Home Is the Hunter

by Dana Kramer Rolls

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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  Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc, under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

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  ISBN-10: 0-7434-2003-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-2003-7

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

  Historian's Note

  This adventure takes place shortly after the events chronicled in Star Trek: The Motion Picture.

  Chapter One

  SULU AWOKE in the middle of a battle.

  He awoke, but didn't open his eyes at first. His mind told him, quite logically, that he could not possibly be where he thought he was. I'm not really in a battle. I'm not awake yet, I'm still dreaming.

  A clang again, steel on steel, and the kind of shout that demanded attention. Even if this were a dream, he had to see it. Opening his eyes, he peered through the coarse grass and spat out a mouthful of grit.

  Yes, ahead there were about a dozen men, or at least there were a lot of waving arms and swinging weapons. I'm dreaming all right, Sulu thought, not daring to believe his eyes. Whatever this dream was, it was a good one. "Ballet of death" was an overused phrase, and yet it fit these samurai in the midst of pitched battle.

  Sulu leapt to his feet and discovered he was wearing laminar armor. So much the better. He reached for his katana, with the assurance of a dreamer that it would be there. It was. He ran, or rather waddled, with the ungainly speed armored men had known for the history of warfare, slashing, cutting, screaming at whatever moved. But he was still too far from the center of the fighting to do much more than lop off some branches of offending trees. He called out a challenge to the nearest soldiers—and in the finest classical Japanese. Yes, this was a super-fine dream. When he woke up, he promised himself to really learn the language of his forebears.

  The exertion left him giddy, his thoughts moving like thick mud. He was also sweating and breathless as he took stock of the fight. The adage "fight smart" had been drilled into him too well for him to go tumbling off like this, even in a fantasy battle, although he was beginning to notice that this fantasy was pretty gritty. The cold suspicion that this wasn't a dream flirted with his consciousness, but he told himself that was impossible.

  A small column of samurai still held the road some yards ahead. A palanquin sat in the road, defended by four women slashing with naginatas. Then the noblewoman stepped from behind the curtains, a small sword in her hands, joining her personal maids in the final assault. The soldiers were fast giving ground to the attackers, who seemed more like a mob of brigands than anything else.

  Sulu shook his head. This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream. Besides, a lady was in trouble, he concluded. Sulu belted out his best kei and ran hell-bent at the attackers, his sword slashing across a man's chest. The man cried out as he went down, and the warmth of the splattered blood stopped Sulu.

  And a warning screamed in Sulu's mind: It's no dream! You just cut down a human being as if he were kindling!

  Sulu stepped back, reality versus fantasy smashing against his brain. It was real. It couldn't be real. He had been … where? Not here. Fleeting recollections of the Enterprise, and then there had been a flash … There was an empty space in his mind that he could almost feel, as if it were a physical block.

  He was alerted by the furious screams of the others attacking him. The first man was still writhing on the ground. Sulu took a defensive stance and knew he was in trouble. He couldn't kill. He wouldn't … except they were clearly not hampered by such constrictions.

  The movements came to him as if he'd always known them, and yet he overrode the compulsion to take men's lives. Instead every blow was carefully aimed at an extremity—to disable rather than kill.

  He slashed to his right, cutting down a man who was blindsiding him, while blocking a blow from the left with his sia, or scabbard. With a fluid motion he supported the back of the razor-sharp blade of his sword, blocking a blow from the front, then stabbed another man behind him as he spun the sword around to dispatch still another who raced at him. The blood sprayed from the blade in a haze of red. Too deep, he'd cut too deep. My God, my God …

  He blocked the downward slash of a naginata wielded by one of the brigands, sliding down its long wooden haft and disengaging to cut the legs out from his next opponent. It took on an unreal slow motion, each cut and parry by the numbers, a mindless and deadly dance. Very soon he stood alone, the pile of moaning bodies surrounding him.

  He found his voice and cried out, "What's happening? What am I doing here? Who are you? Tell me! Now!"

  And then, as if on cue, each of his opponents suddenly trembled and died. Just like that.

  He spun in place, confused, not understanding. Then he saw their faces, framed in a rictus of death, and he understood. Poison. Possibly concealed under their tongues, or secreted on their person. Death was an acceptable, even preferred, substitute for capture.

  His mind struggled to comprehend.

  Shaking, he turned back to the palanquin, his head bowed in pain and shock. Sulu forced himself to look up. One man stood protecting the lady, surrounded by his own share of defeated enemy. Two of her maids were still alive, and perhaps a half dozen of the soldiers from the column.

  Sulu bowed to the man—although it was his body, not his mind, that seemed to be in charge.

  The man barked out, "Who are you?"

  "Suru,
" he said, and frowned. He wondered why he couldn't pronounce his name correctly, but of course in Japanese there is no "letter l," and he was speaking Japanese. "Heihachiro, my lord," he replied, smiling to himself as he gave the name of "Starfleet's Commanding Admiral," Heihachiro Nogura.

  A voice like the tinkling of bells said to him, "I am the Lady Oneko. You have served me well." The woman stood, both fragile as a reed and strong as a sword blade, almost disdainfully ignoring the blood that clung to her silken outer robe. Sulu caught his breath at her beauty. She was an ancient painting come to life, all the more glorious for the exotic, almost jarring perfection of her white-powdered face and red lips.

  He noted that she was only a girl, a child-woman probably not yet out of her teens. Her ivory face and almond eyes were framed in demure beauty by a cascade of black hair, artfully draped over her shoulders, where it flowed back to be caught up in a ribbon. She wore an outer silk kimono of peach lined with bloodred, and the layers of her other robes peeked out at her throat like a field of brilliantly colored wildflowers. She was carefully wrapping the now sheathed small sword in a bag of silk brocade. When she was done, she tucked it, cocooned in its innocence, back into the belt of her robes.

  She looked up, barely brushing his eyes with hers. Sulu felt as if he had been hit in the gut with a phaser stun. The feeling was not rational, or logical, but it was there. She returned to her palanquin.

  A tall gray-haired man, handsome by any standard, strode to his side. "I am Watanenabe Sadayo. 'Suru,' eh? 'The one who tries.' But I think that the word 'suru' is also a pickpocket. Hmm," he said, scanning Sulu up and down. "You will return to the castle with me. The lord will wish to reward you. Take a horse from these brigands and follow me."

  Sulu stood there, trying to digest what was happening. Should he just stay where he was? And do what? Wait for more brigands to show up? Perhaps he wouldn't be as lucky the next time.

  "Why are you standing there?" came the no-nonsense demand. "Is there something wrong with the offered hospitality and reward of my lord?"

  Sulu realized that if he inadvertently challenged someone's honor, there was going to be swordplay … and someone would die.

  Which—if this was a dream—was immaterial.

  But it wasn't. God help him, he was becoming more and more convinced of that.

  Sulu bowed quickly. "Of course not. Your hospitality is most gracious."

  "Then let us go quickly to the castle before we're accosted again," said Sadayo.

  "What castle? Who is the lord?" Sulu asked, trying to shake the image of the woman which was still burned into his mind's eye.

  "Fushimi Castle. Torii Mototada-domo," the leader said, swinging up to the saddle.

  Wow, Sulu thought, Torii Mototada. Sulu had some favorites among the great samurai of history. His mother had quieted his restless childhood spirit with the stories of Benkei and Yoshitsune, and the fortunes of the House of Minamoto. As a teenager he had discovered the intricate military politics of Hideyoshi and Tokugawa. And bushi, the warrior code of the samurai.

  He rode on for hours, his thighs cramping from the unfamiliar activity. Nevertheless, he rode tall and proud as they traveled along the great Tokaido Road to meet with people from history that had died centuries ago.

  What in hell am I doing here? he thought.

  Chapter Two

  Centuries Later …

  KIRK HAD LOST MEN BEFORE, heaven knew. Losing men was nothing new for him. He'd lost men, women, and children. He'd seen planets struck down by invaders or forces of feast or famine. He'd seen worlds destroyed, suns collapsing on themselves, and starships swallowed by monstrosities huge beyond comprehension.

  Death and destruction, so much death. Enough to overshadow all the good that he had done, and hopefully, would continue to do. But no matter how much he faced death, he would never acknowledge that death was a better man than he. Even though death would win, and continue to win, and—sooner or later—triumph over James T. Kirk. It was a matter of honor. Or perhaps just bull-headed stubbornness—as Dr. McCoy had said more than once.

  He placed a hand on the unmoving, lifeless body of Lieutenant Garrovick, which lay in a small room adjacent to sickbay. Kirk winced at the ugly wounds studding the lieutenant's face and upper torso. His clothes were torn, and even though his face was lifeless, his final expression was one of chagrin and pain.

  Damn, but losing a crewman was hard, even after all this time. Especially a crewman with whom he had a history, such as Garrovick, whose father had once been Kirk's commanding officer—another man Kirk had watched die.

  "Bastards," he murmured. "Klingon bastards."

  There was a soft footfall next to him, but Kirk didn't turn. He didn't need to.

  "Never gets easier, does it, Jim?" the doctor asked.

  Kirk let out a slow sigh. "The day it gets easier is the day I go behind a desk for good, Bones."

  McCoy raised a bemused eyebrow. "Why? You think you can then calmly and coldly give orders that send other people to their potential deaths? Not you, Jim. You always feel that you can't order someone to do something that you wouldn't do yourself. That's why you always lead landing parties."

  Kirk looked down at Garrovick once more. "Out of some misguided feeling of honor?"

  "No. You lead landing parties because you're a damned fool who thinks he's going to live forever."

  "Oh." Kirk's lips thinned. "Thank you for clarifying that."

  "No problem. Jim, total faith in one's own immortality—that's the province of the young."

  Kirk shook his head and eyed the dead man. "A lot of good it did Garrovick."

  He turned and left sickbay. McCoy hesitated a moment, trying to decide whether his captain was in a mood to talk or to be left alone. McCoy was still unclear about the details of what in the world had gone wrong on the surface of Cragon V, which spun gracefully, and deceptively, peacefully below them. He knew that five men had gone down, and now four men had come back … except now three of the four who had returned had vanished to somewhere in the past.

  He decided that remaining in ignorance wasn't going to do him a damned bit of good … perhaps about as much good as it was going to do Kirk, who was eating himself up over all of this.

  McCoy knew that a short distance away sat a Klingon battle cruiser, staring at the Enterprise, as helpless and as frustrated as the Enterprise herself.

  And sitting in sickbay staring at the walls wasn't going to help. McCoy walked out, stopping only to pick up a flask of Romulan ale.

  He entered Kirk's quarters and stopped dead still as Kirk aimed a phaser at him. He sputtered a moment and then got out, "Good lord, Jim … have my bills been that high?"

  Kirk did not so much as crack a smile. Instead he aimed the phaser just to McCoy's left and squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing happened. Not so much as a faint whine of energy.

  "Out of power?" asked McCoy, trying to appear nonplussed.

  "Out of frustration," replied Kirk. He tossed the phaser onto a nearby couch. "They're all like that. Every phaser on the damned ship. And our ship's phaser banks, and the photon torpedoes. All thanks to that blasted Weyland. I've got a man lying dead in sickbay, the individual responsible sitting contentedly in his ship kilometers away … and I can't do anything except …"

  "Drink?" offered McCoy.

  He kept the label of the Romulan ale away from Kirk so that he wouldn't have to tolerate the captain's half-hearted protests. He poured Kirk a swig, which the captain promptly tossed back. It hit his system the way Romulan ale always did, and he gagged slightly. Kirk, graciously, didn't say anything.

  "So what happened?" asked McCoy.

  Kirk made a slight, dismissive wave. "You don't want to know."

  "No, of course not," said McCoy reasonably. "I just came here to watch you act cranky and frustrated." The doctor's expression turned serious. "Besides, Jim, you think you're the only one with responsibilities? You lost a man. Well, I lost a patient. This situation
is as much my business as it is yours."

  Kirk regarded McCoy a moment, fingers steepled. "For someone who had to be practically dragged, kicking and screaming, back into Starfleet, it's good to know you haven't lost your ability to annoy your commanding officer."

  "It's a knack."

  Kirk nodded. Then he leaned forward and said, "All right. Here's what happened …"

  In many ways, Cragon V reminded Kirk of Organia. A world where the people were hardworking and simple. The technology was, by Earth standards, blindingly primitive. Also, like Organia, Cragon V was of interest both to the Federation and the Klingons. Rather than having strategic importance like Organia, Cragon had an abundance of minerals that were of value both to the Federation and the Empire.

  There were several other significant differences. First and foremost: Organians were not what they appeared to be. But the people of Cragon were exactly what they appeared to be: simple and easily influenced.

  In the case of Organia, as well as other planets subsequently contested under the Organian Peace Treaty, the Klingons and the Federation had shown up at roughly the same time. Not so with Cragon, unfortunately. In this case, the Federation had been caught flatfooted. Previous mining surveys had been improperly carried out, and the Klingons were sharp enough to slip into the gap and show up on the planet several months before the Federation caught wind of it.

  Kirk disliked many things, and high on that list was the idea of being one step behind the Klingons on anything of importance—especially when the lives of an innocent people were at stake.

  Kirk stopped momentarily as the landing party drew up short to wait for him. He took a deep breath, the fresh air of Cragon tingling in his lungs. As much as he loved the Enterprise, and as carefully as the air inside the starship was treated to simulate a real environment, it still was not the same as standing on a genuine planet, breathing in fresh air.

  Chekov stepped up to his silent captain, concerned. As security chief, it was his job to be concerned. "Is there a problem, Keptin?" he asked.