Especially during an election season, Number One thought.
Unfortunately, he was not exaggerating. Cypria III had a thriving global media industry and the saga of Little Elzy had been headline news for over a day now, with public opinion running strongly against any cooperation with the Enterprise until the long-lost child was delivered back to her planet of origin. The situation was volatile enough that Number One had already instructed the landing party to remain safely inside Envoy House and resist the temptation to explore the city. She did not wish to risk any angry confrontations with the locals.
“About that leak,” she asked, “how is it that this became public knowledge?”
Flescu threw up his hands. “Who knows? Frankly, I suspect my political opponents are behind this. They would like nothing better than for me to look weak and impotent when it comes to dealing with your Starfleet, and unable to defend an innocent Cyprian family against the Klingons. But if your captain could just do the right thing and bring Elzura back to where she belongs, then this whole crisis would evaporate. I’d look like a hero, you’d get your ryetalyn . . . everyone wins.”
“What of the Klingons?” she asked. “They are no less determined to take Merata back and are unlikely to give her up without a fight. Are you prepared to risk a Klingon attack for the sake of one young woman who doesn’t even want to return to Cypria?”
“You underestimate our defenses,” Flescu bragged. “I think we can repel a single battle cruiser.”
“And if the Klingons return in force? What then?”
“Cypria will never bow to Klingon threats or intimidation.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “Let them come.”
She tried to reason with him. “So you would endanger the lives of millions for one lost child?”
“Don’t be naïve,” he chided her. “She’s not just an individual anymore. She’s a symbol now, of Cyprian independence and the security of every Cyprian family. And facts and figures are no match for a symbol where politics are concerned.”
She feared he was correct in that regard. “You know your business, I suppose, but my primary concern is the health of my crew. It would be tragic if suffering men and women continue to sicken while we haggle over a . . . symbol.”
“Which is why you and your captain need to come to your senses and be practical about this. Time is on our side, Number One,” he said smugly. “We’ve waited a decade to get Elzura back. How long can you afford to wait for our ryetalyn?”
Not long, she admitted privately. “That is . . . uncertain.”
“Why don’t I give you some time to think about it?” Flescu said. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
The hologram vanished in a blink, leaving her staring at empty air.
“Well, that was unproductive,” she muttered.
* * *
“You again, Vulcan? I thought I made it clear that the very sight of you disgusts me!”
Merata remained confined to the brig, trapped behind the transparent force field. Her contempt was of little concern to Spock, save that it did not bode well for the success of his assignment. Watching the prisoner roam restlessly about her cell, he feared that the captain had been overly optimistic concerning his odds of getting through to her. Merata did not seem inclined to open up to any of her captors, least of all him. And they had hardly gotten off to an auspicious start in the transporter room, when he had been forced to incapacitate her. Klingons were known for holding grudges.
“I apologize if my appearance is unpleasing,” he said. “I regret that there is little that I can do in that regard.”
“You can remove your foul self from my presence, you cold-blooded Vulcan coward.” She sneered at him through the force field. “How did you placid, spineless worms ever work up the nerve to venture beyond your own wretched sandpit of a planet, anyway?”
Spock did not feel obliged to defend his people or his world. Instead he pushed on in an attempt to fulfill the captain’s orders, despite his own doubts as to the usefulness of the endeavor.
“My name is Spock.” He surveyed the stark accommodations of the brig. An uneaten meal, composed of barely cooked animal flesh, bleeding red, sat ignored in one corner. “Is there anything I can provide to make your present confinement more amenable?” A rank odor penetrated the invisible barrier. “Perhaps a change of attire?”
“I will dress as a Klingon or not at all!” She smoothed the layer of golden chain mail over her dress. The crimson pendant at her throat bore a symbol that Spock now recognized as the mark of her adopted house, as seen also on General Krunn’s baldric. She regarded his Starfleet uniform with disdain. “You don’t even look like soldiers.”
“That is because we prefer to be explorers.” He indicated his own blue tunic. “And scientists.”
She turned up her nose at his explanation. “Bah! Klingons do not idly observe the universe. We seize it by force of arms!”
That was not entirely correct. No advanced technological civilization could arise or endure without scientists, but it was Spock’s understanding that scientific research was perhaps undervalued by Klingon society, which placed a greater premium on martial prowess and accomplishments. In that way, they were the polar opposites of his own people, who prized pure scientific research and regarded force as, at best, a necessary evil. Certainly, his father considered the Vulcan Science Academy far worthier than Starfleet, at least as far as Spock was concerned
“In any event,” he persisted, “I am certain that proper Klingon attire can be fabricated to suit you.”
“I want no favors from you, Vulcan. Only to be returned to my people.”
A touch of frustration tested his emotional control. He was not convinced that attempting to communicate with Merata was a judicious use of his time or talents. Conversing with her was like scanning an unstable neutron star—all you got was static and random bursts of radiation. It was an exercise in futility.
“Releasing you is not presently within my abilities. Are you certain there is nothing else you require at this time?”
“Are you deaf, Vulcan? I want nothing . . .” She started to reject his efforts at hospitality once more, then paused to reconsider. A bloodthirsty grin lifted her lips, and she cracked her knuckles ominously. “What of the perfidious she-targ who waylaid me? Can you grant me five moments alone with her?”
“Your sister, you mean?”
Merata froze as though caught in a stasis beam. Her jaw dropped and, for the first time, her stubborn defiance faltered. She stared at Spock in shock. Her voice, when it emerged, was barely more than a croak.
“S-sister?”
Fascinating, Spock thought. Had he finally found the chink in Merata’s faux Klingon armor? He recalled Doctor Boyce’s observation that family issues often exerted an irresistible pull on the emotions. It was an insight that Spock, if he was truly honest with himself, could personally attest to. His own feelings toward his parents were . . . complicated. And he had not laid eyes on his own brother for over a decade.
“Soleste Mursh, the other survivor of the Ilion, is your elder sister.”
“You’re lying!” she erupted. “I have no sister!”
“The DNA evidence is conclusive.” He recalled the way she had lunged at Soleste in the transporter room. “I take it you did not recognize her before?”
“I . . . I thought there was something familiar about her,” Merata said haltingly, before her temper flared again. “The lying witch lured me aboard her pathetic vessel on the false pretext of showing me her wares, and I foolishly lowered my guard, thinking her no threat. When I regained consciousness, I was bound and disarmed aboard that Cyprian garbage scow, which was under fire from my father’s warship.” She blinked in confusion. “But . . . my sister? No, this is a trick. You are trying to deceive me, Vulcan!”
“But if she is not your sister,” he countered, “why would she go to such lengths, risking her ship and her life, to rescue you?”
“I needed no rescue!” She angr
ily seized a plate from her meal tray and flung it against the force field, which bounced it harmlessly back into her cell. Meat and vegetables splattered onto the floor. “I am the daughter of Krunn. I was where I belonged!”
“Adopted daughter,” Spock stressed. He had not even flinched when she’d thrown the plate. “You must surely be aware that you are not biologically Klingon, despite your various cosmetic modifications.”
“I am Klingon in every way that matters!” She traced the ridges on her brow with a finger. “See these scars? I carved them myself . . . with my own blade!”
Curious, Spock thought. He would not have guessed that she had mutilated herself, particularly considering that the majority of the Klingons in this sector had no cranial ridges. It appeared that she was indeed determined to present herself as more Klingon than even the typical Klingon, perhaps to compensate for her shameful Cyprian roots?
Spock knew the feeling.
Perhaps this was the common ground of which the captain spoke?
It was a troubling thought. As a rule, Spock guarded his privacy. Sharing confidences did not come easily to him, in part because this might expose the all-too-human feelings he strove to deny, but it seemed that he might not have any choice in this instance, not if he hoped to carry out the captain’s orders to the best of his abilities. He could hardly expect Merata to open up and acknowledge her complicated identity and past unless he was willing to do the same . . . to a degree.
“It cannot have been easy,” he said, attempting to empathize with Merata’s position, “being the Cyprian daughter of a Klingon general. I . . . understand . . . why you might wish to reject your Cyprian heritage.”
“Spare me your sympathy, Vulcan. You know nothing of what you speak.”
He noted that she did not deny that her situation had been a difficult one, only that he could not comprehend what it had been like for her. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he had to say next. Given a choice, he would have rather wrestled a rabid sehlat than speak openly of personal matters, but he had his orders.
“My father is the head of a very old and honorable Vulcan house,” he divulged, “but my mother is a human . . . from Earth.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. She stepped closer to the force field, so that only the thin barrier separated them, and peered at him suspiciously.
“You look Vulcan to me.”
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “But I assure you that, although raised as a Vulcan, I am half-human.”
He was tempted to point out that he was, at least from a biological standpoint, more human than she was Klingon, but feared that she would react badly to that observation. At the same time, he was acutely aware of the gold-shirted security officer posted on guard a few meters away. Lieutenant Willard did not appear to be eavesdropping on the conversation, but Spock lowered his voice nonetheless.
Merata tilted her head, scrutinizing him from another angle.
“Did you take a knife to your ears,” she asked, “to make yourself look fully Vulcan?”
Her own ears had obviously been cropped. Doctor Boyce had indicated earlier that it had been done professionally, presumably by a skilled Klingon surgeon working at Krunn’s request. Or had that surgeon merely repaired Merata’s own crude efforts to make herself look more Klingon?
“That was not necessary,” Spock said. “However, I might have considered it, had it been so.”
His reply was an honest one. Growing up on Vulcan as a child of mixed ancestry had been challenging, to say the least. The jeers of the other Vulcan children still echoed at the back of his mind sometimes. He could only imagine how much more difficult it might have been if he had been born with more human features. He might well have considered cosmetic alterations, even at the expense of his mother’s feelings. Certainly he had always made every other effort to appear as Vulcan as possible.
Had Merata encountered similar taunts and bullying while being raised as a Klingon? If so, it was a testament to her strength and endurance that she had survived at all. Vulcan bullies were bad enough; their Klingon counterparts would surely be many times more brutal. Spock acquired a newfound respect for the ferocious young woman before him.
“And is your blood green or red?” she asked with a smirk. “Alas, I never had a chance to find out.”
“Green, like my father’s. Just as your blood must be the same color as your sister’s.”
“My so-called sister!” she insisted, although her objection sounded slightly more perfunctory than before, as though uncertainty had begun to sap her outrage. She fell uncharacteristically silent and still for a moment before speaking again. “What did you say her name was?”
Spock guessed that she was only feigning ignorance. She had been seven years old when abducted. He was not entirely conversant with the developmental patterns of Cyprian offspring, but, by most humanoid standards, she would have been old enough to retain some memory of her original family. Or so he assumed.
“Soleste,” he said to jog her memory. “And you were once known as Elzura.”
“My name is Merata!”
Spittle sprayed from her lips as she furiously asserted her Klingon identity. She bared her teeth and glared murderously at Spock, who feared for a moment that he had pressed her too hard and too quickly. He made a mental note to refrain from employing her Cyprian name for the time being.
“Very well, Merata,” he conceded. “But indulge my curiosity. How much do you remember of your early childhood on Cypria III, before you were ‘adopted’ by the Klingons?”
“That is none of your concern, Vulcan.” She stalked away from the barrier and resumed her pacing. “I grow weary of this meaningless babble. Answer me truly: How long do you intend to hold me against my will?”
“That remains to be determined,” he answered. “Although, once again, more hospitable accommodations can be provided for you. We would prefer to treat you as a guest during your stay aboard this ship.”
She snorted in derision.
“A guest who is not free to leave is still a prisoner.”
He could not fault her logic. “A reasonable conclusion, I admit.”
“Then we have nothing more to discuss.” She turned her back on Spock. “Leave me.”
Spock appraised the situation. Time was of the essence, and the captain was in need of a better understanding of their guest, but he concluded that it might be unwise to attempt to interrogate Merata any further at this juncture, when she presumably needed time to process the startling information he had shared with her. To his surprise, a degree of progress had been achieved in establishing a dialogue with Merata, so he did not want to sacrifice those gains by “pushing his luck,” as the captain might put it. A strategic retreat was often the most logical course of action.
“As you wish,” he assented. “We can resume our discussion at some other time. Please inform the guard if you wish to speak with me in the interim.”
He turned to leave and had almost exited the brig when a voice called out from the cell.
“Vulcan.”
He pivoted to address her. “Yes?”
Merata stood at the very edge of the barrier. Her eyes met his across the length of the brig.
“That woman. Soleste.” She pronounced the name with obvious distaste. “How serious are her injuries. Will she live?”
Her voice was flat, betraying neither concern for her sister’s welfare nor an unquenched desire for vengeance against her abductor. Spock wondered once more how much she recalled of her early years and her family.
“Doctor Boyce is an excellent physician. He is confident that she will make a full recovery.”
Merata’s face was rigid and inscrutable, almost Vulcan in its absence of emotion.
“I see.”
Spock took the risk of going a step further. “If you wish, I can arrange a meeting, provided you consent to certain reasonable security measures.”
She ignored the offer.
“Go
away, Vulcan. You’ve said enough for today.”
That appeared to be the case.
Eight
“Approaching Cypria III, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mister Tyler,” Pike said to the navigator. He noted with concern that Tyler looked less than his usual ebullient self. The young officer appeared tired and hungover, as though he’d just returned from an overly eventful shore leave on Ishtar Station. Pike hoped to heaven Tyler wasn’t coming down with something Rigelian. “Slow to impulse.”
“Aye, sir,” Mohindas replied from the helm.
The Enterprise dropped out of warp, and Pike watched as the planet came into view on the screen before him. Cypria III looked much like Earth, complete with polar icecaps, a handful of continents separated by vast oceans, and patches of wispy white clouds drifting through its atmosphere, occasionally obscuring the rotating planet below, which appeared more than hospitable to most conventional forms of life. Cypria III looked like a world worth settling—and possibly fighting for.
“We’re being hailed by the planet,” Garrison reported. “They’re requesting that we enter an orbit outside the area patrolled by their defense satellites.”
Pike nodded, unsurprised. He had no intention of attempting to seize the ryetalyn by force, but apparently the Cyprians did not entirely trust him to show such restraint. Under the circumstances, he could hardly blame them, even as he resented them withholding the much-needed cure.
He glanced around the bridge, noting the toll the spreading fever was already taking on the ship’s operations. The bridge was still fully staffed, but only barely, without the usual complement of auxiliary crew members to supplement each station, while many of the posts were currently being worked by junior officers and NCOs with less experience than Pike might have preferred. He was tempted to call Spock back to the bridge, but decided against it. According to Spock, the science officer was, against all odds, starting to establish some sort of rapport with Merata. Pike figured that was more important than chaining Spock to the science station. Ensign Weisz could keep working that post for the time being, or at least until he came down with the fever, too.