The Cry of the Onlies

by Judy Klass

  "Mr. Spock," he said, heading for the turbolift, "the bridge is yours."

  Chapter Sixteen

  TAMARA ANGEL stood gazing through a high stone window. Shafts of purple sunlight poured into the room, the rays playing upon her dark braided hair.

  She was not looking forward to this meeting. It would be with someone she had met before, for preliminary talks; he had impressed her as slippery and evasive. He seemed to act independent of the wishes of his government. And he would have a further advantage now; he must know that her people were desperate.

  Nevertheless, she straightened and turned with the pride of a strong soldier, as the timid rap played upon the battered door. A young girl's face appeared. "Tamara Angel, the representative of the Romulan Empire has just beamed down. He is waiting outside. But he has refused to let me take his weapon from him."

  Tamara considered for a moment. "Do not press the point," she said at last. "Show him in."

  The girl disappeared. She returned in a few moments, followed by a tall, swaggering Romulan. He stooped to pass through the low doorway of the small room used for one-on-one conferences. The pointed ears and ascending eyebrows, combined with a cruel sneer, lent him a very menacing aspect. His Romulan phaser was prominently strapped to his side. Tamara drew herself up to her full height; her glance let him know she was not impressed.

  "It is good to see you again, Miss Angel," he said. "I hope that now we can clinch our deal."

  "I am prepared to hear your terms, Agent Tarn," she replied.

  "Very well. But there is little time to bargain. Your revolution must be helped quickly." The sympathy in his tone rang false, the voice was slippery, offensive. His manner contradicted everything Tamara had ever heard about Romulans. They were said to be a Spartan, reserved people, as befitted their Vulcan heritage. Though they had lost the fierce honesty of the Vulcans, and the strict code of logic and emotional repression, they were said to have retained Vulcan dignity. The first time she had met Tarn, she had expected the proud representative of a warrior race; she had encountered instead a conniving businessman.

  "The Romulan Empire is at the service of the Council of Youngers," Tarn continued, "and our supplies can be delivered to you within the week. Let us finalize our agreement."

  "I wish to know first," Tamara said, "in what capacity you represent the Romulan Empire."

  "I am their agent in this exchange."

  "And yet"—Tamara circled round him—"you are an independent arms dealer, are you not? The weapons and equipment we will be sent are largely of your procurement. And you will keep a large percentage of the profit."

  "What is that to you?" Tarn's smile had vanished.

  "I wish to understand the hierarchy of authority more clearly," Tamara pressed on. "If the equipment is inadequate, or if we are in any way dissatisfied, who can be held responsible? Do we appeal to the Romulan Empire? Or are we expected to try and exact justice from you?"

  "The empire has authorized me to act, and will, of course, take responsibility for any difficulty I might cause," Tarn spat out. "Contact them, if you wish, and hear the promise from them."

  "I have contacted them, several times," Tamara returned. "I have sent interspace coded signals asking this very question. But I still await their reply. The airwaves remain silent."

  "Perhaps your signals never got through," Tarn suggested. "This quadrant is, after all, plagued by ion activity. Perhaps your transmitting equipment is of poor quality."

  "That may well be," Tamara replied archly. "After all, it is of Romulan design."

  Tarn shrugged. Tamara was infuriated by him, and by her position. Tarn was no fine specimen of a Romulan, but obviously, the empire had not cared to send one. The agent they had sent was a reflection of what they thought of her planet. Yet she and the council could not protest. The Orions could not supply them with the goods needed; the Romulans had the Council of Youngers, and they knew it.

  "Very well, Tarn. Quote me your figures. How much can you deliver? And how much are you demanding in payment?"

  Tarn gave her the figures, and when he quoted the price her planet was expected to pay, she let out a shocked gasp, which dissolved into a laugh.

  "You are joking, surely. The council could not come up with that sum in a year's time."

  "That is unfortunate. But there are other ways you can pay. In argea, for example."

  "Argea? What use would Romulans have for that? It is not a drug those with your physiology can use."

  "No. But it can be refined, and sold to those who can use it through … unofficial channels." Tarn winked.

  Tamara nodded. The Orions received argea payments for the same reason; to sell it on the black market to worlds with humanoid populations. Did the Romulans also engage in such traffic?

  "Perhaps," Tarn went on, pushing recklessness over the edge, "it could be sold back to you. I understand your planet has a need of the drug argea."

  Tamara counted to five, slowly. Her temper was checked. "In what form do you propose we deliver the argea?"

  "We will send ships, to raze fifty miles of forest," Tarn said easily. "You may choose where on your planet it shall be. The ships are standing by to arrive tomorrow."

  "You said delivery will not take place for a week," Tamara said sharply.

  "Delivery must be made by a circuitous, unusual route. Surely you do not wish the Federation to know you are purchasing such a large supply of ships and guns from us."

  "No. No, we do not."

  "Nor your neighboring world, Boaco Eight. Best to keep the edge of surprise as far as they're concerned." His left eye winked again. Tamara wondered, if he winked a third time, whether she would hit him.

  "It is ridiculous to think we will let you rob our forests of so much argea, without our even having seen the shipment of materials you are sending. We have never before made so great a purchase from the Romulan Empire—"

  "Have you ever been dissatisfied with our goods?"

  "Often. But at least we knew we'd get them."

  "I am insulted by what that implies, councilwoman. You had best not make enemies of us. If Boaco Eight declares war on you, what then, eh?" One of his slender eyebrows rose, to emphasize his point. "Will the Federation sell you arms? Better to accept our offer quickly."

  Tamara swallowed. "Let us then, at least, scale down the deal." She tried not to sound like she was pleading. "The sea and air vehicles, the construction materials … let all that go. Only the spaceships and weapons are needed at this time."

  "The size of the transaction was agreed upon last time," Tarn insisted, "and we are already at work filling your original order of goods. It is all or nothing. What is your reply? I grow impatient."

  "I alone am not authorized to accept," Tamara lied. "The Council of Youngers will meet this afternoon and decide the matter then."

  "I had heard that your council was in some … disarray?"

  "That is not so," Tamara bridled. "It is true, we have lost an important, and much loved colleague." She fought the impulse to sink against the stone wall, stayed firm where she stood. "Another minister is away, others are on the opposite landmass. But those who are here now will meet and decide on your generous offer."

  "We await your decision," Tarn said with mock courtesy. "If I may be shown to my quarters, to rest …"

  Tamara Angel called out to the girl guard who was waiting in the corridor, and she reappeared. She escorted Tarn out, and Tamara Angel kept her eyes locked fixedly on his back until it vanished. She was overwhelmed again by a feeling of injustice; the knowledge of how deserving, how unique, how important the people on her world were, and how little that meant in the larger scheme of the galaxy.

  It was there Noro found her an hour later, sitting on the floor, immersed in the sunlight's shaft, her knees pulled up, her arms locked around the tops of her high boots.

  "I was told you have called a council meeting," he said shyly. "It is about the deal with the Romulans, is it not?"

 
; Tamara nodded. "They are offering us dangerous and unfair terms. I see no choice but to accept. But I think it should be discussed by the council, first."

  "The council, such as it is," Noro said ruefully, with a ragged smile.

  "There are enough of us here to discuss the issue," Tamara said, springing to her feet. "But I do wish Iogan was back from space, to be a part of this, to meet this Tarn. He who is always so keen on the Romulans, saying they can be trusted."

  Noro ducked his head, tried not to look at how the sunlight caught her hair. His admiration of Tamara Angel was an old ache, an old friend, one he had learned to live with. It did not need voicing now, or ever. "Perhaps Iogan's trust is justified," he said. "Perhaps they are willing to invest in us as allies."

  Tamara looked doubtful. "We are too unimportant for that, Noro. And too far away. I have a bad feeling about this," she added, thinking of Tarn's pointed ears and smirking face. "As if we are, as the humans say, compacting with the devil. Oh, these galactic arms dealers are all nothing but mercenary scum! Yet his government knows he is here. They chose him as their envoy. And there seems little alternative—let this be a test, then, of Romulan friendship and respect."

  They had left the small conference room and headed out into the corridor. Noro told her of progress at an education center on the other landmass. Tamara listened, but her mind wandered back to thoughts of Romulan cargo ships, shooting through space at a dizzying speed, loaded with … new strength for the revolution? Could it be true?

  She had traveled the stars once, in such a ship. In the days of Puil, she had been sent to school and university on Federation Planets, had absorbed their ways, their style of dress, had returned to take her place among her planet's elite … and then turned her back on all of that. She chose to discover, instead, her world and its people.

  "I have heard from my little brother," she told Noro. "He visited me last night. I think my parents know he sees me, and he says they are learning to live with the times. Peace talks between us may soon be possible." She laughed.

  "That in itself is encouraging in such violent times," Noro said. He had never left Boaco Six; a breathtaking trip to one of its moons as a child was the farthest he had ever been. He was a fearless fighter in battle, and a good minister—social skills he had none. He always simply stared at Tamara with a kind of comical awe. She felt a wave of affection for him and squeezed his hand.

  "Come, my old friend," she said. "It is time for the meeting of the council. The others must have gathered by now."

  "Will you put it to a vote?"

  "Yes. I will tell them Tarn's offer. And we will vote."

  Noro followed her through the echoing hall, to the doors of the great chamber. Tamara's thoughts were again of space, and wondering if all that cold vastness contained a single friend. If so, where was he now?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Captain's Log, Stardate 6118.9:

  Our attempts to locate the crippled Sparrow have been unsuccessful. Helm reports that an unusual number of small ion disturbances in space are impending the search. The Klingons are becoming more belligerent, and Starfleet has informed me that the planets Boaco Six and Boaco Eight may be preparing for a civil war within their solar system. Klingon and Romulan arms are being delivered to Boaco Six at an increasing rate, according to intelligence reports. If war breaks out, the Federation will have no choice but to arm the other side.

  Time is running out. Starfleet is calling upon Flint, the man who invented the new, experimental cloaking device, to help us penetrate and recover it. Mr. Flint is, of course, the great ancient creative genius, the Methuselah who has lived through most of Terran history, and given us so much. Calling on him for help seems a wise move …

  Yet I am troubled by personal concerns. Something gnaws at me which I cannot define. I believe I have come to terms with Miri's death, and the catastrophe of the Onlies. Thanks to my chief surgeon's injections, I am better rested. What is it, then, that makes me so uneasy?

  * * *

  KIRK WONDERED when he would again feel at peace with himself. Ever since the order had come from Starfleet Command to enlist Flint in the search effort, Kirk had felt restless; voices and nameless shadows kept appearing and fading in his dreams, and disrupting his thoughts as he sat in his command chair, or alone in contemplation. His dreams were violent and strange. He would awake periodically in a nervous sweat, searching for a clue to their meaning, then drift off again, letting them envelop him.

  He could remember little about his earlier encounter with Flint—which was odd. He had a good memory for the people and events woven into his life throughout his space travels. Yet his recollections of Flint were vague and blurry. Such an impressive individual, who had given so much to human culture, would surely have had a lasting impact on one's mind. Kirk could conjure up his face, but nothing of their conversations. What he felt toward Flint was violent emotional rage, bitterness, and embarrassment … how could these feelings have been caused by this miraculous man? Kirk could not account for them. It puzzled him greatly. The answer seemed always in reach, always eluding him. Even in dreams.

  It was a quiet day in sickbay. A few crewmen had come in for checkups, a young lieutenant rested on warmth pads to heal a shoulder muscle she had strained in the gym. Leonard McCoy had left Nurse Chapel in charge, had spent most of the day scanning tapes on the situation of the Onlies and the program that had been set up for them, and then tapes of Flint's accomplishments since he had been discovered and identified by the men of the Enterprise. The list was impressive: contributions to the arts and music, to medicine and physics. But McCoy was worried about the captain. Why Flint? A thousand inventors in the galaxy … why did he have to be the one pioneering the new cloaking device?

  McCoy pulled the tape he had been viewing out of the computer and threw it down on his office desk.

  "Christine," he said, as he ambled out the sickbay door, "I'm heading out for some lunch, be back in an hour or so. Keep an eye on things, will you?"

  "Certainly, Doctor," Nurse Chapel assented.

  McCoy soon found himself in the major mess hall of deck five, hit by a dizzying array of aromas. A food computer programmed with two hundred thousand recipes made every cafeteria on the Enterprise smell like a smorgasbord. But McCoy knew just what he wanted.

  His fried chicken seemed to sizzle and crackle up from the plate in front of him, as he plunked himself down at an empty table. A few feet away, Helmsman Sulu was explaining the finer points of fencing to an admiring crowd of friends. But McCoy felt in no mood to socialize with the crew. Jim has enough on his mind, what with Miri's death, and what's happened with the Onlies, and this whole damn Boacan entanglement. Why did he need to be reminded of Rayna?

  The beautiful and brilliant robot girl, Flint's creation, had fallen in love with the captain, and he with her. Discovering that she was an artificial construct did not lessen Kirk's love for her; he declared she had become human. Kirk and Flint had fought each other, recklessly, madly, for Rayna. She was overwhelmed by having to choose between the two of them, by the pain she was causing both of them, and short-circuited, died … however you described it, it came to the same thing. The ancient Flint and the young Kirk had been heartbroken, abashed … hardly an experience that either would want to be reminded of. Especially now, this way.

  And it was painful for McCoy to be reminded of it.

  He had felt for the captain's grief, and had lashed out, perhaps unjustly, at Spock. The Vulcan seemed too cryptic, too aloof, to deal with at such a time. McCoy told Spock that he felt sorrier for Spock than for the captain. Because Spock would never know what love could drive a man to. The glorious victories. The glorious defeats. He had left Spock deep in thought as Kirk slept finally, slumped over his desk. They had never again discussed the matter.

  No emotions … Well, it must simplify things for him, in the long run. By suppressing his human half, Spock seemed to think he gained something, achieved something.

&n
bsp; McCoy picked up a piece of chicken and took a halfhearted nibble; the flavor revived his spirits somewhat. He'd be glad when this whole cloaking-device caper was over, and he could go back to his research on Boaco Six. Those crazy young ministers and health workers … he'd found that world stimulating and refreshing. And it would be good for the captain too.

  From across the mess hall, Spock watched him. McCoy did not notice him as he headed for the food dispenser, then hesitated for a moment. At last he moved soundlessly across the room until he stood beside McCoy, and made him jump when he spoke.

  "If I might have a word with you, Doctor." He slid onto the bench, placing his tray on the table. McCoy surveyed his food selections; Spock had a Vulcan torbak salad, a tall glass of water, and what appeared to be an Earth dish of broccoli mixed with snow peas, Asian in origin. A meal ascetic enough for any monk.

  Damn that pointy-eared Vulcan! McCoy had been looking forward all day to tearing into some juicy home-style southern fried chicken, but the vegetarian science officer always made him feel self-conscious about enjoying meat. He took another cautious nibble.

  Spock seemed to sense his uneasiness. "Do not let my eating habits trouble you, Doctor. I long ago ceased to wonder how a healer of human flesh can take pleasure in the cooking and eating of other animals. Please continue to enjoy your meal."

  "Thanks a lot," McCoy grumbled. He laid down his food and looked at Spock. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  Spock spoke quietly but earnestly. "As we will soon be approaching Flint's planet, and as you are the only other person who is aware of what happened during our previous visit there, who knows what our experiences were … it is necessary for me to tell you that the captain no longer remembers them."

  McCoy responded with the violent emotional reaction which Spock feared this news would excite.

  "What do you mean he no longer remembers them? That's impossible! I admit, he stopped speaking of the fight with Flint, and of Rayna pretty suddenly … I was glad he put it all behind him … just what have you been up to, Spock?"