It was a desolate place. It had been unpromising when approached from space – a dull, brown sphere clouded by atmospheric disturbance. Shifting clouds made it impossible to accurately determine what was land mass and what was water by vision alone. Bent over his viewer, Spock gave them a clipped analysis. The planet was borderline Class M, but the atmosphere was breathable and the gravity within acceptable limits. It was 92% desert, with scattered settlements around a single large body of water in the northern hemisphere that was currently on the day side of the small moon.
Kirk took his landing party –Spock, Daphne and Chekhov - to the largest such settlement. They were dressed as natives, in light robes and sandals. Daphne had a filmy veil over her head and wrapped around her shoulders. Kirk was making the best of it, managing to walk without tripping on the flapping edges of fabric around his ankles and endure the gritty sand between his toes. Chekhov was simply following along behind them, trying not to grin. Spock and Daphne moved no differently than they did in their uniforms.
Spock and Daphne also appeared oblivious to the heat. Jim was hoping there was some relief from it when night fell. The watery sun was slipping away behind the distant hills. The settlement was made up of sandstone and brick buildings, common in desert environments. With typical bravado and charm Jim had soon found directions to a public gathering place that served food and drink and where he hoped they could get information.
They found a large room, noisy and filled with Isdarians, the natives of this moon. There were low tables with small cushions surrounding a central fire pit. Several animal carcasses on spits were being turned over the low burning fire. The place smelled of bodies and burning carcasses and something strongly alcoholic. A group of drummers was pounding out a slow erotic rhythm that competed with the constant drone of voices and bursts of drunken laughter.
Daphne wrinkled her nose and glanced at Chekhov, who looked equally discomfited. He shrugged at her. It didn't matter. Jim Kirk had led them here and they'd all follow him into fire and brimstone. So in they went.
Kirk found a table in the back, as far from the fire pit as possible.
Fortunately for them, their server was female – a dark-eyed beauty whose alluring gaze lingered on Jim from beneath long dark lashes. He had instantly unleashed the lethal masculine appeal that had served him so well in the past. The smile he gave her was normally reserved for recalcitrant diplomats and gorgeous women.
His crew had watched the not-so-subtle flirtation between Captain and native beauty, the casual banter that would no doubt result in them getting exactly the information they had come for until Chekhov had leaned over and whispered to Daphne,
"I give him twenty minutes."
"Twenty?" Daphne whispered back, "I think you are under estimating him."
As it was, it took twelve minutes by Spock's precise calculations before Jim was showing their voluptuous server the knife and the runes carved on it. She gave him a smile full of promise and disappeared into the crowd. She returned with another woman, older –practically ancient in a culture that scorned keeping the spirit trapped in a physical existence- with her head covered by a dark veil. Jim's smile changed from charming and seductive to charming and respectful. The woman refused to give a name, but she turned offered them her bare wrist – a gesture they had discovered was a sign of trust and peaceful intent – and revealed a tattoo there that matched one of the runes carved on the knife.
They had found the clan of their would-be assassin.
It took slightly longer for Jim to extract the more detailed information they needed. He kept to a carefully crafted script, as they had been uncertain of their own safety. He told their assassin's clanswoman that they had found the knife when they found her dead body, an apparent accident, on board a starship. Though they were from Off-World, they knew the importance of returning the knife and informing her kin that her soul had been freed. Suspicion had lain heavy in the old woman's eyes at first, though she seemed satisfied enough that her kin had died after the successful completion of her sacred duty. A few mugs of the thick green alcohol later and her tongue had loosened enough for Jim to start asking leading questions. For example, why had the younger woman decided to take an assignment Off-World?
Their answer had been a listless shrug.
"Who can know why the young do anything?" the Isdarian woman asked rhetorically. "It was not a task I wanted her to accept."
"Why?" Jim asked. His tone was casual, but his gaze was that of a tiger stalking prey.
"The woman who made the request was not here to ask for a soul to be freed, it was not an act of love and mercy. This woman was filled with rage and with hatred. She burned with the need for vengeance," she paused for a moment and looked piercingly at Spock, "She was one of your kind, though she did not fit what I have always been told of the coldness and control of Vulcans, and it was one of your kind she wanted freed from physical bondage. We do not perform the sacred act on Off-Worlders."
Jim's next words were clipped. His narrowed eyes burned, too dark in his fire-lit face. His tone, hard steel over the seemingly casual words, brought every member of his command crew to instant readiness. "The task was to free the soul of a Vulcan?"
"Yes," the woman answered, signaling for a refill in her mug, "It seemed more like a request for murder though. The task should never have been undertaken."
Chekhov and Daphne were momentarily shocked silent. Hidden in the folds of their robes, Daphne sought Spock's hand – not in the paired finger tradition of Vulcan but with a purely human need to hold onto him and hold on tightly. She turned so white her skin appeared translucent, as if she might bruise at a glance. His hand shook beneath hers or a moment, then clenched as he reinforced his control.
Kirk locked eyes with his First Officer. Their thoughts seemed to sizzle in the air, as if they truly possessed some kind of telepathy.
Kirk mouthed deliberately, 'T'Pring?'
Spock shook his head emphatically just as realization dawned on Daphne's face.
"Not Vulcan," she said, "Romulan. The Romulan Commander from whom we took the cloaking device." She looked up at Spock, horror still set in her features. "I told you once, she wanted you dead then; and you told me the Rihannsu have long memories. She has apparently has not forgotten or changed her mind."