by Greg Cox
McCoy nodded. “We also brought you a cartload of hemozinate, to accelerate red-cell production in suitable patients. That should cut down on the need for transfusions and help stretch out your blood supply.”
Kirk recalled McCoy using the same drug decades ago when Spock had to donate a large quantity of T-negative blood to his father. Hemozinate had been dangerous and experimental then, but had since become a standard part of the Federation’s medical arsenal.
“Tailored for Oyolu physiology?” Tamris asked.
“Absolutely,” McCoy promised. “I double-checked the specifications myself.”
“Perfect. That’s just what we need.”
It hardly seemed enough. Kirk glanced around the overcrowded facility. He wished he could beam all these patients up to the Enterprise’s sickbay, but that was hardly practical, especially if there were indeed camps like this all over Oyolo—and injured on Pavak as well. The best he could do was to make sure that the peace process went forward, so that both planets would have a chance to heal.
After touring the medical complex, Tamris showed them around the rest of the camp. Kirk considered it time well spent, but eventually began to think about returning to the Enterprise. There was a diplomatic reception being held in the ship’s observation lounge this evening, shipboard time, and he was curious to hear how the first round of negotiations had gone.
“This has been very illuminating, Doctor Tamris,” he said. “I appreciate your hospitality and the truly heroic efforts of you and your people. The galaxy is a better place because of selfless and hardworking organizations like yours. But we should probably start making our way back to our shuttlecraft. I’m sure all of those supplies have gotten where they belong by now.”
“But you can’t leave just yet,” she protested. “It’s almost time for tonight’s performance.”
Kirk didn’t understand. “Performance?”
“The GRC does more than simply see to a distressed population’s basic physical needs, although that naturally takes priority. The arts serve a vital role as well, if only to provide some relief and distraction from the emotional toll of the disaster. Many of our volunteers put on entertainments for the refugees, on top of their ordinary duties. Indeed, we have some very talented performers in our ranks—musicians, storytellers, actors, and so on—who generously share their gifts with the struggling people here, whose spirits are so much in need of lifting. ‘Make art, not war,’ as it were.”
“A laudable sentiment,” Kirk said. “And would those talented performers include yourself?”
“Hardly.” She chortled at the very idea. “Believe me, the last thing any Oyolu needs is for me to sing or dance. That would be a whole new category of atrocity. But several of my fellow volunteers are staging an abbreviated production of The Tempest tonight, adapted from a play by one of your fellow Terrans, I believe. They’ve been rehearsing it for weeks, during their rest periods, and I know they’d be honored if you and Doctor McCoy could attend. I’m quite looking forward to it myself.”
Kirk thought about it. He did have that reception on the Enterprise coming up, but the time difference between the ship and this part of the planet worked in his favor. The reception was still a few hours away, which, in theory, gave him more than enough time to catch at least part of the play and still make it back to the Enterprise in time to join Riley and the delegates at the reception.
And he did like Shakespeare.
“The Tempest, you say?” Kirk was tempted. “A play all about reconciliation, forgiveness, and leaving old wrongs and grudges in the past. I can’t think of a more suitable choice at this particular juncture.”
“You won’t regret it,” Tamris insisted. “Our leading lady, Lyla Kassidy, is a most remarkable actress. I’d say she was wasting her talent here, if not for the crucial importance of our work. You really owe it to yourselves to experience her performance. It will give you chills.”
Kirk admired her powers of persuasion. No doubt a useful skill when it came to mustering donations and volunteers, not to mention wrangling with local authorities and bureaucracies. He doubted that she ever willingly took no for an answer.
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” He turned to McCoy. “What do you say, Bones. You up for a little Shakespeare?”
“I don’t know.” McCoy glanced back at the medical facility. He was obviously still thinking about all the stricken patients they’d observed there. “Maybe I can lend a hand at the medical center while you take in the show. . . .”
“Absolutely not,” Tamris said firmly. “You’ve already done enough. Please allow us to repay your kindness in some small fashion. It’s the least we can do.”
McCoy hesitated. “But—”
“No buts,” she declared. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this business, it’s that martyrs burn out fast and even the most motivated humanitarians need to take a break once in a while. Besides, what’s the point in saving lives if we can’t stop to appreciate the things that make life worth living?”
“All right,” McCoy said, giving in. “Far be it from me to refuse such a gracious invitation.”
Spoken like a true Southern gentleman, Kirk thought. “That goes double for me.”
“I’m so glad.” Tamris took them both by the arms. “Step this way.”
Twilight was falling as they arrived at an open-air amphitheater that had somehow miraculously survived the bombings. Hordes of bedraggled refugees were already filling the tiered rows that circled the central stage. Tamris pulled rank to get Kirk and McCoy front-row seats only a few meters away from the stage. A light rain was held at bay above the theater by a weak force-field dome, which crackled and sparked as the drizzle bounced off it. Kirk had just settled into his seat when an artificial thunderclap announced that The Tempest had commenced, in more ways than one.
The staging was minimalist but effective. Flashing lights and lasers, along with the amplified sounds of howling winds and booming thunder, created the illusion of a raging storm at sea. Actors portraying the imperiled crew and passengers of a foundering vessel tossed themselves about the stage, like modern-day spacefarers caught in an ion storm, while shouting to be heard above the simulated tempest.
“Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of dry land!”
Kirk noted that the bleachers circled the entire theater so that there was no backstage area. Scenery and characters entered and exited the stage by means of trapdoors and hidden stairways beneath the stage floor. Lost at sea, the hapless mariners vanished from sight as though disappearing beneath the waves. Applause greeted the conclusion of the first scene.
Nicely done, Kirk thought, especially for an amateur production put on by aid workers in a refugee camp. I’ve seldom seen it staged better.
A change in lighting and a few prop trees switched the location to Prospero’s enchanted island. The wizard and his daughter emerged from an underground “cave” beneath the stage. Miranda was played by a hairless young Deltan actress in a simple linen frock while Prospero wore a hooded cloak adorned with arcane Klingon hieroglyphics. A graceful hand clutched a gnarled staff topped by what Kirk assumed was just a replica of a dilithium crystal. He gathered from her gait and carriage that Prospero was being played by a woman in this production.
Probably that talented volunteer Tamris mentioned earlier, he guessed. Lyla Somebody?
As ever, the gentle Miranda feared for the safety of the men at sea, but her magisterial parent was quick to reassure her:
“Be collected. No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart there’s no harm done. . . .”
Kirk frowned. There was something familiar—and oddly unsettling—about the feminine voice escaping the wizard’s concealing hood. He leaned forward in his seat, squinting at the stage, but he could not make out the face beneath the hood. Nor could he place the voice right away.
On stage, Prospero attempted to dispel Miranda’s confusion. “ ’Tis time I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand and pluck my magic garment from me—so.”
Prospero threw back her hood, revealing the elegant features of an attractive human woman who looked to be in her late thirties. Flaxen hair complemented her fair complexion. With Miranda’s help, she shed her wizardly garb and stood before the audience in a belted brown robe that flattered her trim figure. Sandals shod her feet.
Kirk’s eyes widened in shock. The woman’s face was two decades older than he remembered and her hair was styled differently. But there was no mistaking those striking features and captivating hazel eyes. Twenty-year-old memories surfaced from the past, confirming the startling truth.
The woman on stage, performing before the crowd, was Lenore Karidian.
Murderess, madwoman, and daughter of Kodos the Executioner.
Three
“My God!” McCoy whispered, obviously recognizing “Prospero” as well. “Is that . . . ?”
“Yes,” Kirk said tersely. “Lenore Karidian.”
The memories came flooding back. Kirk had first met Lenore in 2266, while investigating charges that her father, a distinguished Shakespearean actor going by the name “Anton Karidian,” was actually Kodos the Executioner, the infamous mass murderer responsible for the deaths of some four thousand colonists on Tarsus IV decades earlier. Despite his suspicions regarding her father, Kirk had grown close to Lenore—until he’d discovered that the troubled young actress had and would murder to protect Kodos’s guilty secrets. In the end, after accidentally killing her father during a confrontation with Kirk, she had suffered a complete mental breakdown. At the time, McCoy had assured Kirk that Lenore would get the best help available, but he hadn’t laid eyes on her since.
Until now.
McCoy eyed him with concern. “Are you all right, Jim?”
“I’m fine,” he lied none too convincingly. In truth, his mind was reeling, struggling to process this unexpected specter from the past. What was Lenore Karidian, of all people, doing here on Oyolo after all this time? Granted, it had been twenty years since her crimes and breakdown, which was presumably long enough for her to regain her sanity and be rehabilitated, but even still . . .
Clad in her humble robes, she gazed out at the audience as Prospero probed Miranda’s childhood memories of their shared exile.
“But how is it that this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else”—her eyes met Kirk’s and she briefly stumbled over the line—“in the dark backward and abysm of time?”
Kirk was impressed by her quick recovery. She had been a fine actress, he recalled. She had been playing Ophelia in Hamlet the last time he saw her perform, right before a phaser blast intended for him had killed Kodos instead. The realization that she had inadvertently slain her own beloved father had shattered her already questionable sanity, although the woman on the stage before him now certainly seemed lucid enough—and had clearly recognized him as well.
I wonder if she’s as shocked to see me as I am to see her.
The rest of the performance passed in a blur, with Kirk barely aware of the classic story playing out on the stage. He vaguely registered a Troyian Ariel, with blond hair and blue skin, springing up from a hidden trapdoor like an airy spirit, and he was surprised to see that Caliban was being played by the Horta he had observed earlier; a universal translator affixed to his rocky carapace gave him an appropriately gravelly voice. But Kirk fidgeted restlessly in his seat whenever Lenore was offstage, unable to concentrate on the other actors. All thought of discreetly slipping away between acts had been disintegrated as surely as though it had been blasted by a disruptor set on maximum. She had already seen and recognized him. He wasn’t about to leave without dealing with her return.
For her part, Lenore appeared to be doing her professional best to ignore his presence in the audience, but he caught her stealing furtive glances in his direction. Her reaction, however, remained unreadable, veiled as it was behind the assumed guise of Prospero. Shakespeare’s venerable mage eventually forgave his ancient enemies, but had Lenore?
He whispered to McCoy, “Were you aware she’d been released?”
“I remember seeing some encouraging reports way back when, but, honestly, Jim, I lost track of her case decades ago.”
“Me, too,” Kirk admitted. He couldn’t blame McCoy for not being up to speed on Lenore’s psychological condition after all these years. That had indeed been a long time ago. Truth to tell, he hadn’t thought of her in ages, except maybe once in a while.
“It’s not like she was ever really my patient,” McCoy pointed out. “At least not after she was carted off to a hospital for the criminally insane. . . .”
“Sssh!” protested an elderly Oyolu seated behind them. “Some of us are trying to watch the show.”
Kirk gave the man an apologetic nod and piped down for the time being. He waited impatiently through the rest of the performance, grateful when it did indeed turn out to be a condensed adaptation of the original play, lasting only ninety minutes or so. He watched intently as Lenore was finally left alone on the stage to deliver the closing soliloquy, which now seemed to carry a hidden meaning.
“As you from crimes would pardoned be, let your indulgence set me free.”
A standing ovation greeted the cast as they assembled on the stage to take their bows. Kirk and McCoy rose to their feet and joined in the applause, although Kirk felt uncomfortable doing so. Twenty years or not, Lenore had murdered seven innocent people and had tried to kill him.
But that was long ago, he reminded himself, and she hadn’t been in her right mind. Perhaps she is better now?
“You see!” Tamris enthused, oblivious to Kirk’s unexpected rendezvous with the past. She beamed at Kirk and McCoy, who had been seated to her left, while clapping enthusiastically. “Wasn’t that completely worth sticking around for?”
“Absolutely.” Kirk feigned a blithe and appreciative attitude. “I don’t suppose . . . it would be possible to meet with the cast? I’d love an opportunity to extend my personal congratulations on a job well done.”
McCoy shot him a glance, which flew completely over Tamris’s antennae.
“By all means,” she said. “I’m sure they’d be delighted to meet you.”
Kirk was somewhat less confident about that, at least as far as the production’s leading lady was concerned, but he saw no reason to convey those doubts to Tamris. He couldn’t help wondering, however, if the dedicated GRC leader was aware that they had a former murderer in their midst. Was he morally obliged to inform Tamris of her colleague’s checkered past or was Lenore entitled to a second chance?
I can’t know that until I’ve had a chance to talk to Lenore again, he thought, and see for myself if she’s a new woman. If even then . . .
Tamris waited for the bleachers to clear out a little before escorting them down toward the stage. While she led the way, McCoy sidled up next to Kirk and whispered to him too softly to be overheard.
“You sure this is a good idea, Jim?”
Kirk appreciated his concern, but he did not turn back. He lowered his voice. “And you’re not curious to find out what she’s been up to? And what she’s doing here?”
“Of course,” McCoy admitted, “but as a doctor I know the danger of re-opening old wounds.”
Kirk smirked. “Didn’t I say that to you once?”
“Yes. And you weren’t wrong.”
Kirk shrugged, dismissing the doctor’s worries. “She’s just an ordinary human who had to be institutionalized many years ago. It’s not like we’re running into Khan again.”
“Maybe,” McCoy groused. “But look how well that turned out.”
A raised trapdoor exposed a lighted stairway leading down into the staging area below. High spirits, music, and laughter wafted up from the lower levels.<
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“Come with me,” Tamris said. “Let me introduce you.”
The stairs led down into a warren of musty underground compartments. Props, scenery, and costumes were strewn haphazardly about, looking a bit more cheap and tawdry without the magic of the theater investing them with glamour. The cast and crew were squeezed into one of the larger spaces, only one level below the stage. Flickering overhead lights illuminated the basement, banishing the shadows to secluded nooks and crannies packed with random bits of theatrical paraphernalia. A catchy Denevan pop song played over a sound system. Kirk spied a touchscreen control panel mounted to one wall. He assumed it was used to manage the audio and lighting effects, not that he really cared about that at the moment.
Where was Lenore?
Celebrating actors, basking in the success of tonight’s performance, congratulated one another over mugs of foaming Oyolu beer. The Horta’s universal translator was set loud enough to be heard over the hubbub. Kirk imagined the Horta felt quite at home in this cramped subterranean setting, given that its species tunneled deep beneath the surface of their native Janus VI. Boisterous laughter, like boulders rolling downhill, echoed off the exposed stone walls of the chamber.
“But what I really want to play is Falstaff,” the Horta declared. “I like to think I have sufficient girth!”
The festive atmosphere was at odds with Kirk’s own mood. Despite his bravado with McCoy, he anticipated their upcoming reunion with Lenore with some apprehension. Things had not ended well between them, to say the least. He scanned the crowded compartment, but did not immediately lay eyes on her. Had she already fled to avoid encountering him again?
“Friends, colleagues!” Tamris called out. “We have two very important guests with us tonight. Captain James T. Kirk and Doctor Leonard McCoy of the Starship Enterprise. They’re here to tell you how much they enjoyed the show.”
Actors, many still in costume and makeup, swarmed the visiting Starfleet officers, forcing Kirk to make polite conversation while keeping his eyes peeled for Lenore. Time was running short, and he had other places to be, but he wasn’t about to return to the ship before finding her. Her presence here raised too many questions that he wanted answered—for his own peace of mind.