Legacies #2

by David Mack

  Her entreaty only made Feneb more emphatic in his refusal. “You hear my words, but you do not listen. We cannot go back. The enemy has made certain of that.”

  Una despaired of reaching Feneb through logic. How do I make a rational argument to someone who still lives in a world of superstition? She purged herself of frustration and adopted her most calming tone of voice. “If the Jatohr had total control of the gateway, I would not have been able to come here by my own choice. The fact that I am here is proof the enemy is not unbeatable. I want to help you and your people get home, Feneb, but you need to trust me.”

  He looked back and forth between her and his fellow Usildar. Then he backed away from Una. “The risk is too great. We will stay here.” He bade her farewell with a broad sweep of his hand. “Safe journey, Leader Una.” With that he turned his back on her and loped away to his kinfolk, who retreated en masse into the shadows beneath the canyon wall’s rocky overhangs.

  One cannot save those who do not wish to be helped, Una reminded herself. She regrouped with the others by the stacked gear and affected a commanding pose. “I want to make clear that my principal objective in approaching the Jatohr is to draw their attention away from the arrival point, so that as many of you as possible can reach the gateway unharmed.”

  Martinez displayed a hint of his former spark as he asked, “What if the Jatohr don’t take the bait, Captain? Or if they recall most of their globes but leave one to guard the gateway?”

  She handed him her phaser. “That’s what this is for. It should have enough power left to take down one sentry globe.”

  “No point giving it to me, then.” He passed the weapon to Lieutenant Griffin, then said to Una, “’Cause I’m going with you.”

  Shimizu added, “That makes two of us.”

  Their sentiments were echoed by a chorus of the other Enterprise personnel until Una raised her hands to quell their spontaneous show of support. “I appreciate your loyalty, really. But the reason I’m here is to bring you all home. Whoever goes with me to face the Jatohr stands a good chance of getting stuck here with me for the rest of our lives.”

  The others nodded as Ensign Le May said, “We’re ready to follow you, Captain. No matter where you need to go.” She looked around at the others, then added, “So choose.”

  It was a moving demonstration, but Una restrained her sentimental impulses. “Very well. Martinez, ­Shimizu—you’re with me. Holstine, you’ll lead the others back to the arrival point, or as close to it as you can get without engaging the sentry globes. Avoid a confrontation if at all possible. And if you see that portal open, lead your team through it.”

  “What about you three?”

  “Don’t wait for us. We’ll find our own way back when it’s time.” It was a bald-faced lie, but she spoke it with such conviction no one questioned it. She picked up her pack; the others did the same. Putting one foot in front of the other, she led them out of the box canyon. Where the trail met the labyrinth between the mountains, the path split. Una led Martinez and Shimizu one way. Holstine took the rest of the team in the other direction.

  It was more likely than not, Una knew, that her team and Holstine’s would never meet again. But no one said good-bye, or even farewell. As they parted with firm handshakes and subtle nods, they all encouraged one another with the same simple but heartfelt valediction.

  “Good luck.”

  Eleven

  It was rare for Sarek to have cause to second-guess his own judgment, but as Councillor Prang pressed the cold emitter of a disruptor against the back of his head, Sarek had to at least entertain the possibility that he might have overestimated his skills as a negotiator.

  “Councillor, I implore you: there is no need for—”

  “Silence!” Prang jabbed the disruptor’s emitter against Sarek’s scalp. “I’ve had enough of your prattle, Vulcan!” Such had been the tenor of their discourse since Sarek had dared to pay a visit to Prang’s suite inside the dormitory reserved for the Klingon delegation. Thinking it would be less provocative to visit without an entourage, Sarek had come alone—a decision he now viewed as another indictment of his hubris.

  The entire retinue of Klingon advisers—many of whom Sarek knew to be spies or soldiers in diplomatic costume—huddled around to observe Prang as he taunted Sarek. “I tire of your excuses. Your protocols. Your demands that we be patient.” Flecks of spittle struck Sarek’s face as Prang shouted, “We are Klingons! People of action, not words!”

  For one who claims to eschew words, Prang seems to enjoy hearing himself speak—loudly and at length. Sarek put aside his sardonic criticisms and focused on his dilemma. I gain nothing by antagonizing him. I must defuse this confrontation.

  Prang circled Sarek while keeping his disruptor pistol steady and aimed at the Vulcan’s head. “Is this the true face of the Federation, revealed at last? Under your masks of soft courtesy, cowardly killers who strike from the shadows rather than face their enemies in the open?”

  “We are not enemies, Councillor.” Sarek dared to look Prang in the eye, hoping it would project confidence and truthfulness. “We must not be enemies, for both our people’s sakes.”

  The Klingon’s finger tensed on his weapon’s trigger. His hand shook, no doubt a reaction to feelings of overwhelming rage. “Then why murder Gorkon in his sleep?”

  “I was told there is no body. No blood. No signs of foul play.”

  “Because your assassin disintegrated him!”

  Contradicting Prang would be a calculated risk, but Sarek hoped the man was not yet wholly beyond the reach of reason. “If Councillor Gorkon had been disintegrated, would there not have been incidental damage from such a powerful release of energy?”

  “What?”

  “A scorch mark. Traces of ionized dust. Low-level radiation.” It was time to attempt a bit of conversational judo. “Perhaps Gorkon left the conference of his own ­accord.”

  Frustration and fury contorted Prang’s face into an ugly caricature of itself. He turned as if to storm off, then pivoted and lunged, thrusting his disruptor into Sarek’s face. “No more games! We know he didn’t leave his suite—we checked the sensors!”

  “Then who did leave his suite?”

  “No one!”

  “Then how could he have been murdered? The shields and signal jammers defending the campus prevent the use of transporters on the grounds of the university. So if no one could have entered or departed Councillor Gorkon’s suite—”

  A white flash of pain—Sarek’s head snapped to the side as Prang pistol-whipped him with the disruptor, then was slammed the other way by a second blow that left the middle-aged Vulcan light-headed and his mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood from his split lower lip.

  “Done talking yet, Vulcan?”

  “In fact . . . no. I am not.”

  “Then let’s see if we can make you tell us something useful.” Over his shoulder, Prang shouted, “Bring her in!” The suite’s double doors were pulled open. Two Klingons dragged in Amanda by her arms. Prang grinned at the sight of her. “Is she how you did away with Gorkon? Did you send your own mate to seduce him on the dance floor?” When his men presented Amanda to him, Prang leered at her. “Maybe she was the one who did the deed. Came to him in the night. Slipped poison into his drink. Then vaporized him to destroy the evidence.”

  Amanda was horrified by the accusations. “You’re mad!”

  Prang backhanded her across the face. Sarek watched his wife fall to the floor. For the first time in his diplomatic career, he contemplated whether it might in fact be logical for him to answer the Klingons on their own terms—by crushing every bone in Prang’s body.

  The communicator on Prang’s hip emitted two long, low beeps. He pulled it off his belt and flipped it open. “Prang here.”

  “Councillor, this is General Kovor of the HoS’leth. We have arrived in or
bit.”

  “Well done, General. Stand by for my order. Prang out.” He closed the communicator, then stood over Amanda as he faced Sarek. “Now then, Ambassador. Tell me who gave the order to assassinate Gorkon and how the crime was committed.”

  “I have no knowledge of such an order, or of any crime against Gorkon.”

  “I’m going to ask you those questions again. And this time, I want an answer—or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “We’ll find out just how much your wife really means to you. And if it turns out you’re the sort of man who would sacrifice his mate to conceal his crimes, I will order General Kovor to destroy the Enterprise—then lay waste to this entire planet.”

  * * *

  Kirk strode out of the turbolift onto the bridge of the Enterprise to find his crew’s preparations for battle well under way. Sulu was at the helm, Chekov at the navigator’s station. At the sound of Kirk’s first steps onto the upper level of the bridge, Spock swiveled the command chair toward him. As the captain descended the steps into the command well, the first officer stood from the center seat to relinquish it. “Thirty seconds to orbit of Centaurus, Captain.”

  Pivoting into the command chair, Kirk asked, “What’s happening on the surface?”

  “Councillor Prang is holding Ambassador Sarek and his wife hostage,” Spock said. “Apparently, as a reprisal for the unexplained disappearance of Councillor Gorkon.”

  It stunned Kirk that his friend could deliver such dire news about his own parents with the same cool detachment he used when reporting on matters trivial and mundane. “How much do we know about the situation on the ground?”

  “Prang is threatening to wound or kill Sarek’s wife in order to compel information from the ambassador. Based on signals intercepted by Lieutenant Uhura, however, I think it unlikely that Sarek would be able to comply with Prang’s demand, even if he wished to.”

  “Explain.”

  “He expects Ambassador Sarek to confess to complicity in the murder of Councillor Gorkon. As I consider it doubtful the ambassador was involved in any such crime—”

  “Point taken, Mister Spock.”

  From the helm, Sulu announced, “Assuming standard orbit, Captain.”

  Chekov added with subdued alarm, “Klingon cruiser, ninety thousand kilometers ahead, running with shields up.”

  “Helm, close to firing distance. Charge all weapons and stand by to target that ship on my command—but only on my command. Clear?”

  Sulu activated the helm’s targeting viewer. “Aye, sir.”

  Chekov added over his shoulder, “Now at optimal firing range.”

  Kirk swiveled his chair toward Lieutenant Uhura. “Hail that ship, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir.” She touched the transceiver tucked into her ear with one hand and worked her console’s controls with the other. “The HoS’leth refuses to acknowledge our hails, Captain.”

  Spock, ensconced once more at his post on Kirk’s right, looked up from the blue glow of the hooded sensor display. “They’ve charged their disruptors and torpedo launchers.”

  “So much for a measured response.” Kirk was disappointed to find himself forced into a violent confrontation before diplomacy had been given a chance. “Mister Chekov, lock phasers and torpedoes. Lieutenant Uhura, open a channel to the HoS’leth, please.”

  As Chekov targeted the Enterprise’s arsenal upon the HoS’leth, which grew larger on the viewscreen with each passing moment, Uhura established a real-time comm link with the Klingon cruiser. “Channel open, Captain.”

  “Attention, commander of the HoS’leth. This is Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the Federation Starship Enterprise. Unless you power down your weapons and lower your shields in the next twenty seconds, I will have no choice but to destroy your ship. Respond and comply.”

  For a long bated breath, there was no sound on the bridge but the chirps and whistles of feedback tones from the ship’s computers and the hum of its impulse engines. Then a signal chirruped on Uhura’s console. She checked her monitor. “I have General Kovor on visual, sir.”

  “On-screen,” Kirk said.

  The Klingon commander’s face was a one-eyed horror of scar tissue. It was easy to see at a glance that this was a man who was on intimate terms with war, and with pain. He was not one to be underestimated or trifled with; this was a warrior in the oldest and most venerable sense of the word. He took Kirk’s measure with a fearsome, humbling stare. “I am Kovor.”

  “I am Kirk.”

  The two captains regarded each other in silence across the subspace channel for a few seconds—and then Kovor raised his chin and cracked a fanged smile. “You have a good Klingon name. And I see the fire of Kahless in your eyes. Speak and be heard, Kirk.”

  Under any circumstances but these, Kirk would not have taken such a comparison as a compliment, but considering the source, it felt warranted. “Our peoples need these talks to win the peace. You know that as well as I do, Kovor. Stand down so we can prevent a war that would destroy us both.”

  His plea had no effect on the smug Klingon starship commander. Then a female Klingon officer leaned into view along the edge of the viewscreen and whispered something to Kovor, whose smile faded. He nodded once, then dismissed the other officer. In a more reserved manner, he said to Kirk, “I lack the authority to countermand Councillor Prang’s orders. However, in the absence of contrary orders, I can put you in direct contact with him. If your powers of persuasion are sufficient to soothe his fury . . . so be it.”

  It struck Kirk as a strangely rational tack for a veteran Klingon general and battle fleet commander. Then again, perhaps the ability to exercise restraint was what had enabled Kovor to climb near to the top of the ranks in the Klingon Defense Forces. He nodded once. “If you’re willing to connect us to Councillor Prang, we would be most appreciative, General.”

  Kovor nodded to someone off-screen. “May you have better luck talking sense to him than I have, Kirk. HoS’leth out.” His haggard visage vanished from the viewscreen, leaving only the image of the HoS’leth cruising in orbit above Centaurus—a reminder to Kirk that its weapons were mere moments from rendering the surface of a major Federation world into molten slag.

  Uhura turned her chair toward Kirk. “I have Prang’s private communicator channel.”

  “Hail him.”

  Prang’s voice barked from the overhead: “What now?”

  “Councillor Prang. This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. General Kovor and his starship are standing down. Now I need you to release Ambassador Sarek and his wife—unharmed and without delay. Acknowledge.”

  Kirk could almost hear the Klingon politico grinding his teeth over the comm channel. “You’re bluffing, Kirk. Kovor won’t stand down until I say so.”

  “Is that so? Then how did we hail your secure comm channel? Who do you think gave us that information?” After a prolonged delay without a reply, Kirk prompted, “Councillor?”

  “Don’t think this means you’ve won, Kirk. When the High Council hears of this treachery, your entire Federation will pay with its dearest blood.”

  There was a faint click on the overhead speakers. Uhura looked up from her console. “Councillor Prang closed the channel, sir.” She touched the transceiver in her ear. “New reports from the surface—Ambassador Sarek and his wife have left Prang’s suite. They’re being met by local police and escorted back to their own residence hall.”

  “Good.” Kirk used his armrest controls to open an intraship channel. “Bridge to engineering.”

  “Scott here.”

  “Do we still have valid command codes for the shield generators protecting the campus?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Stand by to open a window for transport. Kirk out.” He stood and strode toward the turbolift. “Spock, you’re with me. Sulu, you have t
he conn. Uhura, have Doctor McCoy and a security team meet us in transporter room one, on the double.”

  * * *

  A golden shimmer of light, a mellisonant wash of noise—the transporter effect enveloped Kirk on the pad inside the transporter room, then dissipated to reveal the grassy quad of New Athens University on Centaurus. Overhead, a pale dawn sky; around him, the long blue shadows of morning stretched away from the ruddy sun low on the horizon.

  On his right stood Spock, tricorder slung at his left hip, ready to work. At his left was Doctor McCoy, who was unarmed and toting a medical kit. Kirk and Spock, meanwhile, both wore pistol-style phasers holstered on their hips—as did the three security officers who had beamed down with them. As soon as the last flickers of the transporter beam had faded away, Kirk addressed the senior security officer. “Lieutenant Patel, have your men fan out around us. If the Klingons start shooting, take cover and hold your fire unless I or Mister Spock order you to do otherwise. Understood?”

  “Perfectly, Captain.”

  “Good. Move out.” Kirk and Spock walked quickly toward the residential building that had been designated as temporary quarters for the Federation delegation. Every step of the way, he was keenly aware that their backs faced a different building packed with Klingons who would likely have little compunction about gunning them all down from behind.

  Let’s hope they’re not all as bloodthirsty as Prang.

  They had crossed half the distance to the residence hall when the siren-like melody of another transporter beam filled the quad behind them. Kirk glanced back long enough to confirm it was a second detail of six security officers from the Enterprise. The second group split into pairs and dispersed to form a wider cordon around the captain, doctor, and first officer.

  McCoy frowned. “I feel like the center of a bull’s-eye.”

  Evincing no pity for the surgeon’s anxious complaint, Spock replied, “Relax, Doctor. It is unlikely anyone would be targeting you.”