SMOKE AND MIRRORS
CHAPTER 1
Captain's Log, stardate 5118.2
The Enterprise has been assigned to
gather information
on the Rodt'hir in
the Beta Xi binary
star system, near
the Klingon Neutral
Zone. They are an
advanced race, and
apparently the
founders of the
Peace Alliance, an org-
anization similar to
the Federation.
They are currently
under considera-
tion for Federation
membership. I think
they'd be an asset to the Federation,
given their
intelligence and level of advan-
cement.
"Captain Kirk, right on
time," the Alliance Dictar, ruler of the Peace Alliance, said curtly.
"That is appreciated. We can meet with you immediately. No more than six
people though, please. We. . . value our privacy." The man on the
viewscreen had the coloring of a Vulcan, with a slight greenish cast to his
skin and pointed ears with lobes that descended the length of his face,
attached the whole distance. His green-tinted hair glinted in the artificial
light of the room behind him.
"Of
course," Captain Kirk acquiesced. "We'll be down shortly."
"We
look forward to your company." The picture faded abruptly.
The captain
of the Enterprise had already chosen
the officers that would accompany him in the landing party; Mr. Spock, his
Vulcan first officer, who would undoubtedly be helpful; Doctor McCoy, who would
hopefully not be needed; Ensign Chekov, the navigator, partly to relieve the
boredom of his post; and Ensign Richards from security, mostly because it was
regulations to do so.
"He
seems nice, " Lieutenant Sulu remarked from his position at the helm.
Beside the
captain's chair, McCoy snorted. "Yeah, like a Klingon," he said,
choosing not to hear the sarcasm in the Asian's voice.
"Nice
or not, this shouldn't take long," Kirk interjected.
"Captain,
" Spock called from the science station. "There appears to be a ship
at the edge of our sensor range, at the other end of the system. It may be a
Klingon."
"Mr.
Sulu," he said immediately. "See if you can maneuver us close enough
while we're gone to get a reading without them noticing."
I do not have time for this, he thought wearily.
Instead, he
said, "Spock, Bones, Chekov, let's get this over with. Scotty, you've got
he conn." The chief engineer took the captain's seat as they headed into
the 'lift.
When they
materialized on the planet Nodya, the first thing Kirk noticed was the heat.
They were surrounded by a desert, beneath the two blazing suns. If not for the
sensor-deflecting shield that surrounded the planet, they would have been
prepared, but as it was, it hit him like a ton of dilithium. He had expected it
to be hot in the binary star system, but nothing like this. Only Spock,
accustomed to Vulcan's warmer climate, could possibly be comfortable.
The second
was the lack of gravity. It was probably about half of Earth's, unusual for a
planet as large as Jupiter.
The last
thing was the group of Rodt'hir, lightly clad in toga-like robes, standing a
few meters away, apparently oblivious to the sweltering temperature.
"We
were sent to greet you," the leading Rodt'hir announced. "I am T'Kir.
We will be your guides for your stay."
Kirk nodded
his head, feeling as if that small movement would go on forever. "We are
honored."
"The
Dictar is waiting for you in the meeting hall. Follow us." T'Kir turned,
leading the group into the nearest
building.
The cool
inside was, at first, only relative, but to the captain, it was bliss. As they
followed their guides through long, twisted corridors, Kirk felt the sweat on
his arms evaporate as the temperature steadily dropped, in direct relation to
his scrambled sense of direction. Before long, he knew that only the Rodt'hir
and Spock, with his tricorder, could find the door without a generous helping
of blind luck.
If it gets much colder, he thought, Chekov will be the only one of us that's
comfortable.
The young
Russian would've agreed.
At last,
they could go no deeper. The hall opened into a giant chamber, brightly lit.
The Dictar stood from his seat at a round table as they entered, his silvery
clothing gleaming in the light.
"I am
glad you could make it. I know that you are accustomed to lower temperatures;
we had feared the heat had gotten the better of you."
"No,"
Kirk told him. "It would take longer than that to 'get the better of
us'." A look flashed across Chekov's face that he could easily imagine
meant that he should speak for himself. He wasn't even sure he was actually
doing that anyway.
"I am
glad; I'm afraid your stay must be prolonged, as I must attend to several
pressing affairs of state. Feel free to talk
with the citizens of the city."
"We
thank you," Kirk said, as humbly as he felt. He suddenly realized that it
would be more informative to talk to the people.
As they
left, he noticed that McCoy seemed to have nothing sarcastic that he was just
dying to say, contrary to his nature. Richards looked apprehensive, but that
was, after all, his job. Chekov did as well, but he dismissed the latter to the
fact that they were going back up into the desert.
They
followed their guides back up the winding hallways to the surface. As the air
grew warmer, Kirk found himself wondering what had possessed him to agree to
staying on the planet. The ship was cooler.
Much cooler. . . Then he discarded the thought; it had seemed like a good
idea at the time, which it probably was.
When they
reached the surface, every one broke into a sweat. The navigator, in fact,
looked absolutely ill. He had almost decided to take them all back, good idea
or no, when T'Kir broke into his thoughts.
"Your
rooms are this way," he said, heading away while Spock and McCoy were following their own guides in the same
direction. Kirk saw that Chekov and Richards were being led toward another
white, cubical building that stood out against the sky. Kirk hurried to catch
up.
"I
regret that we have no cooler quarters," T'Kir was saying. "There is
only one building with underground levels."
"Oh, I
think we'll survive," the captain told him, flashing a surprisingly boyish
grin. McCoy didn't appear to appreciate the statement.
"We
will not be far away," T'Kir told them as they stopped by a building like
the one the others had been heading toward, which contained three
interconnected rooms, and left.
It was
cooler inside, maybe as low as 35 degrees Celsius. Kirk was amazed to find
himself almost getting used to the heat.
He flipped
open his communicator as he was joined first by Spock, then by McCoy, who
looked as if he needed to talk to him.
"Scott here," came the metallic
reply to his summons.
"Scotty!
Have our friendly Klingons put in an encore appearance yet?"
"Nay. We canna even be sure there is a
Klingon. If there is, we havna seen hide nor hair o' him."
"Well,
keep looking. We've been. . . detained. It could be a while before we get
back."
"Aye, Captain." Kirk flipped the
communicator closed again.
"Now,
Bones, what were you going to say?" He flopped on the bed, and instantly
decided not to do any more flopping. It was cooler, and almost as hard as a
rock.
"Weren't
you a little quick to agree to staying here? You can't enjoy this heat any more
than I do. Chekov looks as if he's going to faint if the temperature rises
another degree," the doctor scolded.
"Is
that your medical diagnosis?" Kirk joked. "Anyway, it's what we're
here for. We'll get a better idea if we talk to the people than the government.
They've got a less distorted view of things, and no reason to lie to us."
"I
still think it's a bad idea," the doctor surrendered.
"On
the contrary, " Spock answered. "The Captain's reasoning is intact,
as far as it goes."
"Uh-huh.
I'm sure that from a completely logical, unfeeling point of view, it's
completely right. I, on the other hand, am not unfeeling-"
"Nor
are you logical."
"-and
I hate it."
"Gentlemen,"
Kirk broke in, cutting short whatever Spock had been about to reply. "We
have a job to do. Let's go get Richards and Chekov and get it done." He
rose and opened the door, then winced at the hot air that met him.
"Or
perhaps we should wait for it to cool down some," he said abashedly.
Spock
retired to his room as they settled down to wait for night.
Spock
emerged from his room just before nightfall.
"Just
as punctual as ever, Mister Spock," Kirk said, standing. He roused McCoy,
who had been dozing in a chair.
"Time
to go, sleeping beauty."
"Who...wha-...?"
the doctor mumbled drowsily.
"You
want a chance to suffer an authentic case of heat stroke, don't you?"
"Don't
make fun!" McCoy reprimanded sharply, suddenly awake.
Kirk only
headed for the door, a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. "Calm
down, Bones. I'm sure it's not that hot out there."
"It
could be, " was the ominous reply.
"True,"
Kirk agreed. "Last time it was this hot, I was on Vulcan." He stepped
out into the still hot desert night, starting in the direction of the other
building, a darker shape against the stars. His comment went unappreciated,
either because it was true, or because McCoy just didn't care.
Minutes
into the walk, Spock summoned him.
"Captain,
we are being followed. It is T'Kir, K'Tar, and S'Rek."
"Thank
you, Spock." It didn't really worry him that their guides were behind
them; most of the time, people didn't trust strangers. "If we don't bother
them, they'll probably leave us alone."
"I
hope so," McCoy grumped. "We don't need any problems beyond this
infernal heat."
"I
don't see why they wouldn't," Kirk said placidly.
As they
drew closer to the building, a Rodt'hir
came out of the darkness. Kirk recognized her as J'Min, Richards's
guide.
"Is
something wrong?"
"Mr.
Richards is ill, " she said.
"He could not stand the heat."
"I knew
something like this was gonna happen," McCoy muttered as he tried to move
past her. She held him back easily.
"Hey,
I'm a doctor!"
J'Min shook
her head. "I'm sorry. Our healers are tending to him; he must be left
absolutely alone after they are done."
"For
how long?"
"Until
they say so."
"What
about Chekov?" Kirk broke in.
"The
other is not ill. I will get him, if you desire." Kirk nodded and drew
McCoy away as she moved toward the building.
"Calm
down, Bones. Just let the Rodt'hir healers do their work. They're not going to
poison him."
"Not
intentionally, maybe."
"He'll
be fine."
McCoy
paused, then relented. "Yeah, you're probably
right."
J'Min
reappeared, Chekov, horribly pale, trailing behind.
"God!"
McCoy whispered.
"Maybe
you should go back up to the ship," Kirk told the young navigator,
concerned. McCoy silently agreed.
The young
Russian shook his head. "No, I will make it. Just. . . be sure I am still
with you when we get there." He attempted a wan smile that looked more
like a grimace, his words barely audible through his steadily thickening
accent.
Something
was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. This whole situation just felt wrong.
He shook
off his gloomy thoughts as they approached a settlement. Lights twinkled in
windows and green-haired occupants moved in the streets.
"Finally!"
Kirk breathed. McCoy wondered exactly how long he'd been preoccupied.
"Let's
go talk to some people, shall we?" the captain continued. He started into
the city, toward the nearest group of Rodt'hir.
Pavel
Chekov was tremendously relieved when Jim Kirk told them to go back. Dawn was
coming fast, and, while the night was by no stretch of the word cool, the full
daytime heat could probably kill most humans. Certainly him.
As they
started the long trek back to their rooms, he wondered why he was so certain
that something was wrong. There was no evidence to support the idea. Even Sam's
getting sick was no surprise; the only unexpected aspect of that was that it
had been Richards, not himself.
I'm just nervous he told himself. As long as I don't screw up, everything will
be fine.
When they
finally reached Kirk, Spock, and McCoy's building, he split off from the group
and went in his own direction. They morning was barely started, and he already
felt ready to boil. It was not a nice feeling.
This must be how it feels in
midsummer on Vulcan, he thought. He'd never had any urge to see Spock's
home planet.
The whole
planet was shielded from the ship's sensors. How they could manage that and still
let transporter beams through, he had no idea. If he'd known the planet was a
desert, he would've stayed on the ship. Now, though, seeing as he was here, he
wasn't about to go back to the Enterprise
without either a direct order, or an emergency. Or making a royal fool of
himself, which was a constant threat.
Finally, he thought as the building came
into sight. The white, sharp-cornered structure stood out starkly against the
soft blue-green of the sky, silhouetted by the mid-morning suns. Barely visible
above the door were some symbols, looking almost Cyrillic. It was odd, though,
how he had never noticed something so resembling his native language. If one of
the suns had been shining on them, they would've been impossible to see, white
on white.
He tried to
keep himself at a walk up to the door, and failed miserably. He decided he
didn't care. The door was not computerized, but it was easy enough to figure
out; push on one side, the other swings outward.
Inside, it was maybe five degrees cooler, but
it was cooler. He turned up the lights and let the door swing shut as he walked
over to the bed, stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt. He threw it along with
his phaser and communicator on the bed.
He heard a
noise, like a quiet footstep, behind him and spun around. He caught only a
glimpse of a Rodt'hir before a double-fisted blow meant for the back of his
head caught his temple instead. He spun as he fell, grabbing for his phaser
with one hand. His fist closed around his communicator, but he had only enough
time to flip it open before another blow landed on the base of his neck,
knocking him unconscious.
Jim Kirk
sagged, weary of arguing with the doctor.
"Bones,
nothing is wrong. Richards is being
'healed', we're all here, everybody is fine, and we're almost done here. What do you think is wrong?"
"I
don't know," McCoy replied stubbornly, "but something is."
"If
you don't know, why tell me? There's nothing I can do about it."
Spock
regarded his captain with a raised eyebrow.
McCoy was
about to retort when Kirk's communicator beeped. He grabbed it, thankful for
the distraction, and flipped it open.
"Kirk
here."
His only
response was a muffled thud.
"What
the hell . . .? Scotty? Who's there?"
He got no
reply.
He flipped
the communicator closed and back open quickly.
"Kirk
to Enterprise."
"I'm here, Cap'n," Scott replied.
"Is somethin' wrong?"
"Uh,
no, nothing. I thought there was trouble. Is
everything all right up there?"
"Aye, Cap'n. We havna been able to see any
Klingons, but there's nothin' wrong."
"All
right, I'll. . . get back to you later." He flipped it closed, then tried
calling his navigator. This time, there was no response. McCoy was at the door
when he closed the communicator the final time.
"Don't
be dumb, Bones," he said dejectedly. "The heat would kill you."
"You
think Chekov's doing too much better?"
"No,"
he admitted, "but I think you'll be doing everyone involved a favor if you
wait until nightfall."
"I
will go," Spock said suddenly. "Captain?" Kirk nodded, and he left.
Kirk
watched from the edge of the room's only chair as McCoy paced in the small
space, even more nervously than the doctor. Spock was the logical choice to go,
being from Vulcan, but he wished he
could be doing something. He would've outpaced McCoy if he thought there was
enough room. He had almost decided to take everyone back to the ship when Spock
returned, with T'Kir and L'Kim, Chekov's Rodt'hir guide, following.
"What
happened, Spock?" McCoy pressed.
"Mister
Chekov," Spock said, "has apparently fallen ill." He was not
surprised, but he didn't tell them either that, or that he hadn't been allowed
to see the young ensign. "He is being tended by the Rodt'hir
healers."
"Dammit!"
McCoy said. "I knew it, Jim."
"I
know, Bones." L'Kim stepped forward as Kirk answered the doctor.
"We
regret that two of your party have taken sick, and do not wish you any more ill
luck. Perhaps you should return to your ship."
Jim looked
at his two friends, torn by indecision. McCoy was obviously anxious to leave;
it was what he'd been preaching all along. Spock's non-expression revealed
nothing, but he was probably for staying and doing the job they were here for.
"No,"
he said thoughtfully. "No, we'll stay until tomorrow morning. We should
have everything we need by then." L'Kim bowed slightly.
"We
will ''beam' your crew members to your ship when they have recovered."
Spock
responded with his characteristic raised eyebrow. Jim felt his jaw try to drop.
McCoy responded with considerably less restraint.
"Beam?
You mean like a transporter?"
A faint
patronizing smile touched T'Kir's mouth.
"Did
you believe that no civilization you did not know of had developed the
transporter?"
"The
odds are against it," Spock agreed.
"I,
uh, guess I just never thought of it."
"If they
recover before you leave, they will accompany you."
Kirk
nodded. "Thanks." The Rodt'hir left.
"Do me
a favor, Bones. Don't say I told you so."
"I
wouldn't dream of it," the doctor replied solemnly.
When Chekov
awoke, he was lying on a hot stone floor. His whole body ached, making him feel
as if he'd been dragged around the planet. He slowly sat up, wincing at the
pain in his forehead, and inspected his surroundings.
He saw that
his initial impression was wrong; the floor was metal, as were the walls, not
stone. Come to think of it, the Rodt'hir didn't build with stone. He saw the
small pool of drying blood where his head had been and touched his temple. He
wasn't at all surprised at the blood that was still oozing from it, or at the
pain; only that the second blow hadn't broken his neck.
Inspecting
the walls, he couldn't even see a door, much less figure out how to leave. The
only opening into the room was a small window, covered with metal grating. The
a sun shone straight into the room, heating the floor, making the small room
into an oven. He doubted it was an accident.
He stood
and tentatively peered out the window, shielding his eyes from the harsh
sunlight, and saw only an endless brown desert. The window was high on the side
of a building, facing out at nothing. Looking down at an uncomfortably steep
angle, he could see the roofs of buildings below. Far below.
He stepped
away from the window, suddenly realizing that he was afraid of heights. He
found the coolest wall, almost blisteringly hot even though it was out of the
sun, and sat almost touching it; he didn't think that his bare back would stand
leaning against it.
Dumb, dumb, dumb! he yelled a himself.
He shouldn't have let himself be captured by the Rodt'hir.
He wondered if everyone else had
believed that the heat had made him sick, and concluded that they probably had.
He would've believed it …… had,
actually. At least the feeling of
impending doom was gone.
He almost
laughed at that. He didn't feel that something had gone wrong; he knew something had gone wrong.
For what
felt like forever, he just sat, trying to figure out how to escape, trying to
think at all, but the heat made thinking torture. He tried pacing once, but
moving only multiplied his discomfort. Finally, he just sat.
They're trying to cook me, he thought,
and decided it wasn't very funny. To keep his mind occupied, he tried to figure
out why the seemingly peaceful and well-liked Rodt'hir would do something like
this. They didn't need a place to live, and they could get just about anything
they needed or wanted after they were admitted to the Federation. And without
this, they almost certainly would have been admitted.
Yeah, and they still will be, he
thought. Who's going to tell them?
Everyone else thinks I'm sick. Am I
going to get out of here to tell them
otherwise? HA!
Anyway, he
wouldn't make a very good hostage, not if they wanted ransom. Captain Kirk
would have been a better choice; Starfleet cared about him. What could the
possibly want with a lowly ensign, newly assigned to the best ship in the
fleet?
Only
sneaking, treacherous warriors like Romulans or Klingons-
Korma!
Maybe that
was the key to the whole thing. These people weren't Klingons, but they were
sure acting like them. Perhaps they had conquered the unexplored part of the
galaxy they came from; perhaps they were fleeing because they'd failed.
Probably all his guesses were way wrong, but at least thinking about it kept
him sane.
He heard
machinery behind one of the barriers -he couldn't tell which one, with all the
echoes rebounding from the metal walls- and stood up too quickly. Nausea
overwhelmed him, making him fight to hold down his last meal. He stumbled
against a wall and almost yelped, holding his burnt hand. He was a little
surprised that he hadn't left any skin hanging in the patch of sunlight he'd
touched.
Morbid. Very morbid.
A section
of the wall slid away, revealing an old-fashioned turbolift, an. . . elevator.
Out of that minor curiosity came a creature that was like nothing he had ever
seen before. The only word that he could come up with was grotesque; at the
sight of the sagging rolls of flesh and seemingly deformed facial features, and
the stench of rotting fish and burning flesh, his already
precariously-controlled stomach revolted. He fell to his hands and knees,
throwing up everything he had. Black spots danced in front of his eyes, but he
climbed to his feet, reluctantly, and breathed shallow breaths, keeping his
eyes turned carefully away from the doorway.
"How
do you think I feel about you?"
came a mechanical, but still somehow disdainful, voice; Chekov guessed he (she?
it?) was wearing some sort of translator, though he didn't want to look to find
out. "At least I keep a
hold on my physiological reactions. Come with me, if you are quite done."
He came anyway.
As soon as
he stepped into the ponderously slow machine, never looking at his companion,
he knew that if he had not thrown up already, he would have right then. The
temperature differed so greatly from the metal room that he almost went into
shock. His breath came in short gasps, a fact for which he was immediately
sorry. The rotten, nose-plugging, throat-clogging, nauseating, heart-stopping,
god-awful smell was overpowering in
the claustrophobic confines of the vehicle. And he couldn't escape it. He
started wishing he'd stayed where the air was at least breathable.
He quelled
the thought as soon as he recognized it. Chekov knew how absolutely suicidal it
was. The temperature was at least capable of supporting life here. If a little
(or a lot of) smell was all he had to take, he thought he could handle it.
Or so he
told himself.
He wasn't
sure if he felt or heard the thump when the elevator stopped, but knew it did.
Contrary to all his logic, he was grateful to away from the room, away from the
being in the small space with him, grateful that the car stopped. He knew that
things could really only get worse from here on, at least for a while, but he
would manage to escape.
"Get
out, you putrid little creature," the alien ordered. He did so gladly.
Outside the
door, two Rodt'hir were waiting, with phasers. He didn't need to wonder where
they'd gotten them from. He simply stood between them silently until they led
him away. Suicide would not be a constructive option to pursue.
They led
him through a maze of corridors, even deeper and more tangled than the meeting
hall tunnels, quickly and surely getting him lost.
Well, no finding the front door, then, he
thought wryly.
Finally,
they reached a room. It was huge, cavern-like,
airy except for the knowledge that it was underground. Rodt'hir,
creatures like the one that had escorted him to the ground floor, smaller ones
that resembled cats, and beings not even remotely humanoid, all inhabited the
large room, but it was still by no means crowded. An unnatural silence covered
the room, broken only by
-spy he's a -
-zapstick gonna use it the zapstick an'
interrogate 'im-
occasional phrases that seemed thought more than spoken.
The reason
for the empty feeling was simple: there was no room for people. Tables,
objects, and temporary barriers took up most of the room and obscured the rest
from view. The Rodt'hir in front of him moved forward, navigating through the
maze. M'Lom, behind him, stuck his phaser in the small of Chekov's back, the
smooth metal cool against his skin, warning him not to try anything. Too bad.
This would be the perfect place to make a run for it.
Yeah? To where? I can't even find the way
back to the elevator. They built this
place. And I'm surrounded.
He studied
the objects that took up so much of the room as he passed, but he couldn't tell
what any of them did. If they did anything. Some of them looked more like
sculptures than anything else.
When they
reached the other side of the room, M'Lom relaxed the phaser, just enough that
it wasn't touching his captive. Chekov tried to concentrate on getting away,
and how he was going to make that happen, but it was impossible.
It felt
like there was a river, moving around him, swirling around his brain, distracting
him more than he would've thought possible even an hour ago. He tried to find
an explanation for it, but he wouldn't accept the only one he could come up
with. It was pretty much-
-gonna interrogate-
-little why are humans so little-
-hairless ugly little hairless creatures aren't they-
-gonna use the zapstick?-
-hope I hope so-
-fun this'll be fun fun-
-impossible.
He hoped.
Just as a
test, hoping to prove his theory wrong, he thought as hard as he could.
-where are you taking me where are you-
Unfortunately, it worked.
He was
rewarded by a flurry of confused conversation.
-stop hear he can-
-impossible humans can't none-
-this one different is maybe-
-maybe get to him use minds-
-no zapstick?-
-still yes we can that do that yes-
He asked a question that he didn't really want the answer
to, but had to know.
-what is a zapstick?-
Silence followed, broken only by a single thought.
-...fun...-
He wished he could believe that.-
