Star Trek: The Original Series: Seasons of Light and Darkness Page 7

  Plait and Girard smiled broadly.

  “Which means,” McCoy said, “we’ll be expected to deliver a progress report for the Federation Resource Utilization Bureau.”

  The science specialists’ ebullience abruptly faded into a chorus of groans.

  “So where do we stand in terms of pursuing the Federation’s goals here?” Doctor Wieland said.

  Aylesworth cleared his throat and then got the ball rolling. “I believe we’ve won the Capellans’ trust, at least up to a certain point.”

  “That point being their continued insistence on hanging on to our lasers and communicators,” Shellenbarger said.

  “Keer’s taking over as subteer probably had more to do with that than anything else,” McCoy said. “I think Usaak might have agreed to give our communicators back by now.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Wieland said. “Unfortunately, weapons policy isn’t the only hard-line position Keer is maintaining. It should be abundantly obvious by now that he’s doubled down on Usaak’s reticence about accepting medical care.”

  The encouragements he’d just offered Naheer inclined McCoy to look for silver linings. “At least he’s still giving us the run of the camp. That’s an encouraging sign.”

  “Keer is a shrewd leader,” Aylesworth said. “We’ve become popular enough with his rank-and-file hunters and warriors that getting rid of us would be a serious political risk for him. He knows better than to remind everyone how he came to power. It might encourage somebody younger and hungrier to do the same to him.”

  “Which is likelier to happen the more he allows his people to drift away from their warrior traditions,” Shellenbarger said. “He has no incentive to embrace change.”

  Aylesworth nodded. “Including whatever medical progress we’ve been hoping to make here. I’m forced to question why we’re still pouring so much time and energy down that particular rathole.”

  “Because the Prime Directive won’t let us give them much else in exchange for access to this planet’s topaline reserves,” McCoy said.

  Shellenbarger frowned. “But doesn’t the Prime Directive prohibit us from bringing these people high technology of any kind—including advanced medicine?”

  “I admit, the topaline question has forced the Federation Council into a certain amount of . . . stretching of the Prime Directive,” Wieland said. He looked to Lieutenant Girard. “Perhaps somebody on the geosciences side of the mission can explain it better than I can. Lieutenant?”

  Obviously uncomfortable with the subject, Girard fidgeted as he spoke. “We’re not talking about giving the Capellans warp-drive schematics or vials of antimatter. But we are assuming we’re allowed to offer them more limited, tightly focused technological assistance—mainly in the areas of materials science and metallurgy—in exchange for an agreement to begin mining this planet’s topaline.”

  McCoy could see practical problems with that approach, in addition to the philosophical ones. “Wait a minute. Keer is in charge of a single backwoods tribe. He couldn’t possibly have enough authority to negotiate mining rights on behalf of the entire planet.”

  “Of course,” Wieland said. “But Keer doesn’t have to represent the entire planet. He has local authority—maybe even regional authority—and that gives him enough clout to get a hell of a lot of topaline into circulation all across the Federation.”

  Plait nodded. “And Starfleet will still have the option of pursuing higher-level negotiations while we’re dealing with Keer.”

  “We might even cut a much larger-scale deal with the High Teer of the Ten Tribes himself someday,” Girard said. “That could expand Federation topaline-mining operations across most of the planet’s northern hemisphere.”

  “Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?” McCoy said. “We still have yet to convince the local powers that be to let us turn the first spadeful of dirt.”

  “You’re being too pessimistic, Leonard,” Wieland said. “We’ve started making real progress toward a formal topaline-mining treaty over the past couple of weeks. Keer is genuinely intrigued by our offers to trade other commodities for certain topaline-extraction rights. I think the notion of incorporating stronger metals into the Canyonfolk Tribe’s kligats and hunting spears has begun to win him over.”

  “Considering the decisive way he grabbed power, Keer doesn’t strike me as a man who has any trouble making tough calls,” McCoy said. “So what’s taking him so long to make up his mind?”

  “It’s projection, most likely,” Wieland said. “Being a conquest-driven warrior, he’s having some difficulty appreciating the fact that we have no ambitions to do as he does. Keer doesn’t understand why an entity as powerful as the Federation would hesitate to use force to take whatever it wants.”

  “Then we’ll just have to go on giving them reasons to believe in our motives,” McCoy said. “Medical miracles should have been the perfect way to do that. It’s too bad that Keer seems so dead set on keeping us stymied on that front.”

  “Don’t lose heart, Leonard,” Wieland said. “Just keep on being a credit to your profession and your uniform. And stay alert for every opportunity to put your skills to their highest and best use—”

  A sudden commotion just outside the tent ran right over the older physician’s words, diverting the attention of everyone present. Before anyone could get to his feet, a huge, fully armed Capellan hunter shouldered his way past the canvas flap. A momentary frisson of dread stiffened McCoy’s spine when he recognized Efeer.

  But it became apparent almost immediately that Efeer wasn’t bent on violence. McCoy could tell at once from the hunter’s uncharacteristically stricken expression that something was terribly wrong.

  “I have returned early from Subteer Keer’s hunt,” the warrior said breathlessly.

  McCoy rose to a standing position, as did the rest of his colleagues. “Why?”

  “An accident has befallen a member of my House.”

  Ten

  McCoy was the first to emerge from the tent. About five meters away a pair of beefy hunters deposited an unconscious third figure on the ground while Subteer Keer himself looked on in grim silence.

  McCoy felt a transitory surge of disappointment when he saw that Keer had emerged unscathed from whatever mishap had befallen the man who lay on the dusty ground. Pushing the shameful thought out of his head, the doctor ran to the injured person.

  His heart plunged when he recognized his prospective patient.

  Naheer. McCoy had known it since Efeer had entered the lab tent, but had hoped he’d been wrong somehow.

  “Give us some room, everybody,” McCoy said. Efeer obediently took a couple of large backward steps away from his nephew’s still form.

  McCoy wasted no time breaking out his medikit. In the space of heartbeats, he was using his handheld scanner to assess the adolescent Capellan’s erratic vital signs. Though Wieland was nominally in charge during medical emergencies, McCoy knew that he was far too good a doctor to raise any points of protocol or ego, especially under circumstances as dire as these. He threw himself into the emergency, checking the patient for wounds.

  McCoy found the initial scans both discouraging and confusing. And the visual profile of the boy’s injuries was just plain weird.

  “What the hell happened here?” he demanded.

  “Lightningbeast,” Efeer said. He spoke in an emotionless, shell-shocked tone. “It sprang at us from behind the boulders near the far end of Eastgorge.”

  Naheer’s long dark hair had come loose from its braid, and much of it stood on end. The portion of his tunic that stretched across his broad chest had been charred black, as was much of the flesh beneath. Some of the tissue surrounding the burned area was already showing extensive signs of suppuration, and the unscorched portions of the boy’s tunic advertised his extensive blood loss.

  “This looks like some kind of high-voltage electrical discharge,” Wieland said.

  “I have no understanding of such thi
ngs,” Efeer said. “All I know is that the creature’s lightning struck him down.”

  “What are you doing, Mak-Koy?” Keer rumbled. The subteer had sidled up to the boy’s uncle but was staying out of the way of the doctors.

  It suddenly came to McCoy that he was in the process of doing something that Subteer Keer had not yet officially approved. Doctor Wieland, who was frozen in midstep with a hypo, had obviously just come to the same realization.

  But McCoy couldn’t bring himself to simply stop. Instead, he decided to vamp for time.

  “We’re just looking him over,” he said. “We have to assess the extent of his injuries.”

  “Can you tell us whether or not Skyfather Gaar will decide to save him?” Efeer said.

  “You’ll know the minute I do,” McCoy said.

  Glancing up, McCoy saw that Keer was watching him intently from just behind Efeer. The tribal leader’s narrowed eyes shone with silent accusation.

  McCoy looked away, trying to return his focus to his first priority—the welfare of his patient.

  “Does this sort of thing happen often?” he heard Shellenbarger asking Efeer. Fortunately, the security officer had the presence of mind to insert himself between Efeer and his nephew, a move that had gently forced the warrior to give a little more room to the wounded boy and the doctors tending him.

  “I have witnessed lightningbeast flashes on several prior occasions,” Efeer said. “I have even been struck myself more than once.”

  “Sounds like this must happen a lot,” Shellenbarger said.

  “The animals require little encouragement to release their power,” Efeer said. “All one has to do is venture too close to a lightningbeast that has yet to succumb to the spear.”

  Keer nodded. “Or be insufficiently fleet-footed to step out of the creature’s way when it rushes you.”

  McCoy checked his scanner readings again. The boy’s vitals were astonishingly strong, considering the obvious seriousness of his injuries, which included voluminous blood loss and an incipient and apparently rapidly worsening febrile state. But the readings were also erratic and inconsistent. Until he was stabilized, Naheer would remain in very real danger of succumbing to a sudden cardiopulmonary crash. The suppurating chest wound worried him greatly as well, since it was a telltale sign of a likely infection; without immediate treatment, the infection alone could overwhelm his already stressed and damaged immune system.

  “I can’t do much more for him out here,” McCoy said. “I’m gonna need some help moving him into the lab tent for further treatment.” He made eye contact with Wieland, motioning with his head in the direction of the tent.

  A long shadow engulfed Wieland, who shook his head sadly. McCoy realized with a start that Subteer Keer was looming directly over him, his patient, and the older doctor.

  “Mak-Koy,” Keer said. “As subteer of the Canyonfolk Tribe, I have not yet agreed to allow the practice of sorcery on the sick or injured. If I understand your own laws, you may not proceed without first obtaining that consent.”

  McCoy could hardly believe what he was hearing. Hiking a thumb in Efeer’s direction, he said, “But I had permission to save him.”

  “That was Usaak’s decision. He is subteer no longer.”

  Wieland deflated, surrendering utterly. But McCoy wasn’t quite ready for that, despite Keer’s intimidating presence.

  “Doesn’t Efeer have anything to say about that?”

  Keer shook his massive head. “Efeer does not speak for the tribe.”

  “But he can speak for his family, can’t he? By rights the decision ought to be up to h—”

  “Hold, Mak-Koy,” Efeer said. “I shall move my nephew.”

  McCoy decided not to question his sudden good fortune. There would be plenty of time later to sort out the consequences—after he’d saved Naheer’s life. “That’s great, Efeer. Thank you. I’ll help you get him into our tent.”

  “No,” Efeer said, with a wave of one of his outsize hands. “I do not trust you Earthmen, or your potions and powders. Naheer has spoken to me about your strange ideas many times. Perhaps without those ideas distracting him he might have paid proper attention to the performance of his duties on the hunt.”

  With that, Efeer turned on his heel and faced Keer.

  “Subteer, will you help me bear my nephew to the Tent of Dying?” he said. “Whether Naheer lives or dies, I do not want Skyfather Gaar to render His decision within the sight of outworlders.”

  Eleven

  The hours between the incident and nightfall passed with agonizing sluggishness. McCoy spent most of the time either stalking around the camp, pacing inside the tent, or wearing a groove in the furs that made up the floor of his canvas-lined sleeping quarters. When he opened his tent’s entry flap and peered upward into the night, he got a clear view of the red lights of Gaar and Baan, the distant third and fourth stars of the double-binary Capella system.

  Please don’t make any hasty decisions up there, fellas, he thought. He hoped Naheer’s desire to survive would prove at least as strong as that of his obstinate uncle.

  Of course, Efeer’s condition hadn’t been complicated by a virulent infection.

  “Doctor?”

  McCoy started at the unexpected sound of Doctor Wieland’s disembodied voice. But he recovered quickly and stepped outside his tent. The older physician was standing just outside the entry flap.

  “Did Keer agree to that private meeting I proposed?” McCoy asked without preamble.

  The starlight and the low, fluctuating illumination from the campsite’s scattered braziers made Wieland look gaunt and grave. “He did. Lieutenant Plait and I just came from there.”

  “Damn. I wanted to be there, too.”

  Wieland offered a gently consoling smile. “You just would have lost your temper, Leonard. You know, you’ll become more patient when you get a bit more seasoned.”

  “The hell I will. What did Keer decide?”

  “Only that the answer is still ‘no.’ I’m sorry, Leonard. I don’t want that boy to die any more than you do. But unless Keer and Efeer both relent, the Prime Directive won’t permit us to render aid. I’m afraid our hands are tied.”

  Tied in goddamned red tape, McCoy thought. The only substance in the universe more common than both hydrogen and stupidity.

  “Thanks for keeping me in the loop,” McCoy said at length.

  “Get some sleep, Leonard. You look like warmed-over hell.” With that, Wieland turned and disappeared into the night.

  Alone with his thoughts and the stars that the Alpha Aurigans considered the auguries of their fates, McCoy decided that catching up on his sleep wasn’t a viable option this evening.

  Instead, he contemplated doing the least he could do. And he decided it was nowhere near enough.

  Twelve

  Stardate 814.2 (November 17, 2254)

  It took the anesthezine nearly two seconds longer to take effect than McCoy had expected. Immediately after the hypospray spent itself in the back of his broad neck, the startled Capellan warrior turned toward him. The thickset man reached for the kligat on his belt.

  Then his knees buckled and his eyes rolled up into his head.

  I’m glad one of us will get a little sleep tonight, McCoy thought as he caught the dead weight of the fallen guard’s unconscious form and lowered him gently to the ground just outside the Tent of Dying. Now let’s just hope I don’t find any more watchdogs like this one inside of the tent.

  Once he’d made sure that the sedative wasn’t causing the Capellan any complications, he slipped quietly into the tent. The light inside was dim, as it had been during Efeer’s stay here. Also as before, a large figure lay supine and motionless on the raised bier in the tent’s center.

  Naheer.

  McCoy tucked the hypospray back into his medikit and started running a battery of scans. So far so good: The boy was still alive.

  But that was the only upbeat news. On the debit side of the ledger, Naheer
had lost a great deal of blood. Despite his innate Capellan toughness, his untreated wounds were steadily overwhelming his body’s capacity to heal itself. His pulse was weaker and threadier than before. His breathing was shallower. His fever had increased by nearly a full degree, and his white blood-cell count was declining rapidly. The boy was in a footrace against a virulent bacterial infection, and he was clearly losing ground from hour to hour.

  McCoy set his medical tricorder and scanner aside and began manipulating the settings on his hypospray’s molecular synthesizer.

  As bad as this looks, he thought, thirty ccs of corophizine should give him better than even odds of surviving long enough to get him into a surgical bay.

  While he waited for the hypospray’s indicator to flash READY, he took a moment to examine Naheer’s burns. As he’d expected, the suppurations had grown significantly worse, progressing in lockstep with the rapidly worsening infection. He started tearing the scorched tunic open in order to get a better look at the extent of the electrical burns the boy had sustained. Fortunately, he found little damage that he hadn’t already noted.

  Naheer began to stir and his eyes fluttered partway open. “Mak-Koy,” he whispered. His throat sounded dry, but he wasn’t coughing; he appeared to have escaped much of the pulmonary trauma associated with the inhalation of burning particulates.

  “Don’t try to speak, Naheer,” McCoy said, astonished to see anyone this badly injured regain consciousness, even for a moment. “You have to save your strength.”

  “Has Skyfather Gaar made His decision?” Naheer asked, his voice as dry as ancient parchment.

  “I don’t know, kid,” McCoy said. “But I sure as hell have.”

  Naheer’s eyes closed as he slipped back beneath the threshold of consciousness. For a moment, McCoy feared that he’d stopped breathing altogether. But he discovered to his relief that the boy had merely depleted some portion of the extraordinary reservoir of strength that had briefly enabled him to speak.