“Terrific. A regular cakewalk.”
Two left eyebrows rose at Kirk’s comment, Zar said it. “Cakewalk, Captain?”
Kirk groaned. “McCoy predicted that this was going to happen—I should’ve listened to him. Two of you is two too many. Come on, let’s go.”
Zar nodded. “I read a poem about this kind of situation a couple of weeks ago. It was called Horatius at the—” he sagged limply, eyes rolling back in his head. Spock released the nerve pinch, grabbed him as he fell. Swinging an arm under the younger man’s knees, he picked him up easily.
Kirk watched the Vulcan knowingly, and a smile softened his mouth. “That raises the odds, Mr. Spock.”
[160] The Vulcan returned his friend’s look, eyes level. “No, Jim. I calculated them that way from the beginning.” Turning, he headed for the camp building. The Captain picked up the supplies and the cloth-wrapped violin, and followed him.
When he caught up, just outside the ruined camp, Kirk said, voice carefully casual, “I hope you realize how he’s going to take this when he wakes up.”
Spock nodded. “That’s why I’m hurrying. I don’t intend to be here when he regains consciousness. He must outweigh me by thirteen kilos.”
Kirk grinned.
The Vulcan placed the unconscious form inside the wrecked structure, searched for a moment, then dropped a scorched blanket over him. The Captain placed his bundle beside the young man. “Hope he takes this with him when he beams up.”
“What is it?”
“Doctor Vargas’ violin. Does he still have his communicator?”
Stooping, Spock checked the pockets of the coverall. “Yes.”
“Let’s go, then.”
The First Officer led them back along the same path he and Zar had come only a few minutes before. They crossed the perimeter screen at the same point, passing the two guards, still lying face down, Kirk gave them a quick glance, and whispered, as they stole along, “Stunned?”
Spock didn’t look around, and his answer reached the Captain faintly. “Dead—I think.”
“You?” Kirk avoided a large rock, dropped down beside the Vulcan to scan the ground in front of them.
“Zar.”
The Captain whistled under his breath.
It took the Science Officer only five minutes to activate the force field unit. The two carefully hid the external evidence of the shield’s presence, then turned back toward the perimeter. They had nearly [161] reached it when they heard a shout. Kirk stopped. “They must’ve found those guards. I’m afraid we’ve had it, Mr. Spock. Feel like recalculating those odds?”
“I know a hiding place. This way, Captain.”
If it hadn’t been for Kirk’s uniform, they might have pulled it off again, A flash from a Romulan beamer caught the gold braid, and they were dragged from their cramped niche. Their captors wasted neither tune nor speech—the two officers were bound, and escorted under heavy guard into the Romulan encampment.
It was a large camp, Kirk saw, concentrating on memorizing the layout. Nine plasta-tents set up in a rough circle, with what he speculated was a supply and ammunitions dump in the center. Two ships, one of them larger than the other, were located on the far side of the camp. The ship near the Guardian had been gone when they set up the force field—Kirk hoped that meant that the enemy remained unaware of the time portal.
A slap between the shoulders sent him stumbling into the largest of the plasta-tents, and another slap sent him crashing to the rock floor. He lay, face ground into the gritty surface, as his ankles were bound, then attached to the cords that confined his wrists. Raising his head by the simple expedient of a hand in his hair, one of the guards gagged him. From the scuffling sounds on his left, he deduced that Spock was receiving the same treatment. A blindfold followed the gag, and then the sound of receding footsteps. Some extra sense, however, told him that he and Spock were not alone—there must be a guard with them. Somebody’s taking no chances. ... Kirk thought.
He tugged at his bonds, abandoned the attempt immediately. Whoever had tied him was an expert, and had also taken the precaution of running a loop around his throat. Any struggle to release himself would strangle him. Deprived of sensory [162] impressions, he fought the urge to speculate on his fate—or his ship’s. The Enterprise would be all right—he had to believe that, or he was licked before the fight even started.
After a short interval, he heard footsteps behind him again, then a hand dragged his head up. The blindfold was pulled down, and Kirk squinted, blinded by sudden light. There was a soft, indrawn breath, then a voice—somehow familiar?—“Untie him and remove his gag. Turn the Vulcan over and let him watch this.”
A moment later he was free, rubbing at his wrists, eyes adjusting to the tent’s light. He could see a figure in front of him, lean, with a narrow foxy face, and the insignia of a full Commander. Kirk blinked, narrowed his eyes. The quasi-familiar voice came again, “Don’t you recognize me, Captain Kirk? I know you. The Romulan Empire has no love for you, and I even less. We have a personal score to settle. You destroyed my Commander’s honor.” He straightened and saluted formally. “Commander Tal, at your service.”
The Romulan moved over and performed a second inspection on Spock. “Commander Spock. The Empire once issued a writ for your execution, on the charges of treason and sabotage. That writ has never been cancelled.” Tal began to pace the length of the tent, talking. “Your capture is fortunate, for it seemed our mission here was going to fail. We haven’t been able to locate the Federation installation on this planet—nothing but a group of weak antiquarians, digging in these endless ruins. Clever of the Federation, to mask a military secret in that fashion ... but you betrayed yourselves when you assigned a full-time starship patrol.” The Romulan Commander beckoned, and a burly Centurion moved to stand in front of Kirk, arms swinging loosely, deliberately, by his sides. Tal continued after a moment.
“Captain Kirk, I respect your intelligence. You [163] know that we are strong. We pride ourselves on being the military power that will rule this Galaxy—and soon. That is because we act, not out of cruelty, as do the Klingons, but out of efficiency. So. I say to you now, let us be efficient about this. You already know that I will have you killed if you do not tell me what the Federation is hiding here. Your death will be, needless to say, unpleasant. I’m sure you realize that is an understatement. Why not tell me now, and I promise on my honor as a soldier that I will see that you live. You may even be allowed to rejoin your people, with none the wiser, but I cannot guarantee that. But you will live, and you will still enjoy living. I’ll give you two of your solar minutes to think about it.”
Tal waited patiently. The silence dragged by, and then the Romulan spoke again. “Your decision, Captain?”
Kirk stared at him, muscles taut in anticipation. Tal nodded, not displeased, and signaled to the burly soldier. “Stay away from his head—I want him able to talk.” The guard grunted an assent, clenching his fist. After the third blow, the Captain’s knees buckled. He hung limply in the guard’s hands, gasping, arms weakly trying to cradle the pain in his middle, until they dropped him to lie again on the floor. Tal shrugged, and the guards moved to untie the Vulcan’s gag.
The Romulan’s voice changed from its impersonal monotone, deepened, became colder. “Commander Spock, it would please me personally to see you receive the same, but I know the futility of that. Vulcans can block pain, and even destroy themselves rather than betray a secret. It is impossible for us to wrench from you what you do not wish to give—but perhaps you will decide to be reasonable. ...” He glanced at Kirk, then back at the First Officer. “Tell us, and spare your Captain more of the same. Otherwise, he will die before your eyes, knowing that [164] you could have saved him, if he would not save himself.”
Spock stared stonily at the Romulan officer’s left knee. Tal clenched his fist. “You have no loyalty at all, do you, Vulcan? You care no more for your Captain than you did for my Commander. ...” His hand ra
ised, trembled, then he shook his head. “I’ll look forward to your dying.” He paused, then resumed more calmly, “Tell me, which one of you killed my guard? Frankly, I doubt that the Captain would have the strength to overpower a trained Romulan—so it must have been you. What about the other two? If you tell me what kills that makes no noise and leaves no mark, I can at least try to intercede for you. ...”
Silence.
“Very well, Tie them again.” The Romulan guards busied themselves. When the two Federation officers were once again tied, gagged and blindfolded, Tal said, “I think that I have convinced you that we are in earnest here. I leave you to think about this: I will return in a short while, with a device that has been newly developed by our scientists—so newly developed that it hasn’t been tried on a Human. There is, they tell me, a small chance that its effects will be permanent. The device is a neural exciter—one that can be adjusted to generate impulses to the nervous system. It is capable of generating degrees of sensation from a slight tickling to the pain felt by one who is being burned alive.”
Tal poked Kirk with his foot. “The advantage to this device is that electric and submotor impulses cause the entire effect. The victim is never physically hurt at all. Although test animals and humanoid ... volunteers ... seemed to go mad a high percentage of the time. The device can be used again and again, with no lowering of efficiency. What you will feel, Captain, will cause you to tell me everything. There will be no end to the pain—not even in death, as there was for your scientists. I wish the Glory Quest [165] had arrived in time for us to use it yesterday ... there’d be no need for all of this now.”
He paused, then said quietly, “You know your limits, Kirk. Even the bravest man has a breaking point—you will tell. The only question is when, and how much you can endure. Think about it.”
Chapter XVII
The Enterprise was taking a beating. The Romulan ships surrounded and harried her, as they would a wounded lioness, taking care to stay out of range of her fangs. She’d destroyed two, and the Lexington had gotten another, but her starboard deflectors were gone. The next shot she took there would split her shining hide. Wesley was keeping the Lexington carefully positioned to cover her against a starboard assault, but his forward deflectors were in bad shape.
Chief Engineer Scott had wisely fought a running battle; depending on his ship’s superior firepower and speed, he’d blasted and retreated, and swung back to fire again. The battle had ranged in a rough ellipse around Gateway, but the Romulans were wary now, and less quick to follow when the Federation ships sped away. They knew the Star Fleet vessels wouldn’t go far.
Scott shifted uneasily in the command chair. He didn’t like sitting here; never had. It was his duty, and he did it well, but his first love was the Enterprise. It was physical pain to feel her engines straining, hear the damage reports coming in.
“B-Deck reports an explosion caused by leakage of fumes into the bulkheads, Mr. Scott. Damage-repair unit notified.”
Scotty nodded at Uhura, turned back to Ensign Chekov, who was manning Spock’s sensors. “Any report on that one the Lexington winged during that last pass, lad?”
“Aye, sir. They seem to be wobbling. I think their [167] gyro system must be out. I’m also picking up some radiation leakage ... could be the power pile, sir.”
“Good. I doubt we’ll have t’ worry about that one again.”
Sulu turned. “Mr. Scott, sir. They’re beginning another circling maneuver.”
The Chief Engineer switched his attention to the forward viewscreen. The six navigable Romulan ships were turning, forming themselves into a wedge. Scott was puzzled at first, then realized the purpose of the configuration. They intended to drive the point of the wedge between the Enterprise and the Lexington, Once separated, the two ships would be unable to compensate for each other’s lost deflectors.
“Helm hard over t’ starboard, zero four five point six, mark.”
“Aye, Mr. Scott.” Sulu’s fingers flickered over his controls.
The Lexington was moving also, closing to port. The two vessels looked like massive, yet graceful dancers. They swung together, bobbing slightly as their aft deflector shields touched intermittently, repulsing each other with an aurora borealis shimmer. Scott smiled. “Good piloting, Mr. Sulu. Let’ em try and drive us apart now.”
The enemy ships were still for a moment, then broke the wedge. They reformed into a rough circle, then suddenly split apart, heading for the two star-ships at maximum sublight speed. Three dived for the Enterprise’s port side, and three for the Lexington’s starboard side, phasers blossoming as they passed. The Federation ships were hampered from swinging their main phaser batteries toward the attackers by their proximity to each other. The Enterprise lurched under the impact of three direct hits; the Lexington took two.
Sulu turned, grim-faced. “That did it for our port screens, sir.”
Scotty thought, drumming his fingers on the arm of the Captain’s chair. “What would Jim Kirk do?” [168] he mumbled under his breath. Mentally he added, Dinna rush, Scotty old lad. You’re playing right into their hands, if you do. Take it slow ... make ’em come t’ us. ... His eyes narrowed at the thought, and he concentrated on the viewscreen.
The Romulans were circling again, but, like hunters when the prey begins to stagger, they hadn’t withdrawn as far this time. Scott straightened. “Range, Mr. Sulu?”
“40,000 kilometers, sir.”
“Arm all photon torpedoes. Shut down the power in the forward phaser bank t’ half-capacity. Shut it down altogether in the port banks. When they scan us, they’ll think the damage caused an overload.” At least I hope they will, he added silently.
The helmsman turned back a moment later. “Photon torpedoes armed and tracking, Mr. Scott.”
“Aye, Mr. Sulu. We’ll just wait for ’em. Right now, they’re thinkin’ somethin’ like, ‘Now how bad did we hurt ’em?’ We’ll give ’em their answer in a moment. Lieutenant Uhura, are you getting anything from the Lexington?”
“Yes, Mr. Scott. Their photon torpedoes armed and tracking, also. They report starboard and forward deflectors lost on that last run.”
They waited. Finally the Romulan ships began to edge closer, almost drifting under short bursts of impulse power.
“Range, Mr. Sulu?”
“Thirty-five thousand kilometers, Mister Scott—and closing, sir.”
“Keep trackin’ ’em, Mister.”
“Aye, sir.”
Scott shut his eyes and counted three, slowly. Then, “Fire, Mr. Sulu.”
The helmsman’s hand flashed across his board. The Enterprise quivered slightly as each bank of torpedoes launched. Nobody breathed.
Suddenly the viewscreen was illuminated by a [169] brilliant white light. The bridge crew whooped briefly. Scott turned to Chekov. “Status, lad?”
“Ve got one, sir! And the Lexington got annoder—I think the Lexington scored a second hit, but no measurable damage on that sheep.”
The Chief Engineer slumped back, watching the four remaining enemy ships wearily. It isna’ going t’ be enough, he thought. We’ve really pulled their teeth, but it’s still two t’ four, and we’re hurt. He fancied that he could hear his ship panting, and silently apologized to her. Good try, lass, but ...
Uhura turned toward him, her voice jubilant. “Mr. Scott! We’re being hailed, sir!”
Chekov was gesturing wildly at the scanners. “Sheeps, sir! Five of them! Just entering this sector!”
Chapter XVIII
Zar was dreaming of death, and pain. The dreams spun and dissolved into each other, leaving no memory behind:
He was sliding in frantic haste, knowing that it made no difference, the rope scoring his hands—and there was her body, hair flung fan-wise over the ice, almost covering the unnatural angle of the neck. ...
He threw his arm over his throat as the vitha sprang, and felt the rip of the fangs. ...
Juan and Dave, torn bits of humanity, seen throu
gh McCoy’s mind ...
The queer blankness—had it been dark, or light?—of that place—(where?). He’d been there after projecting his own death at the Romulan guards, when that summoning had come, dragging him back. The bond he couldn’t ignore, whether or not. he wished to—calling, with desperate force of will—calling ...
His eyes opened on darkness. The dream was gone, leaving nothing but that sense of—what?
Memory rushed back. They’d been in the ruins, ready to go back to the time portal, and then he was here. He moved cautiously, felt the known ache of bruised nerves in his shoulder and realized what had happened. As he moved, the pain in his shoulder [171] lanced upward to his head and down into his middle. Nausea gagged him as he held his head with both hands, half-convinced it would roll off his shoulders if he didn’t
“No ...” His own agonized whisper startled him. “Not again. Please ...” At the moment, even his own death seemed preferable to that involuntary sharing of another’s.
Anger saved him. When he concentrated on the anger and the shame of being left behind, the sickness was blotted out. Mentally, he built a pyre, heaped it high with every cold look, every withdrawal, every negative word; then torched it with that nerve pinch. The anger-flames were comforting, warming, driving out the sickness.
Just as he reached a fever pitch of rage, though, something happened. It was like looking at one of those pictures Jan Sajji had, the kind where there were two outlines, but you could only see one at a time. The black and the white images—and somehow, as you stared, by some trick, there would be a whole new image fronting you. He fingered the blanket that had been pulled over him, and McCoy’s words echoed, “Illogical as it may seem, all fathers tend to be over-protective. ...”
Anger was gone, burned away by understanding, and somehow Zar knew the reason behind that nerve pinch, understood Spock as he never had before, and a strange, sad pride grew out of that comprehension. The Vulcan had chosen to leave him behind—although the emotion Zar sensed his father felt for Kirk was strong, Kirk was not here, he was.
STAR TREK: TOS #11 - The Yesterday Saga I - Yesterday's Son Page 15
