THE COVENANT OF THE CROWN

by Howard Weinstein

  “It takes an honorable man to do that,” said Spock.

  “I’m just happy for you, Kailyn, that my hasty judgment didn’t keep you from the Crown.”

  “You were only doing what my father asked of you. For that, I thank you.”

  Shirn looked at each of them. His eyes were wet, and he embraced Kailyn, then McCoy, and finally Spock. “May the winds of Kinarr be at your backs, always.”

  Spock raised his hand in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Shirn.”

  “You take good care of yourself, y’hear? said McCoy in a husky voice.

  Shirn gazed at the young Princess. “You will lead long and well, Kailyn.”

  “I hope I can do as well as you” she said softly.

  Spock turned away first and climbed into the Klingon ship. McCoy came up next, and he gave Kailyn a hand. Shirn stepped back as the door hissed shut. He and his people waited until the rocket engines fired, kicking up a plume of flame and dust. The ship lifted slowly and unsteadily at first. Then it accelerated and whisked up over the hills and woodland. When he could no longer see it or its contrail, Shirn turned and headed for the sunny skies of the holy valley of Kinarr.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “I’d make an awful Klingon,” McCoy muttered, hunkered down in the uncomfortable scout-ship seat. “How can they torture their people by making them fly in these tiny match boxes?”

  “Perhaps that accounts for Klingons’ foul humor, Doctor,” said Spock.

  “What if there’s a Klingon battle cruiser out here somewhere?” Kailyn wondered.

  “Don’t ask things like that,” McCoy snapped. “I’d rather know where the Enterprise is.”

  “That is a valid concern,” Spock agreed. “The ship should have arrived here almost twenty-four hours ago.”

  “Is it possible they left without us?” Kailyn said in a small voice.

  “Unlikely. A better probability is that the captain encountered some difficulty relating to Klingon interference. We shall achieve orbit outside the planet’s storm belt, and remain for a period of time. If the Enterprise does come within sensor range, we will be noticed rather quickly.”

  “And what if it doesn’t get here after a while? said McCoy.

  “When that time comes, we will evaluate our position logically, in light of whatever data we have available.”

  “Are we within scanning range of Sigma yet?” Kirk asked tightly.

  Chekov and Sulu exchanged quick glances, and Kirk noticed. He settled back in the command seat with a wry smile. “I know . . . I just asked you that. Forgive me, Mr. Chekov.”

  “Yes, sir. We are almost in range. All scanners on maximum forward sweep. If there’s anything out there, we’ll pick it up.”

  “Very well.”

  At moments like these, Kirk realized just how trustworthy his crew was, without exception. He’d have to let them do their jobs, and he channeled his nervous energy into tapping on his armrest control panel. As soon as there’s something to report, they’ll report it. . . .

  Chekov tensed in his seat, eyes locked onto his readout screen. Kirk sat forward, at the edge of his chair. “Something?”

  “A small vessel, sir, at the very limit. Too far off for positive identification.”

  “Verified, sir,” said Sulu. “Moving in high planet orbit.”

  Kirk swiveled. “Uhura?”

  “All channel open for reception, sir. We’re hailing on all frequencies. No communication as yet.”

  “Additional sensor data, Captain,” said Chekov.

  “Is it the Galileo?”

  Chekov hesitated just a beat, and Kirk tensed.

  “Negative, sir. It’s a Klingon scout vessel.”

  Everyone on the bridge looked quickly at the main viewscreen. The mystery ship was just a shapeless spot against the backdrop of stars and the gray face of Sigma 1212.

  “That could explain why they don’t want to talk to us,” Kirk said grimly. “Sound Yellow Alert.”

  Uhura punched up the intraship channel as the wall beacon started flashing. “Yellow Alert,” said the computer voice over the speakers. “Yellow Alert—stand by for status update.”

  “Sulu, cut speed for standard orbital entry,” said Kirk.

  “Another problem, sir,” said Sulu. “Several storms in low- and mid-orbit ranges.”

  “Maximum orbit, then.”

  “Captain,” Chekov broke in, “we have another visitor.” He leaned over and switched screen channels. The long, insectlike shape of a Klingon battle cruiser wavered into view.

  Chekov’s fingers danced across his console. “Deflectors on maximum. Weapons crews standing by, sir.”

  Kirk sat back and stretched his legs. Waiting had made him edgy, but at least now he knew what he’d been waiting for. The time had arrived for action.

  “Go to Red Alert.”

  The claxon sounded and the bridge lights dimmed to a reddish glow. The computer voice sounded shipwide: “Red Alert—Red Alert—all hands to battle stations!”

  “Continuing orbital approach, sir,” Sulu said.

  “Maintain. Chekov, what’s the Klingon doing?”

  “The cruiser is also making orbital approach, Captain. But he’s aiming for the scout ship.”

  “Well, they’re not going to get away without a damn good explanation. Close on the scout, Sulu. Let’s beat ’em to it.”

  “Captain Kirk” Uhura said sharply, “receiving a signal from the scout vessel. Channel Four-B. It’s . . . it’s Mr. Spock.”

  Kirk broke into a surprised grin and stabbed his comm selector. “Spock, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do—”

  “Indeed, Captain,” came the reply. “We are all well. You are almost twenty-four hours late . . . very unlike you, sir.”

  “Okay, okay. We both have a lot of explaining to do. You know there’s a Klingon battle cruiser coming to greet you?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “I assume he’s expecting to find Klingons aboard. Will he be disappointed?”

  “Nobody here but us chickens,” said a familiar Georgian drawl.

  “Good to hear you, Bones. Stand by for—”

  “Captain,” Uhura cut in, “Commander Kaidin of the Imperial Cruiser Nightwing is demanding an explanation for our presence.”

  “Tell him to cool his heels. Spock, we’ll have you out of there in a minute. Scotty, coordinate with the transporter room and beam our people out of there, on the double. Then stand by for maximum warp.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Uhura, put the Klingons on main screen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The cruiser Nightwing faded and Kaidin’s thundercloud visage took its place. “Kirk, get your slimy vessel away from our scout ship.”

  Kirk countered Kaidin’s glare with a mirthless smile. “I see you got right to the point, Commander. This is Federation territory. You’re here only by authority of the Organian Peace Treaty, which clearly specifies that the . . . ahem . . . visiting vessel must show cause for its presence upon demand. And I’m demanding, right now.”

  “Save your threats, Kirk. Star Fleet cowards never back up words with weapons.”

  “Captain,” Scott whispered, “they’re safe and sound in the transporter room—and so’s the Crown.”

  An instant later, Kaidin’s studied hostility gave way to surprise as a junior officer entered in near-panic and murmured urgently in the commander’s ear. Whatever he was told made Kaidin forget his channel was open to the starship.

  “What?” he hissed. “How could our agents have vanished from their ship?” The Klingon turned, saw Kirk’s face in his viewer, spat a string of curses that covered several languages—and the Enterprise viewscreen went abruptly blind.

  “Take us out of orbit now, gentlemen—warp eight!”

  The giant starship heeled over to the right, and the intense force of acceleration pressed the bridge crew deep into their seats. On the screen, the star field became a blur.

&n
bsp; “Report,” Kirk ordered.

  “The Klingon cruiser hasn’t even changed course,” Sulu said with barely disguised glee.

  “They’re still trying to figure out who was on that scout ship and what happened to them,” Kirk said lightly. “I don’t think they’ll be bothering us again on this trip. Cut speed to warp five and lay in a nice, straight course to Shad. Scotty, you have the con.”

  Kirk eased out of his seat and headed for the turbolift.

  Kailyn took the news of her father’s death stoically, and the formal debriefing went smoothly. The reports could be filed later, as far as Kirk was concerned. The mission was actually still incomplete, and he preferred to allow some time for unwinding on the two-day trip back to Shad. After all, they had a coronation to prepare for.

  In fact, the best remedy for all the recent tensions was a long dose of R & R; unfortunately, that wasn’t possible just yet. The next best thing was a return to quiet routine, and Captain Kirk so ordered.

  For Kailyn, that meant light reading and exercise, mixed in with some special reports of information she would need to know by the time she arrived home.

  Spock turned his regular duty shifts, played chess with the newly programmed computer, and began indexing the history scrolls he’d found so absorbing on Sigma.

  Down in sick bay, McCoy put his feet up whenever possible—they’d earned the rest—and listened to music with Kailyn as he thought about the sun that had warmed his soul high up in Shirn’s mountains. He also resumed as commonplace a job as he could think of—the annual physical exams needed to update crew records. Kirk was next on the list, and he came in at the end of his watch.

  “How’re you feeling, Jim?”

  “Well, I’d say you people gave me a few more gray hairs this last week or so, but other than that and the bags under my eyes from lack of sleep, I’m fine.” He stretched back onto the diagnostic bench. McCoy turned it on and the scanners did their work, flashing results on the readout screen.

  “Mm-hmm,” McCoy mumbled. “Uh-huh . . . mm-hm. Press down on the hand bars.”

  Kirk made a face. “Bones, why do doctors do that? It’s very disconcerting to lie here and listen to you go—”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh? For what?”

  “You’ve been hitting the cookie jar while I was gone.”

  “I have not.”

  “Then why are you ten pounds overweight?”

  “What? That’s impossible.”

  “Scales don’t tell lies, Jim.”

  “And I do?”

  “A little white one, maybe.” McCoy glanced back at the screen. “Everything else measures up just fine. Heartbeat, respiration, blood pressure, muscle strength. Weight’s the only problem.”

  “I swear I’ve been following that awful diet you gave me, doing more than my normal exercise . . .”

  “Maybe you’ve been sleepwalking past the food synthesizers. How do I know? Am I my captain’s keeper? Maybe you’ve been noshing, as my old Jewish babysitter used to say, and you don’t want to admit it to your kindly family doctor for fear he’ll draw and quarter you.”

  “I swear . . . wait a minute. Ten pounds is—what?—about one-sixteenth of my normal weight? If I gained that much, wouldn’t it show up in some of those other figures—heart rate, muscle strength, something? If this thing’s supposed to be so accurate—”

  “I guess it would show up—”

  “Ah-ha, but it didn’t. Ergo, your scale is lying.”

  “Jim, it’s not an antique dime-store scale that tells your fortune. It’s a computerized sensor system that can detect a hundredth of an ounce—”

  “And it has to be calibrated, right?”

  “Sure, every so often.”

  “Then it can also be miscalibrated.”

  “Jim, vanity is not becoming—”

  “Check it.”

  “—in a man of your breeding and character—”

  “Bones, check it—”

  “—and I don’t think we’re going to—”

  “Check it,” Kirk roared.

  McCoy snapped a mock salute, leaned behind the machine and opened a small access door.

  “Mm-hmm . . . uh-huh . . .”

  Kirk rolled his eyes.

  “Son of a gun,” said McCoy.

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Might your wonderful device be, oh, ten pounds off normal?”

  “When you’re right, Jim, you’re right.”

  “I won’t even say I told you so.”

  McCoy marched away from the table to the nearest intercom.

  “Hey,” Kirk protested, “finish me up.”

  “I’ve got to call Chekov before he withers away to skin and bones.”

  The intercom whistled, and Chekov heard McCoy call his name over the speaker, but he was unable to answer just then. He was dangling from the high rings, fifteen feet off the floor of the gymnastics lounge. Uhura glanced up at him from the balance beam, her left leg arcing gracefully in midair, toe pointed like a ballerina’s.

  “Want me to get that for you?”

  “It would be most helpful.” he said tightly.

  Stifling a giggle, the lithe communications officer stepped to the end of the beam, flipped head over heels, and landed on the floor in a perfect dismount.

  “Doctor, Chekov is sort of hung up right now,” she said seriously as she hit the wall switch. “Any messages?”

  “Yeah. Tell him to report to my office first thing, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “McCoy out.”

  She crossed her arms and adjusted her skintight leotard, which hid nothing—though she was much more voluptuous than the traditional gymnast, there was not a single out-of-place bulge or extra ounce of fat on Uhura’s body. “Chekov, if you just hang there, it’s no exercise at all.”

  “Just tell me how to get down.”

  “Oh?” she said innocently. “I thought you knew.”

  “Don’t make little jokes, or I’ll fall right on top of you. Tell me.”

  “Just drop down. The floor’s padded enough to—”

  He didn’t wait for the rest, and he landed with a resounding thud.

  Uhura ambled over. Chekov was flat on his back, eyes closed. “That wasn’t very graceful,” she said. “You’d lose a lot of points.”

  The office door whisked open and Chekov limped in, still in his sweaty gym suit. McCoy gave him a surprised stare. “Where have you been?”

  “Trying to lose ten pounds.”

  McCoy’s head bobbed nervously. “Ahh . . . about those ten pounds . . .”

  “What about them?” asked Chekov with the wary eyes of a cat near a dog kennel.

  “Well, it seems that, uh . . . I’ve heard how hard you’ve been trying to lose them—”

  “—and how everything I eat has no calories and less flavor—”

  “I don’t know how this could happened. It was only this one table. I guess in all the excitement, somebody just wasn’t paying attention . . . I’m really sorry this happened, and believe me, the person responsible will be even sorrier when I get my hands on—”

  “Dr. McCoy, what are you talking about?”

  McCoy looked at the ceiling. “You . . . um . . . you’re not ten pounds overweight.”

  “Anymore?” Chekov queried cautiously.

  “Never were. It was a mistake. You can go back to your old routine.”

  Chekov slumped into a seat. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered.

  McCoy leaned close. “Would you like to hit me? Would that make you feel better?”

  “It would—but I’m too weak from hunger.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The recently recaptured capital buzzed with anticipation of its first coronation in many years—this, the coronation that would preserve the planet.

  Fighting between the Loyalists and the Mohd Alliance continued in some outlying provinces, but news of the return of the Crown had had the desired effect—sealing th
e fissures in the Loyalist Coalition and infusing its armies with the spirit needed to quash the revolt. The war would soon be over.

  The Great Hall of the Temple of the Covenant was filled from wall to wall with Shaddans of every age and description. Government ministers stood elbow to elbow with dirt farmers, country priests with cosmopolitan merchants, old women with small children. The giant doors in the rear were thrown open and thousands of pilgrims stood in the plaza listening to the choir sing from the balcony.

  A blaze of sacramental candelabra on the wall behind the altar glimmered like heavenly stars. The archpriest, a towering old man resplendent in pure white robes, read from the holy Book of Shad. But in the half-sacred, half-circus atmosphere, at least as many spectators paid their attention—and money—to vendors in the open square, hawking everything from food to royal pennants and religious statues.

  Finally, the archpriest turned toward the back of the Great Hall and lifted his arms to the choir balcony high above the inside crowd. The singers soared to a crescendo and suddenly stopped. At that signal, the voices in the temple and out in the plaza lowered to a murmur; then, silence.

  “That’s amazing,” McCoy whispered to Kirk. The senior officers of the Enterprise occupied a front pew, close enough to feel the heat of the candles arched over the altar.

  The shimmering Crown reposed on a velvet pillow of midnight blue, and the priest regarded it with a fond smile, as if it were a favorite child back with its family after a long separation. The near-complete stillness stretched to minutes, when the priest signaled the choirmaster again. The singers began a melodious hum, bass with a counterpoint melody of sopranos woven in, quiet and delicate as a butterfly at rest.

  A crimson drape, reaching from the floor to the ceiling forty feet up, parted and Kailyn stepped regally toward the priest, her hand held by Haim, King Stevvin’s trusted First General. Kirk watched the old warrior, now stooped with age but with a strong and steady step as he led the Crown Princess to the center of the pulpit stage. The captain threw quick glances at his officers—Spock, looking incredibly dignified in his dress uniform; Scott, with his jaw set at attention; and McCoy, surreptitiously wiping a proud tear from the corner of his eye, hoping no one would notice. Kirk smiled and shifted his gaze back to the stage.