Текст книги "Killing Time "

Автор книги: Della Hise

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Tazol's face darkened with tangible rage which twisted his features into an animalistic snarl. "You willbe silent!" he commanded. "I shall not tolerate this blasphemy against the Empire!"

Sarela laughed gently, almost admonishingly. "Yes you will," she corrected. "For you do not possess the courage to silence me!" She met his eyes, testing his conviction, testing her own ground. "The Praetor would not be so foolish as to board this vessel in an attempt to avoid the paradoxes of time. He would sit back—safe within the walls of the Empireal palace—and wait for his fleet to do his bidding. And then– onlythen—would he step in to partake of the rewards. And Tazol," she said with a very gentle smile, "if there are no rewards, he will say that we acted alone—in a scheme to overthrow his authority and bring power to ourselves." She shook her head, lips growing tighter with anger. "We will be executed," she added matter-of-factly. "Not only you and I, but all who serve aboard the Ravonwill die. Your Praetor would not allow us to live long enough to make it publicly known that anotherof his 'can't-fail' schemes had failed!"

A stray moment of horror which seemed to be circling the bridge found its way to Tazol's face. All heads were turned now, all eyes on him; and he suddenly realized that this fiery female couldbe correct. And something warned him that the crew of the Ravonmight not support him in a critical situation which involved Sarela. She had been on the ship too long, had too many friends in anonymous places. He tasted indecision, fear, rage. "You will follow my orders, Sarela," he said at last. "I serve the Praetor! And the mere fact that you are my wife does not exempt you from that same duty!"

Sarela felt flame rise in her own eyes, but made no effort to disguise it. "And the fact that I am your wife does not automatically mark me as a fool either, Tazol!" she responded. "Our marriage was the mistaken bribe of my father!" She threw the computerized readouts into the vacant command chair. "These speculations are meaningless!" she spat out. "They are merely hypotheses based on the possible successof our agents in Earth's past. There are no provisions for error.No alternative plans have been formulated in the event that the operatives should fail—or if they are simply unable to alter the course of Terran history sufficiently. Not enough research has been done to know howthe time flow will be affected. And as a scientist yourself, even youshould realize that time alteration is never a certainty. There are too many variables, too many paradoxes—and any discrepancy spells failure!"

Striding back to the main computer console, she activated the controls which changed the viewscreen once again. "These are examples of a few of the mistakes your Praetor has made before, Tazol. Look at them—study them very carefully!

"Six seasons ago, we attempted to alter a single planet's history in the hopes of establishing a new form of government there which would be susceptible to the Praetor's rule. As a result of our tampering, the entire planet was laid to waste, the resources destroyed, and the people obliterated. No sheep to rule, Tazol," Sarela said quietly. "When our operatives created a flaw in the governmental system of that world's past history, they overlooked the fact that the newgovernment was based solely on survival. Wars were the outcome. Disease. Ruin." She pointed at the top of the display, eyes hot with accusation.

"And when we attempted to change our own physical nature to render a stronger individual, we time-tampered with the genes of our ancestors! Again," she stressed with a frustrated gesture of her hands, "the results should be painfully obvious, Tazol. Nearly half the population of Romulus died as a direct result. Of course, the Praetor could claimthat it worked; the Warriors who survived were indeed physically stronger. But as a whole, the experiment was nothing less than disastrous. By altering the genetic structure of our ancestors, the 'brilliant' scientists failed to take into account certain diseases to which our species alreadypossessed an immunity. Once the genetic code was altered, that immunity no longer existed." She laughed bitterly, flipping the long, black hair back from her slender face. "No, Tazol. No experiment can everbe a complete success. For as long as there are uncharted variables, there will always be errors."

Tazol stared blankly at the screen. The implications were too frightening, too deadly … too obvious. "It will not happen this time!" he persisted, not knowing what else in the universe to say. "It cannothappen! We have learned from our errors—"

"Are you such a puppet that the suicidal tendencies of our species elude your comprehension?" Sarela interrupted. "You have stated that we were once a conquering race. Yes!" she agreed, indicating the viewscreen with a nod of her head as she moved to stand in front of the stunned commander. "And if you are not blinded by customs so ancient as to be oblique, you can see where that has gotten us. Greed, Tazol. Greed is the only motivating force behind any conquering race—and the Praetor is surely the most greedy man in the Empire. How many times has he sent entire starships to die on a whim, on a quest for some pretty trinket to adorn the palace walls?"

Tazol's face darkened as several members of the bridge crew murmured in agreement. "Your blasphemy against the Empire will not go unpunished, Sarela," he promised, wondering if it was a threat he could uphold. "I follow my orders; I honor my duty—even if that duty means death!"

But Sarela only laughed sarcastically. "A true son of the Praetor," she observed. "But keep in mind that I am not the only person aboard this vessel who does not wish to die in an insane attempt to rule a galaxy. History is on myside, Tazol—not the Praetor's. Whenever we have attempted to alter the time-flow in any manner, the results have never been as predicted. Or are you so intimidated by the Praetor that you would lay down your life on his whim alone? Would you fall obediently onto your sword to amuse him if he demanded it?

"Fear does not make a good commander, Tazol," she continued. "Especially if that fear is so deeply rooted that it blinds you to logical alternatives. It is easier to die a hero of the Empire than to live as one who opposes the Praetor's views—that is true. So go ahead," she entreated, indicating the viewscreen with one hand. "Go ahead and become another hero. Have your name added to the list of failures. It will make little difference in a thousand years—and you willdie a hero, of that I assure you." She paused, lowering her voice to a deceptively gentle tone. "And neither your Praetor nor your wife shall mourn your passing, Tazol. You will be nothing more than a bad memory in the atoms of the galaxy."

Moving in to grasp the defiant woman by the arm, Tazol experienced fire in his blood. Sarela did indeed pose a threat—not only to his rank or his life, but to his pride. In the Warrior's tradition, he raised his hand high above her head, but stopped when Rolash turned threateningly toward him.

"Commander," Rolash interrupted coldly, "the Praetor's ship approaches. His crew demands docking coordinates."

Tazol wavered, looking first at the petite frame of his wife, than at the navigator, then at the viewscreen. After a moment of indecision, he shoved Sarela roughly aside. She could wait.

"Inform the Praetor of our position and prepare full honors for his arrival," he barked. He turned back to the woman, almost horrified by her calm eyes, her lack of fear. Indecision crept closer. Who is the Praetor?

"Transport vessel T'Favaronapproaching docking coordinates," Rolash replied after a quick flurry of words into the ship-to-ship communication panel. He turned pale brown eyes back toward Tazol. "The Praetor will board in precisely twenty minutes."

Tazol surveyed the silent bridge, tasted fear in the back of his throat. In the Empire, mutiny wasn't uncommon. "Any mention of this incident outside the bridge will be dealt with accordingly," he threatened, scanning the faces of the strangers who were his crew. Commanders had been known to disappear before—without trace or explanation. He had to maintain a front, a façade … a lie.

Gradually, all eyes returned to their panels, but Sarela slipped away from her husband's side once again. "Then you are as guilty as I," she pointed out, a smile finding its way to her face. "By not punishing me as required by the Warrior's tradition, you are as much a traitor to the ways of our ancestors as I am!" With a defiant glance, she turned and moved back to her own station. "I had hoped you would find enough mercy in you to kill me now, Tazol," she hissed. "For you cannot command me any more than you can command this vessel!"

"Silence!" Tazol demanded, staring blindly at the woman. "You will not speak of this again! Do you wish to bring the Praetor's wrath down on all of us?"

Sarela's eyes showed no intimidation as her lips gave way to a knowing smile. "Perhaps," she murmured, studying Tazol closely. "The horror in your eyes tells its own story. I may not have won my freedom from this marriage, but I have won a respect from you which you dare not revoke. You are fortunate that the Praetor will board our vessel in a few moments, for I would not hesitate to kill you, Tazol." She paused thoughtfully, and the smile grew to maturity. "And even your Warriors could not reach the bridge in time to save your worthless life."

The bridge fell silent as the commander turned toward the doors and strode away without responding. But … he couldn't help wondering if Sarela had been correct. What if it was just another impossible mission? Who is the Praetor?He shuddered.

With an effort, however, he slammed a heavy black door on the negative yammering in his head and moved into the lift—away from the bridge, away from Sarela, away from the intangible danger. Duty and tradition took up a familiar droning chant in the Warrior's mind, and he found himself smiling by the time he reached the hangar deck. . . .

Slowly, the image faded, and Tazol sank back against the bed. It seemed years ago … centuries, in fact.

… And still he had not seen the Praetor.

Chapter Seven

ENSIGN KIRK STARED at his feet while trying not to let the nervousness he felt show on his face. Despite repeated efforts to avoid a confrontation with the ShiKahr's Vulcan captain, he'd finally been trapped—quite efficiently and embarrassingly—by none other than Donner himself. It seemed to Kirk that the other ensign had taken remarkable pleasure in bodily dragging him to the lift and forcibly depositing him in the captain's quarters. Now he stood waiting. He'd heard a lot about Captain Spock—some good, some bad, all stern; he suspected he'd have little success attempting to explain his personal situation to the firm Vulcan commander.

The bruises on his face had been carefully concealed with medicinal makeup he'd stolen from the ship's store; but his left eye still ached, and his muscles were stiff and sore.

As he stood there pondering the floor, he could see the Vulcan methodically rustling through a stack of papers and computer tapes on the neatly arranged desk; and though Kirk had heard the usual scuttlebutt about some peculiar orders, he hadn't expected the captain to leave classified material so easily available. He looked more closely at the captain, remembering the dream of the night before; something– someone—shivered inside him.

"Ensign Kirk?" the deathly quiet voice asked after what felt like centuries. Still, the Vulcan did not look up.

"Reporting as ordered … Captain," Kirk returned, willing himself into a subordinate stance, which hurt almost as much as the bruises. It felt so out-of-place to be addressing the Vulcan in such a manner. The majority of his instructors at the Academy had been Vulcans; but there was something about this particular starship captain which defied conventional explanation. At the Academy—before the incident which had led to his dismissal from Command training—he'd gotten used to the quiet mannerisms, the lack of praise even when work was exceptional. But he sensed something more in this particular Vulcan—a fire beneath that coolly logical command pose. In a brief flash which had no explanation, Kirk suddenly saw their positions reversed. He was sitting on the other side of that big desk, wearing the familiar maroon silks of command … yet even that vision didn't quite hold true. His inner eye saw gold and blue, merging and twining together, forming a union and a rapport. A perfect balance upon which starships were run.

But reality slowly returned. That type of balance did not exist, Kirk told himself, blinking the absurd image away.

He waited in silence.

The Vulcan raised his head at last, studying Kirk carefully—and one brow suddenly shot up in surprise. T'lema. He who walks in dreams.For a long time, he continued holding the other man's gaze, feeling the moment solidify around him. There was no mistaking the intense hazel eyes, the almost defiant stance, the muscled body, the lock of errant hair which fell to the middle of the human's forehead. Yet he could see no sense of recognition in Kirk. The eyebrow slowly lowered as logic intervened. It was not impossible, the Vulcan told himself, that he had merely seen a holograph of Kirk along with the other new transfer documents. It was equally as possible that he could have seen him on the FleetCom transmission tapes; Kirk was not unknown—especially following the incident at the Academy.

Still … there was something different; something which logic could not define. The young human ensign had been assigned to the ShiKahrwhen all other disciplinary measures had failed, and although Spock did not approve of the Talos Device—which had essentially deepened this human's problems—neither did he approve of drafting personnel to active starship duty against their wishes. Ship's safety could depend on the performance of any individual at any time, and since Kirk had no desire to be on the ShiKahr, it was nothing less than bureaucratic politics which had been instrumental in having the human assigned. Illogical at best.

To Spock, it was irrelevant that the young ensign had once been in Command training, but had lost the scholarship—and the personal interest—when a bizarre series of events had pointed the finger of guilt at him following the murder of Chief Instructor Sorek. Once convicted, Spock recalled, Kirk had been incarcerated for over a year, subjected to the Talos Device in an effort to discern the truth behind the murder, and finally shipped off to the Draft Academy once it became apparent that he either did not remember the night of the murder, or was too strongly disciplined to reveal the truth even under the harshest of methods. At any rate, Spock surmised, Starfleet must have considered him too valuable an asset to waste.

The Vulcan leaned back in the chair, continuing to observe the human's arrogant attitude … and the contrasting downtrodden expression.

"Ensign Kirk," he repeated presently, "you were scheduled to report for duty at 0800 hours on Monday morning, and at the same time for three subsequent days. Might I inquire as to why you did not deem it necessary to do so?"

Kirk's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Captain Spock," he began, tone defensive and cold, "I'm sure you're aware that I don't want to be on this ship. And it's obvious that other members of your crew are just as opposed to this posting as I am myself." He raised his eyes, but chose a point above the Vulcan's head as a focal area. "I'm requesting a formal discharge immediately—dishonorable or otherwise; it's not important."

Spock heard the clipped tone of the human's voice, yet sensed something deeper. "Surely you realize, Ensign, that you were drafted into Starfleet because of your history of resistance to more conventional forms of discipline on Earth—combined with the fact that you were once in Command training yourself." He paused, eyes scrutinizing. "If you were to be discharged now—which is an impossibility under present circumstances—you would be sent to an Orion rehabilitation center for the rest of your life. And I assure you that you would find that far more degrading than any prejudices you might encounter on board this vessel."

Kirk shrugged with disinterest. "I'm not so sure about that," he said sharply, ignoring the urge to open himself to the compassion he heard in the familiar voice.

The Vulcan did not respond, then rose and paced the width of the quarters. He turned, studied the ensign through quizzical eyes, then returned and sat down in the chair once more. He looked closely at the human, and thought for a moment that he detected a hint of medicinal powder on one cheek. He dismissed it. Lighting could play tricks even on the most trained observer.

"Ensign," he said at last, "I will speak freely with you in the hopes of allowing you to comprehend the circumstances before you make an irrational decision which could adversely affect your entire future." He paused, brows furrowing. For a moment, time flip-flopped, then righted itself again. But for that single moment, he felt a rapport with this human, a knowledge that trust could be given … and received in return. Illogical under the circumstances, he thought. But nonetheless an accurate impression. "Other humans have been assigned to this vessel—men and women who did not initially wish to be here—yet all have eventually adjusted in one manner or another. Since you obviously attended the Academy with higher goals in mind at one time in your life—"

"That was six years ago," Kirk interrupted, still not looking at the man behind the desk. "Things were different then … Iwas different then." I was different then.There was a ring of truth in that. For an instant, Kirk felt as though he was listening to another person—a person he'd once known; maybe even a person he'd once been … or had wanted to be. He discarded the irrational thought, telling himself it was nothing more than lingering effects of the mind probe, the demon machine … the Talos Device.

Presently, the Vulcan indicated a vacant chair with a gesture of his hand. "Please be seated, Ensign," he entreated. The discussion was going to take longer than he'd originally intended, and though he certainly had more pressing matters than the attendance record of one single ensign, he found himself unable to dismiss the subject.

But the human shook his head. "I'd prefer to stand, sir." The proud flaring of the nostrils, the almost unconscious tension of broad shoulders.

The Vulcan noted it. "As you wish," he acknowledged. "At any rate, you have no doubt heard rumors concerning our current orders, Ensign?"

Kirk glanced sharply at the Vulcan. How did you answer a question like that? Admit it, and admit to being a ship-board gossip—to listening to scuttlebutt and receiving classified material. Deny it and get caught in a lie … worse yet. He wondered momentarily if the Vulcan was testing him, and managed a devious smile.

"If I heard that the entire Fleet had been diverted to transport Denebian slime worms to bait stores back on Earth, that wouldn't make it true, now would it?" he asked pointedly. "So, with all due respect, a rumor's only as good as the source."

Spock leaned forward, steepling his fingers in front of himself, elbows resting on the desk. His eyes darkened. Getting through to this stubborn human was going to take more time than he'd expected; and time, he reminded himself, was a scarce commodity. Within five days, two starships would be arriving at the Neutral Zone. And according to details contained in Admiral S't'kal's transmission, the attack on the Romulan Empire was scheduled to begin two days after that. He would have to come straight to the point.

"Ensign Kirk, you need not engage in the art of evasion with me—for I am not here to judge you. In truth, we may all be dead within a very short span of time—unless Doctor McCoy and I can find some solution to an unknown force which appears to be pushing the Alliance into undeclared war with the Romulans." He continued holding Kirk's gaze, almost compelling the human not to look away again. It was a difficult task.

Kirk fidgeted uncomfortably. "Why are you telling methis?" he asked at last.

The Vulcan rose, leaned across the desk, and came face to face with the human, almost surprised when the other man did not attempt to back away. "Because I am convinced that you are somehow … involved." The Vulcan's eyes closed, and he wished he were better with the Terran language. His statement sounded more like an accusation than a possible answer. "In other words, Ensign Kirk, I suspect you could prove to be a valuable asset to Doctor McCoy and myself."

Kirk squinted curiously. "Why?" he demanded.

The Vulcan sat back down, indicating the chair once more, surprised when Kirk relented and sank into it.

"I am familiar with your personal history, Ensign," the Vulcan explained. "And though it is now irrelevant that the Talos Device has been banned as a method of punishment, you need not fear it any longer." He paused, feeling an odd empathy with this human stranger. "However," he added, "you must understand that the Talos Device can also be used for the benefitof the Alliance—particularly in our present situation."

Kirk blinked, brows narrowing suspiciously. "What are you getting at, Captain?" he asked.

Leaning back in the chair, Spock studied the human for only a moment longer. "I require your assistance—yet I cannot directly order you to cooperate. Doctor McCoy has discovered that the … insanity … which appears to be spreading generally throughout the Alliance is based deep within the brain itself. In order to better understand the phenomena, we are accepting—on a volunteer basis—crewmen who are willing to submit to a complete vid-scan."

Kirk felt himself go cold inside. He turned away, refusing to meet the dark eyes which seemed to be almost pleading. "Forget it," he murmured to himself, suppressing the shiver which slid up his arms. "I've already had enough vid-scans to last a lifetime." And yet, in refusing the Vulcan, he experienced a deep sense of personal failure—as if he'd somehow disappointed a close friend.

The Vulcan remained silent for a very long time. "Very well," he responded at last. "The choice is yours alone, for as I stated, I shall not force you to cooperate." He paused, continuing only when it became obvious that the ensign had no intention of responding.

"It is on record that I do not approve of the Talos Device; it is a dangerous tool despite its reputed effectiveness." The Vulcan forced himself to remember that he'd dealt with men far more defiant than Kirk, and he knew he could deal with this one if they could reach some type of understanding. But … the fear had to be obliterated first. And yet, men like Kirk didn't accept kindness easily—even when offered under a logical pretense. "If you are still troubled by the nightmares which are resultant from your previous experience with the Talos Device, I shall instruct Doctor McCoy to—"

"I don't have nightmares!" Kirk lied, voice rising defensively. He wondered what embarrassment there should be in knowing that the Vulcan could see right through him, but still it came. "I just don't enjoy having my brain picked like a goddamned fruit tree!"

The Vulcan leaned forward in the chair, choosing another angle. Time pressed forward. "Initially," he began, "you claimed to be innocent of the crime for which you were convicted; but later changed your plea to one of guilty. Why?"

Kirk said nothing, and as the Vulcan noted the blank expression on the ensign's face, he saw it slowly harden to one of stubbornness.

"Is your resentment of this posting due to the fact that you areinnocent? To the fact that you feel you should perhaps be a commander rather than an ensign?" He knew he could not spare the human's feelings now—not if he wanted to approach the source of the problem. And yet, there was an emotion very close to pain related to what he was doing. Somewhere, buried and hidden beneath years of Vulcan discipline, there waspain. He closed his eyes for an instant, searching for the logical balance which suddenly seemed very far away.

"Does it really matter now, Captain?" Kirk demanded quietly. "And besides, what difference would it make anyway? I was convicted, wasn't I?" But he didn'tremember the night Sorek had been murdered; he'd been too drunk from Finnegan's spiked-punch party to even remember walking across the grounds to the dormitory, much less whether or not he'd murdered his Vulcan instructor.

"It is true that you were convicted," the captain agreed. "However," he pointed out, "conviction does not necessarily denote guilt." He was also aware that Kirk had already served a worse sentence than most men could endure. As a starship commander, he knew of the Talos Device; as a scientist on Vulcan, he'd once been foolish enough to test it on himself. The psychic nightmares which had resulted had been enough to make him demand that the Vulcan High Council ban use of the machine in all Alliance territory. After lengthy debate, the Council had agreed—but not in time to prevent its use on Kirk. For that, Spock felt a twinge of illogical guilt. He shouldhave been there—Raising one eyebrow at the thought, he commanded himself back to reality.

"I have also been informed that your mind was resistant to Vegan thought probes and truth drugs which would, under normal circumstances, prove your guilt or verify your innocence." He hesitated, taking a deep breath as he noticed that Kirk actually appeared to be listening. It was a welcome change. "The psychiatrists assigned to your case could not understand the peculiar resistance, and you were convicted largely on circumstantial evidence as I recall."

Kirk shrugged noncommittally, masking the memory of the Talos Device with disinterest. "Kill anything you don't understand. Isn't that the law of nature?" He winced slightly when the muscles in his face tightened.

"No, Ensign, it is not," Spock countered, his voice unaccountably gentle. "It is, unfortunately, the law of many primitive cultures—but notthe law of nature." He rose from the chair, looking more closely at the ensign's pale, drawn face. "And it is not permissible on board this vessel."

Taking a step nearer, he tilted his head as the very faint scent of makeup came to his nostrils. Absently, he reached out to touch the human's cheek for confirmation, but stopped when Kirk's eyes widened fearfully. The eyebrow climbed once more; Kirk's reaction was proof enough.

"Who is responsible for this?" Spock asked sternly.

Kirk turned away. "Nobody," he lied as the hot red color of embarrassment came to brighten his face. "I … I got drunk in my quarters and fell against the bulkhead in the dark." But he recognized it for the transparent lie it was. He glanced nervously at the door, and thought of running.

But the Vulcan moved to block his path, almost as if sensing the impending retreat. "Perhaps you would do better assigned to a nondrinking roommate, Ensign," he suggested casually. For a moment, he felt himself inadequate to deal with the delicate situation. Humans maintained such a fragile balance—a balance between pride and compromise, between anger and complacency, between truth and deception … between love and hatred.

"Donner has been troublesome to me in the past," he continued as if to himself, "and despite his abilities, I have considered transferring him planetside on more than one occasion." He looked at Kirk, wishing the human would meet his eyes. "I should have realized that his aggressive nature would eventually assert itself again." For an indefinable reason, he felt unnaturally protective of this human.

"It wasn't Donner, dammit!" Kirk exploded angrily. He felt the rage building silently behind his eyes—the same rage which had gotten him into brawls in the stagnant prisons on Terra, the same rage which always seemed to come at the worst possible times. "It was just my own clumsiness, that's all! And I don't want another roommate; I want a discharge!" Finally, he lifted fiery eyes, masking fear with a blink of fury. "Do I have to kill someone elseto get thrown off this floating Alcatraz, or will you grant that request before I do, Captain Spock?"

Unprepared for the psychic outpouring which accompanied the verbal assault, Spock stepped back. And yet, there was familiarity in the brief touch of minds. Even in anger, hatred … familiarity lived. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and reburied his own sudden emotions somewhere beneath the mask of command. Recovering his composure, he moved back to the desk.

"Let us understand one another, Ensign Kirk," he began. "Threats pull no weight with me, and I shall not tolerate them." He paused for a moment, studying the angry denial in Kirk's expression. "Nor shall I tolerate the physical abuse of any member of this crew," he continued, tone considerably more gentle. "I am ordering you to tell me who is responsible for your injuries."

But Kirk remained mute and immovable. In his prison days, he'd learned what it meant to keep a confidence. "I'm responsible for my own problems," he stated at last. "And I don't need a keeper! Keep your half-breed sentimentalities to yourself, Spock!" He started toward the door, stopping only when he heard the auto-lock activated from somewhere behind him.

The Vulcan moved to stand between him and the door. Half-breed.The word hung somewhere outside reality.

"Very well," he murmured. "I will accept that as your answer for now. However," he continued, "I will also be advising the quartermaster to change your living accommodations; effective immediately."

Kirk felt the color drain from his face at the note of finality in the suddenly ominous voice. Now he'd really done it. Not only was he a weakling and a coward and a drug addict in Donner's eyes—but to be assigned new quarters for his own protection … He could already hear Donner's taunts, could feel the slap of the big man's open palm across his face—the type of slap one might administer to a disobedient animal. He looked up, desperation filling his eyes as he shoved pride in the background for one of the first times in his life.