Faces of Fire

by Michael Jan Friedman

  "Go ahead," McCoy told him. "I'm all ears."

  "Just sae long as it's you an' not me," Scotty quipped.

  Before Kirk had gotten a dozen words out, they knew he was on to something.

  I could get used to being in charge, Kruge told himself. Surveying the inside of the dome the captain had claimed as his headquarters, he placed his feet up on the desk in front of him and nodded. I could get used to it very easily.

  And he vowed that someday he would get used to it. After all, once Gidris was eliminated, which might have taken place already, if the state of affairs up in the hills was as bad as it had sounded, he would have to set himself a new goal. And what more appropriate target could he set his sights on than a captaincy? If not of the Kad'nra, then of some other vessel.

  With all this internecine warfare between the Kamorh'dag and the Gevish'rae, there were bound to be some positions opening up. All he had to do was move the right pieces and—

  The door opened abruptly, and one of his guards, a powerful man named Oghir, took a single step into the dome. "Second officer, I have news from the Kad'nra." He paused, hesitating. "From Haastra."

  Haastra? The security chief? Removing his feet from the desk, Kruge planted them on the floor and leaned forward. "What news?" he barked.

  Oghir was obviously not happy about what he had to impart. "There has been an accident, second officer. An act of—" He paused a second time.

  Leaping to his feet, Kruge growled: "Enough! I will hear it from Haastra himself!" And so saying, he snapped his communicator off his belt and activated it. It took a moment before the security officer responded.

  "Kruge?" he asked. "I must speak with the captain!"

  "The captain is busy," the second officer told him. "I am in command here."

  He heard a muffled curse but no objection. Normally, Haastra answered only to the captain himself. But if Vheled had left Kruge in charge, the security chief couldn't bypass him.

  "We've had an explosion in one of the cargo holds," said Haastra. "Next to the warp engines,"

  Kruge felt his lips drawing back over his teeth. "Sabotage?"

  "Without question."

  "Any idea who did it?"

  "None—yet."

  "Damage?"

  "Extensive. Until we can repair the warp drive, we've been hobbled—limited to impulse power."

  Kruge spat. He didn't look forward to telling Vheled about this; no wonder the man before him had been so reluctant to speak.

  "Get repairs under way, then," he snarled. "I want the engines ready again in a matter of hours."

  "Of course," Haastra replied. But there was a note of irony in his voice, as if he doubted the chief engineer could meet such a demand.

  "And Haastra," the second officer continued, "see to it that the culprit is identified and taken into custody. The captain will not want to return to hear that there is an unknown saboteur in our ranks."

  He could imagine the security chief bristling at that last remark. "I don't need you to remind me of that," Haastra retorted.

  And then the conversation was over. Kruge put away his communicator and glared at Oghir.

  "Well?" he snapped. "What are you waiting for? Get back to whatever it was you were doing!"

  The man didn't need to be told twice. The doors had barely slid open before he was gone.

  Alone with his thoughts, Kruge pounded his fist on the desk in front of him. It jumped, its legs creaking as they scraped against the floor.

  A saboteur! It was an outrage! And if Haastra didn't find him soon, the security chief might not be the only one whose head might be forfeit.

  Suddenly the second officer didn't feel quite so comfortable being in charge.

  There was an air of tension in the Hall of Government, a feeling of hostility that had not been there before. Kirk couldn't help but notice it as he, McCoy, and Scotty followed Farquhar into the chamber.

  Traphid and the other Manteil ministers stood grim-faced around their conference table, beneath their spired metal ring. A monitor stood before one of the windows—dark for now but soon to be illuminated with the narrow-cast images of Omalas and Menikki. There was a security guard on either side of the monitor.

  Stopping before Traphid, Farquhar put his fingers to his temples. "We are grateful for your indulgence, First Minister."

  The Manteil returned the gesture, but only in a perfunctory sort of way. If Traphid had seemed impatient before, he now appeared downright anxious.

  Nor was his behavior difficult to understand, what with all that had transpired in the last few days. In the first minister's place, Kirk would have been anxious, too.

  "If you can stop the bloodshed," Traphid told the ambassador, "it is we who will be grateful." His face twitched. "Though I must remind you, our dedication to the cubaya has not diminished. Nor will we give ground on the subject of their rights and well-being."

  Farquhar nodded. "We understand, First Minister. And I assure you, we have in no way underestimated your dedication to the sacred beasts. Nor, for that matter, have we taken lightly the concerns of the Obirrhat." Traphid looked approving. "Good. Then let us proceed."

  As the humans moved to their places before the monitor, however, the ambassador snuck a look at Kirk, as if to say: Don't make a liar of me, Captain.

  Kirk frowned. It wasn't Farquhar's disapproval he was worried about.

  At a sign from Traphid, the security guards on either side of the monitor moved to activate the device. A moment later, the screen came alive.

  It showed Omalas and Menikki in a bare, windowless room that gave no indication of where they might be. After all, there was no guarantee that the Federation's plan would be acceptable to both sides, and if it was not, the Obirrhat didn't want to give away the whereabouts of their leaders.

  Of course, the Manteil could have traced the signal if they'd wanted to, but Traphid had given his word that that wouldn't happen. And to set the minds of the Obirrhat even more at ease, the council had provided them with a half-dozen switching-and-transmission units, which could be used to relay the original signal and disguise its source.

  Omalas looked at Traphid. "Good day, First Minister."

  Traphid returned the scrutiny with apparent equanimity. "And to you, my colleague. Perhaps, if fortune smiles, it will be a good day for all of us."

  One didn't have to listen hard to hear the strain in their voices and the sorrow for those who had already been lost. But their words, at least, were civil. Even hopeful, the captain thought.

  He cleared his throat. Farquhar took notice.

  "The idea we are about to present is Captain Kirk's," the ambassador announced. "I ask that you turn your attention to him."

  All eyes fell on Kirk. Taking a deep breath, he launched into the speech he'd prepared the night before.

  "As you all know, Lieutenant Commander Scott and I had an opportunity to visit with the Obirrhat in their sacred precinct. Minister Omalas was kind enough to show us his people's holy book."

  That was McCoy's cue to hand the captain the electronic slate he'd carried into the room with him. "Good luck," the doctor muttered under his breath.

  "Thank you," Kirk replied. He looked down at the slate, addressing both those present in person and those pictured on the monitor.

  "Correct me if I'm wrong, Minister Omalas, but your protest concerning the free movements of the cubaya is based on the following passage: No beast of forest or field shall set itself down on the sacred soil."

  The quote was exact. Kirk had gotten it from Omalas himself earlier this morning through a direct comm link with the Enterprise. So when the captain looked up, it was no surprise that the Obirrhat minister was nodding.

  "That is indeed the basis for our protest," he agreed. "It is why we cannot tolerate the animals' presence in our ancient precinct."

  "All right, then," the human said. "Now, some time ago, we suggested to the council that a predator—a gettrex, for instance—might be domesticated and left
in the vicinity of your sacred ground."

  "That would be an outrage," blurted Menikki. "The gettrex in are even less welcome than the cubaya!"

  "So we were informed," Kirk assured him. "We then amended our suggestion—replacing an actual predator with the scent of one. That, too, was deemed inappropriate. As was a chemical compound that simulates such a scent. We even offered to supply a compound that copies the scent of a beast never seen on this planet, and that was rejected as well."

  "As it should have been," Omalas confirmed. "All of those possibilities would come into direct conflict with our scriptures, as we interpret them."

  The captain looked at the Obirrhat on the monitor. "Fine. No beast-smells. But what about other scents?" He paused for effect. "How about the scent of a flower?"

  Again, he consulted the slate. "You shall adorn the sacred stones with all manner of flowers and growing things, for they freshen memory and quicken the heart. Isn't that how your scripture is worded, Minister Omalas?"

  The Obirrhat grunted—again, no surprise. "So it is. Nor have we ever objected to flowers in the sacred precinct." His face twitched—with curiosity, Kirk thought. "But I do not think a plant will accomplish your purpose, Captain. I have never heard of one that would keep a cubaya away with its scent. In fact, the beasts are notoriously attracted to most strongsmelling flowers.

  "That's correct," Kirk told him. "As long as you limit the discussion to Malurian flowers." He turned to Scotty.

  Whipping out his communicator, the engineer opened it and said: "Mister Kyle, you can send down the specimen now."

  It took only a second or two for a small, black object to materialize at Scotty's feet. When the process was completed, everyone could see that it was a shiny, black globe.

  The engineer knelt to pick it up, then turned it over to the captain. Accepting it with a nod, Kirk pressed a small stud on the side of the globe.

  Immediately, the top half split into two sections and each one retracted, revealing the object's contents: a flowering plant with long, dark-blue petals and a large, prickly-looking, gray stamen. The captain held it out to the monitor and the Obirrhat ministers, as if it were a gift of surpassing beauty.

  Which it was, Kirk mused, if you were of the opinion that peace was beautiful.

  "What is it?" Menikki asked.

  "A Klingon fireblossom," the human told him. "Not the kind of specimen you'd want to plant just anywhere, unless you wanted to kill all the growing things around it. This one was kept in our ship's botanical gardens, separate from all our other plants. But more important," Kirk said, "'the fireblossom emits a scent that the cubaya are sure to find unpleasant."

  Traphid sniffed. "I don't smell a thing," he remarked.

  "Of course not," McCoy interjected. "You're not a cubaya. And that's the beauty of it. No Malurian will be bothered by the scent, but it'll keep the beasts at a considerable distance."

  Omalas regarded the doctor. "You know this for a fact?"

  Bones nodded. "I've had an opportunity to gather plenty of sensor data on the cubaya, so I know how their olfactory systems work. Seems they bear more than a passing resemblance to a Klingon beast called a puris, and puris avoid fireblossoms like the plague. You can bet the farm on it: the cubaya will be no more enamored of these flowers than they are of the worstsmelling gettrexin on the planet."

  Menikki's eyes narrowed. "Do you think we will call off our revolt on your word alone?" He made a derisive sound in his throat.

  "There's a way to prove I know what I'm talking about," McCoy replied. "I've already begun synthesizing compounds that copy the scent of the fireblossom. We can place them in the path of the cubaya, and if they turn away, we know we've got something."

  "And if not?" asked Menikki.

  "Believe me," McCoy told him, "there won't be any if not."

  "For us to believe, we must be present," Omalas noted.

  "Of course," the doctor agreed.

  Menikki turned to his fellow Obirrhat. "You mean come out of hiding? That is impossible."

  Omalas snorted. "There is another saying in the scriptures, my friend: For the overly cautious, everything is impossible."

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT WAS A RELATIVELY simple matter for Transporter Chief Kyle to locate the main herd of cubaya. Anything that big was difficult to miss.

  Nor was it any more difficult to transport the inhabitants of the Hall, of Government—including the Manteil ministers, their guards, Farquhar, and the three Starfleet officers—out to a place just ahead of the herd. Or to beam down a couple of crewmen with some beakers full of synthetic fireblossom scent.

  The hard part was locating Omalas and Menikki and their guards, with only street directions to go on. But somehow, Kyle had managed that too.

  Now they all stood together on a gentle incline overlooking the mother city, watching the wind send ripples through the high, blue-green ground cover. Fortunately, it was blowing in the right direction—out toward the cubaya, who were getting closer by the minute.

  Closer not only to them, but to the opened beakers left on the ground at intervals of roughly thirty meters. For all intents and purposes, they'd created a wall of fireblossom fragrance, which would cause the beasts to veer off, if all went according to plan.

  Kirk, who happened to be standing next to McCoy, put his hand on the doctor's shoulder. "Tell me, Bones, just how confident are you that this artificial stuff will work?"

  Bones scowled. "There's no reason it shouldn't," he replied.

  "You're not answering my question," the captain said.

  "Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian. It takes time to perfect these things."

  Kirk nodded. "I was afraid you'd say something like that."

  The ground beneath their feet shook under the weight of the oncoming herd. And so far, the animals showed no intention of turning away from them.

  Not that they were in any real danger. The cubaya weren't going fast enough to trample them, and the beasts typically went around obstacles rather than through them. But if the cubaya got past the scent barrier, the city wasn't all that much farther down the slope—a journey of only a day or so at the rate the beasts were making headway. Before long, they'd be flooding the sacred precinct.

  That's why this had to work. Because if they didn't stop the cubaya, the Obirrhat would stop them, and the conflict would attain a whole new level of violence.

  The beasts were less than a hundred meters away now, breasting the grasslike ground cover as if it were the river the captain had first seen them in. They still gave no sign that the contents of the beakers were having any effect on them.

  Kirk noticed the Malurians exchanging glances: Omalas with Menikki, Traphid with his fellow Manteil. Though he was still no expert on native facial expressions, he didn't think they looked particularly confident.

  And they were losing what confidence they did have with every thundering step the cubaya took. Nor could the captain blame them.

  Eighty meters. Seventy. Sixty.

  Kirk sighed. He'd really thought he had this thing licked.

  Fifty. Forty. Thirty.

  "Come on," McCoy said out loud, addressing the nearest of the beakers. "Do your stuff, damn it! Do it now!"

  Suddenly, as if the doctor's exhortations had cast a charm over the cubaya, the beasts in the first rank slowed down and frantically began to change direction. The next rank did the same. And then the rank after that.

  Pretty soon, the whole herd was splitting down the middle, turning to the right or left, and running parallel to the line of beakers. The group of Malurians and humans watched, apprehension turning to disbelief and disbelief to outright jubilation.

  "All right!" McCoy cried. "I knew it'd work!"

  The captain didn't have the heart to remind him of his earlier remarks. The important thing was that it had worked.

  "Captain Kirk."

  He turned to see Omalas standing by his side. "Yes, Minister?"

  "You ha
ve my gratitude. In fact, you have the gratitude of this entire world."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk saw Farquhar watching. Watching and listening. The captain shrugged.

  "The Federation sent down a team, Minister. If there's credit to be given, it should be given to all of us equally."

  Omalas nodded. Judging by the look in his eyes, he seemed to understand. "Then that is what I will do—give credit to you all." He leaned closer. "But most of all to you, my friend in wisdom."

  And then he went over to Farquhar to fulfill his promise.

  As Vheled materialized in the space between the red-dirt hillsides, he looked to Grael. In accordance with the captain's previous instructions, the man opened his communicator and spoke into it.

  "How far?" asked Grael.

  "Perhaps thitry meters," came the slightly statictroubled response from Terrik, who had pinpointed the location of every Klingon that had gone out with Gidris—again, on Vheled's orders. "Just around the next bend."

  "Excellent," said Grael. He closed his communicator and put it away.

  Enough was enough, the captain told himself. Normally, he wouldn't have thought it necessary to employ technology in the hunt for mere children. But these children had somehow proved more resourceful than they'd expected—unless, of course, Gidris had simply bungled the job.

  Either way, Vheled was taking no chances. He wanted to end this, to find the G-7 unit, and find it quickly, before their glorious victory in the name of the Gevish'rae became tainted with rumors of ineptitude.

  The captain gestured in the direction Terrik had indicated. "Engath, Chorrl, take the advance position. Norgh, bring up the rear. Move!"

  They moved, and swiftly. As the group advanced, wary and alert, Vheled nodded with satisfaction. He wanted no room for error. No possibility of running into the same problems Gidris had encountered.

  They'd barely begun their march before Engath and Chorrl signaled back to them. Apparently, Terrik's reading had been an accurate one. And there was no danger, or their gestures would have conveyed as much.