by Diane Carey
“I’m not talking about Edith. I’m talking about you. If it hadn’t been for chasing me into the past, you wouldn’t be going through this now.”
The captain nodded, shifting his sympathy to the other man. “A drug overdose doesn’t let you make choices.”
“I should’ve put the hypo away,” McCoy said with a self-deprecating swing of his hand. “A ship’s surgeon should know better than to fool around with a loaded hypo in the middle of turbulence.” He looked up now, blue eyes keen with regret, his voice heavy with guilt. “It was an intern’s mistake, Jim ... and I’m sorry.”
A burst of warmth rose up inside the captain as he gazed back, and he realized how seldom his position allowed him any thanks—or any apology. All the things he did for the crew, for the Federation, for the galaxy ... all the decisions he’d made when there was no one else to make them, all the difficulties he’d either handled or deflected, all the danger, all the strength, all the anguish ...
And so seldom a thank-you to a ship’s captain. Just part of the job, everyone thought. Yet this wasn’t part of the job. And it wasn’t fair.
This pain, though, wasn’t going unshared.
He looked at McCoy, and spoke quietly but firmly. “You were worth it.”
Chapter Fifteen
SPACE WAS NOT SO black and forbidding as poets would have their readers believe. This area of it was spackled with natural color, an unexpectedly rich tapestry of nebulae—a veil nebula, an emission nebula, and scraggles of color that were homes to pulsars. In both the near and far distances around this little solar system, like the walls of a beautiful room, there were dust mists, shining gases, clusters, and at least two noticeable planetary nebulae in ring form, still expanding, their cores in nuclear burn, on the long path to becoming white dwarfs. Space was full of color here, if distant color. The black silk panorama was beaded with gaseous greens and flaming reds, and the diamond whites of stars and reflected light. So much beauty brought a twinge of envy. He wondered why its inhabitants would look outward to possess more.
It was alien space in the fullest meaning of the phrase, a phrase as dark as the danger it represented, and no spacelight could brighten it. Alien space, even enemy space.
Only a matter of definition, George Kirk thought as he steered the bulky Starfleet shuttlecraft along a thin diplomatic tightrope. Ahead of him a small graceful craft flew, piloted either by hope or by deception. Until he landed he wouldn’t know which.
Definition. Yes, a subtle line. After all, he was the alien here. He kept forcing himself to remember that, to keep a corner of his mind in [185] touch with Robert April lest he forget his responsibilities. Generosity was hard to maintain after the devastation the Romulans had wrought in Federation space all those decades past. Surely they’d known the Federation would defend itself. What had they hoped to gain by the massacre at Starbase 1 and the destruction of the ship that came to answer the distress call? Could a civilization actually miss being at war enough to make war happen for no reason?
On his command console, a small viewscreen showed his aft view: the empress’ gleaming ivory hull, her lack of markings and her military streamlining, suddenly looking very suspicious, and the Romulan command ship hovering not far away. Feeling his palms grow moist, George willed himself not to look at that screen, to fix his eyes instead on the vehicle he was following.
How’d I get into this? How’d I become the pivot? I’m not even qualified to be first officer, much less represent the Federation. I can’t even represent myself when I go home. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I can’t quit doing it. What am I going to say to this guy? What if he looks like a lizard? I never talked to a lizard. I don’t know if I can explain our ideals to somebody who thinks like a lizard ...
The Romulan fighter veered abruptly toward a little green-brown planetoid just this side of a bright dust cloud. Mostly bodies of water and dirt plains, the planetoid had several jutting mountain ranges that were layered by mossy growths, but there were no forests or anything so extreme as a desert. A hazy atmosphere glowed in the light of the nearest sun, and made the silver Romulan craft shine in the haze.
George followed, the two craft swerving with deceptive laziness between mountains until finally the Romulan vehicle made a wide loop, drifted to the ground in a narrow valley.
George continued onward, flying just overhead of the resting Romulan ship, scouting both the ship and the surrounding valley. He looped the shuttlecraft around for another pass, this time from a different angle, and left the area only when he was sure there were no hidden surprises. Unless Romulans looked like rocks, there was nothing here but planetoid and one little transport.
And he still didn’t like it. Romulans weren’t for trusting. Simple philosophy, historically screened.
He flew out of what he estimated would be close sensor range for a craft that small—about a mile and a half—and landed in a cluster of mossy hillocks where the shuttlecraft couldn’t be easily spotted from the sky.
[186] The brand-new shuttlecraft hovered a few inches over the ground at the last minute, then dropped with a thump. The shuttlecraft itself was easy to fly, but he felt silly sitting in this seven-person craft all by himself, and it took him a few seconds to figure out which of her landing maneuvers were automatic and which he had to key in from the console. Once firmly on the ground, the engines hummed a few seconds to let the integrators drain of mixer exhaust, then they shut down with a mechanical wheeze. Another five seconds of hissing went by as the craft automatically adjusted its interior pressurization to the outside, then everything shut down and waited to be told what to do next. George sat in the silence.
Sitting here wasn’t going to make the inevitable any less inevitable, but he had to give himself a few seconds to measure things. The odds, the importance, the perspective—things. Yet no matter how he tried to clear his mind, all he found there was a blur of accidents and more things to go wrong. He tried not to think that a galactic war or an otherwise unreachable peace was hinging on his actions. No single person with any sense of humility wanted to be in that position.
This position, he corrected. The position I’m in.
He gritted his teeth, overcome by a sudden sense of power. He was the only person here, and he would handle things in his own way. That was all anyone could ask of him.
He pressed a nearby button harder than needed.
“Official log, Commander Kirk reporting. I’m about to scout the territory where the Romulans landed. Primary goal at the moment is to meet with their commander and feel out his intentions in hopes of getting us out of their space in one piece. I consider myself thoroughly expendable, and I’ve left orders behind that the starship is to blast its way out of Romulan space if it’s forced to.” He paused, and considered what he had just said. It sounded incautious now that he heard it aloud.
His hand spread across the command console, as though the shuttlecraft had become his only confidant, and he spoke in a less arrogant tone. “That order is my responsibility, not the responsibility of the people crewing the starship. I realize such an action could trigger a war between the Federation and the Romulan Empire, and for the sake of the ambassadors who are going to have to deal with this, it should be known that the action wasn’t sanctioned by Starfleet or the Federation, or anyone other than myself. Since the current crew on the starship is made up of technicians, scientists, and engineers instead [187] of military personnel, I feel the order is only fair to them. Military personnel understand the concept of sacrifice when they go on missions, but this isn’t a mission and these people don’t deserve to die for a malfunction.” The conviction came out in his voice the more he talked, a dedication to the people on board the starship, and even to the starship itself—to those who invested in it and those who believed in it. To Robert April.
To George Samuel Jr. and James Tiberius, who deserved something to remember about their farther, more than what would be left when they grew up and discovered t
he ordinariness of a security position on a starbase. Some concrete example of what he’d been trying to teach them in his letters.
Only when his neck started aching did he realize he had clenched his jaw. More words hung on his lips, things he longed to tell his sons, to tell Robert, and even his wife.
Anger welled in his chest, anger at himself for his cowardice.
“Kirk out,” he blurted, and slammed his palm on the log-commit switch.
He swung out of his seat so abruptly that it wobbled and shuddered behind him. By the time it swiveled to a stop, he had donned a field survival pack, set his hand-cannon at its maximum blast range, strapped it to his side, and was jumping out the shuttlecraft door. Only when his feet hit the ground did he realize that he should’ve double-checked the breathability of the atmosphere, and not just taken the Romulan’s word for it. Was that stupid! He’d promised himself he wouldn’t take the Romulan’s word for anything, yet with a mile and a half still between him and the meeting, he’d already broken that promise. Some diplomat.
He tested the ground to be sure it was stable enough to hold the shuttlecraft’s weight for as long as it took, then he started walking in the direction his compass told him was the navigational coordinate where his quarry waited.
It was a marshy mile and a rocky half. There was animal life all over the place, everything from bugs to large bearlike beasts. Good—their presence would confuse any sensors that might be trying to find a human who didn’t want to be found. George was actually glad to see big fuzzy faces that might otherwise be taken as threatening. The animals peeked out of hollows and knuckles of rock but none made any hostile moves. If he’d had only them to concentrate on, he might have been worried. But his mind was on other things, reciting lines and [188] remembering laws, and trying to anticipate what the enemy would say so he would be sure to have his answers ready.
Enemy, enemy, enemy ... he couldn’t shake the terminology, no matter how he tried to sweeten it with diplomacy’s optimism. I’m just no diplomat. I can’t afford to take a stand I don’t really believe in or even comprehend. Robert ... I don’t know what to do. I don’t have your visions. I can’t use what I don’t have. And I’m not going to let my weakest abilities rule my actions. I don’t intend to be completely upfront with a race that considers massacre fair play.
Why did they really want him here? What were their real motives for wanting to meet face to face? There had to be some other reason than the flabby one the Romulan commander had given, something about their race considering such meetings productive. There was a sour ring to that kind of language in a military situation. George steeled himself for whatever surprise might be awaiting him.
His compass started a subdued beeping. He was getting close.
Hunching down, he drew his hand-cannon and shoved his field pack around to the back of his hip. After shutting off the homing beeper, he moved in.
The Romulan vessel’s silver nose was the first visible evidence that his compass had spoken truly. Crouching as he moved, George skirted the rocks at the thin valley’s rim and finally came around to where he could see the enemy.
“Lizards,” he whispered, suddenly anxious to get on with it.
Two of them. One with a red sash, the other with a blue sash. He was both surprised and relieved to see that they were quite humanoid, at least from the outside. Maybe they had shark oil for blood or something, but they had two legs, two arms, and a head each. Both wore helmets of an unidentifiable gray-gold metal. Their faces were darkish, almost like Klingons, though without the sheen of Klingon skin. Both heavily armed, pacing the area, watching for him. Which one was the commander? Would Romulans consider blue a color of higher distinction, or red?
He watched them for several minutes, trying to see if one gave orders to the other, or if one seemed noticeably subordinate. All he got out of it was several minutes of nothing. Stalling, really. He stretched a numb thigh, got up, and started skirting the rocks again, hoping for a better angle, perhaps even a closer look.
As he carefully jumped between two juts of mossy stone, keeping [189] his shadow from giving him away, something caught his eye. A third presence. Royal-blue clothes. Yellow fuzz. No helmet.
Puzzled, he bundled himself low along the stone and peeked toward the open area near the Romulan ship. There, sitting on a granite buttress off to one side, only about twenty feet from him, was the last thing he expected to see.
“A Vulcan!” he breathed.
The sound of his exclamation startled him and he clamped his lips shut. He pressed his shoulder blades against the rock again and forced himself to think silently. A Vulcan ... Federation ally ... They’ve kidnapped a Vulcan! And they’ll never negotiate as long as they have a hostage.
Now he knew why the Romulans wanted to meet face to face. They wanted their hostage clearly seen.
His decision was immediate. He held his breath, the muzzle of his hand-cannon brushing his ear, and pushed himself off the rock and through the crevice toward the Vulcan.
The Vulcan saw him first. George took it as a tribute to his stealth that a flash of surprise crossed the Vulcan’s face when he caught sight of George. The Vulcan pulled his hands from where they had been resting in his lap, but by the time he stood up, George was grabbing his arm and pulling him around behind him so they could both be protected by the hand-cannon.
Nearer to the ship, the two Romulans swung around, drawing their weapons, but froze as George leveled his cannon first at one, then the other, then swung it stiffly between them in obvious threat. They might not speak his language, but from their expressions, they understood his meaning quite well.
“Back up,” he said, pushing the Vulcan along behind him as he retreated from the open space.
T’Cael saw his men start to defy the human’s weapon, and from behind the human he raised his hands and motioned them to stay where they were, at least until he could figure out what this lunatic was up to. Was this a guard sent ahead to isolate him, or was this the first officer himself? Was he dealing with a maniac? Quite possibly, for the human wasn’t holding his weapon on t’Cael, but in protection of t’Cael. Protection? Why? There was a whole ship filled with people up there; why had they sent down their lunatic?
For the moment, t’Cael decided he would go along.
[190] He gave the guards a second and sterner signal to stay where they were and wait.
“Come on,” the Starfleet officer snapped as he grasped t’Cael’s elbow and dragged him far back into the lichen-covered bluffs and into a hollow that looked defensible.
George pushed the Vulcan down into the hollow ahead of himself, then turned and watched carefully in the direction from which they’d come, expecting the Romulans to show up any minute.
“Speak English?” he asked.
T’Cael shrugged slightly. “I speak it well enough ...”
“Did they hurt you?”
“Hurt me? No ...”
“You were lucky they had a reason to keep you alive. I had a feeling all along about them. Find out anything about them that we can use to get out of this?”
T’Cael frowned. He had no idea how to answer that question. In fact, he had no idea why the human had seen fit to “rescue” him from his own party. When the Starfleet man turned to get his answer, t’Cael simply shook his head slowly.
“No,” George grumbled, “I don’t supposed they let you see much. Here.” He pulled out his extra hand laser and stuffed it into the Vulcan’s hands. “If any of those bastards shows his head over the rocks, shoot ’im.”
Thoroughly confused, t’Cael stared at the weapon he now held. Kidnapped, protected, and now given a weapon?
The Starfleet officer glanced at him. “How long have they had you?”
“Oh, quite a while,” t’Cael said evasively.
“Yeah, I’ve heard stories of Vulcans occasionally disappearing near the Neutral Zone. Up till now, nobody had the nerve to suggest the Romulans might be kidnapping them. I guess we kn
ow for sure now, don’t we?”
“Vulcans,” t’Cael murmured. “I see ...”
“What?”
“Are you the first officer of the battlecruiser? The man who promised to meet with them?”
“In the flesh. I’m beginning to think I made a mistake. We’re at a disadvantage here. I shouldn’t have agreed to this. You got lucky.”
T’Cael smiled, but the Fleet man wasn’t watching. “Yes. Very lucky.”
[191] If George had thought about it, he’d have remembered that Vulcans didn’t believe in Lady Luck and her fickle court. At the moment he was confused enough by the fact that they hadn’t been followed by the lizards, who had obviously intended to use this Vulcan for some sort of blackmail.
“Do you intend to negotiate with them?” the Vulcan was asking him.
“I don’t know now. That’s what I hoped to do when I came down, but they weren’t honest. They didn’t tell me about you. What else didn’t they tell me? I can’t afford to fall over any tripwires on this one.”
“What are your plans, then?”
George heaved a sigh of terrible frustration and said, “I don’t know. I could just take you back to the starship and blast them out to space.”
“You could ...”
“I could. But that’d mean galactic war. And we don’t want that.”
“ ‘We,’ meaning whom?”
“The Federation, who else? And ‘we,’ too. I don’t want it either.”
“Are you saying,” t’Cael went on cautiously, “that you may agree to negotiate in good faith even yet?”
“I don’t think I have a choice. If I can get them to be honest, I’ll negotiate my butt off. Get down a little more, all right? I don’t want them to see you.”
“Ah. Forgive me,” t’Cael said, and lowered himself onto a slanted slab.
“ ’S okay,” George said with a wave of his hand-cannon, and continued surveying the crags. “Why aren’t they following us?”
“How fortunate for them that your navigation system blundered,” t’Cael said, testing.
