“I wanted to make that cossack look like a monkey,” Chekov replied and chortled. “Did you hear them hooting when I was being carried out?” He mimicked a mocking, feminine voice. ” ‘Hey, Greth, next time you take on a Beshwa, have your father hold him for you.’” The Russian looked down at the deep, bloody gash in his stomach and said soberly, “He almost had me at the end; I wasn’t figuring on that fall. I may have been first sword at the Academy for two years straight; but if you hadn’t thought of putting a duraplas body shield under all the rest, that cut would have sliced in fifteen centimeters and I’d be dead for real. Get that stuff off me, will you?”
McCoy nodded, and went to work.
“Where did all that come from?” Kirk asked.
“Mostly from the splint kit. The dermolastic on top looks like real skin,” McCoy said as he peeled it off to reveal a ten-centimeter layer of solidified, foam-like material underneath. “That’s used for making field casts. It’s sprayed on and the foam sets in seconds.” He pulled off the padding. Underneath that were the slashed remnants of two one-liter bags which still oozed a reasonable facsimile of Kyrosian blood.
“Our gore,” McCoy said. “And lastly, a final precautionary measure in case Chekov’s swordmanship wasn’t quite as good as he thought—which it wasn’t—” He snipped and lifted a thin sheet of dark material which was glued to Chekov’s stomach. “That was tough enough to turn Greth’s point. Instead of cutting in, it just skidded along the surface.”
“From the splint kit again, I suppose,” Kirk remarked.
“Right. It’s a plastic that’s sprayed over the foam to protect it. OK, Chekov, clean that red gunk off and then well call Tram Bir and show him another Beshwa miracle.”
“How aboot the scar?” Scott asked.
“Oops, almost forgot that detail. Sara, what do you have in the way of makeup?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I found a woman’s bag among the other stuff we inherited, but I haven’t had a chance to check through it yet.” She went to the front of the van and, after a minute’s searching, came back with a small bone box containing & thick red substance and a brush.
“That should do the trick,” McCoy said, and drew a fine pink line diagonally across Chekov’s stomach. He eyed it critically. “You know,” he said, “that’s one of the neatest jobs I’ve ever done.”
A rapping came from the rear of the van. Kirk opened the door and saw Tram Bir standing in the darkness.
“I’ve come to apologize for my son,” he said. “The killing was not done well. It was bad enough to challenge a Beshwa, but to bungle the job and make a fool of himself in front of the entire clan… gahl I’ve half a mind to leave him with the women tomorrow.”
“Don’t be too hard on him; as you may have heard, the Beshwa have strange powers,” Kirk said and turned. “Hikif, come here.”
As the young Russian bounced jauntily out of the caravan, Tram Bir let out an incredulous gasp.
“I… I don’t believe it!” he said. “Greth must have sliced you to the backbone.”
“He did,” Kirk said easily. “Without our sister we couldn’t have saved him. She called on Azrath and his power came down and filled her. When she touched Hikif, his gut closed before our eyes. Look!”
Chekov stepped into the light that came from the open door of the van and pulled up his vest. Tram’s eyes widened when he saw the thin pink line.
“This is why our sister must come with us when we go to join the Messiah with you,” Kirk said.
“No,” Tram said flatly. “Women must stay behind when the warriors ride. If I let her come along, my men would demand a new chief.” He clapped Kirk on the shoulder. “But bring your brothers and come to the feasting. I want to hear what Greth says when he sees the dead walk hi.” He turned to go.
Kirk thought quickly. Without Ensign George, their chances of getting close enough to use the nullifier on Spock were nil.
“Wait,” he called. “What if your warriors wanted our sister to come?”
“There’s no chance of that,” the chieftain replied.
“Perhaps not,” Kirk said, “but let her speak to them in her own way after the feasting.”
It was still dark when there was a banging on the van door.
“First light is almost here,” a hill voice called. “We leave with it.”
Kirk sat up with a groan and clutched his throbbing head with both hands. There was a stir as the others pulled themselves out from under their fur coverlets. Except for Sara, the others didn’t seem to be in any better shape than their captain.
“I’ll go out and hitch up the neelots,” Sara said brightly. “I don’t think any of you are up to it.”
“Who brought me home, Bones?” Kirk asked as she exited briskly into the gray of early dawn.
“Beats me,” McCoy said. “The last thing I remember was Chekov doing a Beshwa version of the kazat-ski, while Scotty was speculating on whether a neelot stomach would do for a proper haggis. You know, Jim, I never could understand the Scots predilection for making puddings from chopped-up sheep’s lungs.”
Kirk made a face, but Scott didn’t respond. He was too busy nursing a hangover.
“Oh, well,” Kirk said, “I suppose this, too, will pass.” He got to his feet, poured water from a jug into a basin, and splashed his face. The van door opened and Sara came in.
“All ready to roll,” she said. “If you’re driving, Captain, you’d better get up there. Tram Sir’s ready to leave.”
“Glad you’re coming with us, Ensign,” Kirk said, “After that dance of yours, if Tram Bir had said no, his men would have strung him up right there and elected you chief.”
“My dop is a woman of many talents,” Sara said demurely.
“Don’t be so modest, Ensign. You did provide the body, you know.”
Kirk went outside and climbed into the driver’s seat Tram Bir waved him into position behind the provision carts. As he pulled up behind them, there was a snarl of clan horns. Then, Tram Bir and his warriors at the head, the column moved out through the gate and across the drawbridge.
Two hours later, they were back on the east-west migration trail.
“Tell me, Jim,” McCoy said, “what do you think our chances are of getting within striking distance of Spock?”
Kirk shrugged. “Not too good. If you were in his shoes, what would you expect us to do?”
“Probably something pretty much like we’re doing.”
“Right. What I’m hoping is that he’ll expect us to come in disguised as hillmen. There’s another thing in our favor, too. He doesn’t know about the radiation storm and how desperate our situation has become up there. As a result, he may not anticipate a try as crazy as this one—at least not this soon.” He glanced up at the sun and made a quick mental calculation. ‘I know this vehicle sticks out like a sore thumb but, with luck, it may take a few hours for word about strangers in the camp to get to him. According to the map, it’s going to be about dusk when we get there, and some big ceremony involving the dead we’re Bringing is planned. That should keep him busy for a while. What’s more, Tram Bir is on our side.”
“How?” McCoy demanded.
“Before we got too drunk last night, I suggested to him that he ought to hold off on asking the Messiah about us until he was in a position to ask a favor—like maybe after the first battle. I think he’ll go along with that because we’re a fairly valuable property, and he’d like to have us around as long as possible. Besides, I think he has designs on our little ensign.”
McCoy chuckled. “I wouldn’t doubt it. When she tossed her G-string to the crowd on her final exit, I had a few myself.”