by John M. Ford
“Lieutenant Kelly’s orders are obeyed.”
“I mean, in command of ships. Independent command.” There was a set to Whitetree’s creased, dark face, a light in his eyes.
Krenn said, “No.”
[124] Whitetree said, “My daughter commands a survey ship. The Avebury.”
Krenn said nothing.
Whitetree said, as if pressing the same point, “How does a Klingon Captain get chosen for duty like this? Was it a reward? Or punishment? Or did you just draw the short straw?”
Krenn’s taped learning did not include the last idiom, but he supposed it meant bad luck. “The Empire ordered me here; I came. The mission is not dishonorable.”
“So you were just following orders?”
“Do officers of the Federation not follow orders?”
Whitetree leaned forward, about to say something; then he sat back slowly. His expression had changed wholly, though the shifts of flesh were small. “I’m ... sorry, Captain.”
Krenn had heard that word too: it seemed to have more of its meaning left than please did. And, watching the Human, Krenn thought he intended that it should have meaning now.
“I am not insulted, Admiral.”
“Maybe you should be. I was—” Whitetree shook his head. “My son was killed by Klingons.”
“Did the one fight well?” Krenn said.
“He was on a ship called the Flying Fortress,” the Admiral said. “You may have heard of the incident. The ship was one of our Rickenbacker-class, what we used to call Maximum Security Transports. Only one of them was ever hijacked ... pirates broadcast a fake distress message from a fake Federation scout. When Flying Fort answered, the pirates put a shot straight into her crew compartment.
“There was an automatic subspace alarm aboard, though, that the pirates didn’t know about. A patrol was scrambled, and when it showed up, the pirates dropped the loot and ran.”
“I have indeed heard of this incident,” Krenn said. “Those who fled were executed, for cowardice.”
[125] Whitetree said, “I didn’t know that. I suppose ... it ought to please me, or at least satisfy me, but ...”
In a low voice, the Admiral said, “You see, Captain, Starfleet sent me out here because they thought I’d really show you the hot end of the lasers. And I really thought I would.
“So what happens? I show up with a task force that could level half a planet, to meet one cruiser with a light crew and sealed guns. You don’t drip spittle from your bloodied fangs, you don’t keep your women in chains—Spirit, you speak the language better than some of my crew, and you’re a damn sight politer.”
He stood up, went to look out the window. No ships were visible. Krenn wondered if Humans believed in the power of the naked stars. Whitetree said, “So everyone involved with the hijack is dead?”
“The one who planned it was named Kethas. He also is dead.”
Whitetree turned. “Kethas? We’ve heard of him. The Klingon Yamamoto. Dead too ... damnation.”
“My family,” Krenn said, “was killed by Romulans. It was also an ambush of a ship not at war.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Captain,” Whitetree said, his voice hardened again. “I still hate you, and all Klingons. I don’t think I’d stop hating you if I found out Jesus Christ was a Klingon. But you’ve ... made me think. It’s as if ... dead things were alive again.”
The only truth about death, Krenn thought but did not consider to say, is that it is death, and the end.
The wall communicator chimed, and the Admiral went to it. “Whitetree ... Yes, I see. The Captain’s with me; we’ll be there shortly.”
Whitetree turned to Krenn. “Some of your crew are in a brawl with some of mine. We’d better go and untangle them.”
Krenn said, “Was the combat started by Klingons?”
“They didn’t say.” Whitetree swallowed the last of [126] his juice. “And I really don’t think it’s going to matter a damn. Do you?”
Krenn, Akhil, and Maktai had Lieutenant Kalim in a three-way fire: Krenn was aware it was probably harder on the young officer than time in the cube, but they could not afford even the usual leave tolerances just now. The Klingons had left the Starbase under the tubes of guns and eyes hardly less threatening, and Fencer’s authorization to proceed to Earth had come none too soon.
“We were just talking,” Kalim said, “with some of those fringe-patrol Feds. Some of them had fought Roms, you see, Captain, and they knew good Rom stories, like ‘How many Roms does it take to change a translator?’ ”
“Don’t digress,” Maktai said. His usual easy manner made his growl all the more effective.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Krenn said calmly, “you were talking with the Starfleet beings. Did the fight start over old Rom stories?”
“No, Captain, it wasn’t that. One of the Feds mentioned Lieutenant Kelly—”
Not that again, Krenn thought, surprised at the strength of his feeling.
“—he didn’t know her name, not then, but he talked about her, and that translator-pipe of theirs isn’t very subtle, if you know what I mean, Captain, and it was clear who he was talking about. And I said, ‘That’s our Lieutenant Kelly, and you be careful how you talk.’ ”
“You said that?” Akhil said.
“Well, Commander, it may have been Konli, but I was about to say it.”
According to the taped testimonies, every one of the twenty-six Klingons involved in the brawl had been first to defend the Communications officer. Krenn said “Proceed.”
Kalim said, “So one of the Feds said ‘Personal deity, [127] they have an Eirizhman in the crew.’ That’s what the translator-pipe said.”
Krenn said, “ ‘Irish’ is a place of origin on Earth.”
“I thought it was an insult, Captain.”
“A reasonable assumption. Proceed.”
“So then a Human said ‘That makes nothing. I heard there is a Skots’man also, a ... Maktai.’ And then the Feds started arguing with each other.”
“That was when the fight started?”
“No, Captain. We didn’t even know what the argument was about, not then. But then Ensign Kintata said—”
If the speaker was a Lieutenant, it was an ensign who had said the key phrase; if an ensign, a Lieutenant had. It was that, or admit one had been drinking with non-officers. Krenn supposed they were fortunate to have no cadets aboard.
Akhil read from the computer screen in his lap, “Asked a Starfleet Human his name. Was told it was ‘Marks.’ Announced that he knew many Klingons named Marks, and all were Marines.”
“Yes, Commander,” Kalim said, nodding vigorously.
“And that was when the fight started.”
“Affirm.”
Krenn said, “A small surprise.”
The Lieutenant started to nod, but instead came to laser-locked attention.
“This is not a raid,” Krenn said. “We are not to provoke combat, though we have the right to defend ourselves.” He paused. “Did we defend ourselves?”
“Oh, yes, Captain,” Kalim said. “Humans can take a lot of hitting, but they’re slow. And those stunners of theirs, the beam ones, they don’t work well at all. I was hit, oh, eight or nine times and I still took down—”
“That’s sufficient, Lieutenant.” Krenn stood up. “The Exec has a punishment detail in mind for you.”
To his credit, Lieutenant Kalim did not react at all as Krenn went into his inner office, followed by Maktai. [128] The door closed; Krenn touched on a monitor with a view of the outer office.
“... confined to quarters during non-duty or meal hours until the ship reaches Earth,” Akhil was saying. “Confined to the ship during the duration of the Earth stay ...”
“It’ll be a Security directive when it comes,” Krenn said, “but no one’s going downside on Earth but the landing party ... me, ’Khil, you if you want, but I’d rather have you in command here.” And away from the Feds, Krenn thought.
“How about Communicat
ions?”
“I’ll have a communicator. I’ll want Kelly listening for me.” And away from the Humans, doubled.
Beside which, Krenn thought, if she is from II, the two of you are best kept in the same place ... in fact, if either of you are, or both.
Maktai said, “How many guards?”
“None. Akhil and I will carry dress weapons. If they want to kill us, they have a whole planet to do it with.”
“It isn’t the bite, it’s the showing of teeth.”
“They expect us to show teeth—khest, they expect us to bite. It doesn’t scare them. But they feel wrong when they send out a great force, and are met by a small one. They feel ...” Krenn found the Human word. “... silly. This has enormous power over them. I want them to feel as silly as possible while we’re there.”
Maktai said, “Oh, that Vulcan attaché—the one you thought might be tharavul to the diplomat?”
“He wasn’t, was he.”
“No. One of my people saw him mind-touch one of the Starfleeters, after the fight. A Human. She seemed to consent to it.”
“Humans seem to consent to a lot of things,” Krenn said. “But then, the Vulcans consent to having a piece of their brains cut out, just so they can live among us, watch how we live.”
“What do Vulcans care?” Maktai said. “And, no one reported seeing or hearing anything about particle [129] transporters. Not that they gave us much freedom to look.”
“I wonder what they’ll let us see on Earth,” Krenn said.
Akhil came in. “That’s the last of the disciplines. At least there weren’t any deaths ... I think we’re lucky the crews didn’t know much of each other’s anatomy. The Surgeon had to set six dislocated jaws, did you know? Humans like to punch at the jaw. ...” He shook his head. “In Keth’s years, I’ve never heard such a story.”
“Speaking of stories, ’Khil,” Krenn said.
“Yes?”
“How many Roms does it take to change a translator?”
Akhil stared. So did Maktai. Almost together, they said, “You don’t know?”
“I never much liked Romulan jokes.”
Maktai said, “One to change the ’stator ...”
Akhil said, “... and 150 to blow up the ship out of shame.”
And Krenn, who had not laughed at a Rom joke in many years, found himself full to bursting.
Seen from parking orbit, most of Earth had been ocean, and clouds covered it in vast white ruffs and whorls.
So how, Krenn wondered, could such a planet have a place so incredibly dry, with so much bald white sky arching over?
“Don’t breathe deeply,” Akhil warned, as they stepped from the shuttle onto the hard soil. “There’s no moisture at all; it’ll burn your lungs out.”
And it was hot, like a fusion torch is hot. Krenn’s head was aching in a moment. He looked around, feeling his eyeballs beginning to cook: there was a ring of Humans and vehicles all around the shuttlecraft, all waiting for something. Krenn saw that all the Humans had weapons; so did all the vehicles, except for one, a [130] blocky thing the size of the shuttle, all white métal below and black glass above. NORTH AMERICAN PRIME STARPORT, said letters on the metal side, WHITE SANDS, CIBOLA, USA.
“Bloody Ishtar,” a Human voice said, “if they have heatstroke it’s our tails,” and four of the soldiers ran to help Krenn and Akhil toward the half-glass vehicle. “I thought they liked it hot,” one muttered.
Within the vehicle it was dark, and moist, and cold: but as Krenn recovered, he realized it was only the effect of sudden change. The interior of the vehicle was actually very close to Klingon ship’s environment.
“Sit down,” another Human voice said. “It isn’t that they were afraid of you; they just didn’t know what they might have to be afraid of.”
Krenn sat. Then he realized that the Human voice had spoken in quite casual klingonaase.
Krenn looked up. There were leather swivel seats along both sides of the vehicle, which was moving now: an operator was visible through thick glass in the front. There was no door to his compartment. With him was one of the Human soldiers, rifle at ready arms, head encased in some kind of breathing helmet.
Krenn turned again. In a seat opposite him sat the smallest, frailest Human Krenn had yet seen, including some who had spent days in the agonizer cube.
This Human was dark-skinned, almost as dark as a Klingon—Kelly’s color, Krenn thought. His hair was thin, gray-silver, almost white. His face was bony and lined, but his eyes were brilliant behind discs of glass in a wire frame. He wore a long belted tunic of smooth white fabric; there were single traceries of gold wire on collar and cuffs, and a supernova of award triangles on the breast. If they were the medals they represented, Krenn thought, they would outweigh the wearer.
“There is no more absolute zero of land,” the Human said, looking through the heavily tinted windows, “not since we have begun to live on the icecap. Only white sun, white air, and a pan of industrial [131] abrasive the size of Chesapeake Bay, with no good line dividing them.”
The Human looked at Krenn again, and his face made Krenn uneasy: the bright eyes in the old face made him think too much, far too much, of Kethas.
“Things are done here,” the Human said, “you are here, because this place is nothing, and nothing can ever happen here. When we were inventing reaction-drive spacecraft, the fueled rockets were allowed to crash here. Nuclear weapons were set off here, just to satisfy curiosity as to what would happen, because it would not matter, you see. There is no mind in this land, and no memory. And that is why you were caused to land here.
“I am Dr. Emanuel Tagore,” said the Human, “Ph.D. several times, University of New Bombay, Universities of Chicago, Edinburgh, Akademgorodok and the Ocean of Storms, late of the Makropyrios College of Political Science, and probable candidate for the Museum of Antiquities on Memory Alpha. I will have the honor of accompanying you on your return home, Captain ... if we reach the lands of memory.”
Krenn watched a monitor, showing Humans fighting one another in the streets of a city. The city’s location was not given, and its name was meaningless to him. He, and Akhil, and Fencer, were the subjects of the riot; Krenn wondered how far away the Humans were rioting.
He also wondered what their purpose was in letting him see this.
The Klingons and the Ambassador Dr. Tagore had been transferred, at a place called Juarez-El Paso Station, to a gravity-suspended train of cars riding elevated tracks. Akhil had asked one of the train crew their speed: the Human seemed startled to hear the Klingon speaking his language, but then rather proudly gave the speed as three hundred kilometers an Earth hour. Akhil gave a suitably impressed thanks.
[132] The sun had set; Dr. Tagore assured Krenn it was safe to watch, and the colors were indeed dramatic. Now Krenn was alone in the last car of the train. Akhil was one car forward, dozing in a small bedroom. Dr. Tagore was further ahead, in conference with the other Federation officials aboard. There was a soldier visible through the door to that car, not threatening, merely armed and ready.
The door to Krenn’s car opened, and two Humans came in. The first was a Starfleet Admiral, Marcus van Diemen; the second was a Colonel of the Earth Surface Forces named Rabinowich.
Van Diemen was a large, impressive male with yellow hair and light skin; he wore a Starfleet dress uniform with plenty of gold braid, more by far than Admiral Whitetree had worn. Jael Rabinowich wore a uniform like those her soldiers wore, with rank badges of dark fabric that would not show to an enemy’s scouts or snipers, and a sidearm of dull black metal that was clearly not for show. She was darker than van Diemen, much smaller, though not slight. Krenn thought about Whitetree’s comments on female commanders. He looked at Rabinowich’s face, and wondered what tools she would use to lead.
Admiral van Diemen said, “We have a change of plans.” His voice was large as well. “A gentleman of some importance has asked to speak with you, and the diversion and meeting have just bee
n approved. It will delay us perhaps half a day ... will your crew become alarmed, if you are stopped for a few hours before reaching Federa-Terra?”
Van Diemen looked at Krenn’s communicator. Krenn had supposed the Federation would be screening them from search; but then, no one could ever quite know what the enemy’s sensors could sense past. And if they did not in fact have the transporter ... “I will inform them. To where is the diversion?”
“The city of Atlanta, State of Georgia, United States of America.”
[133] Wherever that was, Krenn thought. “And whom are we to meet?”
“His name is Maxwell Grandisson, the Third. He is a private citizen, but, as I say, influential. In fact, it was partly through Mr. Grandisson’s efforts that the embassy to Klingon is being established.”
“Klinzhai,” Krenn said.
“Excuse me?”
“The Homeworld’s name is Klinzhai.”
“Ahh. I see.” Van Diemen acted as if he had just discovered a major military secret. Krenn wondered if the Admiral understood any klingonaase.
Krenn said, trying not to sound too curious, “Will the stop in this city complicate your security arrangements?”
Van Diemen looked past Krenn, at the monitor screen, and took on a vaguely distracted expression. Colonel Rabinowich said, “Complicate them, yes. This citizen insists on meeting you at the place of his choosing. And the Atlanta Metroplex is very large. But we can control our people.” Her voice was surprisingly soft, though not smooth. She nodded toward the rioters on the screen. “To protest, to demonstrate, these we may not interfere with. But we will not let them cause lasting damage.”
Admiral van Diemen said, “You must understand, Captain ... many of our people have lost relatives and friends to Klingon action. I myself had a brother killed on the frontier. This is why we must have peace.”
Both the Humans had used the phrase “our people”; the same possessive, yet Krenn felt they did not mean the same thing by it.
“I assure you, Admiral, I shall do my best,” said a voice from the car ahead. Colonel Rabinowich instantly moved to let Dr. Tagore pass. She would be a good Swift, perhaps, Krenn thought. But her bearing seemed more that of a Fencer.
