Home Is the Hunter

by Dana Kramer Rolls

  "Yes. And two to end it."

  Kral stared at him.

  Then, from outside, came a shouted voice that both Kirk and Kral recognized. "Kirk! Give Kral up! This is not your affair. It's between him and me. If you give him up, I will allow you to live."

  They looked at each other. "What are the chances of that?" said Kirk dryly.

  "Good, I think. This is between Kbrex and me, just as it always has been. Since we were young."

  "You're old friends?" said Kirk in surprise. "An old friend would still oust you violently from your command?"

  "No. We're not old friends." Kral paused and said ruefully, "Kbrex is my brother."

  Kbrex crouched outside the cabin, hiding among the bushes, and shook his head. He couldn't believe the situation he'd gotten himself into.

  He had been ecstatic when Weyland had responded to his message. The formidable being had kept a carefully neutral expression when Kbrex informed him of the unquestionable attack by Kirk and Kral. Kbrex was certain this indicated that the immortal Weyland was not quite as all-powerful as he claimed.

  Weyland had agreed to permit Kbrex to transport down to the planet's surface. He had even agreed to allow Kbrex's weapons to function, a courtesy he said he would not allow Kirk and Kral.

  But Kbrex initially balked when Weyland informed him that he could only beam down alone.

  "You, with weapons, against a Klingon you defeated and a weak Federation man," observed Weyland. "Do not tell me you're afraid."

  "I'm afraid of nothing," replied Kbrex.

  "Be afraid of this: be afraid of what will happen if, in your pursuit of the invaders, you should happen to injure any of my people."

  Kbrex opened his mouth a moment, and then closed it. Something warned him not to challenge Weyland on this matter.

  So Kbrex now found himself on the surface of Cragon, with those he was pursuing pinned down in a hovel. He couldn't just open fire on them, since he was nervous about what Weyland would do if the peasants were harmed. But Kral and Kirk didn't know about that.

  "This is your last chance! Kirk … this isn't your fight! This is between Kral and me. Give him up. You don't owe him anything. He'd kill you as soon as look at you."

  Kbrex was silent for a moment. Certainly Kirk had to realize the wisdom of his words. Of course, he was lying. He intended to obliterate Kirk at the first opportunity. But he wanted to make absolutely sure of Kral's demise first.

  He heard a chopping noise and frowned. He didn't know what the source was, but he wasn't sure he liked it.

  "Kirk!" he shouted. "Last chance! I mean it!"

  Again that chopping. Where the devil was it coming from?

  Then a crunching sound, like …

  A wall collapsing.

  He craned his bull neck and bellowed his fury. There were Kirk and Kral, on the far side of the house, dashing into the woods. He didn't have a clear shot at them, and then they were gone.

  But he knew where they were going, and all he had to do was circle around and cut them off. Then he would have them.

  Kirk and Kral bolted through the woods, tossing all but the barest of caution to the wind.

  Every crack of branch sounded like a rifle shot, and every dancing shadow contained a hundred enemies. Kirk wasn't even sure if there was any point to their rushing, for he had no idea what sort of reception awaited them.

  There was the whine of a blaster, and it chewed off a branch to Kirk's right. He veered off and suddenly realized he'd become separated from Kral.

  Kral glanced over his shoulder and saw that Kirk was no longer around. Well, that was to be expected. At last the cowardly Federation man had shown his true colors.

  Oh sure, Kirk had not come out at Kbrex's behest, but that was undoubtedly because Kirk knew that Kbrex's offer was merely nonsense.

  There was a flicker of disappointment in Kral's mind. For all of Kirk's posturing, it would almost have been refreshing if Kirk had actually been sincere. Ally. Treaty. Cooperation and talk of honor and loyalty. What rubbish.

  That was the moment that Kral's foot hit a hole.

  He tripped, cursing himself for his clumsiness, and went down at a bad angle. He felt and heard a snap, and realized with sinking horror that it was his ankle.

  He grunted, blocking out the pain, and started to crawl forward, seeking the welcoming cover of the brush. And that was when he heard a low, mocking laugh behind him.

  He turned, propping himself up on one elbow.

  There was Kbrex, shaking his head slowly, his blaster aimed at Kral's head.

  "Finally," he said.

  "Finally," agreed Kral. "Finally, brother, you will have the opportunity to indulge your pathological hatred of me."

  "There was nothing pathological about it," replied Kbrex. "It is a good, clean hatred."

  "It's wrong."

  "There's no such thing as a bad hatred," Kbrex told him.

  "Yes … so I've said myself," Kral admitted.

  Kbrex's blaster did not waver. "You have no idea of the humiliation and lack of honor I felt when my younger brother was promoted over me. The honor of command was given to you. To me was given the ignominy of serving under him who is as a child to me."

  "I asked for you to serve on my ship because I could think of no one I'd rather have at my side," said Kral.

  "To make me face your superiority every day."

  "No," said Kral, shaking his head sadly. "I realized that was what you thought … but by then it was too late. By then you were already plotting my overthrow. My one oversight, Kbrex."

  "Don't ascribe to yourself such noble motives, Kral. Realize instead the baseness of your intentions …" His finger started to tighten on the trigger. "And the ignominy of your defeat …"

  Kral braced himself for the impact and wondered if he would feel it.

  That was when the rock smashed the blaster from Kbrex's hand.

  The Klingon howled, clutching at the injured hand as the blaster sailed away into the bush. He spun and looked for where the crude missile had originated.

  Twenty feet away stood Kirk, another rock at the ready.

  "You have superb aim," said Kbrex.

  "Not really. I was aiming for your head."

  Kbrex reached down and pulled a knife from his boot. "I use this only, Kirk, because merely snapping your neck would take too long."

  He charged toward Kirk, who stood there, eyes blazing, arm drawn back and ready to hurl the other rock. Inwardly Kbrex was laughing. As if such a pathetic attempt would even slow him down. He never took his eyes off Kirk, waiting for the pathetic human to make some sort of motion.

  Kirk didn't. He stood there, poised, gaze locked with the Klingon's, as if trying to bore his way into the Klingon's soul, or perhaps scare him off with the evil eye.

  Fool.

  Kbrex drew back his arm, ready to hurl the knife, and still Kirk had made no move. "See you in hell, Kirk!" he snarled.

  His ankle hit something.

  What had he hit? His mind digested it. Something thin and taut.

  A wire.

  A trip wire.

  His mind screamed a warning as a board with three carefully arranged knives sprang up from its hiding place in the bush. It slammed into Kbrex with a sickening, triple spluch sound that mingled with the high-pitched cry ripped from the throat of the Klingon.

  Kbrex fell back, arms vaguely trying to pull at the board, and his eyes caught the Klingon alphabet letters carved on the tree … letters that had been carved there by his own hand. Letters that served as a warning to those paying attention, a warning of a trap he himself had set.

  He thudded to the ground, arms outstretched, life flowing out with his blood. The world was hazing around him, and then he caught a glimpse of Kirk.

  And again, except this time in a voice thick with death, he said, "Kirk … I'll see you … in hell."

  Kirk looked down at the dead Klingon. "Feel free to start without me," he said.

  He went quickly to Kr
al, who said, "Is he dead?"

  Slowly Kirk nodded.

  "I want to see him."

  Kirk helped him up, and with Kral leaning on him, brought him over to stand next to the body of Kbrex. Kral prodded the fallen Klingon with his toe.

  "You think he was the only one down here?" asked Kral.

  Kirk nodded. "Otherwise we'd be dead by now. Kral …" His voice trailed off. He wasn't sure whether to offer congratulations or condolences.

  Kral tilted his head back and screamed.

  It was deafening, and Kirk winced against the power of it. When Kral had exhausted the shout, Kirk said, "What the devil was that about?"

  "The Klingon death scream. He died with honor."

  Kirk looked at him in amazement. "He died trying to kill you."

  "Of course," said Kral reasonably. "A Klingon could do no less."

  Chapter Forty-five

  Japan, 1600

  SULU LAY in the warm sand, listening to the rush of the waves. Oneko stirred slightly as he shifted to a more comfortable position. His arm had gone numb hours ago, but he hadn't the heart to disturb her, curled in his arms with the trust of a child. He tried to let the endless rhythm of the waves crashing on the rocks below remind him of things more universal and timeless than the fate of a man.

  "Heihachiro-sama," she muttered, waking.

  "Shhh, sleep. It's still night," he comforted her.

  They both slept, lulled by the sea, until morning light.

  "Where to?" he asked her.

  "Perhaps it would be better to leap off the cliff to our deaths," she said wearily. "Where is there to go?"

  He looked at her in amazement. "No, you carry Torii's child. You cannot even think about it."

  She burst out sobbing, mopping away at her tears with her sleeve. Finally she became calm. "We could go into the mountains and hide. We could become farmers," she said hopefully. "Heihachiro-sama, come with me. Let us live together." She held him yearningly. He hugged her savagely. Wasn't that what he had wanted since he had first seen her? What did he owe Torii? A hundred koku stipend couldn't be spent by a dead man, and death was all that awaited him at Fushimi Castle.

  And what of Oneko? He would gladly raise her child, together with ones of theirs that would surely follow.

  Even if it meant breaking his word, depriving the child of his birthright? Had the ethics of his own era made him unwilling to accept this? Or the ethics of this proud clan-oriented culture, which was beginning to rule his heart and mind? Or was it the old Sulu himself, who never could make a commitment to love?

  "Please," she pleaded, again using that silver voice.

  "Stop it," he shouted, his usual reserve and courtesy shattered by his own internal struggle to keep his will and soul, not to mention common sense, from being seduced by her again. "I don't understand my feelings for you, Oneko. I think I love you," he explained. "But I can't trust my feelings. After all, am I only another stone in an endless game of go, a game piece to be used up, or thrown away?"

  "That is the way life is," she said, her voice steady, her eyes lowered. "I believe you when you say you have no magic. But for me you do. There is something … Your love for me, it was so … young, fresh. You are the opposite of me," she said, looking in his eyes. "I am all artifice. You are all honesty. My only regret is that Torii is also all honesty. I was raised to believe that it was a weakness to be exploited by the crafty and sly. But I watched Torii, and he is greater than his master. Perhaps his master will be remembered, perhaps his trickery will unite Japan under one rule. Perhaps that peace will benefit rather than suffocate. I do not know. But in the eyes of heaven, the gods and the buddha, Torii is the righteous one. I wish I had been what he believed me to be."

  The nagging voice inside Sulu whispered—history must be fulfilled. You have a duty to this honest Torii, because you gave your word, and what kind of man will you be if you base a life on a broken oath and a stolen wife? And for good or ill, the Tokugawa shogunate is the history of Japan.

  "I will take you to Edo as planned. Your part in this was not known. Believe me. And I doubt that any of your family survived back there to reveal otherwise."

  She settled into his arms, a trusting child with an older brother. He felt her tears soak into his sleeve. The night sang with the chirping of crickets, the rustle of leaves, as though the brief time left to him made every second alive and precious.

  They didn't talk much on the road that next day, each cherishing the moments together, neither daring to face the time of their parting. They held each other with chaste loving the following night, taking the joy of a lifetime of companionship in their few hours remaining.

  They went directly to Torii Mototada's house in Edo. They both thanked a lot of gods when they were told that the uncle who was supposed to lodge her had already been sent to Sekigahara, and Oneko was admitted to the Mototada mansion without problem or question. And in this world, it was likely that she would never be allowed out to visit her "relative" for the rest of her life. She was safe. He was sure of that.

  But the gates of the Mototada mansion loomed dark as the gates to hell for the young couple. Oneko had assumed the trained, unreadable and restrained face of a noble lady. Sulu straightened his back and strode with the pride of a samurai in the employ of so noble a lord as Torii Mototada. Oneko was whisked away, but Sulu was announced and shown to the audience hall even before he had a chance to bathe away the dust of the road. Sulu bowed low and sat as indicated.

  "I see you survived. Well done," a familiar voice said to his left.

  "Watanenabe Sadayo, you too survived," Sulu shouted in delight, bowing to the handsome gray-haired sword master.

  "Yes, well done, Heihachiro-domo," the eldest son of his daimyo, Torii Mototada, praised him. Sulu saw the father in the son. For this generation at least the Torii family would be safe. "The escape with the concubine Oneko was brave, and well-executed. Sadayo-domo killed all the ninja responsible."

  "Thank you for your kind words, lord," Sulu said briskly, bowing. Kinder than you know, he thought. With all the ninja dead, Oneko's identity as a Koga kunoichi, a female agent, was safe.

  "You must take letters showing the deployment of Ishida's forces around Fushimi. You must ride like the demons of hell to bring these letters to Mototadatono, my father."

  "Hai," was the simple reply.

  While Oneko was brought in, distant and lovely in her silk cocoon, Sulu was again thanked, and he acknowledged the honor, but he could hardly answer when Oneko herself thanked him, her bell-like voice controlled and distant. The older men chuckled at the young samurai's embarrassment, thinking it only his modesty and the natural confusion young men had around women. The couple's eyes barely met as he bowed his way out, the important documents tucked securely in his kimono. There would be time for sorrow on the road.

  Sulu was dismissed and left the audience chamber to take up the offer of a hot meal while his horse was packed for the trip. He was on his way back to Fushimi Castle within the hour.

  Sulu tried not to think about the battle he was riding toward. It was all he could do to keep his resolve. Part of him was bone-tired of this rigid world, so full of death. Why couldn't he just ride off as a masterless samurai? What good were the letters in his pouch to the upcoming battle? The outcome was pretty clear.

  He came to a crossroad and reined in his mount.

  He thought about the world that he was in. He thought about the world he had left behind.

  He thought of what James T. Kirk expected of him. He thought of what Mototada expected of him. In every respect, the expectations were identical.

  So the question became: What did he expect of him?

  One road led to the castle. To death. To honor.

  The other led to far lands. To life. To no honor.

  Life without honor. Death with honor.

  Simple enough.

  He suddenly felt very tired.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Scotland, 1746
>
  THE MINDLESS MARCH and the bracing cold were the only things keeping Scotty sane. He felt almost light-headed as he shut out the crushing depression of his failure. "The guns, the guns," he moaned once or twice. His only chance to make a difference in this war had gone up in smoke back at the rubble that had been Fort Augustus. And now? What was left but to play out the tragedy? The clammy sweat of a fever broke out on his brow. He wished for the presence of a doctor, and a strange device that pressed against his shoulder and made an odd hissing sound. Mac … Mac something. A Scotsman he knew in a past life? Or a future life?

  He almost passed by the small cottage unheeding. He certainly no longer noticed the breathtaking beauty of the harsh, pristine land. But the sound of the quiet chanting managed to penetrate the fever. He staggered up a mound by the side of the road to better see the source of the repetitive song. The cottage itself was a broken-down thing of wattle and daub walls and thatch roof. A small wattle fence, its woven branches more tangled than neatly twisted around posts, enclosed a small yard. In it a man sat on his haunches, presiding over a firepit of glowing and smoking peat. He was toasting some sort of grain, carefully stirring and shaking it from time to time, and all the while chanting at it in a nasal singsong.

  "Come down," the man ordered without looking up.

  "I didn't mean to disturb you," Scott managed to get out, and he turned to leave. The world was spinning.

  "I said come down," the man ordered, his creaky old voice cutting into Scott. Obediently, he turned and slid down the slope to the house, sending gravel and dirt cascading down in his footsteps.

  Scott stood waiting, but the little man went back to his humming and stirring.

  "Well, now, what are you standing about for?" the strange old fellow said suddenly, looking up at Scott. One of his eyes was bright as sun on a lake, while the other, although he had sight in it, was squinted down. "In the house with you."

  Scotty did as he was bid. The house was a wonder of odd bits and pieces. A stuffed owl decorated a niche above the hearth, or at least Scott thought it was stuffed until it hooted and moved its head. But there were also bones, skulls of deer and cattle, and little bundles of herbs and feathers.