But mostly what made him uncomfortable was pushing into people’s private homes and searching them for suspected terrorists or evidence of bomb-making materials. Again he was torn between idealism and pragmatism. On one level he understood the necessity, and in a way, the current state of martial law that Natira had declared made his job easier. But most of these people were scared. Many were angry, screaming imprecations at Tasari’s people and his own, but Chekov was more disturbed by the ones who quietly submitted, because he could tell they were too afraid to speak their minds. Maybe it was just a lifetime living under the Instruments of Obedience… but maybe it was something more immediate.
Then there was Tasari himself. Chekov wouldn’t exactly say the stocky, bland-faced minister was enjoying his work too much—he was too banal and passionless for that word to apply. But he did invade the people’s homes with considerable zeal, and was quick to clamp down on resistance.
The first two times Tasari had his troops carry a homeowner off to prison for expressing a vehement opinion about the intrusion, Chekov had kept his mouth shut. This was the minister’s jurisdiction, they shared a common goal, and there were possible Prime Directive issues hovering around in the background somewhere. But when they dragged away a mother at swordpoint in front of her two small children, Chekov had to say something. “Maybe we’d get more cooperation if we used a lighter hand,” he suggested through clenched teeth.
“You don’t understand these people,” Tasari replied with as much animation as he might show in discussing uniform requisitions. “They grew up regulated by the Instruments of Obedience. That’s what they’re used to. Without them, they’ve got no discipline.” He shook his head. “They’re unruly, irresponsible, nothing but trouble. They need a firm hand to keep them in line.”
“Are you saying you’d rather have the Oracle back?”
Tasari looked uninterested. “Religion, politics… I just do my job. I keep order. I kept order when there was an Oracle, and I keep order now that there isn’t. I’m busier now, but I get paid well enough.”
While Tasari’s troops searched the dwelling, unconcerned with the integrity of the family’s possessions, Chekov told Nizhoni to take the toddlers in hand and make sure they were placed in a neighbor’s care. “How long do you intend to hold the mother?” he asked the minister.
“That depends on her cooperation.”
“And what if she doesn’t know anything?”
“Do you want to take that chance?” The troopers came back out and shook their heads—they’d found nothing of note. “Now I’ve got a peace to keep. Are you going to help or not?”
Tasari led his forces on to the next dwelling. Chekov sighed and followed him out, thinking that this was starting to remind him of certain portions of Russian history that he wasn’t particularly proud of. “Next thing you know, he’ll have us hunting for Trotskyites,” he muttered.
Worene, the Aulacri member of his team, tilted her feral-featured head at him quizzically. “Sir?”
“Nothing,” Chekov said, making a note to keep her acute hearing in mind in the future. That was part of why he’d brought the diminutive Aulacri along, for her keen senses. Not that she wasn’t a capable fighter as well; she was stronger than she looked and a fast, agile mover, her gymnastic prowess aided by a long prehensile tail. But she was the inquisitive type, and he really didn’t want to get drawn into a lecture on Stalinism right now; in this company, it would be impolitic.
Chekov had selected his team for their skills and strength, and ended up with a largely nonhuman group. Aside from himself, Nizhoni, and Worene were the Saurian M’sharna, chosen for his night vision, strength, and endurance, and the Andorian Shantherin th’Clane, one of his best hand-to-hand fighters. What he hadn’t taken into account was how the locals would react to the group. Most of them hadn’t encountered many aliens before, at least none besides humans and Vulcans, who looked more or less like themselves. It only added to their wariness and hostility toward the security teams. Chekov wondered if he should have chosen differently, but what was reassuring to others and what was safest for one’s own people weren’t always the same thing. Which was kind of the idealism-versus-conservatism debate in a nutshell.
Tasari seemed oblivious to the people’s discomfort toward the aliens, just as he seemed oblivious to their concerns in general. He hadn’t seemed too comfortable with them himself, though, stiffly trying to avoid making eye contact with them (hard to do in M’sharna’s case, since his eyes were such large targets). But now he was peering at them with something vaguely approaching a thoughtful expression. “You have any of those Vulcans on your staff?” he asked.
“No. We had a Vulcan technician for a short while, but she transferred off before this mission. Vulcans usually prefer to leave security to more ‘aggressive’ species.”
“Too bad,” Tasari said. “This would be easier if we could read people’s minds, sense if they knew anything about the terrorists.”
“A telepathic security force, eh?” Chekov replied. “An interesting idea.” It appealed to the pragmatist in him, but the idealist recoiled at the invasion of individual rights it would represent. Tasari, though, seemed to have no qualms about the idea, and that troubled Chekov.
His musings were interrupted by the realization that they were nearing the temple, and that a crowd was forming in their path. Chekov knew this couldn’t go well. “Stand aside,” Tasari warned. “We intend to search the temple.”
The crowd voiced their objections, and a priestess came forward. Chekov recognized her as Rishala, the high priestess Kirk had met with before. “This is a holy place. I beg you, do not desecrate it with weapons.”
“For all I know you’re stockpiling weapons in there. Now stand aside—or get moved aside.”
Rishala and those around her formed up into a human— well, humanoid—barricade. “No,” she proclaimed. “We stand with the Creators, against all who endanger their children.”
“Then we are on the same side, ma’am,” Chekov said, trying to help. “The terrorists are the danger here, and we only want to find them and stop them.”
The priestess glared at him. “That’s what your captain promised me—only to send his scientists to feed Natira more excuses she could use to attack our faith. Just when I believed there was hope of cooperation, Kirk handed her a blade so she could stab us in the back.”
“I’m warning you,” Tasari snapped, “you’re speaking sedition. Keep it up and you will be arrested as an enemy of the state.”
“Arrest me, then. Arrest us all! Fill your prisons with those who want Natira gone, and there will be barely anyone left to till our fields and build our homes.”
“You were warned. Guards, arrest these terrorist sympathizers.” He drew his stunner, and the guards followed suit—though only a few had stunners, and the rest relied on the traditional short swords. “Anyone who tries to resist will also be treated as a sympathizer!” he called to the crowd.
It only made them angrier, louder. Chekov really didn’t like the situation: the locals outnumbered and surrounded them, and Tasari was only provoking them. By contrast, Rishala herself offered no resistance. Apparently Russia wasn’t the only place where civil disobedience had been invented, Chekov thought.
But the troopers grabbed her roughly and yanked her arms behind her. “Hey!” Chekov protested, but he was drowned out by the crowd’s angry cries.
“No,” Rishala called to the crowd. “Stay calm, do not—” But a guard struck her in the mouth to silence her.
That was the final straw. After that, nothing could have held the crowd back. They surged forward, swinging fists at the guards, who had their weapons at the ready and started to use them. The sword-wielding guards clubbed people with the butts when they could, but weren’t shy about using the blades. Chekov had to do something to minimize the bloodshed. “Phasers on stun,” he called to his people, “wide—no, narrow beam!” In these tight quarters, in this crush of people, wide-f
ield stun could easily take out security personnel, leaving them helpless against the mob. “Stun as many as you can!” He realized that some might be trampled to death, but at this point he was left with triage.
His team handled themselves well, showcasing their skills. Worene leaped and dodged and flipped, not letting anyone get a hand on her. She used her tail to trip people up, blocking the tunnels to slow the influx of people into the heart of the mob. At one point a burly Lorini man got her in a bear hug, trying to crush the breath from her, but she whipped her tail around his neck and choked him into unconsciousness, then used it to retrieve her fallen phaser. M’sharna simply relied on his superior strength and endurance to stand his ground and keep firing. The extra peripheral vision provided by his wide-set eyes let him avoid attempts to sneak up on him. But then a blow to his head knocked loose one of the filtered contact lenses that let the nocturnal Saurian function in bright light. Dazed, M’sharna fell beneath a pile of attackers. Chekov knew he was strong and could hold his breath for a long time, but still feared for his safety. That was where th’Clane came in. With the preternatural calm and clarity of an Andorian in combat, he picked off M’sharna’s attackers with his phaser one by one, then shoved them off and helped the Saurian to his feet.
Meanwhile, Nizhoni and Chekov stood back to back, firing shot after shot, their phasers growing warm in their hands. Chekov saw Nizhoni stun a trooper who’d been about to run his sword through a civilian, then promptly stun the civilian before he could attack the trooper. Not for a moment did Chekov believe it had been accidental. Unlike him, Mosi was unambiguously an idealist, a champion of the underdog—and a crack shot too. He’d have to have a talk with her later, assuming they were still breathing then.
Before long, reinforcements arrived, both Lorini troopers and more security beamed down from the Enterprise, and the shift in numbers prompted the crowd to disperse. The troopers gave chase and caught whom they could, so Chekov couldn’t consider the violence to be over. But nobody was attacking his people anymore, so his priorities were seeing to their well-being and summoning medical help to the scene of the riot. Not only was M’sharna injured, but Worene apparently had a broken arm, which she hadn’t allowed to keep her from doing her job. And they had come out far better than many of the Lorini.
“Over here!” Mosi had found Rishala, unconscious and bloodied but still breathing. She knelt to apply her paramedic training while Chekov called the ship. If Rishala didn’t make it, Chekov knew, things would get a lot worse.
Looking around him, Chekov estimated that the toll in deaths and injuries might rival that of the education-center bombing. The hell of it was, the terrorists had had nothing to do with this.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Is not that the nature of men and women—that the pleasure is in the learning of each other?
—Natira
KIRK HATED IT when sickbay got busy. This was one part of the ship—along with the weapons—that he wished would never have to exercise its full potential. He was glad to have McCoy on board, of course; but in his ideal universe, Bones’s only shipboard duties would be to play poker with the captain, trade acerbic banter with Spock, and dole out the occasional medicinal dose of Saurian brandy. Somehow it never seemed to work out that way.
But it could have been worse, Kirk reflected as he looked over the somewhat crowded sickbay ward. At least the ship’s morgue hadn’t been called into service yet.
His first stop was the bed where Spring Rain still lay in her coma. Dr. Chapel was there, checking her vitals. “Any change?” Kirk asked.
Chapel sighed. “No. I’m afraid she’s stuck.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Oh. Well, it’s a little complicated.”
“Go on.”
“You see, the Megarite system is supposed to be designed to prevent ischemia—oxygen deprivation—of the brain. It has a layer of aeration membranes around the brain, which store extra oxygen for long dives. But those membranes were inflamed by the allergic reaction, and didn’t deliver their oxygen. Now, her brain does have natural mechanisms for minimizing the ischemic shock, but that’s not the problem.”
“What is?”
“The problem is that the altered chemistry of the ischemic brain, when exposed to oxygen, produces large amounts of free radicals. And those can do great damage to the neurons and blood vessels. That’s the nasty thing about suffocation—restoring oxygen to the brain can actually do more damage than cutting it off in the first place.”
Kirk winced. “Doesn’t the Megarite brain have a mechanism for coping with that too?”
“Yes, and that’s the problem. Life processes fall to minimum levels, so that oxygen is restored slowly and the rate of free-radical formation is manageable. The aeration membranes are supposed to regulate this and sense when it’s safe to return to normal activity.
“But Spring Rain’s membranes are still contaminated by waste products from the altered Deltan pheromones. It’s keeping them from reading the chemical signals that would give the all-clear.”
“Is there a way to clean them out?”
“In theory, hyperbaric oxygen treatment could purge them. But that would cause the very free-radical damage to the brain that they’re supposed to prevent.”
Kirk mulled it over. “Can’t you fight free radicals with antioxidants? That’s what Bones always tells me when he pushes me to eat more salads.”
That brought a faint smile to Chapel’s face. “Yes, but the cells themselves are programmed to take in only a certain amount of antioxidants, to prevent overdose. It wouldn’t be enough to compensate for the levels of free radicals that would be produced.”
“So the only thing that could wake her up would cause her more brain damage.”
“Unfortunately. All we can do is hope that her aeration membranes somehow manage to purge the toxins on their own.”
“I see.” Kirk watched the unmoving Megarite for a moment, regretting that he hadn’t taken the chance to get acquainted with her. “Carry on, Doctor,” he finally said, and moved on down the line of beds.
Ensign Zaand was there, visiting his injured colleagues from security. He had been in a lively conversation with Dr. Onami, but it dried up the moment they caught sight of him. Kirk could guess what it was about. They weren’t the only two in the crew who were grumbling about the decisions made by the “old guard.” Most of these people had been picked by Decker, had expected to serve under him, and had then had their command crew shoved aside without warning. And so far, it seemed, they’d found little reason to approve of the change. Kirk heard things, kept abreast of the ship’s discussion boards, and so was aware of the various threads that were recurring. “If Decker were here, he would’ve sent the troops in sooner.” “If Decker were here, he wouldn’t have sent in the troops at all.” “If Chapel were in charge, Spring Rain wouldn’t be fighting for her life.” “McCoy’s too close to Natira—he’s swaying Kirk too much to her side.” He’d even heard “If Sonak were here”—there were no tangible grounds for finding fault with Spock’s investigations, yet some still wondered if a full Vulcan not struggling with a spiritual crisis might have done something differently, seen something Spock had missed—or missed something he had seen, something better left unrevealed.
Kirk recalled that Onami had been on the bridge when he’d first arrived to take command a month ago. At the time, she’d beamed at him with frank admiration, the kind he’d seen on the faces of those who’d bought into his media image. That sort of reaction always made him uncomfortable, but he was more disturbed by the expression her girlish features bore now, which was wary and troubled as she looked at him. He was even losing the trust of his initial supporters.
Still, he took a moment to greet his crew members and exchange pleasantries, not letting on that he was aware of the tension. At least Crewman Worene seemed pleased to see him, or pretended well. It was harder to tell with M’sharna, since Saurian expressions were hard for a human to r
ead, with their wide eyes and upturned mouths giving them a perpetually cheery mien that could conceal their true responses.
Finally, he made his way to the bed occupied by Rishala. Chekov had acted quickly to have her beamed to the ship for treatment, and her prognosis was for a full recovery. Indeed, she was conscious, and watching Kirk keenly as he approached. “Am I under arrest?”
“No. In fact, Natira’s been demanding that I turn you over. I’ve… regretfully declined. And reminded her who threw the first punch.”
“But if I go back, she will arrest me.”
Kirk pursed his lips. “W… we’re working on sorting that out.”
“So I am not free to go.”
“No, I suppose not.” He fidgeted under her matronly gaze. “If you want me to leave, I understand,” he said.
“No.” Her expression softened, became thoughtful. “I was angry at you before. When Natira published those findings from your Spock, when she touted them as proof that all faith was a lie… I felt you’d betrayed your promise to work with all sides toward a compromise.”
“That was the intent,” Kirk said diffidently. “To find some common ground in your history that could unite all the factions. I didn’t expect this to be the result.” The riot had subsided, but relations between the sides were at an all-time low. All the sympathy Natira had gained from the school bombing had evaporated after her release of the findings, and the riot had made things far worse. Kirk couldn’t even be sure the rioting had ended; the tension still smoldered, and there had been more than one flare-up in the intervening hours.
Rishala sighed. “Again you look to facts instead of faith,” she said, not with anger but with disappointment. “Truth is a living thing that flows through people’s hearts, James Kirk, not a relic you can dig from the ground. I accept that you meant well, but you looked in the wrong direction.”
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