“Looks clean to me,” the nurse pronounced. “Dig in.”
Sunlight entered the suite through a large plate-glass window as the landing party gathered in the dining area for lunch. The meal, which had been delivered via a food slot from the kitchen on the ground floor of Envoy House, consisted of an assortment of local meats, fruits, nuts, and vegetables, along with pitchers of fermented fruit juice and a foamy, black variant on coffee that Number One found adequate at best. The lush variety of the menu testified to the planet’s enviable biodiversity, particularly here at the equator. Plates, cups, and utensils had also been provided. Number One considering hanging on to a few of the sharper knives, just in case. Despite the Cyprians’ hospitality so far, it might be best to put aside a few weapons for self-defense, in the not entirely unlikely event that a volatile situation grew uglier still.
“No Cyprian saliva?” Jones teased Olson.
“Not that I can detect.” Olson put down the tricorder. “Although that’s not exactly what the tricorder is designed to scan for.”
Giusio helped himself to a slice of purple huskfruit and dipped it into a bowl of spicy yellow sauce. “Good enough for me,” he said. “Unless you’d prefer the emergency rations back on the Kepler.”
“That would not be my first preference,” Number One admitted. She had once been forced to survive an entire month on emergency rations while stranded on a heavy-gravity planet in the Jemal system. “And let’s be grateful that the Cyprians do not prefer live food like—”
The window exploded inward as a metallic object crashed through it into the suite. Number One dived for cover, shielding her eyes against a spray of clear flying granules, as the rest of the landing party did likewise. A rain of particles pelted the dining area. Adrenaline jump-started her reflexes even as her Starfleet training kicked into gear. Lifting her head, she looked for whatever had shattered the window.
“The missile!” she called out. “Where is it?”
Giusio scrambled to his feet. Bits of broken glass clung to his uniform. Blood dripped from a scratch on his cheek. “Over there!” he shouted, pointing toward the main living area. “Watch out, it might be armed!”
That possibility had already occurred to her. Looking where he indicated, she spotted the object in question: a metallic silver disk, roughly the size of a large dinner plate, which had come to rest against a wall on the far side of the suite. Colored lights blinked along the rim of the disk, and a flashing yellow crystal was embedded at its center. Its internal mechanisms buzzed and clicked.
“Clear out!” she ordered. “Evacuate the building!”
“But, Commander—” Jones began.
“That’s an order, Lieutenant!”
She sprang to her feet and raced for the blinking disk. Snatching it from the floor, she dashed toward the broken window, then remembered the crowded plaza outside. Hordes of demonstrators, still demanding the return of Elzy Mursh, occupied the plaza day in and day out. The sound of their chanting invaded the violated suite, along with the hot, muggy atmosphere. Number One could not in good conscience fling the possibly explosive device out of the suite into the streets below. She looked around desperately for some way to dispose of the missile, but saw only the elegant wooden furnishings of the penthouse suite, now littered with tiny cubes of shattered window. A spiral staircase led to a rooftop garden, but who knew how powerful any explosive might be or whether she could get it up to the roof in time. She couldn’t even disintegrate the suspect object without a laser pistol.
I’m sorry, Captain, she thought. This one is on me. Don’t blame yourself.
The central crystal stopped flashing and Number One feared her time was up. She instinctively dropped the disk and backed away. Glancing around, she saw to her dismay that her team had refused to abandon her and remained at her side. She didn’t know whether to be deeply moved or to report for them for insubordination.
“I ordered you to leave,” she said.
“What’s that, Commander?” Giusio said, cupping a meaty hand over his ear. “I can’t hear you over all that chanting.”
But instead of detonating, the disk projected a holographic simulacrum of Little Elzy, who stared at them with sad, mournful eyes. Clutching her stuffed lizard, she frowned and shook a tiny finger at the landing party. A childish voice emanated from the disturbingly lifelike hologram.
“Bring me home, please!”
Number One remained tense, still unconvinced that the message was not a prelude to an explosion. “The tricorder!” she demanded. “Give it to me!”
Olson lobbed the device to her. She was simultaneously impressed and annoyed that he had chosen to stay put as well. Security officers were expected to put themselves in jeopardy as needed, but the nurse was going above and beyond the call of duty. Doctor Boyce would be proud of him.
She caught the tricorder with one hand and immediately scanned the disk, holding her breath until she determined that the device did indeed appear to be nothing more than a mobile holographic projector unit, possibly launched from somewhere nearby. No explosive or other hazardous materials registered on the sensors.
“Relax,” she told the others. “It seems somebody was just trying to send us a message.”
For now, she thought.
* * *
“Are you well, Captain?”
Spock inspected Pike as the captain joined him in the reception area outside the hangar deck. He noticed at once that Pike was clearly ill, although the captain was making an admirable effort to conceal the effects of the fever. Spock’s acute hearing could scarcely miss the congestion in the captain’s lungs and the rasp to his voice. The captain’s face and body language also displayed subtle signs of distress and exhaustion.
“Well enough,” Pike said, “for the time being.”
Spock was by now very familiar with the characteristic progression of Rigelian fever. By his estimate, the captain had entered stage two of the disease, which meant the infection was now attacking his respiratory system. “If you require me to take command . . .”
“I’ll let you know, Mister Spock.”
Spock let the matter drop for now. In truth, he was in no hurry to take charge during the present crisis. As long as Pike judged himself fit for command, Spock could afford to wait until circumstances warranted further action. He was only too aware, however, that the time was coming when the captain would be too ill to carry out his duties, at which point the responsibility would definitely fall upon Spock for as long as Number One remained occupied on Cypria III.
Would it perhaps be prudent to recall her from the planet?
An indicator light above the hangar entrance signaled that the deck had been repressurized following the arrival of Climber One. As the door slid open, Spock saw the Cyprian shuttlecraft unload its passengers.
“I have arranged accommodations for our new guests,” he informed Pike, “as well as for the pilot. Their luggage will be delivered to their guest quarters shortly.”
“Thank you, Mister Spock.” Pike prepared himself to greet the visitors. He straightened his tunic; as the Murshes were not actually diplomats, neither he nor Spock was wearing full dress uniforms, nor was an honor guard in attendance. “And what is Merata’s attitude toward this impending reunion?”
“That remains to be seen, Captain.”
The newcomers crossed the deck to emerge from the landing bay. The party consisted of an older Cyprian woman and a younger male, whom Spock identified as the mother and brother of both Soleste and Merata. A family resemblance was evident in their sharp noses and chins.
“Welcome aboard the Enterprise,” the captain said. “I’m Captain Pike and this is my science officer, Mister Spock. He’s been personally looking after your family members while they’ve been staying with us.”
That was a slight exaggeration since Soleste’s care had largely been in the hands of Doctor Boyce and his staff, but Spock did not contradict the captain. Clarification was not required in this instan
ce and, frankly, Spock was more interested in meeting the remainder of the Mursh family and observing their responses to the present situation. General Krunn and Soleste had both made their desires very clear concerning Merata’s future. Spock was curious to see what the rest of her kinfolk made of the dilemma.
“Rosha Mursh,” the woman introduced herself, although Spock had already briefed himself on the visitors’ identities. She was a handsome woman who appeared to be roughly the same age as Spock’s own mother. Short silver hair matched her silver eyes. She wore an embroidered vest over a dark green gown. “And this is my son, Junah.”
“Pleased, I’m sure,” the youth mumbled, although his bored, disaffected tone implied otherwise. Lank black hair fell past his shoulder and over his eyes. His lean, adolescent face bore a distinctly sullen expression. He avoided making eye contact with Pike or Spock as he glanced around the corridor. “So this is a Federation starship, huh? It’s impressive, I guess.” His hands were thrust into the pockets of his slacks. “So, is it true that you’re all dying of fever?”
Rosha frowned, clearly embarrassed by her son’s attitude. “Junah . . .”
“Nobody’s dying on my watch,” Pike said. “But you needn’t concern yourself with that right now. I know you have to be anxious to see your family members.”
“And we thank you for your hospitality, Captain, under these difficult circumstances.” She spoke with an air of somber gravity. “I understand that we have you and your valiant crew to thank for both my daughters’ lives.”
“We just answered a distress call,” Pike said, “as any ship would do.”
“I fear you are not giving yourselves enough credit, Captain. Many would not be so brave or altruistic.” A touch of bitterness infiltrated her voice. “The Klingons, for instance.”
Spock recalled that, beyond stealing Elzura, the Klingons had also killed Rosha’s husband and neighbors. A decade has passed since then, but Spock suspected the woman still felt the pain of that tragedy profoundly. Even Vulcans grieved for lives lost before their time, albeit in their own fashion.
“Well, the Federation is not the Klingon Empire,” Pike conceded.
“Praise the changing seasons for that.” She stepped forward and took Pike’s arm. Her eyes implored him. “Captain, I don’t want to impose on you so soon, but . . . surely it’s not true what they’re saying down on the planet, that you might actually give my baby back to those bloodthirsty savages?”
Pike placed his hand over hers. Spock did not envy the position the captain had been placed in.
“It’s a complicated situation,” Pike said honestly. “Mer . . . Elzura is not exactly a baby anymore. And it’s unclear where she truly belongs now.”
Dismay spread across the woman’s face; this was manifestly not what she wanted to hear. “But . . . but you don’t understand. We’re talking about an innocent child, carried off by heartless invaders. You must see what a miracle this is, that we’ve finally found her after all these years, after we’d practically given up hope. You aren’t really going to let the Klingons take her from us again? That would be too cruel.”
Spock took it upon himself to intervene on the captain’s behalf.
“Excuse me, but Soleste is waiting for you in our sickbay. She has been looking forward impatiently to your arrival.”
As Spock had hoped, the image of her older daughter in a hospital bed succeeded in distracting Rosha Mursh to some degree. “And Elzy?” she asked. “Doesn’t she want to see us too?”
“It is a confusing situation for her,” Spock stated, “but she has been informed that you were coming aboard.”
In fact, Merata had been distinctively ambivalent about meeting the rest of her former family. Unlike Soleste, they had not abducted her, so she had no particular grudge against them, even as she continued to insist that her Cyprian roots no longer mattered, that she was thoroughly and irrevocably Klingon now. It was possible, however, that, to use a human expression, she was protesting too much. He could not be sure but he thought he had detected in her some veiled curiosity regarding her Cyprian relatives, whom she possibly remembered to some degree. As she had not expressly ruled out meeting with their new visitors, Spock had reason to hope that curiosity—and perhaps old memories—would prevail in the end.
“If you are ready, I can escort you to sickbay now.”
“Of course.” Rosha let go of Pike’s arm. “We mustn’t keep Soleste waiting. Please lead the way.” She looked at Pike. “Are you coming with us, Captain?”
“I’m afraid the captain is needed on the bridge,” Spock said, to spare Pike from having to cope with both the family and his illness at the same time. “The demands of his position preclude a visit to sickbay at this time.”
“Quite right,” Pike agreed, giving Spock a grateful look. “As much as I would like to witness your reunion with Soleste, you hardly require a ship’s captain for that. You’re in good hands with Mister Spock, I assure you.”
“If you say so, Captain,” Rosha said, visibly disappointed. She lingered, reluctant to let the captain get away. “I trust we will have an opportunity to speak again, after I’ve met with my daughters?”
“In due time,” he assured her. “Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
Spock was impressed by Pike’s ability to carry on despite the fever steadily ravaging his body. He doubted that their visitors even realized the captain was sick, but Spock figured that the sooner he let the captain make his escape, the better.
“This way, please.”
He led them away from the hangar deck to the nearest convenient turbolift. Gripping the rail, he instructed the mechanism to take them directly to the saucer’s main deck, where sickbay was located. The lift ascended quickly from the lower levels of the ship, but perhaps not quickly enough for Junah, who paced restlessly around the compartment, not unlike his sister had done in the brig, while Rosha wrung her hands anxiously. An excess of nervous energy appeared to be a family trait.
“You said Elzura was . . . confused, Mister Spock?” she asked.
“Understandably.” He attempted to prepare her for the reunion to come. “She was born a Cyprian, but has lived as a Klingon for many years now. It is only to be expected that she should be . . . conflicted about the possibility of returning to Cypria.”
“My poor baby,” Rosha said. “But it will be different once we’re together again, Mister Spock. I know it will be. We just need to help her remember who she is, so we can be a family once more. Her real family.”
“Such as it is,” Junah muttered.
Rosha sighed and shook her head. “You must forgive my son, Mister Spock. He was only five years old when the raid occurred. He barely remembers Elzy.”
“Not that I could ever forget about her,” he grumbled, “since she’s pretty much all I’ve ever heard about for my entire life, especially from my other sister, the homeless one.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “The Klingons might as well have taken Soleste too, for all we ever see of her. Even when she comes back to Cypria, which is hardly ever, she’s all about her endless, obsessive quest for little lost Elzy. It’s been her whole life . . . if you can call that a life.”
“Don’t talk like that,” his mother scolded. “It’s been hard on all of us, since what happened, but it seems your sister was right all along when it came to not giving up on Elzy. She’s sacrificed a lot, I know, and she hasn’t always been there for us, but she succeeded in the end. She finally did what she set out to do.”
“And nearly got herself killed.”
“Nearly, but not actually,” Spock stressed as the turbolift arrived at its destination. The door slid open to admit them to the corridor outside sickbay. “As you will soon see for yourself.”
They entered sickbay, where he bypassed the quarantined fever ward to take them straight to the recovery room where Soleste was resting in a biobed, unattended by Doctor Boyce or any nurses, who were presumably busy with other patients. Her remaining eye lit up at the sigh
t of her family.
“You’re here!”
Rosha gasped and clutched her chest at the sight of her injured daughter. She hurried forward, arms outstretched, only to pause cautiously at Soleste’s bedside. “Is it safe? Can I hug you?”
“Gently,” Soleste advised.
Rosha embraced her daughter gingerly, then withdrew to take a closer look at Soleste. She wiped a tear from her eye. “My poor, brave darling! Look what those barbarians did to you.”
Spock thought Soleste looked noticeably better than the last time he’d seen her, immediately after her surgery. Her burns were healing and her singed eyebrows were already growing back. A glance at the life-signs monitor revealed that her vitals were stable. No doubt she still needed time to recovery from surgery and blood loss, but she was in significantly less danger than the fever victims in the quarantine ward. He wondered if Merata would be pleased to know that her sister was doing better, or if Merata still wanted vengeance on her abductor.
“It’s all right, Mom. The doctor and nurses here have been taking good care of me. I’ll be back on my feet in no time.” Soleste turned her attention to her brother, who was hanging back, away from the emotional scene. She held out her hand, beckoning him. “Junah. It’s so good of you to come.”
He shrugged. “Well, sure, what else was I going to do? Not like I had much of a choice, you know.” He fidgeted and glanced around the ward, looking at everything except his sister’s hand. He picked up a stray medical scanner and fiddled with it. “So, that broken-down old ship of yours finally blew itself to atoms, huh?”
Soleste’s face hardened. She let her proffered hand drop limply back onto the sheets. Even Spock could tell that she was hurt by her brother’s callous attitude, even if she was trying not to let it spoil the moment. For a moment, he was reminded of Captain Pike keeping up appearances despite the merciless effects of the fever. Whatever pain Soleste was experiencing, she would not let it show.