Kaith puffed judiciously on his pipe. "So you're saying that it's a case of mistaken identity."
The captain nodded, though it hadn't quite been a question.
"It's a good thing for you," said the blond man, "that I've no great love for the Rythrian. Otherwise I might have been convinced to turn you over." There was a crinkling at the corners of his eyes—signifying a joke?
"I need to talk with the portmaster," said Kirk.
The man's fine, silvery brows lifted. "Really?" He grunted. "But we haven't finished our talk yet." His free hand straying to his phaser, he gazed expectantly at the captain.
Kirk understood. He had hoped to divulge his identity to the portmaster alone—but it seemed he had little choice in the matter.
"My name," he said, "is Kirk. James T. Kirk. Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise—the Federation vessel now in orbit around your planet."
Kaith had no immediate reaction to the statement. But he also didn't take a puff of his pipe for a while.
"There is no Federation ship in orbit," he said finally. "At least, not anymore."
Kirk felt a trickle of ice water collect in the small of his back. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"I mean," said the man, "that she's gone. Days ago. And there was no word from her about a missing captain."
Kirk's mind raced. Could the man be lying? He had no reason to—or none that was readily apparent, anyway.
But why would Spock take the ship out of orbit? And so quickly that there hadn't even been time for him to notify the authorities of the captain's disappearance?
Unless Starfleet Command had required it—because the Romulan situation had suddenly gotten way out of hand.
It was possible. But it would have taken a while to recall the crew from Tranktown. Surely, in that time, Spock could have informed someone that Kirk was missing.
It didn't make sense.
"You want to stick with that story?" asked the blond man.
Kirk frowned. "I am who I say I am." He leaned back, still trying to fit the pieces together. "If you don't believe me, you can check my voice pattern against the print in the portmaster's records."
Kaith got up, crossed the room to a small computer workstation against the wall. Quickly, he punched up the required data.
"Do you want me to speak now?" asked the captain. "So you can compare?"
Still studying the screen, the blond man shook his head. "Not necessary. Our entire conversation was recorded." After a moment. he looked up at Kirk.
"They match," said the captain.
"So it would seem," said Kaith, a hint of respect having crept into his voice.
"Then perhaps you'll let me see the portmaster now. If the Enterprise is gone, I'll need help in finding another ship to get me to her."
The blond man chuckled.
Kirk sighed. So even this is going to be difficult.
"Did I say something funny?" he asked.
The man nodded. "In a way, yes. You see, I am the portmaster."
The captain regarded him in the light of this new information.
Why not? he mused. He's not what one might expect in a portmaster—but then, Tranktown's not your usual port.
"Will you help me then?" he asked Kaith.
The blond man considered him for a moment.
"I don't see any reason not to," he said at last. And puffed expansively on his pipe.
Martinez swiveled in his command chair.
"Well, Mister Paultic?"
"I've done it, sir. I've made contact on one of the low-frequency bands." His brow screwed up a little as he listened. "The call's from a vessel called the Rheingold, sir. Freighter class."
"Are they in trouble?" asked the captain. He wondered if the Romulans had made their move at long last.
"Doesn't sound like it," said the communications officer. He paused, intent. "The transmission's not very clear, sir, but I think they're saying they have Starfleet personnel on board."
"Starfleet personnel … ?" began Stuart.
"No—that's not quite right," said Paultic. "They have news of Starfleet personnel. Yes—news. It's coming in a little clearer now."
"Can you establish visual contact?" asked Martinez.
"I'll try, sir," said Paultic. He made the necessary adjustments with admirable skill—for a human—and a few moments later the forward viewscreen filled with an image.
Even with all the interference scrolling from one end of the monitor to the other, it was obvious that the personage on the other end didn't miss too many meals. It was a frailty of which no android could be accused. Indeed, it would disappear with all other frailties when the androids made Doctor Korby's vision a reality.
"Captain Wilhelm Grundfest," said the obese figure, "of the Rheingold. To whom … the pleasure?"
"This is Captain Martinez of the U.S.S. Hood. Your transmission seems to be meeting with some interference. Do we understand correctly that you have some news about Starfleet personnel?"
"Yes … news," said Grundfest. "… a Captain James T. Kirk? Of the U.S.S. Enterprise?"
The mention of that name caught Martinez off guard—but of course, he didn't show it. Instead, he took stock of his bridge crew, noted gratefully that the entire shift was made up of androids—except for Paultic.
"What about Captain Kirk?" he asked.
The freighter captain smiled, his eyes sinking behind the mounds of his cheeks. "… currently a guest of the portmaster … Tranquillity Seven. While I regret … not explain the circumstances of his being there … he wishes very much to be reunited with his ship. And of course, as … the Federation, I agreed to carry the message … we net either the Enterprise itself or another Federation vessel."
Martinez nodded. "I see."
And so he did. The situation was rapidly taking on shape and texture for him.
The android Kirk would never have sent such a message—nor, for that matter, allowed it to go out if he could have prevented it.
Somehow, the real Kirk—the human Kirk—had survived the trap set for him by his counterpart. And finding his ship gone—the android having at least been successful in that—he had arranged for help.
How many vessels like the Rheingold carried his message? And how long would it be before one of them found another Federation starship?
How much longer after that before word reached Starfleet Command? Before someone began to wonder how Jim Kirk could be on Tranquillity Seven and on the Enterprise at the same time?
Martinez saw his concern mirrored in the face of his first officer. They exchanged knowing glances.
"… only too glad to be of service to the great Federation of Planets," continued Grundfest. "I have always … utmost respect for your diligence in … spaceways open for honest businessmen … myself."
"Yes," said Martinez. "Of course. Thank you for your assistance."
"… welcome," said the freighter captain.
In the next instant, his image faded.
As soon as it was gone, Martinez turned to his navigator.
"Bodrick, set a course for Tranquillity Seven." He leaned back in his command chair. "I want to get to the bottom of this."
"Shall I inform Starfleet that we are leaving our position?" asked Paultic.
"No," said the captain. "That won't be necessary, Lieutenant. I don't intend to be gone for very long."
He punched up security section on the panel by his armrest.
"Simmons here," came the answer.
"Mister Simmons, meet me in the briefing room," said Martinez. "It seems we've got an unusual situation on our hands."
"Aye, sir," said the security chief. "I'm on my way."
Martinez ended the conversation with a poke of his forefinger. He stood, making eye contact again with his first officer.
"Mister Stuart, I'd like to see you as well. Mister Banks, you have the conn."
As Martinez made his way to the turbolift, his first officer in tow, Banks slipped into the command chair.
> * * *
"I don't know," said the android replica of Joaquin Martinez. "But we must get to him before anyone else does."
Simmons nodded. "Yes. That much is clear."
"And then what?" asked Stuart. "We certainly can't allow him to live. If Starfleet gets word that Kirk is on this ship—when he's officially in command of the Enterprise—the entire revolution will be placed in jeopardy."
Martinez nodded. "Kirk must die. Of course. But not right away. First, we need to determine the extent to which our leader's plan failed."
"Also, how much he knows," added Simmons. "And how much of that knowledge he has imparted to others."
"That shouldn't take very long to discover," said Stuart. He looked at the captain. "The human Martinez and Kirk rained together at Starfleet Academy, did they not?"
Martinez nodded. "They knew each other well enough for Kirk to confide in him. It should be a simple matter to find but what we need to know."
"And following that, an equally simple matter to dispose of him," said Simmons. He paused. "Who among the humans knows of Kirk's situation?"
"Paultic," said the captain. "So far, no one else."
"And no one else needs to know," remarked Stuart. "We can beam Kirk on board without resorting to help from the humans. Even present him with the honor guard due a visiting commander, so as not to arouse his suspicion—there are enough officers among us to carry it off."
"I'll make sure the corridors between the transporter area and his cabin are clear when he arrives," said Simmons. "So that no one else can say they saw him. Then, we can claim he never made it through the transporter—a malfunction."
"And I will deal with Paultic," said Stuart. "I'll tell him hat this has turned out to be a matter that demands secrecy." He frowned slightly. "It's too bad that we can't risk the death of another officer so soon after Vedra's."
Simmons grunted in agreement.
Martinez took in the other androids' comments, mulled them over. He required no more than a moment.
"Yes," he said. "That is how it will be done. Simply—and quickly. And when it's over, we'll blame it on transporter failure."
He got up, eyed his fellow officers.
"See to the preparations," he said.
Chapter Seventeen
THE MIDAN WILDERNESS was wild, rough-cut and green, though it had little in the way of trees. Like most regions rich in coridium and phalachite, vegetable life was mostly restricted to ground cover.
Which was just as well, Spock told himself, attending to his magnification screen. It would be difficult enough to search this irregular terrain without the additional obstacle of forestation.
At the controls of the shuttlecraft, Ensign Chekov did his best to keep them steady in winds that had proven both savage and fickle. But every now and then, the Columbus pitched this way or that, eliciting groans from the other five humans on board.
Or four of them, anyway—Nurse Chapel and security officers Paikert, Wood, and Silverman. The captain, on the other hand, had so far displayed remarkable fortitude in that regard.
"We are approaching the fifty-mile perimeter," said Chekov. "Shell I head east or west, sir?"
"Try west," said Kirk, frowning as he peered into his own magnifier at the rear of the cabin.
"West it is," said the Russian, making the necessary adjustments. A second later, the Columbus began to describe a tight arc as it swung around some ninety degrees. At the same time, the bottom seemed to drop out of the air currents sustaining them, and they fell a good ten feet before the shuttlecraft stabilized.
More groans.
"Mister Chekov," said the captain, "I know it's difficult, but try to take those turns a little easier."
Nurse Chapel chuckled a little, despite her discomfort.
"Sorry," said the navigator. "The controls seem a little tight, sir—but it'll be smoother next time."
"Thanks," said Kirk.
Spock concentrated on the jumbled landscape that crawled beneath them. They seemed to be approaching an area of higher ground. He could make out at least one waterfall in the distance, warped by the bending of light at the edge of his screen.
"The terrain," he said out loud, "is growing more mountainous here." He looked up only long enough to glance at the captain. "That invites the possibility of caverns."
As if he had felt the Vulcan's gaze on him, Kirk looked up too. "Good," he said. "Then maybe we're on the right track here." And he turned his attention back to the magnifier even before Spock did.
Soon, they had come close enough to the waterfall to see that it was not one cascade, but three. Rising, they negotiated the cliffs from which the waters spilled, saw the white-churned rivers that were the source of the phenomenon.
"Captain," said Paikert, "I can take a turn there if you like. With all due respect, sir, you've been at that thing for hours. And my eyes haven't done any work at all."
Kirk seemed to hesitate before he responded.
"All right," he said finally. Spock heard the sounds of his moving away from the magnification station. "Give it a shot, Mister Paikert."
Spock received no such offer of relief. But then, he hadn't expected one. He had made it plain enough on other occasions that he preferred to see a job through to its end—no matter how long and difficult that job might be. And since he never allowed the strain to show, no one ever believed he was straining at all.
The indicator on the communications board lit up, accompanied by an insistent beeping. Wood, the closest one to it, picked up the speaker unit and handed it to the captain.
"Kirk here. Come in, Sulu."
"Just reporting in as you asked," said the helmsman, his voice only slightly garbled thanks to the boosting of the radio signal. "We haven't been having much luck here in the Galileo II. How about you, sir?"
"Nothing yet," said the captain. "But the day is still young. Keep looking, Lieutenant. Kirk out."
He handed the speaker back to Wood, and the security officer replaced it in its bracket.
Nurse Chapel sighed, leaned back against a bulkhead. Spock watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was smiling slightly, but not in the manner of one who has cause to be glad. Rather, it was what a human might have called a brave smile.
"I just hope," she said abruptly, "that these people are alive when we find them. I really do."
For a while, no one said anything.
Of course not. What was there to say? Despite the assurances that they had given the governor's committee, what were the odds of finding any of the victims alive?
After all, there was no possibility of financial gain here. Whatever confused hatred or longing had led someone to the crime of abduction might easily lead him—if it was a him—to other crimes as well. Murder was no more than a logical conclusion.
The cliffs receded behind them. The rivers twisted away; bare patches of dark stone appeared among the green flanks of the hills. And then, suddenly, the land fell away again.
A broad valley, with its own cascades and a shining flood at the bottom of it. Chekov dropped them down so they could get a better look at it.
What troubled Spock, however, went beyond the abductor's motivation and the likelihood of murder. There was something wrong, he felt, about this entire mission.
Was it the inexplicable delay between the Midans' call for help and their receipt of the message from Starfleet? Perhaps. Yes. But not that alone.
Spock prided himself on logic, not intuition. Every day of his adult life, he'd fostered the one at the expense of the other.
But it was intuition that called to him now. As if a truth were lurking just around the next corner, and all he had to do was peer around that corner to find it.
Of course, he mused. One might as well ask a le matya to fly.
The shuttlecraft tipped to starboard as Chekov fought the unpredictable air currents. Below, the valley lurched.
"I'm doing my best," said the Russian, before any of his passengers could utter
a complaint.
A moment later, the Columbus righted itself. By then, however, they were coming up to the far slope, and Chekov had to pull their nose up to clear it.
Spock scanned the escarpment, but there was nothing remarkable about it. No caves, no signs of human existence.
The shuttlecraft climbed past the top of the slope, giving them a magnificent view of the land beyond. It was a confusion of undulating ridges, separated by ravines of various depths. Once, apparently, this area had been host to a network of rivers; only a few still flowed.
"Uh-oh," said Chekov.
"What's the matter?" asked the captain.
"Pressure's dropping outside, sir. I think thet we're in for a storm soon. End you know how quickly the weather ken change in this vilderness."
"Yes," said Kirk. "I remember." He grunted. "All right. If it looks bad, we'll put down. But let's cover as much ground as we can until then."
"Aye, Keptain," said the navigator.
A glint of light—or was it Spock's imagination? He strained to see it again, but to no avail. And their course was now taking them farther from the area where the flash seemed to have originated.
"Captain," he said, "I request a change of course—ninety-five degrees to starboard."
Kirk leaned forward. "Have you got something, Spock?"
The Vulcan met his gaze. "I cannot say for certain," he noted. "But I believe I saw a reflection—in an area seemingly devoid of surface water."
The captain nodded. "That's good enough for me," he said. "Bring her about, Mister Chekov."
With surprising grace and fluidity, the Columbus wheeled on the air currents. It was only at the very end of her maneuver that they seemed to hit a little bump.
"Much better," said Chapel.
"You're welcome," responded Chekov.
It took a while before Spock found the glint again—but this time there was no mistaking it. The angle of the sun confirmed that it was a reflection, and probably not an independent light source.
"There it is," shouted Paikert, a fraction of a second later. "Just off the port bow."
"Indeed," confirmed Spock.
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