"Spock, that special blood of yours may have saved you a dozen times on other occasions, but this time it almost did you in. You can't deny it, now." The first officer leaned back in the bed and folded his arms.
"On the contrary, Doctor, I still have ample grounds for preferring my physiological structure to yours. As far as psychological structures are concerned, there is of course incontrovertibly no contest."
"I see, gentlemen," Kirk broke in, unable to suppress a smile, "that things are back to normal."
McCoy scowled. "Uh-huh—he's as stubborn as ever, Jim."
"Rational, Doctor," Spock corrected easily.
"Insane, Jim," McCoy shot back.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone on this ship is operating with undamaged circuitry, Kirk mused.
"I am surprised that you raise the question of sanity, Doctor," Spock went on, "as . . ."
Kirk gave up and walked away. He had had several questions he had wanted to put to Spock. Clearly they would have to wait until McCoy's peculiar brand of rehabilitation therapy concluded.
Meanwhile, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that both patient and doctor were doing well, thank you . . .
PART III
JIHAD
(Adapted from a script by Stephen Kandel)
IX
As things turned out, it was fortunate Spock's recovery was rapid. "Things" came in the form of a Class-A Security Prime Order—a classification so strict that Kirk was required to unscramble it himself, using a locked computer annex, in the sanctuary of his own cabin.
The instructions revealed by decoding were brief, even curt. They generated feelings of both puzzlement and anticipation in Kirk.
Something of both must have shown in his face as he handed Lieutenant Arex the slip of paper.
"Set course for arrival at these coordinates, Lieutenant."
"Very good, sir." The Edoan navigator took the slip, examined the figures inscribed thereon and commenced transferring them into the navigational computer. Only after he had completed the assigned task did he allow himself a moment of personal reflection.
When he eventually spoke, his statement was both fact and query.
"Captain, the indicated coordinates have been programed. We are proceeding toward them at standard cruising speed."
"Thank you, Mr. Arex." The navigator continued to eye him. "Was there something else?"
"Captain, I do not possess a perfect memory. However, there was something about our intended destination which prodded at me. Upon concluding programing, I checked out my supposition and found it confirmed.
"There is nothing of planetary size in the region we are headed for—much less at the specified coordinates."
If he expected Kirk to make a counterclaim or supply some new information, he was disappointed "You're quite right, Mr. Arex. That quadrant's as empty as a spatial equator."
"A rendezvous, then, with another ship?" the navigator asked hopefully.
"At this point I'm not permitted to say, Lieutenant. Although," and his voice dropped to a faint whisper which Arex could barely pick up, "you might say something like that."
Arex turned back to his console, more confused than before. It might have consoled him to know that Kirk was equally puzzled. Fearful of having made a mistake in unscrambling, he'd gone through the decoding process three times. Three times he received the same reply from the bowels of the computer.
And each time the answer was just as enigmatic as before.
Ordinarily he would have requested clarification of orders so extreme from Starfleet. But Class-A Prime—these orders were not to be questioned only obeyed. Such orders emanated only from the highest echelons of Starfleet HQ. Something critical was up.
And yet, if it was so vital, why did the orders specify they proceed at normal cruising speed? And what were they expected to rendezvous with? Clearly, secrecy took precedent over execution in this.
There was nothing cryptic about the instructions themselves—only the rationale behind them. They stated simply that the Enterprise was to proceed to such and such coordinates, whereupon they would meet something/someone at whose disposal they were to place themselves.
That was all. No additional details or instructions.
It wasn't like Starfleet to supply such sketchy information to back an important order. So much hush-hush suggested something else.
"Someone is badly frightened," Spock agreed. McCoy had finally released him from Sick Bay, to the great relief of both. But he could shed no further light on the orders.
"There are no facts on which to speculate, Captain."
"Well then, Spock, we'll just have to wait until someone supplies us with some."
There were surprises from the moment they neared the rendezvous coordinates, days later. An awful lot of people seemed to know about what purported to be an ultra-secret enterprise.
"I have multiple contact, sir," Sulu had reported, "at the coordinates—with something big at the center."
Hours passed. "Put what you can on the screen, Mr. Sulu."
The visual which resulted was revealing indeed. Numerous spacecraft were grouped loosely around the rendezvous point. They were as curious a collection of interstellar travelers as Kirk had seen in a long time.
At least half a dozen civilizations were represented here, possibly more. All were arranged—one couldn't quite say orbiting—around a huge green-and-silver ball. It radiated with the brightness of artificial atmospheric lighting. Against the total blackness of deep space and in the absence of a sun, it seemed to pulse gently.
Too small to be a planet, too small to be even a rogue moon. Too big to be a spacecraft.
In point of fact, it was all three.
Spock's gaze was riveted to the main viewscreen with an intensity rarely seen. "A Vedalan asteroid," he murmured. "I have never seen one before outside of bad pictures and worse sketches."
"Nor have I, Spock," admitted Kirk, likewise awed.
"Well I've never even heard of them, or it, or whatever you're talking about," Uhura broke in. "Somebody elucidate."
"The Vedala," Spock explained smoothly, "are the oldest space-traversing race known. They are so old that they long ago abandoned their worn-out home worlds to begin a nomadic life wandering among the stars.
"They travel at great speeds on large asteroids or small planetoids which have been remade to suit their environmental requirements. In addition to tremendous mobility, these tiny artificial worlds provide them with both personal and racial privacy—a quality they are known to value above all else.
"Yet for some reason, they now apparently require the presence of outsiders."
"And we're to place ourselves at their disposal," Kirk murmured, studying miniature mountain ranges, admiring the pocket oceans and manicured plains which studded the silver globe.
"Captain," reported Uhura, all business once more, "we're being scanned."
Kirk was reminded that the Vedala affected a pastoral veneer and took pains to avoid flaunting their technological knowhow.
What could they need the Enterprise for, then? Or these other ships, for that matter?
"Everybody sit tight," he ordered. Time passed as they drew nearer, then Uhura announced the replacement of the scanning signal with another.
"We're being hailed, Captain. No visual."
"Let's hear what we came to hear, Lieutenant." Uhura adjusted controls and an eerie, piping voice filled the bridge.
"Welcome, Enterprise. Welcome, Captain Kirk and First Officer Spock. We will expect you as soon as possible. Your coordinates for transporting down are . . ." and the voice ran off a series of figures which Uhura recorded, played through to the main transporter room.
"Please be kind enough to pardon the lack of visual welcome," the voice concluded, "but as you may know, we are extremely protective of our privacy. We regret any offense this may cause . . . but it is required."
"No offense taken," Kirk replied. "Coordinates received."
&
nbsp; "Polite enigmas, aren't they?" Sulu commented.
Kirk was about to press further when an unobtrusive palm covered the armchair pickup.
"I think we had best meet politeness with politeness, Captain. Even asking the name of our greeter might be construed by the Vedala as an intrusion—even an offensive gesture."
"I think you're over-reacting, Spock, but . . . all right." Deductions would wait until they finally met their hosts. He rose from the chair.
"Mr. Scott, you're in charge until Mr. Spock and I return."
"Very well, sir. Uh, might I ask, when might that be?"
"No idea, Scotty," he said, moving toward the door. He looked back at a sudden thought. "Why, Scotty, the Vedala have a reputation for paranoid secretiveness, sure. But they're not belligerent. Surely you're not worried about them doing us harm?"
"Not the Vedala, Captain, no—though I kinna trust 'em as completely as you seem to." He indicated the assembled starships circling the Vedala homeship. "But there're some ships out there that belong to folk who've been known to get nasty now and again. They could have representatives down there, too."
"I don't think the Vedala would let anyone run amuck on their homeship, Scotty, but don't worry. Mr. Spock and I will keep our communicators close at hand."
"Dinna worry—that's one order I never can seem to obey, Captain," Scott murmured—but Kirk and Spock were already in the elevator.
"Any idea what the specified coordinates will put us down on, Mr. Kyle?" Kirk asked the transporter chief.
"Something in the atmosphere seems to produce the daylight they receive on the surface, Captain," Kyle replied. "It makes direct visual observation very difficult."
"Consistent with what we know," Spock observed.
"However, the people down in cartography are fairly certain you'll be setting down on dry land, in a relatively level region."
Kirk and Spock assumed positions in the alcove.
"If you'll just take a half-step to the left, sir," Kyle requested. Kirk did so. Kyle manipulated several instruments at once, put his hand on the main switch. "Energizing, sir."
They stood in a grassy glade encircled by tall, lushly leaved trees. A small stream wound merrily down the low slope just before them.
But the sky overhead was strange. Kirk thought he detected a reflection from something solid. They stood under a transparent dome that sealed them off from the rest of the homeship. He could see where it curved down in the distance to meet the surface—undoubtedly to seal them in and avoid contaminating any more of the home than was required by common courtesy.
Yet, they had transported straight through it. Kirk didn't feel too confident about the accomplishment. Little enough existed in the way of Vedalan artifacts, but it was known that they were oustanding chemists.
Something that resembled an explosive was just as likely to be a composite made from vegetable shortenings, while a soap bubble might prove impervious to the strongest phaser. Yet any deceptiveness on the part of the Vedala was unintentional—or had been till now. It remained to be discovered whether that record would remain unblemished.
They could have made a great contribution to Federation civilization—or any Galactic civilization, for that matter. All entreaties to join or participate, however, were met with the excuse of painful shyness by rarely contacted representatives of the race.
It was the Vedalan way of refusing without insulting.
Besides, what could anyone offer them they did not already have or could not obtain on their own terms? For example, the presence of the Enterprise and various other vessels to carry out some as yet unknown task? But that was only common sense.
When the Vedala found it needful to call for help, it was in the best interest of all to respond.
Kirk couldn't tell whether the being standing before them now was the one who had addressed them on their approach or another. The Vedala was a small, furry creature, utterly inoffensive looking. It reminded Kirk of the pictures he had seen of the extinct aye-aye of Terran tropical forests.
Kirk looked around, found he was standing before a grassy knoll that formed a crude but comfortable-looking seat. Either Kyle had been inhumanly precise in his calculations or the Vedala had somehow seen to it they set down where they were wanted.
For the moment, Kirk's attention was wholly drawn to the representative of the ages-old race standing in front of them.
The Vedala made a gesture. Kirk blinked, stared. The grass around them was no longer flat and empty. Now he saw several other grassy knolls arranged in a semi-circle around the Vedala. They were occupied, and their occupants were neither human nor Vedala.
"Welcome, Captain James Kirk and Commander Spock," the Vedala intoned solemnly, turning Kirk's attention away from the other knolls. The creature spoke with a soft feminine contralto, which was at once reassuring and forceful. There was nothing fragile about it, and its strength belied the appearance of the toylike being who produced it. There was the power of millennia behind it. Kirk paid attention.
"I will introduce you to the others," the Vedala continued. It gestured first to a far knoll on which a winged humanoid rested, leathery wings fluttering uneasily against the too-near earth. The creature stood over two and a half meters high. Kirk recognized it from tridee tapes, though he had never met a representative of the Skorr before.
"This is Tchar," the Vedala told them, "Hereditary Prince of the Skorr, master of the Eyrie."
It was a measure of the strength of Tchar's character that Kirk and Spock paid any attention to him at all, considering the mountain that snuffled and grunted next to him. This butte of intelligent protoplasm the Vedala identified as one Sord. The reptile snorted a greeting. He very much resembled the bipedal dinosaurs who had dominated a long-dead piece of Earth's chaotic past.
But the forehead here was high, the forelimbs ending in hands with opposable thumb and fingers, the intelligence self-evident. Nor was Sord from a world like Earth. His body was bulkier than would be needed there, muscles on muscles the sign of a heavy-planet dweller.
The Vedala went on to the third member of the group, and for a moment Kirk and Spock failed to notice it, their eyes adjusted to creatures the size of Sord.
In direct contrast to its massive neighbor, it sat shivering on its grassy chair, trying to withdraw into the loam. Before the Vedala could proceed it interrupted, its voice thin and breathless.
Multiple cilia in place of upper limbs rippled nervously, goggle eyes darted from side to side in perpetual search for avenue of escape. "I was sentenced to this mad expedition," the asthenic ambassador announced, "I don't like it here. It's too quiet. I don't like any of you—no offense intended—I just wish I were back home in my city burrow."
"City cell is the correct appellation, I believe," the Vedala finally managed to say. "Em-three-green—an expert picklock and thief of extraordinary though peculiar talents, when he is not too terrified to demonstrate them.
"Em-three-green's people are . . ." the Vedala hesitated ever so slightly, ". . . of an extremely cautious bent."
"We're cowards, you mean," corrected Em-three-green, not defiantly, of course—that would have been utterly out of character. "And I," he finished almost proudly, "am the biggest coward of all. I want to go home."
"Oh, shut up. I'm sick of your belly-aching!" broke in a disgusted, very human-sounding voice from the ciliated safecracker's right. Em-three-green uttered a sharp whimper, tried to bury himself even deeper into the grass.
"This," the Vedala continued, indicating a young female humanoid, "is Lara." She was clad in a tight-fitting, multi-pocketed one-piece tunic that covered her from neck to ankle.
"Lara is a huntress from a people who are natural hunters. She also possesses a unique talent—a flawless sense of direction which is as real to her as sight or hearing are to you. A necessary skill for where you are going."
"I was about to bring that up myself," Kirk replied. "We're going someplace, then? I was instructed only to pl
ace myself and my ship under your direction. We were told nothing more . . . not even the fact that this expedition is to be multi-racial in makeup."
"Nor were any of these others," the Vedala informed him expansively. "This was done to preserve secrecy."
"You know as much now as we do," Lara added sharply. She looked toward the Vedala. "Who are these new ones?"
"Human and Vulcan," the Vedala informed her, with distressing matter-of-factness. "Mr. Spock was chosen for his analytical ability and overall scientific expertise. Captain Kirk, for his qualities of leadership and initiative, and a remarkably high survival quotient.
"There is, as you others know, one among you who knew by necessity the reason for bringing you here and the purpose to which your diverse abilities shall be put. Tchar will explain the mission, Captain Kirk, as he has to the others."
The Skorr rose, wings fluttering more violently. The words came out in a steady stream, in short, clipped phrases underlaid with controlled fury.
"Two or three centuries ago, humans, my people the Skorr were purely a warrior race. Our entire racial energies were bent to achieving one goal—a perfected militaristic society. This drive, coupled with our ability to reproduce rapidly, soon made us a threatening force in our sector of the galaxy.
"Today, we are a civilized people. Though we retain our military traditions and potential, we no longer live for war and destruction. All this has come about because of . . ." and he traced an abstract design in the air, his voice turning reverent, ". . . Alar."
"I know the name," Kirk recalled, nodding thoughtfully. "A religious leader with a reputation that extends beyond the Skorr."
"Our salvation and teacher," Tchar intoned solemnly. "He brought peace to us by showing how we might reconcile our violent desires with civilization, how we could direct our energies into constructive paths. He brought realization to the Skorr." Again he performed the peculiar, vaguely figure-eightish gesture.
"The complete brain patterns of this Alar," the Vedala explained, "were recorded by his apostles before his death and sealed in a flawless piece of sculpted indurite."