Part 3 (1/2)

”Khest!” Yar exclaimed, as fluently and inaccurately as any Klingon-that expletive was one Klingon term every cadet knew, and used daily. ”Give me manual control!” she demanded, getting no response as she spoke those words in English.

Spears thudded against the canopy and the sides of the boat.

”Stop, you idiots! You'll hole it!” somebody shouted in gutteral, sibilant tones.

The hissing in the voice told Yar where she'd gone wrong: the language she had not recognized was Orion, and the Orion signal for danger was to hiss like a snake!

Adrenaline stimulated her thinking-suddenly she remembered the Klingon term for ”Manual override!” She hit the starter, and the engines came alive.

The lightweight craft rose nearly out of the water, wonderfully responsive to her touch-but it swung in an arc, moored to a post on sh.o.r.e!

Yar grasped her machete and crawled forward beneath the canopy- -as the boat's owner reached her and swung aboard!

He was a huge Orion male, gray-skinned reptilian face looming, yellow eyes glaring from beneath his flat headgear. He grabbed Yar's legs and pulled her back before she could cut through the lanyard.

Yar twisted in his grip, trying to swing the machete into position to slash at him.

But for all his size he was fast. He jerked her toward him, and an iron hand clasped over her wrist. It squeezed.

Yar twisted one leg free of his grip and knocked the breath out of him with a kick to his solar plexus.

But he did not let go! As he fell backward, he maintained his grasp on her one calf and the opposite wrist-and in a flash of blinding pain she felt her wrist break in the sheer strength of his hand. The machete fell to the deck with a dull clatter.

She had made the fatal error of a small combatant against a larger, stronger opponent: she had let him get a grip on her.

But in the close confines of the boat- No. No excuses. She had lost this round, but the fight was not necessarily over. She must simply make the Orion think it was.

She moaned, and pretended to pa.s.s out, collapsing on his chest.

It didn't fool him, or else he was taking no chances. Before he let go of her broken wrist, he transferred his other hand to her good arm. Then he snapped a manacle about her good wrist, fastened it to one of many rings set into the hull of the boat-a slaver's vessel-and only then let go of her.

”Computer,” he growled, ”dock the boat and turn the b.l.o.o.d.y motor off!”

Yar understood his words-his universal translator was working.

The Orion poured a bucket of water over Yar's head, and with a splutter she was forced to acknowledge consciousness.

”What's this then?” he was asking. ”A human? What're you doing on Priam IV, woman?”

She was so covered with mud that her uniform must be unrecognizable. ”I'm a free trader. My s.h.i.+p crashed here,” she replied. ”When I saw your boat, I thought you might help me.”

”So you decided to steal it?”

”When I saw it belonged to an Orion slaver.”

He nodded. ”Smart move. Too bad you couldn't carry it out-too bad for you, that is. For me, you'll make a nice extra.” He grasped her chin and turned her face this way and that. ”You'll clean up pretty enough, and you're stronger than you look or you wouldn't have survived. Some lonely dilithium miner will pay a pretty penny for a woman who's a looker and also has a strong back.”

He got out a medical kit, scanned her wrist, hauled the bones back into alignment with no care for her cry of pain, and put a regen brace on it. The pain began to recede.

By this time the boat was back to its mooring, and three curious natives peered in at them. ”Oh, my G.o.d,” said one of them. ”One of the cadets did survive!”

”Shut up!” growled a second-but it was too late.

So was Yar's second thought. In her pain and shock she blurted out, ”You're Federation!”

Oh d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n-why hadn't she had the sense to pretend to be unconscious or uncomprehending?

”Kill her!” said the first ”native,” raising his spear.

The Orion shoved him back. ”Leave it! I'll sell her where she'll never see the Federation again-don't you worry. I don't want Starfleet finding out about our deal any more than you do.”

”It's safer to kill her,” said the second native.

”Touch her, I'll kill you,” said the Orion. ”She's worth as much as the whole boatload of Priamites.”

”But you said-”

”I said we'd try 'em out as workslaves. They're strong, stupid, complacent, and prolific ... here on their home planet. If they don't shrivel up and die in another environment, we'll be back for as many as you can provide. Let you know in maybe a year. Then, you keep the Federation off our backs, and Orion will make you rich. Now I must move-you're certain that Federation patrol won't be back?”

”We told them the cadets were dead-we thought they all were. That pod couldn't hold more than three, and we found two bodies. Don't worry; no more are going to show up now, and Starfleet won't send another s.h.i.+p for three years. By that time, we'll make enough from trading with you to retire in luxury.”

Yar's heart sank. The Starfleet rescue s.h.i.+p had come and gone without her. She was forced to watch helplessly as the boat was loaded with manacled natives, and the Orion piloted it down the river toward the landing site-where, presumably, his shuttle waited to carry her along with the Priamites into a life of slavery.

Even with the powerful boat, it would take two days. Yar tried to talk to the Priamites, but without a working translator could not make herself understood. They did not talk among themselves much either, just slumped defeatedly in the bottom of the boat.

When night fell, the Orion slaver moored the boat and fed his captives some tasteless gruel. Yar lay down with the others, uncomfortable with one wrist fastened to the hull, the other aching and itching as it healed. She was hungry, bruised, and covered with dried mud.

Despite her exhaustion, she could not sleep. So when the Orion appeared to do so, she sat up quietly, and examined the manacle that bound her to the hull of the boat. Without its magnetic key, there was no hope of opening it.

In futile frustration, she gave it a jerk-and the loop fastening her to the boat hull came out of its socket!

She sat there, stunned.

Luck. Sheer, stupid, blind luck.

Somehow, the bolt holding her loop had been driven in crooked; it did not go through the metal bar under the hull laminate-and when she pulled hard enough, the lightweight hull material had given.

Before her luck could turn again, Yar slid silently over the side, back into the mud, and crawled off into the forest.

And into a dilemma.

There was no immediate escape-the Federation search vessel had come and gone. The Federation scientists would kill her on sight. If she did nothing but try to survive, the Orion traders would be back in a year, taking more pa.s.sive Priamites into slavery.

But if she approached the Priamites-who upon closer acquaintance did not seem likely to kill her-she would break the Prime Directive. As she learned their language, she would undoubtedly let slip facts about the world she came from. Could she resist showing them improvements, even something as simple as the bow and arrow? She would have to make weapons for herself; the Orion slaver would certainly notify the traitorous Federation scientists of her escape, and they would be searching for her.

Her very existence here violated the Prime Directive, pa.s.sively. She would actively violate it if she contacted the Priamites.

But if she did not do so, did not learn to communicate with them, how could she warn them of the Orion slavers?

Three years, the scientists had said. Possibly she could survive on her own in the jungle for three years. It would be much harder for the traitors to find her there than among the natives. She could follow them to the landing site when they were picked up, and report them to the Starfleet away team that came for them.