Black Fire Page 8

  "It does not concern an escape attempt."

  "I will help you in any way. You know that."

  "Then bring me a way of ending my life. A weapon, poison, whatever you can obtain for that purpose."

  "No!" She tried to draw her hand from his. "I will not help you destroy yourself!"

  "You must. I will explain my reasoning. Your Romulan teaching has equipped you to understand the necessity of my request. I am completely helpless, a deterrent to both your and Scott's survival. As long as I live, you will not try to escape. Therefore, the deterring factor must be eliminated. I am that factor. In my position, you, also, would choose death with dignity. I am slowly dying. Soon I will be unable to destroy myself. Each time you come you find me weaker. I believe you are permitted to come here to help prolong my suffering so that IIsa will obtain more perverse satisfaction from my situation. You would release your Romulan companions from such a fate. Would you condemn me to a lingering death to entertain an enemy—or will you permit me to die quickly, with dignity?"

  She broke down. "You are right. I would choose a quick death rather than allow an enemy to enjoy my suffering. I can do no less for you. I will bring you what you wish." She calmed.

  "Thank you," Spock said, releasing her hand.

  Julina returned with a small dagger IIsa customarily wore on her arm for ceremonies. It was more decorative than useful. The blade was very short, which made it easy for Julina to secrete the dagger and bring it to Spock. It wouldn't be missed until the next day, if IIsa chose to wear it.

  The Vulcan examined the jeweled dagger dispassionately. It was beautiful, made by a fine craftsman on an unknown planet far away. Spock made silent tribute to the artisan who created such an object of beauty for his purpose. Then he spoke to Julina, who sat beside him on the stone pallet, studying him.

  "I had no intention of asking you to assist me, but I feel I am too weak to use the knife effectively. I will guide the dagger; you must help provide the thrust."

  "I won't! I can't!" she protested fiercely, but she knew his Vulcan logic would prove his request an undeniable one.

  "Julina, don't make me beg for your help… ." He gripped her hand tightly.

  "No, Spock, don't say any more. You're right. I will do whatever you say."

  He guided her hand, placing the dagger above his heart. "Now," he commanded her. She added thrust to his, plunging the knife fiercely into his side.

  She drew back, releasing the knife, and Spock's hand slid limply from beneath hers. She ran her fingertips over his features, lingering a moment over his mouth, and whispered, "I love you," into his deaf ear. She quietly left.

  The guard, who was under orders to check Spock after each of Julina's visits, casually entered the cell. A pool of green had already formed on the gray stone floor. At the sight of the blood, the guard rushed to Spock's side, finding the dagger protruding from him. He sounded the alarm and the other guards responded efficiently. They apprehended Julina immediately.

  The commotion could be heard all the way to the launch site. IIob and Scott ran to the compound with the others to see what had happened. Scott could see Julina held by two strong guards. IIsa, carrying a spear, came toward her. He raced toward Julina, watching in horror as IIsa raised the spear and plunged it into the Romulan woman, killing her instantly.

  "What's happened?" Scott shouted. "Why did you kill her?" He ran toward the body of the beautiful Romulan he had come to trust and admire, cradling her limp form in his arms, ignoring the streams of blood seeping from her wound.

  "Why?" was all he could ask, looking up at IIsa, who stood looking down at him and her victim .

  IIsa turned to the guard. "Is the Vulcan dead? If he is, you will pay. You were ordered to watch the woman when she visited him."

  "I don't know, Begum," he said fearfully. "I didn't have the time to check carefully."

  "Bring him along," she ordered the guard, gesturing to Scott. He pushed Scott ahead of him into Spock's cell.

  Scott was stunned at the sight of Spock's seemingly lifeless form lying with the jeweled knife still embedded in his side. He tried to find a trace of life. He couldn't find a heartbeat or pulse, but that wasn't unusual with Vulcans. IIsa had a brightly polished buckle on her belt; Scott ripped it from her before he could be stopped.

  "I need it to see if he's still alive," he explained.

  "Go to him," IIsa said quietly.

  With evidence of the Vulcan's faint breathing on the mirrored surface, Scott kneeled beside Spock, examining the wound in the Vulcan's side. The seepage of blood was an ominous sign. Scott could hardly understand how Spock could have survived this long in his weakened condition. Why did Julina try ta kill him? It doesn't make sense. What could have possessed her? The thoughts poured through his head while he tried to think of what to do next.

  "Can you save him?" IIsa asked worriedly.

  "You're the one responsible for his condition," he retorted. "But I'll do ma best. I'm nae physician—I may kill him. He's Vulcan, and even for a human I'm nae equipped ta handle this. First we've got ta get him out o' this hole into a clean, warm place. I dinna think we can move him with that knife still in him. I'm goin' ta remove it an' try ta keep him from bleedin' ta death before I do anythin' else. Then we can move him."

  "Do as he says," IIsa ordered the guards.

  Scott clenched his jaw and reached for the knife, pulling it out. A stream of fresh blood welled out of the wound. He quickly placed a piece of hide cut from Spock's garment onto the wound and applied pressure.

  "Now, carry him carefully while I keep pressure on this," Scott ordered.

  The guards obeyed him, gently lifting the limp form of the Vulcan and carrying him into the Begum's quarters.

  "He must be kept warm," Scott directed, and a fire was started. "Blankets, I'll need lots o' blankets," the Scotsman demanded. A thick pile of furs was brought to his side.

  He covered Spock with the hides, fur side toward him for extra warmth. Spock was in deep shock. Scott shook his head hopelessly.

  "I dinna know if I can really help him," he said sadly. He withdrew his hand from the wound, causing a river of green to flow onto the shining furs.

  "I think it missed his heart an' hit a rib—maybe pierced a lung—I canna tell."

  With a rough bone needle and gut soaked in his ever-present pouch of home brew, Scott sewed the layers of flesh as best he could. When he had finished, he sank back, exhausted and drained.

  "It's out of ma hands now," he muttered. He rested his head on his arms, prepared for a long night's vigil. Throughout the entire operation, IIsa stood behind Scott, fascinated by what he was doing; she had never witnessed an attempt to save a wounded man before.

  Reason for her actions would be hard to justify to her subjects. It wasn't a rational decision; it was purely an emotional one. Even she couldn't completely understand her attraction to this alien captive. She placed herself on a couch covered with rich furs and waited with Scott.

  The engineer wrapped himself in a fur robe and sank down on the floor beside Spock. He dozed occasionally in the quiet and warmth of the room. It seemed forever since he had been comfortable.

  A small movement of Spock's hand brought him to attention. Spock was beginning to regain consciousness. His eyelids fluttered, then he opened his eyes. He looked up at a broadly smiling Scott. Then he closed his eyes and slept.

  In the following days, broth was forced into Spock, who was too weak to resist. IIsa supervised his care personally, making sure he was regularly fed and kept warm. When it was apparent he would live, Spock yielded to the inevitable and stopped fighting his recovery. But he was completely silent and withdrawn.

  Scott was alarmed. He tried to find a way to interest Spock in life again. He stayed up all night carving a crude chess set from bone, but Spock failed to respond. He had to find a way to bring the detached and remote Vulcan back to full alertness. Removing a small piece of hide from his belt, Scott took out the crystalline dart fro
m Paxas, placing it into Spock's unresisting hand. The odd sensation emanating from the crystal resonated through the Vulcan's arm. As the strange sensation grew, so did his interest.

  "Whre did you get this?" were the first words he spoke since his suicide attempt. He now had a mental challenge, and the scientist in him was functioning again.

  "Ye sure had me worried, Mister Spock. I'm glad ta see ye more like yeself. Are ye in pain?" Spook was lying completely flat, just as he had been placed.

  "No, Scott. There is no more pain. I have no sensation from the area of the wound down. Help me to sit. This crystal is fascinating."

  Chapter III

  The Enterprise

  1

  "Captain Kirk to Transporter Room. One to beam up."

  James T. Kirk said the familiar words with deep satisfaction. Finally, after the prolonged forced rest, he was returning to his true home. It was a day earlier than his orders indicated—a day to reacquaint himself with the repaired and rebuilt Enterprise, a day to get the feel of the ship and to relish being back before his duties absorbed his attention.

  "I'm sorry, sir. My orders are to beam up all personnel only when their orders indicate. You're a day early," came the reply from the ship.

  "This is the captain. The commanding officer. One to beam up." repeated.

  "Transporter Room, this is an order! I will take full responsibility. Beam me up immediately!" His pleasant feeling gave way to exasperation.

  "Yes, sir, if you insist." The transporter was engaged.

  Kirk was fuming when he stepped out of the transporter. "Lieutenant, when I give an order, you obey it. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes, sir. But I …"

  "No buts, Lieutenant. You are relieved. Report to your superior—and brush upon protocol… ."

  Now, why was I so hard on him? Kirk asked himself as he strode from the room. He was only following previous orders. Why did I jump so hard on him? Something's wrong. I can feel it. But that's irrational, he assured himself, first-day-back jitters.

  In his quarters he checked the safe, tucking his new orders into their proper spot. He hadn't received his new uniforms yet. The accident, the long recovery process, and the forced rest had given him time to exercise and get back into top shape and he had lost weight. His old uniforms hung on him so he had ordered new ones, which would arrive tomorrow No crew was on board yet so he decided his regulation uniform wasn't necessary. He put on a T-shirt and pants, eased into a well-worn pair of boots which felt like old friends, and hustled out of his quarters.

  He stepped into the turbolift. "Bridge." The familiar word sounded good.

  The bridge was empty. The temporary skeleton crew was controlling the ship from the auxiliary bridge. He was glad to be alone in the nerve center of the ship—he knew it would be impossible after today. But this was his day, a day to enjoy his ship. He toured the upper level of the bridge, running his hand over the newly replaced instruments. Peering into the sensor, he flipped a lever and watched the instrument register the life forms on the station below. The engineering console screen was showing an energy-flow diagram. He stepped down into the lower section and checked the navigation station. He swiveled the chair in the helmsman's position and watched it spin with ease.

  Smiling, he sat down in the familiar command position. The chair cushion gave way to his weight. It was more fully padded, feeling subtly different. A twinge of anxiety went through him. It felt different, this Enterprise. He had studied the design modifications: All of the plans and specifications were firmly embedded in his mind. They were planning even more drastic changes in the future. It made him feel vaguely uncomfortable.

  He stretched his feet in front of him, trying to relax. Automatically reaching for the switch to record his log, his finger missed the button: different. He readjusted, and flipped the switch.

  "Captain's log, Stardate 6205.7, James T. Kirk, Captain. I have returned to my ship."

  But it was different!

  He threw the switch to engage the darkened view-screen. A view of Starbase 12 flashed on. Kirk swiveled his chair and glanced at the communications and science stations. The instrument panels were now gray. He rose from his chair, heading for the turbolift, but stopped short at the doors; they were no longer red—gray had replaced the familiar color. He felt somewhat unnerved.

  Back in his quarters again, he stripped off the T-shirt and lay back on the bed. He switched on the library console, selected the specifications for the bridge, and studied the changes, trying to reconcile himself to the differences. He never thought of himself as rigid. In fact, it was necessary for a starship captain to be open to new situations and flexible in his approach to rapid, unexpected change. Kirk was annoyed with himself. Why am I so ill at ease? A new paint job shouldn't make me jittery. Something's wrong—I can feel it. He stripped, programmed the computer to awaken him early, began reading, and fell into a restless sleep.

  "O-six-hundred, Captain James T. Kirk, wake-up call," the computer's voice droned over and over again.

  "I hear you!" Kirk grumbled at the machine. Then he paused, frowning. "Computer, what time is it?"

  "O-six-hundred hours and thirty seconds," the computer answered immediately in a pleasant male voice.

  Kirk shook the cobwebs out of his head. I'll be damned! They even changed the voice on the computer! Wonder what Spock will think of that? The thought of his first officer and friend reassured Kirk and caused him to smile. He was anticipating the reunion with all of his officers, but particularly Spock. If nothing else, Spock's presence would render all the disturbing changes insignificant.

  The buzzer sounded. "Sir, Yeoman Helman with your uniforms."

  "Just a minute, Yeoman." He slipped on a robe and pressed the door release. The new yeoman entered tentatively. "Come on in. I won't bite you."

  "Yes, sir," she responded, unconvinced. "This is my first assignment, sir."

  "Imagine that!" he said, amused by her bewilderment. "Don't you think you should hang those things up, Yeoman, ah …?"

  "Helman, sir. Yes, sir …"

  The new uniform was gray; the new issue had occurred while he was recovering. He frowned, put it on, and looked in the mirror. It was surprisingly flattering. "Not bad!" he commented, "another new thing to get used to."

  Now officially uniformed, the captain of the Enterprise walked through the corridor to the turbolift. He was tempted to go to the transporter room to greet his returning officers but resisted the urge, deciding instead to monitor the crew's return from the bridge. "There'll be lots of time to catch up," he told himself. He hadn't seen most of his officers at all during his recovery and rest period. He assumed that, like him, they had decided to make the interval after the explosion as completely restorative as possible, trying to avoid episodes of needless rehashing of the ghastly experience they had all suffered.

  Entering the bridge, he was greeted by a rush of perfume and an uninhibited hug from Uhura. She had decided to forgo all military decorum for now. Kirk, as happy as she was to see a familiar face, returned her embrace with gusto, much to the surprise of the helmsman who was new on board and had never encountered a captain who greeted his officers so effusively.

  The captain took his seat, enjoying the feel of being back in action again. Next to enter was Sulu, who tapped the helmsman on the shoulder. "I relieve you, Lieutenant." He turned to Kirk. "It's great to be back on board, sir."

  Kirk smiled broadly.

  Chekov arrived next. He was sporting a new stripe on his uniform. "Lieutenant Chekov, reporting for duty, sir."

  "Congratulations on the stripe, Lieutenant." Kirk shook his hand. "And Chekov, it's good to have you back on board."

  Chekov and Sulu greeted each other warmly. It was beginning to feel like his ship again. Kirk eased back into his chair. He listened to the sounds of the mechanisms: each beep and buzz, each light that blinked, welcomed him back. It's good to be alive—and to be back.

  "Transporter Room, sir. All personnel a
board."

  "Acknowledged," Kirk answered routinely.

  At the science console an unfamiliar man leaned over the instruments. Kirk noted Spock's absence. He must be checking the computers.

  The voice from the transporter room had not been Scott's. Must be in engineering, somewhere, the captain supposed.

  Kirk pressed the intercom button. "Mister Scott, we warp out in ten minutes." A long silence followed. "Mister Scott, do you hear me? Acknowledge, please."

  "Lieutenant Commander Douglas, sir, Engineering. There is no one down here by that name, sir."

  "Who's in charge down there?"

  "I am, sir."

  "Come up to the bridge, Douglas."

  "Now, sir?"

  "I didn't mean tomorrow. Get up here on the double!"

  Sulu and Chekov glanced furtively over their shoulders at Kirk. Uhura turned to watch him, caught his eye, and quickly turned away. When he looked back, he caught Sulu staring at him.

  "Mister Sulu, is there something I should know?"

  Sulu squirmed uncomfortably and turned back to the helm; he punched the console buttons rapidly, attempting to look too absorbed to respond right away.

  Kirk turned his chair and looked to the science station, now unmanned. He pushed the intercom button again.

  "Mister Spock, report to the bridge immediately."

  Uhura, in direct sight of the captain, tried to look inconspicuous.

  Pushing the button again, Kirk spoke. "McCoy, report to the bridge."

  "Yes, sir," came the quick reply from the chief surgeon. "On my way, Jim."

  At last! A familiar voice.

  The small, dark man entering the bridge smiled engagingly. "Commander Leonidas, reporting for duty, sir." His tousled hair gave him an air of rakish abandon.

  Kirk swiveled his chair to get a look at the unfamiliar officer. "I'm at a disadvantage, Commander. What is your position?"

  "First officer, sir."

  "First officer? I thought I already had a first officer—Spock. Where's Spock?"

  Sulu turned, furtively glanced at Kirk, and looked back to his instruments.