Star Trek 10

by James Blish

  Nona had awakened. Tyree gave her a quick glance. There was a pause before he said, "Yes, James. It is good to see you."

  "But what am I doing here? How did . . .? No, I remember now. A gumato bite. I was ill . . ." He gestured to McCoy. "I told the Doctor here, 'take me to Tyree's camp.' I knew you'd find a Kahn-ut-tu to cure me." He turned to McCoy. "The Kahn-ut-tus are a kind of local witch people . . . actually healers who have studied the herbs and roots here."

  "And I am a Kahn-ut-tu woman, Captain." Nona smiled at Kirk. "I cured you."

  Their eyes met; and Tyree said, "My woman. Nona."

  In the light of the firepit's embers, the wild, disheveled black hair enhanced the savage beauty of her face. "Yes, of course," Kirk said. "Your woman."

  McCoy spoke. "Tyree leads the Hillpeople here."

  Kirk smiled at his friend. "Congratulations—on both counts."

  "You need rest, Jim."

  "Rest? I've never felt more alive!" Kirk's face sobered.

  "Tyree, can we talk now? The villagers' new weapons. I want to hear all about that. We have plans to make."

  Nona broke in. "Good. It is past time to plan."

  Tyree nodded. "Yes, much has happened since you left. Come, we will speak of it—"

  "And of things to be done!" said Nona.

  Tyree looked at her. Then silently, he led the way out of the lean-to.

  Spock lay as pale, as motionless as ever.

  Doctor M'Benga, entering Sickbay, nodded to Christine; and going to Spock, leaned close to a pointed ear. He spoke very slowly and distinctly. "This is Doctor M'Benga, Mr. Spock. There'll be someone with you constantly from now on. When the time comes, I'll be called." He straightened. "Nurse, stay with him."

  Christine had her eyes on the body-functions panel. "The readings are beginning to fluctuate markedly, Doctor."

  "So they should be," M'Benga said. "The moment he shows any sign of consciousness, call me immediately."

  "Yes, Doctor."

  He was making for the door when he turned. "After you have called me, if he speaks, do whatever he says."

  "Whatever he says?"

  "Yes, that's clear enough, isn't it?"

  It was clear. It was also disconcerting. She looked at the pointed ears on the pillow. They suddenly struck her as extremely aristocratic.

  Tyree was making good on his promise to bring Kirk up to date on the firearms question. "It's less than a year ago that their firesticks first came to the villagers. Since that time, my friend, almost one in three of us have died."

  Kirk leaned forward over the rude table. "But you say they make the firesticks themselves? You can't be certain of that."

  "We've looked into their village and saw it being done."

  "Tyree," McCoy said, "have you seen strangers among the villagers?"

  Tyree shook his head, "Never."

  Behind them, unseen, Nona had slipped into the hut to immerse herself in the shadows of a corner. She watched McCoy turn to Kirk. "Meanwhile," he said, "you have made contact here. If it turns out that we are the ones who broke the 'hands off' treaty, it's your career, Jim."

  "Perhaps, Bones. But it would hardly take a platoon of Klingons to teach them to make crude firearms."

  "A single one would be too slow and inefficient if they really want this planet."

  "But much more clever," Kirk said. "If they'd armed them with Klingon lasers or even repeating rifles, it would be obvious they'd interfered here." He spoke to Tyree. "Can you get us to their main village while it's still dark?"

  Tyree hesitated. "The gumatos travel at night also. If you killed one, its mate will not leave."

  Kirk laid his phaser on the table. "You've seen these work. So long as no one else sees them used—"

  Nona stepped forward into the light of their pitch torch. "I also have seen them used."

  Kirk swiftly replaced his phaser. Nona had turned to McCoy. "I saw you heat those stones with yours." Her eyes sought Kirk's. "And I know you have many ways to make Tyree a man of great importance."

  McCoy eyed her. "Many ways?" He spoke to Tyree. "What else does she know about us?"

  "Tyree has told me much of you." She smiled at Kirk. "Do not blame him. It was the price for saving your life."

  McCoy slammed the table. "Demonstrating the wisdom of Starfleet orders!" he cried. "First, there's contact made . . . then a mistake, an accident. It has to be set right by a small intervention with natural evolution. The correction goes wrong—and more intervention is necessary . . ."

  Kirk had reddened with anger. "Thank you, Doctor!" He spoke to Nona. "We are simply strangers from—"

  "From one of the lights in the sky!" She nodded. "I know. And you have ways as far above firesticks as the sky is above our world!"

  Tyree half-rose to his feet. "You will not speak of that to others!"

  She ignored him to address Kirk. "I will not if I am made to understand. Teach me." She paused. "There's an old custom among my people. When a woman saves a man's life, he is grateful."

  McCoy, eyes narrowed, watched Kirk. He waited—and Kirk said, "I am grateful."

  "Highly commendable," McCoy said dryly. "If not carried to extremes."

  But Kirk was waving Nona to a seat. It was clear that he was making a conscious effort to choose words cautiously. "We were once as you are, Nona. Spears and arrows. Then came the time when our weapons grew faster than our wisdom. We almost killed ourselves. So we made a rule. It said that we must never cause the same thing to happen to other worlds we visited. Do you understand?"

  She didn't answer. Kirk laid a hand on Tyree's arm. "As a man must grow in his own way and in his own time, so must worlds. They—"

  She interrupted. "Some men never grow."

  "Perhaps not as fast or in the way another thinks he should. But we are now wise enough to know how unwise it is to interfere with the way of another man or another world."

  "You will let the villagers destroy us? You will not help your friend and brother to kill them instead?"

  Tyree sprang to his feet. "I have said I will not kill, woman! There are better ways!"

  Her eyes flashed dark fire. "We must fight or die! Is dying better?" She whirled to Kirk. "You would let him die when you have weapons to make him powerful and safe? Then he has the wrong friends—and I have the wrong man!" She rushed from the hut.

  Tyree made no move to follow her. After an awkward pause, he said, "You will help in ways she does not understand. I have faith in our friendship, friend. Come—or we lose the darkness."

  As he left, McCoy saw the pained look on Kirk's face. "What's bothering you? If we find the Klingons have armed the villagers, we can certainly do something about that."

  Kirk rose. "That's what bothers me—the 'something' we may have to do."

  They found Tyree waiting at the camp's edge. Despite the night, he was unhesitating as he led them along the trail winding downward to the village. The trees thinned—and he lifted a warning finger. A guard, flintlock at shoulder, was pacing his rounds on the village outskirts. The three came to a halt behind the bole of a massive tree.

  "We'll wait for the guard to circle back." Kirk leaned back against the tree. "You have quite a wife, Tyree. Beautiful and intelligent."

  Tyree gave him a quick look; and seeing the sincerity in his face, nodded. "A Kahn-ut-tu woman is always a prize. They have . . . ways of making a man happy."

  "I remember the stories about them."

  "But mine talks too much of killing."

  "An ambitious woman is a treasure," McCoy said. "Or a time bomb."

  Kirk spoke slowly. "Tyree, suppose . . . you had to fight? Suppose it were the only way?"

  "Jim! This man believes the very thing we believe—killing is useless and stupid! What kind of question is that?"

  Again Kirk was abruptly aware of loneliness—the loneliness of the immense responsibility he had chosen to undertake. Well, he'd taken it. For better or worse, it had to be borne now. He was in this thing up to
his neck. He straightened. The guard was returning. He slid away from the tree bole to slip through the night, weaving his way from shadow to shadow. When the guard was within a foot of him, he downed him with a karate chop. Then, seizing the gun, he passed it to Tyree, saying, "Keep this. Wait for us."

  The village's buildings were more sophisticated than the simple constructions of Tyree's camp. Some were lighted. Kirk and McCoy, keeping to shadows, saw a man approaching one of the larger ones. What they could glimpse of his thinly bearded face seemed to be that of some scholarly ascetic; but in the light of the opening door, it showed up crafty, even malignant. Circling the house, they found a window; and huddled under it, watched him cross a room to a map-covered table. Sitting at it, a new flintlock beside him, was another man, his back turned to them. But Kirk didn't have to see the cruel, lipless Klingon face. He had recognized the tailored metallic Klingon dress. And a Klingon weapon hung at its belt.

  "You are late, Apella," the Klingon said.

  "A quarrel to be judged. The division of some skins and a woman taken this morning. It is hard to divide one woman, Krell."

  "Give her to the man who killed the most Hillpeople. Then the others will see the profit in bravery." He passed the musket to Apella. "Your next improvement. Notice what we've done to the striker. See how it holds the priming powder more securely? Fewer misfires." Pushing his chair back, Krell got to his feet. "When I return, we'll give you other improvements. A rifled barrel—a means to shoot farther and straighter."

  "They must have a workshop," Kirk whispered. "Let's go . . ."

  It was McCoy who spotted the shed. It was a ram-shackle affair, set back from the street, but the black bulk heaped beside it was interesting. "Coal," McCoy said, "necessary for a forge. And those bags, they reek of sulfur, an ingredient of gunpowder. Thus, logically, my dear Captain, their workshop."

  "Thank you, Mr. Spock." Kirk's face suddenly sobered. "Sorry. I know you're worrying about him, too."

  "About that walking computer? Yes, I am."

  The lock on the shed's door was as dilapidated as the building. Embers had been left to flicker in the still-open forge. Scattered around it were wooden gunstocks, bullet molds, iron rods to be bored into weapon barrels. McCoy's tricorder hummed over the ingots; but Kirk had moved to a barrel-boring device. He tested its point with a piece of iron. To his surprise it clicked sharply. He unscrewed it. "People's exhibit number one," he said. "A chrome-steel drill point."

  McCoy looked up. "This pig iron is almost carbon-free. No village furnace produced this." His tricorder passed over a barrel rod. "People's exhibit number two. Cold rolled barrel rods, fashioned to look handmade." He turned. "My apologies, Jim. You were right about the Klingons."

  "Make recorder and scanner tapes on everything."

  "Pity we can't include a Klingon. That would about wrap it—" He stopped. Footsteps and voices were nearing the shed door. They scrambled for concealment behind a dusty pile of cinders.

  Krell entered, followed by Apella. He hung the village lantern he carried high on a hook. Behind the protective cinders, Kirk motioned to McCoy. Understanding, McCoy unlimbered his tricorder; and as Apella broke into speech, recorded the words. "I thought my people would grow tired of killing. But you were right, Krell. They see it is easier than trading. And it has pleasures. I feel them myself. Like the hunt, but with richer rewards."

  The Klingon had lifted a rifle from the work bench. "You'll be rich beyond your dreams one day, Apella. A governor in our Klingon Empire. Unimaginable delights—" He paused, hearing the tiny hum of McCoy's scanner. He turned to look around him—and Kirk grabbed at a wooden gunstock. He flung it hard at the lantern. Sparks showered as its light went out. In the dimness Kirk leaped at Krell but the Klingon pivoted, catching Kirk on the shoulder with the rifle. McCoy, rushing forward, used the "exhibit" barrel to drop Apella and whirled to help Kirk. But Krell had tripped over an iron rod. His rifle went off—and he shouted, "Guards! Intruders! The work shed, intrud—"

  Kirk's fist got him straight on the chin. He fell—but already the Enterprise men could hear running footsteps, yells, alarm shots. They made for the door. An armed villager, gun aimed, stood in it. Kirk, diving for his legs, tumbled him over the sill. Behind him Apella was up again; and again McCoy smashed down with the "exhibit" gunbarrel. They raced for the open door. Then they veered, making for the shadow behind the heaped coal. Armed villagers, converging on the shed, pelted past them. They waited. Then they broke from their shelter and fled. When the first bullet whined past them, they had rejoined Tyree.

  Spock was no longer motionless. He had begun to writhe, his face distorted—and the body-functions panel's readings fluctuated madly. When a groan burst from his laboring chest, Christine Chapel rushed to the wall intercom.

  "Doctor M'Benga to Sickbay."

  "Nurse . . . nurse . . ."

  She flew to the bed. Spock's eyes were open, glaring wildly as he tried to control his twisting body. Twice he struggled again to speak and failed. The third time, his trembling lips succeeded in forming words. "Quickly . . . strike me. Pain will . . . help me . . . to consciousness. Strike me!"

  Christine shrank back. "Hit you? No,—"

  "Strike me!" He was gasping for air. "Unless . . . I return to . . . normal consciousness quickly . . . it will be too late . . ."

  She hit him.

  "Harder . . ."

  She slapped him harder. His breathing improved and his voice more certain. "Again! Then again. Pain . . . helps me back . . . to consciousness."

  She struck him once more. As she hauled off for the fourth time, Sickbay's door snapped open. Scott stood in it, jaw dropped as she landed the blow on the bedridden Spock. He leaped across the room, grabbing her arm. "What are you doing, woman?"

  M'Benga came through the open door. He strode to the bed, pushing Scott and Christine aside. Then he struck Spock with all his strength. He struck him again and again. The flabbergasted Scott was staring in horror. It was clear that the entire medical staff had gone out of its mind.

  But Spock was sitting up. "Thank you, Doctor. That will be sufficient."

  M'Benga spoke to Scott. "You can release her, Mr. Scott. She was only doing what she should have done." He gestured to the body-functions panel, whose needles were steadying into positions normal for Spock.

  "A Vulcan form of self-healing, Engineer," Spock said.

  He now astounded all but M'Benga by swinging his legs to the floor. As he made to stand, Christine moved an instinctive hand toward his arm. He congealed her with one of his arched-brow looks. "I am quite recovered, Nurse," he told her coolly.

  She took the cool line herself. "Yes, I see you are, Mr. Spock."

  The Doctor who had interned in a Vulcan ward herded everyone out of Sickbay. As the door snapped shut behind the three, Spock began knee bends.

  Tyree was not an enthusiastic student of armaments. He listened courteously while Kirk explained the eccentricities of the flintlock taken from the guard the night before; but it was clear that connections between stokers, sparks and the ignitions of gunpowder failed to arouse the martial spirit in him. Kirk placed the gun against his shoulder. "Now aim it as I showed you," he said.

  McCoy, emerging from the cave, frowned at what he saw. The gun fired obediently; but the bullet, kicking up dust near the skin target, ricochetted away.

  Tyree dropped the gun. Kirk gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Very good," he said. But he had seen McCoy's look. "Not here, Bones. We'll talk in the cave."

  Tight-lipped and angry, McCoy followed him into the cave. Kirk had the look of a man who has considered all alternatives, arrived at an unpleasant decision and intends to back it up.

  They hunkered down on the cave floor and McCoy burst out. "Do I have to say it? It's not bad enough there's already a serpent in this Eden of yours teaching some of these people about gunpowder. You're going to make sure they all know about it!"

  Kirk's voice was quiet. "Exactly. Both sides must re
ceive the same knowledge, the same type of firearms . . ."

  "Have you gone out of your mind? Yes, maybe that's it. Tyree's wife. There was something in that root she used. She said that now you could refuse her nothing."

  "Nonsense! Believe me, Bones, I've agonized over this, thought it through most carefully."

  "Is it a coincidence that this is exactly what she wants? I wonder . . ."

  "She wants superior weapons. And that's the very thing neither side can have. Bones, listen. The normal development of this planet was status quo between the villagers and the Hillpeople. The Klingons changed that with the flintlocks. If this planet is to continue to develop as it should, we must equalize the two sides again—and keep them equal."

  McCoy stared at Kirk in unbelief. "Jim—that condemns this whole planet to a war that may never end. You'll breed battle after battle, massacre after massacre . . ."

  Kirk slammed his fist on the ground. "All right, Doctor! I've heard . . ." He got up as though movement might somehow move him out of this ugliness. It didn't. But he'd got himself under control. He turned back. "Let's say I'm wrong. Even say the woman drugged me. So let's hear your sober, sensible solution to all this."

  "We could collect all the firearms. Unfortunately, we can't collect the knowledge they've been given."

  "No."

  "Suppose we gave Tyree some weapon of overpowering force, something that would quickly frighten the villagers away." McCoy hesitated. "Trouble is, we've no guarantee what power of that kind might do even to Tyree."

  Kirk waited. Finally he said, "Remember the twentieth century—the brush wars on the Asian continent? Two giant powers involved, much like the Klingons and ourselves. Neither felt they could pull out . . ."

  "I remember. It went on bloody year after bloody year."

  "What would you have suggested, Bones? That one side arm its friends with an overpowering weapon? Mankind would never have lived to travel space if that had been done!" Kirk got up to pace the length of the cave. "We can't take this planet back to where it was! The only solution is what happened then—a balance of power. If it can be kept in balance long enough . . ."