McCoy returned the look as if that were the furthest thing from his mind. "Listen, Jim, this whole fitness thing was your idea. I'd have thought you'd be glad that I'm finally getting into shape."
As they reached the door to the gym, the doctor turned in to enter the place. Kirk followed.
Lord help me, Bones told himself. If he doesn't leave, I'm actually going to have to do something in there.
The captain grunted; "I don't get it. Not so long ago, you had no interest in coming back here. Now you're at it every free moment."
McCoy shrugged. "What can I say? When you've got the bug, you've got the bug."
Truth to tell, he hated the idea of physical training more than ever. But his sudden yearning for exercise had been a handy excuse for avoiding heart-to-heart conversations with his friend.
Normally, he enjoyed those conversations, even looked forward to them. But there was nothing normal about the position in which he'd found himself lately—caught between his friendship for Jim and his professional integrity.
Bones was deathly afraid that he'd have a little too much to drink and in an unguarded moment spill the beans about David Marcus. And thereby violate the doctor-patient privilege David's mother had been so quick to cite.
Unable to depend for certain on his willpower, he'd decided to sidestep the possibility altogether. Even if it meant putting his well-being on the line every now and then.
After all, he didn't want word to get back to Jim that he was just hanging around in the gym and doing nothing. That would only rouse the man's suspicion.
"I suppose I shouldn't be so incredulous," Kirk commented. "But …" He searched for words. "I can't help it. This just isn't like you."
"I guess you've got to face it," the doctor replied, walking up to the wrestling mat with a courage he didn't even begin to feel. "You've created a monster."
There were three crewmen standing around the mat. All bruisers. Gallagher, a young, brawny security officer, was the smallest of them, though not by much.
Gallagher winced when he saw McCoy coming. The opposite was true as well, though for a completely different reason.
The security officer was wincing because he'd have to toss the doctor around again like a leaf in a windstorm. Bones was wincing because he didn't look forward to being the leaf.
"All right," he told Gallagher, "let's give it another shot."
The younger man actually looked as if he were the one anticipating pain. "You sure, Doctor?"
"Of course I'm sure." It was no picnic tussling with Gallagher. But the other crewmen might hurt him even worse.
The captain shook his head. "I never thought I'd see the day," he muttered.
"What's that?" asked McCoy.
"Nothing," Kirk answered quickly. "Nothing at all. Listen, I think I'll head for the rec cabin and see if I can drum up a game of chess. In the meantime, good luck with your, uh, fitness program."
Bones harrumphed. "It's Gallagher you ought to be wishing good luck. I'm getting pretty good at this."
The captain took one last, long look at him. Obviously, he knew there was something fishy about this—he just didn't know what.
"Right. Well then, I'll see you later, Doctor."
As McCoy watched him go, he wanted desperately to end the charade. He wanted to tell his friend he had a son, a son he'd never met, and see his eyes pop out with surprise and jubilation.
But he couldn't, damn it. He couldn't.
A moment later, the doors to the gym closed behind Kirk. Screwing up his resolve, Bones turned to Gallagher.
"All right," he said tautly "Let's get this over with."
Something was going on, Kirk told himself. Something was definitely going on.
He couldn't ever recall McCoy acting so strange, so standoffish. And he didn't believe it was simply a sudden obsession with staying fit.
Had something happened down on the colony planet? Something that had made Bones want to keep to himself for a while?
In any case, he mused, as he headed for the rec cabin, it was the doctor's business and no one else's. If McCoy wanted to talk, the captain had made it plain enough that he was available. And if he didn't … well, he didn't.
Funny, he thought. Spock's back at Beta Canzandia Three and Bones is acting like someone else. And I feel like a rowboat without its oars.
I guess you never realize how much you depend on your friends until you're deprived of them. Frowning, Kirk watched the doors part for him as he entered the rec area.
Taking the place in with a glance, he saw Scotty sitting at a table by himself, finishing a plate of shepherd's pie. The engineer looked up as the captain approached.
"Mr. Scott," said Kirk.
"Sir?" came the response.
The captain sat down. "Scotty, I'm in the mood for a game of chess. How about you?"
He had a premonition that the man would say he was too busy with a project down in engineering. Or that he had a date to look at the stars with some young woman. Or that he had a new recruit to whip into shape.
But all he said was, "I'd be delighted."
Kirk sat back, relieved. At least he wasn't completely on his own.
"Shall I get th' pieces?" Scotty asked.
"No," the captain told him. "Allow me."
Chapter Eight
ONCE AGAIN, McCoy noted, there were four of them in the briefing room. However, with Spock absent, Scotty had been brought in to round out the diplomatic team.
Clearing his throat, the captain addressed the group. "As you know, we'll be arriving shortly at Alpha Maluria Six, a Federation member planet and the site of a certain amount of civil unrest."
Farquhar's frown, which seemed like a perpetual thing now, deepened. McCoy was pleasantly surprised when the ambassador reserved comment.
"As you also know," Kirk went on, "Ambassador Farquhar has been assigned the task of settling this unrest." He regarded Farquhar. "Ambassador, would you like to describe the situation?"
Farquhar grunted softly but derisively. "The situation," he insisted, "is not simply one of unrest, Captain; it borders on civil war."
Straightening in his seat, he seemed to warm to the topic despite himself. "The planet has two main religious groups, the Manteil and the Obirrhat. Historically, the two populations have coexisted quite peacefully. It is only in recent months that they've come into conflict, over a herd of docile beasts in the region.
"The dominant group, the Manteil, believes that the animals carry the souls of long-deceased holy men. As a result, it insists on allowing the beasts access to anywhere and everywhere as they go about their seasonal migrations—including an ancient city historically important to both religions, which happens to contain the holy places of the other religious group, the Obirrhat."
"And th' Obirrhat," said Scotty, "take offense at th' idea of beasts in th' vicinity o' their sacred places." He paused, his eyes alight with curiosity. "But why's this only now become a bone o' contention? Presumably, both th' beasts and th' holy places have existed for some time."
The ambassador nodded. "Very astute, Mr. Scott. As it happens, the Manteil's sacred beasts were dying off some years ago, until the Federation provided them with a medicine to cure them of their plague. Thanks to us, the beasts are now more plentiful than ever, which is why they've begun to broaden the path of their migrations to include the city's thoroughfares and the Obirrhat's sacred precinct." He shot the Starfleet officers an ominous look. "When the first beasts passed through, some days ago, there were heated protests. But the main part of the herd is still on its way. When it passes through …"
He let his words hang in the air. They had the desired effect, eliciting visions of religion-inspired chaos and carnage.
McCoy held up a hand. "Let me get this straight," he said. "These people are ready to go to war over whether or not some animals have the right to walk in the streets?"
"To put it succinctly," Farquhar told him, "yes. But remember—to the Manteil, these are more t
han just animals. These are the souls of their ancestors. And to the Obirrhat, these aren't streets, they're parcels of sacred ground."
The doctor snorted. "And we're supposed to keep them from each other's throats?"
"Precisely," the ambassador returned. "As a member planet, the Malurians have the right to ask the Federation for assistance. And we are providing that assistance—though by the time it arrives, it may be too late to prevent a good deal of bloodshed." With that last thought, he glanced meaningfully at Kirk.
The captain ignored the implication. "Any other questions?" he asked.
McCoy shook his head. So did Scotty.
"In that case," said Kirk, "this meeting's adjourned. I'll have Lieutenant Uhura let you know when we establish communications with the planet."
Without bothering even to acknowledge the captain's last remark, Farquhar got up and left the briefing room. As the doors whispered closed behind him, McCoy turned to his exasperated captain.
"He's got the dramatic exit part down pat," the doctor noted. "Now if only he'd polish up on those soliloquies a bit …"
* * *
"Approaching Alpha Maluria Six," Chekov announced, as soon as the captain emerged from the turbolift.
"Slow to half-impulse," Kirk instructed.
"Slowing to half-impulse," Sulu echoed, making the necessary adjustments.
On the forward viewscreen, Alpha Maluria Six was a gradually expanding ball of green and blue, swaddled in sweeps of white cloud. Class-M all the way. Beyond the planet, and partially eclipsed by it, loomed the mysterious purple sphere of its single moon.
At warp six, they'd been able to complete the trip from Beta Canzandia in less than five days—though with Farquhar's constant complaining, it had seemed like that many weeks.
Kirk turned in his chair to face Uhura. "Hail the first minister, Lieutenant. Let him know we're here."
"Aye-aye, sir," his communications officer responded.
Before the captain could face front again, the turbolift doors opened and Ambassador Farquhar stepped out. He looked stiffer than ever.
For a moment, his eyes flicked in Kirk's direction. Then he focused his attention on the viewscreen.
"I see you got my message," the captain told him, resuming his original position. "We should be ready to beam down in a matter of minutes."
Kirk anticipated a blistering response. He wasn't disappointed.
"I've been ready to beam down for days now, Captain. Believe me, there will be no delays on my account."
The captain refused to take the bait, though it was getting harder and harder to refrain. "I'm happy to hear that, Ambassador."
"There's a response to our hail, sir," Uhura reported.
"Thank. you, Lieutenant." Kirk pointed to the screen. "On visual, please."
A moment later, the image of the planet was replaced by that of its highest official First Minister Traphid. Kirk recognized his image from the holos he'd been studying. Like all Malurians, his skin was as black as ebony, with weblike patterns around the mouth and chin area. Silvery-pale eyes looked out at the captain from cavernous sockets that made them appear even smaller than they were.
Kirk spoke up. "Greetings. I'm James T. Kirk, captain of the Enterprise. I believe you were expecting us, First Minister."
Traphid returned his greeting: "Blessed be your every incarnation, Captain. We have indeed been expecting you."'
It was the response Kirk had been told to look for. But there was something about the first minister's tone of voice that seemed wrong, out of kilter.
What's more, the textured skin around Traphid's mouth seemed to be twitching. Kirk was certainly no expert on Malurian facial expressions, but he couldn't escape the feeling that something was amiss.
"Oh, no," Farquhar whispered.
There, the captain thought. That confirms it.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk observed the ambassador's approach. "You see?" he rasped, too low to be heard by the first minister. "We took too long. We're too late."
Ignoring Farquhar, though that was no easy task under the circumstances, the captain concentrated on Traphid. "You seem discomfited, First Minister. Am I to understand that the discord has intensified?"
Traphid made a strange, gulping sound deep in his throat. "One might say so, yes. Please, beam down to our government hall. I will elaborate."
Kirk inclined his head. "As you wish."
As soon as the first minister's image faded, replaced again by that of Alpha Maluria Six, the captain rose from his chair and headed for the lift. He didn't have to ask Farquhar to accompany him; the man was on his heels like a predator running down its prey.
"Mr. Sulu," Kirk said, "you've got the conn. Ask Dr. McCoy and Mr. Scott to meet me in the transporter room."
"Aye-aye, Captain," Sulu acknowledged.
The lift doors opened and Kirk entered, with the ambassador right behind him. Turning, the captain could see the quick shuffle of personnel on the bridge—Sulu taking the command chair while a female ensign moved smartly to replace him at the helm.
Then the doors closed. Before Kirk could even tap the button representing the transporter deck, Farquhar had launched into his diatribe.
"I told you there was no time to waste, Captain. I told you time and time again." The ambassador locked his arms across his chest, as if he couldn't trust his hands not to damage something otherwise. He glared at Kirk, his jaw muscles working. "Now the conflict has escalated, and who knows to what extent."
The captain regarded him as calmly as he could. After all, as annoying as the man's manner was, he wasn't entirely wrong. The conflict had escalated, and a good deal more quickly than Starfleet had anticipated.
"Ambassador," he said, "I suggest we wait to see exactly what has transpired among the Malurians before we formulate any opinions."
Farquhar snorted, looked at the ceiling and shook his head. "Sure, let's wait. Why not? As if waiting wasn't what got us into this mess."
Kirk sighed, silently urging the turbolift to move a little faster. It was going to be a long trip to the transporter room.
The Malurian Hall of Government was a hexagonal space with six long windows alternately tinted green and violet. The walls were made out of some dark variety of stone, with tiny threads of something like silver running throughout. A gray polished-metal ring with six spires hung suspended from the ceiling, its form echoed by a round table with six chairs directly below it.
Kirk and his party materialized in a shaft of bluish light that filtered in through one of the windows. Traphid and three other robed figures were waiting for them.
As the two groups came together, Farquhar took the initiative. "First Minister," he said, touching his index and middle fingers to his temples.
Traphid returned the gesture. "You must be Ambassador Farquhar."
"I am." With a sweep of his arm, Farquhar indicated the captain, McCoy, and Scotty, pausing briefly as he identified each one in turn. "These are my colleagues from Starfleet—Captain Kirk, whom you've met; Dr. McCoy, and Lieutenant Commander Scott. They have been dispatched to assist me in my mission."
Bones leaned close to Kirk and muttered: "We're his assistants?"
Gradually, over the last couple of days, McCoy had come to seem like his old self again. There was none of the standoffishness the captain had sensed just after their departure from the research colony. Whatever it was that had been bothering him, he seemed to have come to grips with it.
"In a nutshell, yes," Kirk muttered back.
Traphid looked to his own colleagues. "Allow me to introduce my fellow ministers, Entrath, Ilimon, and Dasur."
Farquhar looked at the first minister soberly. "And the others?"
The skin in the lower part of Traphid's face did that twitching thing again. "Regrettably, Menikki and Omalas have absented themselves from these premises indefinitely. They have resigned their positions as ministers."
The ambassador nodded. Without a hint of the criticism h
e'd dished out back on the ship, he expanded on Traphid's explanation. "Menikki and Omalas were Obirrhat; they represented that portion of the population on the council."
"I see," Kirk replied. He engaged the first minister. "And the reason for their departure?"
Farquhar didn't like the idea of the captain speaking directly to the Malurians; that much was certain. But he kept his objections restricted to the sullen look in his eyes.
Traphid regarded the captain. "Earlier, you asked me if our discord has intensified. The fact is, it has intensified to the point of bloodshed. Finding no satisfaction in this chamber, the Obirrhat have taken their arguments to the streets. There have been riots; the rioters have been arrested. But those who instigated the violence—Menikki, Omalas, and others like them—have gone into hiding."
The ambassador's brow creased. "You have no idea where they are?"
The first minister shrugged. "We suspect they are still here in the mother city. But it is only a suspicion; there is no evidence of it."
"That is unfortunate," Farquhar said. "It will complicate matters considerably. However, we can still work toward a solution, even without the Obirrhat in attendance."
Traphid and the other ministers didn't look overly encouraged by Farquhar's suggestion.
"As you say," the first minister replied, "we can work toward a solution."
"You know," Kirk suggested, "it might not be a bad idea for us to visit the Obirrhats' holy places, just to see what they're like. And I'd like to get a look at your sacred animals t—"
"There's no need for that," Farquhar interjected, smiling pleasantly—or at least, the captain thought, that must have been the man's intention. "I'd like to see the holy places as well, but I don't think the first minister would look kindly on our disturbing the beasts."
"On the contrary," Traphid remarked. "If you are to help us, you must get a feeling for the things we hold dear. I will make arrangements for you to see both—the holy places of the Obirrhat and the sacred herd."
Only a slight ruddiness in his cheeks betrayed the ambassador's pique. He touched his fingers to his temples again.
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