Crisis On Centaurus

by Brad Ferguson

  The elevator stopped; Kirk emerged cautiously from it. No one around. Down the hallway, he spotted a door painted a different color from all the guest room doors; he decided that was the way to the roof. Kirk hefted his burden and began to walk weavingly toward it.

  It was the roof accessway. Kirk gently eased Sulu off his shoulders and sat him against the wall. "I'll be right back," he told Sulu. "Stay put." The helmsman grunted solemnly; Kirk patted his cheek and drew his own phaser. Crouching, he eased open the door to the roof.

  He saw a shadowy figure against the bright blue sky and fired blindly; he heard an object hit the roof, followed by the thud of a collapsing body. Kirk fished a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and put them on. He wasted no time in crashing through the accessway.

  Two more! he thought, even as he fired. And they were firing back, well wide of the mark. Kirk risked a glance up. Damn flitters all over the place! fumed Kirk. He didn't see one that was obviously Sam's, and did not know how he'd spot Cogley's flitter anyway.

  But some of the ones above his head obviously belonged to the Ministry of Internal Security—and they were homing for Kirk's location.

  And then Kirk saw a big, limousine-sized flitter zoom around a tall building opposite the hotel, and he knew that it was Sam Cogley manning the stick. Sam was rescuing him. Kirk ducked back inside, grabbed two handfuls of Sulu, and struggled back outside, even as the agents drew near.

  Kirk now saw that one of the two men approaching him was Burke. He ignored him; the hovering flitter was blocking any possible stun shot, and a kill shot would take out the flitter first. Kirk didn't think Burke would do that to get him. As Kirk neared the flitter the passenger door popped open, and Cogley's voice was insistent: "Come on, Jim! The barn's burning down!"

  "Coming, Mother," Kirk called; the captain was feeling fairly feisty by now. In three strides he was at the flitter door; he heaved Sulu inside—Sorry for the rough stuff, my friend—and jumped in after him. Cogley pressed a button, slamming the door shut. He yelled "Hang on!" and they got out of there well above the local speed limit.

  Cogley spent the next several minutes at low altitude above the streets, whizzing in and out of likely looking hiding places, trying to muddy their trail.

  "Where'd you learn to drive like this, Sam?" Kirk asked.

  "Los Angeles."

  Shortly thereafter, Cogley found a hole in heavy traffic above him. He eased into it; the guy behind him blared his airhorn in annoyance. Cogley said a nasty word.

  "Up to our hips, Sam," Kirk agreed. "You have any idea what happened yet?"

  Cogley shrugged; he was keeping one eye on the traffic and the other on the rear-view receptors. "Some. I figure our friend Nathaniel Burke was doing his job. He was certainly going to keep an eye on you, Jim; I didn't think he'd be so attentive where I was concerned. He must have assumed that the fugitive League members would try to get themselves somebody like me to represent them, and I happened to be the guy in town that day. Just lucky, I guess."

  "So he had you followed to the hotel, found out that we were meeting, and put two and two together," Kirk guessed.

  "That's probably it. He must have had Sulu drugged as a gambit, figuring it'd slow you up. I wonder how long he'll be out."

  "You've got me," Kirk said. "I thought he might have been coming around before, but I suppose not. In fact, he's beginning to snore. Where are we headed now?"

  "Gregory's Landing, for a rendezvous with a party of five, as per schedule."

  "Let's hope Burke's heard about our meticulous planning and gives up right now." Kirk whistled tunelessly between his teeth; then he reached into his jacket pocket and produced one of the Internal Security men's phasers. "Take it, Sam. I've got plenty."

  "No, thanks, Jim," Cogley grinned. "I only wear those things in court." He paused, sobering. "I'm glad you have one, though."

  They sped north, safe for now in the mass of traffic.

  Cogley dropped the flitter in back of a colonial-style house at the foot of a narrow street in the northernmost section of Gregory's Landing. It was a quiet neighborhood, with few neighbors. The lawyer cut the engine and sighed. "This is it."

  "I see. Do we wait here all day, or does somebody have to go around front and ring the doorbell?"

  "They'll be out; we're getting the once-over right now."

  Kirk saw a curtain flutter in an upper window; whoever it was then backed away. Two minutes later the rear door of the house opened, and out came two men, muscly types in blue jeans and knockabout shirts.

  "Max and Dave," Cogley said. "They're the ones who got in touch with me yesterday morning. They don't say anything they haven't memorized somewhere else. My prime client's changed his hideout at least twice that I know of; I guess he decided to bring these two out of the cold, after all."

  Two more men came out. They were dressed as businessmen, albeit their clothes could have used a trip to the cleaners.

  "I don't know these two," Cogley said. "Haven't met 'em. I know them only as 'Smith' and 'Jones.' Somehow, I don't believe it."

  A fifth man emerged.

  "Reuben Barclay," Cogley said. "The head man. I met him a long time ago on Earth. He had a big block of stock in one of my corporate clients, back when I had corporate clients."

  Barclay was immaculately and stylishly dressed, even to a large diamond stickpin in his cravat. He appeared as unmussed as any man could be, even under the best of circumstances. He was heavy, balding, and looked vaguely threatening—and his aura of power was the greater for that.

  "My turn now," Kirk said. He unlatched the flitter door and stood, appraising Barclay.

  "Captain Kirk, I presume?" Barclay said. "Reuben Barclay—as, no doubt, Mr. Cogley has informed you. My associates." He gestured half-heartedly in the direction of the other four men. "I trust we're off to Government Field now?" He smiled.

  "No," Kirk said. Barclay blinked, his smile fading.

  "Change of plans, Barclay," Kirk continued. "The deal you cooked up and served to Cogley has been blown. No shuttle. We can't get to it."

  Barclay's teeth were on edge. "Then what do you propose to do, Kirk?"

  "First things first. You're all under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You already have a lawyer, so I won't go into that part. You have a phone call coming. Want to make it?"

  "No," Barclay said, fuming.

  "Then stand there for a minute." Kirk came around and frisked Max and Dave, relieving each of several weapons. The business suits weren't carrying anything. Barclay had a penknife not good for anything but paring nails; Kirk confiscated it anyway. "In the flitter."

  "Where are we going, Kirk?" Barclay demanded. "Do you have some idea about turning us over to the local authorities? Because if you do—"

  "Save it, Barclay," Kirk snapped. "I'm under orders to deliver you to Earth for a trial. If Centaurus wants you, it can plead its case at your arraignment in Geneva."

  "If any," Barclay smirked.

  "Yeah." Kirk shot a glance at Sam Cogley, who did not return it. "In the car, now."

  Barclay stood still for a moment, and then shrugged. He sat in the back. "Who's this?" Barclay demanded, indicating the dozing Sulu.

  "My best helmsman," Kirk said. "You touch him or disturb him in any way, and I'll feed your heart to the pigs for breakfast." He turned. "That goes for the rest of you. Get in the car."

  They got. Cogley sealed the doors, and they took off.

  "Head due east," Kirk said. "I know where we're going."

  "The valley you told me about?" Cogley asked.

  "Yeah. The valley."

  They sped at low altitude over the wild, untamed country that dominated the interior of New America. Under normal circumstances their flitter could have been picked out by one of the circling datasats orbiting any reasonably advanced Federation planet—but the Defense Center's insane computers had wiped the skies clean of satellites
. They were safe from spying eyes.

  No one was following, either, as least as far as Kirk could see. The flitter wasn't all that fast—the top speed on the indicator dial was eight hundred kilometers per hour, only two-thirds the speed of sound, and Cogley was coaxing every bit of speed he could out of the old bucket. It also drank fuel greedily. Can this thing run thirty-two hundred klicks without a refill? wondered Kirk. I'd hate to have to stop for a loadup. The fewer people who see us, the better.

  After a couple of hours, Barclay spoke up. "Kirk?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "When do we arrive? I'm becoming a bit cramped in here."

  Kirk shrugged. "We're about halfway there."

  Barclay nodded. He reached into his inside pocket for a leather case; he opened it and produced a cigar. "Does anyone mind?"

  "Yes," Kirk said. It was Barclay's turn to shrug; he put the cigar back in the case, and elaborately replaced the case in his jacket. The four with Barclay looked at Kirk as if to say, Are you crazy? You don't say no to the Boss. If he wants to smoke, or slobber, or kill you, you do your level best to cooperate.

  Sulu, sprawled in the seat next to Barclay's, moaned. His eyes opened. "Oh, my aching head," he mumbled. The helmsman looked around. "Where are we? Captain?"

  "Welcome back, Mr. Sulu," Kirk said, a little relieved. "Sam, got any aspirin for Sulu?"

  "Look in the glove compartment. I didn't bring any."

  Kirk opened it and found nothing.

  "Allow me, Captain?" Barclay said. He snapped his fingers; "Smith" withdrew a small tin from his shirt pocket. Damn! Kirk thought. I missed that when I searched him. Jim, boy, you're slipping.

  Barclay opened it and offered two of the tablets inside it to Sulu. "With your permission, of course, Captain," Barclay said, his voice lightly stressing the last word.

  "Fine. Thank you, Barclay."

  "Not at all."

  Sulu took the tablets and dry-swallowed them. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. "What's going on, Captain?"

  Kirk briefed him. Sulu was angry. "I fell for it," he said bitterly. "The oldest trick in the book."

  "It's an old trick, all right," Kirk said, "but we weren't looking for tricks." The captain looked disgusted. "When he left the conference room yesterday, Burke as much as said he'd stop us if we try to enforce the Federation's interests in this matter." He glanced at Barclay and the others. "Burke knows what the rules are. He's breaking them."

  Sulu considered it. "Captain, with all respect, if someone wiped out my home town and killed my family, I might not be in a mood to pay attention to due process, either."

  Kirk nodded. What could he say? He agreed with Sulu. But he had orders, and he intended to follow them—to the letter.

  They continued due east.

  "This is it, isn't it, Jim?" Cogley asked.

  Despite everything, Kirk smiled. "This is it, Sam. Garrovick Valley."

  They had found the Farragut River and were following it north; it was like a highway into Kirk's valley. A few swift movements through mountain passes, and they were there. It was as beautiful as Kirk remembered it.

  "Captain?" Sulu asked. "Do you have a place here, sir?"

  "Yes, Sulu. Another dozen or so kilometers farther on."

  Sulu was fascinated; so much open space! So green! "How much land, if you don't mind my asking?"

  Kirk made an expansive gesture. "Everything you see."

  "The whole valley?"

  "Also the riverbanks back toward the source, the riverbanks south of here, and all rights attached thereto," Kirk answered, not without a hint of pride.

  Barclay was looking out the window. "I commend you on your taste, Captain. This is quite nice. I envy you." There was a gleam of avarice in Barclay's eye.

  In the pleasure he felt at coming home, Kirk had, for a moment, forgotten all about Barclay and his cohorts. It offended his hindbrain that a slug like Barclay should encroach on his place, but the captain knew better than to rail against their shared circumstances. But if things weren't as they are, Barclay, and I found you trespassing—well, they'd give me a medal for what I'd do.

  "Right on up the river, Sam," Kirk said, instead of what he wanted to say. "I'll tell you when to turn."

  "There," Kirk said, pointing. "Off to starboard."

  "You mean 'on the right,'" Cogley said. "Landing area and everything. Great." Cogley whipped the flitter around and set her down gently behind Kirk's log cabin.

  So long ago, Kirk thought, on this same spot, Bones McCoy, Joanna and I set down, and I fell in love with this place. Twelve years ago? Doesn't seem that long. Joanna loved it so. He noted his use of the past tense. Damn, I hate being out of touch with the ship! I wish to hell I knew what was going on.

  Kirk popped the flitter door open and stepped out. By touch, he selected his own communicator from the one he'd purloined from the Internal Security agent earlier, took it out of his jacket pocket, and flipped it open. There was the familiar errrkaerrrkaerrk sound, as the gadget found its frequency; then there was nothing but a roar of static. Upper atmospheric fallout is still too high, Kirk said to himself. He brought it closer to his ear and listened carefully. Were there voices there?

  "Kirk to Enterprise, Kirk to Enterprise, come in, please." He waited. Nothing. He tried again. The ghostly voices on the comeback didn't seem to be noticing him.

  There was one more trick to try. Kirk thumbed the emergency recall tab. Under normal circumstances, the transporter room would receive this signal and beam him up immediately; he could then coordinate a pickup of the others. Kirk knew the transporter was out of service, but the signal might get through and tip the ship off to his position.

  It didn't work; there was no answerback signal. Kirk shut the clamshell and returned it to his pocket. He looked at the others. "Nothing yet," he announced. "Let's get inside." Sulu, the closest to the door, entered first. One of the good things about Garrovick Valley was that Kirk never had to lock his cabin.

  The place was rustic, but not primitive. The kitchen facilities were modern—microwave, quikfreez, stasis, full plumbing and recycling facilities—and the head was a navy man's dream. There was even a massage unit, built for two. So was the bed.

  The log walls were covered with the traditional woodsman's trappings: gunpowder weapons (nonfireable trophies); artificial skins resembling those of the traditional raccoons, beavers and otters; and old, faded prints of woodsy scenes—hunters around a campfire, a group of men ice-fishing, and so forth. There was a bookcase filled with genuine antique volumes; Kirk kept them wrapped in plastic and read them frequently: Dickens, Hemingway, Asimov, Ross, and some others, none of them from later than, say, 2050.

  Kirk pushed the bookcase out of the way—it rolled on hidden casters—and exposed a machined panel. He flipped a switch.

  "What's that, Jim?" Cogley asked. The others looked on, interested.

  "Starfleet radio. My commander's unit. More powerful than the communicators. Maybe I can punch a signal through to the ship." A small prompt box lit dully red: AUTHENTICATION.

  "Kirk, James T., SC 937-0176 CEC."

  VOICEPRINT MATCH CONFIRMED. That disappeared.DESTINATION.

  "U.S.S. Enterprise, NCC-1701."

  WORKING. Then, FREQUENCY INTERFERENCE NEXT..

  Kirk reached for the DEACTIVATE switch, but hesitated. He thought for a moment, and then pushed an unobtrusive yellow key in the lower right corner of the panel. Another cue bar lit dully red: EMERGENCY POWER OVERRIDE.

  Kirk repeated his code and destination entries.

  WORKING. Then, for a split-second, there was CONTACT ESTABLISHED; but it was quickly replaced by FREQUENCY INTERFERENCE. NEXT. Kirk sniffed; he smelled insulation burning. Then all the panel lights died. I've really bunged it up now. He sighed.

  He wondered if his call had managed to get through. If it had—and the CONTACT ESTABLISHED indicator hadn't simply been a glitch in the overheated unit's circuitry—then Uhura might be able to run a trace on his position. K
irk was sure that if even the merest blip of a signal had gotten through, no matter how weak or brief, then Uhura could pin it down. Kirk was frankly and unashamedly baffled by the intricacies of subspace communications equipment and had a healthy respect for Uhura's skills.

  17:82, the chronometer said. Kirk satisfied himself that the commander's unit wasn't on fire, unhooked it from the cabin's power supply to prevent its reactivation, and rolled the bookcase back against the wall. I'll have to get the unit replaced, eventually, he said to himself. Not that it's done me much good. The first time I've ever used it, and look what happens.

  Kirk sighed. "Barclay," he said. "You can have that cigar now. It'll be a while." The captain turned and stepped outside.

  Some flitters were capable of flight outside the atmosphere, capable of reaching destinations in near-orbit. Cogley's was a rented atmospheric-only, subsonic model that needed air around it to burn fuel. Kirk decided that staring at it wouldn't reconfigure its engines. The tanks were almost dry, anyway, and Kirk didn't maintain a fuel dump in the valley.

  Night was falling; some of the brighter stars were coming out, now that it was a little past second sunset. Kirk soothed an old itch and spotted Sol in Cassiopeia; the sky was still too bright for Kirk's home sun to show its yellowish color, but the gleam of it was there. So were some of Kirk's other old friends: Vega, the Dipper, the three stars in Orion's belt. And there were some newer friends, the other planets circling Alpha Centauri. Centaurus didn't have a moon; Kirk missed one. The presence of a big, fat moon would have made it better, somehow.

  Kirk went back inside the cabin. Sulu was handling K.P. tonight; he had rations going in the microwave and was frosting some beers in the quikfreez. Kirk hadn't been here in several years, but the stasis field had kept all the food as fresh as the day he'd bought it, years before. There was enough in the vault to keep everybody fed for weeks.

  Cogley had, with Kirk's permission, warmed up the 3V. There was a small earth station hidden in the woods, but there were no broadcasting satellites for 3V anymore. Instead, Cogley had found one of Kirk's handful of omnitapes. Like his books, Kirk's films were antiques, although they were reproduced in modern media. Cogley, Barclay and the others were sitting on the cabin floor, more or less enchanted by the George Pal version of The Time Machine. It was reconstructed 3V, of course; the film had been made in 1960, well before they'd come up with the omnilens. It was early in the picture, and there was the three-dimensional illusion of an astonished and excited Rod Taylor, as the time traveler, talking excitedly to an elderly and half-daft Alan Young in his later incarnation as an air-raid warden, Young finally pulling away as the sirens of London screamed their last alert.