But Hwong wouldn't be intimidated. "Sorry, sir. As long as you're incapacitated, Doctor M'Benga is in charge." He shrugged apologetically. "I'll go get you some water."
McCoy shook his head from side to side—as much as his restraints would let him.
"I knew they'd turn on me," he told the P'othparan. "First chance they got."
The shush of an entrance door told him that someone had just entered sickbay. A moment later, he saw who it was.
"Well," he said, "if isn't the Pied Piper of Tranktown. Lead any unsuspecting souls into dens of iniquity lately?"
As the captain approached McCoy, he exchanged glances with the P'othparan. The doctor could tell by the expressions on both their faces that the rift between them hadn't gotten any narrower.
"I see that you've got some company already, Bones. I guess I'll find another time to visit."
"Nonsense," said McCoy. "There's no reason I can't have two visitors at once. I'm not that weak, for Pete's sake."
Kirk shook his head. "It wouldn't be fair, Doctor. The young man obviously has dibs on you." Inclining his head slightly in K'leb's direction—a polite good-bye—he started away.
"Not so fast," croaked McCoy, louder than he should have. Thanks to the dimorphene, however, he didn't feel the pain it would otherwise have caused him.
Kirk stopped, frowned—looking for all the world like a trapped animal.
"You're not going anywhere," said the chief medical officer. "This is a prime opportunity for you to get to know K'leb better. To resolve whatever's troubling him once and for all."
The captain sighed. "Please, Bones. Let me take care of that in my own time … in my own way."
What could McCoy say? He cursed under his breath.
"All right, Jim. Do it your way. But for the love of God, do it already!"
The captain nodded. "I will, Bones. I promise." Another quick glance at the P'othparan—and a moment later, he was gone.
"Sheesh," said the doctor. "You'd think that …"
But K'leb was already up out of his seat. He was staring at the entranceway Kirk had just passed through.
"What is it, son?" asked McCoy.
The boy didn't answer. He looked scared, though. Just as scared as he had been in the gym, according to Jim's report.
"K'leb?"
But the boy wasn't responding. His gaze was fixed on that entranceway. And after a couple of quick, shallow breaths, he followed in the captain's footsteps. No word of farewell, nothing.
McCoy grunted, suddenly visitorless. "Boy. It's really feast or famine around here, isn't it?"
As K'leb emerged into the corridor, he looked both ways to make sure the thing was already gone. Thankfully, it was nowhere to be seen.
His blood pumping hard in his temples, he made for the machine that took him from deck to deck. What had K'liford called it? Tur … bo … lift?
Some of the people in the hallway started to hail him, but he shot past them—slipping on a worn spot in the decking in his haste, righting himself with an outflung hand. Ignoring the occasional call that clung to his heels, echoing down the corridor.
When he reached the lift, its doors were just about to close. Lunging, half shoving a female crewman out of his way, he made it inside just in time.
He found himself sharing the lift with three ship's people—one of whom he recognized. Normally, he would have been glad to see Uh'ura. She had a kind face, a pleasantness, a warmth.
But now, all he could think of was finding K'liford. Only he could be made to understand what was wrong. Only he would know what to do about it.
Quickly, he punched the button for the level he wanted. Then he fell back against the wall and locked his eyes on the indicator.
When Uh'ura greeted him, he did not respond. He could nodt. He was too full of dread, too full of knowing to acknowledge anyone or anything else.
And then a terrible question came to mind.
Would K'liford believe him? He hardly believed it himself—hardly believed such a thing was possible. And he had felt it.
The question still plagued him when the lift doors opened. It dogged him as he hurried down the winding hall toward K'liford's cabin.
In the privacy of his quarters—no tiny cubicle, like the one he had occupied on the Hood, but a cabin befitting the status of command—the android sat at his personal workstation and rummaged through file after file. It took him less time than it would have taken a human. Less time, even, than it would have taken a Vulcan. And yet the task seemed to drag on interminably.
Worse—when he was finished, he still hadn't been able to identify the crewman with the pale hair and the bronze skin. Though there were quite a few nonhumans serving on the Enterprise, he was familiar with all their races and their physical characteristics—and none of them matched the description of the being who had been standing at the doctor's side.
The being who had looked at him in that strange way. As if he could see right through me, he thought.
As if he knew me for an impostor.
He had been unprepared for such behavior. It had placed him at a disadvantage. So once he wriggled free of the situation, he came straight back here—to determine the nature of any threat this crewman might represent.
His initial efforts having failed, however, he decided to change tacks. If the being in question was not included in the personnel files, perhaps he was not a crewman after all. Perhaps he was only a guest on the Enterprise, outfitted in ship's togs for one reason or another. And a guest would likely be mentioned in the captain's log.
After a few moments, he found what he was searching for: a reference to a rescue, a beaming up of an injured T'nufan, a stay in the Enterprise's sickbay. More … a problem with local custom, stemming from the rescue. A call to provincial high minister. And a solution to the problem: the rescued one's temporary commission as a Starfleet ensign.
Interesting.
But it did not explain why the T'nufan—K'leb—had looked at him as he had. Was there a particular closeness between K'leb and the captain, perhaps born of the "adopted father" bond? A closeness that had allowed him to somehow see through the android's disguise?
If so, there might be a record of that as well. Kirk tapped in the code for the captain's personal log.
Sure enough, a menu of recent entries included one that concerned the T'nufan. The android brought up the appropriate file, leaned back in his chair, and scanned it.
So. The T'nufan had demonstrated a fear of the human Kirk—though the basis for that fear had not been apparent at the time of the log entry. Nonetheless, it was obvious from the words Kirk had used that he felt some degree of responsibility for K'leb's attitude toward him.
Was that what McCoy had been referring to?
This is a prime opportunity for you to get to know K'leb better. To resolve whatever's troubling him once and for all.
Had the captain's problem with the T'nufan been that widely known?
Apparently so.
Now he understood why K'leb had seemed so repelled by him. It was only his normal reaction to Kirk—nothing more.
Still … he would keep an eye on the T'nufan. His priority, of course, had to be the next phase of his plan—the part that would take place on Midos Five.
But K'leb was a quantity with which he was less than completely familiar—and Kirk didn't like unknown quantities.
Chapter Fourteen
HE WOKE SLOWLY, as if emerging from a great depth.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. Then he moved—and the pain came flooding back to him. Unspeakable pain. He heard himself cry out, shut his eyes against it.
And in that welcome darkness, awareness came flooding back as well.
The brawl. His capture. The Rythrian. The days—how many?—of imprisonment. The gradual incision of his retraining ropes into the flesh of his arms and legs.
After what seemed like a long time, the pain began to subside. He was back in control.
He opened his eyes, saw
a familiar face looming over him. But he managed not to shrink from it, because that would only have stirred the pain of his bonds again. Instead, he took a slow breath, let it out.
It helped steady him, helped clear away some of the cobwebs. Not all, but some.
"Sorry to wake you," said Scarface. "But you and me've ot some travelin' to do."
Kirk peered at him. His eyes were taking a bit too long to focus. The result of his worsening hunger?
"Where are we going?" he asked.
The big man shrugged, turned his head, and spat.
"I thought you wanted to get out of here."
Kirk tried to think. Was it possible the Rythrian had fallen for his ploy? Finally?
He regarded Scarface, looked into his eyes. Saw the anticipation there, the malicious pleasure he couldn't quite conceal.
No. In the end, the Rythrian had decided it was too big a risk. Or maybe that there had never been a dilithium source in the first place. And he'd given the order to have Kirk disposed of.
"I do want to get out of here," said the captain. "But not the way you have in mind."
Scarface grunted. "Smart, aren't you? Too smart for your own damned good."
"And what about you?" asked Kirk. "Are you smart enough to see an opportunity when it stares you in the face?"
The big man shook his head, amused. "So now you want to talk to me. Before, I wasn't good enough."
He smiled, inserting his thick fingers into the space between Kirk's biceps and the rope that bound it.
"I guess I'm not smart at all," he said. "Because the only thing I see staring me in the face is you."
Then he twisted the rope.
It was so bad Kirk thought he might black out. But he did his best not to let it show.
"You know," rasped Scarface, "usually, this is just a job. In your case, though, I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."
Another twist—red, writhing agony. Suddenly, there was sweat on the captain's brow, in his eyes. It stung, and he tried to blink it away.
"I guess," he got out, "that's why you're number two here … instead of number one somewhere else. I'm offering you enough credits to … set you up in your own business. No more … kowtowing to the Rythrian. No more …"
The big man twisted again, and this time it was too much for him. He bellowed as the blood trickled down his arms.
Apparently satisfied, Scarface pulled his fingers free. Left limp by the abrupt absence of pain, Kirk allowed his head to loll forward.
"Now shut up," said the big man. "Just keep that silver tongue in your mouth—and it'll all be over before you know it."
Before the captain knew what was happening, Scarface had come around behind him and lifted him up, chair and all. With each jostling step toward the door, Kirk's agony reawakened. Waves of nausea washed over him.
He cursed between clenched teeth. This can't be happening, he told himself. I knew I'd buy it someday, but I thought it'd be for a reason. A cause. Not because I've been mistaken for some small-time con man.
At the threshold, he tried to twist his foot around to lodge it against the door jamb. But the big man must have seen it, because the captain's boot only grazed the wood.
"You're just full of tricks," said Scarface. "But they don't get you very far, do they?" He laughed.
Outside, it was night again, half-choked with fog. There was an old-style truck backed up almost to the door, and Kirk could see through its open gates that it didn't have a stick of cargo in it.
He got a glimpse of low, dark buildings—some kind of warehouse district, as he'd guessed earlier—before the big man shoved him inside. A moment later, the gates slammed closed, and he was plunged into inky blackness.
Kirk heard the engine start up, felt the lurch as the vehicle began to move. The sweat was cold as it dried on his brow.
A way out. There has to be a way out.
Creaking noises. A surge of power as the truck gathered speed. The crunching sound of shifting gears.
Has to be.
Suddenly, the floor listed, and for a moment Kirk felt himself balanced on two chair legs. Then, just as he thought he would tip over, the chair righted itself. The impact of its landing sent a jolt straight up his spine, dragged his ropes through the furrows of his wounds.
He'd hardly unclenched his teeth when it happened again. The same moment of precariousness, the same jarring shock as the chair hit the floor foursquare. The same network of fire consuming him.
But the rocking had produced another result as well. For he was aware of a looseness now around his ankle, a leeway of an inch or so. He tested it, to work free of his bonds even more.
Nothing. After a while, his foot cramped and he had to stop.
Easy. Just be patient.
He waited for the listing to occur again, waited long moments. It seemed that the truck had found an even stretch of road, however. The ride was almost gentle now.
All right—then I'll do my own rocking, he resolved. And despite the terrific pain it cost him, he began to swing his weight from side to side.
At first, he could barely get the chair to move. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, it tilted a little and slammed down again. Tilted and slammed down. The base of his spine took a beating, but he kept at it.
He thought he felt the ropes beginning to loosen around his other ankle, but he didn't dare stop to gauge his progress. If he did, he feared, he wouldn't have the gumption to start over again. His ropes sliced his already lacerated flesh, sending blood running down his arms in rivulets.
And then he swung just a little too hard. He knew it even before he had reached the point of no return—but it was too late to do anything about it. The chair teetered on its two legs, swung around a little, and came crashing down sideways against the floor.
Kirk whimpered with the pain, tried to bite it back, and couldn't. Tears came to his eyes.
"Damn," he said out loud, seething with frustration.
The sound of his own voice steadied him. Once again, he tried to assess his situation.
There was a throbbing in his temple, and a wetness where it pressed into the floorboards. Apparently, he'd struck his head in his fall—and hadn't even felt it at the time.
Good thinking, Kirk, he told himself. You broke your fall with the part that was most expendable.
But when he attempted to move his feet, he found that he had accomplished something after all. Not only had the ropes around his ankles taken on some slack—the ropes above them had loosened too, all the way up to his knees. He could move each of his feet three or four inches away from their respective chair legs.
Now—how to take advantage of this? I guess rocking is out of the question now, he mused, It almost made him want to laugh.
Perhaps if he could use one foot to scrape the bonds off the other …
The captain had begun to try when the truck started jostling again—worse than before, much worse. The vibration of rough passage pounded through the floor into the bones of his head.
It meant that they had turned off the main road—that the longest part of their journey had been completed. And more than likely, judging from the intensity of each jerk, they were coming close to whatever secluded area Scarface had selected as Kirk's last resting place.
He resumed scraping, this time with a little more urgency. Nor did the lack of light help matters any, forcing him to work by sense of touch alone.
Despite his best efforts, it was some time before he managed to push a restraining loop over his heel and down the length of his foot. But once he had done it, it made the freeing of his other foot that much easier.
Then he put his newfound mobility to good use. First, he turned himself around so that he lay with his back parallel to one of the truck's long walls—though still on his side. Next, he forced himself toward the back of the cargo compartment.
It didn't even hurt that much. Since he'd toppled over, the circulation had gradually cut off in his arms—so that the pain h
e would normally have felt was reduced to a distant heat.
In fact, awkward as it was scuttling around like a damaged crab, he took pleasure in it. After sitting bound for so long, it was good to move at all.
When he reached the twin gates, he swung nearly a hundred and eighty degrees around again. And with all the force he could muster, he kicked at the doors.
They shuddered, but they held. He kicked again, and this time, he thought, it seemed as if he might have dislodged the rusted casings of the deadbolt that held them closed.
On the other hand, those casings might not have been as rusted as they seemed when Scarface thrust him in here.
He went on kicking, hoping that the big man couldn't hear the racket from up front. And finally, with an earsplitting shriek, one of the gates opened partway.
It was enough to show Kirk a slice of fog-enshrouded jungle—but not much more. He braced himself for another round of battering.
But it was too late—for that, and for anything else. With a hiss of air brakes, the truck ground to a halt.
No! I was so close, almost there …
Gears shifted, and the truck rolled backward for a moment. Then it stopped again and the engine shut off.
Kirk's heart was beating against his ribs like a caged animal. He heard the door of the cab crank open, heard the splotch of footfalls against soft, wet earth.
Through the slot between the gates, he could make out a clearing—no, not just a clearing. It was a bog of some sort. And its purpose was painfully clear.
He means to dump me in it.
No remains, no evidence. No loose ends to worry about afterward.
There was a metallic taste in his mouth, the taste of fear. Of hope gone sour.
He rebuked himself. Get a grip, damn it. You're still alive, aren't you? There's still a chance. There's always a chance. . . .
Kirk forced himself to stay calm while Scarface made his way around the truck. A few seconds later, the deadbolt slid aside. As the gate he'd been pounding on began to swing aside, he drew his feet back.
When he saw his captor's face, he lashed out.
But the big man saw it coming just in time. And he leaned back far enough so that Kirk's boots only grazed his jaw.
Double, Double Page 14