COLORS: Hue
COLORS: Hue
TERTIARY:
Aurgulent (gold) & Vermillion (red-orange)
The shredded uniform is aurgulent.
It is stained with vermillion coloration.
Neither of these things bodes well.
Color flashes in the corner of Spock’s vision - a tawny scrap of gold amidst the umbers and sepias of the dusty earth. James T. Kirk has been missing exactly 1.23 hours when Commander Spock spies the castoff fabric snagged amongst the dried brush. He knows this because he is Vulcan, and his temporal sense is functioning with its usual efficiency, precisely calculating the amount of time that has passed since a flustered Ensign Maier of Security reported the Captain’s disappearance.
Grimly, Spock strides forward and crouches to examine the material. It is Kirk’s uniform shirt, or more accurately, what remains of Kirk’s shirt. It has been trampled and torn, and is smeared with streaks of red-orange pigment. There are also darker splotches - the rust of Human blood. He can smell the faint tang of iron. Spock lifts the wrinkled article of clothing and considers. He rubs the gold fabric between his thumb and fingers. The traces of blood are still damp. The ground around him has been disturbed, grasses flattened and brush ripped out by the roots. The dusty soil bears the marks of many feet and a general melee. There has been some sort of altercation here, and knowing what he does of James Kirk, Spock is 97.5 percent certain that the captain has been involved in some capacity. The 2.5 percent variance is an acknowledgement of the fact that when J.T. Kirk is involved, logic is not always decisive.
Spock presses his hand into the shallow depression in the dust. There is blood here too, darkening the soil. Someone has fallen, lain here, injured and bleeding.
Human blood.
Jim’s blood.
Spock closes his eyes and reaches out with his mind, searching, hoping to feel that brush of warmth and golden light, that vibrant undercurrent of mental energy he associates with James Kirk.
There is nothing.
He draws a quick, sharp breath in through his nose, and tamps down on the unwanted surge of negative emotions crowding his mind. It is unlikely he could detect Kirk’s aura at any distance. They are not bonded. Nor even linked. The captain’s mental signature, for all its vivacity, is no more pronounced than that of any other sentient being. Being unable to detect Kirk’s presence is essentially meaningless, and should not be viewed as indicative of any serious harm having befallen the captain.
His thoughts, though logical, are not convincing.
Mouth set and forbidding, Spock clenches his fist, crumpling the shirt in his hand. Dwelling on potential calamities is inefficacious, and will not expedite the situation. Having discovered a trail to follow will assuredly facilitate their search for the captain. Whether they will locate him in time to rescue him from whatever unfortunate situation he has managed to encounter this time has yet to be determined.
Unfolding, Spock rises and signals the nearest security guard. “I believe the captain has fallen prey to a D’Twung hunting party. We must ascertain his location and extract him from their custody before the suns set. Otherwise he will likely be sacrificed to satisfy their goddess of fertility.”
He takes grim satisfaction at how swiftly he is afforded the security team’s undivided attention.
SECONDARY:
Jacinthe (orange)
They paint her jacinthe, and she blazes in the sun.
She is a Starfleet officer, a xenolinguist, a communications expert, a singer…
…and sometimes a goddess.
Orange paint coats Nyota Uhura’s lean, naked body, from her slender, bare toes to the crown of her head. Scotty has assured her that the colorant is completely hypoallergenic and contains no harmful chemicals. Nevertheless, it itches. She resists the urge to scratch, as doing so will mar the effect. The shade is not an exact match to that produced by the dye from local blossoms mixed with clay, but it is as close as the Enterprise replicators can synthesize, and they have no time to concoct the organic form. The planet’s twin suns are sinking behind the distant mountain ranges, and when the double suns set, the sacrifice will take place - or at least that is what can be gleaned from the deplorably inadequate record logs filed by the Seward Expedition, the first and only exploratory anthropological expedition to their present location, planet M-814.
While discussing their upcoming mission with his advisory team, Kirk had expressed the opinion that the only reason any anthropological expedition had been sent to M-814 was because someone had discovered dilithium deposits on the planet. At the time, the Federation had been hungry for dilithium, and was far less likely to let a little thing like a non-interference policy get in the way of obtaining the rare mineral. “After all,” Kirk had tossed out while reviewing the Expedition’s records over coffee, “what is a little exploitation in the name of progress, right?” So the Seward Expedition was sent, and allowed to play nicely with the natives - probably in hopes the Federation could justify a presence on the planet in the name of, “saving the autochthons from their primitive conditions.” However, shortly thereafter, rich deposits of dilithium had been found on several other planets that didn’t harbor inconvenient indigenous populations, and the Expedition to M-814 was apparently filed and forgotten.
Until now.
Officially, they have been sent to M-814 in order to “ascertain whether there had been any negative impact upon the native peoples of M-814 due to the actions of the previous Seward Expedition.” However, Nyota suspects Doctor McCoy had been closer to the truth when he surmised, “The Federation must be running short on dilithium again.”
Nyota flexes her fingers and shifts from foot to foot, working off tension. McCoy and Christine Chapel are bent over a tricorder, making some kind of adjustments. Nearby, Pavel Chekov is quietly conversing with a pair of security officers. He is studiously trying to avoid gazing in her direction, and when he forgets, he blushes sweetly and ducks his head.
And Spock…
Spock is watching her with a hooded expression. His mouth is tight, a subtle but telling indication of his level of agitation. He is less than sanguine about their current solution, but admits that circumstances have left them few alternatives. He had argued to take her place, but the anthropological records were quite clear on at least one fact - that Sha-shshes’ta’ah, the divine fertility deity worshiped by the D’Twung - is female. Resplendent as he might be in his naked glory, Spock could never be mistaken for a female by the D’Twung, even given the slight variations in their forms from Human and Vulcan norms.
Ironically enough, it is Kirk’s own orders that have put them in this precarious position.
General Order 1 is quite specific. Members of Starfleet are to initiate no interference in the natural development of any pre-warp civilization, either through intervention or technological revelation. However, when one is exploring the distant reaches of space, far from the safe, hallowed halls of Starfleet central, it is sometimes expedient to apply a somewhat “creative” interpretation of the Prime Directive’s non-interference policy. After all, space is a big place, and contains all sorts of dangers that Starfleet policy makers, sitting behind their polished desks in their climate controlled offices back on Earth, cannot begin to imagine - or so professes James Kirk. And certainly, Kirk has been known to test the tensile nature of the Prime Directive on occasion, bending it as far as he can without outright breaking it - the most recent incident at Xenar IV being a prime example.
Using said “creative interpretation” Kirk had managed to salvage a situation that, by all indications, was spiraling towards complete disaster. However, despite the fact that the mission ultimately proved successful far beyond Starfleet’s initial aspirations, and that the Enterprise herself had absolutely nothing to do with the original forces that set the downward cascade of events into motion on Xenar IV, Starfleet still decided to file an official reprimand against one Captain James T. Kirk. The fallout was unpleasant for everyone involved.
“The High-and-mighty muckety-mucks jerked a knot in his tail. That’s for damn-sure certain.” The string of colorful colloquialisms had done nothing to lighten the bitterness of McCoy’s tone as he’d described the incident to Uhura while treating her for injuries sustained planetside. She herself had missed Starfleet’s scathing rebuke of the Captain due to being ensconced in Sickbay.
“Had Jim squirming like a worm in hot ashes! Damn bureaucrats! What the hell do they know about what it is like out here? As useless as teats on a boar-hog.” McCoy’s expression had been furious as he ranted, his orders to his nurses expressed in snarls rather than words, but none of his agitation had reached his hands. He had tended Uhura’s wounds with surprising gentleness.
“Jim saved a dozen lives today. More if you consider what was likely to have happened if that crazy-ass Xenang had declared war on his people. Poor kid shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of shit…” Then catching Uhura’s eye, McCoy had flushed, and stumbled a bit. “Um.. sorry, my dear. My momma would have had a conniption if she heard me using language like that in front of a lady.”
Delighted, Uhura had laughed at the contradiction of being called a ‘lady’ when she was receiving medical care for wounds received in what amounted to a no-holds-barred free for all. She regretted not having been on the bridge monitoring communications when Kirk was being castigated. She was fairly certain she could have found a way to “lose” the transmission without it looking too suspicious.
Unfortunately, she had been unavailable, and thus the entire bridge crew had been privy to the very public censure of their captain. Kirk himself had sat silent and pale during the scolding. As the disapproving faces of his superiors had faded from the bridge screen, he had taken a single deep breath, risen slowly from the command chair and turned to Spock. “You have the bridge,” he’d authorized, voice strained. Those soft words had broken the stunned silence, and the bridge had erupted into aggrieved chatter, but Kirk had vanished into the turbolift. For hours, there were reports of him wandering the halls of the ship like an insubstantial specter, expression so pensive and forbidding that no one had dared approach him.
Whether Kirk had eventually spoken to anyone about what had occurred, Uhura did not know. She’d tried asking Spock, but despite their close friendship, the Vulcan could chose to be about as communicative as a faulty Feinberg receiver. If Kirk had spoken to him, he wasn’t sharing. The captain certainly never mentioned the reprimand again while on the bridge. However, upon their arrival at M-814 it became obvious just how much the dressing down truly had affected him.
***
“The initial landing party will consist of two security personnel, a scientific adviser to be recommended by Commander Spock, biocultural anthropologist Arif and sociocultural anthropologist Horst…”
Nyota Uhura’s fingers flew across the face of her PADD. She had uploaded the necessary mission synopsis and background information before the task briefing, but needed to access the appropriate personnel files indicated by Kirk.
“…and myself.” Blue eyes flickered in Spock’s direction. “Spock, you’ll have the con.” The final words came in a rush. And Kirk was half out of his chair before Spock was able to react.
As expected, he was less than receptive. “Captain,” long fingered hands splayed across the top of the conference table as Spock leaned forward. “I must once again point out that, as the captain of the Enterprise, it is inadvisable…”
“Yeah, yeah… “Kirk held up a censoring hand, cutting off his First Officer while sharing a bright smile of fellowship with the rest of the advisory team gathered around the table. “I know. I’ve heard it before. We’ve all heard it before. And as usual, you know I fully respect the logic of your suggestions, and will give them due consideration. And then do what I damn well please.” He barely glanced in Spock’s direction, keeping his eyes averted. “So why don’t we, just this once, save time and skip to the part where I do, ‘what I damn well please’.”
‘Coward,’ thought Nyota, with a huff of exasperation. She shot a sympathetic look in Spock’s direction. Others might miss it, but she could detect a faint hint of hurt in the thinning of his lips.
“As your First Officer, it is my duty…”
“Yes…” interrupted Kirk once more. “And you do it quite well. Consider your obligations to upholding the unshakable standards of Starfleet regulations noted and logged. Thank you, Mister Spock.”
An awkward silence shrouded the table, as Spock sank back in his seat, looking somewhat at a loss. Nyota’s lips parted slightly in surprise. Recalling their earlier conversation in Sickbay, she exchanged a quick glance with McCoy. He replied with a bare nod of acknowledgment and went back to watching Kirk with that thoughtful, narrowed expression that meant he was in the middle of running one of his personal diagnostics on Jim’s screwed up psyche. Obviously, the smack down from Starfleet had affected their captain more deeply that they had realized.
“Now if that is all,” Kirk brazened on, either oblivious to the tension, or, more likely, just trying to nullify it by sheer will, “there is one more stipulation I want to make clear. Under no circumstances are the members of the landing party to seek out contact with the natives of M-814. We are here to observe and nothing more. Furthermore, I am putting a restriction upon the use of all forms of technology. Communicators, tricorder, and phasers are strictly prohibited. We go down tech-naked.”
This announcement resulted in a sudden clamor of muttered commentary, but Kirk sailed on without a hitch. “McCoy will inject us with subcutaneous transponders, and beam up will be based upon preset time and location criteria. We are not to interfere with this culture in any way. The natives of M-814 should never even know we were there. Is that understood?”
***
Oh, they had understood all right, but that didn’t mean they were all in agreement. There had been numerous voices of dissent around the table, but they had been given the same brusque dismissal as Spock.
So it was that Kirk was unable to call for assistance when attacked by the D’Twung hunting party. And Ensign Maier was unable to report Kirk missing until he and the rest of the landing party were transported aboard from the designated beam-up site at the proscribed time. And by then, the crew was unable to simply beam the captain aboard, because doing so would expose the natives to transporter technology.
So they were, as Mister Scott put it, totally bollocked.
Which is why Nyota, covered in orange paint, is standing naked upon the surface of planet M-841 and wishing it weren’t quite so obvious to everyone present that she found the evening air a bit chilly.
“Damn you, Jim Kirk, “ she mutters under her breath, already planning the ways in which he is going to make this up to her - and he will make this up to her, because she won’t even consider the possibility that their plan will not succeed. She will get him back, alive and in one piece, and she will make him kiss her perfectly pedicured feet for putting her through this.
She will make this happen. If she doesn’t she is afraid Spock will do something reckless, Starfleet regs be damned. Aboard the Enterprise, it is understood that Commander Spock is somewhat compromised when it comes to the well being of James T. Kirk, despite his efforts to pretend otherwise, and reckless Vulcans are not to be taken lightly.
Spock steps closer, into her personal space. It is deliberate. Vulcans do not accidentally violate personal boundaries. It is his way of acknowledging intimacy.
“Lieutenant, are you prepared?”
She straightens her back, noting how, as always, his presence inspires both passion and propriety. It seems incongruous, yet it is not.
“Yes, Commander.” She shakes tension out of her hands. “I’ll bring him back.”
He looks at her then, face inscrutable in the fading light. “I have no doubt that you intend to. However, should you feel you are at risk, I order you to withdraw, even if it means failure to obtain your objective.”
She firms her jaw and repeats, “I will bring him back, sir.”
For a moment, he just watches her, then steps aside with a brief nod. “Very well. Proceed.”
McCoy nods his own well wishes, and at his side, Christine gives her a subtle two thumbs-up.
“Udachi!” enthuses Pavel from his position between two security personnel, his smile bright and guileless. Then apparently remembering she is unclothed, his eyes go comically wide before he snaps them shut. It is that she brings with her as she steps into the thorny, scrub forest.
She finds him tied to poles in the center of the D’Twung village. The inhabitants step aside, conversing in their lyrical flute-like language while she approaches. Like her, he is stripped naked, his body smeared with vermillion pigment. She can see deep bruising and abraded skin beneath the coloration. There is a wide gash above one hip, perhaps from a knife or one of the D’Twung hunting spears. From the traces of dried blood smeared across his hip and groin, the wound obviously bled freely. Now, however, it is beginning to clot. Small flying insects land and crawl across the torn flesh. Kirk’s arms are secured behind his back, strapped to a cross beam that stretches above his head. The position forces him forward at an awkward angle, threatening to dislocate his shoulders. His feet barely brush the ground. It is brutal. She has to check herself to keep from reacting.
His head is down, hanging. She cannot tell if he is breathing.
She has read the log entries of the previous expedition. She knows how this will go.
When the twin suns of the planet begin to disappear behind the Chu’at Mountains, the local Ma’ha’tamoma (wise one) will approach the center of the village to oversee the ritual sacrifice to the goddess Sha-shshes’ta’ah. The village females, from child to adult, will stand in a circle to witness the event. The smaller males will be banished to the thatched mud huts. They are deemed unworthy to participate in the sacred event. The females will begin to sing the shandalif’tah - the song of the sacred gifts. The Ma’ha’tamoma will take her kerdiff (sacred stone blade) in one of her left arms. In one right arm, she will hold the douha (the bowl of life). With her remaining arms, she will restrain the sacrificial animal.
The Ma’ha’tamoma will grasp Jim Kirk by the hair and lift his head, baring his throat to the blade.
Then she will use her kerdiff to cut the animal’s throat.
The knife will carve a path across Jim’s neck, slicing through flesh as easily as parting a ripe mango. If he is still alive and aware, he will try to scream, desperate, terrified. He will choke on his own blood.
She will catch some of the blood in the douha.
Jim’s blood will spatter in the soft dust at the Ma’ha’tamoma’s feet, while she holds the carved bowl out to catch some of the draining life fluid. Jim will become disoriented, lose consciousness…
and die.
The douha will be passed among the females, so that they may drink of the sacred fluid.
They will drink Jim’s blood.
Then the sacrificial animal will be roasted and consumed in a ritual feast.
They will burn Jim’s body and eat his flesh.
The sacrifice will assure good hunting for the coming turn of the season, approximately forty days standard. - Dr. Izum, Seward Expedition
Yes, Nyota has read the logs. She knows how this will go.
Therefore, she must get things right, because getting things wrong is not an option.
She has rehearsed her lines carefully, listening to the language tapes over and over to catch the subtle shifts in inflection. The D’Twung use a tonal language and convey some grammatical information through changes in pitch. There are sounds she knows she cannot make with her Human tongue, pitches she cannot reach. She has chosen her words carefully, planned her speech so that she can avoid concepts that would require those unattainable tonemes and phonemes.
She steps into the center of the village. The D’Twung females eye her suspiciously. They are tall, over two meters, with long, tapering legs and four arms. They wear short skirts fashioned of simple fibers, but their chests are bare, revealing two rows of breasts, running like teats down their torsos. Behind them scurry the males - small, shy things, rail thin and childlike, but for the heavy male genitals swinging between their legs. The have both a primary penis and two smaller secondary penes to either side.
The D’Twung display a high degree of sexual dimorphism. Aside from their disproportionately sized genitalia, the male D’Twung are smaller that the females and appear less developed. Their limited cranial capacity suggests less intelligence. Despite repeated attempts, we have been unable to establish communications with them either verbally or non-verbally. The females of the species treat the males with indifference. Aside from making sure the males are fed, and protected from local predators, the females seem to have little interest in them other than for sexual procreation. The males take no part in village cultural life and it is our theory that within the D’Twung culture their function is purely one of reproduction. - Dr. Ernest Janark, Seward Expedition
“Sha-shshes’ta’ah eya’uti,” Nyota begins, striving for her flageolet register in order to best mimic the whistling speech of the D’Twung. “Eya’utimi’av’eyat seetah veemaya.”
[“I am Sha-shshes’ta’ah. I have come here among you.”]
The females cock their heads and the twittering conversations among them increases. The pace is rapid and excited, but she perceives no threat in their tones. She catches a word here and there, but she is far from fluent in the D’Twung language. The females slap at the smaller males, sending them scurrying into the shadows.
“You have called to me. I come to walk with you here.”
Their tufted heads bob energetically. The level of chatter rises like a tide. One begins to chant, soon joined by others, “Ma’ha’tamoma oya’avoyat seetoya! Ma’ha’tamoma oya’avoyat seetoya Ma’ha’tamoma oya’avoyat seetoya!”
They are calling to their spiritual leader, the village wise one. Their high pitched voices are painful to Nyota’s ears, but she dares not show any sign of her discomfort.
She spies a movement on the edge of the village. The wise one is approaching. She is ancient. Nyota can tell by her slow, deliberate movements and the graying of her skin. Her eyes are sunken with age. Her limbs palsied. Nyota shudders to think of that shaky grip holding a blade to Jim Kirk’s throat. Not a quick killing slash then, more a tortuous sawing.
She derails that train of thought immediately.
She will not fail.
The wise one is accompanied by her apprentice, the Seyer’tee - a young female whose four arms help support her elder, assisting her as she traverses the distance from her hut on the far edge of the village.
Slowly they make their way to the village center. The wise one stops, and straightens her stooped back, seeming to take strength in Uhura’s presence. She waves aside the Seyer’tee and addresses Uhura in a weak, breathy voice.
Nyota listens carefully, translating as best she can. The spiritual leader’s ears are half mast. Neutral. Her use of tone on the word “avoyat” changes it from the statement, “You have come,” to an interrogative, “Why have you come?” Something like, “You come among us, mother? We are blessed by your presence.”
“My blessings are yours,” Nyota offers, spreading her hands. It is a precarious moment. Will the D’Twung accept a Sha-shshes’ta’ah who has only two arms and two breasts? Or will they see her as damaged in some way and attack her as a less than perfect image of their goddess?”
The Ma’ha’tamoma is studying her carefully, and Nyota is pretty certain how the Ma’ha’tamoma goes, the village goes. If this elderly D’Twung accepts her, then her followers will as well.
The wise one is tilting her head one way and another, and Nyota realizes the Ma’ha’tamom is trying to compensate for poor eyesight. This may work in Uhura’s favor. She hurries on, “Your people are blessed among the D’Twung. You serve them well, old one. I say this.”
The Ma’ha’tamoma finally makes a fluting noise, her ears prick, indicating acceptance, and Uhura allows herself to relax a fraction.
“Why have you come? Have we chocha’lyr [strayed? displeased?], mother?”
Tonal question.
It is hard to stick to a script when answering direct questions, but so far, she can answer with a few phrases she has memorized. “You called for me. You have an offering for me.” She varies her pitch to convey disagreement with the suggestion she is displeased.
The Ma’ha’tamoma flaps her ears enthusiastically over the truth of the statement. “Yes, we do.”
“So I come.”
“This one is strange.”
Nyota bites down on impatience. She wants this to be over. She wants to be gone from here, with Kirk, safely aboard the Enterprise. So many ways she could stumble here, so many opportunities for miscommunication. “I come for the offering,” she repeats, hoping to expedite the situation.
The Ma’ha’tamoma steps over to where Kirk is tied, her gait unsteady. One hand reaches out to touch the crown of his head while another traces a path down his flank. “It was found it the forests. It is unlike others.” Her tonemes are flat and her ears are held at neutral. Simple statements. She tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls his head up. It is so like Uhura’s ghastly visions that she cannot help but flinch and glance quickly to make sure the kerdiff is no where in sight.
“It is special,” she says, pleased her tone does not reflect her level of agitation. To do so could be disastrous as the intonation of anxiety could be read as threat among the D’Twung. “It called to me. It is a great gift.”
Kirk is alive. She can see that now. His face is slack, spittle tracking down one side of his chin. He makes a low, thick sound in his throat. Less an attempt at speech than a groan, half swallowed. Judging from the blown pupils, he has been drugged. That is going to complicate things.
The wise one flaps her ears. “It will be given. At the setting of the suns, we shall free its spirit unto you.”
She had been afraid of that. “Tread softly, girl,” she cautions herself. “I wish to take it with me.”
The Ma’ha’tamoma seems surprised, if pricked ears means surprise. “You wish to take it now?”
The pitch use is a clever cadence of question and astonishment.
“Yes,” Nyota feels the weight of eyes upon her. “I would take it now, with me.”
She is being watched, very carefully. A hush envelops the village. The Ma’ha’tamoma speaks. “That is not done.”
“Breathe,” Nyota tells herself. “You can do this. Modulate your tone.” No disrespect must color her words, but she must sound firm, authoritative. “I am Sha-shshes’ta’ah. My word is done.”
The hush stretches as Nyota and the Ma’ha’tamoma face off. The villagers wait, taking their cue from their mystical guide.
“Think,” Nyota silently exhorts the wise one. “You have named me Sha-shshes’ta’ah. If you question me now, you lose credibility. Don’t do it!”
The old head lowers. “We obey Sha-shshes’ta’ah.”
Nyota breathes out her relief. It is short-lived.
“We shall free its spirit now.” She signals the Seyer’tee who trots forward carrying the kerdiff and douha.
“Clever minx!” Nyota has to acknowledge a glimmer of admiration. Not that she can allow this, of course. She steps forward imperiously. “I do not wish you to free its spirit.”
Again the sharp look. The Ma’ha’tamoma is no fool. She knows something is not quite legitimate, but she has backed herself into a corner by accepting Uhura as the goddess before her people. This does not stop her from testing the limits of her power. “Why is this? Why do you ask such… sacrilege?” The ears are very flat now. Nyota detects the use of a timbre denoting anger. The generally neutral word dwo, meaning tree, is used to convey sacrilege.
And Uhura makes a decision.
Nyota Uhura is not impulsive by nature. Quite the contrary. At age ten, she knew she was destined to join Starfleet and began planning her life. She attended the right schools. Took the right courses. Met the right people. She fulfilled half her undergraduate requirements while still in secondary school. By age 19, she was well on her way to achieving her goal with a master’s degree in Xenolinguistics. She entered Starfleet Academy with her future mapped out. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. Her destiny was far too important to leave anything to chance.
Applying those same exacting standards and meticulous preparation to all aspects of her life, Nyota Uhura is not one to leap before she looks.
However, serving aboard the Enterprise under Jim Kirk has apparently rubbed off, because in that moment, Uhura plays a hunch.
She has read the logs of the Seward Expedition. She has studied the field notes and notations. She understands the conclusions that were drawn concerning the interplay between the D’Twung females and the smaller, less developed males.
And she has found herself reading between the lines.
Nyota thinks that just maybe, being female herself, she has garnered insights that the exclusively male complement of Seward scientists had failed to note. Something that they overlooked, dismissed, or which simply never occurred to them.
The D’Twung females mate with the males far more often than necessary for producing offspring, and they mate with them even when they are not fertile. The structure of the male genitals allows a single male to mate with multiple partners at once, which occurs not infrequently - often involving a mature female and two younger, female clan members.
The D’Twung females, Uhura suspects, simply enjoy sexual intercourse.
It’s a gamble, and Uhura does not gamble. If she is wrong, it could cost both her and Jim Kirk their lives. Yet, she finds herself answering, “I wish to mate with it.”
She hesitates a moment, then concludes, if she is going to gamble, she might as well go all in. “My need is great. I burn. I wish to take my pleasure with it.”
And the Ma’ha’tamoma curls her ears in humor. “Ah… so the suns are chehept [broken? inadequate?] ? They do not soola’lyr [perform? satisfy?] ?”
“They do not soola’eyauti’yr, Wise One.”
The old female chuffs.
Laughter, Nyota thinks. She was right!
“You wish this strange one?” Again, a long fingered hand tugs at Kirk’s hair. Another pinches his ear.
“I wish it. It pleases me.”
A third hand wraps around Kirk’s lone penis giving it an experimental yank.
He whines unhappily, and drools some more.
“It may be chehept. It is z’zeerhe [having deformed sex-parts?].” Curling ears.
Z’zeereh is it? Nyota files that away for future ammunition.
Keeping her features placid, she stands her ground. “I wish it.”
The Ma’ha’tamoma smacks her lips, considering. Ears perked to their fullest, she declares, “Then it shall be yours.” With an autocratic wave of all her arms, she orders the villagers to set Kirk free.
Nyota is there to catch him when they cut him down. He is deadweight, and nearly slides through her arms. Some of the villagers come forward to assist, but the Ma’ha’tamoma waves them away.
“She is Sha-shshes’ta’ah. She is glory. What need would a goddess have of help from those like us?”
“Damn bitch!” Nyota is now sure, the wise one is on to her. If she shows signs of weakness by dropping Kirk, it will prove she is not what she says she is. She will be revealed as an imposter, and they both will likely die in a very unpleasant manner.
Swiftly, she bends her knees, gets a good hold around his torso, and pulls him upwards, holding him against her chest. She looks into his face to find he is gazing blearily back at her. “Hey… ‘huu ura…” he slurs, then tries to smile. Only one side of his mouth lifts.
“Kirk,” she hisses, keeping her voice low. “You need to focus. I have to get you out of here. I need you to try staying on your feet. If you fall down, we both die. You got that?”
He peers at her intently, squinting, and wrinkling up his face. She can actually see her words slowly being processed. It is like watching a computer with a bad case of data fragmentation. Finally, his expression clears and he grins at her as though he’s just solved the meaning of life. “You’re naked!”
She rolls her eyes, and blows out a breath of exasperation. It looks like it’s going to be up to her. “Just shut up,” she spits. It is probably not ‘by the book’ to tell a superior to ‘shut up’, but seeing as this superior is James T. Kirk, and he is toasted, such a rebuke might just get though whereas something more subtle would not. At least that is what she will tell the Disciplinary Review Board if necessary.
She grasps one of his wrists and lifts his arm above his head. Her other arm supports his waist. He sways, but keeps his feet. So far so good.
“We gon…a’dance now?” he asks, owl-eyed. “I’m a’good dansher.”
She ignores him. Turning, she brings his arm over her shoulder, bending her knees so her shoulder slides under his arm pit. Letting go of his waist, she grasps his other wrist and lifts it over her other shoulder. Kirk ends up plastered against her back as she grips his wrists to keep him from sliding loose. “Thisss is nice…” he purrs in her ear, and she resists the urge to drive an elbow into his abdomen. She bends forward and lifts, taking most of his weight on her back. He is taller than she is, and his toes drag in the dust. It will have to do. Gingerly, she starts out of the village, methodically placing one foot in front of the other, seeking her balance.
The D’Twung watch her pass, twittering and whistling amongst themselves.
“One step at a time,” she tells herself. “Just walk. One step at a time.”
He is cumbersome. An awkward burden. He presses her down, and her footsteps are heavy.
“I can walk…” Kirk whines peevishly and kicks his feet. “P’me down.”
“Stop it!” she snarls under her breath as his bulk shifts precariously. “You can’t walk. You can barely stand. And I’m not going to get my throat cut because you want to play hero.”
He pouts a bit, then whimpers, “Bu’m’arms hurt.” When this doesn’t elicit any sympathy on her part, he wriggles in an effort to escape. “P’me dowwwwnnnn… I’mn’a cap’nin. Don’ you have t’do wh’ I say?”
She grips his arms tighter and squeezes hard, trying to convey urgency. “You’re going to get us both killed!”
He subsides a bit at that, and they make it to the edge of the village without incident. He seems to be gaining weight with each step she takes. Ahead lies an open field, which appears to stretch much farther than it did previously. Beyond that is the scrub forest.
“Now listen,” she says, taking a moment to catch her breath. “Are you listening?” Best to check, because with Kirk you can never be sure. He makes a soft little mewl of affirmation which she has to admit might be a bit adorable in a “kicked puppy” kind of way. “We have to make it across that field. And I have to carry you, and if I drop you, we are both dead. You with me?”
There’s a moment of silence, then, “Tha’sss’long way.”
“I know.”’
They start.
She feels lumbering, oppressed, ground down. His wrists are growing sweaty in her grip. She is fearful they will slip free. He will tumble to the ground, and the D’Twung will be upon them, a hoard driven by fury and need for vengeance.
She grits her teeth, and counts nineteen steps. Nineteen carefully placed, deliberate steps, before Kirk says anything else.
“Why’r y’naked?”
Nyota sighs and places one foot in front of the other, making sure both feet are firmly planted before she takes a new step. Of course, he would fixate on that. “Because I don’t have any clothes on.”
That holds him for five more steps. Her thighs are starting to quiver with the strain. They still have so far to go!
“Nn… why’m I’naked?” Plaintive query.
“Same… answer.”
She feels his breath in short little whuffs on the back of her neck. Is he laughing? “Y’r no f’n.”
Step by precious, painful step the forest grows closer. “I am rescuing your ass, sir. Fun… is optional.”
Yep, definitely giggling. “I think… m’drugged.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hums softly into her neck. It tickles. She feels something damp against her skin. “You’re drooling on me, Captain.”
“Hmmmm?” That seems to perk him up, and he lifts his head. “Mmm’ sorry.” Another step. Then, a sigh, followed by a non sequitur. “Y’smell good.”
She doesn’t dignify that comment with a reply.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
They’re not going to make it. She’s not carrying a man, she’s carrying twelve men. When did he get so beefy? He’s always seemed somewhat slight to her. Nothing slight about him now. Her breath is coming in short pants. Sweat is dripping into her eyes and she can’t wipe it away.
“So… Why’r we or’nge?”
Does he ever shut up? Nyota is tempted to just drop Kirk. Would serve him right. Instead, she shifts her hips slightly to adjust the balance of his ever increasing weight. “Because I am Sha-shshes’ta’ah, personification of the D’Twung… fertility goddess, and you… are meant as a sacrifice to me.”
She waits as that slowly percolates through his brain. His reply, when it finally emerges, is pathetically predicable. “Wait… so… like y’r this Sha’shee… Sha… this sexxy goddess… and I’m like… y’r boy toy?” He sounds delighted at the prospect.
She really should just drop him.
“Yes,” she puffs, “and as a… ritualistic sacrifice… you were to be… killed… roasted on a spit… and eaten… sir.”
Let him chew on that.
A moment of blessed silence. Then, “Oh.”
That seems to temporarily squelch his fervor. He remains quiet for several steps.
Then Uhura’s left foot comes down on a sharp stone and she stumbles. Kirk’s weight slides to one side, pulling her off balance, for a moment they teeter on the edge of disaster. Then, he brings his legs up and latches them around her hips. By grabbing the outside of his thighs, she is able to shift him and regain her footing.
For a moment, she just stands in the field, breathing hard, her limbs trembling in reaction. She is appalled to find herself on the verge of tears. Dammit! She can do this!
“Shit…” Kirk finally pants in her ear. “Tha’ was close.”
The edge of the forest seems both tantalizingly near and dishearteningly far.
“Y’ okay…?”
“Yes…” she gulps, hating the catch in her voice. “Yes. I’m… fine.” She tightens her hold and once again, sets her footsteps on the path to the trees. She wants a hot bath. She wants to scrub this shit off her skin and out of her hair. She wants a deep tissue massage with scented oil - something musky with a hint of sandalwood.
“Listen,” Kirk murmurs over her shoulder, and there is a gravity to his words that wasn’t there before. “Are y’listen…nin?”
Oddly, she finds herself smiling. “I’m listening.”
“If thin’s go… wrong. An’ y’drop me. I want you t’run. ‘kay? Y’run… an’ I’ll… hold ‘em off.”
The fact that this man can exasperate her so thoroughly one moment, and enchant her the next, never ceases to confound. “And how do you intend to hold off… an entire village of armed… angry D’Twung?” she asks, carefully placing her feet to avoid any more rocks. “You have no weapons… and you can barely… stand up.”
He considers. “I’ll use m’irresistable charm.”
She laughs, bright and quick. She can’t help it. The sound almost… but not quite… turns into a sob. “A formidable weapon, sir.”
There is humor and a familiar hint of smug Kirk confidence in his voice as it breaths into her ear. “I like t’think so.”
Then the edge of the forest is there, and they step through the first layer of trees, into dappled shadows that seclude them from the watching eyes of the D’Twung.
She takes two more steps, before letting Kirk slide from her back. Her legs are wobbling and she very much wants to sit down. A movement to her left startles her, but it is only Spock, rising up from a behind some bushes where he has been hunkered down, apparently monitoring their progress across the field. “Nyota…” He reaches out. His fingers hover near her upper arm but he stops short of touching her. “Are you well?”
She nods. “Yes, Commander.” But then Kirk is falling, knees folding beneath him. She tries to catch him, but Spock is faster, moving in that blur of speed that still amazes her, even now. Together, they lower Kirk to the ground.
“Hey, Spo ’k...” he slurs, grinning up at them, drugged and artless. “How’sit goin’?”
“Captain,” Spock replies, carefully cradling Kirk’s head on his folded knees. Then McCoy is there, bending over Kirk with tricorder whirring as he growls orders at Chapel, berates the captain and demanding Spock get them beamed aboard, all in a single breath.
Nyota feels something soft and warm envelop her, and turns to find Chekov placing a field jacket over her shoulders. “Maladyets!” He bubbles enthusiastically. “That was incredible!”
She smiles her thanks at him, and does not protest when he wraps and arm around her back and guides her to sit down on a nearby boulder. It has been a very long day.
PRIMARY:
Luteous (yellow)
Jim Kirk’s skin is luteous under the bridge lights.
The color is not becoming on him.
Admiral Christopher Pike leans closer to his desktop monitor and wishes he had made this call from one of the conference rooms. He could have had the Enterprise bridge plastered across the wall in big screen surround-sound then, and he wouldn’t be giving himself eyestrain trying to pick out telling details from a 19 inch screen.
“Kirk? Are you certain McCoy has released you from Sickbay? You look a little… off.” He squints at the monitor screen, and fingers the color settings control. He swears Kirk looks… yellow?
“I’m fine,” Kirk replies, shifting a bit self-consciously in his center seat. “Just some bumps and bruises. The D’Twung…”
“And two cracked ribs, torn shoulder ligaments, and damage to the rotator cuff,” Doctor McCoy’s grouses from somewhere off screen, overriding whatever Kirk had been about to add. “Not to mention being doped to the gills on some kind of local hooch… I don’t know why Spock even lets you beam down…”
“Doctor…” Kirk raises a hand, obviously hoping to curtail the rant.
“You’re like the poster-boy for Murphy’s Law… Jim Kirk, if anything can beat him, eat him, or mistreat him, it will.”
“Doctor, please…”
“…manage to get mugged on Disney’s Planet… I swear…”
“BONES!”
The good doctor finally subsides, and Pike manages, through long practice, to keep his amusement in check. He does love these calls to Enterprise. Almost as entertaining as introducing incoming Freshmen classes to Doctor Jhorish, their resident Deltan.
“I’m fine,” Kirk repeats, a bit more forcefully.
“You look…” Pike tries to think how to word it. “Like A Mellow Yellow Sunrise cocktail? Like the phototherapy booth went haywire? Like you’re trying to attract a mate on Hestus III?” He settles for, “…pale?” He is almost certain he hears someone snicker.
Kirk blushes, at least Pike thinks that accounts for the sudden bloom of orange in his cheeks. It’s hard to tell on a small desk computer. “Ah… yeah… no… It’s…” Kirk rubs a hand over his face. “The D’Twung painted me with some kind of local dye. It… it doesn’t wash off too well.”
“So you are yellow.”
Another uncomfortable squirm. “I’m… yellow. Yeah.”
This time Pike does allow himself to smile. “Well don’t have a face to face with of the inhabitants of Nanos. They consider yellow to indicate a desire to be thrown off Mount Gyethis in penance.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Probably where we’ll be ordered next…” he hears McCoy mutter in the back ground.
Definitely better than Doctor Jhorish, but it is time to get down to business.
“Look Kirk, why it is every time one of the Enterprise updates comes across my desk I end up with indigestion? Usually, just in time to ruin my lunch?”
Kirk shrugs. “It’s not personal, sir. Maybe you should save them to read till later in the day?”
“And ruin my dinner? Look. I’ve read through the reports and no one can say you didn’t follow the letter of the law this time. Yet, you still managed to convince an entire planet that their local deity put in a personal appearance, resulting in, and I quote from Doctor Horst’s log, ‘an explosion of religious fervor throughout the D’Twung society.’” He waggles a finger at the screen, hoping his expression is suitably foreboding. “How is that not interfering in the natural development of a pre-warp civilization?”
Kirk’s grip upon the arms of his chair is the only indication of his level of agitation as he addresses Pike in an even tone. “As per my orders, my crew did everything they could to avoid any interference with the indigenous natives of M-814. They used no advanced technology, and all interactions with the natives were within the constraints imposed by the D’Twung cultural mores. I support their actions, and take full responsibility for any unforeseen repercussions of their decisions.”
Pike has to give the kid credit, despite his youth, Kirk can pull off a fairly convincing air of gravitas when necessary.
The Admiral runs a finger across his upper lip. There is no gentle way to broach the next question. “Is it true they are sacrificing their own children, Jim?”
“No!” Jim Kirk bolts upright, and his already jaundiced skin tone blanches to an even more ghastly shade of icterine. Pike worries that he might actually get sick right there on the bridge. “That was… We thought...”
“It was a mistranslation, sir,” a female voice cuts in, with unvarnished directness.
Kirk spins to face someone that Pike assumes must be Lieutenant Uhura, the Enterprise’s resident communications genius.
“I thought you amended that?”
“I did.” Uhura steps into view, expression one of frank sincerity as she addresses Pike directly. “I’m sorry, sir. There should have been a clarifying statement in the attached addendum. The D’Twung word for child and animal are both formed with the syllable ‘bha’. It is the tonal stress which indicates the meaning. It was an error in the linguacode software.” Her hands clench at her sides, and Pike catches just a a bare hint of annoyance creeping into her tone. He wonders if it is aimed at the computer or herself. “It slipped through before I started personally vetting all translation tapes, sir.”
“I see. Thank you, Lieutenant. Apparently that addendum has yet to reach my desk.” His secretary is going to hear about this one. At least he doesn’t have the near impossible task of sugar-coating child sacrifice for Fleet command. That is a relief.
Pike folds his hands upon the desk in front of him and regards the visage of Starfleet’s youngest captain. As always, Pike is at a bit of a loss at how to deal with his brilliant but erratic protégé. He shakes his head. “You did everything by the book in this case, and the situation still went nova on you. I can’t decide if it’s a curse or a gift. This thing you do.”
“Sir… I…” The yellowish skin tones make Kirk look ill. And the morose expression plastered on his face doesn’t help matters.
“The captain can hardly be held accountable for the upsurge in D’Twung religious dogmatism.” Spock injects smoothly, coming to stand beside Kirk’s chair in a blatant demonstration of support. “The decision for Lieutenant Uhura to impersonate their local fertility goddess was mine alone…”
There is a sudden babble of protest from several bridge crew members, and Pike bites back a smile. Apparently, Kirk isn’t the only one who inspires loyalty on the Enterprise.
“Thus the responsibility is mine as well,” Spock continues in unflappable tones, as though unaware of the general hubbub around him. “At the time, we had few options.” A pregnant pause, “Unless, you are suggesting we should have allowed the D’Twung to exanguinate the captain.”
“Of course not, Spock!” Pike shoots an annoyed look at his former First. “Don’t be ridiculous. Though I can’t say I haven’t heard that sentiment expressed by some at HQ. It certainly would have saved me a few headaches…” He rubs a hand across his forehead and sighs, shifting his gaze out the window of his office. In the distance, he can see the fluttering display of colorful flags, each signifying membership in the Federation Of Planets. He specifically requested this view. It helps keep him focused. Keeps him from losing his way amidst Starfleet politics and Federation bureaucracy. Reminds him of his purpose.
“I told them it was a bad idea, trying to rein you in so sharply after Xenar IV.” His hand taps restless on his desk top. “But you worry them, Kirk. Your lack of restraint has them tossing in their beds at night, chasing worst case scenario phantoms in the dark.” He glances back at the display, at Kirk in command gold, flanked by McCoy, Uhura, and Spock. “Your success record speaks for itself, and I have reminded them a Vulcan first officer a good stopgap against reckless impulses, but that doesn’t stop some of them from demanding your wings get clipped.” He leans forward again, voice droll. “Right now they are debating what to do about you.”
Kirk is gazing down, but Pike can see his hands are knuckle white on his arm rests. When the young captain looks up again, his eyes are piercing, angry. His tone, however, is deceptively flat. “Why are we out here?” he asks, expression held careful neutral. “Tell me. Why does the Starfleet Charter read, ‘to boldly go where no man has gone before’? Why the motto, ‘Ex Astris Scienti’?” One hand waves, an artfully casual gesture meant to encompass the bridge, the ship, his crew… “Why send starships… send men and women… out here to explore space? Why even beam down to planets? Why ‘boldly go’ at all?” He leans forward in his chair, and the façade begins to slip, the real passion to peek through. “Let’s be honest here, sir. You and I both know, we can’t explore space, encounter new life forms, learn from new civilizations without interfering in some fashion or another. To do so is impossible. It’s meaningless.” His face hardens, his voice becomes more ardent, emblazoned with conviction. “If we want to strictly enforce the Prime Directive, then we shouldn’t even be out here! Starfleet shouldn’t exist. Right? How do you ‘keep the peace’ without interfering? Explain that to me, because, apparently, I can’t figure it out.” His fist thumps against the arm of his chair. “So which is it? Are we meant to venture forth and explore the far reaches of space… to… to learn… to grow… to reach for the stars? Or do we turn our backs on the lights… crawl back into our caves and pull the blankets over our heads. You tell me, sir!”
For a moment, Pike can only blink in the face of Kirk’s fervor. Then he sits back, and lifts his eyebrows to express both bemusement and admiration. “We just might make a starship captain out of you yet, Kirk.”
Kirk deflates a bit, looking somewhat chastened. “Sorry, sir.”
“So very young,” thinks Pike fondly. “Not at all,” he reassures Kirk. “That’s what we need out there - a zeal for finding truths and answers and uncovering new questions. I only wish you had been here to argue your case. I don’t think I did you justice.”
Kirk responds with a quirk of a smile. “I am sure you did just fine, sir. My sources say you have become quite the rabble-rouser around HQ.”
Pike cocks his head. “Your… sources?”
“Blackmail works wonders, sir.”
“Ah. I see.” He taps a knuckle absently against his lower lip. “Probably safer for both of us if you just leave it at that.”
Kirk grins. “Happy to, sir.”
“Umhm. Komack will likely be in touch soon. Try not to alienate him too much.” He tries to look what he imagines might be fatherly and knowing without being too obvious about it, because Kirk, he knows, is best approached obliquely. “And a little humility wouldn’t hurt. Rumor has it the Doyenne of Ishalmad is getting married and wants a Starfleet presence. And unless you have a thing for two day processions, bad music, dancing pigs and little girls dressed like fairies, you really don’t want that assignment.”
The grin is holding. “Understood.”
“Good luck. Pike out.” His finger comes down on the end button, and as the Enterprise bridge flickers and vanishes, he sits back with a sigh. Talks with Kirk always leave him feeling unsettled, dealing with a conflicting jumble of emotions.
Something about seeing that kid in the center seat that should have been his…
…if only.
Lots of ‘if onlys’ in the wake of Nero.
But Kirk is in the center seat, and doing a damn fine job. Maybe a better job than he himself would have done, Pike has to admit on those days he is feeling like being brutally honest.
And that rubs, no matter how much he tries to let it go.
Yet, he can’t help but be proud. He picked the kid up, set him on a path, and has watched him blaze a trail like a comet. Kirk is… special. There’s no getting around that. Pike has tried not to play favorites, tried to remain impartial, first as Kirk‘s instructor, and now as his superior, but Kirk is probably as close to a son as Pike will ever have. Knowing he’s out there, on the edge of space… knowing the statistical likelihood of something going wrong… reading the Enterprise logs…
Pike glances at the row of Planetary flags once more. In the past, when feeling restless like this, he would have gone for a job, worked off some tension doing laps on the Academy track.
But not now.
His PT says that with continued therapy, possibly some nano-tech and cybernetic-implants, he may eventually walk unaided again.
But his jogging days are over.
Another of those ‘if onlys’.
Still, he’s not without options. He signals his secretary. “May? Can you get Number One on the comm? Tell her I’ll take her up on that z-ball session in the new zero-G facility after all…. Yes, and tell her loser buys dinner. Right. Thanks.” He flicks off the switch, and gives one last look out the window before lurching to his feet. The servo-braces on his legs, power up with a nearly undetectable whine. Yet, he detects it, every time. Making sure he has the latest Enterprise logs downloaded onto his PADD he heads for the door, his tread slow and heavy with the braces. He reminds himself to stop on the way out and inquire about Uhura’s addendum to the M-814 translation tapes. In his head, he is already composing an update for Fleet Command.
Glossary: (With thanks to the various internet sources, and a bit of artistic license.)
(l) = latin
(r) = russian
(o) = other
Doctor Jhorish - (o) this joke won’t mean anything unless you know something about Deltan pheromones. Look it up at Star Trek Wiki: Memory Alpha
Ex Astris, Scientia - (l) from the stars, knowledge
maladyets - (r) Well done. Good job
Udachi - (r) good luck
COLORS:Chroma
TERTIARY:
Aurgulent (gold) & Vermillion (red-orange)
The shredded uniform is aurgulent.
It is stained with vermillion coloration.
Neither of these things bodes well.
Color flashes in the corner of Spock’s vision - a tawny scrap of gold amidst the umbers and sepias of the dusty earth. James T. Kirk has been missing exactly 1.23 hours when Commander Spock spies the castoff fabric snagged amongst the dried brush. He knows this because he is Vulcan, and his temporal sense is functioning with its usual efficiency, precisely calculating the amount of time that has passed since a flustered Ensign Maier of Security reported the Captain’s disappearance.
Grimly, Spock strides forward and crouches to examine the material. It is Kirk’s uniform shirt, or more accurately, what remains of Kirk’s shirt. It has been trampled and torn, and is smeared with streaks of red-orange pigment. There are also darker splotches - the rust of Human blood. He can smell the faint tang of iron. Spock lifts the wrinkled article of clothing and considers. He rubs the gold fabric between his thumb and fingers. The traces of blood are still damp. The ground around him has been disturbed, grasses flattened and brush ripped out by the roots. The dusty soil bears the marks of many feet and a general melee. There has been some sort of altercation here, and knowing what he does of James Kirk, Spock is 97.5 percent certain that the captain has been involved in some capacity. The 2.5 percent variance is an acknowledgement of the fact that when J.T. Kirk is involved, logic is not always decisive.
Spock presses his hand into the shallow depression in the dust. There is blood here too, darkening the soil. Someone has fallen, lain here, injured and bleeding.
Human blood.
Jim’s blood.
Spock closes his eyes and reaches out with his mind, searching, hoping to feel that brush of warmth and golden light, that vibrant undercurrent of mental energy he associates with James Kirk.
There is nothing.
He draws a quick, sharp breath in through his nose, and tamps down on the unwanted surge of negative emotions crowding his mind. It is unlikely he could detect Kirk’s aura at any distance. They are not bonded. Nor even linked. The captain’s mental signature, for all its vivacity, is no more pronounced than that of any other sentient being. Being unable to detect Kirk’s presence is essentially meaningless, and should not be viewed as indicative of any serious harm having befallen the captain.
His thoughts, though logical, are not convincing.
Mouth set and forbidding, Spock clenches his fist, crumpling the shirt in his hand. Dwelling on potential calamities is inefficacious, and will not expedite the situation. Having discovered a trail to follow will assuredly facilitate their search for the captain. Whether they will locate him in time to rescue him from whatever unfortunate situation he has managed to encounter this time has yet to be determined.
Unfolding, Spock rises and signals the nearest security guard. “I believe the captain has fallen prey to a D’Twung hunting party. We must ascertain his location and extract him from their custody before the suns set. Otherwise he will likely be sacrificed to satisfy their goddess of fertility.”
He takes grim satisfaction at how swiftly he is afforded the security team’s undivided attention.
SECONDARY:
Jacinthe (orange)
They paint her jacinthe, and she blazes in the sun.
She is a Starfleet officer, a xenolinguist, a communications expert, a singer…
…and sometimes a goddess.
Orange paint coats Nyota Uhura’s lean, naked body, from her slender, bare toes to the crown of her head. Scotty has assured her that the colorant is completely hypoallergenic and contains no harmful chemicals. Nevertheless, it itches. She resists the urge to scratch, as doing so will mar the effect. The shade is not an exact match to that produced by the dye from local blossoms mixed with clay, but it is as close as the Enterprise replicators can synthesize, and they have no time to concoct the organic form. The planet’s twin suns are sinking behind the distant mountain ranges, and when the double suns set, the sacrifice will take place - or at least that is what can be gleaned from the deplorably inadequate record logs filed by the Seward Expedition, the first and only exploratory anthropological expedition to their present location, planet M-814.
While discussing their upcoming mission with his advisory team, Kirk had expressed the opinion that the only reason any anthropological expedition had been sent to M-814 was because someone had discovered dilithium deposits on the planet. At the time, the Federation had been hungry for dilithium, and was far less likely to let a little thing like a non-interference policy get in the way of obtaining the rare mineral. “After all,” Kirk had tossed out while reviewing the Expedition’s records over coffee, “what is a little exploitation in the name of progress, right?” So the Seward Expedition was sent, and allowed to play nicely with the natives - probably in hopes the Federation could justify a presence on the planet in the name of, “saving the autochthons from their primitive conditions.” However, shortly thereafter, rich deposits of dilithium had been found on several other planets that didn’t harbor inconvenient indigenous populations, and the Expedition to M-814 was apparently filed and forgotten.
Until now.
Officially, they have been sent to M-814 in order to “ascertain whether there had been any negative impact upon the native peoples of M-814 due to the actions of the previous Seward Expedition.” However, Nyota suspects Doctor McCoy had been closer to the truth when he surmised, “The Federation must be running short on dilithium again.”
Nyota flexes her fingers and shifts from foot to foot, working off tension. McCoy and Christine Chapel are bent over a tricorder, making some kind of adjustments. Nearby, Pavel Chekov is quietly conversing with a pair of security officers. He is studiously trying to avoid gazing in her direction, and when he forgets, he blushes sweetly and ducks his head.
And Spock…
Spock is watching her with a hooded expression. His mouth is tight, a subtle but telling indication of his level of agitation. He is less than sanguine about their current solution, but admits that circumstances have left them few alternatives. He had argued to take her place, but the anthropological records were quite clear on at least one fact - that Sha-shshes’ta’ah, the divine fertility deity worshiped by the D’Twung - is female. Resplendent as he might be in his naked glory, Spock could never be mistaken for a female by the D’Twung, even given the slight variations in their forms from Human and Vulcan norms.
Ironically enough, it is Kirk’s own orders that have put them in this precarious position.
General Order 1 is quite specific. Members of Starfleet are to initiate no interference in the natural development of any pre-warp civilization, either through intervention or technological revelation. However, when one is exploring the distant reaches of space, far from the safe, hallowed halls of Starfleet central, it is sometimes expedient to apply a somewhat “creative” interpretation of the Prime Directive’s non-interference policy. After all, space is a big place, and contains all sorts of dangers that Starfleet policy makers, sitting behind their polished desks in their climate controlled offices back on Earth, cannot begin to imagine - or so professes James Kirk. And certainly, Kirk has been known to test the tensile nature of the Prime Directive on occasion, bending it as far as he can without outright breaking it - the most recent incident at Xenar IV being a prime example.
Using said “creative interpretation” Kirk had managed to salvage a situation that, by all indications, was spiraling towards complete disaster. However, despite the fact that the mission ultimately proved successful far beyond Starfleet’s initial aspirations, and that the Enterprise herself had absolutely nothing to do with the original forces that set the downward cascade of events into motion on Xenar IV, Starfleet still decided to file an official reprimand against one Captain James T. Kirk. The fallout was unpleasant for everyone involved.
“The High-and-mighty muckety-mucks jerked a knot in his tail. That’s for damn-sure certain.” The string of colorful colloquialisms had done nothing to lighten the bitterness of McCoy’s tone as he’d described the incident to Uhura while treating her for injuries sustained planetside. She herself had missed Starfleet’s scathing rebuke of the Captain due to being ensconced in Sickbay.
“Had Jim squirming like a worm in hot ashes! Damn bureaucrats! What the hell do they know about what it is like out here? As useless as teats on a boar-hog.” McCoy’s expression had been furious as he ranted, his orders to his nurses expressed in snarls rather than words, but none of his agitation had reached his hands. He had tended Uhura’s wounds with surprising gentleness.
“Jim saved a dozen lives today. More if you consider what was likely to have happened if that crazy-ass Xenang had declared war on his people. Poor kid shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of shit…” Then catching Uhura’s eye, McCoy had flushed, and stumbled a bit. “Um.. sorry, my dear. My momma would have had a conniption if she heard me using language like that in front of a lady.”
Delighted, Uhura had laughed at the contradiction of being called a ‘lady’ when she was receiving medical care for wounds received in what amounted to a no-holds-barred free for all. She regretted not having been on the bridge monitoring communications when Kirk was being castigated. She was fairly certain she could have found a way to “lose” the transmission without it looking too suspicious.
Unfortunately, she had been unavailable, and thus the entire bridge crew had been privy to the very public censure of their captain. Kirk himself had sat silent and pale during the scolding. As the disapproving faces of his superiors had faded from the bridge screen, he had taken a single deep breath, risen slowly from the command chair and turned to Spock. “You have the bridge,” he’d authorized, voice strained. Those soft words had broken the stunned silence, and the bridge had erupted into aggrieved chatter, but Kirk had vanished into the turbolift. For hours, there were reports of him wandering the halls of the ship like an insubstantial specter, expression so pensive and forbidding that no one had dared approach him.
Whether Kirk had eventually spoken to anyone about what had occurred, Uhura did not know. She’d tried asking Spock, but despite their close friendship, the Vulcan could chose to be about as communicative as a faulty Feinberg receiver. If Kirk had spoken to him, he wasn’t sharing. The captain certainly never mentioned the reprimand again while on the bridge. However, upon their arrival at M-814 it became obvious just how much the dressing down truly had affected him.
***
“The initial landing party will consist of two security personnel, a scientific adviser to be recommended by Commander Spock, biocultural anthropologist Arif and sociocultural anthropologist Horst…”
Nyota Uhura’s fingers flew across the face of her PADD. She had uploaded the necessary mission synopsis and background information before the task briefing, but needed to access the appropriate personnel files indicated by Kirk.
“…and myself.” Blue eyes flickered in Spock’s direction. “Spock, you’ll have the con.” The final words came in a rush. And Kirk was half out of his chair before Spock was able to react.
As expected, he was less than receptive. “Captain,” long fingered hands splayed across the top of the conference table as Spock leaned forward. “I must once again point out that, as the captain of the Enterprise, it is inadvisable…”
“Yeah, yeah… “Kirk held up a censoring hand, cutting off his First Officer while sharing a bright smile of fellowship with the rest of the advisory team gathered around the table. “I know. I’ve heard it before. We’ve all heard it before. And as usual, you know I fully respect the logic of your suggestions, and will give them due consideration. And then do what I damn well please.” He barely glanced in Spock’s direction, keeping his eyes averted. “So why don’t we, just this once, save time and skip to the part where I do, ‘what I damn well please’.”
‘Coward,’ thought Nyota, with a huff of exasperation. She shot a sympathetic look in Spock’s direction. Others might miss it, but she could detect a faint hint of hurt in the thinning of his lips.
“As your First Officer, it is my duty…”
“Yes…” interrupted Kirk once more. “And you do it quite well. Consider your obligations to upholding the unshakable standards of Starfleet regulations noted and logged. Thank you, Mister Spock.”
An awkward silence shrouded the table, as Spock sank back in his seat, looking somewhat at a loss. Nyota’s lips parted slightly in surprise. Recalling their earlier conversation in Sickbay, she exchanged a quick glance with McCoy. He replied with a bare nod of acknowledgment and went back to watching Kirk with that thoughtful, narrowed expression that meant he was in the middle of running one of his personal diagnostics on Jim’s screwed up psyche. Obviously, the smack down from Starfleet had affected their captain more deeply that they had realized.
“Now if that is all,” Kirk brazened on, either oblivious to the tension, or, more likely, just trying to nullify it by sheer will, “there is one more stipulation I want to make clear. Under no circumstances are the members of the landing party to seek out contact with the natives of M-814. We are here to observe and nothing more. Furthermore, I am putting a restriction upon the use of all forms of technology. Communicators, tricorder, and phasers are strictly prohibited. We go down tech-naked.”
This announcement resulted in a sudden clamor of muttered commentary, but Kirk sailed on without a hitch. “McCoy will inject us with subcutaneous transponders, and beam up will be based upon preset time and location criteria. We are not to interfere with this culture in any way. The natives of M-814 should never even know we were there. Is that understood?”
***
Oh, they had understood all right, but that didn’t mean they were all in agreement. There had been numerous voices of dissent around the table, but they had been given the same brusque dismissal as Spock.
So it was that Kirk was unable to call for assistance when attacked by the D’Twung hunting party. And Ensign Maier was unable to report Kirk missing until he and the rest of the landing party were transported aboard from the designated beam-up site at the proscribed time. And by then, the crew was unable to simply beam the captain aboard, because doing so would expose the natives to transporter technology.
So they were, as Mister Scott put it, totally bollocked.
Which is why Nyota, covered in orange paint, is standing naked upon the surface of planet M-841 and wishing it weren’t quite so obvious to everyone present that she found the evening air a bit chilly.
“Damn you, Jim Kirk, “ she mutters under her breath, already planning the ways in which he is going to make this up to her - and he will make this up to her, because she won’t even consider the possibility that their plan will not succeed. She will get him back, alive and in one piece, and she will make him kiss her perfectly pedicured feet for putting her through this.
She will make this happen. If she doesn’t she is afraid Spock will do something reckless, Starfleet regs be damned. Aboard the Enterprise, it is understood that Commander Spock is somewhat compromised when it comes to the well being of James T. Kirk, despite his efforts to pretend otherwise, and reckless Vulcans are not to be taken lightly.
Spock steps closer, into her personal space. It is deliberate. Vulcans do not accidentally violate personal boundaries. It is his way of acknowledging intimacy.
“Lieutenant, are you prepared?”
She straightens her back, noting how, as always, his presence inspires both passion and propriety. It seems incongruous, yet it is not.
“Yes, Commander.” She shakes tension out of her hands. “I’ll bring him back.”
He looks at her then, face inscrutable in the fading light. “I have no doubt that you intend to. However, should you feel you are at risk, I order you to withdraw, even if it means failure to obtain your objective.”
She firms her jaw and repeats, “I will bring him back, sir.”
For a moment, he just watches her, then steps aside with a brief nod. “Very well. Proceed.”
McCoy nods his own well wishes, and at his side, Christine gives her a subtle two thumbs-up.
“Udachi!” enthuses Pavel from his position between two security personnel, his smile bright and guileless. Then apparently remembering she is unclothed, his eyes go comically wide before he snaps them shut. It is that she brings with her as she steps into the thorny, scrub forest.
She finds him tied to poles in the center of the D’Twung village. The inhabitants step aside, conversing in their lyrical flute-like language while she approaches. Like her, he is stripped naked, his body smeared with vermillion pigment. She can see deep bruising and abraded skin beneath the coloration. There is a wide gash above one hip, perhaps from a knife or one of the D’Twung hunting spears. From the traces of dried blood smeared across his hip and groin, the wound obviously bled freely. Now, however, it is beginning to clot. Small flying insects land and crawl across the torn flesh. Kirk’s arms are secured behind his back, strapped to a cross beam that stretches above his head. The position forces him forward at an awkward angle, threatening to dislocate his shoulders. His feet barely brush the ground. It is brutal. She has to check herself to keep from reacting.
His head is down, hanging. She cannot tell if he is breathing.
She has read the log entries of the previous expedition. She knows how this will go.
When the twin suns of the planet begin to disappear behind the Chu’at Mountains, the local Ma’ha’tamoma (wise one) will approach the center of the village to oversee the ritual sacrifice to the goddess Sha-shshes’ta’ah. The village females, from child to adult, will stand in a circle to witness the event. The smaller males will be banished to the thatched mud huts. They are deemed unworthy to participate in the sacred event. The females will begin to sing the shandalif’tah - the song of the sacred gifts. The Ma’ha’tamoma will take her kerdiff (sacred stone blade) in one of her left arms. In one right arm, she will hold the douha (the bowl of life). With her remaining arms, she will restrain the sacrificial animal.
The Ma’ha’tamoma will grasp Jim Kirk by the hair and lift his head, baring his throat to the blade.
Then she will use her kerdiff to cut the animal’s throat.
The knife will carve a path across Jim’s neck, slicing through flesh as easily as parting a ripe mango. If he is still alive and aware, he will try to scream, desperate, terrified. He will choke on his own blood.
She will catch some of the blood in the douha.
Jim’s blood will spatter in the soft dust at the Ma’ha’tamoma’s feet, while she holds the carved bowl out to catch some of the draining life fluid. Jim will become disoriented, lose consciousness…
and die.
The douha will be passed among the females, so that they may drink of the sacred fluid.
They will drink Jim’s blood.
Then the sacrificial animal will be roasted and consumed in a ritual feast.
They will burn Jim’s body and eat his flesh.
The sacrifice will assure good hunting for the coming turn of the season, approximately forty days standard. - Dr. Izum, Seward Expedition
Yes, Nyota has read the logs. She knows how this will go.
Therefore, she must get things right, because getting things wrong is not an option.
She has rehearsed her lines carefully, listening to the language tapes over and over to catch the subtle shifts in inflection. The D’Twung use a tonal language and convey some grammatical information through changes in pitch. There are sounds she knows she cannot make with her Human tongue, pitches she cannot reach. She has chosen her words carefully, planned her speech so that she can avoid concepts that would require those unattainable tonemes and phonemes.
She steps into the center of the village. The D’Twung females eye her suspiciously. They are tall, over two meters, with long, tapering legs and four arms. They wear short skirts fashioned of simple fibers, but their chests are bare, revealing two rows of breasts, running like teats down their torsos. Behind them scurry the males - small, shy things, rail thin and childlike, but for the heavy male genitals swinging between their legs. The have both a primary penis and two smaller secondary penes to either side.
The D’Twung display a high degree of sexual dimorphism. Aside from their disproportionately sized genitalia, the male D’Twung are smaller that the females and appear less developed. Their limited cranial capacity suggests less intelligence. Despite repeated attempts, we have been unable to establish communications with them either verbally or non-verbally. The females of the species treat the males with indifference. Aside from making sure the males are fed, and protected from local predators, the females seem to have little interest in them other than for sexual procreation. The males take no part in village cultural life and it is our theory that within the D’Twung culture their function is purely one of reproduction. - Dr. Ernest Janark, Seward Expedition
“Sha-shshes’ta’ah eya’uti,” Nyota begins, striving for her flageolet register in order to best mimic the whistling speech of the D’Twung. “Eya’utimi’av’eyat seetah veemaya.”
[“I am Sha-shshes’ta’ah. I have come here among you.”]
The females cock their heads and the twittering conversations among them increases. The pace is rapid and excited, but she perceives no threat in their tones. She catches a word here and there, but she is far from fluent in the D’Twung language. The females slap at the smaller males, sending them scurrying into the shadows.
“You have called to me. I come to walk with you here.”
Their tufted heads bob energetically. The level of chatter rises like a tide. One begins to chant, soon joined by others, “Ma’ha’tamoma oya’avoyat seetoya! Ma’ha’tamoma oya’avoyat seetoya Ma’ha’tamoma oya’avoyat seetoya!”
They are calling to their spiritual leader, the village wise one. Their high pitched voices are painful to Nyota’s ears, but she dares not show any sign of her discomfort.
She spies a movement on the edge of the village. The wise one is approaching. She is ancient. Nyota can tell by her slow, deliberate movements and the graying of her skin. Her eyes are sunken with age. Her limbs palsied. Nyota shudders to think of that shaky grip holding a blade to Jim Kirk’s throat. Not a quick killing slash then, more a tortuous sawing.
She derails that train of thought immediately.
She will not fail.
The wise one is accompanied by her apprentice, the Seyer’tee - a young female whose four arms help support her elder, assisting her as she traverses the distance from her hut on the far edge of the village.
Slowly they make their way to the village center. The wise one stops, and straightens her stooped back, seeming to take strength in Uhura’s presence. She waves aside the Seyer’tee and addresses Uhura in a weak, breathy voice.
Nyota listens carefully, translating as best she can. The spiritual leader’s ears are half mast. Neutral. Her use of tone on the word “avoyat” changes it from the statement, “You have come,” to an interrogative, “Why have you come?” Something like, “You come among us, mother? We are blessed by your presence.”
“My blessings are yours,” Nyota offers, spreading her hands. It is a precarious moment. Will the D’Twung accept a Sha-shshes’ta’ah who has only two arms and two breasts? Or will they see her as damaged in some way and attack her as a less than perfect image of their goddess?”
The Ma’ha’tamoma is studying her carefully, and Nyota is pretty certain how the Ma’ha’tamoma goes, the village goes. If this elderly D’Twung accepts her, then her followers will as well.
The wise one is tilting her head one way and another, and Nyota realizes the Ma’ha’tamom is trying to compensate for poor eyesight. This may work in Uhura’s favor. She hurries on, “Your people are blessed among the D’Twung. You serve them well, old one. I say this.”
The Ma’ha’tamoma finally makes a fluting noise, her ears prick, indicating acceptance, and Uhura allows herself to relax a fraction.
“Why have you come? Have we chocha’lyr [strayed? displeased?], mother?”
Tonal question.
It is hard to stick to a script when answering direct questions, but so far, she can answer with a few phrases she has memorized. “You called for me. You have an offering for me.” She varies her pitch to convey disagreement with the suggestion she is displeased.
The Ma’ha’tamoma flaps her ears enthusiastically over the truth of the statement. “Yes, we do.”
“So I come.”
“This one is strange.”
Nyota bites down on impatience. She wants this to be over. She wants to be gone from here, with Kirk, safely aboard the Enterprise. So many ways she could stumble here, so many opportunities for miscommunication. “I come for the offering,” she repeats, hoping to expedite the situation.
The Ma’ha’tamoma steps over to where Kirk is tied, her gait unsteady. One hand reaches out to touch the crown of his head while another traces a path down his flank. “It was found it the forests. It is unlike others.” Her tonemes are flat and her ears are held at neutral. Simple statements. She tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls his head up. It is so like Uhura’s ghastly visions that she cannot help but flinch and glance quickly to make sure the kerdiff is no where in sight.
“It is special,” she says, pleased her tone does not reflect her level of agitation. To do so could be disastrous as the intonation of anxiety could be read as threat among the D’Twung. “It called to me. It is a great gift.”
Kirk is alive. She can see that now. His face is slack, spittle tracking down one side of his chin. He makes a low, thick sound in his throat. Less an attempt at speech than a groan, half swallowed. Judging from the blown pupils, he has been drugged. That is going to complicate things.
The wise one flaps her ears. “It will be given. At the setting of the suns, we shall free its spirit unto you.”
She had been afraid of that. “Tread softly, girl,” she cautions herself. “I wish to take it with me.”
The Ma’ha’tamoma seems surprised, if pricked ears means surprise. “You wish to take it now?”
The pitch use is a clever cadence of question and astonishment.
“Yes,” Nyota feels the weight of eyes upon her. “I would take it now, with me.”
She is being watched, very carefully. A hush envelops the village. The Ma’ha’tamoma speaks. “That is not done.”
“Breathe,” Nyota tells herself. “You can do this. Modulate your tone.” No disrespect must color her words, but she must sound firm, authoritative. “I am Sha-shshes’ta’ah. My word is done.”
The hush stretches as Nyota and the Ma’ha’tamoma face off. The villagers wait, taking their cue from their mystical guide.
“Think,” Nyota silently exhorts the wise one. “You have named me Sha-shshes’ta’ah. If you question me now, you lose credibility. Don’t do it!”
The old head lowers. “We obey Sha-shshes’ta’ah.”
Nyota breathes out her relief. It is short-lived.
“We shall free its spirit now.” She signals the Seyer’tee who trots forward carrying the kerdiff and douha.
“Clever minx!” Nyota has to acknowledge a glimmer of admiration. Not that she can allow this, of course. She steps forward imperiously. “I do not wish you to free its spirit.”
Again the sharp look. The Ma’ha’tamoma is no fool. She knows something is not quite legitimate, but she has backed herself into a corner by accepting Uhura as the goddess before her people. This does not stop her from testing the limits of her power. “Why is this? Why do you ask such… sacrilege?” The ears are very flat now. Nyota detects the use of a timbre denoting anger. The generally neutral word dwo, meaning tree, is used to convey sacrilege.
And Uhura makes a decision.
Nyota Uhura is not impulsive by nature. Quite the contrary. At age ten, she knew she was destined to join Starfleet and began planning her life. She attended the right schools. Took the right courses. Met the right people. She fulfilled half her undergraduate requirements while still in secondary school. By age 19, she was well on her way to achieving her goal with a master’s degree in Xenolinguistics. She entered Starfleet Academy with her future mapped out. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. Her destiny was far too important to leave anything to chance.
Applying those same exacting standards and meticulous preparation to all aspects of her life, Nyota Uhura is not one to leap before she looks.
However, serving aboard the Enterprise under Jim Kirk has apparently rubbed off, because in that moment, Uhura plays a hunch.
She has read the logs of the Seward Expedition. She has studied the field notes and notations. She understands the conclusions that were drawn concerning the interplay between the D’Twung females and the smaller, less developed males.
And she has found herself reading between the lines.
Nyota thinks that just maybe, being female herself, she has garnered insights that the exclusively male complement of Seward scientists had failed to note. Something that they overlooked, dismissed, or which simply never occurred to them.
The D’Twung females mate with the males far more often than necessary for producing offspring, and they mate with them even when they are not fertile. The structure of the male genitals allows a single male to mate with multiple partners at once, which occurs not infrequently - often involving a mature female and two younger, female clan members.
The D’Twung females, Uhura suspects, simply enjoy sexual intercourse.
It’s a gamble, and Uhura does not gamble. If she is wrong, it could cost both her and Jim Kirk their lives. Yet, she finds herself answering, “I wish to mate with it.”
She hesitates a moment, then concludes, if she is going to gamble, she might as well go all in. “My need is great. I burn. I wish to take my pleasure with it.”
And the Ma’ha’tamoma curls her ears in humor. “Ah… so the suns are chehept [broken? inadequate?] ? They do not soola’lyr [perform? satisfy?] ?”
“They do not soola’eyauti’yr, Wise One.”
The old female chuffs.
Laughter, Nyota thinks. She was right!
“You wish this strange one?” Again, a long fingered hand tugs at Kirk’s hair. Another pinches his ear.
“I wish it. It pleases me.”
A third hand wraps around Kirk’s lone penis giving it an experimental yank.
He whines unhappily, and drools some more.
“It may be chehept. It is z’zeerhe [having deformed sex-parts?].” Curling ears.
Z’zeereh is it? Nyota files that away for future ammunition.
Keeping her features placid, she stands her ground. “I wish it.”
The Ma’ha’tamoma smacks her lips, considering. Ears perked to their fullest, she declares, “Then it shall be yours.” With an autocratic wave of all her arms, she orders the villagers to set Kirk free.
Nyota is there to catch him when they cut him down. He is deadweight, and nearly slides through her arms. Some of the villagers come forward to assist, but the Ma’ha’tamoma waves them away.
“She is Sha-shshes’ta’ah. She is glory. What need would a goddess have of help from those like us?”
“Damn bitch!” Nyota is now sure, the wise one is on to her. If she shows signs of weakness by dropping Kirk, it will prove she is not what she says she is. She will be revealed as an imposter, and they both will likely die in a very unpleasant manner.
Swiftly, she bends her knees, gets a good hold around his torso, and pulls him upwards, holding him against her chest. She looks into his face to find he is gazing blearily back at her. “Hey… ‘huu ura…” he slurs, then tries to smile. Only one side of his mouth lifts.
“Kirk,” she hisses, keeping her voice low. “You need to focus. I have to get you out of here. I need you to try staying on your feet. If you fall down, we both die. You got that?”
He peers at her intently, squinting, and wrinkling up his face. She can actually see her words slowly being processed. It is like watching a computer with a bad case of data fragmentation. Finally, his expression clears and he grins at her as though he’s just solved the meaning of life. “You’re naked!”
She rolls her eyes, and blows out a breath of exasperation. It looks like it’s going to be up to her. “Just shut up,” she spits. It is probably not ‘by the book’ to tell a superior to ‘shut up’, but seeing as this superior is James T. Kirk, and he is toasted, such a rebuke might just get though whereas something more subtle would not. At least that is what she will tell the Disciplinary Review Board if necessary.
She grasps one of his wrists and lifts his arm above his head. Her other arm supports his waist. He sways, but keeps his feet. So far so good.
“We gon…a’dance now?” he asks, owl-eyed. “I’m a’good dansher.”
She ignores him. Turning, she brings his arm over her shoulder, bending her knees so her shoulder slides under his arm pit. Letting go of his waist, she grasps his other wrist and lifts it over her other shoulder. Kirk ends up plastered against her back as she grips his wrists to keep him from sliding loose. “Thisss is nice…” he purrs in her ear, and she resists the urge to drive an elbow into his abdomen. She bends forward and lifts, taking most of his weight on her back. He is taller than she is, and his toes drag in the dust. It will have to do. Gingerly, she starts out of the village, methodically placing one foot in front of the other, seeking her balance.
The D’Twung watch her pass, twittering and whistling amongst themselves.
“One step at a time,” she tells herself. “Just walk. One step at a time.”
He is cumbersome. An awkward burden. He presses her down, and her footsteps are heavy.
“I can walk…” Kirk whines peevishly and kicks his feet. “P’me down.”
“Stop it!” she snarls under her breath as his bulk shifts precariously. “You can’t walk. You can barely stand. And I’m not going to get my throat cut because you want to play hero.”
He pouts a bit, then whimpers, “Bu’m’arms hurt.” When this doesn’t elicit any sympathy on her part, he wriggles in an effort to escape. “P’me dowwwwnnnn… I’mn’a cap’nin. Don’ you have t’do wh’ I say?”
She grips his arms tighter and squeezes hard, trying to convey urgency. “You’re going to get us both killed!”
He subsides a bit at that, and they make it to the edge of the village without incident. He seems to be gaining weight with each step she takes. Ahead lies an open field, which appears to stretch much farther than it did previously. Beyond that is the scrub forest.
“Now listen,” she says, taking a moment to catch her breath. “Are you listening?” Best to check, because with Kirk you can never be sure. He makes a soft little mewl of affirmation which she has to admit might be a bit adorable in a “kicked puppy” kind of way. “We have to make it across that field. And I have to carry you, and if I drop you, we are both dead. You with me?”
There’s a moment of silence, then, “Tha’sss’long way.”
“I know.”’
They start.
She feels lumbering, oppressed, ground down. His wrists are growing sweaty in her grip. She is fearful they will slip free. He will tumble to the ground, and the D’Twung will be upon them, a hoard driven by fury and need for vengeance.
She grits her teeth, and counts nineteen steps. Nineteen carefully placed, deliberate steps, before Kirk says anything else.
“Why’r y’naked?”
Nyota sighs and places one foot in front of the other, making sure both feet are firmly planted before she takes a new step. Of course, he would fixate on that. “Because I don’t have any clothes on.”
That holds him for five more steps. Her thighs are starting to quiver with the strain. They still have so far to go!
“Nn… why’m I’naked?” Plaintive query.
“Same… answer.”
She feels his breath in short little whuffs on the back of her neck. Is he laughing? “Y’r no f’n.”
Step by precious, painful step the forest grows closer. “I am rescuing your ass, sir. Fun… is optional.”
Yep, definitely giggling. “I think… m’drugged.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hums softly into her neck. It tickles. She feels something damp against her skin. “You’re drooling on me, Captain.”
“Hmmmm?” That seems to perk him up, and he lifts his head. “Mmm’ sorry.” Another step. Then, a sigh, followed by a non sequitur. “Y’smell good.”
She doesn’t dignify that comment with a reply.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Step.
They’re not going to make it. She’s not carrying a man, she’s carrying twelve men. When did he get so beefy? He’s always seemed somewhat slight to her. Nothing slight about him now. Her breath is coming in short pants. Sweat is dripping into her eyes and she can’t wipe it away.
“So… Why’r we or’nge?”
Does he ever shut up? Nyota is tempted to just drop Kirk. Would serve him right. Instead, she shifts her hips slightly to adjust the balance of his ever increasing weight. “Because I am Sha-shshes’ta’ah, personification of the D’Twung… fertility goddess, and you… are meant as a sacrifice to me.”
She waits as that slowly percolates through his brain. His reply, when it finally emerges, is pathetically predicable. “Wait… so… like y’r this Sha’shee… Sha… this sexxy goddess… and I’m like… y’r boy toy?” He sounds delighted at the prospect.
She really should just drop him.
“Yes,” she puffs, “and as a… ritualistic sacrifice… you were to be… killed… roasted on a spit… and eaten… sir.”
Let him chew on that.
A moment of blessed silence. Then, “Oh.”
That seems to temporarily squelch his fervor. He remains quiet for several steps.
Then Uhura’s left foot comes down on a sharp stone and she stumbles. Kirk’s weight slides to one side, pulling her off balance, for a moment they teeter on the edge of disaster. Then, he brings his legs up and latches them around her hips. By grabbing the outside of his thighs, she is able to shift him and regain her footing.
For a moment, she just stands in the field, breathing hard, her limbs trembling in reaction. She is appalled to find herself on the verge of tears. Dammit! She can do this!
“Shit…” Kirk finally pants in her ear. “Tha’ was close.”
The edge of the forest seems both tantalizingly near and dishearteningly far.
“Y’ okay…?”
“Yes…” she gulps, hating the catch in her voice. “Yes. I’m… fine.” She tightens her hold and once again, sets her footsteps on the path to the trees. She wants a hot bath. She wants to scrub this shit off her skin and out of her hair. She wants a deep tissue massage with scented oil - something musky with a hint of sandalwood.
“Listen,” Kirk murmurs over her shoulder, and there is a gravity to his words that wasn’t there before. “Are y’listen…nin?”
Oddly, she finds herself smiling. “I’m listening.”
“If thin’s go… wrong. An’ y’drop me. I want you t’run. ‘kay? Y’run… an’ I’ll… hold ‘em off.”
The fact that this man can exasperate her so thoroughly one moment, and enchant her the next, never ceases to confound. “And how do you intend to hold off… an entire village of armed… angry D’Twung?” she asks, carefully placing her feet to avoid any more rocks. “You have no weapons… and you can barely… stand up.”
He considers. “I’ll use m’irresistable charm.”
She laughs, bright and quick. She can’t help it. The sound almost… but not quite… turns into a sob. “A formidable weapon, sir.”
There is humor and a familiar hint of smug Kirk confidence in his voice as it breaths into her ear. “I like t’think so.”
Then the edge of the forest is there, and they step through the first layer of trees, into dappled shadows that seclude them from the watching eyes of the D’Twung.
She takes two more steps, before letting Kirk slide from her back. Her legs are wobbling and she very much wants to sit down. A movement to her left startles her, but it is only Spock, rising up from a behind some bushes where he has been hunkered down, apparently monitoring their progress across the field. “Nyota…” He reaches out. His fingers hover near her upper arm but he stops short of touching her. “Are you well?”
She nods. “Yes, Commander.” But then Kirk is falling, knees folding beneath him. She tries to catch him, but Spock is faster, moving in that blur of speed that still amazes her, even now. Together, they lower Kirk to the ground.
“Hey, Spo ’k...” he slurs, grinning up at them, drugged and artless. “How’sit goin’?”
“Captain,” Spock replies, carefully cradling Kirk’s head on his folded knees. Then McCoy is there, bending over Kirk with tricorder whirring as he growls orders at Chapel, berates the captain and demanding Spock get them beamed aboard, all in a single breath.
Nyota feels something soft and warm envelop her, and turns to find Chekov placing a field jacket over her shoulders. “Maladyets!” He bubbles enthusiastically. “That was incredible!”
She smiles her thanks at him, and does not protest when he wraps and arm around her back and guides her to sit down on a nearby boulder. It has been a very long day.
PRIMARY:
Luteous (yellow)
Jim Kirk’s skin is luteous under the bridge lights.
The color is not becoming on him.
Admiral Christopher Pike leans closer to his desktop monitor and wishes he had made this call from one of the conference rooms. He could have had the Enterprise bridge plastered across the wall in big screen surround-sound then, and he wouldn’t be giving himself eyestrain trying to pick out telling details from a 19 inch screen.
“Kirk? Are you certain McCoy has released you from Sickbay? You look a little… off.” He squints at the monitor screen, and fingers the color settings control. He swears Kirk looks… yellow?
“I’m fine,” Kirk replies, shifting a bit self-consciously in his center seat. “Just some bumps and bruises. The D’Twung…”
“And two cracked ribs, torn shoulder ligaments, and damage to the rotator cuff,” Doctor McCoy’s grouses from somewhere off screen, overriding whatever Kirk had been about to add. “Not to mention being doped to the gills on some kind of local hooch… I don’t know why Spock even lets you beam down…”
“Doctor…” Kirk raises a hand, obviously hoping to curtail the rant.
“You’re like the poster-boy for Murphy’s Law… Jim Kirk, if anything can beat him, eat him, or mistreat him, it will.”
“Doctor, please…”
“…manage to get mugged on Disney’s Planet… I swear…”
“BONES!”
The good doctor finally subsides, and Pike manages, through long practice, to keep his amusement in check. He does love these calls to Enterprise. Almost as entertaining as introducing incoming Freshmen classes to Doctor Jhorish, their resident Deltan.
“I’m fine,” Kirk repeats, a bit more forcefully.
“You look…” Pike tries to think how to word it. “Like A Mellow Yellow Sunrise cocktail? Like the phototherapy booth went haywire? Like you’re trying to attract a mate on Hestus III?” He settles for, “…pale?” He is almost certain he hears someone snicker.
Kirk blushes, at least Pike thinks that accounts for the sudden bloom of orange in his cheeks. It’s hard to tell on a small desk computer. “Ah… yeah… no… It’s…” Kirk rubs a hand over his face. “The D’Twung painted me with some kind of local dye. It… it doesn’t wash off too well.”
“So you are yellow.”
Another uncomfortable squirm. “I’m… yellow. Yeah.”
This time Pike does allow himself to smile. “Well don’t have a face to face with of the inhabitants of Nanos. They consider yellow to indicate a desire to be thrown off Mount Gyethis in penance.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Probably where we’ll be ordered next…” he hears McCoy mutter in the back ground.
Definitely better than Doctor Jhorish, but it is time to get down to business.
“Look Kirk, why it is every time one of the Enterprise updates comes across my desk I end up with indigestion? Usually, just in time to ruin my lunch?”
Kirk shrugs. “It’s not personal, sir. Maybe you should save them to read till later in the day?”
“And ruin my dinner? Look. I’ve read through the reports and no one can say you didn’t follow the letter of the law this time. Yet, you still managed to convince an entire planet that their local deity put in a personal appearance, resulting in, and I quote from Doctor Horst’s log, ‘an explosion of religious fervor throughout the D’Twung society.’” He waggles a finger at the screen, hoping his expression is suitably foreboding. “How is that not interfering in the natural development of a pre-warp civilization?”
Kirk’s grip upon the arms of his chair is the only indication of his level of agitation as he addresses Pike in an even tone. “As per my orders, my crew did everything they could to avoid any interference with the indigenous natives of M-814. They used no advanced technology, and all interactions with the natives were within the constraints imposed by the D’Twung cultural mores. I support their actions, and take full responsibility for any unforeseen repercussions of their decisions.”
Pike has to give the kid credit, despite his youth, Kirk can pull off a fairly convincing air of gravitas when necessary.
The Admiral runs a finger across his upper lip. There is no gentle way to broach the next question. “Is it true they are sacrificing their own children, Jim?”
“No!” Jim Kirk bolts upright, and his already jaundiced skin tone blanches to an even more ghastly shade of icterine. Pike worries that he might actually get sick right there on the bridge. “That was… We thought...”
“It was a mistranslation, sir,” a female voice cuts in, with unvarnished directness.
Kirk spins to face someone that Pike assumes must be Lieutenant Uhura, the Enterprise’s resident communications genius.
“I thought you amended that?”
“I did.” Uhura steps into view, expression one of frank sincerity as she addresses Pike directly. “I’m sorry, sir. There should have been a clarifying statement in the attached addendum. The D’Twung word for child and animal are both formed with the syllable ‘bha’. It is the tonal stress which indicates the meaning. It was an error in the linguacode software.” Her hands clench at her sides, and Pike catches just a a bare hint of annoyance creeping into her tone. He wonders if it is aimed at the computer or herself. “It slipped through before I started personally vetting all translation tapes, sir.”
“I see. Thank you, Lieutenant. Apparently that addendum has yet to reach my desk.” His secretary is going to hear about this one. At least he doesn’t have the near impossible task of sugar-coating child sacrifice for Fleet command. That is a relief.
Pike folds his hands upon the desk in front of him and regards the visage of Starfleet’s youngest captain. As always, Pike is at a bit of a loss at how to deal with his brilliant but erratic protégé. He shakes his head. “You did everything by the book in this case, and the situation still went nova on you. I can’t decide if it’s a curse or a gift. This thing you do.”
“Sir… I…” The yellowish skin tones make Kirk look ill. And the morose expression plastered on his face doesn’t help matters.
“The captain can hardly be held accountable for the upsurge in D’Twung religious dogmatism.” Spock injects smoothly, coming to stand beside Kirk’s chair in a blatant demonstration of support. “The decision for Lieutenant Uhura to impersonate their local fertility goddess was mine alone…”
There is a sudden babble of protest from several bridge crew members, and Pike bites back a smile. Apparently, Kirk isn’t the only one who inspires loyalty on the Enterprise.
“Thus the responsibility is mine as well,” Spock continues in unflappable tones, as though unaware of the general hubbub around him. “At the time, we had few options.” A pregnant pause, “Unless, you are suggesting we should have allowed the D’Twung to exanguinate the captain.”
“Of course not, Spock!” Pike shoots an annoyed look at his former First. “Don’t be ridiculous. Though I can’t say I haven’t heard that sentiment expressed by some at HQ. It certainly would have saved me a few headaches…” He rubs a hand across his forehead and sighs, shifting his gaze out the window of his office. In the distance, he can see the fluttering display of colorful flags, each signifying membership in the Federation Of Planets. He specifically requested this view. It helps keep him focused. Keeps him from losing his way amidst Starfleet politics and Federation bureaucracy. Reminds him of his purpose.
“I told them it was a bad idea, trying to rein you in so sharply after Xenar IV.” His hand taps restless on his desk top. “But you worry them, Kirk. Your lack of restraint has them tossing in their beds at night, chasing worst case scenario phantoms in the dark.” He glances back at the display, at Kirk in command gold, flanked by McCoy, Uhura, and Spock. “Your success record speaks for itself, and I have reminded them a Vulcan first officer a good stopgap against reckless impulses, but that doesn’t stop some of them from demanding your wings get clipped.” He leans forward again, voice droll. “Right now they are debating what to do about you.”
Kirk is gazing down, but Pike can see his hands are knuckle white on his arm rests. When the young captain looks up again, his eyes are piercing, angry. His tone, however, is deceptively flat. “Why are we out here?” he asks, expression held careful neutral. “Tell me. Why does the Starfleet Charter read, ‘to boldly go where no man has gone before’? Why the motto, ‘Ex Astris Scienti’?” One hand waves, an artfully casual gesture meant to encompass the bridge, the ship, his crew… “Why send starships… send men and women… out here to explore space? Why even beam down to planets? Why ‘boldly go’ at all?” He leans forward in his chair, and the façade begins to slip, the real passion to peek through. “Let’s be honest here, sir. You and I both know, we can’t explore space, encounter new life forms, learn from new civilizations without interfering in some fashion or another. To do so is impossible. It’s meaningless.” His face hardens, his voice becomes more ardent, emblazoned with conviction. “If we want to strictly enforce the Prime Directive, then we shouldn’t even be out here! Starfleet shouldn’t exist. Right? How do you ‘keep the peace’ without interfering? Explain that to me, because, apparently, I can’t figure it out.” His fist thumps against the arm of his chair. “So which is it? Are we meant to venture forth and explore the far reaches of space… to… to learn… to grow… to reach for the stars? Or do we turn our backs on the lights… crawl back into our caves and pull the blankets over our heads. You tell me, sir!”
For a moment, Pike can only blink in the face of Kirk’s fervor. Then he sits back, and lifts his eyebrows to express both bemusement and admiration. “We just might make a starship captain out of you yet, Kirk.”
Kirk deflates a bit, looking somewhat chastened. “Sorry, sir.”
“So very young,” thinks Pike fondly. “Not at all,” he reassures Kirk. “That’s what we need out there - a zeal for finding truths and answers and uncovering new questions. I only wish you had been here to argue your case. I don’t think I did you justice.”
Kirk responds with a quirk of a smile. “I am sure you did just fine, sir. My sources say you have become quite the rabble-rouser around HQ.”
Pike cocks his head. “Your… sources?”
“Blackmail works wonders, sir.”
“Ah. I see.” He taps a knuckle absently against his lower lip. “Probably safer for both of us if you just leave it at that.”
Kirk grins. “Happy to, sir.”
“Umhm. Komack will likely be in touch soon. Try not to alienate him too much.” He tries to look what he imagines might be fatherly and knowing without being too obvious about it, because Kirk, he knows, is best approached obliquely. “And a little humility wouldn’t hurt. Rumor has it the Doyenne of Ishalmad is getting married and wants a Starfleet presence. And unless you have a thing for two day processions, bad music, dancing pigs and little girls dressed like fairies, you really don’t want that assignment.”
The grin is holding. “Understood.”
“Good luck. Pike out.” His finger comes down on the end button, and as the Enterprise bridge flickers and vanishes, he sits back with a sigh. Talks with Kirk always leave him feeling unsettled, dealing with a conflicting jumble of emotions.
Something about seeing that kid in the center seat that should have been his…
…if only.
Lots of ‘if onlys’ in the wake of Nero.
But Kirk is in the center seat, and doing a damn fine job. Maybe a better job than he himself would have done, Pike has to admit on those days he is feeling like being brutally honest.
And that rubs, no matter how much he tries to let it go.
Yet, he can’t help but be proud. He picked the kid up, set him on a path, and has watched him blaze a trail like a comet. Kirk is… special. There’s no getting around that. Pike has tried not to play favorites, tried to remain impartial, first as Kirk‘s instructor, and now as his superior, but Kirk is probably as close to a son as Pike will ever have. Knowing he’s out there, on the edge of space… knowing the statistical likelihood of something going wrong… reading the Enterprise logs…
Pike glances at the row of Planetary flags once more. In the past, when feeling restless like this, he would have gone for a job, worked off some tension doing laps on the Academy track.
But not now.
His PT says that with continued therapy, possibly some nano-tech and cybernetic-implants, he may eventually walk unaided again.
But his jogging days are over.
Another of those ‘if onlys’.
Still, he’s not without options. He signals his secretary. “May? Can you get Number One on the comm? Tell her I’ll take her up on that z-ball session in the new zero-G facility after all…. Yes, and tell her loser buys dinner. Right. Thanks.” He flicks off the switch, and gives one last look out the window before lurching to his feet. The servo-braces on his legs, power up with a nearly undetectable whine. Yet, he detects it, every time. Making sure he has the latest Enterprise logs downloaded onto his PADD he heads for the door, his tread slow and heavy with the braces. He reminds himself to stop on the way out and inquire about Uhura’s addendum to the M-814 translation tapes. In his head, he is already composing an update for Fleet Command.
Glossary: (With thanks to the various internet sources, and a bit of artistic license.)
(l) = latin
(r) = russian
(o) = other
Doctor Jhorish - (o) this joke won’t mean anything unless you know something about Deltan pheromones. Look it up at Star Trek Wiki: Memory Alpha
Ex Astris, Scientia - (l) from the stars, knowledge
maladyets - (r) Well done. Good job
Udachi - (r) good luck
COLORS:Chroma