“Your suggestion that I do not care about dying is incorrect. A sentient being’s optimal chance of maximizing their utility is a long and prosperous life.”
“Great,” she muttered.
“In my particular instance, I hold an additional responsibility, given the small number of survivors of my kind. I therefore would greatly prefer to survive for as long as possible in order to be of use not only to Starfleet, but to the Vulcan diaspora.” He paused. “But it is true that I cannot deny what you say regarding ‘emotions.’ In truth, as I faced my likely demise, I did not feel anything. This is not because I did not wish to do so—especially as regards to certain personal relationships. It was because it was the most personally efficacious course of action. I chose not to feel anything upon realizing that my life was about to end because it was the least disturbing course of action open to me.”
Readouts were starting to flash and several to beep as instrumentation signaled they were on final approach to the designated landing site.
“To even consider the idea of one’s death affecting a loved one would be so painful,” the science officer continued, “that the only logical option in that moment would be to choose to feel nothing instead. This was recently confirmed for me as Admiral Pike was dying. As I tried to comfort him, I briefly joined with his consciousness. I experienced what he felt at the moment of his passing. There was a surprising dearth of pain. In its place there was anger. Confusion. Loneliness. Fear.” Though he could not see Uhura, who was seated facing away from him, he looked back in her direction as he spoke. “Nyota, you misunderstand my choice not to feel at that moment as an indication of not caring, while I assure you the truth was exactly the opposite.”
It made no sense. Uhura was more unsettled by his response than she would have cared to admit. No sense at all—unless, of course, you were a Vulcan. Seeing it from his perspective . . . How often had she tried to see things from his perspective? Where the first officer’s thoughts were concerned, she was an outsider trying desperately to look in. Would it always be so? Could she surmount such a logical gulf? Or would it be possible, somehow, some way, for the two of them to meet in the emotive middle?
She was in the process of formulating a reply when an intense flash streaked across their bow, rocking them violently while briefly blinding everyone inside.
“What the hell was that?” Kirk blinked furiously, fighting to regain his vision.
There was equal confusion on the bridge of the Enterprise as contact with the K’normian trader was lost.
Sulu turned sharply toward Communications. “What happened? Where’s the signal?”
“I don’t know,” responded the tech on station. “It cut out—I’m working to get them back.”
Spock recovered his full vision faster than his companions. Elemental as they were, the trader’s instruments were sufficient to identify the source of the warning blast. A rearward-facing scanner provided unwelcome visual confirmation: The craft that had fallen in behind them was winged, compact, and wholly lethal in appearance.
“A D4-class Klingon vessel, Captain.”
Kirk muttered a curse, adding, “I thought this section of the planet was abandoned and unvisited!”
“It must be a random patrol,” an anxious Uhura suggested. “Medical policing, maybe, to ensure nobody spends time in the plague region, where they could accidently pick up a latent virus and transport it back to a populated area.”
“Hold on!” Wrenching on the manual controls, Kirk sent the K’normian craft sideways and deeper into the clouds that masked the abandoned city below.
Farther back in the ship behind Uhura, a worried Hendorff leaned forward in his harness. “Can we get back to the Enterprise?”
“And lead them right to it?” she shot back. “Thus far the Klingons don’t know there’s a Federation ship in their immediate spatial vicinity. We can’t even head in its general direction without committing to a revelatory vector.”
Kirk didn’t hear Uhura, but he didn’t have to. The last thing they could do was try to return to the Enterprise. Aside from possibly igniting a war, it would mean the end of their mission to capture or kill John Harrison. With the image of a dying Christopher Pike still fresh in his mind, he had no intention of turning to run.
Beside him, Spock continued to monitor the instrumentation as Kirk took the K’Normian vessel through every basic evasive maneuver he could remember from his studies. But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the pursuing Klingon patrol craft—in addition to being at least as maneuverable as the trading vessel, the Klingon crew had the advantage of operating in familiar territory.
Spock did not look up from the readouts in front of him. “May I remind you, Captain, that this ship has no offensive capabilities.”
“Not necessary to remind me, Mr. Spock. I’m all too aware of it. We’re simple merchants, that’s all—though right now, I wish it wasn’t that simple. Give me full power; everything down to emergency backup, all this ship’s fuel cells.”
Spock did not hesitate. “Aye, Captain.”
The compact trading vessel banked abruptly. Intended for basic shuttling between ground and orbit, it was not designed for high-speed atmospheric maneuvers, a fact Kirk seemed to overlook as he wrenched it over and sometimes through the towers of the abandoned cityscape. Repeated blasts from the pursuing ship just missed the fleeing trading craft. That was about the sum total of good luck they could expect, Kirk knew. The next shot would take out their engines or, if they were unlucky and the Klingon gunners especially accurate, the rear half of the evading vessel.
As she leaned forward, Uhura’s attention was drawn to the main readout. “They’re closing fast, bearing two eight five!”
“Dammit!” A glance through the dim daylight showed what Kirk presumed to be the center of the empty metropolis. The vast expanse of ruined towers, tangled metal, and demolished support structures were tightly packed against one another: some by design, others because they had collapsed. Such a concentration would have allowed pedestrians and small vehicles to travel easily between buildings. For a fleeing spacecraft, there was no such access. Unless . . .
Heart pumping wildly, Kirk nodded at the landscape ahead. “There! We can lose them there!”
The pursuing craft was clearly visible on the aft viewer. Though smaller than the D7 battle cruisers the Federation had encountered in deep space, this greenish gray “bird-of-prey” scout ship, with its arched “wings” and its angular markings, reflected its Klingon designers’ penchant for engineering fighting ships that reflected arboreal predators. Numerous flanges, probably serving as cooling elements, festooned the aft portions of the fuselage. To human eyes, the Klingons’ ships were a contrasting meld of elegant and efficient: They were ugly-functional.
Staring straight ahead, Spock spoke up softly but urgently. “If you are suggesting we utilize what might or might not be a passage between the approaching structures, this ship will not fit between them.”
“We’ll fit.” Kirk held tight to the manual controls as he started to angle them sideways.
“We will not.” Spock’s voice rose ever so slightly.
“We’ll fit, we’ll fit!” Kirk whipped the straining trading craft to the left so that it was now flying edge-on to the ground.
An increasingly alarmed Spock would have argued further, but there was no time. Inclining their ship to match the slender vertical opening just ahead, Kirk maintained full power as he aimed for the gap. At least, he thought, if he was wrong, he would not have to listen to the Vulcan chide him for a bad decision. As an additional benefit, there would be nothing left of the intruding ship or its occupants for the Klingons to conclusively identify.
Behind them, their pursuer broke off to gain altitude. By the time it would reconnect with its target, they would hopefully have slipped away to another part of the city. Kirk let out a yell as the outermost fringes of their ship scraped against one structure, then another, sending bits of the ancient b
uildings tumbling toward the ground. Sparks and smoke flew from the edge of the trading vessel, but unlike the structure it was impacting, nothing fell off. At least as far as Kirk could tell, nothing vital. He fought the controls to hold to a course that had mere centimeters to spare.
When they emerged on the other side of the cluster of tall buildings, the pursuing vessel was nowhere in sight. Keeping as low as possible, Kirk brought them around sharply. Using overarching structures for cover, he began to retrace their course, aiming to work their way back to Harrison’s presumed location. With luck, the Klingon patrol craft would assume they were still heading outward and would continue its search in a direction that would only increase the space between them. By the time those aboard realized their error, Kirk hoped to have Harrison in custody and be pushing for Qo’noS’s ionosphere.
“I told you we’d fit,” he noted, gasping for a long breath.
“I am not sure that qualifies.” Utilizing multiple screens, Spock was analyzing the external damage the K’normian craft had suffered.
“You can put that opinion in your report.” Kirk nodded at the instrument panel spread out before the science officer. “Any sign of ’em?”
“No. Which worries me.”
“Relax.” Kirk deftly guided them through a vast, now-empty staging area, further ensuring they would not be seen. Darkness momentarily enveloped the battered craft. “We lost ’em.”
“Or they’re jamming our scanners.” Studying the walls that rose to form a curved roof above them, Uhura was not optimistic.
Kirk’s voice rose slightly. “Or, we lost ’em.”
As they emerged once more into open air, Spock nodded forward. “I suggest slowing to a hover here, Captain.”
“Why?” It took Kirk another couple of seconds to focus on the source of the science officer’s concern. “Oh. Damn.” Muttering under his breath, he reluctantly brought the trading vessel to a halt.
Theirs was not the only craft hovering outside the vast but abandoned cargo facility. Another vessel had dropped down to position itself directly in front of them. There was also one to their right and a third directly overhead. As a technical battlefield englobement, it was lacking in thoroughness, but the presence of now three Klingon patrol vessels was more than sufficient to persuade even Kirk that any attempt to break free of the formation would result in annihilation.
“I thought we only had to deal with one of them,” he growled.
“Your use of the past tense is unfortunately accurate, Captain.” The first officer peered outward through the forward viewport. “I do not think we can escape from this formation.”
Kirk snapped an angry response. “Tell me something I don’t know, Mr. Spock.”
A slight flush appeared on the Vulcan’s forehead. Or more likely it was the fluctuating internal lighting. “Where would you like me to begin, Captain?”
Kirk’s ready reply was cut off by a burst of consonants from the cabin’s communication system. Even for a Klingon, he thought, the unseen speaker sounded more than usually irate.
It was left to Uhura to translate. “They’re ordering us to land. They say any further attempt to flee will be met by immediate destruction.” She looked forward. “Captain, they’re going to want to know why we’re here. We’ll give them the story about being K’Normian munitions runners. They’ll listen politely. Then they’ll torture us, question us, and they’re gonna kill us.”
“Not a good list of options,” Kirk murmured. “So we come out shooting.”
Spock put out a hand to restrain him. “The fact that we are not wearing our uniforms does not release us from our obligations to—”
“Oh,” Kirk interrupted him, “so we just go for the questioning, torture, and death?”
“There are specific procedures to be followed that can—”
Uhura inserted herself between them, if only verbally. “We’re outnumbered and outgunned. Captain, with all due respect, there’s no way we survive if we attack first.”
“More wonderful options,” Kirk muttered. “I’d be open to alternatives if there were any.”
“There is one, sir.” Surprised, both men turned to look at the determined communications officer. “You brought me here because I speak Klingon.” She stared down at him. “Then let me speak Klingon.”
IX
Two of the Klingon vessels paralleled the K’normian trading craft’s descent while the third remained hovering overhead. Despite the threat of destruction, Kirk briefly contemplated throwing full power to the engines and making another run for it, but stopped himself.
Even if they were able to somehow get clear without heavy damage, their presence was now a recorded fact. A patrol vessel had chased them. Its commander had patently called for assistance, and two others had joined in the hunt. If the intruding vessel got away again, there was no telling how extensive an alarm might be raised on this corner of the planet.
Kirk was willing to play long odds, but not three to nothing.
Rocking slightly in the steady wind, the trading craft landed: no easy task among the tangled, collapsing ruins. Wings folding upward, the K’normian ship’s descent was paralleled by the nearest of the Klingon patrol vessels. As soon as its drive shut down, a dozen armed Klingons in severe military attire emerged from it. Close-fitting helmets the color of bruised antimony covered everything above the neck save eyes, mouth, and nostrils, while multiple layers of faux leather that was tougher than anything gleaned from a dead animal protected muscular arms and torsos.
To the Klingons, the only mystery about the now-cornered and powered-down intruding vessel was where it had come from and what it was doing in the forsaken city. It had already demonstrated that, militarily, it was not a serious threat. One of the soldiers insisted to his companions that whatever it was, it was anything but a designated warcraft. Another remarked that he had seen more intimidating small vessels serving as funeral transports.
Conversation ceased among them as the airlock door opened in the grounded intruder’s side. The Klingon soldiers did not even bother to draw weapons as a single figure emerged. Bipedal and rather small, it was clearly unarmed and wore no armor. Nor did it require the use of a special suit or supplemental atmospheric gases, indicating that wherever it hailed from, it breathed the same air as the soldiers themselves. Eyes concentrated on the physically unimpressive creature as it approached. It halted almost within arm’s reach of several of the heavily armed troops, a cardinal mistake of combat on the part of the visitor that suggested either congenital stupidity or supreme confidence. When the newcomer spoke, there was a hint of command that hung in the air. By now, every one of the soldiers had identified the arrival as human. They were not half as shocked by this realization as they were by the visitor’s consummate command of their language.
Within the K’normian ship, Kirk and his companions strove to make sense of the confrontation outside while keeping themselves concealed from possible view by the Klingon squad. An anxious Kirk regretted not paying more attention to his extrasolar speech studies. Along with several other specified languages, he had of course also tried Klingon, but the language had proven too much of a struggle for him. Speaking it made him feel as if he were going to sprain his larynx.
From what he could see, however, Uhura appeared to be making contact. Whether that would mean anything depended on . . . He sucked his teeth and whispered to Spock.
“This isn’t going to work.”
The science officer murmured a reply. “You don’t know what she’s doing.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kirk hissed. “Whatever it is, it isn’t going to work.”
“It may . . . whatever it is. And if you interrupt her now, you will not only incur the wrath of the Klingons, but that of Lieutenant Uhura as well.”
“What if they just decide to shoot her?” It was maddening, Kirk felt, to only be able to listen to what was taking place outside, but he had no choice. If he, Spock, and the others showed themselves at
the wrong moment, the Klingons might react instinctively. The first thing they would do is shoot the communications officer. On the other hand, if the four men charged the local patrol, she was likely to end up dead anyway.
As he scrambled to unpack their sidearms, he found he was not as much worried about the existence of a “wrong” moment as he was the absence of anything resembling a right one.
“I am here to help you. Who’s in charge?” Uhura demanded in Klingon so guttural it hurt her throat. But it had the intended effect. Instead of immediately and wordlessly attacking, which would not have been out of keeping with local procedure, the officer who stepped forward challenged her only with speech.
“Silence, human!” declared the foremost of the armored, helmeted troops. “ You will answer my questions.”
She met his concealed gaze unflinchingly. Showing uncertainty now, or lack of resolve, could be fatal.
While the captain of the Enterprise was cogitating fruitlessly, his communications specialist continued to confront the Klingon officer. When the Klingon tried to propound a traditional intimidating posture by leaning over her, she simply took a step back and rose on her toes. Exasperated, the Klingon was compelled to resort once again to mere words.
“How do you know our language?”
Uhura replied immediately, without missing a beat. “We K’normians are famous as traders. Knowing the language of others is my business.”
Decidedly un-martial looks were exchanged by the surrounding soldiers. One of them made a barely audible comment that generated unmistakable amusement among his immediate companions. At a withering glance from their commander, they went stone silent. He returned his gaze to the lone visitor, his tone slightly less inquisitorial than before.