Dwellers in the Crucible

by Margaret Wander Bonanno

  "It wasn't what you think," she was saying, her hand on McCoy's arm. "I wasn't forced. It was my own decision."

  McCoy said nothing, pretending total absorption in his diagnosis. Was it possible—McCoy pushed his own prejudices aside—that this beautiful girl could find something desirable in one of her reptilian captors? McCoy found himself not wanting to know.

  "Ms. alFaisal," he said, covering her hand with his own. "I'm a doctor. That entitles me to medical opinions. When it comes to my patients' personal lives, I find it safer not to allow myself to think."

  "Thank you." Cleante managed a pale smile. "I appreciate that."

  As to whether or not she was pregnant, McCoy kept his findings to himself.

  "Let her talk, Jim," he said now in the officers' lounge, watching Cleante closely, seeking any sign that she was on the verge of a breakdown. He didn't think she was. She seemed remarkably resilient. However, if she didn't exorcise the horrors of her recent experience, McCoy was certain she would break.

  Cleante immediately sensed his monitoring; it was easy after six months of being constantly watched. She took deep breaths as T'Shael had taught her to do, and felt calmer.

  "When the Klingons first arrived we were roughed up a bit," she began. She laughed her humorless laugh. "I was almost going to say 'manhandled.' Klingon-handled? I don't know."

  She told them how Krazz had tried to molest her and how Jali had intervened. It began to pour from her now—the fear, the uncertainty, the long months of boredom and their efforts to stay active and cheerful, the slow, sad deaths of the Deltans, the groundquake that had killed Krazz and the arrival of the Rihannsu. She would stop there, she told herself, would tell them she was tired and couldn't continue and would return to the next session with some plausible lie to explain T'Shael's injuries. Wasn't she adept enough at lying by now?

  "There really isn't much more, Admiral," she said, her voice grown hoarse from talking, or perhaps by design. "At first it was terror—terror on my part and the Deltans', never T'Shael's. Without her I don't think I could have—then when she became so ill, I—"

  She stopped herself forcibly. Was she out of her mind?

  "I'm tired!" she said crossly, like a child. "I have nothing more to say."

  "She ought to rest now, Jim," McCoy cut in anxiously. He did not like the hysteria he could hear behind her abruptness.

  "A little more, Bones," Kirk said, waving off McCoy's concern. He smiled at Cleante, activating his celebrated charm. "Continue, please, Cleante. A little more. You said T'Shael became ill. Tell us about that."

  For once Jim Kirk's charm wasn't going to work.

  "I won't answer any more questions!" Cleante nearly screamed.

  Control! she told herself. As T'Shael has endeavored to teach you—Oh, T'Shael, I'm sorry!

  "Cleante, we're trying to help your friend," McCoy said, taking over, redirecting her. "T'Shael's psychosomatic symptoms are all out of proportion to her injuries. She refuses to engage the healing trance. If she were human I'd say she were suffering from profound depression, but I can't say that about a Vulcan, can I? Unless you can tell us what went on back there, how she was injured, why she refuses our help—I'm stumped. If you're holding back information that might be of help to her—"

  Kirk was about to add something of his own, but Spock spoke for the first time, interrupting both of them.

  "Gentlemen," was all he said, and the others deferred to him. He seemed to weigh his words carefully before he went on.

  "Ms. alFaisal, you are aware that it was necessary for me to employ mind-touch with T'Shael during our return journey."

  Cleante nodded. She hadn't even thanked him for that. She remembered surrendering her place beside T'Shael to him several times, watching with quiet fascination as he touched the introverted one's mind with his own and sustained her tenuous hold on life.

  "While the touch is not intended to intrude upon subconscious thought, when one is as ill as T'Shael certain barriers are lowered and certain predominant thoughts and memories emerge involuntarily."

  "If you were able to read T'Shael's thoughts—" Cleante told herself she trusted him, but she wasn't sure, "—then you already have your answers!"

  "The impressions I received were incomplete," Spock demurred. "You must help me to complete them."

  Cleante glared at him. She could trust none of them, not even him! Surely, as a Vulcan he should understand why she couldn't speak of certain things! Men! They were all alike. She wanted to strike at him, to protect T'Shael from him, from the whole universe.

  "Ms. alFaisal," Spock persisted, impervious to her glare. "You need not fear betrayal of a friend's confidence. The Admiral and Dr. McCoy are well aware of the significance of pon farr."

  Cleante saw Kirk flinch slightly, saw McCoy look away and begin to fidget.

  "Of course!" McCoy whispered, as if to himself. "Of course! She's of the right age. It would explain the residual symptoms of stress. But how could she have survived it alone, without the male?"

  "That is for Ms. alFaisal to tell us," Spock said, his gaze never leaving hers, "as it is for her to explain T'Shael's injuries, and the death of the Kingon."

  Cleante had thought only T'Shael's eyes could penetrate in that way. Whom was she protecting—T'Shael or herself? She had done what she had done in the expediency of the moment. If it had failed, was that her fault? What is, is, she told herself, unconsciously thinking like a Vulcan. What had come between her and T'Shael was none of their business, but the rest …

  In one breathless monologue, Cleante told them. Everything.

  The transparent well between the officers' lounge and the corridor slid shut, separating Cleante from the trio around the table. Jim Kirk watched her thoughtfully. She stood waiting for the turbolift, head bowed with thought or simple weariness, shoes held loosely in one hand. She looked so young, so vulnerable. Had they been too hard on her?

  "She needed to get it out of her system, Jim," McCoy answered the unvoiced question. "We did the right thing."

  Cleante stepped into the 'lift without looking back, and Kirk turned his attention to his two companions.

  "Opinions, gentlemen," he said. "Spock—the Rihannsu Commander. Small universe? Coincidence or design?"

  "Her involvement would explain many of the specifications of our retrieval of the prisoners," was Spock's opinion.

  "But why?" Kirk wanted to know. "Just to make us twist in the wind? Some subtle form of revenge?"

  Spock looked thoughtful. He had found more in the turmoil of T'Shael's thoughts than he had told Cleante, more than he intended to say here. That was between him and the introverted one.

  "Doubtless there is some logic to her actions which we will come to learn in time," he said cryptically, and Kirk knew that was all they'd get out of him. He turned his attention to McCoy.

  "Bones, about our repatriates. Will they be all right?"

  "You want my official prognosis or my basic gut feeling?" McCoy asked laconically, trying to lighten the mood.

  "Whichever sounds better." Kirk grinned his appreciation, then grew serious. "There hasn't been much work done on nonmilitary hostages recently, has there?"

  "No, there hasn't, because we haven't needed it," McCoy said. "Generally, those who disappear into either Empire are never returned. But I've done a comparison between what we do know about the impact of long-term internment on civilian hostages and a preliminary profile of our young human friend. The transition back to normal life will be rocky for her at first, but I don't foresee any permanent damage. Of course, a lot depends on what plans the Council has for these two now."

  Jim Kirk watched the galaxy go by through the vast port of the officers' lounge. He passed a hand over his eyes.

  "There's been a lot of rethinking on the entire concept of Warrantors. Security at T'lingShar has been stepped up to a degree which Vulcan authorities find—" he glanced at Spock; "—disquieting."

  Spock might have smiled. While Vulcans could
not be "disturbed" or "upset," they could conceivably be "disquieted."

  There's been some extremist talk of abandoning the idea altogether," Kirk went on. "The Deltans have withdrawn their remaining Warrantors from the settlement. They're demanding reparations from both Empires and the Federation Council, and they have a lot of people in their camp."

  "Perhaps the Deltans should be made aware that such divisiveness was precisely what the Rihannsu intended," Spock pointed out.

  Kirk laughed mirthlessly. Try explaining anything to an outraged Deltan.

  "It's the diplomats' problem," he said. "Meanwhile it's been suggested that Cleante and T'Shael at least be released from their commitment. Whether temporarily or permanently will depend heavily on your findings, Bones."

  McCoy greeted that piece of news with a scowl.

  "I'd recommend they be released permanently, period. Returning to their former way of life could trigger all sorts of problems. Make them feel like they're sitting in the middle of a bull's-eye, waiting to be victimized all over again. Welfare of the galaxy be damned; I won't sanction it.

  "Jasmine alFaisal's term runs out in a little over a year. It might take Cleante that long to get back on her feet psychologically. I'd insist she spend at least six months back on Earth. Give her a chance to sort things out in her mind, resolve any residual problems she might have. And she's by far the healthier of the two.

  "As I understand it, T'Shael has committed herself as a Warrantor for life. Now, I'm no expert on Vulcan psychic response, present company notwithstanding, but from what I can assess of that young woman's mental state, the sooner she's freed from what she considers her bounden duty the better. Whoever she's Warrantor for ought to be persuaded to release her at once."

  "Ambassador Sarek has already done so, Doctor," Spock said quietly.

  McCoy's jaw dropped.

  "Bones, how bad is she?" Kirk asked. McCoy was still staring at Spock. "Bones!"

  McCoy blinked, refocused. He'd jump on Spock later.

  "Jim, I honestly don't know. It's like putting a puzzle together with some of the pieces missing. There's much more here than I can figure out. Physically she's mending already. That enviable Vulcan physique. But how do I go about measuring psychic trauma in a Vulcan? Between pon farr and blaming herself for her fiancé's death and her reaction to Cleante's involvement with the Klingon, the closest thing I can compare her experience with is Spock's encounter with V'ger—pure sensory and intellectual overload, though over a much longer period of time. I will say this much: whatever happens to her depends in large part on Cleante. And vice versa."

  Kirk gave him a puzzled look.

  "Explain."

  "Oh, come on, Jim! You've seen it as well as I have, and so has Spock. These two are forged together for life. They're almost a mirror image of you and Spock, both of them falling all over themselves with self-sacrifice. There's an old phrase in Latin—amicus usque ad aras. 'A friend in spite of all differences; a friend to the last extremity.' There's even a Vulcan word for it, isn't there, Spock?"

  "The word, Doctor, is t'hy'la," Spock murmured, ignoring McCoy's obtuseness.

  "That's it!" McCoy nodded. "That's what we're dealing with. They're both blaming themselves for what happened, both wallowing in guilt, and until they can resolve that …"

  Cleante approached the bed and took T'Shael's hand. The Vulcan was somewhat stronger and had been propped up to a half-sitting position. Solemn eyes met sad ones and neither spoke.

  "You can have it disinfected when I leave," the human said at last.

  "I do not understand," the Vulcan said.

  "Your hand. So you don't catch any of my germs. I feel so—dirty."

  A flicker of pain passed across the gaunt face, and T'Shael tightened her hold on the human's hand in disclaimer.

  "Do you think I could condemn what you have done?" she asked, bewildered.

  "Why else did you refuse it?" Cleante asked plaintively. "Go off into the cold—try to kill yourself?"

  "To spare you further shame. That you should do such for one so unworthy—" The Vulcan's voice was almost as plaintive. Then she gathered what little pride she possessed. "Nor did I 'try to kill myself.'"

  "I don't know what you call it!" Cleante said sharply. "Any more than I know what to call what you're doing now!"

  "I do not understand," T'Shael said, trying to withdraw her hand. It was Cleante's turn to tighten her grip.

  "Passive refusal to live is the same as actively choosing death," she said fervently. "If you die now, you're as good as telling me what I did was worthless."

  "It was never my intention—"

  "But that's the way I'll look at it. For the rest of my life, T'Shael. If you die on me now, after all we've been through, I'll hate you for as long as I live!"

  T'Shael inhaled painfully, and the readings on the panel above her jumped violently. Cleante cursed herself for doing this, but it was necessary.

  "There is more to this than you know—" T'Shael began, thinking of Spock and her pledge to the Commander. If she should die before she could fulfill that pledge, the pledge of the dirhja—

  "And there's more to it than you know, either!" Cleante countered, keeping her voice steady by main force. "I may be pregnant."

  She winced as T'Shael's hand tightened so fiercely on hers she almost expected to hear bones crack. She plunged on.

  "And if I am, T'Shael, I'm going to need you more than ever, because as far as I know no human has ever borne a half-Klingon child and tried to raise it in our society. And if I am pregnant, I will bear that child, because it can't help being what it is, and it deserves a chance to live. But I'm going to need someone to be there for me, T'Shael. Someone to be strong for me. I'm going to need you."

  T'Shael's hand went limp, and she withdrew it at last from the human's.

  "If you carry such a child, the responsibility is as much mine as Kalor's," she said remotely, seeming not to hear the rest of what Cleante had said. "That I should be the cause of this—"

  "T'Shael, listen to me," Cleante said intensely, taking her hand again. The Vulcan did not resist. "I don't want to hear your theory about responsibility and ripple effects. I don't want to hear any of that. I want you to answer something for me—quickly, without rationalizing it. Would you die for me?"

  T'Shael seemed puzzled by the question.

  "Need you ask that?"

  "Not really!" Cleante said with tears in her voice. "I've always known the answer to that one. But there's a harder one, and I don't know the answer to it. Will you live for me?"

  Fifteen

  LIEUTENANT SAAVIK WAS on her way to Sickbay to see if Dr. McCoy required her for any additional blood transfusions. She found his insistence on using fresh whole blood as the growth medium for synthetic blood quite illogical. He could as easily use freeze-dried plasma; it was the accepted technique, but far be it from a mere cadet to question one of Starfleet's medical Brahmins. Besides, she was young and strong and healthy and could spare four times the blood of a human donor; from the look of McCoy's Vulcan patient she might very well have to.

  With such thoughts in mind, Saavik was understandably surprised to see T'Shael standing shakily in McCoy's office, the doctor flapping about her like some distraught gallinaceous creature with a wounded offspring.

  "You're not strong enough to be walking around!" he insisted, tugging at T'Shael's thin arm and finding her immovable, belying his statement. "You still have internal injuries. You could start bleeding again. I won't be responsible!"

  "Then with all due respect, Doctor, I release you from your responsibility," T'Shael said in a tone of voice McCoy had heard entirely too often from another Vulcan.

  He supposed he ought to be grateful his patient was showing so positive a response. It meant she had made up her mind to pull through. Still. . . . He muttered something incomprehensible and continued to hover, arms folded, glowering.

  T'Shael turned her attention to Saavik.

  "It i
s fortuitous that you have come here," the introverted one said softly, supporting herself unobtrusively with one hand on the back of a chair. Saavik had not heard her speak before and found her voice lower than she'd expected and pleasing to the ear. "I wished to thank you for your service to me, but I did not know what name to call you."

  It was a Vulcan formality. One never asked another's name of a third party, but waited for its owner to offer it.

  "My given name is T'Saavik," the young cadet said, strangely flustered in the presence of this one and the irascible human doctor. "Though among humans I am called Saavik; it is easier for them to pronounce. As for the transfusions, it would be illogical for me to refuse what you need and what I have in abundance."

  The hooded eyes appraised her for a long moment, and Saavik's gaze almost faltered until she collected her wits.

  "I do know something of logic," she said, perhaps a little archly. "Though I am half Romulan."

  "It was not my intention to question your origins," T'Shael said evenly. "And my gratitude remains."

  Saavik's gaze did falter this time.

  "I'm often asked, that's all. The difference is apparent to other Vulcans, though I cannot—" She saw the introverted one sway slightly on her feet and caught at her before McCoy could. "If it was only to speak to me—"

  "You're going back to bed this instant, young lady," McCoy began, knowing it was useless.

  "I must speak with the one called Spock," T'Shael said purposefully, steadying herself and dismissing any reference to her health even as she refused assistance. She focused on Saavik. "If I could know where to find him, and at what convenience to him—"

  Saavik looked at her chronometer.

  "He will be off-duty now. I can ask him to come here, or—" She could see that T'Shael did not desire this, and looked at McCoy as if daring him to refuse her permission. "I can bring you to him."

  McCoy threw up his hands.