THE COVENANT OF THE CROWN

by Howard Weinstein

  “If we had a choice, I would—believe me. If we stay around the shuttle, we’ll have to dodge our hairy friends. Oh, sure, the Enterprise might find us—but I don’t want to be found in pieces. Jim has the coordinates for that mountain stronghold where the Crown’s supposed to be. If we can get there and find this Shirn O’tay person, Jim’ll be able to track us down. You do think he’ll look for us there, don’t you?”

  “It would be the logical thing to do, and the captain is quite logical, for a non-Vulcan. I should point out, however, that the mountains cover a considerable span of territory. It will not be an easy task to ascertain the Crown’s exact placement.”

  “Hope springs eternal in the human breast, Spock. What about Vulcans?”

  “Only logical expectations spring from ours, Doctor.”

  “Is our getting rescued a logical expectation, Mr. Spock?” asked Kailyn.

  The first officer fixed her with his usual impassive gaze. “Perhaps.”

  McCoy smiled to himself. Coming from Spock, that was practically an admission of hope. For now, it would be quite enough.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nars hated being in a spaceship. He felt boxed in, controlled, like a lab animal. The starship’s mazelike corridors increased the illusion, so he’d been staying in his quarters as much as possible. Boatrey had been sharing the two-room cabin with him, but the stable hand was now off eating with Eili and Dania. Nars was hungry, but he knew his stomach wouldn’t keep a meal down, knotted as it had been since Captain Kirk told him they were going to Zenna Four.

  As much as he disliked the confinement of the ship, the vast emptiness of space was far worse. Nars had always been a man who liked solid ground underneath his feet, with horizons farther off than the mere reach of his hand. He liked to know there were places he could go if he had to—places to seek things out, places to escape things. It was a freedom that worked both ways. A vessel, however large, out in interplanetary space—that was a combination that offered him no solace at all.

  He jumped involuntarily when the call came through from the bridge—the Enterprise was entering orbit around Zenna Four, and his presence was requested in the Transporter Room.

  If there existed a common anxiety among good commanders, it was the fear of being out of command. Though experts weren’t able to reliably pigeonhole people the way they could the properties of biology and physics, command of people was still a science of sorts. At least, the approach had to be scientific and orderly—control as many variables as possible, and command became that much simpler.

  Nars was such a variable, and the moment he sparkled out of the transporter chamber, he was free of Kirk’s grasp. That thought brought a furrow to Kirk’s brow as he sat with Lieutenant Byrnes in the lounge, staring at a cup of tea. Transporter Chief Kyle informed them of the beam-down.

  “Well, Byrnes,” said Kirk, “it’s up to you and Chekov.”

  “Yes, sir.” She left, and Kirk stirred the tea absently. Then he looked down at the cup. He stopped stirring, and the tea continued to circle the cup without his assistance. Control sure is hard to come by, he thought.

  Nars swirled the sickly greenish drink around the tumbler in his hand. He looked up at the clock over the bar, then took a sip. It was the only watering place in town, but it was still too early in the afternoon for the local farmers and laborers and artisans to be drifting in. It was also too early for his meeting, but he was nervous, too nervous to drink any more. He left a coin on the counter and headed outside.

  Treaton had only one main street, and it looked much as it had the last time Nars had walked it twenty-five years before. There had been little growth in any part of Zenna, none since the tridenite shortage began in the last decade. The government could have turned to other power sources in its effort to industrialize, but the Zennans were patient, loyal folk. They had struck a fair bargain with Shad’s ore traders, and they would wait to see how the war ended. If the King’s Loyalists won, tridenite would again be available. If the Mohd Alliance won, and tridenite remained embargoed, only then would Zenna seek out an alternative. Zennans avoided urgency; the future would always be there and they were in no hurry to overtake it.

  The bird catches its prey, eats it,and it is gone, went a native proverb. And what then is left?

  The same brightly painted, high-gabled houses that Nars remembered lined the street, and the residents wore gaily striped togas identical to the ones their parents had worn. Change was not an important process, and life as a whole was easy on Zenna Four. Here in Treaton, the seat of provincial government, strangers were hailed as neighbors by every citizen who passed by. Immigration statutes were as lax as any in the known galaxy, making outworlders like Nars quite commonplace.

  It was rather easy to pick out a foreigner—very few Zennans surpassed five feet in height, and skin colors ranged from pale pink to bright orange-red. Men uniformly shaved their heads, and women wore their hair in a single braid.

  Just being in a Zennan town made Nars relax a bit—the great tide of friendly greetings as he strolled toward the street’s south end pushed worries to the back of his mind. But they rushed forth again as he approached the last house on the right. It was set back from the road, surrounded by tall, broad-limbed trees that screened its windows. Privacy was not highly valued on Zenna Four, but this house seemed built for it. Nars pushed open the plank gate and crossed the yard with its unkempt yellow grass. He rapped uncertainly on the door, and a moment later an old Zennan man swung it open. He wore a simple gray toga, indicating his position as house servant.

  “May I help?” he asked in a high-pitched singsong.

  “Is . . . is your master at home?”

  “Yes, yes. Please enter.”

  Nars followed the little butler into a dark study. The butler then backed out, shutting the woven wicker doors. As Nars stood uncomfortably, a high-backed desk chair swiveled to face him and a skeletal man stood, with his hand extended out of the shadows.

  “Welcome, Nars,” he said. “It’s been a long time between visits.”

  Nars took the welcoming hand, but didn’t clasp it warmly. “A long time, Krail.”

  The man stepped into the halo cast by a wall lamp. He was a head taller than Nars, with dark skin stretched tautly over his aquiline face. His gray beard and hair were neatly trimmed, in marked contrast to his bushy, upswept eyebrows. Krail was a Klingon of unusually aristocratic bearing, and Nars felt very much the servant in his presence. He did not like the feeling.

  Krail issued a pinched abbreviation of a smile and motioned to a hard-backed chair. As Nars glanced around, he noticed nothing suggesting softness or luxury in the entire room. The floor was bare wood, the windows cloaked by severely drawn drapes, and the furniture angular and uncushioned without exception.

  “A drink, Nars?”

  The Shaddan nodded curtly. Krail slid open a darkwood cabinet and took out a sharply sculptured crystal decanter. Smoothly, he poured two goblets of blood-red wine and handed one to his visitor.

  “It is, of course, imported,” said Krail with cold pride, “from my home world. We Klingons are more than merely great warriors.”

  Krail’s thin smile made Nars most uneasy. He wanted to get this over with as rapidly as possible and he carefully placed his cup on a table and stood. “We have business, Krail. Let it be done,” he said, a shade more urgently than he’d intended.

  Krail looked mildy disappointed as he pursed his lips and measured Nars with guarded gray eyes. “Is there a hurry?”

  “My time with you is not unlimited. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Ah, yes,” Krail said with studied sympathy. “You have the Enterprise to worry about. But I think by now you may be safe here, and we’ll arrange passage to a Klingon planet, as we promised you. You will—how shall I put it—disappear before Kirk’s eyes.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Nars said quickly.

  “Oh? Are you severing your dealings with us after—how long has i
t been?—eighteen years or more?”

  The Klingon’s tone was vaguely menacing and Nars felt cold sweat break out on his upper lip. All those years had made little difference—he’d never learned to trust Klingons, no matter how much they paid for the information he smuggled to them. Krail’s cold smile appeared again.

  “Fine, fine. Many ships pass through Zenna. Whatever destination you choose is fine with us. You certainly won’t want to remain among the rancid little rodents populating this planet.”

  Tolerance had never been a common trait among Klingons; Nars had noted that many years before, and it always put him on guard.

  “Now, to your unexpected information,” said Krail. “I must say I was very surprised to be told you were here and wanted to meet with me.”

  Nars swallowed and felt his neck bob. “The King of Shad is dead.”

  Krail had looked away, but he turned his head to stare sharply at the Shaddan informer, a rare departure from his usual calculated motions. “Indeed? So, this is unexpected information. The Federation has bungled more completely than we could have hoped. Even sabotage could never have been so effective.” He began to pace, his long legs striding, mantislike. “Yes, yes . . . this places our entire strategy in a new light. Our objectives can be simplified. All the long years of—”

  His words were cut off in mid-thought by a ruckus from the foyer. The butler squealed a loud “No entry!” protest; deeper voices and heavy footsteps flew toward Krail’s study, and the wicker doors burst open a few seconds later. Two men and two women entered. They wore the simple hooded cloaks and fatigues of spacers from a hundred worlds—but the weapons they held were readily identifiable. Federation phasers, pointed calmly at Krail and Nars.

  The Klingon quickly regained his composure, and the thin smile showed itself again. “You would be considered guests in my home except that I do not take kindly to weaponry in the house.”

  “You be quiet and don’t move,” Lieutenant Byrnes said sternly. “Commander Krail, isn’t it?”

  Krail looked pleased at the recognition but said nothing. Chekov glanced at Byrnes. “You know who he is?”

  “Sure do. He’s been around for quite some time. Assassinated about twenty superiors to get where he is today—on the Klingon Intelligence Council, one of the top four spies in the Empire. Which makes me wonder what he’s doing out in the field, doing a quadrant commander’s dirty work . . .”

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to, uh . . . ?”

  “Lieutenant Byrnes, commander . . . of the Enterprise.”

  “Ahh. I make this my home now. I enjoy this world, with its charming, friendly natives.”

  Nars shot him a surprised look—from rancid rodents to charming natives in just a few moments. Truly a startling verbal metamorphosis. But Krail ignored the stare—he was too busy dueling with the intruders.

  “Nars can tell you I lived here, oh, almost twenty-five years ago, when he first came to Zenna. That’s when we met.”

  Nars went pale. “I don’t know what he’s talking about, I—”

  Chekov cut the Shaddan off with a warning glare. “You wouldn’t happen to be a stonemason in your spare time, would you, Commander?”

  “Why, no,” Krail replied innocently.

  “I didn’t think so. Well, we not only get this cossack,” said Chekov, nodding at Nars, “but we bring back a jackpot bonus, too.”

  Security Ensign Michael Howard, stocky and brighteyed, frisked Nars and drew an Enterprise communicator out of the frightened man’s pocket. He cradled the device in one hand, touched a button on his tricorder, and smiled with satisfaction as the tricorder emitted loud rhythmic beeps. “I think I’ll give him a reward . . . maybe replace a few worn chips and spruce him up for next time.”

  “It,” said Chekov irritably. “It, not him. You sound like Mr. Scott, the way you talk about those devices of yours.”

  “Watch it, Chekov. Devices have feelings, too,” Howard said defensively.

  “Should we search the rest of the house?” asked the female guard, Maria Spyros.

  Byrnes shook her head. “Krail may not work alone here. We got what we came for—a whole lot more, in fact. Let’s not stick around and get into trouble.”

  “My people will know I’m missing,” Krail pointed out

  “True,” said Chekov, “but they won’t know what you and Nars know. Ready to beam up, everybody.”

  The landing party stepped into formation, with its prisoners in the center. Howard flipped open the rigged communicator. “Landing party to Enterprise. Standing by to beam up. Energize.”

  A moment later, they sparkled out of existence, leaving the astonished butler cowering alone.

  The Enterprise warped out of orbit immediately, bound for Sigma 1212.

  Nars broke easily. He was not, after all, a professional spy, and Kirk figured he’d carried his burden long enough. The once-proud servant was almost thankful for the chance to talk. He had indeed met Krail a quarter-century before, during his brief stay on Zenna as a staff member of the ore-trade mission. No deals were made then, and Nars had forgotten the episode—until he fled to Orand with the King.

  “Punishment in hell couldn’t be worse than life on Orand,” Nars whined. There were tears in his eyes and he stopped to wipe them.

  Kirk was a compassionate man; he’d once liked Nars, but he found it hard to feel sorry for him now. The captain had to force himself to hold his anger in check, and he let Byrnes conduct the interrogation.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “We were all in despair those first months there. We talked of suicide, all of us taking our lives together. For us, our world had been stolen away from us and we feared we would never return home.” Nars paused—for effect, it seemed to Kirk. The Shaddan glanced at the faces of his listeners, hoping to see some melting in the detached hardness of their eyes. “Don’t you understand?” he cried.

  “I understand what you felt, but not what you did,” Kirk said harshly.

  “We thought we would die there,” he blurted, rising out of his seat. A burly security guard pushed him back, gently but firmly.

  “You all felt that way,” Kirk said. “You were all afraid, but only you committed treason.”

  Nars covered his face. “I was the only one seduced by Krail and his promises and threats.”

  The Klingon had been a mid-level operative then, charged with subverting the Loyalist forces any way he could. Two months after the royal party had taken up residence in their Orandi country house, he had renewed his contact with Nars.

  “He came to the compound with two peddlers.”

  “What was his offer?” asked Byrnes.

  Nars mumbled his answer, ashamed. “Money.”

  Kirk felt his jaw and fists tighten. “How patriotic.”

  “You weren’t there,” Nars said starkly. “We had nothing but four walls. That money let me buy pieces of a life. Not just for myself, but the others, too. I could buy books for the King, and for the Princess. For the Lady Meya, herbs and medicine when she fell sick. Small things for my staff, to make them less unhappy there.”

  “And what did you sell?” said Byrnes.

  Nars snorted a hollow laugh, with a touch of hysteria woven into its texture. “What did I sell? Nothing . . . nothing. In all those years, I told them nothing of use to anyone. What did I have to tell them? Answer me, Captain Kirk. You were the one who sent us to hell. We rotted there for eighteen years. For all those years, we lived as the dead do, with nothing to mark one day different from the last or the next. What could I sell them?”

  He leaped from his seat and clamped his hands on Kirk’s shoulders, catching the guards off balance. Kirk shoved him down again, and the guards held him belatedly. No one spoke. Nars breathed hoarsely.

  “For eighteen years, I told the Klingons about such important state secrets as the Princess’s birthdays, the King’s despair and sickness, the death of Lady Meya,” he whispered bitterly. “I had no military secret
s. When I tried to stop, they threatened to harm the King and his daughter. They said they could kill them anytime they wanted, and no one would know or care. I did it to protect the family. There seemed no harm—”

  “Until you betrayed a sacred trust and told the Klingons about this mission,” Kirk said in a voice of stone.

  “What else did you do with your money? asked Byrnes, steering away from Captain Kirk’s barely controlled rage.

  Nars collapsed onto the table. “Nothing. I did nothing,” he sobbed piteously.

  “He purchased the favors of women,” Krail said carefully. “To put it in delicate terms for you, Lieutenant Byrnes.”

  “I didn’t know Klingons could be delicate,” she said. “Don’t stint on my account.”

  Krail had taken Nars’s place in the interrogation cell. Kirk leaned against the wall, and the pair of guards stood just inside the force-field doorway.

  “If you insist,” said the Klingon. “Nars is not the most proper fellow he purports to be. It seemed that during his time on Orand, he’d developed quite a few private depredations, including something called pipeweed. I believe one smoked it. He could really get quite desperate if his supply ran out. I suppose you might say he was addicted.”

  “And how did he get this addiction?” asked Kirk. “Could you have introduced him to it?”

  “Captain, I resent your attempt to link me to—”

  Kirk cut him off with a fist on the tabletop. “I’ve had my fill of you, Krail. Nars’s fate is out of your hands. As for you, whether you cooperate or not, confess or keep silent, we have more than enough evidence to send you to a prison colony for the rest of your life.”

  “Not a very enlightened system, Captain.”

  “Lock him up,” Kirk said abruptly. He gave the Klingon a glance of contempt and stalked out of the cell.

  Star Fleet would have their spy—with an extra big fish tossed in for good measure. I hope they’re thrilled, Kirk thought as he made his way to the turbolift on the brig deck. Nars had turned out to be unworthy even of disgust, and one less Klingon spy, albeit an important one like Krail, would not make one whit of difference in the balance of power.