by Jerry Oltion
It was impossible to detect emotion in his first officer's voice, but Kirk had known Spock long enough to hear the urgency there as he said, "Captain, I am detecting widespread disruptor fire on the surface of Distrel."
Kirk felt his heart skip a beat. This was worse than a call from Starfleet, and he'd expected that to be bad. "How widespread?" he asked.
"There is significant activity in all inhabited areas of the planet."
"Who's doing the shooting?"
"Both sides are fighting heavily now, but it appears to have been initiated by Prastor."
Kirk looked out his window at the planet below. By naked eye, it looked as peaceful as ever. No flashes of weapons fire, nor even spaceships, could be seen on this scale.
But the Enterprise had better sensors than eyesight. "Why didn't we see them coming?" he asked.
Spock said, "I detected a large number of focused tachyon transmissions only moments before the disruptor fire broke out. I can only assume that the Prastorians beamed directly to their Distrellian targets from their own planet."
"Planet-to-planet transporters?" Kirk asked.
"That is correct. I have raised our shields to block any attempt to beam aboard the Enterprise, but the Prastorians have so far shown no interest in us."
"That could change without warning. Go to yellow alert; I'll be right up." Kirk switched off the intercom, donned a regular duty uniform from his closet, and as the alert klaxon began to sound throughout the ship, he headed for the turbolift. On the ride up to the bridge he pondered his options. The Enterprise couldn't intervene directly because of the Prime Directive, and if the battle was being fought hand-to-hand all over the planet there was very little a starship could do to prevent it anyway. A Federation starship carried enough weaponry to sterilize the entire world, but it was powerless to stop a surface war without destroying that surface and everyone on it as well.
What had triggered this, anyway? Kirk wondered if his and Mudd's altercation at the Grand Palace had struck more sparks than had been apparent at the time. It seemed unlikely, but he supposed it was possible. It was far more probable that the Prastorians had simply used the peace treaty as an opportunity to prepare for a full-scale assault and catch the Distrellians with their defenses down.
The turbolift doors opened onto the bridge. It had been staffed at minimum, since it was evening and the ship was in orbit around a friendly planet, but the yellow alert had already brought Sulu to the helm and Lieutenant Uhura to communications. Spock was at his science console. Kirk strode across the bridge to his side and asked, "Situation?"
"Unchanged, Captain," Spock said. "Fighting continues all over Distrel. Interplanetary transporter activity is still high, and beams are traveling in both directions, but so far fighting has not broken out on Prastor."
Kirk turned to Uhura. "See if you can reach the Padishah. I want to ask him what he's trying to pull here."
Uhura turned to her communications console, but after several attempts to hail the Prastorian leadership she shook her head and said, "No response, Captain."
"Try the Grand General, then."
"Yes, sir." She was more successful in that; a moment later she said, "On screen."
Kirk turned to face the main viewer, from which a harried Grand General peered out. His hair, normally standing straight out, was matted on one side, and his clothing was rumpled. He looked to be in a private sitting room or library, and in the background, slightly out of focus, Kirk saw at least four armed bodyguards.
"Grand General," Kirk said. "We're monitoring intense combat on Distrel. What is your situation?"
"Under control, for the moment," said the Grand General. "We had a tricky moment with a squadron that attacked the palace before we got our shields up, but we won't get caught unguarded again."
"I meant the planet as a whole. Can you repel this invasion?"
"Repel it?" asked the Grand General, as if that was a completely foreign concept. "Whatever for?"
"What for?" Kirk asked, equally incredulous. "To stop them from killing your people."
"Ah, yes, the way your doctor did with my footman. No, thank you, that won't be necessary."
"But—" Kirk stopped himself. Much as he hated the situation, the Prime Directive prevented him from arguing. "What caused this?" he asked instead.
"Prastor attacked us, of course," said the Grand General in the tone of voice reserved for answering dumb questions. "Why should you care, anyway?"
"Because if our presence here contributed to the situation in any way, we have a moral obligation to help set things right again."
The Grand General shook his head. "Things are right again. Now if you will excuse me, I have a traitor to execute." He reached forward as if to switch off his communicator, but Kirk stopped him.
"Wait. Who is the traitor, and what did he do?"
The Distrellian leader peered at Kirk for a long few seconds before he said, "Harry Mudd, of course. As for what he did, he lured us away from the teachings of our ancestors, just as you are trying to do. Would you care to come down and join him in the firing squad?"
Chapter Seven
SULU KNEW he was in for a long night. He could sense it coming with the inevitability of a derelict freighter closing on a space station. He'd missed out on the banquet, and after Chekov had returned and told him how it had gone he'd been glad to have avoided it, but he had the sneaking suspicion that the next trip to the surface would be even worse, and this time he would be along for the ride.
Sure enough, at the Grand General's latest statement, the captain said, "I'll come down all right, but it'll be to negotiate for his release." Never mind that interplanetary war was crackling all around the palace; Kirk had a job to do and he was going to go do it.
That clearly wasn't what the Grand General had expected him to say. "Whatever for?" he asked. "I got the distinct impression that you and he were not the old friends he said you were."
"We're not," Kirk said with a wry smile, "but he's a citizen of the Federation, and as such it's my duty to protect him."
"Why bother?" asked the Grand General. "An execution won't send him to Arnhall, but another run through the proving ground could only improve his perspective on life. Even you would have to agree with that."
Oh, great, thought Sulu. They're religious fanatics. Or at least they believe in reincarnation. Chekov hadn't mentioned that little detail.
Kirk said, "Harry is a bit rough around the edges, but we prefer rehabilitation to execution. Would you agree to turn him over to us for safekeeping? I can promise he wouldn't trouble you any further."
The Grand General ran a hand through his hair, restoring the matted patch to its former prominence. "I don't know, Captain. We caught him emerging from the catacombs with a squad of Prastorian soldiers. Leading the enemy against his own people is a pretty severe breach of military etiquette. Our law is very clear on such matters."
Kirk laughed. "Leading an army is the last thing Harry Mudd would do. He was probably running away."
The Grand General hesitated. "Possibly. But if that's the case, then what was he doing in the catacombs in the first place?"
"Harry Mudd?" asked Kirk, laughing even harder. "Check his pockets. And count your spoons. But don't execute him for treason. He hasn't got a treasonous bone in his body."
Again the Grand General hesitated, and Kirk jumped into the breach before he could recover his sense of purpose. "Let me come down and help you get to the truth of the matter," he said. "Then we can decide what to do with him."
Obviously reluctant, the Grand General nevertheless said, "Very well, Captain."
"We'll be right there. Kirk out." He turned to Lieutenant Uhura and said, "Keep an eye on the situation down below. I want you to let me know at the first sign of trouble. Keep a fix on us and be ready to beam us out if that shield around the palace goes down. If it does, the place will probably be filled with Prastorians in no time."
"Yes, sir," she said.
&nbs
p; Here it comes, thought Sulu.
But Kirk turned to him and said, "Mr. Sulu, you have the conn. If the Enterprise comes under attack, take her out of range and give the conn to Mr. Scott."
"Aye, sir," Sulu said, trying to hide his surprise.
"Spock, you come with me." Kirk turned to go, then paused. "I forgot to ask if Harry was injured. Uhura, call Dr. McCoy and have him meet us in transporter room one. And tell security I want two people to accompany us, just in case." He turned back to Spock and said, "All right, let's go see if we can't save at least one life down there."
As the two of them left the bridge, Sulu tried to get a handle on his emotions. Why did he feel so let down all of a sudden? Had he actually wanted to beam down with the captain? Apparently so. "Let's go save a life" was a powerful motivator. The landing party might be risking their own lives among hostile aliens light-years away from home, but they were doing it for a higher cause.
Well, all right, this time it was for Harry Mudd, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered.
And the strange thing about it: despite the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach when he'd thought he would be chosen to go along, and despite the immense responsibility he had been given instead, going on another dangerous mission was the part of his job that Sulu liked best.
Twice in one day. That was really too much. Dr. McCoy hated transporters anyway—the very idea of taking a body apart atom by atom and squirting it across space gave him the jitters—but to suffer the indignity just to beam down into the middle of a war was asking too much of a man.
Of course doctors always wound up visiting battlefields, so he couldn't say this came as a surprise. The moment he had heard that fighting had broken out again he had packed his medikit and prepared for the call. Nevisian courtiers at a royal party might prefer death to rehabilitation, but McCoy was willing to bet there were plenty of people in the general populace who felt differently.
The whole situation frustrated McCoy to no end. Soldiers marched out with higher and higher technology to kill each other over squabbles that shouldn't ever have escalated into violence in the first place, while doctors crept around beneath the fusillade with higher and higher technology trying to save the wounded. And people who just wanted to live their lives in peace wound up caught in the middle of it all, funding both the warriors and the doctors with their taxes. It seemed to be the nature of life itself, that endless struggle between violence and compassion.
There had to be a better way. Countless societies had tried to find it, and some had arguably succeeded, but at what price? The Federation with its military might, promoting peace but ready to stamp out with violence anyone who threatened that peace too aggressively? The Vulcans with their iron-willed self-supression that left them no emotions at all? The Klingons and Romulans had gone the other route, glorifying violence and embracing it openly as a way of life, but were they any better off? McCoy didn't think so.
Then there were the Nevisians. Fighting an interplanetary war longer than humanity had even been civilized, and all over nothing. According to the Grand General they had tried to make peace many times, but it had never lasted. McCoy could have told him why not: because they hadn't changed the basic nature of the Nevisian people. Deep down they had the same violent instincts as everyone else, and those instincts needed an outlet.
The solution was beyond McCoy, but as he crossed from sickbay to the transporters, he devoutly wished someone would come up with one. He was getting tired of patching up the wounded.
The transporter-room door swished open before him. Vagle, the transporter tech, was already there, along with two people from security. McCoy recognized Ensign Lebrun and Lieutenant Gorden. Lebrun looked a bit red around the eyes; McCoy almost offered her something to soothe the irritation, but then he remembered that she had just gotten married and reconsidered. That was another incomprehensible social situation, as far as he was concerned, almost as baffling as warfare.
Gorden looked a bit nervous as he checked the charge on his phaser. He was young and eager to make a name for himself. McCoy made a mental note to watch out for him—he could get himself hurt if he wasn't careful.
The door opened again and Captain Kirk entered, with Spock close behind.
"All here, I see," said Kirk. "Good. Let's go."
As they took up positions on the transporter platform, McCoy looked over to Spock. "Can you believe we're going down there to rescue Harry Mudd of all people?"
Spock nodded solemnly. "Since that is in fact our mission, I have no difficulty encompassing the concept."
Should have known he would say something like that, McCoy thought. A perfectly reasonable response to the question, except for the undeniable derogatory implications.
"Hah," he said. "The vaunted Vulcan reserve isn't much of a solution, either, is it?"
"I beg your pardon?" asked Spock, puzzled at the apparent non sequitur.
"As well you should," McCoy told him. "I was trying to be civil."
"As was I, Doctor, but apparently you were prepared to take offense all the same."
Was that really how Spock saw the situation? If so, then it was worse than McCoy thought. If two people who were trying to be civil could still wind up angry at each other, how could anyone truly make peace? He wanted to ask Spock about it, maybe draw him out into a real conversation for once, but there was no time for it now. Kirk chose that moment to say, "Energize." Vagle slid the activation controls forward, and the ship grew indistinct around them.
They appeared in a stone cubicle barely big enough to hold all five of them. Lebrun immediately turned around to take in the entire situation. There were no windows, no furnishings other than a single flat panel of light overhead, and only one door, a heavy metal one, which was closed and had no knob on the inside. Circles in all four walls looked ominously like the barrels of disruptors aimed straight at them. Strategically, this situation stank.
"What the—did Vagle miss his mark?" Dr. McCoy asked.
"I believe these are the coordinates we were given," said Spock. "The structure we are in is hardly surprising if considered logically. Since the Nevisians possess transporter technology, this is apparently a foyer where visitors can be examined before being allowed through the shielded walls into the interior of the palace. I suspect this is a common practice on both planets of this system."
That made sense, all right. Lebrun wasn't any happier about it, but it made sense. And the beam-out stations would be similarly designed, but shielded from arrivals so they couldn't be sabotaged from outside.
"Then why were we able to beam directly inside before?" McCoy asked.
Kirk said, "Because the shields were down. I bet they won't make that mistake again soon." He rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Open up. We're friends."
The solid thunk of a heavy bolt being withdrawn echoed in the tiny cubicle, then the door swung inward toward them. It couldn't be forced open easily, swinging that direction. And those disruptors insured that an enemy wouldn't have long to try blasting through, either.
Four armed guards stood just beyond the door. Two male and two female; apparently these people weren't hung up about gender in the military. Of course if the Nevisians had been at war as long as they said they had, then everyone was probably in the military. The guards eyed Lebrun and Gorden carefully, obviously wondering if they should try to confiscate their phasers. Lebrun gave them her best steely-eyed stare, trying not to laugh at the startled appearance their straight-out hair gave them, and after a moment they said, "This way, please." Two of them led the Enterprise landing party into the palace, while the other two stayed behind to guard the entry.
The Grand General was waiting for them in his audience chamber, an ostentatiously large room hung with tapestries and paintings and sporting only one chair—the oversized throne on a two-foot dais on which the Grand General himself sat, flanked by six more guards. The fat man off to the side, looking forlorn with his hands and feet in manacles, h
ad to be Harry Mudd. He was bruised and cut up a little on his left side where his shirt had been ripped open, but otherwise he looked uninjured. A red-haired human woman stood beside him, disapproval written all over her features. A Nevisian in red battle armor, also manacled, stood on the other side of him. The Nevisian was in much worse shape than Harry; he bled from half a dozen wounds and wisps of smoke still rose from the singed chestplate of his armor.
"So, Captain," the Grand General said, leaning forward in his chair. "What do you offer me for this scum of a traitor?"
"Are you sure he's a traitor?" Kirk asked.
"He was surprised in the company of several Prastorians as they emerged from the catacombs in a sneak attack."
"I was taken prisoner by them," Mudd said indignantly.
"Hardly an honorable defense." The Grand General sniffed disdainfully. "Even so, he was heard to shout, 'Attack!' That seems rather unlike a prisoner, does it not?"
"I was shouting 'Help, we're being attacked.' I was trying to warn you."
"You were either spying out a remote beam-in site for the Prastorians, or you were spying on your own. Either action is a reprehensible repayment of our trust in you."
"Nonsense." Mudd puffed out his chest and said, "I had overheard a whispered conversation between the Padishah and one of his footmen earlier in the day. Not enough to be sure of anything, and I didn't want to threaten the fragile peace with a baseless rumor, so I took it upon myself to investigate, and that's how I wound up—"
"I don't believe you," said the Grand General.
"You," Kirk said to the smoking Prastorian soldier. "What's the truth here?"
The man looked at Kirk with eyes full of hatred. Lebrun reached instinctively for her phaser, but stopped short of pulling it from her belt.