Spock Messiah sttos(n-3 Read online

  Kirk jumped to one side as the enraged, hate-twisted face of one of the Messiah’s town followers appeared in the gap of the door. The Kyrosian’s sword lunged for Kirk’s chest. Kirk grabbed a sword from a nearby officer and chopped downward. The townman screamed in agony as his severed hand, still gripping his sword, dropped to the floor. He fell backward, causing a pause in the hillmen’s activity.

  Weapons ready, Kirk and the others formed a defensive line and waited for the final attack.

  At that moment the Enterprise reclaimed her own.

  Ker Kaseme let out a terrified squeal as the gray walls of the cargo transporter room materialized around him. His face ashen, he clutched Kirk’s arm and began to jabber incoherently. Kirk shook him off.

  “Later,” he growled in Kyrosian. Kaseme gobbled in terror, then fainted. Kirk caught him and lowered him to the deck. McCoy, who was waiting for Kirk, took he little man.

  “Status report,” Kirk said, his voice showing deep concern for his wounded officers.

  “They’re in surgery now,” McCoy replied. “Mbenga’s lands could bring a statue to life. I waited here for you, to let you know.”

  ; Kirk nodded his thanks. McCoy went on. “I’ll take Caserne to sickbay and load him with sedatives. He won’t remember a thing.”

  ; Scott came up to Kirk. “The poor divil. We’ve icared the living daylights out of him.”

  Kirk grinned for the first time that day, and said, “I’ll bet those hillmen took off like scalded cats when we earned up right before their eyes.”

  “Well,” Scott said, “if Mr. Spock can arrange a miricle for his people, I guess we can, too.” ; Kirk’s grin flicked off as he stepped toward the transporter console and stabbed the button on the communicator panel.

  “Bridge, this is the captain. What the hell was the idea of changing orbit?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Captain’s log: Stardate 6725.1:

  Investigating the orbit change, I have learned that Mr. Spock told Lieutenant Sulu to follow his orders or he’d destroy the trilithium crystals at once.

  I cannot fault Sulu for his action; we still have three and one-half days left in which to retrieve the crystals.

  After that, it won’t matter any more.

  Kirk stood at the side of one of the diagnostic beds in the sickbay, looking down at Lieutenant Dawson’s sleeping form. He glanced at the indicators on the Fein-berg panels above. He nodded in satisfaction as, one-by-one, he checked the readouts.

  “He looks a hell of a lot better than I expected him to,” he said.

  “We got him here just in time,” said McCoy. “He’ll be back on his feet in a few days.”

  “And Sara?”

  “Almost as good as new,” said a weak voice from the other side of the sickbay. Kirk turned and went quickly over to another bed on the other side of the room.

  Ensign George, face pale but eyes alert, gave him a wan smile. “They didn’t really damage the plumbing,” she said. “And Dr. Mbenga did such a nice job of microsurgery that I won’t even end up with a scar as a souvenir.” She gestured to her exposed abdomen, and Kirk saw the flesh-toned antiseptic patch on her. “He says I’ll be fit for duty sometime tomorrow.”

  Kirk smiled and patted her shoulder. “How about the rest?” the captain asked, turning to McCoy.

  “It was touch and go with several of them—those hand weapons leave nasty wounds—but we didn’t lose one.”

  Kirk let out a long sigh of relief. “After the way I fouled up down there, that’s at least one thing I don’t have to feel guilty about.”

  “Do you know what your problem is?” McCoy said softly.

  “Yes… I was too cocky,” Kirk replied. “I took my men into a possible combat situation without adequately planning for contingencies. It’s just a fluke that several of them weren’t killed.”

  “Wrong answer,” McCoy said. Kirk eyed him speculatively.

  “Then what’s the right one?”

  “You’re the best captain I’ve ever served under, except for one thing—you’ve somehow got yourself convinced that if the dice don’t come out the way you want them to every time you roll them, you’re to blame. No matter how carefully you plan, Jim, sometimes things just don’t turn out the way they should. Unpredictables always creep in. And there isn’t a general in history who hasn’t lost a battle or two because of them. Mbenga and I were convinced we had the right formula for the paralysis drug, but evidently there are certain Vulcan physiological factors that we just didn’t know about. There was no way you could know the drug would wear off in a few minutes. If it hadn’t, we’d have had Spock up here now and be on our way at Warp Three.”

  “Maybe so,” Kirk protested, “but—”

  “But nothing,” McCoy said impatiently. “A medical mistake was made. But Mbenga and I aren’t sulking in our tents because of it.” He gestured at the crowded sickbay. “We can’t afford to; there’s still too much work to be done. In the meantime, Spock is down there and we’re up here, and it’s up to you to do something about the situation, right?”

  After a moment of silence, Kirk said tiredly, “You’re right as usual, Bones. The first thing on the agenda is to try to find Spock’s present location. The last thing I saw of him, he was disappearing down the street in that black wagon of his. I’m going to beam down and see what I can find out. How about a shot of something to clear my head and give me an energy boost? I’m so tired I can’t think straight.”

  McCoy shook his head firmly. “The first item on your agenda is a decent night’s sleep. You can hardly stand, and you’ve a long day ahead of you tomorrow. I’ll send one of the survey party back down to check out the situation. My Rx for you is a double shot of brandy and bed.” He grinned when Kirk started to protest. “You may be captain, Jim, but I’m the ship’s surgeon. At times like this, you take orders from me. Bed! On the double!”

  Kirk responded with a wan smile. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, “but I want to be awakened as soon as we get word of what’s going on down there.”

  Minutes later he entered his cabin, stripped off his Kyrosian healer’s robe, and threw it on the chair. Then, without even stopping to remove his boots, he tumbled into bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  He was wakened by a gentle shaking and the bracing smell of hot, black coffee. He opened his eyes blearily. Dr. McCoy was standing over him, holding out a large mug.

  “Morning, Jim. Watch it, it’s hot.”

  “What time is it?”

  “07:00.”

  Kirk sat up so abruptly that he almost knocked the cup out of McCoy’s hand.

  “What happened? You were supposed to call me.”

  “There’s bad news, but I figured you’d be better able to handle it after a good rest.”

  In a split second, Kirk was fully awake.

  “What is it?”

  “I sent Elkins down. He beamed back up shortly after midnight with word that there’s hell to pay down there. Spock got back to his headquarters and sent out orders for all his people to assemble there. Those of his bodyguard who saw us flick out of sight were pretty shaken up. But he explained that as the work of demons from the stars who are trying to thwart his mission but were powerless against him.” McCoy’s tone grew grimmer.

  “You know, Jim, using Kaseme’s men seemed like a good idea at the time, but it’s really backfired.”

  “How? Explain.” Kirk demanded.

  “Elkins heard everything. Spock’s original plan was to enlist the city people and lead a combined crusade against the rest of Kyros. But after last night, his paranoid brain is convinced that all the Androsians have turned against him, so the city and its satellite villages are going to be the first targets. He’s sent out orders for all the nearby clans to gather, and before too long they’ll be riding out of the hills. Exosociology said they were never a threat to the city before because they were too busy fighting among themselves, but once Spock goes to work on them with that hypnotic voic
e of his, he’s going to amass an army that’ll top anything Mohammed ever commanded!”

  “We’d better send another party down there right away!”

  “And what do you propose to do with it once you get down?” McCoy said. “Our bird has flown the coop! The exiled clansmen rioted, on his orders, and in the process, burned down half that slum. While they were doing that, and keeping the soldiers and townspeople busy trying to control the burning, Spock and his bodyguards attacked the main gate. If that fancy cart of his hasn’t broken a wheel, he’s halfway to the hills by now.”

  “Damn it, Bones,” Kirk exploded, “you should have wakened me! We might have thought of a way to stop him!”

  “Impossible,” McCoy said. “He was gone by the time Elkins heard about the breakout. What could you have done? Beam down and chase him on foot?”

  Kirk didn’t answer. Instead, he rose to his feet and punched the bridge call button on the communicator. “This is the captain… have all department heads report to the briefing room in forty-five minutes.”

  McCoy suddenly burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Kirk demanded.

  McCoy pointed down. “Do you usually go to bed with your boots on? Rx this time is a cold shower and a clean uniform.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Kirk said, as he lifted a foot and slowly inspected his Kyrosian half-boots. Then he sat and began to untie the complicated laces.

  “Coffee, Captain?” a yeoman asked Kirk. He shook his head, and she passed down the briefing room table. Several officers selected cups. Kirk glanced at the chronometer on the wall: 10:45. They’d gotten a lot of work done in the last three hours. McCoy had been right; drugs were no substitute for sleep. Now he was able to view the previous day’s events from a proper perspective. He glanced at a scribbled agenda on the table in front of him. He’d just checked off another item. Kirk looked at the small visual monitor on the table. It showed Ensign George propped up in a diagnostic bed; several sheets of paper lay about with hastily scrawled diagrams on them.

  “Are you sure it will work?” Kirk asked.

  The woman nodded confidently. “I know it will. Once it’s switched on, it will jam the input stage of Speck’s implant and cut his connection with Chag Gara. In theory, once that hill preacher’s paranoia stops surging across, Spock will revert to his old self in no tune at all. But I’m afraid he’s going to be in for a few bad moments when he takes a Vulcan look at some of the things he’s been doing the last few days.”

  “I don’t like that ‘in theory’ part,” McCoy muttered. “In theory, the telescan implant was supposed to have been thoroughly debugged, and look at the mess it got us into.”

  “Don’t blame the implant, blame me,” the girl said. “If I hadn’t been so damn stupid…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Ensign!” Kirk’s voice was stern. “Self-recrimination is a luxury we can’t afford at the moment. Is there any way to increase the range of that thing? The way it’s presently designed, somebody’s going to have to get close enough to Spock to almost touch him. And that raises certain practical difficulties.”

  Sara brought her attention back to the discussion.

  “It’s power supply has to be small enough so Mr. Spock can’t detect it with that rigged tricorder. But that does give us an advantage; with subminiaturization, we’ll be able to conceal it in a native bracelet where it’ll be un-detectable.” She gestured at her healing stomach. “Tissue regeneration is almost complete, Dr. Mbenga told me, so I’ll be out of here in a few hours and Lieutenant Uhura and I can get to work.”

  “Bones, will she be fit for duty soon?” Kirk asked.

  “She’ll be wobbly for a while, but otherwise she’s as good as new.”

  “Good!” He glanced along the conference table. “Now, we need ideas on how to get close enough to Spock so that the nullifier can cut the link between him and that crazy preacher. Suggestions?”

  “All I can think of are a lot of reasons why we can’t,” Uhura said.

  “Scotty?”

  “Naething in my department. If it was technology that was needed, my lads and I are sitting on top of the best the Federation has to offer. But we canna use it down there because of the divilish hob Spock has played with his tricorder.”

  “McCoy?”

  “After yesterday’s try, his followers aren’t going to let anybody they don’t like get within half a mile of him.” He shook his head gloomily. “I don’t know, Captain, I just don’t know.”

  “Navigator?”

  Chekov glanced at Kirk. “Mount a field phaser on a shuttlecraft and let me take it down,” the young Russian said. “I’ll find him and…”

  “And have the tricorder self-destruct long before you got within firing range?”

  “And what difference would that make?” Chekov demanded hotly. “We’re going to have to abandon ship soon, the way it looks now. At least we can burn out that cancer before it can spread!”

  “Mr. Chekov, you’re here because it’s part of your education as a Command staff officer,” Kirk said. “If you ever hope to be a starship captain, you’ll have to think of ways to preserve your ship and yourself. I suggest you start now.”

  Kirk glanced at the other officers and received only mute head shakes and shrugs to a second query for suggestions.

  “I can sympathize with Chekov’s feelings,” he said, “but insane as he is, Spock knows that I know enough about history to realize that he is safe from direct attack. Killing him would make him a martyr; in a week there’d be stories that he rose from the dead and appeared among the faithful crying for vengeance. Stopping a living messiah is something we may yet do; a legend would unleash forces beyond anyone’s control.”

  He paused and stared at the vacant chair where Spock customarily sat. “I don’t think I’ve ever missed Spock—our old Spock—as much as I do right now. If he were sitting there, he’d wait until we all had our say and then cock a quizzical eyebrow and come out with a solution that would make us all feel like children, it would be so obvious and simple. But since we no longer have his Vulcan brain to rely on, we’ll have to do the best we can with our human ones. We still have a little time left, and we have a device that will bring him back to normal if we can get close enough. So we’ll try.”

  Kirk turned to the lieutenant commander in charge of exosociology. “Commander Dobshansky, are you familiar with the old tribal group on Earth—the Gypsies?”

  The burly officer knit together gray brows and thought for a moment. “I remember something about them, sk. Why?”

  “Because they were able to wander anywhere they wanted. No boundaries could stop them. A Frenchman in a small English village would have stuck out like a sore thumb, but Gypsies, being so widely scattered and relatively harmless, hardly excited comment. Are the Beshwa anything like that?”

  “Beshwa? Let’s see… Yes they are, come to think of it. They’re sharp traders, good tinkers, fine musicians, and some have the reputation of being magical healers. They even travel around in caravans the way the Gypsies used to.”

  “I know,” Kirk said. “McCoy and I saw one the other day in Andros. That’s what gave me the idea. If we’re going into the hills after Spock, we’ll need a disguise that’ll pass muster.”

  “You know, sir,” Dobshansky said, “I think you’ve hit on something. This is the beginning of their trading season and a Beshwa cart wouldn’t seem at all out of place in the hills. Shall I have the computer check the data banks to see what we’ve picked up on them so far?”

  “By all means,” Kirk said. “Bones, you said there were some Beshwa profiles among those that Sara took… How many?”

  “Two,” McCoy replied,

  “Any reason two of us couldn’t be hooked into the same dop?”

  “None. All we need is access to language and behavioral patterns to be able to pass as the real thing.”

  “All right, then,” Kirk said, “that gives us our identities. Transportation is next. Scotty
, that should be your department. The Beshwa travel around in an odd-looking two-unit contraption, a sort of wagon in front with a high, closed van in the back—for sleeping, I suppose. They probably put trade goods in front. If we dig up some photographs, do you think you can build us one?”

  The engineer frowned and shook his head. “I could gie you an exterior that might pass a hasty inspection, but not from too close. If I had blueprints… better yet, if an original could be beamed up, I’ll have my lads make a duplicate that couldn’t be told from the real thing.”

  “If we beamed up an original, we wouldn’t need a duplicate,” Kirk said dryly, “but I see your point. Mr. Chekov…”

  The young Russian, who except for his one outburst, had been sitting quietly for most of the conference, looked up.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “More education. Trot down to Andros and pick us up a Beshwa wagon. There should be at least one loading for the summer trading.”

  With an effort, the navigator kept his face impassive.

  “Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “You might pick up a liter of milk and a couple of dozen eggs on your way back.” Kirk struggled to keep down his own smile.

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Chekov rose to his feet and marched stiffly to the door. When he reached it he paused, turned, and executed a flourishing salute.

  “Theirs not to reason why,’ ” he declaimed dramatically.

  “Theirs but to do and die.’” Grinning, Kirk completed the line.

  “I thought our young friend only read Russian poetry,” McCoy said.

  “Well, it is a poem involving Russians,” Kirk said, looking toward Chekov who stood at rigid attentioa “His ancestors blew mine out of the saddle with their cannons during the Charge of the Light Brigade.”

  “What’s a… light brigade?” Sulu asked bemusedly.

  “Six hundred men on horses armed only with swords and pistols,” Kirk explained. “Mr. Chekov seems to have stumbled on an old English poem called ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ It’s about an incident during the Crimean War between Russia and England when, through a typical piece of brass-hat idiocy, a British cavalry unit was charging into a valley lined with Russian guns. The point of the poem is that it’s a glorious thing to get yourself killed because of a stupid order by a superior.