Double, Double

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Realization devolved upon him almost too fast for him to sort it out.

  "What if Martinez and Stuart found something valuable down there on Exo III? And they wanted to keep it for themselves—or split it with those geologists—without the Federation ever finding out it existed?"

  "And then someone stumbled onto their plan," said Chin, her voice strangely stiff and emotionless now. "Someone like Vedra."

  "They would have had to get rid of her," said Paultic.

  But the doctor shook her head suddenly—as if she were trying to bring herself out of a trance.

  "No," she said. "What about Banks? He was down there with them on Exo III. Martinez detests him. He would never have involved himself in a scheme alongside Banks—never have allowed himself to become dependent on Banks' goodwill."

  Paultic swallowed. "Doc, things are different between them now. I used to catch them glaring at each other all the time—but not anymore. Just before, when the captain left the bridge, he turned the conn over to Banks. And it's not the first time that's happened since we left Exo III—though I would've called it pretty farfetched before that."

  Chin took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Do you know what we're talking about here, Lieutenant? What we're accusing our captain of?" She counted the charges off on her fingers. "Conspiracy. Treason. Murder."

  He nodded, suddenly aware of a weakness in his knees. "I know. And we don't know how far it goes—or who's in on it."

  "Vedra would have called it all speculation," said the doctor. "Wild speculation." She massaged a temple with two fingers. "Perhaps Martinez and the others have a perfectly good explanation for all this."

  Paultic smiled a bitter smile. "And perhaps not."

  She looked at him soberly. "And perhaps not," she repeated. Then she drew herself up and leaned forward over her desk. "In any case, we must have evidence before we can make any formal charges."

  "Then we'll have to get some," he told her.

  "Agreed. And in the meantime, I'll stay on top of this Kirk affair. Doctors have certain privileges, and I mean to exercise them."

  He held out his hand.

  "Thanks for listening, Doc."

  She took the proffered hand, surprising him with two things—the firmness of her grasp and the iciness of her skin.

  I guess, he told himself, she's as scared as I am.

  * * *

  It wasn't that Kaith was such a bad host. In point of fact, Kirk had come to appreciate his dry, unexpected wit. And he had turned out to be a formidable chess player in the bargain.

  It was just that the waiting had begun to get to him. He couldn't leave the spaceport; he couldn't even venture out of the portmaster's office for fear of being spotted.

  True, his accommodations were spacious in comparison to his quarters on the Enterprise—but they still felt confining. It was one thing to live in a closet, out there in the infinite reaches of space—and quite another to dwell in even the most sumptuous planetbound palace.

  One thing the waiting did, however, was give him time to heal. The cruel wounds left by his bonds responded to the salves Kaith had given him. Soon, there were only thin red scars, which would likely fade to nothing.

  Unfortunately, it also gave him time to think. And thinking inevitably led to worry.

  If the Enterprise's abrupt departure had been caused by the Romulans, the situation must have been about to break wide open. Which meant a brief and deadly confrontation, rather than a prolonged jockeying for position.

  By now, certainly, the conflict must have been resolved—one way or the other. Then why hadn't the ship returned for him? Why hadn't Spock brought it back to Trank Seven?

  The possibilities made him shudder.

  And then, after he had been Kaith's guest for more than a week, word came that there was a ship on its way to pick him up.

  "No," said the portmaster, aware of Kirk's disappointment. "It's not the Enterprise. But it is a Federation vessel, and it'll get you a lot closer to the Enterprise."

  "Did you catch its name?" he asked.

  The blond man nodded. "The Hood. Commanded by one Joaquin Martinez." He must have seen something in Kirk's face then, because he added: "Do you know him?"

  The captain nodded. "We went to school together."

  "Good," said Kaith, pausing for a moment to light his pipe. "Then perhaps you'll be able to get some of those answers you're looking for."

  Kirk grunted. "Perhaps I will."

  Chapter Nineteen

  "DOCTOR MCCOY?"

  McCoy, who had only been recalibrating the tricoders anyway—a tedious task, even for someone restricted to light duty—turned eagerly to see who'd called his name.

  Clifford was standing with K'leb at the entrance to sickbay, awaiting the chief medical officer's acknowledgment. The crewman looked a little fidgety, as if he were uncomfortable about something.

  "If you're not busy, sir," he said, "we'd like to have a word with you."

  We?

  McCoy grunted, swiveling on his stool. "Well," he said, "don't just stand there, you two. Come in and take a load off your feet."

  Clifford looked grateful. "Thank you, sir."

  He gestured to the P'othparan and they approached together, taking the pair of empty stools to McCoy's left.

  "All right, then," said the doctor. "Now, is this an official matter—or a personal one?"

  Clifford frowned. K'leb just looked from one to the other of them, his eyes darting like insects trapped under glass.

  "It's … both," said the crewman. "In a way, that is." He shrugged. "Depending on how you look at it."

  McCoy couldn't help but smile.

  "Son," he advised, "if you've got something to say, come out and say it."

  But the crewman's frown only deepened. "It's hard to know—" he started to say, then stopped himself—as if his resolve had suddenly stiffened in midsentence.

  He looked the doctor in the eye. "Sir, K'leb thinks that Captain Kirk isn't Captain Kirk. He says that the Captain Kirk on the bridge now is … an impostor."

  McCoy wasn't quite sure what he'd expected to hear—but that certainly wasn't it.

  "An impostor?" he echoed, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice entirely. "What gives him that impression?"

  As if he understood the question, the P'othparan fashioned a rapid-fire answer. Of course, the doctor had no idea what he was talking about.

  He looked to Clifford for help.

  "K'leb says," offered the crewman, "that he can feel inside the captain. And that there's nothing there."

  "You mean," said McCoy, "that he doesn't feel any affection from the captain. Any warmth."

  Clifford shook his head. "No. That's how it sounded to me too, at first. But K'leb means something else. He's saying that there's nothing inside the captain. Nothing at all." He paused. "Before, he says, there was something there. It wasn't affection, as you say. But it was something."

  McCoy regarded Clifford, then the boy. "Before?" he asked, still disinclined to take this too seriously. After all, empathy was such a subjective talent. And K'leb had some justifiable reasons for resenting Jim Kirk—which certainly could have colored his perceptions. "Before what?"

  Clifford glanced at the P'othparan. "Before the captain beamed down for shore leave." He turned to McCoy again. "He says that the person he met in sickbay—when you were recuperating, after you'd just come back—wasn't the captain." He licked his lips. "In fact, according to K'leb, that wasn't a person at all."

  McCoy looked at him askance. "Not a person, you say? Then what?"

  Clifford looked miserable saying it. "A demon, sir. At least, that's the way it translates."

  The doctor started to make a joke out of it, stopped himself. Judging from their expressions, he didn't think either Clifford or K'leb would have appreciated it.

  "A demon," he echoed.

  The crewman nodded.

  "I see," said McCoy. "And what about you, Mister Clifford? What do you thi
nk of all this?"

  Clifford shrugged. "It's a little hard to believe. In fact, I'd say it was nonsense altogether … if it wasn't coming from K'leb." He glanced again at the P'othparan. "As you know, I've spent a lot of time with him, breaking down his language for input into the translator system. And what I've seen … his empathic abilities are amazingly accurate, sir. Not raw, as you might expect, but—well, polished. Sharpened to a fine point."

  McCoy folded his arms across his chest. "All right," he said. "Let's put those abilities to the test." He regarded the boy. "What am I feeling now?"

  Clifford relayed the question. K'leb nodded once, then replied without hesitation.

  "He says," the crewman translated, "that you are skeptical, for the most part. But also the least bit afraid—because you're starting to wonder if he could possibly be on to something."

  It was true—all of it. And after the exactness of K'leb's analysis, the cracks in his skepticism were widening.

  The doctor snorted. "All right," he said. "I'll look into it." And even as he said this, he thought of the way to approach he matter. "The captain owes me a physical, anyway, and it's high time he took it. If there's anything different about him, I'll know it soon enough."

  He smiled wryly at K'leb. "Satisfied?"

  Clifford translated, and the P'othparan nodded. But he didn't smile back.

  "Good," said McCoy. "Then get out of here. I've still got a heap of tricorders to work over."

  The crewman rose, and K'leb along with him.

  "Thank you, sir," said Clifford.

  "Don't mention it."

  McCoy watched them go for a moment. Then he got up and went over to the intercom.

  A flick of the toggle switch activated it. And it took but a press of a button to connect him with the bridge.

  "McCoy to Captain Kirk," he said into the grating.

  There was a sharp click, and the captain's voice came over the intercom circuits.

  "I'm a little busy now, Bones. Can we talk later?"

  "Sorry, Jim," said the doctor. "You've put this off long enough. Our bet was two weeks, not two years."

  The captain seemed to hesitate.

  "Jim? You still there?"

  "Of course, Bones. I'm just a little preoccupied with the search."

  "Well, you're not doing any good up here anyway. So why don't you hightail it down to sickbay and get it over with?"

  Another long pause.

  "I don't think so, Bones. I really am busy."

  McCoy grunted. "Look," he said, "you're always going to be busy with one thing or another. Now, are you going to come down here willingly, or do I have to pull rank?"

  "Rank?" repeated the captain. "Why? Do you think I'm unfit for duty, Doctor?"

  "How am I supposed to know," asked McCoy, "until you take your blasted physical?"

  The longest pause of all.

  "Tell you what," came the response. "As soon as I come back from planetside, I'll turn myself in."

  "Planetside? But you just beamed back up."

  "I know. And I'm finding it very difficult to sit here when there are people disappearing down there. I'm going back down."

  McCoy found himself frowning. "All right," he said. "But as soon as you set foot on the Enterprise again, I expect you to make a beeline for sickbay. And that, my friend, is an order."

  "I hear you, Bones. Kirk out."

  The doctor leaned away from the intercom and the wall. He had a queasy feeling in his stomach that hadn't been there before.

  "Nah," he muttered out loud. Then, again, "Nah."

  Suddenly, he was gripped by another sensation—that he was not alone there in sickbay. That there was someone else, standing just beyond the edge of peripheral vision. Listening.

  He whirled.

  And started when he saw the tall, slim figure in the shadows.

  But in the next moment, recognition colored his perception. He felt a flush of embarrassment climb into his cheeks.

  "Damn it," he rumbled. "Don't ever sneak up on me, Christine."

  The nurse smiled apologetically. "Sorry, Doctor. I didn't mean to frighten you."

  McCoy turned away to hide the heat in his face. "You didn't frighten me. You just … surprised me."

  "Then I'm sorry I surprised you," she amended.

  He looked at her. "What are you doing back here, anyway? I thought you were going to stick it out until the search was over?"

  Christine shrugged. "It looks like it's going to take longer than I thought. The captain decided I'd be more valuable up here."

  The captain.

  McCoy sighed. The queasy feeling had returned.

  "Are you all right?" asked Christine.

  He shrugged. "Did you see the pair I was talking with before?"

  The nurse shook her head. "No. I was at the computer—catching up on what happened while I was gone."

  He went over to one of the stools, plunked himself down on it. "Clifford and K'leb were in here just now. It seems that K'leb, with his empathic talents, thinks the captain's an impostor. That the fellow up on the bridge now is someone posing as the captain."

  Christine looked as doubtful as he must have looked earlier. "It sounds a little farfetched," she said.

  "That's right," said the doctor. "It does." He felt himself frowning again. "But I told them I'd check into it. And I did—just now. I called the captain down for that physical he's been trying to duck."

  "And?" asked Christine.

  "He ducked it again. Said he was going back down to Midos Five—to lead the search."

  Her smile gained in enthusiasm. "Sounds like the captain to me," she said.

  McCoy shook his head. "I'm not so sure."

  "What do you mean?" asked the nurse.

  "It didn't sound like the captain. The words were right, but the way he came out with them …" He tried to recall the conversation objectively. "When I referred to our bet, and then to the physical, he seemed to hesitate—as if he didn't know what I was talking about." He paused, remembering. "And then, after I made it clear I was referring to the physical … that's when he told me he was beaming down again. As if he'd made that decision right then and there."

  Christine seemed caught between laughter and sobriety. "Doctor," she said, "you know how gullible I am. If this is a joke …"

  He shook his head, more insistently than before. "No, Christine. No joke. I may be way off base here, but it's definitely not a joke."

  "Then you think," she said, "that there really is an impostor—pretending to be the captain?"

  He took a deep breath, blew it out. "I think," he said, "that it's a possibility."

  For a moment, she just stood there, looking at him. Appearing to absorb his seriousness.

  Then her air of easy optimism returned to her. "Well," she said, "until we find out one way or the other, I'm starved. I think I'll try to scare up some dinner."

  "Bon appétit," said McCoy.

  As she left sickbay, he returned to his work on the tricorders. Unfortunately, they hadn't recalibrated themselves while his attention was elsewhere.

  It only occurred to him later that Christine hadn't asked him to join her. But then, he told himself, she might have preferred more cheerful conversation with her meal.

  "Are you sure?" DeLong asked.

  "That's what I heard," said Critelli. "And I was right there on the bridge, standing not three feet from him. Waiting for him to sign the damned requisition order already."

  "And he said he was beaming down again?"

  "Absolutely. Without a doubt." He looked at her, his dark eyes questioning. "Why? What makes this so important to you, anyway?"

  DeLong shrugged, perhaps a bit too quickly. "I don't know—I thought maybe I'd volunteer to go with him."

  Critelli smiled disbelievingly. "You're kidding, right? You want to spend your time in one of those cramped, little shuttlecraft, straining your neck to pick out some tiny glitch a hundred feet below? Eating in it, sleeping in it—getti
ng bounced around at the mercy of those mountain winds?"

  She grunted. "When you put it that way, how can a girl resist?"

  "Great," he said. "Then you'll be free next tour of duty? To show me how you use those dallis'karim?"

  DeLong shook her head. "Maybe some other time. By then I hope to be straining my neck in one of those cramped, little shuttlecraft."

  Leaving Critelli openmouthed, she strode down the corridor in the direction of the transporter room. Her footfalls echoed from bulkhead to bulkhead.

  It had been foolish of her to try to arrange a—a what? a rendezvous? a date?—with the captain while he was rushing from one duty to the next. Especially right after what had happened to Doctor McCoy, and in the middle of the crew's recall from Tranktown.

  But if she could wangle a berth beside him on one of the shuttlecraft … spend some time with him, get him to know her better …

  There was no guarantee, of course. But he had shown at least a spark of affection when he apologized to her for the incident in the gym. Not to mention respect—even admiration.

  The doors to the transporter room parted and she saw Chief Kyle standing over the console. He barely looked up when she came in, intent as he was on fine-tuning the controls.

  "Denise," he said. "What brings you here, love?"

  "I heard that the captain was beaming down again. I wanted to go along this time."

  Kyle shrugged. "Well, you heard right. But he's not Kyle shrugged. "Well, you heard right. But he's not leaving for a little while yet." He finished setting one of the dials and raised his head. "But if I were you, I wouldn't wait here to join the expedition. He can't very well dismiss someone else at the last moment to make room for you."

  She nodded. "Do you have any idea where he is now? The captain, I mean?"

  "Don't know for sure," said Kyle, returning to his work. "But I wouldn't be surprised if he was in his quarters. I'd want to freshen up a little before I subjected myself to the confines of a shuttlecraft."

  She had to smile. "Thanks, Chief."

  "Think nothing of it," said Kyle, glaring at his gauges.