Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (31 page)

But the Vulcan remained aloof. His silence engulfed McCoy; for several minutes the doctor, too, remained silent and stared out the window along with him. When McCoy finally gathered the courage to speak, it was of something entirely unrelated.

“Try this on for size.” McCoy had followed Spock’s gaze to the distant planet, which now seemed as cold and impersonal as the Vulcan’s expression. “Has it occurred to you”—actually, it hadn’t occurred to McCoy until that very second—“that the Great Barrier wasn’t put there to keep us out, but to keep that thing
in?”

Spock did not look at him. “It has occurred to me.”

“Well,” McCoy said, trying rather inanely, he thought, to say something comforting, to make the best of a perfectly rotten situation, “doesn’t that imply the existence of a greater power?”

Actually, once he’d said it, it sort of made sense.

Spock turned from his contemplation to face McCoy. “I will say this much, Doctor. We have yet to reach the final frontier.”

Awkwardly, McCoy launched into what he really wanted to say. “Spock, if it’s any comfort to you . . . what Sybok did for me seems to be permanent. The positive aspect of it, that is. The grief I felt over my dad’s death—it’s still there, but it’s different. It’s . . . bearable now. I can think about it and talk about it, something I haven’t been able to do for the past ten years.” He paused. “I guess what I’m trying to say is
that Sybok saved our lives, and for that, I’m grateful But it’s more than that: your brother helped me. He helped us all.”

“Thank you, Dr. McCoy,” Spock answered simply. He was about to say more when his gaze fell on something behind McCoy. The doctor glanced over his shoulder and saw the consul from Earth, St. John Talbot, approach.

He came up beside McCoy and nodded to each of them. Although others were drinking, Talbot seemed eminently sober . . . and somehow years younger than the man who’d been taken hostage on Nimbus III.

The glazed “hostage look” was gone—McCoy’s examination of the crew had revealed no lingering aftereffects from Sybok’s mind-meld—replaced by a look of determination.

“Gentlemen,” Talbot said graciously. He did not smile; his manner made it clear that he had come to offer condolences to Spock.

At least,
McCoy thought with some satisfaction,
someone else here understands what common decency is.

“Mr. Talbot,” Spock replied, acknowledging the fact that the consul had come to speak to him.

“Spock, I speak on behalf of myself and the other delegates. We want you to know that, along with you, we mourn the loss of your brother.”

The Vulcan’s answer was not at all what McCoy expected. “I lost him a very long time ago, Mr. Talbot.”

Talbot lifted one brow slightly to indicate his confusion.

“We were estranged,” Spock explained. “In many ways, the recent events have allowed me to reclaim his memory.”

“I’m glad for that, at least,” Talbot answered warmly. “I remember quite well what you said to General Korrd about your brother’s sacrifice. It impressed all of us very deeply. I intend to see to it that Sybok’s life and death are honored.” He paused. “Dar, Korrd, and I have decided to devote ourselves to improving conditions on Nimbus, to showing our governments that it
can
work. Perhaps someday in the not-so-distant future there will be peace among our peoples. Perhaps we can help Sybok’s vision of paradise to become a reality.”

Moved, McCoy glanced up at the Vulcan’s face. For a moment, the mask slipped. Spock looked—really
looked—
into Talbot’s eyes. McCoy felt he saw a communion of souls. He looked away, embarrassed to have witnessed something so private, as Spock said, “Sybok would have been grateful, Mr. Talbot—as I am.”

Talbot smiled.

Nearby at the buffet, General Korrd—wearing full diplomatic regalia, and feeling decades younger—set down his half-empty glass of fruit juice and frowned at the daunting array of beverages, already poured and displayed in neat rows. He wanted something stronger.

Not that he wanted to get drunk; Korrd figured that over the past five years or so, he’d consumed enough liquor to last ten lifetimes. No, he wanted to drink a private toast, and fruit juice would not do. But there
were a great many beverages to choose from, and many of them were unfamiliar. As a diplomat, Korrd knew enough of Earth’s customs to understand that it would be unseemly for him to taste each one.

One of the
Enterprise
crew—from the uniform, Korrd placed him in engineering—was pouring himself a drink and noticed the Klingon’s dilemma. The human set his glass down.

“Can I help you?” He spoke English with an accent Korrd was unable to place. His tone was polite enough, but there was more than a trace of cold hostility in his eyes. This was a man with a deep grudge against Klingons.

“Yes, please,” Korrd told him, determined to do what he could to ease that hostility. “I was looking for a drink. Something stronger than this.” He pointed to the glass of fruit juice. “I want to drink a toast.”

The human hesitated; Korrd saw him weigh hatred against kindness. Fortunately, kindness won out; the human picked up a clean glass and gestured at Korrd with it.

“Would you care for a sip of scotch whisky?”

“Ummm . . .” Korrd began, uncertain whether it would be rude to ask to smell it first. But the engineer had already poured a glass and handed it to him; Korrd sensed that a refusal or even a hesitation now would be a grave mistake. In the interests of peace, he raised his glass, Earth-style, at the human. “Would you care to join me in a toast?”

The engineer regarded him skeptically. “That depends on what you’re toasting.”

“Sybok,” Korrd replied. “In my culture, it is a custom to drink in honor of the dead.”

The human nodded solemnly as he picked up his drink. “Aye. It’s a custom on Earth, too. I’ll drink a toast to him.” He touched his glass to the Klingon’s. “To Sybok.”

“To Sybok,” Korrd intoned, “a great warrior who died well.” He raised his glass to his lips and inhaled the fragrance of fermented grain, a complex, faintly smoky smell. The alcohol content was far lower than what Korrd was used to, but it would serve the purpose. Before he could sip it, the human interrupted.

“Warrior?” His tone was disapproving. “Sybok was no warrior. He dinna believe in violence.”

Korrd lowered his drink. “A warrior for peace is no less a warrior.”

It was the right thing to say—and besides, Korrd sincerely meant it. The cold mistrust in the human’s eyes vanished completely, replaced by warmth. He smiled at Korrd’s words. “Aye, that’s true. I’ll drink to that—and to Sybok.” He tilted his head back and drained his glass in one gulp.

Korrd followed suit and smacked his lips with slightly exaggerated relish. “Excellent! What did you say this was?”

The engineer swelled with pride. “Scotch. Single-malt scotch whisky.”

“A superior drink,” Korrd told him. Not quite the truth, but then, Korrd suspected he would be forgiven this one small lie. It was, after all, told to promote interstellar fellowship. “I will most certainly remember. Might I have a bit more?”

“Absolutely.” The human reached for a bottle and
enthusiastically sloshed some liquid into the general’s glass, then his own. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott. To tell the truth, General Korrd, I never thought I’d be drinking with a Klingon.”

Korrd clasped Scott’s hand. “To quote an old Earth saying, ’Times change,’ Engineer Scott. Times change.’”

He left Scott beaming.
Korrd, you wily old diplomat,
he congratulated himself.
Between you and Krell, you’ll have the entire Klingon Council in your camp again. Can the Federation and the Romulans be far behind?

To think he owed it to a Vulcan ...

Korrd spotted Captain Klaa and his first officer, off drinking by themselves in a far corner of the deck.

Glass raised, he walked toward them and boomed in a loud voice, “To the greatest hero in the Romulan and Klingon empires—and the Federation!” As Korrd came up beside them, he threw back his head and polished off the rest of the scotch.

The first officer, Vixis, followed suit and drank with grace and enthusiasm. Many nearby—including Talbot and Dar—heard and raised their glasses in a toast to Klaa. Korrd recalled the old Earth axiom that flattery did little to advance one’s cause; in regard to Klaa, this was certainly not the case. Klaa smiled, clearly relishing the attention.

Yet there was a trace of sullenness in his eyes. Korrd noted it and determined to win him over; if his plans for Nimbus were to succeed, he would need Klaa’s support. The young Klingon already wielded great
influence with the High Command—as much as old Krell himself and, after this latest triumph, perhaps even more.

“But where was the victory?” Klaa asked so softly that only Korrd and Vixis could hear. “There was no battle.”

“A victory for peace,” Korrd said, reminded again of Sybok, “endures longer than any gained through bloodshed. Think on this, Klaa: Sometimes there is more glory to be found in life than in death.

“If you had killed James Kirk, you would have achieved fame within our empire for a generation, then been forgotten. But now your name will be known not only to Klingons but to Romulans as well, and to all intelligent species within the Federation—and to their children and their children’s children, and they will remember you with gratitude. Even more so if you assist us in making Nimbus a success.”

“Hmm.” Klaa sipped his drink and savored it. . . and the glowing vision conjured by Korrd’s words. “You are a very shrewd opponent, General, and very quick to understand another’s psychology; it is a quality I can appreciate. I also appreciate the fact that it is your brother-in-law who will make the final decision as to my promotion.”

“True,” Korrd said with feigned innocence.

Klaa smiled with the admiration of one brilliant strategist for another. “But I will consider what you have said, Korrd. It has the ring of common sense.”

Korrd smiled back and, with his free hand, saluted the young Klingon. “Success, Captain.”

Klaa returned the salute. “Success . . . General.”

Korrd left them and ambled over to where Dar and Talbot were speaking earnestly; he heard just enough to know they were discussing Nimbus again. Dar wore much the same determined, intense look she had worn on the day Korrd first met hen Talbot stood, arms folded, listening to Dar with interest; the Englishman did not bother to hold a glass at all. He looked more fit and sober and animated than Korrd had ever seen him. Dar sipped a clear liquid. Water, Korrd assumed, until he came close enough to catch a whiff of straight spirits.

“It seems you two have changed places,” Korrd told them pleasantly.

Talbot chuckled; Dar stopped talking and glanced up at the Klingon with sincere affection. “A human custom,” she explained, with a sheepish nod at her drink. “Something called a wake. Talbot explained it to me earlier.”

“Wake?” Korrd had never heard the term.

“A . . . a celebration of death,” Dar said. “Or rather of the dead one’s life. The emphasis is on recalling all that was good.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “It seemed to me that since Sybok made this reception possible, we should somehow dedicate it to him.”

“A worthy custom.” Korrd touched his glass to Dar’s with a high-pitched clink. “To Sybok.”

“To Sybok,” Dar said somberly. They drank.

Talbot watched them. “This is the best way to celebrate death—by appreciating life.”

Korrd swallowed his second scotch. The flavor was actually not bad. Perhaps, in the interest of furthering diplomatic relations, he would talk to Krell about
arranging the legal importation of the stuff to Nimbus III.

“So,” he said, “as Klingon representative, it’s my business to know what the two of you were conspiring about when I came along.”

Talbot flashed a sudden dazzling smile. “We were just thinking about how far we’ve come in such a short time.”

Korrd nodded, remembering the slow dissolution of his life and wondering where it would have ended had Sybok not arrived. “We certainly have.”

“Good heavens!” Talbot exclaimed, with mock astonishment. “Do you realize, Korrd, that we just agreed on something!”

“Gentlemen,” Dar raised her glass again, “it’s about time.”

From a short distance away, Jim Kirk smiled faintly as Korrd threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. The sound reverberated through the observation deck, causing people to stop in midsentence to stare at the old Klingon.

The three laughing diplomats did not at all resemble the people whose file holos Jim had studied en route to Nimbus; these people seemed younger, freer, more animated in their movements and speech, as though their encounter with Sybok had changed them forever.

The reception had been Korrd’s idea, one that Jim thought was brilliant. It honored both the recovered hostages and Captain Klaa of the Bird of Prey
Okrona,
their rescuer. Both Talbot and Dar had sworn
to get their governments to decorate Klaa as a hero, not only of the Klingon Empire but of the Romulan Empire and the Federation as well. Jim glanced over at the young Klingon, who stood off to one side, conferring with his female first officer.

Klaa seemed to sense that he was being watched; he glanced up and met Jim’s gaze. There was a trace of respect and admiration in the Klingon’s eyes.

Jim responded with the Klingon salute.

Klaa returned it with a faint smile, then resumed his conversation.

Jim headed over toward the observation window where McCoy and Spock stood. Jim was surprised to see the Vulcan in attendance; he hadn’t ordered Spock to appear, and had assumed the Vulcan would still be recovering in private from his brother’s death. Yet Spock’s expression was more contemplative than grief-stricken.

Jim walked up beside his two friends and followed their gaze to the planet beyond. “Cosmic thoughts, gentlemen?”

’I was thinking of Sybok,” Spock said matter-of-factly, without any trace of sorrow. “He was grievously misguided, deluded . . . and yet. . .” His voice faltered, then became strong again. “Even in death, he has brought about great good.”