Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (11 page)

“The Romulans don’t seem to give a damn about their consul. Their official line is that they will not get involved or negotiate with terrorists, period . . . and their representative can always be replaced.” Caflisch shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“And the Klingons? Have they reacted?”

“No, but you can bet they will.”

“Klingons don’t negotiate,” Jim said. “They annihilate. They’re liable to blow up the hostages just for the chance to revenge themselves on the kidnappers.”

Caflisch’s smile thinned to a grim line.
“I
know. That’s why you’ve got to get there first, Jim.”

“Bob, I’m not even sure if the warp drive’s up to snuff yet.”

“At least you’ve got a head start on them. Positionally, the
Enterprise
is closer than any of their vessels. Do what you can. And good luck, Jim.”

“Understood. Kirk out.”

Caflisch’s image dissolved in a loud burst of static.

Kirk turned to address his expectant crew. “I’m afraid the ship’s problems will have to be solved en route. Since we’re understaffed, I’m counting on each of you to give your best. End of speech.” He went back to the conn and sat. “Let’s get to work. Mr. Sulu, plot a course for Nimbus Three.”

“Course already plotted, Captain.”

The doctor sidled over to the conn and began, out of the side of his mouth, “If you ask me, Jim—”

“I didn’t.” Jim cut McCoy off with a matter-of-fact wave of his hand. The anger he had felt during McCoy’s earlier tirade at Yosemite was gone; this time he knew exactly what Bones was getting at, and this time, he had to agree.

McCoy scowled at him, undissuaded. “Go ahead, call me a Cassandra. But you have to admit, this is a terrible idea. We’re bound to bump into the Klingons, and they don’t exactly like you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Doctor.” Jim glanced over at him. “Now all you have to do is convince Starfleet of the fact. Believe it or not, I have no suicidal urges to go chasing after Klingons. I’m no more pleased about this mission than you are.” He punched a button on the arm of the console, “Engineering.”

A voice filtered up through the intercom grid.

“Scott here.”

“We’ll need all the power you can muster, Mr. Scott, if we’re going to make it to Nimbus before the Klingons get there.”

“Don’t you worry, Captain,” Scott reassured him. “We’ll beat those Klingon devils if I have to get out and push.”

Kirk raised his brows and glanced at McCoy as if to say,
There. Happy?
“I’ll
keep your offer in mind,” he said to Scott. “It may come to that.” He closed the channel and addressed the helm. “Best speed, Mr. Sulu.”

“Aye, sir.”

Jim squirmed in his seat in an effort to get comfortable.

“What’s wrong, Jim?” McCoy asked.

Jim looked up at him sharply. “I miss my
old
chair.”

The
Okrona
sped toward the Neutral Zone.

Klaa paced the cramped confines of the bridge, ignoring the occasional curious glances of his crew. Since Nimbus III lay closer to Federation than to Klingon territory, the starship would no doubt arrive there first.
Okrona
had merely to cloak herself before arrival, then quietly steal up on her waiting prey.

Simple, very simple . . . and yet the young captain could not control his nervous pacing. Part of his restlessness was the result of sheer anticipation of the fight. Klaa had not tasted battle in the month since he had become captain of the
Okrona.

Another part of it was the realization that he had become captain through a single heroic act and that some, such as his thick-skulled gunner, Morek, resented Klaa’s meteoric success and were praying for a chance to bring him down, to see the invincible young captain fail.

None disputed that Klaa was the Empire’s best gunner, but many suggested a ship of his own was too great a reward. He had heard the gossip: the most jealous of them called him an idiot savant—a genius behind the gunner’s rig, an imbecile when it came to command. What Klaa needed now was yet another incredible victory, to cement his reputation as captain. And he could do that himself, without the moronic Morek’s help, without anyone’s help.

He walked past the helm and glanced at the back of Morek’s thick, balding head.
You’d like me to fail at
this, wouldn’t you, Morek? Well it’s not my days aboard
Okrona
that are numbered. . . but yours.

Klaa turned to pace in the opposite direction—and nearly collided with his first officer, Vixis. His initial reaction was to smile, but he frowned instead. It was more in keeping with his portrayal of the intense, restless young captain, eager for battle.

“Captain Klaa,” she said, smiling. Her eyes shone; her golden complexion was flushed. Her expression was much the same as it had been when she first told him of the diversion to Nimbus, and so Klaa knew the message she brought would be a welcome one. “We’ve just intercepted an encoded message on the Federation frequency. The starship
Enterprise
has been dispatched to Nimbus Three.”

“Enterprise,”
Klaa whispered. “Kirk’s ship … ”

He had expected good news; he had never dared dream it would be this good. He felt like throwing back his head and roaring with joy at the second gift the gods had just dropped in his lap—but he restrained himself in front of the crew.

Kirk, the criminal who had killed almost an entire crew of Klingons, stolen their vessel, developed the Genesis device with the intention of committing genocide against the Empire . . . To destroy James Kirk and his ship would be the achievement of a lifetime, of a thousand lifetimes. Kill Kirk, and Klaa would no longer be concerned about his status as captain of
Okrona.
The Empire would reward him with an entire fleet of vessele! Klaa folded his arms tightly across his chest and permitted a low laugh to escape.

Vixis’s smile was dazzling.” ’There will be no peace
as long as Kirk lives,’” she said, quoting Ambassador Kamarg’s deathless words to the Federation Council. “Our Empire’s highest bounty has been placed on his head.”

Klaa paused to study his first officer. She was statuesque, of elegant beauty and bloodline, and he had noticed that she watched him. He trusted no one, a trait that had served him well thus far.

You would like to see me destroy the
Enterprise,
wouldn’t you, Vixis? For then you would be the first officer—and possibly, someday, the consort—of the Empire’s greatest hero.

He did not know her well enough yet to trust her, though in truth, Klaa found the prospect altogether appealing.

“James T. Kirk,” he said slowly. He stroked his chin as he stared at Vixis. “I’ve followed his career since I was a boy.” His own career gave promise of paralleling Kirk’s. “A man I admire . . . and hate. If I could defeat Kirk—”

“You would be the greatest warrior in the galaxy,” Vixis breathed.

Klaa turned like a whip to face Tarag, the helmsman. Morek, seated next to him, wore a sour expression that evaporated instantly. “Maximum speed!” Klaa roared.

“Yes, my captain,” Tarag replied. Morek’s expression was now one of subservient respect.

“Success!” Klaa cried. He turned to Vixis and saluted her with a fist struck against his heart. If all went well, perhaps he would offer her the chance to be his paramour as well as his first officer. Perhaps, if she remained loyal and kept his interest…

She returned the gesture with passionate grace. “Success . . . my captain. Death to James Kirk and the crew of the
Enterprise.”

“Captain’s Log, Stardate Eighty-four—”

The log recorder gave a muffled groan. Jim Kirk did likewise, and put a hand to his forehead, as if to forestall the onset of a headache. “Replay.”

The recorder played back a stretch of static that sounded to Jim like bacon frying.

He drew in a deep breath. He was not about to be outdone by a machine. “Try again,” he said, in what he considered an admirably patient tone. To his delight, the computer log complied; the recording light on the console came on.

“Captain’s Log,” Jim began confidently, “Stardate Eighty-four—”

The recorder groaned again, then made a new noise that sounded suspiciously like a death rattle.

“Forget it. Just forget it,” Jim said. The recording light went out as he rubbed his temples.

“Getting a bit of a headache?” McCoy asked cheerfully, in a voice that struck Jim as just a bit too smug. Since he wasn’t needed in sickbay, the doctor remained on the bridge and seemed to be relishing the mechanical chaos that ensued the instant the
Enterprise
warped out

“I know you’re not a big fan of technology, Bones. You’ve run a personal vendetta against transporters ever since I’ve known you, but”—Jim squeezed his eyes shut and massaged the bridge of his nose—“you don’t have to rub it in.”

“Who’s rubbing it in?” McCoy’s eyes widened innocently. “I just asked you if you had a headache.”

“You know what I mean.” Jim opened his eyes and sighed. “Dammit, Bones, they issued us a lemon with the name
Enterprise
painted on it.”

“Down south we have a more colorful expression for it.” McCoy’s smile became mysterious.

Jim lifted his eyebrows questioningly and waited.

The doctor leaned closer and lowered his voice so that only the captain could hear. “Piece of sh—”

“Don’t
say it,” Jim warned, with a sudden ferocity that surprised them both. “That’s not funny, Doctor.”

McCoy drew back defensively and shrugged. “Hey,
you ’re
the one who called her a lemon, and now you’re defending her as if she were the
real Enterprise.
Make up your mind.”

Jim opened his mouth, ready to retort hotly; fortunately, Uhura interrupted.

“Captain, we’re receiving the hostage information you requested.”

Jim swiveled to face the main viewer, his anger forgotten. “On screen, Commander.”

Spock left his station to stand beside the conn.

An image—Kirk got the briefest impression of a woman’s face, very young and very attractive—fizzled onto the screen, out of focus, then broke up and faded to black. Uhura worked furiously at her station, muttering something under her breath that Kirk was afraid to guess at, and then the young woman’s face flashed again onto the screen.

This time Kirk had time to notice that she was a Romulan. Biographical data, very scanty, threaded
across the bottom of the screen. It gave her name, rank, age . . . and no further information whatsoever. The Starfleet compiler of the data let it be known that the Romulans had refused to release any more background on their consul, Caithlin Dar.

At the name, even Spock reacted by raising a brow.

“Caithlin?” McCoy wondered aloud. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that an
Irish
name?”

Kirk didn’t answer; the visual had changed to an image of someone he recognized, though the Klingon seemed older and heavier than he remembered. “Not
General
Korrd,” he remarked absently.

“The same,” Spock replied. “He has apparently fallen out of favor with the Klingon High Command. His appointment to Nimbus appears to be a form of banishment.”

“A damn shame,” Kirk said, with a surge of fondness. “Korrd was one hell of a soldier. His military strategies were required learning when I was cadet at the Academy. When they put me out to pasture, I hope I fare better than Korrd.”

The visual changed again, so that the screen displayed a holo of the Federation consul, a fair-haired, middle-aged human male. His name, St. John Talbot, was one that Kirk vaguely recognized as well.

“Not even dead, and already they’ve canonized him,” McCoy said dryly.

Talbot’s picture faded; a tape of uneven quality began. It was a static scene of the three diplomats standing together, flanked by a grim army of impoverished settlers. Many of them clutched crude guns made of metal pipe. The diplomats seemed dazed.
Perhaps they had been drugged, Jim thought, but no, their eyes were too wide, too clear.

“This must be the hostage tape,” McCoy said.

Spock studied the scene with intense interest. “Their weapons appear to be extremely primitive—” he began, but lapsed into silence when the Romulan hostage, Dar, began to speak.

She had clearly been designated spokesperson for the hostages. She delivered her talk precisely, without hesitation; Jim suspected she had rehearsed it many times. “At fourteen hundred hours,” Dar said, “we willingly surrendered ourselves to the forces of the Galactic Army of Light.”

“Interesting,” Spock murmured. “A religious crusade?”

Dar continued. “At this moment, we are in their protective custody. Their leader assures us that we will be treated humanely as long as you cooperate with his demands. I believe his sincerity.”

McCoy shook his head. “Hostage mentality if I ever saw it. Poor things have been brainwashed.”

Kirk raised a hand to silence him as Dar concluded her speech. “He requests that you send a Federation starship to parlay for our release. Be assured that we are in good health and would appreciate your immediate response.”

Her image and those of her companions were blocked as someone strode in front of them.

There was a swirl of white, and then a new face came into focus—that of a male, evidently a Nimbus settler. He exuded the power and charisma of a natural leader.

And he was a Vulcan.

A renegade Vulcan. Jim shook himself and glanced over at Spock and McCoy; both of them were staring transfixed at the screen.

Spock’s expression was one of stunned recognition.

“I deeply regret this desperate act, but these are desperate times.” The Vulcan’s voice was soothing; as he spoke, Jim found himself wanting to believe what he said.

“I have no desire to harm these innocents,” the leader continued, “but do not put me to the test. I implore you to respond within twenty-four standard hours.”

The transmission ceased abruptly.

With peculiar urgency, Spock strode over to Uhura’s console, where he reversed the tape and froze it on the image of the leader’s face.

“What is it, Spock?” Kirk rose from his chair and stepped behind his first officer, who stared, mesmerized by the image on Uhura’s console screen. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”