Mitchell smiled a sly smile. “Admit it. I had you going for a second there,” he noted.
“For a second,” the second officer conceded, closing his eyes and massaging his temples with his fingers.
“Actually,” said the junior officer, “I wish it were as easy as accessing some logs. In this case, we’d probably have to break into Starfleet Headquarters to find out what’s going on.”
Kirk regarded him more closely. “You still think this has something to do with what happened that night on the Republic?”
“Don’t you?” Mitchell asked in return.
“More than ever,” the other man replied.
Going over the possibilities, the navigator frowned. [132] “So what do you think it is?” he wondered. “An exchange of hostages? A battle cruiser full of double agents?” He leaned in more closely. “Or maybe a secret alliance with the Klingons, stretching back who knows how many years?”
Kirk shook his head emphatically. “None of the above—especially the last one. The Klingons are too vicious, too hungry for power. The Federation would never align itself with an entity it couldn’t trust.”
Mitchell snorted. “Really? It looked to me like Mangione was willing enough to trust them.”
“An isolated incident,” Kirk argued.
“Or two,” his friend reminded him. “Or maybe more than two. Maybe more than a hundred. I mean ... who knows how many times this kind of thing has happened before and been hushed over?”
“Not us,” Kirk conceded.
The remark took the wind out of Mitchell’s sails. “Not us,” he was forced to agree.
Ultimately, he supposed, they might never learn the truth of the matter. They might never find out what a Klingon battle cruiser was doing in Federation space, or why a Starfleet admiral had commanded the Constitution to back off from it—much less why they had been ordered to go there in the first place.
It killed the navigator to think that way, but he had to face facts. Whatever had been going on in the vicinity of that red-orange world would probably continue to go on forever, and Admiral Mangione’s secret would remain just that ... a secret.
In fact, only one good thing had come out of the incident—Mitchell’s friend had begun to emerge [133] from his shell. He had begun to act a little like the Kirk the navigator knew at the Academy.
And hell, he thought, wasn’t that more important than whether or not they uncovered some stodgy old Starfleet mystery?
Kang, son of K’naiah, strode the broad central corridor of the Klingon vessel Stormwind, acutely aware of the warriors he passed going in the opposite direction—and in particular, the expressions on their faces.
After all, one or more of those warriors might have been coming from the captain’s quarters, and that was where Kang was headed at the moment. It was always good to get some inkling of the captain’s mood before one imposed oneself upon his presence.
Unfortunately, no one whose face he searched seemed particularly distracted. No one looked as if he or she had been congratulated or rebuked or threatened or encouraged. They simply had the look of Klingons going about their daily business.
Not helpful, thought Kang. Not helpful at all.
He wished dearly to know why the captain had summoned him. Certainly, he had earned himself something of a reputation for arrogance, but that was hardly an offense among his people. In fact, some would say it was a quality well worth cultivating.
A moment later, Kang came in sight of Captain Ibrach’s quarters. There was a single guard posted outside—a very large, very powerful warrior named Anyoqq, who eyed Kang as he approached.
It wasn’t just Anyoqq’s size that made him so [134] fearsome-looking. It was also the oversized disrupter pistol tucked into his belt and the long, deadly dagger whose hilt protruded from his boot top.
But Kang didn’t allow himself to be intimidated. Instead, he stopped in front of the giant, looked up confidently into his broad, bony face and said, “The captain has summoned me.”
Anyoqq regarded him with his tiny black eyes as if he were thinking about pulling Kang’s arms and legs off one by one. Then he gave a hard rap with his mighty knuckles on Captain Ibrach’s door.
The captain’s réponse came through an intercom grid built into the bulkhead beside his door. “What is it?” he rasped.
The giant pointed to Kang. “Your name,” he demanded.
“Kang, son of K’naiah,” said the youth.
Anyoqq glanced at the intercom grid for a second. Finally, Ibrach replied. “Send him in,” he said.
The giant stepped aside and jerked his big, scarred thumb in the direction of the door. “Go,” he rumbled.
Kang didn’t wait to be told twice. As the door slid aside for him, he entered the captain’s anteroom.
Ibrach was seated on a heavy metal chair with furs strewn across it. A disrupter pistol lay on one of its armrests, mere inches from the captain’s hand. After all, the life expectancy of a Klingon commander was directly proportional to the ambition of his officers, and the Stormwind was known to have some ambitious officers indeed.
“Kang,” said Ibrach, a broad-shouldered man with [135] long, gray hair that fell around his shoulders and a thick, drooping mustache.
The younger warrior slammed his fist against the left side of his chest, just above his hearts. “My captain.”
Ibrach eyed him from beneath his prominent brow ridge. “I understand you have been demanding things from your superiors,” he said.
Kang straightened. “I have.”
The commander’s lip curled beneath his mustache. “You have made it known you do not like traveling through Federation territory on a mission you know nothing about.”
“That is true,” Kang told him.
“You wish to be let in on the mystery.”
“True again,” Kang conceded.
Ibrach leaned forward in his seat, his lips pulling back to expose his teeth. “And who are you to make demands?” he roared, his voice echoing savagely from bulkhead to bulkhead. “Who gave you the authority?”
The younger Klingon stood his ground. “I am Kang,” he answered evenly, “son of K’naiah, and I ask permission of no one when my rights as a warrior have been trampled on.”
“Rights?” the captain spat, his voice dripping with disdain. “Of what rights do you speak?”
Kang didn’t back down. “A warrior must hold his honor higher than anything,” he insisted, “even higher than the predator who wheels in the heavens. But how can he know whether he follows the path of honor if his destination is shrouded in secrecy?”
[136] Ibrach lifted his chin. “In other words, you distrust my motives? You think I’m conspiring with the Federation?”
“I distrust nothing,” said Kang, “and everything, until the facts are set before me.”
“You,” the commander sneered, “who are little more than a mewling child?” He pounded his scarred, thick-knuckled fist on his armrest, coming within a half-inch of his weapon. “You wish to be privy to that which is spoken of in a captain’s councils?”
The younger warrior felt a flash of righteous anger. “I am no child,” he growled menacingly. “I am a warrior, my lord. If you have the slightest doubt about that—”
Ibrach held up his hand for silence. He glared at Kang for a moment. Then he did something that caught the younger Klingon completely off guard. He threw back his gray-haired head and laughed.
It was a loud laugh, a deep laugh. It resounded from one wall to the next, filling the room with its savage mirth. Kang hesitated, not knowing what to make of it.
“You mock me?” he asked.
“Far from it,” said his superior. “I applaud you, son of K’naiah. My officers told me about a whelp who yielded to no one, but I had to see him with my own eyes.” He pointed to the younger man with a gnarled finger. “I had to witness his bravado for myself.”
Kang regarded him. “Then you will tell me of our mission?” he wondered, d
aring to hope it was true.
Ibrach grunted. “I will. After all, it is the sort of mission that must be carried out time and again, and [137] you are a warrior who will have a command of his own one day.”
The younger Klingon shook his head from side to side. “I do not understand,” he was forced to admit.
“Not yet, you don’t,” his commander replied, his eyes narrowing with the promise of intrigue. “But you will, Kang. You will. ...”
Chapter Nine
VODIS VODANIS stood at the rail of his office’s wide, curved balcony and looked out over the capital city of his planet. It was an exhilarating experience, to say the least.
Elegant new buildings were rising everywhere, pristine pink and white towers and pale blue domes taking the place of the older, darker edifices that had been ravaged in the bad times five years earlier. Vodanis raised his face to the sun and smiled, basking in the knowledge that such a tragedy would never befall his people again.
Now their plentiful mineral resources would go toward the funding of more housing, more cultural programs, and more assistance for the needy. Their planet’s wealth wouldn’t be leached from it by pirates [139] and plunderers, bringing misery and destruction to their civilization in the process.
And why would they be spared further hardships? Because he and his counselors had seen the wisdom of joining the United Federation of Planets, a union of many different species with a single worthwhile goal—the advancement of science, trade, and culture.
Some among his people had warned Vodanis not to place his trust in the aliens, no matter how benign they might seem. After all, no Sordinian had ever benefited from contact with offworlders.
But Vodanis, who had been elected his people’s Prime mere months before the Federation’s first overture, followed his instincts above all. He welcomed the organization’s diplomatic envoys with open arms. He came to understand them and helped them to understand the Sordinians. And in the end, he saw to it that his world became an equal partner in the alliance.
These days, no one challenged the wisdom of the Prime’s decision any longer. After all, the Federation had done everything it said it would do for Sordinia IV. Except for one thing, of course—it never sent combat vessels to rescue the planet from pirates.
But then, it had never needed to. Since Vodanis’s world was accepted into the Federation, it hadn’t received a single visit from an alien force bent on plundering. Clearly, such visitors had been daunted by the reputation of the Sordinians’ new friends.
The Prime smiled. His people’s situation had not been so stable, so promising, in a hundred years, and [140] he had had a hand in making it that way. It was a gratifying thought, to say the least.
A hawk began circling one of the newest towers, as if looking for prey. Vodanis was studying it when he heard a short, shrill sound that originated inside his office. It was the sound of his communications device, alerting him to a caller.
Vodanis felt his pulse speed up as he went inside to respond. It had to be his daughter on the line, he told himself. She had reached the final stage of the capital’s annual visual-arts competition, and the winner was to be announced that morning.
The Prime hoped that his child had attained the top prize. She had worked so hard on her project, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night to make some small change or addition to it. It would be a great injustice, he reflected, if she were to fall short of her goal.
But then, Vodanis reminded himself, it would have been an even greater injustice if his daughter had never had the chance to pursue her calling—like so many young artists who had grown up during one alien invasion or another. If nothing else, he mused, at least his child had been raised in an era of peace and plenty.
If she won, he would be happy for her. But if she lost, it would not be the end of the world. He would remind her that there would be another competition the following year.
Sitting at his desk and pressing a stud on his communications device, the Prime said, “This is Vodanis.”
[141] But it wasn’t his daughter’s image that greeted him on his desk monitor. It was the image of his security minister, a heavyset individual with a long, proud braid. And unless the Prime was sorely mistaken, the man seemed frantic about something.
“Prime Vodanis,” Reggis heaved, barely able to catch his breath, “they are back! For the love of serenity ...” He pulled out a cloth and dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead.
Vodanis felt an all-too-familiar weight on the back of his neck. No, he thought, experiencing a bit of panic. Reggis can’t mean that. He must be speaking of something else.
“Who is back?” he forced himself to say.
The security minister swallowed. “The aliens, Prime—they have returned! You must alert our friends in the Federation!”
Feeling the weight on his neck getting heavier, Vodanis leaned closer to the monitor. “The aliens ... ? But surely, they know we are no longer alone ... no longer defenseless ...”
“If they know,” said Reggis, “they do not seem to care. You must contact the Federation, Prime, before it is too late!”
Vodanis was hardly any less agitated than his security minister. However, he had to have more information before he could consider sending a message to their allies. He had to understand the nature of the threat.
“How many ships?” he asked Reggis. “How close?”
The security minister shook his head. “You misapprehend me, Prime. They are not ships.”
[142] Vodanis straightened. “Not ships ... ? But then—”
Reggis held his hand up, cloth and all, and did his best to keep his explanation brief. When he was done, the Prime realized that his minister was right to be so frantic. The threat he described might have been the most dangerous the Sordinians had ever faced.
And as he had indicated, there were no ships.
“I will contact Starbase Twenty-three,” Vodanis said reassuringly. “They will dispatch someone to help us, Reggis.”
His minister sighed. “I am sure they will, Prime. I just hope that help arrives in time.”
Inwardly, Vodanis couldn’t help echoing the sentiment.
Kirk had barely begun his shift at the Constitution’s helm when he heard Lieutenant Borrik address the captain. As Augenthaler turned around in response, so did the second officer and his friend Gary.
“I have a communication for you from Starbase Twenty-three,” said the Dedderac. “Apparently, sir, we have new orders.”
Since Admiral Mangione sent them packing a day earlier, the Constitution had embarked on a long-overdue security sweep of her sector. Of course, Kirk had known that new orders would come down eventually, but he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.
Apparently, neither had Augenthaler. He scowled at Borrik. “Don’t tell me, Lieutenant. Eyes only, right?”
The Dedderac showed his teeth, which was as close [143] as he would ever come to a smile. “Actually, sir, it’s an unrestricted communication. I can put it on the viewscreen, if you like.”
The captain grunted, a little surprised. “By all means. It’ll be refreshing to speak to someone from the comfort of my bridge again.”
A moment later, the image of a Starfleet admiral appeared on the screen. But it wasn’t Ellen Mangione. It was a bald, gray-bearded man whom Kirk had never seen before.
“Admiral Blosser,” said Augenthaler. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this communication?”
The admiral smiled a wan smile. “It’s not a pleasure at all, I’m afraid. Are you familiar with Sordinia Four, Captain?”
“Of course,” Augenthaler responded. “It’s a Federation member-planet just a few light-years from here. What’s the matter?”
Blosser sighed. “A handful of satellites have suddenly shown up in orbit around the planet. The origin of the satellites is unknown, but the Sordinians believe they’re a prelude to invasion—particularly because their world is so rich in hard-to-find mineral resources.”
“And what does Starfleet think?” the captain inquired.
Kirk was wondering the same thing.
“We don’t know,” said the admiral. “That’s why we’re dispatching the Constitution. If you find that these satellites are threats to the security of Sordinia Four, you’re authorized to do whatever you deem necessary to get rid of them.”
[144] “And if we find they’re benign?” asked Augenthaler.
“Then you’ll have to find a way to convince the Sordinians of it. You see, they tend to be a little ... nervous, given their experiences before joining the Federation. If I had a credit for every time they’ve been plundered in the last fifty years, I’d have a fortune.”
The captain nodded. “I understand.”
“I’m glad,” said the admiral. “Keep me posted on the situation, will you? Blosser out.”
As the older man’s image vanished from the view-screen, Augenthaler turned to Gary. “Chart a course to Sordinia Four, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Aye, sir,” said the navigator as he got to work.
The captain glanced at Kirk. “Warp six, Lieutenant.”
“Warp six, sir,” the helmsman acknowledged.
They had a mission, he noted inwardly. True, it wasn’t the mission that would have told them what happened that night on the Republic, when he and his fellow cadets were confined to their quarters.
But at least it was something to keep his ghosts at bay.
As Mitchell looked up from his navigational controls to scan the bridge’s forward viewscreen, he stole another glance at his friend.
Fortunately, Kirk seemed to have rejoined the ranks of the living. There was a glint in his eye and a lift to his chin that the navigator hadn’t seen since the [145] second officer beamed aboard the Constitution, and they were welcome sights indeed.
Of course, Mitchell would have felt even better if Kirk had opened up and told him what was on his mind. But Rome wasn’t built in a day, or so he’d heard. Having seen some improvement in his friend’s demeanor, he could find it in himself to be patient and let events unfold at their own pace.
STAR TREK: TOS #86 - My Brother's Keeper, Book Two - Constitution Page 11