"I used to be confident that there were people I could call upon in a situation like this. Suddenly everywhere I turn I find a wall of silence." She blinked, looking at him. "And can we stop this 'Commissioner' nonsense, or must I really call you 'Admiral' for the rest of the evening?"
"Jim will do. If that's what you want—Jasmine."
"What I want, Jim, is to have my daughter returned to me—safe and whole and if at all possible untouched by these events. Somehow that seems to have been forgotten in all of this talk of 'hostage situations' and 'non-negotiable demands.' It's as if as public officials the beings in this room have somehow relinquished their rights to be parents."
"A very wise friend of mine once said that the purpose of diplomacy is to prolong a crisis," Kirk observed. "It's one thing to bandy the terminology about in the abstract. Something else when it involves a loved one."
Jasmine looked as if she might hit him, and Kirk wondered why he'd had to be so calculatedly cruel. Until he saw the armor drop completely.
"Cleante is everything I have!" Jasmine breathed. "If my entire career has meant nothing more than a threat to her life …
She did not finish. The hand that held the drink shook visibly; she put the glass down in a clinking of jewelry lest she shatter it. Kirk watched her regain her composure; it was a masterful performance.
"Odd," she said, avoiding his eyes. "I've never told her that. Perhaps that upsets me more than anything." She turned on him, intense. "But if I have to get down on my knees before the Praetor's Representative in order to get her back, and on my terms—"
The improbability of such a scenario or her ability to pull it off strengthened her. When Kirk looked at her again the armor was locked into place, steelier and more glittering than ever.
And he hadn't been able to pry loose from her all evening. He'd spoken briefly to the Deltans, had had no chance at all to speak to Shras of Andor, though Spock had covered for him there.
Of the entire delegation, the Andorian was the most tragic figure, for he was going to the Rihannsu not to appeal for the return of a living Warrantor, but to plead for the remains of his eldest son. The ancient one's face and deceptively frail arms still bore the scars of the Andorian blood-mourning rite, and his once fierce eyes were sunken behind rivulets of gelid tears.
His soft voice was beyond anger, held only a great bewilderment. What had he done to anger his gods that they should seek such retribution? he asked again and again of anyone who would listen. No one could give him a satisfactory answer. He retired to his cabin ahead of all the others, to slash his flesh again with the razor-sharp flabjellah and renew his mourning.
Kirk had excused himself at 2400 hours for a tour of the bridge with no intention of returning to the reception. The delegates might be too keyed up to sleep, but he had a starship to run. He had just stepped out of the shower and was thinking of contacting Spock to tell him not to bother when the doorchime sounded.
"Come," Kirk said, knotting the sash of his robe loosely about his waist and running his hands through his still-damp hair.
"If you are fatigued we can pursue this another time," Spock suggested, still in uniform, still buttoned down and impeccable.
"You're not getting off the hook that easily," Jim Kirk grinned. "Sit. Where've you been?"
"Seeing our guests to their respective quarters," the Vulcan replied, seating himself and casually making a premeditated move in the perpetual chess game the two old friends kept going by their own particular rules. "And offering condolences to our old acquaintance Shras. These events rest heavily upon him."
"Mm," Kirk said thoughtfully. "Any way you look at it, it's an ugly situation. If the surviving Warrantors turned up on our doorsteps tomorrow, there are still repercussions that may not be resolved in our collective lifetimes. And the longer it goes on … do the Rihannsu actually think they can salvage anything at this late date?"
"Difficult to ascertain," was Spock's opinion. "Unless and until the Warrantors are recovered."
"Unless and until …" Kirk mused, remembering why he'd asked Spock to come here. "You knew about this—T'Shael—from the very beginning, didn't you? Why didn't you say something?"
"I did not have all the facts until quite recently, Jim. The privacy of volunteer Warrantors is considered sacrosanct. Only through my access to Starfleet confidential files was I able to ascertain that T'Shael was in fact my particular Warrantor. My years among humans have taught me to manipulate Vulcan integrity to my own advantage."
Kirk made a move on the board and decided to do a little manipulating of his own.
"I don't see how you can not go with the others tomorrow," he said incisively. "I can't believe your conscience hasn't been eating at you all this time. Knowing an innocent party is being held prisoner, under who knows what duress, in your place. Spock, you can't just do nothing!"
The Vulcan contemplated a move, his face unreadable. He touched a piece tentatively, withdrew his hand.
"Jim, I cannot do otherwise. My government's position—"
"—is no different than Earth's or Andor's or Delta's. You'd be going not as a government representative, but as a private citizen—"
"—who is also a member of Starfleet. No, Jim. I cannot separate the two and neither will the Rihannsu. I am not at liberty to take an action which would admittedly relieve me of a considerable burden of Vulcan responsibility."
Such an admission was rare even between two as close as these. Kirk could read the distress in the solemn brown eyes.
"You could have shared your feelings with me at least," he suggested helplessly, wishing he hadn't broached the subject at all. "How's the saying go? 'A sorrow shared is half a sorrow?'"
"Perhaps that is true for humans," Spock said, completing his move at last. "The Vulcan does not burden others with his own concerns."
"What are friends for?" Kirk asked, making a reckless move he regretted the instant he let go of the piece. "I'm sorry I brought it up."
"I, too, have considered accompanying tomorrow's delegation, perhaps to take some overt action against the Rihannsu," Spock said out of nowhere and not completely casually. His eyes did not leave the chessboard. "However, there is far more at risk here than the lives of five innocent beings, and this restrains me. As I hope it restrains you also, Admiral. Checkmate."
Jim Kirk tried a weak smile. It was no use. Spock knew what was on his mind before he did sometimes. The two of them might have outfoxed the Rihannsu once before, stealing their cloaking device and living to tell about it, but this was not their operation, not directly. Scotty had done his share and come home, Sulu was still missing in action, and the stakes were just too high.
"You win," he conceded on all levels, setting up the board for another game. "Tell me about T'Shael. I knew Shras's son, and Jasmine told me all about Cleante. As for the Deltans, I can never tell them apart. But the Vulcan is an enigma. If it wouldn't be a breach of privacy—"
"She is by training a linguist," Spock began, making his opening move. "And a deeply private person. She is also offspring of extraordinary parents. Her father Salet was conceivably the greatest musician-composer of his day, and a particular hero of my youth. T'Pei her mother was at one time provost of the Science Academy, and chief scientist aboard the Intrepid."
"My God!" Kirk said, awed at the significance of that. "Small universe! How many Vulcans are there—about fourteen billion?"
"Fourteen billion, seven hundred fifteen million, three hundred eighty-four thousand, five hundred nine, according to the last census."
"And the odds against your life's crossing T'Shael's or either of her parents'—"
"—are astronomical. Nevertheless, all things are interrelated, Jim."
Jim Kirk was awed into silence for a long moment.
"I'm just thinking," he said at last. "If she accomplished nothing else in her entire lifetime, T'Shael has given us our friendship. And given you to Starfleet and the safeguarding of the galaxy at large."
"Jim, I hardly think—"
"No, let me finish. She's done these extraordinary things simply by being what she is, and offering her services. I'd like to think we could somehow be—instrumental—in seeing her, and the others, safe home again."
"As would I, Jim," Spock said solemnly.
* * *
Cleante was about to disturb T'Shael's meditation, but hesitated.
The Vulcan's trances had become deeper and deeper of late, and Cleante wondered at this. Was it only to escape the clamor of the Deltans that T'Shael withdrew so far, or were there other reasons?
The captives had tried everything to have Resh freed, but to no avail. They pleaded with the guards with what little Klingonaase they had; they were met with drawn weapons and stony silence. They began a hunger strike; Kalor threatened to kill Krn and they stopped. Finally, T'Shael went to the Klingon quarters to speak to Krazz. She found her way obstructed by Kalor.
"The Deltan merits no punishment," she stated. "One can only assume you have isolated him for another purpose."
"It's none of your business, sheep!" Kalor snarled at her. "Tend to your slop buckets and practice one of your celebrated Vulcan silences."
"I offer myself in Resh'da's place," T'Shael said, knowing it was futile.
"Your offer doesn't interest me!" Kalor sneered. "Your species thrives on solitude, just as it is death for the hairless ones. I will find out why."
"My species has other weaknesses which might suit your experimentation."
Kalor's hard face might have betrayed a momentary surprise. Again he was reminded of how well the Vulcan understood him, and how she threatened him. He drew very close to her, gently entwining his coarse fingers in her hair before yanking her head back hard.
"Don't be in such a hurry to die, Vulcan!" he hissed in her impassive face. "You'll get your chance!"
The link between Resh and his cousins was gradually deteriorating. Cleante did not want to force T'Shael to take up her link with the gentle one, but there was no choice. She touched the Vulcan's shoulder lightly.
"T'Shael?"
It took some moments for the Vulcan to surface from the depths of her meditations. She did not need to ask Cleante what she wanted. She had been preparing for this. She rose from her meditative posture and went to stand by the wall nearest the storage shed where the Deltans huddled disconsolately. She looked at Cleante for a long moment.
"If I am successful in taking up the link, there will be a certain—overlapping of personalities. For a time Resh and I will be as one. Words may be spoken, matters revealed of great intimacy to each of us. It is important that you understand this."
"If you want, I won't listen," Cleante offered, ready to shut her ears, ready to do anything that would save Resh without embarrassing her friend.
"It is imperative that you listen, that you witness," T'Shael said. "If I am unable to break the link, you must bring me back."
"All right," Cleante said, her heart pounding as she realized the weight of responsibility this entailed.
Krn and Jali scrambled aside as T'Shael drew nearer, splaying her delicate fingers and touching them to the cracked and gritty concrete. She closed her eyes and scarcely seemed to breathe.
"I am T'Shael," she began, whispered. "I-am-T'Shael. Resh'da Maprida'hn, I reach for thee. Reach to me, Resh'da. Your sisterfriend awaiting is."
There was a silence, T'Shael's breathing, nothing more. The Deltans and Cleante clung to each other, watching the solitary Vulcan. Even the ubiquitous guard, though he had no idea what was going on, stood filling the transparency, transfixed by what T'Shael was doing.
"I-am-T'Shael. I-am-T'Shael," she repeated patiently, doggedly. Her voice took on a lyric quality, became the voice of the gentle one. "I-am-Resh'da. I-am-Resh'da …
"Loneliness my fate and darkness, oh! I am wanting touch and touching. Touching minds is not enough. Touching am I or dying. My body-soul aching is for touch of gentle cousin-fingers, oh! Pain of aloneness unbearable empty is …
"T'Shael Vulcan sisterfriend, oh! Wanting was I your passion awakening! She who all inside is, burns with white-hot flame when opening! T'Shael-love, your mind and mine reaching, oh! Grateful am I, but it is not enough. And you a special burning soon, oh! …
"I fading am, my cousin-loves, without your touch and touching. . . . All is darkness cold aloneness …
"Farewell, Jali'lar sisterlove! Farewell, Krnsandor morethan-cousin, gentling plaything and my sustenance! All our loved ones my warmth remember-bringing … Farewell, then, Resh'da, too much of aloneness, oh!"
The Resh-voice ended in a soft moan, and T'Shael was thrown away from the wall as if by an unseen hand. Cleante rushed to her, found her breathless and trembling.
"He has broken the link!" the Vulcan said, and there was pain in her eyes and in her voice. Cleante had never heard such pain, not even when they stood beside the bloodstone in the ruins at T'lingShar. She helped T'Shael to her feet. Pray Allah she could draw some of that pain away! "He fears pulling me down into his despair and so forces me away. Gentle Resh has chosen death. I can do no more."
If she heard Jali's wails or Krn's whimpering, T'Shael gave no sign. Profoundly distressed, she withdrew into herself, leaving the human to cope with the surviving Deltans. She had done all she could, and it was not enough.
And Kalor, who had told the guard to call him should anything untoward happen among the prisoners, stood at the transparency unnoticed, his teeth bared in a cold, feral smile.
It took Resh'da Maprida'hn, gentle Resh whose life was love, over a week to die. Then the guards came for Jali.
"Nooo!" she shrieked her ear-splitting shriek as they held her, twisting and moaning and clawing for Krn, whom Kalor wrenched from her grasp and threw against the far wall.
Krn scrambled to his feet unhurt, seeking T'Shael's eyes for a moment as if to draw some courage from her, then locked his eyes with Jali's. Jali shrieked again and again. She was pouring out negative pheromones at a prodigious rate, but the guards seemed to have built up an immunity. Her eyes faltered away from Krn's.
"Small one, I cannot!" she shrieked. "One cousin here and one on the otherside, I alone in neither place being. Such Aloneness I Can Not!"
It was over in an instant. One moment she was violently alive, thrashing and shrieking. The next she inhaled sharply, withdrawing her life-forces as only a Deltan can. She went limp. Utterly lifeless. Even T'Shael could not block a reaction of sheer horror.
The guards released Jali as if such instant death could be contagious, and she crumpled to the floor. Kalor seemed momentarily stunned, robbed of his prey, though he recovered himself quickly. He took a step toward Krn as if to take him in Jali's place.
The little Deltan stood paralyzed with shock, staring at his fallen cousin. Both Cleante and T'Shael moved to stand between Kalor and the last remaining Deltan. But Kalor had a better idea.
"Leave this one," he ordered the guards. "We'll see how long it takes!"
They took away what was left of Jali'lar Kandowali to the place where awaited her brotherlove. She whose eyelashes could seduce a Klingon would flutter those lashes no more.
Small Krn died in his sleep in Cleante's arms. Even a direct mind-link with T'Shael could not save him.
"I am not fearing, T'Shael-friend," he said mournfully. "It is only that I am so sad!"
"Your cousins have each other," Cleante pleaded with him. "They're together where they are. Surely they can wait for you awhile yet! Who will stay with T'Shael and me if you die, Krnsandor?"
The small one put an arm around each of them and looked at both with a wisdom far surpassing his years.
"You two will have each other," he said knowingly. "There is a special word in Vulcan, T'Shael-friend. A word meaning more-than-friend. A deep word. Tell it me!"
"The word is t'hy'la, Friend Krn," T'Shael said without hesitation. Was this love, this emptiness at knowing the child would die? What a fool she had been to presume to scientific inquiry conce
rning such a phenomenon!
"T'hy'la," Cleante whispered, her Byzantine eyes sparkling with the tears she would not let Krn see. "What a beautiful word! Why didn't you ever teach it to me, T'Shael?"
"You did not ask," T'Shael said remotely, illogically. If this was love—small wonder humans had expended such agonies over it down the centuries!
She had long since abandoned her reluctance to touch in the face of Krn's need. The small one was dying, and if it was of comfort to him to spend his last hours entwined about her or the human, what right had she to refuse?
"T'hy'la!" Krn sighed contentedly. "I am liking this word, for both of you. I will sleep now, Cleante-love."
Cleante held him tightly, as if her life as well depended on it. She had not slept for days, but lay awake listening to the small one's breathing, dreading the moment it would stop. When at last it did, it was so gradual and so still she barely noticed.
"You're certain there are no marks on the bodies, Kalor?"
"None to speak of, my Lord. A few minor lacerations on the eldest one's hands. Broken fingernails from clawing at the locked door. Nothing on the other two."
"Excellent!" Krazz initialled the report slate with a flourish. "So. Two reports. The official one, which our superiors will of course share with our pointed-eared allies—assuming they're still speaking, and that's anyone's guess—will read as follows:
"'Disposition of the Hairless Ones:
"'Subject One evidenced disruptive behavior and was separated from the others for purposes of crowd control. Despite the best of treatment, succumbed to unknown ailment which was probably the result of an innate weakness of the species since there were no physical symptoms. See attached report, etc., etc.
"'Shortly thereafter, Subject Two committed suicide. See attached supplement. Subject Three succumbed to unknown ailment believed to be that which caused the death of Subject One. Etc., etc.'"
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