by Greg Cox
“You could say that,” Sulu responded. “What about the ship? We destroyed the gravity cannon, but—”
“We’re fine,” she assured him, “but I’m pleased to hear that the cannon’s been taken care of. Is it really no longer a factor?”
“Trust me.” Sulu exchanged what seemed like a private joke with Yaseen. “It’s out of the picture. You don’t need to worry about it anymore.”
That was just what she wanted to hear.
“Belay that last command, Mister Fisher,” she instructed the helm. “Return to standard orbit.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
He began to turn the Enterprise around.
“Any chance of a pickup?” Sulu asked. He plucked at his incongruous gray suit. “I’m eager to get back in uniform.”
“And kick the dust of this planet off us,” Yaseen added. “No offense to the locals.”
“I think we can manage that,” Uhura replied. She trusted Sulu’s assessment of the situation on the ground. “Lower deflector shields, Mister Chekov.” She activated the intercom on her armrest. “Uhura to transporter room. Lock onto the signal from the planet and prepare to beam Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Yaseen aboard.”
“Yes, sir!” Lieutenant Kyle acknowledged via the comm. “Will do.”
Uhura took her finger off the comm button. “Anything else I can do for you, Mister Sulu?”
“Well, I am curious about one thing,” he admitted. “How is that you’re in the captain’s chair?”
She recalled that he didn’t know about Scotty’s accident, and that the injured engineer had still been in a bad way the last she’d heard. Had Alvarez managed to get that gravity mace to sickbay in time? And had it made any difference?
“Mister Scott is in sickbay,” she explained briefly. “You can get the full story later. . . .”
Once I find out whether Scotty is still alive, she thought.
“Reentering standard orbit,” Fisher reported. “Now within transporter range.”
Lieutenant Kyle didn’t waste any time. On-screen, Sulu and Yaseen dissolved into twin pillars of energized matter that swiftly faded from view, leaving only a sparkling afterimage behind. Palmer shut down the transmission once the two officers had completely dematerialized. An orbital view of Ephrata IV reoccupied the screen.
Confident that they had been safely beamed aboard, Uhura accessed the intercom again.
“Uhura to sickbay. Requesting an update on Mister Scott.”
McCoy personally responded over the comm:
“Looks like he’s going to pull through, thanks to that glowing green lifesaver you sent our way. Not having to fight that blasted weight made all the difference.” The irascible doctor sounded slightly more chipper than before. “Plus, it turns out that a certain stubborn Scotsman can take almost as much abuse as his precious engines.”
She could believe it. The hard part was going to be keeping Scotty away from engineering long enough to recover. He wasn’t one to readily accept being cooped up in sickbay, especially when there were repairs to be made to the ship and its systems. McCoy was probably going to have to put Scotty under restraint.
“And the rest of your patients, Doctor?”
“Enough to keep us hopping, but nothing critical.” He coughed loudly. “Now if I could just shake this damn fever . . . !”
“Physician, heal thyself,” she advised. “Uhura out.”
Another weight lifted from her shoulders. At least she didn’t have to worry about Scotty anymore.
“I knew Mister Scott was going to make it,” Chekov blustered. “He’s as sturdy as the Enterprise herself.”
“So it seems,” she agreed.
Palmer adjusted her earpiece. “Transporter room reports that Sulu and Yaseen are aboard, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Uhura replied. She momentarily considered having them report to sickbay to be checked out, but decided that McCoy and his staff already had their hands full. Sulu or Yaseen could decide for themselves if they needed medical attention. “Have them report to the bridge as soon as they’re able.”
She wanted to debrief them on what had transpired on Ephrata IV—and what had become of the captain and Mister Spock.
“I have a request of my own,” Maxah said, crossing the bridge to join her in the command circle. “When convenient, I would like to be returned to Ephrata so that I can accompany my fellow Ialatl back to our native universe.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” she asked. “I can’t imagine you’re going to get a warm reception from Sokis and the others.” She took his hand, which was smooth and cool to the touch. His smoky aroma teased her nostrils; she was getting used to it. “I’m certain the Federation would be willing to grant you asylum, considering your actions today.”
“Your hospitality is most generous,” he answered, “but I am still Ialatl. My place is with my people, back where I belong. They may judge me a traitor and apostate now, but I have faith that someday, perhaps soon, they will come to understand why I sided against the Crusade.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said. “But it’s your decision.”
She didn’t attempt to talk him out of it. To be honest, she wasn’t sure if she would be willing to abandon Earth and the Federation forever, even if she somehow found herself facing a court-martial.
I’d probably want to go home and face the music, too.
“There is another matter that needs to be attended to,” he reminded her. “Once my kin and I have been sent back through the rift to Ialat, you must destroy the portal . . . to prevent the Crusade from launching another campaign against this realm.”
She knew he was right, but she was in no hurry to take that step.
“What about Captain Kirk,” she asked, “and Mister Spock?”
He withdrew his hand and gazed down at her sadly.
“I fear they may be beyond rescuing.”
EIGHTEEN
The throne room of the God-King was easily as impressive as his title. Towering obsidian columns, carved in the heroic likenesses of his regal ancestors, supported a high, vaulted ceiling that made the Sistine Chapel back on Earth seem like a utility closet. Incense flavored the air. Lilting alien melodies emanated from concealed speakers or musicians. Huge bas-reliefs, covering entire walls, depicted the mythic history of the dynasty, beginning with a massive panel that portrayed the first God-King being suckled by a maternal scrilatyl, just as Vlisora had mentioned. Carved marble wings, edged with hammered silver, enfolded the divine infant, whose serene countenance lacked the spiny beard of an adult Ialatl. Kirk recalled that this legendary scenario had supposedly played out in a cavern beneath this very temple-slash-palace. He decided it was probably best not to mention that scrilatyl Spock had killed in the subway tunnels.
Spock. . . .
His friend’s apparent death back at the reflecting pool ached like a raw wound, more painful than any of the bumps and bruises inflicted by the pyramid’s guards. Granted, he had not actually seen Spock die, but Vlisora had sent him soaring toward the stratosphere and beyond. It was hard to imagine that Spock could have survived.
She didn’t need to do that, he thought angrily. Spock didn’t need to die.
But mourning his friend, and bringing Vlisora to justice, would have to wait. Kirk forced himself to focus on his current surroundings. Another colossal bas-relief immortalized two shirtless male Ialatl competing against each other in a contest that appeared to involve batting a severed Ialatl head through a hoop. A subsequent panel had the loser being relieved of his own head as well, while the winner offered praise and glory to his ancestors, who were shown beaming down at him from the heavens. Cheering throngs rejoiced in the background.
Gruesome, Kirk thought, but interesting. The decorative panels jogged his memory. Didn’t Lasem say something about “trial by ordeal”?
The throne room was dominated, appropriately enough, by an imposing black throne, inlaid with jade and turquoise, resting atop a tier
ed dais at the far end of the palatial chamber. Polished stone steps led up to the throne, which was presently unoccupied. A slightly smaller throne, off to the side and one tier below, was possibly intended for the God-King’s spouse. It, too, was empty. Kirk guessed it was going to stay that way, unless Jaenab had already acquired a new, less treasonous High Priestess.
Where is Vlisora now, he wondered, and what is she up to?
“Prepare yourself, infidel, to face the judgment of the God-King!”
A cadre of Crusaders, decked out in their palace best, shoved Kirk forward toward the throne. The sharpened tip of a gravity-lance prodded him in the back. He could feel its point even through the rumpled native poncho he was still wearing over his Starfleet uniform. Drying brown stains testified to his rough treatment at the hands of the guards. A split lip smarted. His face was bruised and scratched.
Temple guards, along with assorted priestesses and miscellaneous functionaries, watched avidly from the sidelines. A smaller, wingless version of a scrilatyl perched on the shoulder of a priestess-in-waiting. It screeched at Kirk as he passed by. He wondered when Jaenab himself was going to make his grand entrance.
“Are we expecting the God-King soon?” he asked.
“Patience, infidel!” the leader of his escorts said sharply. He poked Kirk with the lance again. “All must wait on the God-King’s pleasure.”
Kirk didn’t put up a fight. Unarmed and severely outnumbered, there wasn’t much point aside from the possible satisfaction of getting a few licks in before a gravity beam decided things. Besides, as Spock had pointed out earlier, there was something to be said for finally getting a chance to speak face-to-face with the God-King instead of just his minions. If Jaenab was anything like his fanatical worshippers, talking sense to him was not going to be easy, but Kirk needed to make the effort. Maybe words would prove more effective than phasers, fists, or force.
It’s worth a try, he thought. For diplomacy’s sake.
Trumpets blared. An amplified female voice boomed from above:
“All kneel before the God-King!”
The assemblage dropped to their knees save for the guards, who remained alert and at attention. All present, with the exception of Kirk, began chanting a hymn of praise. A spear landed heavily on his shoulders, and Kirk got the message. He knelt down on one knee, sacrificing a degree of dignity in the interest of etiquette. A starship captain often had to show proper respect to alien royalty and dignitaries.
A luminous green spotlight fell upon the empty throne, which began to rise from the dais. Glancing upward, Kirk saw a shining silver figure descending to meet the throne, much as the Crusaders had floated down from the pyramid before. The emerald effulgence poured down from the ceiling through a circular hatch. The base of the ascending throne glowed green as well, as did the obsidian scepter in the figure’s hand.
Lifting his gaze further, Kirk got his first good look at the God-King.
Jaenab was a tall, muscular Ialatl who was clearly in the prime of life. Disdaining the severe black tunics that attired his warrior-priests and priestesses, he wore a pleated black kilt with rich green trim. A voluminous cloak was draped over his broad shoulders, and his scaly hide had been buffed and polished until it practically shone. His spiny mane was an even brighter shade of gold than those of his subjects.
As God-Kings went, he certainly looked the part.
And, then of course, there was his crown. A jade circlet, studded with reflective black mirrors, girded his brow. Kirk recalled that, according to Vlisora, it was this very crown that permitted Jaenab to communicate telepathically with every other Ialatl. One of the looming bas-reliefs showed the first God-King, now grown into manhood, forging the crown from his own flesh and bones. Kirk suspected that its true origins had more to do with the long-forgotten science of some vanished civilization.
Like the Oracle on Yonada, he thought. Or the Controller on Sigma Draconis VI. One culture’s advanced technology becoming its descendants’ holy relic. . . .
Descending as from heaven, the God-King met his rising throne about three meters above the dais. The spotlight faded away as he took his place upon the throne, high above his subjects. He held out his scepter and the chanting ceased.
“Rise, my faithful sons and daughters. Your devotion is duly noted.”
His retinue climbed to their feet. Kirk took advantage of the opportunity to do the same. His bruised body protested the exertion. Biting down on his lip, he managed to avoid swearing in the God-King’s presence.
That might go over poorly, he guessed.
Jaenab gazed down at Kirk from his levitating throne. “This is the infidel from the false universe?”
“It is, Divinity,” the commander of the guard stated. “Captured according to your will.”
Jaenab nodded. “Show me.”
None too gently, the guards tore the blood-stained poncho from Kirk’s body, exposing his equally soiled Starfleet uniform. Onlookers gaped at the alien being on display. Jaenab’s lip curled in distaste.
If I’d known I was going to be presented to royalty, Kirk thought wryly, I would’ve worn my full dress uniform.
“And his companion?” Jaenab asked. “He was indeed lost to the sky?”
Kirk gathered that the God-King had already been briefed on the night’s events. He assumed that the official account was fairly damning where he was concerned. All the more reason to try to present my side of the story.
“As reported, Divinity.”
Jaenab turned his gaze toward the empty throne below. His brilliant mane darkened noticeably.
“And the former High Priestess, whose name shall no longer be spoken?”
“She remains at large, Divinity,” the commander said, shifting his weight uncomfortably. This was clearly a touchy subject. “But the search continues apace. We have already located her stolen flyer, which was found abandoned in an empty garage in the old arts district, and we have reason to believe that she has not gone far. Every scrilatyl in the realm is hunting her.”
Kirk wasn’t sure whether to root for the serpentine trackers or not.
“Redouble your efforts, Crusader. The harlot antipriestess must be brought to judgment, even if it means gazing upon her deceitful countenance once more.” A heavy scowl indicated that he was not looking forward to his next encounter with his errant wife. He gladly turned his attention back to Kirk. “So you are the God-Slayer?”
Kirk cringed. There’s that name again. . . .
“With respect, Divinity, I’m no ‘God-Slayer.’ ”
He took a step toward the throne, earning a warning growl from the nameless commander. “Watch yourself, infidel!”
“The stranger may approach,” Jaenab declared. “I confess myself intrigued. I have never met a being from another universe before, let alone so infamous a creature.”
“My ‘infamy’ may have been overstated,” Kirk said, being careful not to contradict Jaenab directly. Chances were, the God-King was considered infallible. “I’m simply James T. Kirk, a representative of the United Federation of Planets. We are a peaceful people who pose no threat to Ialat or its ways. Our Prime Directive expressly forbids us from interfering with your culture or religion.”
“Is that so?” Jaenab scoffed. “Then how do you explain this?”
He gestured with his scepter at a mammoth bas-relief depicting a former God-King being crowned. The panel revolved in its setting to reveal a large circular viewscreen on the opposite side. The mechanism operated smoothly, without any noise or friction, not unlike the automatic doors back on the Enterprise.
Kirk expected images to appear immediately upon the screen, but instead the literally king-sized disk detached itself from the wall and floated above the throne room, where it began spinning like a top. The speed of its rotation caused the disk to blur into a large floating orb, hovering more than three meters overhead. The orb was eye-level with the God-King. Everyone down on the floor had to tilt their heads back to look upon
it.
Holographic images appeared within the spinning orb. Recorded earlier, they caught Kirk in the act of fighting back against the Crusaders during the battle beneath the floating pyramid. Caught in the white-hot glare of the searchlight, Kirk fired his phaser at the oncoming guards before resorting to flailing punches and kicks. He had to admit that it didn’t look good.
“I can explain—” he began.
“Are you not seen here in open defiance of the Crusade?” Jaenab interrupted. “Brazenly attempting to trespass upon the Temple of Passage in order to strike at the portal bringing Truth to your worlds?” He pointed his scepter accusingly at Kirk. “Word of your rebellion is already spreading throughout Ialat, encouraging those among us who have recklessly turned away from the Truth.”
Just as Vlisora hoped, Kirk realized. It dawned on him that Jaenab could not afford to go easy on him, not after Kirk’s very public tussle with the Crusaders. If Vlisora had successfully positioned Kirk as a hero to her fellow dissidents and freethinkers, the God-King needed to crack down on him without delay. Unless I can convince him otherwise.
“I was simply acting in self-defense,” Kirk insisted. “After being brought to your world against my will.”
“Yes, by the devious machinations of the antipriestess!” Jaenab thundered. “Do you deny that she and her perfidious associates sheltered you, fed you, fought on your behalf, even died for you?”
Kirk received the accusation like a blow to the gut. He remembered Lasem and his allies holding off the Crusade while he escaped from the tunnels. “Died?”
“Defending you from the Truth,” Jaenab stated. “A few of my more deluded sons and daughters perished in your unholy cause, while many more await trial for their crimes.”
Guilt stabbed Kirk, even though he knew it wasn’t truly his fault. He prayed that Lasem at least had survived the battle on the train tracks.
“None of that was my intention,” he argued. “I have no quarrel with you or your people, except with regards to the safety of my own universe.”
“Then you are willing to accept the Truth?”