STARTREK®: NEW EARTH - WAGON TRAIN TO THE STARS

by Diane Carey

  “Avedon,” Dimion responded, exhausted and perplexed.

  Someday he would have his answers.

  “From now on,” Shucorion whispered, “we will have to take the initiative. It’s me, Dimion . . . it’s my providence. I am gifted to break the Curse. I will meet their gallantry with stealth, their robustness with deviltry. And never again will I underestimate the people of Federation. So I must be clever. Find some way to keep them from coming here, long enough for the Kauld to establish their base. I want them to finish it. I want them to move their entire military force to live in it, as long as they do it on that planet. A beautiful planet.”

  Stepping away from them, he gazed at the view cylinder, showing a passive picture of the Kauld battlebarge flowing away in the greater distance, and the planet now called Belter by its Federation surveyors.

  “Breathable,” he murmured, “pleasant . . . doomed.”

  Chapter Nine

  “WE DON’T KNOW who’s causing these problems. Apparently no one’s going to volunteer, so let’s start in another place. Why would anybody do these things?”

  The Enterprise’s refitted briefing room was a rather unwelcoming place, despite the high design and futuristic materials, the black glossy table that wouldn’t take a fingerprint, and the wide viewing ports curving along one whole wall. Every time Kirk came in here he wanted the old briefing room back.

  The litany of problems besetting the convoy was taking on the din of a funeral bell. Every day there was something more, something else, something new to go wrong. Supplies had dwindled faster than anyone expected. Rationing had taken its toll on civilians who had never lived this way or had to deprive themselves. Kirk and his command team had been flitting from ship to ship, putting out “fires” that ranged from “let’s turn back” discussions to a mutiny on one Conestoga that Kirk had ordered to share its supplies with three other Conestogas.

  The turn-back club was small, but growing.

  Moments alone like this, with SpoDuty Station ck and McCoy and nobody else, had become cherished and rare during this expedition. He saw McCoy less and less, with the doctor shuttling between the mercy ship and medical hot spots all over the fleet. Even Spock had his hands full coordinating all the first officers and keeping his finger on science concerns as well. He’d hardly seen Scotty at all, and Sulu, Chekov, and Uhura were so happy with their fleet assignments it seemed a shame to give them any grief. In deference to them, knowing they had their hands full, Kirk had forced himself to make all the decisions, even taken on more than he should, and the load was becoming oppressive. He needed advice.

  Sign of weakness? Age? Maybe.

  Glad to be doing something, even something menial, Kirk got a cup of coffee for himself and one for McCoy, who was seated in the middle of the absurdly large table. Nearby, Spock gazed out at the trail of Expedition ships spilling out in the darkness, mostly just shadowy shapes distinguished only by the hazy glow of a nebula they were passing.

  “We know we’ve got some nefarious characters on this expedition,” McCoy provided, “starting with four ships chock-full of itinerant privateers who won’t let us have security clearance rights on their crew manifests. Anybody could be lurking around on those vessels. We’ve got shady personalities like Billy Maidenshore, Eli Samms, and others with even worse records who want to make a clean start, or say they do—”

  “The instigators could be among the privateer captains themselves,” Spock pointed out. “They have steadily resisted Starfleet authority, and if Starfleet remains at Belle Terre to patrol the Sagittarius Star Cluster, it could undermine their value to the colonists.”

  “All except Kilvennan,” Kirk crisply claimed. “It’s not him.”

  Spock tipped his head. “How do you know?”

  “Just have a feeling.”

  Kirk blew across the top of his steaming coffee and inhaled the sweet aroma. If only he could crawl in there and let his muscles soak in the heat. “We’ve got to start anticipating trouble rather than just reacting to it. Bones, get with Chekov and cobble together a team skilled in terrain intelligence. Pull people from security, SAR, HazMat, and planetary specialists. Sulu could serve both as a captain and a botanical advisor.”

  McCoy nodded. “I’ll do it, but what for?”

  “If we run out of food, we might have to forage a passing planet.”

  Kirk buried an internal shudder. He didn’t even like the sound of that, raiding some other planet, breaking off the main track, taking such an enormous risk. Even rationing was a better option. Suddenly he wished he’d talked himself out of even mentioning this to McCoy. Judging from the doctor’s expression, the concept was as unwelcome to him as it was to the captain.

  “Don’t worry, Bones,” Kirk assured, “it’s a last resort. If we play our cards right, it’ll never happen. Don’t forget the passive measures—cover, concealment, camouflage, protective construction.”

  “All right, Jim. There’s a new officer in Search and Rescue over on the Beowulf who’d be just right for this. I’m sure Captain Austin will let me borrow her.”

  “Good. And, Spock, we need more trained service troops. Maintenance, supply, and evac. Choose people who can continue the duty when we reach Belle Terre and act as the landing zone control party. Have them phaser-certified. We might want armed reconnaissance. Train them to establish and operate communications signal devices, ground installations, and a matériel pipeline.”

  Turning from his commune with the stars, Spock paced inboard, away from the viewports. “I suggest putting Mr. Carpenter from American Rover in charge.”

  “Jack Carpenter,” Kirk commented. “I remember him. He’s everywhere, like chain lightning. He comes up with solutions before we ever hear we’ve got problems.”

  “Yes, he’s been acting as chartering broker, finding space on various ships to shift ordnance, supplies, and personal freight to better facilitate warp trim.”

  “Maybe he’s your saboteur, Jim,” McCoy commented, sipping his coffee. “Somebody who’s moving around from ship to ship all the time, access to secure areas, good general knowledge of mechanics and procedures—”

  Kirk pondered that, then dismissed it with certain distaste. “I hate to think anyone who’s been that much help could do so much damage. Carpenter and Captain Smith and Colonel Glass from the Pathfinders on the Rover have been on my A-list for problem solving since we embarked.”

  “See?” McCoy made a definitive gesture. “An evil disguise.”

  Kirk leveled a finger at him. “Don’t tamper with my A-list. It’s all I’ve got.”

  Sixty-four thousand civilians. Pushing down the butterflies in his stomach, Kirk tried not to show his nerves flickering. Spock’s X-ray eyes could see them, no doubt, and he hadn’t succeeded in hiding anything from McCoy in twenty years. Must be hiding from himself.

  “What about the governor, Jim?” McCoy suggested. “Could young Sir Evan have some ulterior motive? Trying to make himself look good by refusing to give up or even think about turning back? It wouldn’t be the first time a politician fiddled with events to make himself look good. He holds a high post, covets historical legacy, he’s young, could be influenced by underworld powers—”

  “Barry Giotto’s already combed through that,” Kirk dismissed. “It was the first thing we thought of. Evan Pardonnet’s a decent young man. He doesn’t want to be treated as if he’s special. I also believe he doesn’t see clearly that other people can be rotten under the skin. He’s so can-do that he doesn’t consider what could go wrong, or that some people might make things go wrong on purpose. He’s suspected me all along of wanting credit for his project . . . I don’t want credit. I want them to succeed. I’ll do anything in my power to make that happen.”

  They both looked at him now. He was cracking like a melon. They sensed it, then saw it as they surveyed him now. Kirk felt the pressure give a little under their gaze.

  “I’ve been privileged with a stellar career,” he mused. “I’ve b
ecome a household word. People tell their children Captain Kirk stories at night. With every passing year, I get more aware of how many people are left out of those stories.”

  “That’s how it always is, Jim,” McCoy comforted. “Society likes a hero.”

  Kirk waved a hand. “There’s something flawed about it, though, Bones. Millions of people provided the resources we had at hand for our missions. Hundreds, thousands, even millions of lives sacrificed during events I’ve personally had a hand in changing, some of them my own friends and crew. . . . Captain James T. Kirk has absorbed the applause and gratitude that by rights I should be sharing with all those who’ve died in the line of duty, or been lost trying to establish colonies like this.”

  The sudden unbidden doubts he had never dealt with in his youth rushed in on him. Kirk shifted to sit on the edge of the briefing room’s glossy table, to look out the viewports at the cut-outs of running lights streaming back into near-infinity. He’d never had these thoughts in those early days, in those high-flying times.

  “Jim,” McCoy attempted again, “everybody has doubts as they get older. I did.”

  “It’s not doubt, Bones,” Kirk told him. “It’s guilt. I . . . I enjoyed myself too much. I should’ve been more aware of the ones who died breaking through the iron curtains, opening the gulags, establishing the mining operations, terraforming inclement planets, people living out their lives under truly ghastly conditions with nobody to remember their names or tell their stories.”

  “You were a soldier, Jim,” Spock offered solemnly. “A soldier must keep his mental armor intact, or he will never make the hard decisions.”

  “Some of them were hard,” Kirk accepted. “Sometimes in the night I can’t justify things that happened, or the lives that were the price. I’m standing on those people’s shoulders, not the other way around. So are the two of you. We owe them. We had to come on the Expedition to represent those lives and make sure there’s more Federation in the galaxy, not less. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want the people of Belle Terre to leave the Federation. I want them to lead the Federation.”

  Mildly, showing the generosity of spirit for which Kirk so deeply cherished his friendship, Spock simply asked, “What would you like us to do, Captain?”

  There was something in the Vulcan’s timbre that drew Kirk back, a sense of hands-on, of right now, of get it done. Spock had that almost-smile on his face, the sparkle in his eyes, the crease in his cheek, as if waiting for Kirk to get over the squalling and do what he did best, because Spock knew he would.

  Grateful, Kirk turned and gazed at him for a moment. “Yes . . . thank you both.”

  Slipping off the table he straightened up, drew himself back to immediacy, and faced the thousand problems in his pocket.

  “We’ve been lucky so far. I don’t mean to keep depending on luck. First of all, have Mr. Chekov keep a particular eye on Billy Maidenshore. I know—we’ll be accused of harassment. So tell him to be subtle.”

  “Your gut at work again?” McCoy teased.

  Kirk managed an unenthusiastic smile, but it didn’t last. “Second, start long-range low-energy sensor sweeps, broad-spectrum, forward, aft, and abeam of the convoy. See what you pick up. If anybody’s moving around out there, I want to know about it.”

  “Angus, come in here. Scan this place. I don’t trust Kirk as far as I could kick him.”

  Billy Maidenshore enjoyed a long draw on one of his prize cigars. He couldn’t light up a blue leaf anymore without thinking of Jim Kirk. Just one of those mind tricks he couldn’t shake. He waited for Angus to scan the quarters for interference, listening devices, bombs, the usual.

  “All clear, Billy.” Angus turned off his short-range tricorder and tried to keep his fingers from their typical twitching. Billy didn’t like to see the twitching. Whether the twitching was more annoying than watching Angus try to hide it or stop it—flip a coin.

  “Okay, are you listening?” Maidenshore asked, the cigar clutched between his teeth. “I got a few things to say. I don’t want to say them twice.”

  “Sure, Billy, I’m listening. You know we’d all do anything for you, anybody on Pandora, we’d do whatever you want. You took care of us, we’ll take care of you.”

  “I’m counting on that, wiggler. I’m always watching you, remember that. I watch everybody. Here’s the problem. Every time I set up a disaster, a good reason for people to get scared and stay that way, Kirk moves in and fixes things.”

  “You’re getting what you wanted,” Angus told him. “You’re even more popular than the governor now, on Yukon and Promontory Point. You already got one more Conestoga going for you than you set out for. Isn’t that good? Better, right?”

  “Better,” Maidenshore agreed, “but is it enough? When the time comes, will they listen to me, or will they listen to Pardonnet? I’ve got to make double sure the only voice those people pay attention to is this one right here.” He pointed at his own throat and patted himself on the cheek. Another draw on the cigar got him thinking further. “Nah, there’s got to be even more. The only good audience is a good and scared audience. You get people worked up angry, they act a certain way. You get ’em worked up scared . . . you can lead them over a cliff and promise you’ll get them wings and they’ll go. That’s what I need. I need them so flustered, so shook, so afraid it’s about to be them next . . . that they’ll do anything I tell them to.”

  “How can you do that, Billy?” Angus stared at him, fascinated by the way Maidenshore’s mind worked. “How do we make them that scared?”

  “Could be anything,” Maidenshore supposed. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m going to say until I say it. Like magic inspiration. It just hits me. The right thing at the right time. All I know is we’ve got to get control of at least one Conestoga, two is better, far enough out in space that Kirk can’t bring the fleet along when we double back. Our friends’ll be waiting to pick us up and take possession.”

  “Wouldn’t it be great,” Angus demonstrated, “if we could get three Conestogas?”

  “A fortune,” Maidenshore agreed. “But we can’t get greedy the first time out. We better make sure that Kirk keeps his four Starfleet cutters out of our hair. That means they have to keep enough convoy ships with them that they can’t split up. Why do you think I’ve been keeping my activities centralized in two Conestogas?”

  Angus settled back and imitated Maidenshore’s lounging posture. “I see what you mean. That makes sense. Our friends could handle maybe one starship, but not much more.”

  Both irritated and flattered by the mimicry, Maidenshore absorbed the adoration. “I tried being nice, y’know, Angus, I really did. I gave them what they needed, let them survive every malfunction, the contaminations, all the tricks, gave them the lung flu, then provided them with the cure . . . primed the pump in every way possible, so that when the time comes, they’ll hear me and only me. But I can’t get past Jim Kirk. This guy, he keeps putting out every fire. Just when I have ’em good and frightened, there he is. And there’s that sappy governor, talking in patriotic lyrics, like that’s real, like you can live like that. Those two, they keep upstaging me.”

  Angus nodded once, decisively. “They’re upstaging you, Kirk and Pardonnet. I wouldn’t let them get away with it, if I was you.”

  “You’re dead right . . . dead right. Things have to change now, that’s all I can say. I tried doing it the easy way, but Kirk won’t play. Am I right?”

  Closing one eye, Angus pretended to think for a minute, his gnarly face screwing up into three different expressions before he made his decision. “I don’t see it no other way. You got a clear way of looking at things. What do you want to do next?”

  Maidenshore relaxed back, sliding his hips downward until his head rested on the back of the chair and his legs were sprawled out halfway across the limited quarters. “Yeah. I need our people to be so scared of what’s coming that they can’t even imagine not turning around when I give the word. Angus . . . the
time’s come for people to start dying. A lot of them. A catastrophe. A whole Conestoga. Three thousand people. Whoosh.”

  “Tall order, Billy,” Angus warned. “Big risk, to make something like that happen.”

  “Risky for them, not me.” Maidenshore crossed his ankles, sucked on his cigar, and shrugged. “What else can I do? It’s out of my hands.”

  COMMAND DUTY ROSTER—PROPULSION ENGINEERING

  Superintendent of Fleet Engineering: MONTGOMERY SCOTT, Cdr. Eng.

  Authority: James T. Kirk, Fleet Adm.

  Duty Station:

  Industrial Roundhouse Ship Colunga, ECC-989

  Main Eng., NCC-1701

  RESPONSIBILITIES:

  Function and maintenance of mule engine propulsion systems.

  General motive power, all ships.

  Coordinate all engineers, disseminate equipment and assistant personnel.

  Repair facilities and personnel.

  Coordinate Wreckmasters Norfolk Rebel and Combat Support Tender Beowulf as needed.

  * * *

  COMMAND DUTY ROSTER—TRAFFIC CONTROL/TRANSPORTER COORD.

  Chief of Fleet Operations: HIKARU SULU, Lt. Cdr.

  RESPONSIBILITIES:

  Fleet movement, train order.

  Coord., all fleet pilots and helmsmen.

  Traffic control, Rules of the Road.

  Choreography of all beam traffic.

  Security, all unauthorized beaming.

  COMMAND DUTY ROSTER—PATHFINDERS

  Pathfinder Command: BROOK SMITH, Capt.

  Special Ground Forces Command: JOHN GLASS, Col.

  Investigations and Zone Control: JACK CARPENTER, Special Agent

  Duty Station: American Rover