"Hey! Wait a minute!" But they ignored McCoy's yells and tramped silently through the doorway with their burden. "Who called those guys? How'd they know to come? Who called them?" He looked around angrily. He got no answer.
Pain. Searing pain, dull pain, throbbing pain.
One hurts. Why?
Kidneys. Cannot cope. Other organs, too.
Kidneys? What are those?
Waste eliminators. Cannot cope. They will fail. One will die. Pain throughout, then death. Release one. Release one!
Release? Meaningless. We are one.
Release me! LET ME GO!
The shouted thought, and its freight of hatred and fear, shrieked along the communication network. The creature recoiled in horror of its own, and Chapel rolled free, to lie gasping on the floor, vomiting.
At last she regained enough strength to climb unsteadily to her feet and minister to herself. Christine Chapel, research biologist with respected credentials and impressive achievements, as she had been before personal matters had led her to join the Enterprise crew as a nurse: apart from those instincts that urged her to help the wounded being, she was driven by the understanding that she faced a professional challenge as great as any in her previous career and far greater than any she had encountered on the Enterprise.
Still shaking, she injected herself with a metabolic booster and certain blocking agents. She had more than guesswork to go on. Dim but present were memories of a greater, clearer intellect, which she remembered as having been her own, and an intimate knowledge of alien biological processes and how they had meshed with hers. She knew what the alien fluids were and their dangers and rôles; and she knew of the mental dangers and rewards. What she had injected into herself should at least protect her body.
Thus fortified and forewarned, Chapel approached the slumping Onctiliian again. She steeled herself and placed her hand very deliberately on the darkening, oozing surface of the dead one. She paused there for a moment, took a deep breath and held it. Then, firmly, smoothly, and without haste, she forced her hand through the viscid flesh until it contacted the nexus.
I have returned. I am here.
Ensign Chekov picked himself up slowly from the deck of the Enterprise and put his hand gingerly over his right eye. The flesh around the eye was already swelling out, forcing the lid shut. "Why," he demanded through gritted teeth, "did you do that?"
The Nactern warrior glared back at him, her eyes level with his. "You're lucky you're still alive!" she hissed. "Don't try that again, or I'll forget we need you on the bridge."
A bad miscalculation, he told himself, trying to convince himself that he was calm and collected. Let's try the innocent approach. "Why, I don't understand," he said, his tone denoting hurt bewilderment. "I thought you wanted me to kiss you. Was I wrong?"
"Wrong!" She laughed, a harsh, barking sound, but her posture relaxed. "You're a harmless fool, after all. No one kisses me but my mate, and even she doesn't when we're in battle status, like right now."
"She—" At last a bright light dawned for Chekov. The other warrior woman on the bridge, of course, he thought. That's not a mistake I've made very often before. Now, what would Captain Kirk do in a situation like this? "I'm sorry," he said, looking as contrite as his swollen-shut eye allowed. "I didn't realize, or I certainly wouldn't have tried anything. Look, let's just forget what happened and continue collecting the food." They were in a deserted recreation room near the bridge, collecting the meals they had ordered through the small wall dispenser. Hander Morl had decided to make this small concession to human needs, believing that letting the bridge crew have a meal would help keep them from causing him trouble. Chekov had instantly volunteered himself and the warrior woman to do the job; to the ensign's considerable surprise, Morl had first laughed heartily and then agreed without argument. Turning to the trays of food he had ignored during his unsuccessful attempt at starting a seduction, Chekov said, "These should be enough. We can probably handle them between us. Look, there's no reason for hostility now that I understand, is there? We are on the same side, supposedly."
Unexpectedly, the warrior smiled at him. "Hander keeps telling us we are, but I'm not so sure, from the way the rest of your crew behaves toward us and our mission."
"Perhaps the others don't see the issues as clearly as I do," Chekov suggested. He walked over to a nearby table and sat in one of the chairs propped up against it. "Come on. There's no rush. Why don't you explain to me just what you people are really trying to do? All I've heard so far is the captain's version, and I'm sure that's biased. You can tell me the truth."
With all the eagerness of the true believer sensing the presence of a possible convert, she took a chair next to his and began an impassioned lecture. She started with a complete history of the United Expansion Party, and the minutes ticked away.
On the bridge, Hander Morl began to worry. He struggled to keep his feelings from showing on his face. What was keeping those two? He didn't dare send one of the Assassin bodyguards to find them, for that would leave him with only two accomplices to keep the bridge under control, and he feared that might not be enough, not with the obvious fraying of tempers as time passed without food or sleep. The Enterprise personnel were growing both more desperate and more frustrated, and simultaneously, he and his three subordinates were losing their edge from the accumulation of tension and fatigue.
If he did send someone, he thought, it would have to be one of the Assassins. The Nactern woman would be more motivated, but she would also be more likely to behave rashly if Chekov had somehow succeeded in his very obvious intention. Morl needed Chekov; he knew that. He couldn't have succeeded, could he? Not with a Nactern warrior woman! Morl realized he was chewing his fingernails nervously, and he quickly and angrily pulled his hand away from his mouth.
None of the surgical hoods could be adjusted so far that they would accomodate the Onctiliian. Chapel was reduced to working with small, portable equipment. The capabilities of the portable devices were limited at the best of times, compared with the full-scale devices she would have preferred to use, and this was not the best of times: she was working one-handed, operating the equipment with her left hand while her right, still buried deep within the group-creature's body, maintained her mental link with her pain-wracked patient.
Fluids were injected, blocking the action of the decay agents released from the dead member's body. Chapel herself was hooked into her machines via a separate set of tubes and wires, and fluids pumped rapidly through these in response to her commands; even while the human and Onctiliian metabolisms were joined through her hand, they had to be fed, boosted, and controlled separately by the machines. She had no help in this, had had no time to call for it, and felt oddly furtive, even ashamed, about her intimate communion with the alien. But she had hope, hope that she would succeed after all.
The first priority was to save the lives of the three surviving Onctiliians. Normally, all would have been long dead. Perhaps it was the Earth-normal gravitation on the Enterprise, considerably less than that on Onctiliis, that had slowed the deterioration so far. Perhaps it was the political commitment of this particular individual to the United Expansion cause, for most Onctiliians, once they had become part of a group mating, became fairly apolitical. Whatever the reason, the three living members, while close to death, still lived.
Even so, their death would have been certain in time. They had an intimate knowledge of and contact with their own biology, the inner processes of their group body, that probably surpassed that of any other creature in the known Galaxy, but they had few means of affecting those processes under such extreme conditions as these. They might know what was happening inside themselves, but they could only watch it happen helplessly. With Christine Chapel's intervention, that had changed. The technology available to her and the training and professional experience in her background would not have been adequate equipment for the rescue, either, under normal circumstances. But added to that was her psychophysio
logical link with the Onctiliian: what they knew, she knew; what they felt, she felt. She had little doubt that, if she were not interrupted, if she were granted the time, she could save them. What she would do next, was rather more problematical.
The Nactern warrior broke off her lecture on the aims of the United Expansion Party suddenly and stood up. "Come!" she commanded. "Too much time has passed. We must gather the food and return to the bridge."
Chekov protested, "But there are a lot of things I still don't understand. For example—"
"Enough! Now I understand what you're trying to do. You're not interested in our cause at all. We've wasted enough time. Come!"
He stood too and sighed. "You're right. I'm not really on your side politically. It was just an excuse to try to spend some more time alone with you, that's all." He grimaced ruefully. Long ago, a girl he had known well had told Chekov that he reminded her of a little boy and that brought out the mothering instinct in her. Now he tried hard to look as little-boy as possible. "Everything is so grim when we're on the bridge. Down here, we can talk and try to forget that we're all going to die soon."
"I never let myself forget what's important," she said harshly, her tone all grim and filled with duty. But her expression softened. She patted Chekov on the shoulder. "Come, now. When it happens, when the Romulans destroy us, it will be quick and painless, and I will be near you. Come."
Chekov picked up the trays and went along obediently, trying to convince himself that he hadn't failed entirely. Think of it as an investment, he told himself. Nothing comes of it immediately, but in the long run, the return can be significant. I hope the long run isn't too long, though.
When they reached the bridge, Chekov watched the invaders' reactions carefully. Morl tried to act nonchalant, but his relief was obvious. The two Assassins paid no attention. The other Nactern warrior looked her comrade and Chekov over carefully, then set her jaw as if she sensed something she didn't care for and moved pointedly away from her returned mate.
Chekov distributed the food and then returned to his post at the Navigator's Console. Sulu turned to look at him with seeming casualness, but his eyes held a question. Minutely, Chekov shook his head: no luck. Sulu turned to the front again, his disappointed hopes hidden from their captors but not from Chekov. I tried, damn it, Chekov wanted to say. We'll just have to hope for something else.
Done: they would live. She didn't know it, but this was the first time in the history of the Onctiliian race that a group creature had survived the death of one of its members. Chapel had already earned herself a footnote in medical history, should she care to exploit her achievement. But what was to come would dwarf even what she had already done. She had already made the beginning; now she was to confirm the creation of a being that had never existed before.
Sure that her patient was stable, Chapel at last relaxed her mental concentration and gently withdrew her hand from the communication nexus. The dead member, she had already removed. Now she covered the exposed nexus with a dressing and told the creature to extrude flesh and skin to provide a permanent covering. Only when that had been accomplished, under her careful scrutiny, did Christine realize that she had given that last suggestion, maintained that communion, without any physical contact.
No, she reminded herself, there was still one channel of contact: the portable machine that was steadily measuring the prescribed fluids and drugs into her bloodstream and the system of the Onctiliian. There was no more need for that, however, and she carefully detached it from herself. Still the communion persisted. It was not so strong as before. She no longer felt her identity threatened by it. Or was it just that she had learned not to fear the others, their mental embrace, the merging of selves? The fear was gone, the revulsion, the primitive flight reaction. The joining itself remained, and now it was not a threat to her, no longer frightening; instead, it was warmer, dearer, sweeter, deeper than she could have imagined. She had an old, old wound of her own, as old as her service in Star Fleet, where a part of her had been torn away, and that wound had never really finally healed. Now at last that ancient pain had faded: wound to wound, the incomplete Onctiliian and the incomplete human had joined to form something far greater and more complete than either Earth or Onctiliis had ever seen before.
Chapter Ten
Spock stood on the beach, staring thoughtfully out to sea. "It seems to me, Captain," he said at last, "that the inconsistency between the Trellisanians' excessive concern for the well-being of others and their treatment of their slaves is highly significant."
Kirk, pacing back and forth along the narrow strip of sand between towering black cliffs, was giving Spock at best only half his attention. The other half was divided between chewing over their plans, looking for a major flaw, and wondering when their coconspirators would appear. "What's that, Mr. Spock?" he said absently.
"Their utter lack of concern for the slaves implies to me that they do not really consider those slaves much more than machines, or perhaps domesticated animals."
Kirk stopped pacing and looked at his Vulcan First Officer in astonishment. "Are you saying they're robots, Mr. Spock? Surely Dr. McCoy would have noticed that while treating the wounded."
"No, sir. You misunderstand me. I'm not saying that the slaves are machines. Indeed, matters would be simpler if they were. Rather, their masters seem to regard them as little better than machines—or animals, as I suggested. Only by adopting such a view of their slave class can the members of the ruling classes, such as Veedron, reconcile the wretched treatment of the slaves with this world's high-minded attitude toward other sapient beings in general."
"I'm not sure that follows, Mr. Spock. There have been many societies in Earth's history with slave classes. These were treated badly in many cases, but they were usually considered to be fully human."
Spock shook his head. "I must disagree with you, Captain. The ruling classes may have professed to consider those beneath them as human, but I doubt whether they really did. I'm convinced that Veedron and his equals do not so consider their slaves. If all goes well for us and Trellisane does indeed petition for membership in the Federation, that issue will come to the fore most painfully. Our actions here today—using the slave class to strike back at the Sealons, and encouraging them to look forward to full equality with their present masters—will simply have exacerbated the inevitable tensions when that day comes."
Kirk felt momentarily angry, but he responded in a calm voice. "That sounds like another criticism of me, Mr. Spock, for violating the Prime Directive."
Spock nodded slightly. "Yes, Captain. The Directive's wisdom becomes more apparent to me every time we behave in the proscribed manner."
Still keeping his voice calm, Kirk said, "Since the odds currently seem to favor Trellisane's destruction and a major, Galaxy-wide war, I suggest we postpone this abstract discussion for whatever future we might have."
Spock nodded again. "Indeed, Captain, logic seems to favor that course."
In spite of the determined pacifism of Trellisane, such jobs as mining and demolition demanded a supply of high explosives. Similarly, the world's high level of technology meant that the means to use those explosives for purposes other than mining and demolition—to adapt them, for example, to warlike purposes—abounded. Most of the men most competent to do such a conversion were members of various technicians' and engineers' gemots, but not all. Often, a slave assistant to one of those technicians or engineers would be given enough responsibility to pick up a fair amount of pragmatic technical skill but would not be highly ranked enough to belong to a gemot. And among such assistants, some, Kirk had felt sure, would have been sufficiently badly treated to be as filled with resentment as the slave he and Spock had asked to bring them food in Veedron's headquarters building. Enough resentment, he hoped, to put their skills at his disposal.
At last he heard a faint crunch from the direction of one of the cliffs. The sound was repeated once, cautiously, and then grew to a succession of fain
t crunching noises. Footsteps, a group of men, headed toward them.
"Spock," he said softly. The Vulcan's alert pose showed that he had already heard the sound, probably long before the human had.
A small group, half a dozen men, all dressed in the nondescript, plain clothing Kirk had already come to associate with the slave class, came up to them. The newcomers looked over their shoulders furtively, clearly afraid that they would be caught and punished for what they were doing; they hung back from the two Star Fleet officers, their faces, even in the pale moonlight, betraying their distrust.
"Godor sent you?" Kirk asked them. Godor was the slave in Veedron's building, and Kirk had expected him to be with this group. "Where is he?"
They didn't answer him. After a few more uncertain glances about them, the group lost their faint courage and began to back away. A moment more, Kirk knew, and they would break and run, and that would be the end of all his hopes for resistance to the Sealons. He hesitated, uncharacteristically indecisive. If he spoke firmly to them, it might steel them, impart to them some of his own strength of will and determination, or it might just as likely panic them and send them running off all the faster.
Suddenly there were sounds of running feet from the other end of the beach. The group of Trellisanians froze for a moment in terror. Before they could flee, Kirk hissed at them, "It's only one man! Wait!" They hesitated.
Godor came up, panting, unable to speak, but his eyes blazed fiercely. He carried a large box under one arm. Kirk could tell from the way he handled it that the object was heavy; that the man would run with it showed his determination. Gulping for breath, Godor gasped out, "Here! What you wanted!" He stood still for a moment, waiting until breath came more easily, then said to the other Trellisanians, "Quickly, take us to your boat. Now you'll see what we can do!"
The other Trellisanians on the beach were a group of fishermen whom Godor had recruited earlier, after Kirk and Spock had explained to him what they would need to attack the Sealons. Now the fishermen grunted their acquiescence and led Godor and the two officers back in the direction from which they had approached minutes earlier.
The Trellisane Confrontation Page 7