by Judy Klass
Primitive weapons and machines, manufactured and sold on all sides to these developing worlds; madness, Kirk thought. But the way the game is played. The way the balance of power is maintained.
"Mr. Spock," he asked, when his first officer returned from another session with Mayori, "why, do you think, they've taken for themselves the name of the 'Council of Youngers'?"
"It would seem, Captain, an ironic twist to this planet's traditional reverence for the old and wise. That is one aspect of the culture they seem to be out to change."
Kirk nodded. "A culture they share with Boaco Eight, isn't that so? Sun worshipping, reverence for the old, and the native language on this solar system's other inhabited planet are similar, aren't they?"
"Yes, Captain. Rizzuto would know more about it than I. But the two planets' cultures are similar enough that it is clear that one populated the other in the distant past. This is borne out by the ruins of ancient temples dedicated to the gods of light that have been found in this world in the western sea—"
"Which haven't been properly excavated?"
"No, sir. Not by any government here, past or present. But they are very similar in structure to the vast temple ruins on Boaco Eight; immense in size, complex in structure. They indicate a fascinating, and most sophisticated culture. We don't know on which world it originated. But one Boacan planet must have been capable of space travel, millennia ago, and colonized the other."
"What's your take on Boaco Eight, Spock? The people running it now?"
"They … are not as corrupt or cruel as those who used to rule on this world. But they are hardly democratic or enlightened leaders. The Federation has been on close terms with them, as you know, since the revolution here."
"Sending the Enterprise on a mission to Boaco Six, with no stopover at Boaco Eight, signals somewhat of a shift in Federation policy, wouldn't you say?" Kirk asked.
"More of an experiment, Captain—one Boaco Eight, in all likelihood, is not happy about. They fear the ruling council on this world will try to spread revolution to theirs. And they fear the Federation will abandon them—they, after all, have no argea-producing plants on their world."
Kirk nodded. It seemed clear Starfleet would have to juggle feelings of paranoia on both worlds in order to keep them at peace with each other—and the Federation.
Kirk asked for reports that evening from all his men. The older officers were cautious, restrained in their comments. Advances were definitely being made on this world; changes were generally for the better. People in obscure and distressed areas were receiving education, medicine, and food; the system was practical, if unorganized, and seemed to be working. It could be called a model for underdeveloped planets. Of course, it was impossible to say if what had been seen in two days represented the situation on the whole planet. But the contrast to, say, five years earlier seemed staggering.
"Do you know how many babies used to die here?" McCoy was almost accusatory in his tone. "How many healthy adults were cut down by simple curable diseases? At last, the doctors here are fighting back. Granted, they're understaffed, lacking supplies. I'm not saying the battle is won. But the strides they're making in health education … it's remarkable, what they seem to have accomplished."
"It is remarkable, sir, it's a world in transition!" Michaels's eyes were bright with enthusiasm. Restraint was not of interest to him. "The people are still going through some hard times, but they have faith in the council. They shudder when Markor, and Puil, and the other old rulers are mentioned. We should ally ourselves with this planet, the new regime, help it along!"
Kirk tried to suppress a smile. But he didn't try too hard. "I thought you distrusted the rebel council, Mr. Michaels."
"But, sir, they're protecting the culture, they're popular …"
"The intergalactic situation, Ensign. I thought that was of primary importance to you."
"But it's a good planet, Captain. It's right. You can feel it."
"Very well, Ensign. Mr. Spock, how 'right' would you say the judicial system here is?"
"Judging from what I've seen, Captain, they're heading in a productive direction. Tolerant of criticism, up to the point of insurrection. Merciful penal camps with an emphasis on the rehabilitation of prisoners. The ones that I saw … impressed me a great deal. They contrasted sharply with the torture chambers of Puil. There is respect for private property here, and for freedom of travel.
"But justice seems conducted in a rather haphazard fashion, here. It is difficult to find anything written down, any codified laws. What I have seen may, in fact, be atypical. In fact, what all of us have seen may be the equivalent of what they used to call a cardboard town, a Potemkin village."
"Exactly, Mr. Spock. So the issue now is, do we recommend that the Federation send a real investigatory team here to do months of in-depth research? And obviously, that depends on whether we think it's to the Federation's advantage to have good relations with Boaco Six. And that, gentlemen, does depend greatly on the intergalactic situation. Comments?"
Rizzuto, the historian, spoke. "Captain, I've found a lot that I admire on this world. Obviously, on a planet that's been interfered with so much by all sides, for centuries, the Prime Directive becomes a moot point. But the present government is making an effort to keep the planet evolving independently, with its own culture. And yet, we know they're being influenced. And it's the same for all of us—they're incredibly open and friendly, but when we start asking questions about Klingon and Romulan aid, they clam up."
"Even the townspeople don't want to talk about that," Michaels admitted, reluctantly.
Kirk shifted on his cot. The bungalow had seemed the most private place for a meeting. "And yet we know that the aid has been substantial. Boaco Six wants to claim neutrality and make deals on all sides. For such a planet, in this quadrant, that's virtually impossible. Well? Are they playing coy with us? Are they Klingon dupes?"
There was a silence.
"Impossible to say, Captain, at this time," Spock said finally.
Kirk waved his hand in a vague gesture of impatience. "All right, then. Tomorrow, one last day of investigations, and in the evening, I'll arrange a meeting with the Council of Youngers. Then we'll get down to business."
Chapter Ten
KIRK FELT GOOD as he walked out into the warm night air. The city street seemed to pulse with people and music, and shafts and columns of light poured down, piercing the orange clouds. Looking out, far out over the lush forest, he could see the burgundy brilliance of a double sunset.
He flipped open his communicator. "Kirk to Enterprise."
"Lieutenant Uhura here, Captain."
"Lieutenant. Everything under control?"
"All quiet here, sir."
"Status of the Boacan patients McCoy had beamed aboard?"
"Sickbay reports they are all in stable condition."
"Good. Uhura, I've received permission from the Boacan government for a limited number of people from our ship to come down on shore leave. Say, six people. I'll give you the new coordinates—they're different from the ones that we used."
"Yes, Captain. I'll notify the next six people on the shore leave roster."
"And tell them to be careful, use discretion while they're down here, Lieutenant. The situation here is still sensitive."
"Yes, sir."
Kirk gave her the coordinates for the city's center, then signed off. This was a tricky situation still, but he trusted his crew, and they'd been too long without shore leave.
A mild breeze eddied through the tropical evening air. The soft wet earth no longer felt so strange beneath his boots; he no longer noticed the lack of the even carpeting of his starship's decks and rooms and corridors, was no longer so conscious of the stillness that had replaced her hums and whirrs and tremors, the living feel of the ship all around him. Well, not stillness, exactly, he corrected himself, as he watched three small children scuffle over a shiny bauble on a piece of string—but a very different kind o
f living environment.
He himself could never feel truly at home, when planetside. He felt a restless anxiety every few hours for the Enterprise, circling the planet, though he reassured himself by remembering she was under Scotty's capable guidance.
But something about this particular world satisfied him, lulled him, and he let himself be lulled. It was not Eden, was no land of innocence. But it hadn't lost the excitement, the idealism, the comic strangeness of innocence; it was a rich, exotic world, full of life, and Kirk let himself be absorbed by its rhythms.
He had gotten to know the southern quarter of the city of Boa fairly well, picked his way among the ruins and thatched huts.
Music poured out from under the sagging eaves of a tavern, and Kirk suddenly became aware of how parched his throat was. A drop of Boacan brandy would not be amiss. Perhaps he could bring some back for McCoy; the doctor appreciated that kind of elemental medicine.
Kirk pushed aside the dried red and purple vines that hung from the top bar of the door frame, and entered the smoke-filled room. There was laughter, and the tapping and sliding and clinking of glasses of brandy. And wooden cups and bowls of brandy. A little boy in a darkened corner appeared absorbed in drinking brandy out of an old boot.
Old men were playing a giddy fast dance tune on drums and lutelike instruments. One instrument was long and ovular, strung with eight strings and tapering at both ends. It took three men to play it.
Young people clapped and danced and swayed with the music. Kirk slid onto a stool by a table that projected out of the round bar like a peninsula. He ordered a tumbler full of the black sparkling spirit. When the drink arrived, he took a handful of coins out of his small leather purse and slid them across the counter.
He cradled the tumbler in his hand, turned it, and watched the liquid catch the light, like a black emerald. He quaffed it in one gulp and instantly regretted it. His eyes stung and his throat burned. Not quite a native yet, he thought, and ordered another.
"Hey, sailor! You will buy me a drink maybe, yes?" Tamara Angel had emerged from the crowd and was leaning her elbows on the table beside him, chin in hand, smiling.
Kirk smiled at her awkward rendering of the old line. "Make that two," he called down to the barkeep.
Tamara was still in her fatigues. But her thick black hair fell loosely about her shoulders, and her maroon eyes danced. Her dark skin flickered in the lights of the bar. "We have a theory here, Captain, about why the Federation is so angered by our revolution. It is not so much because they fear the loss of our argea—other planets have trees enough to supply those needs. It is because they fear the loss of our brandy."
"Wars have been fought for lesser things," Kirk said, handing her a tumbler.
"You must know. You know your history better than I could claim to. Here is mud going in your eye," she said agreeably. The Terran clichés sounded quaint and strange in her mouth. She gulped the drink down without blinking.
Kirk nursed his. The best thing about the brandy, it seemed, was the warm flush it brought with passing time. Perhaps his personal charm would not be for nothing here. "How did you become involved in all this, Tamara? What is this revolution to you?" In his mind, the words resonated ironically. What's a pretty girl like you doing in a revolution like this?
"I'll have another," she yelled loudly, and turned back to him. "It is simply my whole life, Captain …"
"Jim, please."
"It is my whole life, Jim. The only thing that makes sense. I was brought up to respect, almost revere your Federation. But I have visited some of the Federated Planets, and I did not always like what I saw."
Kirk saw a point that needed to be clarified. "There are differences among the worlds, certainly. The Federation does not have absolute authority over its members. It is a coalition, based on the idea that we are stronger standing together than apart."
"Then it has no moral basis, upholds no code of values?"
"I didn't say that. Only that each planet is self-governed under a different system. Its culture, its history affect that system. But the Federation has rules and values, shared among its members, and it withholds membership from worlds that are too corrupt, or at too early a stage of development … that is why this world was never admitted when it was ruled by the men you deposed."
"But it was aided!"
"It was aided, and there were hopes that eventually it would evolve into a more enlightened system—"
"What if it has?" Tamara challenged him.
"Is that an application for membership?" Kirk asked nonchalantly.
"Is that an offer of membership?" she replied.
Kirk smiled. "I'm afraid, Tamara, we'll never get anywhere if we keep playing these coy, evasive games."
She sighed. "You are right, Jim. But it is our job to be evasive with each other. How I wish we could be more … direct."
Whoa, back off, Kirk thought. Where exactly was this leading? What had they been talking about before? "You were telling me about yourself, Tamara. About how you became involved in the movement here …"
"Ah, yes. The story of my life. Well then. My family was quite well-off under Puil. Illustrious, even respected by the people. A family of scholars, writers, poets … a family that dabbled in the rhetoric of reform and populism. And was tolerated, because we knew enough not to go too far. I wanted something more to have, more to do. I felt something more was necessary."
The jagged scar of a knife wound on her arm caught the light; it went up past her elbow joint and disappeared under the rolled-up sleeve of her fatigues. She's so impossibly young for this, Kirk thought.
As if reading his mind, Tamara went on. "I have no regrets for anything I have done. I have been disowned by my parents and uncles. I have a younger brother who thinks the revolution is very wonderful. I see him sometimes. But I have a new family now—those I have fought beside. The tearing down, the killing, and the pain are over now. We have only to build, to create." Her voice took on a hard edge. "If we are given the chance to do these things. If our world is not distorted again by outsiders."
She wanted to keep the talk strong; he wouldn't mince words.
"The people of Boaco Eight are not sure that rebuilding your planet is the only thing you have on your agenda. They don't like the people you do business with. They don't like your links with subversives on their world. They don't like the way you're arming yourself. They think you're preparing for a civil war within this solar system."
Tamara's face showed contempt. "The government of Boaco Eight will express any fear the Federation tells it is appropriate, will jump through a hoop if the Federation so requires. As for the people of that world, they are hardly at issue, here. Or ever, for the Federation."
"Perhaps you don't like their government? Perhaps you'd like to give them a new one?"
Tamara Angel smiled to ease the tension. "Perhaps I do not want to walk into a trap, Jim. I tell you we simply want to coexist with all the neighboring worlds, to stay neutral in galactic conflicts, and do business with whoever shows us good faith and goodwill and can give us what we need …"
"Even a renegade system like Orion? They're worthy business partners?"
"I tell you we are simply surviving. You must form your own opinion. What do you plan to report to your Federation about us?"
Kirk considered for a moment before responding. "From what we've seen, your world is heading in an encouraging direction. I don't know if we can trust you. But I'd like to meet with your whole Council of Youngers tomorrow. Pending that meeting, I believe my report will be favorable. I'll recommend that relations be increased, that research teams come and pick up where we left off. How does that sound?"
"It is a very welcome sound, Jim. I hope this means that you will stop sabotaging our supply lines, prejudicing Boaco Eight against us, arming our enemies here …"
"Can you prove any of those charges?"
"No, but I stand by them. I am glad that you are giving our world a chance. That is all we
need to prove ourselves."
A group of young men came up to the bar, shoving each other and laughing. "Hey, Tamara Angel!" called one. "You are going wild, girl. Maybe you have fallen in love with Starfleet glamour."
"Maybe, Rigo," she called back. "Do you have something better to offer me?"
Not the usual manner of a minister dealing with the public, Kirk mused.
"Oh no, I have nothing! No warp drive, no photon torpedoes. No matter-antimatter charge. Ah, Tamara Angel, I know you will never be mine." The boy pretended to sob into the shoulder of one of his buddies, and their whole group laughed. "Take her, Starfleet man. She is lost to our cause."
The whole bar seemed to be in on the joke now. The old men stopped their pulsing fluttering tune and switched to a slower one, recognizable in any culture as romantic. A toothless man squatting on the floor laid aside his drums and began to sing, in ancient unfamiliar words resembling the wailing of the religious ceremony Kirk had observed in the clearing.
"What is he saying?" he asked Tamara Angel.
"It is a very old song," she said, slightly embarrassed. "It speaks of Azar, our closest star. It says, 'May the light of Azar flow through you, spark your love, flow through me, bind us together.' I think they are having some fun at our expense, Jim."
Kirk grinned. "You could be right at that, Tamara."
"It is so unfair! After all, Jim, we are very serious people. We are having a very serious meeting, are we not?"
"Guess they just don't understand."
Two of the boys shouted over the song, "Tamara Angel! The soldier of Boa! The toast of every quadrant!"
Tamara splashed some brandy in their direction. "I'll soldier you! I'll teach you to insult the minister of interplanetary relations!"
The boys hooted. "Interplanetary relations. And you are having some now, yes?"