"I've got you now," he rasped at Kirk.
"Maybe," said the captain, bracing himself.
But this time, his adversary wasn't so eager. He approached Kirk slowly, wary of any trick moves. And the press of bodies worked to his advantage, giving the captain less room in which to operate.
Kirk was about to take the initiative when Scotty came flying out of nowhere. He clamped a headlock on Scarface and rode him to the ground, yelling so loud he could be heard over the din.
"A'll teach ye t' lay hands on th' captain, ye big ape!"
Before Scarface could quite free himself from the maddened Scot, Kirk had joined the fray. The big man was like a wild bull, bucking and thrashing, trying to free himself from a couple of wolves—but the wolves hung on. And moments later, the captain managed to knock him senseless with a half-empty bottle that had fortunately been close at hand.
Kirk dragged Scotty to his feet, pulled him in the direction of the exit.
"Have you seen McCoy?" he shouted into his ear.
"Nae since th' fight began," answered Scotty.
It was just then, as if by magic, that the doctor rose horizontally from the sea of turmoil. He stopped there for a second or so, suspended where they could see him. His face was bloody—and if he was conscious, he didn't show it.
As the captain tried to force his way toward him, McCoy started spinning. Once, twice, a third time. And before Kirk could get anywhere close to him, McCoy's limp form went whirling into the thick of the brawl.
The captain's teeth grated together.
This wasn't at all as he remembered it. It was dangerous—deadly. And the way Bones's head had drooped before he went flying …
"Did ye see where he landed?" roared Scotty.
"I think so," said Kirk, without breaking his stride. He half tripped over a shattered chair, threw another one aside. A body fell against him and he pushed it back where it had come from.
"Hang on, Bones!" he bellowed, more for his own benefit than for the doctor's. "You hang on, damn it!"
Suddenly, there was a sound of breaking glass just behind him. A yelp of pain. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Scotty go down.
But as he turned to help, something hit him too. In the back of the head—and hard.
Kirk felt his knees give way, tasted something hot and metallic. He fought for consciousness, fought to keep the darkness from closing down on him—grabbed at what he thought was a table, tried to drag himself up.
Then there was another impact, only dimly felt, and the light whirlpooled away into nothingness.
Chapter Eleven
SCOTT BOLTED UPRIGHT, SPUTTERING.
Immediately, he wished he hadn't. His head felt as if it were about to explode. Moaning softly, he wiped icy drops of water from his eyes.
And looked up into the face of James T. Kirk.
"Scotty? Are you all right?"
The chief engineer felt the side of his head, flinched when he touched the spot where he'd been hit. His fingers came away with a pinkish-red ooze on them.
"M'poor head," he said. "A' think a' broke it."
"Scotty," said the captain, "we've got to get out of here. Can you walk?"
"Aye," he said, looking around him. The fight seemed to have run its course, with only a few stragglers still picking themselves up out of the debris—spurred by the sound of approaching sirens. "Wha' happened? Where's Doctor McCoy?"
Kirk frowned deeply as he got a hand under Scott's armpit. "I found him, but he's not in good shape. We've got to get him back to the ship—quickly."
Fear for McCoy shot adrenaline through Scott's veins. Allowing the captain to help him, he staggered to his feet.
His brain felt as if it were too big for his skull, and the pain brought on a wave of nausea. But he managed to quell it as Kirk led him through the confusion of shattered furniture and broken glass.
In the dim light, he couldn't see very well. He was almost on top of McCoy before he knew it.
Nor had the captain exaggerated—the doctor was barely breathing. His eyes were puffed closed, his face distended and dark with bruises. Blood still seeped from a gash in his forehead.
Scott knelt over him, gripped McCoy's shoulder—as if he could penetrate the man's unconsciousness, reassure him somehow.
"Damn," he breathed. "He got th' worst of it, all right." He watched dully as Kirk whipped out his communicator.
"Kirk to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise."
For a moment, there was no answer. The sirens seemed to get louder, closer.
The last thing they needed, Scott knew, was to get nabbed by the local authorities. Tied up in red tape, there was no telling when they'd be able to get McCoy to a medical facility.
Finally, Spock's voice came through over the communicator. "Is something wrong, Captain?"
"I'm afraid so," said Kirk. "Three to beam up—immediately. And I want a stretcher brought to the transporter room on the double." He scowled, glanced at the doctor. "McCoy's been hurt."
"Aye, sir," said the Vulcan. And an instant later, "Stand by to beam up."
Whoever was on duty in the transporter room knew what he was doing. Scott barely felt even a tingling before his molecules were whisked across space.
They materialized in a nearly empty transporter room, populated only by the single engineering officer assigned there.
Kirk felt McCoy's neck for a pulse, scowled as he surveyed the pale, blood-smeared face.
"Sir?" asked Mister Scott, kneeling beside the android. Concern for the doctor was etched into his face.
"It's weak," said Kirk, "but at least he's got one." He looked up, acting as frantic as the real captain would have been. "Where's that trauma team, damn it?"
The engineering officer switched on the intercom. "Transporter room to bridge," she said. "Transport completed, but we need medical assistance here as soon as …"
Before she could finish, the doors split open and Doctor M'Benga charged through them, followed by a trauma team.
M'Benga made a quick check of McCoy's vital signs before he signaled the others. Ever so carefully, two men lifted McCoy onto the gurney, even as the rest of the team hooked him up to the life-support unit.
That accomplished, M'Benga glanced at Mister Scott. "You don't look so good either—but we only brought one gurney. Can you make it without one?"
Scotty nodded. "A'll make it fine. Just see t' Doctor McCoy."
"Good," said M'Benga. Again he signaled, and the paramedics started to move. A moment later, they had McCoy out the doors and headed in the direction of the turbolift.
Kirk looked up as if he'd just become aware of another presence in M'Benga's office.
"Oh," he said. "It's you, Spock."
The Vulcan gazed across sickbay at the critical-care unit, in which McCoy lay ensconced.
"Has the doctor regained consciousness yet?" he asked.
Mind your own business, Mister Spock. I'm sick of your half-breed interference, do you hear?
Kirk found the urge to say it greater than he'd thought it would be. Nonetheless, he resisted it. Nodded soberly, instead—as one who had been through an ordeal might have nodded.
"He opened his eyes for a little while just a minute ago. And he appeared to recognize us—M'Benga, Chapel, and myself." He paused for effect. "According to M'Benga, he should be fine. It'll just take a while. He suffered a rather serious concussion, along with some nasty internal injuries."
Spock nodded. "And Mister Scott?" he asked.
"Sent to convalesce in his caben. Fortunately, he fared lot better than McCoy in that brawl."
"As did you yourself," observed his first officer.
Kirk searched Spock's face for a sign of suspicion, found none. But then, he told himself, a Vulcan wouldn't show anything anyway.
He would have to be careful with Mister Spock. In the human Kirk's estimate, no one knew him as well as Spock did. Not even McCoy, with whom he spent more time.
Yes. Very careful.
>
"I was lucky," said Kirk. He chuckled bitterly. "Though if anyone should have gotten hurt, it was me. I was the one who had been there before. I knew that part of town was dangerous. And I let Bones and Scotty talk me into going there anyway." He glanced at the doctor's sedated form through the transparent separation. "If I had exercised an iota of good judgment, McCoy wouldn't be lying there right now."
Spock raised an eyebrow. "Is this a display of human guilt?"
Kirk snorted. "Call it taking responsibility, Spock."
"Taking responsibility?" asked Spock. "Toward what end, other than self-recrimination?"
"The point is, I was wrong." The android shook his head. "And I'll be damned if I'll let this happen to anyone else in my command." He paused—for effect. "Spock, I want all shore leaves canceled, effective immediately."
Spock evinced no overt reaction to Kirk's decision—but his hesitation was in itself an indication that he was troubled.
"Captain," he began, "may I speak freely?"
"Go ahead," said Kirk.
"I myself feel no particular attraction to Tranquillity Seven, as you know. But that is not the case with the rest of the crew. They have looked forward to this shore leave. Moreover, they have been in need of a respite from their duties for quite some time. Might I suggest that instead of canceling leave altogether, we merely limit it to a designated area—encompassing only the safer parts of town?"
Kirk pretended to consider the suggestion. But he had his own reasons for wanting to move on.
"No," he said finally. "There will be those whose curiosity will get the better of them." He grunted. "I should know." And in a more confident tone, "We'll find another place for shore leave, after this business with the Romulans has been settled. In the meantime, nobody beams down to the planet's surface. And have Uhura contact those already down there as quickly as possible."
Spock seemed reluctant, but he nodded. "I'll see to it," he said.
Kirk showed him a wan smile. "Thank you, Spock. I think I'll stay here awhile longer."
"As you wish," said the Vulcan. He turned on his heel and left M'Benga's office.
The android watched him stride across sickbay. Saw the doors open and close again behind him.
He doesn't suspect, he told himself. None of them do.
And why should they? Was he not a perfect replica of Captain James T. Kirk, down to the last fingernail?
Nor would the original Kirk ever be seen again. He had made certain of that with his choice of business partner.
The Rythrian had a reputation for using violence when he thought he could profit by it. Having finally caught up with the man who'd stolen from him, he could hardly let him live—it would invite others to try their luck. The only prudent move was to kill him.
And what then? Kirk thought. Will I still be a replica when the human Kirk is dead? No. For how can one be a copy when there is no longer an original? I will be the only Kirk in existence.
Perhaps he was already. It pleased him to think so.
Everything has gone so smoothly. The entire first phase of my plan has proceeded step by step to this result.
Could even Korby have succeeded as he had succeeded? Could even the Creator have accomplished this?
Control of the Enterprise?
On the other side of sickbay, Nurse Chapel appeared—to check up on McCoy. Even from here, Kirk could read the display above the patient. His life signs were stable.
After a few moments, Chapel noticed him sitting in M'Benga's office. She waved.
He waved back.
There was only one more thing for him to do. Not a test, for certainly he had passed all the tests he needed to.
It was more of a gesture.
He felt impelled to do it now. To finally claim what was his.
But it was necessary to keep up appearances. So he would remain here for a while, appearing to worry about the fate of Leonard McCoy.
Then he would take his place on the bridge.
Chapter Twelve
A BRILLIANT LIGHT. Kirk flinched from it, felt pain carve its way through his flesh.
He looked down, saw that he was bound—hand and foot, to a heavy chair. Off to the side, he could make out dark, wooden crates, piled nearly to the top of a high ceiling. Something scurried among the crates, as startled by the light as he was.
He forced himself to look back, saw a figure silhouetted in the light. A doorway? he asked himself. Yes. With sunlight streaming through it. Then the figure moved toward him, and others appeared behind it.
Three of them altogether. One of them slammed the door shut, and suddenly the light was gone.
"It's about time you woke up," rasped the one who'd come in first.
Kirk's eyes were still confused by molten afterimages. But he recognized the voice.
"Where am I?" he asked, awakening yet another pain—his one in his jaw. It felt as if it had been broken.
"Nowhere you want to be," said Scarface. "That's for sure." One of the men behind him chuckled.
"What about my friends?" asked Kirk. "The two who were with me?"
The big man grunted.
"You ask a lot of questions," he said, "for someone who's not in a position to ask any. Or is that just what starship captains do? Ask a lot of questions?"
He laughed that hard, harsh laugh that Kirk had heard in the bar. When he was done, he wiped his mouth.
"Tyler," he said. "Get me a chair."
One of the other men moved, found a chair by the wall. Dragged it across the floor until he could give it to Scarface.
The big man stood it backward in front of Kirk. Then he sat, straddling the seat, wrapping his huge arms around the backrest.
His eyes, only a couple of feet from the captain's, seemed to glitter.
"Now," he said, "you gonna drop this starship crap? Or maybe you need some more encouragement?"
"It's not crap," said Kirk, as evenly as he could. "And you still haven't told me where my friends are."
The big man grinned, pulling his scar taut across his cheekbone.
"Wrong answer," he said.
Kirk saw it coming, but there was nothing he could do about it. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his side, still bound in the chair. His jaw was a throbbing agony and the taste of blood was strong in his mouth.
A moment later, Scarface wrestled Kirk's chair erect again. And pulled his over, so that their positions were restored.
The big man peered at him through narrowed eyes, and again the captain could smell the zezalia seeds. "Want to change your mind?" he asked, in a voice like stones grating together.
Kirk thought about it.
Obviously, he wasn't going to convince his captors of the truth. For whatever reason, they genuinely believed he was someone else—someone who had double-crossed them in a dilithium deal, judging by the words that had passed in the bar.
But then, he didn't have to convince them—did he? When Spock realized he was missing, there would be a search. Possibly, there was one already under way.
All he had to do was stay alive until they found him. Buy some time. And since the truth was losing its effectiveness in that regard, why not try the other approach?
"All right," he said. "You win. What is it you want to know?"
"What do you think?" asked Scarface. "Your dilithium source. That is, if it really exists."
Kirk eyed him, managed a smile.
"It exists, all right."
The big man leaned a little closer. "Then where is it?"
"That depends," said the captain.
"On what?"
"On who's asking."
Scarface reddened, but he contained his temper.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I want to see your boss. The Rythrian."
The big man's brow furrowed. "Why? You think he'll be any easier on you?"
Kirk shrugged. The ropes cut mercilessly into his arms, but he kept the pain to himself.
"I need some
assurances," he explained. "And he's the only one who can give them to me."
The captain knew he was taking a chance. He was putting Scarface in a position where he'd look bad, ineffectual. Rather than go crawling back to his boss empty-handed, he might just decide to beat Kirk to death—and claim afterward that his captive wouldn't talk.
But the other two men were looking on, and they were Kirk's aces in the hole. Either or both of them might tell the Rythrian what really happened—that Kirk was ready to spill the beans, but Scarface killed him in anger. And thereby cheated the Rythrian out of his dilithium a second time.
The big man's face twisted with indecision.
"Well?" asked Kirk.
Scarface glared at him. His right hand, inches from the captain's throat, opened and clenched—as if it had a will of its own.
For a brief moment, Kirk thought he'd gone too far.
Then, abruptly, the big man rose and headed for the door. The captain squinted again at the sudden flood of light, saw his tormentor disappear into it. The other men followed on his heels.
And this time, the door closed quietly.
Kirk breathed a sigh of relief.
That was close, he told himself. Too close. But it seems I've bought myself some of that time.
As it turned out, Kirk received more time than he'd bargained for. Hours passed, though he had only a vague sense of how many. And a pit grew in his stomach, reminding him that it had been too long since he'd eaten.
It was time enough to ponder his situation, to try to unravel the series of events that had brought him to this estate.
Who was it these men were really after? Did he resemble Kirk as closely as they thought?
And where was he now? Light-years away, probably, having purchased a berth on a cruiser with the money he took from the Rythrian.
There was time enough, too, to recall the details of that first brawl in Tranktown. After a while, he even remembered how it had started.
There had been a young woman, and a man who had tried to thrust his company on her. Naturally, Kirk had taken the side of the woman—even after he'd found out the man was her husband.
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