Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (32 page)

“Amen,” McCoy said softly.

“I lost a brother once,” Jim said, knowing they would think he referred to Sam. He remembered the barrier of self-pity he’d erected after the loss of the
Enterprise,
after the death of his son, David, and his rejection at the hands of Carol Marcus. For the first
time, he saw the depths of his foolishness. He laid a hand lightly on Spock’s arm. “But I was lucky. I got him back.”

Without changing his expression in the slightest, Spock managed to convey the impression of a smile.

“I thought you said men like us don’t have families,” McCoy reminded him gently.

“I was wrong,” Jim said. His tone lightened. “Speaking of which . . . We still have some shore leave coming to us. I was thinking of going back to Yosemite. Anyone care to join me?”

McCoy studied him suspiciously. “That depends. You going to be doing any more mountain climbing?”

Jim grinned. “No more mountain climbing . . . at least, not for a good long while. I swear.”

N
IGHT
. Jim sat before the blazing campfire and inhaled the intoxicating scents of fresh air, bourbon, and evergreen. Beside him, Spock carefully fastened a marshmallow on the end of a stick and proffered it to McCoy, who took it gratefully.

The Vulcan seemed to have come to terms with his brother’s death, although he remained silent and pensive throughout the second half of his shore leave at Yosemite. His solemn face glowed orange with reflected firelight.

“You were saying, Doctor, that your grandfather raised entire fields of melons,” Spock began conversationally.

“Say what?” McCoy wrinkled his brow. “What the devil are you talking about, Spock? My grandfather was a
doctor.”

Jim nudged him in the ribs.

“Marsh
melons,” Spock prompted.

Revelation dawned on the doctor’s face. “Oh, yeah . . .” McCoy nodded vigorously.
“That
grandfather. That’s right, grew whole fields of ’em . . . I remember how, when they were ready for picking, the swamps used to look as if they were covered with snow. Lovely sight.”

“Indeed.” The Vulcan paused. “I trust your grand-father was a better fanner than you are a programmer, Doctor.”

McCoy’s blue eyes, widened as he attempted an expression of complete innocence . . . and failed to achieve it. “Why, Spock, whatever do you mean?”

“The computer program. When I attempted to access information on camping out—as you clearly surmised I would—the data revealed a number of most interesting errors . . . such as the term ’marsh melons.’ The next time you attempt such a practical joke, Doctor, I recommend you take the time to also alter the cross-index files.”

“I never
touched
the computer,” McCoy protested.

Both Jim and Spock raised disbelieving brows at that.

“You know me. I don’t know a dad-blamed thing about computers. I paid one of the engineering maintenance workers good money to do it.” McCoy grinned wickedly. “Sounds like I better ask for a refund.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Jim told him.

“Me? What about Spock? He’s the one who dragged this out, pretending to play along!” McCoy retrieved
his marshmallow from the fire and popped it into his mouth. “I swear, the two of you—”

“Could drive a man to drink,” Jim finished for him.

On cue, McCoy set down the stick, rummaged through his knapsack, and produced the treasured flask. “Give me your cup, Jim.”

Jim complied. The doctor sloshed a generous amount of bourbon into Jim’s cup and handed it back to him, then filled his own.

“To family,” Jim said.

McCoy smiled. “To family,” he said, and drank.

Meanwhile, Spock had eaten the obligatory marshmallow and produced his Vulcan harp. He cradled it in his lap and strummed absently, in search of a tune.

Jim stared into the fire for a while.

“Penny for your thoughts,” McCoy said. “You seem to be better off this time around. At least I haven’t seen you jumping off any mountains.”

“It’s funny,” Jim said, mesmerized by the flames’ arrhythmic dance. “Sybok never mind-melded with me, and yet. . . yet I’ve come to terms with loss, too.”

“Sympathetic vibrations,” McCoy said, half jokingly.

Jim thought about it for a while. “Or maybe friends.” He smiled over at Spock. “Well, are you just going to sit there and pick at it or are you actually going to play something?”

Spock paused to consider the question, then slowly, deliberately began to play.

Jim and McCoy both grinned as each recognized the first few notes of “Row, Row, Your Boat.”

The three raised their voices and began to sing.

Zakal spent the first half of the night coughing up green-black blood and listening to the wind hurl sand against the side of the mountain fortress. The cavernous chamber was windowless and dark, save for the feeble light emanating from the initiates’ room, but Zakal had seen enough sandstorms to picture this one clearly in his mind’s eye: a huge, vibrating column of red sand that blotted out the sky until nothing remained but moving desert. Any creatures foolish enough to venture unprotected into the storm would be found the next day, their mummies leached of all moisture, their skin crackling like parchment at the slightest touch.

Around the middle of the night, the stains on his handcloth changed from dark green to bright, the color of a
d’mallu
vine after a rare spell of rain. Shortly thereafter, the healer left him, a sign that there was nothing more to be done^ no more easing of pain possible; a sign that he would be dead before sunrise. The relief on her drawn face was all too evident. She
was not of the Kolinahru, and had attended her charge with a mixture of loathing and terror. For this was Zakal the Terrible, the greatest of the Kolinahr masters, with a mind so powerful he had twice used it to melt the skin of his enemies into puddles at his feet.

He said nothing to stop the healer from going, merely closed his eyes and smiled wanly. It was fitting to lie here and listen to the roar of the storm on the last night of his life. Eight hundred and eighty-seven seasons
*
ago, he had been born in a storm like this one, and so his mother had named him Zakal: the Fury, the Desert Storm.

He was drowsing off when an image jolted him awake. Khoteth, lean and young and strong, furling himself in his black traveling cloak, his expression severe, brows weighed down by the heaviness of what he was about to do. Khoteth was crossing the desert, Khoteth was coming for him. Zakal knew this with unquestionable surety, in spite of the three initiates in the next room who stood guard, not over his aged, dying body, but over a far more dangerous weapon: his mind. Even their combined efforts to shield the truth from him could not completely sever his link to the man he had raised as his own son. Khoteth had sensed his master’s impending death, and would be here well before dawn.

The new High Master was risking his life by crossing the desert in a sandstorm . . . and oh, how Zakal listened to the wind and willed for Khoteth to be swallowed up by it! He tried in vain to summon up the old powers, but fever and the continual mental oppression caused by the initiates made it impossible. Zakal contented himself with cheering on the storm as if he had conjured it himself. Even so, he knew that Khoteth would complete his journey successfully.

So it was that, a few hours later when Khoteth’s soft
words drew Zakal from a feverish reverie, they brought with them no surprise.

“Master? I have come.”

Outside, the wind had eased, but still moaned softly. Zakal kept his face toward the black stone wall and did not trouble to raise his head. The sound of his former student’s voice evoked within him a curious mixture of fondness and bitter hatred.

“Go away.” He meant to thunder it with authority, but what emerged was weak and quavering, the ineffectual wheezing of an old man. He felt shame. Could this be the voice of the Ruler of ShanaiKahr, the most powerful and feared mind-lord of all Vulcan? He had known more of the secrets of power than the rest of the Kolinahru put together, but fool that he was, he had entrusted too many of them to the man who stood before him now. He turned his head—slowly, for any movement made him dizzy and liable to start coughing again—and opened fever-pained eyes to the sight of the one he had loved as a son, had chosen as his successor, and now despised as his mortal enemy. “Leave me, Khoteth. I may be your prisoner, but you cannot tell me when to die. There is time yet.”

“My name is Sotek,” his captor admonished mildly. Khoteth drew back the hood of his cloak, scattering rust-colored sand onto the stone floor. Such a young one—too young for a High Master, Zakal thought disapprovingly—but the responsibility had prematurely etched the first lines of age between his brows. Khoteth’s severe expression had eased into one of calculated neutrality, but Zakal could see the emotion that smoldered in his eyes, the one sign of the highly passionate nature Khoteth had been born with. As a child, he had been a true prodigy at the secret arts, devouring everything Zakal dared teach him, always hungering for more. In spite of his own appetite for power, Zakal had early on glimpsed the unpleasant truth of the matter. This child would grow into a man who would surpass his teacher, the greatest of all teachers. If you cannot defeat your enemy, then bring
him into your camp. Zakal designated the lad as his successor, for one day Khoteth’s abilities would lead him to much more than rulership of a single city. One day, he would be master of all the western towns, perhaps someday even master of the entire continent. And Zakal, the wise teacher and advisor, would have to be content to ally himself with such power if he could not be the source of it himself.

Even with his powerful imagination, Zakal had never thought his protege’s incredible talent could be thwarted, wasted, perverted by the simple-minded philosophy of a coward.

“Sotek,” Zakal hissed, and raised his head just enough to spit on the floor in Khoteth’s direction. The young master did not flinch at the ominously bright green spittle at his boots, but a flicker of dark emotion shone in his eyes. Zakal’s thin lips curved upward with irony. So Khoteth was at last afraid of his teacher again . . . as he had been years ago, when he had first confined Zakal here. Only this time it was not mental sorcery that made Khoteth cringe. Lunglock fever made cowards of them all.

Zakal found his breath for an instant. “What kind of name is that for a Vulcan? And what are your followers called now? Sarak? Serak? Sirak? Sorak? And how many Suraks altogether, please? Tell me, how long do you think this can last until you run out of names for your children?” He emitted a wheezing cackle that deteriorated into a coughing spell.

He was far too weak to sit up and so lay, hands pressed tight against his aching ribs, and choked helplessly on the vile fluid seeping up from his lungs. Khoteth watched dispassionately, hands still hidden beneath the folds of his cloak, which would be burned, Zakal knew, as soon as Khoteth left the mountain stronghold.

“How can you bear to see your old teacher like this,” Zakal managed to gasp at length, “knowing that they do not permit me to ease my pain?”

“I regret that your pain is a necessary consequence.”
Khoteth came no closer. “But to permit you access to any of the mind rules would be very foolish.”

“Foolish!” Zakal croaked. “Where is your compassion?”

Khoteth’s eyes were intense, though his tone remained cool. “I operate according to the principles of logic, not compassion.” He struggled to keep a wry smile from curving his lips, and was not entirely successful. “And I know you, Master. You merit no compassion. I have seen you kill without mercy or guilt. Given the chance, you would murder me here and now without a second’s hesitation.”

The piteous expression on Zakal’s face shifted into a harder one. “I would. And that is also why you are here, to kill.”

Puzzled, Khoteth raised an eyebrow at him.

“Perhaps,” said Zakal, “not to kill my body . . . but my spirit. You have come to deny me the second life.”

“You misunderstand, Master.” The folds of Khoteth’s cloak parted, and with both hands he drew forth a shimmering globe. “I have come to keep the promise I made so long ago.”

Zakal’s dimming eyes widened at the sight of the
vrekatra,
the receptacle in which his eternal spirit would rest for all eternity. “But Nortakh—” he began, until the heaviness in his chest left him gasping again. Nortakh, one of Zakal’s initiates with no particular talent for mental sorcery, had been Khoteth’s sworn rival ever since the new High Master chose to follow Surak’s teachings. Zakal had been taken prisoner and hidden in the desert so that Nortakh and his followers could have no more access to the secret knowledge. Indeed, Zakal had expected the new High Master to deny him the vrekatra—for to do so was the only way to ensure the secrets would be forever lost, safe from Surak’s enemies.

“Nortakh grows more powerful each day.” Khoteth brought the glowing orb a step closer to the dying Vulcan. “I will confess that at first I considered setting your katra upon the winds . . . but I am bound to keep
my vow to you. And . . . I need all of your knowledge. Master, if I am to defeat him.”

Zakal found the strength to taunt him. “I thought the followers of Surak took no action against their enemies. Aren’t you supposed to deal peace with Nortakh?”

A slight grimace rippled over Khoteth’s serious features. “I will do no physical harm to Nortakh or any of his Kolinahru, but that does not preclude my taking certain . . . precautions. Nortakh must be rendered harmless if Vulcan is ever to be at peace.”

Zakal coughed into his handcloth again and idly watched the stain spread through the fabric. “Surak’s Utopia of peace is a childish fantasy, a refusal to face reality. All creatures must prey on others, and compete among themselves; this is the way of survival, the way of all life. Surak would have us deny what we are.” A spasm of pain clutched his chest, making him wheeze. His distress was so desperate, so unfeigned, that Khoteth forgot his composure and, alarmed, moved toward his old teacher, but Zakal waved him back with the bloody cloth. After a moment, he managed to speak.