David was sitting at the edge of the playground, looking down at the still-smoking domes and trying to imagine what had happened, trying to reconstruct the events that had led up to the destruction of the colony, when Spock gave the all-clear.
Apparently, it was safe for them to return to the installation. The Klingons were gone now, Spock's ship had called him to tell him so. The fires had been put out, ironically, by strategic phaser fire.
A couple of the domes on the far side of the colony had even been salvaged. The terraformers would have places to live until new structures could be erected to replace the old.
As the group, children as well as adults, began to move down the hillside, they had the look of a people that was going home. There was hope in their eyes, David thought, not bitterness. Relief, not anger.
Even Dr. Boudreau, who had been livid at the sight of the domes going up in flames, had calmed down considerably when Spock ordered the G-7 unit beamed over from its hiding place in the hills. The colony administrator had been cradling the device in his arms ever since, carrying it like a big, shiny baby.
But as he took his mother's hand and descended the slope, David felt strangely detached from the spirit of relief and hopefulness. He felt as if the colony's destruction was a nightmare that could have been avoided.
Sure, the Enterprise had sent the Klingons packing, but from what the Klingon in the hills had said, the invaders were probably going to leave the planet anyway. If they'd just been left alone—if they hadn't been confronted and provoked by the presence of the Starfleet ship—would they have trained their disruptors on the domes?
If the Enterprise hadn't butted in, the boy thought, would his home still be standing? And the lab dome? And all the rest of them? David shook his head. They hadn't needed any help from Starfleet. They'd done fine without them. But the Enterprise had interfered anyway. And this was the result.
His sense of horror grew worse with each step. By the time they reached, the bottom of the hill and entered the installation, he felt even more detached than before. Distant, in fact—distant and numb. It was as if he were walking with someone else's legs, surveying the charred wrecks of the domes through someone else's eyes.
Though the smoke was lifting up into the air, driven by a stiff wind, the pathways between the blackened, skeletal domes seemed flooded with something thicker and harder than air. It was like walking underwater, David imagined. Or through a dream.
His mother was expressionless. Her features may as well have been carved from rock. But her hand, the one that held David's, gave her away. It was trembling ever so slightly in his grasp.
Unburned tatters of dome material reared and flapped at them as they passed by. They reminded the boy of huge beasts, writhing in agony. Writhing and dying.
The smell of smoke made his eyes start to water. But he wouldn't cry; he wouldn't give even the appearance of crying. Setting his teeth, David pressed on.
Why had it been necessary for the military to show up, with its phasers and its photon torpedoes and its bluster, and make the Klingons angry? Why?
Abruptly, his horror turned to anger. It lodged in his throat, slick, hot, and throbbing. It spread to his belly, where it smoldered like white-hot coals.
The group began to split up. Here, the Pfeffers stopped at the ruin of what used to be their home and peered into the wreckage. There, the Wans walked toward a clump of spiderlike remains.
Why? David asked again—silently, so no one heard his pain. Why?
Then he and his mother came in sight of the place where her garden used to stand. There was movement there—not colonists but Starfleet people, in their red or gold uniforms. Directly ahead of them, one of the men from the Enterprise knelt in the scorched tangle that was once a patch of living things. David recognized him, too.
It was the captain, the one called Kirk. The one who had confronted the Klingons.
The man looked up at the boy and his mother. He was holding something. It was so desiccated, so black and twisted, that it took David a moment to figure out what it was. Finally, he recognized it.
It was one of the Klingon plants. One of the fireblossoms.
Where did that captain get off touching his mother's plants? He was the one who'd destroyed her garden in the first place, just as clearly as if he'd pressed the trigger on the disruptor himself.
What right did he have to look sad? To look as if he cared—now, when it was too late?
Suddenly, David's anger surged and spilled over, and the world melted, caught in the heat of his righteous fury.
It didn't seem to Kirk it had been that long since he'd authorized Spock to give the all-clear. So when he looked up and saw Carol, he was surprised.
But he was even more surprised to see her holding the hand of the blond boy. Not that he hadn't seen the boy around the colony; most likely he had, but until he'd had this chance to see the youngster next to Carol, he'd had no idea that they were related.
Now, as he compared their faces, the conclusion was inescapable. It was Carol's son—no doubt about it. But why hadn't she told him? Why had she—
And then he took another look at the boy, and he had his answer.
My God, he whispered inwardly, suddenly finding it hard to swallow. He felt a smile taking over.
I've got … a son? he thought. And then, liking the sound of it: I've got a son!
That's when Carol and the boy turned their heads and saw him standing there, looking at them. Gaping at them is more like it, he mused.
The captain started toward them, not sure of what he would say when he got there, not sure of anything except the inexorable pull of his own flesh and blood. The youngster's expression slowly began to change … But not to one of joy. Instead, his mouth twisted and hardened as if he'd just eaten something he didn't like. And even then, Kirk didn't quite catch on, until the boy barked something at him—something about Klingons and destruction—and the captain realized what had contorted those young features.
It was hatred—pure, seething hatred. And it was all directed at him.
Horrified, he asked himself: Why? What had he done?
"David!" Carol took him by the shoulder and whirled him around to face her. She shook her head as if she couldn't believe what she'd heard.
"David," she said, this time in a more measured tone, "what are you saying?"
The boy scowled and took a step back. But when he spoke, his voice was level, almost calm.
"He did this, Mom. It's his fault."
"His … fault?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"
For a moment, the youngster seemed on the verge of telling her. Then, biting his lip, he just turned and walked away.
Carol looked at Kirk, hoping he would have an explanation. Of course, he didn't. He just shook his head in helpless bewilderment.
She started after the boy, but the captain held her with a cry: "Carol!"
Carol stopped and turned, looking miserable. "Yes," she said. "He is who you think he is. Now I have to go find him. I have to—" She frowned. "We'll talk later."
Numb, he nodded. "Later." He watched Carol disappear around the curve of a ruined dome.
But in the space of a couple of moments, Kirk had fallen from the pinnacle of jubilation to the depths of dark confusion. And in the wind that whistled through the installation, he could still hear the boy's bizarre and discomfiting accusation: His fault … his fault …
Chapter Twenty-two
CAROL BREATHED IN DEEPLY. The air in the Bois de Boulogne was clean and fragrant. Unless one peeked through the branches, it was impossible to tell that there had been a disastrous fire somewhere nearby.
And neither she nor Jim was peeking in that direction. They had too much on their minds now to be thinking about the colony or anything else.
Fortunately, she'd been able to leave David with the Medfords. He seemed to like them, and she wouldn't have felt right about abandoning, him to his own devices at a time like this.
Resour
ceful as he'd proven himself, her son was no Klingon hunter. He was a ten-year-old boy, and all his fear and horror had had to come out some way. It was just too bad that Jim had been forced to bear the brunt of it. He didn't in any way deserve what happened. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"What did you tell him?" he asked, frozen vapor trailing out of his mouth. "About his father, I mean."
She folded her arms across her chest. Once again, the classic defensive posture, she knew. But she didn't care. "The truth—to an extent. That I met his father a long time ago; and that his father went away before he was born."
Jim shook his head. "McCoy knew, didn't he?"
She nodded. "I made him swear not to tell—on the basis of patient privilege,"
He grunted. "Well, that explains why he was avoiding me for a while there." He looked at her. "It must have been hard, raising him by yourself all these years."
Carol shrugged. "Not as hard as you might think. He's a good boy."
"Spock told me what happened out there in the hills. He's more than just a good boy. He's something … I don't know. Something special." The captain sighed. "I wish I could take some credit for that. I wish I … had had some part in him, Carol."
She met his gaze, but she didn't say anything. What could she say?
Finally, he had to ask it. "Why, Carol? Why let me go on all this time, not knowing?"
"Why?" she echoed. She smiled wistfully. "Because it was better for everyone concerned. If you'd known, what could you have given him? A couple of days here and there? You'd only have felt guilty for not spending more time with him. And David wouldn't have understood having to play second fiddle to your career."
Jim looked at her. "Was it better to have no father at all? Or anyway, none he could point to?"
"I won't tell you that was easy," she conceded. "Not for him or for me. But at least it was a clean break. He didn't have to wonder where he stood from day today. He didn't have to figure out why he wasn't a priority for his father, the way he was for his mother."
"That's not fair," he said softly. "You didn't give up your career any more than I would have given up mine."
Carol took his hands in hers and squeezed. "I didn't have to," she told him. "In my kind of work, there's a place for a family. For a child. I'm not saying you're a terrible person for wanting to be a starship captain. But you've got to admit, David couldn't exactly have toddled around your bridge while you were out there fighting Klingons."
He sighed. "No. I don't suppose he could have." He withdrew his hands and gazed at the treetops, where the sun was caught like some kind of splendid bird. "And now he hates me."
"That'll pass," she assured him. "I'll make sure it passes. I'll explain that you weren't to blame for any of this—that for all we know, you saved our lives as much as Spock did."
Jim eyed her. "I appreciate that. But I'd appreciate it more if you took it a step further."
She felt herself stiffen at the suggestion. "You mean tell him who you are."
He nodded. "I mean tell him he has a father. Someone who cares about him, even if he's not around." He licked his lips, searching for the right words. "Carol, I'm not telling you how to raise him. Obviously, you don't need any advice from me on that count. But it's wrong to keep my identity a secret. If I were a boy—especially a boy David's age—something like that would be important to me. Hell, it would make all the difference in the world."
She recalled David's questions about his need for a father. Maybe Jim was right, Maybe.
And then again, maybe it would be like opening Pandora's box. Knowing his father was a starship captain, David might someday want to be like him. And she desperately didn't want David to go flitting around the galaxy, giving up all promise of a home and a family for the exotic lure of faraway places, and probably breaking some poor girl's heart in the process. No, she didn't want that for her son at all.
"Promise you'll tell him about me," Jim urged. "Not now. But when he's over what happened today. When you feel the time is right."
She shook her head. "I can't. Not right off the bat. I'd have to think about it—a lot."
He didn't look happy. "You mean really think about it? Or just tell me you're going to so you can get me off your back?"
Carol smiled. He knew her too well. She'd made a pledge to McCoy that she'd never truly intended to keep. And here she was, trying to make the same kind of pledge to Jim.
But Jim Kirk wasn't a stranger. He was the man she'd once loved—a man, she admitted, if only to herself, that she loved still.
It wasn't right to lie to him. It wasn't right to wear a mask of deception. If she agreed to think about telling David the truth, she would have to really search her heart.
"All right," she said finally. "I'll really think about it. You've got my word. As long as you promise me something in return."
"Anything," he told her.
Carol looked into his eyes, hoping he would understand. "Don't suddenly turn up on this planet, or on the next one we're working on. Don't try to insinuate yourself into his life.
Jim's mouth became a tight line. "Would I do that?" he asked ironically.
"Absolutely," she replied. Seeing his pain, she put her hand against the side of his face. "Let him find his own way, Jim. Let him grow up making his own decisions. Then, if he wants to seek you out, I won't have any objections. Deal?"
After a moment, he nodded. "Deal."
Carol heaved a sigh. "Good. Now that that's settled, you can tell me how it went at Alpha Maluia Six."
It was not difficult to find the children. Of the two domes still standing, only one was being used by Dr. McCoy to treat the injuries suffered by the colonists.
As Spock entered, he scanned the interior of the structure. They were all here, all those he wished to address. However, they were scattered throughout the crowd. It would be necessary to speak with each one individually, he decided.
But before he could even begin to carry out his intention, it was rendered unnecessary. All at once, it seemed to him, the children turned and saw him standing there, and as if responding to an unspoken command, they each got up and came over to him.
First Pfeffer and Wan, whose parents had been sitting together—no doubt sharing their experiences of captivity. Then Garcia. And finally Medford and David, who had been at the far end of the dome watching Nurse Chapel attend to Medford's father,
Dr. McCoy looked up from his own patient to see the youngsters threading their way among the adults. Far from mocking the first officer as he often did, he smiled. Approvingly, Spock thought.
When the children had all assembled around him, the Vulcan eyed each one in turn. Then he held up his right hand and splayed it to form a V between his middle and ring fingers.
"On my planet," he told them, "this is how we say good-bye: Live long and prosper"
Wan looked at him. "Are you leaving now?"
He nodded. "Yes. I am leaving."
With a concentrated effort, she imitated the position of his fingers. It pleased him.
"Live long and prosper," she said.
Then Pfeffer, who didn't do quite as good a job with the gesture. "Live long and prosper."
Garcia and Medford needed their other hands to keep their fingers in the right configuration. But the words came easily enough.
And finally, there was David. Like a Vulcan born, he held up his hand, fingers spread. "Live long and prosper, Mr. Spock."
The first officer nodded. "Well said." And then, as he had planned, he addressed David in particular: "Hatred is illogical."
He had been concerned that the boy might not understand. However, he understood perfectly. It was evident in his eyes and in the set of his jaw. It might not change his mind about the captain, of course. But then again, the Vulcan mused, it might.
Spock widened his purview to include the rest of them. "Prosper and live long," he told them. "All of you."
And then he left the dome.
Kirk
was in the ship's botanical garden, takin a few moments to admire his fireblossom, when the doors to the cabin opened and someone walked in. He looked to see who it was, and was surprised to note the presence of Ambassador Farquhar. The man had kept pretty much to himself, it seemed, from the moment they left Alpha Maluria.
Farquhar nodded. "Captain."
Kirk smiled politely. "What brings you here, Ambassador? I didn't know you were a rare-plant aficionado."
Farquhar grunted. "I'm not. But then, I'm not a lot of things, I suppose."
The captain regarded him. "Such as?"
The ambassador frowned. "On second thought, never mind what I'm not. Let's talk about what I am—and that's grateful."
Kirk was taken aback, to say the least. "Grateful?" he echoed. "For what?"
Farquhar's temples worked savagely. "I very nearly made a mess of things down on: Alpha Maluria Six. And on more than one occasion, I'm afraid. But somehow, you managed to pull my rear end out of the fire. And the Malurians' along with it."
The captain shrugged. "I stumbled through it and got lucky, that's all. In the final analysis, I guess that's all any of us can do." He paused. "Besides, I made my share of mistakes this time around, If I'd listened to you in the beginning—if I'd trusted you a little more instead of playing it by the book—we might've prevented the bloodshed—before it ever got started."
"You mean," said the ambassador, "if I'd given you reason to trust me, instead of badgering you from the get-go." He shook his head. "You see, that's what worked for me at Gamma Philuvia. And before that, on Parness's Planet. As long as I kept everyone on the ship off-balance, I pretty much got what I wanted. Then I turned on the charm when I got planetside, and everything just seemed to fall into place."
Kirk nodded. "When something works, there's a tendency to stick with it. Hell, I've been temptedthat way myself."
"But it's not going to work every time," Farquhar added. "I see that now." He considered the fireblossom, reached out and touched one of its petals. "The solution you came up with was a stroke of brilliance. I could be an ambassador for a hundred years and never match it."
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