Gemini (18 page)

“I'm sure they are, Captain,”
Fitzgerald had replied, wearily,
“but the issue here is more than just accomplishing the actual transmission, it's a chance to mend some fences, to show the Nadorian people that we regard them as allies.”

“But sir, the security measures alone—”

“Are well within the capabilities of Security Chief Giotto,”
Fitzgerald had cut in acidly.
“I informed Regent Lonal that the Nadorians coming aboard will be subject to the most stringent security, to avoid anything unexpected.”
His tone had left volumes unsaid, and though Kirk had hated to have to take it, he couldn't deny Fitzgerald's concerns.
“This is our chance to make amends to them, Captain. I suggest you take advantage of it.”

“Understood, sir,” Kirk had said, well aware that the definition in a Starfleet admiral's lexicon of the word “suggest” was far different from his.

“Any word on your nephew?”
Fitzgerald had asked, in a gentler voice.

Kirk had shaken his head. His knowledge—or what he felt was his knowledge—of Peter's status was best kept to only the five who knew of it. “Not yet. The Nadorian authorities claim to be searching for him, but I'd feel better if we could stage an investigation of our own.”

“Certainly, Captain,”
Fitzgerald had said,
“if you can secure the permission of the Nadorian government.”

“I am attempting to secure just such permissions even as we speak.”

“Good luck with that, I'm sure the boy will turn up safe and sound. Fitzgerald out.”

“This is all your fault,” Kirk now said to McCoy over a quick drink. Aside from the hurried conference last night, he hadn't had many chances to see Bones since the princes had been attacked, and none socially.

“Me? What did I do?”

“You won't release the princes from sickbay,” Kirk reminded him, pointedly.

“Oh, that. No, Jim, they're not ready. But with the security measures you've taken, I doubt you'll have any problems.”

“Famous last words,” said Kirk, draining his glass. “Whose idea was this broadcast, anyway?”

“Do you really want me to remind you?” replied McCoy.

“No,” said Kirk, his reply followed immediately by a chiming sound. “Come,” he called, and the door to his quarters slid open to reveal his science officer. “Spock, how are the preparations coming?”

“All personnel and equipment native to the planet have been examined quite thoroughly by a system implemented by Chief Giotto and myself,” replied Spock. “I anticipate no breaches of security, Captain.” He didn't add the words “this time,” but it was as if he had. Kirk knew the Vulcan to be irritated at the security lapse that had allowed the princes to be attacked.
Not,
he thought wryly,
that he would ever admit it.

Kirk nodded. “And have you and DeSalle made any headway on the transmitter?”

“Only in the negative sense. We have tried many combinations of wiring and circuitry, which have not worked.”

“Well, that's progress of a sort,” said McCoy. “I'm sure you'll get lucky eventually.”

“As you must surely be aware by now, Doctor, I prefer not to rely on that commodity, particularly in situations like this, when it has been in short supply.”

“You're right there,” said Kirk. “How much longer until the broadcast?”

“Thirty-one minutes, twenty-three seconds.”

“I suppose we'd better get down there,” said Kirk. He stood by the door of his cabin and motioned the others through. “After you, gentlemen.”

* * *

Pataal answered the door chime of Yeoman Tonia Barrows's quarters, assuming it would be some friend or professional acquaintance of hers—perhaps that nice Dr. McCoy, to whom Pataal had not yet had a chance to apologize for interrupting his session with Their Serene Highnesses. But when the door opened, it revealed Prince Abon, in his wheeled-chair conveyance. For the first time since Pataal had known him, the smile on his face was uncertain.

“Best wishes, my lady,” said Prince Abon. He nodded, his manner somehow contriving to give it the grace of a full bow. “May I come in?”

“I am just preparing for the broadcast, Your Highness,” said Pataal, uncertainly.

“I won't be long,” replied Prince Abon, commanding the chair forward. “And even if I am, there can hardly be a broadcast without both princes, can there?”

“I suppose not, my prince,” said Pataal. She sat on the edge of the bed, her smile quivering like the wings of a butterfly.

“I simply wished to say,” said Abon, “that since my brother and I have—what is the proper term?—attained our physical independence from each other, there will be a great deal of changes in our relationship.”

“I am certain you and he will have much to discuss,” replied Pataal, her voice sounding hollow.

“No, I meant the relationship between you and me,” said Abon. “When things were as they were, the arrangement among the three of us was acceptable to all.”

“It is so no longer?”

“I am not yet sure, but no, it may not be,” said Abon. He spread his hands to indicate not only the wheelchair but, thought Pataal, himself. “When my brother and I were conjoined, we were forced to share almost everything. Now that we are apart … ” He rolled his wheelchair forward a few feet closer to Pataal and took one of her hands in his. “Our lives will be very different.” He looked up at Pataal. “My lady, do I make myself clear?”

“I fear not, Your Highness,” Pataal said, though in truth she felt exactly the opposite.

“I wish you to be mine,” said Abon, gently but firmly. “And mine alone.”

“I see.”

“Make no answer now,” said Abon, releasing her hand and withdrawing a few feet. “But know how I feel and what I wish. I hope it is also what you wish and feel, as well.”

“You have made your wishes known,” said a voice from behind Pataal, “as have I.” To most ears it would seem that Prince Abon was still speaking, but she knew better.

“As so you have, Prince Delor,” said Pataal, wishing, at that instant, that she had never been conceived.

Prince Delor's wheelchair motored smoothly out from behind the partition in Tonia's quarters. He gave his brother the most cursory of glances, speaking to the Lady Pataal. “Despite the difference between my brother and myself, we are quite agreed on one point. Our lives will indeed be very different now that we are separated.” He pivoted before Pataal and, placing an index finger under her chin, lifted her head until their eyes made contact. “You have a decision to make, my lady, and sooner than any of us might wish.” Delor wheeled toward the doorway, but was intercepted by Prince Abon.

“Look at me, Delor,” said Abon. His words were a request but his tone made it a demand. “For once, you can.”

“What would you have me say, brother?” asked Delor. “That our lives were less complicated when we were an aberration?”

“That is the difference between us, Delor,” replied Abon, his hands tightening upon the arms of his chair. “I saw us as unique.”

“And we are neither any longer, are we?” asked Delor. Pivoting his chair neatly around Abon's, he sped through the doorway, turning right. Abon remained behind for a moment, looked at the Lady Pataal, then hummed through the doorway, and to the left.

Pataal tried to rise on wobbly feet. Instead she collapsed to the bed, wishing she knew how to increase the temperature in Tonia's cabin. She was suddenly very cold.

* * *

Kirk walked among the group assembled in the cargo hold, trying not to look as though he distrusted most of the assembled audience from Nador. He assumed at least a few of those assembled felt exactly the same about him.

But one of them, he felt, was the prime mover behind the assaults, not only on Princes Abon and Delor, but on his ship. He could live with not being universally loved, and had, in fact, given many persons in the galaxy reason to feel exactly the opposite about him. He was also sure that the futility of wishing for universal acceptance was one point every one of the Nadorian politicians gathered here could agree on—well, most of them, anyway. He was uncertain about Regent Lonal. But he could not tolerate an attack upon his ship, and he was determined that whoever was behind such an action would pay, and dearly.

“Counselor Docos, so good to see you,” said Kirk with a smile, exchanging with the Abonian representative a Nadorian two-handed grip, the equivalent of a handshake. The surprise on Docos's face made the effort worthwhile. “Counselor Hanor, likewise a pleasure. That's a lovely gown.” Her gown was in fact an exact duplicate of the gown she had worn the last time Kirk had seen her, but what the hell, a fact was a fact.

Nodding and waving to a few others, Kirk made for the cargo-bay control center. Slightly raised above floor level and couched behind a shield of transparent aluminum, this point in the cargo hold, usually used to supervise the loading and storage of large items, afforded an excellent vantage of the entire structure.

“How's it going, Scotty?” asked Kirk.

“I'll be grateful when this night is over, sir,” said Scotty, fervently. Kirk almost smiled; if Scotty, questioned about any situation in which he did not control every variable, had replied that all was shipshape or that there was nothing to worry about, Kirk would have known something was wrong.

“Are the transmission teams deployed?”

“Aye, sir.” Scotty pointed to a team of holograph technicians who would oversee the transmission of the princes' address to the planet surface. “All their equipment was gone over within a micrometer. Nothing was smuggled aboard by them, or the rest of the Nadorian natives.” Scotty's dour countenance briefly cracked into a rare smile. “But you can bet some of those bigwigs'll be registerin' complaints with Commissioner Roget.”

Kirk laughed tightly. “I'm beginning to think I wouldn't know how to act if an encounter with the Nadorian government didn't end in a diplomatic complaint.”

“I'd know how t'act,” said Scotty, fervently.

They heard a small beep, an indication that whoever wanted to enter the control center had passed the retinal scan. “Chief Giotto,” Kirk said, “how's it going out there?”

“Not bad, sir,” replied Giotto, slowly. For the cautious security chief, this was high praise. “We had to find some temporary homes for a lot of cargo—some of Commissioner Roget's possessions among them—but we cleared the area in time.”

“It was one of the most secure places on the ship with enough space to handle this many people,” said Kirk with a nod. “But I was referring to the security situation.”

“Everyone passed through scanners and no one objected—well, not strenuously anyway. It's always possible to kill a man with your bare hands or an available prop if someone wants to badly enough, but I'll stake my rank on the fact that there's no powered weapons or explosives down there that we don't know about.”

“And your personnel?”

“Deployed throughout the crowd, sir,” said Giotto, spreading a hand to indicate the entire hold of visitors. “Some making themselves obvious, like Lieutenant Sinclair, who the Nadorians know about. Others not so obvious—serving drinks and what not.”

“Seems secure enough,” said Kirk with a nod. “It's, what, ten minutes until the transmission? I'll see you later.”

Leaving the control center, Kirk made his way across the cargo hold, whose temporary decor, largely wall hangings in the colors and designs of the royal families, satisfactorily hid its drab, functional origins.

Passing through the cargo hold to its main hatch, only Kirk's skills at navigating a crowd prevented him from colliding with a young woman who seemed to be watching nothing but the floor. When she looked up at him, it took him a moment to recognize the face of the Lady Pataal. Her face, normally so young and pretty, seemed to be bearing the weight of a thousand worlds. Furrows were just visible in what little makeup she wore; she had been crying.

“Captain, oh, I'm so sorry,” she said, her voice throaty, confirming Kirk's deduction as to her emotional state.

“My lady,” said Kirk, gently, “is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” She attempted a smile, which looked even sadder than the expression she had formerly worn. “It's just … all the excitement, I suppose. It can be very exhausting.”

“Yes, it can,” replied Kirk with a smile. He stepped slightly closer to her and lowered his voice. “If you want to talk about anything, feel free—”

To his astonishment, she seemed almost repelled by the simple conciliatory gesture he had made, taking one of her hands in his. She snatched it back as though Kirk were about to extrude acid on it.

“Thank you, but … it's nothing.” She practically dashed for the main hatch, her actions giving the lie to her words.

Before Kirk could make a move to follow, he heard a blast of trumpets from the sound system, the fanfare for the Nadorian planetary anthem, which he was beginning to know far better than he had ever wanted to.

A hatch leading to one of the cargo-hold lifts opened and Their Serene Highnesses, Princes Abon and Delor, entered, still confined to the wheelchairs McCoy had put them in, but looking quite well otherwise. The crowd, some of whom had been sitting at small tables set up for the occasion, rose spontaneously to their feet in a roar of approval and a round of applause. The crowd craned their necks to see their monarchs, not so much from loyalty, Kirk thought, cynically, as from a desire to see how grotesquely they had been maimed at the hands of the Federation.
Sorry to disappoint you,
thought Kirk, allowing himself the brief satisfaction of private malice. He also noted nearly all of the assembled crowd immediately sharing some sentiment with a nearby partner, doubtless expressing their astonishment and concern at seeing the princes physically separated for the first time in their lives, a sentiment of which Kirk was more understanding.