McCoy glanced from Kirk to Spock several times, inviting riposte or agreement. Spock merely raised an eyebrow. “I have stated my concern—and I believe Dr. McCoy has adequately explained the situation.”
“I agree,” Kirk concluded. “Besides, we don’t have much choice, and we have no time to waste. Star Fleet will be expecting a report, and I’d like to be able to tell them ‘mission accomplished.’ ”
Spock rose from his seat. “With your permission, sir, I shall return to the bridge.”
Kirk nodded, and when Spock had left, he turned to the still-seated McCoy. “I want to believe you, Bones, that she’ll get through this. Are you sure?”
“I’d put money on it.”
The next few hours were devoted to mental and physical preparation. Kirk repeatedly went over the plan in his mind. He wanted to know every weak spot, to anticipate every surprise, to expect every possible intrusion of the unexpected.
Spock inspected the shuttle Galileo, specially equipped for long-distance travel with light-speed boosters, extra fuel, food rations, medical supplies, and survival items. A computer check revealed all systems ready, and a manual review confirmed it.
McCoy gathered the medical gear he’d need to care for Kailyn if her choriocytosis flared seriously. And he did plenty of thinking—about Kailyn, about himself, and what was happening between them. She’s a child, younger than my daughter—and she’s got a crush on you, McCoy. So what? I couldn’t be interested in her like that. I’m a teacher, someone for her to look up to. It could just as easily have been Spock, if she went for logical, unemotional types. Her father won’t be with her much longer—she’s just transferring her feelings from him to me. She’ll understand that—she’s got to.
Still, she was intelligent, gentle, pretty. Why couldn’t I be interested in her? Just because I really am old enough to be her father? How do you feel, McCoy? He gave a mental shrug. That’s the hell of it—I don’t know.
“I can’t stay long, Father,” Kailyn said. “I don’t want to tire you out.”
Stevvin smiled weakly. The machines had been removed, but he had to remain flat on his back. He reached out with a trembling hand and she held it, resting it on the bed.
“You’ll be leaving soon. Remember—Shirn O’tay was the patriarch. Hell show you where the Crown—”
“I know, Father, I know. Don’t worry.”
“I won’t. Actually, I will—but that’s a father’s privilege.”
Stevvin pulled his daughter’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “The gods will care for you. And you have some good men to help you.”
The King’s breath came in short, labored rasps, and Kailyn fought back her tears. “I love you, Father.”
He smiled and pressed her hand to his lips again.
“Sensor report,” said Kirk.
Chekov looked up from the viewer at the science station. The Klingon cruiser is just out of range, sir. They couldn’t detect the shuttle launch now.”
“Shuttle engine ignition, Captain,” said Sulu.
Kirk punched up the Galileo’s channel on his intercom panel. “Kirk to Galileo.”
“Spock here, Captain. All systems ready for shuttle launch.”
“Spock . . .” Kirk hesitated. “Good luck. Kailyn, take good care of my officers. Especially McCoy.”
Her voice was strong. “I will.”
“Request shuttle bay doors open,” Spock said.
Sulu flipped a console switch. “Shuttle bay doors open.”
Kirk glanced at the hangar deck on the screen over the science station. “Launch shuttle.”
Sulu’s fingers skipped across the panel, deftly touching the final toggle. “Shuttle away, sir.”
That night, King Stevvin, the seventeenth monarch in the Dynasty of Shad, died in his sleep with Captain Kirk and four royal servants at his side.
The shuttlecraft Galileo was ten hours out on its journey by that time. The King’s plan for bringing peace to his world once and for all was progressing without him, as he had hoped it would. Even the Klingon cruiser resumed its place, following the Enterprise. All was as it should have been.
Except for one thing. Unknown to Kirk, or to the crew of the Galileo, when the shuttle passed through the outer reaches of a nondescript white-dwarf star system, far out of sensor range of the Enterprise, a shadow joined the excursion.
The shadow was a Klingon spy scout, manned by four intelligence agents. Their assignment was simple—follow the shuttlecraft. If its crew retrieved the holy Crown of Shad, kill them and claim the Crown for the Klingon Empire. And if they failed to find the Crown, kill them anyway.
Chapter Seven
“Klingons, Kirk,” Harrington barked with uncharacteristic fury. “The bloody Klingons knew before I did. If their secret communications network weren’t so leaky, they’d know, and I still wouldn’t know. Would you care to offer an explanation as to why you disobeyed orders?”
Kirk sat hunched over his desk, with Scotty standing directly behind him. On the viewscreen, the admiral was still in his robe—he’d obviously been roused from a good night’s sleep with the news that the Klingons were on to the Enterprise decoy plan—a decoy plan he’d known nothing about.
“I’m sorry, Admiral,” Kirk began. Not quite certain of what else to say, he moved on cautiously. “The situation was not as we were led to expect when we arrived at Orand, sir. You’re aware that the Crown of Shad was not with the King when we—”
“Yes, Kirk. The bloody Klingon report we got hold of was quite clear in that detail.”
“Once we ascertained that we couldn’t go back to Shad without it, we also realized that the King was simply not healthy enough to make the extra trip. None of this was included in the briefing report we were given at Star Base, sir.”
Kirk shot a quick glance back at Scott, who understood his captain’s strategy—shifting a bit of the blame for the altered mission onto Star Fleet Intelligence.
“All right, Captain, I accept that the mission required modification and I’ll even accept that the time involved in consulting with H.Q. might have blown the whole affair. You’re an accomplished starship captain, and you sit in that command seat because Star Fleet trusts your judgment—though right now, I might be convinced to question that.”
Kirk swallowed, but continued to look head-on at the viewscreen.
“We’ve got two major problems to contend with, Kirk. First and foremost, it appears that one of the Shaddans aboard your ship is a Klingon agent, and second—”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but our shuttle crew out there on Sigma is going to be at the wrong end of a Klingon shooting gallery the second they find that Crown—”
“I am aware of that, Captain.”
“That’s our primary concern, sir. It’s of the utmost importance that we get back to Sigma as quickly as possible in case the shuttle party needs assistance.”
“Negative, Captain,” Harrington said sharply. “If you’d been here when we got word from Intelligence, you’d know that rooting out the turncoat in the King’s party is top priority.”
“But the safety of the King’s daughter and my officers—”
“—is of deep concern. However, Star Fleet will not be made fools of. The Klingons did just that Captain. Here they had a spy under our noses all this time, you pull a plan out of nowhere that the Fleet doesn’t even know about—and the enemy knows where you’re going and when before you even get under way. I have to answer to superiors, too, and they will not stand for that. They threw it at me and I’m throwing it right to you. This is an order—find that spy.”
“Sir, for all practical purposes, we have all four suspects in custody. We can investigate after we’ve ensured the safety of the shuttle mission.”
“The Joint Chiefs of Staff want that spy secured first.”
“Did the Joint Chief have any good ideas how to do that?” said Kirk, biting off each word—sidestepping the urge to illuminate them with colorful adjectives and ve
rbs.
“You got into this, Kirk, and it’s up to you to think of a way out. That’s not a direct quote, I might add. The language here was a bit more descriptive.”
Kirk was immediately sorry he’d restrained himself; the phrases running through his mind were quite descriptive, but he realized that insubordination was not the thing to help his cause at the moment.
“Admiral, I must register a strong protest. We—”
“That’s your right, Captain. And these are your orders—formulate a plan to catch that spy, and hold your present position until you’ve got one. Then submit the specifics for our approval before you put it into effect. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Kirk said tightly.
“One other thing—how is the King through all this?”
Kirk and Scott traded quick glances. “The King? The King is fine, sir.”
“Good. I’d hate to have any more complications after all this. Very well . . . we shall be expecting a plan from you in exactly two hours. Star Fleet out.”
Harrington’s image faded to black, and Kirk rested his chin on his arms, slumped over the desktop.
Scotty shook his head soberly. “Captain, y’ lied to a Star Fleet admiral.”
“Let’s hope you and I are the only ones who ever know about it. It’s eighteen years later, and I’m still fighting the damn bureaucracy. We just can’t risk any more leaks.” He shook his head. “Whatever happened, it was before we left Orand, and that was out of our control. Maybe the King mentioned the plan to a servant who mentioned it to someone else. Or maybe someone overheard, or maybe Kailyn said something when she shouldn’t have. I don’t know. What I do know is, none of that matters now. What does matter is that Spock, McCoy and Kailyn are going to be in trouble, and that Klingon ship playing tag with us for three days was a trick that I fell for. Now, instead of getting to Sigma as fast as we can to see that nothing happens to the shuttle crew, we have to sit here thinking of a way to wipe egg off Star Fleet’s face. Dammit.”
There was no easy banter when Kirk gathered Scott, Sulu, Chekov, Uhura, and Security Lieutenant Jaye Byrnes in the briefing room. The situation was summed up in succinct terms, and the assembled officers circled gingerly around it for better than thirty minutes. Finally, Kirk swiveled out of his seat and began pacing around the table.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re not getting anywhere,” he said flatly.
Byrnes cleared her throat. She was present because she’d joined the Enterprise after five years in Star Fleet Counterintelligence, and Kirk hoped her expertise might elicit ideas from the others.
“As long as this spy’s on board,” she said, “we’re in control, sir. That’s our ace.”
“That’s what I tried to tell Star Fleet. That’s why this shouldn’t be that urgent.”
“For H.Q. it is,” Chekov said glumly. “And that makes it urgent for us.”
Kirk allowed himself a gallows smile. “Chain of command, Mr. Chekov. They put the heat on me, I put it on you.”
“But who do we put it on?” Sulu grumbled.
“You don’t. You give me answers. Byrnes?”
She tossed her blond hair over her shoulder. “We can use that control, Captain.”
“How?”
“By giving the spy enough rope to hang himself.”
Kirk sat on the edge of the table, arms crossed. “Go on.”
“We know about him. We know he’s here—”
“Aye,” Scott said, “but not who he—or she—is.”
“If we can make him think he can get away with something he wants to do and we should normally want to prevent, we might be able to trap him.”
Scott nodded. “Aye. Give a fish a little line, let him think he’s free . . . he tires himself out, and y’ reel him in fast.”
“Exactly,” said Byrnes. “Now, what would this spy want very much to do, either personally or as part of his assignment?”
“Get away from us,” Sulu suggested.
Kirk’s eyes narrowed. “Get away from us for what purpose?”
“For his own safety,” said Uhura.
“Or to report new information,” Scott said suddenly. “Like the King’s death. It’s the one thing that’s happened since we left Orand that the Klingons would want t’ know.”
“Of course,” Sulu said, nodding emphatically. “Then they wouldn’t have to worry about getting their hands on the Crown. With the King dead, if they could kill his daughter, they’d wipe out whatever chance we had for keeping the Loyalist Coalition together—”
“—and the Mohd Alliance could win without any blatant outside help that might attract the attention of the Organian treaty enforcers,” Byrnes concluded.
Kirk nodded. “That seems like a pretty compelling reason for this informant to want to make contact with his superior. If we can give him a chance to do that, under the guise of some legitimate task, we could catch him in the act.”
“But the only way to do that,” said Byrnes, “is to let the spy off the Enterpise, sir. And any way we do that, we risk two things—making him suspicious, or letting him escape.”
The brainstorming picked up speed and went on for another hour. Kirk was pleased that his inclusion of Byrnes proved to be the perfect catalyst. But for all the ideas laid out, it remained for Kirk to synthesize the possibilities into a course of action that sounded plausible. He did, radioed it to Star Fleet, and waited for an answer.
An hour later, it came: approval. But the toughest decision lay ahead. If the hidden spy took the bait, all well and good. But if no suspect stepped forward into the noose, Kirk knew he had no time for alternatives—the Enterprise would be off to Sigma in the warp-speed wink of an eye, and to hell with Star Fleet’s wounded pride. That could be repaired easily enough—wounded bodies, however, were another matter, and he wanted very much to retrieve the Galileo and its crew unscathed.
But first, to catch a spy. . . .
Chapter Eight
McCoy twisted in his seat, stretched every muscle in both legs, massaged the kinks out of his neck, and still couldn’t get comfortable. Though he’d traveled in space for years, there were still times when he felt slightly cramped walking through a narrow corridor on the Enterprise, or sitting in a cabin where the walls contoured to the curves of a bulkhead.
But if the great starship caused a twinge of confinement now and then, three days in the Galileo made him feel positively claustrophobic, and he longed for the relative roominess of the Enterprise. Suddenly, he leaped from his seat and paced as wildly as a man could with only two strides between him and the walls. Quite frankly, he felt ridiculous and flopped back into the seat. Spock watched without a word, while Kailyn napped in one of the three hammocks set up in the makeshift sleeping section at the stern.
“Spock, are we there yet?”
The Vulcan came as close as he ever did to looking annoyed. “Doctor, you asked me that an hour ago. We are now one hour closer to our destination.”
McCoy extended his recliner seat to its full tilt and clasped his hands behind his head. “Tell me again how our destination is a South Sea isle, with palm trees, and suntanned bathing beauties wearing nothing but long, flowing hair, flower necklaces, and warm smiles.”
“Sigma 1212 is the fourth planet in its system, sparsely inhabited, and has an average surface temperature of minus twelve degrees Celsius. Sixty-two percent of its landmass is too cold for human habitation. And there are no palm trees,” Spock replied, with a suitably icy undertone in his voice.
“You know what I’ve always liked about you, Spock?”
“What, Doctor?”
“The way you always go out of your way to make me happy.”
“Doctor,” Spock said, his lips in a tight line, “do one of your crossword puzzles.”
“I did a whole tape of them. And I don’t even like crossword puzzles,” McCoy mourned. “What if I said I wanted to go outside for a little stroll?”
“This is hardly the time.”
“At this point, Dr. McCoy, I would let you go.”
“There you go trying to make me happy again.”
McCoy’s next complaint was soundly shaken back from the tip of his tongue when the shuttle bucked into a sudden pocket of turbulence. He grasped the arms of his seat and sat bolt upright, while Spock spun back to the control panel. The ship shuddered again.
“What’s wrong, Spock?”
The next jolt threw them against their seatbacks.
“It’s getting worse,” said McCoy, blanching as his stomach returned to its rightful place, contents barely contained.
The first officer studied several urgently flashing readouts, though his expression remained calm, as always.
“I’m afraid our situation may get considerably worse before it gets better. The Sigma system is noted for the severity and frequency of solar flares and resulting magnetic storms.”
“Don’t give me a travelog—just do something.”
Spock turned his full attention to the Galileo’s unresponsive instruments while the small ship tossed from side to side. McCoy stumbled forward, clamping a stranglehold on the command seat’s headrest. He hovered behind Spock while his knees absorbed the pitching and rolling.
Kailyn half-fell and half-walked into the main cabin, finally reaching the relative security of her portside seat. “What’s wrong?”
“Spock didn’t mean to wake you up.” McCoy tightened his grip on the headrest. The shuttle’s nose suddenly dipped and his chin jammed into the top of the seat. Dazed, he retreated to his own chair and rubbed his jaw.
THE COVENANT OF THE CROWN Page 6