Child of Two Worlds

  Pike could believe it. From what he’d witnessed, Merata certainly had a fiery temperament. Small wonder that she seemed to have thrived as a Klingon.

  “I appreciate that you care for your daughter,” he replied, “but the Cyprians have a legitimate claim to her as well, as does her biological family.”

  “ ‘Legitimate’?” Krunn bristled. “So you do intend to turn her over to them!”

  “I didn’t say that.” Pike was not going to let Krunn put words in his mouth. “Trust me, the Cyprians are just as frustrated by this stalemate as you are.”

  “Do not lie to me, human! Why come all this way if you do not intend to deliver Merata into the hands of her former kin?”

  “We were coming here anyway,” Pike said honestly. “We have other business on Cypria III.”

  Krunn eyed him suspiciously. “What kind of business?”

  “That’s none of your affair,” Pike said. “To be honest, this issue with Merata is an inconvenient distraction.”

  The pounding in his head, which was growing stronger the longer he stood, was a cruel reminder that there was more at stake than one interplanetary custody battle. He ought to be dealing with the fever sickening his crew right now, not playing referee between the Klingons and Cyprians. A febrile chill passed through him, and he did his best not to shiver visibly.

  “Then why not rid yourself of this ‘distraction’ by returning my daughter?”

  “Because I have a responsibility to listen to both sides of the story,” Pike answered. “Perhaps we can work out some kind of compromise?”

  “Klingons do not compromise!” Krunn’s face grimaced in disgust. “We accept only victory or death!”

  So I gather, Pike thought. To be honest, he was surprised that Krunn had shown as much patience and restraint as he had. Was it merely that he remained reluctant to endanger Merata by launching a substantial attack on the Enterprise? Or was he to some degree hesitant to risk an all-out war with the Federation?

  “That attitude is not going to help us here,” Pike retorted. “You may have to add the word to your vocabulary if we’re to arrive at a satisfactory outcome for all concerned.”

  Krunn glared at Pike much as Merata had done earlier.

  “Hear me, Pike. We are watching you closely. Any attempt to transfer Merata to the planet’s surface will be met with immediate reprisals. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly.” Pike knew he couldn’t let that threat go unchallenged. “Just understand that we are monitoring the Fek’lhr as well and will not tolerate any moves against this ship.” He felt a cough coming on and swallowed it with effort. His throat had graduated from scratchy to sore. “And I suspect that the Cyprians feel the same.”

  Krunn examined Pike across thousands of kilometers of space. Pike kept a brave front, although his legs were starting to feel a little rubbery and his head was throbbing like the devil. He would have killed to sit down for a moment, but could not afford to show even a hint of weakness. He hid the pain in his eyes behind a steely gaze.

  “Bold words, Captain,” the Klingon said finally. “I wonder if you have the spine to back them up.”

  “Try me,” Pike said.

  The transmission was cut off abruptly. Pike tensed. Could this be the prelude to an attack?

  “Sensor readings,” he asked sharply. “What is Fek’lhr’s weapons status?”

  Weisz looked up from his monitor at the science station. “They do not appear to be charging their disruptor banks, sir, or prepping their torpedo tubes.”

  Pike dropped back into his seat with as much assurance as he could muster. That Krunn was still holding his fire was a relief, but also somewhat worrisome. In his experience, Klingons seldom put off a fight for long. By their lights, today was always a good day to die, not tomorrow.

  So what was Krunn waiting for?

  “Captain!” Garrison called out from the communications station. “I’m picking up some unscrambled transmissions to and from the Klingon ship.” He shot Pike an urgent look. “The incoming messages are from Klingon space, sir.”

  Pike spun his chair around. “What are they saying, Mister Garrison?”

  “Hold on, sir. Just give me a moment to clean up the translation.”

  “On the double, Mist—” A ragged cough choked off his order. He placed a fist before his mouth in hopes of muffling the cough, only to find Yeoman Colt standing by his chair. Distracted, he hadn’t even noticed her approach.

  “Excuse me, Captain,” she said casually. “I thought you might like a hot cup of tea.”

  He glanced up at her as she handed him the cup. She kept her expression cool and professional, as though this minor service was of no importance, but he had to wonder: Had she figured out already that he’d contracted the fever?

  Was it that obvious?

  He sipped the tea, which proved just what the doctor ordered, soothing his irritated throat. “Thank you, Yeoman. That was very . . . thoughtful of you.”

  Not to mention observant.

  “Just doing my job, Captain,” she replied. A flicker of anxiety showed in her eyes. “No matter what.”

  She does know I’m sick, he realized. And it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the crew catches on, if they haven’t already.

  “Translation complete, Captain,” Garrison reported. “I think you need to hear this.”

  “Pipe it through,” Pike ordered, his voice sounding slightly less hoarse than before. “Let’s hear what the Klingons are saying.”

  A deep, guttural voice echoed across the bridge:

  “Attention, Fek’lhr! We have received your message and reinforcements are on their way. Imperial Battle Cruisers Ch’Tang and BortaS will rendezvous with you in approximately twenty-six hours. Let your enemies tremble in fear. Qapla’!”

  “Oh, boy,” Tyler commented. “The more the merrier.”

  Pike scowled. “Are we certain these transmissions are for real, Mister Garrison, and not just a subspace echo trick?”

  “Absolutely, sir.” The communications officer muted the playback. “I’m confirming communications between all three vessels.” He scratched his head. “It’s like they’re not even trying to scramble their signals.”

  “They’re not,” Pike realized. “Krunn wants us to know he’s expecting reinforcements, just to pressure us into surrendering Merata all the sooner.”

  No wonder Krunn was biding his time. In slightly more than a day, he’d have the Enterprise outnumbered three to one, by which time Pike knew his fever would be worse. The tea helped a little, for the moment, but wasn’t going to be enough to keep the infection from spreading to his lungs and beyond. He was getting weaker while the Klingons were gathering strength.

  Time was on Krunn’s side, in more ways than one.

  Ten

  The demonstrations were getting larger and louder.

  For the second night in a row, thousands of Cyprians had filled the large plaza across from the front entrance to Envoy House. A candlelight vigil had swelled into a literal mob scene despite the oppressive heat and humidity, while a hovering holographic billboard rotated above the crowd, depicting a ten-year-old image of Elzura Mursh as an impish-looking child hugging a stuffed toy lizard. Several times larger than life, the hacked billboard, which had previously displayed an ad for Prime Minister Flescu’s reelection campaign, reminded Number One of the monumental floating idols of Ludlow’s Planet. Along with the rest of the landing party, the worried Starfleet officer viewed the demonstration from the questionable safety of a penthouse balcony. The strident chants of the protestors could be heard from even five stories up.

  “BRING ELZY HOME! BRING ELZY HOME! BRING ELZY HOME!”

  Number One contemplated the giant holographic Elzy looming over the scene. Prime Minister Flescu was right about one thing. Little Elzy had definitely become a symbol of sorts, even if, judging from Captain Pike’s description, the actual woman now bore little resemblance to the adorable moppet of years go
ne by. Kepler had departed Enterprise before the Mursh sisters had been beamed aboard, but Number One gathered that the actual Elzura was more Klingon than not. She wondered how the crowd would react if they saw Merata instead of Little Elzy. Would they still think they could “rescue” her from the Klingons?

  Probably, Number One thought. They might even become more intent on saving her.

  A makeshift podium had been erected in the plaza so that various speakers could exhort the crowd. Cheers and a smattering of applause rose as a new participant took the stage. Static crackled and the image upon the large floating billboard shifted, the dated portrait of Elzura replaced by the stern features of a middle-aged Cyprian woman with short blond hair, scalloped ears, and intense bronze eyes. Number One recognized the woman as Council Member Letya Brovi, the prime minister’s chief opponent in the upcoming election. Her amplified voice rang out over the crowd.

  “Friends! Fellow Cyprians! Thank you all for coming out tonight. I cannot tell you how much it touches my heart to see this spontaneous outpouring for the Mursh family during this crucial time. Know that I fully share your resolve that Little Elzy be brought home at last. We cannot and will not allow the Klingons to take her back. We cannot and will not let a Cyprian child continue to be raised as a Klingon!”

  The crowd shouted and yelled in agreement. Signs and banners, many bearing the same now-iconic image of Little Elzy, waved above the assemblage. Brovi waited for the tumult to die down before continuing her speech.

  “It seems we’re all in agreement, then,” she said with a chuckle, before adopting a more ominous tone. “But what about our esteemed prime minister? He says he wants to bring Elzy home, but why is she still being held aboard the Enterprise, with a Klingon battle cruiser lurking nearby to carry her away at the first opportunity? He says he’s negotiating with the human captain, Pike, but what is there to negotiate?” She turned her gaze toward Envoy House as she worked up the crowd. “Why does Starfleet have any say over the future of a Cyprian child, of a Cyprian family? Maybe Atron Flescu lacks the will to stand up to Starfleet—and the Klingons—but what about the rest of us? Elzura Mursh has already lost her childhood to the Klingons. Are we going to let them take her future, too?”

  “NO!” the mob roared. “BRING ELZY HOME!”

  “Don’t tell me,” Brovi said. She threw an accusing finger at Envoy House, the provocative action mirrored and magnified by her huge holographic simulacrum. “Flescu’s Starfleet friends are right over there, enjoying our hospitality even as their captain keeps Elzy from us. Tell them what we want, what all of Cypria wants!”

  En masse, the crowd turned toward the residence. Thousands of angry faces glared up at the building, as though staring directly at the landing party on the balcony. The chanting resumed, even louder than before, and now directed straight at Number One and her team.

  “BRING ELZY HOME! BRING ELZY HOME! BRING ELZY HOME!”

  Up on the balcony, which was adorned with potted ferns and other greenery, Lieutenant Giusio scowled at the irate mob below as he leaned on the carved wooden railing. A Starfleet veteran, he was a large man with grizzled features and a laconic manner. “Gotta admit,” he said, “I kinda wish we could get our weapons back.”

  Number One shared his concern. Cyprian security forces, recognizable by their blood-red uniforms and helmets, had set up a protective barricade in front of Envoy House, just in case, but the guards were severely outnumbered and their allegiances uncertain. Can we truly count on Cyprian guards to defend us against their own people?

  Envoy House was comfortable, but she found herself pining for the cramped confines of the Kepler, which was still parked at the spaceport, many kilometers away. She could wish that the shuttlecraft was closer at hand.

  “At least they left us our communicators,” Lieutenant Jones observed. An incorrigible optimist, the able-bodied young officer had a tendency to look for silver linings in even the most dire of circumstances. Number One hoped this would not be tested on this mission. “That’s something, I guess.”

  “The prime minister has guaranteed our safety,” Number One stated in order to maintain morale.

  “For what that’s worth,” Nurse Olson groused. A lanky redhead with a slight Jovian accent, he backed away from the railing. “Even the staff here are giving us dirty looks. I went looking for some cream for my coffee this morning, and I swear one of the kitchen workers glared at me as though I’d asked to dissect her firstborn child.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’m half afraid to eat the meals for fear that somebody has spit in them.”

  “Scan them with a tricorder first,” Giusio suggested. “That’s what I’d do.”

  Olson looked puzzle. “For saliva?”

  “No. Poison.”

  “That’s enough,” Number One said, although part of her worried that maybe Giusio had a point. She wanted to think that was simply paranoia talking, but, as she’d told the captain, passions were running high at this point, even more so than the sweltering temperature. She was sweating herself, in more ways than one. “Let’s go inside and get away from the heat.”

  A sliding glass door closed behind them as they abandoned the balcony for the main living area of the VIP suite. The cooler environment came as relief, but the glass was not enough to drown out the ceaseless chanting outside.

  “BRING ELZY HOME! BRING ELZY HOME! BRING ELZY HOME!”

  Number One suspected that she would not be getting much sleep tonight.

  Eleven

  “The Cyprian shuttlecraft is approaching from the planet, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Mister Garrison,” Pike said. “Onscreen.”

  The shuttle, which was ferrying the Mursh family to the Enterprise, appeared on the bridge’s viewscreen. The ovate craft was of similar design as the Ilion, but in much better condition than Soleste Mursh’s well-traveled, ramshackle trading vessel. Climber One was a diplomatic courier and looked it. A gleaming hull, crafted to resemble paneled wood, was polished to a spotless sheen. Elegant green trim, fashioned in the image of leafy green vines, adorned the craft’s curving contours and wings. Golden running lights glowed like sunlight. Pike had to admire the Cyprians’ sense of aesthetics. Climber One made a Starfleet shuttle look boxy and utilitarian in comparison. He hoped it was a smooth ride as well.

  Here they come, he thought. The rest of the family.

  Beaming them aboard would have been faster and easier, but the Cyprians had objected to the Enterprise coming within transporter range of the planet’s surface, insisting that it occupy a higher orbit instead; apparently they still didn’t trust Pike not to raid them for the ryetalyn. Pike had complied with their stipulations, but couldn’t help wishing that the approaching shuttle was bearing a load of processed ryetalyn as well. At last report, at least a third of the crew was down with the fever, with no sign of the outbreak abating.

  Maybe this gesture would help soften the Cyprians’ embargo on the cure?

  Pike watched the shuttle draw nearer. “Status of the Fek’lhr?” he asked.

  “Unchanged,” Weisz reported. “Guess they’re still waiting for those reinforcements.”

  Pike was only too aware that two more Klingon battle cruisers were en route to the Cyprian system and expected to arrive with hours. All the more reason to do this now, he thought.

  “Acknowledged,” Pike said. “Lower shields.”

  In theory, the Cyprians were providing cover for the Enterprise with their satellite-based laser cannons, but Pike wasn’t about to leave his ship vulnerable to a Klingon attack for any longer than it took Climber One to make it safely into the Enterprise’s hangar deck. Tempting Krunn with an unshielded target was just asking for trouble.

  “Aye, sir,” Weisz said.

  “Inform the shuttle that they’re clear for landing,” Pike instructed Garrison. He rose to his feet and a sudden wave of dizziness reminded him that his fever had not gone away. For a second, the bridge seemed to spin around him as though caught in a gra
vitational eddy. Nausea beckoned, and he clamped his jaws shut. His headache went from dull to razor-sharp. It like felt like somebody was mining for lithium inside his skull—with a pickaxe.

  Colt, who had been keeping close at hand, took a step toward him, just in case he needed assistance. “Captain?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I’m fine,” he lied, waiting for the bridge to stop spinning. He took a deep breath to steady himself. The pounding in his head ratcheted down a notch so that it was merely miserable. His throat felt like he’d gargled super-heated plasma. “Just a bit stiff from riding my chair too long.”

  “Of course,” she replied, playing along. She stepped back, but remained near enough to grab him if he lost balance. Chestnut eyes watched him with barely concealed concern. “Shall I accompany you to the hangar deck, Captain?”

  Pike resisted the temptation to look around to see if the entire bridge crew was watching him. Not for the first time he regretted that Number One—and her exemplary immune system—was unavailable to take over if necessary. There was a worrisome tightness in his chest, making breathing more difficult. His lungs felt congested. His eyes felt like throbbing nuggets of pain.

  “Thank you, Yeoman, but that won’t be necessary. Mister Spock will be also be present to greet our guests, so that’s probably an adequate reception committee. Feel free to take a break.”

  He looked over Colt. As far as he could tell, she was not yet showing any signs of having been infected with the fever.

  Thank goodness for small favors, he thought.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain and strain of being up and about, he made his way from the command circle to the turbolift. “Mister Tyler, you have the conn.”

  “Aye, sir,” the navigator said, coughing. “Excuse me, sir.”

  Pike winced inside.

  That clinches it. Tyler has it, too.

  The Enterprise was turning into one big sickbay.

  * * *

  The tricorder hummed as Olson scanned the meal laid out on the table. He squinted at the readings on the device.