Spock Messiah

CHAPTER TEN

Captain’s log: Stardate 6725.1:

Investigating the orbit change, I have learned that Mr. Spock told Lieutenant Sulu to follow his orders or he’d destroy the trilithium crystals at once.

I cannot fault Sulu for his action; we still have three and one-half days left in which to retrieve the crystals.

After that, it won’t matter any more.

Kirk stood at the side of one of the diagnostic beds in the sickbay, looking down at Lieutenant Dawson’s sleeping form. He glanced at the indicators on the Fein-berg panels above. He nodded in satisfaction as, one-by-one, he checked the readouts.

“He looks a hell of a lot better than I expected him to,” he said.

“We got him here just in time,” said McCoy. “He’ll be back on his feet in a few days.”

“And Sara?”

“Almost as good as new,” said a weak voice from the other side of the sickbay. Kirk turned and went quickly over to another bed on the other side of the room.

Ensign George, face pale but eyes alert, gave him a wan smile. “They didn’t really damage the plumbing,” she said. “And Dr. Mbenga did such a nice job of microsurgery that I won’t even end up with a scar as a souvenir.” She gestured to her exposed abdomen, and Kirk saw the flesh-toned antiseptic patch on her. “He says I’ll be fit for duty sometime tomorrow.”

Kirk smiled and patted her shoulder. “How about the rest?” the captain asked, turning to McCoy.

“It was touch and go with several of them—those hand weapons leave nasty wounds—but we didn’t lose one.”

Kirk let out a long sigh of relief. “After the way I fouled up down there, that’s at least one thing I don’t have to feel guilty about.”

“Do you know what your problem is?” McCoy said softly.

“Yes… I was too cocky,” Kirk replied. “I took my men into a possible combat situation without adequately planning for contingencies. It’s just a fluke that several of them weren’t killed.”

“Wrong answer,” McCoy said. Kirk eyed him speculatively.

“Then what’s the right one?”

“You’re the best captain I’ve ever served under, except for one thing—you’ve somehow got yourself convinced that if the dice don’t come out the way you want them to every time you roll them, you’re to blame. No matter how carefully you plan, Jim, sometimes things just don’t turn out the way they should. Unpredictables always creep in. And there isn’t a general in history who hasn’t lost a battle or two because of them. Mbenga and I were convinced we had the right formula for the paralysis drug, but evidently there are certain Vulcan physiological factors that we just didn’t know about. There was no way you could know the drug would wear off in a few minutes. If it hadn’t, we’d have had Spock up here now and be on our way at Warp Three.”

“Maybe so,” Kirk protested, “but—”

“But nothing,” McCoy said impatiently. “A medical mistake was made. But Mbenga and I aren’t sulking in our tents because of it.” He gestured at the crowded sickbay. “We can’t afford to; there’s still too much work to be done. In the meantime, Spock is down there and we’re up here, and it’s up to you to do something about the situation, right?”

After a moment of silence, Kirk said tiredly, “You’re right as usual, Bones. The first thing on the agenda is to try to find Spock’s present location. The last thing I saw of him, he was disappearing down the street in that black wagon of his. I’m going to beam down and see what I can find out. How about a shot of something to clear my head and give me an energy boost? I’m so tired I can’t think straight.”

McCoy shook his head firmly. “The first item on your agenda is a decent night’s sleep. You can hardly stand, and you’ve a long day ahead of you tomorrow. I’ll send one of the survey party back down to check out the situation. My Rx for you is a double shot of brandy and bed.” He grinned when Kirk started to protest. “You may be captain, Jim, but I’m the ship’s surgeon. At times like this, you take orders from me. Bed! On the double!”

Kirk responded with a wan smile. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, “but I want to be awakened as soon as we get word of what’s going on down there.”

Minutes later he entered his cabin, stripped off his Kyrosian healer’s robe, and threw it on the chair. Then, without even stopping to remove his boots, he tumbled into bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He was wakened by a gentle shaking and the bracing smell of hot, black coffee. He opened his eyes blearily. Dr. McCoy was standing over him, holding out a large mug.

“Morning, Jim. Watch it, it’s hot.”

“What time is it?”

“07:00.”

Kirk sat up so abruptly that he almost knocked the cup out of McCoy’s hand.

“What happened? You were supposed to call me.”

“There’s bad news, but I figured you’d be better able to handle it after a good rest.”

In a split second, Kirk was fully awake.

“What is it?”

“I sent Elkins down. He beamed back up shortly after midnight with word that there’s hell to pay down there. Spock got back to his headquarters and sent out orders for all his people to assemble there. Those of his bodyguard who saw us flick out of sight were pretty shaken up. But he explained that as the work of demons from the stars who are trying to thwart his mission but were powerless against him.” McCoy’s tone grew grimmer.

“You know, Jim, using Kaseme’s men seemed like a good idea at the time, but it’s really backfired.”

“How? Explain.” Kirk demanded.

“Elkins heard everything. Spock’s original plan was to enlist the city people and lead a combined crusade against the rest of Kyros. But after last night, his paranoid brain is convinced that all the Androsians have turned against him, so the city and its satellite villages are going to be the first targets. He’s sent out orders for all the nearby clans to gather, and before too long they’ll be riding out of the hills. Exosociology said they were never a threat to the city before because they were too busy fighting among themselves, but once Spock goes to work on them with that hypnotic voice of his, he’s going to amass an army that’ll top anything Mohammed ever commanded!”

“We’d better send another party down there right away!”

“And what do you propose to do with it once you get down?” McCoy said. “Our bird has flown the coop! The exiled clansmen rioted, on his orders, and in the process, burned down half that slum. While they were doing that, and keeping the soldiers and townspeople busy trying to control the burning, Spock and his bodyguards attacked the main gate. If that fancy cart of his hasn’t broken a wheel, he’s halfway to the hills by now.”

“Damn it, Bones,” Kirk exploded, “you should have wakened me! We might have thought of a way to stop him!”

“Impossible,” McCoy said. “He was gone by the time Elkins heard about the breakout. What could you have done? Beam down and chase him on foot?”

Kirk didn’t answer. Instead, he rose to his feet and punched the bridge call button on the communicator. “This is the captain… have all department heads report to the briefing room in forty-five minutes.”

McCoy suddenly burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Kirk demanded.

McCoy pointed down. “Do you usually go to bed with your boots on? Rx this time is a cold shower and a clean uniform.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Kirk said, as he lifted a foot and slowly inspected his Kyrosian half-boots. Then he sat and began to untie the complicated laces.

“Coffee, Captain?” a yeoman asked Kirk. He shook his head, and she passed down the briefing room table. Several officers selected cups. Kirk glanced at the chronometer on the wall: 10:45. They’d gotten a lot of work done in the last three hours. McCoy had been right; drugs were no substitute for sleep. Now he was able to view the previous day’s events from a proper perspective. He glanced at a scribbled agenda on the table in front of him. He’d just checked off another item. Kirk looked at the small visual monitor on the table. It showed Ensign George propped up in a diagnostic bed; several sheets of paper lay about with hastily scrawled diagrams on them.

“Are you sure it will work?” Kirk asked.

The woman nodded confidently. “I know it will. Once it’s switched on, it will jam the input stage of Speck’s implant and cut his connection with Chag Gara. In theory, once that hill preacher’s paranoia stops surging across, Spock will revert to his old self in no tune at all. But I’m afraid he’s going to be in for a few bad moments when he takes a Vulcan look at some of the things he’s been doing the last few days.”

“I don’t like that ‘in theory’ part,” McCoy muttered. “In theory, the telescan implant was supposed to have been thoroughly debugged, and look at the mess it got us into.”

“Don’t blame the implant, blame me,” the girl said. “If I hadn’t been so damn stupid…” Her voice trailed off.

“Ensign!” Kirk’s voice was stern. “Self-recrimination is a luxury we can’t afford at the moment. Is there any way to increase the range of that thing? The way it’s presently designed, somebody’s going to have to get close enough to Spock to almost touch him. And that raises certain practical difficulties.”

Sara brought her attention back to the discussion.

“It’s power supply has to be small enough so Mr. Spock can’t detect it with that rigged tricorder. But that does give us an advantage; with subminiaturization, we’ll be able to conceal it in a native bracelet where it’ll be un-detectable.” She gestured at her healing stomach. “Tissue regeneration is almost complete, Dr. Mbenga told me, so I’ll be out of here in a few hours and Lieutenant Uhura and I can get to work.”

“Bones, will she be fit for duty soon?” Kirk asked.

“She’ll be wobbly for a while, but otherwise she’s as good as new.”

“Good!” He glanced along the conference table. “Now, we need ideas on how to get close enough to Spock so that the nullifier can cut the link between him and that crazy preacher. Suggestions?”

“All I can think of are a lot of reasons why we can’t,” Uhura said.

“Scotty?”

“Naething in my department. If it was technology that was needed, my lads and I are sitting on top of the best the Federation has to offer. But we canna use it down there because of the divilish hob Spock has played with his tricorder.”

“McCoy?”

“After yesterday’s try, his followers aren’t going to let anybody they don’t like get within half a mile of him.” He shook his head gloomily. “I don’t know, Captain, I just don’t know.”

“Navigator?”

Chekov glanced at Kirk. “Mount a field phaser on a shuttlecraft and let me take it down,” the young Russian said. “I’ll find him and…”

“And have the tricorder self-destruct long before you got within firing range?”

“And what difference would that make?” Chekov demanded hotly. “We’re going to have to abandon ship soon, the way it looks now. At least we can burn out that cancer before it can spread!”

“Mr. Chekov, you’re here because it’s part of your education as a Command staff officer,” Kirk said. “If you ever hope to be a starship captain, you’ll have to think of ways to preserve your ship and yourself. I suggest you start now.”

Kirk glanced at the other officers and received only mute head shakes and shrugs to a second query for suggestions.

“I can sympathize with Chekov’s feelings,” he said, “but insane as he is, Spock knows that I know enough about history to realize that he is safe from direct attack. Killing him would make him a martyr; in a week there’d be stories that he rose from the dead and appeared among the faithful crying for vengeance. Stopping a living messiah is something we may yet do; a legend would unleash forces beyond anyone’s control.”

He paused and stared at the vacant chair where Spock customarily sat. “I don’t think I’ve ever missed Spock—our old Spock—as much as I do right now. If he were sitting there, he’d wait until we all had our say and then cock a quizzical eyebrow and come out with a solution that would make us all feel like children, it would be so obvious and simple. But since we no longer have his Vulcan brain to rely on, we’ll have to do the best we can with our human ones. We still have a little time left, and we have a device that will bring him back to normal if we can get close enough. So we’ll try.”

Kirk turned to the lieutenant commander in charge of exosociology. “Commander Dobshansky, are you familiar with the old tribal group on Earth—the Gypsies?”

The burly officer knit together gray brows and thought for a moment. “I remember something about them, sk. Why?”

“Because they were able to wander anywhere they wanted. No boundaries could stop them. A Frenchman in a small English village would have stuck out like a sore thumb, but Gypsies, being so widely scattered and relatively harmless, hardly excited comment. Are the Beshwa anything like that?”

“Beshwa? Let’s see… Yes they are, come to think of it. They’re sharp traders, good tinkers, fine musicians, and some have the reputation of being magical healers. They even travel around in caravans the way the Gypsies used to.”

“I know,” Kirk said. “McCoy and I saw one the other day in Andros. That’s what gave me the idea. If we’re going into the hills after Spock, we’ll need a disguise that’ll pass muster.”

“You know, sir,” Dobshansky said, “I think you’ve hit on something. This is the beginning of their trading season and a Beshwa cart wouldn’t seem at all out of place in the hills. Shall I have the computer check the data banks to see what we’ve picked up on them so far?”

“By all means,” Kirk said. “Bones, you said there were some Beshwa profiles among those that Sara took… How many?”

“Two,” McCoy replied,

“Any reason two of us couldn’t be hooked into the same dop?”

“None. All we need is access to language and behavioral patterns to be able to pass as the real thing.”

“All right, then,” Kirk said, “that gives us our identities. Transportation is next. Scotty, that should be your department. The Beshwa travel around in an odd-looking two-unit contraption, a sort of wagon in front with a high, closed van in the back—for sleeping, I suppose. They probably put trade goods in front. If we dig up some photographs, do you think you can build us one?”

The engineer frowned and shook his head. “I could gie you an exterior that might pass a hasty inspection, but not from too close. If I had blueprints… better yet, if an original could be beamed up, I’ll have my lads make a duplicate that couldn’t be told from the real thing.”

“If we beamed up an original, we wouldn’t need a duplicate,” Kirk said dryly, “but I see your point. Mr. Chekov…”

The young Russian, who except for his one outburst, had been sitting quietly for most of the conference, looked up.

“Yes, sir?”

“More education. Trot down to Andros and pick us up a Beshwa wagon. There should be at least one loading for the summer trading.”

With an effort, the navigator kept his face impassive.

“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

“You might pick up a liter of milk and a couple of dozen eggs on your way back.” Kirk struggled to keep down his own smile.

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Chekov rose to his feet and marched stiffly to the door. When he reached it he paused, turned, and executed a flourishing salute.

“Theirs not to reason why,’ ” he declaimed dramatically.

“Theirs but to do and die.’” Grinning, Kirk completed the line.

“I thought our young friend only read Russian poetry,” McCoy said.

“Well, it is a poem involving Russians,” Kirk said, looking toward Chekov who stood at rigid attentioa “His ancestors blew mine out of the saddle with their cannons during the Charge of the Light Brigade.”

“What’s a… light brigade?” Sulu asked bemusedly.

“Six hundred men on horses armed only with swords and pistols,” Kirk explained. “Mr. Chekov seems to have stumbled on an old English poem called ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ It’s about an incident during the Crimean War between Russia and England when, through a typical piece of brass-hat idiocy, a British cavalry unit was charging into a valley lined with Russian guns. The point of the poem is that it’s a glorious thing to get yourself killed because of a stupid order by a superior.

“All right, Ensign, I get the message. I suppose you’d like me to tell you how you’re supposed to get hold of a Beshwa caravan?”

“No, sir,” Chekov replied, still maintaining his rigid posture and a straight face. “A potential captain must be resourceful, sir. It is the milk and eggs that has me puzzled. My dop doesn’t seem to have heard of either; there are no chickens or cows on Kyros.”

There were several guffaws around the table, and Chekov relaxed.

“Then belay the groceries,” Kirk said. “How do you propose to get the other item?”

“By buying it, sir,” Chekov said smugly. “The Beshwa are traders, and a proper trader will sell his own mother if the price is right. I’ll stop by Engineering and pick up a sack of Mr. Scott’s counterfeit gold coins.” Chekov began to leave.

“Wait,” Kirk called. “Bones, what shape is Kaseme in?”

“Doped to the gills, Jim. He was given a shot before he recovered from his fainting spell last night, and he’s been out ever since. Why?”

“He’s got to be returned eventually. We’ll let Mr. Chekov lug him down to the transporter.” Kirk turned back to Chekov. “Tell Rogers to shift the coordinates, Ensign, and drop Kaseme in his own bedroom. If he remembers anything, he’ll put it down to an alcoholic nightmare. Will you take care of that, Ensign?”

Chekov nodded and left.

“I’ve got a feeling that someplace along the line my navigator gave one of my legs a slight pull,” Kirk said with a grin. ” Their’s not to reason why,’ indeed. Well, let’s get on to the next item on the agenda. Spock’s location. Thanks to Lieutenant Uhura, we have a pretty good idea where he might be.” Kirk turned to Uhura. “Lieutenant, if you please.”

The black woman snapped an order to the computer, and on the briefing room’s larger vision screen, a strange picture appeared. It was dark and punctuated by blobs and squiggles of light.

“The Captain and I were discussing Mr. Spock’s whereabouts earlier, trying to figure a way to trace his movements. Once he got to the hills, there was no way of telling what direction he and his party might have taken. It occurred to me that our orbital scanners might have picked up some information.”

She gestured to the large picture. “That is a nighttime infra-red scan of the Andros area,” she explained.

“The white blotch at the bottom is Andros. Cities throw off a lot of heat, even at night. The wavy line along here is the coast; there’s a marked temperature differential between land and sea.”

She gave another order to the computer and a bright line crawled from Andros, moved halfway up the screen, and then arced left. “A time sequence of Spock and his riders,” she said. “I thought a group that big, riding together, might generate enough heat to be picked up. I had no luck with the 1.3 and 2.2 micron windows, but hit paydirt on the 3.4. With a little computer enhancement, the slight trace I spotted was brought to what you see. Once the sun came up, the background thermal level rose to such a point that we lost him, but at least we know where he was at 06:00 this morning.”

“Spock may have more brain power than any one of us,” Kirk said as Uhura sat down. “But as a team we can’t be beat.”

He called an order to the computer, and the infra-red blow-up was replaced by a normal light photograph of the same area.

He stepped closer to the large screen. “If the clans respond to Spock’s call for a holy war—and after his Afterbliss demonstration there’s no doubt in my mind that they will—he’s going to need a fairly large assembly ground. Just beyond where the infra-red track ends,” Kirk pointed to the photo’, “there’s a large valley which opens onto the plains. That strikes me as a natural jump-off point for a strike on Andros. If Chekov gets us that Beshwa caravan, we’ll beam down here—” he indicated a spot about thirty kilometers northeast of the city, “—and circle back through the hills so we can appear to have come in from the northeast.”

“That’s rough looking country,” McCoy remarked. Kirk nodded.

The photo showed the sharp, jagged peaks of the mountain lairs of the hill clans; the lower foothills, slashed with gullies cut by the torrential spring rains, where they grazed their flocks from early summer through late fall; and finally the wide coastal plains that undulated down to the sea. The dominant feature of the aerial photo was a deep gorge that angled down from the northeast, cutting a twisting furrow through the foothills until it widened and discharged the river flowing on its bottom onto the plains. There the waters slowed, finally spreading out into a broad delta and joining the sea near Andros. The plain was criss-crossed with lines marking secondary roads connecting the agricultural villages, and broader ones showing main market roads leading to the city.

Kirk traced the road that went almost due north. When it reached the gorge, he paused.

“There’s evidently a bridge across here, though the scale is too small to show it,” he said. “You’ll note that the road picks up on the other side. A few kilometers farther north is a mining settlement which is the source of most of Andros’s iron. It is located by the mines, and up a ravine a few kilometers to the east, there’s a crude smelter.”

There was a groan from Scott. “I remember the place,” he said sourly, “or rather my dop does. He spent a year of compulsory city service there when he was younger.” Scott’s personality seemed to disappear and be replaced by an even more crotchety, cynical one. “What a hole! No girls, one lousy wine shop that watered the juice so much it took four liters to get a buzz on, and typical army chow. Ugh!”

“Army?” Uhura said curiously.

“That’s right, sweetie. It was a paramilitary operation, and still is. The clans always want to steal our spearstone, and every now and then they’ll pull a sneak raid to grab off a few ingots. Nothing large scale,” he added, “but enough of a nuisance so that only young men run the operation. What a pain! A week in the mines, a week at the smelter, a week on guard, and then you start the whole cycle over again. If I’d known, and had a choice, I would have picked the galleys!”

Scott stopped suddenly and looked sheepishly about

“I mean my dop would. It’s sair weird being able to tap into somebody else’s memories at will. While you’re doing it, you get to feeling you were there yourself.”

“That’s why the telescan implants seemed like such a great idea for survey use,” McCoy said. “Though I myself felt from the start—”

“We’re all aware of your feelings, Bones,” Kirk said, “but the postmortem can wait. At the moment, we have only three days and a few odd hours left to save Kyros from a brutal, theocratic dictatorship ruled by a mad genius… and save our own necks and the Enterprise in the process.” He turned back to the photograph displayed on the large vision screen and pointed again, continuing his briefing.

“Just north of the mining settlement is one of the main east-west migration trails of the hill people. Well swing left there and approach from a less suspicious direction. Our best plan would be to join with one of the clans which is riding to join Spock, and journey along with them. A gathering that size would be a natural place for Beshwa to set up shop.”

When the conference broke up a half hour later, the general structure of the plan to sever the link between Spock and Cbag Gara had been worked out. Its keystone would be Ensign Sara George.

Well guarded as he was, Kirk realized, there was no way strangers could get close enough to Spock for the implant nullifier to be effective; but the gross sexuality he had inherited from his doppelganger, Chag Gara, might be his undoing. If…

There were too many ifs in the scheme, as Kirk was the first to point out. But the alternatives were unacceptable.