The commander displayed a look of dawning understanding. “So Mister Usaak is holding auditions for a prospective Missus Usaak? And here I thought this was supposed to be the annual festival honoring the Capellan god of thunder and lightning and fur capes.”
“Gaar, the Skyfather,” Plait corrected. “And don’t forget Baan, the Skyfather’s only son.” He pointed to a prominent pair of red stars that had risen over the horizon. McCoy recognized the larger of the two stars as Capella C, and the smaller as Capella D.
“The natives have named those two bright stars after Gaar and Baan, the father and the son,” the science officer continued. “They throw a special feast in their honor every year at this time. It’s a stroke of luck that we’re here to see it.”
Girard shrugged. “But you just said they do this every year. I mean, if we’d missed this year’s party, wouldn’t another one come along the same time next year?”
“You really have spent too much time staring at the rocks,” Plait said, shaking his head. “This planet orbits a pair of yellow giant stars at a mean distance of about twelve AUs. In the Sol system, that would place it somewhere between the orbits of Saturn and Uranus.”
“So?”
“So that makes the Capellan year over forty times longer than a Standard year. In other words, anybody expecting to catch this little shindig the next time it rolls around is in for one helluva long wait.”
The geologist looked suitably chastened. Very quietly, he added, “It hardly seems worth the bother, whichever calendar you’re using. Except for some of the scenery, this party’s really nothing to write home about, at least so far.”
“The Capellans aren’t what I’d call a hasty people,” Plait said. “Maybe their parties just have a somewhat longer fuse than the ones you usually attend.”
“Well, I hope that Subteer Usaak finds what he’s looking for,” Girard said. “Happiness has a way of making a man easier to negotiate with. Maybe once he’s married, Doc Wieland and I will have better luck hammering out that topaline-mining agreement with him.”
“To happiness, then,” McCoy said, raising his cup again as he idly scanned the milling crowd.
He soon caught sight of Naheer moving among the throng. It quickly became obvious that the young hunter-warrior was conducting a diplomatic mission of his own—one focused entirely on one of the female guests, a tall and striking young woman whose improbably long fall of straight blond hair nearly reached the hem of her flowing, floor-length gown. Within moments, Naheer and the girl vanished as they passed farther into the general press of the crowd.
Ah, youth, McCoy thought.
Though still standing, the crowd began to settle down, quickly arranging itself into a broad semicircle that faced the canyon’s cliffside. A lone horn sounded a single high, sustained, clarion note, and the clash of sword blades abruptly ceased. Every Capellan male in McCoy’s line of sight dropped to one knee before the echoes had faded, while the women all remained standing at rigid attention. McCoy noticed that everyone had taken care to leave a broad, unobstructed gap, a thoroughfare that led straight from the rear of the crowd all the way down to the bowl-shaped declivity at the base of the hill.
Usaak strode into view from the direction of the sparring area, his heavy fur cloak billowing behind him. The chief of the Canyonfolk Tribe and subteer of the Council of the Ten Tribes moved with swiftness and grace, just ahead of Subchief Keer. A half dozen or so other large, war-clad aides marched determinedly forward at Usaak’s flanks, their faces as uniformly inexpressive as cold stone. Unlike every other Capellan in the festival area, Usaak and his retinue kept both sword and kligat in plain sight, though their weapons remained sheathed.
Turning his broad back to the granite cliff wall, the subteer of the Canyonfolk Tribe faced his assembled guests, all of whom were watching him in attentive, anticipatory silence. Unsurprisingly, Usaak’s address was both terse and brief, though it was obviously more than sufficient to set the next phase of the evening’s activities into motion.
With the practiced precision of a military unit, the women formed a long queue before the subteer and his men. A graceful, dignified procession of lithe, gowned figures commenced as each young woman in turn walked past Usaak, who had taken a seat in a large, ornately carved wooden chair that had been carried out to him by a small group of his warriors.
“It’s good to be the king,” Plait whispered in McCoy’s ear.
Eight
Leonard McCoy felt sure that everything he didn’t know about Capellan culture could fill a good-size library. However, he was certain of one thing: that the evening’s marriage sweepstakes had produced no clear winner, and possibly not even a viable runner-up. Without uttering a single comment regarding the parade of women that had just concluded, Subteer Usaak abruptly departed, leaving it to Keer to issue the terse declaration that officially opened the evening’s festivities.
Having forgotten to tuck his chronometer into the emergency medikit he carried, the doctor didn’t know exactly how much time had passed since Keer managed to get the actual party portion started. But the drinking had begun almost before the echoes of Keer’s proclamation had finished dying down.
Everyone, including Capellans as young as Naheer, was imbibing something, mostly the fermented milk of an indigenous animal. And they ate copiously. Then everyone drank some more, beginning the cycle anew, in an apparently perpetual, self-renewing oscillation.
At the rate of consumption McCoy was witnessing, the eventual need for medical intervention seemed all but foreordained.
They were still at it even now, hordes of visiting tribesmen descending on what remained of the thoroughly ravaged lightningbeast carcasses, tearing through the roasted flesh as though unsure when they might see another meal. The Capellan women attacked the food with as much ferocity as the men; both genders proceeded with terrifying efficiency, eating and drinking in methodical silence. It was as though the act of ingestion demanded such a large proportion of their attention as to render dinner conversation impossible. Even Rigby Wieland, who frequently reminded everyone of his careful studies of Capellan manners and mores, seemed taken aback.
Having sated his appetite, McCoy found he had little to do now apart from loitering beside one of the guttering braziers and watching the still-unfolding gustatory tableau in semidisgusted fascination.
“Don’t be frightened, Doc,” said Lieutenant Plait, who had managed to sneak up on him somehow, making him jump slightly. Speaking in a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone, the science officer added, “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. You should be perfectly safe. As long as you keep your hands and feet well away from their mouths, that is.”
“Very funny, Phil. Just remember, even I might not be able to patch you up if one of the local warriors overhears a comment like that.”
“Sorry. But don’t worry. I promised Doctor Wieland I’d be on my best behavior, didn’t I?”
McCoy realized belatedly that the science officer had progressed past the terrible pun phase of intoxication, which was where he usually stopped. Having tipped back at least one too many tankards, Plait was swaying like a sapling in a gale.
Then the doctor saw Naheer carefully picking his way through the crowd of preoccupied revelers directly behind Plait, the attractive young woman he’d been chatting up earlier at his side. Noticing McCoy’s distraction, Plait turned toward the youngsters and called out to them.
Naheer and the girl turned and approached them.
“Maybe you ought to consider calling it a night, Lieutenant,” the doctor said. “We could have one hell of a diplomatic incident on our hands if you start throwing up on some visiting VIP.”
“Relax, Doc,” Plait said, scoffing gently around an audible burp. “I shall be a shining exemplar of Federation ideals. Watch and learn, Lieutenant McCoy.”
Before he could say anything further, an ebullient Naheer and the pretty blond young woman at his side were standing directly in their midst. McCoy h
ad to crane his neck to look up at them.
Adjusting his gaze back to eye level for a moment, the doctor saw that the young woman was carrying a small rattan basket, filled almost to overflowing with a broad assortment of flamboyantly colored Capellan fruit.
“I wish you to meet someone, Mak-Koy,” Naheer said, his enthusiasm having left him all but breathless. “This is Jeen, of the Miir Tribe. I have told her some of the tales of my tribe, and would listen to hers. Jeen, meet Mak-Koy.”
McCoy noticed two things at once.
First, Jeen seemed significantly older than Naheer—probably eighteen or thereabouts.
Second, the comely young Jeen was favoring the doctor with precisely the kind of smile he imagined Naheer had been hoping to receive from her.
“Mak-Koy,” Jeen purred. “So this is an Earthman.”
Uh-oh, McCoy thought.
Extending her long, graceful arms toward McCoy, she offered him the basket. “Please. Take whatever you wish.”
McCoy knew a double entendre when he heard one, even through the intermediary of the universal translator. I really have to get out of here, he thought. And right now.
Taking one long backward step, McCoy spread his hands out in front of himself and executed a quick but gentlemanly bow. “Thank you, young lady. But I just finished filling up on roast lightningbeast. Maybe some other time.”
Several Standard years from now, young lady, he added silently. Just to be on the safe side.
Naheer’s expression revealed both surprise and dissatisfaction with the doctor’s reaction. Jeen extended her lower lip in an exaggerated pout.
“I do not understand, Mak-Koy,” Naheer said. “Jeen wishes only that you receive a simple gift.”
I’ll bet she does.
Before McCoy could reply, Plait strode into the gap the doctor’s retreat had opened. “Doc, I think you’re being rude.”
Jeen exchanged a look with Naheer, and they both shrugged. Then, with a swiftness that left McCoy experiencing a confusing mix of relief and disappointment, the young woman transferred her attentions to the tipsy science officer. She extended the fruit basket toward Plait as though that had been her plan all along.
A brief flicker of motion in McCoy’s peripheral vision prompted him to look back at the crowd of revelers. Several of the nearest Capellans had lowered their drinking vessels or set aside their food, apparently intent on the exchange between Jeen and Lieutenant Plait. One of these unexpected observers, a particularly burly young adult male, began approaching in long, quick strides. McCoy noticed the gigantic, deadly-looking sword that the young warrior must have just drawn from the recesses of his expansive fur-trimmed cloak—and that the man’s lips were parted in a rictus that placed his preternaturally large white teeth on very prominent display.
The doctor glanced back at the other onlookers. The sight froze the small hairs on the back of his neck somewhere in the twilight region between fight and flight.
Every Capellan who was looking his way wore essentially the same expression as that of the approaching man.
Dear God. Is that what passes for a smile on this planet?
McCoy looked back toward Naheer, Plait, and Jeen just in time to see the science officer reach into the basket. Plait withdrew something that looked vaguely like a small chunk of blue cantaloupe.
Something about the entire tableau struck McCoy as terribly, terribly wrong.
He called out to the science officer. “Phil, maybe you shouldn’t—”
But it was already too late. With a polite smile, Plait popped the fruit into his mouth. “Hmmm,” he said, talking around the morsel. “Not bad. Not bad at—”
A heart-stopping, ear-splitting ululation interrupted him. And the source of the sound—McCoy now realized it was the approaching Capellan male—was now advancing at a full run. The burly warrior lofted his blade with a high, powerful upstroke. The sword gleamed in the firelight as it began its lethal descent, its keen edge bound straight for Lieutenant Plait’s neck.
There was no time to think, no time to plan. McCoy sprang straight at Plait, aiming to tackle him with a hard strike to the midsection. Gravity did the rest, and both men immediately tumbled to the ground, landing in an awkward tangle. Aside from the blunt pain of the impact, McCoy felt only the wind of the blade’s too-close-for-comfort passage.
McCoy quickly rolled into a sitting position and saw that Plait was trying—and failing—to perform the same maneuver. Fortunately, the inebriated science officer didn’t appear to have sustained any obvious injuries as yet.
A quick sideways glance confirmed that the young Capellan warrior was already poised for a second lunge. Though the interplay of light and shadow from the festival fires partially obscured his hulking shape, the flickering effect only emphasized the swordsman’s lethality, from his weird battle grimace to the tip of the blade he was pointing straight at Plait’s heart.
Addressing Plait with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, the Capellan said, “Earthman, I am pleased that you have accepted my gift. To my knowledge, you are the first of your kind to do this. I will thank you now, because I may not have another opportunity later.”
“Whu?” Plait said, still on the ground and working hard to catch his breath.
McCoy got back to his feet. A couple of cautious, unsteady steps placed him precisely between the Capellan and his intended victim.
“What the hell are you talking about? What ‘gift’ do you think Mister Plait has accepted?”
A bemused frown replaced the Capellan’s death’s-head smile. “Why, the gift of combat, of course.”
“As far as I can tell, all he accepted was a damned snack!” McCoy shouted, throwing both hands into the air.
“I do not understand,” the warrior said. “Your friend accepted that which my sister offered him, did he not?”
This was just getting weirder and weirder. McCoy gestured toward Jeen and Naheer, both of whom were watching from several meters away. Jeen was still holding the fruit basket.
“She’s your sister?”
The warrior nodded. “I am Huuk. As Jeen’s elder brother, my blood is closer to hers than the blood of any other. That is why the duty of granting the gift of combat to her suitors has fallen upon me.”
Damn, McCoy thought, wondering briefly if Doctor Wieland had covered the present situation in any of his recent endless memoranda. If he has, that’ll teach me to keep up with my homework on Capellan cultural quirks.
Pushing the doctor aside as though he weighed nothing, Huuk stepped toward Plait, who had yet to get back on his feet or fully recover his wind. Extending one huge arm downward, the warrior hoisted the surprised and gasping science officer back to a standing position.
“Now,” Huuk said. “I must resume bestowing my gift of combat upon you.”
I have to stop this somehow, McCoy thought. Unfortunately, he had no laser; Subteer Usaak had confiscated it. He reached reflexively for his communicator but stopped himself, recalling that the landing party’s communicators had been taken along with the lasers. Besides, the Yegorov couldn’t come to the rescue even if he’d had a communicator; she wasn’t due to return to the Capella system for another three months or so.
But maybe there was another option. He glanced down at the small, unobtrusive pouch on his hip. All right, he thought. Lemons into lemonade it is.
McCoy rushed over to Naheer and Jeen, both of whom looked startled when he reached into the fruit basket and snatched up several random pieces of polychrome fruit.
Huuk’s little sister got over her surprise in time to favor him with a sultry smile.
I hope I live to regret this, he thought.
Then he turned around and marched back toward the sword-swinging giant.
• • •
Juice and fruit pulp dripped from McCoy’s right hand as he circled around Huuk’s substantial flank. Coming to a stop about five meters directly behind the warrior, he noted with relief that Lieutenant Plait was still
on his feet; he looked wobbly and pale and terrified but was otherwise unscathed.
That was obviously only a temporary condition.
The doctor paused for a heartbeat to ratchet up his courage before proceeding with the next phase of his ad hoc plan. Which was precisely when Huuk did something utterly unexpected.
The Capellan extended his sword, pommel first, toward the terrified science officer. “Take it, Earthman,” the warrior rumbled, sounding almost amiable. “You will need a good stout weapon to properly appreciate the gift of combat.”
McCoy watched in silence as Plait took the massive sword with both shaking hands, nearly losing his balance in the process. He regarded the weapon with fear-swollen eyes, groaning with the strain of keeping the blade’s tip off the ground.
McCoy noticed that the sword was vibrating as though electrified, though it was merely keeping time with the trembling of the lieutenant’s arms. I hope to hell he knows which end of that thing is supposed to be the dangerous one.
“What . . . what are you going to use?” Plait asked the warrior, obviously doing whatever he could to buy himself a few additional final moments of life.
The warrior merely laughed, as though Plait had made a wonderfully droll joke.
“Attack me, Earthman,” Huuk said once he’d regained his composure. He gathered himself into a practiced martial arts stance, his knees bent and his ham-sized hands raised and at the ready. The warrior’s weird rictus-smile returned with even greater intensity than before.
Thanks to the flickering firelight, McCoy was becoming uncomfortably aware of the many pairs of Capellan eyes that had seen this entire tableau—including his attempt to sneak up on one of Usaak’s warriors. Fortunately, none of these witnesses had so far alerted Huuk to his approach, perhaps because nobody considered the doctor to be in any way dangerous. Nor had Plait given away McCoy’s presence, either because he was actually calmer than he looked or because he was giving Huuk his completely undivided attention.
Star Trek: The Original Series: Seasons of Light and Darkness Page 5