Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (16 page)

Meanwhile, Kirk thundered up the saloon steps on horseback. As he swung down from the saddle, his peripheral vision caught a dark blur—an approaching soldier. Instinctively, he fired his already-drawn phaser. The soldier fell backward, unconscious.

Cautiously, Kirk stepped through the swinging double doors, The room was dark and empty, and for an instant Kirk felt a twinge of disappointment; it seemed Spock’s renegade friend had taken the hostages and gone. And then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he saw a doorway at the far end of the room. Hopefully, he began to make his way toward it.

He was halfway there when he heard a shrill yowl behind him and felt the stab of claws ripping deep into the flesh of his back.

Spock found that retrieving the phaser was impossible: the heavy beast had fallen on it, and lifting its bulk was too great a challenge even for a Vulcan. Spock left the weapon behind and made his way through the old-fashioned swinging doors into the dimly lit saloon.

The only light was furnished by the blue glow of a terminal screen. The army’s leader must have stood here only moments before, talking to Chekov. . . .

“Spock,” Jim said. He stepped forward out of the shadows, gasping and rearranging his cloak. At the
same instant Spock noticed an unconscious felinoid floating face up in a shallow gaming pool. Water had sloshed onto the dusty floor and the front of Jim’s cloak, leaving a dark stain. The water in the pool was still rippling; something had happened only seconds before Spock stepped through the entrance.

Questions were unnecessary. Spock directed his attention to possible routes of escape from the barroom and came to the same conclusion as Jim. Without a word, the two made their way to a closed door in the rear of the saloon. Jim tested it; the door was locked. The captain drew his phaser and focused a small beam directly on the lock.

The door slid open a half-meter; Spock pushed it the rest of the way while Kirk kept his phaser trained on whoever was inside.

“Thank God,” Jim breathed. Spock sensed the captain relax next to him.

He looked up. He had expected to encounter the Vulcan, but the leader had apparently fled. Indeed, there were no soldiers inside—only three distinctly well-fed, well-dressed individuals seated at a round table. Spock recognized them from the images he’d seen aboard the
Enterprise:
the wan, dissolute image of St. John Talbot; the aging, jowly features of the Klingon general, Korrd; and the severe, somber features of the curiously named Romulan female, Caithlin Dar.

The three looked up, startled, as Spock and Kirk entered. Spock caught sight of the captain’s face: Jim was regarding Korrd with a mixture of admiration and pity.

Jim lowered his phaser and strode quickly to the
table. “Captain James Kirk of the Federation starship
Enterprise.
Gentlemen, madam . . . if you will come with us, please. I’m afraid there isn’t much time.”

“There’s quite enough time, Captain.” Dar rose gracefully from her chair and, keeping her arm stiff and straight, aimed a handmade pistol at Jim’s forehead.

“What the hell—” Jim started to reach for his phaser, but stopped when Dar cocked the weapon with an ominous click. Flanking her, Talbot and Korrd rose, brandishing pistols of their own. Korrd pointed the barrel of his weapon squarely at Spock’s chest. Resistance seemed unwise. Spock raised his hands to show that he was unarmed.

“Please cooperate,” Dar said, with an earnestness that was compelling.

The expression of muted euphoria in her eyes told Spock what he most dreaded: that he had correctly recognized her messiah . . . and would soon face him again, after many years.

“I do not wish to kill you,” Dar said, “but I will, if necessary.”

With eminent sobriety, Talbot came forward and extended a hand toward Kirk and Spock. “Would you mind handing over those weapons, gentlemen?”

“It appears,” Spock said to his frowning captain, “that the hostages have taken
us
hostage.”

Dar and the others led them out onto the dusty street, where swarms of homesteaders, some of them bearing torches, gathered around the captured shuttlecraft. A disheveled Dr. McCoy scowled at the captor who prodded him along with a rifle.

“This is a fine pickle, Jim,” McCoy said acidly, as he joined them.

Perhaps, Spock reflected, the doctor was employing a Standard metaphor. The Vulcan had actually sampled a pickle on what turned out to be a less than pleasant occasion. Indeed, his reaction at that time was, figuratively speaking, quite similar to his (private) reaction to the current situation.

Jim’s expression remained grim. “I thought I told you not to come.”

“I suppose you did,” McCoy admitted grudgingly. He fell silent as the shuttlecraft hatch opened.

Uhura and two security personnel were herded out by soldiers with stolen phasers. In a moment, they, too, joined Kirk and the others. “I’m sorry, sir,” Uhura said softly as she stepped up next to Kirk.

His reply went unheard over the deafening shouts from the crowd. Spock glanced up to see a white-robed figure emerging from the shuttle. The soldiers began to chant his name: “Sybok! Sybok! Sybok!”

“Well done, my friends,” Sybok cried over the noise. “Well done.” He lifted his hands for silence; the gesture only encouraged another round of cheers. The Vulcan lowered his hood, revealing his profile, set against a frame of indigo hair. His face was strong and square.

Spock drew in a sudden breath . . . then regained control of himself and released it slowly. He had known who it was, of course, the instant he heard the name. But the sight of him brought a deluge of bitter memories. Spock found himself struggling to suppress the sense of betrayal that came with them.

He took a cautious step forward. In the periphery of his vision, he saw Dar tighten her grip on the pistol. He waited another moment, then took a second tentative step.

“Sybok.” Spock struggled to be heard over the shouting; his voice blended with those of the homesteaders. Frustrated, he cried:
“Qual se tu, Sybok?”

He asked the question in Vulcan. He asked without reflecting on his choice of words, scarcely realizing until after the words were out of his mouth that he had used the intimate pronoun—the one reserved for one’s
t’hyla,
one’s closest friend or dearest relative. At one time, Sybok had been both. Still later, he realized that he had phrased the question exactly as he had at their parting.

Qual se tu?
“Is it thou?”

The question echoed across the span of thirty years. Spock recalled himself at thirteen, asking the same question with such anguish . . . and turning away bitterly upon hearing the answer.

He was aware of Jim and McCoy’s quizzical glances, and of the sounds of pistols cocking, including Dar’s, and he knew that almost every weapon on the street was aimed at him. Yet he could not stop now. He took another step forward.

At the sound of Spock’s voice, Sybok stiffened and tilted his head to one side; his expression of triumph faded, replaced by one of haunted recognition. He did not turn to face his questioner; Spock got a brief mental impression that Sybok was afraid to do so.

At Sybok’s reaction, the crowd fell silent. Boldly, Spock demanded again:
“Qual se tu?”

In the glow from a nearby torch, Spock saw Sybok’s
lips move silently. He read the response they formed—the same answer he had given thirty years before, “I am he … ”

Sybok pivoted and faced Spock from a distance of several meters. At the sight of the other Vulcan’s unmistakable face, posture, expression—even half shadowed as they were in the flickering torchlight—Spock wondered why he had ever doubted Sybok’s identity at all.

“Spock,” Sybok breathed, his voice choked with emotion.

Spock forced himself not to turn away in distaste; but a much younger part of him experienced a tug of love and pain. He remained carefully composed, aware of a hundred awed gazes directed at him. Even Dar saw, and lowered her weapon somewhat.

“Spock!”

The shout was one of pure joy. The crowd parted before Sybok as he rushed to embrace his fellow Vulcan.

Spock stopped him with a gesture.

Sybok came to a halt an arm’s length away. Spock read the hurt and confusion on his face . . . No, perhaps he was not being honest with himself. He
felt
Sybok’s hurt and confusion. Intentionally, Spock reinforced his mental and emotional shields against unwanted intrusion. His link to Sybok belonged to the dead past.

Sybok’s expression traveled through many emotions: love, hate, bitterness, anger, love again. Spock thought it was rather like watching a constantly shifting pattern of clouds on a windy day. At last, Sybok’s features resolved themselves into a look of wary
amusement. He smiled wryly and, to Spock’s utter dismay, switched to Standard. Their communication would now be public—Sybok’s retaliation, perhaps, for the slight.

“Still tight-assed,” Sybok said, nodding. Despite his wounded feelings, there was genuine fondness in his tone. “Still believing everything your elders told you. You haven’t changed a bit since you were thirteen, Spock. I was hoping you’d grown a little since then.”

Clearly, Sybok was trying to elicit an emotional reaction. Stone-faced, Spock stared at him.

Sybok made a desperate sweeping gesture, palms outward. “Spock, it’s
me.
It’s Sybok. More than thirty years, and you’ve finally caught up with me. Isn’t there anything that you want to
say?”

“Yes,” Spock admitted.

Sybok waited a beat, then, exasperated, asked,
“Well?”

“You are under arrest for violating seventeen counts of the Neutral Zone treaty.”

It did not have the effect Spock anticipated. Sybok’s black eyes widened. “Spock, there must be a hundred guns pointed at your heart!”

“Sixty-three by my count,” Spock replied levelly, without a trace of humor.

Sybok’s face underwent another series of amazing transformations, from incredulity to skepticism to amusement. He took a step back, put a hand on his stomach, and laughed.

He continued laughing, eventually clutching his midsection with both arms, until tears glittered in his eyes. His soldiers joined in. Soon the entire crowd, with the exception of the
Enterprise
crew, was howling
with laughter. Spock saw nothing amusing whatsoever about the situation.

“Why, Spock,” Sybok gasped finally, “you’ve developed a sense of humor after all. Good for you. Now, if you could just master contractions . . .”

“It was not my intention to amuse you,” Spock replied coldly. “These are serious charges. If you surrender now—”

Sybok shook his head and waved Spock’s words away with a sweep of his hand. “I’m sorry, Spock, but I can’t surrender now. I’m not through violating the Neutral Zone treaty. In fact, I’m just getting started. And for my next violation, I intend to steal something. Something very
big.”

Spock stared at him. He suspected what Sybok was hinting at, but found himself quite unable to believe it.

“I must have your starship.” Sybok was no longer smiling.

Indignant, angry, Kirk took a step forward. “You staged this to get your hands on my ship!”

Sybok swiveled his head to give him an annoyed glance. “Who are you?”

“James T. Kirk, captain of the
Enterprise.”

Sybok’s eyebrows lifted. “But I thought Chekov . . .” He broke off and smiled again briefly. “I see. Very clever, Captain.” He turned back to Spock. “Spock, it would appear that you’ve been given a second chance to join me. What do you say?”

Spock’s placid expression belied the inward surge of emotion, for which he berated himself. There was no question of his loyalty to his captain, to the
Enterprise,
to her crew . . . and it was absurd that after all
this time, his response to Sybok should be tinged with regret, even sorrow.

“I am a Starfleet officer,” he said. “I shall do everything in my power to stop you.”

The briefest flicker of pain crossed Sybok’s face and was gone, replaced by an expression as cold as Spock’s own.

“Very well,” Sybok responded, with serene confidence. “Then I’ll take the ship without your help.”

He turned his back on them.

“That’s telling him, Spock,” McCoy hissed. “Chekov and Scotty’ll never let him aboard unless we cooperate with him.”

“Doctor,” Spock replied slowly, “I know for a fact that Sybok is extremely intelligent and resourceful. If he says he will take the ship without my help, he will most certainly do so.”

“Shuttle en route,” Scott said.

Chekov caught himself nervously drumming his fingers on the arm of the command console and forced himself to stop. Things were not going at all the way they were supposed to. The leader of the terrorist army had severed all communications, and none of the landing party responded to signals. By this time, the
Galileo 5
should have been requesting permission to enter the hangar deck, but no one aboard the shuttlecraft answered Chekov’s signals on any frequency.

“Position Bird of Prey?” Chekov asked.

Scott’s expression was grave. “Closing.”

Something had obviously gone wrong. Chekov
hoped he was wrong, of course, but instinct told him he was not.
Galileo
and all aboard her were in serious trouble—perhaps captured, perhaps killed.

Still, reason demanded that he wait until the last possible moment to hear from the captain. And that moment was fast approaching, along with a Klingon vessel.

Okrona
closed in on Nimbus III and her quarry,
Enterprise.

Klaa hovered over his first officer as Vixis sat at her station, her attention glued to the scanner readout. Both of them started as
Enterprise
appeared with a loud blip on the screen.

Klaa composed himself. After exchanging a triumphant glance with Vixis, he drew a hand briefly along her strong, graceful shoulder before moving to his gunner’s rig.

Vixis squinted at the data filling her screen. “Estimating attack range in . . . eight thousand kellicams.”

Klaa fastened himself into the rig and lowered his targeting sight. His fingers trembled slightly in anticipation of the glory to come. “Stealth approach,” he snapped at Tarag. “Slow to one-quarter impulse power. Prepare to cloak.”