Star Trek - Sarek

by A. C. Crispin

  "I have," she said. "I regret what has happened, Ambassador Sarek."

  "I understand, Madame Chancellor," Sarek said. "I discussed the matter

  with President Ra-ghoratrei upon my arrival last evening, and he

  informed me that you had spoken together regarding this crisis."

  Azetbur's exotic features were tight with tension, and the mantle of

  leadership was clearly taking its toll on her. Sarek was vividly

  reminded that she had lost both husband and father barely a month ago.

  "This entire incident is unfortunate," she said. "Commander Keraz ... I

  must admit that when I heard that he had initiated this raid, I was

  surprised.

  I have known the commander for years, and, while he can be ...

  headstrong ... he has always been loyal. Keraz is--was--a warrior who

  served the Empire with distinction, in the most honorable manner."

  "I see ..." Sarek said. "I have yet to meet the commander.

  Our first session begins in a few minutes. May I ask why you called,

  Madame Chancellor?"

  "I want the renegades extradited, Ambassador Sarek.

  Have the Federation take Keraz and his men, and hand them over to me, so

  that I may make an example of them ... an example that will speak

  vividly to any others who may be contemplating such treason against my

  government."

  Sarek took a deep breath. Azetbur was many things, but "soft" or

  "merciful" was not one of them. "I regret, Madame Chancellor, that I

  cannot do that. I have no authorization from the president to do so ...

  and my priority in this unfortunate situation must be the safety of the

  citizens of Kadura. I must decline your request."

  "I see." Azetbur stared at him, her jaw muscles tight.

  Sarek had been prepared for her demand--Ra-ghoratrei had warned him last

  night of what the Empire wanted. "Do you propose, then, to simply let

  them go free?"

  "If that is the agreement I negotiate, then that is what I must do,"

  Sarek said. "However ..." He paused for a moment in feigned

  deliberation." ... what happens to Keraz after he leaves the planet is

  not my affair."

  "We will catch him, Ambassador. Of that you can be sure.

  The honor of my people depends on these traitors being captured and

  dealt with."

  Sarek nodded.

  Azetbur's expression thawed still more, and she actually chuckled aloud.

  "Ambassador Sarek," she said, "I understand for the first time the

  strength of your people. You excel at making others decide that what you

  want is what they, also, desire most."

  The Vulcan inclined his head. "You are most gracious, Madame

  Chancellor."

  After both parties signed off, Sarek stood at the window, gazing out at

  the lush wilderness that lay beyond.

  Sarek approved of Deneb IV, also called Kidta, precisely because of its

  extreme isolation. The strictest security was being maintained only a

  skeleton staff was allowed at the

  conference center, and Sarek, Soran, and the Vulcan ambassador to Orion,

  Stavel, were the only Vulcans. If Sarek had to negotiate with Klingons,

  he wanted to make sure he was dealing with Klingons acting on their own,

  under no duress from an outside influence. As nearly as he had been able

  to discover (and he had run extensive checks), there wasn't a single

  Freelan in this sector, much less on this world, or at the conference

  center.

  Which was the way Sarek wanted it.

  Any moment now, his aide would call him to the table to begin

  negotiations with Commander Keraz and his captains.

  Sarek had already braced himself to endure the presence of Klingons.

  Their emotions were primal and close to the surface, worse even than

  human emotions, and most Vulcans could sense them without being in

  physical contact.

  Sarek had no reason to suppose that Keraz would be different.

  He was still puzzling over the Klingon renegade's request for

  negotiation as a solution to this crisis. It was out of character for

  Klingons to sit down and talk their way out of a problem, rather than

  just blasting everything around.

  "Ambassador," someone said quietly, from behind him.

  Sarek turned to see Soran.

  "Are we ready to begin?" he asked, and the young Vulcan nodded.

  Sarek straightened his formal robe, making sure the heavy, bejeweled

  folds hung properly, then followed Soran down the hall, into the

  conference room. It was a medium-sized room, with neutral-colored walls,

  two of which could be made transparent to show a view of the forest. A

  long table occupied the center of the room, an d chairs suitable for

  humanoids surrounded it. There were two doors, one at each end of the

  room. From the door on Sarek's left, Admiral Smillie and an aide

  emerged, and from the other, four Klingons. One of the Klingons held a

  green-skinned Orion woman by the arm, marching her along peremptorily,

  but without any intentional cruelty.

  Sarek raised his hand in the Vulcan salute to the Klingon in the lead.

  "Commander Keraz, I presume?"

  The short, rather stocky Klingon nodded sharply. "Ambassador," he said.

  His voice was much more mellow than most Klingons'. His skin was very

  dark, the color of antique leather.

  The representatives seated themselves around the big middle table. Sarek

  eyed the Orion woman and was relieved to see that, aside from stress and

  fatigue, she did not seem to have been harmed. She stared back at him

  levelly out of eyes the color of onyx. When the round of introductions

  reached her, she said quietly, "s'kara. I represent the people of

  Kadura."

  Sarek nodded, then looked over at Keraz. The Klingon seemed nervous,

  fingering his sash, picking at his belt as though he could not believe

  there were no weapons hanging there. Feeling Sarek's glance, the leader

  looked up, then burst out, "We desire an honorable settlement to this

  situation, Ambassador. My ships and crews have not damaged the planet or

  its inhabitants"--at this, s'kara's eyes flashed indignantly, but she

  did not interrupt--"and, frankly, I have no interest in occupying a

  colony world composed mostly of ... farmers." His mouth twisted with

  distaste.

  "We are warriors, not colonists. We have no wish to become

  planetbound--Kadura is no fit place for warriors."

  Sarek inclined his head, noting that, beneath Keraz's deliberately gruff

  exterior, the Klingon seemed genuinely eager to negotiate. "That is

  promising to hear," Sarek said solemnly. "What are your terms,

  Commander?"

  "We are prepared to withdraw ... for the right price," Keraz said. "We

  must be allowed to take our payment and leave Kadura unmolested by any

  Starfleet vessel."

  Sarek stared at the Klingon. Only a lifetime of habitual Vulcan control

  kept him from revealing his surprise. For Keraz to offer to withdraw at

  the beginning of the negotiations was the last thing he'd expected.

  Smoothly, giving no hint of his inner thoughts, Sarek said, "I am sure

  that, under the circumstances, something can be arranged."

  For a moment Sarek thought about his discussion with Azetbur. If Keraz />
  thought he could successfully leave Fed eration space and find refuge

  across the Neutral Zone, he was sadly mistaken.

  Studying Keraz's face, as the Klingon began outlining his position,

  Sarek wondered with part of his mind what had induced the commander to

  turn renegade. Was it disagreement with his government's new, peaceful

  overtures to the Federation? Was it greed? Had Keraz snapped under pres

  sure, and suffered some temporary madness?

  Or ... was it something else?

  With stern resolve, Sarek concentrated all his logic, all his

  experience, on bringing the Kadura situation to a peaceful, swift, and

  satisfactory resolution. Amanda was still alive Perhaps he could fulfill

  his duty and still return home in time. Perhaps ..

  Considering the circumstances, Peter Kirk decided, it would be better if

  he just didn't wake up.

  His most recent attempts to swim toward consciousness had been so

  unpleasant, he'd come to the conclusion that it simply wasn't worth it.

  He'd much rather stay in this dark, muzzy netherworld, not asleep, but

  not awake, where he could keep his various aches and pains at bay and

  insist to himself that they weren't real. That none of this was real.

  He'd just lie here, thank you, and think about the Kobayashi Maru.

  Pondering that dreaded event was infinitely preferable to opening his

  eyes and facing what had happened to him. Peter had a feeling that no

  simulation, no matter how real-seeming, could possibly equal the mess

  he'd somehow gotten himself into.

  He groaned. Here he was. Peter Kirk, nephew of the Federation hero James

  T. Kirk--a Starfleet cadet so clever, so bold, that he'd allowed himself

  to be duped and kidnapped by a bunch of reactionary bigots too

  disorganized to run a successful demonstration No. It was worse than

  that.

  He'd allowed his confused feelings for a woman he barely knew to cause

  him a critical moment of hesitation.

  Why didn't you just surrender, mister, and save everyone the trouble?

  Would Uncle Jim have hesitated to slug a woman if the fate of the

  Enterprise was at stake? Hell, no.

  Peter couldn't deny reality anymore; his conscience wouldn't let him. He

  was indisputably awake. Groaning aloud, he opened his eyes. His head

  throbbed as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. Squinting at the

  ceiling, he thought it seemed too high, and the wrong color. Wrong color

  for what? he wondered foggily, but couldn't remember.

  Peter moved slowly, as painful awareness of his battle in the alley grew

  sharper, more persistent with every passing second. His arm and head

  hurt. His right side throbbed with every breath.

  Cautiously, he turned his head, his gaze traveling across the small,

  narrow enclosure with its dingy, gray bulkheads.

  Reality. He swallowed, as fear finally set in. Where the hell am I?

  Biting his lip, Peter gingerly pushed himself up until he was sitting on

  the edge of the standard bunk, his head in his hands. And what is that

  smell?

  Sighing, he turned his attention to the plain room. It was small, barely

  four meters by three, and, except for the bunk, which folded out of the

  wall, nearly featureless.

  There were a few indentations that might indicate servo panels concealed

  in the walls, but no windows. Peter shuddered, swallowing a sudden surge

  of claustrophobia.

  He felt light-headed and nauseated from the stun shot, and his knees

  were weak. Sitting silently on the bunk, he paused, just listening.

  There was no sound, no sound at all.

  Or was there?

  After a moment's intense concentration, Peter began to sense something.

  Was it a faint noise? A vibration? Or just a sixth sense that told him

  he was no longer in normal space-time? Suddenly, he knew.

  His engineering instructor had said you could sense the spacewarp, even

  if you couldn't see it.

  He was aboard a spaceship, traveling at warp speed, destination unknown.

  This wasn't a room, it was a cabin.

  Peter's mouth went so dry that he couldn't even swallow.

  Wanting to give himself something constructive to do be sides panicking,

  Kirk rose and systematically began to explore the cabin's flat, drab

  walls.

  The whole place had a well-worn, grimy patina that testified to

  extensive use, and the panels that made up the walls were uniform and

  interchangeable, allowing the dimensions of the cabin to be altered

  according to need. The only door was heavy, with no viewing ports. While

  he could see where the mechanism for manual overrides probably lay,

  there was no way he could get through it--even if he could figure out

  the system--to force the doors to open. He searched for a surveillance

  system and couldn't find one--but that didn't mean there wasn't one

  trained on him at all times.

  Methodically, the cadet pressed one of the innocuous indentations on the

  wall, and a tiny water dispenser revealed itself. He stared, mesmerized

  by clear, fresh-smelling fluid, but in spite of his parched mouth,

  passed it by. The water, he suspected, would probably be drugged. It

  would be the most logical way to keep a prisoner under control. He went

  about examining the other wall indentations and discovered an odd hole

  in the floor. By its smell, he decided, it could only be a head--but the

  style was unfamiliar to him.

  When was the last time this thing was cleaned? he wondered, realizing

  that this was the source of some of the smell.

  Water and a toilet, he mused. But no food. His eyes strayed back toward

  the water fountain. So, how long do you think you can last without

  water? The memory of the cool-looking fluid was working on him already.

  Just then a soft machinery sound hummed, breaking into his thoughts. He

  whirled, crouching, his instincts on override, but it was just a serving

  panel extruding from a niche in the wall. There was a tray on the panel,

  as colorless as the panel itself. Whoever had designed this starship had

  been really fond of monochromatic schemes. Peter approached the tray.

  Piled in a small, equally colorless bowl were dry ration pellets. They

  didn't resemble the rations he was used to, but they had that same

  processed-food-for-space-travel look

  about them--a soft gray green in color, tubular, about two centimeters

  in length, and maybe halfa centimeter in width.

  He sniffed. The mealy-looking pellets had a pungent, fishy smell. They

  were entirely too reminiscent of the prepared food Grandma Winona used

  to feed her parrot.

  Except this stuff is probably full of drugs, he suspected. He could see

  the packaging now-- UNT SYLVIA'S KIDNAPPER

  CHOW. REDUCES STRESS. INCREASES COOPERATION. Yes, there'd be something

  in there to keep him quiet, calm ... cooperative. He frowned at the

  food. It wouldn't be long before even its unappealing scent would make

  his mouth water. While he could last without food a lot longer than he

  could without water, that didn't mean that he could afford to waste

  these.

  He spilled the pellets onto the tray and started lining them up in rows


  until he'd spelled out, in English words, "Who are you?" Then he

  carefully pushed the tray back into the wall. Of course, the "leftovers"

  might be jettisoned directly into the recycler, but somehow, he didn't

  think so. They'd want to weigh how much he'd eaten, know how much drug

  he might absorb ... to determine just how much trouble he was going to

  be when they arrived.

  Arrived where? he wondered, frustrated. It could be anywhere.

  He didn't even know how long they'd been traveling.

  If they'd stunned him repeatedly (and his headache argued that they

  probably had), he might have been unconscious for days.

  Peter walked back to the bunk and sat down. Why in the world would the

  KEHL kidnap him, then ship him offworld? That was the part that really

  had his head spinning.

  Or was that the safest way they could think of to deal with him, once

  they'd figured out who he really was?

  Had he been sold to the highest bidder? There were still slave traders

  in the galaxy, though Starfleet had mostly shut them down. But would the

  KEHL have handed him over to aliens? That thought was the hardest to

  swallow, but there was little about this room that suggested a

  human-designed ship. Aliens would explain the smell, too. It was an

  alien odor, the smell of body chemistries that were not human in