by Diane Carey
He held it before Kirk, and did not lower it.
Kirk tilted his head to his left, toward Spock. "Over there."
Without pause Kellen took the one step necessary to hand the tricorder to the yeoman with Spock, but he never took his eyes off Kirk.
The yeoman blinked as if he didn't know what to do, but a wag of Kirk's finger at the tricorder snapped him out of it. He keyed up the instrument, working as well as he could with a Klingon mechanism, then faced Spock and ran the recordings on the small screen for him.
"I was transporting back to my flagship," Kellen went on while Spock watched the tricorder, "when my beam was diverted to another place. At first I believed I was on some distant planet, for there were caves and growing moss and a source of light and heat. I explored this place and discovered solid metal walls and electrical lighting with signal panels. But also there was a corridor of skulls."
"I'm sorry?" Kirk interrupted. "Did you say 'skulls'?"
"Skulls. Bare, boiled skulls. Of inconceivable shapes and kinds—creatures scarcely imaginable, Captain Kirk. Each was set in a niche of its own from which moss bled and lichen grew. Then, it … came out of the wall."
"What came? A skull?"
"No. No skull … the Iraga itself."
The Klingon general nearly whispered the word, as if speaking the profane, yet he was trying to be clinical and scientific.
Iraga. Didn't sound familiar.
Kirk canted forward slightly enough to get across his do-I-have-to-keep-asking expression.
"A … vision from our past," Kellen said, sifting for words. "A gathering of evils in one body, with snakes living out of its head and flame in its eyes. It means nothing to you, but to Klingons … it is our past coming back."
"We have legends of snake-headed beings," Kirk mentioned, "but I don't recall anything with fire for eyes. Mr. Spock?"
"I am unfamiliar with any such legend, Captain," the science officer said. "Research may prove of service."
"Captain, please," McCoy wedged in.
Kirk gave him a shut-up nod, then looked at Kellen. "Let's deal with facts right now. You say there was a power source? Readout panels? And you could breathe?"
"Yes. I felt the engines of the ship."
"Demons don't need atmosphere or conventional power. And they certainly don't need engines."
Kellen acknowledged that with what might have been a shrug. "Whatever is going on, legends and reality have come together and this might be the end of things for us all. Whatever has been our collective nightmare for eons has now come to ruin us again. We must work together now. Compared to those, we are so much alike that I would rather be your slave than live on the same planet with them. Now that the invaders are here, there is no difference between you and me anymore."
A hot breeze coughed down the incline between the two breasts of rock and across the warm belly of the shale flats. Kirk found himself suddenly sweating under his shirt. He didn't like the feeling. He wanted to scratch his chest as perspiration trickled down his ribs.
He glared at Kellen. The sun enhanced his frown. His eyes were hurting.
"Captain," Spock called.
Kirk pursed his lips and crossed the ten steps or so to where Spock was sitting on the boulder.
Grimly Spock said, "He is telling the truth. At least, he is truthfully relating what he saw. And according to vessel-stress readings and analyses of the computer registry, there did seem to be a mass falloff. Their records also have a visual log of a solar system's burst to warp speed."
"Could his records be falsified?"
"Of course."
"But you don't think they are?"
Spock sat as stiff as an Oriental statue. "No, sir."
"What could cause a mass falloff?"
"A weapon." Kellen surged, plunging two steps closer before a handful of Security men stepped between him and Kirk and Spock. "A shot fired across our civilization's bows, Kirk. For after it, there came the vessel of demons. We have to put aside hating each other for now."
"Put aside decades of trouble just like that?"
"What do you want?" Kellen asked, becoming much more agitated than anyone would expect from the calmest Klingon in the Empire. "You want me to imprison my grandson? You want me to find a husband for your ugliest sister? Tell me! This is important, Kirk! If you could have one thing from the Klingon Empire, what would you want?"
Irritated by the pettiness Kellen seemed to take for granted, Kirk bristled. "You know what I want. The same thing the whole Federation wants. Freedom and peace for all our peoples."
"You want us to leave you alone."
"Not enough. You have to leave your own people alone too."
The whole idea crossed the general's face as utterly foreign, but he didn't laugh or show any sign that Kirk had asked for something he wouldn't consider today. Kellen seemed willing to hand over the galaxy if he could get the help he wanted.
"Just a minute," Kirk stalled. He turned his back on the general and lowered his voice to Spock and McCoy. "Opinions?"
"Obviously profound," Spock murmured, "if the effect on him is so profound that the tension between Klingons and the Federation seems childish to him now."
"Whatever's going on," McCoy nearly whispered, "it's got Kellen spooked. And from what I've heard about this particular Klingon, he doesn't spook lightly."
Kirk looked at him. "Are you saying we should go?"
"Captain, I'll say anything you want if you'll let me take Spock to sickbay."
"Captain," Kellen interrupted, and waited until Kirk turned back to him. "I do not know if I can give you the things you ask," he said, "but I give my word as a warrior—I will do everything I can for the rest of my life to work toward a treaty. You help us survive today … and I will dedicate my life to your wish."
What?
The Klingons around the battleground stirred and audibly choked at what they had just heard. Kirk's men held very still, cocooned in disbelief.
"You can take me aboard as hostage if you like," Kellen added, "but help us against them!"
Was this Klingon bravado? A bet Kellen was making with himself? An experienced general knew the Federation would never take hostages.
So I will.
"Fine. You'll stay with us." Through Kellen's surprise, Kirk finished, "We'll go out there, and we'll see what this is."
WE ARE
THE IMPENDING
Chapter Six
"BONES, HOW IS HE?"
"Not good."
"Tell me."
"Vulcans have thirty-six pairs of nerves attached to the spinal cord, serving the autonomic and voluntary nervous systems. Spock has some level of damage to thirty percent of those, mostly in his lower thoracic area and lumbar plexus. No major fractures, probably because of the angle of the stuff he fell on, but there are a series of hairline fractures to the white matter of the spinal column. Add that to the impact to his muscles and tendons, a dislocated shoulder, and a fractured wrist."
"He broke his wrist?"
"The left one."
"I … didn't notice."
His own left arm throbbed now, reminding him of his own hurts and the hits he'd taken, and magnifying what Spock must be going through. Without thinking, he rubbed the sore elbow.
McCoy noticed. "Spock's shoulder is back in place and the wrist bones are fused, but he'll be sore for a while."
"Can his spinal injury be fixed with surgery?"
Folding his arms, the ship's cranky chief surgeon pursed his lips and shook his head, almost as if still deciding.
But right now he was just plain galled.
"I'm not going to operate unless I have to. I'm not a neurological specialist, Captain, and we're damned far from anybody who is, let alone a specialist on Vulcan neurophysiology. The irony is that he's lucky he hit that skirt of gravel on his spine instead of his skull, or right now we'd be wrapping him up for a real quiet voyage back to Vulcan and you'd be writing a note to his parents."
A chill shimmied down Jim Kirk's aching arms. Those awful notes—he'd spend his whole night writing them, one by one, with hands scratched and sore from today's battle. He had to do them before he slept, or he'd never sleep. He would describe the situation on Capella IV and explain its importance to the Federation so families would know their young men died for something important. He would log one posthumous commendation after another, feeding them through to Lieutenant Uhura, who would launch the sad package through subspace to the parents, wives, children of those who'd given their lives today in the line of duty.
He was glad he wouldn't have to write a note like that to Ambassador Sarek and his wife.
"We're lucky," Kirk murmured. "I'm lucky."
"Will he recover?" he asked.
Silence told him that McCoy wanted to make the prognosis sound upbeat, but the captain was the only person on board the starship who had to be deprived of bedside manner. The captain always had to be given the cold raw truth.
"I can't tell you that conclusively," McCoy said. "We'll just have to wait and see. I've got him mounted on a null-grav pad, to keep pressure off the spinal column. He can walk, but I'm not going to let him yet."
"Is there anything else you can do?"
McCoy responded with a bristle of insult. "Even with advanced medicine, there are some things the body has to do for itself. His metabolism is higher than ours and his recuperative powers are different. I'm not going to tamper unless there's an emergency. Don't second guess my judgment, Captain, and I won't second guess yours."
Kirk turned to him. "If you've got something to say, McCoy, say it."
The doctor stiffened. His eyes flared and he went off like a bow and arrow ready to spring. "Fine. I processed nineteen bodies this morning and fifty-two injuries, twelve of those serious, and two men are still listed as missing in action. That's seventy-three casualties logged up to a petty skirmish of questionable strategic value."
"It's my job to defend those settlements. Would you prefer processing the corpses of innocent families or official personnel sworn to protect them? You're the one who was stationed on that planet, you're the one who knew these people personally. Would you advocate abandonment?"
"There had to be some better way, is all I'm saying, something less savage than a ground defense."
"That's not for you to judge."
"Maybe not, but my patients are filling up four wards—"
"They're not your patients, Doctor, they're my crew. And they're Starfleet officers and they know what that means. The Klingons might have slaughtered those people. That's where we come in; we were there to stop it."
McCoy's blue eyes were bitter cold by now. "Maybe there was and you chose to ignore it, just as you chose to ignore common sense when you moved a trauma victim simply because you needed another opinion. The fact is, you're likely to get to an injured crewmen long before I am, and as such it befalls you to know what to do and what not to do, which means holstering that dash and moxie of yours long enough to give the correct first aid!"
If the doctor hadn't been trying to whisper, he'd have been shouting.
Kirk heard it as a shout. His throat knotted and he felt his jaw go stiff, his lips tighten, the skin around his eyes crimp. He stared in challenge at McCoy, reflexes telling him to demand his rank rights to civil treatment.
But then he looked through the door toward Spock's bed.
He raised one hand and pressed his palm to the door frame.
"It was unpardonable," he said.
He felt McCoy's glare, maybe one of surprise, maybe sympathy, burrowing through the back of his head.
Evidently the doctor had gotten what he'd wanted, or perhaps he'd decided the captain was tortured enough, because he sighed, then came up beside Kirk and spoke more evenly.
"I'm controlling his pain, Jim."
"Understood," Kirk uttered, as if he did. With his tone he asked McCoy to stay behind, let him deal with this himself.
He walked into the ward.
Spock lay on what seemed to be an ordinary diagnostic bed, with all the lights and blips and graphs silently moving on the panel above, monitoring his vitals.
As he moved closer to the bed, he noted the four antigrav units locked two-each to the sides of the bed, whirring softly, keeping Spock's body hovering a millimeter off the mattress, making his organs and bones float as if he were hovering out in space. Only the pillow made any contact, and that just barely, probably because it bothered McCoy to see his patients without a pillow. A patient in antigravs didn't really need one.
Spock's graphite eyes were glazed and pinched, his face and hands still lime-pale. Sickbay's washed-out patient's tunic didn't help much, seeming to suck color out of anybody's complexion. With his sharp hearing, he'd probably heard the two of them talking out there.
"Captain," he greeted, sparing them both the awkward moment.
"Spock … I'm sorry to disturb you."
"Not at all, sir. Are you all right?"
Kirk shrugged self-consciously. "A few cuts and scratches. My uniform had to be buried at sea, though."
"Beside mine, most likely. Is General Kellen on board?"
"Yes, and without an escort, too. His flagship did a little posturing, but he backed them down. You should've seen it. Whatever this thing is that he experienced, it scared him enough that he's pocketing his dignity. Certainly got me curious."
"And the Capellan situation?"
"Capellan space is cleared. He sent the other ships home. That Klingon commander wasn't too happy. His career is pretty much wrecked."
"Yes," Spock rasped. "He is not allowed to start a war, but neither is he allowed to lose a skirmish. How long will we have to wait?"
"We didn't wait. We're at warp five. Starfleet's sending the Frigate Great Lakes and two patrol sweepers to hold ground until the treaty takes a set. I've already signed off the situation."
"And the Klingon vessels?"
"Kellen's flagship is out in front, leading the way, and the other four are tailing us. So far, so good."
He waited for a response, but there was none.
Spock's lips compressed. The pain indicator bounced at the top of the screen.
Kirk put his hand on the blanket and pressed it, as if that would help.
Second by second, the wave of pain subsided and the indicator drifted down a few degrees. Not enough, though, to make either of them feel much better.
"This is my fault," he forced out. "I wasn't thinking clearly. I should've had you beamed directly here without moving you."
Spock blinked his eyes in a motion that otherwise would've been a nod. "Being distracted by complex circumstances and failing to think clearly are not the same, Captain."
Poof. You're forgiven. Forget it.
"We'll be approaching the location of the incident Kellen described within twelve hours. I need someone at the science station. Do you have a recommendation?"
Offering an uncomplaining gaze, Spock pressed down the undertones of common sense. "I would prefer to be there myself, sir."
A half-smile bent Kirk's cheek. "And I'd like you there. But part and parcel of dangerous duty is recuperation. McCoy deserves to have his satisfactions too, once in a while, and we've given him a hell of a day. Least we can do is let him hover over you for a watch or two. Besides, all this is going to turn out to be nothing. Something spooked a combustible Klingon and now he wants attention. That's all it is."
"General Kellen is hardly a man given to idle combustion. And a systemwide mass falloff could be considered grounds for becoming 'spooked.' I am quite eager to examine the circumstances myself."
"Don't worry, you'll get your chance. For now, stay put. Me, well … I've got a few things to keep me busy."
He took a step back.
"Rest," the captain said. He touched the blanket again. "Get better. I'll keep you posted."
"There it is, sir. Just popped onto our long-range."
"Visual, Mr. Chekov?"
"In a few mo
re seconds, sir. Sensors are assessing the vessel's configuration now."
"Clear for action. Go to yellow alert. Sound general quarters. Magnification one point seven-five as soon as you can. Mr. Sulu, reduce speed to warp one."
"Yellow alert, aye."
"Magnification one point seven-five, sir."
"Warp one, aye, sir."
With amber slashes of alert panels blinking on and off in his periphery, Jim Kirk paused as his orders were echoed back to him from various positions on the bridge, a long-held naval tradition borne of common sense, to make sure orders were heard and understood over the howl of wind. Protocol was a good, stout handle to grip.
Here there was no wind, but there was the constant whine and bleep of systems working, the almost physical thrum of engines deep below, and there was the undeniable tension of the bridge. Imagined in the minds of all here with a capital T, this tension existed in some form even in the most mundane of days, for this was the brain of the starship, and the starship was the security of the sector. Down not very deep, all hands here knew that.
And the tension was different, tighter, when the captain was on the bridge, even though all orders might remain the same, course unchanged, situation stable, status unremarkable, for days on end. It was different if he stood here too.
Always had been. Centuries.
Normally he was the most comfortable here, on the bridge, but today there was the added presence of General Kellen, standing on the lower deck beside the command chair as if he deserved to be here. He was obviously used to such a position and was unimpressed by his rank privilege to stand here, even on a ship full of those he considered enemies. He said nothing, and had said very little. He watched the main screen obsessively, but with the keen eyes of a soldier seeking weakness.
"Position of the other vessel?" Kirk requested.
"Two points forward of the port beam, sir," Chekov reported. "Distance, two standard astronomical units … roughly eighteen light-minutes."
"Reduce to sublight."
Sulu touched his controls. "Sublight, aye, sir."
Kirk flexed his sore hands. "Mr. Chekov, where's that visual?"
