Pawns and Symbols Read online

  Chekov whirled and sprinted for the inside of the launch. He seized the woman's hair and wrenched her head back. "Do you know how to disarm the device?" he hissed.

  The woman seemed bent on suicide. "Of course I do, you slimy spineless stormtrooper, but it won't do your starship any good," she spat. "Sooner or later you have to lower your deflectors and then that mine will blow your ship into the next solar system. So much for your precious Captain Kirk and Spock!"

  If McCoy had not been two steps behind Chekov, the Romulan might have succeeded in her Suicidal quest. As it was, McCoy found himself prying them apart for the second time. Once again, Chekov found himself in a chair addressing the captain via communicator. There was a long pause on the other end. "Only by a Romulan? Are you sure, Chekov?"

  "Yes, sir. And the prisoner has confirmed it."

  Another long pause. "Stand by, Mr. Chekov. I'll be back with instructions shortly. Kirk, out."

  On the bridge of the Enterprise Kirk stared at Spock with dismay. "Spock, comment?"

  "We would appear to have two alternatives, Captain. Persuade the Romulan woman to disarm it or have someone else make the attempt."

  "Someone else … ?" Kirk's face lit up. "Vulcans and Romulans apparently spring from a common ancestry. Would your neural patterns be close to foil the sensor?"

  Spock was already bent over his viewer consulting the ship's computer. He straightened. "Based on what scant data we possess of Romulan neurophysiology, there is approximately a fifty-eight percent chance I could succeed. The biggest uncertainty is how much that sensor is programmed to read Romulan emotions. Any significant degree of that would substantially diminish my chance of success."

  Kirk's face clouded again. "Not good enough. We can't chance it. What are the chances of persuading the Romulan to do it?"

  This time Spook did not consult the computer. Between them, he and Kirk probably knew as much about Romulan psychology as any starship computer. "I am not sanguine about that possibility either, Captain. Romulans seldom allow themselves to be captured let alone 'persuaded' to aid an enemy. I can't give you the probability but it is certainly low."

  "Well, if she can't be persuaded, she'll have to be forced. Spock, what about mind-meld? Could you mind-meld with her and force her to disarm it? You've done it before—the Eminian guard for example."

  Spock pondered the problem for a moment before answering. "This is a much more difficult undertaking. That required only a brief contact and a simple act open a door or unlock a cell—an act frequently performed by the subject with little emotional investment. This would involve prolonged contact, performance of intricate maneuvers against considerable emotional resistance. She might go psychotic. That would be disastrous for all of us."

  To say nothing, thought Kirk, of your Vulcan aversion to the mind-meld itself let alone coercion. Aloud he only said gently, "Spock, I won't ask you to do that unless we can't find, any other way." Kirk prowled restlessly around his command chair.

  "I know that, Captain." Spock reflected once again that it was a cage as much as a command post.

  "Meanwhile, we have as much time as we want to take. The thing won't activate until it attaches to the hull. McCoy is a pretty savvy doctor. Maybe he can come up with some way to persuade her. Let's give him a chance at it. What have we got to lose?" The question was rhetorical.

  "Nothing, Captain"

  Kirk smiled. Literal Vulcan. "This is Kirk to Chekov. Are you there? Can you all hear me?"

  "Yes sir, Captain."

  As Chekov and McCoy listened, the captain's voice became unaccustomedly harsh—"Then hear this: the Romulan prisoner must be made to cooperate with us. I'm giving you six hours. I don't care how you do it, but she must be brought around. That is an order. Don't signal until you have results to report. And if you haven't succeeded in six hours, I'm going to turn Spock loose on her and Lt. Uhura loose on you, too. Do I make myself clear?"

  Chekov goggled. Quickly McCoy picked up the communicator, "My God, Captain Kirk, sir … we're only human. I'll face Spock any day but please not Lt. Uhura!"

  Chekov was beginning to catch on. "Captain Kirk, you know we will do our best, but please … not Uhura!" He sounded as if he were strangling.

  "My orders stand. Kirk, out."

  McCoy pulled Chekov out of the launch. "It's time for a little walk." What he really needed was time to think. The same possibilities had run through his mind as Captain Kirk's. "Pavel, the chances of Spock disarming that thing by himself must be too low for the captain to risk it. Otherwise he wouldn't be playing this game. I would guess his trump card is a mind-meld with Spock. But that's risky, too; she's terrified of Spock. Did you see her face when the Captain said he'd turn Spock loose on her? She might crack completely. So it's up to us to try—we've nothing to lose."

  "What are you going to do, Doctor?"

  "I'm not quite sure myself but just follow my lead, Pavel. Follow my lead."

  When they reentered the launch, it appeared that McCoy was going to do nothing at all. Chekov set to work under one console, proceeding with the original plan to collect all the information possible about the Romulan launch. McCoy sat on the floor beside him, holding lights, handing tools, and just making conversation. "Pavel, how did you come to join the Starfleet anyway?"

  "Well, sir, since I was a small boy growing up in Novy Riga, I've been fascinated by stars. I got my first telescope when I was six. Could you shine the light here, please? My father helped me build it." The talk drifted on: Chekov's boyhood in Russia, McCoy's in southern Georgia. School, boyhood pranks and dreams, swimming, fishing.

  Without appearing to, McCoy carefully watched the Romulan's reactions. She went from open-mouthed incredulity to suspicion to puzzled curiosity. Finally she relaxed, apparently having decided that, for whatever obscure reasons, they were ignoring her for the moment. He waited until she seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.

  "How do you catch fish on your planet, Miss Tertullian?"

  She snapped back to startled attention at her name. "What?"

  "I asked, how do you catch fish on your planet?"

  She looked wary, then apparently decided there was no harm in answering that question. "For sport, with a hand net or a spear."

  "My grandfather used to talk about spearing suckers as a boy," McCoy mused, "but I never did it myself. Is it difficult?'

  "I usually used the net, but with a little practice the spear is equally simple," she answered slowly.

  McCoy stood and stretched. "Pavel, would you like a drink?"

  "Sure, I'll be done here in a moment."

  The Romulans had improvised a cistern near the shuttle. McCoy took back a dipperful and offered it first to Chekov then the Romulan. She started to refuse then thought better of it. Clearly she was thirsty; probably hungry too. From the looks of the campsite she'd not eaten at all today, McCoy thought.

  "Why are you bothering to put it all back together?" the woman asked, indicating the console.

  McCoy set down the water dipper and unslung his medical tricorder again. "After we get you put all back together you may want to fly it back to one of your ships." he said.

  "Don't mock me, Human. You dishonor us both. Death on the battlefield or even quick death to a defeated enemy is noble. I accept that. Why can't you?" She drew back slightly from his medical scanner.

  "My business is saving lives not dispatching them." McCoy replied. "Your head feeling better?" She nodded. He put away his instruments. "I don't know about you, Pavel, but I'm hungry. Let's see what we can do about some lunch."

  Chekov was more the camper. McCoy set him to work skinning the second animal the Romulan woman had killed. Through the open doorway of the launch he saw her watching them, though she feigned indifference. He picked up a handful of tubers he'd found in the cook area and went over to the door. "What are these? Did you find them edible?"

  She nodded. "Yes. They taste rather like sashkas, a common vegetable of ours."

  Chekov
had the fire going and the first animal spitted. McCoy couldn't find any cookpot. He went back to the door. "Do you have any kind of cooking pot here?"

  She told him where to find it. "There's some salt, too, if you want it."

  McCoy smiled. "Thanks." He found the pot but nothing that looked like a container of salt. "Chekov," he said, putting some exasperation in his voice, "bring her out here. I can't find that damn salt anywhere."

  Chekov untied her. "Come on," he said curtly. She pushed away his proffered hand, stood up and started for the door when her knees buckled.

  Chekov caught her halfway to the floor. "What happened?" he asked anxiously.

  "Nothing. Just a little dizzy, that's all."

  But he saw the white line of pain around her lips and felt the involuntary muscle guarding. He had jarred her injured arm badly when he caught her. She was so stubborn! After all, she could disarm the device and have it all over with. They had rescued her, treated her well. Surely she could see they had meant her no harm. But the ship has to be defended. It was her own fault. Her grip on his arm tightened, knuckles white as she fought the pain and weakness. For a fraction of a second, Pavel Chekov's universe blinked. When it refocused, he saw not an adversary but a fellow mortal being in agony. "Look, I'm sorry I bumped your arm like that. Here, let me help you."

  He lowered her in the doorway of the launch and she leaned weakly against the doorframe. McCoy was there immediately. "What happened?"

  "I think she stood up too quickly, Doctor, and got dizzy. I … I bumped her arm rather badly when I caught her."

  "Get my medikit." He cupped her face in his hands and projected concern. "Take it easy now. You'll be okay." Chekov handed him the kit. He ran his scanner over the arm, her head, then nodded, apparently satisfied. "I can give you another hypo for the pain."

  "No. I want no more of your serums or hypnotics. That won't work either," she responded.

  "Nonsense. I've got nothing like that here. Just a painkiller." He held out the hypospray. "I'll give you that if you want it." She shook her head. He closed his kit and went back to looking for the salt.

  She watched him for a minute, then got up slowly, came over and put her finger on an oil-paper packet. "The salt."

  McCoy stared. "That's the damndest looking salt shaker I've ever seen."

  "Unfamiliar things are not always what they seem, Doctor."

  He gave her a searching look. "No, they often aren't, are they?"

  He went back to his cooking and she resumed her seat in the doorway, cradling her arm in her lap. McCoy watched the stew while Chekov turned the spit, and talked about his last camping trip with Sulu. Absentmindedly, McCoy grasped the handle to shift the pot on the fire. He let go very quickly and swore softly as he examined his fingers. No serious damage—a couple of small blisters. He was not cut out to be a camper.

  He glanced up to catch a fleeting smile cross the woman's face before she settled it back into an impassive mask. A bit later, he also saw her surprise when Chekov handed her a bowl of food. She ate a couple of bites, then sat and watched them.

  Chekov glanced at her bowl. "What's wrong? Go ahead and eat."

  "Nothing, but … might I have the other packet over there?" She indicated the spot where the salt had been.

  Pavel got it, then watched as she added some to her stew. "What is it?"

  "Ground cumidin seed. We actually use it more than salt."

  "What does it taste like? May I try a bit?" Gingerly, he dipped a finger in the powder and tasted it. "Say, that's good."

  "The seeds come from trees that grow high on mountain slopes near my home. The seedpods are bright orange and the leaves brilliant yellow. It's a beautiful sight at harvest time," she said.

  "I saw golden trees like that once on Earth," McCoy mused, "in the high Unitas of the West—one of our last wilderness areas. Aspens, ours are called, and in late August they turn from green to pure gold. That was the year before Joanna was born." He turned to her. "What does the 'R' stand for?"

  "What?" she asked, startled.

  "Your name. What does the 'R' stand for?"

  "Reena."

  "I've already told you my name. This is Pavel Chekov, our navigator."

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "A navigator? So am I. I thought you must be in engineering from the way you were working on that console."

  Pavel looked pleased. He was beginning to like this Romulan woman in spite of her initial hostile action.

  McCoy idly toyed with a bone but his mind was working furiously. So far so good. She was now willing to talk to them. But where to go from here? Clearly, one didn't sidle up to a Romulan officer and say, "There now be a decent chap, uh … lass, and put this nasty bomb you've launched out of commission for us." As well ask Spock to dance flamenco. Not much time left. McCoy sighed. "Come on, Pavel, let's clean things up."

  As it turned out, Reena took the next step herself. Chekov had gone to get more water. McCoy was washing the dishes. Reena sat in the doorway watching him, her hand on her chin. "Dr. McCoy, you were serving under Captain Kirk at the time of … of the … Enterprise incident, weren't you?"

  The spoon hung in midair. McCoy carefully kept looking straight ahead, not at Reena. "Yes, why do you ask?" He hoped it sounded casual.

  "Why did Captain Kirk release our commander?"

  "Reena, it is Federation policy to treat all prisoners kindly and humanely, to repatriate them whenever that does not pose a threat to our security. We had what we wanted from her flagship. And she was no threat to us. There was no point in holding her." Please, dear God, don't let Chekov come clanking back with the water right now, he thought desperately. Carefully he turned to look at her. "It could be the same for you, Reena. If you disarm the device you will not be harmed. We will return you to your own people."

  She smiled sardonically but her eyes misted. "You overlook one vital difference between my situation and hers."

  "And that is …?"

  "You require my cooperation. We are sworn to die rather than reveal information to our enemies let alone aid them. If you don't kill me, my own officers will. That is our oath."

  McCoy was feeling his way. "Reena, are you saying you want to … to stay?"

  Her eyes flashed angrily. "Don't be ridiculous. I am a Romulan. That is my home, my people."

  "Yet if you cooperated with us and we released you, your own code would condemn you. How can they hold you liable? You've been through a terrible disaster, sole survivor, weak, badly injured. You're in no position to resist us."

  "Merely the exigencies of battle, Doctor. That doesn't release me from my oath."

  McCoy squatted in front of her and took her face in his hands again. "Reena, you will disarm that device. You know that. If necessary Spock will mind-meld with you in order to accomplish that. I don't think you will find that very pleasant. If you would disarm the device voluntarily, I promise you we will find a way to return you to your people safely. Can you trust me for that?"

  She pushed his hands away and shut her eyes for a moment. When she looked at him her eyes were clear but distant. "Perhaps. But Doctor, I am Romulan, you know. I must do what is required of me."

  And that, thought McCoy grimly, could be interpreted in more than one way. He stood up abruptly, "Well, it would seem the task at hand is to satisfy your Romulan code of honor, isn't it?" Reena looked at him levelly. Chekov came clanking back. "Lunch is over and time's short. Tie her up, Chekov."

  Chekov looked puzzled but complied. "Yes, sir."

  Wearily, McCoy finished putting things away. It certainly had not turned out to be a quiet day and it promised to get worse. Reluctantly, he went into the launch. Reena sat erect in her chair. Chekov leaned against the console. "Ensign Chekov, Navigator Tertullian and I had a little talk while you were gone. In spite of our patience and thoughtfulness she is not inclined to be cooperative. Time is short. We know the consequences if we fail. Hit her, Mr. Chekov."

  Chekov nearly fell on the floor. He
stared at McCoy as if he had gone mad. "Sir … ?"

  "You heard me."

  "Me? Now? Sir?"

  "Now, Mr. Chekov."

  Gingerly, Chekov slapped Reena on the cheek. She laughed. Chekov flushed. McCoy felt slightly nauseated. "I said hit her, Chekov." And he stepped forward and landed a second solid blow. Reena sat there stolidly. Chekov's hands were shaking and McCoy was definitely nauseated. He really hadn't the stomach for this. He flipped open his communicator, "McCoy to Enterprise."

  Kirk's voice was still harsh, "Captain Kirk here. What progress do you have to report?"

  "Captain, I think our prisoner is ready to come on board. Alert an emergency medical team. We can continue interrogation in sick bay."

  Kirk's voice instantly dropped all pretense, "Bones! What on earth have you—"

  "Just beam us up, Jim. I'll explain when I get there."

  Kirk, Spock, and the medical team were waiting when they materialized. Chekov lifted Reena and placed her gingerly on the cart. McCoy gave a few directions, "… and take Chekov with you. I'll be right down."

  Kirk's face was grim. "All right, Bones, what in the devil is going on? Is she ready to disarm the device? What did you do to her? I expected you to intimidate her, scare her, but … physical abuse? That's not like you, Bones. Surely you knew we could use Spock's mind-meld if we had to—"

  "I know, Jim, I know. I also know it might kill her. I think I've found a way around it."

  "You mean she's agreed to do it on her own?"

  "Not yet, but I think she will. You know, it's funny. A few weeks ago I was reviewing some journal tapes on the psychology of old POW camps. You know back on Earth they used to …"

  "Dr. McCoy, we have exactly one hour and forty-seven minutes before detonation," Spock interspersed. "May I suggest you be brief?"

  McCoy decided Spock was not looking forward to the mind-meld either. He was positively edgy. "She's a well-disciplined Romulan officer, committed to her culture and her people. A direct attack wouldn't work. She'd die or go psychotic first. However, she's also young, bright, and open-minded … and she wants to go home. What they discovered with POWs was that sometimes meaningful interaction between prisoners and captors produced attitude changes. The key seemed to be series of events that slipped by the mutual defenses and projections that each side has set up. One meets the enemy on common ground. That's what I tried with her. The problem is—if she cooperates with us they'll kill her. It's their code of honor—sort of 'come back with your shield or on it.' Her injuries and isolation are not mitigating circumstances. She'll be questioned, maybe mind-scanned. We have to create the impression that she was pushed beyond Romulan endurance before she yielded to us or it's all up with her when she gets back. Spock, could you place a block in her mind as if something had been wiped out—erased?"