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.

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, had 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.

“The truth?” asked the man. “The truth is, we don’t need your kind here, nor his. We were doing fine before he arrived, and the Prastorian army is merely setting things back to the way they should be. Without his assistance.”

“The words of an assassin and a coward.” The Grand General slapped the arms of his throne for emphasis.

“History will judge me a hero,” the soldier said defiantly.

“Perhaps, but what will the Gods of Fate judge you? That’s the more immediate question. Execution following capture during a sneak attack is hardly a ticket to Arnhall. You’ll be cycling through this life for generations at this rate.”

“I would have fought to the death had not this—this alien—knocked me unconscious.” The Prastorian soldier glared at the red-haired woman.

Apparently these people believed very strongly in reincarnation and an eventual afterlife as a reward for the righteous, thought Lebrun. Strongly enough to die willingly to get there. Not a good sign.

“Stella saved you?” McCoy asked incredulously of Mudd.

His nod was nearly imperceptible. “There appear to be advantages to having a…determined companion,” he said.

She shook her forefinger at him. “As I’ve told you all along, you worthless, womanizing, sorry excuse for a husband. But do you listen? Oh no, you’re too high and mighty to listen to your wife. Well, let me tell you—”

“Oh, do be quiet,” Mudd said in a soft voice. “My ears hurt enough as it is.”

Surprisingly, the woman shut up. Lebrun looked at her with disbelief. This shrew was that poor man’s wife? How could he tolerate such a creature? She must have some redeeming quality that Harry found desirable—or had when he proposed to her—but what that could be Lebrun was hard put to guess. She shuddered at the thought that she and Simon could ever become like them; then she reddened with the realization that they had already taken the first step. When the yellow alert had sounded and she had received the call to return to duty, she had put on her uniform again and opened the bedroom door to find Simon working on his third Cetian laliska. She had left without a word of explanation, and he had offered no apology in parting.

When I get back, she vowed, I’ll apologize for both of us.

The Grand General apparently liked this woman. Laughing, he said, “Such spirit. You’d make a good Nevisian, Stella! You should consider it.”

“I have my duty to Harry,” she said simply.

“And you have my permission to abrogate at any time,” Mudd muttered.

Now Kirk laughed, which Lebrun thought was very insensitive of him, even under the circumstances. He said, “I think we’ve established that the Prastorians attacked on their own. And whatever Harry was doing in the cellar had no effect on you—except possibly to warn you of the invasion. So it looks to me as if you owe him a favor.”

“We owe him nothing,” insisted the Grand General. “He is a meddlesome alien who has disturbed our way of life beyond measure. And he lulled me into dropping my guard.”

“Then let us take him away from here and get him out of your hair completely.”

Lebrun thought that was an unfortunate choice of words, given the Nevisians’ electric-shock coiffure, but if the Grand General took offense he showed no sign of it. “We could teach him a few things about honor if he stayed among us,” he said.

“Do you really want his influence to spread?” Kirk asked.

The Grand General thought that over for a moment, then laughed uproariously. “Well argued! Indeed, we do not. Take him then. Take him away.” He looked over at Stella. “But you, my dear, must do us the courtesy of remaining at least through the day. Give me that much time to convince you to stay.”

“I cannot leave Harry,” said Stella.

Mudd had perked up considerably in the last few minutes. “Give him his day, Stella,” he told his wife. “I’ll hardly be going anywhere aboard the Enterprise, and I could use the rest from your endless… advice.”

She considered his statement, then nodded slowly. “Very well,” she said, “but I will not be swayed from my duty.”

Duty, thought Lebrun. She apparently wouldn’t rest until she’d reformed the man to her own image. Was that what marriage was all about? She certainly hoped not. Yet wasn’t that what she had been trying to do with Simon this evening? When she got home, they would definitely have to talk.