Star Trek: The Original Series: Seasons of Light and Darkness (4 page)

Four

Alpha Aurigae's two primary yellow stars ambled incandescently into the midafternoon hours. Naheer led McCoy, Wieland, and Aylesworth past a flat, empty drill ground upon which several huge warriors were hard at work training. Each man was dressed in a brightly colored tunic with a cowl-like head covering crowned by either flowing braids or a horsetail-like topknot. The fighters were swinging long, flat sparring swords that looked heavy enough to herniate even the toughest log-throwers from Earth's Highland Games.

Beyond lay a dense thicket of tall tents, whose area footprints varied wildly. Despite their obvious impermanence, these ranks of temporary canvas structures had taken on the settled, stable appearance of a village or a small town, thanks to the constant activity of the camp's many smiths, weavers, food preparers, and various other craftspeople. Most of these folks—men and women alike—were in the same size class as the swordsmen McCoy had already seen, and none took any particular notice of their visitors.

As Naheer led the way through the campsite, McCoy noticed that both Wieland and Aylesworth appeared to be ready to catch him should he stumble.

“Relax, Commander,” he said. “I'm fine.”

“You don't
look
fine, Doc,” Aylesworth said.

“Nonsense. Haven't you heard? I just proved my worthiness.”

Naheer came to an unexpected halt, and the Starfleet officers barely avoided a collision with the lad's broad back. It was still hard to think of such a large humanoid as a child. He stood at the front of a voluminous but otherwise unremarkable-looking tent.

“Is this your leader's tent?” McCoy asked, nodding toward the entrance flap.

Naheer turned to face McCoy and looked down at him with an expression of profound sadness. “No, Mak-Koy. Subteer Usaak does not dwell here.”

“Who does?”

“No one lingers here for very long. This is the Tent of Dying.”

McCoy made a face. “What?”

“This tent is reserved for those who have yet to prove their worthiness, as you have done. I wish to stop here for a moment—to see if Skyfather Gaar has made his decision.”

“What decision?”

“The one that will determine whether my uncle Efeer lives or dies,” Naheer said. “My mother went to dwell with the gods while giving birth to me. And since my father died during last season's hunt, his brother is all that I have left.”

McCoy didn't know what to say. “I'm sorry.”

“I will stand vigil over my uncle,” Naheer said. “It is not my place to accompany you all the way to Subteer Usaak's tent.”

“I know the way,” Wieland said.

Aylesworth nodded. “I'll assemble the rest of the landing party and meet you there.”

Wieland and Aylesworth turned away from the tent, but McCoy remained where he was. “Sir,” he said, “there's an injured man in this tent who needs medical attention.”

Naheer shook his head. “Only family may enter the Tent of Dying.”

“Not even with the permission of a family member?” McCoy said.

Naheer said nothing, but his stoic features took on a vaguely melancholic cast. Without saying another word, he opened the tent flap and disappeared into the semidarkness inside.

McCoy felt a hand light gently on his shoulder. He turned to see Doctor Wieland regarding him sympathetically. “Only Subteer Usaak has the authority to let us into that tent.”

A sudden surge of hope galvanized McCoy. “Well, we're on our way to see him. Let's get his permission.”

“I've already tried,” Wieland said, shaking his head. “The word so far is ‘no.' ”

McCoy frowned. “I hope I haven't just heard you admit defeat, Doctor.”

The older man appeared nettled for a moment. “Of course not. As I told you before, I made sure Subteer Usaak got a good look at you right after you sustained your injuries. Our best chance of persuading him to accept our help is to show him how far you've come in just two days.”

McCoy made an “after you” gesture. “Lead on, then. While we still have time.”

Five

Doctor Wieland paused before the broad, elaborately woven awning that shielded the tent's expansive entry pavilion against Capella's pitiless twin yellow suns.

“This,” he said, “is the tent of Subteer Usaak.”

Wieland led the way into the tent, flanked by security officers Aylesworth and Shellenbarger. McCoy followed, hoping to overcome the obvious diffidence of science specialists Plait and Girard, who were cautiously bringing up the rear.

Flames leapt from the large bronze brazier at the tent's center, imparting an illusory, undulating motion to the intricate patterns embroidered into the tent's canvas walls. When the group came to a halt before the raised dais set against one of those walls, McCoy found himself standing directly behind Aylesworth and Shellenbarger.

It was only then that he realized that neither security man was carrying his laser.

And just where the hell is
my
laser?
McCoy wondered. It occurred to him then that he'd somehow lost track of all the gear he'd brought down from the
Yegorov
other than his medikits. He wondered if some tribal superstition or taboo had made the Capellans leery of handling those kits because of some magical property they believed they possessed.

The landing party members now stood before two hulking humanoid males, both of whom regarded them coolly from the dais. The man who was clearly in charge was lean and middle-aged, his great height apparent despite his seated posture on the elegantly carved, thronelike wooden chair that supported him. An ocher-colored cowl—whose open top showcased a long, braided topknot of white-blond hair—framed his dour face. The rest of his raiment consisted of a simple brown tunic and trousers, fur leggings, and a gold-fringed black cloak.

The second man, who stood beside the chair, was outfitted similarly, differing only in the two-toned orange color scheme of his cowl and clothing. A pale, waist-long braid hung from the top of his head covering, and he kept his thickly muscled arms folded before him; he stood like a statue beside his superior, maintaining a pose of watchful silence.

McCoy's eyes were drawn to the glint of iron lit by the firelight; both men sported wickedly sharp-looking three-bladed weapons. They appeared to pay the blades no more attention than a Starfleet officer might his uniform insignia. But the quiet confidence that both men radiated warned McCoy that they probably could put those weapons to lethal effect within the blink of an eye.

Subteer Usaak nodded in acknowledgment to Doctor Wieland, then focused his attention on McCoy. Speaking in a cavernously deep tone, he said, “I am Usaak, chief of the Canyonfolk Tribe and subteer to the Council of the Ten Tribes. I speak for the people of this encampment. At my right hand stands my loyal subchief, Keer.”

Keer looked askance at McCoy. “I see that another has joined your group,” he said.

“Please allow me to present Leonard McCoy of Earth,” Wieland said. “He is recovered from his ordeal in the canyon.”

McCoy bowed slightly toward the dais. For an absurd moment he wondered if he'd violated protocol by failing to curtsy.

Usaak scrutinized him, his incredulity clearly evident. “Surely this cannot be the same man who came among us two sunrises past.”

“This is indeed the same man, Subteer,” Wieland said.

The subteer and his aide paused long enough to exchange silent looks of astonishment—commingled, McCoy surmised, with no small amount of superstitious fear—before turning back to face their visitors.

Adopting the blandly neutral expression of a seasoned poker player, Usaak directed his dark gaze toward the younger of the two doctors. “Mak-Koy, I am gratified to see that you have survived your injuries.”

“Believe me, sir, I'm mighty pleased about it myself,” McCoy said.

“The lightningbeast's mate gravely wounded our brother hunter Efeer,” Keer said. “What sorcery is at work here? How can a small, weak Earthman recover from injuries that may yet claim the life of one of our mightiest hunters and warriors?”

“We used no sorcery, Subteer Usaak,” Wieland said. “What you see is the healing power of medicine.” He touched the medikit on his hip for emphasis.

“
Meh-di-sihn
,” Usaak said haltingly, the word sounding unwieldy in his mouth.

McCoy knew that the landing party's universal translators worked accurately only when equivalent words or ideas existed on both sides of any given linguistic divide. That fact brought him to an astonishing realization: This culture had never produced anything that even remotely resembled the healing arts.

“
Meh-di-sihn
,” repeated Usaak's lieutenant. “Is this what you call this sorcery of yours that raises the dead?”

“I assure you, we have no such power,” Wieland said. He gestured toward McCoy. “However gravely injured this man may have seemed two days ago, he never crossed over into death. If he had, he wouldn't be standing before you now.”

“Yet you wield the power of gods,” Usaak said. “One of our hunting scouts has borne witness to this personally.”

McCoy exchanged a quick glance with Wieland; he saw his own surprise mirrored on the older man's face. Had one of the locals seen the crisscrossing laser beams that had saved him from the lightningbeast?

The subteer held one of his massive hands out flat before his aide. The other man very gingerly laid one of the landing party's hand lasers upon it.

McCoy suddenly understood why the landing party was carrying so little equipment: The local powers that be had confiscated their weapons.

“Yet you can hurl lightning more powerful even than the lightningbeast's rage,” Usaak said. “Our scout also says that he saw all of you appear out of thin air.”

“It might look like that from your perspective,” Wieland said, as the science specialists and security officers shifted uncomfortably. “But I assure you, we are merely men, just as you are. The weapons we carry are nothing more than refined versions of the blades and spears you use in the hunt.”

“Our blades and spears do not carry power fit to rival that of the gods themselves,” Keer said. Awe and outrage commingled in his voice and manner.

This isn't good at all
, McCoy thought. The Prime Directive clearly prohibited exposing prewarp civilizations, like this one, to transporters, lasers, and most other advanced technologies.

But such considerations were outside his purview. McCoy was concerned only with the medical aspects of the mission. His thoughts flashed to the hunter who had spent the last two days languishing in the Tent of Dying.

And he saw an opportunity to make a difference.

“Subteer Usaak,” McCoy said, “we can't hurl lightning bolts or raise the dead. But sometimes we can chase death away. I stand before you as proof.”

“More sorcery,” Keer growled.

“Not sorcery.” McCoy locked eyes with Usaak. “Medicine, given to you freely. Will you let me use it in your Tent of Dying? Will you let me try to chase death away from Efeer?”

“Subteer Usaak has already made his decision regarding your
Meh-di-sihn
,” Keer said, his tone growing brittle with impatience. “Why do you persist in this matter?”

“Because Efeer isn't dead . . . yet,” McCoy said. “There's still time to save a valuable member of your tribe.”

And because that's what doctors
do
.

McCoy watched as Usaak stared pensively into the flames of the brazier. He hoped it meant that the subteer was reassessing his options—preferably one that didn't involve confiscating the medikits as he had the rest of the landing party's equipment.

“Only the strong should survive,” Keer hissed into his leader's ear. “Such is the will of Skyfather Gaar. Only He may decide the fate of those who lodge in the Tent of Dying. To allow this . . .
Meh-di-sihn
to interfere would be to defy the will of both Skyfather Gaar and Baan, His only son.”

“Are your gods not powerful enough to enforce their will no matter what we do?” McCoy asked.

He ignored Wieland's disapproving scowl, though he understood his mentor's wordless criticism. McCoy had directly challenged the authority of the local gods, not to mention the faith of the adherents of those gods.

After a seeming eternity, Usaak looked up from the fire. He met McCoy's gaze directly.

“Gaar's will shall be made manifest, regardless of what others may do,” Usaak said with a shrug of his massive shoulders. “Go ahead then. Try your
Meh-di-sihn
on Efeer.”

Six

McCoy entered the Tent of Dying just ahead of Doctor Wieland. He found the semidarkened, enclosed space significantly less spacious than the one in which he had awakened. It had room for little other than the single large rectangular platform that dominated its center. McCoy saw that Naheer stood beside the platform, where he maintained a solitary vigil.

An adult male Capellan, decked out in a warrior's fringed tunic, fur leggings, and cloak—all of which showed evidence of burn damage consistent with a high-voltage electrical discharge—lay on his back atop the sturdy wooden structure. The man's heavily muscled arms were crossed over his bloodied chest, like the corpse of an ancient Viking raider laid out on a funeral pyre, patiently awaiting his fiery passage to Valhalla. His right hand clutched the haft of a round-handled blade whose three razor-sharp sides gleamed balefully in the low light of a nearby brazier.

The motionless warrior showed no obvious sign of life whatsoever.

“Damn it. I think we may be too late,” McCoy said, dispirited. Wieland moved to the side of the bier opposite from Naheer and began checking the body for vital signs.

Deciding that his duty lay with the living, McCoy stepped quietly toward Naheer. The boy started slightly when McCoy drew close, as though he'd been lost in thought or meditating.

“I wish we'd been allowed in here sooner, Naheer,” McCoy said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

Naheer smiled. “But you are here now, Mak-Koy. It is an answer to my many prayers for Skyfather Gaar's mercy. I have refreshed my offerings of quickblossoms three times just today to implore Skyfather Gaar to soften Subteer Usaak's heart.”

The boy's faith felt like a heavy iron chain wrapped around McCoy's neck, weighing him down. Like Usaak, Naheer obviously credited the landing party's doctors with supernatural abilities.

“I'm sorry, Naheer,” McCoy said. “I'm afraid your uncle is beyond help now.”

Naheer blinked in confusion. “But you strangers wield the power of life itself. Mak-Koy, everyone who has seen you two days ago, and then again today, knows this to be true.”

“Leonard, come take a look at this,” Wieland said, adopting the no-nonsense demeanor of a disciplined trauma surgeon.

McCoy began to scrutinize the body on the bier. Though Naheer's uncle seemed no less dead than he had before, McCoy noticed something new: A dark, orchidlike flower lay on the man's abdomen—no doubt one of Naheer's quickblossoms.

“I have spent most of the past two days right here, at my uncle's side,” Naheer said. “To see if Skyfather Gaar has yet decided whether he is to live or to die.”

“I think your god has already made up His mind,” McCoy said quietly. “Naheer, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“I do not understand,” Naheer said.

Cursing the circumstances that had cheated him out of any opportunity even to try saving this man, McCoy steeled himself to say what had to be said—

—until he noticed with a start that the flower on the dead man's belly was
moving
, though only very slightly and sluggishly. A moment later he realized why: The prostrate warrior's chest was rising and falling, passing its slow, marginal movement along to the flower.

The man on the catafalque was
breathing
, though only barely.

“Doctor, I think this man is still alive,” Wieland said with a grin.

McCoy nodded, relieved. “He's just slowed his metabolism so much that we nearly wrote him off as dead.”

“Perhaps it's like the healing trance Vulcans put themselves in after they've suffered an intense trauma.”

He had to concede it was a reasonable explanation. Activating his medical tricorder, he said, “Well, we've got work to do.”

Wieland opened up his medikit. “We have Subteer Usaak's blessing,” he said. “Let's make the most of it.”