by Susan Wright
“There’s Jim!” McCoy pointed to the silhouette next to the battling couple. It looked like Kirk was jumping through the portal.
After a few moments, the mist faded and the distortion gradually eased as the image disappeared.
“It appears the captain went voluntarily,” Spock commented.
“But why?” McCoy insisted. “Do you recognize that place?”
“Negative, Doctor.” Turning off the tricorder, he slung it over his shoulder. “I will compare it with the computer database on board the Enterprise.”
Spock neatly attached the anti-grav units to the subprocessor to transport it back to the ship.
“Can’t that thing tell us where they went?” McCoy asked, sticking to practicalities. The Enterprise could just go fetch Jim.
Spock looked thoughtfully at the subprocessor. “I will have to run a full diagnostic with the ship’s computer.”
“We don’t have much time.” McCoy realized he hadn’t updated Spock on their current situation. With the captain missing, Spock was now officially in command. “Two Klingon battleships were detected on long-range sensors just before we beamed down.”
Spock appeared to be computing the time they had left, then made his decision. “Reinhart, make sure everyone evacuates the station.”
Reinhart gave the orders, and the guards immediately began a level-three scan as they withdrew, to make sure there was no one left inside this time.
“What about the Kalandans?” McCoy demanded.
Spock input commands into the anti-grav units. The units ticked and the subprocessor rose to knee-height. “The other Kalandans are free to go.”
“Go? What about the station?”
“There will no longer be a station.”
McCoy couldn’t believe his ears. “What’re you going to do, Spock?”
Spock picked up Scotty’s phaser from where Luz had dropped it. “The station must be destroyed.”
“Are you mad!” McCoy exclaimed, as Scotty also expressed his surprise.
Spock was apparently unconcerned about their reaction. “We do not know what other technological wonders this station may contain. We cannot allow the Klingons to take possession of it.”
McCoy felt a rising panic. “You can’t destroy this station, Spock! What about the captain?”
“The captain is no longer here, doctor. And our orders are clear.”
“Aye,” Scott reluctantly agreed. “We’re not to let th’ station fall into Klingon hands. But we can fight for her, Mr. Spock!”
Spock made some adjustments to the phaser. “Our tactical position is not sufficient to defeat two Klingon battleships.”
“But what about the Kalandans?” Scotty demanded. “They’ll fight with us!”
“Will they, Mr. Scott? May I remind you that they have lost their commander, and two of their top officers are incapacitated. If they do fight, I estimate a seventy-eight-percent probability that they will destroy the Enterprise in order to retain possession of the station.” Spock went over to a gaping hole in the flooring.
“What are you doing, man?”
The Vulcan kneeled down next to the hole. “Mr. Scott discovered an access point to the forcefield layers of this station. It is part of the magnetic field generator.”
McCoy watched in morbid fascination as Spock unsealed the edges of a sheet of thick alloy. The Vulcan carefully removed it from the hole.
An electric-blue radiance filled the air over the open conduit, creating such a brilliant shine that McCoy’s eyes narrowed. There was a lot of energy humming through there.
Spock appeared to be unaffected by the dangerous spectacle. “As Officer Marl nearly discovered, an energy discharge of sufficient power at this point could disintegrate this part of the station.”
“Vulcan ears hear everythin’,” Scotty was muttering under his breath.
“This isn’t right,” McCoy exclaimed. “We can’t — I can’t let you . . . We can’t let him do it!”
Spock calmly interjected, “I am in command, Dr. McCoy.”
McCoy stared at him, aghast. It couldn’t be right! But he never won when he argued against Spock. He had logic on his side, much as McCoy didn’t want to admit it. Still, it felt wrong.
“Yes, Mr. Spock,” he finally said, seeing that he was waiting for an answer. “You are in command.”
“Then proceed with your orders.” Spock checked with the security guards to find that the station had been completely evacuated except for the three of them. Fair warning was given to the Kalandans of what they were about to do. They didn’t respond.
Spock set the phaser in the hole, balancing it next to the open forcefield layer. “Gentlemen, we have five minutes before the phaser overloads and disrupts the forcefield layer.”
It was a blur to McCoy, getting out of the Kalandan station. He only knew he didn’t want to leave the place. It was their last link to Jim. But the captain was gone, and Spock was relentless.
After they beamed up, McCoy rushed to the screen in the transporter room to view the planetoid. Spock was already giving Sulu orders to plot a course away from the Kalandan station.
McCoy stared at the blue and brown sphere. Unlike most planets, this one had no shadow, because there was no sun. It made it seem like a toy planetoid, something that wasn’t real.
As it grew smaller, everyone felt it. They were leaving the captain behind, abandoning him.
“The Klingons won’t stay to search a science station,” McCoy exclaimed. “They have no reason to think the planetoid is anything special. We could come back to look for him.”
Spock joined McCoy at the screen, gazing at the planetoid. “Captain Kirk is no longer on the Kalandan station, Doctor. We must look for him elsewhere.”
Something expanded at the curve of the planetoid, then blossomed into an explosion.
“There she goes!” Scotty exclaimed in regret.
Jim can’t be there! McCoy thought wildly. His mind knew the captain had transported light-years away, but he couldn’t help feeling that the captain was still on the station.
The planetoid receded quickly, obscuring the signs of destruction. Spock ordered the Enterprise to warp four, and it instantly became a dot on the screen. McCoy continued to stare at it, fervently wishing he didn’t feel as if Jim was somehow trapped inside that arch. Which was now buried under tons of debris.
The others drifted out of the transporter room. Everyone was subdued.
McCoy stayed looking at the stars on the screen. Captain Kirk had to be out there. Among all those stars, where was he now?
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SIR APROPOS OF NOTHING
PETER DAVID
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Sir Apropos of Nothing. . . .
As I stood there with the sword in my hand, the blade dripping blood on the floor, I couldn’t help but wonder if the blood belonged to my father.
The entire thing had happened so quickly that I wasn’t quite sure how to react. Part of me wanted to laugh, but most of me fairly cringed at what had just occurred. I didn’t do particularly well with blood. This tended to be something of a hardship for one endeavoring to become a knight, dedicated to serving good King Runcible of Isteria, a ruler who more often than not had his heart in the right place.
The recently slain knight also had his heart in the right place. This had turned out to be something of an inconvenience for him. After all, if his heart had been in the wrong place, then the sword wouldn’t have pierced it through, he wouldn’t be dead, and I wouldn’t have been in such a fix.
I stood there stupidly in the middle of Granitz’s chambers. Like much of the rest of the castle, it was somewhat chilly . . . all the more so because I was only partly dressed and the sweat on my bare skin was feeling unconscionably clammy. There were long, elegant candles illuminating the room, giving it a rosy glow, since thick drapes ha
d been drawn over the large windows to keep out both daylight and prying eyes. From nearby on the large and damaged four-poster bed, my lover — and the knight’s wife (well, widow) — was letting out short gasps, trying to pull air into her lungs and only marginally succeeding. The tiled floor seemed to tilt under me for a moment, and I steadied myself as my mind raced, trying to determine what the hell I was going to do next.
The knight’s name had been Sir Granitz of the Ebony Swamps, although he was generally referred to as “Sir Granite.” The nickname had been well earned, for on the battlefield he had been indeed a sight to see. I had seen it myself, many a time . . . from a safe distance, of course, since my mother, God bless her, had not raised an idiot for a son. Understand: I did not, nor have I ever, shrunk from a fight when it was absolutely necessary. However, my definition of “absolutely necessary” wasn’t precisely in keeping with that of everyone else in my immediate sphere.
For people like Granite, “absolutely necessary” included times of war, matters of honor, and similar esoterica. For me, the term “absolutely necessary” meant “self-defense.” I considered war to be an utter waste of my time and energy, since most wars involved people I did not know arguing over matters I did not care about in pursuit of goals that would not have any direct impact upon me. As for honor, that was an ephemeral consideration. Honor did not feed, clothe, or protect me, and seemed to exist primarily to get otherwise inoffensive creatures into a world of trouble.
“Self-defense,” however, was a consideration that I could easily comprehend. Whether it be an envious knight attacking me on horseback, an enraged dragon belching plumes of flame, or a squadron of berserker trolls swarming over the ramparts of a castle, those were instances where my own neck was at stake and I would happily hack and slash as the situation required so that I might live to see another sunrise.
I liked sunrises. They made anything seem possible.
Now, Granite . . . he was the type who would fight anywhere, anytime, at the least provocation. That is precisely the kind of attitude that gets one killed at a young age if one is not a formidable fighter. To his credit, that certainly described Granite. Well over six feet tall and built like a brick outhouse, he often found it necessary to enter a room sideways, his shoulders being too broad to be accommodated by a standard doorframe.
Sir Granite had returned most unexpectedly, at a moment that could best be described as inopportune. For at that particular point in time, I had been in the middle of opportuning myself of his wife.
As burly, as brusque, as fearsome as Granite had been, the Lady Rosalie had been the opposite. Delicate and pale, Rosalie had cast an eye that clearly fancied me in my direction. Considering that, at the time she did it, I was mucking out the stables and up to my elbows in horse manure, she clearly saw something within me not readily apparent from my surface appearance. She and old Granite had just come in from a ride; he perched upon his white charger, and she riding daintily sideways on a brown mare. She winked at me and I hurriedly wiped my hands on the nearest cloth, aware of the disheveled and frankly tatty sight I must have presented. The Lady Rosalie chose that moment to try and dismount. But her foot snagged on the stirrup and she tumbled forward, only my quick intervention preventing her from hitting the straw-covered floor. I caught her, amazed by how light she was. I’d bounced soap bubbles off my fingertips that had more substance.
For the briefest of moments, Rosalie insinuated her body against mine, mashing her breasts against my stained tunic. They were round and felt surprisingly firm beneath her riding clothes. It was not the fall that had carried her against me in that manner; she had done it deliberately with a subtle arching of her back that only I detected. Then, after the ever-so-brief gesture, she stepped back and put her hand to her throat in a fluttery manner. “Thank you, squire,” she said, her voice having a most alluring musical lilt.
“Not . . . a problem, milady,” I replied.
Old Granite did not seem to be the least bit supportive of my chivalric endeavors. His thick red mustache bristled and he said contemptuously, “I give you lesson after lesson, Rosalie, and still you can’t so much as get off the damned horse. You shouldn’t have caught her, squire. A far greater favor you’d have done her if you’d let her fall flat on her ass. It’s the only way she’s going to learn anything about successful mounting.”
“Well . . . one of two ways,” I said in a low voice, just enough for her to hear. Her cheeks colored, but not in embarrassment because she put a hand to her mouth to stifle what clearly sounded like a giggle. I grinned at her. She did not return the smile with her mouth, but it was clearly reciprocated in her eyes.
Granite smoothly jumped off his horse and thudded to the ground like a boulder. “Come, madam,” he said, sticking out an elbow in a manner intended to be gallant but that instead simply appeared stiff and uncomfortable. This was not a man who was accustomed to the slightest gesture of gentility. She took his elbow and walked out with him, but glanced back at me just before they left.
From that moment, it was simply a matter of time.
I knew all about Granite. He was typical of Runcible’s knights, spouting words of chivalry and justice, but doing whatever he desired behind the king’s back. He made polite and politic noises to the king, but he could be as much of a brute as any common highwayman or any member of the Thugs’ Guild, and he also had a string of mistresses in various towns and villages. He frequented the whores’ tent, which was usually set up at the outskirts of an encampment during a campaign. More than one tart had supposedly come away from the amorous encounter with bruises to show for it when Granite was impatient with his own . . . performance. The mighty knight, you see, had a bit more trouble wielding his sword off the battlefield than on, if you catch my drift, and that difficulty translated to welts for those who couldn’t easily overcome his problems.
I, however, had no such difficulties.
The Lady Rosalie, “heeding” her husband’s suggestions to improve her riding abilities, took to the stables more and more frequently to get in practice time. Well . . . allegedly, that was the reason. But an intended hour of riding would end up an hour of conversing with me as I groomed and tended to the horses while she laughed and giggled and watched me perform my duties with a sort of doe-eyed fascination. I knew exactly where matters were taking us, and did absolutely nothing to deter them in their course.
One day she asked me to accompany her on a jaunt, since her husband had gone to deal with a minor uprising in the nearby city of Pell, and she was concerned lest bandits be wandering the roads. This, of course, wasn’t her major concern. We rode several miles away from the good king’s stables, chatting about trivialities, nonsense, and just about everything except for what really occupied our thoughts. By the lakeside, on a cool morning, nature took its course.
Let us just say that she did not ride exclusively sidesaddle.
I’m sure that I provided little more than an amusement to her, a dalliance. The obvious conclusion was that she was using me to get back at her husband, to make him jealous. But I doubt that was the case, because siccing the green-eyed monster upon Granite could only have fatal consequences. Rosalie may not have been the most polished apple to fall off the tree, but she was most definitely not suicidal. Maintaining a shroud of secrecy over our relationship heightened the likelihood of her keeping her pretty head on her shoulders. Besides, when you get down to it, isn’t it the very illicitness of an affair, the forbidden nature of it, which makes it so exciting? Even pedestrian sex can be elevated to new heights when one isn’t supposed to be having it.
That was probably what kept it going. Old Granite had made very clear to all and sundry that he thought very little of his wife’s mental prowess. He considered her something of a twit. But twit or not, she ably concealed the existence of her tawdry little escapades (and I say that with only the fondest of recollections and greatest esteem) from this great warrior who thought himself one of the most canny and discerning of men.
Consequently, when it all came crashing down, it landed with a most pronounced thud.
The Pell situation, which started as something rather inconsequential, began to spiral out of control. Granite made a tactical error, you see. There had been a hard core of individuals utterly opposed to pouring more tax money into the king’s coffers. I couldn’t blame them, really. Most of the money paid in taxes didn’t go into providing resources for public works, but instead either lined the pockets of key knights, or served to fund foreign wars that most of the peasants never heard of and didn’t care about.
The hard core of individuals were endeavoring to organize protests, even stonewall against further taxes. The other peasants were reluctant to join with them. This came as no surprise to me. Being a peasant, I know the mind-set. One becomes so used to being downtrodden that one starts to believe that it’s nature’s intent that one should inhabit a low rung in society. Lack of movement is a formidable force to overcome.
The rabble-rousers called themselves the Freedom Brigade and set themselves up as enemies of the king and his policies. But they weren’t enemies, really. An enemy is someone who has the capability to do you genuine harm. Calling this lot enemies was like referring to head lice as criminal masterminds. They had the ability to irritate, but they were no threat. Only one of the “Brigadiers” had any knack for rabble-rousing at all. I knew him from the old days. His name was Tacit, he was damned good-looking, and the women tended to swoon when they saw him coming. But swoon-inducers aren’t necessarily great leaders of men, because men tend to mistrust other men who are that handsome. They start thinking that there’s some other agenda in force, such as seeking out leadership just to get the attention and favors of the women, and perhaps they’re not wrong to believe that.