by Greg Cox
“The crown!” a frantic Crusader shouted. “It is being stolen!”
The guards mobilized swiftly, aiming their lances at the hatchway above. Spock peered cautiously down at them, keeping his head low and his phaser drawn. He fired first, stunning two men before they could unleash their own weapons. Concentration, and a hint of worry, was etched on his face. Although effective, the shots further depleted his phaser’s waning charge.
“I suggest you deactivate their weapons as you did before,” he advised Vlisora. “And with all due speed.”
“I’m trying!” She spun the rings on her pendant, without noticeable results. “Kinless bastards! They’ve found a way to strip me of my override privileges!”
A logical precaution, Spock admitted. Albeit inconvenient for our purposes.
Down on the floor of the throne room, the desperate Crusaders took cover behind looming pillars while firing back at the hatch with tightly focused gravity beams. Spock ducked his head back to avoid being tagged by one of the beams. Being yanked down to the floor far below would have a significantly negative impact on their cause, not to mention his personal well-being. Even at normal gravity, a fall from such a height might prove terminal.
He did not wish to calculate the additional impact of supergravity.
On the positive side of the equation, the guards were hampered by their understandable reluctance to risk damaging the crown, which continued to ascend toward the waiting hatch. Spock assumed that it was concern for the relic’s safety that prevented the guards from pulling the entire ceiling out from under Vlisora and him; no doubt the men feared sending both throne and crown crashing to floor—and burying the crown beneath a sizable quantity of superheavy debris.
Spock doubted the God-King would look kindly on such an accident. He took full advantage of the Crusaders’ handicap by keeping the rising throne between himself and his attackers.
Nevertheless, a few brave Crusaders attempted to halt the throne’s ascent by snagging it with their own personal gravity beams. Lambent rays of green, firing up from multiple directions, converged on the throne like cables clinging to an antiquated hot-air balloon out of Earth’s early attempts to achieve flight. But the guards’ beams fought a losing battle against the more powerful pull of the hijacked gravity projector. The throne kept rising, slowly but steadily.
“Faster!” Vlisora urged their prize. She dialed up the projector’s power to combat the pull of the Crusaders’ beams. Its verdant light increased in intensity. “Come! Rise!”
The guards fanned out across the floor, risking Spock’s phaser blasts, to try to get a clear shot at Spock. His own weapon’s power was all but gone. An indicator light flashed ominously. A sapphire beam sputtered and died.
“My phaser has exhausted its charge,” Spock informed Vlisora. “Any assistance you could provide would prove most useful at this juncture.”
“Do not fear!” she called back. “This time I shall not abandon you!”
Setting the projector controls on automatic, she hurried to join Spock at the edge of the circular hatch. She threw out her gloved hand, splaying all four fingers outward. The delicate black mesh of her glove glowed green as an emerald beam spread out from her fingers in a wide-dispersal pattern. An irritating whine accompanied the beam.
Her radiant broadside met the oncoming beams from the Crusaders’ lances, blocking them. Gravitational fluxes crackled and flared where the rays collided; Vlisora had to shield her eyes from the blinding flashes. Spock’s inner eyelids protected his own vision. Feedback caused the rebel priestess’s glove to overheat. Its greenish aura shifted toward red. She winced and bit down on her lip. The keening of the glove grew sharp enough to shatter crystal.
“Your hand . . .” Spock said.
She held up her other hand to forestall his protests. “I can endure this. I have no choice.”
The throne bearing the crown was now less than a meter from the hatch, bringing the relic nearly within reach. Smoke rose from the sizzling glove. Tears leaked from her eyes, but she did not stop repelling the Crusaders’ hostile gravity beams. The guards raged in frustration, hurling obscene insults at the former priestess. Spock wondered what hurt her more, the searing glove or the hatred of her kind.
“Only a few more moments,” she whispered through the pain. “Almost there . . .”
The throne bumped into the ceiling, its solid mass shielding the hatchway from a barrage of enemy beams. Vlisora cut off her own beam and staggered backward, lowering her arm. Gasping, she peeled the searing mesh from her hand. Its red-hot touch had burned a charred black pattern into her silver skin. Her usual smoky odor took on a harsher edge.
At least the mesh was not fused to her hand, Spock thought. That might have been far worse.
But the crown was now within reach.
“Take it!” she said urgently. “Now is our chance!”
She had suffered much to reach this moment. Spock did not intend to let her agony go to waste. He reached down and snatched the crown from the throne. Vlisora smiled tightly.
“We did it.”
Crown in hand, Spock scrutinized her injured hand with concern. He found himself actually regretting the absence of Dr. McCoy.
“You require medical attention.”
“Later, perhaps,” she said. “Do not concern yourself with me. You know what you have to do.”
Spock nodded.
The crown was the key. According to Vlisora, it was a conduit into the mind of the God-King and all his worshippers. Spock needed to meld with it, in the hopes that Vulcan logic and rationality could provide an antidote to the unreasoning fanaticism of the Crusade.
It was a drastic, even desperate, tactic, but not without a certain logic of its own. Spock was resolved to attempt the meld for the sake of his captain—and perhaps his universe. The Prime Directive did not require that the Federation succumb to the Crusade.
“Open up!” A fist pounded on the door to the control room. Spock heard more Crusaders approaching. “Open in the name of the Truth!”
“Now!” Vlisora pleaded. “Before it is too late!”
Spock lifted the crown.
TWENTY-ONE
The ball sped past Kirk.
He ignored it.
Trying to beat Jaenab at his own game, Kirk realized, was like trying to beat Spock at three-dimensional chess. Your only chance of winning was to do something completely unexpected.
Like this, he thought.
He dived straight at the hoop again, but this time, instead of flying through it, he grabbed onto the copper ring with both hands. Clinging weightless to the hoop, he waited until it expanded to its maximum circumference, then swung inside the ring itself and braced his feet firmly against the bottom of the hoop while simultaneously pushing back against its upper half. The hoop tried to contract, but, positioned squarely inside it, Kirk held it open with his straining arms and legs. The steady rotation of the hoop was dizzying, but he had a strong stomach; he fought back against any creeping disorientation or nausea. With his arms and legs extended, his battered body filled the interior of the ring.
No way was the ball getting past him now.
The teeming audience booed and jeered at him.
So did Jaenab.
“Heathen! Is there no end to your perversions of our sacred traditions?” His spines quivered furiously. “If you think such a low, delaying ploy will deliver you, then you are even more deluded than I previously believed!”
He fired an inky black ball at the goal. The ball struck Kirk in the chest, turning silver as it bounced back toward Jaenab. The impact knocked the breath out of Kirk but failed to dislodge him from the hoop. He tightened his grip on the ring and cautiously shifted his feet to ensure their purchase.
“Is that the best you can do?” Kirk mocked Jaenab. “I would have thought the God-King would hit with a little more oomph!”
Spectators gasped at his blasphemy. Scandalized Crusaders and Ialatl called for his head. The skul
l inside the translucent silver ball grinned insolently. Kirk liked to think it was on his side.
“Do not tempt me, God-Slayer!” Jaenab fulminated. “Remove yourself from the goal or feel the full force of my wrath!”
Kirk stayed where he was. “Bring it on.”
“So be it!”
Jaenab took Kirk at his word. Ricocheting around the glowing green cage, he fired the solid rubber ball at Kirk from every direction. It buffeted him again and again, slamming against his face, back, and gut, but Kirk took the punishment. Blood leaked from his nose, drifting away weightlessly. Fresh bruises mottled his abused face and chest. His limbs ached from the strain of holding the hoop open. Sweat poured from his skin, misting around him.
“Abandon this craven stalling!” Jaenab demanded. “In the name of the ancestors!”
“How about we let the ancestors make up their own minds?” Kirk said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m just getting started.”
Visibly frustrated, the God-King tried to spike the ball between Kirk’s legs, but, in brushing against Kirk, the ball turned silver, scoring the point for Kirk instead. A second silver kite rose above the arena.
Three to two, Kirk thought. Better.
Fuming, Jaenab batted the ball straight into Kirk’s face, knocking his head back. Kirk felt his grip start to loosen, but he shook off the blow and steadied himself inside the ring. He glared defiantly back at Jaenab, bracing himself for the ball’s inevitable return. This really was a trial by ordeal now, and the only question was what would last longer: his body or Jaenab’s self-control.
“Thanks for the point.” Kirk brazenly provoked the God-King. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Scowling, Jaenab paused to catch his breath. His silver scales glistened wetly; Kirk had gotten him to work up a sweat.
“Your endurance does you credit, God-Slayer, but you cannot prevail. Your foolish intransigence merely prolongs your punishment . . . and delays the inevitable.”
I don’t have to keep this up forever, Kirk thought. I just have to get you mad enough to make a careless mistake.
“What’s your hurry? I’ve got all day.”
His sarcastic tone got under Jaenab’s skin, as intended.
“Cease this travesty at once! Play like an Ialatl!”
Kirk judged that it was time to hit below the belt.
“Says the God-King who couldn’t even hold on to his own wife and High Priestess! What happened? Did she finally see past your supposed ‘divinity’ to the weak and fallible mortal you really are? The one who can’t even admit that his people always let him win?”
Jaenab’s golden spines tarnished with rage. He shook his fist at Kirk.
“Silence! Do not even speak of her!”
He bounced the ball off Kirk’s face once more. Kirk’s nose crunched noisily. His teeth were loose. He spat out a mouthful of blood that swirled in zero g like a crimson nebula.
“You didn’t even have a clue, did you? That your own wife didn’t believe in you anymore? That she chose me to overthrow you!”
Jaenab was trembling in rage now. His spines writhed angrily.
“Still your blasphemous tongue!”
Kirk guessed that nobody had ever spoken to the God-King this way before. Maybe it was time someone finally did.
“Make me!”
Jaenab screeched like an enraged scrilatyl. He flew at Kirk with his hands stretched out to throttle the maddening heretic. Kirk’s eyes narrowed as he watched the God-King rocket toward him. His body tensed, poised for action. He needed to time this right, and he had only one chance to pull it off.
Here he comes. Ready, set . . . go!
At the last minute, he sprang out of the way. No longer held open by Kirk’s straining muscles, the hoop contracted abruptly, catching Jaenab as he soared through the ring after Kirk. It closed about his torso, squeezing him like a copper-hued python. Scaly silver skin was no match for the pressure. Ribs cracked audibly. The God-King howled in agony.
All around the stadium, the stunned audience fell silent. A shocked hush descended.
How about that? Kirk thought. It worked!
The hoop expanded outward, momentarily relieving the pressure on Jaenab, who writhed in place at the empty center of the revolving ring. He reached weakly for something to push against, in order to propel himself away from the hoop before it contracted again, but found himself floating helplessly in zero g, too badly hurt to save himself.
“Help,” he whispered.
Kirk responded without hesitation. Caroming off the bars of the cage, he grabbed Jaenab as he flew through the open hoop one more time, only a heartbeat before it contracted again. Kirk’s momentum carried both men to safety. He held on to the God-King’s sash, so that they wouldn’t end up on opposite sides of the arena again.
They needed to talk.
“Listen to me,” Kirk said urgently. “You can end this—”
Jaenab was obviously too hurt to keep on playing. He was curled in a fetal position, clutching his ribs. He coughed painfully, a silvery liquid spraying from his lips. It floated like mercury across the open space. His spines were pale and flaccid. He moaned in disbelief.
“No, this cannot be. . . .”
By now, the Crusaders were reacting to this shocking turn of events. “The God-King is injured!” a guard cried out in alarm. “Open the arena! The trial must be called off!”
“No!” Jaenab mustered the strength to countermand the guard’s orders. Despite his grievous injuries, he hung on to his resolve. “I am the God-King! I shall not forfeit the match!”
Frantic Crusaders, who were rushing to his aid, held back uncertainly, torn between rescuing their God-King and obeying his command. Legions of spectators looked on speechlessly. Cheers erupted from the shackled prisoners, who were brutally driven to the ground by gravity beams in response. Nobody knew what to do next.
Except for Kirk.
Lowering his voice, he offered Jaenab a chance to save face in front of his people.
“Let me score one more point and we’ll call it a draw. You can tell your people that the ancestors chose peace and compromise over a decisive victory or defeat.”
Kirk prayed Jaenab was listening. In the past, he had often found that offering mercy to vanquished foes was the key to preventing future conflicts. He could only hope that would be the case this time as well. Maybe there was still a chance to demonstrate to Jaenab and the Crusade that the Federation did not pose a threat to their way of life. Sometimes actions spoke louder than words.
“Never!” Jaenab spat. Angry and in pain, he seemed in no mood to listen to reason. “The Truth cannot be compromised! The ancestors will not allow it!”
“Are you absolutely sure of that?” Kirk asked. “We both know that you’re in no shape to stop me from scoring two more points anytime I want. So if I win this trial by ordeal, what does that say about the will of the ancestors . . . and your unerring grasp of the Truth?”
“I . . . I . . .” Jaenab was at a loss for words, unable to refute Kirk’s arguments. For the first time, Kirk saw a flicker of doubt in the God-King’s eyes.
But only a flicker.
Jaenab’s face and voice hardened. “You try to trick me, but I will not succumb to your lies. I will die for the Truth . . . and so will you!”
Kirk’s heart sank. Glancing around, he saw dozens of Crusaders poised tensely outside the arena, their weapons aimed at Kirk. He suspected that he would not long survive Jaenab’s willing martyrdom. Mercy, it appeared, was not enough to sway the God-King.
He wondered if anything could.
TWENTY-TWO
Spock contemplated the God-King’s crown.
To his slight surprise, it felt like ordinary jade. He detected no unusual psychic energies from the artifact. A troubling possibility occurred to him: What if the relic was merely what humans termed a red herring? What if Jaenab’s telepathic capacity was instead a genetic quirk inherent in his lineage?
In that case, he thought, our efforts to secure the crown will have been pointless.
“Hurry!” Vlisora urged him. She stood nearby, cradling her injured hand. Temple guards pounded on the locked door of the control room, which was unlikely to withstand a sustained assault. She barricaded the door with her own body. “Use the crown!”
That haste was imperative could not be denied. If he was going to carry out their plan, and attempt to mind-meld with Jaenab by means of the crown, he needed to do so promptly. They were unlikely to get a second chance.
Nevertheless, he experienced a moment of trepidation. Even an ordinary meld, if there could be said to be such a thing, was not something to embark upon lightly. To fully merge one’s mind and thoughts with another’s, even on the most superficial level, was a profoundly intimate act that demanded a dangerous lowering of personal barriers. The risk of losing one’s own identity and emotional control was always present, and how much more so, perhaps, when attempting the meld via an unknown piece of alien technology?
“Step away from the door!” an authoritative voice shouted through the door. “We’re coming through!”
An invasive green light, coming from the hall outside, penetrated the edges of the door. Vlisora backed away from the light as the metal began to buckle, crumpling under its own weight. On the floor nearby, the unconscious technician stirred uneasily. Vlisora kept one eye on him as she also stared at the door in alarm. Her rampant spines were on full alert.
“Stay back!” she yelled. “Or we’ll destroy the crown!”
Spock was uncertain if she was bluffing, but the threat appeared to give their assailants pause. The green light vanished, followed by loud, muffled discussions in the hallway. If nothing else, the guards seemed to be in no hurry to risk the loss of the relic. Spock wondered how much time the threat had bought them.
Enough?
“Now,” Vlisora whispered. Gold-rimmed eyes entreated him. “While they debate their next move.”
Spock knew he could delay no longer. He had come too far to falter now. Overcoming his doubts and apprehension, he placed the crown on his brow. All at once, something sparked within the relic. Spock felt something: a connection forming between his mind and the crown.
