Double, Double

by Michael Jan Friedman

  He'd have to tell Bones, he resolved, when he saw him again.

  If he saw him again? No. Too maudlin.

  Yet he couldn't forget how he'd gone hurtling through the air, as limp as a Cyrilean invertebrate, as bloody as a Vulcan sunset. The scene kept replaying itself before his eyes, over and over again.

  And what about Scotty? Was he all right?

  Were the two of them prisoners as he was, held in some warehouse room like this one? Perhaps just the other side of one of these walls?

  Damn. What was taking Spock so long? Even if McCoy and Scotty had been taken prisoner, there must have been witnesses in that bar. People who had paid some attention to the altercation—who might have recognized Scarface, or heard the Rythrian's name come up.

  Of course there were. But would they come forward? Or would fear of the Rythrian keep them in the shadows?

  And without at least one witness, how would Spock or anyone else know where to look for him?

  His heart sank.

  For the umpteenth time, he tried to loosen the knots that held his wrists. But whoever had tied them had done a good job. All he accomplished was to inflict more pain on himself.

  It was right about then that he heard the scurrying thing—heard its claws ticking against the floor as it darted across the room. A couple of heartbeats later, there were sounds outside the door. Voices.

  The door opened.

  But this time, there was no outpouring of light. It was as lark now outside the room as it was inside.

  The Rythrian came in alone, shut the door behind him. Like all his race, he was tall and slightly awkward—by human standards. And the loose flaps of skin that were his ears seemed to flutter as he walked.

  He came up to Kirk without speaking, lifted the chair that Scarface had sat on, and drew it back a ways from his captive. When he had achieved the distance he required, he put it down. It took a while for him to make himself comfortable in it.

  Kirk's impulse was to speak first, to take the initiative—but he thought better of it. As ignorant as he was, he'd put his foot in his mouth likely as not.

  No, it was the Rythrian's place. Let him open the negotiations.

  After a moment, he did just that.

  "I understand," he said, "that you have decided to divulge your dilithium source."

  "Of course," said the captain. "In time. And under the right circumstances."

  The Rythrian stared at him for a moment. No doubt, it was not the response he had expected.

  "You speak as if you were in a position to bargain."

  "A man with a dilithium source," said Kirk, "is always in a position to bargain. Or so I've been told."

  Again, a pause. Kirk watched his captor, tried to gauge the effect of his remarks. But the Rythrian's expression didn't seem to have changed any.

  "And what sort of circumstances do you seek?" he asked finally.

  "Freedom. The opportunity to complete the deal we made."

  The Rythrian shook his head from side to side, stirring his earflaps.

  "You will be free," he said, "after we confirm your source. Any other arrangement is impossible."

  The scurrying thing made scraping noises where it hid among the crates. The Rythrian appeared not to notice.

  "I don't want to seem suspicious," said Kirk. "But after I tell you my source, what reason will you have to keep me alive? Won't you be tempted to make an example of me—to make sure no one else thinks of deceiving you?"

  "Certainly," said the Rythrian. "But that does not mean I must kill you. All that is required is that I damage you—and he extent of that damage is still largely up to you."

  "And the quickness with which I divulge my source."

  "Precisely. Tell me now, and you may walk again someday. Force me to wait, and …" He let his voice trail off meaningfully.

  "It is not much of a choice," said Kirk.

  "No. But it is more of a choice than you deserve."

  Kirk met his gaze.

  "And if I did give you my source, you're confident that you could establish a relationship with him?"

  The Rythrian shrugged.

  "Why not? Money is money."

  "Is it? Dilithium theft from a Federation mine is a serious crime. It could get a man a dozen long years in a penal colony."

  He let that sink in.

  "My source knows me, trusts me. If someone else approached him, he'd probably suspect an investigation—and disappear as quickly as possible."

  The Rythrian's mouth opened—and stayed open. A sign that he'd gotten his captor's attention?

  "As a result," Kirk pressed, "no source. No dilithium. And no profits."

  The Rythrian snorted—derisively, he thought.

  "And I am to believe you?" he asked. "After you have proven yourself untrustworthy?"

  "That was a mistake," Kirk conceded. "I won't make it again."

  Another snort—perhaps less emphatic than the first?

  "If I let you deceive me twice, it will cause irreparable damage to my reputation. I cannot allow that."

  Kirk felt his case slipping away.

  "Then send along a chaperon," he said, "to keep me honest. Or come along yourself. The more the merrier."

  The longest pause of all.

  "Perhaps," said the Rythrian. "I will think about it."

  And he left.

  Chapter Thirteen

  KIRK ACCEPTED A DOCUMENT from Yeoman Chaney, glanced at it. Something to do with communicator parts. He signed it and handed it back.

  "Thank you, sir," said Chaney.

  "Thank you," said Kirk.

  He sat back in his command chair and surveyed the activity all around him. Uhura coordinating the recall of the crew from Tranktown, Spock taking bio readings of the planet's all-but-uncharted arctic region, Sulu making minute corrections in the ship's orbit.

  It felt right, familiar, down to the almost imperceptible hum of the Enterprise's impulse engines. As if it had been he, and not his human predecessor, who'd logged thousands of hours in this very spot—made thousands of decisions, given thousands of orders.

  The turbolift doors opened behind him, and a moment later Ensign Chekov circumnavigated the bridge. As he took his seat beside Sulu, he shot the helmsman a look of disappointment. Smiling wistfully, Sulu returned it.

  Neither man was happy, of course, at having his shore leave terminated so abruptly. And being only human, they would evidence their displeasure in small ways.

  An android crew, however, would never have exchanged those glances—for there would have been no disappointment to communicate. In fact, there would have been no need for shore leave in the first place.

  "Captain?"

  Kirk swiveled, faced Uhura. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

  "I've been in touch with everyone now. And their coordinates have been relayed to engineering."

  "Thank you," said the android, turning to the next station along the perimeter of the bridge.

  Spock's position, he saw, had not changed. The Vulcan was still bent over his science console, his stony features bathed in a bluish glow.

  "Will you be much longer, Mister Spock?"

  He asked the question as the human Kirk would have asked it—in the form of a good-natured gibe.

  In response, his first officer looked up and straightened a little. Though the interruption must have annoyed him at some level, he gave no hint of it.

  "I have accumulated all the basic information I require," said Spock. "It is not necessary to delay departure on my account. However, I will continue to record additional data until we actually leave orbit—unless the captain has some other duty in mind?"

  "None," Kirk assured him. "Please proceed."

  Without another word, Spock hunched again over his computer screen.

  Now there, Kirk told himself, was a specimen it would be difficult to improve on. One already free from the shackles of emotion, dedicated to the standard of rational behavior.

  Physically, however, he was
nearly as frail as the others. He required food, oxygen, insulation from the cold of space. He could be stricken by disease, irreparably damaged through the use of force. And in time, he would simply die of old age.

  Androids, of course, had no such liabilities.

  Turning forward again, Kirk was reminded of the current situation by the great, green slice of planet on the viewscreen. He depressed the button that would put him in touch with the transporter room.

  "Kyle here," came the response.

  "How's it going down there, Mister Kyle?"

  "No problems, sir. We should be beaming the last group aboard in ten or fifteen minutes."

  "Good," said the android. "Let me know when you're finished, will you?"

  "Aye, sir," said Kyle.

  Kirk pressed the button a second time, ending the conversation.

  "Sir?"

  It was Uhura again. She'd waited for him to finish before she addressed him—as considerate as always.

  He smiled. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

  "A communication from Starbase Three," she said.

  Good. It was about time that he received a message from Starfleet—something he could use as a stalking horse.

  "I'll take it in the briefing room," he told her.

  Uhura looked at him. She knew it was not a priority message—that he could have received it right there on the bridge. But she was too good an officer to question her captain's decisions.

  "Aye, sir. I'll open up a channel."

  As Kirk rose from his command chair, he saw that Spock was looking at him too. Not with suspicion, he thought, but with readiness—in case the captain wanted him to come along.

  But Kirk gave him no indication of that. And by the time he reached the turbolift, Spock was again intent on his computer screen.

  The turbolift was empty, but the corridor that led to the briefing room was not. It was almost time for a change of shifts, and the walkway was crowded with crewmen en route to their various stations.

  He was a little surprised when one young woman came right up to him—obviously for the purpose of speaking with him. She was tall, dark-haired, perhaps a trifle lacking in grace. Her uniform told him that she was an ensign—one assigned to engineering.

  But a rapid scan of his memory files turned up no knowledge of her. No friendship with the captain, no special relationship. Not even a nodding acquaintance.

  "Captain," she began, "I …"

  He held up a hand, cutting her short.

  "I don't mean to be brusque, Ensign, bur I'm on my way to the briefing room. Can this wait?"

  She seemed taken aback, but she recovered quickly. 'Uh … yes," she told him. "Of course, sir."

  "Good." He flashed her a smile and continued down the corridor.

  The briefing room was just a little farther on. When he got there, he pressed his hand against the plate that would only respond to a member of the command staff. If even a detail in one of his fingerprints was appreciably different from his predecessor's, the door would not open.

  But of course, it did.

  Kirk entered, sat. Contacted Uhura.

  "All right, Lieutenant. Ready to receive."

  "Relaying, sir."

  The android had expected to see the face of Admiral Straus, the officer in charge of Starbase Three. Instead, his second-in-command, Commodore Darian, appeared on the screen.

  "Kirk," said the commodore. "Good to see you."

  "Likewise, Commodore."

  "You know," said Darian, "this really wasn't necessary—for us to speak in private, I mean. The admiral just wanted to keep you abreast of the Romulan situation."

  Kirk feigned puzzlement. "Then why did you send a priority message?"

  Darian shook his head. "I didn't."

  The captain grunted. "I'd say it was Uhura's mistake, but she so seldom makes one. I guess I just heard the word 'priority.'" He took a deep breath, exhaled it. "And here I figured that matters had gotten out of hand with the Romulans, and that we were being called to the border."

  "Nothing quite so dramatic," the commodore assured him. "There has been increased activity along the border—as if the Romulans were somehow upping the ante. But—to draw out the metaphor—they still show no signs of laying their cards on the table. Nothing's happened that could clearly be called a hostile action."

  Kirk nodded. "Then my orders, I assume, are the same?"

  "Exactly the same. Remain in the sector. Stay close to the border bur not too close. Except for that, it's business as usual."

  "Duly noted," said the captain.

  "Actually," said the commodore, "I only half expected to find you on the ship. I had a feeling you'd be planetside, enjoying your leave."

  Kirk cleared his throat. "Unfortunately," he said, "I had to cut our leave a bit short."

  Darian's face showed his surprise. "I see." He paused. "Any particular reason?"

  "There was an incident," said the android. "No permanent damage to the participants, as it turns out. But it was enough to sour me on the place." He shrugged. "It'll all be in my report."

  "Of course," said the commodore.

  Kirk didn't like the set of the human's brows. He seemed to be thinking—wondering, perhaps, what kind of incident would have justified such a decision. It seemed necessary to provide a distraction.

  He consulted his file on Commodore Darian, updated with information from Kirk's personal log. It took only a fraction of a second to find something appropriate.

  "But enough of my troubles," said the android. "What's this I hear about a population problem at Starbase Three?"

  It took Darian a moment before he understood what Kirk was talking about. When he finally got it, he smiled tiredly.

  "More boys," he said. "Not one, but two. You'd think after all this time, the law of averages would have snuck a girl in there." He sighed. "What's a progenitor to do?"

  Kirk chuckled. "Give my regards to your wife."

  "I will," said the commodore. "Darian out."

  As the image faded, the android put in a call to Uhura.

  "Aye, sir?"

  "Lieutenant, would you ask Mister Spock to meet me here in the briefing room?"

  "Certainly." A pause. "He's on his way, sir."

  "Thanks, Uhura."

  Silence then. Or not quite silence, for there was always the hum of the ship's engines.

  The Romulans.

  Fortunately, the Captain's Log had described the current situation quite fully. But then, Kirk had been efficient—for a human.

  The Romulans will bear watching, he told himself. They are crafty, shrewd. They are aggressive.

  All alone in the room, he laughed softly to himself.

  To this extent, at least, he thought, I have something in common with the humans—a desire to see their Federation preserved. For if it falls to the Romulans, how can I rule it?

  The irony appealed to him.

  He was still pondering it when the door slid aside for Spock. As the Vulcan entered, the android ordered his facial features.

  "Sit down, Spock," he said.

  With an economy of motion, the first officer pulled out a chair and eased into it.

  "I've just had some disturbing news," said Kirk. Between the captain and Spock, preliminaries would have been a break with custom. "You remember Midos Five?"

  "I could hardly have forgotten," said the Vulcan, "in so short a time. A Class-M planet, uninhabited but for a Federation mining and processing colony." Then, after a moment, "What kind of disturbing news?"

  Kirk scowled. "Apparently, colonists have been disappearing."

  Spock's eyebrow climbed. "Disappearing?"

  The android nodded, still scowling. "People vanishing without a trace. Kidnapped, they say, though it may be worse than that. And no one can seem to figure out how, why or by whom." He paused. "Governor Chewton has called on Starfleet for help—and we've been selected to provide it."

  "I see," said Spock. Nothing more.

  Kirk wonde
red what was going on behind that well-known Vulcan calm. Concern for the colonists? Curiosity as to the cause of the disappearances?

  No matter. It was obvious what Kirk's reaction would be.

  He shook his head. "Damn it—those are good people, Spock. Why do they have such rotten luck? First, that explosion a year back, with all those fatalities. And now something like this." Again, he cursed.

  Spock looked at him. Restraining himself from a comment about luck and its absence from the Vulcan lexicon? Kirk believed so.

  "It is," said the first officer, "most disturbing." Then, when he was certain his captain had finished with him, he rose. "I'll inform Mister Chekov of the course change," he offered.

  "Thank you," said the android. "I appreciate it."

  As Spock departed, he couldn't have seen that Kirk's smile had returned.

  When McCoy opened his eyes, the P'othparan was sitting beside him again.

  "Damn," said the doctor, the thickness of his tongue making it difficult to speak. "Haven't you got anything better to do than watch old bones mend?"

  He looked around, realized that he'd been removed from the critical-care unit. Also, his pain was gone—completely. Which meant that he could stand a lower dosage of painkillers.

  He regarded K'leb.

  "I know," he told him. "Now that our roles are reversed, you want to see what kind of patient I make."

  The youth smiled, surprising the doctor.

  I know he doesn't understand English, he mused. So what's he smiling at? My psychic tone?

  McCoy frowned.

  "Well," he said, "I won't keep you in suspense. I make a lousy patient—as you're about to find out."

  Despite the lack of feeling in his fingers, he found the button that would summon a nurse. He pressed it—probably too hard.

  Christine must have been off duty, because Hwong showed up instead.

  "Problem, sir?" asked the Chinese.

  "I need some water," said McCoy. "My mouth's dry. And adjust the dimorphene input a couple of milliliters—so I can start to reacquaint myself with my nervous system."

  "The water's no problem," said Hwong. "But Doctor M'Benga left strict orders not to adjust the inputs."

  "Blast M'Benga," said McCoy. "This is me talking—and I want the dimorphene turned down."