by Diane Carey
Zennor's great horns scuffed the ceiling as he nodded slowly. "For myself, that would serve. For my people, certain steps must be taken first. If I can prove the Danai wrong, the crew will not attack anyone who is not the conqueror. They will not become what they hate. Then the Danai will be obsolete."
"How do you know your people won't just try again?"
"The Danai insist this is the right place. How can they insist again about somewhere else?"
"It's that simple?"
"Yes. But how do I disprove a thing? The Danai say this is the place. How can I say it is not?"
"One step at a time." Kirk watched Zennor for a moment, then asked, "What's the first step?"
Zennor kept to the shadows of the captain's quarters, perhaps seeking instinctively the shrouding veil that twisted in his own ship, but moved toward Kirk and deposited on the desk his crescent brooch. When he had taken it off Kirk had no idea, but now it was in his long-boned hand, and now it was on the desk.
With one pale fingernail, Zennor flipped the crescent over. Etched on the inside of the curve were dots and a series of curved lines. Kirk recognized it instantly.
"Star chart?"
Zennor nodded once. "We can tell from a few preserved etchings how the stars looked at differing periods five thousand of your years ago. The Danai have based their decision on these pieces. The surviving originals are very old, but there is a definite arrangement of stars. What you see here is an extrapolation of stellar motion over the generations, and how those stars should be arranged now. These are regarded as absolute. This one is the most certain, and it shows what the Danai believe is the home system of the creatures like Manann."
"Manann … the ones with the wings?"
"Wings? Those membranes are for temperature adjustment."
"Yes, of course. . . . General Kellen told me those creatures are called 'Shushara' in the Klingon legend of Havoc. Does that word sound familiar to you?"
"No."
"Perhaps that's good."
"Perhaps it is. This is the strongest piece of solid evidence we possess. If this is disproven, then the Danai's theory will collapse. If there is no planet there which has had life in the past five thousand years, Garamanus will have to back down."
"If those creatures lived on that planet only five thousand years ago," Kirk said, "there's got to be evidence of it. Let's overlay this and see if there's a correlation."
Without waiting for Zennor to comment, Kirk scanned the piece of jewelry into the computer access, then said, "Computer."
"Working," the flat female voice replied back.
"Identify this star system."
The machine paused as if shut down, but he knew it was searching, and in moments a star system appeared on the desk access screen. The arrangement of stars wasn't exact, but this was evidently the closest the computer could find. Abruptly the odds struck him—anything could look like anything, given enough monkeys and enough years.
"We must go there," Zennor said. His maize eyes remained unchanged, unimpressed.
"Computer," Kirk continued, "specify location of this star system."
"It is the Kgha'lugh star system, located in sector nine-three-seven, Province Ruchma, Klingon Star Empire."
A low protest rose in Kirk's throat.
Deep into Klingon space. Deep, deep.
Zennor read his expression and evidently understood. "For me to balk would be suicidal. It is not what we spent so many generations to do. If I do not go there, Garamanus will take over, and our people will go there."
"You're talking about violating entrenched Klingon space, Captain," Kirk told him. "You'll be beaten back before you make it halfway there."
"We will get there. My Wrath can broach any challenge."
"You're underestimating. All you've seen is a few midweight border cruisers. You don't realize what a fleet of heavy cruisers can do to your ship."
"I can destroy their fleet," Zennor assured, not seeming to intend the bravado with which Kirk read the claim. "When we came through the wrinkle, our power slackened somewhat and the Klingons inflicted some minor damage, but that is no longer a problem. My ship is no longer in any peril from you, but you, Vergokirk, are in grave peril from us, and that is my concern. If I fail to do this, or if the Klingons push an attack too much on me, I will have to destroy them. If I do not destroy them, Garamanus will take over and destroy all of you. And that is my concern."
Kirk shoved off the desk and stood straight. "Vergo Zennor, you're either a very skilled liar or you're putting a great deal of trust in me."
The fiery eyes looked down at him. "I have made a decision to trust you. And you must honor that trust, Vergokirk, and help me keep control," Zennor finished with slow impact, "or you will be dealing directly with Garamanus."
"Yes, well," Kirk said with a guttural response to what he read as a dare. "You have Garamanus and I have Kellen. For the moment, they're both quiet. While they are, my officers are putting the ship's considerable resources to work on information you've given them. Your party will tour the ship and with luck gain some understanding of us and see that we're not these 'conquerors' you speak of. Meanwhile, I think you and I should attempt to iron out this problem between your people and the Klingons."
"General, these are your quarters. I'll be right outside if you need anything."
"Thank you, but I need only this."
With his back to the husky young Starfleet guard, and without even bothering to turn, Kellen used a new dagger and an old trick. He raised his chin and braced his feet for balance, locked his elbow, and thrust his arm straight backward. In his fist was the warm hilt, behind it the blade.
Without even witnessing his own act, he felt the blade pop the skin of the guard's body and grate against a rib. The guard's breath gushed out against the back of Kellen's head and the boy fell forward against Kellen's shoulder.
Only then did he turn to see the boy, to turn him over quickly so there would be no telltale blood upon the deck, and finally to drag the body into the quarters where Kellen was supposed to wait in complacence, which was as much his enemy as Starfleet itself and almost as alien to him.
So much more alien than he expected—this complicatory inaction was unexpected and he cursed it. Kirk was a thorough disappointment. As the door of the VIP quarters hissed closed behind him and hid his kill for the moment, he thought about how far he could push the Federation. It had always been in his mind, through all his years in the Imperial fleet. Klingons had not survived so long by being stupid. He knew the Federation tolerated much more than any Klingon would, but when they did turn and fight they were not a pleasant enemy. They would fight ruthlessly and methodically. There were other Kirks out there who deserved to be Kirk, and one disappointment would not fool Kellen. Unlike Klingon honor, the Federation had a sharp sense of right and wrong as their barometer. When they believed they were right, they fought with unmatched ferocity.
This had always been a mystery to Kellen—when the Federation would fight and why. Always a minefield to walk. He could spit in a human's face—something a whole Klingon family would go to war over—and the human might shrug and walk away. Yet step on the toe of something they had no interest in and the Federation would marshal all its forces to defend a thing it did not care to possess.
Like this Kirk. Why had he refused to fight so obvious a threat? Certainly there were primogenial memories in the Federation of those demons, just as there were for the Klingons. Even time beyond recall could be recalled when the common danger was disclosed.
Some predictions could work, though. He had gambled and won that these people were too polite to make a body search of a visiting dignitary, even a Klingon dignitary. They hadn't. He had kept his dagger hidden, and beside it a shielded communicator which he now withdrew and powered up.
"Qul … Aragor, do you read me? Come in, Qul."
Communicator shields often worked in both directions and impaired broadcast. He kept the signal weak, not sure how m
uch of a signal would trigger this ship's security systems and notify them that he was attempting to reach out from here to his own ship.
He started walking. No turbolifts. Too entrapping. There would be ladders, tubes, other ways to go down.
"Qul … Qul …" Over and over he murmured the name of his ship, slowly adjusting the gain on the communicator until they would hear him calling.
And here was a tube—with a ladder. He asked and was answered.
He peered down the tube to be sure there was no technician coming up whose head he would have to crush, and swung his thick leg around the ladder.
"General … this is Aragor. Where are you?"
Clinging to the rungs and wedging his way into the tube, which barely accommodated his girth, Kellen paused. "I am in the starship. I believe Kirk is about to betray us. Call for reinforcements, as many as you can find. Make no obvious movements, but be ready to attack. Contact the Jada and tell that idiot Ruhl to prepare the squadron's defenses, but quietly."
"Sir … the commanders will not be allowed to attack a Starfleet ship under a flag of truce without provocation or gain. How will we make them believe you saw?"
"I must be believed! Or it is disaster."
"I believe you, General, but the commanders will demand proof."
Anger welled and he wanted to shout at Aragor, yet he knew this was not Aragor's doing. His science officer was neither fool nor petty stooge. A truth was a truth.
"There will be proof. I will find it somehow. You call them. Give them the facts as we know them. Show them the tapes. I am going to main engineering to disable this vessel. Make preparations to beam me back when I make signal. No more communication."
"Understood. Out."
The tube was narrow but bright, and he felt closed in, trapped, even as he moved freely downward through the veins of the starship. The voices of the crew from deck to deck were his only contact with the Starfleeters, giving him reason to pause now and then to be sure no one saw him pass through the open hatchways and companionways. He could be easily cornered here, but his size forced him to move slowly, with cautious deliberation. To slip and tumble because of nervousness would be shameful.
Tours. Guests. Open arms to demons and friends. Havoc embraced. A Kirk who was no Kirk. Seek out the unshatterable and discover only crumbs.
The rungs were cool against his palms. Rung after rung, the ship peeled away beneath his hands and boots. Nearer and nearer he climbed down toward the pulse and thrum of the warp core. He felt it vibrate through the ladder and heard it hum in his ears. That was the power source he must cripple, or the starship would once again stand in his way.
When the thrum was strongest, he went one deck more to make sure he had indeed zeroed in on the main engineering deck, then climbed back up and cautiously extracted his bulk from the tube. This was a wide-halled ship, with room to stretch his arms from bulkhead to bulkhead even in the passages. They wasted space, these people, attempting to create an environment too much like planetary architecture. They came into the depths of space, then tried to pretend they were otherwhere. They coddled their comforts too much in sacrifice to efficiency and quickness. No one needed this much room. And with every extra bit of indulgence, there had to be that much more thrust, so they wasted energy to accommodate their waste of space.
That could mean they had power to spare. He would have to consider that in his sabotage.
He moved slowly through the offices to the functioning engineering deck, keeping himself hidden from humans in red shirts who moved from panel to panel, reading and measuring what they saw, and crossed walkways overhead. At the far end of the deck he saw the cathedral-tall red glow of the warp core throbbing placidly, off-line as the ship lay at all-stop.
Finding an angular elbow between three tall storage canisters, Kellen paused to assess what he saw and decide how best to inflict injury that would be hard to find and take time to fix.
As he studied the movements of the engineers and listened to their faint conversations, wicking general information about these panels, he almost failed to notice the most important change when it came—the demons were here.
There … nearly obscured by the thing he was hiding behind, but they were here! On their tour … doing just as he was doing, seeking information and scanning the uncovered consoles and all this technology these idiots kept out in the open and freely showed to any and all who came. Even demons could see.
That other ensign now tagged behind. The gaggle of evil was led instead by a senior engineer, who seemed uneasy at the creatures following him. He spoke little, but gestured for the creatures to disperse about the deck and gaze about.
The other engineers paused in their work and stared at the ghastly amalgam who came here now, the long-faced horned beasts, the winged Shushara, the hideous Iraga with those white snakes in its head. Even the vaulting humans who spoke so large and pretended nothing bothered them today could not hide their disgust. They acted as if they did not remember these ill-biddens, did not recognize what they saw, but it was in their eyes and the tightening of their shoulders as they looked upon the evictees who now returned unasked.
No matter how they lied to themselves, they did remember. It was their Havoc too.
Kellen held his breath as the Iraga crossed the deck, shuffling upon its ugly limbs toward him, coming to look at something on this side of the high-ceilinged chamber. Its leprous face was more terrible than any mask, crowned with those arm-long snakes that moved independently, reaching and retracting, as if tasting the air.
He backed into his nook and held very still. There was a cool and convenient shadow here, not quite big enough to engulf his entire body, but dark enough to obscure him.
The profane thing passed by him and moved into a secondary chamber, passing within inches. He smelled its licheny body and drew his chin downward in disgust, wincing as the tentacles whipped toward his face and licked at the canister's edge. If they had eyes, the Iraga would know he hid here.
What would the horror be, to be overrun by these, the condemned, even to survive and be forced to do their filthy bidding? The thought shuddered through him. He held his breath.
But his shadow served him. The beast moved past.
Kellen raised his right hand and sifted through his outer robe for the familiar palm-filling shape of his dagger's hilt. It was a good dagger, not his family dagger, which he had already given to his son, but a good weapon that had known too little use. Now it would have its moment.
The general rolled out from between the canisters, walking casually across the open archway because that would gain less attention than if he attempted to sneak across.
Without changing his stride he walked up behind the Iraga, reached as high as he could, snatched a handful of the gory tentacles moving in the creature's skull, and drove his blade into the haze of white gauzy cloth covering the creature's body.
Chapter Eleven
UNLIKE THE BODY of the ensign whom Kellen had just killed, the Iraga's wound gushed no liquid onto his fist, but instead puckered around it. He felt no spine, but assumed there was one in there somewhere, and aggravated the blade across the body from side to side.
The Iraga gasped and arched backward against him. Its mouth stretched open and its limbs thrust outward. Kellen pulled it down until he could twist the tentacles around the creature's face and stuff them into its mouth and down its throat, guttering any cry it tried to make.
He waited for it to die, but it would not die. It cranked to this side, then that side, trying to pull itself free of his grip and the blade digging into its back. Soon it began to go pliant in his arms and he let it drop.
It slid down his legs and rolled to the deck at his feet, staring up at him with bitter green eyes that had no pupils.
"Security to Mr. Scott. Emergency."
Kellen looked up, and stepped to the archway. The senior engineer was reaching for the nearest panel.
"Scott here."
"Sir, Mr. Giott
o here. Captain says to notify you of intruder-alert status. We've had a call from deck four. Yeoman Tamura went to ask the Klingon general if she could bring him dinner and she found Ensign Brown on the floor of the VIP quarters. He's been killed, sir, and there's no sign of the general. We're attempting a biosweep for Klingon physiology, but we haven't pinpointed anything yet."
The engineer's face turned stony, and for a moment he glared at the comm as if it had done the killing. When he spoke his voice was like metal grating on metal. "Acknowledged. Scott out." He looked up and snapped his fingers. "Mr. Hadley! Go to Security alert status two in the lower section. Double guards at every entrance. Let's clear this deck of all but assigned personnel. Arm the lot and set up in teams."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Scott. Johnson, come with me! Elliott, come down here!"
Suddenly there was confusion all over. The demons were rounded up and shuffled out of Kellen's sight. Guards with phasers jogged through, and his plans for sabotage were snuffed before his eyes.
So the plans must be altered.
He stepped back to the poisonous body, yanked his dagger clear of the Iraga's back, and quickly retracted the two claw extensions. Taking the hilt in both hands, he braced his legs wide, raised the heavy center blade as the creature looked up beseechingly at him, and brought it down with all the power in his thick upper body. The blade crunched through the Iraga's throbbing neck and went a finger's length into the deck.
Sawing deliberately, he ignored the free flood of white fluid and gray organs. Finally he twisted his left hand into the frantically jerking tentacles and pulled as he cut. The eyes flared as if the demon knew what was happening to it. The lips moved open, closed, open, closed, as if trying to speak to him, and there was sound from the ravaged throat that soon dissolved into a froth.
He sawed relentlessly. In moments the beast's eyes began to roll and the tentacles began to coil around and around Kellen's hand and wrist, growing thinner as they tightened. He was disgusted at the greasy sensation, but forced himself to maintain his grip and continue to pull and cut.
