Home Is the Hunter

by Dana Kramer Rolls

  And he would be dead.

  But not if she could help it.

  Her mind made up, she reflexively reached for a comm unit. But that was not wise, she realized. Any communications might be monitored. She left her cabin and went down the hallway, first at a brisk walk and then at a run. Something was sounding an alarm in her head, a warning that time had run out much faster than she had thought.

  She rounded the corner and banged on the door of Kral's quarters. The door hissed open, activated from within.

  "Commander, I can't wait anymore, I must warn you about Kbrex—"

  She stopped dead.

  Kbrex was seated in leisurely fashion within, his legs propped up on a table, his blaster in his lap. He was smiling broadly.

  "How kind of you to alert our beloved commander," said Kbrex in purring bemusement. "Unfortunately for you, he has gone back up to the bridge."

  He stood and walked slowly across the room to her. Vladra stared at him, her chin tilted upward, her eyes defiant.

  "So you have chosen," he said, shaking his head. "That is a pity. Let me show you … what you have missed."

  He grabbed her roughly and fiercely slammed his lips against hers. She struggled in his grasp, her hands trying to reach her dagger. Kbrex grabbed her hands by the wrists and shoved her back down on the bed, dropping his bulk atop her. Vladra cursed and spat at him, her back arching in fury, a guttural cry of pure venom ripping from her throat.

  "I'll kill you!" she snarled.

  "I think not," Kbrex informed her, and he chortled low and started to do things to her …

  And then a rough hand closed on the back of his neck.

  That was his only warning—that, and a roar of anger, and then he was lifted bodily off Vladra and hurled against a wall of the cabin. Trophies and mementos fell clattering to the floor, and Kbrex looked up to see a seething Kral standing five feet away.

  "You're dead," breathed Kral.

  Kbrex launched himself at him with amazing speed, and Kral met the charge. They hurtled backward, the door politely opening to allow them to tumble into the hallway.

  They tumbled about on the floor for a moment, and then Kbrex was on top. He clamped his knees about Kral's throat and started to squeeze.

  Klingons passing in the hallway stopped in their tracks. They knew what was happening and what was at stake. They made no move. It was not their place to interfere.

  Vladra felt no such compunction, and she dashed into the hallway and tried to pull Kbrex off of Kral. "You bastard!" she screamed.

  Maltz, the second officer, grabbed Vladra from behind and yanked her away. "Don't disgrace him!" he snarled, and she knew that he was right. If Kral lived because of her interference, it would be a life without honor. Dying was preferable.

  It was not, however, on Kral's agenda. He managed to shift his weight just enough to send Kbrex tumbling off him. Kral scrambled to his feet and aimed a kick at Kbrex's face. It connected, sending the older Klingon sprawling.

  Kral charged him, still greedily sucking in air through his aching throat. Kbrex got to his feet and met the charge. The two Klingons shoved against each other, grunting and swearing, struggling for leverage.

  Abruptly Kbrex stepped back, the move throwing Kral momentarily off balance. Kbrex used the opportunity to grab Kral by the back of his neck and the front of his armor, turning swiftly and sending Kral head first into a bulkhead. The crash was so loud and crunching that Vladra almost felt ill.

  Kral sagged, turned and faced Kbrex, wavering from side to side. Kbrex delivered a brutal blow to Kral's head, and that was all for the Klingon commander. He fell to the floor, gasping, the world spinning around him.

  He felt the barrel of a blaster against the back of his head and muttered a quick prayer to his god. He looked up and Vladra was looking back, biting her lip. There was such sadness in her eyes that Kral's greatest regret in his imminent death was not the fact of the death itself, but the fact that he had let Vladra down.

  Kbrex looked from Vladra to Kral and back again. His finger tightened on the blaster …

  … and then relaxed.

  He stepped back and waved the blaster. "Get up," he said.

  Kral wiped blood from his lip and slowly stood on wavering legs.

  "You are my prisoner," said Kbrex. "You are arrested for incompetence and failure to complete a mission. You will be held for future disposal, as I see fit."

  The other Klingons blinked in surprise but said nothing. Kral glared at him steadily. Kbrex slowly turned and regarded Vladra. "Are you his or mine, Vladra?" he said.

  Vladra said nothing for a moment, and then without a word she went to Kral, who was leaning against a wall. She took his arm and supported him.

  "Don't do this," he whispered.

  "You are no longer my commander," she said with surprising mildness. "You cannot order me. I do as I choose … with whom I choose," and she fired a look at Kbrex.

  Kbrex made no reply, but merely nodded. He turned to Second Officer Maltz, who was now going to be the first officer. "Put them in the brig," he said, and Maltz nodded once and took them away, blaster leveled on them.

  "You let him live," said one of the crewmen who had witnessed the battle. It was not phrased as a question. It was never healthy to question a commander, particularly one who had just come into power and was doubtless feeling his oats.

  "I would have the woman," replied Kbrex. "If I kill him now, she makes a martyr of him in her mind. By imprisoning them together, I give her the opportunity to watch him descend into the frustration of losing his command and the humiliation of being left alive. I want her to remember him not going out fighting, but rather spending his last hours in misery and embarrassment. That way she will willingly come to me."

  "As you say," said the crewman, and then deferentially added, "Commander."

  Kbrex most definitely liked the sound of that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Japan, 1600

  SULU LISTENED CAREFULLY to what Sadayo, the formidable samurai, was telling him as they crossed the great courtyard of the castle. Sadayo had sensed Sulu's disorientation and seemed to have decided to singlehandedly bring Sulu up to speed.

  "This is Fushimi Castle. It was the last to be built by the regent Hideyoshi, the great Taiko," Sadayo said. "See, here is the main keep, but there are also five fortresses in the garrison. Our strength is eighteen hundred men. Our lord Torii was assigned this castle by his lord, Tokugawa Ieyasu. Our lord has had the honor of being Tokugawa Ieyasu's retainer since he was a child, as his father served the Tokugawa clan before him and his sons shall after him."

  As they passed by the gates to the inner court where the lord's wife and family were quartered, Sulu heard the chatter of women's voices. He found himself straining to pick out the voice of Lady Oneko.

  The guards were quartered in dormitories, and it was there that Sulu was taken next. Packed with men and sleeping mats by night, the room was hollow and lonely by day. Sulu was issued two kimonos, appropriate undergarments and a kami-shimo, the two-piece uniform that he would wear on duty when he wasn't in armor. It consisted of the ankle-length pleated trousers called a hakama, and a stiff-shouldered vest.

  When he was dismissed, he headed for the bathhouse, mumbling the complex directions in his head lest he wander off someplace inappropriate. As he went, Sulu tried to draw in everything, a lifetime of knowledge which he would be expected to know, and somehow did, but somehow didn't.

  His eye caught the eye of an old gardener, a man extraordinary only for his ordinariness … and an odd scar that ran down the left side of his face. It looked like it had been made with a sword, although it was years old. The old man politely looked away quickly, returning to his task of pruning away faded camellias.

  The bathhouse was thankfully quiet. The water in the scrub bucket was shockingly cold. Gingerly settling into the hot soaking tub, he watched the steam rise in lazy spirals, as the knots in his shoulders eased. His armor had been whis
ked away for repair, and removal of the considerable number of blood stains.

  Blood. Blood from a fight.

  He remembered how, years ago, he had run from an image of a samurai. Now he had become that which had terrified him.

  And he accepted it.

  Something was wrong.

  He sat and pondered. Whatever damage he might have already done to the future was done, and whatever damage he might continue to do … He shook his head as if he could shake out the confusion. There was little help for it but to continue to play along … or live along. If there was a way out, he couldn't see it.

  In the half sleep induced by the heat and comfort of the bath, he accepted that it was clearly not going to be possible to get back home by his own efforts. After all, he couldn't just wave his katana—which turned out to be a particularly fine signed blade—and cry "Open Sesame" or something like that, and reappear on the deck of the Enterprise. Although, he considered wryly, that might work as well as anything else.

  His gut hurt, like little twisted knives. He was never going to get back … never, never. He breathed in deeply and forced back the panic. It wasn't such a bad place to be, he told himself, more in black humor than in earnest. It was what he had always wanted in his most romantic fantasies.

  But … to never fly among the stars? To do without all the conveniences of life that he had become accustomed to … everything from instantaneous travel to a hot shower. Separated from everyone he knew. To be dead centuries before they would be born—before he would be born?

  He let the hot water soak away the fear which again had knotted his gut, and let himself think about all that had happened. But he couldn't quite remember the last moments, or was it hours, on the Enterprise. Then he thought he could see Oneko's face like an angelic spirit swirling out of the steam, and he caught his breath at the memory of her pristine beauty.

  He saw that lovely face later that day, while sitting guard for Mototada.

  Sulu was stationed on the other side of a privacy screen, and had been grateful that the screen had been pulled open to capture the slight breeze, although it was little relief against the summer heat. But the disciplined calm silence of his guard duty turned to self-conscious staring when the woman and her attendants shuffled in, artfully gliding through the yards of dragging silk that puddled like colorful sea foam around their feet.

  "Tono, lord," she said, dropping to her knees and bowing before Mototada, her tiny hands delicately touching the ground. Two guards accompanied the women, and they dropped to the ground, also, in the cross-legged posture of men, bowing with choreographic precision, as two women attendants gracefully folded to their knees and bowed with their mistress.

  "Oneko, how are you?"

  "Well, my lord," she said, putting her hands to her belly and smiling warmly, her eyes flitting from the ground to her lord's face. "Forgive me," she said bowing low, "for causing you trouble. I had no wish to worry you. It was selfish of me to request the trip to the temple."

  "No, it was my fault for not sending more soldiers with you. The physician said you should go there to rest, and I only endangered you." He smiled at her. "At sixty-two I hardly expected another child, but I am pleased, Oneko."

  "I pray for another son for you, my lord," she said sweetly.

  He laughed. "I have sons enough for ten men. So long as the child is well, and you are, too."

  But the warm reunion of the daimyo and his youngest concubine was cut short by the announcement of a party riding to the fortress.

  A messenger was brought in by an attendant. The man was in armor, sweaty and breathless from a hard ride.

  "Tokugawa Ieyasu approaches," he announced.

  Sulu's eyes widened upon hearing this. Mototada's lord, Tokugawa Ieyasu! Coming here! It was as if Uhura had turned and informed Kirk that the formidable and legendary Admiral Nogura was going to be swinging by for a stop. Part of him was thrilled by the honor, and the rest of him was wondering what sort of boom was about to be lowered.

  The next hour was an ordered pandemonium of efficient chaos, at the end of which the lord of the hold sat cross-legged in the vast receiving room, his chief councillors lining both sides of the room. Sulu was now posted behind the closed screen, but he could dimly see through the thin, backlit wall, and he could hear everything.

  When Tokugawa entered, all pressed their backs forward toward the ground, their knuckles on the ground to their sides, bowing with the obeisance due the overlord of this hold. Tokugawa took a seat on the raised platform where Mototada normally held court.

  Through the stony-faced impassiveness of a guard, Sulu's eyes were riveted on the shadowy form of the man who would unite Japan. The man who would, for better or worse, create a postfeudal society, a society of art and culture, and one which would retain the pristine integrity of Japan for half a millennium.

  Cool, almost cold, Tokugawa Ieyasu sat, his voice with a kind of lilt that inspired truth, or at least honesty, from others—the kind of voice that allowed his friends to prove their worth, and his enemies to make mistakes. Anyone who took this man as a mild-mannered patron of the arts addicted only to the sport of hawking and admiring famous scenery, was too stupid to live, and often didn't.

  "Mototada, my old friend, the time has come," rumbled Ieyasu. "It comes as no surprise to you, but Ishida Mitsunari has gathered a western army against us."

  Sulu cast his mind back to the stories that he had heard, of the political climate of this time. There had been a tremendous power struggle between Tokugawa Ieyasu—incredibly, sitting a few feet away from him—and another man, Ishida Mitsunari. The entire business had involved control over the infant son of the previous regent, and eventually—eventually, hell, now (he had to stop thinking about the past in the past tense)—Mitsunari had raised an army, marching from the west toward the old capital of Kyoto, and beyond to Edo, Tokugawa's new capital.

  "Fushimi Castle lies on the road that leads to my capital of Edo," Tokugawa lectured. "Would I have invested anyone less able than you to hold Fushimi Castle?" He laughed, but his voice was somber and cold when he continued. "I choose to meet the enemy at Sekigahara, where the Nakasendo Road runs between the Ai River and the Makita River. But it will take me time to assemble my troops. Not all my retainers are as reliable as you, my old friend, and there will be some who drag their heels, waiting to guess the outcome of the battle before they commit to the winning side. You must hold Fushimi Castle, thus holding back Ishida Mitsunari, as long as possible. I will send you more troops …"

  "No, my lord," Torii Mototada said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "You must not. I have what men I need for what I need to do. To send more would only weaken your main force. We will do what we must, for as long as we can, but I implore you, my lord, do not sacrifice more men to this action."

  "So," Tokugawa Ieyasu said, nodding in agreement. "It is settled. Thank you," he said with the slightest nod, causing his subordinate to lean forward in abject supplication, the honor of being thanked and so acknowledged by his lord leaving Torii speechless. And in that moment lay the unspoken volumes that the lord knew his retainer's worth, and the retainer accepted his fate with dignity.

  And that was when it clicked into place for Sulu.

  Fushimi Castle, the home of Torii Mototada, had been laid siege to in September of 1600. They had fought against the forces of an overwhelming army for ten days, in order to buy time for Tokugawa Ieyasu.

  And that time had been bought with the life of every man in Fushimi Castle.

  Sulu had pledged, on his honor, to be bodyguard to a dead man.

  He wasn't a sixteenth-century samurai, for pity's sake. He was a Starfleet officer. He wasn't in some wonderful, daydream fantasy. He was committing suicide.

  Devil take honor. He had to get the hell out of there.

  Chapter Fifteen

  GARROVICK'S BODY was lying cold in sickbay, and the bodies of Sulu, Chekov, and Scotty had vanished into thin air. It was time, Kirk decided, to do s
omething about it.

  He exited the turbolift and entered the conference room. Spock was already waiting for him, and McCoy joined them moments later.

  McCoy was impressed by the fact that the morose, self-doubting Kirk he'd seen earlier had, apparently, been left behind in the captain's cabin. Here Kirk was all business, utterly confident that he would be presented with options and courses to pursue, and from that would draw a course of action. His eyes were narrowed, his fingertips gently tapping on the top of the conference-room table.

  It was the sort of conference that, normally, Scotty, Sulu, and Chekov would be attending. Their absence only drew that much attention to the need for the conference.

  "Analysis. Where are my officers?" Kirk said without preamble.

  "Difficult to be precise, Captain. Evidence is slight."

  "Slight?" Kirk felt as if he were grasping at straws. On the face of it, there didn't seem to be any evidence at all. He was virtually on a fishing expedition.

  "I would say that the only suppositions we can make are on the basis of what Weyland himself said."

  "Now there's a reliable source," said McCoy crossly. "What the devil is that Weyland character, anyway?"

  "There is no reason to believe that he is anything other than what he claims," said Spock. "A being of immense power who acts out of a rather singular definition of honor and obligation."

  "Obviously he doesn't feel any obligation to our men," observed McCoy.

  "No reason he should," said Kirk. "His concern is the people of Cragon V. Still … " His fingers drummed a moment more. "Time out of mind."

  "What?" said McCoy.

  "That's what he said. He said that our men were trapped in time out of mind."

  "That could have two meanings," said Spock. "There is the figurative definition of that statement. 'Time out of mind' is generally used as a description of an infinity of time. Time beyond the human capacity to comprehend."