They grabbed for Sulu, but he sprang forward, kicking and punching, sending them sprawling. There was no handy weapon this time. He yanked up the quilt, throwing it at the two men who were up again and charging at him. Then he dove through the paper screen that separated him from the next room, only to be grabbed by two more men who were posted there. He kicked one of his assailants in the stomach but was punched and beaten for his trouble.
"Talk or die!" was the scream. A knife was at his throat.
He could talk. He should talk. What was it to him? The castle was doomed anyway, whether he spoke or not. What was the point in keeping the knowledge to himself?
"Talk, or on my honor, I will gut you, now," came the warning.
Honor.
Sulu looked up at him and smiled wanly.
"You are cordially invited to disembowel yourself," Sulu informed him.
A sword was drawn back, and he started to struggle, knowing he wouldn't make it. He heard a voice cry out.
And then all hell broke loose.
Chapter Thirty-six
Scotland, 1746
"SO … I AM to be defeated, eh?"
Scotty stared at the young, cloaked and hooded man who stood across from him with a rakish grin and a confident air.
Scotty didn't know what he was feeling, but he was certain that, to a large degree, it was awe. He was standing face to face with Bonny Prince Charles, Charles Edward Stuart. The young man who was the would-be heir to the throne of England, Scotland, and Wales.
I'm not supposed to be here, thought Scotty. He was sure of it. This was wrong, all of it wrong. It was more than that he was standing there, in Inverness, in the tent of Charles himself. It was a sense that not only could this not be, but this should not be. It should be impossible.
Why impossible? Because …
Stuart was dead. Generations dead. Centuries dead.
(Will be. Is. Will be.)
"Are you quite all right?" asked Charles with genuine concern.
Charles's inner circle of command stood nearby. One of them was notable for a bedraggled wig, which he removed, displaying a shaved head. He beckoned to an aide, who produced a wool stocking cap that gave him the comical appearance of a disreputable Father Christmas.
"Yes, that's better," the man said. "I am General John Murray, sir, son of the Duke of Atholl, and I'll tell you frankly that I have not much use for soothsayers on the prince's war council."
"Yes, but perhaps I have," Charles said sternly. Murray fell immediately silent. Charles turned back to Scotty and said, "Well … if I am to be defeated, then am I to be executed?"
"No," sighed Scotty. "You will live in exile all your days. For what it's worth, in the future your portrait will grace a million Scots' homes, and many more millions of Scottish whiskey bottles, biscuit tins, and china plates."
Charles stared at him for a long moment, and then tilted back his head and laughed delightedly. "So I'll not be a ruler, but an icon, is it? Sir," he said, "you may have The Sight. You may not. But I'll warrant you have a splendid sense of humor. Come, sup with us."
The table was a glitter of candlelight, dancing in merry reflection from the generous quantity of silverplate. Scotty's mouth was watering at the rich gravy smell of a lamb roast which wafted in from the kitchen.
The simple country dinner consisted of a thick creamed leek soup, roasted capons, the lamb, a variety of breads and condiments, and a good supply of French wine. The prince was quite right. Scotty had not eaten this well for a long time, and he was positively groaning after the pudding, a rich mold of candied fruits and suet steamed to savory perfection, then laced with brandy and ignited at the table. A spectacular end to an excellent meal.
But after the pangs of hunger had been satisfied, Scott took to looking at his dinner companions, especially the prince. He was a handsome young man, with excellent manners and a far less haughty disposition than his counterpart and cousin, the Duke of Cumberland. He certainly seemed sincere enough, exchanging bits of information and advice with his nearest councillors, a pair of doughty old Irishmen and a French cavalier, who seemed his favorites. But the eyes of another man, Alexander Keppoch, kept straying toward the prince as well. Whatever was going on, Scotty could smell the rancor of political unrest a mile off.
"Well, then, Mr. Scott," Murray broke in, "what does your second sight say of our campaign? Is there anything that we can do to forestall the doom you preach?"
"Well …" He thought about what he knew (would know, did know) of the British armament. "What I do know is that the British Train of Artillery is going to shoot your private parts off if you don't have some cannon of your own."
"Alas, we captured the magazine at Falkirk, but some fool blew it up. But no matter," one of the Irish contingent offered, adding, "for I feel that the highland man is fiercer with his trusty sword than a musket, and more reliable it is, too."
The prince nodded in agreement, Keppoch and Murray scowled, and the three favorites grinned. So that is how it was. The prince was a romantic, and the battlefield was certainly no place for airy-fairy notions. That at least ended the talk, much to Scott's relief, and after supper they retired to a sitting room, where the prince himself took his place at the delicate harpsichord and played a few short pieces in the crisp, almost mathematical style of the period.
Discussion turned eventually to domestic matters and the difficulty in keeping the men united. Scotty was appalled to hear of how internecine squabbling had already prompted the Glengarry men and the Clanranald men to desert in protest.
"My God," Scott said. "How can we hope to win this thing when cadet branches of the same clan can't make peace among themselves?" No one contested the comment.
Later in the evening Scott thanked his hosts and prepared to leave. Murray caught up with him at the door.
"I would speak with you concerning the artillery train. If you would allow my man to take you to my quarters and wait for me there, perhaps we might discuss this matter."
"Aye, sir. If I can be of any help, it would be my honor, sir."
The general's quarters were in a home on the same street, and Scott was soon settled in a well-appointed sitting room. He napped awhile in a great wing chair, his feet propped warmly on the grate, waiting for Murray to get loose of the party with the prince.
When Murray arrived, he had Keppoch with him. The clan chief made himself at home with Murray's supply of port, pouring three glasses of the rich red cordial. It was Murray who got down to business.
"Tell me of the artillery train," he ordered.
"I think it would be more useful to tell you some past history," Scott began in his best lecture tone. "Queen Boadecia of the ancient Celts, with her clans, numbering some 200,000 warriors, attacked a legion of the Roman army, perhaps five hundred or a thousand men in all. Do you know what happened? The Romans, vastly outnumbered, slaughtered the Celts. The Celtic strategy was to run into battle, screaming, their swords swinging wildly. The Roman strategy was to hold their line. The Romans hacked the Celtic clans to death, one man at a time. To quote, 'Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it.' What I see here is a disaster in the making. From what I see, those two Irish captains, whom the prince holds so dear, are saying that loyalty and courage are enough. But you, my lords, although great traditional chieftains, seem to be wise enough to understand the value of the modern cannon. I think perhaps I have spoken too boldly, gentlemen," he ended.
Murray interrupted, "I would pray to convince the young Stuart to modernize his army, and quickly. Alas, though, what you heard of the problem between the Clanranald and Glengarry, both of Clan Donald, is but the twig of a problem whose roots lie buried in time. Between the lack of support among the small householders, and the endless feuding amongst the clans, it will be a miracle if we can field an army."
"But where can we get cannon? It is a dream, sir, a dream," Keppoch said with passion.
"What about Fort Augustus?" Murray suggested. "We've t
aken the forts on the Great Glen before, but not held them. Perhaps what we needs must do is take them, strip them and burn them. Thus we shall have our guns, and the English will not be able to recapture them. They lie on your lands, my lord, do they not?"
"That they do, and a blight I would be glad rid of. Fort William and Fort Augustus are indeed the two best prizes. Mr. Scott, if we can capture cannon, can you engineer a way to mount them on wagons and port them to Inverness, and if so, can you also train gunners to prime and fire them?"
"Aye," Scott said, standing up again, his chest swelling with pride. "That I can do!"
The suggestion of an attack down the Great Glen was soon presented to the Council of Chiefs, where it was hailed as a brilliant stroke of military tactics.
"By God, gentlemen," the prince enthusiastically proclaimed, slapping his hand sonorously on the table, "it will indeed serve to secure our western flank. Keppoch and Lochiel, you shall bring your forces to bear."
And so the next morning, Scotty marched out to war under the banner of Alexander, Seventeenth of Keppoch, laird of the Clanranald branch of the Donalds. The pipes screamed defiance to any and all who would oppose these proud men.
There was something in the back of his mind that told him he shouldn't be doing this. But it was now but a dim, fluttering memory, and he brushed it away as he would a gnat.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Moscow, 1942
CHEKOV FELT a soft hand touching his face. Slowly his eyes fluttered open.
He had that brief disorientation that always hits when one awakens in an unfamiliar place. How much stronger was that disorientation when one awakens in an unfamiliar time.
The woman who stared down at him wore an odd costume, and he wondered why in the world she was dressed like a twentieth-century nurse in a Soviet army hospital. Blond hair framed her face.
He frowned.
"Nurse … Chapel?" he asked.
Her eyes widened and she dropped her voice. "If you wish to pray, comrade, you have picked the wrong place to do it. There are no chapels here."
He tried to shake off the confusion, and then the reality of where he was started to come back to him. His vision cleared up and he could now clearly make out the woman standing over him.
The error had been entirely his. The woman was obviously not Christine Chapel … didn't even look like her, really, except that she was a nurse with blond hair. What disturbed him was the fear in her eyes when his incomprehensible (to her) first words seemed a plea for a place of worship.
Of course. One didn't do that in the Soviet Union of 1942. He had always known that intellectually. Yet now, seeing her reaction, the full meaning of that concept was brought home to him for the first time. What a hideous situation to be in. What a way to live.
How to tell the people of this time that better times were to come? There was no way, really. It was not his place to do so, and besides, even if he tried, they wouldn't believe him.
He felt a bleak depression over their situation, and then came to the even bleaker realization that their situation was his own.
"Of … course, comrade," he said. "I was delirious."
"Of course," she replied neutrally. Able to so easily dismiss his first words, she now smiled. "It is good to see you have come around, Mr. Chekov. You've floated in and out of consciousness for close to a week now."
He glanced around and saw the beds nearby, packed much too close together, filled with wounded men. "Stalingrad is still standing, it seems."
"Standing it may be," she said, smoothing her skirt as she rose, "but you couldn't tell from here."
He looked at her in confusion. "What?"
"This is Moscow."
"Oohhhhh," he said slowly. "Might I ask how I got here, or would that be treading on state secrets?"
The coldness in her eyes informed him that she clearly did not approve of jokes at the expense of the state. For a moment Chekov wondered if perhaps she wasn't a part of the secret police. Now I'm getting paranoid, he realized bleakly.
"You were brought here on a transport … the one that brought the commissar here."
Chekov nodded. Obviously John Kirk had executed the landing safely. Well, what else did one expect of a Kirk, after all. And they had also obviously managed to fix the fuel line.
Chekov tried to sit up and felt a sharp pain shoot through his arm. He winced and sagged back on the bed.
"Be careful," she said.
"A little late," he muttered.
"You lost a lot of blood. Also you should be careful or otherwise you might open up the stitches."
"I'll be careful," he assured her.
She stood. "There's someone who demanded to be informed the moment you awoke."
She walked away briskly, leaving Chekov alone with his thoughts. Who might the someone be? John Kirk? Probably. Hanging around, making sure that he was going to be okay before he went on with his life. The life that Chekov had managed to save.
Hadn't he? Actually, Kirk seemed to be pretty much in control of most of the situations they had gotten themselves into. It was quite possible that the streams of time were more than capable of flowing in their proper channels without the aid of …
"Chuikov?"
He looked up in confusion. The man standing there was clearly a general in the Russian army. Next to that man was another man, dressed in civilian clothes and wearing a long coat that seemed to swallow him. He had his hat pulled low, which was curious considering they were indoors.
The general was an avuncular-looking man, and yet there was a clear canniness and thought going on behind those narrowed eyes. It had been the general who, in that gruff voice, had spoken a name that was only a slight mispronunciation of Chekov's own.
"Yes?" said Chekov slowly, carefully.
"Full name?"
"Pavel Andreievich Chekov," he told him.
The general's eyes widened. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"A general?" was Chekov's cautious reply.
"I am General Vassili Chuikov. You are the son of my late brother Andrew?"
Chekov's mouth moved for a moment. His mind raced and he said, "I … am not sure. Forgive me, General, but … after the revolution … the streets …"
"You lived on the streets," said Chuikov. "You are not the only one, my boy."
And the man in the coat said silkily, "Where did a boy on the streets learn how to fly a plane? And how to infiltrate behind German lines?"
Chuikov turned and looked piercingly at the other man. "You live for your suspicions, Paulvitch. You know that?" He turned back to Chekov and inclined his head slightly in the man's direction. "You have to ignore Paulvitch. It is his job to be suspicious of everything."
Chekov felt a chill through him. This man was KGB. There was no question in his mind.
"I learn very quickly," said Chekov. "I always have. And I became friends with a pilot. He showed me a great deal. Everything, in fact." He was talking quickly, because he was not the world's greatest liar and had a tendency to speak fast, as if trying to get past the lie with all due speed.
"I have no doubt," said Chuikov. He sat next to Chekov on the bed and studied his face carefully. "You certainly have a lot of Alexander in you. Especially around the eyes."
Chekov nodded and forced a smile. He wondered if this man was an ancestor. If so, it would explain the resemblance that Chuikov saw. On the other hand, he might also simply be a lonely man who was hoping to find some hint of his family still in existence, to give him comfort in his old age. Whatever the reason, Chekov was hardly in a position to disenchant him.
Chuikov stood. "I am convinced. So tell me, my nephew … how would you—who acted in so daring and brave a manner while on his own—like to be in the army, eh?"
Chekov looked from Chuikov to Paulvitch. Paulvitch looked as if he would like nothing better than to blow Chekov's brains out.
The army! He wasn't a soldier, for pity's sake. He was an officer in Starfleet. He was …
He saw the way Paulvitch was looking at him. Paulvitch's coat was hanging open, and he saw the butt of a gun protruding slightly from under the KGB man's jacket.
He was in trouble, is what he was.
"Sounds great," said Chekov with forced enthusiasm. "Excuse me, but the American … Kirk …"
"He is on his way to London," said Chuikov. "Everyone from that brave mission is safe and sound. And now, you get your rest … Lieutenant."
Fear of religion and KGB men … and now he had been conscripted into the army. Somehow the future seemed a lot further away than ever.
Chapter Thirty-eight
THE HOURS it was taking to traverse the distance from the shuttle's landing point to the castle was maddeningly long. Kirk imagined the Enterprise up there, her orbit decaying, and inwardly he cursed the amount of time everything was taking. There was not going to be much margin for error to …
To what? He wasn't even sure what he was going to do once he got there.
Neither was Kral, although he wouldn't admit it. He walked with a swagger and certainty that only youth could bring.
Kirk slowed for a moment, leaning against a large boulder.
Kral regarded him with ill-concealed amusement. "Getting tired?"
Why deny the obvious? "Yes," Kirk admitted. "And when you get older, you'll get tired, too, doing the same things that never fazed you when you were younger."
"There are no such things as old Klingons," said Kral with a touch of pride.
Kirk studied him with curiosity. "You consider that a good thing?"
"The old must contribute to society, or they have no use."
"Everything is so black and white with you, Kral." He shook his head. "The universe isn't like that. It's not you versus them. There's just 'us.' Not realizing that is limiting and shortsighted … I'm saying open your eyes," continued Kirk. And he pointed. "And look up there. It's the castle."
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