THE COVENANT OF THE CROWN

by Howard Weinstein

  Stevvin had held one goal above all others—to keep production and shipment of tridenite ore going. Because Shad had never developed space flight, foreign freighters had to transport the ore to other worlds. As long as Loyalist forces could guard the loading stations against Mohd artillery, tridenite could move and the Klingon grand design remain unfulfilled. So far, he had won that battle—but perhaps at cost of losing the whole war.

  And now the Mohd battalions were marching on the capital. Shipping would soon cease. The Dynasty would be strangled; the King and is family would be among the first killed when enemy troops reached the city. Kirk now had one last task before he could order a retreat of his own men—to convince Stevvin to allow Star Fleet to help him escape into exile.

  Just outside the brick palace rampart, the young aide from his office caught up to Kirk, a handwritten communique clutched in his fist. His face was flushed—he’d run all the way.

  “Sir, this came in just after you left.”

  Kirk took the paper and prepared himself for a quick glance at another report of negative battle news. He stopped short when he saw it was a message from the Federation Council.

  “Why didn’t you call me by communicator, Ensign?”

  “I didn’t want to risk being picked up by Mohd surveillance, sir. The message came in on scramble.” He stood at ease as his commander read the page. The Federation had reviewed Kirk’s final reports and changed their conclusion—additional military assistance was on its way.

  “I had lost all faith,” Stevvin confessed.

  “They’ve decided Shad is worth fighting for, sir. If this new support is enough to turn it all around—and I think it will be—we want you to be safe,” Kirk said.

  “But not on Shad,” Stevvin said with a half-smile.

  “It would only be temporary. A matter of months at most. We’ll bring you back here as soon as your safety can be assured.”

  The King closed his eyes. “What about the safety of our soldiers, and their wives and children? How can that be guaranteed? They can’t go into exile.”

  “Sir, you aren’t just another soldier.”

  “No . . . I suppose not.”

  Kirk’s voice took on an impatient edge. “You’re the dynastic ruler of Shad. You lead the religion of your people, you’re their rallying point. Without you, there is no Shad.”

  “Let’s not forget, there hasn’t been much with me, either.”

  “Then think about your wife and daughter, about their safety. Your daughter is Shad’s next Queen.”

  The King finally relented. The shuttlecraft arrived on time and Kirk took over the pilot’s seat. Since Shad completely lacked manned flying machines, planetary weapons included no refined antiaircraft capability. Mohd gunners did their best to shoot down the shuttle with large-target missiles when it was detected attempting to reach planet orbit.

  Shuttles were never intended for deft evasive motion, and this one groaned in protest as Kirk urged it on a spiral course up toward space. But if they weren’t agile, the little ships were sturdy, and Kirk was sure this one would hold together and do what was asked of it. He threaded his way out of missile range and brought the King and his young wife, their five-year-old daughter Kailyn, and four servants within transporter range of the Normandy, itself waiting far out of the orbital combat zone around Shad. The destroyer would spirit them to a new home, just until the Loyalists could struggle back and hold the Mohd Alliance in check. . . .

  Eighteen years had passed since James Kirk had said farewell to the King and his family, since he’d watched them disappear in the sparkle of the Normandy’s transporter. Still, the battle on Shad dragged on, neither side able to muster the last push to victory.

  The Organian Peace Treaty had prevented wholesale intervention on either side. If they tried it, the pure-energy beings from that enigmatic guardian world would effectively disarm both forces, on Shad and throughout the galaxy, no matter where or whom they fought. Neither the Federation nor the Empire wanted to risk total galactic immobilization, so they had to be satisfied with simply supplying weapons and hoping for the best. Like a pair of exhausted warriors, the enemies slugged it out with increasingly weary blows.

  But, finally, the tide had turned—long after Kirk’s expectation. “The Loyalist coalition,” said Admiral Harrington, “is on the verge of breaking the back of the Mohd Alliance.”

  McCoy snorted. “After all this time? What could be left to fight over?”

  “More than you might think,” Harrington said, exhaling a pair of smoke rings. “Don’t forget, this was no nuclear holocaust there. It was a war of quite conventional means, almost primitive. Neither we nor the Klingons wanted to destroy the world we were hoping to take.”

  “How civilized of us,” McCoy said, frowning.

  “The point, gentlemen, is that the coalition is also on the verge of destroying itself with internal bickering.”

  Kirk shook his head sadly. “They haven’t even won, and they’re trying to divide the spoils.”

  “That’s about the size of it, Captain. The only hope for restoring some semblance of unity, as we see it, is to return the one symbol to which all our Loyalist factions owe allegiance.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “The royal family?”

  “Precisely, Commander.”

  “They’re still alive,” Kirk said, almost to himself.

  “The King and his daughter are. The wife died some years back, not long after the exile began. It’s not a pretty planet they went to.”

  Kirk closed his eyes for a moment, a private memory of Lady Meya’s ready smile and warmth. And now the child and the King had lived to return, while she had not.

  “Our agents have contacted the King,” Harrington continued. “He may be very old, but he’s anxious to return. He believes as we do that the presence of the royal family will hold the Loyalists together, allow them to beat down the Mohd Alliance once and for all, and send the Klingons packing. Actually, it’s quite simple, gentlemen. Secure Shad and we secure the quadrant. Lose Shad, and you know the consequences.”

  “Admiral,” said Speck, “the Enterprise was assigned to another sector. Star Fleet records indicate three other starships patrolling in this vicinity with no pressing assignments. Why were we given this mission?”

  Kirk smiled inwardly—Spock was applying the same precision of reason to Harrington as he did to his own captain.

  The admiral clasped his hands behind his back and faced them, chewing on his pipe stem for a moment. “Because King Stevvin trusts only one man in the whole of Star Fleet to take him safely back to Shad—Captain James Kirk. Therefore, gentlemen, the mission is yours.”

  Chapter Three

  PERSONAL LOG—STAR DATE 7815.3—We’ve arrived and entered orbit around Orand, and it’s hard to believe I’m going to see King Stevvin again after all these years. On the one hand, I feel like a long-graduated student going back to visit a favorite teacher—and that makes me happy.

  But I also feel a little like a jailer going down to release a prisoner, and that makes me feel guilty. I know the King would’ve stayed on Shad had it been up to him, and who’s to say he would have been wrong? After all this time, I just don’t know. Even if he doesn’t think eighteen years were stolen from him, I do—and I’m the one who convinced him to leave.

  I’m anxious to see this mission succeed, to restore the King to his rightful place. Spock would call it illogical—and maybe he’s right . . . but even though I know those lost years can never be restored, this mission gives me a chance to make up for at least some of what was taken from my old friend. Politics and diplomacy be damned—I have to admit my motivation is much more emotional than rational.

  “He’s not going to make it, Jim.” McCoy’s face made the words unnecessary, but he said them anyway, gently.

  Kirk stared at the tile floor, cool and shiny in this house where King Stevvin had spent the past eighteen years of his life—waiting. And now McCoy had confirmed what
Kirk had feared, that they were indeed the final years in Stevvin’s life—the King was going to die before he could see his home planet reunited.

  “Can I talk to him?” Kirk asked.

  “He’s sleeping now. In a little while.” McCoy shrugged, feeling useless. “Want to take a walk?”

  “Yeah, Bones. Alone.”

  Spock and McCoy let him go without a word.

  Kirk walked slowly away from the white stone-and-stucco house, along the rough road that served as a driveway. But here on Orand, there were no motor vehicles to use the gravel and dirt paths, only carts drawn by the native oxen and horses.

  Orand and its people were stepchildren of nature. Orbiting a backwater star, the planet hid no treasures beneath its parched surface. Possessed of neither wealth nor strategic location, it held little interest for galactic profiteers and prospectors. But its sparse population of perhaps five million persevered, wringing a subsistence out of an assortment of ventures—some farming, mining, a little industry and trade.

  In a way, Kirk felt sorry for the Orandi natives, with their world doomed to be no more than a speck on a star map. But its very forgettable nature is what made it the perfect place for Stevvin’s family to live out their exile. For while Orand would never be rich and powerful, neither would it be a battlefield, as Shad had become. The King would be safe here, able to fade into the drabness that characterized this sad, sandy planet.

  At first, the Klingons had kept a full surveillance team on Orand; but when the war dragged on and on, the contingent dwindled to a few agents, then finally to one Klingon and a pair of paid Orandi informants who watched the King’s house and the comings and goings of its occupants. The Klingons had come to believe that Stevvin would never leave Orand, and other vigilance slackened.

  They were finally right, Kirk thought with bitterness directed at himself. Had he done the King any good, convincing him to leave Shad? Or had he robbed a proud ruler of his last chance to fight back? He couldn’t have known how things would turn out, but that didn’t make him feel any better. He wiped beads of sweat off his brow. Orand was hot—that was what the name meant. Hot as hell, loosely translated. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and a tentative breeze teased the scrub trees squatting on the dunes; but it was still stifling and Kirk retreated to the sanctuary of the house.

  Centuries of the sun’s ferocity had trained Orandi architects well. This house was over a hundred years old, but looked the same as buildings constructed yesterday—white exterior, small windows high up on the walls, polished slate floors sunk several feet below outside ground level, and perpetually running fountains and pools in every room.

  McCoy perched on the stone rim of the fountain in the library and rippled the pool’s surface with his finger. He wondered if the builders had been psychologists, as well—the sound and feel of the trickling water made the place seem ten degrees cooler than it really was.

  Spock sat in a soft chair, flipping through a Shaddan history book. They heard the tired clicking of boot heels, and Kirk entered from the hallway.

  “Feel any better?” asked McCoy.

  Kirk flexed his shoulders. “Nope. Just hot—and tired. Go for a hike, and the thin atmosphere really gets to you.”

  “You should feel at home, Spock,” McCoy said. “This place is just as uncomfortable as Vulcan.”

  “I find it quite acceptable,” Spock said mildly.

  “You would.” McCoy steered Kirk over to the fountain and sat him on the edge. “Dip your hand in there. You’ll feel cooler in a minute.”

  “Is that a sound medical prescription?”

  “Tested by the doctor himself.”

  Kirk followed instruction, and sprinkled a few drops of the icy water on his face—McCoy was right. He shook his head to clear it and took the chilled glass of punch McCoy handed to him. “How is he, Bones?”

  “He’s old, Jim. He just isn’t up to taking an extended space voyage. I don’t know if he’ll die today, or next week. If he stayed here and rested, maybe he could hang on for months. But I don’t think he’d make it to Shad. and even if, by some miracle, he was alive, he’d be in no condition to make stirring speeches or lead the big battle.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  McCoy shook his head helplessly. “I can’t reverse old age.”

  Kirk leaned forward, resting elbows on knees and head in hands. “Hell of a place to spend eighteen years.”

  “It could’ve been worse,” McCoy offered. “Better than dying on Shad.”

  “Was it?” Kirk didn’t bother to look up.

  “Of course it was, Jim. They had some hope while they were here. And look, the King’s lived long enough to know that things are looking up.”

  “But the idea, Doctor,” Spock said, “was for the King to return, stabilize the geopolitical situation, and overcome decisive forces. Your medical report, which I am certain is accurate as usual, has effectively negated our mission.”

  McCoy glared. “You’re so damned cold-blooded. That’s a man we’re talking about, a great man—and Jim’s friend. Instead of—”

  “Spock’s right,” Kirk said, raising a hand to cut him off. He took a deep breath. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “We’re going to save Shad—that’s what we’re going to do about it, James.”

  The King’s voice was hoarse and shaky—but his determination was firm. He sat up in bed, supported by several threadbare pillows; his body, wasted by age, looked like a child’s under the quilt.

  “But you can’t go back,” Kirk said gently.

  Stevvin waved his hand—feeble yet clearly impatient “I know all that. Dr. McCoy explained it all, even though I already knew it. Y’know, I haven’t seen the outside of this house in two months. The servants offer to carry me out, but if I can’t go under my own power . . .” His voice trailed off and his eyes closed.

  Kirk flashed a concerned look at McCoy—and the King opened one wrinkled lid in time to see it.

  “Just resting, James. Not gone yet.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Star Fleet how you felt? Why did you say you were ready to go back?”

  “Because I am ready. You’ll all be old, someday, and you’ll know that just because you can’t do something doesn’t mean you won’t want to try to do it.” He rested a moment again. “What would they have done if I told them I was past the rabblerouser stage? Do you think they’d have sent a starship just to be a king’s hearse?”

  Stevvin shifted weakly, then frowned in discomfort. “Beds are for sleeping, not living in. The answers is, they wouldn’t have sent a scout ship. Even my servants don’t know how soon they may lose this master.” Once more, the old King paused.

  “Your Highness, I’m glad we got to see each other again. I never thought we would . . . but this mission of unification isn’t possible without your return.”

  “Not my return, James . . . the monarch’s return. My health—as well as the plan I’m about to tell you—must be kept secret, even from Star Fleet. Only the four of us, and my daughter Kailyn, will know. . . . You will return her to Shad—to rule in my place.”

  McCoy paced near the library fountain. “Jim, how can you completely change our mission without telling Star Fleet? They’ll court-martial you so fast, you won’t have time to change for the trial. It just isn’t—”

  “All right, Bones, all right. You made your point. What about you, Spock? Would you care to add to the list of obstacles?”

  The first officer arched an eyebrow and stood for a moment with his hands clasped behind him. “I disagree with Dr. McCoy—”

  “What else is new?” said McCoy.

  “—but not entirely. I agree that you theoretically risk harsh disciplinary action, altering specific Star Fleet orders on such an important mission. However, in practice, charges are not often proffered when the mission succeeds.”

  McCoy stared. “A Vulcan counseling disobeying of orders?”

  “The captai
n would not be disobeying. Our circumstances have changed—markedly—since those orders were issued. The captain must make a command decision; if he follows the newly proposed course of action, what is the probability of success?”

  “Okay,” said McCoy, “what is the probability of success?”

  “I have not been asked to calculate it, Doctor. But I do believe the odds in our favor will be reduced considerably if we take the time to confer with Star Fleet and wait for the bureaucracy to deliver its answer. We must act swiftly.”

  Kirk listened thoughtfully. “Is that your recommendation, Spock?”

  “Tentatively. But before any final decision can be rendered, we must hear the King’s plan in full detail, and ascertain his daughter’s readiness to take her father’s place.”

  The Crown Princess of Shad was tending her garden when Kirk found her.

  “It’s very impressive,” he said, cupping a new blossom in his hands as he knelt on the path between rows of bushes, vines, and vegetables. “I didn’t think a cactus could grow on this planet.”

  “It’s not that hard,” Kailyn said, averting her eyes as she spoke. Kirk noticed that she found it easier to look at a plant or a patch of dirt as they talked. When he caught her eye, she stammered ever so slightly.

  “You built this whole irrigation system yourself?”

  “No. I just designed it. The servants helped me pipe the water from the house and actually make it.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Twelve, Captain.”

  The last word—captain—caught his ear like a bramble. “Captain? Why so formal? What happened to ‘Uncle Jim’?”

  She bowed her head. “It’s been so long. I . . . I never thought we’d see you again.”

  He touched her chin and gently lifted her face. She had the deep, dark eyes of her father. “I thought of you a lot,” she said. “When Father and I would have our lessons, we’d stop and wonder where you were. We knew you’d become captain of the Enterprise.” She looked away again. “I’d dream about you coming to take us home again.”