He glanced in the mirror, furious at his own features. His brow ridge still didn't have the knobbiness that came with age, and his forehead still shone with youthful glimmer. The sash of his new rank was heavy and not yet broken in. He still habitually tugged at it in an endless attempt to adjust it.
A command of his own, and now he wondered if he could keep it. He knew that even at the best of times, and with the loyalty of officers, the life expectancy of a young commander proving his spurs was short. These were not the best of times.
"Baahhh!" he grunted, throwing pieces of his body armor crashing across his cabin. He locked his agonizer in the small wall safe over his bunk. He was about to do the same with his disrupter, but he stared at it, giving it a little toss in his hand, enjoying the familiar weight and feel. He tucked it under his pillow and threw himself on the bed. Nothing would be gained by his fretting over the problem like a woman awaiting childbirth. Better to sleep on it. He let his mind reach out to the purity of the Naked Stars, and he drifted off to sleep. And just before he surrendered to the blissful, albeit temporary escape of slumber, his mind spun back to hours earlier on Cragon V, when he had come face to face with that creature from deep within the bowels of Klingon hell, Weyland …
Commander Kral pulled in a deep breath, barreled out his chest impressively, and approached the castle wherein—he had been informed by nervous townspeople—the great god Weyland had returned and wished to see him.
Kral was getting damned sick of this planet. His first mission in command of the Ghargh and what did he draw? A trip to some piddling planet—mineral rich, to be sure, but piddling—to supervise the aligning of its people with the Klingon empire. It had its amusements, to be certain. The natives had been quick and eager learners, and had come to revere the Klingons almost as all-knowing gods. A number of the Cragon natives had developed a bloodthirstiness that virtually rivaled Klingon berserkers.
For all of this, however, the natives still insisted that before the Klingons could be allowed to begin mining operations, they had to have permission from the great god Weyland, and unfortunately, Weyland was busy elsewhere. So the frustrated Klingons had been forced to cool their heels while indulging in the simple joy of teaching eager people how to fight.
Kral frequently, and quite vocally, longed for the days before the Organian treaty. The days when Klingons could just storm in and take what they wanted, when they wanted it. Now everything had to be nice and tidy. It was humiliating. By Kahless, the next thing you knew, the Klingons would wind up allies of those weak Federation types, as the Organians had claimed. He hoped he would be long dead before such a time.
Finally, finally, finally, Kral received word that this Weyland person had returned. The so-called god had doubtless been in some other place on the planet, practicing his god routine on other gullible savages. Well, fine. Kral would play the game and be done with this. Still, for all his disdain of the savage inhabitants of Cragon, he had a grudging professional admiration for the loyalty and efficiency of the local guard who watched Kral walk by. They smelled like warriors.
The boys in the practice yard on the inner keep stopped their ferocious spear thrusts against hay bales and sneaked wide-eyed looks at the Klingon, until a crusty old man with a patch over one eye bellowed them back to their task.
Kral studied the huge metal doors leading to the inner sanctum of this god, which was filled with strong men who were used to discipline. To befriend this god meant that a minimal Klingon presence could control a rich world in an important sector. Kral knew that accomplishing that would bring him much honor and power.
Kral hooked his thumbs onto his belt, swaggering a little as he strode into the audience chamber, allowing the heavy open-front coat to swing out impressively. His eyes quickly adjusted to the inside light. It was a testament to his will and training that he didn't falter as he took in the primitive magnificence of the huge room. He formally saluted the old man who sat in the rich, jewel-covered throne.
Weyland looked into Kral's eyes. Kral looked down. Not since he was a child had he felt so naked in the presence of a … a superior. He forced himself to return the stare, but his knees felt like water. And the most damning thing was that he knew Kbrex, his first officer, was standing right behind him and taking in the situation, sensing his commander's weakness. Hell take him!
"I am Weyland, and I rule here. You have taken as your own men who are mine. I am furious that, in my absence, you have endeavored to supersede my authority. You must leave this place. You will leave this place."
Kral snorted out his breath. Before he could reach his sidearm, the guards had a dozen spears pressed into his neck. Half a hundred more pinned the two huge Klingon security guards to the ground, while Kbrex struggled in their grip as well. He grunted, "Commander! You must do something, now! This is intolerable!"
Like get myself killed? thought Kral. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Kbrex?
In an endless moment, Kral relaxed his hand, and, at a nod from the ruler, the warriors lowered their spear points. As insane as it seemed, Kral actually felt disappointed in the guards. He himself had trained them, shown them how to wield spears and honed their aggressiveness to a fighting edge. And now this Weyland came in and immediately turned them against him, with a word. Turned the skills he'd provided them against him!
"Now that we understand each other," the god said with disarming mildness, "you may speak if you feel a need to."
Kral swallowed hard. "I represent a great people, greater than you can imagine." The words comforted him, and as he felt the surge of their power, his uneasiness faded. "We are warriors. You are warriors. We do understand each other, Great Lord. The others, the Federation, they are weak. They also wish to ally themselves with you. But the Federation will offer you little. They will treat you as children. They will hold back the gifts of their worlds. We have already demonstrated our willingness to make you—"
"Over into the Klingon image!"
Kral spun the moment he heard the voice, and even before he saw the owner, he had a fairly clear idea of what he would see.
"Your timing, Federation man, is most irritating," he said to the men in the Starfleet uniforms who had entered with one of Weyland's guards on either side.
But Kbrex drew in a startled breath. "Kirk," he snarled. "James Kirk."
Kral did a double-take. This man, standing in the forefront of the Starfleet men, his arms folded and eyes blazing, was the formidable Captain Kirk? "So you are Kirk," said Kral. "You are somewhat less impressive than I would have imagined."
There was a snickering chortle from the other Klingons, which was quickly cut off when Kirk shot back, "Then you are as unimaginative as I would have suspected."
They glared at each other for a long moment, and then Weyland said briskly, "I see little difference between the Klingons and the Federation. You both wish to use my world for your own ends, and posture that you are motivated by concern for my people."
"Great Weyland, I assure you—" began Kirk.
But Weyland waved him off. "I am not interested in your assurances. And I am not interested in you. Leave. Now."
Kral bellowed, "We can make your home a cinder. How dare you, you primitive little worm …" His fists balled until his nails drove into his palms as he fought for a modicum of control. He continued with a bravado which he didn't feel once he looked at the old king. "I will forgive this outrage, for I admire courage and you have great courage. The Klingon empire still holds out its hand to you. But take heed, King Weyland, I will not hold out this offer again."
Kral spun on his heel and strode out, his heart pounding as he waited for the guards to fall on him, but they let him and his two men pass. The boys had left the practice yard. The guard was gone, but Kral saw a telltale glint of metal here and there. It was quite clear that the only path out was the one they had been escorted in.
They went through the front gates, the forest just ahead. There really was no reason at this point not to bea
m up, but something within Kral wouldn't let him go. He hated to just retreat in the face of defeat, and his mind was racing to try and find some sort of alternative. Some kind of plan.
A small boy stepped in the path of the Klingons. Kral looked down at him, bubbling with fury and humiliation. The child was scruffy-looking, even for one of these useless inhabitants, with dirty black hair and a vacuous look.
"Are you leaving?" he asked.
"What business is it of yours, you little fool," he snapped.
And from behind him he heard another of those blasted Starfleet men. "Ya dinna have to be so hard on the boy."
Kral turned to see the idiots directly behind him. "Blast you! This is all your fault, Kirk!"
Another of them, a shorter one, said, "If you think the keptin had anything to do with—"
"Enough, Chekov," said Kirk, never taking his eyes off the Klingons.
The small boy was tugging on Kral's sash. "I thought you were going to teach us how to kill. That's what you promised."
Kral looked down at the lad in surprise, and then up at Kirk, who was no longer trying to hide his anger. "Look at what you've done to these people," snapped the captain. "No wonder Weyland wants nothing to do with us. Look what you've done to his people in the short time you've been here."
Kbrex muttered under his breath, "He insults us with impunity. I can't believe it."
If Kbrex had taken dead aim with a phaser to Kral's head, he could not have scored a more direct hit. Incensed with seeing months of work go down the drain, Kral unloaded his fury on the closest target.
He yanked out his blaster and fired it directly at Kirk.
But as fast as he was, the Starfleet security guards were even faster, interposing themselves in front of Kirk, knocking him aside and returning fire with their own phasers. The Klingons immediately ducked for cover, firing their blasters as the Federation men sought cover as well.
Within seconds the air was filled with the sounds of weapons fire. Kbrex crouched next to Kral and said sharply, "You wisely defended our honor, Commander."
"Shut up!" snapped Kral, firing blindly around the rock that was his shelter.
Kbrex pulled something from his belt. Kral glanced at it and actually smiled. A plasma grenade. "Hurry," muttered Kral. "The Starfleet men will doubtlessly return to their ship within moments."
"They have no honor," said Kbrex, activating the grenade and hurling it. Above his head, phaser bolts flew, and he couldn't risk a glance to see how accurate the throw had been.
Then the Klingons heard a shout of alarm, but not of fear. Something was wrong, and Kral risked a glance around the rock.
What he saw stunned him.
The small boy who had spoken to him was standing barely a meter away from where the Federation men were crouched behind sheltering rocks and trees. He was holding the plasma grenade, turning it over and staring at it as if he'd found a new toy. His face was wide with a grin.
The grenade only had a five-second timer on it.
Kral immediately stood, and then a Federation man leaped from hiding. He heard Kirk's alarmed shout of "Garrovick! What are you doing?!" Clearly, Kirk hadn't seen the grenade.
The one called Garrovick leaped at the boy and grabbed at the grenade. His fingers brushed against it, and the boy yanked it away with surprising stubbornness.
"Mine!" shouted the enraged boy, which would be the last word the boy ever uttered. He clasped the grenade to his small chest.
With a shout of panicked rage, Garrovick lunged forward, his fingers grasping at the grenade.
It went off.
A burst of light and heat surrounded the two of them, the stench of death and burned meat permeating the air. Kral looked away from the intensity of the light, looked into his soul and was distressed at the blackness he saw in there. Roaring in his ears was the sound of the grenade, the sound deafening, yet failing to drown out the brief scream of the one called Garrovick or the hopeless, desperate shout of Kirk. The child had apparently had no time to scream.
He looked back at the site of the destruction. Of the boy there was the barest remains of ashes. The grenade had vented the majority of its fury on the child who had been smothering it.
Garrovick lay on the ground, smoldering, unmoving. Kral could see even from where he was that the Federation man was dead.
"Commander," grated Kbrex. He shook Kral's shoulder. "Commander. Let's leave, immediately."
"Yes. Yes, you're right," said Kral, his mind still a fog. How the devil had it all fallen apart so quickly? What could have gone so horribly wrong in such a short period of time? Even as thoughts tumbled through his head, he had his communicator open and was alerting his ship.
He heard an infuriated shout from Kirk, a snarled challenge, and then the hum of the Klingon transporter drowned it all out.
The death of a child, he thought as the planet vanished around him. Where was the honor in that?
Chapter Seven
Japan, 1600
WHEN SULU HAD HEARD tales of feudal Japan, or conjured up images in his mind, somehow they had a gloss over them. A purity of image, with no real taste of reality to it.
There was more than enough reality surrounding him now, that was for sure.
They had passed groveling farmers, who looked up at him with a startling pathos. Sulu tried not to be affected by the scene, for he could sense the eyes of the gray-haired Sadayo on him. The noble samurai clearly had suspicions about him.
Would the formidable Sadayo, and the other soldiers, have been able to handle the brigands? Sulu kept telling himself that the answer was yes. To believe otherwise was too chilling, because that would mean he had already changed things.
He was smack in the middle of a Prime Directive nightmare. Did he cause the death of those men? No. No, he was certain he hadn't. Their death was written. They would have died in the attack. Or … what if the woman had? What if she was supposed to have died, and Sulu had saved her when she wasn't supposed to be saved?
Could he have caused someone, in the farflung future, to vanish? Or created someone who wasn't supposed to exist? Perhaps dozens of someones, or thousands. His mind whirled with the possibilities. What the devil was he supposed to do? Should he have just stood by and let her die—presuming that he had fully realized, at the time, that he was not caught in a dream. He was afraid to take a step, make any sort of move.
No. He couldn't have let her die. He was just going to have to follow his instincts, and trust them to guide him through.
They had entered the great, sprawling city of Kyoto. Not modern Kyoto, to be sure, but a disconcertingly primitive city of shops and temples and small houses, crowding each other onto crooked side streets. When Sulu had visited Kyoto—his Kyoto—he had occasionally wondered what it would be like to visit the city in all its feudal glory.
Somehow it had seemed a lot less grubby in his imaginings. And it had smelled a lot better.
Soon they passed the middle-class section and were riding through a district of elegant private homes which were the reward of lesser nobles and loyal retainers, and houses once owned by most of the major clans—where wives, daughters, and young sons were held in perpetual hostage to ensure loyalty to the current ruler in the endless power struggle that was Japanese history. But the capital had been moved to Edo, and the hostages, and the culture which they practiced to pass the endless days, had moved there also.
Toward mid-afternoon they wound their way past a network of wet and dry moats and over a number of bridges to the gate of a huge castle. Sulu looked up with wonder. Looming up was a smooth-walled mountain of stone. Above, in sharp contrast to the massive fortification at the base, were the living quarters, white walls and red-tile roofs stacked with pagodalike grace. Each roof line displayed support beams carved with fantastic animals, rendered with such skill they seemed to want to leap to life.
Moments later they were in the great courtyard, and Sulu and the others had dismounted.
"Follow me,
" Sadayo said.
They marched to a formal reception hall. Sadayo knelt outside the screen and announced himself and Sulu. They were admitted and both bowed to the ground. "Lord," Sadayo said, "the Lady Oneko's party was attacked by bandits. She is safe. This man, Suru Heihachiro, came to our aid."
Sulu's breath caught.
It was Torii Mototada.
He regarded Sulu with unrestrained interest, as if trying to see what was inside Sulu's head. Inwardly, Sulu trembled. This man was absolutely legendary. To be in front of him was to share in the legend.
Torii Mototada, the man who was a legend. A man who was larger than life.
He was shorter than Sulu.
Somehow Sulu had always envisioned him being a giant among men, not half a head shorter than himself. He stifled an impulse to laugh, and then the impulse quickly dissipated. Mototada did not need height. He had a staggering presence born of character and breeding.
"Would you serve me?" Lord Torii Mototada asked.
This was not a question asked lightly.
Instinct. What was his instinct telling him to say?
If he refused, that might engender questions—uncomfortable questions that Sulu couldn't answer. And he was still feeling disoriented enough that he didn't want to try and lie. For that matter, to refuse might even be an insult to honor.
Honor was a concept that Sulu understood intellectually, and of course it was part of his upbringing. But it wasn't the suffocating presence that hung over him here.
Honor.
It would indeed be an honor to serve Mototada. To be part of a legend. There was something almost comforting about it. Cast adrift in a sea of time, here was a life preserver being tossed to him.
"Yes, lord," Sulu answered, bowing formally.
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