Star Trek: The Original Series: Seasons of Light and Darkness (5 page)

Seven

Stardate 721.1 (August 19, 2254)

Sword blades clattered and echoed in the distance while the aroma of roasting meat wafted across the designated festival area at the camp's outskirts. Flames leapt from several broad fire pits and the late afternoon breeze bent the resulting plumes of woodsmoke toward the sinking twin suns.

Basking in the warmth of one of the fire pits, McCoy stood between Lieutenants Girard and Plait. Science Officer Plait inhaled deeply, beaming with anticipatory pleasure as he raised a tankard that all but overflowed with one of the local ales.

“Our hosts might not be the warmest people in the galaxy,” he said, “but they sure seem to know how to throw a feast.”

“Let's hope the other out-of-town guests feel the same way,” Girard said. He made a sour face as he batted a stray tendril of smoke away from his face.

McCoy watched as the festival area—a wind-scoured, granite surface dominated by a wide natural amphitheater that radiated out of the base of a steep, rocky escarpment—was rapidly filling up with people he'd never seen before inside Subteer Usaak's encampment. Doctor Wieland, Lieutenant Commander Aylesworth, and Lieutenant Shellenbarger were circulating through the gathering crowd, carefully minding the Capellans' aversion to the shaking of hands. McCoy spotted young Naheer in the gathering scrum, not far from his dour-faced uncle Efeer, who'd made a nearly complete recovery from the lightningbeast attack. Like Efeer, the boy was wearing his Sunday-best cape, which he showed off proudly.

McCoy scanned the rest of the still-growing crowd. Judging by the bright colors and complex stitching of the fur-draped raiment of most of the native guests, he had them figured for VIPs who hailed from some of the more influential nearby tribes. In the presence of so many of these large, stony-faced people, McCoy felt intimidated, but also reasonably sure that none of them were bent on challenging Usaak's authority. In obvious deference to the subteer's will, the newcomers displayed no weapons. Regardless, there was no polite way to eliminate entirely the possibility that somebody had secreted a dagger or a short sword into the folds of a cloak, or had stashed a
kligat
—one of those three-bladed throwing knives of the kind Efeer had clutched during his time in the Tent of Dying—inside a boot.

Coughing, the geologist wrinkled his nose as he waved away another small cloud of invading woodsmoke. “Ugh. That does it, Doc. Next time I get some extended shore leave, I'm going to take it on Vulcan. I know I won't have to deal with any carnivores there.”

McCoy could sympathize. Like some of his colleagues, Girard had begun this mission all but unable to remember the last time he'd eaten anything that hadn't come from a food slot in the
Yegorov
's galley. The sight and smell of large animal carcasses being slowly flame-roasted was utterly alien to the young geologist's everyday experience.

“Since we're
guests
of this planet's dominant carnivores, Lieutenant,” the doctor said, “let's not go out of our way to offend them by complaining.”

Plait nodded. “Good point, Doc. For all we know, the Capellans see vegetarianism and veganism the same way the Vulcans see the practice of eating meat.”

“Is it really that easy to violate these people's taboos?” Girard looked surprised.

“Doctor Wieland seems to think so,” Plait said. “Haven't you kept up with that staff etiquette manual he's been compiling over the past few weeks?”

Girard scoffed gently. “That would be a full-time job in itself. I've been mapping this planet's extensive topaline reserves. I'd rather put my trust in common sense and let the soft-science types fret about the correct handling of the pickle forks.”

McCoy coughed to suppress a laugh. He didn't want to admit it in front of senior officers, but over the past week or so he too had fallen a bit behind in reading Wieland's cultural protocol updates.

“To common sense,” Plait said. After a brief pause to take another quaff from his tankard, he added, “Speaking of which, Mohammed, maybe you shouldn't be so hasty about planning your next shore leave. What would you do if you suddenly found yourself craving Texas-style barbecue while you're on Vulcan? You'd suddenly discover that you're over sixteen light-years too far south.”

“Touché,” Girard said.

Night had begun to fall in earnest, and warriors were lighting strategically placed braziers. The festival area was already beginning to bask in a warm, golden-orange glow.

The three men fell into a companionable silence, which allowed McCoy to focus his attention on the massive animal that was roasting over the nearest fire pit. It revolved on a spit, turning slowly over the flames, the metronomic precision of its motion regulated by a pair of thick-thewed, soot-dusted warriors who seemed utterly absorbed in their task. The sheer size and heft of the beast would have been impressive even in light of the typical Capellan's larger-than-human proportions. But bagging this creature, whose considerable mass belied its sleek, leonine shape, must have been a very risky endeavor. The half dozen or so sharp spikes that lined the creature's backbone might have given pause to even the largest and strongest of Usaak's warrior-hunters.

Despite the sear-marks that covered its flesh and its lack of fur and skin, McCoy noticed the animal's close resemblance to the creature that had jumped him during the landing party's fateful first day on the planet's surface.

Lightningbeast, I presume
, he thought.
And they're cooking up at least three of 'em at once. Usaak's really pulling out all the stops tonight.

Looking beyond the fire pit, McCoy watched as still more people filed into the festival area. Rank upon rank of majestic, extraordinarily proportioned Capellans, their ages spanning a bell curve that ran all the way from early adolescence to late middle age, were arranging themselves in orderly semicircles as they stood around the fire pit closest to McCoy and his comrades. At least sixty percent of the several dozen new arrivals were female—young women whose attractiveness ranged from “very” to “extremely,” at least in McCoy's estimation.

Because of the patriarchal nature of Capellan culture—the landing party members had been selected very deliberately so as not to offend that particular native sensibility—none of the Starfleet men present had glimpsed such a large assemblage of native women since they'd left the
Yegorov
.

The orderly, almost pageant-like procession of brightly colored tunics and furs, heavy war boots, and long, diaphanous gowns must have represented every clan in the valley, and perhaps even points far beyond. All the while, a dozen or so of Usaak's hunter-warriors continued sparring in the background, working in disciplined pairs in the scrub-covered vale about one hundred meters past the nearest fire pit. Save for the loud staccato clashing of their swords and knives and the
THUNK
s their hard-hurled
kligats
made against the tree trunks, the blade wielders maintained a grim, purposeful silence as they worked their way through a balletically complex series of combat maneuvers.

This display was no doubt intended, at least in part, to remind everyone of Usaak's authority and power in this particular region of the continent.
All this saber-rattling and swordplay
, McCoy thought.
It certainly explains why so few of these people ever make it to a ripe old age.

“Have you noticed all the women, Doc?” Plait said quietly.

“I'm a doctor, not a monk,” McCoy said, grinning. “Of
course
I noticed.”

Unfortunately, the presence of so many attractive young women—the preponderance of whom appeared to be somewhere in their early to middle twenties—only served to remind the doctor of the two particular females from whom he had become so painfully alienated.

Jocelyn
, he thought, suddenly overcome by a sense of deep desolation.
And Joanna.

But even now McCoy still clung to the hope of patching things up with his wife and daughter. All he needed was to restore his self-confidence. And though the Capellan tribesmen still remained suspicious of the medical arts he and Wieland offered, the few powders and potions the Canyonfolk had accepted so far—a liquid hay-fever remedy here, a powdered hangover cure there—McCoy believed that his work on this planet was starting to give him just the boost he needed, psychologically speaking.

“Don't the Capellan men usually keep their women out of sight?” Girard said, interrupting the doctor's unwonted reverie.

“ ‘In the rear, with the gear,' as Lieutenant Shellenbarger would say,” McCoy said with a nod. “Understandable, especially in a patriarchal society like this one.”

“But they've obviously made an exception tonight,” Girard said. “What's the occasion?”

Plait frowned at the geologist. “Maybe you should spend a little less time obsessing over your topaline maps and a little more keeping up with the briefings. Subteer Usaak is not only the Canyonfolk Tribe's highest-ranking leader, he's also its most eligible bachelor. If you're this high on the Capellan social ladder,
this
is how you get a courtship off the ground.”

The commander displayed a look of dawning understanding. “So
Mister
Usaak is holding auditions for a prospective
Missus
Usaak? And here I thought this was supposed to be the annual festival honoring the Capellan god of thunder and lightning and fur capes.”

“Gaar, the Skyfather,” Plait corrected. “And don't forget Baan, the Skyfather's only son.” He pointed to a prominent pair of red stars that had risen over the horizon. McCoy recognized the larger of the two stars as Capella C, and the smaller as Capella D.

“The natives have named those two bright stars after Gaar and Baan, the father and the son,” the science officer continued. “They throw a special feast in their honor every year at this time. It's a stroke of luck that we're here to see it.”

Girard shrugged. “But you just said they do this every year. I mean, if we'd missed this year's party, wouldn't another one come along the same time next year?”

“You really
have
spent too much time staring at the rocks,” Plait said, shaking his head. “This planet orbits a pair of yellow giant stars at a mean distance of about twelve AUs. In the Sol system, that would place it somewhere between the orbits of Saturn and Uranus.”

“So?”

“So that makes the Capellan year over forty times longer than a Standard year. In other words, anybody expecting to catch this little shindig the next time it rolls around is in for one helluva long wait.”

The geologist looked suitably chastened. Very quietly, he added, “It hardly seems worth the bother, whichever calendar you're using. Except for some of the scenery, this party's really nothing to write home about, at least so far.”

“The Capellans aren't what I'd call a hasty people,” Plait said. “Maybe their parties just have a somewhat longer fuse than the ones you usually attend.”

“Well, I hope that Subteer Usaak finds what he's looking for,” Girard said. “Happiness has a way of making a man easier to negotiate with. Maybe once he's married, Doc Wieland and I will have better luck hammering out that topaline-mining agreement with him.”

“To happiness, then,” McCoy said, raising his cup again as he idly scanned the milling crowd.

He soon caught sight of Naheer moving among the throng. It quickly became obvious that the young hunter-warrior was conducting a diplomatic mission of his own—one focused entirely on one of the female guests, a tall and striking young woman whose improbably long fall of straight blond hair nearly reached the hem of her flowing, floor-length gown. Within moments, Naheer and the girl vanished as they passed farther into the general press of the crowd.

Ah, youth
, McCoy thought.

Though still standing, the crowd began to settle down, quickly arranging itself into a broad semicircle that faced the canyon's cliffside. A lone horn sounded a single high, sustained, clarion note, and the clash of sword blades abruptly ceased. Every Capellan male in McCoy's line of sight dropped to one knee before the echoes had faded, while the women all remained standing at rigid attention. McCoy noticed that everyone had taken care to leave a broad, unobstructed gap, a thoroughfare that led straight from the rear of the crowd all the way down to the bowl-shaped declivity at the base of the hill.

Usaak strode into view from the direction of the sparring area, his heavy fur cloak billowing behind him. The chief of the Canyonfolk Tribe and subteer of the Council of the Ten Tribes moved with swiftness and grace, just ahead of Subchief Keer. A half dozen or so other large, war-clad aides marched determinedly forward at Usaak's flanks, their faces as uniformly inexpressive as cold stone. Unlike every other Capellan in the festival area, Usaak and his retinue kept both sword and
kligat
in plain sight, though their weapons remained sheathed.

Turning his broad back to the granite cliff wall, the subteer of the Canyonfolk Tribe faced his assembled guests, all of whom were watching him in attentive, anticipatory silence. Unsurprisingly, Usaak's address was both terse and brief, though it was obviously more than sufficient to set the next phase of the evening's activities into motion.

With the practiced precision of a military unit, the women formed a long queue before the subteer and his men. A graceful, dignified procession of lithe, gowned figures commenced as each young woman in turn walked past Usaak, who had taken a seat in a large, ornately carved wooden chair that had been carried out to him by a small group of his warriors.

“It's good to be the king,” Plait whispered in McCoy's ear.