A Contest of Principles Read online

  “To your health, Doctor, and the health of the royal family.”

  Now we’re getting to it, McCoy suspected. He had an inkling where this was going. He clinked his glass against Rayob’s before sampling the vintage. It was a bit sweeter than a good bourbon, but prisoners couldn’t be choosers. “I’m guessing that toast is not just a formality, and perhaps has something to do with why you brought me here?”

  Against my will, he added silently.

  Rayob nodded. “How much do you know of our world, Doctor?”

  “Just the basics.” McCoy thought back to Dare’s briefing aboard the Enterprise not too long ago. “A hereditary monarchy, albeit a warp-capable one. You once fought a devastating interstellar war with your neighbor Vok, and you have a rather fraught history with the Federation, due to an unfortunate incident some years back. And apparently you’re not above kidnapping Starfleet medical officers on occasion.”

  “Only with cause,” Rayob insisted. “Suite, show us the Yiyova.”

  A voice-activated viewscreen manifested above the table. A holographic portrait depicted an attractive young woman with curly brown hair and thick, bushy eyebrows, who appeared to be in her teens by the standards of most humanoid species. She was elegantly posed in an embroidered gown, a warm smile on her face. Her right hand was placed over her heart, the better to show off a bracelet of polished agate; its prominence in the portrait suggested that the ornament held some symbolic significance. Sparkling hazel eyes conveyed a lively intelligence.

  “Behold Avomora, beloved daughter of our sovereign, destined Heir to the Pellucid Throne of Ozalor,” Rayob said. “The Yiyova by title.”

  McCoy assumed there was some nuance to the term that resisted universal translation. The holo had the look of an official portrait. “She’s lovely.”

  “That is the least of her many fine qualities,” Rayob said. “Despite her tender years, she is a lady of fine character and learning.”

  “Glad to hear it,” McCoy said, with just a trace of impatience. “But what does that have to do with me?”

  Rayob took a sip from his drink before answering. He examined McCoy thoughtfully. “May I count on your discretion, Doctor? As a physician, do you honor the seal of confidentiality where your patients are concerned?”

  “That’s between me and my patients, not me and my kidnappers,” McCoy felt obliged to point out before attempting to allay the majordomo’s concerns in order to keep him talking. “But, for what it’s worth, I’m not one to gossip about medical matters.”

  Rayob appeared reassured. “That is as I anticipated. Your sterling reputation precedes you, Doctor.”

  “Lucky me. Now what’s this all about?”

  “This palace holds a secret, Doctor. Although the knowledge has been carefully kept from the people, the Yiyova is not well. She suffers from a debilitating illness that frequently leaves her incapacitated, while inflicting great distress and suffering on her royal person. Our own medical science has failed to relieve her of this ailment, which may ultimately threaten her ability to assume the throne when the time comes.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” McCoy said sincerely. His own predicament did not preclude his sympathy for any patient, even as he saw himself being reluctantly drafted into service. “Is there nothing your own doctors can do for her?”

  “Our doctors? No,” Rayob said. “Only Vumri.”

  He spat out the word (name?) with obvious disgust. He took another gulp of his drink as though to wash the taste of it from his mouth. Jemo’s expression curdled as well.

  “Who or what is a Vumri?” McCoy asked.

  “A healer,” Rayob said. “Lossu Vumri, to grant her the title due her, is one gifted with unique abilities beyond those of ordinary mortals. She alone has been able to relieve the Yiyova’s symptoms and ease her suffering.”

  A mystical healer with special powers? It sounded like superstitious hogwash to McCoy, but he was hesitant to jump to conclusions before he learned more. In a galaxy inhabited by telepaths and shape-changers and other unusually talented life-forms, not to mention all manner of exotic folk medicines, he’d learned not to be too presumptuous when it came to dismissing local legends and lore. Hell, he’d personally been on the receiving end of a Vulcan mind-meld more times than he cared to think about. Perhaps this Vumri’s abilities were the real deal? Stranger things were possible on an alien world largely unknown to the Federation.

  “I see,” McCoy said. “So if your healer is helping her, where’s the problem?”

  “Vumri is hardly ‘our’ healer. She serves only herself,” Rayob said. “Nor is she content merely to heal the sick. She takes advantage of her unequaled ability to treat Avomora to gain undue influence over our sovereign, at the expense of our world.”

  “Or maybe just at your expense?” McCoy challenged Rayob. “How do I know that the real problem isn’t simply that this Vumri character is a threat to your own position at the court?”

  Rayob stiffened, taking offense at the suggestion.

  “I have devoted my life to the well-being of Ozalor and its rulers. This is not about my ambition. It is about what is best for my world, this sector, and perhaps even your own Federation.”

  His indignation struck McCoy as genuine. “How so?”

  “Vumri does not seek peace between Ozalor and our neighbors. She clings to the ancient hatreds that once brought devastation to this entire sector. She zealously asserts our claims on Braco, urging more support to those who would bring the Birth World under our rule, even to the extent of fomenting civil war on that troubled planet, or, worse yet, actual conflict with Vok and its allies, including the Federation.” Although softly spoken, his somber words relayed the gravity of his fears. “And as long as she alone can help his daughter, Vumri has our sovereign’s ear.”

  McCoy nodded. What Rayob was saying matched up with what Dare had explained during her briefing. Seemed as though hardliners on both Vok and Ozalor were unwilling to let go of the sector’s tragic past.

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “To render Vumri superfluous,” Rayob said. “If you, with your advanced Federation medicine, can find a better way to treat Avomora, or perhaps even cure her entirely, then Vumri ceases to be essential, weakening her hold on the royal family.”

  “Got it,” McCoy said. “You want me to fix the princess so you can send this overly ambitious faith healer packing.” He frowned, not entirely sure what he thought about that. Sticking himself in the middle of another planet’s tangled court intrigues struck him as a risky proposition, in more ways than one. “I got to admit, I’m uneasy about poaching another doctor’s patients.”

  “Vumri is no healer at heart,” Jemo said with feeling. “She doesn’t care about Avomora. She’s just using the Yiyova’s affliction to gain power over the throne and further her own ends.”

  “Can’t say I care for that idea either,” McCoy admitted. If Vumri was indeed exploiting her position as a healer for political advantage, then McCoy already disliked her on principle. The fact that her hawkish politics were apparently counter to the best interests of the sector just made the scenario all the more disturbing. “If what you’re saying is so.”

  “We speak only the truth,” Rayob said, “but I cannot lie to you. You must be aware that these are perilous times. We are playing a dangerous game for the highest of stakes, and Vumri is a hazardous person to cross. Even with Jemo guarding you, I cannot fully guarantee your safety.”

  “Good thing you asked me first,” McCoy drawled.

  “Given the relations between the Federation and our world, along with the crucial need to keep the Yiyova’s condition a secret, that was never an option, Doctor.”

  “Easy for you to say,” McCoy grumbled.

  He finished off his goblet as he diagnosed his situation. Rising from the couch, McCoy stretched his legs by walking across the chamber to the nearest window and drawing back the curtain. That Jemo made no move to halt him suggested that the window was not a viable escape route even before he discovered the suite was several stories above the grounds outside. He gazed out over sunlit gardens, manicured lawns, sparkling pools and fountains, and, beyond the outer walls of the estate, rolling hills and verdant countryside. The so-called Summer Palace certainly lived up to its name; the contrast with that desolate ghost town on Braco was enough to give McCoy whiplash.

  Pretty enough as cages go, he thought, but still a cage.

  He wondered again about Chapel and Levine. In theory, they would have alerted the Enterprise to his abduction by now. McCoy liked to think that Kirk and the others were worried sick about him.

  Well, except maybe Spock.

  Jim won’t give up on me, McCoy knew. The captain and the rest of the crew were surely trying to find out what had happened to him and were possibly already on their way to rescue him. Granted, the last time Starfleet tried to extract hostages from Ozalor it hadn’t ended well, but McCoy had faith in Kirk and the others. He just hoped too many people, on both sides, wouldn’t get hurt before the crisis was resolved. This could get ugly.

  “Well, Doctor?” Rayob rose from his chair. “Will you lend us your expertise?”

  McCoy turned away from the window. “You have some nerve,” he said, his temper flaring. “You trick me, stun me, drug me, drag me halfway across the sector, then expect me to straighten out your palace rivalries?”

  “You are a doctor, are you not?” Rayob gestured at the 3-D portrait of the Heir to the throne. “Forget politics and affairs of state. A young woman is ill and in need of care. Can you truly turn your back on her distress, without even seeing if you can help her?”

  He’s got me there, McCoy thought, scowling. He would have to play that card. Blasted Hippocratic Oath!

  “Fine. I’ll examine the patient, maybe even give you a second opinion, but don’t think for one minute that I’ve forgotten how you got me here.”

  Rayob smiled in vindication, as though he knew all along what McCoy’s answer would be, but he had the good manners not to rub it in.

  “Of course not, Doctor. I can’t imagine that you would.”

  Six

  Braco

  “Greetings, Commander Spock. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Spock beamed into the headquarters of the Bracon Tranquility Bureau, his shuttlecraft having touched down at the municipal spaceport outside the capital city of O’Kdro precisely twenty-seven minutes earlier. Copernicus had made it from Vok to Braco with commendable speed; nevertheless, the trip had cost the search party more than forty-nine hours that they could ill afford to spare. He appreciated the Bracon police force using their transporter to beam him directly from the spaceport to their downtown headquarters, sparing him an additional journey, given that transporter technology advanced enough to safely transport living beings, as opposed to inorganic cargo, was relatively scarce on Braco, being primarily reserved for major government agencies.

  “We came as promptly as possible,” Spock replied to the Bracon police officer greeting them in the transporter room. A tingling sensation, akin to static electricity, lingered from the crude Bracon transit beam. “Under the circumstances.”

  “Yes, a most unfortunate affair,” the officer said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Chief Inspector Wibb. I have been placed in charge of this case and will serve as your official liaison during your stay on Braco.”

  Short in stature, Wibb wore plain clothes as befitting his rank. A three-piece slate-colored suit conveyed an impression of sober authority. Fulsome gray muttonchops framed his ruddy features, compensating perhaps for his receding hairline. Pince-nez glasses perched on his prominent nose, while the stem of a hard rubber pipe poked ominously from his vest pocket. A trio of olive-uniformed troopers flanked the inspector. Spock recalled that on Braco the police and the military were largely the same, or at best, separate divisions of the same overall agency.

  “On behalf of the Enterprise, Starfleet, and the United Federation of Planets, we thank you for your cooperation,” Spock said. “Recovering Doctor McCoy as expeditiously as possible is a matter of top priority.”

  “Of course,” Wibb said. “Least we can do.”

  Spock stepped down from the transporter platform, accompanied by Lieutenant Jennifer Godwin. Recently transferred over from the Yorktown, the security officer had an impeccable record that had recommended her for this mission. White hair and a pair of rudimentary stubs protruding from her brow indicated a trace of Andorian ancestry, as did a perceptibly blue tint to her dark complexion. Three additional security officers remained upon Copernicus, to be called upon as needed. Taking stock of his surroundings, Spock observed that the transporter room roughly resembled those aboard the Enterprise, aside from the fact that the primary control console was larger and more cumbersome, requiring at least two operators, not unlike earlier generations of Starfleet transporters. He also noted that Nurse Chapel and Lieutenant Levine were not present.

  “I do not detect my colleagues from the Enterprise.”

  “They are waiting in a briefing room nearby,” Wibb said, “but first, may I ask you to surrender your weapons?”

  Both Spock and Godwin were armed, Spock with a type-1 phaser, the security officer with type-2.

  “Is that necessary?” Spock asked.

  “Standard procedure,” Wibb replied. “No unauthorized ordnance is allowed within Bureau headquarters. That applies to all visitors.”

  “A reasonable precaution.” Spock would have preferred to retain his phaser, considering the attack on the previous landing party. Then again, if he and Godwin were not secure in the heart of the regional police headquarters, their situation was more dire than anticipated. He handed his phaser to Wibb, then nodded at Godwin, who was waiting on his command. “Please turn over your weapon as well, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir,” she said, complying.

  Wibb confiscated the sidearms and handed them off to a subordinate. “Your tricorder also, Commander Spock.”

  The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “For what reason, may I ask?”

  “Procedure. No unauthorized recordings on the premises.”

  “Would it not be sufficient to simply request that we refrain from doing so without permission?”

  “I don’t make the rules, Commander,” Wibb stated. “I just enforce them.” He held out his hand. “The tricorder, please.”

  If he were fully human, Spock might have been annoyed by the lack of trust implied by the request. As it was, he calculated that this was not a battle worth fighting when there were more important issues to be dealt with. He saw little point in antagonizing the local authorities at this juncture.

  “I have much vital data stored on this device, regarding any number of ongoing tasks,” he said. “I trust it will be returned upon my departure?”

  “You will naturally be provided with a receipt for all personal effects.”

  That was not precisely what Spock had asked, but again he judged that there was nothing to be gained by prolonging this debate. Meeting up with Chapel and Levine, and progressing with the search for McCoy, was a more urgent objective.

  “Very well.” He took a moment to lock the contents of the tricorder against inspection, then provided the device to Wibb. “Shall we proceed to the briefing?”

  “Certainly, Commander,” the inspector said.

  “ ‘Mister Spock’ will suffice,” he said.

  “All right, then, Mister Spock,” Wibb said. “Follow me.”

  Exiting the transporter room, the inspector led them through a maze of bland, utilitarian corridors to a numbered chamber, where Spock was relieved to find Chapel and Levine, the former seated at a rectangular conference table, the latter pacing restlessly. He observed that both of them had taken advantage of the last several hours to freshen up and change into fresh uniforms, presumably packed aboard Galileo in anticipation of their sojourn on Braco. They appeared to be in serviceable condition, physically. He hoped they had managed to attain sufficient rest and nutrition, despite any anxiety over McCoy’s disappearance.

  I may need them at their best, he thought.

  The briefing room was stark and intimidating enough that Spock surmised that it served as an interrogation chamber as well. A viewscreen occupied the farthest wall; Spock suspected that whatever transpired in the room was monitored and recorded. Based on what he’d encountered so far, it seemed the planet’s Tranquility Bureau ran a very tight ship.

  “Mister Spock!” Chapel rose from her seat, her face lighting up. “Thank goodness you’re here.”

  “Nurse, Lieutenant,” he addressed the pair. “I am pleased to find you as well as can be expected, considering your ordeal.”

  “I certainly don’t feel well, Mister Spock,” Chapel said. “And I’m not sure I will be until I know Doctor McCoy is safe… and back in sickbay where he belongs.”

  “That is very much my goal,” Spock said, “nor do I intend to return to the Enterprise without him.” He crossed the room to join his fellow crew. “The captain sends his apologies for not seeing to this crisis personally. Alas, his mission on Vok demands his presence there.”

  “We understand, Mister Spock,” Chapel said. “We all know Captain Kirk would be here if he could.”

  “Speaking of apologies,” Levine said, “I’m sorry I dropped the ball so badly. I was supposed to provide security to the medical team, but those snipers caught me with my pants down.”

  Familiar as he was with the human idiom, Spock did not take the young officer’s description literally.

  “Personal recriminations will not help us recover Doctor McCoy,” he replied, less interested in assigning blame than in achieving McCoy’s safe return. “Your energies are better devoted to the task before us: determining who ambushed you, where the doctor is being held, and how he can be rescued.”

  “Yes, sir,” Levine said, “but I still feel like I let Doctor McCoy down.”

  “Nonsense,” Chapel said firmly. “I keep telling you, it’s not your fault. We thought we were responding to a medical emergency. You had no reason to expect that we would come under fire.” Her face flushed with anger. “It just makes me so furious, though. What kind of people attack a doctor on a mission of mercy?”