A contest of principles, p.18
A Contest of Principles, page 18
“Needed to stretch my legs,” he explained. “Figured I could use a jolt of java, too.”
He started to lift the mug to his lips.
“Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t even think of sipping that yet.” She strode across the suite and wagged her finger at him. “You know the rules.”
McCoy gave her an exasperated look. “We’re still doing this?”
“Having this same conversation again? I hope not.” She reached for the mug. “Hand it over.”
“Yes, Mother,” he grumbled. “Just try to save me a gulp or two.”
“Don’t I always?” She took a deep swig of the coffee, then licked her lips approvingly. “Yeah, that’s what the doctor ordered all right.”
“Literally,” he pointed out. “Now if you don’t mind…”
He didn’t need to feign impatience as he watched her take another sip, probably just to tweak him, then deigned to hand him the mug. “You this cranky with your nurses back on the Enterprise?”
“I can’t remember back that far,” he said archly.
“Well, you know what they say, the memory is the first thing to…”
Her voice trailed off as she reeled unsteadily, struggling to keep her balance. Her head swayed woozily. She blinked in confusion before realization dawned in her eyes. She slurred her syllables.
“Whadya dozz me wiff… ?”
The look of betrayal on her face stung McCoy more than he expected it to, considering the circumstances. He palmed the hypospray hidden beneath his sleeve.
“Nothing you can’t sleep off, I promise.”
Tottering, she managed to draw the ionic knife at her hip, but it slipped from her fingers before she could even charge it, thudding harmlessly onto the carpet. Her eyelids drooped, along with the rest of her, and he rushed forward to guide her onto the sofa before she collapsed to the floor. She was out cold before her head hit the cushions.
“Sorry, Jemo. You should have gotten your own coffee.”
Salokonos was not going to be happy about this. McCoy felt bad about getting Jemo in trouble, but he reminded himself that he was the injured party here. You don’t want to get in hot water, don’t kidnap people and keep them locked up, even in a palace. With any luck, Avomora could dissuade her dad from punishing Jemo too harshly. Didn’t she say that the palace didn’t even have dungeons anymore?
I refuse to feel guilty about getting my jailer fired.
In theory, the sedative in the coffee would knock Jemo out for hours, but McCoy didn’t waste a moment mounting his escape. He claimed the fallen knife, then gathered his medkit and tricorder as planned. He had already loaded all of the info related to Avo’s medical issues into the tricorder, as well as onto a backup microtape tucked into the medkit, so he could keep working her case once he was back aboard the Enterprise. One way or another, he was bound and determined to find a way to help the princess, and get her out from under Vumri’s thumb, even if it meant finding a way to transmit a cure to Ozalor via back channels.
I don’t give up on my patients until they’re six feet under.
He swung by the computer terminal long enough to fire off a text message to his mystery pen pal:
On my way.
The exit from the suite was not a fancy mirror portal like the one guarding the princess’s quarters. It was a simple, wood-paneled steel door that had been programmed not to respond to McCoy’s voice commands. Firing up the ionic blade, he performed surgery on the door’s locking mechanism, then applied enough elbow grease to slide it open a crack. He peered through to make sure the coast was clear; an empty corridor encouraged him. Grunting, he slid the door open enough to squeeze through, glancing back at Jemo on his way out.
Thanks for the hospitality, he thought.
He slipped into the hall, his medkit slung over his shoulder by a strap. He tucked the uncharged knife under his belt just in case he ran into trouble. To say that he didn’t entirely trust his anonymous benefactor was an understatement; he preferred to be safe rather than sorry when it came to strangers bearing jailbreaks as gifts. He would have done anything for a phaser, but he supposed Jemo’s blade would have to do.
Moving stealthily, he navigated the sleeping palace via his tricorder, which now contained a downloaded escape route. His fake beard itched more than ever; he couldn’t wait to peel it off at last.
Low voices and laughter, coming from just around the corner, complicated his plans. Peering around the corner, he spotted a frisky pair of servants fooling around against the wall only a few meters ahead. He bit back an exasperated snort. From the look of things, the couple were in no hurry to be on their way.
Just my luck, he groused silently.
He considered trying to take a detour around the inconvenient couple, but worried about losing his way in the sprawling palace or stumbling into an even more public area. Waiting them out was not an option; the clock was ticking. His only choice was to brazen his way past them. He took a deep breath before rounding the corner and striding down the hall with far more confidence than he actually possessed. The startled couple reacted to his footsteps, coming up for air. Embarrassment pinked their faces.
“Don’t mind me,” McCoy muttered. “Don’t see a thing.”
Praying they’d return the favor, he hurried past them, not really relaxing until he’d left them well and truly behind him. As you were, he thought, feeling as though he’d just lost a year of his life or at least a layer of stomach lining. With a sigh of relief, he made his way to a spiral staircase that grew narrower and more antiquated-looking as he climbed it; weathered stone and mortar suggested that this portion of the stairway dated back to the palace’s original construction. His leg muscles protested the climb, having been spoiled by turbolifts. He reminded himself to spend more time at the gym if and when he got back to the Enterprise.
Doctor, exercise thyself.
He emerged from the stairwell onto the top deck of a cylindrical watchtower overlooking the nocturnal countryside beyond the palace walls. A glowing, waist-high rail provided both illumination and safety, while a low bench ran along a portion of the rail. A solitary guard, wearing a waterproof slicker over his uniform, faced McCoy, who gulped at the sight. His heart sank. Was the jig up already? Had his supposed benefactor always wanted him to get caught trying to escape?
“Excuse me, I seem to have made a wrong turn…”
“To the contrary, Doctor McCoy. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
McCoy squinted at the sentry, who was tall and blond and burly. “My nameless ‘friend,’ I take it?”
Truth to tell, he had half expected to find Vumri or maybe even Bilis waiting for him atop the tower. Then again, this was a big palace, housing lots of people, so it stood to reason that the list of suspects was bigger than just the few individuals he had encountered so far. McCoy peered more closely at the sentry. An impressive gold beard carpeted the man’s features, but McCoy thought he looked vaguely familiar, sort of. One of the guards stationed at Yovode’s sanctum earlier, perhaps, or elsewhere on the premises?
“Good to meet you in person, Doctor.”
McCoy relaxed a little and took a moment to survey his surroundings. It was a dark, cloudy night, not to mention uncomfortably hot and humid. A summer storm could be seen approaching from the west. Thunder rumbled not too far away, accompanied by flashes of heat lightning. A translucent deflector screen protected the rooftop from the elements, but McCoy could still hear the wind whipping up.
“So who the devil are you anyway?”
“Call me Guhai.”
“That your real name?”
He snickered. “What do you think?”
For all McCoy knew, “Guhai” was the Ozalorian equivalent of “Smith,” but he chose not to press the point. He needed the man’s help to get away from the palace. That he had turned out to be a palace guard might not be a bad thing, even as McCoy could see why the man had not risked divulging that earlier. “I think that’s none of my business, as long as this plan of yours is on the level.”
“That it is, Doctor, but we shouldn’t waste time. My shift on the tower still has a few hours on it, so we should be uninterrupted, but why tempt fate? Are you ready to take your leave of the Summer Palace?”
“And then some.” McCoy felt a twinge of remorse regarding the sick princess, but he also had a duty to return to the Enterprise and its captain and crew. “I don’t object to the occasional house call, but I’ve got other places to go and people to see.”
“Let me help you with that.” Guhai opened a storage locker under the bench and extracted a pair of levitation boots, similar to those found in the Federation. He dropped them at McCoy’s feet. “Get going.”
The plan was for McCoy to jet away from the palace under cover of night to a rendezvous point in the countryside where Guhai’s partners in crime would hustle McCoy into hiding and shelter him until they could arrange to smuggle him off the planet.
“I’m going to be able to contact my captain, right?” McCoy asked, wanting to confirm that detail. “So I can let him know what’s become of me?”
A rendezvous in a neutral sector would be preferable to Kirk having to violate Ozalor’s sovereignty to extract McCoy, but the doctor wanted to make sure the Enterprise knew where he was as soon as possible, partly just to put their minds at rest, but also in case getting off the planet proved trickier than anticipated.
The best-laid plans of mice and medics…
“Naturally,” Guhai said, “but first things first. We need to get you out of here.” He used a control panel on the railing to lower the dome-shaped deflector screen. “Put on those boots.”
McCoy regarded the boots uneasily. He’d been obliged to take part in some Starfleet drills involving their use in emergencies, but he’d always regarded them as a damn foolhardy way to risk life and limb. As a means of getting from one point to another, he actually preferred transporters—which was saying something. A clap of thunder, coming from far too close for comfort, drew McCoy’s gaze to the approaching storm. Lightning strobed the horizon.
“Not to throw a wrench into things at the last minute, but are we sure this is a good idea? Doesn’t exactly seem like an ideal night for zipping through the air.”
“The storm will cover your flight,” Guhai said. “It’ll hide you from sight and confuse the security sensors. Granted, there’s an element of difficulty and even danger, but did you really expect to escape the palace without any risk? Where’s that bold Starfleet derring-do one hears about?”
“I’m usually the one patching people up after that derring-do,” McCoy said, “but you have a point. Nobody ever said a prison break was going to be a cakewalk.”
“That’s the spirit.” Guhai looked McCoy over. “You have the coordinates for the rendezvous point loaded into your tricorder?”
“Absolutely,” McCoy said. “Not planning on flying blind.”
Guhai held out his hand. “Let me see.”
On the surface, it seemed a reasonable request, but something about the man’s tone put McCoy on guard. He found himself reluctant to surrender the device, which held all of Avomora’s medical records as well.
“I double-checked earlier.” McCoy slung the tricorder over his shoulder. “We’re good.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Guhai said. “Hand it over.”
The sentry’s persistence did nothing to assuage McCoy’s suspicions. Why was he so dead set on getting his hands on the tricorder?
“Frankly, I’m more concerned with whether these boots are in proper working order.” McCoy picked up one of the boots and examined it, not entirely sure what he was looking for. “I assume they’re fully charged?”
“They’re fine. Put them on already.”
McCoy eyed Guhai warily, still unsure whose side he was really on. Was the sentry simply suffering from a bad case of nerves, or was there something fishy going on here?
“Anything bothering you, friend?”
“Stop asking so many questions,” Guhai said impatiently. “You need to trust me, Doctor.”
“Trust you? I barely know you.”
“Shards!” the sentry swore. He reached beneath his slicker and drew a sidearm that looked unnervingly like a disruptor. “I don’t have time for this. Give me that tricorder.”
McCoy wished he could be surprised.
“This was a setup all along, wasn’t it? Let me guess. We’re going with the old ‘killed while escaping’ routine?”
“More or less,” Guhai said, “except it’s going to look like you got yourself killed without any help from anyone else.” He pointed at the boot in McCoy’s hand. “Bad luck for you, it turns out those boots are defective. They’ve barely got enough juice to get you off this tower before sputtering out. Gravity will take care of the rest.”
McCoy could visualize that too easily, considering how high up they were. The prospect of plunging to his doom did not appeal to him. “How are you planning to explain how I got my hands on these boots?”
“You’re Starfleet, you’re clever. People will figure you managed somehow.” Guhai didn’t seem worried about any future inquiries. “But this time you were a little too clever for your own good and your luck ran out. Pity that.”
“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me,” McCoy said. “Here’s a better idea: Why not just let me escape like we planned? You don’t have to kill me to get rid of me. I’ll be happy to get gone.”
Guhai shook his head.
“That doesn’t work for us. Your fate, when it’s ultimately revealed, will drive an even deeper wedge between the Federation and Ozalor, thwarting any chance of our people trading away our vengeance for some false promise of peace. Some of us still remember what Vok did to our world in the Before Time, how they all but destroyed our civilization, forcing us to waste millennia clawing our way back from the wreckage. If not for Vok, we’d be more advanced than your Federation by now, or the Klingons or the Romulans. We can never forget or forgive that great wrong, even if the Federation thinks nothing of allying itself with the fiends who laid waste to our world.”
“Good God, man,” McCoy protested, “that was thousands of years ago. Everyone involved in that war, on both sides, has been dead for ages. Don’t you think it’s past time you buried the hatchet so both your peoples can move on?”
“Never! Some crimes can never be washed away. Our butchered ancestors, and lost glory, cry out for vengeance, even across generations.”
Talk about holding a grudge, McCoy thought. “You people really love your old scars, don’t you?”
“Those scars define us,” Guhai said. “Beyond that, though, we also can’t take the chance that you’ll eventually find a cure for the Yiyova. We’re counting on Lossu Vumri to hold sway over the court for decades to come, particularly once Avomora inherits the throne… and will be unable to refuse the only person who can relieve her suffering.”
“So that’s your long game,” McCoy said. “Keep Avo dependent on Vumri so that she can become the power behind the throne.”
“Precisely, so you can see why we can’t risk your tricorder surviving the crash. We need to make sure all your medical scans of Avomora are lost forever.”
McCoy recalled the backup tape in his medkit, as well as the files remaining on the computer terminal in the guest suite. Unfortunately, he imagined that it would be all too easy for Vumri and her agents to quietly eradicate any copies of his research, especially after Jemo was dismissed for negligence.
“Seems you’ve thought of everything.”
“You bet we have,” Guhai said. “And I’m going to need your medkit as well.”
“What for?”
“Need to knock myself out with your hypospray,” Guhai said, “to explain how you got past me. After you crash, of course.”
“Won’t that look bad on your record?” McCoy asked, stalling.
“The Lossu will protect me and see that I’m rewarded when the time comes.”
Lightning flashed nearby, followed almost immediately by a boom of thunder. The storm was almost upon them.
“Just one thing,” McCoy said. “What makes you think I’m going to make it easy for you? You want to kill me, you’re going to have to shoot me. Going to be hard to explain a disruptor blast to my chest.”
“Harder, but not impossible. Maybe I claim self-defense, say you came at me with that knife.” Guhai glanced at the approaching tempest. “Or maybe we just say you were struck by lightning. Who’s going to contradict me?”
The wind was howling more loudly by the moment, buffeting the two men. A thunderbolt streaked the sky. Guhai shouted over the gale.
“Now put on the boots.”
“Like hell,” McCoy said. “I’m not going to help cover up my own murder.”
“You’re a stubborn man, Doctor.”
“So I’ve been told… by better people than you.”
His defiant words masked the genuine chill running down his spine, as well as his anger and dismay at how things had shaken out. As a doctor, he understood better than most how fragile life could be, but that didn’t make facing his own end any easier. Getting blasted to death far from friends and family, because of political intrigues on a planet he’d barely heard of before a few weeks ago, was not how he wanted to cash in his chips, and knowing that his untimely demise was going to be exploited by schemers and warmongers galled him even more. He’d spent much of his adult life saving lives; he didn’t want anyone dying to avenge him.
“Have it your way.” Guhai kept the pistol aimed squarely at McCoy’s chest. “I’d ask if you had any last words, but I think I’ve heard quite enough from—”
“Eat glass, you shard-cracking piece of glint!”
Jemo came charging onto the tower top. McCoy couldn’t believe it; the drug he’d spiked the coffee with should have put her out for hours, but she seemed none the worse for wear as she charged headlong at Guhai, distracting the startled sentry, who spun around and fired wildly at his attacker. A crimson beam flared brighter than the lightning, scoring a glancing blow to Jemo’s side. It wasn’t a direct hit, but it was still enough to send her tumbling to the tiled stone floor, clutching her side. Thunder drowned out any cries or gasps from the wounded bodyguard. It was hard to tell how badly she’d been injured.
