Strange New Worlds IV

by Dean Wesley Smith

  If.

  Only if.

  And he had suddenly realized that that could not happen—it could not. He wouldn’t allow it. He’d lost so much already. He had started over, and to lose something so precious again so soon …

  He would not let that happen.

  He would sit here for the rest of his life if he had to, a protective shadow across the still form of his daughter. Nothing would harm her. He would simply will the sickness away with all the stubborn, obstinate doggedness he possessed.

  And then her eyes had fluttered open.

  His heart literally skipped a beat, only silence pounding in his ears. He gulped, hoping he hadn’t woken her, yet knowing that he had.

  “Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “You need your sleep. I’ll be right here.” He reached out and lightly touched her face.

  He had expected her to close her eyes, soothed by his touch, assured by his presence, and return to her infrequent slumber.

  But her eyes were wide. Wide, clear, and frightened.

  His heart had broken at that haunted gaze; it had twisted in the cold, angry fist of agony.

  “What is it?” he whispered, moving slightly closer.

  She was quiet for a moment, eyes searching his open face, before her moist lips parted.

  “Daddy.” Her voice was like a fragile rustling of wind. “Am … I going to die?” Her eyes pleaded with him to answer no, but they also pleaded with him to tell nothing less than the absolute truth.

  He clenched his jaw, fought back tears, and grasped both her delicate hands in his. He brought them to his mouth and kissed them. Then he looked directly into her eyes.

  He would tell the truth.

  “No,” he said firmly, and felt his hands tighten around hers. “No, you will not, Meribor. I will not allow it.” He paused momentarily. “Do you understand that?”

  Wide, her quiet eyes again searched his, glistening in the moonlight.

  “Do you promise, Daddy? Do you …?”

  This time he could not contain every secret emotion that was rushing through him, and a tiny, crystal tear escaped from within his soul and drifted down his cheek. He did not bother wiping it away.

  “Oh, Meribor.” His soft voice broke, and he reached up and ran a hand along her gentle face, both out of impossible affection, and because he was afraid that any more stillness might cause him to break apart and sob. “I promise,” he said. “I promise forever … and I never break a promise.”

  “Never?” she whispered hopefully.

  He smiled. “Never …”

  She, then, too smiled, and it brought joy to his old heart to see her face come to life. It had seemed like forever since her beaming face had lit the room.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” she said. “Please don’t go anywhere.”

  “I will not, I promise. I’ll be right here.”

  And she had drifted off to sleep, and the moon had slid behind a puffy, light cloud, cloaking the room in muffled darkness.

  He had stayed there all night, absolutely resolute that nothing would harm his daughter, absolutely resolute that he keep his promise.

  The next day, her fever had broken.

  He had kept his promise.

  And still he did.

  The wind howled outside the house—which was nestled deep within the small village of Ressik—shrieking its indignant protests against the husky walls of Kamin’s home.

  A home which he had supposedly built with his own hands—although he still had no recollection whatsoever of doing so—but which he had made his own in a tender, reluctant way.

  Kamin’s bare legs (which reminded him more and more often that he wasn’t getting any younger) stretched out before him and were propped up comfortably upon a large wooden stool. He, himself, was eased back serenely, almost disappearing into the fathomless cushions of his favorite chair. And in his hand was a bowl of his favorite soup … made by his favorite wife, Eline … with the aid of his favorite children, young Meribor, and, younger yet, Batai.

  Kamin sighed a long, contented sigh, listened thankfully as the wind screamed outside, and fed himself another spoonful of Eline’s delicious soup.

  The only thing missing, he thought, was a roaring fire. But that would have been absurd, not only because there was no fireplace in Kamin’s household, but because his entire family would have literally roasted to death. It was hot year-round. And the wind howling outside was not a cold, wintry blizzard, but a warm, humid blast of twisting air that spewed forth tiny pinpricks of sharp dirt, leaving paths and streaks of thick, fresh dust in its wake. Yes, indeed, in the morning, Ressik was going to have quite an inconvenient amount of cleanup to attend to.

  But a fire was not the only thing that was missing, Kamin mentally amended. Batai … Batai was missing. He would have been here on a night like this, hanging about restlessly until the wee hours of the morning, not necessarily doing anything constructive, but simply comforting a friend with his warm presence.

  Kamin set down his bowl, sighed again, and then—OOOMPH!—Batai was in his lap.

  Not that Batai, thank heavens, for Kamin would have been a permanent decoration in his favorite chair, but Batai, his small son; the namesake of his late best friend.

  “Daddy!” Batai shouted happily, and climbed his way up his father’s chest, squashing various parts of Kamin’s anatomy, until his arms were wrapped securely around his daddy’s neck, jellystained lips pressed close against Kamin’s cheek, hot baby-breath whispering upon the same spot.

  “Oh, Batai! Hello there!” Kamin rushed to assume a position to best protect those parts of his anatomy that he didn’t wish scrunched. “And how are you this evening, young man?”

  The only words that Batai knew were “daddy,” “no,” and “cookie,” so Kamin wasn’t really expecting a response from his son. He was simply content to be in the company of such select words and in the meaning they held to a small child.

  “Have you finished your dinner?”

  Batai looked up at him with expectant, blue eyes as wide as saucers. They had watched his father’s lips move and were now thoroughly examining every nook and cranny of his wrinkled, leathery face.

  “Cookie,” he mumbled distractedly, probably because he didn’t have anything else to say.

  “Now, young man,” Kamin scolded mockingly, “I would say that you have indeed not finished your dinner because half of it is on your face.” He picked up a napkin from the table beside him and began to wipe the jelly-smothered crumbs from around his son’s disgruntled mien.

  “A story, Father. Tell us a story.”

  Kamin looked down to where his daughter, Meribor, sat upon the floor in a long, blue nightie, her small hands splayed across his sandaled feet.

  “Please,” she said, “just a short one?”

  Kamin disposed of the messy napkin and made room for Batai, who was snuggling down in the fabric of his shirt, apparently having already decided for his father that a story would, in fact, be told.

  “It’s getting late, young lady, and you know you have to be up early in the—”

  “You promised …”

  This stopped him short. He thought back for a moment and discovered that, indeed, he had made that promise. In fact, it was late last night that he had done so, in much the same time and place as this.

  That settled it.

  “Well …” He let out a long breath. “It seems you’ve got me there. Whoever taught you to be so clever, anyway?” He pretended to be serious.

  “You, Father,” Meribor giggled. “Now tell the story … please,” she added.

  Kamin looked to Eline, who was in the shadows of the kitchen cleaning up the dishes. She smiled the smile that is understood only between a husband and wife. She, too, seemed to be waiting for whatever tale her husband would spin this time. Kamin glanced back down to Batai, who looked up expectantly at him, thumb plopped happily in his mouth, breathing steadily, contentedly.

  And then to Meribor, whose cascading
, blond hair swept down over her face, failing to hide her hopeful features.

  Kamin smiled.

  He needed no more prompting.

  “There once was a ship,” he began with a deep breath, “a great ship. A starship. And her name was the Enterprise …”

  “… and so Captain Picard gripped the entire comm panel as if it were the last piece of timber still afloat in a raging ocean storm. He tried to use it to steer the entire vessel, really, but Commander Riker was the one in charge of that. Picard was the captain, but Riker was the better pilot, by far. At least when it came to shuttlecraft, that is.

  “The shuttle shot through the clouds like a bullet, tearing them apart as it torpedoed through. But the Klingons were hot on their trail. The shuttle was so badly wounded that it vented dark clouds of plasma behind it. It would crash if Riker didn’t land it … and in one piece, too, because if he didn’t, then it really didn’t matter, now did it?

  “The Klingons plowed through the clouds that the Enterprise shuttle had already parted, and the Romulan scoutship that they had stolen fired another bolt of green energy into the back of our—excuse me, their—ship. That last shot was all that it took. The shuttle was blasted hard to port (that would have been their left side) and it began to descend faster and faster into a wild, spiraling tailspin.

  “Picard had no choice but to look directly out the window in front of him; it was either that or close his eyes. But Picard was no coward—but that did not stop him from behaving in a completely Kataanian manner, and he gripped even harder on the comm panel, trying desperately, and quite futilely, to steer the ship into correction.

  “‘Hang on, Captain,’ Riker said through gritted teeth. ‘There’s not much I can do now.’

  “The Klingons fired another shot which clipped their ship again, and now it started to descend, not just in a tailspin, but in every direction at once. There is really no way I can explain their anxiousness and their fear, and how long that those moments seemed to last. You would have to have been there, Meribor … and you, too, Batai.

  “It seemed to last forever, but it was only a matter of seconds before the shuttle crashed brutally into the planet, splitting forests apart and uprooting giant trees with its huge nose. It was certainly a bumpy ride, but both Captain Picard and Commander Riker were bolted into place by the safety harnesses that were strapped tightly around their chests.

  “The shuttle eventually came to a stop as it burrowed the front half of its frame into the base of a giant hill deep within the forest—”

  “Were they all right, Father?” Meribor’s apprehensive fingers tunneled into Kamin’s leg, and he almost had to bite his tongue to keep from yelping.

  “Let go of my leg, dear, and perhaps I’ll tell you.”

  Meribor glanced startledly down at her hand. “Sorry,” she said quickly and removed her fingernails from her father’s leg.

  Kamin looked down to Batai. He expected his son to be at least on the brink of a child’s slumber by this time, but his bright eyes were wide, gazing up at him, not the slightest hint of drowsiness found within. Strange, Kamin’s words could not possibly have any meaning to him, yet Batai was absolutely absorbed in the tale his father was weaving—drawn into the exciting, moving sounds that spilled from those lips.

  “Well, were they …?”

  “Excuse me?” Kamin asked, looking away from his son to his daughter.

  “Were they all right, Father? Were they?”

  “Ah, yes … Picard and Riker …”

  And as Kamin continued, a strange, dark feeling that he hadn’t had for a very long time began to creep slowly into his stomach, working its way up and out and deeper, extending in every direction, until he felt it begin to flutter at the brim of his mind, heart, and soul.

  “Yes, they were fine … but only for the moment. The Klingons were landing right behind them. The Romulan scoutship they had stolen caused the tops of the trees—the ones that Picard and Riker didn’t plow over, that is—to whip and blow back and forth. Giant boughs actually broke off and the two Starfleet officers had to duck to avoid them. The Klingons tried to find a relatively barren spot in which to land, but the trees were too thick, and they squashed many as they set down, sending even more splinters and shards of wood ricocheting in every direction.

  “Riker and I knew that there would be absolutely no use in attempting to run or hide. We would simply have to face them.

  “But remember, these were not regular Klingons. They had stolen the Romulan scoutship. Klingons were, by their very nature, honorable beings. That is what made them Klingons. But these Klingons had no honor; they did not care about it at all. They had stolen from the Romulans in order to pursue Picard and Riker, and probably to kill them. But it was worth it, because all the two officers were trying to do was distract them from the Enterprise, because by this time it was crippled, and could be taken over very easily, you see.

  “The hatch to the Romulan ship slid open and three elephantine Klingons stood there. It was difficult to see them because the dust had not yet settled—and a giant tree had fallen across our line of vision, blocking almost everything between Riker and myself. In fact, the hatch to the Romulan ship had bumped against the gigantic log as it lowered, and was unable to open all the way.

  “The biggest of the Klingons, Gath, and also the deadliest, was the leader. The enormous beast climbed down and across the felled tree, a long blade in each hand.

  “Neither Riker or I had any weapons, but—”

  “Daddy,” Meribor said suddenly, “how come you’re telling it as if you were really there?”

  Kamin stopped, his hands frozen wide in excited, narrative gesticulation.

  “What?”

  “Sometimes you say ‘I’ and ‘we’ like it was you instead of Captain Picard. How come?” Meribor bore an almost concerned expression.

  “I did?” Kamin frowned, that strange, black feeling working even deeper into his stomach. It was certainly possible he had done so. In fact, it was fairly obvious, or else Meribor would not have mentioned it. Surely she was not imagining things. And considering the circumstances … and that feeling that he dreaded so much.

  It had been months since he had felt it. Really felt it.

  Oh, sure it was always there in some sense, but most of the time it was like a faint shadow or a dim whisper; something that was forever a part of him, but, of late, hardly ever seen or heard.

  Now it was climbing his insides like a poisonous vine, rustling the memories of his heart like a cool, fall breeze.

  Batai, too, was staring up at him, his countenance an etching of worried perturbation. And Eline—even she had lain down her dish towel, her brows furrowed upward concernedly, eyeing Kamin doubtfully from the shadows.

  Kamin shifted in his seat. “I, uhm … it’s … it’s just that, I get so involved in the stories that I tell, that I often forget I’m really not there at all.” He forced what he hoped was a comforting smile. “Good stories often do that, you know.”

  Meribor seemed to be satisfied with this explanation, and thus, so did Batai.

  “So … what happened next?”

  Kamin glanced at the timepiece on the wall.

  And despite the late hour, and despite that ebbing, prickly feeling, he continued on for ten minutes more….

  “… and so Picard’s attempt to overwhelm Gath had failed—horribly. He lay there on the ground, his left arm perhaps broken.

  “The giant Klingon towered above him, seething, and he wiped dripping blood from his mouth, spat even more to the soil, splattering it upon the twiggy ground like—”

  “Kamin!”

  Eline’s voice shot from the shadows as she emerged from them.

  “Don’t scare them. This isn’t a horror story, you know!”

  Kamin seemed to snap out of his narrative catalepsy, apparently having forgotten that his family was gathered around him.

  He gazed down at Meribor as if he were discovering her for the first t
ime.

  “Oh … I’m sorry, Meribor. Was I frightening you?”

  Meribor, her eyes wide and nervous, gulped and hoarsely whispered, “No, Father.”

  “Good then,” Kamin’s voice took on a sterner, more resolute quality, “because that’s exactly how things occurred.”

  And he jumped back into the story.

  “… because Gath had blamed Riker for it. Either that, or he knew that I was ultimately the one responsible, and he knew that it would cause me ever more pain to see Riker killed for my actions.

  “Whatever the case, Riker didn’t fight it. In fact, he seemed almost relieved at the outcome.

  “But he was the one who was going to be killed, not me. And it was my fault.

  “Gath had one of the other Klingons, another giant one at that, hold a disruptor to my head while he and the other got Riker under control.

  “‘Don’t touch him!’ I struggled slightly. ‘Don’t touch him! It was not his fault. It was mine! I’m the one who should be executed!’

  “‘That can be arranged,’ I heard a Klingon voice say, and I felt the disruptor press firmer against my temple.

  “They stripped the top portion of Riker’s uniform from his chest, and Gath removed a large blade, and held it to his belly, just below his rib cage.

  “‘Now you watch this, Picard. Watch as your first officer shrieks in horror and severe pain. And remember that it is your fault—yours and no one else’s.

  “‘No!” I screamed. I—”

  “That’s enough!”

  Eline actually shot up from her seat like someone had lit a match beneath her. Her face was a mixture of horror, anger, and shock.

  “Meribor! Batai! It’s late. Hurry off to bed, now!”

  Meribor simply sat there, still as a statue, staring up at her father.

  “Meribor!”

  She snapped out of whatever state of dismay she was in, but did not respond to her mother. She addressed her father.

  “Daddy, you’re doing it again. You’re pretending you’re Captain Picard. Why? What’s wrong?”