A Contest of Principles Page 5

  “Brothers and sisters, fellow citizens, people of Vok, thank you for your patience. Now let’s welcome the person you’ve all been waiting for, the future president of our planet… Doctor Ceff!”

  Ceff strode onto the stage, waving and beaming at the crowd. Cheers drowned out any boos or hisses. Basking in the warm reception, Ceff let the din die down before speaking. Standing at center stage, without any podium, she addressed the audience.

  “Good afternoon, everyone! I’m enormously grateful to you all for joining us. Regardless of whether you’re for us or against us or undecided, the very fact that you’ve taken the time to come out today proves that you care deeply about the future of our world, as well as our relations with our interplanetary neighbors—”

  “Traitor! Appeaser!”

  A man sporting silver tassels on his shoulders hurled a translucent globe at Ceff, only to have it splatter against the force field guarding the front of the stage. Azure energy briefly crackled and flared as a viscous blue ooze slid harmlessly down the invisible screen between the stage and the audience. Not being a native, Kirk wasn’t sure exactly what had been thrown at Ceff, but he was relieved; the field had proved a wise precaution. He watched with approval as a security team from the Enterprise moved quickly to remove the offender, in part for his own protection. Kirk briefly feared that a larger donnybrook might erupt in the stands, but, aside from some shouting and fist-shaking, his people managed to swiftly contain the situation. Kirk made a mental note to commend the team later, even as anonymous campaign workers scrambled to clean up the mess at the base of the stage and Ceff did her own part to calm the crowd.

  “It’s fine,” she assured her listeners. “I’m fine. Everything is under control, thanks to the terrific work of people responsible for making this a safe environment to discuss the serious issues affecting us all. Let’s not allow one intemperate protest to divert us from what brought us together today.” She paused to let the crowd settle back into their seats. “Obviously, this election is provoking heated feelings and, honestly, that’s to be expected. This is new ground for all of us, so there’s bound to be some growing pains, but the whole point of the election is to give us a means to settle our differences peacefully and in an orderly fashion. It’s about communicating our views, without rancor or violence, and letting the people choose for themselves.”

  Kirk listened to the speech while keeping his eye on the audience. He didn’t want any more unexpected disturbances.

  “We mustn’t fear or oppose disagreement,” Ceff continued. “That would make us no better than the old regime, who offered security at the expense of our liberty. Some say that this election is a dangerous mistake, that we can’t be trusted to choose our own leaders, that peace means weakness or surrender, but I believe that we as a people are stronger than that, that we’re more than capable of making our own decisions and charting our own course to a better future, on our own and as part of a larger galactic community.”

  Mixed cheers and jeers greeted her pronouncement. Kirk remained on guard.

  “At this point, I’d like to take a moment to thank our friends from the United Federation of Planets for lending us a helping hand on our bold new voyage into democracy.”

  Ceff gestured for Kirk and Dare to join her on the stage, but Kirk hesitated, uncertain whether this could be seen as endorsement on the Federation’s part. He looked to Dare to see what she thought.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got this.”

  Straightening her suit, she started toward Ceff while waving at the audience, some of whom probably wondered who exactly she was. Kirk trusted her to expertly finesse the situation in a properly diplomatic fashion. He was happy to cede the spotlight while he kept watch over the crowd. He had no idea if anyone in the audience was hostile to the Federation, but, after the incident a few minutes ago, he was still worried about a fight breaking out in the seating area.

  “Look out!” Div pointed frantically at the rear of the stage. “He’s got a spear!”

  His cry electrified Kirk, who swung his gaze away from the audience to see the spear-swallower from earlier charging out from behind the bleachers at the back of the stage where the various dignitaries were seated, and where he must have been lurking all this time. He hurled his javelin at Ceff, who was several meters away. It flew toward its target.

  “For the General!” he shouted.

  No! Kirk thought. He realized too late that he’d been looking for danger from the wrong direction. The would-be assassin had flaunted his weapon onstage in front of all of them.

  Kirk was too far away to stop the spear in time, but Dare was already halfway toward Ceff. Reacting quickly, she dove to shield Ceff from the attack. She knocked Ceff to the ground, then cried out in pain as the spear struck her in the back. She collapsed onto Ceff, still shielding the candidate with her body.

  “Commissioner!” Kirk said.

  Pandemonium erupted on the stage and throughout the amphitheater. Kirk sprang into action, intent on subduing the attacker, only to find himself blocked and buffeted by panicked bystanders scrambling for safety. Invited guests pushed and shoved their way off the bleachers, dashing for the exits. Scared people tried throwing themselves off the stage into the audience, only to bounce off the force-field curtain trapping them in with the assailant. A few braver souls, including Div and Prup, rushed toward Ceff and Dare, seeking to render assistance.

  Unfortunately, the assassin was still intent on his target as well.

  Instead of fleeing, the caped performer produced another expandable javelin from a pouch on his belt. Kirk drew his phaser, but he couldn’t get a clean shot through the commotion. He was unwilling to stun fleeing civilians in the middle of a dangerous situation, especially when the full extent of the threat remained unclear. Kirk glanced about anxiously, wary of other hostiles. Was the assassin acting alone or as part of a larger, coordinated attack?

  “Out of my way!” The man swung his javelin before him like a scythe, struggling to clear a path through the uproar to Ceff, who was still at the front of the stage. He was clearly not satisfied with just spearing Dare. “Let me at that traitor!”

  Kirk glimpsed Prup and others trying to hustle Ceff to safety, despite her reluctance to abandon Dare. He was briefly torn between tackling the assassin and tending to the wounded diplomat.

  “Say your prayers, subversive!”

  The attacker closed in on Ceff, who wasn’t getting away fast enough. Putting away his phaser for the moment, Kirk moved to intercept the assassin, shoving his way through the frantic mob with both hands, even if it meant tossing people out of his way without apology. He pushed forward in time to see the erstwhile plasma-breather take a swig from his flask. To his alarm, Kirk saw that the man was less than a few meters away from Ceff and those trying to remove her from the stage. Kirk pushed through the mob to reach him first. He shouted to get the assassin’s attention, hoping to distract him long enough for Ceff to escape.

  “That’s far enough, mister! Drop that spear!”

  The man turned to glare at Kirk. The crowd thinned between them, so Kirk surged forward, drawing his phaser, but a gout of searing green plasma erupted from the man’s mouth to scorch Kirk’s outstretched arm. The blazing heat engulfed Kirk’s hand. He screamed in agony and dropped the phaser, which was suddenly too hot to hold on to. He smelled his sleeve burning.

  “Stay out of this, Starfleet!” the man snarled, exhausting his plasma breath. “This is none of your business!”

  Kirk begged to differ. Despite the searing pain emanating from his burned hand, he charged at the assassin, who was still armed with a double-pointed javelin. Kirk wasn’t going to let him get another shot at Ceff.

  Not on my watch, he thought.

  The man held on to the spear instead of throwing it, perhaps because he still wanted to use it on Ceff. He lunged at Kirk, holding the spear in front of him like a lance, but Kirk ducked and rolled beneath it, barreling into the man’s legs like a bowling ball. The impact knocked the assassin off his feet, causing him to tumble face forward onto the stage. Kirk sprang to his own feet behind the other man, who started to lift himself off the floor, only to find himself on the receiving end of a flying kick to the skull that spared Kirk’s injured fist from any further abuse. The assassin went limp, lying flat across his spear.

  Should have stuck to carnival tricks, Kirk thought.

  The captain stood over the downed assassin. Grimacing, he clutched his agonized hand to his chest and prodded the man with his foot to make sure his opponent was truly unconscious. Starfleet and Vokite security forces belatedly flooded the stage, securing the scene. From the looks of it, there were no other would-be assassins to be dealt with, thank goodness.

  “Are you all right, Captain?” Lieutenant Yaeger asked.

  Kirk glanced at his hand. It was red and blistered and hurt like the devil, but it looked like nothing sickbay couldn’t handle… eventually. He had more urgent matters to attend to first.

  “I’ll manage, Lieutenant.”

  He lurched across the stage toward Dare. Steve Tanaka was already at her side, looking understandably distressed. Someone—Tanaka?—had extracted the spear from Dare’s back, but there was a worrisome amount of blood in evidence. Dare groaned upon the floor of the stage, proof at least that she was still alive. Tanaka was trying desperately to stanch the blood while shouting over the tumult.

  “Help, please! We need help here!”

  Kirk joined him beside her. “How bad is it?”

  “I don’t know!” Tanaka said. “I’m not a doctor!”

  Dare stirred. “Ceff?” she managed. “Is she—?”

  “Safe,” Kirk assured her. “Just hang on now. We’ve got you.”

  “Where’s that medkit?” Tanaka shouted to anyone within earshot. “We need a medkit, pronto!”

  “We can do better than that.”

  Kirk flipped open his communicator, fumbling awkwardly with his left hand. “Kirk to Enterprise. Three to beam up. Alert sickbay we have incoming.”

  “Understood, Captain,” Lieutenant Uhura responded. “I’m monitoring alarming news broadcasts from the planet.”

  Kirk wasn’t surprised she was on top of things. He appreciated that she didn’t press him for more details. There would be time enough to brief the rest of the crew later.

  A moan drew his attention to Dare’s attacker, who was being taken into custody by Lieutenant Yaeger. Kirk’s pained expression darkened.

  “On second thought, make that four to beam up… and have security on hand to receive a prisoner.”

  He wanted to interrogate the attempted assassin himself.

  Five

  Ozalor

  The hiss of a hypospray roused McCoy.

  He awoke with a headache, a bad taste in his mouth, and a tingling sensation on his upper left arm that indicated that he had just been dosed with something. Groggy and disoriented, he blinked and looked around. As his head and vision cleared, he found himself lying on a couch in a sumptuously appointed chamber ornate enough to make an Elasian royal jealous. Wood-paneled walls were trimmed with polished blown-glass moldings and wainscoting. Elaborately woven carpets, sparkling with iridescent fibers, protected gorgeous parquet floors. Sunlight filtered through silken curtains. A desk viewer and air filtration indicated that the old-school luxury boasted modern conveniences as well.

  “What the—?”

  Last he remembered, he was pinned down by unseen snipers in a ghost town on Braco. Then a disruptor burst had knocked him out and…

  He sat up straight, which made his head spin.

  “Where in blue blazes am I?”

  “Welcome to Ozalor, Doctor. The Summer Palace in Borostosio, to be precise.”

  The speaker was an older man, possibly in his sixties, standing a few paces away. He was tall and lean and formal in bearing. A neatly trimmed gray beard adorned his gaunt, angular features. He wore a crisp tan uniform distinguished by a reflective silver sash across his chest. He placed a hypospray down on a lacquered wooden coffee table and offered McCoy a crystal goblet. “Have some water. You must be thirsty.”

  McCoy had more urgent concerns. Ignoring the proffered drink, he checked instinctively for his phaser and communicator, only to discover them conspicuously (if predictably) missing. Scanning the room, he spotted another individual: a trim young woman standing between him and the nearest visible exit. Clad in a utilitarian olive-green jumpsuit, she leaned casually against the door while whittling on a colored piece of quartz with a glowing knife. The white-hot blade vaporized slices of quartz, leaving no shavings behind as the woman worked on her miniature carving. Bobbed black hair and bangs framed her face, which was crossed diagonally by an old scar slashing between her eyes from the left side of her brow to her right cheek. She smirked at McCoy as though daring him to make a break for it.

  Not until I have a better idea exactly what kind of mess I’m in, he thought, and what’s happened to Chapel and Levine.

  “My nurse?” he asked. “And the officer who was accompanying us?”

  “Left behind on Braco,” the man assured McCoy. “Unharmed aside from being stunned by our weapons, from which they have surely recovered by now. We had no intention of injuring or abducting them. It was only your company we sought.”

  McCoy was relieved to hear it, even as the full implications of what he’d been told sank in.

  “Hang on. This is Ozalor?” That was a full system away from Braco. “How long was I out?”

  The man shrugged. “As long as necessary.”

  The headache, the fogginess, the metallic taste in his mouth; McCoy figured it out. “You drugged me.”

  “For the duration of the trip,” the man admitted. “It was the most convenient way to convey you to Ozalor without any fuss. My apologies for the extreme measures we took to secure your presence, but the times called for them.” He gestured at their opulent surroundings. “Please consider yourself our guest.”

  McCoy snorted. “Where I come from, guests aren’t invited via weapons fire. Let me guess, there was no outbreak of Rigelian fever on Braco.”

  “Merely a ruse to lure you to a suitable spot for extraction. Again, my apologies. We would not have gone to such lengths were we not in urgent need of your services as a physician.”

  McCoy was skeptical. “You look pretty hale to me.”

  “It is not I who requires your care.” The man held out the goblet again. “Please, you should drink something.”

  McCoy was tempted. To be honest, his mouth felt as dry as Vulcan’s Forge and tasted like an industrial refuse heap. He eyed the goblet suspiciously, then decided that his captors wouldn’t have roused him just to drug him again. If they’d wanted to poison him, they could have done so anytime between here and Braco.

  “If you insist.”

  He accepted the glass and took a tentative sip. The water was cool and refreshing, with no worrisome aftertastes, so he gulped it down. He had to admit that it made him feel a bit more like himself again. His headache began to fade. Curiosity infiltrated his overall indignation at being shanghaied across the sector.

  “I don’t believe I caught your name, sir.”

  “I am Count Rayob, majordomo to our exalted sovereign, Salokonos, Yovode of Ozalor.” He gestured at his associate, the woman with the knife. “And this is Jemo. She will look after you during your stay here.”

  She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “At your service.”

  “My jailer, in other words,” McCoy translated.

  “More like your bodyguard,” Rayob said, “if you must know.”

  “Bodyguard?” McCoy didn’t buy it. A captive being assigned a bodyguard struck him as a damned peculiar notion.

  “Bodyguard, babysitter,” Jemo said. “Take your pick.”

  She put a few finishing touches to her carving, then blew on it to cool it down. She lobbed it at McCoy, who caught it instinctively. Glancing down, he found himself holding a miniature quartz caricature of his own face, complete with an exaggeratedly cranky expression. Or maybe not so exaggerated, to be honest. He couldn’t help admiring the craftsmanship, but he was not about to be distracted or provoked by the gift. He still had plenty of questions he needed answered.

  “Why would I need a bodyguard?”

  Rayob sighed. “That requires some explanation, if I may.”

  “Not like I’m going anywhere.” McCoy glanced at Jemo. “Am I?”

  She shook her head.

  “In that case,” McCoy said, “I’m all ears.”

  “Very good.” Rayob settled into a carved wooden chair across from McCoy, on the other side of the coffee table, where the empty goblet now rested. “But before we get down to matters of state, would you care for another drink? Perhaps something stronger this time?”

  “Why not?” McCoy figured he was due a drink.

  Rayob looked at his accomplice. “Jemo, if you don’t mind.”

  “On it.” She switched off her blade, which cooled to a silvery sheen before she slid it into a sheath at her hip. Crossing the room, she approached a framed silver mirror and addressed it. “Guest Suite Guya, refreshments.”

  The mirror retracted to reveal a built-in food slot, along with a manual control panel. Jemo deftly keyed in a command and a bottle and two glasses appeared in the slot. She retrieved the items and walked them over to the table, where she uncapped the bottle, then took a deep swig straight from it.

  “For your peace of mind,” she informed McCoy a gulp later. “You’re welcome.”

  “How reassuring,” he said dryly.

  “Anytime.”

  She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, then poured two drinks for the men. The unnamed spirits were a deep caramel color. Rayob raised his glass in a toast.