And even if they did, mused Lissan, he had—oh, what did the humans call it—the trump card.
One James T. Kirk.
He was glad of 858’s suggestion, now. From what his infiltrators had told him of humans, they regarded the lives of their own as highly as Falorians did. They would do anything to protect their colonists, especially when among that number was a man as honored and revered as Kirk apparently was. Soon, it would be time to—
“Kal-Tor!”
[194] Jarred by the intrusion, Lissan whirled angrily on the youngster who had dared enter in so unseemly a fashion. “What do—”
But Jasslor didn’t even let him finish. “Kal-Tor, they’ve fled!”
“What—who has fled?”
“The colonists! Look!” Completely tossing aside any semblance of protocol, the underling rushed past his Kal-Tor and quickly activated Lissan’s monitor. Jasslor called up several cameras, and each one showed the same dreadful image: an empty room. Empty mess hall, empty labs, empty research stations, empty fields.
Empty, empty, empty. ...
“The pilot conducting the fourth daily flyover reported that he hadn’t seen anyone. That aroused our suspicions, so we activated the cameras and ... and saw what you see. What you don’t see.” Jasslor looked confused and frightened, as well he should be.
“Right out from under us,” muttered Lissan. “They slipped out from right under us like. ...”
Kirk. This reeked of him. A growl formed deep in the back of Lissan’s throat and erupted as a roar of shame and fury. He curled his fingers into a fist and slammed it down on the console. Sparks flew.
“Find them!” he shrieked. “Find them now!”
Chapter Seventeen
THERE WERE NOT many Falorians on Sanctuary who could be spared for the search, but Lissan called up every last one of them. He had thought it would be simple, but again, the unexpected cleverness of these humans foiled his plans.
He went over the recordings that the flyover ships had made. Even in his anger and frustration, Lissan felt a certain amount of compassion for the pilots. No one was rushing to safety; the colonists were all walking, carrying their equipment and chatting, as they had done every single day since their arrival. There was nothing to alert any pilot that there was anything amiss.
The only indication as to what was really going on—a mass exodus—was that each of the flyovers saw the same thing: four to five groups of five to ten people going out to do research. Had they compared their recordings, they would have been on to the ruse much earlier, but there was no reason to take that time-consuming step. Alone, each recording looked innocent. Together, they spelled trouble.
[196] Precious time was wasted in simply trying to track them down. Lissan had thought it would be easy. The signatures of all the colonists, even the nonhuman ones, were greatly different than that of the Falorians. Eventually he realized that the colonists had hidden in the not inconsiderable cave systems that ran through the planet. Further, the trackers were reporting that they weren’t picking up any humanoid lifesigns at all. Lissan closed his eyes against the wave of fury that rushed through him. This search would have to be done on foot, and they had utilized the Drake.
But he had no choice. He had to get those colonists back. Each life was another reason for Starfleet to refrain from attacking.
He gave the order, and the search began.
“They’ll find us,” Mattkah said morosely. “You heard what Kirk and them said about the level of their technology. These things under our skins aren’t going to throw them off.”
Gallagher bridled and opened her mouth to report.
“We don’t know that,” Alex said swiftly, trying to prevent a fight. “I prefer to hope.”
“Of course you do,” Mattkah said, in a voice that dripped contempt. “Live in hope, die in despair, isn’t that the Earth quote? ‘Come with me, we will build a place called Sanctuary, and we’ll all live happily ever after.’ ” Mattkah made an appalling sound and hawked up a huge gobbet of spit and expelled it in Alex’s direction.
Alex was on his feet at once. Adrenaline pumped [197] through him and his face was red with a dangerous combination of embarrassment and anger. Mattkah laughed harshly.
“And I’ve got you all riled now, haven’t I? You’re just like your brother underneath that complacent surface. All you humans are hotheads.”
Alex took a long, deep, slow breath, forcing his pumping heart to slow. “Yes, you did get me riled. And that’s my fault, for rising to the bait like that.” He was still edgy, nervous, and began to pace.
“Alex,” said Leah Cohen, staring at her fingers, “are they going to find us?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I do know that we are doing all we can. We knew there would be dangers on this journey. We knew we’d be far away from anything safe.” He laughed, sadly. “What we didn’t know was that the danger would be coming from the one group of people we thought we could rely on for help.”
“I hope Kirk gets that message out,” Mattkah said, “and after they’ve done that, I hope one of the Falorians rips Julius’s head off. Damned betrayer.”
Alex paled. “What do you mean?”
Gallagher sighed. “It’s a small colony, and it’s hard to keep secrets, Alex. We know about Julius.”
She didn’t seem particularly angry, nor did any of the other colonists. Save for Mattkah, they all appeared to have forgiven Alex’s wayward brother. If only Alex could, too.
Alex warred with conflicting emotions. He was furious at Julius, and terribly, terribly hurt. But no matter what his brother had done, Alex still loved him. He [198] would always be little Juley to him, frightened and clingy and seeking reassurance. Even seeing Julius confess had not changed that.
Once, Alex had lived for Julius. If he now had to die for that, so be it.
“Perhaps Julius made it easier for the Falorians,” Alex acknowledged. “But they would have found someone else if it hadn’t been him.”
“Yeah, but maybe then we wouldn’t be stuck hiding in these caves and fearing for our lives,” Mattkah said.
“Maybe. But don’t blame Julius for that. Blame me. You’re my responsibility.”
“All right,” Mattkah said with an evil cheeriness. “I will.”
At that moment, they heard a sudden noise as of dozens of running feet. A powerful bright light blinded them.
Unable to see, Alex still rushed toward the sound. “My responsibility,” he cried, and then fell backward as a blast caught him in the chest.
It had been a particularly long day for Laura Standing Crane. She had processed two more requests for Federation membership, joined together in a remote conference with Chancellor Azetbur to come up with a ... well ... creative reason as to why their chief negotiator was unable to continue with the conference, and heard about sixteen more annoying incidents with the Falorian delegates on no fewer than twelve Federation planets.
She stood for a long time in the shower, letting the hot water beat down on her hair and breathing in the [199] steam. Too bad she couldn’t spare an hour for a massage; she could certainly use it. Standing Crane got out of the shower and toweled herself dry, lighting a smudge bundle to help purify the environment of her small apartment in which she barely spent five hours a night, if she was lucky.
The pungent, calming scent soothed her somewhat, but not completely. She extinguished the smoldering bundle in an abalone shell and let the smoke curl around her. Her thoughts were on Jim. She combed out her long, thick, silver-shot black hair, not seeing her own reflection as she stood in front of the mirror.
Spock was not the sort of person to overreact, even given his love—yes, love, though he’d die before using the word—for his former captain and friend. And Azetbur was hardly one to put herself out for a human. Despite what she had said to Spock, Standing Crane completely believed everything he had told her. There was no doubt in her mind and heart that Jim, beloved friend for so many years, w
as in danger.
But she had responsibilities that extended beyond her own personal thoughts, fears and affections. She had told Spock the only thing she could—that she couldn’t authorize the use of a starship based on rumors and innuendos. Azetbur had sent her a brief, mysteriously worded note that had convinced Standing Crane that the chancellor herself had arranged for a ship. Standing Crane was glad of it. She hoped to hear at any minute that Spock had found out that the whole thing was a mistake and there was no trouble at all. Failing that, that he’d gotten proof that the colony was [200] in actual danger, because she would like nothing more than to get a starship out there, pronto.
Her computer made a soft beeping noise. Spock? Standing Crane wrapped a towel around herself and sat down in front of the message.
The image of the president of the Federation, not Spock’s impassive visage, filled the screen. Great Spirit, more work, then. She smiled tiredly. “What’s the trouble now, sir?”
Standing Crane had always thought that the president looked more than a bit like the famous author of several centuries ago, the humorist Mark Twain. But there was nothing light about his expression. He looked as strained as she had ever seen him, and worry shot through her.
“Get dressed and prepare for transport now,” was all he said.
Four minutes later, a four-star admiral stood clad in a hastily donned uniform with dripping hair in the president’s office in Paris. She felt the wetness along her back spread with each second, but paid it little heed.
“We’ve got a message from one of the Falorian Kal-Toreshi. Calls himself Lissan. He particularly asked for you, Laura,” the president said.
Standing Crane nodded once. She took her place alongside four other admirals and various high-ranking Federation civilians as the president signaled the screen to be activated.
The face of Kal-Tor Lissan smiled pleasantly. “Thank you for attending. It is my understanding that the hour is late on your planet. I apologize.”
[201] “Kal-Tor,” said the president, “you didn’t roust us all out of bed to exchange pleasantries. I gather your message is of some import. Do you have concerns about the way your delegates were treated? Because we were just about to offer you membership upon certain—”
Lissan interrupted him with a hearty laugh. “Oh, the timing is too amusing. We have no desire to join your little club, Mr. President.”
Standing Crane felt heat rise in her face. What game was this arrogant creature playing?
The president stiffened beside her, but he kept his voice calm. “If you no longer desire membership in the Federation, rest assured, we will not pursue you. But if that’s not the reason for your contacting us, then may I inquire as to what is?”
“I must admit, that from everything I have heard from our delegations, the planets of the Federation have shown us great hospitality. And for that, we thank you. Soon I will tell you how valuable those gestures were to us. But first, out of gratitude for the kindness you have shown us, I am going to give you a warning.”
Lissan leaned forward until his face filled the screen. “We are poised to take Huan. Our vessels and those of our ... allies ... are moving even as I speak to you. This is a quarrel that goes very deep, its dark roots extending into the shadows of the past. It has nothing to do with you, and you will be well advised to stay out of it.”
“Huan is a Federation planet!” snapped the president. “We will come to the aid of one of our own!”
“A noble sentiment, but quite misplaced,” Lissan continued maddeningly. “I will say this once, as clearly as I [202] can, out of respect for the lives and safety of your people. Listen well. We have set up buoys around Huan. If any vessel, Federation or otherwise, violates that perimeter, then we will activate a virus that will leave every ship you possess hanging dead in space. No Federation vessel will be able to engage warp drive. Think about that, Mr. President. Think about all the ships on deep-space missions far away from any hospitable planet or starbase. It would take them years to get anywhere under impulse power. Some ships would do just fine, but others wouldn’t. Even if they did get home, the crews of many ships would be old and gray before they ever again saw their loved ones. This is not something I would see happen to innocent people. Do you want that to happen, Mr. President? For the sake of a few million worthless Huanni?”
A young man named Parkan had been listening intently to the conversation, and out of the corner of her eye, Standing Crane had been watching him just as intently. Now she saw the color drain from his face, his breath catch, and his eyes widen slightly. Standing Crane closed her dark eyes briefly. She thought she knew what Parkan’s reaction meant, and she prayed she was wrong.
Instead of firing more questions about the threat, the president chose a different tactic. “It is clear to me that you have a great enmity toward the Huanni.”
“You choose pallid words, Mr. President.”
“The Federation has long been known for its ability to fold in different cultures and create harmony,” said the president. He looked over at Standing Crane.
[203] “Even now, we are making peace with a people who have historically been our worst enemies,” Standing Crane said, picking up her cue. “It has been a hard road, but when they were in need, we came to their aid. We are helping preserve the Klingons as the proud, powerful people they are. We are not trying to make them just like us. Perhaps we could help you initiate negotiations that could lead to peace between both your peoples. War may not be the only option.”
Lissan looked at her searchingly. “Tell me, Admiral, have you ever been owned?”
“What?”
“Have you ever been owned,” he repeated. “Has anyone ever owned your ancestor, made him work hard labor, and then tossed him away like so much trash when his usefulness was done? Has anyone—”
“I have such a history,” spoke up Admiral Thomas Mason. He stood tall, proud, and handsome, his dark brown skin slightly shiny with beads of perspiration induced by the incredible tension in the room.
“A few hundred years ago, I would have been her property,” he said, nodding in the direction of Admiral Anastacia Cannon. The younger woman met Mason’s gaze evenly. They stood side by side, her short blond hair and pink complexion a contrast with his dark brown skin, hair and eyes. “And Standing Crane—her people were once herded like cattle onto reserved chunks of land, their histories diminished, their language all but destroyed. So you aren’t telling us anything that we haven’t experienced and overcome right here on this single planet.”
[204] He reached and grasped Cannon’s hand, and their fingers entwined, the dark and light merging into a single strong unit, yet retaining their individual differences. Together they raised their joined hands.
“This is what we are all about now,” said Cannon. She looked deceptively delicate, but Standing Crane knew there was fire in her heart. “Unity. Working together. The past is the past. We learn from it, and then we move on. The Falorians and the Huanni can do the same.”
Lissan seemed stunned. Clearly, whatever research he had done on human history hadn’t included checking for such disharmony. He’d have found it easily enough; nothing was covered up. But neither was it anything that anyone thought of on a day-to-day basis anymore. There were too many other important things going on for long-gone racial conflicts to be an issue.
“I ... I would I had learned of this sooner,” Lissan said. Then he shook himself slightly and his old demeanor returned. “But now it is too late. You have my warning. Perhaps you need another.”
He turned and gestured to someone off screen. Another Falorian moved into view, roughly pushing a bound human who was obviously a prisoner in front of him. The Falorian spun the human around to face the screen.
“Alex,” breathed Standing Crane.
Alexander Kirk stared at her, his face puffy and bruised and bleeding. His blue eyes were large and despairing.
“Tell them,” Lissan said.
[205] “I ... w
on’t. ...” Alex growled between clenched teeth.
Lissan sighed and nodded to the guard, who curled his fingers into a fist and landed a solid punch to Alex’s abdomen. As one, every person in the president’s office instinctively moved forward.
“Tell them,” Lissan repeated.
“The Mayflower II has been destroyed,” whispered Alex, struggling for breath. “They’ve captured some of us, of the colonists. They say they have Uncle Jim, too, but—”
The guard moved forward menacingly, but Lissan raised a hand. “I do not enjoy cruelty,” he said, “and I would much rather not have to hurt my hostages further. If you stay away from Huan space, your ships and your people will be safe. This is my warning to you. Heed it, or face the consequences.”
He abruptly terminated the conversation. When the screen went dark, everyone in the room sagged a little.
The president turned to Parkan. “Tell me he’s bluffing,” he almost pleaded.
Parkan turned a stricken face to the president. “He’s not. At least, not about most of it. They are indeed moving toward Huan, and the desire for revenge is very powerful in him. There’s a tremendous sense of righteousness about him. He’s telling the truth about what this virus can do as he knows it, I’m certain of that. He also isn’t comfortable with hurting the hostages. But he’s hiding something. He hasn’t told us everything yet. What is your human phrase ... something about waiting for a dropping shoe? That’s what I’m sensing here.”
[206] There was no doubting Parkan’s conclusions. His people had a proven ability to accurately sense such things as emotions and falsehoods. The only hope lay in the slim chance that Lissan himself had been misled.
“There’s so much about this I don’t understand,” said the president, shaking his white head. “How is it they were able to plant this thing so well? And who was that young man, and who is this Uncle Jim he spoke of? You seemed to recognize him, Admiral.”
Standing Crane swallowed hard. She straightened and turned to face the president. “I claim responsibility, sir,” she said in a formal voice. “I am the one who gave permission for the Falorian delegations to have the access they did.”
STAR TREK: The Original Series - The Last Roundup Page 16
