Dwellers in the Crucible

by Margaret Wander Bonanno

  "Negative. This frequency too risky. Can't hold channel long. We have a priority data feed".

  "Stand by."

  Uhura flipped coders and decoders, scanned for Rihannsu bugs, found none, put the whole thing on Code 5 Descramble.

  "Go ahead, Gamma 7."

  The floater's relays fed in a whole string of numbers and Uhura's pulse began to race. These were the trade route coordinates Sulu had promised just before they'd lost contact! It meant he was alive and still free to move about. Or had been, at least long enough to broadcast his findings to a floater.

  The numbers stopped as abruptly as they'd begun.

  "That is all, Enterprise. Indications possible followup later. Will reroute through Outpost 3 when received."

  "Roger, Gamma 7, and many thanks. Can you verify source?"

  "Negative. Data received irregular intervals, source unidentified. Can give you directional fix, however."

  "Relay directional, please, Gamma 7," Uhura said, breathless. If Starfleet and Special Section knew Sulu's whereabouts, they could—

  "Confirmed vicinity ch'Havran, Rihan Empire," the Gamma 7 operative reported. Good Lord, Uhura thought. That's Remus, right in the heart of the Empire. If Sulu can't get out on his own steam, they'll never be able to retrieve him. A violent burst of static made her clutch at the transceiver and she almost lost her connection. "Enterprise? One thing more."

  "Go ahead, Gamma 7."

  "Source relays this message: There's a joker in the deck."

  Hikaru, you devil! Uhura thought. Now what is that supposed to mean?

  "Floater—say again, please."

  "All we have. Quote: There's a joker in the deck, unquote. Moving out of range, Enterprise. Floater 7 out."

  The frequency terminated with a snap, as if the floater had sensed a pickup about to be locked on and had parabolaed out of its grasp. They took their lives in their hands every time they broadcast, these floating communications stations. Uhura began to breathe normally for the first time and glanced over at Spock.

  "You heard?"

  "Indeed."

  She raised Kirk on the intership.

  "All right!" Kirk said as soon as he'd sent for them. His clothes looked thrown on and his hair was tousled from sleep, but he was wound up like an antique clockspring. "We know he's alive. He's passed us six Klin-Rom trade routes, any of which could have a stopover in some isolated spot where a group of valued prisoners might be sequestered, and according to the floater there may be more. Spock, can you run these through and pinpoint every planet of any size along these routes that might be a strong possibility?"

  Spock handed him a computer tape without a word; he'd read the numbers off the comm con over Uhura's shoulder while she was getting Kirk out of bed, had them cross-referenced and analyzed before Kirk asked them to report to his cabin.

  Kirk looked at his First Officer sheepishly. When would he learn?

  "Thank you," he said quietly, slowing down just a little. He hefted the tape in his hand and looked at Uhura. "We can work with this. But the message about the joker—what in God's name does it mean? Could it be a code Hikaru had pre-arranged with Special Section?"

  "I've already contacted Special Section, Admiral," Uhura said primly. "Expecting a comeback within two hours."

  Kirk opened his mouth but nothing came out. Time was his command crew would at least have pretended to wait on his orders instead of anticipating them. Was he being paranoid? He looked at these two he cherished—the solemn one, the animated one—and recognized that they too felt helpless in the face of Sulu's galloping around the Rihannsu cosmos and Nogura's insistence that they stay put. Here at last they had a chance to help. Could he blame them for being overeager?

  "I don't know what you people need me for at all anymore," he said, with the air of a martyr. He got no sympathy.

  * * *

  As soon as Uhura got her answerback from Special Section, he found out exactly what he was needed for.

  "You were right, Jim," Uhura reported, several hours later; it had taken Special Section that long to get through to her. She hadn't slept—none of the three had; if they were planetside it would have been just before dawn. "It was a code. The Rihannsu hierarchy as a deck of playing cards. Read Emperor for King, Consul for Queen, Praetor for Jack, and so forth."

  "And the Praetor's Representative—" Kirk prompted hopefully.

  "—was to have been designated Ace," Uhura answered.

  "Then who's the Joker?"

  Uhura took a deep breath.

  "Ordinarily Special Section would have accepted the delegates' meeting with the Praetor's Representative on face value, especially since the Federation Council never gave it official sanction," she explained. "But when I gave them Sulu's message they ran a voiceprint on the individual purported to be the Praetor's Representative."

  "And—"

  "And for one thing, they determined that he's a eunuch—"

  Kirk swallowed a laugh.

  "That's a—titillating piece of gossip. But what good does it do us?"

  Uhura and Spock exchanged glances. It was a little subtle, unless one knew Rihannsu culture.

  "By tradition, no Rihannsu who cannot mate and continue a clan line is permitted a political career," Spock explained. "Castration is considered tantamount to execution in some instances. It is employed upon conquered political enemies. And upon Court servants, to eliminate their aspirations to power."

  "So the man the delegation spoke to is a ringer," Kirk said.

  Uhura nodded.

  "Special Section got a positive ID on him from the voiceprint. He is identified as Garefv m'kh, and has no clan name. He serves as the Praetor's chamberlain, a glorified body servant."

  "Those bastards!" Kirk exploded into the silence. "Those calculating, arrogant—" He stopped, calmed himself. "I'll have to—break it to Jasmine."

  The High Commissioner's rage was no less explosive than Kirk's, and lasted considerably longer. But because she was who and what she was, it also had some effect.

  She received Kirk in her cabin after he'd ordered Spock and Uhura to their respective beds and left a time-delayed message on her intercom. He barely had time to shave before she indicated she would like to speak with him.

  Her face had been carefully made up to hide the ravages of the past few months, or possibly only last night's sleeplessness; her jet black hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and she wore an opulent blue-green dressing gown that shimmered like peacock feathers. Kirk recognized Tiburon pseudosilk, knew what it cost with shipping charges and the import tax. Or perhaps diplomats waived such considerations. At any rate, if Jasmine had intended to impress him, she had succeeded.

  She offered him a cup of tea. He refused it, stood with his hands clasped behind him just inside her sitting room while she fussed with cream and sugar and the elegant argent tea service she never traveled without.

  "The key to always having to sleep in a strange bed is to surround oneself with enough personal paraphernalia so that one can pretend it is one's own," she said in an attempt at lightness, holding the teacup delicately and looking at him over the rim. "Your news is not critical, but it is certainly unpleasant," she observed with a diplomat's instincts.

  Kirk told her what they'd just learned.

  "It's indecent!" she managed at last, after she'd paced and ranted in several languages, flinging against the bulkheads whatever came into her hands (though only, Kirk noted, unbreakable or easily replaceable items; the tea service in particular emerged unscathed). "To think that they would make such a mockery of what we were seeking! I am offended for Shras most of all, though by now none of us knows if our children are living or dead. The indecency! Bad enough the swine kept us waiting for nearly two weeks, then sat there cordoned off in his specially designed chair with his specially subdued lighting so that none of us ever got a clear look at him! Worse that he let us plead with him for days, then minced and demurred and said he couldn't help us! And now this is t
he worst of all! Oh, give me five minutes with the Praetor and I will leave him in similar condition to his chamberlain!"

  "I don't doubt that for a minute," Kirk said, suppressing a smile, picturing it. "May I make a suggestion?"

  Jasmine threw up her hands in despair.

  "Why not?"

  "This piece of information was obtained by one of our operatives in the very heart of the Empire. Unless he's since been caught—" Don't think about that! he told himself grimly, "—there's no way the Rihannsu can know we've blown the chamberlain's cover."

  Jasmine weighed this, letting her diplomat's instincts have full play.

  "Our confronting them with that could mean a serious loss of face," she said slowly. "And there's no greater advantage in dealing with the Rihannsu. They will have to begin real negotiations now in order to square it with their gods."

  "'ch'Khroi mrerlel'lu fv'chril,'" Kirk said, quoting the old proverb. John Gill had introduced his seminar on Romulan History with it back at the Academy. "'All is permissible unless one is caught.'"

  "Exactly!" Jasmine said, triumphant. She hesitated. "But we don't want to endanger your man on the inside."

  "We're in the process of trying to get him out," Kirk explained. Come on, Hikaru, he thought. Cut the heroics and come home. Enough is enough! "At least hoping he has the good sense to know when to jump. And he's given us something else."

  He explained to her, without going into specifics, about the trade route coordinates. Jasmine listened intently, seating herself for the first time since her tantrum.

  "And if you succeed in determining the exact location—" she said slowly. "What are you suggesting? A commando raid?"

  Kirk shrugged.

  "Why not?"

  "No!" she said adamantly, on her feet again. "This must succeed at the bargaining table. There must be no further loss of life, no further deterioration in relations. I must talk to Shras and the others. How soon can your communications people get me through to the Federation Council's Special Session at this distance?"

  Sub-commander Tal surveyed the dusty, grassless compound from the window of Krazz's quarters. The Rihannsu officer grimaced with distaste. He loathed Klingons; their predatory stench offended his aristocratic nostrils. Nevertheless, he was not in a position to question his Empire's choice of allies.

  "You say the Deltans succumbed to an unknown ailment?" he asked Krazz over his shoulder, not taking his eyes away from the limited view afforded by the window, his cultured voice rife with suspicion. "Why did it not affect yourselves or the other prisoners?"

  "How should I know?" Krazz growled. Tal turned on him sharply and the Klingon softened his tone. "Maybe it doesn't affect species with hair. I'm a warrior, not a nursemaid. It's all in the report."

  "Is it?" Tal inquired incisively. He had read the report, ambiguous and Klingon illiterate though it had been. "All in the report?"

  "Are you accusing me of deceit, Ri-hann-su?" Krazz demanded. "If so, spit it out! Stop stepping around it as if it were excrement. Don't make me forget we're allies!"

  It is something I would gladly forget, Tal thought with silent rage.

  "My Commander will also read your report," was what he said, giving no indication of the murderous fury he held inside. "And also conduct an inspection of the surviving Warrantors and of the conditions under which they are being held. But for now I will conduct a preliminary inspection. You will escort me to the prisoners at once."

  Krazz muttered something unintelligible in an obscure dialect and bellowed for Kalor.

  "My subordinate will escort you," Krazz managed between clenched teeth. His beady eyes fixed on Kalor, as if to warn him to watch his step. "Show Sub-commander Tal our—detainees."

  "Immediately, my Lord!" Kalor said, saluting smartly.

  Had Krazz been less preoccupied with keeping the Romulan in his place, he might have wondered at Kalor's promptness. A more astute commander would have known his lieutenant had been loitering just outside the door, absorbing every word. In Kalor's universe, opportunities were for seizing.

  Nine

  A STREAM OF murky red sunlight shot through the transparent door of the Klingon cage, illuminating the two captives in their sad tableau. Cleante continued to kneel at T'Shael's feet and would not be persuaded to rise.

  "Perhaps—" the Vulcan began with difficulty, "—perhaps a brief mind-touch to allay your fears. I cannot offer more at this time, Cleante. Please try to understand!"

  Cleante looked up at the somber face, the burning, troubled eyes. Something was terribly wrong, but what? What could be more wrong than their captivity, their helplessness at Kalor's hands? What was it that was so dreadful a Vulcan could not speak of it? Cleante got up at last and sat beside T'Shael on the bunk, still holding her hands. To her knowledge there was only one thing so shameful to Vulcans that they would not speak of it.

  "T'Shael, when you had the link with Resh, he said something to you. He said 'And you a special burning soon.' What did he mean?"

  Even a Vulcan's restraint had its limits. T'Shael wrenched her hands free of the human's insistent grasp.

  "Do you wish the mind-touch or not?" she asked, her voice gone hard.

  "I'm sorry," Cleante said, avoiding the burning eyes. "Yes. Please."

  The Vulcan might have sighed. She touched her fingertips together and gathered herself. Then she looked at Cleante incisively.

  "Relax your body and compose your thoughts," she instructed. "Do not attempt to block your thoughts from me or to move them in any particular direction. Will you trust me?"

  Cleante nodded.

  "Then leave your thoughts open. And do not attempt to speak until the touch is completed."

  The human nodded again and the Vulcan touched the fingers of her right hand to the reach-centers of her face. Cleante closed her eyes and heard the unspoken words in her mind.

  "Control," the Vulcan's mind thought to hers. "What is, is. Beyond our ability to alter it. Fear is illogical. Fear heightens suffering, accentuates pain. Control conquers fear. Control transcends. Pain is fleeting, suffering temporary. They are as nothing in the All. Tranquility is strength, control—transcendence …"

  The sensation was peculiar at first, like a knife blade so thin it entered unfelt, to probe, to search out and to excise the turbulence in the untried, never-before-reached human mind. Eye of the storm, Cleante thought, fixing on the image. She could almost feel her heart rate slowing. She would not be afraid of anything, if only—

  I am here, the Vulcan thought to her, and the disciplined mind began to withdraw. Cleante bowed her head and sighed, beyond the reach of fear.

  T'Shael, in a deeper part of her mind than she had allowed the human to know, wondered by what right she spoke of control, in view of what was soon to become of her.

  That was when an unfamiliar double shadow cast itself across the red glaring light from the transparency, the shadow of a single being doubled by the twin suns. The shadow shoved the snoring Klingon guard aside with its superior strength, the ugly red suns just over his shoulder sharply silhouetting his clearly Rihannsu profile.

  * * *

  Sub-commander Tal stood framed in the transparency absolutely livid. Krazz had refused him authorization to enter the cell. He rounded on Kalor in disbelief, the incongruously old and knowing eyes in his' still youthful face flashing dangerously.

  "This is an outrage!" he stormed. "These are not criminals or slaves you intern here but valuable Federation detainees, political prisoners of the highest order! More is hanging in the balance than you realize. This is not one of your slave planets! You have caged them like animals!"

  "It's wasteful to hold prisoners unused. We either train them for service or we kill them," Kalor said, his voice devoid of inflection. That he personally would reserve Cleante for the harems and T'Shael for the experimentation labs he did not mention.

  He also gave the Rihannsu officer no rank designation, though technically Tal outranked him in either of their ser
vices. It was to Kalor's purpose to remain unimpressed by Rom status or Rom tantrums.

  Tal's eyes narrowed to slits. Most Klingons were easy to read, simple brutes with one-track minds. This one baffled him. He stalked across the compound.

  "There must be changes, and at once," he fumed. "These primitive living conditions will be altered. The prisoners' diets must be improved, medicines and nutritional supplements provided. And these uniforms, the lack of proper sanitation! Not to mention the total lack of diversion, reading material, simple amenities. These conditions are appalling!"

  Kalor shrugged, implying that if the Romulan thought these conditions primitive he had obviously never visited a slave planet.

  "Before our flagship leaves this place, such matters may well be taken out of inept Klingon hands!" Tal raged.

  Kalor shrugged again as if it were all one to him, and followed at a discreet distance as Tal stalked into Krazz's quarters unannounced.

  "I will interview the prisoners," he said imperiously.

  "Will you?" Krazz snarled, his heavy eyebrows lowering. "Not while I command!"

  It was an impasse. Tal forcibly reminded himself that these bipedal beasts were his Empire's allies; he also reminded himself that while he was outnumbered here, it was his Empire's flagship that orbited above.

  "That may be altered sooner than you think," was his retort as he signalled the flagship to beam him aboard.

  He went directly from the transporter chamber to his commander's quarters to make his report. The Commander heard him out without comment until he got to the actual disposition of the prisoners.

  "The two surviving females appear to be in reasonable health, Commander, the Terran of course being more susceptible to minor ailments than the Vulcan—" Tal heard the Commander's sharp intake of breath and knew she would finally rotate her overstuffed chair to face him.

  "A Vulcan!" she hissed, and Tal saw the old familiar turmoil, the cold anger warring with unquenched passion, on her strongly beautiful face. "A female?"