Gemini (14 page)

“I assure you, my crew and I are attempting to do just that, sir.”

“Good. How are the princes?”

“According to Dr. McCoy's reports, recovering slowly but surely. The fact that they are still young men counts for a lot, I'm told.”

“And there's no chance they can be beamed back to the Royal Palace? Regent Lonal has issued several official requests for their return and protests that they haven't been. According to a report received by the Council, the absence of the princes from the planet is a major thorn in the side of the people.”

“I'm sure it is, Admiral, but Dr. McCoy has been quite adamant about the fact that the princes are to remain aboard the
Enterprise
until their recovery progresses. And, given the fact that the attempt to kill them came from Nador, I feel better having them aboard.”

“Except that the attack that nearly killed them came while they were aboard your ship,”
said Fitzgerald.

“Sir, I have not forgotten that,” replied Kirk, icily.

“See that you don't, Kirk. And Captain,”
said Fitzgerald, after a few seconds, in a much gentler tone,
“best of luck in finding your nephew. Please let me know if I can be of any help.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all. Fitzgerald out.”

Kirk sat deep in thought for a few seconds after Fitzgerald's image had faded from the screen, then tapped a button on his desk. “Kirk to Spock.”

“Spock here,”
came the imperturbable voice of the Vulcan.

“Any progress on that transmitter?”

“None to speak of, Captain. Lieutenant DeSalle and I are attempting to reconstruct its circuitry, but it is an effort akin to assembling a Tholian sand sculpture in absolute darkness, in a high-velocity wind.”

“As long as you have something to occupy you,” said Kirk, dryly. “Keep me posted. Kirk out.” He sat for a moment, then thumbed the intercom button again. “Kirk to sickbay.”

“McCoy here.”

“Bones, any—”

“No change in their condition in the last seventeen minutes, Jim. They're resting comfortably, but I've still got them pretty heavily sedated.”
His voice lowered a little, a sure sign of worry.
“The real complications will come when they awaken. They'll need physical therapy, psychological counseling—”

“I'm sure you're up to it, Doctor. Keep me posted. Kirk out.”

Kirk sat for a few seconds, replaying the last conversation in his mind. He shouldn't have been so short with Bones; his life hadn't been any too pleasant these days, either. He reached for the intercom button …

“Bridge to captain,”
said Uhura's voice over the speaker, suddenly, just as her face appeared on the screen.
“I have a transmission—”

“An emergency?”

“No, sir, quite the opposite, in fact. It came in on a Federation frequency so low I almost missed it.”

Kirk tried and failed to mask his irritation at what seemed to be a trivial issue at best. “Its content, Lieutenant? Does it require my attention?”

“I'm not sure, sir.”
Her fingers flashed over the console before her expertly.
“It seems only to be a set of numbers—geographic coordinates, I think—and a single word: ‘Peter.'”

* * *

“Captain, it's obviously some kind of trap,” said Giotto, summoned hastily from his office.

“The coordinates?” asked Kirk, now seated in his chair on the bridge.

“Sir,” said Chekov from Spock's post, “the coordinates seem to be in one of the older sections of the capital city.”

“No way of tracing the transmission, Uhura?”

“No, sir. It vanished as soon as I received it. They must have been monitoring for reception.”

“Of course.” Kirk nodded. He rose and paced the bridge rapidly. Giotto was right, but still … this was something he could act on, take action against.

“Uhura, tell ship's stores to prepare clothing in the native Nadorian fashion, three—no, four sets.” He cocked a brow at Chekov. “Feel like a little stroll, Chekov?”

“Yes, sir,” responded Chekov, enthusiastically.

“Giotto, get one of your best people and prepare for a landing party.”

“Captain,” said Giotto, helplessly, “every instinct I have tells me this is a—”

“Trap, I know. Have I ever told you about my experience with the
Kobayashi Maru
test?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Perhaps later. See you in transporter room two.”

Giotto headed for the turbolift, still grumbling under his breath.

“Mr. Sulu,” said Kirk, on his way to the lift, “you have the conn.”

* * *

It felt a little odd going on a landing party without Spock or McCoy, but they both had urgent tasks of their own. Besides, Giotto was an excellent officer, and—

The doors of transporter room one opened to admit Chief Giotto and Lieutenant Sinclair. Kirk caught Giotto's eye and motioned to him to approach. In a low tone of voice, he asked, “That's your choice, Chief? A little young, don't you think?”

“Sinclair's got more experience than you'd think, Captain. Besides, she's done a lot of research into the planet and their customs.”

“We may need an experienced hand in combat more than we need a tour guide,” replied Kirk, tersely.

Giotto looked at Kirk, as if not quite understanding what he saw. Or rather, what he heard. “Captain,” he said respectfully, “you left the choice of personnel up to me. Sinclair was my choice. If you're going to question my decisions—”

Kirk took a deep breath, glanced at Sinclair, and shook his head. “All right, Chief. It's just that they seem so damn young.”

“And we seem so damn old?” asked Giotto with a grin.

“I didn't say that,” said Kirk. He turned to Sinclair, who looked away, with a false nonchalance. “Welcome to the party, Lieutenant. Keep your head down and follow my orders.”

“Yes, sir,” said Sinclair. She couldn't conceal the thrill in her voice, an emotion Kirk remembered from his early landing parties. Had he ever been that young?

The Nadorian native garb—shirts, leggings, and a kind of long overcoat for the men, a sort of hooded serape for Sinclair—fit well.

“Communicators on security mode,” said Kirk, as they took their places on the transporter pad. He flipped a switch on his own, deactivating the audio signal, should the ship try to reach them. As he did so, one of McCoy's medtechs gave each of them a precautionary hypospray inoculation. “Mr. Kyle,” said Kirk, “do you have a reading on those coordinates?”

“Yes, sir, it's an open-air park.”

“Put us down on the other side of the park, opposite the location indicated by the coordinates.” He glanced at Giotto and shrugged. “Just in case. Energize, Mr. Kyle.”

Though they could see buildings on a nearby horizon as they materialized on Nador, the park was obviously quite large. They beamed down amid a grove of strangely stunted trees that seemed to oddly complement the few structures of the park, which had been designed in the same sweeping style Kirk had admired earlier. It was early evening; every few yards stanchions had been placed, supporting lit globes that increased in brightness as the natural light dimmed.

Kirk took a deep breath; the air was slightly sweet, from the scents of native flowers and grasses, no doubt. As they left the copse of trees, Kirk saw a few people: couples of various ages strolling, the older couples holding hands, the younger couples unable to keep their hands off each other; children running in circles, playing a game whose abstruse rules escaped Kirk, trying to pack in as much fun as possible before being called in for the night; a few lone figures out for solitary strolls.

“The coordinates you received are about one hundred yards in that direction, Captain,” said Chekov, pointing.

“Not too fast,” said Kirk, “we're just locals out for an evening stroll.”

“Looks like some other people had the same idea,” said Sinclair, tilting her squarish jaw toward a gathering some distance away.

It was a sizable group of people, Kirk realized; as the landing party neared the group, he could hear voices, first a lone voice saying something with passion, but indistinguishable at this distance, then a chorus of voices responding, then a smaller, less organized chorus on the heels of the first. Some sort of open-air theater, or a concert, or—?

Whoever they were, they seemed to be standing at the base of some sort of huge, thick column that seemed to support nothing. He could see figures limned by flickering light, and caught a whiff of smoke—a fire, then. But not the sweet, heady scent of burning wood, something else. Fabric, that was it.

The illumination of the light globes paled to insignificance beside the brightness of the blaze. As they neared the crowd, Kirk realized the shape that had seemed like a thick column from a distance was actually a huge statue of Princes Abon and Delor, conjoined back-to-back. It was a new piece, very recently unveiled, based on how smooth and clean the rock was. It was competent enough in its rendition of the twin monarchs, but with none of the lifelike stylization that characterized the older statuary in the palace.

At the base of a statue was a flat open-air rink of what Kirk assumed was a native stone, with a dais set into it for public assemblies. At the dais, Kirk could see one man, dressed in a robe of burnt orange and blue, holding something aloft that caused the shadows to shift and rotate when he swung it, the way the sun moved the hand of a sundial. The hoots of the crowd that followed were at once triumphant and indignant.

Kirk did not gasp, but felt his jaw tighten. Over his head the man in the robe was holding aloft the banner of the United Federation of Planets, and it was a flame.

The reason for the conflicting responses of the crowd became clear now: most of the crowd were Nadorian citizens, angry at the Federation for, they felt, having virtually kidnapped and severely mutilating their rulers. The response to their cheers came from, Kirk assumed, a group of Federation citizens living on Nador.

“The coordinates for the meeting are on the other side of the crowd, Captain,” said Chekov. He didn't have to worry about whispering to avoid eavesdroppers. Kirk hardly heard him over the noise of the mob.

Kirk nodded his acknowledgment. “Better give them a wide berth,” he replied, “for both our sakes. Phasers on stun, just in case.”

Giotto and Sinclair each nodded once, sharply. Seeing the Federation's flag burned by a howling mob didn't set well with them, either.

But to give in to his anger would have jeopardized the mission, and possibly Peter. Kirk gestured for the landing party to fan out. They would not only be less conspicuous, but less likely to get picked off if it was a trap. They flowed around the mob, whose components—the Nadorians and the Federation citizens—seemed on the verge of attacking each other, like a snake consuming its own tail. It occurred to Kirk that there were almost certainly Nadorian security officers watching the crowd, in mufti. With that in mind, he gestured for his crew to disperse even farther from the crowd. It wouldn't do for them to be recognized by any of Securitrix Llora's troops.

They were upwind from the smoke of the burning Federation banner, which was at least a small blessing. Not far away was another copse of trees, set roughly in a circle, branches grasping at the darkening sky like many-fingered hands.

There were light globes situated around the knot of trees, but the trunks were thick enough and the branches intertwined sufficiently that a large portion of the illumination was blocked from the inside. As Kirk neared the trees, he thought he saw a single figure standing in their center, as if the trees had grown around him to imprison him. Or had he caused the trees to grow around him, to protect him?

Kirk shook his head.
Now I'm thinking like McCoy.
He made a surreptitious gesture, commanding the rest of the landing party to stay back, and entered the circle of trees, trying very hard not to look like a man trying very hard to be nonchalant.

He got as close to the dark figure as a stranger could, and leaned against a twisted bole, as though mildly fatigued from his walk.

“A fine night,” he said, noncommittally.

“Indeed,” came a dim voice, after a few seconds. The subsequent silence stretched on so long, Kirk wondered if he would have to speak again. Then: “A night to think of old friends, friends from far away. Perhaps even see them.”

“Depending on the cost, yes,” said Kirk, trying to keep his tone enigmatic. “What do you think about that?”

“I think you will remain still,” said the other, his voice suddenly steely. His left arm rose, the pale light glinting feebly off the barrel of a Nadorian controlled force beam.

Kirk pitched himself backward over the twisted bole, somersaulting to the ground, hearing the whine of the force beam rip through the tree's trunk, filling the air with the odor of hot sap. Glancing around from his position as he drew his phaser, Kirk saw some of the other trees seem to move as the people hidden behind them made their presences known.

Kirk crouched and began to move backward, turning to sneak a glance in that direction. He saw another figure moving toward him, already drawing a bead on him. From the darkness beyond the trees grew a long, thin finger of angry red radiance. The phaser beam struck Kirk's would-be assailant in his back; he went down, landing on a group of bushes.

The night was suddenly illuminated by a web of energy beams, the scarlet of the Federation phasers crisscrossing with the cool blue of the Nadorian controlled force beams, aimed with such precision that it seemed obvious their wielders wore some kind of night-vision gear. Kirk crouched behind a tree, peering out every few seconds to fire from behind either side of the tree, knowing the best thing he could do was wait for the landing party to catch up with him.