Текст книги "Killing Time "

Автор книги: Della Hise

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

"I—Captain Spock—I … apologize for my outburst." But it hurt to apologize when it shouldn't have. Spock was different—"If you don't intend to discharge me, I'd like to stay where I am." He waited, listening to the pounding of his own heart.

Spock studied him coolly for a very long time. "I have already denied your discharge request, Ensign," he reminded Kirk. "And since you will not tell me who is responsible for your injuries, you leave me no alternative but to transfer you to other accommodations and alter your work-assignments as well." He paused briefly. "Despite what you may have heard about Starfleet duty or about me personally"– halfbreed!—"you will discover that your life here can be rewarding—if you permit it to be." And in the event any of us survive beyond the next week. . . .He waited and, as expected, received no response other than a closing of the ensign's eyes in defeat. For an illogical moment, he found himself thinking of the future—with Kirk at his side. . . . Somehow, he told himself, he would find a way around S't'kal's orders. Somehow … they would live. "In the meantime," he said, drawing himself back to the problem at hand, "you are to report to Sickbay to have the full extent of your injuries determined and treated."

Hardened hazel eyes looked up at last. "I'd prefer not to, sir," he said in a voice which might have been defiant, might have been pleading.

"That is precisely why I am making it an order rather than a request, Ensign Kirk," Spock replied, using the authority which felt alien and unnatural. He turned away. "Dismissed."

For a long time, there was no sound. Then, after what seemed like empty hours, footsteps retreated. Carefully, the Vulcan glanced out the corner of one eye to watch the human go; and a thought crept into his mind which might have come from a dream he'd had a very long time ago.

I'd make one hell of a lousy ensign, Spock.

And though he'd never personally met Kirk before, he was certain of one thing: The voice in his mind precisely matched that of the man who had just left his quarters.

He glanced at the chronometer. Sooner or later, the human would come around. He only hoped it wouldn't be too late. . . .

In the Psychology Lab, Leonard McCoy bounced nervously on his toes, waiting for the results of the day's last vid-scan. The young man on the table was unknown to the doctor personally, yet McCoy couldn't help feeling for him. The vid-scan, despite the fact that it was completely painless, was nonetheless an extremely personal thing. And though McCoy had always subscribed to the doctrine that anything an individual chose to keep sacred within the mind should be honored, he now began to fully appreciate the technology behind the instrument which had once been considered a potential chamber of psychiatric horrors.

On the screen above the patient's head, images were being recorded—precise video images of whatever stray thoughts and subconscious dreams or nightmares were traveling through the mind. In this case, McCoy thought, as with the majority of the other two hundred volunteers who had confessed to "mind slippage," it wasn't difficult to see the pattern. Mentally, McCoy sighed in relief; Lieutenant Christensen was the last. And with a sampling of over half the crew, the results should at least help in formulating a hypothesis.

Stored in the central medical computer were sample vid-scans of the crew—required by FleetCom as a prerequisite for any crewmember ranked yeoman or above. McCoy smiled to himself. In the "old days," it has been required of allFleet personnel. But that was before humans had become standard operating equipment on vessels such as the ShiKahr, McCoy reflected, nonetheless thankful that the procedure was still practiced on a voluntary basis. And those records were now proving invaluable—as a control factor for the experiment if for nothing else. Compare and contrast.

He glanced at the man on the table. "Well, Christensen," he said with a grin, "the images you're generating on a consciouslevel are perfectly standard issue for a young man your age." He winked when the lieutenant laughed somewhat nervously.

"Nothing too heavy for you, Doc, I hope," Christensen replied, taking a deep breath and relaxing.

McCoy shook his head, thankful that the screen was always turned away from the patient's range of vision. If Christensen wanted to review his tape later, there would be no objections; but during the actual experiment, the doctor had learned that permitting the patient to watch the images while they were being recorded was vaguely akin to having a partner view a holotape while making love. Too many distractions to get the correct results.

He moved over to the diagnostic bed, resting his hand on the man's shoulder reassuringly. "I'm going to give you a shot of coenthal now, Dane," he explained. "It'll drop you down to an alpha level of sleep and give us a look at what's going on in the deeper levels of your mind. Okay with you?"

Christensen shrugged. "You're the doc, Doc," he agreed. "All I know is that if you people can find a cure for melancholy, I'm willing to do just about anything." He shuddered dramatically. "I think I'd much rather be phasered at point-blank range than go through another episode like yesterday." Warm brown eyes blinked at the memory. "Like … like falling through a hole into another version of a Lewis Carroll story—another whole world or something." He shuddered again. "Dark …"

McCoy smiled gently, then turned to prepare the hypo. "From what I've been hearing, you'd have to stand in line just to get a chance at the firing squad, kid." Reassurance, the doctor thought. If they all know they're not the only one, maybe it'll slow the process. Safety in numbers… At least it was a hopeful thought—one of the few he'd had in two days.

After a moment, he pressed the instrument against the man's arm and waited for the drug to take effect. Within thirty seconds the brown eyes drifted shut, and the readings slowly dropped. McCoy turned back to S'Parva, nodding. "Activate the monitor," he instructed. "If he starts getting in too deep, let me know and I'll bring him out of it."

S'Parva nodded, following the doctor's instructions. For a few moments, the screen over Christensen's head showed the usual images of resistance to drug-induced sleep. Subconscious figures representing the lieutenant and Sleep warred on a foggy battlefield. Sleep, a neuter magician, was clothed in black robes. He had no face, but a long sword dripping blood swung freely from his right arm. Christensen, nude and without a weapon, soon fell in battle.

Darkness filled the screen.

"Doctor McCoy?" S'Parva called, adjusting the controls for the widest possible scan.

McCoy turned in the Katellan's direction. He'd learned to recognize worry in the yeoman's tone. "Another negative scan, S'Parva?" he asked wearily.

S'Parva nodded, still gazing at the blank screen. "Nothing at all, Doctor," she responded. "All possible compensation already computed and implemented. Continuing negative response."

McCoy glanced at Christensen's sleeping form, then shook his head in dismay. Of the two hundred volunteers, thirteen had manufactured negative vid-scans under coenthal. The rest … varied. Images of an altered ShiKahr.A somewhat different FleetCom. And a golden-haired, golden-eyed captain. And though the images had always varied slightly there was no mistaking the definite similarities. It was a matter of interpretation, but the results were damned obvious. He looked at Christensen one last time, then quickly administered the drug which would restore the man to consciousness.

A stray thought coalesced into a theory, and he turned to S'Parva. "As soon as he's ambulatory, go ahead and release him. In the meantime, I'll be down in the captain's quarters." But his brows furrowed as he looked more closely at S'Parva. "How long have you been at this anyway?" he asked at last.

The Katellan shrugged, switching off the vid-scanner and moving to Christensen's side. Already he was beginning to awaken. "I forget," she replied finally, managing a smile for the doctor. "But I'd really like to stick it out till the end."

McCoy bounced on his toes. A stubborn Vulcan was bad enough—but S'Parva was, in many ways, the captain's equal. "Well, just don't fall apart on me now," he said with a smile. "I'm going to need your help when the computer spits out a theory on this thing."

"Any theories, Leonard?" S'Parva wondered.

McCoy's brows narrowed as he glanced at Christensen curiously. "Maybe," he conceded, rolling a computer tape over and over in his hand. "But it's still too early to tell." His eyes locked with the Katellan's. "Why don't you shut down the equipment, grab a few hours of sleep, and we'll go at it fresh in the morning." He glanced back at Christensen … and a shiver crawled down his spine. Like looking at Death himself. Still … no point starting a panic. No proof … yet.

He slipped into the corridor, then began to run toward a vacant lift.

Chapter Eight

COMMANDER TAZOL WAS not a patient man.

As the flagship Ravonemerged from hyperspace, approaching the Empire's central command post on Romulus, he tried to suppress the nervousness which had been building steadily in the pit of his stomach since the mission began. He wondered what they would find when the records of First History—the history which had existed beforeintervention into Earth's past—was compared to Second History—the altered history which existed now that the mission was completed.

Already, he could feel the beginnings of a most peculiar displacement as he tried to imagine what the Fleet could be facing if Sarela had been right—if the Empire was as drastically altered as the Federation was supposed to be. If she had been even remotely correct in her theories concerning alteration of the Empire, he wasn't at all certain he wanted to view the Second History records which would be available at Post One. Since the base itself could not be protected from those hypothetical changes, First History would have to be carefully compared with records of the Empire's "now-natural" Second History.

As the Ravonentered orbit, Tazol almost sighed in relief; after Sarela's horror stories, he'd half expected to discover that the Empire itself no longer existed. But the familiar droning voice of Command Central provided orbiting coordinates, welcoming the Praetor's flagship back "home." At least that much was in his favor, and Tazol took the moment to pray to all Romulan gods that his wife had been in error.

Another matter which continued to plague Tazol, however, was that in the six standard days the Praetor had been aboard the Ravon, he had gotten only a glimpse of the legend—and that had been nothing more than a quick glance at a robed and hooded figure. It couldhave been anyone. Carefully surrounded by attendants, slaves and advisers, there was no way to determine who remained anonymous inside those black cloaks. And to add to Tazol's personal misery was the fact that the comparative analysis of First History to Second would require weeks to complete before conquest of Federation territory could even begin. For though alteration of the Federation should subsequently have resulted in the automatic alteration of Romulan territorial boundaries, the Praetor's scientists had pointed out that the paradoxes of time tampering would only open up the possibilities. Conquest—to suit the current needs of the Praetor—would still be required. Tazol scoffed aloud, rubbing a hand through his beard and cursing the intricacies.

It would be a long wait.

Temporarily resigning himself to his plight, he glanced at the young navigator. "Rolash, inform Command Post One that we require a direct tie-in from their main computer system to ours," he said, boredom highlighting his gruff tone and stabbing fiercely through ebony eyes. Mundane scientific duties were best left to mundane scientists; he wondered where Sarela had disappeared to. "But say nothing of the fact that our Fleet has been in hyperspace," he added as an afterthought. "We must not allow our true nature to be discovered until the historical data is analyzed on board this vessel."

Again, he paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "If, after that analysis, we discover no major changes within the Empire, we will follow standard procedure." A devious smile came to his lips. "The Warriors are in need of a diversion, Rolash," he continued at last, "and I can think of no place better than the brothels of Tamsor."

The navigator's expression bordered dangerously on disgust. "Your orders shall be implemented, Commander," he acknowledged nonetheless. As his hands moved over the control panel, connecting the ship's computers in with the central system on Romulus, the bridge doors opened to reveal Sarela.

Without glancing at Tazol, Sarela moved to the science console, slipped into the chair, and inserted the decoding nodule into one neatly tapered ear as she studied the visual readout.

"Our operatives were marginally successful, Commander," she relinquished presently. But a look not unlike fear slowly came to dwell in wide black eyes. "However," she added, "certain changes havebeen affected in the governmental structure of our Empire."

Tazol felt his blood chill. Forcing himself to move at an unconcerned pace, he rose from the command chair and came to stand at his wife's side, gazing down at the data-feed and experiencing an emotion he recognized as anticipation slither through his stomach.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Apparently," Sarela began, "the operatives' success was limited at best. Starfleet does indeed exist … but not as before." She scanned the visual information as quickly as possible, allowing it to advance rapidly over the board. There would be ample time for the Praetor's scientists to analyze it in more detail later.

"One hundred years ago, calculating Romulan time," she recited, "our ships attacked a planet in the Eridani system—Vulcan. However," she added, "due to the fact that minimal research went into the nature of the Vulcans before this Second History attack, it was unknown that they were also a conquering species in their distant past.

"Though their violent tendencies had been curbed with logic and emotional temperance, the survival instinct remained intact. The Vulcans were the first race in Second History who were capable of withstanding the Empire's attack, their scientific knowledge having been in an advanced state at the time of our initial assault. After six months of battle, the Vulcans were successful in infiltrating our attacking forces and seizing control of several Romulan surveillance vessels." She paused, eyes locking with Tazol's fixed stare.

Slowly, the commander's expression mutated to one of denial. Yet he knew he could not dispute what was clearly written in the books of a history he had never experienced. This, then, was Second History.

"Is there more?" he barked, momentarily forgetting to play the role of arrogant disbeliever.

Sarela nodded, eyes returning to the small screen on her panel. "Though their own ships were larger than ours, Vulcan-built vessels were designed primarily for interplanetary travel rather than interstellar. However, they were quick to adapt Romulan stardrive and contact neighboring systems to aid on pushing back warships still being sent from our Empire."

She hesitated once again, holding one long finger over the control which would slow the data-feed. "A footnote to Second History reveals that the Praetor at that time shouldhave made the decision to break off the attack on Vulcan and all systems in that quadrant. Instead, due to the nature of our species in combination with pressure from the Empire's Warriors who were obsessed with a desire for revenge, the Praetor allowed the attack to continue. The Vulcans were considered a serious threat," she continued, "as they were the only race we had discovered who could match our ferocity—and our intellect—in battle."

She glanced briefly at Tazol's face, noted the pale coloration as she released her finger from the pause control. "Three of our Fleet's lightships were lured into Vulcan orbit by a computer synthesized distress signal—allegedly from one of our own ships. The lightships were attacked and … defeated," she emphasized. "With a total of seven vessels seized and five others nearly destroyed, the remainder of our Fleet returned home to the Empire."

Tazol took a moment to hope there was no more, yet the continuous stream of information across the screen shattered that illusion. He wondered fleetingly if his gods had deserted him … or if they, too, had been sacrificed somewhere in the crossroads of Time. He turned away. Anger turned to resentment. Resentment turned to fear. And fear transformed to desperation. In any History, it appeared that victory was not a luxury permitted to Romulans.

At last, Sarela continued. "At the time of our ships' return to the Empire, there had been no form of government on a galactic scale. However, shortly following our attack on Vulcan, their High Council established the groundwork for an Interstellar Alliance of Planets. The Vulcan High Council was also instrumental in the construction of the seven starships which comprise Starfleet as it still stands today." She paused for a moment, studying the board more closely. "Much of the information from that point forward is extremely limited—attributable to the fact that our intelligence operatives in Alliance territory are now more readily detected and their activities subsequently … halted."

Without waiting to hear the rest, Tazol returned to the sanctuary of his command chair, slumping angrily into it as he noted the eyes of the bridge crew slowly come to rest on him. "I suppose you find this information amusing, Sarela?" he accused hotly, looking for someone—anyone—other than himself to blame. He felt numb inside, cold … scared. He closed a heavy steel door on the thought; Warriors were not permitted to taste fear.

Turning in her chair, Sarela eyed her husband with open disdain. "I am still Romulan," she pointed out. "I find this information disturbing—for it seriously limits our operations in the future." She smiled gently. "But it is nothing less than I expected, if that is what you wish to know, Commander. And it is nothing less than our beloved Praetor shouldhave foreseen."

She paused, eyes returning for a moment to the readout. "Even though the history of Earth was altered sufficiently to prevent Terra from establishing the United Federation of Planets, our operatives could do nothing to account for the pre-existing stability of other worlds—such as Vulcan and Organia—who would eventually have established a galactic government even without Earth's initial influence. Thatis how it happened in Second History," she stated flatly. "Though their Starfleet is now considerably smaller than before—approximately half its original size—it is now controlled largely by Vulcans. And in bothhistories, Tazol, even youmust admit that the Vulcans are quite capable of being our equal in many ways."

Tazol's eyes never wavered as the fear left him to be replaced with cold determination. "But the Vulcans are benevolent fools!" he hissed, slamming a doubled fist down hard against the arm of the command chair. "The fire left their blood when they chose peace and logic over conquest! They couldhave stood by our side in battle against the weak—yet they became weak themselves, content with their computers and their culture." He spat the word out in hatred, grimacing as if biting into some unripened alien fruit. "They abandoned their Warrior rites for the boredom and servitude of peace!"

"Perhaps," Sarela conceded. "Yet the potential must always have existed for their ways of peace to change. Our time-tampering has made that change considerably more simple. The Vulcans are no longer the complacent and benevolent creatures from First History, Tazol," she pointed out, indicating the datafeed with a gesture of her hand. "They are now the enemy—even more so than before—and an enemy who understands our nature perhaps better than we do ourselves." She glanced again at the readout, observing only minor structural changes within the Empire itself as the information continued to flow into the Ravon's computer systems. "Our own borders are somewhat larger than before our operatives returned to Earth's past," she relayed, "but those borders dostill exist. We are far from invincible—and only slightly better off than before."

She shook her head in frustration, the mane of black hair cascading down her slim back. "Surely you must understand that we have as little hope of defeating seven of their starships as we would have had with the original twelve!"

Defeatedly, Tazol searched for the legendary glimmer of hope which no longer seemed to exist in any universe. "Scan intelligence banks on the surface of Romulus," he commanded. "What are the military capabilities of the starships which exist within their Alliance now?"

After a flurry of hands over the controls, Sarela's eyes returned to the terminal. "Seven starships, varying only slightly in design from those of First History. Dilithium powered; warp ten maximum critical speed; warp seven maximum safe speed." Making a quick comparison to the facts she remembered from First History, she punched a series of buttons which produced a starship design display from both Histories on the viewscreen. For the most part, she recognized, they were identical.

"Phaser power and photon torpedo capacity precisely the same as before. Note: nonviolent security measures employed whenever possible. However, Second History reveals that the Vulcans do not hesitate to kill if necessary in order to protect planets within Alliance jurisdiction. There have apparently been incidents of Romulan vessels invading Alliance territory for over seventy years, but with only marginal success. Second History also indicates that our boundaries have remained unchanged for over forty standard years; and that both sides have recently signed a Treaty prohibiting violation of the Neutral Zone by either party. Essentially," she concluded, "we are facing precisely what we faced before—but now at the hands of the Vulcans—who are undoubtedly capableof far more treachery than their human counterparts from First History would have imagined possible."

Tazol grunted miserably, wondering if the Praetor would merely rip the command rank from his shoulder or have him tortured to death. It wasn't his personal fault … but the Praetor did not look kindly upon defeat. "Earth history?" he wondered, looking for even one angle which might shed some scrap of uplifting knowledge. The Praetor will not allow us to live long enough to reveal that another of his "can't fail" schemes has failed.He tried to block the persistent thought.

"Earth history reveals that the most prominent changes occurred immediately following the assassination of Doctor Palmer and his two associates who would have formed the basis for the United Federation of Planets," Sarela replied presently. "Once those men were eliminated, Earth's history underwent a drastic change. The prospace exploration faction lost much of its status when Doctor Palmer 'disappeared,' leading certain key political figures to believe that he and his associates had fled into refuge to avoid 'embarrassing information' concerning a hoaxed contact with alien civilizations. Of course," she added, "it is believed that our operatives were responsible for that rumor; and that the Earth officials merely used it as an excuse to squelch what was then termed the revival of their space race." She skimmed the minor historical incidents quickly, then continued. "After several years, Earth began to exhaust its natural resources; its nations began fighting among themselves until the environment was almost totally destroyed.

"Vulcan scoutships established preliminary contact with the existing Terran government sixty-five years ago—Second History time calculation—and Earth eventually joined the Alliance, being formally admitted five years following initial contact. By careful guidance, the Alliance was able to aid in reducing Earth's overpopulation, seeding several other Class M planets throughout the galaxy." She paused. "A footnote suggests that, as recompense for this aid, the Alliance instated a military draft of sorts. However, since humans displayed a remarkable adaptability to spacecraft conditions, the draft was mainly used as a tool to get social deviants off the planet. At any rate," she concluded, "there are now Terrans serving voluntarily aboard starships—many in high-ranking positions."

She glanced at Tazol, momentarily switching the screen off. "Essentially, Commander, our operatives were successful in what they were ordered to do," she pointed out. "They murdered the Terrans who would have formed the basis of the Federation. Yet regardless of the fact that the Federation as we knew it in First History was destroyed, an Alliance came into being in another manner. Earth played no part in its initial development … but that is now irrelevant. It doesexist, Tazol."

Tazol continued staring straight ahead. One could not navigate through a paradox. "We are defeated once again," he whispered almost to himself.

Sarela considered the statement in silence. "It is said by the wise men of Romulus that history can never be artificially changed once it has already occurred naturally. Only minor incidents can be altered through time-tampering; and you must accept that Earth—one planet among millions—is indeed minor when compared to the galaxy itself. Though our operatives efficiently destroyed Earth's rolein the Federation, they could not obliterate the concept itself. Its importance was too great, its memory too deeply embedded in the atoms of the universe."

Tazol's eyes rolled skyward in a gesture of longsuffering. "Your poetic explanations had best be saved for the Praetor," he muttered miserably, scanning the tired eyes of his bridge crew. "For I must now inform His Glory's attendants of our Empire's current status—and I do not believe he will find the information pleasing." He leaned back in the chair, wondering if it would be the last time. "However … he will not be so easily deterred; and I suspect he will wish to plan strategy before attacking the Alliance." It was a fleeting hope.

"Attack the Alliance?" Sarela repeated.

"It isour way as Romulans," Tazol reminded her. But he wondered if he would live long enough to see the attack. Bearers of bad tidings often met quick ends. And in that single moment, Tazol found himself wishing he'd never heard of the Empire, never seen the Ravon, never known what it meant to be a Romulan Warrior. Suddenly, the fields and the farms seemed the most appropriate place in all the worlds.

His eyes closed for a moment before he rose from the chair and turned away from the bridge. And yet … when he remembered the promise of power, it wasn't as difficult to swallow. And in a stray instant of unmitigated arrogance, he also realized that the Warriors of his own ship, his own clan, would surely be loyal to him … even if Sarela's officers or the Praetor were not. A faint smile threatened to break out on the round face, but he dutifully pushed it away.

"There is one other matter, Tazol," Sarela's voice interrupted as he reached the doors to the lift. "We are now displaced—as much as the rest of the galaxy and perhaps even more. Only those aboard our lightships will have any memory of First History at all—and we can no longer permit ourselves to respond to the things of our past. We must learn new ways—customs and behavior which are not a part of our natural memory."

Tazol turned red-rimmed, weary eyes in her direction. "What are you saying, wife?" he wondered. "I have no time or patience for your recitation of mourning."

Sarela stood, glancing around the bridge. "We are not the same creatures who entered hyperspace while our operatives were in Earth's past. We are specters now, Tazol—ghosts of another place and time, relics of an Empire which no longer exists." There was a sadness in her wide brown eyes, reflected in her voice.

But Tazol only nodded. Already, he was beginning to realize that truth all too clearly. In the span of what had seemed only a moment in the dark embrace of hyperspace, all he had known had been painlessly obliterated … changed … subtly altered. And all for the sake of conquest—a word which sounded uncharacteristically bitter to his mind. He wondered if it had been remotely worth it … and when the rest of reality would begin to crumble.

And yet, he wasa Warrior, loyal to the song of the sword. His grief for the past would not last long … and already he had the beginnings of a plan.

Outside the Praetor's assigned quarters, Commander Tazol paced restlessly, wondering when or ifhe would have an opportunity to meet the Romulan Praetor personally … or if he even wanted to. The nebulous figure had come aboard hisship, converted an entire Warrior deck for his personal use, yet still remained elusive and impossible to see. The Legend's attendants had taken the messages, along with a complete transcript of Second History comparisons into the massive stateroom hours ago—and had subsequently told Tazol to wait. As a Warrior, he grew weary of waiting; and as a man, he grew tired of playing hand servant to an inaccessible figurehead.

Another hour had come and gone, but at last the double doors slid apart to reveal two of the Praetor's advisers. Both were dressed in rich robes, carrying ceremonial jeweled daggers on silk belts and a disruptor tucked neatly at the top of black suede boots. For a moment, Tazol caught his mind wandering on three unrelated trains of thought.

First, it seemed illogical that the Praetor's voiced concerns always centered around the poverty of the Romulan systems; yet his closest advisers wore the finest clothes and jewels. And the Palace, Tazol had heard, was nothing less than what some Terrans might term "heaven."