“You’re coming with me to Qo’noS. Change of plans. We’re gonna go down there and get him ourselves.”
“Captain,” Sulu began, “I feel it my duty to point out that depriving the ship of its two most senior officers while in hostile territory contravenes all recommended Starfleet and traditional military procedure going back to the beginning of warfare.”
“And probably not for the last time, Mr. Sulu. In the absence of myself and Mr. Spock, you will be in command. Unless, of course, by making your observation you are indirectly disparaging your own competency?”
Taken aback, the helmsman sat a little straighter in his chair. “No, sir.”
“I didn’t think so.” Looking across the bridge, Kirk next addressed his chief communications officer. “Lieutenant, how’s your Klingon?”
“It’s rusty, but it’s good. toHq, a’ Niq?” She smiled thinly. “That’s colloquial. You want formal?”
Kirk nodded appreciatively. “If we have to deal with any Klingons in person, I don’t think it’ll be very formal. You’re coming, too.” A sudden thought made him pause. “That won’t—be a problem, is it? You two, working together . . . ?’
“Absolutely not.” Favoring Spock with a stern sideways glance, she headed for the turbolift. For his part, the science officer sounded mildly perplexed.
“Unclear.”
Voice and expression exquisitely neutral, Kirk regarded his first officer. “What is unclear, Mr. Spock?”
The Vulcan started to reply, hesitated, got caught up in more than one interpretational conundrum, and finally responded. “A great deal, Captain.”
“Then we are once again in full agreement, Mr. Spock. I’ll meet you in the shuttle bay.”
For a second time the science officer hesitated. Then he turned and, without further comment but carrying his confusion with him, followed Uhura into the lift. As Kirk moved to join them, he was approached by McCoy.
“Jim,” the doctor murmured, “you’re not actually going down there? As the old adage goes, you don’t rob a bank when your getaway car has a flat tire.”
For an instant, Kirk’s thoughts seemed to wing elsewhere. “Last getaway car I was in I flattened the whole car, not just the tires, and I’m still here.” He looked back at McCoy. “Engineering will have us patched up and ready to disappear by the time we get back.” He raised his voice so the bridge sensors would detect and transmit his words clearly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Chekov?”
Down in Engineering the first warning sounds had begun to clamor for attention. Readouts were decidedly not cooperating, techs were starting to argue vociferously with one another, and there were too many red lights where a little green would have been far more encouraging. Through it all, Chekov managed the tersest possible response.
“Uh . . . yes, Keptin. I’ll do my best.”
Taking his chief engineer’s hurried response for an acknowledgment rather than a question, Kirk looked once more to the helm station. “Mr. Sulu, you have the conn. Once we’re en route to the surface, I want you to transmit a targeted comm burst at Harrison’s general location. Keep it tight and narrow: It’ll be on Starfleet frequency only; so between that, the fact that it’s going into an expansive deserted area, and a little luck, the Klingons won’t intercept it. They’re not likely to be scanning for Starfleet messages right in their own backyard.”
Sulu nodded his understanding. “Content of message, Captain?”
Kirk considered. “Tell him that we have a bunch of new, real big photon torpedoes pointed at his head and if he doesn’t play nice, you’re not afraid to use them.” At the look of uncertainty that slipped over the helmsman’s face, Kirk queried further. “Is that a problem?”
“No, sir,” Sulu responded solemnly. “It’s just that I’ve never sat in that chair before.” He nodded toward the command position.
Kirk replied reassuringly. “You’re gonna do great. Who knows—with good fortune you’ll probably have a command of your own someday.”
Following Kirk off the bridge, the ship’s chief physician was considerably less sanguine. “You’re sitting Mr. Sulu at a high-stakes poker game, having him take your seat and telling him to bluff with cards he can’t use without running the risk of blowing up his fellow players.” The doors to the lift opened, and the two men entered. “He’s a good man and a fine officer,” McCoy continued, “but he’s not a captain.”
“For the next two hours, he is. And stop talking in metaphors. That’s an order.”
“It’s a southern North America thing.” The doctor’s explanation did not concede compliance.
Kirk made a face as the lift started down. “I’m not sure if that’s a metaphor or not, but whatever it is, don’t do it anymore. We’re a long way from any of the Americas.”
“Too damn bad about that,” McCoy muttered.
On the bridge, Sulu changed seats, dropping into the captain’s chair as a hastily called subordinate took his usual place at the helmsman’s station. Though as a bridge officer, Sulu was perfectly familiar with the chair’s instrumentation and functions, his posture was still tentative. It did not help that all eyes were on him.
Conscious that he was expected to do something besides simply occupy the chair physically, he addressed the comm. Identifying him via his physical profile, internal vitals, and voice, the chair’s sensors responded obediently.
“Acting Captain Hikaru Sulu to Weapons Bay. Load and prepare for firing the torpedoes taken aboard just prior to Earth orbit departure. Coordinate targeting of new weapons via automatic geophysical positioning. Preliminary target should be the center of previously described deserted urban area within the Ketha Province on Qo’noS. Higher resolution of final target area yet to come. Landing team including the captain will be proceeding surfaceward, and I want those torpedoes locked in by the time he leaves the ship.”
Clad in dark gray civilian attire and carrying a couple of bundles of clothing, the landing party of Kirk, Spock, and Uhura strode toward the hurriedly refurbished, compact K’Normian trading craft where it waited in Bay 12. As Kirk had requested, a pair of regular crew awaited them. They had been selected for their security training that, from a potential combat standpoint, put them a level up on their fellow crewmembers. Kirk recognized the bearded member of the pair immediately and smiled. There had been an earlier altercation on Earth, in a bar-cum-nightclub, prior to his promotion. Not a long time ago, but the details remained sharp in his mind. “Cupcake,” he had called the man, with predictably insalubrious consequences.
Well, time and circumstance had changed things, most especially their relative positions within Starfleet. A lesser man might have made something of that, sought to impress his current superiority upon a former adversary. James T. Kirk had his faults, but carrying a meaningless grudge was not among them.
Besides, it could be argued that he had been as much if not more responsible for the fight that had ensued than his antagonists.
The crewmember in question barely glanced in his captain’s direction. “Ready to deploy, sir.”
Kirk gave no indication that anything other than a normal relationship existed between them as he passed out two bundles of civilian attire.
“Lieutenants, lose the red shirts—you’re K’Normian arms dealers. Put these on.”
“Sir?” Uneasily, the bigger of the two officers eyed the mass of wrinkled garments that had been handed to him.
“Look, if this thing goes south, if what we’re about to attempt blows up figuratively instead of literally in our faces, there can be nothing tying us to Starfleet. If necessary, we have a complete and completely plausible story to tell the Klingons. Being more than a little interested in armaments and those who deal in them, they’ll be intrigued by the details, and because of our stated profession, more than inclined to listen. If they encountered an unauthorized landing party that said it came in peace, the members of said party would be likely to end up in pieces. But one that sneaks in with the aim of buying or
selling weapons—that they’ll understand.”
Uhura spoke up. “But sir, other than our personal side arms—illegally obtained from Starfleet sources, of course—we’ll have no weapons to sell. What will we use to back up our cover story?”
Kirk nodded knowingly. “Not a problem. No K’Normian trader with half a brain would bring his inventory directly to a buyer where it might simply be confiscated.” He indicated his communicator. “If it comes to it, we’ll show them pictures of our ‘goods.’ On my ‘stolen’ Starfleet communicator, of course.” He was brimming with confidence. “If nothing else, they’ll be impressed that we managed to ‘steal’ so much Starfleet stuff. But if everything goes as planned, you won’t have to speak a word of Klingon. We’ll grab Harrison, slip back to the Enterprise, and warp out of here.” He returned his attention to the two attentive officers.
“So—no matter what happens, if anything happens, and we do have to confront some Klingons, there can be no mention of any connection with Starfleet.” He eyed his large, long-ago adversary. “Unless, of course, you want to start a war, Mr. Hendorff?”
“No, sir.” The heavyset crewmember stared straight ahead. “Did that once, sir.” He stared evenly back at Kirk as he recalled the incident in question. “Tried that once in your company, sir. Didn’t work out well.”
Betraying no emotion, Kirk nodded. “Good. I feel the same way.” Reaching out, he patted the crewman on the arm: a gesture both men recalled from a previous meeting undertaken in more primitive circumstances. Both had changed since then, matured. That they still remembered the incident in no way impacted on their present captain-crew relationship.
With Kirk having made his intentions known, no one on the K’normian trader commented as it shot away from the Enterprise.
Coming in behind a cluster of ragged, sheltering moonlets expansive enough to cloud their small craft’s drive signature, they dove toward the imposing, green-tinged planet rotating below. Uhura stared out one of the ports, her mind aswirl. “Qo’noS,” she murmured gutturally to herself. Homeworld of the Klingons. A place she never expected to see outside of file recordings, much less visit in person. A glance showed Spock, seated forward beside the captain, similarly studying the planet they were approaching. What was going through his mind at this moment? What wondering, what anticipation of new sights and discoveries, what anticipation of possible marvels they might encounter?
Naw, she told herself. He’s focusing on the task ahead. Always focusing on the task ahead. It was sometimes an—issue between them.
Not the time nor place to ponder it, she told herself firmly. In her mind, she was already reviewing basic Klingon greetings and responses in the event she would be required to employ them. The trick with speaking Klingon was not even the rough glottals or sometimes peculiar grammar. It was getting them to say anything at all before they tried to hit you with something large, heavy, and lethal.
It was several minutes before Spock finally felt confident enough in his reading of the K’Normian instrumentation to make a first report.
“I am detecting a single advanced sentient life sign in the Ketha Province. Given the information provided by Mr. Scott and the clear differentiation between this readout and what would be expected were it of Klingon origin, my conclusion is that it is most likely John Harrison.”
Kirk nodded with satisfaction. “Then he’s stayed in one place and hasn’t tried to ingratiate himself with his unknowing hosts. That further confirms that he’s hiding here and hasn’t formally defected. If the latter was the case, then he’d be surrounded by Klingons or, more likely, not feel the need to sequester himself in an abandoned city. That makes our job a lot easier.” He addressed himself to the secured, tight-beam comm.
“Mr. Sulu, I think we’ve found our man. Let him know we mean business.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Sulu fought to conceal his nervousness. It would help, he felt, if the ship’s doctor would retire to his own department and quit hovering in the vicinity of the captain’s chair. But ordering McCoy away would betray an uncertainty Sulu much preferred to keep hidden.
This isn’t how it’s done, he told himself. Very un-bushido. Sitting up straight in the chair, he addressed Communications. The officer who was substituting for the absent Uhura was immediately attentive.
“Narrow beam, as previously programmed. Frequency as indicated. Pinpoint our broadcast to that exact location.”
Uhura’s replacement complied. “Channel is open and ready for transmission, sir.”
With a terse nod, Sulu turned back in the chair and addressed the comm.
“Attention, John Harrison. This is Captain Hikaru Sulu of the U.S.S. Enterprise. We are aware of your present location and in position to bear on it from a distance. A group of highly trained officers is on its way to your location. If you do not prepare and agree to surrender yourself to them immediately upon their arrival, I am instructed to unleash an entire payload of advanced, long-range, undetectable torpedoes that is currently locked on your location. I must inform you that we are prepared to do this despite any possible diplomatic fallout or other reaction from the Klingon community.” He paused, his voice tightening. “If you test me, you will fail.”
There being nothing more to say, nothing he could think of to add, he sat back in the chair. Had he used the correct tone of voice? Could he have been simultaneously more forceful and more persuasive? A glance showed the doctor still standing nearby. Pursing his lips in a manner most familiar, McCoy peered down at him.
“Mr. Sulu. Remind me never to piss you off.”
A quick nod and Sulu turned forward once more. The smile that played across his face was slight, but full of meaning.
It was not a smooth descent. While the K’Normian controls were similar enough to be familiar, Kirk’s experience at personally piloting a shuttle-size ship all the way to a surface touchdown was limited. Which was to say, he had never done it before except via simulations. Qo’noS’s characteristically turbulent atmosphere did not make his task easier. The compact craft bucked and rocked in the rough air. Between the fact that he remembered a good deal from his studies and Spock forgot nothing, the two of them managed to wrestle the unsophisticated but sturdy craft past towering but abandoned structures that pierced the heavy cloud layer.
It wasn’t long thereafter that they could make out individual structures on the ground. The dense complex of enormous, long-abandoned buildings extended as far as they could see. It must have been some plague, Kirk mused, to induce the Klingons to flee from so much costly infrastructure. It appeared that not a single building remained intact. Some had walls as well as windows blown out, though whether by weather or attempts by Klingon medical controllers to draw a physical line around the plague that had caused Ketha Province to be abandoned, he could not tell. If the latter, he would hardly be surprised. It was likely that Klingon plague control was as subtle as the rest of their cultural and scientific methodologies.
Easy enough to understand why Harrison had chosen this place as a potential refuge following his assault on Starfleet. Who would be foolish enough to try and run him to ground on the Klingon homeworld?
Spock was doing yeoman work, making use of the K’normian vessel’s comparatively straightforward instrumentation, running it through his own tricorder and somehow obtaining useful results.
“We will arrive at Harrison’s last verified location in three minutes, Captain.” He looked over at Kirk. “It is unlikely he will come willingly. By way of contrast and with considerably more certainty, I calculate the odds of him attempting to kill us rather than surrendering at ninety-one-point-six percent.”
Kirk’s reply was dry as the empty avenues between the ruined buildings below. “Fantastic. I can always depend on you for encouragement in a difficult situation, Spock.”
The science officer was not deterred. “You can always depend on me for an accurate appraisal of any situation, Captain. Most would consider that a more useful resp
onse.”
“Unless they’re Vulcan,” Uhura suddenly put in from behind, “and they don’t care about dying.”
The object of her ire turned in his seat. “I am sorry, Lieutenant, but I am not certain that I could hear clearly what you said.”
She raised her voice, more than was necessary. “I’d be happy to speak up on a wide assortment of subjects if you’re ready to listen to me.”
Fully engaged in piloting their craft, Kirk quite sensibly chose to say nothing in the hope the conversation would take another, more professional tack, or even better, die out completely.
It was in vain.
“Lieutenant,” Spock replied firmly, “I would prefer to discuss this in private.”
Uhura was not in the least dissuaded. “You’d prefer not to discuss it at all, is what you’d prefer.”
Painfully aware they were very close to touchdown, Kirk felt he had no choice any longer but to intervene. “Whoa, guys, are you really gonna do this right now?”
“As our current circumstances require undivided focus,” Spock put in, cutting off Kirk, “I suggest that—”
Now it was Uhura’s turn to interrupt. “What doesn’t seem to require ‘undivided focus’—sorry about this, Captain . . .”
“That’s okay,” Kirk mumbled. “I can land this thing myself. No reason for you to be involved just because you’re on board.”
“. . . is us,” she went on, as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Or maybe she had heard everything, divined both his sarcasm and the implicit criticism, and had chosen to ignore both. “Two seconds, Captain. At that volcano, you didn’t give a thought to us, did you? About what it would do to me if you died, Spock.” She was fighting to keep her emotions out of her voice—and failing. “What I got out of it was that you didn’t feel anything, you didn’t care.”
Try as he might, Kirk found that he couldn’t focus wholly on the instruments. Knowing that this close to the surface, final touchdown would be handled largely by the ship’s automatics anyway, he stared at his first officer. Normally that would have had no effect: Spock could outstare a cat. But whether it was Kirk’s intensely thought but unvoiced Say something to her, you idiot or just something rarely utilized within Spock himself, the Vulcan finally responded.
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