Star Trek 11

by James Blish

  "Including ourselves, how many people in this cave?"

  "Twelve, Captain."

  Flavius and Septimus looked quickly around, counting. There were indeed twelve people in the cave. Astonished, they looked at Kirk. He smiled at them.

  "Maintain scanning, Scotty: we'll continue checking in. Kirk out." He closed the communicator, turning to Septimus. "The Enterprise is our vessel . . . sailing out at sea. The voice belongs to one of my crew. That's all I can tell you. If it's not sufficient, then I suppose you'll have to kill us."

  Rifles were lowering. Septimus, impressed, spoke to Flavius. "Tell me the Empire has an instrument like that—and you can kill them. Otherwise, accept them as friends."

  The tension subsided. A woman came forward, offering a pannikin of milk to Kirk. He smiled at her, drank it and seized his first chance to take in the cave. The beds of the truant slaves were rough-hewn rock ledges. What furniture their retreat contained was equally primitive, battered pots and pans—the crude necessities of their harsh existence. Yet the Enterprise men were beginning to feel at ease in the cave. Perhaps it was due to the abruptly warm friendliness of the people's effort to make amends for their original reception of the guests.

  It was difficult to credit the way they lived to their era. Telecasts—and that rough log table with its torn magazines and newspapers. Was this star a strange example of Hodgkins Law of parallel planet development? A world much like his own back in the Twentieth century—that was undeniable. But on this odd "Earth," Rome never fell. It survived; and was apparently ruled by emperors who could trace their line back to the Caesars of two thousand years ago.

  The fate of the Beagle crew uppermost in his mind, Kirk approached Septimus again. But the old man shook his head. "No, Captain. I'm sure I would have heard of the arrival of other men like you."

  Kirk persisted. "Have you heard . . . let's say, an impossible story about men coming from the sky? Or from other worlds?"

  Septimus smiled. "There are no other worlds."

  "The stars . . ."

  "Lights shining through from heaven. It is where the sun is. Blessed be the sun."

  "Yes, of course. Excuse me . . ." Spock, holding a magazine, had beckoned. It was titled The Gallian; and its cover was the photograph of a gladiator, fully armed with sword, shield, breastplate and helmet. The caption under the picture read, the new heavyweight champion.

  Kirk, leafing through it, came on a colored drawing of a sleek automobile. The ad copy told him its name and purpose. It said: the Jupiter eight for royal comfort.

  "Fascinating," Spock said.

  "The Jupiter Eight. Conventional combustion engine . . . you were right about that smog, Spock. But Jupiter cars? And here's Mars Toothpaste . . . Neptune Bath Salts . . ."

  "Taken from the names of false gods," Septimus said. "When I was a Senator, I worshiped them, too . . . but I heard the, words of the Sun. I became a brother. For that they made me a slave."

  "Septimus . . . will you help us?" Kirk said. "We must go into the city. We know that one of our missing friends was seen there recently . . ."

  "My advice to you is to leave this place . . . to go back where you came from."

  "We can't do that. Perhaps you have heard this name. 'Merrick' or 'Captain Merrick'?"

  Septimus backed away, his face changing. Kirk was suddenly aware of Flavius' watchful eyes.

  "Merikus?" Septimus said.

  "Merrick. The leader of our friends . . ."

  "Merikus is First Citizen!" Flavius cried. "Butcher!"

  "It could not be the same man," Kirk told him. "Captain Merrick is no butcher."

  Spock interposed. "A logical question if I may, Captain." He addressed Septimus. "How many years ago did this Merikus become First Citizen?"

  "Perhaps five years . . ."

  "Almost six!" Flavius was openly hostile now. "I was there when he became Lord of the Games! If he is your friend, you are no friends of ours!"

  Kirk thought fast. "Septimus, it is one of our most important laws that none of us may interfere in the affairs of others. If Merrick is Merikus, he is in violation of that law! He will be taken away and punished. Help us find out the truth of this!"

  "I must discuss it with the others," Septimus said. Beckoning to Flavius, he moved away to his people, leaving the Enterprise men alone.

  Spock said, "Curious, Captain. The similarity of the names. Were you told why Merrick was dropped from the Space Academy?"

  "He failed a psycho-simulator test. All it takes is a split second of indecision." He shook his head. "Hardly the kind who becomes a strongman butcher."

  "Odd that these people worship the sun," McCoy said.

  "Why, Doctor?"

  "Because, my dear Spock, it's illogical. Rome had no sun worshipers. Why would they parallel Rome in every way but that?"

  "Hold it," Kirk said. He had seen Septimus and Flavius returning.

  "We have decided," the old man announced. "Flavius will guide you. We will provide you with suitable clothing. But I caution you—take great care. The police are everywhere. May the blessings of the sun be upon you."

  A woman shyly approached Spock, a worn scarf in her hand. He understood. Stooping, he waited until she had bound it around his ears.

  The outskirts of the city made good ambush country, rough, wooded, brushy. At a thick copse of low-branched trees, Flavius signaled for a halt. "We wait here until dark," he said. "The police seek everywhere."

  "Were you a slave, too, Flavius?" Kirk asked.

  The big man straightened proudly. "You are barbarians, indeed, not to know of Flavius Maximus. For seven years, I was the most successful gladiator in the province."

  "Then you heard the word of the sun?"

  "Yes. The words of peace and freedom. It was not easy for me to believe. I was trained to fight But the words were true."

  "There are many other things I would—" Kirk broke off as the ex-gladiator held up his hand, alarm leaping into his face. "Quickly . . ."

  "Hold! Don't move! Hands in the air!"

  There was a warning rattle of machine-gun fire. Bullets tore leaves from the trees. A half-dozen policemen broke from cover, all armed with oddly-shaped submachine guns. Yet, topping their uniforms were Roman helmets, and at the waist of each hung a short Roman sword. Their leader stepped in close, his hard face cold. "Four fleeing fish! A fine haul—" He stopped. Staring at Flavius, he shouted, "By all the gods, Flavius Maximus!"

  With a muffled oath, Flavius lunged at him. One of the others struck him down with the butt of his gun. The Enterprise men, directly under the guns, were unable to move. The hard-jawed leader grinned as he looked down at Flavius. "You have been too long absent from the games," he said. "The First Citizen will be pleased."

  He nodded his head toward the Starship three. His men shook them down, removing their phasers, communicators, Spock's tricorder and McCoy's medikit.

  "What are these things?" he demanded.

  Kirk shook his head slightly, signaling silence. The policeman took another curious look at the equipment. . Then, shaking his head, he said, "No matter. Escaped slaves are welcome, whatever the circumstances." Spock's head scarf caught his eye. He ripped it off. For a moment, he stared at the Vulcan ears in wonder. He shrugged the wonder off.

  "Not escaped slaves," he said. "Barbarians. A good day's work. It's a long time since I watched barbarians die in the arena."

  Apparently, the arena's vestibule was a jail's cell. Shoved into one, Kirk's first act was to shake its bars. The policeman outside struck his hands away from them, cutting his knuckles. But Kirk had succeeded in attracting special attention. "Tell Merikus we want to see him," he told the man.

  "The First Citizen? Why would he bother with arena bait like you?"

  "Tell him it's James Kirk. Perhaps a friend of his."

  The man laughed. " 'Perhaps' is right."

  "Suppose I am a friend and you didn't tell him? Do you really care to risk that?"

  He received
a glare, a grunt—and the policeman walked off to join his men.

  Time ambled by. Kirk watched McCoy doing what was possible for Flavius' head gash. When the wound had stopped bleeding, he said, "Tell me, Flavius. If there have been slaves for over two thousand years, haven't there always been discontents, runaways?"

  Flavius sat up. "Long ago there were rebellions. But they were suppressed. And with each century the slaves acquired more rights under the law. They received the right to medicine, to government payments in their old age." He shrugged. "They finally learned to be content."

  Spock looked up from a stone bench. "Yet more fascinating. Slavery evolving into guaranteed medical care, old age pensions . . ."

  "Quite logical, I'd say, Mr. Spock," McCoy said. "Just as it's logical that a Twentieth-century Rome would use television to show its gladiator contests, or name a new car the Jupiter Eight or—"

  Spock interrupted. "Were I able to show emotion, Doctor, your new infatuation with the term 'logical' would begin to annoy me."

  "Medical men are trained in logic, Mr. Spock!"

  "Your pardon, Doctor. I had no idea they were trained. From watching you I assumed it was trial and error."

  Flavius eyed them. "Are they enemies, Captain?"

  Kirk smiled. "I'm not sure they're sure." He returned to the absorbing subject of this extraordinary half-Rome place. "But, Flavius, when the slaves began to worship the sun, they became discontented again. When did all this begin?"

  "Long ago. Perhaps as long ago as the beginning of the Empire. But the message of the sun was kept from us."

  "That all men are brothers?"

  Flavius nodded. "Perhaps I'm a fool to believe it. It does often seem that a man must fight to live."

  "No," Kirk said. "You go on believing it, Flavius. All men are brothers."

  Footsteps sounded outside the cell. The wolfish policeman, his men behind him, unlocked the barred door. "Flavius Maximus! Your old friends are waiting for you. You are already matched for the morning games. Come!"

  Flavius spoke quietly. "I will not fight. I am a brother of the sun."

  A cynical grin lifted the man's lips from his teeth. "Put a sword in your hand—and you'll fight. I know you, Flavius. You're as peaceful as a bull."

  His men had their submachine guns. Two of them, flanking Flavius, marched him out of the cell. The police chief, with his two remaining guards, gestured to the others. "You three . . . come with us!"

  Kirk, lowering his voice for Spock and McCoy, said, "Three and three. We may never have a better—"

  "No talking!" the police chief barked. "Outside now!"

  Kirk pointed to McCoy. "I doubt he can walk far. He feels ill."

  "I do?" said McCoy.

  "He'll die of something if he doesn't step out of this cell right now!"

  Kirk's purpose had suddenly dawned on McCoy. He went along with it. "No, I think I can walk. I'll try, anyway . . ."

  The three, exchanging glances, silently agreed it was to be now or never.

  The guards closed in around them. Halfway down the' outside corridor, McCoy moaned, "Uhhh . . . my stomach . . ." He doubled up, his knees buckling to heart-rending groans of pain. A guard grabbed him to pull him back upright; and Spock, with a show of assisting the man, managed to get a hand on his shoulder. The guard crumpled under the Vulcan neck pinch. At the same instant Kirk's clenched fist lashed out. It caught the police chief on the button. He spun around and fell. Coming up fast from his crouch, McCoy downed the third man. Two of the guards tried to struggle up. For their pains they got a couple of space karate chops and subsided into unconsciousness.

  A voice said, "Well done, Jim."

  The Enterprise men wheeled.

  The door at the corridor's end had opened. Kirk recognized the man standing inside it. It was Merrick. The ex-captain of the S.S. Beagle had always been handsome; and passing time had added strength to what had been merely a goodlooking Space Academy cadet. He wore a richly tailored sports jacket and slacks of a princely elegance. Yet, despite the strength and the clothes, Kirk thought he detected a look of haunting tragedy in his eyes. Beside him was a smaller, plump man, softish, also fashionably tailored. They hadn't come alone. Behind them were ranged policemen, all armed with submachine guns.

  Merrick said, "But it isn't that easy, Jim. They've been handling slaves for two thousand years."

  The smaller man beside him turned. "But it was exciting, Merik. They'd do well in the arena."

  Kirk hadn't recovered from the shock of recognition. "Bob Merrick! It is you . . ."

  "Me, Merik." He indicated the massed guards behind him. "And them. Not to mention them . . ." He pointed to the opposite end of the corridor. It was crowded with more armed guards.

  The smaller man spoke again. "But this is no place for a reunion."

  The hand Kirk had known as Bob Merrick's waved them to follow. "This way, Jim . . , your friends, too. Lots to talk about, lots to explain, to—"

  Kirk eyed him. "Yes," he said quickly. "I agree."

  Merik made an impatient gesture. "Don't judge me without the facts. Come along. We'll be able to talk freely. The Proconsul here knows who and what we are."

  They left. And the guards moved in to make sure that the Enterprise three followed them.

  It was a lush apartment into which the trio was marched. Marble columns supported a ceiling of mosaic that depicted nymphs disporting with satyrs. A fountain of colored water flung its spray up and back into a seashell of marble. Tufted couches of gleaming stuff were arranged about the room, low tables beside them. All four of the chamber's walls bore painted murals of old Roman gods at their pleasures. Young women—slaves chosen and bought for their loveliness—were moving to the tables with gold platters of fruit and sweetmeats.

  The plump Proconsul, wine goblet in hand, greeted them. Merik, an easy host in his sleek sports jacket, waved the guards out of the room.

  Smiling at Kirk, he said, "This is a personal affair, isn't it, Jim? A celebration. Old friends meeting."

  The Proconsul spoke to the slaves. "Wine for our friends. They have come from a great distance, eh, Captain Kirk?" He grinned broadly. "A very great distance. I am Claudius Marcus, Proconsul." He approached Spock. "So this is a Vulcan. Interesting. From what I've heard, I wish I had fifty of you for the arena."

  Merik said hastily, "And this other is your ship's surgeon?"

  "Dr. McCoy," Kirk said tersely.

  Merik spoke to Claudius. "A pity we can't turn him loose in your hospitals. The level of medicine here might benefit."

  One of the girls was proffering a tray to Claudius. "You must be hungry," he told Kirk. "Do try the sparrows broiled with garum. Delicious. Or the roast kid." He jerked a thumb toward the girl. "Drusilla. A lovely thing, isn't she? Noticeable."

  So he'd been caught staring at her. She was indeed noticeable. Blond hair, dark eyes—and in the violet, peplum-like gown she wore, every movement of her slender body was grace itself. Flushing, Kirk turned to Merik. "What happened to your ship?" he said.

  "Meteor damage. I—" A slave was passing and he paused before he said, "I 'came ashore' with a landing parry for iridium ore and repairs. Then I met Claudius . . ."

  "Go on," Kirk said.

  "He convinced me it was unfair to this world to carry word of its existence elsewhere."

  "Contamination," Claudius said. "We can't risk that You'll understand as you learn more about us, Kirk."

  "I made . . . the decision to stay," Merik said.

  "What happened to your crew? Did they voluntarily beam—" Kirk corrected himself, "—come ashore?"

  "This is an ordered world, Jim. Conservative, based on time-honored Roman strengths and virtues."

  "What happened to your crew?"

  "There has been no war here for over four hundred years, Jim. Could your land of the same era make the same boast? Certainly, they don't want this stability contaminated with dangerous ideas about other ways and other places."

  "Inte
resting," Spock said. "And given a conservative empire, Captain, quite understandable."

  McCoy was horrified. "Spock, are you out of your head?" he demanded.

  "Doctor, I said I understood. I find the checks and balances of this civilization quite illuminating. It does seem to have escaped the carnage of your first three World Wars."

  "Spock, they have slavery, despotism, gladiatorial games . . .!"

  Imperturbable as usual, the Vulcan said, "Situations quite familiar to the six million who died in your First World War, Doctor—the eleven million who died in your Second, the thirty-seven million in your Third. Shall I go on?"

  "Interesting," Claudius commented. "And you, Captain . . . which world do you prefer?".

  "My world," Kirk said, "is my vessel, my oath and my crew, Proconsul." He turned to Merik. "What happened to your vessel, you've answered. What happened to your oath is obvious."

  Merik didn't flinch. "As to my men, Kirk, those who can't adapt to a world always die."

  The words were called for. Kirk said them. "You sent your own people to the arena." It was a statement, not a question—a statement defining an unbridgeable gulf between life values. Yes, Merik's eyes were haunted. And he would be forever pursued by the Furies of his own self-betrayal. If he could still speak with firmness, it was a false firmness—a poor rag clutched around a shivering soul.

  "And just as I did, Kirk, you'll end up ordering your own people 'ashore'."

  Misery loves company, Kirk thought. McCoy had cried out, "You must know that's impossible! Starfleet regulations—"

  Claudius completed the sentence. "—are designed to circumvent any such order. There may be over four hundred people on your ship, Captain, but they'll come down if it's handled properly . . . a few at a time." The plump little man smiled. "You forget I have a trained ship captain to tell me what is possible and what is not possible." He took a communicator from the pocket of his smart sports jacket. "Your communicator, Captain Kirk. Save us all a lot of unnecessary trouble and issue the appropriate orders."

  Merik tried for a comradely tone. "They'll be arriving soon anyway, Jim. A recon party first. Then a rescue party, then a larger rescue party. I had less men but it adds up to the same in the end."