Gemini (16 page)

“Yes?” asked Llora, coldly.

“I simply wished to apologize for this entire matter,” said Kirk, trying to ignore his wrist—an easier matter than it seemed, as he was losing all feeling in it. “You can count on the full cooperation of my ship's security forces with yours from here on.”

“That is wise,” she said, flatly. The pressure on Kirk's wrist did not cease.

Around them, other members of the assemblage had finished their own conversations and were watching Kirk and Llora, drawn by some atavistic human instinct that told them some disturbance was nigh.

Kirk hid a grimace as the pressure on his wrist increased.

At the corner of Kirk's vision, he saw Commissioner Roget start to approach. Kirk shook his head back and forth, once, in two barely perceptible motions, his eyes not leaving Llora's.

Other members of the palace entourage watched this with interest, as if it were a sporting event or a friendly wager, but with small smirks upon their faces, telling the most perceptive where their allegiance lay.

Kirk could no longer feel his right hand; it was as though his arm ended at his wrist, the aftermath of an amputation. All he could see were two dark eyes, seeming as huge as lakes.

To fight force with force was his first instinct, and it would even have been justified, but clumsy, and lacking finesse. Also, engaging Llora in hand-to-hand combat and upping the situation a notch or two would put him no nearer a solution.

He leaned backward slightly, as though trying to pull free. Llora pulled that much harder.

Kirk reached for his belt with his left hand. Quickly withdrawing a small metal device, he brought it up just within Llora's field of vision, bringing his thumb down over its familiar contours. Llora, her gaze locked with Kirk's, finally seemed to realize what he was doing. With a perceptible start, her skin paled, her eyes widened. “No weapons!” she cried.

She released Kirk's wrist, and was thrown suddenly backward by the effort of her own pulling to retain her balance.

“You'll forgive me if I don't extend a hand to help you up,” said Kirk, dryly.

“You used a weapon!” snarled Llora, trying to salvage what small triumph she could.

“You consider this a weapon?” asked Kirk, blandly. He extended his left hand, and flicked the metal box slightly, bringing it back to his face. “Kirk to
Enterprise,”
he said. “Await my report.” He clicked the communicator shut, transferred it to his right hand, and put it away, taking care not to drop it from his nearly numb fingers.
Showing off would serve me right,
he thought.

Llora sprang lithely to her feet, like a felled cat newly wary of prey that unexpectedly fought back. “I thought that to be a weapon!”

“And I thought I was making an overture of cooperation,” said Kirk, deliberately letting his right hand swing free. “I guess we we both need more experience in these matters. Commissioner Roget,” said Kirk, turning to the ambassador, “may I speak to you aboard the
Enterprise?”
At Roget's nod, Kirk turned to Regent Lonal, nodded once, withdrew his communicator—with his right hand—and contacted his ship.

Upon materialization, Kirk immediately seized his right wrist in his left hand, massaging it vigorously.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Kyle from the transporter controls.

“Never better,” said Kirk cheerfully.

“You'd better have Dr. McCoy look at that,” said Roget, as Kirk peeled his right sleeve back. “I think her fingernails broke the skin.”

“That's what happens when you try to tame wild animals,” said Kirk, leading the way out of the transporter room. “Do you mind a quiet drink in my quarters?”

“I rarely mind a quiet drink anywhere,” replied Roget, with a straight face.

“You may be captain material,” said Kirk with a smile. “Deck five.”

“You might want to use that as a disinfectant,” commented Roget, some minutes later. He was sitting on the other side of the desk from Kirk, two amber glasses between them.

“I prefer to begin disinfecting procedures from the inside out,” said Kirk, clinking his glass against Roget's, then putting its contents where they would do the most good.

Roget smiled, refilling Kirk's glass. “It's too bad we don't have a post for a ship's diplomat,” said Kirk. “You'd fit in around here.”

“Janine would kill me,” said Roget with a chuckle, “then get off by invoking diplomatic immunity. She's quite looking forward to retirement.” He sampled the contents of his glass and nodded approvingly. “What was it you wanted to ask me, Captain?”

“We saw Nadorian nationals down there burning the Federation flag,” said Kirk. “And as much as that puts a knot in my stomach, I'd rather see that than blood in the streets. But is vandalism like that just letting off steam, or is it a symptom of real danger to Federation citizens? How bad is the situation down there?”

“About halfway between where you'd like it to be and where Lonal says it is. I've heard reports of Federation citizens getting shoved around a little, but no real damage has been done to them. The Nadorian people are pretty levelheaded as a rule, Captain. I don't think you need to worry about individuals being lynched by mobs.”

“What worries me,” said Kirk, slowly, “is what happens when the Federation citizens decide they need to fight back. When it becomes mob versus mob, even the most level heads have a tendency to get caved in.”

“I'll certainly keep you notified of the circumstances.”

“Providing you know the truth,” said Kirk, bluntly. “The Federation's representative is the last person whom they'll give the unvarnished truth to.”

“I haven't survived this long in the diplomacy game because I'm such a charming dinner companion, Captain,” replied Roget. “I have a few sources of information the Nadorian government knows nothing about.” His voice softened. “We'll find your nephew.”

“It's not so much that he can't take care of himself, all things being equal,” said Kirk, rising and pacing his cabin, thinking of the lessons his father had taught him and Sam, and that Sam had passed on to Peter, “it's that there's more than just a simple criminal conspiracy here. There's some motive we haven't begun to see yet, and when we do, we'll have a larger, clearer view of this puzzle.”

“Something that goes deeper than upsetting the throne of Nador?” asked Roget, dubiously. “That would seem to be a pretty ambitious goal in and of itself, Captain.”

Kirk seated himself again and peered at a lighting fixture through the amber contents of his glass. “I think the political intrigue is important to whoever's behind this,” he said, at length, “and we can't discount the possibility that the throne itself might have been offered to one of the coconspirators as a bribe.”

“Such as … ?”

“Throughout that recent spat in the throne room, I had the feeling there was something wrong with Regent Lonal—”

“‘Wrong'? Do you think he's ill, or—”

“Nothing like that,” said Kirk, slowly. “Just something different, out of place about his aspect, his way of dealing with the rest of us. Then it hit me—he kept using the pronoun ‘we.'”

Roget waited a moment, as if there might be more. When he responded, his tone was disappointed. “There were many people present,” he said. “And?”

“And that's it,” said Kirk with a disarming shrug. “Not much, I grant you, but it finally occurred to me … I don't think he was referring to the Nadorian people, I think he may have been referring, almost subconsciously, to himself—using the royal ‘we.'”

“You mean he intends to keep the throne?” Roget's tone was incredulous, yet its surprise was not entirely convincing, as if the same idea had occurred to him.

“Why not? If the riots continue, Regent Lonal will have no choice but to declare martial law, which will only further aggravate the rioters, which means Regent Lonal will have to assume more powers to preserve the peace.” Kirk drained his glass and spread his hands, in seeming helplessness. “I know it sounds fantastic, but many a would-be usurper has taken such steps to a throne.”

“But the princes would never allow—”

“Not as long as they lived,” said Kirk, his voice almost a whisper.

“You've given me much to think about, Captain,” said Roget, rising. “I do thank you, but I wish I felt more grateful.”

“I quite understand, Commissioner,” said Kirk, ruefully. “Let me escort you back to the transporter room. I've kept you from that lovely wife of yours long enough. Please give her my apologies.”

After seeing the commissioner off, Kirk paced the corridors of the ship restlessly—causing no end of consternation to crew members engaged in legitimate pursuits, both ship-related and personal—then returned to his quarters. His system was contrary enough that the alcohol he had imbibed was acting as a stimulant rather than a depressant, at least for the present.

After a few minutes of pretending to read various departmental reports, Kirk swung to face his console. “Kirk to bridge.”

“Lieutenant Palmer here, sir, how can I help you?”

“Status, Lieutenant?”

“All systems normal, sir.”

“Any reports from Dr. McCoy or Mr. Spock?”

“No, sir. Shall I patch you through to them?”

“No need for that. Don't even tell them I was asking. But keep me posted on anything unusual. Kirk out.”

“Good night, sir.”

Kirk lay back on his bunk and shook his head, hoping Palmer's salutation would prove prophetic. He lay there for several minutes, courting sleep, which proved an elusive mistress. He rose and turned on the cabin lights, shaking his head. McCoy had given him certain prescriptions to use in a situation like this, but he didn't like to rely on chemicals. He turned to the row of books at the head of his bed, and selected one, an anthology of seafaring stories Spock had given him. He had just cracked the volume, his fingers caressing the leather bindings, looking for a story he hadn't read, when his cabin speaker sounded.
“Palmer to Captain Kirk.”

Kirk was at the console before the first syllable had faded. “Kirk here, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, I apologize for disturbing you. This seems extremely trivial, but—”

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, earlier this evening we received a very low-gain transmission, on an old Federation frequency. Since it seemed to contain nothing urgent, it was filed for the science officer's inspection.”

“What was it?” asked Kirk, his interest now thoroughly piqued.

“You said to keep you abreast of anything unusual, so—”

“What was it, Lieutenant?” asked Kirk, keeping his voice level.

“I'm sending it through, sir.”
After a moment's silence, a short series of mechanical tones emitted from the speaker, underlain by a great deal of static. Kirk listened intently to it, once, then twice. It was a code, a nonverbal code he had learned when at the Academy … .

He played the message a third time, jotting down the letters the message had coded as he dredged them from his memory. Then he looked at the message, thumbed the console, and said, “Palmer, have Spock, McCoy, and Uhura meet me on the bridge. Immediately.”

Then he turned to look at the message again, at two words which read:
JAM
.
OKAY
.

* * *

“No, sir,” Uhura was saying, seven minutes later. “There's no way of telling anything about the signal's origin, other than what we know from examining the signal itself. Its very simplicity works against its being thoroughly analyzed.”

“Nor is there any way to precisely determine the message's point of origin,” said Spock, looking up from his scanner. “Given the
Enterprise'
s position in orbit about the planet at the time the message was received, we were within range of transmitters on fully one-third of the planet.”

“Including the capital city,” mused Kirk.

“What's so mysterious about this signal anyway, Jim?” asked McCoy. He and Uhura looked understandably rumpled, having been disturbed in the middle of the night, while Spock, as usual, looked as though he had been waiting for Kirk's summons. “Is it from Peter?” asked McCoy, anxiously. At Kirk's nod, McCoy turned to Spock. “Human intuition,” he said, proudly.

“In more precise terminology, a guess,” said Spock.

“Whatever it was, he's right,” said Kirk.

“How can you be so certain, Captain?” asked Spock. “The message might support the interpretation as reading ‘
J
.
AM OKAY
,' but absent any definitive proof—”

“Are you certain of the message's spacing?” Kirk asked Uhura, ignoring Spock for the moment.

“Sir?”

“Are you sure the message does read ‘
JAM
.
OKAY
' and not, for example, ‘
J
.
AM OKAY
'?”

Uhura nodded. “I see.” She flipped switches on her console and listened to the message again as a graphic scan of it raced across her screen. She listened to it twice, then turned to Kirk. “Yes, sir, it definitely reads ‘
JAM
.
OKAY
.'”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Kirk. “In that case, it is from Peter.” He surveyed the faces of his senior staff and Uhura, and smiled. “As an infant, Peter couldn't say the name ‘James,' so he called me ‘Uncle Jam.' Still does, once in a great while when we're reminiscing. He's telling me that he's all right. He can't say anything else, but he's all right.”

“Does anyone else know of this nickname?” asked Spock, dubiously.