Serpents in the Garden

by Jeff Mariotte

  “Sixty-one percent,” one of the Klingons said. His tone was casual, as if the outcome didn’t matter to him one way or the other. “We will weather another direct hit. I cannot say if we can take two.”

  “Reinforcements are on the way, but I can’t say when they’ll get here.”

  “We don’t have much time, Kirk!” Apella said.

  “Complaining won’t make them arrive any faster.”

  “Spoken like a true Klingon, Kirk,” Krell said. “One must always face death with pride and dignity.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” Kirk replied, “I’d rather put off that particular privilege a while longer.” He tapped a control on the panel before him and the ship went into a sudden dive. The bird-of-prey was considerably more agile than the lumbering freighter, but he was pretty sure the other crew had never had to contend with an opponent who made so many unexpected moves. As the bird-of-prey shifted position to swoop down and fire again, Kirk maneuvered the freighter’s nose up—glad the ship’s artificial gravity lessened the sensation—and triggered the disruptor cannons.

  “Direct hit!” the second crewmember shouted. The near-certainty of impending death had done nothing to quell his enjoyment of the battle itself. Nor had the fact that their opponents were his own kind.

  “Full speed ahead,” Kirk said, finessing the controls. Once he had the hang of it, the Klingon craft responded as well as a utilitarian craft made for hauling heavy cargo could. The ship darted past the bird-of-prey, even as that turned to keep it in sight. “Open the cargo bay.”

  “But the leutrinium—”

  “If we lose the ship, we lose the cargo anyway,” Kirk said. “Open the bay, now!”

  One of the crewmembers complied. The freighter was just zipping past the bird-of-prey’s nose, thrust forward like the bill of a bird in flight. Gravity wouldn’t be a factor here, but Kirk hoped that nonetheless, the metric tons of leutrinium rods in the bay might do some damage. And lightening the freighter’s load might help gain some speed.

  Kirk wondered in passing what sorts of birds they had on Qo’noS. The silhouette of a bird-of-prey had always looked like a duck to him, though a Klingon battle cruiser had no direct corollary in the avian world on Earth, unless it was a goose that had suffered serious disfigurement, including having its neck stretched triple its normal length.

  “Maintaining course and speed,” Kirk reported. He was trying to move the fight closer to where the Captain Cook would be coming from. Every minute counted now, so if he could shave one or two, it might make all the difference.

  On the viewscreen, he saw hundreds of leutrinium rods strike the bird-of-prey, though he couldn’t tell if there was any effect. A moment later, the other ship powered through them and rocketed toward the freighter again.

  And then he saw a new red triangle show up on the screen. He touched the comm controls. “Is that you, Grumm?”

  “If those other two are you and your dance partner, Jim.”

  “That’s us. If you hurry, you’ll be in time for the next number.”

  “Pushing it as fast as we can.”

  “She’s closing in,” Krell said. Kirk glanced at the red triangles on the screen, then at the viewscreen. It showed him the bird-of-prey powering in their direction, wings down. “We will be in range in three, two—”

  “Shields up,” Kirk said. He pushed the freighter’s nose down, hoping to skate under the incoming blast.

  It almost worked. The freighter lurched and shook, and smoke poured out of one of the bridge consoles. “Apella, put out that fire,” Kirk said.

  “With what?”

  Krell said something in Klingon—Kirk couldn’t tell what, but it sounded rude—and snatched a tubular device off a grip on the wall. He thrust it into Apella’s hands, and the governor got down on his knees and starting trying to open the console.

  “Damage report,” Kirk said.

  “No vital systems affected,” one of the Klingons reported. “Some minor structural damage to the underside of the hull and the cargo bay door. Shields at thirty-six percent.”

  The ChonnaQ still had its full complement of photon torpedoes. It was toying with them. One torpedo would obliterate the freighter. “Can we manage another shot with the disruptor cannon?”

  “One, perhaps. That will be our last.”

  “We’re taking it.” Kirk eased the unwieldy vessel back into firing position and triggered the cannon.

  The enthusiastic Klingon—now Kirk regretted not having learned their names—barked a laugh. “Another fine shot, Kirk,” he said.

  Kirk was already rolling the freighter out of the way of any return fire and then pushing it toward the Captain Cook with every ounce of power it had to give. “Grumm,” he said into the comm unit, “are you ready to engage?”

  “We’re not a fighting ship, Jim,” Grumm reminded him. “We’ve got some capabilities, but not a lot.”

  “Use whatever you’ve got, Grumm. And thanks.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Are you in range?”

  “Not yet. Almost.”

  “I’m just about out of tricks here, I’m afraid.”

  “Closing in.”

  “Be careful. We might have weakened her a little, but that bird-of-prey still has plenty of punch.”

  “Careful’s my middle name.”

  “I thought that started with a D.”

  “David, if you ask my folks. I’ll stick with ‘careful,’ though.” The Captain Cook stopped transmitting for a moment, then came back. “I’m going to shut up for a few minutes here, if that’s okay. Got some things to do. Cook out.”

  Kirk veered off to starboard and tried to open a space for the incoming ship to cover them. Grumm was risking his ship and his crew. When this was all over—if anybody survived—Kirk would make sure that Grumm got as many Federation contracts as he could handle.

  The Captain Cook streaked toward the bird-of-prey. The Klingon captain seemed to understand that this newcomer was a threat now. Kirk wished he still had some offensive capabilities. Two-to-one, they might have had a chance against the Klingon fighter. As it was, short of ramming the thing, all he could do was watch.

  It might come to ramming, at that.

  “You have steady nerves, Kirk,” Krell said. “Pity you were not born a Klingon.”

  “I never considered that a drawback,” Kirk said. He watched on the viewscreen as the Captain Cook and the bird-of-prey exchanged fire. These were getting-acquainted volleys, each ship feeling out the other without fully committing.

  That didn’t last long. Soon enough, the ChonnaQ was pummeling the Captain Cook and ignoring the Klingon freighter.

  Kirk took advantage of the opportunity to reposition the freighter, edging in ever closer to the bird-of-prey while trying to stay just far enough away not to attract undue attention. Apella had finished with the fire and stood over Kirk’s shoulder. “What are you doing, Kirk? That’s too close!”

  “Getting us into ramming position,” Kirk said.

  “Ramming? We’ll die!”

  “No doubt. But if it looks bad for the Cook, then we’re ramming that bird-of-prey.”

  “Are you certain there is no Klingon blood in you?” Krell asked.

  “He is too ugly,” one of the crewmembers said. “But he is bold.”

  Kirk held the freighter in place, keeping up as the bird-of-prey maneuvered to exchange shots with the Captain Cook. He checked in periodically with Makin, since Grumm was a little busy. The communication officer’s last update was, “I don’t know how much more we can take, Admiral.”

  “We’re going in,” Kirk said. He eased the freighter’s nose down just a little and began to accelerate toward the bird-of-prey.

  “But Kirk—” Apella began.

  “I’m not letting those people die for us.” He didn’t bother to add that if the Captain Cook was lost, the freighter would be next, anyway.

  The bird-of-prey seemed to know what he had in mind
. It was turning toward the freighter, intent on vaporizing it before it could reach ramming speed. Those photon torpedoes had not yet come into play. Now it would be a race against time. Before the freighter had built up any speed, the comm system crackled and a familiar female voice sounded. “Klingon freighter, if you’re doing what I think you are, you might want to hold off and let us take a crack at it.”

  Kirk glanced down at the screen. A new red triangle showed, moving fast toward the bird-of-prey.

  Even so, Kirk couldn’t quite believe his ears. “Uhura?”

  Thirty-Three

  “The ChonnaQ readies torpedoes,” one of the Klingon crewmembers said.

  The bird-of-prey hadn’t even reacted to the presence of the new ship, which was coming in so fast Kirk could already tell it was a Constitution-class starship. The Enterprise? Couldn’t be, not yet. The Klingon ship would have to respond soon, but first it was intent on accomplishing its original goal—wiping the freighter from existence.

  “Kirk, were you expecting somebody else?” the captain of the Potemkin said over the comm.

  Kirk recognized the voice. “Tutakai, if you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve, now would be the time to play them.”

  “Stand by, Klingon freighter . . .” he said.

  “Photon torpedoes launching,” the Klingon said.

  “. . . to beam out.”

  “Now, Tutakai.”

  Even as he spoke the words, Kirk, Apella, Krell, and the other two Klingons were starting to shimmer. Their outlines became vague, indistinct, and Kirk felt the familiar sensation of insubstantiality.

  “Impact in four,” the Klingon was saying. “Three. Two.”

  As always, there was no time lag, not even time for thought between here and there.

  “One,” the Klingon said. But he was blinking into solidity on a transporter pad, on a Starfleet ship.

  Apella stared about in stunned silence.

  “Where are we?” Krell demanded.

  Kirk looked across to the control podium and saw Montgomery Scott grinning at him, flanked by three armed security officers.

  “Mister Scott,” Kirk said. He stepped off the pad and joined Scotty at the controls. “Do you think you could put our guests down on the surface of that planet? Quickly.”

  “Aye, Admiral. I believe I can accommodate that request.”

  “Kirk . . .” Krell said. He started toward the edge of the pad, but the security officers moved to intercept him and he froze in place.

  “You’ll be put down someplace not far from Victory, but not in the middle of the fighting, if it’s still going on. I’ll join you soon. We’re going to have a talk about how quickly the Klingon presence on Neural will be eliminated.”

  “But Kirk—”

  Kirk glanced at the coordinates Scott had entered. “That’ll work,” he said, “Energize.”

  As the transporter began its process, Kirk added, “When I say quickly, I mean immediately, Krell. We’ll talk.”

  Then the Klingons were gone, along with Apella.

  Kirk turned to Scott. “The bridge,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  On the turbolift, Scott explained that the Potemkin’s captain, Sukaru Tutakai, had allowed them to assist in his rescue. When they reached the bridge, Kirk nodded to Uhura and Chekov, then turned back to Scott. “The freighter?”

  Uhura indicated the big viewscreen. The Captain Cook was there, as was the bird-of-prey. All that remained of the freighter were shards of debris floating in space.

  “Uhura, tell the Captain Cook to get out of here,” Kirk ordered. “We’ll take over now.”

  “Aye, sir,” she said.

  Admiral Kirk stepped down into the command well. “I apologize, Captain Tutakai. I’ve overstepped.”

  “No need, sir,” the Potemkin’s captain said. “Do you have something in mind?”

  “I do.”

  “Then the vessel’s yours, sir.” Tutakai stood up, surrendering his seat. “As long as you need her.”

  “Thank you, Sukaru,” Kirk said. He settled into the captain’s chair. Back where he belonged. Not behind a desk, not in the hills and gardens of Neural. No other place had ever felt so much like home.

  “Now, Uhura, get the Captain Cook out of there. We’ve got a bird to pluck.”

  Thirty-Four

  “They’re gone?” Kirk asked.

  “Every last one of them,” Apella said. “I watched them leave myself. Krell assured me that they would not return.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “As much as I have ever believed a Klingon. More. He could not wait to leave.”

  “Krell knew the Organians would be checking in,” Kirk said. “He knew that if the Klingons were still here, there would be trouble. The kind he couldn’t talk his way out of.”

  They sat at a long table in Freehold’s open plaza. Kirk, Tyree, and Apella were clustered at its head, where they’d been discussing Neural’s future. Meena was next to Kirk, Elanna across from her, then Nyran, bandaged and pale, and Joslen. Then more, and still more; the plaza was full of Freeholders and Victors alike.

  “Tomorrow,” Tyree said, “we begin rebuilding the smelter.”

  “To operate for the benefit of us all,” Apella added. “As you suggested.”

  “Cooperation builds worlds,” Kirk said. “And it’s better to be friends than enemies.”

  Apella launched into a discussion about plans for improving the smelter. Kirk was only half-listening, distracted by thoughts of Rowland, Burch, and Hay, whose bodies had been recovered and beamed to the Potemkin. He didn’t even notice Meena leaning in until she touched his shoulder. “James,” she said. “May we walk for a bit?”

  Kirk looked back at Apella and Tyree. They were so engrossed in conversation, they wouldn’t even notice he was gone. He rose from the bench and took Meena’s hand as they left the plaza.

  “I know you have to leave,” she said when they were alone.

  “Meena, I—”

  She put a finger against his lips. “No, don’t. I understand. You have other things to do. Things that are more important than the affairs of a lot of silly people on a backward planet. I’m impressed that you took as much time here as you did.”

  He could have told her that wasn’t entirely by choice—he hadn’t been able to contact his ride home anyway. But even if he had been able to, would he have left before the job was done? Probably not, he decided.

  He hoped it was done now, and for good. Tyree and Apella were getting along, and peace seemed to have been established between the warring factions. There would be trouble going forward, of course. Old grudges would flare up, people who had lost loved ones might not find forgiving as easy as they would like. But as long as most of the people were in agreement, those issues could be dealt with.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “I do have to go. I have . . . things to do. Responsibilities. And to tell you the truth, Meena, as much as I like it here, I belong . . .” He couldn’t explain to her how it had felt to sit in a captain’s chair again, on the bridge of a starship. He knew what it signified, though. “I belong somewhere else.”

  “You will think of me, from time to time, won’t you?”

  He put his hands on her arms and drew her close. “I’ll think of you often, Meena.”

  She pressed herself against him. “Just . . . don’t tell me you will come back, James. I would like it, if you did. But I do not want to wait for you. Especially if you never make it.”

  “I won’t make any promises, then,” he said. He knew he wanted to return. If nothing else, he wanted to make sure the peace held, and that the Klingons respected Neural’s hands-off status.

  “Good,” she said. “It’s better that way.” She went up on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips. “Surprise me if you can. And James?”

  “Yes, Meena?”

  “Thank you. For all you have done. For us, for Neural. For Tyree.”

  “It’s . . .” He
paused. He couldn’t explain it any better than he already had. It was what a starship captain did. It was the job. And that job meant more to him than anything. “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “We should get back to the celebration,” Meena said. “You are already somewhere else. In your mind.” She waved toward the sky. “Up there, among the stars.”

  “I suppose I am, Meena,” Kirk said. “You’re right. We should get back.”

  But he didn’t make any moves in that direction. Instead he stood there, on Freehold’s dark road, looking up. Looking at the stars blazing overhead, the constellations, and the black spaces between the stars. Those roads that only a starship could travel.

  “We should get back,” he said again.

  Even he couldn’t have said exactly what he meant by that. He didn’t try. He took Meena’s hand, and they walked together, back into the noise of celebration, the laughter and the song, the smells of meat cooked over open flame, of fresh vegetables and fruits arrayed on tables. Back to where people, liberated from fear, spoke about the futures they might have. Back into the light.

  They waited for him, aboard the Potemkin, Uhura and Scotty and Chekov, and the ship’s crew. They were no doubt eager to be on their way, to head for home. Scotty wanted to get back to work on the Enterprise refit. Even Kirk felt a new urgency, to begin the necessary steps that would lead him back to a captain’s chair.

  But they had waited this long. They could wait a little while longer.

  Kirk took his seat at the table, next to Meena, and he lifted his glass. “This is something we do at home,” he said. “A toast. To my friend Tyree . . .”

  Acknowledgments

  Great thanks to Bud and Debby Hart, who raised a Star Trek fan and provided invaluable assistance with this book. Thanks also to Margaret Clark and Ed Schlesinger, Howard Morhaim, Beth Phelan, Marsheila Rockwell, Dianne Larson, and, as ever, Maryelizabeth Hart, Holly Mariotte, and David Mariotte.

  About the Author

  Jeff Mariotte is the award-winning author of more than fifty novels, including the supernatural thrillers Season of the Wolf, River Runs Red, Missing White Girl, and Cold Black Hearts; thriller The Devil’s Bait; horror epic The Slab, the Dark Vengeance teen horror quartet; and others, as well as dozens of comic books, notably Desperadoes and Zombie Cop. In addition to two previous Star Trek novels, he has written books, stories, and comics set in other beloved fictional universes, including those of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and CSI: Miami, The Shield, Criminal Minds, Conan, Superman, Spider-Man, Hellraiser, and many more. He’s a co-owner of specialty bookstore Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego and Redondo Beach, California, and he lives in southeastern Arizona on the Flying M Ranch. Please visit him at jeffmariotte.com or facebook.com/JeffreyJMariotte.