Star Trek - Sarek

by A. C. Crispin

  origin. Every species had its own distinct smell, Peter knew, some more

  pleasant than others. While the soiled head's contribution was

  significant, the underlying scent was simply that of a, different

  species mone he'd never encountered before. Not Tellarite, or Orion, or

  Andorian or Horta or Vulcan ... unfamiliar. Alien.

  Peter could understand the KEHL wanting to get rid of him. But why not

  simply kill him? Why hand him over to aliens? Why go to all this trouble

  to get him off-world?

  It had to be more than just the KEHL involved. Somebody had paid Lisa

  Tennant and her goons to set him up and hand him over ... but why?

  Why in the name of the Seven Tellarite Hells would anyone want to kidnap

  him? He was only a cadet ... he had no access to restricted data. He

  had no rank, and he wasn't rich. Uncle Jim made a respectable living, he

  supposed. But enough to make the risk of abducting his nephew

  profitable?

  Highly unlikely.

  It didn't make sense. No rank, no riches, no enemies ... Wait a minute.

  Peter straightened suddenly. He didn't have any enemies, as far as he

  knew ... but he knew someone who did. Someone who'd led an adventurous

  life, taken plenty of risks, trodden on numerous toes. Someone who had

  certainly made enemies over the years ... more

  enemies than you could shake a stick at ...

  James T. Kirk.

  Somebody intended to use him to get to Uncle Jim.

  As for Peter, he expected to take his oath and become a Starfleet

  officer in a month. Did whoever was behind all this honestly think he

  would just sit here and allow his uncle's enemies to use him like that?

  A prisoner's first responsibility was to escape. Right now, it didn't

  seem as if he had many options while trapped in this cabin. That meant

  he'd have to play a prepared hand when this ship finally stopped moving

  and those doors eventually opened. He'd have to overwhelm whoever was

  coming for him, steal this ship, and pilot it back home. He was a fair

  pilot, and a good navigator. That part wouldn't be difficult--it was the

  first part that could be trouble. How

  many would there be? And what species? There were numerous aliens that

  Peter knew he could easily fight his way through, but there were also

  many others whose strength was far greater than the average human's.

  And thatgyou, mister--average. Maybe, in strength. But, he'd been

  studying self-defense and martial arts since he was in his teens. By the

  time he'd gotten to the Academy, he was already pretty good, and

  Starfleet put on the final polish. He could hold his ownmwhen he was

  thinking clearly. Unbidden, the image of him falling prey to Lisa

  Tennant's stun gun burned in his mind.

  Peter wished he could exercise, keep up his skills, his physical

  strength, but that wouldn't be possible. He must be under surveillance,

  so that meant he'd have to portray himself as passive, maybe even

  sickly. He'd have to sleep a lot, or pretend to, and act slow and weak.

  If he did that, the less on their guard they might be when they came for

  him.

  And that might be his only advantage. He really would be weak from lack

  of food, and reduced water, so he'd have to rely on surprise, if he was

  to have any hope at all.

  Yes, his kidnappers would do what they could to keep him cooperative,

  compliant. But Peter had already decided just how much trouble he would

  be. As much as humanly possible, mister.

  He was a Kirk, after all. And he would not be surprised again. Not if

  they threw the most beautiful, most interesting, most desirable females

  of every species in the galaxy at him.

  He would get out of here, or die in the attempt. And ifi don't make it,

  he thought, smiling to himself, at least I won't have to take the

  Kobayashi Maru.

  Sarek sat at the negotiation table, listening as the Orion

  representative bickered with Admiral Smillie about Federation

  restitution for the attack on Kadura. To his right, the Orion woman,

  s'kara, stared expressionlessly at the Orion male, but Sarek sensed her

  distrust, her revulsion ... perfectly logical, under the circumstances.

  Finally, he raised a hand, and as soon as Smillie and Buta, the Orion,

  noticed him, they fell silent. "These matters can

  be resolved later," Sarek said. "For the moment, I request that we

  finalize the agreement with Commander Keraz concerning their terms for

  withdrawing from Kadura. As you will recall, the commander said that he

  ..."

  Sarek continued, going over all the points agreed upon so far. They had

  come a long way in just a few days ... but not quickly enough for him.

  The speedy Vulcan courier ship was standing by, ready to take him home

  at warp eight, but Sarek doubted he could ever get home in time to

  comfort his wife.

  Wearily, Sarek finished outlining Keraz's demands, received a confirming

  nod from the Ktingon. Smillie made a counteroffer to one part of Keraz's

  plan, wherein the renegades would be provided with dilithium as a ransom

  for the safe release of Kadura. Keraz countered, lowering his demand

  fractionally. Sarek listened with part of his mind as they came closer

  and closer to an agreement. If they could reach agreement, then perhaps

  he could be finished today ...

  The wrangling continued for the next two hours, with Sarek mediating

  between them, attempting to find compromises that would work.

  Finally, he realized a refreshment break was long overdue, so he

  dismissed the factions. The room emptied rapidly as the occupants left

  in search of food, lavatories, or comm links. Finally, only Sarek,

  Soran, Keraz, and his second-in-command, Wurfi, were left.

  The Vulcan wislxed once again that he could arrange to speak to Keraz

  alone. The commander's demeanor at the negotiation table during the past

  days was not what one would logically expect of a Klingon renegade.

  Keraz was entirely too eager to negotiate, to give ground. It was almost

  as though he regretted having taken Kadura, and would like nothing

  better than to wash his hands of the whole business ...

  Barely noticing his surroundings, occupied with his thoughts, Sarek

  walked slowly toward the door. Soran and Keraz were ahead of him. The

  Vulcan looked up, wondering where the Klingon's aide was.

  Movement--there was movement behind him--

  a bloodcurdling battle yell filled the air as the Klingon officer,

  Wurrl, leaped at the Vulcan ambassador. Sarek flung up an arm, glimpsed

  a flash of metal, even as something sharp sank deeply into his left

  bicep. He grappled with the Klingon, managing to hold him off despite

  his injured arm, grateful for superior Vulcan strength.

  The ambassador groped for a neck pinch, but his fingers could not

  penetrate the heavy leather and metal of the Klingon's armor. He changed

  tactics, struck Wurrl sharply on the bridge of the nose, and saw the

  assailant's eyes cloud over. Contact with the would-be assassin's bare

  flesh told him that he was dealing with another case like Induna's.

  Tal-shaya? Sarek wondered whether he would have to kill the Klingon


  outright in self-preservation. Would it work on a Klingon?

  Locked together in a grisly parody of an embrace, the ambassador and the

  Klingon careered across the room, slamming into the conference table,

  scattering chairs. Suddenly Keraz was there, bellowing Klingon

  obscenities and threats at his aide, as he slammed a knife-hand blow

  into Wurfi's throat. The treacherous aide staggered, his grip on the

  ambassador loosening. Wurrl's breath rattled in his throat, even as

  steely hands grasped him and lifted, hoisting him clean off his feet.

  Soran swung the Klingon in an are, then sent him crashing against the

  wall. Wurfi slid down it, and lay there, unconscious.

  "Ambassador! Ambassador, you are wounded!" Keraz sounded thoroughly

  shaken. Sarek grasped his bicep, applying external pressure, even as he

  sought within himself for his training in biocontrol. A moment later, he

  felt the bleeding slow to a trickle, then stop. Automatically, he

  controlled the pain.

  "I am not seriously injured," Sarek said. "Where did he get that

  dagger?" All participants in the conference were screened automatically

  each time they walked through the door.

  Keraz went over to the downed Wurd, and, bending over and using the tip

  of his metal-reinforced gauntlet, he picked up the green-smeared dagger.

  "Assembled," he growled, holding it out. "See? Pieces of trim from his

  uniform, altered so they would slide together and form a weapon. He must

  have put it together under the table while we met today."

  Sarek raised his voice. "Security, please report to the conference

  chamber," he said.

  His verbal request was not necessary. Barely a second later, the doors

  burst open, admitting four guards and Admiral Smillie. Quick questions

  and answers followed.

  Smillie, Sarek saw, was all for taking Keraz into custody along with the

  seriously injured Wurrl. The Vulcan raised his hand, forestailing the

  Starfleet admiral. "Commander Keraz was not responsible for this

  incident," he said. "I am certain of that."

  As Sarek spoke, he c aught a quick glance from Keraz, saw the flash of

  gratitude in the Klingon's eyes. "Commander," Sarek said, gesturing to

  the open door, "let us leave security to its job. I would like to speak

  with you privately."

  Sotart stepped forward to protest, and so did Smillie, but both gave way

  before the ambassador's determination.

  Keraz nodded, and together the two left the wrecked conference chamber.

  As they walked down the corridor, Sarek said, blandly,

  "Commander ... I know that you are not responsible for that attack just

  now. I have some idea, at least generally, who is, though. Could you

  answer a few questions, please?"

  "What kind of questions?" Keraz growled.

  "In the first place, after days of discussion, I still do not have a

  clear idea of what you hoped to gain by your occupation of Kadura.

  Perhaps you might enlighten me as to your reasons?"

  When Keraz only stared stonily, the ambassador added,

  "The greater my understanding of what you hoped to gain, the more

  smoothly I will be able to conclude matters. I understand the Federation

  mind-set on this matter ... but I am still uncertain as to yours."

  The Klingon commander hesitated; then he walked out into a courtyard and

  sat down by a tinkling fountain. Sarek, understanding that he thus hoped

  to foil any listening devices, sat down with his knees almost touching

  the Klingon's. "What did I hope to gain?" Keraz's effort to keep his

  tones low only accentuated the mellowness of his baritone. "Ambassador,

  at one time my actions seemed as clear as a Darlavian crystal to me, but

  ... no more."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I cannot explain!" Keraz said, his voice lowering to a growl. "I have

  thrown away my warrior's honor, and my life will likely be forfeit,

  along with the lives of my crew ... " He glared at Sarek. "Do not by

  any chance think, Vulcan, that I am unaware that my government stands

  ready to capture me and punish me as a traitor without honor. If I have

  any hope in conducting these negotiations, it is that all of the

  responsibility for my actions will be focused on me, not on my crew."

  "You are speaking as though you regret your actions since you ... broke

  with your Empire," the Vulcan observed, his heart quickening. He'd never

  heard a Klingon speak like this before.

  "I do regret them," Keraz said simply. "I did not agree with the

  Empire's new, craven policies toward the Federation, and I told anyone

  who cared to listen that. But turn renegade? Traitor? Pah!" He spat on

  the flagstones at his feet.

  "But your actions recently have gone against orders," Sarek pointed out.

  "I know!" Keraz's voice was a muted howl of frustration.

  "My loyalty to the Empire was complete, until ... until one day I

  realized that I was being a fool, that there were riches waiting for me,

  and glory ... and I realized that I could wage war on the Federation

  whether or not my government had the courage and the honor."

  The Klingon scowled, his corrugated brow even more wrinkled than usual.

  "My path seemed clear, until, two days after Kadura was mine ... I

  awoke one morning, realizing exactly what I had done. How my government

  would regard

  me. I knew that I would soon be surrounded by half the Federation's

  starships." He gave a short, hitter growl of laughter. "And you ask me

  why, Vulcan? That is your answer--that I have no answer! I do not know

  why!"

  "But I do," Sarek said. "Or, at least, I believe that I know, Commander.

  Recently, I have encountered two individuals who became violent as a

  result of outside mental influence ... telepathic influence. One was a

  human, on Terra. The other was ... your aide, Wurrl. Just now."

  "Wurrl?" Keraz stared at the ambassador incredulously.

  "What are you saying, Vulcan? That I have also been influenced? That

  some telepath made me take Kadura?"

  "I do not believe they can control actions," Sarek clarified.

  "But they can influence, provide mental catalysts, as it were. Yes, I do

  believe that, Commander."

  The Klingon had paled as they spoke. Not surprisingly, he found the idea

  of not being his own master repugnant, revolting. "How can you tell?" he

  whispered hoarsely.

  "How did you know about Wurrl?"

  "I touched him," Sarek said.

  "Could you tell with me?"

  Sarek nodded silently. Keraz took a deep breath, then, sitting stiffly,

  rigidly, nodded. "Do it," he commanded.

  Slowly, the ambassador raised his hand and brushed it across the

  Klingon's high, bony forehead. He found what he had expected to find,

  and Keraz read the truth without Sarek having to say it aloud. The

  commander threw back his head and voiced a wordless bellow of rage and

  frustration, then cursed vividly in at least six different languages.

  Finally, Keraz subsided, panting, and sat glowering in silence for

  several moments. "Kamarag," he said. "This is his doing. That cursed,

  dishonorable slime devil has stolen my honor. For this I will rip out />
  his gizzard and feed it to my targ!"

  "What do you mean, he stole your honor?"

  "He was trying to persuade us all to turn renegade, and ever since that

  meeting most of the warriors there have committed honorless raids on

  noncombatants--just as I did."

  "What meeting?" Sarek asked.

  With a savage glare that the Vulcan knew wasn't directed at him, Keraz

  explained about Kamarag's clandestine conclave.

  "Fascinating," the ambassador murmured, trying to picture Kamarag in

  that setting.

  "Kamarag has no honor, Vulcan," Keraz said bitterly.

  "But you ... you are different. You have courage, as well as honor. A

  coward would not have been willing to be alone with me after Wurrl's

  attack."

  "You possess a warrior's honor," Sarek said, honestly. "I knew you would

  not attack me."

  Keraz gave him a sideways glance. "I heard that your woman is ...

  gravely ill," he said, gruffly. "You have also shown honor in remaining

  here in performance of your duty. I respect such honor, Ambassador."

  "Is that why you agreed to speak frankly with me?" Sarek asked.

  "Yes," Keraz said. "Such a demonstration of honor is admirable, no

  matter what species displays it."

  The Vulcan inclined his head in recognition of Keraz's words. "Perhaps

  we may conclude the negotiations quickly," he said.