Pawns and Symbols

by Majliss Larson

  It was an impasse. She stuck by her bare bones story that she was a bona fide off-world traveler but refused to give identifying data, instead threatening them with dire consequences if they continued to detain her. The I.S.G blustered back that the transceptor identified her as alien but left her standing in her shurdik, unwilling, apparently, to take further risk. They had been in this small room for some minutes now and seemed to be simply waiting. She heard a door open and a new voice-spoke.

  "Well, Tormin, what seems to be the problem?"

  "The unit assigned to escort Hathak picked her up, sir. Transceptor readings show Alien but …"

  "But, what?"

  "She insists she is an off-worlder of rank and refuses to give any identity corroboration."

  "And you let that stop you—from a woman? 'Gath's Bones, you're little more than a woman yourself. Strip her and settle it. Little enough harm if you're wrong." Matching deed to word, the newcomer seized Jean's shurdik and rippedit off sending her crashing into the wall in the process.

  She turned and stared into a menacingly familiar face. "Tirax!" Her knees gave way and she collapsed in a heap.

  He seemed as phaserstruck as she for a moment. Then, recovering himself, he turned to his subordinate. "That would seem to settle it beyond doubt now, wouldn't it? Take her to interrogation."

  Ten

  AERNATH EMERGED INTO the corridor with Aethelnor to be greeted by tumult and confusion. There was enough pushing and shoving that he picked up the boy. It wouldn't do to lose him or have him hurt at this juncture. Now where in Peneli had Jean and that Vulcan gone to? The gate was open. He began to move in that direction, wondering what all the commotion was about. Suddenly he felt a touch on his shoulder. Aethelnor slumped over tiredly as Aernath glanced around. It was the Vulcan.

  "This way. Quickly, please." They edged their way fairly rapidly toward the gate. Many people had been distracted from the queue by whatever had happened. But Jean was not waiting for them at the gate. Vaguely alarmed, Aernath turned to go back. Again the gentle touch on his neck. This time there was no warning. The Vulcan mind met his with a slamming penetration that halted him in his boots. Excuse me. Explanations later.

  What in the lair of Durgath are you do—His anger and resistance were brushed aside as easily as meteors by a deflector shield. He found himself approaching the gate completely without any volition of his own. The words he heard with his ears also raverberated peculiarly in his head.

  "Kindly expedite this gentleman's, processing. The child ' has not been well and. is quite tired as you can see."

  Aernath felt his hand fumble in the pouch, pass over one set of documents and hand over the other two. Where was Jean? He fought to turn his head. That mental vise-grip held his eyes fixed on the pass official. His head nodded in acknowledgment as his hand received and deposited the documents back in their pouch. A quick transit to the ship—a small craft, unfamiliar design but old, space battered, more than a handful of different registry marks on her side. Aethelnor was slipped from his grasp. Climbing now, slowly, fighting every movement … apudgy beringed hand reaching for his … inside. The Vulcan coming up behind him. Whir and click of the spacelock. Release.

  Aernath whirled angrily. The Vulcan moved smoothly to lay the limp form of the boy on an auxiliary jump cot. "What do you think you're doing? Where's Jean?" He grabbed the Vulcan's elbow roughly. Spock snapped the restrainer belts shut and straightened to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, close to the neck …

  "Yes, I must explain …" Aernath winked out.

  He was awoke to a faint hum of machinery and a more immediate chitter of something non-mechnical. He was lying tightly restrained on his back while some maenadic space-sprite executed a victory dance on his chest. It was also painfully pulling his mustache. He opened his eyes to chaos.

  He was fastened into an emergency jump cot that had been folded down from the bulkhead. Another one was still secured above him. A white-furred refugee from a kanish-smoke dream with long slender digits and an even longer tail ceased it's capers to regard him curiously. He hissed warningly as it reached for his moustache again. The beast scampered away. After a few moments of fumbling with unfamiliar catches he released the restrainer belts and sat up. The room was redolent of stale food, unwashed clothing, several types of animal, and some more exotic scents he could not place even by category. One wall of this space was entirely occupied with small drawers labeled in several different tongues and symbologies, including Klingon. Bits and fragments of cloth, possibly clothing, were scattered negligently on the floor.

  Aernath ran an exploratory hand over his neck, shoulder, chest, waist … his sword was gone. Swiftly he checked the flat receptacle behind his belt—empty. So was the loop in his boot. Someone had been very thorough. He eased himself to his feet and made a threatening gesture to the little animal that was creeping up to him. Then he whirled at asound in the doorway.

  An astoundingly large rotund human filled it. Water-thin blue eyes shifted rapidly in that face; then the human smiled expansively and advanced upon him, arms outstretched. "Ah, my friend, you are awake. I see you have already met Agrippina. Sweet little creature, isn't she? Arcturean chworkt, that one—quite rare. And charming company for long lonely trips I assure you,"

  Aernath was engulfed in a pungent embrace. This human certainly smelled differently than Jean or the Vulcan whom Jean had said was half-human. Right now he reeked of fear just past, a heavy clogging almost intoxicating scent not at all like the piquant tang of Jean's. Interesting.

  The human continued to talk. "Well, we're away. Gave them the slip we did. Federation space, dead ahead. Welcome to my humble home among the stars. Cyrano Jones is the name: prospector, trader, and occasional transport-for-hire is the occupation." He clapped Aernath about the shoulders and effused, "Make yourself comfortable, at home. What is mine is yours for our brief trip together. Can I offer you a spot of something?"

  Totally bemused, Aernath let himself be propelled to the opposite side of the room by this animated avalanche of goodwill. The display of hospitality was interrupted by a cool voice from the entry way. "You were coming, I believe, for a cup of coffee, Mr. Jones, which you intend to consume at your controls. I think you will find: my course coordinates satisfactory."

  Momentarily disconcerted, Cyrano Jones mumbled, "Yes, of course, Mr. Spock." He dipped a pudgy finger into a welter of grimy objects in what apparently served as this ship's galley and extracted a moderately unsoiled cup.

  Turning to Aernath, he smiled ingratiatingly, "Coffee, Mr. uh …?"

  "Aernath. No, thank you."

  With an edgy glance at the Vulcan, Jones quickly heated a cup of coffee and departed for the bridge under the glacial scrutiny of Mr. Spock. The Vulcan entered the room, cleared a seat and sat down. He indicated the jump cot. "Sit down, please."

  Aernath remained standing. "You forced me to come aboard, knocked out both me and the boy, and my weapons are gone. I didn't see Jean come aboard. Who are you, mister, and what's your game?"

  "I apologize for the force; however, it was the most efficient means of getting us aboard. Considering your emotional state of mind it seemed prudent to put your weapons in safe-keeping. I regret that Specialist Czerny did not make it aboard. She was apprehended by the I.S.G. at the boarding gate. It was imperative that we move quickly before we were taken also."

  "The I.S.G.? Jean!" Aernath exploded toward the door. "I can't leave her there. I've got to go …"

  The Vulcan caught him at the door. "Believe me, if there were any way we could have effected her release, we would have done so."

  He strugged futilely in Spock's grip. 'You don't understand. I'm pledged to—"

  "Klingons, like humans, I have observed, succumb to the irrational just when logic is most needed. I understand your feelings but our best chance of helping Miss Czerny is by completing our mission and sending less conspicuous help from another quarter."

  Aernath regarded the Vulcan suspici
ously: smooth black hair, upswept eyebrows, pointed ears, impassive features, clean untrammeled scent—no trace of fear, anger, aggression or hostility and … no anguish. He replied carefully. "For the moment then, it would appear that I have no choice but to proceed."

  "That is correct."

  "May I see the boy?" This was Federation territory now. For the first time he was out of his own element.

  "Of course. He is not yet awake. I think it would be best for you to be with him when he does." Spock released him and then paused in the door. "Your previous experience of humans is limited to Specialist Czerny?"

  "Yes."

  "A piece of advice then about the captain of this vessel. Mr. Jones is, fortunately, not typical of humans. Keep that in mind. Oh, and don't let him sell you anything." On that puzzling note he left.

  Aernath followed him, his mind a welter of conflicting emotions. The Vulcan had reminded him of his primary duty which was to deliver Aethelnor safely for Mara. But quite apart from any consideration of how her capture might jeopardize the success of their mission was the fact that he was bond-pledged to protect her as long as she was in the Klingon Empire. Some would argue it was a fortunate stroke of Durgath to release him this way but it rankled his sense of honor. As for his other feelings toward her, best not to dwell on that. One most emphatically did not covet a fleet commander's consort, even with encouragement. That way lay only pain, humiliation, and disaster. Strange, he mused, to find oneself welcoming bond-status because it permitted liberties that otherwise would be unthinkable. Best not to dwell on that either—a false hope. Even if the commander might somehow spare her, she was unlikely to survive long enough for Kang to get a hold of her … In the meantime, here he was being plunged at warp speed into the Federation without benefit of weapons or a trusted guide, and the responsibility to protect one small boy, a sobering prospect indeed.

  Aethelnor lay just where Spock had put him when they first came aboard. His slow even breathing indicated a deep sleep but mild stimulation produced no arousal response. Aernath turned to Spock. "What did you do to him—us?"

  "The Vulcan nerve pinch. If sufficient force is applied to the precise neurological junction for a brief interval, it renders most humanoid species unconscious for varying periods of time without any permanent damage. I estimate that the boy will regain consciousness in seventeen to twenty-three minutes."

  Aernath did not realize that this statement indicated a greater than usual uncertainty for the Vulcan. Accepting the statement, he looked about curiously. The human, Jones, sat at the ship's console while the chworkt sat on its haunches beside him, its tail wrapped several times around his ankle. It busied itself by going through the lowermost set of pockets on his voluminous jacket, occasionally consuming tidbits it filched.

  The human heaved his bulk from the chair, apparently satisfied with the settings. "Mr. Spock, I'd be obliged if you'd keep an eye on the controls. I'm going to give the engine room a once-over now that we are well under way. No, stay, my darlin'. Engine room is off limits to you, remember?" The last was addressed to his pet with an affectionate pat.

  Whatever his unredeeming qualities, Jones was a crack pilot and meticulous about the maintenance of his craft's vital functions. Were this not so, the galaxy would have been rid of one Interstellar trader and general nuisance (as Kirk once labeled him) long ago. Numerous individuals in four arms of the galaxy had vied for the honor—unsuccessfully, to date. Like an eccentric comet, he wandered the galaxy peddling his wares and leaving chaos in his wake.

  All of this Aernath was to learn later. For the moment his mind was on other things. Satisfied that Aethelnor was in no distress, he slipped into the auxiliary chair next to Spock, "How soon do we reach our destination? And how soon can help be sent to Czerny?"

  "Traveling at top speed, which is habitual with Mr. Jones, we should arrive at Space Station K-seven in two-point-seven standard days. From there we should be able to contact suitable persons to send help to her. The Enterprise will pick us up at K-seven."

  "I have a suggestion to make."

  "Yes?" Aernath noted curiously that the Vulcan seemed unperturbed by the fact that the little white beast was now seated at his knee busily plucking lint from his trousers.

  "If Czerny is still alive by the time you reach your agents, which is dubious, her best hope might be for Commander Kang to learn of her whereabouts. Otherwise you'll never spring her loose from I.S.G. alive."

  "At this point what advantage would she have with Kang compared to the I.S.G.?"

  "If Mara succeeds in her plans, she may be able to have some influence with the commander."

  "Logical. We shall pass that suggestion along for consideration."

  "Did you see exactly what happened at the gate? How did they discover her?

  The Vulcan half-turned to face him. Suddenly Spock gave a gasp and for a second his face was contorted with agony. It passed as quickly as it came and his face was impassive again. "It was an unfortunate coincidence, I believe. Some high-ranking official chose that moment to be escorted past our gate and one of his guards' scanners apparently registered her as non-Klingon. They seized her immediately. There was no way I could intervene successfully."

  "There must be something I could have done if I'd been there." Aernath brought his fist down on the console.

  "No, Czerny and I agreed there was no feasible plan to …"

  "Agreed? She spoke to you?"

  "No." Spock spoke more slowly now as if reluctant. "We had maintained a mind-link since the meeting in the botanical gardens. She communicated to me through that. She asked me to get you two out and—"

  "You mean you've been in mental contact all this time? Are you in contact now?"

  "No."

  "When? How long? I mean, did you lose contact when we left Tsorn?"

  "No."

  Aernath was severely frustrated by the Vulcan's reticence. He fairly seethed. "Well, if not then, when. When did you lose contact with her?"

  Spock glanced atthe control panel. "Approximately one point three-five minutes ago."

  Aerath sat immobilized by icy premonition for a moment before he asked the obvious question. "Why?"

  "I believe they used the agonizer."

  Aernath rose and moved unsteadily over to Aethelnor. He did not want anyone to see his face for a few moments. When he finally looked back the Vulcan was bent over the console with his back to him. Without looking in Aernath's direction, he spoke again. "She asked me to give you two messages. The first was to do everything in your power to get Aethelnor to Starfleet regardless of any consequences to her. The second was an answer to your question."

  "My question?"

  "She said she never answered the question you asked her on Peneli. The answer is, "Yes, it is important. It matters a great deal to me.'"

  Aethelnor chose that moment to wake up and promptly began to cry. Aernath was grateful for the excuse to pick him up and console him. At least one of them could cry and be comforted. He and Jean had both known the risks, and duty was duty, but, for the moment, that was no balm.

  Just then Jones came ambling back munching on some unfamiliar item. "Motor's purring like a baby with a fresh diaper change," he announced with cheerful disregard for the scrambled metaphor. He beamed at Aethelnor. "Ah, the young man is awake. How do you do, chappie? What is your name?" He bent over until his face was level with Aethelnor's and enveloped the boy's hand in one of his.

  Aethelnor, his composure barely restored, stared roundeyed at the trader, then whispered to Aernath, "What is that, Korin?"1

  "This is Mr. Jones, a human, who is captain of this ship we're on.

  Suddenly shy, Aethelnor pulled back and buried his head in Aernath's neck. Then he whispered in Aernath's ear, "But he doesn't smell like Thelsa2 Jean."

  "Of course not. People are different. Now turn around and say hello properly." But Aethelnor simply shook his head aid buried it even more firmly.

  Undeterred, Cyrano Jones tacked
slightly. "Now there's a good fellow. Here, would you like some ndalj? It's really very nice stuff." He offered a piece of his snack. Aernath sniffed appreciatively. The aroma really was quite enticing. Tempted, Aethelnor peeked dubiously at the looming human.

  Spock spoke sharply, "Are you certain that is suitable, Mr. Jones?"

  "Ah, now, Mr. Spock. Surely you'll not begrudge the little fellow a small sweet just because it might spoil his supper?"

  "I was asking, Mr. Jones, if you had checked its compatibility with Klingon physiology. I was not referring tothe human proclivity for indulging their juvenile offspring in foolish and unnutritional dietary propensities."

  "Oh. Um, yes I see what you mean. I guess I better check that. An honest mistake though, we humans are fond of giving kids candy."

  "As I have just observed," Spock rejoined expressionlessly.

  A quick check showed that this Arcturean delicacy was indeed toxic to Klingon physiology, even potentially fatal to the young of the species. Cyrano Jones hastened to mollify Aethelnor with a suitable Klingon sweet but Aernath was left with a gnawing uncertainty.

  This human seemed a model of friendliness and good will but he recalled the numerous stories told of humans. This was one of their most dangerous traits. They would appear deceptively friendly but they used this as a camouflage for their devious and cunning machinations. It is true that certain Penelian xenopsychologists argued that this was a fundamental misperception of human nature and Aernath had been prepared to accept this. But that, after all, was academic theory. Those with combat-contact experience told very different stories, if they survived. His observations of Jean tended to support the hypothesis of Mara's theoreticians but Jean was a human outside her natural habitat. Now this human in his own setting had very nearly killed Aethelnor. Obviously the duty Mara had assigned him was a heavy one indeed. He would have to proceed most cautiously and guard against letting his fascination with this species lull him into a false sense of trust.