Текст книги "Killing Time "

Автор книги: Della Hise

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Kirk doubted that the device would be foolish enough to repeat the same mistake twice, and he waited until it loomed over him, its six-foot frame blocking all other sight. Every instinct told Kirk to kick, to go for the vulnerable areas as he'd done in the past; but he realized that this machine had no weak points … other than its numerous sensors.

He could easily see where his first attack had all but obliterated the one eye; and if the mechanism could be permanently blinded, it would hardly be able to complete its mission. At the very worst, it would wander around aimlessly until its power source was exhausted.

As he saw the mechanical arm rise above his head in slow motion, he feigned to the right, then deliberately rolled to the floor, slipping between the machine's long legs and coming up behind it before it could turn. With a grunt of pain as one leg kicked him a glancing blow, Kirk picked up the dismembered chair, wrenched one sharp wooden leg free, and used it as a club to beat the insane machine back. Then, continuing to battle the flailing arms, he drove it toward the table, his thrusts laying several layers of pseudo-skin open to reveal nothing more than a bloodless mass of what faintly resembled human flesh. As it fell to the floor, apparently disoriented by the battering which clouded its sensors, Kirk turned the sharp end of the chair leg toward its midsection, leaned into the thrust with all his strength, and drove it deep inside the mechanical assassin.

Though the expression on the operative's face never altered, there was a sound of what might have been mistaken for pain in a human. But the last shred of logic informed Kirk that it was nothing more than the advanced gears and sensor mechanisms grinding to their final halt, nothing more than the programming banks being destroyed once and for all.

He continued leaning into the chair leg with his own weight, however, feeling the sting of angry tears in his eyes. It was too late … too late for Jerry, maybe for any of them. He'd seen Palmer escape, yet he couldn't help wondering how long it would be before someone else came bursting into the room to discover the evidence.

As he felt the last twitch of movement from the alien machine, he forced himself to stand on shaky legs, turning to see Spock observing him from across the room. The second operative was in a similar state of disarray on the floor, but the Vulcan's cold gaze held no sense of victory. The warm, secret smile was absent.

Kirk felt his mind chill in denial when he saw the single drop of green blood on the long-sleeved shirt. Perfectly clean and round, he knew without daring to ask that the Vulcan had been hit with one of the poison cartridges too. He stopped breathing, felt time stand still, fold back on itself, then start forward again. For a moment, he thought he would find himself in another universe right there; but something stabilized as he continued to stare numbly at his companion. "Spock?" he murmured, his legs unable to move well enough to bridge the short distance between them. "Spock! No!"

The Vulcan shook his head. "There is still time, Jim," he responded, his voice somehow weaker than Kirk remembered it. "We must move quickly, however, for I do not know how long I can … can …" His words faltered and he swayed slightly.

"Spock!" Kirk gasped, moving a step closer as the horror climbed inside his mind with tangible force.

The Vulcan raised his hand, motioning Kirk back. "We must … destroy the operatives completely, Jim," he explained, knowing he could not permit himself the luxury of going to Kirk now. He reached into the folds of the loose-fitting shirt, withdrawing a Romulan disruptor.

Kirk's eyes widened as he stared at the weapon. "Spock … why didn't you just … why didn't you use that to begin with?" he demanded, feeling a surge of anger as he realized that it would have spared the Vulcan's life. "Why?" he persisted.

The Vulcan's eyes warmed as they met Kirk's, and he methodically set the weapon to its widest disintegration beam. "Despite the fact that Thea gave me this to destroy her operatives, I could not … find it in myself to be so gentle. . . ." He swayed once again, then glanced briefly at Richardson, who had slumped to the floor. His eyes were closed, face pallid, breathing shallow. In another moment, the Vulcan realized, he would be dead, and he felt the forbidden emotions swell in him once more. But it no longer mattered. "I could not deny you the victory over the men who have made us what we are, Jim," he explained, his voice weary. "I could not …" His words slipped away.

Kirk felt the tightness in his throat, the sting in his eyes. He looked at the two dismembered machines on the floor, then turned back to the Vulcan, suddenly understanding why Spock had chosen that course of action. It was, Kirk realized, Spock's way of letting the defiant Ensign Kirk emerge victorious just once—the Vulcan's way of allowing himto reconstruct the very universe they had lost. He smiled wistfully, then went to retrieve the disruptor from trembling hands. Without a second thought, he turned the weapon on the machine he had battled and pulled the trigger.

A bright flash of blue lightning filled the room, enveloping the still figure for a moment; and when only a dark shadow remained on the floor, Kirk knew it was over. Then, still holding his own emotions at bay, he turned the device on the second machine, repeating the action mercilessly. It wasn't killing, he told himself. A machine had never lived to begin with … and he wondered if hehad either.

When it was finished, he turned back to the Vulcan, slipping the weapon into his own shirt. In another moment … it would be over for them, too. He looked once at Jerry, then moved to the young man's side and placed one hand on the whitened face. There was no life there. And soon, Kirk realized, he would follow. He rose, his eyes fastened on the still form of his roommate … and very slowly, he saw reality start to dissolve. In an instant, only empty space remained where Richardson's body had been. Kirk swallowed the sudden pain in his throat, trying not to mourn for a phantom … but it wasn't easy. Romeo… he thought sadly, realizing that poison had perhaps been a fitting end. The tears tried to come, but he refused to acknowledge them.

"C'mon, Spock," he murmured, taking his companion's arm and forcing the captain to lean on him as he made his way toward the open doors. "I don't want to be here when the authorities show up. . . ."

The Vulcan accepted Kirk's support without resistance, grateful for the warmth and security as the cold hand of Morpheus came a little closer.

When they reached the hall, it was still deserted. Apparently, Kirk surmised, the confusion was still too recent for the place to be swarming with police, hotel officials and curious onlookers. His only satisfaction was in the knowledge that there would be nothing to find when they did arrive.

He led the Vulcan to the nearby elevator, stepped inside the waiting car, and pressed the button which would lead to the roof. There, he thought mournfully, they would be able to see the stars. . . .

The Bay was calm and quiet as Kirk looked down, still supporting the Vulcan with his own waning strength. "How long, Spock?" he asked, his voice surprisingly calm with acceptance. "How long before we … ?"

Spock shook his head, eyes closing. "I do not know, Jim," he whispered. The poison, he knew, had already taken its toll. He slumped to the gravel floor of the roof, not surprised to hear the human slide down by his side. For a moment, he tried to go over the details … not that it would matter, he reminded himself, but they seemed nonetheless important.

The worst that would happen, he understood, would be that Doctor Palmer and his associates would have a large mystery to explain … and no evidence to support their claims.

He let it go, turning his attention to Kirk instead. For a moment, he felt the dizziness; but this time, he realized, it wasn't because of the poison. With the operatives destroyed and his own death imminent, First History was struggling to reassert itself.

"I … do not believe the end will be painful, Jim," he stated logically.

Kirk smiled wistfully at the Vulcan's peculiar train of thought, but didn't respond.

The Vulcan sighed deeply, glancing up at the stars once again. "Are you sorry to leave this particular life?" he wondered philosophically.

"No … I'm not, Spock," he said, suddenly realizing the truth in that statement. He too felt the dizziness, the disorientation, the unreality. "If this had happened six years ago, I might've been sorry … but I feel like I've gained something … like I've found something that was missing back at the Academy. . . ."

The Vulcan nodded, noticing without alarm that his legs were numb, his arms growing cold and distant as if they were no longer attached to his body. There wasn't much time … but that no longer seemed important. He had found his contentment as well. "Then come with me," he murmured. He inclined his head toward the black night sky.

Spock began the meld. Kirk knew they were dying, perhaps only to be resurrected in another universe, another time … a distant reality. But it felt safe, secure … right. Shewould be waiting, he told himself.

"Take us home, Spock," he said without fear, and closed his eyes as reality stopped.

In another moment, the roof was empty, and only the night remained. Overhead, a single star fell from the sky, burning to ashes long before it touched the transformed Earth.

Chapter Twenty-four

"WELL, CAPTAIN,"McCoy drawled, leaning back lazily in the oversized black chair, "I haven't had a chance to talk to many people this morning, but from what I can tell so far, the dreams have all but stopped." He frowned, however, as the blue eyes studied Kirk curiously. "All except for you, Richardson and Spock," he added darkly.

Kirk's brows furrowed as he considered his own peculiar dreams of the previous evening. Slipping away … going home … lost. "You're right, Bones," he agreed momentarily. "But the dreams I had last night weren't anything like the ones previously." He shook his head with a sheepish grin then brushed the memories aside. "Hell," he added, "two nights ago, it seemed like half the crew was having paranoid nightmares. Now—all of a sudden—it's stopped. . . . Why?"

McCoy shrugged. "For what it's worth, Jim, I've got a prescription."

Kirk looked up expectantly. "Unless it gets worse," McCoy explained, "just let it go." He put one hand to his face, thoughtfully biting one knuckle in silence for a long time. "Dreams are funny things, Jim. Some philosophers even say they're like windows into another dimension … and if that's true, I don't want to press my luck this time!"

Curious hazel eyes questioned the doctor. "What do you mean, Bones?" Kirk asked, realizing that he'd been feeling precisely the same hesitation. When he'd awakened that morning, he'd wanted nothing more than to climb out of bed, slither into the shower, and run as far away from that pillow as possible.

"Well …" The doctor paused. "If the dreams Ihad last night are any indicator of another reality," he continued, "then I'd personally opt to stick thisone out for the duration!" He grinned warmly. "And if you could've seen yourself through my eyes in that dream, I think you might agree … EnsignKirk."

The captain felt himself go cold despite the fact that his friend was obviously ribbing him about something in a fleeting dream. But what unnerved him was that he had also dreamed of being an ensign, a phantom … a somewhat less than flattering reflection of the man he now was. He shuddered internally. "Then … you think we should just wait it out and see if it starts to happen again?"

McCoy nodded. "Killing time is a hobby, Jim," he stated warmly. "Whether you do it by playing chess with Spock or chasing nightmares really doesn't matter." He shrugged. "Two days ago, I might not have said that. But now …" His voice drifted into silence, his eyes distant. "Just leave it alone, Jim," he stressed. "Or, if it really bothers you, talk to Spock about it." He frowned. "I'm convinced that tightlipped Vulcan knows something, but I'll be damned if he's going to tell mewhat it is! When I tried to talk to him this morning as a follow-up, he slipped through my fingers like the proverbial greased sehlat. Still the same old Spock: evasive and stubborn right down to that thick Vulcan core."

Kirk smiled wistfully, catching just a glimpse of his own dream as he rose from the chair. "Aren't all starship captains, Bones?" he asked, and walked through the doors before the doctor could reply.

For some unidentifiable reason, Kirk found himself not wanting to go to the bridge. Duty shift was still thirty minutes away and, deciding that he had ample time, he chose a secondary lift which would lead to the deepest levels of the massive starship. He let his mind wander, trying to recapture the threads of an elusive memory as he made his way toward the garden.

As the lift doors opened onto the lower deck, he stepped out and walked slowly down the long, empty corridor, welcoming the humid air which wafted out as he went inside. With a deep sigh and a secret smile, he selected a path and, without knowing why, began striding purposefully toward the center of the garden.

For a moment, it seemed that he stepped outside himself, and a strong sense of déjà vu teased his nostrils in the crisp "morning" air. Briefly, he reminded himself that the paperwork on his desk was anything but finished; yet despite the routine patrol with no shore leave in sight, his mind wasn't on petty details and personnel transfers. He sighed, remembering the morning's orders from Starfleet Command. According to Komack, the Romulan Praetor had personally requested new treaty negotiations—breaking a silence which had lasted for nearly five years. But what unnerved him was the fact that he hadn't been particularly surprised when he'd finally learned Komack's reasoning behind the extended patrol. It seemed a natural progression. And, he reminded himself, Komack would probably ask for his help in the negotiations, considering his previous contact with Romulan society. And if the treaties could be renegotiated to benefit both sides, he knew it would be well worth the interminable wait at the border of the Neutral Zone.

He turned his mind momentarily away from the responsibilities of command, allowing himself the luxury of relaxing … even if for only a moment. As he walked along the path, he stopped frequently, almost expecting to see someone else in the garden; and the déjà vu whispered through his mind again. The uncanny sensation lingered, goading him until he reached the circle of trees and sank down onto one of the weathered stone benches.

He remained there for a long time, pondering the way the sand shifted and moved beneath his boots, the way the thin sheen of dew disappeared from multicolored leaves as the pseudo-sun climbed higher in the surreal sky. But as he continued to stare at the ground, his eyes caught the glint of metal just underneath his left foot. Curious, he leaned down, brushed the loose sand aside with a certain reverence, and picked up the gold ring which had edged its way beneath a fallen leaf.

Holding it in his hand, he studied the simple design carefully, turning the band over and over until he noticed the carved initials inside. The ring seemed familiar, almost ghostly, and for a moment he was hesitant to look too closely at the inscription. But his inborn curiosity asserted itself, and he tilted the band up to the light. J.T.K.—LUCK WALKS WITH YOU.

He felt a chill climb the length of his spine, and was momentarily tempted to bury the relic back in the ground as one might attempt to inter a spirit of the past; to pretend he hadn't known what the inscription said before he'd tempted fate and read it. The message was clear; its origins undeniable. Upon entering command courses at the Academy, each new pupil received the ring as a token of luck. Usually, the ring would be purchased by a close relative, a mate or friend.

But he turned away from the absurd thought which attempted to slip into his mind. He had no patent on those initials, he told himself. The ring could belong to anyone. But something else informed him that this wasn't the first time he'd seen the phantom band, wasn't the first time he'd held it in his hands … or the first time he'd slipped it easily onto his fourth finger.

As he continued to stare at it, not breathing, he felt the dream fragments take a step closer, threatening to reveal the truth before he was ready to hear it. He turned from the memories.

"Captain?"

With a start, Kirk jerked his head upright, gasping as if he'd been caught in some heinous crime. And yet, he wasn't terribly surprised to see his first officer standing a few feet away.

"I did not intend to startle you, Captain," the Vulcan apologized, noting Kirk's uncommon nervousness. "Please forgive the intrusion."

Kirk managed a sheepish grin, then motioned his friend to share the bench. As the first officer complied, Kirk slipped the ring from his finger, clutching it in the palm of his hand, though he suspected Spock's keen eyes had already seen it.

"What brings you down to the bowels this early in the morning, Spock?" he asked, attempting to mask his own inexplicable guilt with curiosity.

The Vulcan studied Kirk compassionately. "I thought perhaps I would find you here, Captain," he replied. "Doctor McCoy has informed me that the dreams appear to be dissipating." He paused. "However, the doctor also made it clear that you did dream last evening. I … believe he was concerned."

Kirk shrugged. If anyone else had questioned him, he might have been angry; but the Vulcan's casual approach warmed him. "Guess I'm just a diehard, Spock," he said lightly, turning the ring over in his hand without realizing it. He looked up. "Bones also mentioned that you eluded his professional grasp again. Any particular reason, or are you just keeping in practice?"

One eyebrow arched as a moment of pleasant surprise peeked through the firm control. But Spock quickly regained his composure. "I … wished to discuss the matter with you before fueling the doctor's curiosity," he stated.

Kirk nodded with a gentle smile. "What is it, Spock?" he asked.

The Vulcan glanced away for just a moment, then took a deep breath. "In my dream last night, I … sensed that you and I were … engaged in a meld when …" The sentence trailed off. He'd watched Kirk die in that dream, watched him fade to nothingness. And despite the fact that he had accompanied him on the journey, he still found it difficult to conceive of his friend's death.

Kirk met the dark eyes steadily. "You dreamed that you and I were linked in a meld when we died," he said, completing the sentence and surprised himself when he didn't flinch from the memory.

One long brow climbed beneath neatly combed bangs in a moment of surprise. "Indeed," Spock murmured.

Kirk smiled fleetingly. "It's all right, Spock," he assured his friend. "I wouldn't have mentioned it either, except that … I've had a feeling ever since I woke up that something … happened. I want to say something happened last night;but I'm not sure how that works." He shrugged almost in frustration. "I know this might sound illogical, Spock," he confessed, "but I feel like I've been asleep for thirty years!" He laughed, trying to break the tension which had settled in the air. "Now if I'd been out on shore leave all night, that wouldn't be so strange. But I went to bed early and woke up with one hell of a hangover this morning!"

The Vulcan nodded, then absently checked the wrist chronometer. He glanced curiously at Kirk. "Perhaps it would be wise to discuss the matter in more detail later this evening," he suggested. "Since we are both due on the bridge …" He let the sentence trail off, unfinished.

Kirk nodded, grateful that Spock recognized his need for time, his need to re-establish himself. For a moment, he wondered precisely what that was supposed to mean. He'd only been off duty for a little over twelve hours; but it seemed like years, centuries … perhaps longer.

He rose from the bench, slipping the ring onto the fourth finger, almost without thinking about it.

Settling into the command chair, Kirk found his mind wandering. He glanced occasionally at Spock's back, trying to imagine what particular research project held the first officer's attention this time. He'd suspected for years that the Vulcan's eyes remained glued to the hooded scanner simply because it made him appear busy when he was, in fact, irrefutably bored. He smiled to himself, trying to picture the Vulcan reading Alice in Wonderlandin machine language, or perhaps watching some ancient Tom and Jerrycartoon to amuse himself.

As he sat there watching the Vulcan and gazing at the unchanging star pattern on the viewscreen, his attention was diverted when the doors opened onto the bridge, revealing Lieutenant Richardson. For a moment, Kirk thought that the young man seemed different, not quite as naïve and innocent as the captain had originally pegged him. But as the lieutenant made his way to the navigator's chair and slumped behind the controls with an exaggerated sigh, Kirk knew it was the same man who was beginning to gain quite a reputation as the ship's resident Romeo.

"What's the matter, Jerry?" Sulu asked, interrupting the silence with a smile. "Been out tomcattin' again?"

Richardson shrugged, checking the controls, then leaned back in the chair. "Nothing so dramatic," he complained with an overacted sigh. He leaned closer to the helmsman, unaware of Kirk's curious scrutiny. "Dreams again," he grumbled. He gave a manufactured shudder.

Kirk felt himself stiffen, unconsciously leaning closer.

"You'll get over it," Sulu was saying. "Chekov'll be back on first shift in a week, then you can go back to sleeping in again." He smiled. "Just boredom, my friend," he added reassuringly. "So far, you're the only one I know of who had rotten dreams last night. And hell, I almost envy you. The rest of us seem to be settling back into the old routine of doldrum."

"I could use a little doldrum," Richardson remarked with a grin, indicating the star pattern with a nod of his head. "Even that painting out there seems like nirvana in comparison to what I remember of last night!" He set his eyes to the screen, then gave up the pose of interest, leaning closer to Sulu in a conspiratorial manner. "There's only one redeeming quality to nightmares," he confessed in a hushed tone. "The Praetor has gorgeous …" He let the sentence trail off, his hands forming into an hourglass with a somewhat exaggerated top.

Sulu elbowed the other lieutenant, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

Kirk managed to avert his eyes before being caught in the distasteful act of eavesdropping.

"In case you hadn't noticed," Sulu muttered, "the Big Man's on the bridge! And besides, I thought you had your eye on S'Parva this week."

Jerry shrugged, slipping back into the old routine. "There's no such thing as too much of a good thing, Sulu," he replied. "I have to play the field, let the galaxy know I'm out here. I have to give more than one woman a chance for true and lasting happiness."

Sulu's eyes rolled as he shook his head. "One of these days, Jerry, one of those innumerable women is going to take you up on the offer. And if my suspicions are correct, you won't know what in all the galaxy to do about it!"

Jerry shrugged. "True," he confessed with a groan.

In the Vulcan's quarters, Kirk sat slowly on the ornate meditation pillows, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. Against one wall, the Watcher held the Fire of Vulcan, his demonlike appearance somehow soothing. A faint scent of incense drifted through the room, and Kirk was pulled from his reverie as the first officer returned to the living area.

Without speaking, the Vulcan lowered himself to sit at Kirk's side, then allowed the cool mask to drop. Somehow, it seemed cumbersome, unnecessary. "Jim," he began carefully, "I have given the matter further consideration, and I … believe there may be a way to discover the meaning of these dreams." He looked into the eyes of the Watcher, choosing a neutral focal point. "I do not know if what I suggest will work, but it is a method to discern what reality—if any—these visions possess."

Kirk studied the Vulcan's slightly nervous demeanor. "You know me, Spock," he said gently. "I'll try anything twice."

"Twice?" the Vulcan repeated.

Kirk nodded. "I have to be sure if I like it or not," he explained. But he quickly sobered. "What d'you have in mind?"

The Vulcan glanced away for just a moment. "A meld," he said at last. "Again, I can offer no guarantees; and if you do not wish to—"

"I didn't say that, Spock," the human interrupted with a gentle smile. "I dowant to try it. And even if the whole thing turns out to be nothing more than a mind-game, I still want to know."

The Vulcan nodded very slowly, but did not respond.

Kirk managed a smile, feeling suddenly awkward but anxious. "Last chance to throw me out, Spock," he offered quietly.

But the Vulcan shook his head as the decision became clear. It is time to stop running … for both of us.An eyebrow rose at the unusual train of thought, but he made no effort to block the implications. "I believe the only answers we will ever have are within ourselves, Jim."

Kirk let himself relax, not expecting the meld so quickly, but determined to go through with it anyway.

For a moment there was only the surreal quality associated with the meld.

And then, somewhere, in a universe locked away from reality, a Vulcan commander and his human friend demanded recognition.