“Sara, anabolic protoplaser, type zero.”
He applied the tip of the instrument to the ulterior of the wound, slowly working it outward to repair torn veins and gashed arteries, and unite nerves and muscle fibers. Soon, all that was left was the closing of the jagged tear where the spear had gone in and the small incision below it.
“Type two protoplaser.”
“Bones, wait,” Kirk said, breaking his long silence. “I have the impression this is the boy’s first battle; he only looks about fourteen or fifteen.”
“So?” McCoy asked.
“How about giving him something to remember?”
“Like old Heidelberg, eh?”
“Something like that, Bones.”
“If Starfleet finds out, they may lift my license.”
McCoy said, adjusting the protoplaser and setting to work.
When he finished, he looked at a puckered scar that made a semicircle on the boy’s chest where the shaft had been. He made a quick scan with the medical tricorder and then switched it off.
“That’ll give him some status with the other boys,” he said. “And with a little rest, some hot soup, he’ll be back on his feet in a day or two. Now the head wound.”
He studied the torn flesh critically. “Good thing they shave their heads. Saves me the trouble of depilating him.”
When he had finished, McCoy injected Alt with another dose of universal antibiotic and a stimulant to counteract the anesthesia. By the time the boy began to come around, the Federation medikit was safely back in its hidden compartment.
Alt’s eyes flickered, then opened. “Who…?”
“It’s all right, son, you’re going to be fine,” McCoy said, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “You’re almost as good as new.”
The boy’s lips turned up in a hesitant smile.
“Here,” Kirk said, handing the boy the broken spear, “a little souvenir.” The boy studied the deadly object, turning it over in his hands and testing the razor-sharpness of the head with a finger. He looked down at his side and saw the lavish scar. His eyes widened.
“Truly, I am a warrior. But I thought only the Messiah could work such magic,” he said, his voice touched by awe. “You have given me back my life. My father will be grateful.”
“I hope so,” Kirk said. “Not too long ago he was ready to cut our throats.” He went to the rear of the van as Scotty and Chekov switched from off-key blues to equally off-key baroque. “Knock it off, out there,” he called, opening the door a crack.
“My son, how is he?” It was the voice of Tram Bir.
“Fine, you can see him in a moment.” Kirk turned to McCoy and hissed. “Get the boy’s hood on. If his old man finds out that we’ve seen his face, we’ve had it.”
The boy suddenly stiffened as he realized that, for the first time in his life, strangers had seen his uncovered face. His fingers touched his cheeks and then, in sudden panic, he grabbed the blood-soaked hood from McCoy’s hand and jerked it down over his head. The slit that Kirk had made to get it off gaped open, exposing his features.
“My father will have you killed,” he said. “You have seen my face. You hold my soul.”
“Our only power is to heal,” McCoy said. “Why do you think Beshwa go unhooded? Your magic is not ours.”
“My father won’t believe that. As soon as he sees me, he’ll know you’ve seen my face.”
There was a roar from outside and a banging on the door.
“When can I see my son?”
“Soon,” McCoy answered, “very soon.”
“I know a way,” the boy said suddenly. “Who is the head of this family?”
“I guess I am,” Kirk said.
“Then give me your hand. Don’t question.”
Kirk hesitated for a moment and then extended his right hand. Alt grabbed the broken spear which had almost ended his own life, gashed his own palm with the sharp point, and then did the same to Kirk. He took the captain’s bleeding hand in his and gripped it tightly.
“Thy blood is my blood,” he chanted, “Thy breath is my breath.”
The door of the van jerked open and an impatient Tram Bir lumbered in. His cry of joy at seeing his son alive, sitting up, changed to a snarl of rage when he saw the split hood gaping open to reveal the boy’s features. His hand dropped to his sword hilt.
The boy somehow pulled himself to his feet and staggered toward his father, holding his bleeding hand before him.
“We are of one blood, the Beshwa and I. We share one tent.” Strength exhausted by the ordeal he had been through, his knees buckled and he sagged at his father’s feet. McCoy grabbed him before he fell, and laid him gently on the bunk.
“He’ll be all right,” he said, “but he needs rest and care.” He beckoned to Tram Bir. “Look at our work and rejoice in your warrior son,” he said, pointing to the scar. Tram bent over.
His hand left his sword hilt and he ran his fingers over the snaking ridge of flesh. He straightened, took Kirk’s hand, and looked at the bleeding palm.
“The blood mingled,” he muttered, “but Beshwa…? This will need long thought. Care for the boy. I will decide what is to be done with you when we reach the place of our clan.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Look on the bright side, Bones,” Kirk said. “We’re alive, we aren’t tied up any longer, and we—at least I—have acquired a new family.” He surveyed the thin pink line on his right palm and flapped the reins to get the neelots into motion. Slowly the caravan moved forward and took its place at the rear of the column. At the head rode Tram Bir and his warriors. After them came the carts of looted iron ingots. Following the carts came a morbid procession of neelots bearing the dead clansmen. Behind the caravan trotted a small rear guard. Ensign George rode in the van with Alt; Scott and Chekov were riding in the wagon.
After a short journey along the main trail, the column swung right and started up a narrow canyon that angled back into the hills. The land began to rise more and more steeply and the trail became rougher, twisting and turning back on itself as they rose higher into the hills. At last, as the caravan topped a small rise, Kirk saw their destination, a small valley surrounded by unscalable escarpments. The near end was protected by a high wall and a precipitous gorge with a strange-looking span over it.
A support structure of tall beams and bracing cross-pieces rose at the bridge’s far end. From it, cables slanted down and attached to the other side. An advance rider had evidently brought news of the war party’s approach, because the defensive wall which ran along the far end of the gorge was lined with women, children, and old men.
As the riders at the head of the column reached the bridge, they urged their neelots into a loose-jointed gallop and raced across, whooping as they went. The heavy, ingot-laden wagons were more cautious; they crossed one at a time, the flimsy span shivering and swaying under their weight as the cables stretched and twanged.
Scott, who had replaced McCoy at the brake an hour ago, shook his head in disbelief as the last of the carts made it across.
“That bridge couldna support sic a weight,” he muttered. “Its design violates basic engineering principles. Why the load factor alone…” He lapsed into silence, making mental calculations to verify his conclusion that the structure had to collapse under the weight of the first iron-laden cart.
“As you so often point out, Scotty, theory’s one thing and practice quite another,” Kirk said. “Here we go.” He eased the heavy caravan onto the bridge and started slowly across, the span creaking under their mass. Scott heaved a deep sigh of relief as they rolled off onto solid rock on the far side and drove through the narrow gate in the wall. Once inside, and driving among the randomly scattered, dome-like tents of the clan, the rear guard cantered past them.