THE COVENANT OF THE CROWN

by Howard Weinstein

  The Vulcan glanced up from the scroll he’d been taping on his tricorder. McCoy sidled into the room, feeling like a supposedly beneficial insect—the kind no one really wants around but no one wants to swat either.

  “Mind if I join you, Spock?”

  With a nod from the first officer, he sat on the rug and glanced at the roll of parchment.

  “What’s that you’re reading?”

  “Nothing you would find of interest. Simple agricultural records. Besides, I assume you did not come in here to engage in research.”

  A half-dozen snappy comebacks suggested themselves, but McCoy couldn’t even mount a halfhearted effort to fire them off. “You’re right,” he sighed.

  “No other remarks?”

  “Nope. You seem to be the last person on Sigma who’ll stay in the same room with me, so I’d better not press my luck.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Me? No. But you can help Kailyn. I know she needs somebody to talk to, but I think I eliminated myself from contention. Would you—?”

  Spock was already on his feet. “Of course, Doctor. I doubt I could ever replace you as a father confessor, but I shall do my best.”

  “Thanks, Spock.” For everything.

  But Kailyn was not in the sleeping chamber. Without a word to alarm anyone else, Spock quietly left the caves and ventured outside phaser in hand and a cautious eye roving in search of trouble.

  Fortunately, Kailyn was easy to find, standing at the wall overlooking the dark valley pastures. She neither started nor turned when she heard Spock’s voice behind her.

  “Why are you outside of the caves? You know of the dangers out here.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” she said flatly. “I want to die.”

  Spock stood beside her. They were away from the cliffs and relatively safe from any animal attacks. Since she appeared more willing to talk under the screen of nighttime darkness than within the confines of the cavern, he made no attempt to get her to go back in. “Do you really want that?”

  She kept her eyes focused on some distant star. “What do I have to live for?”

  “Why do you wish to forfeit your life at such a young age?”

  “Because, at such a young age, I’ve failed at everything of importance, and disappointed everyone who’s ever cared about me or meant anything to me.”

  “No one has handed down such harsh judgment upon you, Kailyn.”

  “No one has to. I may be a child, but I’m aware enough to know that I let you and Dr. McCoy down, and Shirn, too. And I’ve destroyed the dreams my father had for our planet . . . and finally, that means a whole world will suffer because of me.”

  “Odd. Dr. McCoy lays claim to many of the same failures as you.”

  At that, she turned, mortified. “He does? Why?”

  “He believes he is to blame for your self-described failure today.”

  It’s my own fault.”

  “Has it occurred to you that no one is at fault?”

  Kailyn stared at him, her whole face a question. “How could it be nobody’s fault?”

  “No one sabotaged your effort today—not Dr. McCoy, nor yourself. The same events might have transpired regardless of the circumstances. You haven’t let anyone down—except perhaps yourself.”

  She lowered her eyes, but said nothing.

  “I assume I still have your attention?”

  She nodded, her face still turned down.

  “Good. Please understand—this is not a lecture. I have no intention of telling you what to do. But there are certain important factors you should consider and I shall endeavor to point them out. First, you were given a task—an immense task for one so young—with very little preparation.”

  “But it had to be that way, Mr. Spock.”

  “I am aware of that, and I am glad you accept that no one was to blame for that unfortunate situation.”

  Spock paused, and his voice softened, losing its pedantic edge. “Most serious of all, you were forced to face something very complex and mysterious in a new, intensive way.”

  “What?”

  “Yourself.” He steeled himself for a task he preferred to avoid—self-revelation. “I understand, better than you can imagine. When I was a boy on Vulcan, I led a childhood very different from most children, as you did.”

  “Why?”

  He was encouraged that she was looking at him now, and asking questions. “Because I am half-human—my mother was from Earth. Though I appear outwardly to be a full-blooded Vulcan, my emotional development was a process of extreme conflict. All Vulcan boys must face the kahs-wan, a test of physical stamina and wits that marks the passing from childhood to maturity. For me, the kahs-wan ordeal was even more important—it was the time when I had to choose between human and Vulcan life paths. Do you know how different they are?”

  “Yes. But why are you telling me this?”

  “You and I talked about handicaps last night. Whether I chose to live as an Earth human or as a Vulcan, my hybrid heritage would present me with a handicap of sorts. My mother once told me how much pain it caused her to know that I would never be fully at home on Earth or Vulcan.”

  “Is that why you became a Star Fleet officer?”

  “I suppose it is a major reason.”

  “It’s strange that on a planet where logic is so important, the fact that you were half-human would be a stigma.”

  “Vulcans do not claim to be infallibly logical. Unfortunately, we do maintain some residual emotional responses. I was a victim of one—a remnant of bigotry.”

  “But what made it a handicap?”

  “My obviously Vulcan appearance would have set me apart on Earth, and my human blood causes urges and impulses that are a constant irritant to a Vulcan. When I allow a human characteristic to come to the fore and be publicly displayed, I may feel that I have failed in my effort to be a Vulcan.”

  “But you’re not a machine. You’re bound to have lapses. Nobody’s perfect . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she took a deep breath.

  “That was a very mature observation, Kailyn. I had to realize very early in my life that one often fails to measure up to one’s own ideals. Once I reached that understanding, I found relative peace.”

  “Then what’s the point of having goals if you don’t reach them?”

  “Not reaching a goal on a given day does not preclude reaching it tomorrow, or next year.”

  “But if I don’t have the Power today, I . . . I’ll never have it,” she said in a trembling voice.

  “That may be true, but you still have a whole life to live. One failure does not mean all is lost. Let it be motivation to improve, to deliver optimum performance in your next undertaking, whatever it may be—not to give up and quit trying.”

  Her lower lip quivered and she looked up at him. “Is it all right to hug a Vulcan?”

  He nodded formally, and very carefully she put her arms around his shoulders, barely squeezing. He was amused by her caution, as if she were afraid of violating some taboo. After a few moments, he could feel her rapid heartbeat slow down a little. He took her small, cold hand in his own, and they returned to the cave.

  McCoy slept because he was exhausted. Spock slept because his bio-feedback told him he needed this night of rest to maintain a peak of efficiency. Kailyn did not sleep.

  It was just an old parental reflex, rekindled since Kailyn had been with them. In the middle of the night, McCoy rolled over for a one-eyed bed-check, saw Spock sleeping noiselessly—and Kailyn’s mat empty.

  He sat up like a shot, stumbled out of the bedroll, and shook Spock, who was alert and fully awake in a second. It was clear almost immediately that Kailyn had not simply wandered to another chamber. Her parka was nowhere to be found. The supply pouch was taken, along with a phaser, a vial of holulin, and a hypo.

  “She went back up the mountain, Spock—and we’ve got to go after her.”

  “I wonder how long ago she departed?”


  “At most two hours—that was the last time I woke up and she was still in bed. Come on.”

  McCoy couldn’t get his parka on fast enough. He knew she’d gone back to confront the Crown—and herself—one more time. He also knew she’d had enough of a head star that by the time they caught up, she could already have succeeded—or died.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Kailyn kept the beam from the elctro-lantern sweeping along the trail and up the overhanging cliffs, hoping the light would give pause to any beast contemplating attack. The lower portion of the climb presented little difficulty, but as the altitude increased so did the winds. She pulled her hood tight around her face; that, and the blowing snow, made visibility next to nothing.

  She thought of turning back. She knew she was risking her life, that she might never reach the cave at the top of the mountain. But try as she might, she couldn’t accept life without this wild stab at fulfilling a destiny woven so deeply into her soul. She knew that everything Spock had said to her was true and right, but it all paled next to the Crown and the Covenant. She was born to tread that one road out of all the infinite routes possible through time and space. So many had sacrificed pieces of themselves, put their lives on the line so she could find that road—she was the focal point, and the light of five hundred years of succession blinded her to any alternatives. For Kailyn, there was only one choice.

  And now, there was also a growing sense of unease, a tightness in her gut. At first she dismissed it as a fear of the mind, a demon of doubt playing tricks on her. But then the weakness, the tingling, spread. The demon was real all right, and his icy touch stole down her legs and arms.

  Kailyn stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the trail, one foot dangling over the side. She tried to remember what McCoy had taught her about choriocytosis, and she matched up the symptoms. Crouching in case she lost her balance again, she wobbled ahead and rolled onto her side under a protective ledge. Her head was spinning, but she saw the chunk of snow fall on the trail a few yards away. Her hand found the phaser pistol and she leaned a few inches forward. The night was shattered by the roar of the zanigret.

  She flashed the lantern out, and the beast leaped from above, charging toward her. She squeezed, and the phaser beam hit it square on the chest. The great jaw opened wide, fangs dripping frothy spittle, and it fell flat, as if its legs had been sawed off in an instant. It was dead, no more than fifteen feet away.

  Kailyn tried to put the phaser back into her pocket, but it slipped from her hand and buried itself in the snow. She crawled back under the ledge. The white mountain cat seemed to waver as she stared at it—what was happening to it?

  Nothing . . . it’s you. She held her hand up before her face and saw five fingers multiplying first to ten, then fifteen, then more than she could count. They seemed part of someone else’s hand, distant and cold. She commanded them to clench, and after an alarming delay, they obeyed, folding into a loose grouping without strength.

  Pass out soon . . . freeze to death . . . another zanigret comes along to eat. Got a few minutes left, then good-bye, Kailyn. Need a shot . . .

  The voice echoing unevenly in her skull had to be her own, though she fancied it coming from the dead animal glaring at her with eyes wide and fangs outstretched. Was she talking inside her head or outside? Can’t tell.

  Can’t do it, can’t do it, the voice chanted mockingly. Can’t give the shot . . . afraid to. Can’t do what you never did before. Can’t, can’t, can’t. . . .

  She shook her head violently, trying to bounce the voice loose from the spot where it had dug its unyielding claws into her brain. But the voice only sang more insistently. She stopped listening. Hands fumbled with the pouch, found the medikit. Her hands? Who else’s? Hypo held up before her eyes. Three hypos before her eyes. One of them must be real, she thought with a fatalistic shrug.

  The hands unbuttoned the parka, then slid aside the clothing underneath. Bare skin, mottled red as soon as the cold hit it. Goose bumps. The hands chose a spot beside her navel and pressed the air-jet tip of the hypo against it.

  Can’t do it, the voice jabbered.

  “Can do it,” Kailyn muttered. With great effort, she pushed the plunger and the device hissed its preset load of holulin into her muscle tissue.

  A fainting sensation was replaced by a calming. The whirlwind inside her head receded as the drug did its work. And she let out a long, long breath—one it seemed she’d been holding all her life. A wave of relief washed over her and she felt free and powerful. The hands clutching the hypo once again belonged to her, and . . . Was this an after effect of the drug? She didn’t care—all that mattered was the strength she felt newly flowing from within. Eagerly, she gathered herself together and stepped out onto the trail again.

  The only witness was the dead zanigret, and it watched with unblinking eyes as she went. Fifteen feet from its head, the forgotten phaser pistol lay in the snow.

  “Doctor, stop and rest,” Spock shouted over the howl of the wind.

  “No time,” McCoy called back. His foot hit an icy patch and he sprawled backward.

  Spock’s strong grip lifted him quickly. “Doctor—” he began in a warning tone.

  McCoy shook his head. “I’m all right—but she may not be.” He peered ahead into the snow pirouetting through the lantern beam. “What’s up ahead?”

  Warily, they approached a dark mound blocking the path. Spock flashed the light over it—a pile of loose snow glimmered back. “It would seem to be a small avalanche.”

  He moved the light up to where the slide had begun; it was a smooth line from the cliff above down over the precipice. Spock flipped open the tricorder slung over his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking for a body,” Spock answered grimly.

  McCoy held his breath until Spock closed the scanner. “Anything?”

  “Negative. I had not realized these rock and snow formations were so unstable.”

  “Maybe the wind did it.”

  “Whatever the cause, we must proceed with extreme caution.”

  They picked their way through the blockage and moved ahead. Up the trail, McCoy stepped on something soft underneath the falling and blowing snow. His heart skipped a beat and he stumbled back; Spock caught him.

  “There’s something buried there,” he said through ashen lips. He leaned back against the inner wall as Spock knelt to brush away the snow from whatever was lying under it.

  The back leg with its vicious talons was all they needed to see, but McCoy’s sigh of relief was far from complete—the zanigret carcass only compounded his sense of foreboding as he sidestepped around the beast, then backed away from it. A few yards ahead, he kicked something small and hard, and inhaled suddenly.

  “What now, Doctor?”

  McCoy bent down and sifted the snow with his foot. He picked up the phaser and handed it to Spock.

  “Well,” said the Vulcan, “we know she made it this far. This phaser was likely the cause of the zanigret’s death.”

  “Thank the lord for that, but why did she leave it behind?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think she would have needed a shot by now?”

  “Probably.” ‘

  “What if she did not take it?”

  “I don’t even want to think about that.”

  But he did think about it—and the awful ways Kailyn might already have died.

  The lantern light flooded the steamy grotto. Kailyn lay back on the moss-covered ground, the parka folded under her head as a pillow. Through closed eyelids, the bright lantern looked like sunlight. The warmth of the air, the sweet smell of the moss, the sounds of trickling water nearby—it all seemed like a summertime dream as she relaxed.

  But this was no summer idyll; she was at the top of an arctic volcano, for one purpose. Slowly, she rolled onto her knees, then stood. The Crown was back in its niche, carefully swathed again in the woven metallic cloth. She set it on her parka and unwrappe
d it. Somehow, it seemed less imposing this time, as if the shine had dulled. She thought of it as a living thing that had put on its best face before, but was not prepared for such a late-night visitor to rouse it from rest.

  She straightened up and held the Crown out in front of her. The prayer . . . she murmured it quickly, then held her breath. Facing a glassy pool of water as a mirror, she placed the Crown abruptly on her head. She closed her eyes and concentrated.

  The crystals ceased their inner turmoil. Kailyn bent closer to the water and looked—they were clearing. They’d been dark and murky as a fogbound dawn; now, they turned frosty, a steely blue-gray replacing the muddied mist within. Kailyn swayed and sank to her knees; the Crown toppled to the ground. Tears ran down her cheeks as she saw that the crystals had reverted.

  Her whole body slumped and she began to cry with deep, heaving sobs. Motivation to improve, said a voice, ringing in her ears. Spock’s voice. She sat back on her heels and throttled the next sob as it tried to escape her throat. She reached for the Crown, and placed it on her head again. She thought about Spock and McCoy, and the tenacity they’d displayed time and again since the Galileo had left the Enterprise—how many times she herself would have given up had the choice been hers. And her father, waiting patiently all those years for the tide of fortune to pick them up and sweep them back to Shad and peace. Shirn, and Captain Kirk, steadfast in their duties. Not a single image of the Crown intruded.

  A rush of light-headedness hit her. Her breasts rose and fell as she panted for air. Another shot, another shot, the shrewish voice taunted again.

  She tried to turn and lurch toward the medikit across the grotto. Her legs melted beneath her and she pitched over on her side. The Crown rolled off and she reached for it, dragging it before her eyes.