Sand and Stars

by Diane Duane

  Peter moved slowly, as painful awareness of his battle in the alley grew sharper, more persistent with every passing second. His arm and head hurt. His right side throbbed with every breath.

  Cautiously, he turned his head, his gaze traveling across the small, narrow enclosure with its dingy, gray bulkheads. Reality. He swallowed, as fear finally set in.Where the hell am I?

  Biting his lip, Peter gingerly pushed himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the standard bunk, his head in his hands.And what is that smell?

  Sighing, he turned his attention to the plain room. It was small, barely four meters by three, and, except for the bunk, which folded out of the wall, nearly featureless.

  There were a few indentations that might indicate servo panels concealed in the walls, but no windows. Peter shuddered, swallowing a sudden surge of claustrophobia. He felt light-headed and nauseated from the stun shot, and his knees were weak. Sitting silently on the bunk, he paused, just listening.

  There was no sound, no sound at all.

  …Or was there?

  After a moment’s intense concentration, Peter began to sense something. Was it a faint noise? A vibration? Or just a sixth sense that told him he was no longer in normal space-time? Suddenly, heknew.

  His engineering instructor had said you could sense the spacewarp, even if you couldn’t see it.

  He was aboard a spaceship, traveling at warp speed, destination unknown. This wasn’t a room, it was a cabin.

  Peter’s mouth went so dry that he couldn’t even swallow. Wanting to give himself something constructive to do besides panicking, Kirk rose and systematically began to explore the cabin’s flat, drab walls.

  The whole place had a well-worn, grimy patina that testified to extensive use, and the panels that made up the walls were uniform and interchangeable, allowing the dimensions of the cabin to be altered according to need. The only door was heavy, with no viewing ports. While he could see where the mechanism for manual overrides probably lay, there was no way he could get through it—even if he could figure out the system—to force the doors to open. He searched for a surveillance system and couldn’t find one—but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one trained on him at all times.

  Methodically, the cadet pressed one of the innocuous indentations on the wall, and a tiny water dispenser revealed itself. He stared, mesmerized by clear, fresh-smelling fluid, but in spite of his parched mouth, passed it by. The water, he suspected, would probably be drugged. It would be the most logical way to keep a prisoner under control. He went about examining the other wall indentations and discovered an odd hole in the floor. By its smell, he decided, it could only be a head—but the style was unfamiliar to him.

  When was the last time this thing was cleaned?he wondered, realizing that this was the source of some of the smell.

  Water and a toilet,he mused.But no food. His eyes strayed back toward the water fountain.So, how long do you think you can last without water? The memory of the cool-looking fluid was working on him already.

  Just then a soft machinery sound hummed, breaking into his thoughts. He whirled, crouching, his instincts on override, but it was just a serving panel extruding from a niche in the wall. There was a tray on the panel, as colorless as the panel itself. Whoever had designed this starship had been really fond of monochromatic schemes. Peter approached the tray.

  Piled in a small, equally colorless bowl were dry ration pellets. They didn’t resemble the rations he was used to, but they had that same processed-food-for-space-travel look about them—a soft gray green in color, tubular, about two centimeters in length, and maybe half a centimeter in width. He sniffed. The mealy-looking pellets had a pungent, fishy smell. They were entirely too reminiscent of the prepared food Grandma Winona used to feed her parrot.

  Except this stuff is probably full of drugs,he suspected. He could see the packaging now—AUNT SYLVIA’S KIDNAPPER CHOW. REDUCES STRESS. INCREASES COOPERATION. Yes, there’d be something in there to keep him quiet, calm…cooperative. He frowned at the food. It wouldn’t be long before even its unappealing scent would make his mouth water. While he could last without food a lot longer than he could without water, that didn’t mean that he could afford towaste these.

  He spilled the pellets onto the tray and started lining them up in rows until he’d spelled out, in English words, “Who are you?” Then he carefully pushed the tray back into the wall. Of course, the “leftovers” might be jettisoned directly into the recycler, but somehow, he didn’t think so. They’d want to weigh how much he’d eaten, know how much drug he might absorb…to determine just how much trouble he was going to be when they arrived.

  Arrived where?he wondered, frustrated. It could be anywhere. He didn’t even know how long they’d been traveling. If they’d stunned him repeatedly (and his headache argued that they probably had), he might have been unconscious fordays.

  Peter walked back to the bunk and sat down. Why in the world would the KEHL kidnap him, then ship himoff-world? That was the part that really had his head spinning. Or was that the safest way they could think of to deal with him, once they’d figured out who he really was?

  Had he been sold to the highest bidder? There were still slave traders in the galaxy, though Starfleet had mostly shut them down. But would the KEHL have handed him over toaliens? That thought was the hardest to swallow, but there was little about this room that suggested a human-designed ship. Aliens would explain the smell, too. It was analien odor, the smell of body chemistries that were not human in 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—one 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 that’s you, 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 own—when he wasthinking 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 reallywould 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 humanlypossible, 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 if I 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 Klingon. 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, Wurrl, were left.

  The Vulcan wished 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 Wurrl’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 arc, then sent him crashing against the wall. Wurrl 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 Wurrl, 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, forestalling the Starfleet admiral. “Commander Keraz was not responsible for this incident,” he said. “I am certain of that.”

  As Sarek spoke, he caught 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.”

  Soran 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 neg
otiations, it is that all of the responsibility for my actions will be focused onme, 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, bitter growl of laughter. “And you ask mewhy, 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? ThatI have also been influenced? That some telepathmade 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.”