Gemini (28 page)

“The presence of this transmitter would seem to give the lie to that statement,” said Spock. The beam of his light fell over a small, powerful piece of machinery on a table against a far wall.

“Tuned to the frequency we beamed in on?” asked Kirk.

“Indeed, Captain.”

“Well,” said Kirk, blandly, “it seems you boys have some explaining to do.”

“We will tell you nothing!” said their leader, vehemently.

“Suit yourself,” said Kirk with a shrug, reaching for his communicator. “But if you won't talk to me, I'm sure Chief Securitrix Llora will be able to loosen your tongues, wouldn't you say, Spock?”

“I am confident these gentlemen will be literally begging to speak when the Chief Securitrix is through with them—providing they are able.”

“Now, just a minute,” the leader said. “You can't turn us over to her.”

“On second thought, I think that's exactly the proper thing to do,” said Kirk. “The planetary government doubtless has jurisdiction over you anyway, wouldn't you say, Mr. Spock?”

“Doubtless,” said Spock, with a nod.

“Kirk to
Enterprise,”
said Kirk, into his communicator, “scan and transport us directly to palace security at—”

“Wait!” shouted the leader, no longer so sure of himself.

“Enterprise,
hold,” said Kirk, closing his communicator. “Well? Give us a name, now.”

“We don't know anyone by name! They contact us when they want us!”

“How?”

“By coded transmission! I swear to you I'm telling the truth!”

“Spock?”

“His respiratory levels and pulse are up, Captain,” said the Vulcan, examining the readings on his tricorder. “But that could be due to emotional duress, rather than falsification.” He broke off for a moment, his eyebrows slanting downward, making him look more than ever like the personification of Satan. “This is curious, these readings indicate—”

“What, Spock?”

Spock swiveled, pointing to a crate of equipment against a far cavern wall. “A device, Captain,” he said, calmly, “an explosive device, I believe, activated by repeated tricorder scans, and set to explode in seven—six—five—”

“Kirk to
Enterprise!
Six to beam up,
NOW
—!”

Kirk was never sure if he heard the explosion or not; he knew only that when he materialized aboard the
Enterprise,
the first thing he noticed was that his ears were ringing.

The second was the smell of charred flesh. He turned rapidly, examining the landing party, himself last, for signs of damage. This all happened in what seemed like less than a second. Then he looked down, and saw the seared remnants of a man laying twisted and smoking on the transporter pad.

He ran for the transporter console, but Spock had beaten him to it. Tying in to the bridge controls, Spock initiated a scan of the area they had just beamed up from. After a few seconds, he turned from the console, shaking his head.

“No survivors, Captain.”

Kirk nodded glumly and turned to the landing party. “Good job, all of you. Report to sickbay. I don't want Starfleet to accuse me of having returned any of its merchandise damaged.” He even managed a smile, which the others returned, however faintly, before trooping out.

“Well done, Scotty,” said Kirk, clapping the engineer on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sir. I thought you might be in need of a quick exit.”

“Anything to be determined from this one?” asked Kirk, holding his hand before his nose as he approached what was left of the still-smoldering body on the pad.

“After a brief initial examination, I would reply in the negative,” said Spock. “But I will have the remains shipped to sickbay for a thorough autopsy.”

Kirk nodded, suddenly conscious of his own weariness. It was as though the rigors of the last few minutes had caught up to him. “I'll be in my quarters.”

Some minutes later, freshly showered and uniformed (though as efficient as the sonic showers aboard the
Enterprise
were, Kirk still longed for an old-fashioned shower now and then), Kirk strode onto the bridge, nodding to Sulu and Chekov. “No lingering aftereffects from our little adventure, gentlemen?” The helmsman and navigator shook their heads, their slight smiles saying that, like children at an amusement park, they couldn't wait to do it again.

“Captain,” said Uhura, again at her usual post, “I have a message from the palace. It's Securitrix Llora, sir.”

Kirk thought for a moment. He had intended to make a report to her in a few minutes in an attempt to quell any more ill will—if that was possible at this late date. But she had apparently learned of their raid on her own. Ah, well. Kirk would console her by making full disclosure of any information obtained from the body in sickbay, if any. “On screen, Lieutenant.”

“Captain.”
Her beauty, the fine lines of her face, was even more stunning when subject to the magnification of the viewscreen; not all faces could stand such merciless scrutiny. But it was clear, as always, that this was the last thing on the securitrix's mind.

“Chief Securitrix,” said Kirk, formally. “Please, allow me to apologize for not—”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Captain, it is I who—Excuse me.”
She turned to look offscreen; Kirk heard a muffled, rapid voice, and saw her features darken in controlled anger, an expression, he reflected wryly, he knew well.

“You have not been told,”
said Llora, after a few seconds.
“This is my responsibility and my error.”

“‘Told' what?” said Kirk. He rose from the conn slowly, feeling the sudden need to pace, a need that came over him whenever he sensed bad news in the offing.

“It is your nephew,”
she said, four of the words Kirk most dreaded hearing.
“He appears to have been kidnapped.”

“W
HERE IS MY NEPHEW?”
asked Kirk, minutes later.

“I do not know,” confessed Llora.

They stood in the security wing of the Royal Palace, where Kirk—with Spock and McCoy—had beamed immediately upon hearing of Peter's absence.

“He was in your custody,” said Kirk. “You guaranteed his well-being, his safety.”

“Captain—” said Spock.

Without looking at the Vulcan, Kirk held up a hand for silence. He knew recriminations would do no good, would not further the finding and safe return of Peter—assuming the boy was still …

No. Don't even think that.

He put aside his rage and mounting worry and tried to view Llora as a colleague. “What happened?”

“Your nephew was released while I was on training maneuvers,” said Llora. “A set of orders for his transferral was received and acknowledged by my staff.”

Behind her, a young man began to protest. Llora silenced him with a gesture that, Kirk much later realized, was a mirror image of the gesture he had used to silence Spock. “Forged orders,” she continued. “Excellent orders, with no transmission gaps whatsoever, but forged nonetheless.”

“Signed by whom?” asked Kirk. There might have been the start of a trail, of a clue that—

“Signed by myself,” said Llora, after a few seconds. Silent in the admission of such audacity, Kirk saw her face color slightly, as she tried to fight down her embarrassment.

“May I examine them?” asked Spock, stepping forward.

“You will find nothing—” she said, then caught herself, seeming to remember the situation. “Of course,” she said with a nod. “Bekai, bring up the transmission for Mr. Spock.” The young man she had silenced earlier nodded eagerly, and Spock proceeded to his side, leaning over the Security Center's console.

“Captain,” she said, “I am entirely responsible for this matter.”

Yes, you are,
Kirk wanted to say. But recriminations were the easy way out, and Kirk had never taken the easy way.

“May I examine his cell?” asked McCoy, courteously. “There may be something to be learned from it.” Llora nodded tightly, and another security officer ushered McCoy back to the holding area.

Kirk raised a brow as Spock returned, clicking his tricorder closed. “As the chief securitrix herself said, an excellent job. The coding transmission is flawless, and—though this is not in itself a technical virtue—the timing of the orders' transmission was precisely correct, coming seventeen minutes ago, when Securitrix Llora was not present, and so could not countermand the forged orders.”

“But Peter couldn't have just vanished into thin air,” said Kirk, on the verge of exasperation.

“On the contrary, Captain, that is exactly what he did do,” said Spock. “According to the orders, following his release, Peter was to wait to be beamed aboard the
Enterprise.”

“Did he beam out from your pad?” asked Kirk, of Llora. “If so—”

“He did not,” said Llora, shaking her head. “He was taken by a transporter beam from an outside source. Untraceable by any means.”

“Of course,” said Kirk, bitterly. “Bones, anything?” he asked, looking up and off.

“Afraid not, Jim,” said McCoy. “The cell was clean as a whistle. Hardly any sign he was even there.”

“All right,” said Kirk, glumly. “Kirk to
Enterprise,”
he said, to his communicator. “Three to beam up.”

“Captain,” said Llora, “if I or my people can do anything … ”

Haven't you done enough?
he wanted to shout. But that path would yield nothing but childish gratification. “I'll be in touch,” he said.

Llora began to put her hand out as if to touch Kirk's, but by the time she finished the gesture, the three Starfleet officers were gone in a swirl of atoms.

“Are you okay, Jim?” asked McCoy, as they exited the turbolift. Spock would never have put the question that way, but the concern in even his face was evident.

“There are two ways to treat pressure,” said Kirk, as they entered the conference room. “Succumb to it … or use it as a propellant.”

“Logical,” said Spock, his version of a pat on the back.

“Which means what?” asked McCoy, skeptically.

“Which means my plan is succeeding. Bones, look at the timing of it. Our raid on the Nadorian separatists happened over forty-five minutes ago. Peter was released from prison, when, Spock?”

“Twenty-five minutes, seventeen seconds ago.”

“You see? Peter's release and kidnapping has to be a response to the raid. We drew blood. We're too close for comfort—for their comfort, anyway.” Kirk rose and began to pace, worried for Peter, but at the same time oddly exhilarated.

“Which means what?” asked McCoy, again. “We sit and wait for the kidnappers to announce their demands?”

“Not at all,” Kirk reminded him. “Have you forgotten about the subcutaneous transponder?” It was apparent, from the look on the physician's face, that he had, at least temporarily.

Spock was at once at the conference room console, tying it in to his bridge station. “Lieutenant Uhura,” he said, “monitor for the frequency I am sending to your station, widest possible scan.”

“Yes, Mr. Spock,”
came the response. Through the intercom, they could hear the clicking of relays being nimbly tripped.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Spock,”
she said, a few moments later.
“There is no response on that frequency.”

“Uhura, are you sure?” asked Kirk, swinging the console toward him. “There's got to be a signal.”

A few seconds later came the answer.
“I'm sorry, Captain. Perhaps the transponder is under heavy shielding, or—”

“Or maybe they're on to our game,” said McCoy, darkly. “So far, they've shown themselves to be pretty sharp, whoever they—”

“Thank you, Uhura, Kirk out,” Kirk said numbly.

“Don't blame yourself, Jim,” said McCoy. “You can't foresee every change of fortune.”

But I thought I could,
thought Kirk,
and now it's Peter who will pay the price for my
—
No, don't think of that. There's got to be another way.

“Is it possible,” asked Kirk, slowly, “to scan for a lone human amid a group of Nadorians?” He raised his eyes to Spock and McCoy.

“Such a scan might be feasible at close range,” said Spock, choosing his words carefully, “but from orbit, given the physiological similarities between humans and Nadorians, it is quite impractical.”

“Besides,” said McCoy, “there are hundreds of Federation citizens, many of them humans, on the planet, Jim. How could you tell which is Peter?”

Kirk nodded sharply, and for several seconds the room was silent. Then the hailing whistle sounded.
“Captain Kirk, a message from the planet's surface.”

Kirk didn't move. After a few seconds, Spock approached the console. “From whom, Lieutenant?”

“Another coded transmission, Mr. Spock, like the one we received before. A burst of less than a second, far too brief to trace point of transmission.” At this, Kirk's head snapped around. The earlier transmission had been from Peter, telling them all was well. Perhaps history would repeat itself … .

“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” said Kirk.

“It's very short, sir, only six words: ‘We have him. Take no action.'”
Her voice trailed off; it was obvious that she had figured out the intent of the message, but didn't know what to say, if anything, until:
“I'm sorry, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Kirk, after what seemed a very long time. “Kirk out.”

Kirk slumped in his chair, like a suddenly deflated balloon.
I'm out of options. And it's Peter who's going to pay.
To a warrior, even a reluctant warrior like himself, such a defeat was doubly galling. To be beaten in battle, to be out thought, outmaneuvered was one thing, to be bested in such a contest was no shame.