Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (6 page)

The rumble grew threateningly loud; the crowd was almost outside the saloon.

“No,” Caithlin said. She was no longer quite so sure that she disliked St. John Talbot. “I’ll stay. As a representative of the Romulan government, I need to find out what these people want. Maybe they’re peaceable. After all, we haven’t heard any shots fired.”

“Yet,” Talbot said. “Look, if you go now, you can get out through the back room.” He bent over the dark terminal screen and listlessly pressed a few keys. “You see, it simply isn’t going to work.”

The saloon doors crashed open and several homesteaders swarmed into the bar, all of them bearing handmade weapons. One of them pointed a pipe gun at Talbot and Caithlin.

“Get away from that screen!” he shouted, aiming his weapon at it as if he meant to destroy the terminal. He was pitifully stooped and scrawny, physically even less imposing than Talbot, and yet there was a fire-bright fanaticism in his eyes that made him appear dangerous. Caithlin did not doubt that if either she or Talbot disobeyed, the homesteader would use his pathetic weapon to kill them both. She hesitated, then slowly backed from the screen.

Talbot did likewise and half raised his hands in the human gesture of surrender. “There’s no point in shooting it,” he remarked casually, with a nod at the terminal. “It’s been dead quite some time.”

As abruptly as it had begun, the alarm stopped wailing, leaving behind an eerie silence. Soldiers continued to enter the saloon. Before a full minute had elapsed, they filled the bar and herded Caithlin, Talbot, and Korrd, who reeked of ethanol, into the room’s center.

A man entered, wearing a white cloak with the hood drawn up. He was the one who had ridden on horseback, the one Caithlin had recognized instantly, from his bearing and the reactions of the others, as the leader. Of all of them, he alone carried no weapon. His followers parted to let him through to the place where the three diplomats waited. He strode up and stood before them, tall and regal, and threw back the hood.

He was a Vulcan. Caithlin nearly gasped aloud at the revelation, but contained herself; renegade Vulcans were extremely rare, but they did exist. More than one of them had abandoned the Federation for the Romulan Empire. This one, neither young nor yet middle-aged, seemed scarcely better off than his followers. His cloak was worn and frayed, of questionable cleanliness. Its wearer was bearded, unkempt, unwashed, the same as any homesteader, but something in his demeanor—his authority, his confidence, the frightening intelligence in his eyes—set him apart from them.

He stopped before his captives and turned to address
his followers. “Well done, my friends. You have taken Paradise without a shot.”

Sounds of satisfaction rippled through the crowd. The Vulcan turned to face the three diplomats, taking time to scrutinize them slowly, one by one. Against her will, Caithlin found herself flushing under his intense gaze.

“Romulan. Human. Klingon,” the Vulcan said to each of them in turn. “Consider yourselves my prisoners.”

Talbot snickered softly. “Prisoners? That’s rich. We’re
already
prisoners on this worthless ball of rock. Of what possible value could we be to you?”

The Vulcan smiled faintly. “Nimbus Three may be a worthless ball of rock, but it does have one unique treasure.”

Caithlin almost shuddered; somehow, she knew the Vulcan’s exact words before he said them.

“It’s the only place in the entire galaxy that has the three of you.”

Korrd let loose a roar and reached for the pistol at his hip. But the instant before his thick bronze fingers touched it, four of the Vulcan’s soldiers cocked their guns and pointed the barrels squarely at the center of the Klingon’s massive chest. For a tense moment, the old warrior seemed to consider trying to take some of the soldiers with him—but he was clearly outgunned. With a gurgle of impotent rage, Korrd let his own weapon clatter to the floor.

Caithlin addressed the Vulcan with a boldness she did not feel. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

She frowned, frustrated by the cryptic response. The Vulcan merely smiled, apparently amused at her irritation. He was toying with her, and if there was one thing Caithlin despised, it was an individual who refused to take her seriously.

“You’re the leader of these homesteaders. What is your purpose?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

“To find the purpose of existence,” he replied. At first she thought he was being sarcastic, and she started to respond angrily, but as he continued, she saw he was quite sincere. “To understand creation. And we want”—he hesitated and caught her eye—“you.”

Her skin prickled at the way he said the word “you.” As he spoke, his dark eyes seemed to grow huge, dominating her dismal surroundings until Caithlin could see nothing else. Suddenly she became dizzy, terrified for reasons she did not understand. She closed her eyes briefly and fought for control.

When she opened them again, the fear and the strange effect had gone: the room was as it had been before.

“As hostages,” she managed to say. “As you said, we’re your prisoners; that’s clear enough.” She paused, searching her imagination for a common cause that would link this oddly charismatic Vulcan to the group of poverty-stricken settlers . . . and could find none. “The question is
why?
What are your demands?”

The Vulcan’s expression was enigmatic. “That will become clear with time.”

“All right,” she said, “so you won’t tell us who you are or what you want, but I can tell you this: our
governments will stop at nothing to ensure our safety.”

“That’s exactly what I’m counting on,” the Vulcan said. And, seeing her confused expression, he gave a smile that was wide and absolutely beatific.

A smile, Caithlin thought, reserved exclusively for saints . . . and madmen.

U
HURA TUCKED THE FOOD PACK
inconspicuously under one arm and stepped from the lift onto the new
Enterprise’s
bridge. The scene was pure chaos: dismantled consoles and monitors were strewn everywhere in an ungodly hodgepodge while a skeleton repair crew examined each component for flaws and then lazily pieced them all back together.

Uhura sighed as she cautiously navigated over exposed cables. The sight was more than a little depressing; except for Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott,
nothing
on the new ship worked. Well, almost nothing. Yesterday, with Scott’s help, she had finally gotten her communications board up and running. Maybe, Uhura considered, the gods were getting even with them for scoffing at
Excelsior’s
unspaceworthiness.

She gingerly made her way over to Scott, who was reclining on the floor, his weight resting on one elbow, and scowling up at a panel of bared circuitry beneath the navigation console.

“Scotty.” She did her best to sound cheerful.

At first he seemed too absorbed in his task to register her presence. She was about to speak again when, without taking his gaze from the panel, Scott muttered darkly, “’Let’s see what she’s got,’ the captain said. Well, we found out, didn’t we?”

“I’m sure you’ll whip her into shape, Scotty,” Uhura reassured him, or at least tried to. But the mess on the bridge made feigning confidence difficult. “You always do.”

Scott turned his head just far enough to narrow his eyes at her. “The old
Enterprise
was easy to whip into shape. This new ship ...” He faced the circuit panel again and shook his head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. If they wanted to replace the
Enterprise,
they should have taken their time and not given us such a piece of—”

“Don’t say it, Scotty,” Uhura pleaded sadly.

“Rubbish,” Scott finished bitterly. “Fell apart the minute she left spacedock. She’ll never replace the old
Enterprise.”

It was what the entire bridge crew felt, and what none of them dared voice. Emotionally, Uhura agreed with Scott, but she also knew that no good could come of such an attitude, and so she had been consciously trying to develop a positive feeling about the new ship. Strange, the way each vessel took on a personality all its own. The original
Enterprise
had been nothing more than an inanimate object, a lifeless collection of
metal and circuits, and yet here they all were, still acting as if a family member had died, and resenting this interloper who had tried to take her place.

“No ship can ever replace the
Enterprise,”
Uhura told Scott softly. “But we’ve got to give this one a chance. She’s all we’ve got.”

Scott grunted, clearly unconvinced. Uhura watched him work in silence for a while. And then, abruptly, an expression of confusion crossed Scott’s face. He stopped working, turned around, and sat up, facing her. “Uhura, why aren’t you on leave?”

She had to smile. Scott might complain about the new ship, yet he was so concerned about getting her to one hundred percent efficiency that he had entirely forgotten the promise he’d made. “I thought we were going together,” Uhura answered. She affected a rather pathetic Scottish burr.” There’s nae fairer than the Highlands this time o’ year.’ Does that bring back memories?”

She had planned her first trip to Scotland for this shore leave and had mentioned it to Scott, but upon learning that she had signed up for a package tour, the engineer had been outraged. He would take her himself, he insisted, and show her far lovelier sights than the tourists would ever see. And there would be no paying for hotels, either. She would stay with his sister’s family and that was that. It would be no imposition at all.

Scott groaned and brought the heel of his palm to his forehead. “Uhura, forgive me. I completely forgot. At the time I made the promise, I dinna know the extent of the ship’s”—he paused; obviously, “damage
” wasn’t quite the right word—“affliction. But I’ll notify my family you’re—”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Uhura replied firmly. “I won’t impose on them. I’ll take the tour, just as I planned.” That was a lie—she’d missed the deadline—but there was no point in making Scott feel any guiltier. She would remain on the ship and help out as best she could, and when she couldn’t help, she would head for the recreation deck.
Who needs shore leave, anyway?
Uhura asked herself, and barely managed to cut the thought off before the honest part of her mind answered,
I do.

“I’m sorry. Someday I’ll make it up to you.” Scott gestured helplessly at the panel behind him. “But I canna leave the ship when she needs me the most.”

“I had a feeling you’d say something like that.” She grinned and produced the food pack from under her arm. “So . . . since you seem to have skipped so many meals lately, I brought you some dinner.”

Scott took the pack from her and finally managed a smile of his own. “Lass,” he said, with genuine warmth, “you’re the most understanding woman I know.”

You ’re probably right,
Uhura was going to agree, when an earsplitting siren interrupted. The bridge alert light began to flash.

“Red alert,” said the computer at the communications console—the one she
thought
had been working. “Red alert.”

Both she and Scott moaned.

“I just fixed that damn thing,” Scott half shouted over the siren’s wail. “Turn it off, will you?”

Uhura rushed over to her console, almost tripping over loose cable on her way, and switched the alert off. The siren died with an unhealthy gurgling sound. “Gremlins on board,” Uhura muttered. She was just about to turn away when she saw the light flashing on the communications board. Someone was attempting to contact the ship.

She pressed a button. “This is
Enterprise.
Please identify yourself.”

A stern masculine voice responded.
“Enterprise,
this is Starfleet Command. We have a Priority Seven situation in the Neutral Zone.”

“Stand by, Starfleet.” Disbelieving, she put the signal on hold and gestured at Scott. “Scotty, this is for real.”

“I heard.” Aghast, Scott shook his head. “They canna be serious. The ship’s in pieces and we’ve less than a skeleton crew on board.”

Uhura pressed another button. “Starfleet, are you aware of our current status?” It was a polite way of asking,
Are you kidding?

The voice remained cold and unapologetic. “Current status understood. Stand by to copy operational orders and recall key personnel.”

“Standing by.” So much for shore leave, period. Uhura sighed and glanced over at Scott, whose expression was one of irate indignation.

“The Neutral Zone! This ship already proved she can’t make her way out of spacedock without falling apart!”

“I know,” Uhura said. “But if anyone can pull it off, Scotty, you can.”

It sounded lame even to her own ears. Scott gave a snort of disgust and went back to his work.

Commander Hikaru Sulu tipped his head back to catch a glimpse of sky beyond the tops of the tall pines. The sun was no longer visible overhead, but had slipped toward the horizon. The air was already beginning to cool. They had an hour, Sulu figured, an hour and a half at most, before dark. The brilliant blue sky was already starting to fade to gray.

“Admit it,” Chekov’s weary voice said behind him. “We’re lost.”

Sulu smiled and slowed his pace through the dense woods to allow Pavel to catch up to him. The Russian was beginning to sag under the weight of his backpack; they’d been hiking since midmorning. It was true: Sulu was quite lost. Foolish of him not to bring a compass—but that would have taken all of the adventure out of it. He felt as tired as Chekov, yet the sensation was enjoyable, pleasant, and he could not get upset about being lost in this primeval wilderness. Its beauty was too heady, too exhilarating, to permit anything to mar it. Sulu drew in a lungful of cool air scented with evergreen and felt refreshed.

For a moment, it was easy to imagine that he was a kid again in Ganjitsu’s tall forests . . .

But that image brought unpleasant memories with it, memories of another time when he had been unable to find his way. He pushed the memories back and turned to face Chekov.

“All right,” he admitted cheerfully. “We’re lost. But at least we’re making good time.”