by Greg Cox
Flesh and bone smacked soundly against the silver ball, which angled off toward the hoop. Tumbling backward, Kirk held his breath as the ball neared the goal. The hoop revolved toward the ball at just the right moment. The copper ring expanded outward and . . .
Goal!
The ball zipped through the hoop right before it started to contract again. The crowd booed furiously and stamped their feet. Thousands of angry spines stiffened throughout the stadium. Irate aliens screeched like scrilatyl. A silver kite was grudgingly launched into the sky, joining a pair of black kites.
The score was now two to one.
Still in the God-King’s favor, Kirk thought, but looking better.
Maybe he was starting to get the hang of this game.
His celebration was short-lived, however. Waiting on the other side of the hoop, Jaenab effortlessly knocked the ball back in the opposite direction. Now as black as a Crusader’s tunic, the ball spun through the ring. The thunderous roar of the spectators was like the shock wave from a warp core explosion. Another kite was released to mark the score. Three to one.
This isn’t going my way, Kirk realized. Only one more point stood between him and a final, fatal defeat. He kicked out desperately at the inky ball, but his shot went astray, passing below the twirling hoop. The audience laughed uproariously, letting Kirk know just what they thought of his chances. He saw their point. How could he expect to beat the God-King at this trial? He was just a novice, while Jaenab had probably been training for such contests since he was a youth. I can’t possibly learn the ropes fast enough to eke out a victory. . . .
“It seems the ancestors do not favor you, God-Slayer!” Jaenab gloated. He took a victory lap around the cage, basking in the exultant cheers of his people. He gleefully taunted Kirk. “Did I neglect to mention that I have never been defeated in the arena?”
Kirk refused to be intimidated.
“Or maybe your adoring subjects just let you win,” he replied, hurling back some good old-fashioned trash talk. “That ever occur to you?”
Jaenab bristled at the accusation. “My victories have always been my own!”
“Of course they were.” Kirk scoffed at the notion. “As if any Ialatl would dare to defeat the God-King!”
Jaenab’s tentacles flared. They flushed darkly. Kirk had no idea if there was any merit to his accusations, but he appeared to have struck a nerve. A sly smile lifted Kirk’s lips as a slender hope presented itself. Maybe his best strategy was to mess with the God-King’s head—and get him angry enough to make a mistake.
Kirk figured he knew just what button to push. . . .
TWENTY
Unlike the floating pyramid, the royal temple was firmly rooted in the ageless bedrock of Ialat. Vlisora led Spock through a murky network of ancient caves, cisterns, and catacombs, using her palm-light to illuminate the way. Stalactites hung from the ceilings of the larger grottos. Hieroglyphics, which bore a familial resemblance to those samples of Ialatl script Spock had glimpsed earlier, were carved into the subterranean stone walls. Empty burial niches might have once held the bones of long-departed ancestors, before the Ialatl turned their sights to the sky instead. As with the abandoned underground rail system, the venerable caverns showed clear signs of neglect. Vermin slithered and scuttled in the shadows. Cobwebs hung like tattered curtains.
A rough-hewn tunnel climbed sharply upward. Spock managed to keep up with Vlisora, despite his recent “death,” but found himself fighting gravity once more. He paused to catch his breath, leaning against a natural limestone column. The air was stale and stagnant. No breeze navigated the winding passages. The temperature was chilly even by human standards, which made it uncomfortably cold by his. He shivered and strove to keep his teeth from chattering. He hugged himself to conserve his body warmth.
“Are you quite all right?” Vlisora asked. She turned back toward Spock.
“There is no cause for concern,” he assured her. “I require only a moment.”
Remorse played across her face. “My apologies once again for subjecting you to such duress. I gambled that your Vulcan physiology could survive the thin air of the upper atmosphere long enough for me to recover you.”
“A successful wager,” Spock conceded. The stolen flyer had indeed arrived in time to succor him, although his lungs still burned to an uncomfortable degree. A few moments later and he might well have expired. The chill of the upper atmosphere clung to his bones. Frostbite nipped at the tapered points of his ears. Medical treatment was advisable, provided he survived the next few hours. “Although I regret that Captain Kirk remains in jeopardy.”
“It was necessary to fake your death in order to escape the Crusade’s vigilance,” she insisted. “And I do not deny that I contrived to bring about a direct confrontation between your captain and the God-King. I can only pray that Kirk keeps my husband occupied long enough for us to bring sanity back to Ialat.”
Spock hoped the same. They resumed their upward trek through the forgotten catacombs. The scum-coated waters of a forgotten cistern rippled beneath the glow of Vlisora’s light. Mold covered the walls, and the stagnant air reeked of mildew. Spock felt the temperature slowly climb as they made their way up from the lower depths. He hoped that meant they were nearing their destination.
“It is fortuitous,” he observed, “that these subterranean passages provide covert access to the palace.”
“It’s an ancient temple,” she said wryly. “Of course there are catacombs. And the original caverns are said to predate the earliest structures on this site. Legend has it, after all, that the first God-King was adopted by a mother scrilatyl in these very caves, although there is some dispute as to the precise location.”
Spock sniffed the air. A rank odor indicated that the catacombs remained populated by the native fauna. He raised Kirk’s phaser, which Vlisora had bestowed upon him as a gesture of good faith.
“And are we likely to encounter any scrilatyl in the present era?”
“It appears not,” Vlisora said. She swept the ceiling with the beam of her palm-light. “Typically, there would be entire flocks of scrilatyl roosting in the larger chambers and grottos, but I have yet to spy one.” She chuckled bleakly. “I suspect they are all out hunting for me.”
“Ironic,” Spock noted.
“The ancestors are not without a sense of humor, unlike many of their present worshippers.”
A narrow staircase, seemingly hewn from the bedrock, led them to a sealed basalt door that gave abundant evidence of antiquity. Slivers of light, less than the width of a hair, leaked around the edges of the door, suggesting habitation beyond. Vlisora lowered her voice and gestured that Spock should do the same.
“In days of old,” she explained, “such hidden passages allowed the God-Kings and their immediate kin to come and go from the temple undetected, so that they might walk among the common folk in disguise, experiencing firsthand their lives and concerns.” She smiled slyly. “I suspect they were also used to facilitate clandestine visits to mistresses, courtesans, and secret lovers.”
Spock arched an eyebrow. “A rather cynical attitude for a High Priestess.”
“I believe in the Truth, Mister Spock, but I am not blind to reality. And I was not always a priestess.”
Spock recalled her earlier claim to have once been a pilot, as well as the skill with which she had disabled the flyer’s tracking mechanism and landed the royal flyer in the tunnels earlier. He had no trouble accepting that there was far more to Vlisora than merely her religious station.
“My father’s first consort was a priestess,” he divulged, “and an accomplished biochemist as well.” He refrained from mentioning the disgraced half brother that had resulted from that long-ago union; that unfortunate matter was not relevant, nor was it something he was inclined to discuss. “On Vulcan, science and spirituality are not regarded as incompatible, provided they are both governed by logic.”
“Your people sound very civilized,” Vlisora said wis
tfully. “Much as mine once were. I wish there was time to discuss your planet further, but, alas, time is not our ally. We must make haste while all eyes are on your captain’s contest against my husband.”
She had previously alerted Spock to Kirk’s “trial by ordeal,” which she had learned of via a telepathic broadcast from the God-King’s crown. Spock was concerned as to Kirk’s chances in the match.
“What is the probability that the captain will prevail against Jaenab?”
“Minimal,” she admitted. “But, if the ancestors smile on us, he may buy us time to do what must be done.”
Spock was less quick to dismiss the possibility that Kirk might defeat Jaenab. “You may underestimate the captain’s chances. In the past, he has demonstrated a singular talent for succeeding against the odds.”
She gave him a pensive look. “You have great faith in your captain, don’t you?”
“It is not a matter of faith, merely empirical observation. Captain Kirk’s resourcefulness in such situations is well documented.”
A smile lifted her lips. “Well, let us hope that both faith and empirical observations can be relied upon.”
A simple mechanical latch provided another indication of the door’s age. Vlisora undid the latch and shoved gently on the door, which proved to be of the revolving variety. It opened easily, without sticking or squeaking, which suggested to Spock that the ancient doorway had been recently lubricated. He suspected that Vlisora had been using the hidden passageway to conduct her subversive activities.
A well-lit corridor could be glimpsed beyond the doorway. She peeked out of the secret passage before signaling Spock that it was safe to proceed. They slipped into a narrow hallway whose palatial décor contrasted sharply with the dismal catacombs they had just traversed. Elaborate plaster bas-reliefs, depicting what Spock assumed were celebrated scenes in Ialatl myth and history, adorned the wall, as well as the opposite side of the door. She rotated it back into its original position and locked it by twisting an inconspicuous piece of sculpture. Once back in place, there was little indication that the door existed at all. Its edges were effectively camouflaged by the hall’s elaborate décor.
“An impressive feat of craftsmanship and concealment,” he observed. “Your ancestors are to be commended for their ingenuity.”
She shrugged. “It has its uses. Even today.”
“So it would seem.”
She doused her light and glanced about furtively. “Follow me,” she whispered. “There are back passages frequented only by the royal family and a few select retainers. If all goes well, we will encounter little traffic.”
Trusting her intimate familiarity with the palace and its ways, he trailed behind her. They made brisk progress down the corridor until the sound of racing footsteps, coming from around a corner ahead, forced them to flatten themselves against the wall in hopes of avoiding detection. Spock held his breath to keep from betraying their presence. He felt Vlisora tremble beside him. The spines atop her scalp twitched. Nervous fingers toyed with the pendant around her neck. His own finger lingered on the trigger of his phaser.
“Hurry! Lift your feet, you sluggard!” A pair of Ialatl in civilian attire sprinted through an intersection at the end of the hall, looking straight ahead. “We’re going to miss the fall of the God-Slayer!”
The hurried stragglers passed by without spotting them. Their pounding steps receded. Clutching her chest, Vlisora sighed in relief. Spock’s acute hearing picked up the rapid beating of her heart.
“Praise the ancestors! I feared they would sound an alarm.”
He acknowledged that it had been a close call. “I suggest we move on rather than tempt fate by remaining.”
She nodded. Her heartbeat stabilized. “This way.”
They encountered no further diversions on their way up a back stairway that led to a curtained archway. Pulling back the curtain, if only by a few centimeters, revealed an elevated gallery that looked out upon a truly grandiose throne room. Spock took due note of the chamber’s manifest size and splendor. There were majestic temples and monuments on Vulcan that suffered by comparison to the God-King’s lair.
Vlisora quietly nudged Spock and pointed out a jade circlet resting upon a large obsidian throne. He understood that this was the God-King’s celebrated crown. He spared a moment to speculate on the unknown technology that allowed the crown to radiate Jaenab’s thoughts to his subjects.
Possibly a psionic resonator, such as the fabled Stone of Gol?
The Crown was guarded by precisely nine Crusaders armed with gravity-lances. Although standing dutifully at their posts, the men were all captivated by the holographic images playing out within a floating orb, where Captain Kirk could be seen competing against the God-King inside a glowing geodesic sphere. Floating in zero g, Kirk chased after a caroming silver ball in order to survive his trial by ordeal, only to be blindsided by Jaenab, who savagely rammed his elbow into Kirk’s side. The guards in the throne room cheered the brutal attack on the infidel, even though Spock found it both distasteful and unsporting. He couldn’t help noticing that Kirk already appeared bruised and beaten-up. The Crusade had clearly not been gentle with him.
Despite the urgency of his own situation, he was drawn to the contest on the screen as well. According to Vlisora, Kirk’s life might well depend on the outcome of this match. He found it difficult to look away.
Jim. . . .
“We can aid him best by fulfilling our own role in this drama,” Vlisora whispered. “Perhaps there is still time to make a difference.”
Her logic could not be faulted. He forced himself to look away from the orb and focused on the task at hand.
Intent on the televised contest between Kirk and their God-King, the guards failed to note Spock and Vlisora spying on them from the gallery, yet the Crusaders’ presence undeniably complicated their mission. Spock inspected his phaser. A blinking indicator revealed that the weapon’s power supply was nearly exhausted, thanks to its extensive use by both Kirk and Vlisora. Spock calculated that its charge would not survive an extended battle.
He would have to make every shot count.
Vlisora stared avidly at the crown on the throne, then lifted her gaze to the vaulted ceiling high above them. She nudged him again, backing away from the gallery.
“Come,” she said. “I have an idea.”
They crept up another stairwell to the floor directly above the throne room, which was smaller and less opulent by several orders of magnitude. Spock could not decipher the labels and markings on the walls, but he quickly deduced that this level of the temple was devoted to more utilitarian purposes, such as maintenance and technical support. Automated machinery hummed behind closed doors. Spock was impressed that the High Priestess was even familiar with this part of the palace.
Moving stealthily, Vlisora approached a closed door at the end of the hall. She signaled Spock to position himself to one side of the door. Her fingers made a pinching motion.
Spock grasped her intent.
“Help!” she cried out, pounding on the door. “The traitor priestess is here! Seize her!”
The door slid open. An Ialatl technician, wearing a copper tunic, rushed out of the chamber, intent on capturing Vlisora. His black eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the fugitive herself standing right in front of him. His jaw dropped, followed by his entire body as Spock came up behind him and applied a nerve pinch to his shoulder. The man collapsed at their feet.
“An efficient use of your own notoriety,” Spock complimented Vlisora. He was glad not to have required his phaser to subdue the unlucky technician. He needed to conserve its charge.
“One makes do with what one has,” she said, shrugging. She bent to take hold of the unconscious Ialatl’s arms. “Now help me drag him out of sight.”
Taking the man’s legs, he assisted Vlisora in pulling their victim into the chamber ahead, which proved to be a control room of some variety. A large steel-and-glass projector, whose exo
tic design displayed the same unfamiliar technology previously employed by the Crusade, hung from the ceiling, its bottom lens aimed at a sealed circular hatchway directly beneath it. A solitary workstation was wedged in a corner. A viewscreen on the console was presently tuned to the grueling trial under way in the arena. The resident technician had evidently been monitoring the bout as well.
Spock glanced around, curious as to the purpose of the chamber.
“This control room is used to stage the God-King’s entrances when he holds court in the throne room below.” Vlisora explained how Jaenab typically descended to his throne, which rose to meet him. She pointed out the sophisticated apparatus mounted on the ceiling of the control room. “We may be able to employ that gravity projector to our own advantage.”
She closed and barred the door before sitting down at the console. So far, their altercation had not attracted any attention, probably because the automated systems on this level had been largely left to tend to themselves while their operators joined the rest of Ialat in witnessing the historic contest in the arena, but Spock knew they could not count on being left to their own devices indefinitely. He stepped away from the hatchway in the floor as it quietly slid open, offering a view of the obsidian throne several meters below. The God-King’s crown remained undisturbed on its cushioned seat.
She glanced at him.
“I believe your people have a saying about the mountain coming to Muhammad. . . .”
She activated the gravity projector. An incandescent emerald spotlight streamed down through the open hatch to envelop the throne, which began to ascend toward them.
“That is a human saying,” Spock corrected her, “but I see its relevance.”
Distracted by the contest in the orb, it took the guards in the throne room a moment to notice that the throne—and the crown—were leaving them behind. But the glow from the beam, reflected on the polished floors and pillars, quickly caught their attention.
