Constellations (25 page)

“A culture that it is not our place to judge,” Spock said from Kirk's other side. “Or to attempt to modify.”

“I know, I know.” They had been having this same argument ever since Kirk, learning of this expedition during their survey of the city of Reihairem, had impulsively signed up his landing party as relief crew members. Spock had questioned whether his intention was simply to observe or to try to intervene, and had reminded Kirk that the expedition itself was an object lesson in the need for the Prime Directive, the arrogance of attempting to impose one's own judgments on another culture. But Kirk had questioned whether it was in the spirit of the noninterference directive to stand by while others violated it on an intraplanetary scale.

“I just hate having to stand by and watch this happen,” he said after a moment.

Theresa Errgang, the lieutenant from Archaeology and Anthropology, tilted her black-haired head in puzzlement. “If I may ask, sir…then why did you bring us along to do just that?”

He smirked. “I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment.” Errgang furrowed her brow thoughtfully. She was a good A & A officer, very perceptive and widely studied, and her tall, athletic stature made her useful for blending in on this high-gravity world, as well as an interesting sparring partner back in the
Enterprise
gym. But she had a certain bookish naïveté and not much of a sense of humor.

She was useful, though, in observing the interaction between the Yemai and the islanders as they tentatively initiated contact. Captain Yiamed-Ba (or rather, Captain Nohin—Kirk was still getting used to these naming conventions) and a band of seamen debarked in a small launch to meet the canoe party on their own level and, according to Errgang, began addressing them in various regional languages in hopes of finding one they knew. The universal translator rendered it all in English to Kirk's ear, but Errgang seemed to have a knack—perhaps by virtue of her training—to listen to both the translation and the original speech behind it at the same time.

Soon the Yemai captain found a dialect that the islanders were conversant in, and confirmed that they were indeed the Ilaiyenai (though their own, un-Yemaicized pronunciation of the name was somewhat different). A ripple of enthusiasm went through the crew members observing from the
Enai-ra
's deck, but Deyin shushed them, not wishing to give too much away.

Out in the lagoon, Nohin was beginning her sales pitch. “We come to trade,” she told the Ilaiyenai, and had her crewmen hold up various trade items, including elaborately woven cloth from Yemai's textile mills, small telescopes, mechanical lighters, and other such minor technical marvels that they expected the Ilaiyenai to perceive as magic. The islanders were amused, but took the devices surprisingly in stride.

“There is more,” Nohin told them, offering them a taste of AyemSud wine (well, something analogous to wine, although nonperishable and able to withstand long sea voyages unrefrigerated). The islanders nodded in appreciation of the flavor but were not as awed as the Yemai had hoped. “Either these folks are incredibly jaded,” McCoy said, “or they've got the best poker faces in the galaxy.” Ever since he'd tasted the wine, he'd been trying to connive a way to get as much of it beamed to the ship as he could without violating the Prime Directive.

Nohin's spiel was starting to grow shakier. “There is more to offer, if we may come ashore and meet your leaders,” she ventured. “We have medicines to heal the sick. They do wonders.”

The chief negotiator shook her head. “We have no sick,” she said.

Again, the
Enai-ra
crew reacted with eagerness. The assertion seemed to confirm the legends about this place. “Caution,” Deyin told them. “It may be just a negotiating ploy.”

“Not necessarily,” Spock murmured to his crewmates. “An isolated population such as this, living in small bands separated by geography, may indeed be relatively free of serious disease. Any deadly infectious strains would kill off their host populations before they could spread far, and thus bring about their own extinction.”

“I'd think viruses would be more resilient than that, Commander Spock,” Errgang said.

“There are historical examples, Lieutenant. The Native Americans of Earth, for example, led extraordinarily healthy lives before the European contact.”

“And because of that,” McCoy said, “they had no immunity to European plagues. Up to ninety percent of them died of infectious diseases within the next two centuries. If these people are disease-free,” he went on heavily, “the Yemai could be dooming them just by coming here.”

“Unless there really is some healing property to this place.” This was from the final member of the landing party, Lieutenant Jerome Chaane of security. He was a tall, exotic-featured man, mostly human but with hints of Vulcanoid, Tiburon, and maybe something else in his physiognomy. But whatever his ethnic mix, it made him particularly robust, and a good choice to impersonate one of Sigma Niobe's high-gravity natives. “Do you suppose the legends could be true?”

“Spock, are you reading anything?”

“Difficult to say,” the Vulcan told Kirk. He was holding his tricorder close to his vest in order to muffle its warbling. “There appears to be a pervasive electromagnetic interference field in this area, perhaps due to some form of magnetic anomaly or mineral deposit.”

“Or some kind of healing energy field?” McCoy asked, intrigued by the possibility.

“It would be premature to speculate at this point, Doctor. Although I will defer to you as an authority on voodoo medicine.”

McCoy glared. “Don't knock it, Spock. It takes a good witch doctor to treat a hobgoblin like you.”

“If you mix your potions as crudely as your metaphors, then I am lucky to be alive at all.”

“All right, you two,” Kirk interposed. “Focus.” McCoy glowered, upset that Spock had been allowed the last word again.

Down in the lagoon, Captain Nohin was trying to extract more information from the Ilaiyenai about their alleged perfect health and the abundance of their land. They did not go into detail, aside from indicating that they had little need for anything the captain offered. Soon Nohin decided to try a different tactic, so as not to seem too eager for trade. “We have traveled far and are tired,” she said. “May we come ashore to rest and take on new supplies?”

“Just you?” the islander asked. “Or your other ships as well?”

Nohin faltered. “What other ships?” The crew was muttering, wondering how they could have known. Kirk figured they must have had lookouts, probably stationed on the mountains, who had seen the fleet coming and reported it before their arrival. Although the mountains seemed too far to run from in the available time. Some kind of heliograph system? Or perhaps this thick atmosphere just carried their shouts much farther.

The Ilaiyenai negotiator sighed. “We are sorry,” she said. “We do not trade with those who come falsely. Please leave.” She sat back down in the canoe and ordered her oarsmen to head back for shore.

“No, wait! Yes, all of our ships. We need to resupply.” But she was ignored.

“Captain!” Deyin called. “Come and parley.”

Nohin climbed a ladder up the side of the ship and came aboard next to the admiral. They spoke softly, but the translators, built with thinner atmospheres in mind, picked up their words easily. “Well, we've tried the sweetfruit,” Nohin said. “Is it time for the whip?”

“Yes,” Deyin replied. “Just enough to show them we mean business. Take several shore parties—armed with rifles. Show them what Yemai firepower can do; perhaps that will pique their interest in trade.”

Errgang frowned. “Does she mean they'll be interested in trading for the guns, or that the guns will scare them into trading for other things?”

“Both,” Kirk told her. “She wants to show her strength, but only to establish a strong negotiating position.”

Deyin ordered the
Enai-ra
brought in closer to the beach and sent out several shore parties in the launches, one of them including the
Enterprise
contingent. Kirk was reluctant to participate in this armed incursion, but could see no way to refuse. At least if he was on the scene, there might be some way to head off violence.

As the launches approached the beach, the islanders paddled out in canoes to form a blockade. “Go away,” the negotiator said. “You are not welcome.” Men stood in the boats, bearing some kind of atlatls—no, Kirk amended, more like Australian woomeras, shaped like long, narrow bowls with sharp edges, useful as peaceful carrying tools or cutters as well as spear-throwers. He admired the simple sophistication of the design.

Nohin ordered her men to fire warning shots just short of the dugouts. Thunder cracked across the lagoon, noxious smoke rose from the rifles, and bullets sliced through the water. The Ilaiyenai winced from the noise but stood their ground.

Seconds later, each of the riflemen who had fired was struck in the hand by a short, blunted, perfectly aimed spear. Kirk was amazed by the woomera-wielders' accuracy.

But the Yemai had no such academic appreciation. As the riflemen clutched their injured hands, Nohin and others snatched up their guns and began to open fire on the dugout crews.

“No!” Kirk reacted impulsively, tackling the rifleman in his boat to stop him from killing one of the Ilaiyenai. He wrested the gun away from the man, who overbalanced and fell into the water.

“What is this, Jeyam?” Nohin demanded.

“There's no need for this! They only want to be left alone!”

“Traitor!” The cry came from the ship. Hearing the fury in Deyin's voice, Kirk whirled to see her aiming a rifle straight at his forehead prosthetic. Without another thought, he hurled himself into the water. A second later, he heard other splashes as Spock and the others followed him in. Judging the angle of her shot, he swam down a meter or so, which should be a sufficient depth for the water to slow the bullets harmlessly. Once he made sure the others were following his lead, he set off for shore.

They came up for air on the other side of the dugouts, whose occupants were busy defending themselves against the attackers. But the dugouts held fewer occupants than they should, for there were bodies in the water. Some were motionless, but others still showed signs of life. “Get the wounded to shore!” Kirk called, and grabbed the nearest living body.

Once they reached the shore, the islanders accepted their help in getting the wounded to safety. No one seemed to question their allegiance or intentions. Meanwhile, McCoy did his best to stabilize the ones too injured to be moved farther, insofar as he could without exposing advanced technology to the locals. But Kirk did hear the occasional hiss of the hypospray that Bones kept concealed in his hands.

Suddenly McCoy froze over one of the bodies, a female who was barely moving, her limbs spasming irregularly as she lay on her side, her back to Kirk. “Jim!” he called.

“Bones, don't waste time!”

“Jim, you need to see this! Spock, you too! Now!”

Kirk handed off the wounded man he was carrying to Chaane and jogged over to McCoy's side, keeping low to avoid Yemai fire. He looked down at the woman's now-motionless body. “I don't understand,” he said as Spock came up behind him. “No blood.”

“There wouldn't be,” Bones said. He rolled the body over onto its back, exposing the holes blown in its chest and midriff.

And the metallic ribs and sparking electronic circuits inside them.

“What in blazes…?” Kirk was stunned. What was an android doing here, of all places? The islanders couldn't all be androids—their blood was proof enough of that.

“Captain,” Spock said, his calm helping to restore Kirk's, “we must not let the Niobeans see this body.”

“Right,” he said. He looked around; the islanders were sufficiently distracted by the battle and the care of the wounded. “Let's get it behind those rocks.”

As quickly as they could without drawing attention, they moved the android body to a secluded section of the beach. Errgang followed behind them, while Chaane remained on the beach to continue helping the islanders. “Spock, analysis?” Kirk asked as soon as the android was on the ground once more.

Spock fiddled with his tricorder knobs. “The local interference is disrupting the readings,” he said. “But what information I can discern does not correspond to any known android technology. Judging from the isotope ratios of its constituent materials, however, I can confirm that it is not indigenous to this star system.”

“So where is it from?” McCoy asked.

“I can only narrow it down to a late K-type star between seven and ten billion years of age.”

“Maybe we can access its memory,” Kirk said. “Find out its programming, its mission.”

Spock waved his tricorder over its head and chest. “Its central processing unit seems rather small. Too basic to house an autonomous consciousness. It may simply be a drone, controlled from some central source.”

“Like the androids on Mudd's Planet.”