by Diane Duane
Amanda’s mention of his father caused all of Spock’s anger to return full force. His mother did not miss the change in his expression, slight as it was. “Spock,” she said, putting out a hand toward him, “try not to be angry with your father. Sarek is simply doing what he has to do, being who and what he is.” Pride surfaced for a moment on her features. “And heis the best, Spock. Never forget that. Those people on Kadura could not have a better champion than your father.”
“Senkar is also an experienced diplomat who has handled situations of this kind before. My father could have allowed him to negotiate with this Klingon renegade.”
“You’re really angry with him, aren’t you?” Amanda’s eyes were huge and full of distress. “Oh, Spock…long ago I begged Sarek to try and understand you, instead of simply judging you and finding you wanting. Now I ask you the same thing…try to understand your father! Forgive him…I know I do.”
“Mother, I cannot,” Spock said flatly. “You are his wife. His place is by your side.”
Visibly upset, his mother closed her eyes, shaking her head as she lay limply against her pillows. “Oh, Spock…don’t be so hard on him. We all make mistakes.”
The Vulcan regarded her with concern, realizing that she was fighting back tears. He’d never meant to distress her….
Spock put out a hand, closed it comfortingly over his mother’s. “Very well, Mother. I will attempt to be more…understanding.”
Amanda nodded weakly, her eyelids drooping. “Thank you, Spock…. ”
The Healer’s aide suddenly appeared from out of the shadows in the sitting room, where the monitor screens were placed. Motioning to Spock to go, she whispered, “She will sleep now, Captain Spock. I suggest you leave and return later.”
The Vulcan nodded quietly, and left the chill room and the slight, silent form of his mother.
Peter Kirk unfastened the front of his uniform jacket even before the door to his apartment opened. His garments seemed to have absorbed some of the sticky fatigue that he felt must be seeping out of every pore. Stepping inside, he yanked the collar of his shirt open, feeling as if he were about to strangle.
He was so tired he wasn’t even sure how well he did on his navigation exam. Oh, he was sure he’d passed, but this was one test he might not have aced. To know he might’ve dropped a grade because of the time he’d spent with the KEHL made him feel like a fool.
He tossed the tired uniform into the recycler. And as he did so, his comm link sounded, signaling an incoming call. Fearing it might be Lisa, Peter braced himself and accepted the call. He blinked in surprise when he found himself staring at his uncle. He’d only sent Jim that message early this morning, and the elder Kirk was the last person he’d expected to hear from. Uncle Jim couldn’t possibly have gotten his message yet…could he?
“Hello, Peter,” Kirk’s image said, though he didn’t smile.
“Uncle Jim!” the younger man exclaimed. “This is a surprise! I thought you were out near the Neutral Zone someplace!”
“I’m here in San Francisco,” his uncle said, his words sounding clipped, as though he were rushed, or angry. He was wearing full uniform, but Peter couldn’t tell where he was calling from…his uncle’s image filled nearly the entire screen.
“You are? Well, that’s great!”
“I’m at my apartment,” Kirk said, solemnly. “I need to see you, Peter. Can you come over?”
The younger Kirk felt his spirits rise. If anyone would know how to deal with the KEHL, how to get around the skepticism of Commander Twelvetrees, it would be James T. Kirk.
“I need to see you, Peter,” Jim repeated. “Can you come over here immediately?”
“Well…sure,” Peter said, glancing at the chrono with an inward groan. He desperately needed about six hours’ sleep. But if Jim needed him…“I’ll be there as soon as I can. About half an hour.”
“Good,” Kirk said, and the comm link went dark.
Peter stared at the screen for a moment, puzzled. Something about the call seemed odd, but Peter decided his brief association with the KEHL was making him paranoid. Oh, well. He’d find out what was going on when he got there.
After a brisk sonic shower, he wearily dragged on the first clothes that came to hand—a pair of loose exercise pants and a baggy white shirt. Glancing at his chrono as he hastily ran a comb through his hair, he saw that it was a few minutes after midnight; Peter groaned inwardly. Another night’s sleep ruined—and tomorrow he was supposed to work with Lisa again, bright and early. Not to mention that there were only a few days left before hisKobayashi Maru test!
I’ve got to slow down, or I’ll drop in my tracks,he thought, as he left his apartment and hurried down the corridor toward the elevator.
He decided to walk; his uncle’s apartment was only ten minutes away, and the brisk fall air would wake him up. It was a weekday, so there were few people out this late. The cool breeze nipped at him, and Peter wished belatedly that he’d thought to put on a jacket.
As he strode quickly down the sidewalk, not allowing his steps to lag, something moved in an alley to his left. In the glow of the streetlight, he caught a flash of silver. Peter checked, peering into the darkness, and a voice reached his ears. “Peter?”
The voice, though choked and breathless-sounding, was familiar. The cadet frowned and started toward the alley. “Lisa?” he called softly. “Is that you?”
A moment later, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness away from the streetlight, he saw her. She was walking toward him, obviously distressed. “Peter!”
“What is it, Lisa?” he asked, concerned. Much as he detested her bigoted views, he had grown attached to Lisa the woman. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” she whispered, moving toward him. “It’s…it’s Induna. He needs us, Peter, he needs us terribly. I need you to come with me!”
“Well, I—”
The cadet caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, felt a rush of air on his cheek, and, in accordance with all of Starfleet’s training, ducked. As he moved to the side, a blow caught him across his upper arm with numbing force. Lisa gasped and frantically scuttled back, toward the mouth of the alley.
“Get help!” Peter yelled at her, as his assailants closed in. Two men, one tall, the other short, both burly, both obviously experienced street fighters. Peter lashed out with a side kick toward the shorter one’s chest, but the man was too fast, and he hadn’t struck hard enough. Accustomed to pulling blows in class, he did not connect with enough force to disable his opponent. Before he could follow up with a front punch, the taller man’s fist smashed against his cheekbone with head-spinning force.
Training stood him in good stead as he reacted without thought, grabbing the man’s shirtfront and turning his fall into a back roll. As he went down with the man atop him, Peter brought his knee up into the other’s stomach, hearing the breath whoosh from his attacker’s lungs.
Letting his opponent sail on over his head, Peter regained his feet in time to meet a rush from the shorter man. He struck at the man’s neck, but again this one was too quick to allow the blow to land full-on.
Peter leaped at him, his body twisting in midair, his foot coming up in a tornado kick.This time he had the satisfaction of feeling his instep connect solidly with the side of the man’s head. Shorty went down, and stayed down.
Whirling, hands and feet at the ready, Peter was just in time to block a blow from the tall man, but seconds later he took a smashing kick to his rib cage. Gasping for air, he aimed a back punch at the man’s chest, and followed it up with a quick foot sweep.
Two down. Panting from the stabbing pain in his ribs, Peter spun, half-staggering, half-running as he headed for the mouth of the alley. He glimpsed Lisa’s silver coat just ahead of him. “Run, Lisa!” he tried to shout, but his breath was too short for much sound to emerge.
As young Kirk raced toward the mouth of the alley and the comparative safety of the well-lit street, Lisa stepped out to
bar his path. The cadet had only one shocked instant to realize that the faintly shining object she held in her hand, pointed straight at him, was a phaser.
No!he thought, frantically.She set me up! It was a trap!
“Stop right there, Peter,” she commanded, in a voice he’d never heard her use before.
Peter had been trained how to deal with an armed opponent.Hit her, hit her, his brain screamed, but for a critical instant he hesitated.
Damn!he thought bleakly.What would Uncle Jim do?
But he had no time to ponder the question, for, without further ado, Lisa Tennant gave him a brilliant smile, aimed carefully, and triggered the phaser.
Peter heard the whine, glimpsed a flash of energy, and then there was only blackness….
Four
Sarek sat at a comm link located in his private suite in the conference center on Deneb IV. Before him, on the screen, Chancellor Azetbur’s three-dimensional image gazed out at him. “Ambassador Sarek…” she said, inclining her head slightly, one equal to another.
“Madame Chancellor,” the Vulcan returned the greeting. “I gather that you have been briefed regarding the situation on Kadura?”
“I have,” she said. “I regret what has happened, Ambassador Sarek.”
“I understand, Madame Chancellor,” Sarek said. “I discussed the matter with President Ra-ghoratrei upon my arrival last evening, and he informed me that you had spoken together regarding this crisis.”
Azetbur’s exotic features were tight with tension, and the mantle of leadership was clearly taking its toll on her. Sarek was vividly reminded that she had lost both husband and father barely a month ago. “This entire incident is unfortunate,” she said. “Commander Keraz…I must admit that when I heard that he had initiated this raid, I was surprised. I have known the commander for years, and, while he can be…headstrong…he has always been loyal. Keraz is—was—a warrior who served the Empire with distinction, in the most honorable manner.”
“I see…” Sarek said. “I have yet to meet the commander. Our first session begins in a few minutes. May I ask why you called, Madame Chancellor?”
“I want the renegades extradited, Ambassador Sarek. Have the Federation take Keraz and his men, and hand them over to me, so that I may make an example of them…an example that will speak vividly to any others who may be contemplating such treason against my government.”
Sarek took a deep breath. Azetbur was many things, but “soft” or “merciful” was not one of them. “I regret, Madame Chancellor, that I cannot do that. I have no authorization from the president to do so…and my priority in this unfortunate situation must be the safety of the citizens of Kadura. I must decline your request.”
“I see.” Azetbur stared at him, her jaw muscles tight. Sarek had been prepared for her demand—Ra-ghoratrei had warned him last night of what the Empire wanted. “Do you propose, then, to simply let them go free?”
“If that is the agreement I negotiate, then that is what I must do,” Sarek said. “However…” He paused for a moment in feigned deliberation. “…what happens to Kerazafter he leaves the planet is not my affair.”
“We will catch him, Ambassador. Of that you can be sure. The honor of my people depends on these traitors being captured and dealt with.”
Sarek nodded.
Azetbur’s expression thawed still more, and she actually chuckled aloud. “Ambassador Sarek,” she said, “I understand for the first time the strength of your people. You excel at making others decide that what you want is what they, also, desire most.”
The Vulcan inclined his head. “You are most gracious, Madame Chancellor.”
After both parties signed off, Sarek stood at the window, gazing out at the lush wilderness that lay beyond.
Sarek approved of Deneb IV, also called Kidta, precisely because of its extreme isolation. The strictest security was being maintained: only a skeleton staff was allowed at the conference center, and Sarek, Soran, and the Vulcan ambassador to Orion, Stavel, were the only Vulcans. If Sarek had to negotiate with Klingons, he wanted to make sure he was dealing with Klingons acting on their own, under no duress from an outside influence. As nearly as he had been able to discover (and he had run extensive checks), there wasn’t a single Freelan in this sector, much less on this world, or at the conference center.
Which was the way Sarek wanted it.
Any moment now, his aide would call him to the table to begin negotiations with Commander Keraz and his captains. Sarek had already braced himself to endure the presence of Klingons. Their emotions were primal and close to the surface, worse even than human emotions, and most Vulcans could sense them without being in physical contact. Sarek had no reason to suppose that Keraz would be different.
He was still puzzling over the Klingon renegade’s request for negotiation as a solution to this crisis. It was out of character for Klingons to sit down andtalk their way out of a problem, rather than just blasting everything around.
“Ambassador,” someone said quietly, from behind him. Sarek turned to see Soran.
“Are we ready to begin?” he asked, and the young Vulcan nodded.
Sarek straightened his formal robe, making sure the heavy, bejeweled folds hung properly, then followed Soran down the hall, into the conference room. It was a medium-sized room, with neutral-colored walls, two of which could be made transparent to show a view of the forest. A long table occupied the center of the room, and chairs suitable for humanoids surrounded it. There were two doors, one at each end of the room. From the door on Sarek’s left, Admiral Smillie and an aide emerged, and from the other, four Klingons. One of the Klingons held a green-skinned Orion woman by the arm, marching her along peremptorily, but without any intentional cruelty.
Sarek raised his hand in the Vulcan salute to the Klingon in the lead. “Commander Keraz, I presume?”
The short, rather stocky Klingon nodded sharply. “Ambassador,” he said. His voice was much more mellow than most Klingons’. His skin was very dark, the color of antique leather.
The representatives seated themselves around the big middle table. Sarek eyed the Orion woman and was relieved to see that, aside from stress and fatigue, she did not seem to have been harmed. She stared back at him levelly out of eyes the color of onyx. When the round of introductions reached her, she said quietly, “s’Kara. I represent the people of Kadura.”
Sarek nodded, then looked over at Keraz. The Klingon seemed nervous, fingering his sash, picking at his belt as though he could not believe there were no weapons hanging there. Feeling Sarek’s glance, the leader looked up, then burst out, “We desire an honorable settlement to this situation, Ambassador. My ships and crews have not damaged the planet or its inhabitants”—at this, s’Kara’s eyes flashed indignantly, but she did not interrupt—“and, frankly, I have no interest in occupying a colony world composed mostly of…farmers.” His mouth twisted with distaste. “We are warriors, not colonists. We have no wish to become planetbound—Kadura is no fit place for warriors.”
Sarek inclined his head, noting that, beneath Keraz’s deliberately gruff exterior, the Klingon seemed genuinely eager to negotiate. “That is promising to hear,” Sarek said solemnly. “What are your terms, Commander?”
“We are prepared to withdraw…for the right price,” Keraz said. “We must be allowed to take our payment and leave Kadura unmolested by any Starfleet vessel.”
Sarek stared at the Klingon. Only a lifetime of habitual Vulcan control kept him from revealing his surprise. For Keraz to offer to withdraw at the beginning of the negotiations was the last thing he’d expected. Smoothly, giving no hint of his inner thoughts, Sarek said, “I am sure that, under the circumstances, something can be arranged.”
For a moment Sarek thought about his discussion with Azetbur. If Keraz thought he could successfully leave Federation space and find refuge across the Neutral Zone, he was sadly mistaken.
Studying Keraz’s face, as the Klingon began outlining his position, Sare
k wondered with part of his mind what had induced the commander to turn renegade. Was it disagreement with his government’s new, peaceful overtures to the Federation? Was it greed? Had Keraz snapped under pressure, and suffered some temporary madness?
Or…was it something else?
With stern resolve, Sarek concentrated all his logic, all his experience, on bringing the Kadura situation to a peaceful, swift, and satisfactory resolution. Amanda was still alive. Perhaps he could fulfill his duty and still return home in time. Perhaps…
Considering the circumstances, Peter Kirk decided, it would be better if he just didn’t wake up.
His most recent attempts to swim toward consciousness had been so unpleasant, he’d come to the conclusion that it simply wasn’t worth it. He’d much rather stay in this dark, muzzy netherworld, not asleep, but not awake, where he could keep his various aches and pains at bay and insist to himself that they weren’t real. That none of this was real. He’d just lie here, thank you, and think about theKobayashi Maru. Pondering that dreaded event was infinitely preferable to opening his eyes and facing what had happened to him. Peter had a feeling that no simulation, no matter how real-seeming, could possibly equal the mess he’d somehow gotten himself into.
He groaned. Here he was. Peter Kirk, nephew of the Federation hero James T. Kirk—a Starfleet cadet so clever, so bold, that he’d allowed himself to be duped and kidnapped by a bunch of reactionary bigots too disorganized to run a successful demonstration. No. It was worse than that. He’d allowed his confused feelings for a woman he barely knew to cause him a critical moment of hesitation.
Why didn’t you justsurrender,mister, and save everyone the trouble? Would Uncle Jim have hesitated to slug a woman if the fate of theEnterprise was at stake?Hell, no.
Peter couldn’t deny reality anymore; his conscience wouldn’t let him. He was indisputably awake. Groaning aloud, he opened his eyes. His head throbbed as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. Squinting at the ceiling, he thought it seemed too high, and the wrong color.Wrong color for what? he wondered foggily, but couldn’t remember.