Mudd in Your Eye Read online

  "Not at all, not at all!" the Grand General said. "We don't plan to slow down for some time yet. Please come join us."

  "We'd be honored," said Kirk.

  "Good. The Padishah of Prastor is here as well, so it'll save you a trip."

  He turned his head to the side, apparently listening to someone outside the camera's field of view. When he turned back to Kirk, he said, "Bring your lovely communications officer when you come. And anyone else you like, of course. There's room for an army here at the palace, especially now that we don't have an army of our own anymore, ha, ha!"

  "Thank you," said Kirk. "I'll bring Lieutenant Uhura and some of my officers."

  "Wonderful," the Grand General said. "We'll be expecting you." His screen image winked out, and the viewscreen switched back to the stellar display.

  Kirk turned toward Uhura. "It looks like you've made a conquest already," he told her.

  She should have been blushing, but she merely looked puzzled. "I don't understand how, sir," she said. "I'm not in visual range of that camera."

  "You must have switched to wide angle by accident," Kirk said.

  She shook her head. "No, sir, I'm sure I didn't."

  That was easy enough to check. Spock retrieved the transmission log from the computer files and replayed the outgoing signal on one of his data monitors. It showed only the captain and a blurry background. "Confirmed, Captain," he said. "Lieutenant Uhura's image was not transmitted to Distrel."

  "Then it must have been your voice," said Kirk.

  "No, sir," Uhura replied. "I used the computer's standard hailing files. If he's responding to a voice, then it's the computer's."

  Kirk laughed. "Well then, he's going to get a surprise when he actually meets you. I trust it'll be a pleasant one nonetheless."

  The captain didn't seem concerned, but something about the situation still bothered Spock. "Captain," he said. "The request came from someone outside his camera's field of view. Unless his own communications personnel were in the same room with him, which seems unlikely at dinner, then neither he nor whoever spoke to him would have heard the computer's voice either. It seems likely that someone on Distrel knows the lieutenant, or at least knows of her."

  "Hmm, that could be," said Kirk. "Well, then, we'll want to keep our eyes open for old friends. We could have a Prime Directive situation on our hands. But let's not buy trouble before we have to. There could be a perfectly logical explanation for it."

  Spock was certain there was, but unlike Kirk, the fact that the explanation would be logical did little to reassure him. He planned to be extra cautious until he knew who had arrived on Distrel ahead of them.

  Scotty tugged at his collar, trying unsuccessfully to stretch it out enough so it would stop itching. Twice in two days was too often for him to wear a dress uniform. But he couldn't very well have missed yesterday's wedding; Nordell was one of his best engineers, and despite his little joke with the ring, Scotty had been truly honored to be his best man. Today's reception on Distrel was less vital to him, but it was important to the captain to have his senior officers along for show, so here he was trotting down the corridor toward the transporter room while he tried to ignore how uncomfortable he felt in costume.

  He met Chekov just outside the door. The diminutive Russian was smiling broadly, obviously as pleased to be wearing his finery as Scotty was displeased.

  "Any excuse to celebrate, eh lad?" asked Scotty.

  Chekov struggled to keep a serious tone in his voice, "Oh, no, Mr. Scott. It's my duty to teach these people how to party. After twelve thousand years of war, they've probably forgotten how."

  Scotty laughed. "Well, if anybody can show them how to have a good time, it would have to be you."

  They entered the transporter room. Dr. McCoy, Lieutenant Uhura, Spock, and the captain had already arrived. Kirk had decided that six people would be plenty for the first landing party, so when Scotty and Chekov came in he waved toward the transporter platform and said, "All right, everyone remember your manners."

  "Well, that puts a damper on things," Chekov said quietly as he took up a position at the rear of the platform.

  "Everyone but you, Mr. Chekov," Kirk said. "I know better than to ask the impossible."

  "Thank you, sir." All but Spock laughed. Scotty thought he looked even more preoccupied than usual, but then again maybe it was just the contrast between his emotionless demeanor and the others' mirth that made him seem that way.

  Kirk said to the transporter officer, "Energize, Mr. Vagle." Vagle slid the activation controls forward and the transporter room shimmered out of existence around them, to be replaced by a much larger room, this one full of people. It had stone floors and a high, open-beamed ceiling, tall windows along three walls, wide double doors standing open in the fourth wall, and a long banquet table running the entire length of it. The table was still covered with food but the meal was evidently over, the people—about a hundred of them, Scotty guessed—all milled about in small knots of conversation, laughing and telling stories like anyone at a large gathering. If the room hadn't been so big there might not have been space for six more people to suddenly materialize in their midst, but Vagle had found a sizable gap to put them in.

  Evening light streamed through the north and west windows, illuminating the banquet hall with a soft, reddish light only partially offset by bright crystal chandeliers overhead. Scotty turned around slowly to take it all in. Heavy wooden construction, but smoothly finished; intelligent use of arches and cantilevered beams to enclose the immense space; and careful placement of banners and wall decorations to cut down on echoes. These Nevisians had good design sense. Scotty approved.

  Physically all of them, men and women alike, had the same protruding eyes, narrow faces, and straight-out shock of stiff hair. The predominant hair color seemed to be reddish orange or brown. Nobody seemed to be going bald with age, but a few people, both men and women, were graying on top.

  The women wore long, brightly colored dresses that flowed gracefully when they moved. The men wore blousy jackets gathered at the waist, and instead of pants they wore blue-and-white striped wraps that looked for all the world like kilts. A bit too long to be in style back home, Scotty thought, but he suddenly wished he had worn his own kilt instead of the standard dress uniform. Ah, well. Next time he would know.

  Everyone, men and women alike, wore short swords belted around their waist. Scotty assumed they were ceremonial; the Nevisians obviously had a high enough level of technology to create much more deadly weapons, and after fighting for as long as they had he was sure they would have done so.

  The sound of conversation dwindled as people realized that someone had just beamed into their midst. Scotty felt self-conscious under their scrutiny, but Captain Kirk merely smiled and said, "Hello, we're here from the Ent—"

  "Captain Kirk!" boomed a deep voice from the left side of the room. Everyone in the landing party looked in that direction and saw the Grand General striding toward them, his hands outstretched in welcome. "I'm glad you could join us," he said. "I've heard so much about you." He grasped Kirk's arm just above the wrist in a lodge-brother style handshake and pumped it up and down vigorously, then turned to Spock. "Did the Vulcans send a delegation as well, or are you with them?"

  "I am a Starfleet officer, currently assigned to the Enterprise," Spock said. "As such I do not officially represent Vulcan, but I can and do offer my people's congratulations on resolving your armed conflict."

  "Oh, that," the Grand General said, waving his right hand dismissively. "Well, we had help. To tell you the truth, I never expected it to be so much fun."

  "I would like to ask—" Spock began, but the Grand General had already turned to Uhura.

  "And you must be the lovely lieutenant. Every bit as beautiful as advertised, I must agree."

  Uhura dipped her head and said, "Thank you. But how did you know about me? I'm sure I've never been here before."

  "And that's our loss," said the
Grand General, "but we hope to become much better acquainted now that you're here. May I get you something to drink? Saurian brandy, perhaps?"

  "Saurian brandy?" Scotty said, not realizing that he'd spoken aloud until the Grand General glanced over at him. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, so now that he had the General's attention he asked, "How did you get hold of Saurian brandy? We were under the impression that you didn't trade with the rest of the galaxy."

  "We didn't," said the Grand General. "But once we made peace it seemed like a good idea to try a few of your more notable exports, and I must admit our preliminary findings have been quite satisfactory. You'll have to try the I'danian spice pudding, if there's any left." He waved the Enterprise crew toward the heavily laden banquet table. "Come, come, enjoy!" he said. "Food and drink first; there'll be time enough to answer all your questions later. And you must meet the Padishah of Prastor. Arnitas!" he shouted. "Where did Arnitas get off to?" He turned back to Kirk and said softly, "It still seems odd to give our ancient enemy free run of the palace, but since we're at peace it would have been rather inhospitable to do otherwise."

  Maybe so, thought Scotty, but it probably would have been smarter, at least until they were sure the truce was going to last. Apparently, having never made peace before, these Nevisians didn't realize how much more fragile a state it was than war. He wasn't here to rain on their parade, however, so he said nothing. He stepped over to the table and examined the food, wondering what sorts of unusual flavors it might have. There were four or five different types of meat, dozens of baked breads and cakes and pastries, trays of sweet-looking confections, and bowls of fruit. Scotty picked up a pretty round fruit about the size of an apple that had purple and white stripes dividing it into sections like orange slices. Its skin felt hard under his fingers, but it gave a little when he squeezed. He wondered how a person was supposed to eat it.

  Conversation had started up around them again, but many of the Nevisians closest to them were still watching the newcomers. Scotty considered asking one of them for advice—one of the best ways he had discovered to break the ice in this sort of situation—but he noticed that Dr. McCoy had stepped over to the table with him and was waving a medical scanner over the food, obviously checking to make sure nothing there was poisonous, so Scotty held out the fruit and let him scan that, too. He nearly dropped it when the instrument beeped and a red light glowed on its top. The beep stopped a moment later, though, and the light changed to green. Molecular diagrams scrolled across the device's tiny display window.

  Puzzled, McCoy scanned the fruit again, then he took it from Scotty and scanned it a third time, slowly rotating the stripes one at a time past the business end of the instrument. It beeped and blinked red and green once for each stripe.

  The Grand General noticed his interest and said, "Ah, I see you've found the Palkos."

  "Is that what you call them?" McCoy looked up at his crewmates. "This is incredible. According to my readings, this little fruit contains one of the most powerful nerve toxins I've ever seen."

  "Nerve toxin?" Scotty asked, his palms suddenly sweating. He wiped the hand he'd picked up the Palko with on his pants leg, good manners be damned.

  "It's a binary toxin," McCoy said. "It's got two separate nontoxic components, one in each colored stripe. Individually, neither one is dangerous, but mix 'em and you'd be dead before you took a second bite." He took a tricorder reading of the Grand General and said, "So would you, but I assume you know that already."

  Scotty couldn't help himself. "Good god, man," he said to the Grand General, "you put something like that on a banquet table?"

  "Of course." The General took another Palko from the bowl, tossed it into the air, and caught it. "It's a delicacy."

  "You actually eat them?" Scotty asked, incredulous.

  "Oh yes."

  "How?"

  The Grand General smiled. "Funny you should ask." He rapped the Palko hard against the table, and the entire fruit burst apart like a flower opening up into alternating purple and white petals. "Now," he said, separating out one of each color, "if you were a Distrellian, you would eat the purple ones. And if you were a Prastorian, you would eat…?" He looked at the Enterprise crew members like a schoolteacher waiting for a particularly easy response.

  "The white ones," Chekov supplied.

  "Wrong!" said the Grand General. The people standing nearby laughed, and he smiled at Chekov to take the sting from his outburst. But he was obviously quite sincere as he said, "The Prastorians eat the purple ones too. Which means half the fruit goes to waste. Unconscionable! We have tried and tried to convince them to change their habits, but to no avail. They are a stubborn people."

  "And you are not?" asked a new voice. Everyone turned to see another Nevisian approaching from the banquet hall's wide double doors. He was smaller than the Grand General of Distrel, and a few years younger, dressed in bright red from head to toe. Even the gloves tucked into his hind pocket were red. He smiled widely as he drew closer, then said, "You must be our guests from the Federation. I'm delighted to meet you; I'm Fareen Berg Gren Orondo Arnitas, the Padishah of Prastor."

  "I'm James Kirk, captain of the Enterprise," said Kirk, "and these are some of my crew members." Scotty noted that Kirk skipped the middle initial that he often used when introducing himself. Apparently he didn't want to make it look like he was competing for lengthy names with these people. It would be a losing contest anyway.

  The Grand General said, "I was just explaining to our guests the nature of our conflict." He was still holding the wedges of Palko fruit in his hand; he popped the purple one into his mouth and bit down on it with obvious enjoyment. "Here," he said, deftly picking out the rest of the purple ones from the pile on the table and handing them around. "Try one. They're really very good."

  Chapter Three

  KIRK REACHED GINGERLY for a slice of the fruit. He glanced toward Bones, who shrugged and took one himself. "Just don't eat any of the white ones for at least a week," Bones told him, "and you ought to be safe enough."

  Kirk popped the wedge into his mouth and bit into it. Tart juice squirted out as his teeth broke through the crunchy skin, and an unfamiliar vapor made him inhale involuntarily, drawing its cool, not-quite-minty aroma into his sinuses. The flavor was something like a fresh apple, only sweeter, and with a much stronger aftertaste. Kirk could see why it would be considered a delicacy. It was wonderful, but too potent to eat very much of at one sitting.

  And it was half of a binary nerve toxin. Kirk would have considered these aliens dangerously insane if he hadn't seen—even eaten—similar things on Earth. Like fugu, the Japanese dish made from the poisonous puffer fish, which still killed two or three people a year.

  "Worth fighting over, eh?" asked the Padishah.

  A nasty suspicion had been growing in Kirk's mind since the Grand General had made his remark about "the nature of our conflict." This confirmed it.

  "You mean this—which half of the Palko to eat—is what you've been fighting about all this time?"

  "Yes," said both planetary leaders. The Padishah went on. "It was a matter of principle. The white bits aren't as tasty, you see, so there was no way we Prastorians were willing to switch over unless the Distrellians did so as well."

  "Which wouldn't have solved anything at all!" exclaimed the Grand General. "The only thing that would have accomplished would be to make us all eat the inferior pieces."

  Kirk didn't even try to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he said, "So you fought over who would have to eat the white ones. Did it ever occur to you to try a rotating schedule? Or divide up your own populations into purple and white regions?"

  "We're not stupid, Captain," said the Padishah. "Every conceivable alternative was tried and dismissed millennia ago. According to our oldest records, our ancestors even tried to eliminate the Palko bush—drive it into extinction—but of course each side kept its own private seed stock and after a few years they replanted and the same conflict aro
se again."

  Kirk could only shake his head. It seemed so pointless, but then he wondered if that really made their war any more horrible. Had any war ever been worth it? They were all about something equally silly. Which god you worshipped, or how you worshipped the same god, or whether a leader was inherited or elected. Or in the case of the Klingons, simply because they liked to fight.

  Chekov broke his train of thought. "So what made you change your minds now?" he asked.

  "We received an offer that was too good to refuse," said the Grand General.

  "From whom?" asked Kirk.

  "A friend of yours, actually," said the Grand General. "A master of diplomacy. He seems to share your knack for zeroing in directly to the heart of the matter. I've made him my political advisor."

  "Where is he, anyway?" asked the Padishah. "I haven't seen him for some time."

  "He was here just a few minutes ago, when the captain first called. Said he had to go straighten his cravat, I believe. But you know how he is. Punctuality isn't one of his strong suits."

  The Padishah laughed. "Hah. True enough." He leaned close to Kirk as if imparting a deep, dark secret. "He seems rather fond of Nevisian women. Disappears for hours at a time with them. I'd be concerned for their reputations if it weren't for his chaperone, but she keeps a close eye on him. That is, when the Grand General isn't occupying her…ah, her time."

  The Grand General colored slightly, and said, "I am merely trying to ensure that she enjoys her stay."

  "I'm sure you are," said the Padishah.

  "Gentlemen," Kirk interrupted. "Does this mystery friend of ours have a name?"

  "Well, yes he does," said the Grand General. "Three of them. Soon to be four, but please don't tell him that. I'd like for it to be a surprise. And that of course is why I can't reveal his name to you just at the moment. He said he wanted to see the look on your face when you saw him, and I don't want to rob him of the pleasure." He turned to one of the women standing nearby and said, "Mistrae, my dear, could I trouble you to find my advisor? Tell him our guests have arrived."