Killing Time, page 13
Kirk smiled wistfully. "Then … it's not just rumor?" he asked, sitting down on the side of his own bed. At least Richardson seemed willing to talk shop and not ask a lot of embarrassing questions.
The other ensign shrugged. "I dunno," he said at last. "Everybody down in the psyche lab's been trying to keep it all quiet, but …" He grinned. "Word gets around."
Kirk smiled. "You work in the lab?" he asked conversationally.
"Yup," Richardson confirmed. "'Fraid so."
Kirk's brows narrowed. "You sound positively overjoyed."
"Well," Richardson replied, stretching lazily, "right now we're involved in a vid-scan project—over half the crew altogether. Doc's been clam-mouthed about it, but it's not hard to figure out what's going on. Hell," he continued, "when two hundred people start forming lines outside the door, you can bet there's a reason."
"Any idea … what kind of reason?" Kirk prompted.
A smile came to Richardson's face. "Well, I'd like to think it's a fan club of mine—at least with the female population—but in this case, it seems to be an outbreak of paranoia or something." He winked again. "Security's been armed with butterfly nets and mounting pins, so I wouldn't worry too much, Jim."
Kirk laughed—the first genuine laugh he'd felt in months. "What about you?" he asked pointedly.
Richardson looked away, face suddenly darkening; for a moment Kirk wondered if he'd alienated his new roommate already. But the other ensign took a deep breath, rolling up onto one elbow, as a look of chagrin slowly crossed his features.
"I dunno," Richardson said at last. "I've felt a few twinges."
Kirk smiled reassuringly. "Such as?"
"Such as …" The other ensign laughed at some private memory. "Such as going up to the bridge the other day … doing things I couldn't explain."
Kirk waited.
At last, Richardson continued. "I just went up to the bridge as if I owned the place," he said.
"So?" Kirk asked. "What's so strange about that?" For some reason, Richardson seemed to belong on the bridge. Swing-shift. Relief.
"Nothing in itself," Richardson replied. "Everybody knows how to get there—even the people who aren't supposed to know!" He shrugged as if to dampen the memory. "But the weird thing was that I stumbled into the navigator's chair and started joking with Sulu as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Luckily," he groaned, "it was between duty shifts, so Captain Spock wasn't on the bridge yet. Everyone else must've thought I was just fooling around or something, but … I wasn't."
The chill which had been hanging above Kirk's head moved a little closer as he thought of his own reactions in the captain's quarters just a few hours previously. "It just seemed the natural thing to do," he surmised.
"Yeah," Richardson agreed with an embarrassed laugh. "And that's not all of it. When I looked at that panel, I knew every control, every maneuver this ship might make. And I've never been trained on navigational controls. I was interested in the soft sciences, the research angles; never went in for all the hardware and battle plans. But I swear, Jim, I knew all of it! I could've piloted this ship as well as Sulu—or maybe even Spock!"
"So what'd your vid-scan show?" Kirk asked curiously.
Richardson shrugged. "I … didn't take one," he said after a silent moment. He laughed—unconvincingly. "Don't ask me why, Jim, but … the thought of that machine telling every secret I own makes my skin crawl." His smile broadened. "And with S'Parva right there …"
Kirk grinned. "I think I know what you mean," he replied, easily detecting his roommate's fascination with the Katellan. But an idea slowly presented itself. "So … why don't you—in the name of science, of course," he said slyly, "find some way of getting S'Parva to do a telepathic link with you." He shrugged, feeling relaxed and comfortable with his new friend. "From what I've heard about Katellans, that should tell you as much as any vid-scan—and with half the embarrassment."
Richardson stared at Kirk, then blinked. "You're serious, aren't you?"
Kirk smiled. "Why not?" he asked. "You could tell her it's a control factor for the experiments—a more 'humanistic' approach to balance the technology of the vid-scan."
A wide, knowing grin slowly came to Richardson's face. "You know," he mused, "she might just go for it." He paused, rolling into an upright position and looking at the chronometer. "She'll be on First Shift duty call in less than an hour," he continued as if to himself. At last, he rose from the bed, stretching and yawning. "And it is a good idea, Jim—the control factor, I mean."
Kirk shrugged warmly. "Let me know how it goes," he ventured, getting up and heading toward the sonic shower. "I'd stick around to hold your hand, but I'm due in the transporter room in half an hour."
Richardson's brows narrowed. "Transporter room?" he repeated.
"Yeah," Kirk called from the bathroom, quickly dialing the correct comfort zone into the shower mechanism. After a few moments of the pleasantly stinging sonic waves, he opened the door and stepped out, walking back into the living area. He reached into the closet, withdrawing a red, silk uniform tunic.
But Richardson quickly came over, snatched the red shirt away and tossed it across the room. "Here," he said, digging deeper into the closet until he found a blue shirt. "Live a little—and a little longer, Jim," he urged.
Kirk's brows questioned.
And Richardson shrugged. "Let's just say that on this ship—or probably any other—you don't want to wear a red shirt on landing-party duty."
Kirk shook his head with a laugh … and quickly pulled the blue shirt over his head.
* * *
The landing party, consisting of five members, beamed down to the computer-specified coordinates only to discover themselves in a swampy area. Large trees resembling Earth cypress grew in abundance, and steam-demons rose off warm puddles like ghostly fingers reaching for the silver-gray sky. On the distant horizon, thunder spoke ominously, and an occasional flash of black-fingered lightning ripped its way through clouds.
Captain Spock observed their surroundings with an expression bordering on exasperation, then turned to survey the landing party. McCoy and Kirk stood to one side; and Donner—an unfortunate last-minute replacement for Alvarez—and Ambassador Selon of Vulcan waited on the other side. And were it not for the logical portion of his mind, Spock might have thought himself in a nightmare. A damp, musky smell drifted to his nostrils, and already he could feel the seepage of stagnant water leaking into his boots. In an almost human gesture, the Vulcan sighed.
The nightmare became considerably more vivid, however, when he began to sense that the landing party was being quite closely watched; even Ambassador Selon, who had been attached to the ShiKahr for three years, seemed nervous.
Spock took a step forward. "Tricorder readings, Ensign Kirk?"
Kirk glanced at the hand-held device, following closely at the captain's side. "Some sort of interference, Captain," he reported. "When we first beamed down, I was detecting humanoid lifeforms within a quarter of a mile; but the readings just suddenly shot off the scale. Possible effect of the storm."
The Vulcan nodded, but before he could even begin to draw his phaser as a precautionary measure, he discovered himself in the midst of a rain of spears and arrows which appeared from everywhere and nowhere. He vaguely remembered giving the order to disperse, and was peripherally aware of Donner's voice barking orders into the communicator for emergency beam-up.
The last thing he saw before he felt something sharp slide into his back with remarkable force was the familiar twinkling effect of the transporter yanking McCoy and Ambassador Selon back to the safety of the ShiKahr. Apparently, transporter circuits were being affected by the storm as well, he thought disjointedly. He could only hope that Donner, Kirk and himself would be next, for he doubted either of the humans would survive should they be captured by the tribal, warlike Canusian primitives. The one thing which didn't make sense, however, the Vulcan realized, was that the savages couldn't have known when and where the landing party was to beam down … unless …
Instinctively, Spock reached for the phaser as he felt himself falling. If he could hold off the attack until the transporter technician could recalibrate the controls …
Through vision blurred with increasing pain, he could see the primitives closing in—only six of them, he realized—three with spears trained on Donner, three with crude weapons leveled on Kirk.
Without knowing precisely why, the Vulcan slid the phaser into the lethal mode, rolled to his side in a wave of agony, and took careful aim, sending three of the savages to join their ancestors in oblivion.
"Jim!" he yelled as he saw the determined expression on Kirk's face. He didn't see that the human had already drawn his own phaser with surprising speed. "Jim!" Another flash of lightning—phaser blast.
The spears started falling again, like lethal rain from the sky.
It was his last conscious memory.
Chapter Ten
SARELA ENTERED THE Praetor's darkened quarters quietly, an armed guard on either side; and as she approached the high-backed chair from the rear, she could not avoid wondering what she would find in the face of the Praetor, what she would learn from the lips of a man revered even above the ancient gods. Tazol's anger had been pleasantly obvious when he'd informed her of the Praetor's demands for her presence and she knew that, whatever awaited her, it would be well worth the contempt and hatred she'd read in her husband's cold expression.
"The ship's scientific adviser, your holiness," one of the guards murmured as the party drew up to a halt behind the black chair which bore little resemblance to the palacial throne. "She is called Sarela."
Slowly, the chair turned until Sarela caught her first glimpse of the profile of a legend. But as the Praetor stood, her eyes widened in a moment of unconcealed surprise. The Praetor was only slightly taller than Sarela herself, and as the hood was lifted away from the shadowed face, the Ravon's first officer found herself face to face with another woman. Her lips parted in astonishment, but she quickly remembered to lower her eyes in respect, bowing from the waist according to a tradition which she no longer respected, but followed out of habit alone.
"I am honored, my Lady," she murmured, too shocked to recall that she'd held nothing but contempt for the Praetor for years.
"Honored?" the robed woman remarked as her lips turned to a rueful smile. "You seem surprised." But she waved her argument aside with a quick gesture. "You shouldn't be," she added, her tone becoming more serious as she dismissed the guards with a nod of her head. With a quick flow of words, she summoned one of the slaves to her side, ordering wine for herself and Sarela, whom she addressed—surprisingly—as a guest.
Then, turning back to the ship's science officer, the Praetor studied her openly, accepting two glasses of blue Romulan ale from a well-muscled man. She handed one to Sarela.
Taking the glass slowly, Sarela remained silent for a very long time, willing her uncertainty away. "Forgive me, my Lady," she said at last, taking a sip of the wine to mask her confusion. "I was not aware …"
"That the Praetor might be female?" the other woman replied, a smile finding its way to her thin lips. Her dark eyes studied the color of the wine for a moment before raising the stemmed glass to her lips. "My father produced no male children," she explained presently, "and please rest assured that I have been through the customary training and preparation." Impulsively, she gestured toward a vacant chair. "Please," she continued warmly, "be comfortable with me. There is much to discuss."
Sarela moved into the chair, grateful for its solidity. For an instant, she found one of her own previous doubts creeping in. But logic alone dictated that, if the Praetor had wished to send an impostor, it would hardly be a woman. He would have sent some well-muscled Warrior with slightly higher than normal intelligence to carry off the pose. And with that knowledge, Sarela felt one doubt leave her. But it was only one among many.
Setting the glass on the corner of a nearby desk, the Praetor removed the heavy black robes, revealing her body to be well developed and strong in appearance. The short uniform of the Fleet added to the lithe catlike musculature of her legs; and the sleeveless garment presented her as a powerful woman, not one accustomed to an easy life spent sitting dormant on a jeweled throne. Her face was thin and angular, but nonetheless attractive, with compelling black eyes accented with streaks of silver shadow-paint. She appeared to be approximately thirty-five seasons in age. Upswept brown hair accented the eyes—which, Sarela noted, were alight with knowledge and curiosity; and the thin curve of her lips bespoke a quality of humorous appreciation. The straight hair was pulled back from her face, then cascaded over her shoulders as it fell to midback, adding an air of femininity to the otherwise imposing physique.
"I will come to the point, Sarela," the Praetor began, returning to her chair and easing into it with one foot curled under the other leg. "Your views concerning the government of the Empire are not unknown to me."
As their eyes met, Sarela experienced a single moment of fear; no one questioned the Empire's politics and lived to tell of it. But she suddenly realized that she no longer cared; with a lifetime of marriage to Tazol ahead of her, command taken from her grasp by the same fool, and the displacement of time alteration forever embedded in her mind, she had little to lose.
"I am not ashamed of my views, my Lady," she stated, unconsciously raising her chin higher.
The Praetor studied her with remarkable curiosity. "Nor should you be," she replied. Her eyes closed as she leaned back in the chair and inhaled deeply. Honesty was something she could respect, and she smiled to herself. "Be advised that nothing said within this room is to go beyond these walls," she added. "And I must know that I command your trust."
Surprised at the Praetor's unorthodox approach, Sarela nodded. She had expected Death. "You have my word, Lady," she said, allowing herself a moment to think.
"And your trust?" the Praetor wondered with a lifted brow.
Glancing away, Sarela could not find it in herself to lie. She raised her eyes, steeling herself and wondering if the answer waiting on her tongue would mean her extermination. "Trust must be earned," she replied at last. "It is the way of our people—and a tradition which still holds true."
Surprisingly, anger did not spark in the Praetor's wide eyes. Instead, she retrieved the wineglass from the desk, sipping slowly at its contents.
"I am pleased," she said. "One who gives their trust unwisely often finds himself dead when the new sun rises." Again, she smiled. "In this room, you may address me as Thea. It is my given name, but one which must never be spoken outside these walls."
Unconsciously releasing the breath which had been suspended in her lungs, Sarela nodded. "Your anonymity is secure," she assured the other woman, relaxing despite her preconceived ideas concerning the Praetor. She was rapidly discovering that Thea was nothing like she'd expected, nothing resembling the rumors or even the legends. The woman seemed alive and vibrant, almost pleasant, definitely commanding.
The Praetor inclined her head toward the desk, upon which were stacked the computer transcripts of Second History. "I do not find this information surprising, Sarela," she revealed after a moment's hesitation. "It would have been foolish to expect anything different."
Sarela's brows climbed, reflecting her surprise at how closely the words echoed her own. In the background, she became aware of the two slaves moving about, and caught her eyes wandering to where the two men were apparently involved in some type of board game in the back of the oversized stateroom. She tried to dismiss the distraction, but her gaze continued to wander in their direction.
"Time tampering can be a useful tool," she responded, choosing a neutral approach. "Perhaps when its intricacies are more fully understood, the attempt can be made again."
Thea shook her head, then noted the other woman's obvious interest in the two preoccupied slaves. With a smile, she raised her right hand. "Tasme, Sekor," she called warmly. "Come sit with us."
As the two slaves quickly obeyed the command, Thea turned once again to Sarela. "Despite the Warrior's rumors," she explained, "my personal attendants are not mistreated." She smiled knowingly. "Some even … enjoy their duties," she added, her hand going absently to the long hair of one of the men as he sat on the floor by her chair. She petted him as one might stroke a kitten, fingers entwining gently in the sleek, black hair which tapered halfway down his back. With a nod of her head, she motioned the other slave to sit at Sarela's side, amused when she noted a flicker of embarrassment creep into the woman's eyes. "You needn't worry," she assured Sarela, "for as we have already agreed, nothing which transpires in this room becomes public knowledge. And, as you are no doubt beginning to discover, rumors are often only lies. Do not concern yourself with Tazol."
Not knowing what in all the worlds of Romulus to say or do, Sarela remained silent, not looking at the handsome slave who had been addressed as Sekor and now sat by her chair, resting his head on the arm. She chose a professional approach, mentally kicking herself for her obvious interest in the man's beauty a few moments before. "At any rate," she began, "we cannot be certain what will await us when we attack the Alliance, my Lady. Despite their reduced numbers, their starships are still more powerful than ours—and now carry a large complement of Vulcans."
Thea's brows climbed high on her forehead. "There is so much to consider, Sarela," she murmured, her tone somewhat weary. "But I assure you I have no intentions of attacking the Alliance." She paused, then reached across the desk, retrieving a stack of papers and computer tapes which she handed to Sarela. "The time-operatives were my father's idea," she explained. "But he died two seasons ago—long before their mission ever began." She glanced at the documents, leaning forward until they could easily share the same page. "But despite the Praetor's many powers, not even he—or she—can make decisions single-handedly which will affect the entire Empire. If no one else had known of the time-scheme when I became Praetor, I would have abandoned it without hesitation. However, too many of the Warriors had learned of it, and they would not have considered it 'dignified' to dismiss a scheme which would—theoretically—bring so much power to them." She paused, eyes growing momentarily distant. "We have failed with time alteration too many times in the past. However, now that it is done again, we must find a way to use it to our advantage."
