Home Is the Hunter

by Dana Kramer Rolls

  The other men also threw out smoke devices, some also tossing out small dark objects, handfuls of hard, sharp plant seeds which bit into the feet of the pursuers as viciously as any metal caltrop.

  Sulu and his rescuer sped away into the dusk.

  Each galloping stride jolted Sulu on his precarious perch, his ribs screaming with bruised pain. He set his jaw, enduring the pain, and wondered obliquely if perhaps this was some other trick, some attempt to make him grateful to another group of devious strangers, some other way to obtain his nonexistent magical secrets.

  When the man finally reined in the frothing, exhausted horse, Sulu slipped off the saddle and landed on the ground in a pained and unceremonious heap.

  His rescuer leaped smartly off the saddle, giving orders to his men to cover their tracks. He had to help Sulu to his feet.

  "Well, so you are not a Koga spy?" The man unwound the dark cloth that had masked his face.

  "Watanenabe Sadayo?" Sulu shouted upon seeing Mototada's gray-haired, samurai sword master. "How did you find me?"

  "I have ways," he said, a reassuring smile spreading over his face. "We knew there was a spy, but we didn't know who. When you showed up, we were sure you were a plant. Seeing you about to have your head at your feet disabused me of that."

  "I saw an old gardener from the castle. He must be the one," Sulu blurted. But he couldn't tell about Oneko. Something in him was screaming to expose her part in this, but something else remembered her sad eyes. And he couldn't betray her.

  The sword master shouted to his men. "Come, we can camp here. You there," he shouted at an underling. "Bring the samurai water. Now come, sit. The men will boil rice for us. Tell me. What happened? Do they hold Oneko-domo for ransom? We followed you to the inn, but we were too far behind to help when the Koga bandits attacked. Why were you not killed if you are not one of theirs? I can understand why they wanted the girl alive."

  "Why did they let me live?" Because the woman you would rescue saved me, he thought. But he answered in truth, "Luck, I guess. They wanted my secrets. Military secrets. I really don't have any. I told them nothing. They didn't have me that long."

  "Will they ask ransom for the girl?"

  "I don't think so," Sulu answered neutrally.

  "We must rescue her. She cannot be left in their hands. Is she still with child?"

  Sulu choked. "Yes, I guess so."

  Sadayo saw the brief tremor and said brusquely, and incorrectly, "You tremble in self-mortification. Do not. You have not dishonored yourself. Indeed, I see my first instinct was incorrect. You are indeed a man of highest honor."

  No, your first instinct was dead on, thought Sulu glumly.

  The next day, after an impromptu bath in a cold stream, Sulu was again dressed as befit the station of a hundred koku man in the service of Torii Mototada. He mounted, and gave the two swords at his belt a sharp tug, adjusting them more firmly.

  When he arrived at the clearing, Sadayo was grimly outlining strategy.

  "The Koga clan would not expect another attack so soon, and so it is our chance to eliminate them once and for all, and find Lady Oneko," the samurai sword master ordered, "when we get close to the Koga stronghold, you will go directly to rescue the Lady Oneko. We will attack the ninjas."

  "Hai," Sulu acknowledged. He was going to have to get to her fast. Sadayo was no fool, and Oneko wasn't going to last long if she was wandering around the compound like the family member she really was.

  The trip back seemed a lot shorter than the trip out, bouncing over Sadayo's saddle. They assembled in a thin woods some few yards from the gate. A servant opened the gate, and two women left carrying vegetables for sale at the nearest town. "Now," Sadayo shouted, and kicked his horse into a charge. The servant tried to slam the gate, but Sadayo's horse ran him down. Mototada's men slashed down the ninjas as they ran into the yard. Soon the air was thick from the ninja smoke bombs, their tactical effectiveness lost as both sides choked and wept from their noxious fumes. This time the foot soldiers threw the caltrops, avoiding them by gliding along the ground, while the horses were getting the worst of it as the hard nutlike kernels of the seeds bruised their hooves. Sulu saw Sadayo pitched from the saddle into the cloud of dust and smoke.

  Sulu searched the chaos for Oneko, wheeling his snorting, screaming mount back and forth across the bloody, screaming battle. A lanky figure emerged from the blinding dust, a long naginata slashing at Sulu's horse. Sulu countercharged, drawing his sword and striking the weapon aside. He rode past, leaving the frustrated man known as uncle screaming invective, until he was lanced by another samurai. So much for uncle.

  In the shouts and chaos Sulu heard her voice. Turning the horse this way and that, squinting through the dusty cloud of weapons and limbs, he saw her running toward him. He spurred the horse and rode to meet her, reaching down and scooping her up to the saddle. And he rode, rode for both their lives, while the battle raged on behind him.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Scotland, 1746

  SCOTTY RAN HIS HANDS OVER the walls of his cell, feeling the bars on the windows, praying for a loose one, but the cell was as tight as a drum. And that made him think of drums and hangings, so he felt the walls again, desperately seeking hope.

  He sagged to the ground, determined not to let depression overwhelm him.

  "I'm a Miracle Worker," he whispered.

  "Mr. Scott," a familiar voice hissed. "Stay clear of the door."

  Scotty's eyes widened. He was starting to believe it himself.

  He had just about enough time to tuck and roll across the small room before the shock of the powder charge hit him. He ignored the rear end full of splinters from the shattered door.

  "Quick, run," the boy ordered. It seemed like a good idea.

  They scurried like rabbits, darting around the dozens of men who spilled out into the yard. Seamus had the lead. He was headed for what seemed like a dead-end against a back wall behind a barracks.

  Then all hell broke loose. The fort went up like a bomb of the sort that would not see the light of day for two hundred years.

  Scotty was thrown a dozen feet, landing painfully on a pile of rocks and a heap of Seamus.

  "I set a fuse in the magazine. All the ammunition went up. Isn't it glorious?" he panted, grinning in the glow of the terrible fire that consumed the fort. "Now," he said gleefully, staggering up, and the two men ran for what was left of a wall. By then the Keppoch and Lochiel forces were in the fort, screaming their various clan battle cries and cutting down anything that moved.

  The rest was easy. The English broke ranks, looking like bobbing lobsters in their red coats as they ran, seeking refuge in the dawn of the cold foreign hills.

  "It's a shame about your cannon, Mr. Scott," Seamus said sadly, kicking aside a piece of slag that had once been the pride of the English army.

  Scotty had been melancholy since he first inspected the carnage. "Well, it couldn'a been helped," he said wistfully. "I do thank you for saving me."

  "Now I suppose we are even, sir," the boy said awkwardly.

  "Aye, ye might say that, lad."

  "I owe you that, er, and more, sir." He was silent, looking down at his feet for a bit, then he blurted, "Oh, Mr. Scott, I must confess. You have been a father to me and Meg, and I have this terrible burden on my soul. When I brought you the clothes at The Hanged Woman, and you asked why …?"

  "Aye, an' ye said ye had your reasons …"

  "Well, my reasons were … oh, Mr. Scott, the English knew there was a spy, and I had hoped to shoot the duke and then leave the weapon with you, so that they'd arrest you and I could continue as a spy uninterrupted. And I …" His face went red with mortification and shame. "I … I wouldn't blame you if you'd never forgive me. I thought you were just someone I could use. I never … I dinna …" He hung his head, barely able to blink back the tears.

  "Son," Scott said, taking the lad in his arms. "Of course I forgive you. Such things happen in war. They always do." />
  The two men pulled away from each other with the embarrassment this society put on that sort of display.

  "What will you do now?" Seamus asked.

  "I will go back to Inverness and report my failure to General Murray. And you?"

  "I must go with the Keppoch. I still have my duty. I am to send reports back to the prince's staff. Mr. Scott, when you get back to Inverness … take care of my Megan for me until I return," he begged shyly.

  "Of course I will, son, and I'll dance at your wedding."

  Before Scott left for the lonely journey back to Inverness, Alexander Keppoch sent for him.

  "Mr. Scott, what can you tell me of Fort William?"

  Scotty deliberated for a moment. "Sir, I fear that you will not find Fort William the plum for the picking that Fort Augustus was. Without cannon, you may find yourself mounting a long siege."

  "Aye, and the army is not up to strength. The Campbells, those damn traitors to the prince's cause, have been sent to ravage our farms, and many men have deserted the cause to protect their family, and who can blame them for that?"

  "God give you the victory, my lord," Scott offered.

  "And give you peace," Keppoch said, looking into Scotty's haunted eyes.

  Shouldering his small pack, Scott strode back up the road to Inverness, his kilt swinging with a jaunty rhythm that Scotty certainly didn't feel.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Moscow, 1942

  CHEKOV'S RETURN to his new squadron again brought the blessed oblivion of hard work. He was soon assigned to train some of his comrades on the problems of the P-39. He had picked up the new material easily. After all, he had been a trained officer, and most of these new friends were farm boys who had never seen anything more complicated than a tractor or a vacuum tube radio.

  And so the days were filled with droning lectures which began, "This is the AirCobra. You will note that the engine is amidships, behind the pilot. The drive shaft runs forward below the cockpit. A thirty-millimeter cannon is mounted on the front propeller hub …" And then on the deadly business of the plane's tendency to go into a flat spin during a dive. Except for the jargon, which he had once thought so romantic and was now so routine, it was just like any other flight training, except that at the Academy they trained for science and exploration first, and then battle as a final contingency. Here the deadly business was the only business.

  The afternoons were filled with flying, and that was good, and the evenings with new friends, brave young pilots filled with that ineffable Russian exuberance, and that was even better.

  But the frequent and oppressive mandatory meeting with the Political Officer, receiving the catechism of Marx, was not just boring, but terrifying to someone brought up in a free society. Again the doubts clamored to be heard. And what made it all the more terrible was that there was no one Chekov could talk to. It was a society built on mistrust.

  He was relieved when Paulvitch seemed to vanish into thin air. If Chekov never saw the KGB man again, it would be far, far too soon.

  Soon the time came for Chekov to earn his keep, and his wing was assigned to a mission. A bunch of the new YAKs had been shipped in. They were trim little planes, and the best Soviet-made vehicle in the air force. The men had a scant four days to qualify on the new planes before they were shipped out. Chekov was assigned as wing commander. He didn't feel ready for command, but then again, he hadn't been asked. With a fleeting thought, he remembered Starfleet and the years it took in peacetime to grow into command. In war there was no such luxury. Survival was the test of promotion.

  Chekov was a nervous wreck. Flying into a combat situation was unthinkable. The Prime Directive was clear. The time paradox possibilities were catastrophic. His could not be the hand that ended other human lives of the twentieth century. It was impossible. Officers of Starfleet had pledged that their lives would be forfeit before doing something like that.

  And then salvation came to him in one word.

  Sweden.

  It was brought up during an evening's discussion. Sweden was neutral. Since they did not participate in the war, nothing Chekov could do there would possibly affect the war.

  The thought of leaving Russia forever saddened him, but then again, it was not really his Russia. And it would not be the Russia he remembered for generations yet. Not only that, but the longer he remained in Russia, the greater the possibility that he might do something to prevent that future from ever happening.

  And he had to get there quickly. Paulvitch had decided to leave him alone, but who knew how long that would last? And if he were sent into a combat situation, well …

  Of course, getting shot down would certainly solve all his problems. And Chekov hadn't ruled that out. But all things being equal, he would prefer—not unreasonably—if matters didn't come to that.

  That night, he lay in the barracks and waited until he heard only the sleeping sounds of the others. Then, slowly, he slid out of bed. He dressed quickly and pulled out his gear, which he had already packed up during the day. He glanced around right and left, making sure he wasn't observed, and then slid out the back door, a specter.

  Watching carefully, and masterfully avoiding the sentries, Chekov made his way across the camp to the hangared planes. He pulled open the hangar door, and there, gleaming before him, was his plane.

  He wasn't sure if there was enough fuel in it to get him all the way to Sweden, but it didn't matter. He knew of several refueling stops from his classes. And even if he decided not to risk stopping, in the event that word was out about him, he would come down somewhere and make it from there. Anyplace was better than this darkened, paranoid version of what his beloved Russia was like.

  There was the soft click of a hammer being drawn behind his back. Chekov froze, clutching his duffel bag.

  "You won't get away. Don't move please. Turn around."

  "Which is it?" asked Chekov reasonably. "Don't move or turn around?"

  "Turn around. Very slowly."

  Chekov did so, knowing what he would see.

  There, in the dim light of the hangar, was Paulvitch, whose gun was pointed unwaveringly at him.

  "I have run a complete history on you," said Paulvitch. "It has taken a great deal of time. As you say, records can be hazy, and I wished to be thorough. Do you know what I have found?"

  "That I'm an exemplary citizen and role model for children everywhere?"

  Paulvitch smiled thinly. The smile didn't make his face look any better.

  "You have no history. No one knows you … not in the streets, not in the neighborhoods. No one. Nowhere. Your fingerprints have no trace. You are a nonperson."

  "Then I suppose I couldn't have done anything," said Chekov, trying to sound casual.

  Paulvitch took a step closer. "You, Pavel Chekov, will be taken for interrogation. We of the KGB have perfected methods that the Nazis are only just beginning to test. Their methods stress torture and cruelty. We stress efficiency. We have drugs that will make you tell us everything you are, everything you know. Within seventy-two hours not a single thing in your mind will be secret from us."

  Chekov's face was set.

  "You see," said Paulvitch, "I knew that if I gave you enough rope, you would hang. You are sloppy, Chekov. And you should have watched your back."

  "So should you," said Chekov, and eyes wide, he shouted, "Get him!"

  Paulvitch half turned, reflexively.

  Chekov moved like lightning, swinging the duffel around. It slammed into Paulvitch, sending the gun clattering into the darkness.

  Paulvitch scrambled to his feet just as Chekov charged forward and smashed a booted foot into his face. Paulvitch fell back, blood pouring from his nose.

  He didn't go down easily. He staggered forward and swung a roundhouse punch. Chekov blocked it easily with an upswept arm and kneed Paulvitch fiercely. Now there was no longer paranoia and fear. Here was the enemy incarnate, the symbol of all that was wrong with Russia made solid. Chekov took out his an
ger on him, hurling Paulvitch against the side of the hangar. Paulvitch slammed up against it with a crunch and then slid down, consciousness fleeing him.

  Chekov grabbed Paulvitch under the arms and dragged him to a far corner of the hangar. There he used some rope to tie the KGB man thoroughly, and stuffed cloth into his mouth to muffle him. With any luck, Paulvitch wouldn't awake for hours—hours Chekov was certain he would need.

  He threw newspapers and rags over the KGB man to thoroughly obscure him from view. Then he walked out of the shadows of the far end of the hangar.

  Standing at the opening was General Chuikov.

  "I am amazed," said the general, his fingers straying near his holstered gun.

  Chapter Forty-four

  KIRK LOOKED AROUND slowly and saw the family huddled against the far wall—a man and woman, and a small girl clinging to the woman's leg. Some farm implements sat next to them, leaning against the thin wall.

  "We're sorry," said Kirk immediately. "We didn't mean to involve you." He turned quickly to Kral. "We've got to get out of here. If any more of Weyland's people are injured …"

  Kral made a disdainful noise. "If they die in combat, what of it? They die with honor. Honor is everything."

  And to Kirk's astonishment, the woman kicked Kral, who had been crouching, in the face.

  The astonished Klingon fell onto his back, clutching at the bruise on his cheek.

  "My son is dead!" shrieked the woman. "He didn't die with honor! He died with the skin burned from his bones!"

  "That little boy … your son?" said Kirk slowly.

  The woman said nothing, but instead turned to her husband and began to sob against his chest. Piteous, wracking sobs, and Kirk watched the Klingon carefully for some reaction.

  "It was an accident," Kral said.

  "That doesn't make much difference now, does it?" Kirk pointed out.

  "Oh, that's right, Kirk," said Kral, bristling. "Lay the blame entirely at the door of the Klingons. It takes two to make a war, you know."