Текст книги "Killing Time "

Автор книги: Della Hise

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Chapter Twelve

THE PRAETOR PACED across her quarters restlessly. "The Ravonwill be leaving Romulus orbit and returning to the border of the Neutral Zone within a day," she said quietly. "At that time, we must make our move."

Sarela nodded. They had been over the intricate scheme at least ten times, and still she wondered if it could be as simple as Thea made it sound.

"In essence, Lady," Sarela stated, "this Vulcan … this starship captain … will present the Tenets of Discipline to our people in your stead?"

"Yes," Thea confirmed. "Now that my advisers have completed their study of Second History, and have confirmed that Spock is indeed captain of the ShiKahr, there are no more details to be considered. Since no one knows who the Praetor really is, and since Vulcan and Romulan external physiology are almost identical, there will be no arousal of suspicion when he makes the presentation to the governors of Romulus and the Warriors' representatives." A smile came to her lips. "And I do not believe the Warriors will be foolish enough to initiate the Rite of Challenge immediately. They will require time—to choose their Champion and take the customary vote of Tribal Kings. And that," she concluded, "will give us the time we need."

"And by tricking the Vulcan into posing as the Praetor," Sarela reasoned, "we will alsobe trapping him into negotiations for peace and trade treaties with the Empire?"

"Essentially," Thea agreed. "For once Spock enters Romulan space of his own free will—which he willdo—he will be compelled to exonerate himself of espionage charges in the eyes of his Fleet Command." Her brows narrowed thoughtfully. "In essence, he will be coerced into doing as we wish—for he will be unable to return to his Alliance without arousing suspicion on himself otherwise. Yet if he can provide a workable treaty of peace and fair trade—the one thing which is seriously lacking in Second History—his own neck will be spared and we will have what we want as well. No one is harmed; and both parties benefit equally."

Sarela put the writing stylus aside. "Suppose he simply refuses?"

Thea smiled knowingly. "He will not refuse, my friend," she promised. She lowered herself into a nearby chair. "James Kirk," she stated simply, curling long legs underneath herself. "Kidnap James Kirk, keep him from the Vulcan longenough … and Spock will do anything in his power to get him back safely, Sarela.

"In addition," Thea continued, "my communications specialists have recently intercepted a routine transmission from the ShiKahr.It seems they were informing their Fleet Commander of a mission in the Canus system—a mission which apparently did not go according to plan. The details were sparse … yet I had the impression that their vessel was somehow … luredinto the Canusian system under false pretense. Odd," she mused. "But at any rate, my translators have learned that the great and powerful Captain Spock was injured in this little escapade—and that his treasured human is still at his side even in this alien universe." Her eyes grew distant. "In any reality, it seems, there are constants—random elements of Fate which dictate certain relationships no matter what the circumstances or universal changes."

"Then … by using James Kirk as a method to blackmail the Vulcan into accepting our terms," Sarela stated, "you will then be able to manipulate him into making the presentation and standing against any challenging Warrior?"

Thea nodded. "We have already had to admit that the males of our species are physically stronger, Sarela," she said. "And though I would welcome a chance to meet a Warrior in battle, I am not arrogant enough to deceive myself into believing I would be the victor. On the other hand, the Vulcan should have no difficulty in defeating whatever Champion the Warriors may choose." But a very Romulan smile suddenly parted thin lips. "And no matter whatthe outcome," she continued, "the payment of the Vulcan's personal debt to me is long overdue. His actions aboard a Romulan flagship in First History earnedhim a sentence of death. Yet what I propose, my friend, is a far better price than even that! I shall also force him into specific agreements regarding trade routes for Romulan Merchant vessels. Our systems will no longer be poor, Sarela … and though my old friend Spock will suffer a certain humiliation, he will learn to do our bidding."

Sarela lifted one slanted brow. "Then … you do not intend to let him go, do you?"

A laugh slipped past the Praetor's throat.

Chapter Thirteen

THE VULCAN AWOKE to the sensation of pain—someone slapping him repeatedly across the face. Hard strokes which did not relent.

He turned back toward pleasant darkness and dreams. Pain was easily ignored.

But the tormentor did not cease. Another slap. More powerful. Another. Again.

His eyes opened, refused to focus, and anger flared unexpectedly in the center of his chest. His hand shot out, grasped the offending intruder, and flung him roughly away. Slowly, normal vision returned.

"Well, Spock," McCoy said, picking himself up off the floor. "It's about time you came out of that healing trance! I thought I was going to have to bring in the heavy artillery!"

Eyes wide, the Vulcan steadied himself, only then realizing that he'd been moved to a high-backed recovery chair in Sickbay. Through the clear divider screen, nurses and orderlies hurried about their duties; and he was grateful that all seemed oblivious to his presence. He took a deep breath, somehow amazed that life still flowed through him. An eyebrow rose as composure returned.

"Forgive me, Doctor," he murmured. "I did not realize …"

McCoy smiled, rubbing one wrist. "As long as you're among the living, I think I can live with a broken arm." But the blue eyes darkened.

"Ship's present status?" Spock asked, rising to his feet. He frowned at himself. A pressure bandage wound itself around his chest, just under the sternum, and as he stood a moment of dizziness threatened to drag him back down. He fought. "Precisely … how long was I in the healing state, Doctor?"

McCoy moved to the Vulcan's side. "You weren't out that long," he replied. "About eighteen hours altogether from the time we beamed up." He paused, studying his captain's unsteady stance. "The spear nicked your left lung, but no serious damage. But what was starting to worry me," the doctor continued, "was that you didn't seem to wantto come out of the trance." He shrugged. "Can't say that I blame you … considering what's been going on around here."

The Vulcan stepped away from the doctor, forcing himself to stand steadily on legs which threatened to buckle. "Explain," he demanded.

"Well, for starters," McCoy began with a sigh, "the whole Canusian Mission was just a … ruse." He laughed nervously. "From what Chekov told me, there is no Canusian Ambassador—at least not in the sense we were lead to believe. The whole damned thing was a setup—apparently by S't'kal himself." McCoy frowned. "But when Chekov contacted FleetCom this morning to tell them about the incident, S't'kal denied the whole thing—said the ShiKahrwas never ordered into the Canusian system at all. First the Romulan orders—and now this. I don't think we need any more confirmation of our suspicions. S't'kal's mad as a hatter, Spock—but the question is how to get him out of power before he single-handedly wipes out every starship in the Fleet!"

The Vulcan considered the information in momentary silence. "I presume Mister Chekov brought it to the admiral's attention that we do have a recording of his previous orders in the ship's computers?"

McCoy shrugged. "I'm a doctor," he grumbled, "not a carrier pigeon. But you know Chekov. I don't think he'd let S't'kal pull the wool over his eyes—and certainly not without a good fight."

"And our present situation?" the Vulcan asked, reaching for the clean uniform which waited on the foot of the bed.

"We're right back where we started from," McCoy replied. " Literally.S't'kal really must have blown a Vulcan fuse over the Canusian incident—ordered the ship back to the Neutral Zone at maximum warp … and that's where we're sitting right now."

The Vulcan nodded to himself, then met McCoy's eyes as he walked purposefully toward the wall communication panel. He quickly pulled the tunic over his head, then depressed a button on the panel.

"Chekov here."

"This is Captain Spock," the Vulcan replied. "Present location?"

"Three-point-two light-years from the border of the Neutral Zone, Captain," the first officer responded. "Cruising at Warp One; awaiting arrival of VSS T'Rudaand sistership as per Admiral S't'kal's orders."

The Vulcan took a deep breath, mentally reviewing the time-curve of the insanity's progression. Studies had proven that the "slippage" would continue at an increasing rate, growing more pronounced with every moment that the causewas not isolated and corrected. After precisely fifteen-point-two-five days, the Vulcan recalled, utter madness would result in over half the population of the Alliance—irreversible madness. If uncorrected within that time … He let the thought trail off, realizing the illogic of dwelling on it. Three days wasted already—two on the Canusian Mission, another in Sickbay. And even at maximum warp, Starbase Ten and Admiral S't'kal were a minimum of fourteen days away. But an eyebrow rose as a plan of action slowly presented itself.

"Mister Chekov," he said into the panel. "Compute last recorded position of the T'Ruda. Based on that computation, what is minimum traveling startime back to Starbase Ten?"

In the background, the Vulcan became aware of McCoy standing at his shoulder. He turned to see questioning blue eyes widen in disbelief.

"What are you planning, Spock?" the doctor demanded. "Because if it's what I thinkit is—"

"In this particular case, Doctor, there are no viable alternatives," the Vulcan replied, grabbing the black pants and pulling them on despite the pain in his back and chest. "And as you yourself have pointed out, Admiral S't'kal must be stopped until some specific plan of action can be devised."

The doctor bounced angrily on his toes. "There isno course of action, Spock!" he said harshly. "Can't you get it through your thick Vulcan head that you can't—"

"Captain?" Chekov's calm voice interrupted.

Spock continued staring into the doctor's accusing eyes.

"Proceed, Mister Chekov."

"According to our computations, Captain," the first officer replied, "the VSS T'Rudais four Standard days away from our current location and, assuming they were to turn back immediately, it would take them approximately nine days to reach Starbase Ten."

"You can'tbe serious, Spock!" McCoy said, grabbing the Vulcan by one arm.

The Vulcan merely looked at the doctor's hand, then stepped away from the offending grasp. "Mister Chekov, have Lieutenant Uhura establish contact with the T'Ruda's commanding officer."

He switched off the communication device, turning back to McCoy's hardened expression. The doctor had positioned himself between Spock and the exit.

"Please, Doctor," the Vulcan said, "do not inject yourself into a confrontation with me; for every moment we waste seriously jeopardizes our chances of success."

McCoy stared mutely at the Vulcan, anger building to desperation in hot blue eyes. "You're as crazy as S't'kal!" he accused, throwing up his hands in defeat.

A Vulcan brow rose beneath sleek black bangs. "Perhaps you are correct," Spock murmured as if to himself. He quickly pulled on the black knee-length boots, then turned toward the door. "If you will excuse me, Doctor, I am due on the bridge."

Forcing himself to relax, Jerry Richardson sank back against the head of the oversized bed. On the other side, Yeoman S'Parva mirrored his actions, a wide grin spreading across her canine features.

"What's the matter, Jerry?" she asked. "Afraid I'll bite?"

Richardson laughed, unprepared for humor. He glanced around the lab, trying to ignore the fact that conditions were something less than ideal. On the other side of the privacy divider, two technicians would be monitoring heartrate, blood pressure, respiration, electroencephalograms and various other critical bodily functions during the experimental telepathic link. He felt himself blush all the way down to his toenails, then chastised himself for his own nervousness. But despite the dual-universe rumors which had been making the rounds, and regardless of the fact that the experiment could well shed some light on an apparently grim subject, he found relaxation impossible.

"Let's just say I never reallybelieved you'd agree to this," he replied at last.

Across the bed, S'Parva shrugged. "You forget that Katellans aren't Vulcans," she reminded him. "Telepathy is the main form of communication on Katella—and not at all unpleasant."

Richardson swallowed. That's what I'm afraid of!he said to himself. But he managed a smile. "Is there anything we have to do first?" he asked. "Take out the garbage, walk the cat … get married?"

Laughing, S'Parva shook her head. "All you have to do is let me come into your mind," she replied. "The rest'll be easy." She propped herself up on one elbow, meeting the ensign's expectant gaze. "And presuming there issomething out of sync, it shouldn't make any difference to the higher consciousness. I'll be … acting as a guide mainly," she continued, "helping you follow any images you receive." She looked over her head. "And all of it will be automatically recorded on the vid-scanner for analysis."

Richardson frowned thoughtfully. "So … theoretically, the mind will just slip back into its natural … universe." He wanted to laugh, to cry, to do anything at all to break the sudden tension. "I could," he ventured, "find myself sweeping the men's room at the bus station!"

The Katellan winked. "Or working as an Orion slave trader," she suggested as an alternative.

The human sighed deeply, grateful that S'Parva had taken the time to explain the current theories to him. But the idea of an entirely different universe … He shuddered. "Okay," he conceded at last. "In the name of science, let's get on with it." In the name of science. He made a mental note to strangle his roommate at the next possible opportunity.

After a moment, S'Parva nodded toward the technician who was waiting just outside the privacy divider. The young lieutenant disappeared, and the lights dimmed to night normal.

In the darkness, Richardson breathed deeply, feeling the Katellan's soft-furred hand slide into his own, fingers entwining reassuringly. He was peripherally aware of the hum of medical monitoring equipment, and of the gentle surge of psychic warmth which he felt from his partner. He smiled to himself … and reality slowly spun out of focus as their minds joined.

Curved corridors swam into being. Familiar … yet different. He chose a well-lighted one, walked down it slowly, stopping in front of a well-known door and glancing up to see the nameplate.

LIEUTENANT JEREMY J. RICHARDSON

Part of him blinked disbelievingly. Lieutenant?

Go into the room, Jerry, S'Parva's distant voice urged.

He stared at the door, wondering what he would find on the other side. Himself?

Go ahead, S'Parva whispered. It can't hurt you. . . .

He took a deep breath, heard it in stereo. For an instant, he felt something walk through him, pass through his soul. He wondered fleetingly if it was Lieutenant Richardson. He shivered, feeling out of place. A phantom hand reached out, touched the door, verified solidity and reality.

But before he could enter the room, footsteps sounded gently on the deck behind him. He turned, startled, and felt himself slip deeper into the illusion which was far more "real" than anything he'd encountered in days.

"Morning, Captain," he said before his conscious mind which was still somewhere in an alternate reality could stop him. "The night crew had a little poker party up on the bridge, so just ignore the stale beer and peanuts in your chair."

Hazel eyes sparkled warmly, and a man in a gold command tunic winked. "Sure, Jerry," the captain agreed with a grin. "But I'll have to tell Lieutenant Masters that you won't be able to keep that date I set up for you—since you'll be too busy down in the brig."

Richardson laughed, yawning. "Night, sir," he said. "Or good morning."

The captain continued on down the corridor as Richardson slipped through the double doors without a second thought. Inside, he tugged off the shirt, sat on the edge of the bed, and removed the black boots.

It was comfortable, he thought, not knowing precisely what he was comparing "it" to.

But he leaned back on the bed and closed tired brown eyes.

He would stay.

"Jerry?"

Cold water splashed on his face.

"Jerry, open your eyes! For chrissake, open your eyes!"

He rolled away, disappointed. The room changed. The bed was no longer soft. "Go 'way," he muttered miserably.

Someone pulled him into a sitting position, hands rubbed briskly across his neck and shoulders. A feminine voice coaxed him back to reality.

It hurt.

Lieutenant … bridge posting … best ship in the Fleet.

"Go 'way!" Anger now. Resentment.

"Jerry, I'm coming into your mind again," S'Parva's voice informed him in a tone which left no room for argument. "I'm going to pull you back." But she was in a tunnel somewhere.

No … "No …"

Something slid warmly into his mind, caressing him, holding him, comforting him in soft brown arms. He moved toward it, sensing protection. For a moment, he tasted the flavor of peace. Home…

But as quickly as the feeling of solace came, it was pulled away, ripped from him—gently, if possible. He moaned aloud.

Stop fighting me, Jerry, a tender voice whispered. You can't stay … at least not now. Your body can't exist without your mind … not on two different planes. You have to come back.

He felt himself breathe, wondered why it felt unnatural. Home…?

Yes, S'Parva said gently. But you can't stay. We need you here, Jerry. Follow me back into the light. . . .

He sighed to himself, and slipped away from the man on the bed. Like levitation, he thought consciously. Or astral travel … Lieutenant Richardson would have to wait … for a while.

His eyes opened, back on the ShiKahr.

"Jim," he murmured. "Captain Kirk!"

The command chair rose around his slim frame, surrounding him with an ever-increasing feeling of responsibility and weariness. An eyebrow rose. Illogical consideration. But Time pressed forward. Time … hot and red and lethal. Time …

"Status report, Mister Sulu?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary at the moment, Captain," the helmsman responded. "Sensors were picking up a blip of some sort earlier," he added, "but it faded almost as quickly as it appeared." He glanced toward Chekov.

"Just the normal instrument fluctuations now, Captain," Chekov provided. "Apparently, the blip was just an … unusual sensor malfunction. We're checking into the matter, but no miscalibration of sensors currently detected."

Spock nodded to himself. "Spatial scan?"

"Normal," Chekov replied; but an expression of confusion slowly grew on his features as he eyed the viewscreen. "Surely the Romulans would not violate the Neutral Zone with the ShiKahrin the vicinity; their instruments are undoubtedly capable of detecting us, sir."

Spock leaned forward, studying the familiar star pattern. "The Romulans have never been noted for their integrity nor their predictability, Mister Chekov," he pointed out. "And their cloaking device would aid greatly in getting a small vessel well inside Alliance territory before their presence could be detected." He glanced at Uhura. "We still have to wait until the blip is identified," he decided aloud. "Contact the T'Ruda, and have their commander hold his present location until further notice."

"Aye, Captain," Uhura responded.

With a dubious look, Spock rose from the chair, going to the science station. "As a precautionary measure, Mister Chekov, run a full security check on allship's sensor equipment. If that generates negative findings, begin an immediate sonar scan to detect anything large enough to be a vessel within five light-years."

The first officer stared mutely at the captain. "Sonar scan, sir?" he repeated incredulously. "That'll take days!"

"Not if you begin at once, Commander," the Vulcan countered. "And the time will be considerably shortened if you enlist the aid of off-duty personnel in Auxiliary Control. The complete scan should require no more than forty-eight hours." But internally, he grimaced. Two days …

The Vulcan turned from the bridge, heading toward the lift doors; but before he could reach them, the communication panel buzzed noisily.

"Uhura?" McCoy's voice said. "Is Spock up there?"

"This is Spock," the Vulcan replied, stepping over to the speaker.

"Spock, I need to see you down in Sickbay right away. Ensign Richardson and Yeoman S'Parva just handed me the results of a private research project, and I think you might be interested in them. Also," the doctor added, "this concerns Ensign Kirk. Unfortunately, the quartermaster hasn't been able to find him. He's not in his quarters, not listed on any duty shift, and the computer indicates that he hasn't used his identification chip for meals since the Canusian incident."

The Vulcan felt himself go cold inside, only then consciously realizing that he hadn't seen Kirk in over a day. Odd … he hadn't sensed anything wrong. But with that thought came another. He hadn't sensed anything. An eyebrow rose, and a cold phantom which he recognized as himself took a step closer.

"I shall attempt to locate Ensign Kirk myself, Doctor," he said at last. "If my search is successful, I will meet you in your office later this evening."

"Well … don't take too long, Spock," the doctor replied after a momentary hesitation. "If you can't find him within a couple of hours, get down here anyway."

Irritation crept closer, threatened to mutate into anger. "Of course, CaptainMcCoy," he replied, and headed for the lift once again, unaware of the astonished stares which followed him.