Mudd in Your Eye

by Jerry Oltion

  He heard a chorus of "Yes, sir"s over the intercom. He hoped he wasn't sending more crew members to their deaths, but they couldn't allow the android to cause any more trouble down there either. This time, though, they wouldn't waste time trying to apprehend it. They would merely stop it and let the Prastorians clean up the mess.

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  Chapter Sixteen

  LESLIE LEBRUN was surprised to learn that she qualified for a number of jobs. After she and Harry had begun to wrinkle like prunes in the hot water they had been given bright red clothing to identify them as new Prastorians and were sent on to the employment office for evaluation, where she discovered that her experience in starship security made her a shoe-in for a guard job on Prastor. Or, she had always liked to draw, and a quick sketch of the interviewer had delighted him with her unconventional use of line width and shading, enough so that he assured her she could easily support herself by selling portraits if nothing else. But according to his tests she also had the technical skills to assemble electronic equipment if she wished. Or—Lebrun blushed when he mentioned it—she could be a receptionist in a bathhouse.

  "I mean it," he said when he realized the significance of her color change. "You look enough like us to be quite appealing, and just different enough to be exotic. Exotic is good in a welcoming agent."

  "I'm sure it is," Lebrun said, looking away at the walls of the small office in which she and Harry and the interviewer sat. "But I don't think it's the job for me."

  "Of course it is. You'd be wonderful at it," Mudd urged her, showing the first sign of animation he had expressed since learning that he was qualified to be a store clerk, a farmworker, a waiter, or a tax collector.

  "And I'd be naked most of the time," she said to him in English. The words sounded odd to her after speaking Nevisian for the last few hours, but she didn't want the interviewer to understand her. "I need clothing for what I have planned."

  "And what is that, my dear?" Mudd asked, also in English.

  "Escape."

  "What are you saying?" the interviewer asked.

  "I was just reminding Harry why I couldn't take that job," she replied in Nevisian. "Religious reasons," she added when he started to ask. She turned back to Harry and said in English, "What do you say? Do you want to come with me?"

  Harry sighed. "Considering my exciting opportunities for meaningful employment here, and the rather restrictive rules governing travel and communication, I believe I may be better off taking my chances on the Enterprise after all."

  Lebrun had horrified their hosts by asking to be returned to the Enterprise, and they had both endured a lengthy lecture on the reasons why she couldn't, all of which had boiled down to "That's not allowed." So she had pleaded ignorance and promised to adopt a new life as she was supposed to, figuring she could make a break for it as soon as she had a chance. All she had to do was find a radio—or even make a simple spark-gap transmitter out of a battery and a wire—and send an SOS. The emergency monitors on the ship would instantly pinpoint her location, and a sensor scan would tell them who was calling for help.

  But she would have to do it quickly, before the Enterprise left the system, or she would be stuck here forever.

  "I believe my religion would allow me to work with electronics," she said to the interviewer. That should put her in contact with the equipment she would need.

  "An excellent choice," he said. "And you, sir?"

  "Could I try my hand at it as well?" Mudd asked.

  The interviewer shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. You wouldn't be allowed to work together anyway, you understand. The rules demand that you be separated after your orientation so you can pursue new lives."

  That could complicate things. If they separated her and Mudd, she would have to contact the ship on her own. That probably wouldn't be any more difficult than having his help, and in fact it might be easier without having to look out for him, but on the other hand he did have experience living on the fringes of society, and that could come in handy if they needed to hole up for a while.

  She looked around the room again. A tiny, nondescript office, fairly well soundproofed from the others, no guards at the door. . . . This was probably the best opportunity she could ask for. In one smooth motion she stood up, reached across the desk, and yanked the interviewer forward by his hair, grabbing his throat in her other hand and squeezing to prevent him from screaming. Mudd actually screamed louder than the interviewer, but it was just a startled squeak.

  Lebrun let go of the man's hair and grabbed one forearm. "Get his other one," she hissed at Mudd.

  It took him a second to understand, and even longer to catch the flailing limb, but Lebrun kept her grip on the man's throat so it didn't really matter. His legs were pinned by his own weight now that she had him bent over the desk, and although he could no doubt work one free and start kicking the wall with it if he thought about it, he was in no position to do much thinking. His air and blood flow had been cut off; Lebrun only had to hold tight for a few more seconds before he collapsed onto the desktop.

  "Was that really necessary?" asked Mudd when the man went limp. "Now we're fugitives already."

  "You want to try getting by here on your own?" Lebrun asked. She tore off the man's sleeves and pant legs and began tying him up with the cloth—a trick she had learned in security training.

  "I have done quite well on my own in the past," Mudd said proudly, but then he said, "But you're right, we must stick together."

  After they tied up the interviewer, Lebrun went through his desk drawers and found a disruptor and a set of knobby metal tubes on a ring that had to be keys, which she pocketed even though she had no idea what they went to. At least she would have them if it turned out they needed them later.

  "All right," she said to Mudd. "Now we go out the door like we just got the jobs of our dreams, and walk straight out of the building. Ready?"

  He was panting a bit already just from the exertion of tying up the interviewer, but he wiped the sweat from his forehead and nodded. "If we must."

  "We must," she said, mimicking his precise enunciation. She grasped the door by its shiny glass knob—all the doors she had seen here were manually operated—and pulled it open. "Stay close," she said, and set off down the hallway.

  Spaceship mechanic! Scotty rubbed his hands together like a land speculator about to close a deal on a whole planet. Perfect. He hadn't even realized that the Nevisians had spacecraft. They were apparently tiny little interplanetary things with no warp capability at all; designed, of course, for combat and nothing more, but they were spaceships nonetheless. The moment the Distrellians let him get his hands on one, he was as good as free.

  Unfortunately, their inadvertent generosity didn't extend to the other Enterprise crew members. Chekov and Sulu had been given work in cartography and heavy equipment operation, respectively, while Captain Kirk had been offered only desk jobs. Management, to be sure, one of them coordinating battle plans, but it was hard to see how that would help them get back to the ship.

  And they had to do that soon, before the Enterprise was sent on another mission somewhere else. Spock would no doubt have reported their deaths already, which meant that he was now awaiting orders, and at this distance from Starfleet those could come in less than a day.

  They were in the final briefing room before being released. It was a small amphitheater, with seats for themselves and about fifty others, and walls covered with painted cloth murals that depicted presumably local scenes while cutting down on echoes. A no-nonsense drill-sergeant-type immigration official stood up front and explained what came next. They would be sent to temporary housing first—spread out all over the planet so there would be no more contact with people from their former lives—and given a day to explore their new homes before being shown to their jobs. That would be too late for Scotty and the others. Without a warp drive those fighter ships would do them no good at all if the Enterprise was already gone.

/>   The pep talk was full of buzzwords about duty and honor and bravery and so forth. And one piece of fatherly advice that galvanized all four Starfleet officers:

  "And I know some of you weren't ready to leave Prastor yet, but don't think you can just sneak off and kill yourselves to get back. You'll go back, all right—the Gods keep track of where you came from and who you associate with—but it'll be in the middle of the closest battle with someone you know in it, and your own people will blow you right back here. The same goes if you're killed trying any other method of escape, or killed while committing a crime."

  Kirk leaned over to Scotty and whispered, "That may be our fast ticket out of here."

  "How's that, sir?" Scotty asked.

  "If one of us were to…well, you know…he'd wind up on Prastor. In the middle of a fight, sure, but outside a shielded area. If the Enterprise is still looking for us, then they'll beam me up, and then we could come here to Distrel and pick up the rest of you."

  Even though he'd noted that Kirk had said "me," Scotty felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Commit suicide just to cross from planet to planet? "I don't like it," he whispered back. "We have no idea how this resurrection business works. We seem to have come through it all right this time, but until we know what makes it tick I don't think we'd be smart to try it again. I'd rather steal a ship and go back that way."

  "Yes, but can we do that quickly enough?" Kirk asked. "We might only have a few hours left."

  "We know they have spaceships here; you just get me close to one and I'll handle the rest."

  Kirk nodded and resumed listening to the pep talk, or appeared to at least. But he was no doubt planning their escape, as was Scotty. The way he figured it, they would have to make a break for it before they were split up, then head for the spaceport, sneak in, and steal a ship.

  And if that didn't work…well, the odds of someone getting killed between here and there were fairly high. They might just have a chance to try Kirk's other idea as well.

  Kirk was evidently thinking along the same lines. He leaned back over to Scotty and whispered, "When I give the signal, we take out the drill sergeant, get his disruptor, and head for the spaceport."

  "Aye, sir," Scotty said. Kirk leaned the other way and whispered the same to Sulu, who in turn passed the message to Chekov.

  A few minutes later the briefing was over, and people got up and began moving out the door toward the transporters, where they would be sent off to their new homes. The immigration instructor stood by the doorway, wishing everyone well. The Enterprise crew hung back so they would be the last ones out, and when they drew abreast of him, Kirk held out his hand. The instructor gripped his forearm in the Nevisian lodge-brother style of greeting, and Kirk gripped his in return.

  "Good luck, and welcome to Distrel," the instructor said.

  "Now," Kirk replied.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE BUILDING COVERED a city block. Mudd was sure they had walked at least that far, probably more, all at a breakneck pace. He was as eager as Lebrun to get away from the scene of the crime, but there were limits.

  "Slow down," he gasped as he puffed his way down the hallway behind her. "We don't…look nearly…nonchalant enough at this pace."

  "Sorry," she said, not slowing any that Mudd could detect. They were approaching a cross-corridor that looked as if there were a strong light source off to the left, and sure enough, as they turned into it they saw a door with a frosted window, illuminated unmistakably by bright sunlight.

  "All right, look happy," Lebrun said, pushing open the door.

  "I'm afraid 'worn out' is the…best I can manage at this point," Mudd gasped. He clutched the doorframe for support while he paused on the threshold to catch his breath and look at their surroundings. The rushing, banging, active sounds of a busy city grew apparent when his heartbeat slowed enough to allow him to hear it. They seemed to be in the back of the building, apparently at an employees' entrance. Just a few yards from the door stood a little kiosk that looked at first like a bus station, except there was no street or even a landing pad for a bus to arrive on. A stone path linked it to the building, and other paths fanned out from it to buildings across the commons. It must be a transporter station, Mudd thought, and he nearly went over to investigate it, but Lebrun set off across the commons toward one of the other buildings and he had to hurry to keep up with her.

  Lollipop-shaped trees alongside the paths provided shade for the few pedestrians who used them. Nobody paid any attention to Mudd or Lebrun; everyone else seemed to be hurrying just as fast, and all of them were looking nervously off to the left. Mudd glanced over to see what they were worried about, and nearly tripped when he saw bright lances of disruptor fire spear out from around the corner of the building. People were fighting right out in front.

  A man and a woman appeared in the transporter station and ran off toward the battle, drawing their own weapons from shoulder holsters as they ran. Mudd watched with horrified fascination as they reached the corner, took immediate aim at something out of sight, and fired five or six shots each. Return fire suddenly speared past them and one bolt hit the man, who fell backward, twitched once, and vanished. The woman yelled something unintelligible and leaped forward out of sight, firing her disruptor as she went.

  "That way," Mudd said, pointing off in the other direction.

  "Right," said Lebrun. They rushed off across the grass to the right of where they had been heading, intending now to put another building between them and the battle, but a loud roar split the air from above and they stopped again, looking up to see what had caused it.

  A Federation shuttlecraft was landing just a few hundred feet away, between them and the battle.

  "All right!" Lebrun shouted. "They came for us!" She ran toward the shuttlecraft, and Mudd took a few steps after her, but when the door slid open and he saw who stood there, he skidded to a stop. His feet slipped on the soft fern and he landed on his butt, no doubt getting an embarrassing grass stain in the process, but that was the least of his worries.

  "Harcourt!" the Stella android shouted. "Harcourt Fenton Mudd, you come here this instant!"

  Mudd hesitated. Much as he hated returning to her clutches, for once he believed he might be better off following her advice. He stood up, brushed off his pants, and took a few steps toward the shuttle, but the sight of dozens of blue-clad Distrellians running around the corner of the building brought him to a halt again.

  Lebrun didn't see them; she was close enough to the shuttle that its bulk hid them from sight. And Stella didn't see them, since the door opened on the wrong side of the shuttle for that. Harry made a split-second guess whether he could beat the Distrellians to the shuttle, and realized that he could not. And to them, he was no doubt a blazing red beacon of a Prastorian target.

  He turned toward the transporter station. Maybe he could beam away, if he could figure out how to operate it before the Distrellians caught up with him. Or failing that, maybe he could make it back inside the building.

  He ran as hard as his feet would carry him. From behind he heard the shouts of his pursuers, and Stella screeching, "Harcourt, come back here! You can't get away from me that easily."

  The ground vibrated with the sound of something massive pounding after him, undoubtedly the android.

  Dear God, let the Distrellians get me first, Mudd thought.

  The gods—or perhaps just random chance—obliged him. Mudd felt the white-hot pain of a disruptor blast strike him square between the shoulder blades, and he pitched forward into darkness.

  "Dammit, I was kidding!" he shouted as he fell.

  The immigration instructor was no match for four Starfleet officers. The moment Kirk grabbed his right arm, Scotty took his left, Sulu slipped behind him and locked a forearm around his windpipe so he couldn't cry out, and Chekov snatched his disruptor from its holster. Kirk yanked his shirt up over his face so he couldn't see, then tore one of the wall hangings into strips to tie him up and
gag him with. Within three minutes he was an immobile bundle hidden between two rows of seats, and Kirk was leading the way out the door.

  He could hear voices off to the right, so he turned left. A short hallway led to a set of wide double doors, which let them out into a drizzly wet afternoon rain shower. Kirk wasn't too excited about walking in the rain, but he wanted to get a little distance from the immigration building.

  Maybe they could do even better than that. Walkways converged on a small, hexagonal glass and stone building that had to be a public transporter station. It was open on three of its six sides; Kirk crossed over to it and stepped in through one of the open archways.

  Then again, maybe it was just a shelter from the rain. Or a receiving station only. There was a hexagonal grid on the floor and ceiling, but no controls that Kirk could detect. "Scotty," he said, "see if you can figure out how this thing works."

  "Aye, Captain," Scotty replied.

  There were, at least, maps of the city on the three walls. While Scotty examined the hardware, Kirk stepped up to one of the maps to see if he could spot the spaceport. All the labels looked like little squiggly lines to him, but there was one boxed-in area near the center of the map that had to be YOU ARE HERE.

  There were no main streets. In fact, there were very few streets at all, by the looks of it. Just buildings and parks and lakes and so forth, if he was interpreting the symbols right. Apparently most traffic was carried by transporter. Or maybe hovercraft, though the sky seemed pretty free of anything but rain at the moment. Kirk looked on the map for an open area big enough to land a spaceship in. It would probably be on the edge of the city, since people wouldn't want to live too close to a military target—though that might not be true of Nevisians, he realized.