Pawns and Symbols Read online

  Aernath escaped from the human's presence as soon as possible and headed forward to his quarters, one thought beating a bitter refrain in his mind: Bond. And to an alien female! He was Cymele-crossed for sure. His normal healthy sense of Klingon superiority had always been flawed by this strange fascination with xenobiology: alien plants, alien animals, and now a Federation alien—a human. He'd made a bad miscalculation as a result. He should have listened to older, wiser warriors. "Sssts" they called them: soft skin, sharp teeth. "The only good Ssst is at the other end of a blaster: Ssst!" He'd heard that often. But he'd let his fascination make him overconfident and he'd failed. Well, past is past. Survive and succeed. There was still his vow and his mission: Since he was bond-obligated to keep this human alive, perhaps. . . . Taking his foil from his room, Aernath went down to the gym and set the fencing master at level three. He drilled until his mind and body were too exhausted to harbor troubling thoughts.

  Jean spent the entire next day familiarizing herself with Aernath's lab which was small but well equipped. Finally, she settled down to reviewing tapes of Klingon empire flora while Aenath ran analyses on her seed. She chatted casually with him across the lab until he unbent a bit. She elicited information about him, Kang, and the ship. Slightly younger than she, this was Aernath's first deep-space duty assignment. Most of the crew were from Kangs's home planet. Aernath was not.

  "You say you're from Mara's planet? You mean Kang's wife?" He nodded. "They're not from the same planet?"

  "No, same star system but she's from the outer of the two habitable planets. Kang's is the inner one."

  "Being so close to Klingon space on Sherman's planet, we had briefings on your fleet but not much about your planets. However, one hears a lot of stories. Is it true, the rumors we've heard—that she left him?" Jean asked curiously.

  Aernath bent over his table concentrating on readout. "Uh huh. Shortly after their encounter with the Enterprise when Kang lost his ship."

  "Why did she leave him?"

  Aernath straightened up and leaned against the table. His voice hardened derisively, "She went soft on the Federation—left the fleet, went home, even went underground. The commander holds Kirk responsible for it. He'll never forgive him for that."

  "If Kang has a personal vendetta going against Captain Kirk, why didn't he try to kill him when he had him in Klingon territory?"

  Aernath hesitated, then said, "I think he wants to discredit and ruin him, not just destroy him. Besides …"

  Jean waited, but he did not finish. "Besides what?" she prompted.

  "Nothing. I don't know," Aernath said curtly. "Guess you'll have to find out from Kang himself."

  She saw Aernath wouldn't pursue that subject any further. "And you, how do you feel about us, about the Federation?"

  He shrugged noncommittally. "How should I know? You're the first human I've met. Are you typical?"

  She didn't know how to answer that question so she tried another. "Well, what about me? How do I fit into Kang's plans? He keeps talking as if I'm some kind of a chesspiece in a game he's playing."

  Aernath was clearly uncomfortable. "Well, it's obvious that Kang's holding you angers Kirk. Beyond that …" He hesitated, then said, "Look, you said I should protect myself. I've said enough. You'll have to get any further information from the commander when he wants you to have it."

  Four

  Captain's log: Stardate 5960.2 We have ascertained that there was indeed one survivor of the earthquake on Sherman's planet: Agricultural Specialist Czerny, and that she was captured by Klingon Commander Kang. We have returned to Sherman's planet to reestablish the agricultural work and monitor the Klingon outpost there while awaiting a response from the Organians.

  CAPTAIN KIRK FINISHED recording the log and turned to Lt. Uhura. "Any results yet, Lieutenant?"

  "None, sir. If they have any communication capability at all they must have received us by now. They are maintaining complete communication silence."

  Kirk swung his command chair to face Spock's position. "Sensor scan, Mr. Spock? Are they still where we first spotted them?"

  "Affirmative, Captain. They have enstrenched themselves at Mousse Rock, two-point-six kilometers upriver from our agricultural station."

  "Moose Rock, Mr. Spock?"

  "Mousse, Captain, as in the Terran French dessert. I understand Lieutenant Le Clerc of the initial survey team fancied it resembled that confection. It would appear they are developing it as a natural fortification."

  "Any better reading on how many there are there?"

  "Only a rough approximation on life-form readings—thirty-five to fifty is as close as we can estimate."

  "Lieutenant Uhura, any report from our landing party we left at the station when we went after Kang?"

  "Yes, sir. Lieutenant DeCastro reports all is quiet and cleanup work is progressing nicely. No sign of the Klingons there."

  "Fine. I want that station functional as soon as possible. First priority is to get systems going, especially communications. Notify transporter room that first relief team will consist of Chief Engineer Scott, Lieutenant Kevin Riley, Lieutenant Johnson and Ensign Tamura from Security, and yourself, Lieutenant Uhura." Kirk noted Sulu's sudden glance at the mention of Riley, a good friend of his. Sulu hadn't been off-ship for some time … "And Mr. Sulu, also," he finished.

  The helmsman flashed him a grin of startled pleasure. "Thank you, Captain."

  Kirk nodded. "Both of you get your reliefs up here and report to transporter room in thirty minutes."

  Sulu looked around curiously. They had beamed down near a building that had been undamaged by the earthquake. It was a single-story, flagstone house set in a rather extensive garden. A short distance beyond, the flat land gave way to a series of craggy outcroppings of dark rock and low rolling hills. Sulu's hobby was botany, not geology, so he had paid scant attention to the discussions on the earthquake. He was satisfied to know that it was due to a singular concatenation of events unlikely to recur for a century or more. The garden, and most particularly that part of it devoted to local flora, was what interested him. Despite the slight autumn nip in the air, he was looking forward to the next several days here.

  Off to his left, Lieutenant DeCastro, of the first landing party, was briefing Lieutenant Johnson while the second of his three units slowly dissolved in the transporter beam. This house had its own generator which had been restored to working order. The communications room of the central administrative complex some distance away was the only part of that building not totally destroyed. The main power supply for the colony was gone. Restoring those two items was the top priority now.

  Soon, Sulu and Riley were helping move and catalog equipment near the administration complex while Scott monitored its arrival from the Enterprise's cargo transporter. The five remaining members of DeCastro's detail were working with them while Uhura meticulously checked relays and circuits in the communications room. It was a hot, tired group that gathered at the house late that afternoon. DeCastro ordered the last of his detail into position for beam up. Uhura and Riley headed for the two available showers. Sulu sat down on the front steps, his eyes fixed on the spot where the relief detail would materialize. They didn't appear.

  A short distance away Scott muttered impatiently to himself, then snapped open his communicator. "Scott to transporter room. Kyle, what's keepin you, mon? Let's get them down here."

  The answer was prompt but not reassuring. Instead of the soft British accents of the transporter room officer, they heard a melee of muttered oaths and directions. Lieutenant Kyle's voice came through briefly. "A moment, sir. We've a problem here." More confusion, then Kyle's voice again. "There's the last one. Move, man—get him out of there." A sharp report. "That tears it!" Kyle's voice carried as much disgusted frustration as Sulu had ever heard from the man.

  Scott could contain himself no longer. "Will somebody up there tell me what in the name of little green gremlins is going on?"

  "Sorry, Mr. S
cott, we ran into a transporter malfunction on that last transfer. We almost lost them. I pulled them in all right, but I had to augment so much that we blew the main circuit. At least. I suspect a couple of secondaries are gone, too. I'm afraid you'll have to wait awhile for the relief detail unless you want me to send them by shuttlecraft?"

  Scott swore softly. In his lexicon of disasters, there was only one thing worse than having something go wrong with his ship, and that was having something go wrong with his ship when he wasn't in a position to do anything about it personally. He turned to Lieutenant Johnson. "Lieutenant?"

  The hefty, brown-haired Security man shook his head. "We can manage until tomorrow, sir, if we need to DeCastro reported no activity outside of the Klingon compound since they arrived—not even recon patrols. We've got trip alarms around this compound."

  Scotty addressed his communicator. "No, Lieutenant Kyle, no need for the shuttle yet. Just get a maintenance crew on that transporter and see if you can get it operational by tomorrow. Scott, out."

  Johnson promptly assigned Ensign Tamura first watch and put himself on mess detail. As Johnson disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, Scott, mopping his brow, sank down on the steps of the porch beside Sulu. Together they watched the petite Japanese woman disappear around the corner of the house. "What are the chances they can have it fixed by morning?" Sulu asked.

  Scotty shook his head. "I canna say without seeing it. But even if it's just the main circuit it's not likely to be ready for a good eighteen hours."

  Sulu shook his head sympathetically but he wasn't unduly worried. There were still the Enterprise's firepower to back them up in the event of trouble with the Klingons. Otherwise there was no problem—just maybe a couple extra days planetside. He certainly wasn't going to object to that.

  A damp but enthusiastic Riley stuck his head out the door. "Next. My shower's free. Hey! Where is everybody?" Sulu explained the transporter mishap. "Uh, oh. My first planet assignment since I'm back on the Enterprise and this happens. Doesn't say much for the luck o' the Irish, does it?"

  Dinner was a pleasant surprise. Rusty Johnson was a gruff, taciturn man of generally solitary pursuits but it turned out that gourmet cooking was one of his seldom indulged hobbies. As they polished off the crepes suzette, Scotty happily threatened to put him on permanent mess duty as soon as reinforcements arrived. The engineer was so pleased he even volunteered to help Uhura with K.P.

  As they worked on kitchen clean-up, Uhura finished filling Scott in on the results of her afternoon's work. The Scotsman was as thoroughgoing and meticulous in the kitchen as he was in the engine room, she observed. One of the more important satisfactions of being a Starfleet officer was the satisfaction of working side by side with extremely versatile as well as talented colleagues. Continued surprises.

  Kevin Riley wandered into the kitchen humming "My Wild Irish Rose." "Uhura," he said gleefully, "you'll never guess what I found in the den closet!"

  Uhura straightened from putting a pan back in its place. "Well, with that cat-ate-the-cream lilt in your voice, Kevin, I'd say it had to be either a pair of Irish colleens or a leprechaun with a pot of gold."

  "Nope!" he declaimed triumphantly. "One genuine, intact guitar. How about a concert tonight?"

  Uhura bestowed a warm, motherly smile on the eager young engineer. "Well …" she glanced at Scott who was putting a final polishing touch on the counter top as if it were one of his Jeffries tubes.

  "Och, and why not, Uhura? As long as there's no sign of trouble, I kin scarce think of a better way to spend an evening."

  She gave him a teasing smile in return as she agreed. "All right. At least it will keep your mind off the transporter room which is where you'd be spending your off-duty evening if you were aboard ship." The wry grimace he gave her in reply merely confirmed what they both knew.

  They gathered in the den. Rusty Johnson, seated in the doorway where he could watch the front door and security console, tilted his chair back against the door frame and discreetly lit his pipe. Uhura tuned the guitar then treated them in succession to an east African lullaby, a Scottish air, a Welsh ballad and an Irish sea chanty. Then she played a nonvocal Vulcan piece followed by "Beyond Antares."

  Kevin said quietly, "It's been a long time since I first heard you sing that."

  Unwilling to let them slip into a somber mood, Uhura strummed a few brisk chords. "Here's one that none of us wanted to hear again for a very long time." She broke into "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen" to the accompaniment of mock groans and grimaces from the sofa. Even Rusty managed an oblique smile. Kevin turned a delicate shade of red. A lighter mood restored, Uhura relaxed into a series of improvisations.

  "That has the sound of a new song. Am I right?" Scotty observed from the sofa.

  Uhura nodded. "It's something that's been running through my head for a couple of years. I guess being back near Sherman's planet brought it up."

  "Try it out. Let's hear it." Sulu urged.

  "All right," she laughed. "I call it 'Uhura's Lament.'"

  I'll sing you a song of Cyrano Jones

  Redoubtable space trader he,

  Scourge of the Klingons and bane of James Kirk,

  Blithely he wanders the galaxy

  Trading tribbles and flame-gems and gleaming glow-water

  To poor hapless tourists like me.

  Oh … The trouble with tribbles, the trouble with tribbles

  They don't come in dribbles … or dabs,

  But in boxes and barrels

  And soon the world narrows

  To nothing but tribbles … and you.

  I'll sing you a song of Cyrano Jones

  Irrepressible entrepreneur.

  Mandates and warrants and angry fleet captains

  Just come in the line of his work:

  Marketing treasures and making a living

  From poor hapless tourists like me. Oh …

  The others joined her as she launched into the chorus for the second time, finishing with hearty laughs from the sofa and doorway. Kevin looked puzzled. "It's a nice song but what's so funny? And what's a tribble?"

  "Och, lad, if ye dinna know, dinna ask and thank yir lucky shamrock for yir blissful ignorance," Scotty answered emphatically.

  But Sulu came to his friend's rescue and explained how Cyrano Jones had given Uhura a warm, furry little creature on Space Station K-7 some time earlier and had thus precipitated a plague of the creatures on the Enterprise as well as in the space station itself. He went on to relate how this had ultimately served to uncover a Klingon plot to poison grain destined for Sherman's planet, so Jones ended up something of a hero as well as a scoundrel. As Sulu finished his tale, Rusty observed laconically that it was eight o'clock. Kevin Riley was slated for next watch.

  "Thanks, Uhura, for this much. I hope we can look forward to more," Kevin said as he headed out the door.

  As Riley left, Sulu remarked, "You know, there's another of your compositions I haven't heard in some time, Uhura. You know, the Canopian love sonnet you set to music."

  "Yes. 'The Nightingale Woman' by Tarbolde." Uhura nodded and began the introduction. Keiko Tamura came into the room mid-sonnet and settled on the hassock Kevin had vacated. Uhura elided into a Balinese temple song and then finished with another African lullaby.

  Sulu stretched with a yawn. "Since I have dawn patrol I think I'll hit the sack. But don't let me stop the rest of you. And thanks, Uhura." He retired to his quarters and drifted off to the faint sounds of guitar music.

  It was mid-afternoon and the transporter was still not close to functional. Kirk sat on the bridge pondering the situation. Scotty had just been on the communicator asking about progress for the fourth time. Perhaps it was time to send the shuttle down. . . .

  "We're receiving a distress call, Captain." It was Lieutenant Alden at the communication console.

  "From the planet?" Kirk swung around to face the communications officer.

  "No sir. Deep space. Six-zero
-three mark seven."

  "Any details?"

  "The distress call is urgent. They have sustained damage to their life-support systems—estimate total shutdown less than twenty hours."

  Kirk muttered a choice expletive. "What kind of a ship is it?"

  "A freighter, sir—the U.S.S. Dierdre under Captain Naranjit Singh."

  "Randy Singh?" Kirk responded.

  "You know him?"

  "Yes, quite well. His freighter was the first to arrive with emergency food for Tarsus Four after the massacre there. But what's he doing in this sec … never mind. Mr. Spock, ETA for those coordinates. Are there any other Federation ships in this sector who can answer that call?" Kirk looked at his first officer.

  "No, Captain, there are none closer than the Enterprise and it will take us approximately seventeen-point-two hours to reach those coordinates. However, I should point out that a false distress call using the name of the U.S.S. Deirdre has been used by the Klingons when we were on Capella Four."

  "Are you suggesting that this is a decoy, Mr. Spock?"

  "It is a possibility that must be considered," the Vulcan replied.

  "But if it's genuine, we don't have much-margin …" Kirk weighed another difficult command decision. "Mr. Spock, assemble the relief crew in shuttlecraft bay. Instruct them to brief Mr. Scott on the situation. If the Klingons are monitoring our ship-to-planet communications we won't give them any confirmation of our plans. Mr. Chekov, plot a course for that distress call." Kirk punched an arm console button. "Kirk to Scott."

  The answer was prompt. "Scott here, Captain."

  "Scotty, since it's going to be a while before the transporter is fixed, I'm sending you an additional relief crew by shuttlecraft."

  "Aye, sir. Would ye like me to come up by return shuttle?" the chief engineer suggested hopefully.

  "Thanks, Scotty, but that's not necessary yet. Hang on to the shuttle for a while. Kirk, out." When the word came from shuttlecraft bay that the shuttle was well away he nodded to the helmsman. "Take her out of orbit, Lieutenant Hadley. Ahead Warp two." As he did so, he wondered if he had made the right decision or if he had just condemned his landing party to a Klingon countermove.