final briefing room before being released. It was a small amphitheater, with seats for themselves and about fifty others, and walls covered with painted cloth murals that depicted presumably local scenes while cutting down on echoes. A no-nonsense drill-sergeant-type immigration official stood up front and explained what came next. They would be sent to temporary housing first—spread out all over the planet so there would be no more contact with people from their former lives—and given a day to explore their new homes before being shown to their jobs. That would be too late for Scotty and the others. Without a warp drive those fighter ships would do them no good at all if the Enterprise was already gone.
The pep talk was full of buzzwords about duty and honor and bravery and so forth. And one piece of fatherly advice that galvanized all four Starfleet officers:
"And I know some of you weren't ready to leave Prastor yet, but don't think you can just sneak off and kill yourselves to get back. You'll go back, all right—the Gods keep track of where you came from and who you associate with—but it'll be in the middle of the closest battle with someone you know in it, and your own people will blow you right back here. The same goes if you're killed trying any other method of escape, or killed while committing a crime."
Kirk leaned over to Scotty and whispered, "That may be our fast ticket out of here."
"How's that, sir?" Scotty asked.
"If one of us were to…well, you know…he'd wind up on Prastor. In the middle of a fight, sure, but outside a shielded area. If the Enterprise is still looking for us, then they'll beam me up, and then we could come here to Distrel and pick up the rest of you."
Even though he'd noted that Kirk had said "me," Scotty felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Commit suicide just to cross from planet to planet? "I don't like it," he whispered back. "We have no idea how this resurrection business works. We seem to have come through it all right this time, but until we know what makes it tick I don't think we'd be smart to try it again. I'd rather steal a ship and go back that way."
"Yes, but can we do that quickly enough?" Kirk asked. "We might only have a few hours left."
"We know they have spaceships here; you just get me close to one and I'll handle the rest."
Kirk nodded and resumed listening to the pep talk, or appeared to at least. But he was no doubt planning their escape, as was Scotty. The way he figured it, they would have to make a break for it before they were split up, then head for the spaceport, sneak in, and steal a ship.
And if that didn't work…well, the odds of someone getting killed between here and there were fairly high. They might just have a chance to try Kirk's other idea as well.
Kirk was evidently thinking along the same lines. He leaned back over to Scotty and whispered, "When I give the signal, we take out the drill sergeant, get his disruptor, and head for the spaceport."
"Aye, sir," Scotty said. Kirk leaned the other way and whispered the same to Sulu, who in turn passed the message to Chekov.
A few minutes later the briefing was over, and people got up and began moving out the door toward the transporters, where they would be sent off to their new homes. The immigration instructor stood by the doorway, wishing everyone well. The Enterprise crew hung back so they would be the last ones out, and when they drew abreast of him, Kirk held out his hand. The instructor gripped his forearm in the Nevisian lodge-brother style of greeting, and Kirk gripped his in return.
"Good luck, and welcome to Distrel," the instructor said.
"Now," Kirk replied.