STAR TREK: TOS #11 - The Yesterday Saga I - Yesterday's Son

by A. C. Crispin

  He began to curse, very quietly.

  Chapter XV

  Spock and Zar worked their way over until they were about fifteen meters from the Romulan guard. He was standing with his back to them, beside the ship, wearing the uniform and ramrod stance of a Centurion. Every five minutes exactly, he’d pace the length of the craft, scanning the surroundings alertly.

  The Vulcan’s whisper was so low the younger man had to strain to hear him. “Go behind the ship and create a diversion—not too loud. I’ll take care of the guard.”

  Zar snorted rudely, hissed, “That’s highly illogical, and you know it. I’m the one who can get over there and take care of him quietly. No noise, no other Romulans. Wait here.”

  Spock made a grab for his ankles, but he was gone, melting into the shadows as though he’d never existed. The Vulcan strained his eyes and finally caught sight of him on the other side of the ship, hidden by the inky shadow of a boulder. Crouching low, he slid around the hull, and Spock saw something gleam in his hand.

  The Centurion was halfway down the length of his beat when Zar leaped. The movement was so fast that it was all over before it registered in the First Officer’s mind. Against his will, his brain slowed it down and replayed it.

  The catlike leap—then grabbing the guard’s chin, dragging his head back—the slash of knife across throat in one quick motion—and Zar stepped back quickly to avoid the blood.

  [150] It took Spock perhaps a half-minute to stand up and cover those fifteen meters. When he reached Zar the young man was sitting on his heels, wiping the blood off his knife onto one still-twitching shoulder. He looked up, eyes silver in the dim light.

  Spock felt his insides heave. “What are you going to do now? Gut him and hang him?”

  The feral light died slowly in the gray eyes. “What?”

  “You took a life ... there was no reason for it ... no excuse.”

  Zar barely glanced at the blood-soaked figure, then shrugged. “He was an enemy. What does his life matter?”

  Spock clenched his fists, then forced them open again. His words were measured, deliberate. “You have no right to consider yourself Vulcan, if you can do this.”

  The younger man hadn’t missed the gesture, and his face hardened as he stood to face the other. His voice was cold. “I acted logically. Why let him live, and take a chance on his raising the alarm? Besides, he and his kind killed my friends ... and not as mercifully. I killed quickly, They died for a long time.”

  Spock shook his head. “Their violence doesn’t excuse yours. There was no reason to kill. ... On Vulcan, life is precious ... it can never be returned or replaced. If I had any idea that you intended ... this ... I would have stopped you.” He began to turn away, hesitated. “Warn me immediately if anyone approaches.” His glance at the Centurion held revulsion, “You’d better hide the body.”

  Zar ground his teeth together so hard his jaw muscles hurt, as he watched him walk away. Then, swallowing convulsively, he bent over, sheathed the knife and picked up the guard.

  The Science Officer had been working for nearly an hour, when Zar, formerly a motionless shadow among shadows, suddenly moved toward him. [151] Dropping down at the Vulcan’s side, he whispered, “How much longer?”

  “Approximately four minutes to finish these settings, then I can turn the power on.”

  The younger man shook his head. “Too much time. We’ve got to hide and get out of here. Somebody’s coming. Now.” The gray eyes narrowed as his expression turned inward, listening. “More than one.”

  Spock hesitated, then resumed working. “I’ll set it, then hide. You get out of sight.”

  “I’m not leaving you. I may not be Vulcan ... but I’m no coward.” Again that far-away look. “We haven’t got a chance. There are six of them. They’ll be here any minute!”

  The First Officer gritted his teeth, hesitated another long second, then stood up and kicked rocks over the unit. “We’ll wait until they pass, then come back. Head for those ruins over there.”

  They ran. When they reached the ruins, a ghostly tumbled pile of blocks that might have been a collapsed building, or a highway, or almost anything else, they climbed quickly to the top. There was a large boulder overhanging the others, with a small hollow beneath. They just fit.

  The two men could see the Romulans through a narrow slit in the bottom of the boulder that gave them limited vision. The six soldiers milled in confusion, obviously searching for the vanished guard. Then they moved away, and the two in hiding were dependent on Zar’s ability to tap into the searchers’ emotions. They crouched, not talking, except when the young man breathed a comment.

  “They’re puzzled.”

  Two minutes went by.

  “Suspicion ... they’ve called for help. ...”

  Another ten minutes.

  “More of them. All looking.”

  An hour and a half.

  “Surprise. Shock, Anger. One found him.”

  Now they could see the enemy crossing and [152] recrossing their vision slit in pairs. Once they crouched, hands and faces hidden, grateful for their dark clothing when a Romulan crawled up and glanced casually down into their hiding place. The overhang was dark; he didn’t see them.

  Six and a half hours. They didn’t speak, only watched with increasing tension as the searchers combed the ruins with the ruthless patience of experienced hunters. Zar was familiar enough with that kind of patience to know that the Romulans would keep looking until they were sure the intruders were gone. In these ruins, that could take a very long time indeed.

  Gradually, as time crept by for the two men cramped into the tiny hiding place, the number of Romulans searching dwindled. Finally, when fifteen minutes had passed without sight of one, and Zar reported that he could sense none in the immediate area, they crawled out of the rocks, straightening knotted muscles in relief. “How much time left?” Zar asked, dreading the answer.

  “Thirty-four point two minutes until the Captain begins the destruction pattern. Depending on where he implements it first, we may have some additional time, until the planet begins breaking up. I would not count on it, however.”

  “We can’t hurry, though. I can pick them up all over the place. ... Stay low, and follow me. I’ll keep to cover when I can.”

  They headed to the left, a slow scouting sneak toward the perimeter of the cloaking device screen. By mutual unspoken agreement, they knew that any further attempt to return to the Guardian would be suicidal.

  Crouch and run a few meters, dodge behind a fallen column or boulder, scan the area ahead, crouch, drop to hands and knees or belly to worm across an open space—and then do it over again. ...

  Both men were tough, strong, but soon the pace told. Spock concentrated on ignoring the stabbing [153] pains in his hands. His fingers and palms were scraped raw, and the cold was making them ache more. He couldn’t afford the time or effort necessary to set up mental blocks against the pain, so he endured it.

  Zar was a little better off. His hands were hardened by years of exposure, and the cold didn’t affect him. Hunger was another thing—the pangs in his middle were hard to ignore. Hunger in the past had always been a thing to fear, and his habitual reaction made it hard to concentrate his perceptions on sensing the enemy.

  They had covered nearly half a kilometer of broken, rock-studded ground before they reached the perimeter of the screen and knew it had all been for nothing.

  Whoever was commanding the Romulan task force was taking no more chances on unauthorized intrusion. Guards were paired and stationed in open areas just out of visual range of each other ... well within earshot, Spock thought, taking out his phaser, only to look at it and put it away again. Too much noise, even on stun. And the open areas make a sneak ambush impossible. ...

  The Vulcan turned to his companion. “Do you think you could run fast enough to make it past them if I fired from cover?”

  Zar shook his head. “Even if I thought I could, I wouldn’t go under
those conditions, If we both fired together ...”

  “Too much noise—the next pair would be on us in seconds. Frankly, I doubt I could outrun them, even with a head start. These are Romulans we’re dealing with ... not Humans. We have no advantage.”

  “How long ...”

  “Fourteen point four minutes.”

  They lay quietly, watching the soldiers as they stood, hands resting on the butts of their weapons. Spock felt the seconds ticking by in his head, and [154] bit his lip. Inexorably, the equation built itself in his mind, and the only logical outcome for any action they took at this moment was death. He found himself trying to reason whether death by phaser bolt was preferable to death by cataclysm when the planet was sliced apart—and shook his head, frustrated. There must be another alternative!

  Zar narrowed his eyes, looking past the guards. Just beyond them he could see the distortion of the cloaking device. The sight tantalized him ... safety, only a few meters away, and he was going to die within sight of it. In a very few minutes, now, lying here in the dust. He slithered backward until he could crouch behind a rock and peer at the enemy. Seconds ticked by in his head. Gathering ... building. He was going to die. Those Romulans out there were killing him. He hated them. He was going to die, not long from now. Stronger—building, gathering .... Die. Like Dave and Juan ... like the guard he’d killed. ... He could feel the death. ...

  When he realized his companion was no longer beside him, the Vulcan wriggled back until he could see him. Zar was crouched, fingers digging at the rock, breathing in gasps, his upper lip beaded with sweat. “I’m going to die,” the whisper reached the Vulcan like the rattle of ipanki leaves in the wind. “I’m frightened ... I hate them ... I’m going to die.”

  Spock was sickened, and at the same time, he felt an irrational impulse to comfort his son. He reached out a hand, shook his shoulder, gently. “Stop it, Zar.”

  “Shut up,” Zar gasped, then ignored him. He mumbled again, a litany, “I’m scared. I hate them. I’m going to die ... death ...” His gaze fastened on the guards, eyes wide, glazing. “Die ...” His body stiffened, then the hands clenched on the rock loosened, and he tumbled over bonelessly.

  Shocked, Spock stared at him, then in reflex looked at the guards. They were sprawled, not moving.

  [155] Nightmare-slow, he scrambled over to the limp figure, touched the wrist. Nothing, He pulled his son’s head into his lap, felt his throat—a flutter, very slight ... His fingers went to the temples. Summoning his mind, he concentrated, finally picked up the karselan mind-activity. Secondary—weak, very weak. But there. He took a long breath.

  Probing, reaching, calling. The name, over and over, for as ancient magic would have it, the name is the identity. Zar—Zar—Gateway faded, the rocks were gone. The pain in his hands erased. Zar—Finally ... he ... touched! ZAR!

  His son stirred and moaned under his hands. “Quiet,” he ordered. “You did it. Lie still for a second.”

  Spock drew another deep breath, closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them, Zar was looking at him, gray eyes still clouded, unfocused.

  “Can you move? The way is open, if we go quietly. We haven’t much time.”

  The young man nodded, tried to speak, failed. Gathering himself, his teeth fastened on his lip, then he moved.

  “Good ... take it easy ... come on . ...” Spock put an arm under his shoulders, heaved. Zar’s legs buckled for a second, then steadied. They stumbled, wavering, past the guards. Neither looked at the Romulans.

  A short distance past the cloaking device perimeter, the younger man’s natural resiliency began to return. He shook off the Vulcan’s arm, and walked by himself. They had five minutes left.

  Chapter XVI

  Gateway was quiet, its winds hushed for once, as if in anticipation of its extinction. Kirk, using his distance lenses, surveyed the area for the fourth time, McCoy paced in a circle, counting seconds in his head, afraid to look at his chrono. Kirk scanned the area again, then took out his communicator, opened the hailing channel, heard the now-familiar crackle of distortion that had been his only answer for the past five hours. Five agonizing hours since he’d awakened, still tired, to find that there had been no word, no signal from Spock. Giving the horizon one last examination, he put his distance lenses away, opened another channel.

  “Kirk to Enterprise.”

  “Enterprise. Uhura here.”

  “Lieutenant, prepare to beam up the landing party. Order Mr. Scott to ...” Something in the ruins of the archeologists’ camp caught his eye. “Belay that. Beam up Doctor McCoy and the security team. I’ll follow in a second. Tell Mr. Scott to stand by to initiate destruction sequence 10. Kirk out.”

  McCoy swung to face him, “Jim, I’ve got to stay—” the transporter beam caught him and he and the security personnel were gone.

  The Captain walked a few paces toward the ruined building, and stooped to gather up the object that had attracted his attention. The satin gleam of polished wood, marred by a scratch and a broken string—but still in miraculously preserved condition—Doctor Vargas’ Stradivarius. Kirk held it, remembering the [157] evening when he’d heard its music, and tenderly wrapped it in a torn remnant of cloth. Holding the violin under his arm, he took out his communicator, hesitated, checked his chrono. Two more minutes, he promised himself. That was a minute over the deadline. He would fight the urge to extend it even further, he knew, when the two minutes were up. But he’d fought himself before, since he’d become Captain, and won.

  Kirk spent the two minutes thinking about Spock, wondering what had happened. Incidents raced through his mind, flashed and were gone, like the winding patterns of a stream. Spock ... hanging upside down in that ridiculous tree, grinning ... bending over his sensors ... or a chessboard ... “Fascinating” ... a man of honor in two Universes ... Spock ... staggering toward him, smeared with ashy dust ...

  Kirk’s eyes widened, and he began to run.

  “Where have you been? What kept you?” The Captain grabbed the Vulcan by the shoulders, shook him, then steadied him as he swayed. “You don’t know how glad I am to—” he broke off, looking at Spock’s companion, then hastily took his arm, supporting Zar as he staggered. Moving slowly, the three headed back toward the camp.

  “I have to report failure, Captain. We were unable to trigger the force field. Unfortunately, they’ve landed one of their ships within a few meters of the Guardian—though they seem to be taking no notice of it. The Romulans returned before I had time to turn on the unit, and we were forced to hide while they searched the area.”

  Zar stumbled, lurched, pulling Kirk off balance. Bracing himself, the Captain lowered the younger man onto a large boulder, and took out his communicator. “Kirk to Enterprise.”

  “Enterprise. Lieutenant Commander Scott.”

  “Scotty, I found them, alive. Three to beam up.”

  A pause instead of the expected assent. Then, [158] “There’s been a bit o’ trouble here, sir. We just picked them up on our scanners. Ten Romulan warships, comin’ fast. They’ll be in range in less than a minute, Captain. I’ve ordered the shields up. Shall I drop them t’ beam you aboard?”

  Kirk’s voice was tight. “Under no circumstances drop those shields. Try to hold them off. Those Federation ships should be arriving any minute. Between you and the Lexington you ought to be all right. Were they able to fix the Lexington’s shields?”

  “Aye, Captain. I just talked with Commodore Wesley. Don’t worry, sir. We’ll be fine. There isna’ a ship built can hold a candle t’ the Enterprise in a fight.”

  “I know, Scotty. Good luck. Signal me as soon as ... when you can, Scotty.”

  “Scott out.”

  Kirk snapped his communicator shut with a decisive click. “That’s it. we’re stuck here, gentlemen. My ship up there, fighting, and I’m not with her. Ten to two isn’t good odds.”

  Spock surveyed his Captain’s grim expression, then said, “Lieutenant Commander Scott is a fine office
r and a good tactician. No one knows the Enterprise better—except for you, Jim.”

  “I know. And you’re right about Scotty. I suppose the situation could be worse—but frankly I can’t think how.”

  The three sat silently for a moment, then Kirk straightened purposefully. “I brought some supplies. Are you hungry?”

  “Water?” Zar said, taking an interest in the proceedings for the first time. They shared water and emergency rations in silence. Kirk watched the sky, as though imagining the battle that must be taking place thousands of kilometers away, in space.

  “Captain,” the Vulcan said suddenly. “As long as we are here, the only logical course of action is to return and trigger the force field. With three phasers, we stand a much better chance.”

  [159] Kirk looked at him. “You mean three times zero doesn’t still equal zero? It did while I was in school. If they’re already alerted, they’ll be waiting for us. It’ll be suicide.”

  “You are correct, although somewhat flamboyant in your manner of expression, Captain. However, now that the Romulan fleet is in the area, we can’t chance them having more sophisticated detection equipment than the landing craft have with them. If the battle goes against the two starships ...”

  “We’ll be dead anyway. I see your point. If we can activate that force field, it could buy the Federation fleet extra time ... which could make all the difference.” The Captain stood up. “All right. You rested enough to start?”

  “Yes,” responded two voices. The First Officer glanced at Zar as they rose. The food and water had helped, but the younger man was still pale, and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes.

  Kirk looked at both of them. “Which of you is going to figure the odds against us this time?”

  Spock raised an eyebrow, and something glinted in the dark eyes. “This time, Captain, the odds against us are a mere three thousand, five hundred and seventy-nine point zero-four-five to one.”