Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (23 page)

“Captain,” she said tentatively, “that course will take us directly into the Great Barrier.”

The fire in Klaa’s eyes told her that he was willing to risk it. . . and more.

“Where Kirk goes, we follow,” he growled, and stomped back to his chair.

She dared say no more. But her admiration for her captain dimmed somewhat. Klaa was indeed brave—brave enough to risk his life, his ship, and all aboard
her—but not brave enough to risk the contempt of his crew.

Vixis sighed and watched the star pattern change on her viewer as
Okrona
came hard about and swooped after her prey.

S
COTT WOKE
to a dull headache and the realization that he was in sickbay. He struggled to sit up and found he could not; restraints held him back. He fumbled for them—and discovered they were not restraints at all, but Uhura’s arms.

“Easy, Scotty,” she soothed, and stroked his forehead. Even under her light touch, his skin felt tender and bruised. “You had one heck of a knock, but you’re all right now, You’re back with us.”

He relaxed and blinked up at her. He hadn’t the vaguest notion how he had come to be in sickbay; the last thing he remembered was that he had been walking through a ventilation shaft, going to fix the transporter . . . The transporter was somehow very urgent.

“The captain—” he began, then stopped, confused. The captain had wanted him to fix the transporter, but for some reason he felt he shouldn’t tell Uhura,..

And then he remembered Spock’s words: “We can trust no one, Captain. You saw the mental condition of the hostages. Sybok is capable of doing the same to every person on board...,”

There was something faintly unnatural about Uhura’s tender smile, about the vague euphoria in her eyes. Scott decided to test her. He groaned theatrically and raised a hand to his aching temple.

“Uhura, I had the strangest dream. I dreamt a madman had taken over the
Enterprise.”

Uhura laughed softly. It was a pleasant, gentle sound, but it made Scott’s flesh crawl. “Dear Scotty,” she said, still smiling as she shook her head. “He isn’t a madman.”

“He’s not?” Scott asked with false innocence as he tried his best not to appear sickened by her answer.

She laughed again. “What ever gave you that idea? Sybok’s different. . . amazing, unlike anyone I’ve ever known. He’s helped Sulu and Chekov, too—put us in touch with feelings we’ve always been afraid to express.” She laid a hand against Scott’s cheek and gave him a loving look.

Scott blushed as thoroughly as he would have if Uhura had been herself. “I. . . er. . . Uhura, I have to repair the transporter.” When she frowned quizzically at him, he added, “After all, where we’re going, we’ll need it.” He gently freed himself from her grip and got off the exam table.

She sighed with disappointment, but she let him go. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just that there’s so much I want to tell you.”

“Of course.” Scott comforted her with a pat on the shoulder. “Maybe when I’m a wee bit stronger and the transporter’s working. I dinna think I could take it in my present condition.”
Or yours.

“Perhaps a little later?” she asked hopefully.

“Later,” Scott reassured her, and headed for the exit before she changed her mind.

Sybok blocked the doorway, accompanied by two armed soldiers.

“Mr. Scott.” The Vulcan’s expression was benevolent, but Scott sensed the presence of something sinister. As the Vulcan took a step forward, Scott stepped back into sickbay. The door snapped shut behind them, over the guards. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”

Scott’s expression hardened; he did not answer.

“He’s going to fix the transporter,” Uhura volunteered cheerfully, to Scott’s dismay. “After all, we’ll probably need it when we . . . when we get to wherever we’re going.”

“I see.” The Vulcan folded his arms across his chest in a manner that was curiously reminiscent of Mr. Spock. “How very interesting. Unfortunately, I don’t think it would be wise to fix the transporter just yet. It seems the captain and his two friends have escaped—with help.” He turned to Scott. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Mr. Scott?”

“Aye, that I would,” Scott said with utter contempt and a proud tilt of his chin.

“I thought you might.” The Vulcan’s tone was
amiable. He nodded at Uhura, who seemed to understand; she headed immediately for the door.

On her way, she paused to lay a hand on Scott’s forearm.

“Trust him, Scotty. Don’t be afraid. You’ll understand everything when it’s over.”

The doors opened, and Uhura stepped outside with the guards.

Scott found her words less than reassuring. He was alone with the Vulcan now; Sybok moved closer to him, but Scott refused to cower or back away from him.

“I suppose ye’ll try to brainwash me now,” Scott said.

Sybok appeared faintly amused. “I don’t brainwash anyone. I merely show people how to share their pain and transform it into a source of strength. I can show you now.” He stepped forward until he was close enough to touch the engineer.

“I’m not in pain,” Scott retorted coldly. “If anyone’s in need of psychological help, you—”

He stopped, confused. For a brief, almost imperceptible instant, the Vulcan loomed vast in Scott’s field of vision. Scott felt a twinge of panic, the very same panic he had experienced when, long ago, Mr. Spock had touched his mind in order to protect him from a delusion. The panic arose from his fear of opening his mind to the unknown, to another’s control. It brightened like a flare, then dimmed. The sharp features of the Vulcan faded to reveal...

Sickbay, but somehow changed. It was, Scott realized with a resurgence of fear, the room on the old
ship, as it had looked roughly a year ago, when Dr. McCoy had worked grimly to save the life of a fourteen-year-old cadet trainee.

Scott looked down at himself and gasped. The front of his uniform was damp, stained with blood. Peter’s blood.

Scott sagged against the glass, pressing a hand against it to steady himself, to be closer to his youngest nephew. His palm left behind a red smear.

“Peter,” he moaned softly, finally daring to raise his head and stare through the glass. “Lad, I canna bear to lose you again.”

Cadet Peter Preston had been on a training mission aboard the
Enterprise
when it was fired on by the starship
Reliant,
pirated by Khan Noonian Singh. As a result of the attack, the
Enterprise’s
engine room had suffered severe damage. Cadet Preston had remained faithfully at his post, long enough to keep auxiliary power from failing and the
Enterprise
from being destroyed, and long enough to inhale enough poisonous coolant gas to ensure his death.

Scott found himself reliving the dreadful moment when Kirk had appeared in sickbay to witness Peter’s final agony.

Scott closed his eyes. Even so, he could still see the pity and sorrow etched on the captain’s face, the horrible expression of defeat McCoy wore as he glanced up and shook his head.

Coolant poisoning,
McCoy said. Other words followed, words too awful for Scott to register.

The engineer drew close to the boy’s bedside, and touched his forehead.

Peter’s skin burned his hand. The fever resulted
from exposure to the intensely radioactive gas. Dr. McCoy had done what he could to stop the hemorrhage, but the damage to the cell walls was too great; thin pink-red blood oozed from the boy’s nose and mouth.

Scott wept. During the last few days before his nephew’s death, he had disciplined Peter in response to what Scott perceived as flippancy. In retrospect, he realized he had overreacted, had singled the boy out for punishment in an effort to make clear that he would show no favoritism to his young nephew.

“If only I could have
told
you,” Scott sobbed. “But you were gone so quickly, there wasna time.”

Peter opened his eyes.

Next to Scott, the captain leaned over and spoke to the dying boy:
Mr. Preston.

Peter’s voice was faint, almost too faint for Scott to hear. He spoke, not to his stricken uncle Montgomery—Scott doubted Peter even knew he was there—but to his captain.
Is the word given?
he whispered.

A shadow passed over Kirk’s face, but his tone was sure.
The word is given.

Aye,
Peter said, and died.

Scott collapsed to his knees and did not rise this time. In his attempt to teach the boy discipline, he had made the final days of Peter’s life miserable.

And Peter would never know the depths to which his uncle regretted the fact.

Yet as Scott wept into his hands, he experienced a peculiar awareness: he was not alone. Even though Peter and Dr. McCoy and Captain Kirk had all faded away, another remained, touching Scott’s mind in much the same way Mr. Spock had touched it.

“Only a child,” Scott sobbed. “If I hadna been so hard on him ...”

He would still have died,
a distinct voice answered in Scott’s mind, but the voice was not his own.

Scott gazed up into Sybok’s eyes. They seemed ancient, fierce, blazing and, paradoxically, infinitely loving.

Share your pain with me and gain strength from it,
his eyes said. The message was delivered in a manner beyond all language; but when Scott recalled the incident later, he would be convinced that Sybok had spoken to him in Scots Gaelic.

Peter was an intelligent boy.

“Yes,” Scott whispered. The thought of Peter’s brilliant mind, lost forever, only intensified his sorrow.

He understood the reasons behind your actions,
Sybok told him.
Peter knew you acted out of love.

Scott dared to allow himself a small ray of hope. “Peter . . . understood?”

A silent
yes. There was no need to tell him. Peter remained at his post, not out offear ofyour reaction, but because of his sense of duty. He would have done the same in any case. You in no way contributed to his death, Montgomery.

Scott bowed his head. The horror of Peter’s death began to fade; Scott felt the overlay of guilt and grief being gently stripped from him, much as one might undress a child. Scott searched his heart and found a melancholy fondness for Peter . . . and a new and growing joy.

He peered up at the Vulcan with love and admiration,
and was reminded of a legend he’d been told as a child.

“You’re a sin-eater,” he whispered to Sybok.

He had said it with the most sincere gratitude, but Sybok’s eyes flashed with such pain for an infinitesimal fraction of a second that Scott felt sorrow. And then the Vulcan’s eyes were calm once more, full of love and wisdom.

“God bless ye,” Scott told him, and rose to his feet. He still wept, but not from sorrow. “Forgive me for thinking ye had evil intentions.”

Sybok conveyed a single, wordless impression to Scott’s mind. The engineer nodded, realizing the utter lack of need for apologies.

“Then what can I do, Sybok, to express how grateful—”

The Vulcan smiled and answered him aloud. “The captain has ordered you to fix the transporters, and so you shall. But first, there is a far more important task that demands your attention. It concerns the safety of everyone aboard this vessel.”

“Name it. Give the word, and I’ll see that it’s done.”

“The shields. Their basic structure must be altered radically before we reach the Great Barrier, so that they will offer considerably more protection.”

Scott tilted his head skeptically. “Begging your pardon, but if there were a way to boost the shields,
I’d
know about it.”

Sybok seemed amused again. “Do you trust me, Mr. Scott?”

“Aye, that I do,” the engineer replied passionately.

“Good. I will give you a formula so that you can
make the appropriate adjustments to the shield design. The transporter will have to wait.”

“Aye, sir,” Scott replied. And after the Vulcan gave him the formula, he went to work joyfully.

Her duty shift ended, Vixis headed down the dark corridor to her quarters.

She was deeply agitated, torn between her admiration and attraction for Klaa and her duty as first officer of the
Okrona.
Klaa’s insistence that
Okrona
follow the
Enterprise
into the Barrier—and certain destruction—taxed Vixis’s loyalty beyond its limits, for it indicated that the captain’s arrogance had become megalomania.

There were no regulations in the Empire’s service that allowed her to simply relieve Klaa on the grounds of incompetence; it was assumed that irresponsible captains would be the victims of assassination or exile by their own crews.

Action would have to be taken before
Okrona
reached the barrier, but Vixis was reluctant to act, not merely because of her loyalty to Klaa but because she knew Klaa to be a formidable enemy, mad or not.

If she did succeed in killing him, there remained the task of convincing Command of the need for such a drastic measure. At the moment, Klaa had many influential supporters—supporters who would be swift to avenge his murder.

These thoughts troubled her as she arrived at the door to her quarters and called out her private access code. The computer lock recognized her voice and the sequence, and permitted her access.

The door slid open to reveal Morek.

Vixis was startled to see him there, but only because she did not think him shrewd enough to override the security on her quarters. She remained in the doorway and eyed him coldly.

“Morek. How did you get in?”

She did not ask why he had come; she was not in the habit of asking questions for which she already had answers.

“Unimportant,” Morek replied. He smiled at her; his eyes were small and glittering in the semidarkness. “Enter.”

He stepped back to permit her entry. He was not completely ignorant, at least; he understood that Klaa probably monitored the corridors—and that the jamming devices installed in Vixis’s quarters made it safer to discuss topics such as the captain’s assassination.

The door closed behind them. Vixis uttered a soft command; the room brightened, causing Morek to squint.