by Greg Cox
“You keep insisting you’re Klingon,” he said, “but that’s not entirely so, is it? According to our doctor, you’re actually of Cyprian descent.”
She reeled backward as though Pike had just slapped her across the face, then glared at him with utter loathing. If looks could kill, he would have been vaporized in an instant. Pike wondered if he’d made a mistake in confronting her with the truth. He seemed to have hit a nerve.
“My heart is Klingon! My honor is Klingon!” She fingered the jeweled pendant hanging from her neck. A blood-red gem, inscribed with a Klingon symbol, reflected the harsh lighting of her cell. “Test my courage, my warrior’s spirit! Meet me in combat if you dare. Subject me to your most brutal tortures. I’ll prove to you that I am a true daughter of Kahless . . . by eating your heart while it’s still beating in the palm of my hand!”
Boyce’s hand went instinctively to his bruised throat. “Good heavens.”
“An interesting case study in nurture over nature,” Spock observed. “Despite her actual biology, she appears almost more Klingon than an actual Klingon.”
Glancing at his science officer, Pike wondered if Spock could relate. Did he feel obliged to act even more Vulcan than most Vulcans because of his half-human blood?
“You don’t need to prove anything to us,” Pike said. He decided to table the subject of her Cyprian roots for the moment, since that was apparently a hot button for her. He wanted to get through to her, so they could have a fruitful discussion, not provoke any further outbursts. Any discussion of her actual ancestry could wait until she’d had a chance to calm down, if Klingons—or even “Klingons”—ever calmed down. “We’re just trying to understand you and your situation.”
He considered pointing out that the Enterprise had saved her life, but recalled that Klingons were not known for their gratitude. If anything, they were said to resent any suggestion that they required assistance, especially from “weaker” species. Starfleet had learned that early on, back during Jonathan Archer’s historic voyages.
“The only thing you need to understand is that I do not belong here, not in this cage and not on your ship.” She spit at the force field, which sparked briefly in response. “If you do not intend to release me, or kill me, then stop wasting my time.”
Pike tried another tack. “I understand you’re called Merata.”
“That is correct.” Her chin lifted proudly. “Heir to a noble house. When my father comes for me, you shall all regret insulting me in this manner. He will show you no mercy, not even in the manner of your deaths.”
“Your father?” A horrible suspicion struck him with the force of a disruptor blast. “Wait a second, who exactly is your father?”
“General Krunn,” she declared. “A mighty warrior of the Empire!”
Boyce traded looks with Pike. “Oh, brother.”
Tell me about it, Pike thought. He kicked himself for not putting the pieces together before now. No wonder Krunn was determined to get Merata back while taking pains not to put her at risk. She wasn’t just “a daughter of the Empire.” She was his daughter.
His adopted daughter.
A messy situation had just gotten a whole lot messier. It seemed Soleste’s long-lost sister was Krunn’s daughter—and they both wanted her back.
“Hah!” she mocked them. “Well you should tremble at my father’s name. I am Merata, daughter of Krunn, and woe to any who tempt our wrath!”
Terrific, Pike thought.
He hoped Number One was having an easier time of it.
Five
“How long are they going to keep us cooped up here?” Lieutenant Giusio asked.
“An excellent question,” Number One replied. “But I’m afraid that remains to be seen.”
Since touching down on Cypria III, the landing party had been held in quarantine in a wood-paneled decontamination chamber at the spaceport outside the planet’s capital city of Sapprus, while the cautious Cyprians subjected the Kepler’s crew to a time-consuming battery of scans and tests. A sterile blue radiance, reminiscent of that employed in the decon chambers of older Starfleet vessels, suffused the chamber, which was about the size of the Enterprise’s main transporter room. Padded benches made the wait somewhat easier for Number One and her team, which consisted of two security officers, whose sidearms had already been surrendered to the local authorities, and a nurse on loan from sickbay. Subdued music, playing softly from concealed speakers, was no doubt intended to soothe the nerves of those in isolation. Although impatient to get on with her mission and secure the ryetalyn, Number One reflected that matters could be worse.
At least we were not obliged to strip down and slather ourselves with decon jelly, she thought, unlike previous generations of Starfleet personnel.
She could live with that.
“Attention, visitors,” a voice announced from the same unseen speaker. “You have been found clean of infection. Thank you for your patience . . . and welcome to Cypria III.”
“About time,” Nurse Olson muttered. Along with the rest of the party, he rose from a bench and tugged his blue-gray field jacket into place. “Feels like we’ve been cooling our heels forever.”
“Their planet, their rules,” Number One reminded him. “We’re here as guests and supplicants, requesting assistance. Everyone, mind your manners.”
“Yes, sir,” Olson replied. “Just eager to get down to business, that’s all.”
Number One sympathized. “As are we all.”
A doorway opened automatically, and they exited the chamber to find a welcoming party waiting for them in a reception area beyond. As with the decontamination chamber, the décor emphasized polished wooden panels and tiles in various shades of brown. Transparent skylights provided plenty of natural sunshine. Lush tropical flowers blossomed from potted plants. The Cyprians’ aesthetic clearly tended toward the organic, at least in this region of the planet. Number One found it a pleasant change from the stark gray interior of the Enterprise.
The Cyprians themselves were a handsome people, whose appearance matched the descriptions in the Starfleet database. Only their scalloped ears distinguished them from humans or Illyrians, although this was more visible on the women, who wore their hair short, perhaps to show off the flare of their ears. By contrast, the men sported long hair roughly the same length as Number One’s own dark tresses. Both genders favored brightly colored loose linen clothing, predominately in hues of green and orange and purple. Elaborately trimmed and embroidered vests served as status symbols, Number One understood; the more ornate and expensive the vest, the more notable the individual. The men wore tunics and knee-length shorts, while most of the women seemed to prefer skirts of assorted lengths. Number One recalled that Starfleet was contemplating giving female officers the option of wearing skirts instead of trousers while on duty.
She wasn’t entirely sure what she thought of that.
“Ah, our honored guests!” a booming voice greeted them. It belonged to a stout Cyprian male whose long blond hair compensated for his receding hairline. A ruddy complexion and gleaming white teeth stood out among his beaming features as he came forward to meet the landing party, accompanied by what was perhaps his entourage. The rich fabric and intricate designs on his tangerine vest denoted his importance and authority. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Number One recognized the man as the democratically elected prime minister of the planet. According to her research, he was said to be a born politician, but not overly isolationist in his views. She hoped that he would prove easy enough to deal with.
“We needn’t have kept you waiting,” Number One replied, unable to resist lodging a minor protest. “Our ship’s surgeon verified that our landing party was free of infection prior to our departure from the Enterprise many hours ago. Furthermore, it’s my understanding that your people are happily immune to the ravages of Rigelian fever.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded, “but who knows what other exotic bugs you might
have picked up in your travels? Better safe than sorry, as I believe you humans say. And what sort of public official would I be if I didn’t take every precaution to ensure the health and safety of my constituents . . . especially during an election year?”
Number One let the matter drop. The Enterprise was still at least a day away from Cypria III. Despite the frustrating delay, there was still sufficient time to obtain the ryetalyn before the ship arrived to rendezvous with the Kepler. Perhaps she could even begin the process of refining the ryetalyn to meet Doctor Boyce’s specifications.
“We greatly appreciate your hospitality,” she said diplomatically, “as well as all your very reasonable precautions.”
Arriving at Cypria had not been as easy as simply landing at the spaceport. Kepler had needed to pass through an impressive array of orbital defenses to reach the planet’s surface. The shuttlecraft’s sensors had detected substantial laser cannons mounted on both natural and artificial satellites, as well as around the perimeter of the major cities and population centers. There were also indications of large underground shelters.
Given the Cyprians’ proximity to the Klingons, Number One couldn’t blame them.
“Atron Flescu at your service.” He took Number One’s hand and shook it vigorously before turning to introduce the rest of the welcoming party by their duties. “And this is my chief of staff, my press secretary, my personal holographer, and various senior aides and advisors. I’d list them all by name, but I’ll give you a chance to get your bearings before barraging you with a lot of new names and faces. I’m certain we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other better during your stay on our lovely planet.”
“I have an excellent head for names,” Number One stated, ironically enough, “but my own can be taxing for those not raised on my native Illyria. It may be easier for you to address me as Number One, as my crewmates do.” She introduced the rest of the landing party. “Lieutenants Giusio and Jones, as well as Nurse Olson, a member of our ship’s medical staff. On behalf of the U.S.S. Enterprise, and Starfleet in general, I want to thank you for kindly offering to assist us with our present situation.”
She had already been in contact, via subspace radio, with the authorities on Cypria and made them aware of the Enterprise’s need for suitable quantities of ryetalyn. Her understanding so far was that the Cyprians were inclined to cooperate. She anticipated no difficulties, but knew better than to take success for granted. As Captain Pike liked to say, “Hope for the best, expect the worst.” She would not consider her mission accomplished until the ryetalyn was safely aboard the Enterprise and the outbreak of fever brought under control.
“Of course, of course!” Flescu replied. “Cyprians are a generous people. We’re always ready to lend a helping hand to those in need. He glanced over at his designated “holographer,” who appeared to be observing the meeting from the sidelines. “Make sure you’re getting my good side.”
“Always,” the woman promised. A glowing crystal visor concealed her eyes. Number One assumed the visor functioned as a recording device of some sort, capturing the encounter for posterity—or perhaps simply for the prime minister’s reelection campaign. “Just pretend I’m not here.”
Number One found that easier said than done, but accepted that the Cyprians had their own way of doing things. And certainly the landing party had nothing to hide. Putting up with the holographer struck her as a small price to pay if it meant getting the ryetalyn.
“Perhaps if we can continue on to the capital?” she suggested, hoping to hurry matters along. “I have heard that it is a very impressive and attractive city.”
“Absolutely! I’m sure you and your people are anxious to stretch your legs and get a little fresh air after your long journey and necessary confinement.” Flescu beckoned for them to follow. “Come this way, please.”
He led them out of the reception area onto an elevated outdoor platform, where Number One got her first impressions of Cypria III. The heat and humidity hit her first. Compared to the temperature-controlled environment of the spaceport, the climate outside was hot and sweltering. Sapprus was located in the equatorial region of the planet’s eastern hemisphere, and the tropical atmosphere reminded Number One of Newer Mumbai or Dorado Prime. A heavy floral fragrance wafted on the warm afternoon breezes. She felt overdressed in her standard field jacket and uniform.
“Whew,” Lieutenant Jones exclaimed. She wiped her brow. “Feels like I’m back in Atlanta.”
Sapprus rose in the distance, less than three kilometers away. Gleaming in the sunlight, it was a city of towering skyscrapers and elevated railways. Number One assumed that the polished wooden facades of the buildings were just that, concealing sturdier metallic supports. Or perhaps the buildings were indeed constructed of wood and merely reinforced and strengthened by artificial means? In any event, the city proudly displayed the abundance of the planet’s verdant forests. She could well understand why the original colonists had chosen to settle here.
“My apologies for the heat,” Flescu said. “We quite like it ourselves, but perhaps you prefer a more temperate environment?”
Number One had hiked Vulcan’s Forge in her youth. She figured she could endure a little humidity. “We’re simply happy to visit your world.”
A maglev train car waited at the platform. Along with ornamental trimming, the car also boasted an embossed government seal that resembled the twining, curlicue designs on the prime minister’s vest. He gestured toward it proudly.
“My personal tram,” he said. “Nothing but the best for our distinguished guests.”
Number One contemplated the vehicle and the monorail track stretching toward the city. “We’re honored by the privilege, but would not a site-to-site transport be more efficient?”
“Perhaps,” Flescu answered, “but a short, scenic ride will give you a better opportunity to take in the beauty of our lovely capital.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, but our mission is of some urgency.” She tried to speed matters up without appearing too impatient or ill-mannered. “Perhaps there will time for sightseeing later?”
“It’s an express train,” he insisted. “It won’t take long at all.”
She conceded to the inevitable. “Very well. Shall we be on our way?”
They boarded the tram, which proved mercifully climate-controlled as well as luxuriously furnished. Number One sat across from Flescu in a plush booth divided by a varnished wood table on which drinks and refreshments were laid. Her security officers took care to scope out the interior of the car before finding seats for themselves and Nurse Olson. Number One noted that the prime minister had his own security detail, which could be recognized by their dark burgundy uniforms and caps. They remained discreetly in the background, keeping watch while not calling undue attention to their presence. They were armed, she observed, with both batons and compact laser pistols. She wondered what had become of the landing party’s confiscated weapons and whether they would be returned to them later.
“We should be under way momentarily,” Flescu said. “Do enjoy the view and help yourself to some refreshments. The egg nuts are particularly tasty this time of year.”
True to his word, the tram lurched to life and began cruising toward the city. Taking advantage of a window seat, Number One watched with deliberate patience as the city proper came into view. Flowers and greenery were plentiful, showcased in landscaped parks, plazas, and gardens. Fountains and manmade waterfalls sparkled in the sunlight, adding to the impression of a modern civilization enjoying the benefits of a more than habitable Class-M planet occupying the most hospitable orbit in its solar system. A clear azure sky added to the attractive scenery.
Evidence of the upcoming election was also readily apparent. Number One spotted numerous holographic posters and billboards urging Cyprians to vote for Flescu, as well as a lesser number promoting other candidates. She suspected that Flescu’s holographer, who was continuing to assiduously document the land
ing party’s arrival, was taking pains to keep those other billboards out of her shots. Number One’s own native world of Illyria was more of a meritocracy than a democracy, with officials selected through careful testing and aptitude exams, but Number One understood how politics worked. You couldn’t truly understand the Federation—or even Starfleet—without some grasp of the concept.
“Your timing is excellent,” Flescu commented. “You’re missing the rainy season.”
“How fortuitous,” she replied politely. “I could claim to have done so on purpose, but, as you know, necessity dictated the timing of our visit.” She attempted to steer the discussion toward the matter at hand and retrieved a microtape from one of her jacket’s inner pockets. “Our ship’s surgeon has prepared a detailed list of our requirements. Quantities, isotopes, levels of purity, and so on. A refined powder would be preferable, but we can apparently make do with untreated ore or crystals.”
Flescu handed the tape off to one of his aides. “I’m certain we can accommodate your specifications, but you understand, of course, that ryetalyn is quite rare—and valuable—in this sector of the galaxy.” A calculating look entered his eyes. “I assume we will be compensated at some point, by either Starfleet or the Federation?”
“Naturally,” she said, having anticipated that this issue might arise. In its journeys, the Enterprise had occasion to deal with cultures practicing a wide variety of economic systems and its crew often found themselves required to employ assorted forms of currency and credits. She had no doubt that Starfleet would authorize whatever expenditures were required to quell the outbreak aboard the Enterprise, but hoped that she wouldn’t have to waste too much time and energy haggling over the price. She was a Starfleet officer, not an Orion trader. “I’m sure suitable compensation can be arranged, on top of Starfleet’s sincere gratitude.”