Title: The World Bewitched
Author: Kelthammer
Pairing: Mirror Spock/Mirror McCoy
Series: TOS Mirror
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: okey dokeyDisclaimer: Resistance is NOT futile, Borg Queen! I will NOT be assimilated!
Hypnosis challenge. Ok, here goes.
Visual note: If you've ever seen DeForest Kelley in RAINTREE COUNTY, as the Confederate cavalryman who managed to blow away Lee Marvin as Lee Marvin blew him away (And with those rifles, at least it was quick and you got to see some of his bare chest), this is what McCoy is looking like right now. After all, he's out in the criminently *jungle* for weeks and can't be bothered to keep his hair above his collar.
***
McCoy had found a small white weevil-type insect, conveniently already dead, and carefully pinched it up between his medikit's tweezers. Kneeling down before a small nepenthe plant he thought again how much it looked like the carnivorous pitcher plants on Earth. Instead of being tall and slender, it was squat, fat, almost barrel shaped. Where it opened, fleshy green lips parted with long spines like on a Venus Flytrap. He wrinkled his nose at the unpleasantly sweet scent protruding from the peristem, and carefully dropped the gift into the open bowl of clear yellow-green rainwater.
The effect was as drastic as dropping bloody beef into a shark farm. The water boiled; tiny swimming larvae with poisonous mouths jumped upon the floating weevil and began tearing it apart. They weren't as fast as the brarkers, though. Those little purple ant-like arachnoids were swarming out of the nest they'd constructed in a side tendril and jumping in after the prize. For all the world it looked like a rescue team after a drowning victim. As the doctor watched (thankful he wasn't a weevil, and especially that one), the brarkers snatched the weevil from the larvae and dragged it up to the lip of their nest. Whereupon, they promptly ripped the weevil to pieces, and threw what they didn't want to the still-boiling larvae.
"Bacchanlius Romanus." McCoy muttered in Old Imperial. It translated roughly to, "Let's feast...but on *my* terms."
Other than steam inside your own skin in the humid sun, and check and re-check the team's equipment while everybody else went off exploring godknowswhat, there wasn't much else to do these past three weeks (and in the Empire, one week was ten days). Not for the first time, McCoy wondered if Kirk was either a) mad at him for something he didn't known he'd done, or b) getting wind of another assassination in Sickbay and pulling him out of the environment until things calmed down. With Kirk you just couldn't tell. McCoy knew that his captain was unlikely to sponsor someone killing him off, because you just couldn't find a CMO that lacked ambition under any old rock. Ambitious CMOs tended to lead to bigger, uglier things, such as uprisings against captains.
Reluctantly, McCoy had discarded the A Theory after the first week. When Kirk was mad at you, you got the agonizer, or the agony booth, an agony shot, shot out of sheer existance, or just plain shot. If he was *really* mad at you, or if you were in the way, you simply failed to appear to work and the crew would avoid anything resembling ground pork in the mess hall for the next two months.
So that left the B Theory. Which meant M'Benga's family was leaning on him again. McCoy found it hard to really dislike his AMO. The man knew his stuff, and he knew his Vulcans. You'd have to go to the INTREPID to find a better Vulcanxenophysician. But M'Benga had the unenviable weight of coming from a prestigous family that had its members scattered *all over* high posts in the Empire. Being a doctor was all right in their thinking, but he should be the very damn best doctor there is, and why wasn't he CMO of the Empire's Flagship by now? Was McCoy phaserproof? Did he sleep with a flak jacket?
The answer to all that was, M'Benga wasn't about to be CMO while McCoy breathed air. No, he wasn't phaserproof, and no, he wasn't sleeping with a flak jacket, but he *had* slept with something even more effective: Fleet Admiral Kufe. Thank God, she had no interest in going any further in rank. Just about everyone had breathed collective thanks to suddenly-proven gods when that happened. One of those women who looked tough and was even tougher, she had agreed when McCoy asked to transfer, spoke to Kirk and paved the way to Mark Piper's long overdue assassination. Kirk had gained a xenophysician who was refreshingly grounded in sanity, dedicated to his work, and a few favors from the fourth-most powerful warrior in the Empire.
Considering what working with Kufe-Soma had been like, McCoy could easily put up with being sequestered from an AMO who felt the bite of overdemanding parents every so many months. And he didn't have to go to bed with *anybody* to keep from getting shot. Joy. Amazing what you learned to appreciate.
He got to his feet and brushed sand off his kneeboots. All equipment was on standby and ready for theoretically anything that could happen, but McCoy knew as well as Kirk that anybody gone missing in *these* jungles, wouldn't be more than a handful of dried bleached toothpicks by now. Protein was at a premium here, and the market never wavered.
Underneath the endless variety of greens, Rigel V's jungle soil was hot, poor, dry and sandy. It was full of inert and useless matter, unsuitable for even the lightest agriculture. It couldn't even hold water properly. The air stank of the high-quality glass and chemical-synthesizing-rendering factories that papered the valley below. The natives rarely lived for long under the working conditions. Constant exposure to glassmaking literally fossilized their lungs inside their ribs. It was an ugly way to die. Only the desperately poor criminals enacted such labor. Just the threat of the factories was enough to make a hardened man resolve to do better.
But, glass or chemistry, that was the only option for a poor Rigellian wanting to survive or do better than survive. The richer folk always had the priesthood to turn to--Twelve different Mind Sects (which translated as religion to the Empire) who could do a southern Baptist Heller Preacher proud. McCoy had often wondered if the Mind Sects were the reason why people didn't complain too much about their options in life. Brainwashing at an early age...
A red-clad security man, sleeves still gleaming from his new lieutenant's stripe, stumbled slightly as he made his way down the hill to the rest of the landing party. His boot heels tore the delicate heath and bone-white sand gleamed from the trail.
"We've found one." Lt. Bowyer saluted smartly across his chest, a *thump* of attention. "The captain says you need to scan it."
Dr. McCoy glanced up from assembling another field kit from the dregs of the campsite (antivenoms, anti-inflammatories, and anti-just-about-everythings) and nodded. "On my way." He said noncommitally. Long experience had told him if he responded promptly, he wouldn't be given grief for not instantly returning a salute. It made even hot-to-advance junior officers think he valued their reports.
Bowyer led the way, a typical security guard in that his shoulder muscles rippled tightly under his shirt and his hips could barely be contained inside his tight pants. The doctor resigned himself to the rather unaesthetic view--if he had a quad* for every crewman who pumped himself up full of enhancers, he'd be retiring in style.
(Retiring to a career of luxury--treating the kind of old men Bowyer would become before long: half-wrecked and addicted to all kinds of broad-spectra neurodrugs...)
Dark green Waxleaves brushed against their heads and they alternately ducked or swept vines aside. As they entered the thick of the jungle the air changed from Industrial-stinking to heavy, sweet, and cloying. It was not unlike a really strong corn-based syrup with just a hint of snapdragon mixed in. The source of the scent was in the purse-shaped primitive nepenthe flowers that hung from stalks in the canopy. Seemingly too large to be successfully hanging from those stalks, they were gorgeous when the sun beamed through the transparent membranes: mottled yellow between red of human and green of Vulcan blood, itwas a forest of stained glass sculptures.
*Grim* sculptures. Nearly all the flowers held sillhouettes of some kind of struggling prey. Insects mostly, but here and there the doctor could see a soggy and disturbing outline of matted fur, and tiny, perfectly preserved mammalian skeletons, swimming in the clear fluid of digestive saps and rainwater.
For some reason, birds appeared to be immune to the guiles of the carnivorous plants. McCoy was oddly grateful for that. He liked birds, and was indifferent to the mice-like rodents that was the main food source for the indigenous natives. Cute and fuzzy a-kee'leet might be, they traveled in packs and ganged up on anything bigger than they were for a pirhana-like fest. Which was why everybody had a phaser with them on the landing trip.
The open air of the clearing was a relief after the thick, dizzying scent of the jungle. Here it was a lot fresher, and sweeter. The snapdragon scent was stronger and easier to deal with than that awful syrup-odor that hung in the nose and stuck to the clothes.
James Tiberius Kirk's bright golden shirt glowed as McCoy entered the small clearing. He stood in the center, yellow in a sea of red and sparkled with the occasional science-blue shirt. The greenery was confused and tangled in the open light. From here, McCoy could see an odd lump: someone's knee protruding from the mat of green. Well, what was left of it. The particular metallic-sour reek of decaying Rigellian hit him a moment later.
(You are what you eat.) McCoy thought wearily. The richer caste of Rigellians thought a simple dinner was a gorgfest on rich food, wine and indiscriminate sex. For some reason, all that excess came out when they died. Poor folk didn't really smell like anything in comparison. Talk about your past coming back to haunt you...or at least the coroner's upon your necropsy.
Salutes were thumped against all chests. McCoy already had his tricorder out for a medical-grade scan as Kirk took a step backwards.
"Something's oddball, McCoy." Kirk's face was set, displeased and annoyed. It was common knowledge he disliked jungles, and he especially disliked mysteries. "What does that look like to you?"
McCoy scanned with his eyes and instrument at the same time, taking in the half-eaten native, the shredded clothing, and the data analysis. "Looks like an a-kee'leet group attack, but for some reason they stopped eating. I didn't know anything could make them stop."
"Nothing *can.* That's the mystery." Kirk set his hands on his hips, exhaling. "Once they start, it takes a phaser to stop them. They get so caught up in a bloody frenzy they'll even start on each other if the victim didn't gorge them enough." Aware that he had an audience, the captain added in a properly unimpressed voice: "They swarm like minnows around their victim, climb up and around him, and literally chew him to death. Then when he stops kicking, they literally haul the corpse away about ten or fifteen feet and then start the *real* meal."
McCoy's eyebrows drew up in a "yech" expression as he looked at his captain. "That's a little odd, all right. They kill a man, drag him away a short distance, and then start eating?"
"Nobody knows why, but its disturbing to people who never see that kind of thing." Kirk shook his head. "I saw a man sentenced to death in the Arena by a pack of those things."
"Oh." McCoy was quiet for a moment. "Captain?"
"Yes?"
"If I ever get caught trying to overthrow you, promise me you'll just kick me out of an airlock."
Kirk snorted. "If *you* try to overthrow *me*, I'll pack you off to Ebla II where you so rightfully belong."
McCoy opened his mouth to retort and stiffened. "Hmn, now that's odd. Captain, are you familiar with this substance?" The higher in rank you went, the more you knew about certain ugly tools of assassination. Although McCoy knew damn well what most of them were, it was simply good manners to pretend he didn't. This, however, was no pretending.
Kirk peered into the data screen. "Not at all. I'm not even sure what it is."
"Well, it's not a toxin, but it...damn. What the hell *is* this?" McCoy shook his head. "I've never seen anything like it before. Almost like an opiate of some kind, but the chemical tracings are...they're all strange."
"What's the simplest explanation for something like that?"
"The simplest? Somebody was making a poison and they didn't know what they were doing."
"Run some samples up to the ship." Kirk jerked his head to the side, summoning a troup of sweating young guards. "Wilson! Farrell!" He barked to his personal bodyguards--one tall, lean, young and full of hair, the other his exact opposite. They were a fearsome team.
"Sir?" Wilson snapped a salute.
"Pipe to Uhura, tell her to contact the capitol. It looks like we've found the missing Praetor."
McCoy spared a surprised glance at the gnawed corpse. So that was Sackhorn. He wondered if Kirk would collect the reward for the missing man. He probably would. Kirk despised "police calls" and considered "backwater planet summons" just exactly that.
* * *
McCoy was glad to be up in the cold air of the ship after three weeks of jungle. Temperature and humidity didn't bother him; it was the *smells* that got him after a while, he explained to Nurse Chapel as they trundled to Biopsy Lab.
"Something's always either rotting or giving off a smell so sweet you want to throw up. Or at least give up sugar for the rest of the year."
Chapel was making a disgusted noise as they rounded the corner and nearly collided into the blue chest of the First Science Officer. Salutes went off like gunfire.
"Your pardon, sir." McCoy spoke formally. More from the guards than from Spock himself. They were as protective and nasty as hyperactive panthers.
Spock as usual was flanked by his two Vulcan guards, two of the best Life Scientists to come out of the Academy. It was not a bad joke, that part of their studies was "The Science of Staying Alive on a Starship."
"The captain informed me there was a problem for the lab." He said evenly.
McCoy caught Chapel's very subtle shiver. Like most women on the ship, she was attracted to the Vulcan, but she'd be crazy not to be afraid of him too. It was well known that Spock performed his duty and let no emotions or persuation sway him.
"Well, that's what we're going to find out." McCoy lifted the pack of samples in the air. "Has there been any word on why the New Praetor ordered an entire starship here just for a Missing Persons Search?"
"It has revealed itself to be a complicated matter." Spock clasped his hands behind his back and McCoy did his level best not to feel hard dark eyes boring holes in his back as they all walked down the hall. "Praetor Sackhorn was a member of the Fifth Mind Sect. That made it difficult to simply search for him in the conventional circles."
"Yeah, a Missing Secret Gestapo Priest." McCoy shook his head. "Where *would* you look anyway?"
Not to mention, why would you?
"The Empire is politically indifferent to a planet's infighting." Spock paused, allowing the lab door to open. "New Praetor Nasanthakaan requested the presence of a starship for several good reasons. I find the most curious has to do with the fact that Sackhorn was last seen in the vicinity of "taboo ground" which was the Nepenthe Jungle we have been exploring."
McCoy had almost missed a step at "Praetor Nasanthakaan" but recovered fairly well. But at "Taboo Ground" he lost it again. "Why is the Nepenthe Jungle taboo?"
"Unknown at this point." Spock explained. "We only know that *all* jungles that contain nepenthe plants are held in superstitious awe and fear. This taboo does not extend, conveniently, to non-Rigellians."
"Huh." Was all McCoy could say to that.
Spock nodded and his guards promptly flanked the doorway protectively. "We will need a report at 0200."
0200 was when Kirk was expected to beamup. "You'll get it." McCoy said neutrally. He couldn't promise a great report, but there would be something.
Chapel exhaled as they entered the small room. "I don't think I like the sound of this." She said aloud.
"I hardly ever like my orders." McCoy said. "That's what I get for not reading the fine print when I sign my name to a contract."
Chapel snorted (Spock ignored the exchange as chatter) as he turned off the air circulator and switched on the CLOSED/RECYCLE vent. A red light set in the door went on, its twin doing the same on the other side. Now nobody would interrupt them until they were finished. For good measure, Chapel ensured the lock was in working order.
"I'll confess I'm one of the mushrooms** in this matter." The Nurse explained. "What is so special about the nepenthe plants anyway?"
McCoy half-shrugged as he peeled off his outer uniform and struggled into a tech's blue suit. Not bad, Chapel thought as she made her own struggle. She really wanted to ogle at Spock, but didn't dare.
Not even for a second. On the other hand, her boss wasn't exactly hard on the eyes. So she watched him out of the corner of her eye as they all donned the tech suits hanging on the wall racks.
McCoy was thin but carried himself with an easy grace. Despite his build he was strong and active. The three weeks in the jungle had leathertanned his skin and etched bright copper into his much-lighter, longer hair. Just out of boredom, he had confided, he had let a moustache "take over" over his lip. Chapel thought it was a nice change, but he'd have to cut the rest of his hair once he was fully back on ship duty.
The (favorable) talk in the women's sauna had her plenty informed, should she ever want to investigate a less professional relationship with him. Once in a while, she considered that possibility.
What held her back was, while it was hard to find a reliable lover on a starship, it was even harder to find someone you could trust. McCoy trusted her because she followed his personal ethics closer than anyone else in Sickbay; neither were interested in the sadomasochistic games that always went around, neither chose to help themselves to the drugs or tools, and neither really tolerated those that did. They survived the company of most of the Sickbay, and watched out for each others' backs, and everyone thought for sure they were lovers anyway, but they weren't.
Chapel would never attempt to explain their relationship to anyone--she wasn't sure she understood it herself, except that medicine fulfilled a deep need in both of them. It was science, learning, curiosity, and something approaching poetry to see the wonder of a body, a mind, and the emotional, invisible bond that held it all together. In a way they were puzzlers faced with an ever-changing algorithm when they began their job each day. Nothing was ever quite the same, so there was never a reason to be bored.
Of course bordeom invariably meant danger, as that was when you had to worry the most about someone wanting your rank. Chapel was the only Nurse in Sickbay with a Command Sash; and she had *earned* it, not killed to get it. She had never made a kill in her life but knew someday that would just have to happen. Holstone, M'Benga's little suckup, wasn't even subtle about wanting her job.
"The questions I want answered the most are, if he stopped breathing before the Praetor Nasanthakaan sent for us, why isn't he a puddle of sludge by now?" McCoy hunched over his table, staring at the bewildering graphs. "This doesn't make any medical sense. The jungles are so poor, the entire and sum ecosystem is geared to take instant advantage of any protein. That's why most of the plants are carnivorous, and a goodly portion of the rest, symbiotic!"
Spock also bent over the table, easily reading the krypta upside down. "Perhaps the unknown element is a preservative."
"I wondered about that. What if its also the reason that the little furry landsharks stopped chewing on him."
Chapel pointed to a shivery blue line on the electro-graph. "There's some kind of biochemical breakdown. Look. It's in the deepest part of the body, but the closer you get to the skin's surface, the weaker it gets."
McCoy tapped his fingers on the computer. "Maybe sunlight breaks this stuff down. And possible heat too. No wonder we can't recognize it; probably exists in a wholly different form."
"A safe enough assumption for the moment." Spock said absently. "But the substance would have had to completely permeate the body."
"Almost like getting a bath in it." McCoy muttered.
"Chemicals..." Chapel lifted her head. "Aren't the Rigellians skilled biochemists?"
"In a way." McCoy sighed. "You know, all the Rigel planets are infamous for sentient hypnoid lizards, or mesmerizing predators, or an incredible amount of natural narcotics. They probably supply half of Orion with narcosynthetics."
"Opiates as well." Spock was taking notes on a keyboard wired for Vulcana Lingua in record speed. "The difficulty is this is all done with the tacit approval of the Ruling Priesthood."
"Well, of course." McCoy said dryly. "If the Empire knuckled down on the *huge* drug market, we'd be out of all our very best interrogation and persuation substances."
Chapel made an uneasy face. "I have no doubt a priesthood that calls itself "Mind Sects" would be interested in chemical peresuation."
"Well, Sackhorn was in the Fifth Priesthood. There were originally fifteen to worry about, but thanks to various civil wars, only eight are left. The way that planet keeps going, history is on the side of those who want the Sects out of the way. They're just getting smaller and more inbred as time wears on. Sorta. Got some bizarre new breeding program going on I heard."
Spock looked at him sharply. "What kind of breeding program?"
"The Ruling Caste kinda resents the large amount of humanoid blood in the lower slave--pardon me, I mean, industrial laborer--caste. They're full of stories of the Glory Old Days of Pre-Reform Vulcan and how they should work their way back there once they've re-purified their bloodstock. It's really very considerate of them, when you think about it. Bas as they want to get home, they don't want any ugly humanoid genes to follow them back to the Motherworld and contaminate."
Spock's brows had gone completely up. "Where did you hear this information?" He demanded.
"Admiral Kufe's office." McCoy shot back. That had been his post, pre-ENTERPRISE. "She had to deal with some real pureblood lunatics and the political designs was so muddy, so insane, the *Tellarite secretary* said it was all whitewash."
"If a Tellarite says it, it must be true." Chapel was shaking her head. "Well, here's something useful. Traces of some kind of neurodepressor. At least that's what it looks like it WAS."
Both men craned their necks to see what she had found.
"Yep. That's what I'd say." McCoy grinned. "Well, its a good place to start."
* * *
By 0200, the report was passable. There really wasn't much to go on, except for the following facts:
* Sackhorn had been exposed to some element that not only preserved his body, but made him inedible to the ravenous a-lee'keet. As that was damn near unheard of, Spock listed this on top of the report.
* The substance was completely unknown. It might have helped matters if a little more of the body had been left behind, but the rodents had eaten just enough to make it impossible. Sad but true.
* Sackhorn was seen near Taboo Territory. He was certainly found deep inside it. How he got there was up to speculation. The Caste was extremely closemouthed and refused to give a clue as to the man's capability of breaking sacred laws.
Kirk read over the report in the privacy of his cabin while drinking strong coffee. Marlena hovered in the background, off duty from the chem lab and assembling a simple dinner.
Spock awaited his captain, arms folded in the at rest pose of the Empire, cultivating patience behind the mask of his beard. Every time he was around Marlena, he had to remind himself not to be annoyed that a gifted chemist had chosen to advance her way in rank via Kirk. While the practical aspect of Spock's nature understood that she needed protection, there was still a purist scientist that regretted she was not earning her rightful laurels.
Frustrating. Marlena was one of the finest technicians he had ever encountered, but her temper nearly rendered her talents null. Kirk was the strong leader for her, and Spock had to reluctantly accept the fact that she preferred such a lifestyle.
Oddly enough, McCoy had agreed with him on that once when they were working in the lab. The doctor was of course officially out of the usual political loop, and hardly ever on the Bridge, but he had an uncanny grasp of people and was generally unflappable against the foibles of humanity.
Spock knew that eventually he would have to stop living such a Spartan lifestyle. Things had been abnormally quiet among the ship for the past year, but it was foolish to think that would ever stay that way. He needed a sr'ben to bond with, but so far none of his Vulcan bodyguards had shown themselves to be acceptable. They would agree to such an offer if he made it, but Spock was searching for a subconscious compatibility--such a mental similarity might be the difference between life and death in combat. Unfortunate that so far he found himself compatible with humans more than other Vulcans, for he considered himself Vulcan above all other definitions.
Humans were annoying to him more than half the time. He did not mind them, so long as they did their job adequately and left him alone. But to ask a human to not wander into forbidden territory...Spock avoided glancing at McCoy as he thought that.
Swish. Another plastic sheet was flipped over. Kirk could read swiftly, and grasp swiftly. Another scientist who had chosen power and priviledge over knowledge. Spock occasionally indulged in a very un-kaiidith attitude at the rampant waste in the Empire. His captain would make an excellent sr'ben, were they of equal rank. Kirk, however, conceeded to no authorities, not even friendship. Again, kaiidith.
McCoy privately loathed an invite to the captain's spacious quarters. Kirk lived in the lap of luxury in rooms that were three times the size of Spock's, which was not just showing off the mores of rank and power, but commonsense. If somebody went into McCoy's cabin to kill him, it would be like killing a rat in a box trap. Kirk not only had room to maneuver, but his shielded bulkwalls made sure nobody could tell which room he was currently sleeping in.
Spock sat at Vulcanly attention, his black beard catching threads of light from the simple Andorian lamp on the table. Once in a while, his onxy eyes would flick to McCoy while Kirk read. McCoy knew what he was thinking. He was thinking it too: The ENTERPRISE had been handed a hopelessly complicated case and somebody somewhere would just love it if they failed.
Kirk signaled the end of the report by dumping it on the table. "Very well." He picked up his coffee. "Mr. Spock, your personal anaysis?"
Spock was slow in replying, which meant he was still juggling algorithms. "There are still enough unknown factors that we cannot rule out the possibility that Sackhorn met with a genuine accident."
"I once read a coroner's report like that." McCoy said dryly. "A man unpopular with the local organized crime got drunk and walked into an open turbolift shaft, fell on his own dagger six times."
Spock shot him a look that was rather dagger-like himself.
Kirk chuckled wryly. "If I had a quad for every strange coroner's report you had up your sleeve, I'd be a Praetor." He leaned back in his chair as Marlena neared with a tray. "Your analysis? What of the Rigellians themselves? Their power and religious schisms? Your file says you spent a month here before ENTERPRISE."
"A month too many. I was with a sequestered group and isolated. I wasn't exposed to much." McCoy shook his head. "The castes are comprised of a high number of albinos, captain." He winced at a particularly ugly memory. "For this reason they've built up the neccessity of nocturnal ritual and ceremony. In fact, its gotten to the point where you can't aspire past Novice without being a full or partial albino."
"Well, we've seen stranger." Kirk admitted. "And we've been invited to see the New Praetor. I've been informed by the Protocol Packet, that Nasanthakaan will be referred to as "New Praetor" until he's had the post for one year, and one day."
McCoy already knew that; he nodded silently.
Spock slapped his black eyes upon him. "You demonstrated *some* familiarity with Rigel's politics before, doctor. Can you think of anything to add?"
McCoy sighed as Kirk turned his hard green eyes to him. "A lot of the stuff I saw is still under sealed files. But when it comes down to, say, personality of the average Rigellian, I advise extreme, extreme cool poise." He set his jaw. "These people take great stock in a pokerface. I submit, it may be because a blushing or flush-enraged albino makes for bad form among the priesthood."
Kirk's lips twitched in amusement. "I have no troubles visualizing that." He murmured. "Very well. If none of you has any objections, we'll be beaming down now."
McCoy did have objections, and none of them would wash. He bit his tongue and hoped for the best as they wended to the transporter room.
* * *
McCoy saw considerably more albinos present in the Hall of Learning than on his last visit. Like the Palace of the Snow Queen, tall, willowy folk with ethereal, androgynous features glided like will o' wisps across the massive marble pillar'd capitol. Even the colors they wore were in relationship to their blood. Pearls, gray, silvers, faint yellows and dusty rose predominated. The ENTERPRISE men were almost harsh to the eye against the soft moonlight-halls.
Rigellian New Praetorate Nasanthakaan was a tall, slender, almost bony man, a perfect example of his species. As a typical member off the Mind-Sect caste, he was a partial albino with snow-white hair but normal bronze coloring elsewhere. It made him extraordinarily handsome and he was smart enough to be absolutuely aware of it. Pre-Reform Vulcans had settled in the system thousands of years ago and managed to (slowly) blend in with the native and somewhat humanoid population. One would think this meant there was relatively little racial strife on Rigel, but the truth was, Nasanthakaan was one of several Noble Families that sought to re-purify the Vulcan blood. Ergo, his attitude to humans was pretty much what you'd expect.
Icy, icy pale gray eyes the shape of apple seeds swept over the room. McCoy was fervently hoping the other man would be all business and not--
"Captain Kirk." The Rigellian spoke with surprising strength for such a slender form. McCoy knew his appearance was deceptive. But it was his voice that his best weapon. His voice and his eyes.
Kirk stepped forward, all tight muscle and predatory capability. Among this Hall of pale and washed-out priest, he burned as hot and alive as the Terran sun. McCoy felt the shivers to see these icy people watch him with the same hunger a moth held for a flame...or a vampire for warm and living blood.
"New Praetor." He spoke with crisp courtesy, his hands poised loosely at his sides. "Reporting as ordered."
He was given a nod, and the apple-shaped eyes swept to Spock. They lingered there on the Vulcan a moment longer than on Kirk, but nobody thought aught of that; Spock was always getting second or third looks. His parentage was as legendary as his feats.
"First Officer Spock."
"New Praetor."
If Kirk was the sun, then Spock was undoubtedly the moon. A moon under a dark eclipse, all shadow and stark black space between the stars. Here was someone who burned as strongly as Kirk in this faded planet, only with a cooler, mathematical light.
McCoy had already braced himself. He knew this was going to be ugly, ugly...
The eyes hit him with the force he remembered. After he left Kufe-Soma's, he had privately vowed to himself to never block out his recollection of the other man. It was just too dangerous to give in to that urge to file that memory away where it couldn't be found again. Pale gray disks shone like platinum, and...yes, dilated slightly.
"McCoy."
He felt the flick of eyes from the others, noting and wondering that his medical rank had been sidestepped.
"New Praetor." He said simply.
"You humans age quickly. I tend to forget." Smooth and quiet, the strong voice hummed like a powerful engine just outside of human hearing range. "But you have aged rather well, as the phrase goes."
McCoy only gave a nod, not giving in one inch.
"My apologies." Kirk broke in between the gaze, polite and smooth and deadly underneath. "Had I known there was a previous acquaintance between yourself and my CMO, I would have brought him sooner."
(And if he doesn't have the perfect excuse for not telling me, he's going into the Agony Booth when we get back on board!)
Nasanthakaan smiled thinly. "It was a long time ago, captain, under circumstances that are still classified, am I right?" He didn't wait for a response. "Suffice to say, I learned the hard way about the good doctor's backup weapons."
Hell, McCoy thought strongly. He wondered if the Rigellian could still pick up his thoughts. But there was no sign. Didn't think there'd be anyway...Nasan' had had to have picked up some tricks in six years.
The Rigellian moved slowly to his chair, long fingers curling over the stone table. "I have read your report about my brother's death." He began slowly. All three of them couldn't restrain a reaction at that, and he smiled thinly. "Yes...little resemblance, I know. Especially now." The lips twitched upwards in sardonic humor. "I was pleased to see how swiftly you could find so many answers. It was impressive, Kirk. I hope your investigation leads us to the identity of his killers."
Kirk nodded. "As do we, Praetor."
The Rigellian appeared to be buried in thought for a moment, then lifted his albino head. "I had posted a reward for his discovery. You are indeed entitled of that. Half a million credits."
"That's very generous. Thank you." Kirk spoke politely, but without giving anything of himself away.
Nasanthakaan turned away for a moment. "I have been granted the blessing of your High Command to direct you in this matter. Since you were able to perform so well."
The New Praetor stopped talking for a moment, his eyes seemingly drifting away across the room of moth-like Fifth Mind Sect members.
"Find my brother's killers." The New Praetor said simply. "I charge you with this, Kirk. If you succeed, I will be generous beyond your expectations."
Then the eyes stopped drifting. They turned to hard silver disks. "But fail, and I will personally kill as many of your crew as I feel will take the place of my lost kin."
McCoy had no doubt on his chances of being first in that line.
* * *
When they were alone, Kirk and Spock faced him, as he knew they would.
"Doctor, were you aware that you had a previous acquaintance with the current reigning planetary Praetor?" Kirk demanded.
McCoy only shook his head. "It's a common name." He heaved his breath in a sigh. "He was a young gun on his way up, and someone had hired him to take out my commanding officer. I got in the way." He shrugged stiffly. "Then his contract was nullified at the survival of his target and he had to leave. Check with Admiral Kufe if you want the whole story. I'm not privy to all the details."
"No, no need for now." Kirk gnawed on his lip. He was deeply furious but too wise a tactician to indulge in it. Like a proper miser, he hoarded his emotions, and especially his anger, for when he really needed it. "Spock, what do you know of Rigellian dynamic?"
"That Nasanthakaan is highly unlikely to get himself personally involved with his brother's murder." Spock clasped his hands behind his back. "It goes against tradition, in a world where alliances and clan-marriages hinge on a remote, and objective relationship."
"Reassuring." Kirk muttered.
All of them were quiet as they absorbed each and every implication.
"So." Kirk looked at him again. "Backup weapons, huh?"
McCoy made a face. "I stuck a hypo in his face. He assumed it was loaded."
Kirk stifled a snort, but it was clear he was richly amused. Spock's eyebrow went up. "I believe I would have paid a good deal to see that." Kirk mused. "That so-calm face..." He stuck his thumb in his sash and tapped his fingers along his hip, thinking.
McCoy was glad the subject had been dropped. He really had no desire to let the world know he kept a Capellan Stand-Ready inside his sash-pocket. It was considerably more dangerous than a dagger, and rivaled a phaser at short range. If you knew what you were doing with it. And McCoy did.
He wondered if Nasanthakaan still had that scar...
* * *
Somebody had been in his cabin.
The doctor paused at the door, scanning the small space with his eyes. Controlled chaos was the name of the game; apparant disorder to anyone snooping without knowing what they were looking for.
His laundry was normally tossed into a corner in helter-skelter order...but with the insignia always facing down. He could see the edge of the Empire's sword peeking from behind a sleeve. Yesterday he'd set a teacup on its side, as if he'd let it fall over without righting it. Now it was sitting rightside up on the small counter by the food replicator. Suddenly, McCoy had no urge to get anything to eat until he scanned it first.
McCoy pondered who would be spying on him at the moment. It was always something going on. If you wanted to worry, then *don't* be under surveillance. Usually it was Sulu, searching for anything good, or better yet, hoping to find something that would leave Kirk or Spock vulnerable. McCoy never kept hard copies around. But, somebody always slipped up, and you couldn't blame the man for hoping.
Kirk. He'd bet it was Kirk. Suspicions were up and rampant since he'd gotten a glimpse of his CMO's former life with Kufe. While he couldn't demand details of a classified mission...well, don't as and don't tell went the SOP.
Exhaling, the doctor peeled off his sweaty shirt, yanked a red clipcard from his desk and jammed it into his computerslot. The screen blipped. The harsh masculine voice of the dratted machine alerted him that it was ready to SEND, and he simply punched the right button instead of talk to the inanimate.
Kufe's strong, dark-skinned face filled the small screen. That was surprising. Her appearance had changed little since they'd last met; a tall slender Afrocajun with the slanted eyes of her mother's Carib blood. She was wearing the blood-red silk sleeveless vest of a Fleet Admiral, with redgold bands around her arms, wrists, throat and ears.
"What's going on, Bones?" She asked crisply.
McCoy blinked. "I'm surprised to catch you that quick."
"I pay 'ttention to evrything that happens in the Rigel System." Kufe said dryly. "What's up, you Mangrove Melungeon?"
McCoy stifled a sigh. Kufe actually thought racist labels were amusing. He didn't. "I'm asking for a favor, Kufe."
"You're asking?" Graceful black eyebrows slid up. "Len, you are *such* a no-game-player. You're supposed to demand a favor if you want to survive politics."
"Admiral, we've had this talk before." McCoy gestured as he spoke, grabbing at his left earlobe as if suddenly nervous. Kufe caught the signal: he couldn't promise if the beam was secure or not.
"Well, what's on your devious little mind, Leonard?"
"I'm thinking maybe you should let Kirk know the specs about our little run-in with the Fifth House."
Another eyebrow went sailing. Kufe was almost Vulcan. "That's still classified."
"I know." He said simply.
Kufe regarded him in dead silence as they stared at each other across space.
"I'll send him a synopsis." She said at last. Behind her desk, she was pulling out her knife and peeling a white peach. "You think things are getting bad again down there again?"
"How would I know? You know the whole schism, not me. But Nasanthakaan's in control of the Fifth Sect now."
Kufe paused. "Remind me to stick my informants in the Agony Booth for a few hours." She said mildly. "That's something I should have known before I cleared your ship's orders for Rigel."
"I shouldn't have to remind you, of all people, who and who not to torture." McCoy spoke very thinly.
Kufe grinned. "Dahomey, but I miss our fights, you old Bajou Bilge Rat."
"*I* don't." McCoy said emphatically.
"I know. That just made it all the more fun for me. Why don't you get transferred back down here, Snake Doctor? Erzulie is always on the lookout for Agwe."
McCoy closed his eyes. On top of a *lot* of other interests, Kufe was a dyed in the wool practicioner of the voudoun. Erzulie, the red-clad loa of sex and magic happened to be her patron. Erzulie's main consort was Awge, a pale-eyed half-breed who wore a sailor's uniform and incorporated healing and angst in equal proportions. Needless to say, Kufe had been trying to see if their physical similarities went all the way to the world of the Invisibles.
"No." The doctor managed to get out through his teeth. "No, nope, sorry, Admiral. Not interested." Kufe was grinning, showing all her impressively healthy white teeth. She knew he would rather sell himself to the Klingons than go back to Earth, but she always had a lot of fun trying.
"Too bad." The Admiral chuckled. "I shouldn't have let you go. Why did I give you up, anyway?"
"Because you owed Kirk a favor, Kirk needed a CMO who wasn't crazy, and I had to transfer far, far away from you before I turned a hypo on myself."
"Besides that. We could have worked it out, don't you think?"
McCoy had closed his eyes again. Kirk would never know what his CMO did for him, that was sure. Now that he had gotten what he wanted, he had to put up with Kufe's cat playing Mouseball with him. And she was perfectly capable of toying with him for hours.
He knew that gleam in her eyes. She was not only prepared for evesdroppers on this conversation, she was *hoping* someone was listening. It would make it so much more fun when she verbally vivisected him onscreen.
"Maybe." He said cautiously. "If I ever agreed to a full frontal lobotomy."
"Now, Len, its just a lie that I only wanted your body." Kufe took a long, lingering bite of peach, letting the juice run down her chin. McCoy was aware that sweat had suddenly broken over his temples. "I liked your sarcasm too."
"You don't need a brain to be sarcastic." McCoy pointed out. He was pulling his collar away from his throat, feeling claustrophobic in the cabin.
"Mmmn, that's true. But do you know how hard it is to find a proper southern gentleman in High Command? They're in the distinct minority, and I've already slept my way through them. Several times."
"No doubt." McCoy reached for his water glass. "You need to broaden your horizons."
"You've said that before." Kufe mused. "I'm not going for any albino English, though. And that's most of Yankeetown."
"Oh, Lord God..." McCoy rubbed his forehead. "Kufe, can we discuss your galloping nymphomania on somebody else's long-distance comm fee?" When you sensed the ground just beginning to sift under your feet, it was best to retreat.
"Zombie pia, Len. You're as nervous as the old agaya crab. What, some duppy coming 'round, playing plateye on your door?" Kufe's accent never came out unless she was either seriously playing, or flat out serious.
"Maybe." He answered. That was how he could say "yes" over a potentially unsecured connection. "And the duppy has silver eyes."
"That no duppy. For sure, that's a mocko jumby!" Kufe snorted. "Len, you think that albino up to his tricks, I'll get your pretty captain a full report."
McCoy didn't hide his relief. "Thanks. I'm tired of watching captains come and go. Would like to see this one stick around a while yet."
"No doubt he agrees. You think he could be in trouble?"
"I don't rule anything out with that Titanium Freak. I played chess with him, remember? Wouldn't move even a pawn unless he had three other moves lined for backup."
"Hmn. So when are you coming to visit me?"
"Never."
"Never?" She grinned again, predatory. "Len, how come I have to tie you down to have any fun with you?"
"Kufe, how come you're the only woman in the Galaxy that *has* to tie me down to get their fun with me?"
She made a face at him. "Because if you didn't struggle, it wouldn't be nearly so much fun."
"Uh-huh. And that's why I'm keeping three black holes, a quasar, and twelve solar systems between us."
"You watch. I'm going to visit the ENTERPRISE someday, and spend all my time worshipping that lovely captain of yours."
"Be my guest. His woman is a bit of a hot blooded Latina, though. For the record, I warned you."
"That's fine, Len. I'm hot blooded too. Maybe she'll share if I ask proper."
"Well, go ahead. It won't hurt to try."
"You mean that?" Kufe asked skeptically.
"Sure. It won't hurt *me* a bit if you try to horn in on Marlena's territory."
Kufe burst out laughing. She was still laughing like a green heron when she clipped off her end of the beam.
McCoy bid good bye with a great deal of relief.
* * *
Kirk and Spock had their eyebrows permanently stuck to their foreheads as Marlena turned off the security camera.
Moreau wished they could have used the Tantalus device; it was much clearer and would follow your target through the ship. But Spock shouldn't know of its existence.
Kirk turned off the Tantalus Device. "Well, that was entertaining." He commented to Marlena.
Marlena was shaking her head with a smile. "Kufe has a reputation. It looks like for once the gossips are a little conservative."
He smiled, looking a great deal like a little boy. "So, would you share me?"
Marlena smiled back. "Not on your life." She said sweetly.
Kirk chuckled.
Spock stoically put up with the exchange of lips. He wondered if McCoy had been aware of the search in his room. Granted no one knew what the doctor's behavior was like when he was alone--Chapel was likely the only exception--but his instincts were telling him the doctor was a bit more leery than he'd thought.
* * *
Kirk pulled away from Marlena (Spock was not unhappy to see that) and smiled. "Later." It was his way of commanding her to leave.
Well used to his moods, Marlena smiled at him in a way that promised the captain would get little sleep tonight, and strolled out, her short skirt hugging her hips. Spock wondered why Kirk would act as though he had never seen that display before.
"You disapprove, Mr. Spock?" Kirk was too amused at his First's discomfort to take offense.
Spock collected himself. "I do not know if I will ever be accustomed to humans." He defended himself.
"Ah." Kirk nodded with a strange look in his eye. "You know, for a while I wondered if you were jealous when she decided to be my woman."
"Jealous?" Spock repeated as if it were a word incomprehensible to him.
"Yes. After all, she's quite talented, intelligent, brilliant on occasion and dedicated to her job." Kirk's smile did not exactly say *which* job she was dedicated to.
Spock replied slowly as he joined Kirk in his office. Kirk had narrowly struck at the truth; before Khan's subversion of Marla McGyvers, Spock had seriously considered a relationship with Marlena. But then Marla had betrayed Kirk for Khan, and Marlena had proven herself well prepared for the moment when she managed to kill the woman. Kirk had rewarded her with Marla's position.
(And does she ever regret that?) Spock occasionally wondered, and told himself it was because he was a student of the human race, and not an expert.
"To be truthful, captain," Spock sat down at Kirk's gesture. "While I consider Marlena aesthetically pleasing, it would be unwise for me to cultivate a relationship with a woman of her example."
Kirk looked up from rummaging in his desk. "And what example is she?" He wanted to know.
Spock answered his captain very carefully. "I serve among humans, with barely enough approval from my family to permit me to use the clan name."
"You're saying you need a Vulcan woman?"
"Not specifically. I am being persuaded to invoke a sr'ben link in case something happens to my wife."
Kirk was familiar with the specs of the infamous "sword-link" Vulcans enacted among each other. The link did not discriminate between sex, age, or even species (although it was usually between the same sex), its function a psychic support in case something befell the other. To wit, if T'Pring's Clan ever went to war with the Soyh Clan, and she became brain-injured or dead, Spock too would die from the link-trauma, unless someone else was already bonded to him.
"Ah." Kirk nodded. "I understand now. Sounds worse than being married against your will. I don't envy you, Mr. Spock. You could at least find a concubine. And if you ever achieve the high rank you're capable of, you'll be expected to."
"I do not envy myself, captain. It is a uniquely useless pasttime."
Kirk was about to reply when his communicator chirped. "Kirk here."
Uhura's soft voice slipped over the beam into the room. "Sir, coded message to you, from Fleet Admiral Kufe."
The men traded looks. "She does work fast, doesn't she." Kirk muttered admiringly. "Send it through, Lieutenant." He smirked as his computer began scrolling. "Probably not letting Sulu have a peek at it just to annoy him. They've been fighting again."
"I was not aware they were ever at peace." Spock was honestly puzzled.
Kirk snickered. "You might have something there." He shut up and concentrated as Fleet Coding filled his screen.
"Hmmmn...." Kirk broke his silence by flipping the screen around. "Your turn."
Fleet Admiral Kufe was as brisk in writing as she was in life. Nevertheless, she told a vivid story in polished detail.
The Rigel System had always been pharmacaelogically rich. Still a Commodore, Kufe-Soma had been driven to investigate the specs of a new drug that would boost green blood cell production in Vulcans. Such a drug, if compatible with those of mixed heritage, could be a profitable boon to the Empire. Of course nothing was ever as simple as it sounded, and in this case, the difficulty was within the Rigellians themselves.
The Ruling Caste had originally numbered fifteen families, but each family had its own Mind Sect, which was the priesthood that ruled each ruling caste. When a Sect died out, the Caste family officially existed, but was little more than a figurehead. This was the fate the Fifth Mind Sect was facing, and they had struck a co-working alliance with their longtime enemies, the Third Sect. Hostile in private, neither family breathed word of their disharmony to any of the offworlders. Dr. McCoy, who was at the time, and still was, a Lieutenant Commander, filed an official complaint that the delegate from the Fifth House, One Nasanthakaan, was deliberately testing the boundaries among the humans, searching for weak spots. Kufe expressed concern that the delegate was using Rigellian mental gifts to probe into their minds, and everyone was soon issued mild drugs to render their thoughts unreadable.
(This was before the Empire laid down a demand that even Rigel could not deny: That No telepath in the Empire's Space could take advantage of a non-telepathic species unless in the line of duty as per the Empire itself, and then only under orders from High Command.)
What followed next was a typical disastrous Imperial Snafu. Due to a difference in body language between the two species, Nasanthakaan's leader mistakenly came to the conclusion that Kufe was cultivating an alliance with the Third House behind his back. Suspicious that such a meeting would mean the destruction of his family, Nasan' attempted to kill her.
McCoy had been telling the truth when he said he "got in the way." Literally, he had. Blocking a sword cut with his own arm, he had stabbed at the Rigellian's face with an empty hypo. Not knowing the tool was harmless, Nasanthakaan flinched on instinct, and backed away far enough for the doctor to wound him into incapacity. The report did not say how Nasanthakaan was wounded.
Kufe finished with unmistakable sarcasm between the lines: You could insult a Rigellian, but you could never prove them wrong on anything. When Kufe survived the attempt, she had proven them wrong about their conclusions. So while legally Rigel could do nothing but apologize eloquently over the misunderstanding, the Fifth House Affiliates would be simmering in feudal resentment for a good long time.
(Curious, that.) Spock thought. (But the Admiral is only barely forthcoming. Still, it explains much about the New Praetor's actions. If he still believed the Empire wished to crush his family...)
* * *
The hour was late. Spock settled slowly in his one chair by his desk, steepling his fingers in thought. Responding to previous commands, his computer began speaking to him, outlining the latest mail he had gathered. News from home briefly took his attention from Rigel: T'Pring had accepted as a gift from the Soyh Clan, a metal sculptor named Stonn.
When Spock activated his memory, he could recall a Soyh-affiliated Stonn: a very muscular man with a classically handsome face, and no discernible wit whatsoever...but his skills in artistry more than made up for that. T'Pring might find herself frustrated to play host to the many number of enamored men and women who desired to gather his company.
Spock found himself mulling over this latest news from home. T'Pring was a capable woman, and she would do what she wanted, regardless of what Spock or anyone would wish. But Spock could not help but wonder if there would be...repurcussions from accepting Stonn. Politically, the Soyh Clan was in good form and good manners to offer her a gift of an artist. Her clan's official metalwright had recently died. And T'Pring hardly had to worry about Stonn killing her. That was unthinkable. Artists were forbidden to take up weapons themselves.
All of this was yet another remainder that he needed to establish a sr'ben. T'Pring might not have anything to fear from Stonn, but there was always a minor war between various families on Vulcan...
...and of course, there was always the "acts of God" that took life nearly as often.
Why had he told Kirk about the sr'ben link? Had it been an unconscious desire on his part? He had no wish to kill Kirk, not for any reason, and trusted him on a level he had never enjoyed with any other commander. Kirk was a scientist, a capable man in many fields. Spock admired that more than he admired his skills in command.
Ideally, Kirk would make an excellent sword-link. But his captain would never conceed or give in a relationship. Not now, at any rate. Perhaps when they had both been younger and less hardened, the possibility would have existed. The curious scientist was gone. In its place, a seasoned fighter who never hesitated to kill, and who only barely tolerated the presence of anyone who considered themselves his equal.
Kaiidith...
Spock sighed and ordered his computer to cease. He would have to meditate deeply for at least an hour before he could call himself ready for his next work.
* * *
McCoy got tired of staring at the ceiling after an hour of tossing around his bed. He shambled out, groggily pulled on his uniform and snapped on the computer. Something was seriously niggling in the back of his mind and, like a fighting trout, wasn't keen on getting reeled in. So he pulled up the reports of Rigel and played with that thought, letting free associations flow around him.
Chapel's question in the necropsy lab: What was the big deal about nepenthe plants? He hadn't been able to answer her. Nor Spock. But a few minutes of cross-indexing raised his suspicions.
All nepenthe plants lured their prey in to the digestive traps by use of strong chemicals exuded from the peristem. McCoy tried to get a biochem breakdown of the peristem and got a large CLASSIFIED stamp across his screen. Ok, he tried to get the same on the plant's fluid. CLASSIFIED.
Plant matter.
CLASSIFIED.
Tissue.
CLASSIFIED.
The god-damned root system, for Christ's sake.
CLASSIFIED.
The doctor began a slow burn. His fingers drummed against the desk, the only sound in his cabin.
He requested a molecular chain on any/all Rigellian-exported drugs.
CLASSIFIED.
He thought of Rigel's sodium pentathol, a stronger and more efficient version than what any other planet in the Empire could create. He requested it.
He got it.
A bewildering chain of shapes and colors filled his eyes. So far so good, but nothing that was particularly spectacular. It differed from its competitor synthesizers in its larger amount of transmitters to the human brain. McCoy suspected he had gotten this fairly innocuous drug because it was so widely available.
He poked into his own pharmacy. Nothing there.
He tapped with his fingers again. Then his face cleared and he went searching for nepenthe plants, EARTH ORIGIN.
Bingo.
Many more minutes passed as he scanned the information. Earth's nepenthes were dwarves, compared to some of the species on Rigel, but they were all similarly designed.
The peristem of the plants were full of chemicals that attracted the prey they were designed to. While an Earth nepenthe might occasionally catch and swallow a mouse, it was rare. And different plants attracted different kinds of prey. McCoy felt his eyebrows go up at a botanist's speculation that each plant tailored its chemical peristem to the prey it preferred. All plants used a scent that would be compelling to its chosen victims, but inert or unpleasant to all others. What the peristem's composition did was create a kind of hypnotic effect upon the brain, and possibly even an addiction.
Disturbing to think about, that you could catch a whiff of something deadly and want to go nearer. McCoy read further.
There was even a co-existance of insect species between Earth's nepenthes. He was fascinated to read the account of insects who, like Rigel's could live without fear in the digestive enzymes of the plants, and rescue prey that fell in, only to rip it to shreds and throw what they didn't want back into the enzyme pool.
The reasons for this, it was revealed, was all nepenthes had evolved on terrifically poor soil and could not handle an embarassment of riches. If even two whole insects were caught and drowned in a Bornean nepenthe, the decay of the insect could sicken, and even kill the plant. Hence, a system that depended on insects that behaved like a'kee-leets.
Behaved like a'kee-leets.
McCoy sat upu straight in his chair.
Behaved like a'kee-leets.
Too bad if Kirk was asleep. He dove for the comm switch and paged his captain.
* * *
Kirk rubbed tired eyes and spit out the words with a snarl: "Circumstantial evidence, my Captain's sash! You can almost hang Rigel on this!"
Spock, looking not at all tired, stood against the wall with his arms folded at resting position. "It would seem we have inadverdantly stumbled upon one of Rigel's best kept secrets. I had some suspicions, but they went no further than to wonder why the Praetorate insisted that we leave Sackhorn's body where it was found."
McCoy hadn't heard about that. "Did they say why we should?"
Spock shrugged. "As there are countless cultures with the same custom, there was no query."
"So we could get real proof if we could examine the remains. Maybe." McCoy exhaled. "Lovely."
"Nasanthakaan set us up for failure." Kirk spat. "Find my brother's killers. He knew damn well his brother's killers were a nepenthe plant and a pack of raving a'kee-leet!"
"Typical." McCoy muttered. "Sneaky devil. Smarmy and shutmouthed."
"I suggest we play the Rigellians as they wish to play us." Spock said as the humans turned to him.
"How so, Mr. Spock?"
"Evidence is in strong suggestion that a plant was the agent of Sackhorn's death. Nasanthakaan has charged us to find his brother's killers. Obviously a subtle trap, one that we will fail in if we waste our time looking for Rigellian killers. I recommend that the Enterprise makes a visible show of searching in the wrong direction while myself and Dr. McCoy search for proof that this plant exists."
Kirk leaned back in his chair, frowning. "Not a bad idea. How would we distract Nasanthakaan?"
"I suggest we ask for permission to interview possible suspects. He will no douubt be glad to help us in our misdirection."
McCoy snorted. "Yeah, that's the way he works. But I didn't see any big Rigellian-gulping nepenthe plants in that clearing."
Kirk and Spock considered that for a long moment.
"Well we weren't looking for one." Kirk pointed out.
"What is the usual range that an a'kee-leet pack will drag its prey away for devouring?"
Kirk gnawed his bottom lip. "Depending on the size of the pack...the more rodents, the further they drag the body. The pack that I saw in the Arena couldn't have numbered more than a hundred."
"A hundred rodents the size of chiuhuahuas? Christ." McCoy shuddered.
"A small pack would be anywhere from two to forty. A large pack, now...I'd say in excess of two hundred."
"This is getting more and more probable." Spock confessed. "There are many habitats we have not personally explored, and Rigellian folklore speaks of man-eating trees. If a nepenthe is large enough to devour a man, it would certainly be considered more treelike than plantlike."
"And Rigellians can't touch them, can't do anything with them because all forms of nepenthe are taboo!" McCoy rolled his eyes upwards. "Good god...we might have walked right under that thing without knowing it!" He thought of the sickly snapdragon smell, and shivered.
"Indeed. We must find the solution on our own."
"And that means, finding a mythical flesheating tree." Kirk agreed tightly.
"I want you and McCoy down there on planetdawn." The captain snapped. "I'm going to play the befuddled captain and ask Nasanthakaan for permission to interview anyone who might have had a problem with his brother. He should enjoy aiding me in the process of justice." Kirk snorted at his own speech. "Get some rest, gentlemen, you're going to need it!"
* * *
Part 2
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