Star Trek 11

by James Blish

  Kirk smiled at them. "You really believe I can be made to order my people down?"

  "I believe this, Captain," Claudius said. "You'd do almost anything rather than have to watch your two friends here put slowly to death."

  The soft little man was anything but soft. The plump body was built on bones of cold steel. Kirk felt the sweat breaking out on his palms. Then he reached out and took the communicator.

  "Jim!"

  Kirk opened the communicator, ignoring McCoy's cry of protest. "Captain to bridge, come in . . ."

  "Bridge, Scott here. Go ahead, sir."

  Reaching down, Claudius pressed a button as Kirk spoke quickly into the communicator. "If you have a fix on us, Scotty—" He stopped. The door had opened. Guards' submachine guns were leveled at him, at Spock, at McCoy.

  "Stand by, Engineer . . ." Kirk closed the communicator.

  "Wise of you, Captain," Claudius said. "No point in beaming up three bullet-ridden corpses."

  "On the other hand my chief engineer is standing by for a message. If I bring down a hundred men armed with phasers . . ."

  "You could probably defeat the combined armies of our entire empire." Claudius' lips moved in a smile that Kirk was beginning to dread. "At a cost, Captain—the violation of your oath regarding noninterference with, other societies." He addressed Spock. "I believe you all swear you'll die before you'll violate that directive. Am I right?"

  "Quite correct," Spock said.

  McCoy's tension exploded. "Spock, must you always be so blasted honest?"

  Claudius returned to the workover on Kirk. "Why even bother to bring down armed men? I'm told your vessel can easily lay waste to this world's surface." He smiled once more. "Oh, but there's that prime directive in the way again, isn't there? Mustn't interfere." He pointed to the communicator. "Well, Captain, you've a message started. Your engineer is waiting. What are you going to do?"

  This Roman in the sports jacket would have been a priceless asset to the Spanish Inquisition. It was small comfort to know at last what he was up against. Kirk opened the communicator. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Scotty . . ."

  Claudius, at his shoulder, heard Scott say, "We were becoming concerned, Captain. You were a bit overdue."

  "Order your officers to join us," Claudius said.

  " 'Condition green'," Kirk said. "All is well. Captain out." He closed the communicator.

  Claudius hurled his wine goblet across the room. He snatched the communicator and Merik shouted, "Jim, that was stupid!"

  Claudius was fairly dancing with fury. "Guards, take them! Prepare them for the games!"

  As the three were hustled past Merik, the ex-captain said, "This is no Academy training test, Kirk! This is real! They're taking you out to die!"

  Miles above it all, an unhappy Scott was torn by indecision of his own. "Condition green" was a code term for trouble. But it also forbade the taking of any action to relieve it. Kirk seldom signaled trouble. Now that he had signaled it, it would be bad trouble.

  Scott left the command chair to go to Uhura. "Lieutenant, are you certain there's no contact?"

  "Nothing, Mr. Scott. Except for their message you received."

  "Mr. Chekov?"

  "Nothing, sir. Sensors lost them when they entered the city."

  With action immobilized, fancied horrors began to parade themselves for the miserable Scott.

  The arena was a TV studio sound stage. Somebody had done a good job on his Roman history. The stage was galleried, its tiers of rounded stone benches rising in genuine Colosseum style. But the cameras were focused on the sand-sprinkled central space below where combat was won or lost. At the cameraman's "ready" signal, an announcer assumed the amiable smile that was the twentieth-century's stock-in-trade of announcers the world over.

  Canned music blared; and to a red light's flash, the announcer went on the air.

  "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Live from City Arena tonight and in living color, we bring you 'Name the Winner!' Brought to you by your Jupiter Eight dealers from coast to coast. In a moment, tonight's first heat . . ."

  The light read: OFF THE AIR—and the announcer's big smile vanished as though it had never been. There was an Observers' Booth, hung with velvet, behind him. Claudius and Merik were the first to enter it. Armed guards with Kirk, his arms bound behind his back, followed them. The announcer turned. "We're in a taped commercial, Proconsul. Back on the air in forty seconds," he said.

  The guards shoved Kirk into a chair, their guns aimed at his back. Merik, his self-assurance visibly less, threw him a concerned glance. But Claudius, fully at home here, merely turned to make sure that Kirk had noted the entrance into the combat space.

  Spock and McCoy were standing in it.

  Clad in gladiator gear, they'd been given Roman shields and swords. Spock held his weapon with the born athlete's confidence; but McCoy was fingering his awkwardly. Looking up, they both caught sight of Kirk—and he knew that their anxiety for him matched his anxiety for them. But there wasn't time even for anxiety. Horror filled Kirk. To their rear was a man with a rawhide whip: an older man, the Master of the Games, thickly-muscled, his hard face that of a veteran who knew the gladiator racket from the bottom up.

  The announcer said, "Stand by . . . ten seconds!"

  The older man signed to the pair's guard escort. Pointed swords were pressed against their backs. "If they refuse to move on out, skewer them," the hardbitten veteran told the guards.

  "Condition green." Maybe it had been a mistake to prohibit action by the Enterprise. Kirk hadn't visualized anything like this. He moved in his bonds, straining against them as the announcer got his on the air light.

  "And first tonight, a surprise 'extra'! In the far corner, a couple of aggressive barbarians with strange ways I'm sure will be full of surprises. Facing them, your favorites and mine from previous matches—Maximus Achilles and our noted Flavius!"

  Flavius, the experienced gladiator. And the other one, just as big, just as competent-looking. Kirk could estimate their familiarity with the work at hand by the way they were moving out into the arena. Equally efficient, the sports announcer was milking his last ounce of suspense from the spectacle.

  "Victory—or death? And for which of them? You know as much as I do at this moment. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your program! You 'Name the Winner'!"

  To the beat of more canned music, the two big gladiators saluted the Proconsul with lifted swords. Then they stepped forward toward Spock and McCoy.

  Intuition had placed Spock into a nearly correct defensive stance. McCoy lacked it. Despite his Starship combat training, he wasn't the athletic match of either Spock or the tested fighters who were approaching them.

  Nearing them, Flavius said quietly, "Why you? I don't mind killing humans but—"

  A flourish of trumpets drowned his words. Maximus, eyeing Spock, chose him for his opponent. The Vulcan pivoted, evading the first sword slash. McCoy found himself confronting Flavius, both of them hesitant, unsure. The whip cracked. "Begin!"

  Always reluctant to take a life, Spock was merely defending himself. Maximus bored in on him. Flavius took a half-hearted slash at McCoy and missed. Instinctively, the Enterprise man lifted his weapon—and the contest was underway.

  Again, Claudius turned to check on Kirk's reactions. They were extremely satisfactory. The Starship Captain had paled and was sitting unnaturally still, his forehead beaded with sweat. The edgy Merik didn't turn; but the back of his neck was red with shamed blood.

  The announcer was saying, "Flavius is getting off to a slow start, but he's never disappointed us for very—there's a close one! The barbarian with the pointed ears is in trouble!"

  Spock's recoil from offensive action had backed him into a corner, and the huge Maximus was closing in to finish him off.

  "Please . . ." Spock said. "I tell you I am well able to defeat you."

  "Fight, Barbarian!"

  Once more Spock barely avoided a sword slash. He was thrown o
ff balance and Maximus raised his weapon to end the match. Watching, Kirk tried to get to his feet. Slammed back by a guard, he felt the cold muzzle of a submachine gun pushed against his neck. Merik leaned back, his voice lowered. "Most of my men went the same way. I'd hoped I'd feel it less with yours . . ."

  Pure defense had its disadvantages. In the arena, Spock had dodged another slash only to expose himself to another one. "I beg you . . . I don't want to . . ." He ducked again. " . . . injure you . . ."

  The cords binding Kirk's arms were slippery with sweat. Every muscle in his body revolted against his helplessness. They were his for action—action he'd taken time and again when Spock needed action. His face reflected his agony. Claudius, turning once more, found it more interesting than his games.

  Their Master was displeased. "Fight, you two!" He crashed his whip hard across Flavius' naked back. The gladiator's sword came up. Then it dropped, as experience warned him that the old survivor of hundreds of bloody bouts was far too canny to ever blunder into weapon reach.

  "You bring this network's ratings down, Flavius—and we'll do a 'special' on you . . ."

  The old-timer’s threat worked. Flavius aimed a more skillful blow at McCoy, the massive power of his right arm evident even at half-strength. McCoy staggered back.

  "Merik . . ."Kirk said.

  Claudius spoke. "Question, Captain?"

  "The rules?" Kirk said. "If Spock should finish his man first . . ."

  Claudius shook his head. "He can't help his friend. We believe that men should fight their own battles." He smiled his dreadful soft smile again. "Ready to order your crew down? Only the weak will die. My word as a Roman, Captain."

  "No," Kirk said.

  His tension was beginning to affect Merik. The one-time Space Academy cadet checked Claudius; and leaning back to Kirk said very quietly, "Maybe . . . you understand now why I gave in, Jim. Romans were always the strongest . . . two thousand years practice enslaving people, using them, killing them . . ."

  Claudius had overheard. Without turning, he said, "Quite true, Captain Kirk." He pointed to the arena. "The games have always strengthened us. Death becomes familiar. We don't fear it as you do. Admit it . . . you find these games frightening, repellent . . ."

  "Frightening." Should he say, "Your games don't frighten me. The spirit behind them does." The little man wanted fear. Kirk wasn't giving him any. "In some parts of the galaxy," he said, "I've seen forms of entertainment that make this look like a folkdance."

  It hit home. For the first time, Claudius eyed him with uncertainty.

  The whip had again cracked across Flavius' back. Boos came from the guards and galleries. Irritated, the huge gladiator snarled, "At least defend yourself!"

  McCoy, angered, too, cried, "I am defending myself!"

  "Not like that, you fool! Hold your weapon higher! Now, swing at me!"

  McCoy swung, almost losing his balance. Flavius diverted the blow with an easy wrist movement. McCoy's anger mounted with his realization of his own incompetence. And Flavius, smarting under the lashings, the continuing jeers, was struggling with a growing rage of his own.

  The wet cords that held Kirk should have been easier to slip out of. His hands were wrenching at them when he saw that Claudius was watching him. He stopped struggling; and Claudius said, "Those are your men dying down there, Captain, not strangers."

  Kirk's eyes met his. "I've had to select men to die before, Proconsul, so that more could be saved."

  "You're a clever liar." There was a pause before the little Twentieth-century Roman gestured to the man beside him. "He was a space captain, too. I've examined him thoroughly. Your species has no strength."

  Kirk didn't answer. Merik shifted uneasily; and Claudius, noticing his move, snapped, "Well, what is it? Out with it!"

  "He . . . Jim . . . Kirk commands not just a space ship, Proconsul, but a Starship." Merik flushed under Claudius' glare. "A special kind of vessel . . . and crew. I tried for such a command but . . ." His words trailed off into silence.

  Claudius looked down at Spock and McCoy. "I see no evidence of superiority. They fight no better than your men, Merikus. Perhaps not as well."

  And indeed the galleries' hissing was growing in volume. "Stop running!" Maximus yelled at Spock. "Fight!"

  He stabbed at him; and Spock, deftly turning the blow, threw a quick look toward McCoy. Then he maneuvered his fight closer to McCoy and Flavius.

  "Do you need help, Doctor?"

  Frustrated and furious, McCoy shouted, "Whatever gave you that idea?" He made another swing at Flavius; and Maximus, maddened by Spock's elusiveness, bellowed, "Fight, you pointed-eared freak!"

  "You tell him, Buster!" McCoy told Maximus. He tried for a better grip on his sword. "Of course, I need help! Of all . . ." Enraged at Spock, McCoy went into a flurry of wild lunges at Flavius, unaware that he was rousing a blood-madness that would turn his antagonist into a very formidable enemy. ". . . the illogical, completely ridiculous questions I ever heard," he panted. He swung again.

  Flavius growled deep in his throat. He charged with a series of murderous slashes that snapped McCoy back into reality—the fact that he'd provoked a savagery which could put an end to his life in a matter of seconds.

  Spock recognized his sudden peril. He went into his first attack, amazing the towering Maximus by his speed and efficiency. He streaked in on the gladiator, closer and closer; but McCoy was already beaten down to the sand, his shield torn from his grasp. He'd learned enough to parry the next blow. Then his sword was wrenched from his hand.

  Kirk saw how defenseless he was. He pulled himself away from the guns behind him and got to his feet, surging against his bonds. They held: and the guards, slamming him back into his seat, immobilized him,

  Spock, downing his man with a "space karate" chop, was racing across the arena. He reached Flavius; and spinning him around, dropped him with his Vulcan neck pinch. The arena went into bedlam. The Master of the Games rushed to the Enterprise men to cries of "Foul!" from the galleries. His guards, running after him, grabbed both Spock and McCoy and pinioned their arms behind their backs.

  Kirk, Claudius and Merik were all on their feet.

  The shocked announcer whirled to Claudius. "A clear foul, Proconsul! Your decision?"

  Down in the arena, swords were pointed, pressing, against the captives' necks. The Master of the Games looked up to the Observers' Booth for the Proconsul's word, ignoring the galleries' clamor for immediate death. Claudius spoke to Merik.

  "Your opinion, Merikus? After all they're like yourself."

  Whatever his opinion was, Merik considered it safer to keep it to himself. "It . . . it's your decision, Proconsul."

  Claudius turned. "And your opinion, Captain Kirk?" He didn't wait to hear it. "Kill them now—and you'll gladly accept whatever happens to you. I wouldn't relish that—but you almost tricked me into depriving myself of real pleasure." He moved to the edge of the booth. "Master of the Games, take them back to their cage!"

  He turned again to face Kirk. "It won't be easy for them, Captain. And especially not for you!" He spoke to Kirk's guards. "Bring him to my quarters. Now!"

  He left the booth. And the guards hustled Kirk along after him.

  After the raw violence of the arena, the effete luxury of Claudius' suite sickened Kirk. It was the triumph of an art connoisseur. The room was tapestried; and an alcove held a wide bed embroidered in gold. In a large wall niche, a marble statue of Minerva, Roman goddess of wisdom, presided over those self-indulgences that were the delectation of the soft man of steel.

  The guards marched Kirk into the room and left him. There was no one in sight. But Claudius had promised that something particularly unpleasant was going to happen to him here. Wary, uncertain, Kirk searched the room with his eyes. A heavy Etruscan jar stood on a pedestal. Kirk seized it, hefting it for weight and balance. If he was going to die, he wasn't going to do it without a fight . . .

  "I was told . . ."

 
It was a feminine voice. Drusilla moved out from the bed alcove's hangings, hesitating at the sight of Kirk with his lifted weapon. This time the gown she wore was pure white. Her straight blond hair fell below her waist. And the white of her gown enhanced the creamy tone of her skin.

  "I was told," she said, "to wait for you." She went to a table. "And to provide wine, food, whatever you wish. I am the Proconsul's slave, although for this evening . . ." She was pouring wine, clearly expecting him to come to the table. He didn't move. Inevitably what occurred in this room was bound to lead to treachery, torture and in the end, to certain death.

  She turned, surprised by his stillness. "I was told that for this evening, I am your slave. Then command me."

  "No," Kirk said. "You can tell the Proconsul it won't work."

  She frowned, puzzled. "What will not work?"

  "Whatever he has in mind. Whatever trickery or . . ."

  She left the table to lay a hand on his arm. This master of hers, though temporary, obviously required soothing. Kirk removed the hand. Then he shouted, "Do you hear me, Proconsul? Whatever you have in mind, I'm riot cooperating! I may have to die—but I won't give you entertainment out of it!"

  Drusilla came closer to him but, brushing her roughly aside, he strode past her to the door. He opened it, looking into the corridor, sure he'd find a spy lurking in it. It was empty. He and the slave girl seemed to be totally alone.

  She divined his thought. "Except for the guards at the street entrances, we are alone here," she said. "Please believe me. I have never lied to one who owns me."

  But Kirk's suspicion wasn't laid. This had to be a grotesque trick of some new variety . . . and yet the girl's every word and gesture spoke of sincerity. She seemed honestly puzzled by his behavior—and in her extremely feminine way, a little disappointed by it, too.

  He began to wish he could relax. His friends' lives had been spared—but to what purpose? What was going on in that "cage" where they'd been confined?

  Going on in the cage was determined escape effort. Its door was barred; and Spock, rallying every ounce of his strength, was trying to pull it loose by the very fury of the need to do so. McCoy, standing behind him, saw that neither bars nor door had given a half-inch.