Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (9 page)

Talbot studied the guard’s face. He considered
bolting, pretending to make an escape attempt, to get it over with quickly, but again, cowardice won out. He could contemplate death as long as it lurked some where in the future, but he could not face it at that precise moment, staring down into the black void of a dirty pipe-gun barrel,

Besides, if his current run of luck held, a blast from the gun would probably only wound him, which would be even worse.

He paused in the doorway to turn and smile tremulously at Dar. “Farewell, my dear. Just in case . . . I’m quite sorry it turned out this way, sorry that your career was cut short. I should have enjoyed working with you. If I don’t come back, would you tell Korrd when he wakes up that I said good-bye?”

“The leader is a Vulcan,” Dar said matter-of-factly, but her eyes were troubled. “You’ll come back. He won’t kill you.”

A Vulcan who smiles,
Talbot thought,
may very well be a Vulcan who kills.
Dar knew that, of course, but for Caithlin’s sake, he did not say it aloud.

“That would be a shame,” Talbot said cavalierly, as the soldier prodded him in the back with the rifle. He stepped forward into the darkness.

T
HE ANCIENT PROBE
hurtled aimlessly through the blackness of uninhabited space. Its designers were long dead, its purpose forgotten; it was now no more than a piece of flotsam, like the millions of bits of celestial debris that had collided with it, scarring its once-smooth surface. Still visible on one side of the probe, etched into the metal, were images: two naked adult humans, a male and a female, hands raised in a gesture of greeting. Beside them were various mathematical and scientific symbols. The probe had obviously been launched by humans who hoped to contact intelligent extraterrestrial life forms.

Ironic, thought First Officer Vixis, that it should encounter them here, centuries later, in the Klingon empire. From the bridge viewscreen of the Bird of Prey
Okrona,
she watched the probe’s movement with
interest, occasionally calling out an order to the helmsman, Tarag, to ensure that the Bird kept pace with the device. Vixis smiled thinly at the screen. She had notified her captain, Klaa, of the probe’s existence; she could tell as his voice filtered through the intercom that the captain had been greatly pleased by the news. He was on his way to the bridge even now.

The humans, of course, would have venerated the object; judging from its wounds, it predated the Federation, possibly even the development of warp drive. Should the Klingons extend the Federation the courtesy of informing them of its existence in Empire space, the humans would be willing to pay a dear price for it and, upon receipt, would enshrine it in a museum.

But since it was Klaa’s ship, the
Okrona,
that had found it, the Federation would never be given such a chance—if, indeed,
any
Klingon ship would have bothered. Vixis was a shrewd officer; she notified Klaa the instant the probe was spotted and saw to it that the ship remained well within range. She had not served under Klaa long, but already she knew him well; he would be most anxious to deal with the device personally, and he would never have forgiven her if she had left its disposal to the gunner.

The doors to the bridge parted. Vixis swiveled in her chair and watched as Klaa entered. He was broad-shouldered, stocky, muscular; he emanated power and strength. Of all the captains who had graced
Okrona’s
bridge, Klaa was the most respected—and the most envied. He had received her as a reward for heroic action on the Romulan border during a skirmish in which he, a gunner, was solely
responsible for the destruction of three Orion vessels and the salvation of his own ship. Even before the incident, Klaa had been widely hailed as the best gunner in the Empire. Now, he was its youngest captain.

At the sight of him, Vixis rose from her station. She no longer smiled; too much simpering could be interpreted as a sign of weakness. Yet she doubted that Klaa failed to notice the attraction she felt for him. If he did, he did not show it, and that perplexed her, for she knew without false modesty that she was beautiful, and that Klaa was an unattached male.

“Captain Klaa,” Vixis said. Her voice rose with excitement. “We have a target in sight. An Earth probe of ancient origin.”

Eyes focused intently on the viewscreen, Klaa crossed to his command chair and rested a hand on its back. “Difficult to hit?”

“Most difficult,” Vixis assured him.

“Good.” Klaa glanced meaningfully at her as he said it, an indication that he was pleased with her performance. She nodded, then turned quickly back to her station and sat down, before her expression betrayed her.

Klaa sat in his chair and began to strap himself in.
Okrona
had been outfitted especially for its new captain, with an elaborate gunner’s rig at the command console so that the phasers mounted on the ship’s wings could be individually controlled from the captain’s station.

“All weapons to my control,” Klaa ordered.

The gunner, Morek, complied immediately, though Vixis sensed the surge of hostility emanating from
him. Morek had been gunner long before Klaa’s meteoric ascent to command; no doubt he felt he would continue in that position well after Klaa’s departure. But with Klaa aboard, Morek’s responsibilities were severely curtailed, limited to the most menial duties. Still, even he had fallen somewhat under the spell of Klaa’s forceful charisma; with the rest of the crew, he turned from his station to watch the young captain with anticipation.

Klaa drew the target scanner, a custom-designed device that lowered from the ceiling like a periscope, to him and leaned forward to peer into its sights. “Aah,” he whispered. His large hands hovered over the controls, then pulsed in an incredibly quick movement, and were still again.

Vixis swiveled her head. On the main screen, a flare of light struck the probe, severing a flange, which flew
off
to follow its own separate heading. The probe reeled, buffeted from its aimless course.

The crew shouted its approval. Inspired, Klaa flexed his hands, then let them fly over the gun controls again . . . and again. The second blast obliterated a fin on the rear of the craft; a third destroyed the antenna. Klaa was clearly taking his time, enjoying his prey.

The bridge reverberated with the crew’s cheers. Vixis turned from the viewer to give her captain an admiring glance. But Klaa sat frowning at the screen, his expression one of utter dissatisfaction.

He shook his head, disgusted. “Shooting space garbage is no test of a warrior’s mettle. I need a target that fights back.” He watched without further comment as the battered remnants of the probe soared
past on the screen. The gunner and helmsman glanced at each other in perplexed silence.

But Vixis was filled with admiration. Klaa was right; a true warrior would scarcely be satisfied with an unthinking opponent. But where in the Empire would they find an antagonist who could match Klaa’s skill, Klaa’s cunning?

She did not have time to contemplate her question. The communication signal on the first officer’s console flashed. Vixis responded, and heard a computerized voice instructing the
Okrona
to prepare for a priority message.

“Captain,” she said, interrupting Klaa’s silence. “We are receiving a priority message from Operations Command.”

Klaa unstrapped himself from his gunner’s rig and moved quickly to Vixis’s station; the message was already coming through. Vixis switched it over to her monitor so that Klaa could watch. He stood behind her and leaned forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. Vixis flushed, but pretended not to be aware.

General Krell appeared on the screen. “A critical situation has developed on Nimbus Three,” Krell thundered in his bass voice.

“Nimbus Three?” Klaa scoffed over the sound of the general’s words. “Since when does the Empire worry about what happens on Nimbus?” But his voice held a tremor of anticipation. Nimbus was in the Neutral Zone, and the Neutral Zone offered many opportunities for combat.

Krell’s message was taped, leaving no opportunity to respond, or to question orders. He continued
droning away. “The three diplomats there have been taken hostage by a rebel group.” Krell’s stern visage disappeared and was replaced by the image of Nimbus itself, an unimpressive sand-colored planet, and then the image of the outpost there, a grim-looking frontier town bearing the unlikely appellation of Paradise.

“You are hereby ordered to proceed to Nimbus Three,” Krell said, “and take whatever action is necessary to free them. Details follow.”

Klingon script scrolled across Vixis’s screen. Klaa turned away and began pacing while she read. “One of the hostages is a Klingon—General Korrd.” She frowned slightly, puzzled that the Empire should suddenly be concerned about Korrd, whose career had culminated in disgrace—and the assignment to Nimbus. And then she remembered a certain fact about Korrd’s sister. She smiled to herself, eyes still watching the screen. “Korrd is, of course, Krell’s brother-in-law,” she murmured.

“And the others?” Klaa demanded.

“A human and a Romulan.” Vixis’s smile broadened as she grasped the implications of that combination of races. She half swiveled in her chair to look up at Klaa.

He, too, smiled. “That means the Federation will be sending a rescue ship of its own. Helmsman!” Klaa barked, turning. “Plot course for Nimbus Three.”

He strode back to his chair, still grinning. “My whole life, I have prayed for this . . . the chance to engage a Federation ship.”

He settled into the rig, peered into his sights, and with one swift, deft motion, fired.

Vixis watched the screen as the probe burst into a thousand spinning bits of shrapnel.

Caithlin awoke with a start as the doors to the back room opened with a gentle
whoosh.
She’d been drowsing, arms folded on the hard surface of the table, forehead pressed against her arms. She, Talbot, and Korrd had been escorted by a surly guard to their table in the back room while the Vulcan and his recruits worked outside in the bar to get the communications terminal operating. Apparently the Vulcan honestly did not mean to harm them . . . or so Caithlin had thought until a second guard came for Talbot.

As she watched the human go, white-faced with terror but with a semblance of dignity, Caithlin did not permit herself the luxury of fear; at least, she refused to acknowledge such a weakness in herself. Their captor was a Vulcan, after all, and surely a Vulcan would not condone torture, or murder.

Though neither of them had dared say it aloud, she had seen her own thoughts reflected in Talbot’s face: this Vulcan was a renegade. This Vulcan smiled.

Even so, Caithlin refused to be afraid for herself, though she felt concern for Talbot. The human was not as strong, mentally or physically, as she or Korrd; she did not doubt that Talbot would succumb quickly to the mere threat of pain. No doubt that was why they had chosen to question him first.

Next to her, Korrd sat with his face pressed flat against the table, sleeping off the effects of liquor consumed shortly before his capture. Caithlin
strained to filter out the sound of his snoring, to hear what was happening in the next room.

She could hear a voice, deep and well modulated, pleasing—clearly the Vulcan’s, but she could not distinguish the words. The voice continued for some time, then stopped.

For a time, Caithlin heard nothing at all. And then came a sharp, strangled cry of pain, almost a sob. Talbot. So they were torturing him after all. Perhaps they had just killed him. After that one brief cry, Caithlin heard nothing at all, save Korrd’s stertorous breathing beside her.

The tension of waiting was exhausting. The sun was just setting when Caithlin buried her face in her folded arms and dozed. It was dark by the time St. John Talbot reentered the room.

She jerked up her head, immediately awake. “Talbot?” She was honestly relieved to see him alive.

Talbot’s eyes were more red-rimmed than usual, as if he’d been weeping, but he did not appear harmed—far from it. His entire demeanor had changed from one of weakness to one of confident strength; his sallow face was incandescent with joy. He reached down and clasped Caithlin’s hand firmly.

“Caithlin.” He smiled and squeezed her hand almost painfully. “My dear Miss Dar.”

Caithlin frowned at him. “What the hell is going on?”

Talbot ignored her and glanced down at the slumbering Klingon with a look that was pure pity. “Poor Korrd. Do you know his history, Miss Dar?” He did not allow her a chance to reply. “Korrd was quite a
famous warrior until one day he became sick to death of killing. Lost his two youngest—a son and a daughter—in one of those useless battles the Klingons love to stir up. Korrd had risen to the High Command when he finally spoke out publicly in favor of Nimbus, of trying to get along better with the Federation. After all, they had a treaty with the Romulans.

“Oh, the rest of the Command went along with it. After all, Korrd is related to the number two man in the HC. They couldn’t exactly shut him up by assassinating him—so they managed to make him an ambassador and a laughingstock at the same time. To the Klingons, Nimbus is a joke. I’m afraid the shame of this assignment was too much for him.”

“Talbot!” Dar pulled her hand free; it was quite a struggle, as Talbot’s grip had become amazingly strong. She pulled herself up straight in her chair and narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the human. “Talbot, what’s wrong with you? Did they torture you? Use a mind-sifter?”

He laughed, a light, airy sound. “Nothing’s wrong with me, dear Caithlin. Quite the contrary. For the first time in my life, everything is
right.”
He rested his palms on the table and leaned toward her, grinning.

For the first time, Caithlin realized that no soldier had accompanied him, and the lone guard sat some distance away by the door, watching with only the vaguest interest, as if he trusted Talbot completely.

She drew back. “You didn’t answer my other questions. What did they
do
to you?”