Home Is the Hunter Read online

"I, Torii Mototada, shall give you the gift of a new name. You shall now be Okiri Heihachiro, Big Cut Heihachiro. You shall have a hundred koku income, and you shall be a retainer in my service, and you shall be in my bodyguard. Do you accept?"

  "Ha," Sulu snapped in the clipped warrior pronunciation for the word for yes, "I am most grateful for the great honor you bestow. I shall look to you for guidance, that I may serve you worthily."

  It was then he decided that he was probably losing his mind.

  Chapter Eight

  Scotland, 1746

  SCOTTY MOANED, clutching at his head.

  "Hush!"

  He rolled over and peered with bleary eyes at a face that took a few moments to snap into focus. It was the young man he'd seen …

  He'd seen …

  When?

  Scotty frowned, trying to remember … trying to piece together the events of the recent … what? Days? Years? What?

  "Don't raise such a ruckus," the boy cautioned him. "You'll alert the soldiers. Or the master."

  "Oh … I see … That's clear enough," Scotty said, even though it wasn't.

  "I'll get you some clothes," hissed the boy. "You'll need them. A kilted highlander is not welcome in these parts. Who the devil are you, anyway?"

  Scotty touched the dried blood on his face. "I'm—" His voice caught and he frowned, trying to pull it out.

  "You're a Scotsman, obviously," the boy said with impatience.

  "Scott! I'm … Montgomery Scott." He sat up and the world spun around him. He reached down to brace himself. "Montgomery Scott," he said again, as if taking refuge in the one thing he was sure of.

  "Where did you come from? How did you get here?"

  "I …" He frowned. Images that made no sense flashed before him. "I don't know. I dinna ken how I got here." He looked at the boy hopefully. "Do you?"

  The boy looked taken aback. "You must know."

  "I did. I …" He shook his head, the simple motion being enough to make him hurt all the more. "But I don't. I …"

  "Look, enough for this later. I've got to go now."

  Scotty lay back, staring at the ceiling as the boy scampered down the ladder with the agility of a monkey.

  Scott.

  Montgomery Scott.

  And he was a …

  He sought the word. Machines. He was good with machines, he remembered. And he could …

  Could what?

  About an hour later the boy dragged up a bundle and held it out to Scotty. "Here you go," he said.

  The bundle consisted of a pair of knee breeches of coarse wool, a clean white linen shirt, as well as underlinen, stockings, and a pair of shoes—which fit after some addition of a little straw at the toe—a vest, a coat, and tricorn hat.

  Scott dressed, rolled up the soiled wool kilt and oversized shift called a leine and hid them in the hay.

  "Thank you, lad. Now perhaps you'll tell me why you stole from your master to help a stranger?"

  The boy's eyes narrowed. "I did not steal. They were left by a lodger. And the innkeeper is not my master. I've only just been hired here. And as to why, I have my reasons," he answered with an implied challenge. He added somewhat scornfully, "I saw you last night, and that was stealing!"

  Scotty shrugged. He was not in condition to argue. He barely remembered last night.

  The boy couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen, but he had a kind of adult toughness.

  "Well, I'll not argue with my good luck," Scott returned evenly. "Tell me, boy, you mentioned soldiers. What soldiers?"

  "Well … they're not actually here yet," admitted the boy. "But they're coming. Fat Billy's boys are coming to stay. They have been chasing the prince's men all the way up from near London town, I hear. Frankly … I think Prince Charles is going to need a miracle."

  And suddenly it clicked into Scott's mind.

  "That's it," he whispered.

  "What?" said the boy.

  "I remember," Scott said with growing excitement. "I was trying to remember what I could do. What my skills are. And I just remembered … my reputation."

  "What reputation?"

  And Scotty smiled in satisfaction. "I'm a Miracle Worker," he said confidently.

  Chapter Nine

  Stalingrad, 1942

  CHEKOV WAS SITTING next to Sulu, Scotty, and Kirk, and they were all laughing over this bizarre vacation that Chekov had had.

  Chekov saw himself, smiling and bleeding, and telling his friends in avid and enthused detail about what he'd just been through.

  The Battle of Stalingrad had been Russian determination at its absolute best. Stalingrad, a sprawling but narrow band of civilization and industry, lay hugging the west shore of the great river. Farther to the west, the Don, the other great river, had been crossed and the German Sixth Army now sought to control the city. Once Stalingrad fell, the Germans hoped to cross the Volga and press their attack to the heart of the Soviet Union.

  Whatever strategic value there might have been in capturing Stalingrad had been long forgotten, however, in the battle of egos. Hitler was determined to level the city, and Stalin wanted it held at all costs. And the costs to both sides were already staggering.

  The Russian people had put up a resistance that Berlin still wouldn't believe—fighting house to house, hand to hand, holding the city with a tenuous toehold. And every bullet, every shoe, every pound of grain, every replacement soldier, had to be barged across the Volga under the constant and devastating fire of German mortar and the low-level strafing by the Stukkas and Ju-88s which bombed incessantly despite the antiaircraft guns on both shores of the river. Many men and women didn't survive the trip to the west shore.

  Chekov had been about to tell his shipmates more. About the famous statue of the Stone Crocodile. About Stalin, for whom the city was named. Except there was a rat crawling across his face.

  He sat up with a cry of revulsion. There was an alarmed squeal as he batted at his face, sending the rodent tumbling off and onto the nearby filthy floor of the cell.

  The smiling images of his friends slipped away, and the true confusing horror of his real-life situation slammed home to him. He backward-crabbed across the floor until he banged into a wall.

  It was dark in the cell, his eyes not yet adjusted to the one dim bulb overhead. Chekov stammered, again in English, "Vere am I? Vat is happening? How did I get here?"

  There was a low laugh from within the darkness of the cell.

  "Well, now isn't that convenient."

  Chekov squinted. "Am I still in Stalingrad?" He was still hoping that somehow Sulu would suddenly come leaping out, laughing and telling his old friend that the entire business was an elaborate gag.

  "Nope," said the voice, decidedly American, and even oddly familiar. "Chicago. Don't you realize where you are? This is Wrigley Field."

  Chekov looked around. "I think you are kidding."

  "And I think," said the voice, "that you krauts must think I'm a total idiot."

  Kraut. Chekov's first instinct was to think the reference was to something put on a hot dog. Then he realized. "I'm not a kraut—a German. I'm a Russian. My name is Chekov."

  "Oh yeah? Loved Uncle Vanya. Look, what do you people take me for? Guy comes in here, conveniently speaking English. You think that after the beatings, the wires … everything you people have tried, that now you can trick me into spilling everything by putting a spy in here with me. No chance."

  "No chance," said Chekov vacantly, still looking around. It was still dark as hell. There was an unpleasant stench to the cell, and in every shadow vermin of some sort lurked.

  Out of habit he reached for his communicator. None was there, of course.

  "Scotty," he said softly, "beam me the hell out of here."

  "Name's not Scotty, pal," said the other prisoner. "You want the name? You want the rank? You want the serial number? That's all you're going to get. If you don't get tired of hearing it, I don't get tired of saying it." The American sounded bitter an
d tired. He had the air of someone who had made peace with the fact that he was going to die, and was only awaiting the answer of "when" with a sort of disassociated interest.

  And then Chekov's eyes widened as the man intoned, "My name is John C. Kirk. Lieutenant. United States Army Air Corps, serial number 0-159466. And that, my friend, is all you're going to hear out of me."

  Chapter Ten

  IT HAD BEEN only moments earlier when Kirk had been sitting in his cabin, a drink in his hand, declaring with utter confidence and certainty to Dr. McCoy that he was going to join Spock in the conference room and together they were going to figure out a way out of this mess.

  And what a mess it was. Garrovick dead, weapons systems out, helpless in orbit above Cragon V, with Weyland prepared to do who-knew-what. And worst of all, Sulu, Scotty, and Chekov were missing in action.

  Kirk leaned against the railing of the turbolift, letting some of the self-doubt that he frequently felt wash over him.

  The first rule they teach in command school—when you make a decision, stick to it. Even if it turns out to be the wrong one, see it through. Everyone makes wrong decisions. There's no such thing as a perfect commander. That's accepted. But a commander who reverses decisions, or displays doubt for the crew to witness—that was not accepted. That was intolerable.

  So the crew never saw Kirk's indecision or regrets. Instead they saw the calm, confident commander, and they drew their strength and assurance from him. And it was left to Kirk to reflect on his own decisions in private. The final, unchangeable decisions that he made, that sometimes cost him lives … and crewmen. Crewmen like Garrovick, Scotty, Chekov … Sulu …

  "Captain, they're firing on us!" Sulu called out, tightening his grip on the helm.

  Moments before, Kirk and the landing party had beamed up to the Enterprise and been met by a med team in the transporter room. McCoy had been first to meet them, of course, and he repressed his shock upon seeing the limp form of Garrovick that Kirk was carrying in his arms. He didn't ask details, didn't ask what had happened. He even refrained from uttering an oath or cursing the individuals responsible for this. Instead he immediately called for an antigrav stretcher to be brought forward, and without a word Kirk lay Garrovick down on the gurney. His voice a hoarse whisper, Kirk had said, "Do what you can for him, Bones."

  Even as Kirk spoke, McCoy was already running his diagnostic instruments over Garrovick in preparation to rush him to sickbay. But his readings told him that no rush would be necessary, and the look in McCoy's eyes told Kirk the same thing.

  "He tried to save a boy," whispered Kirk.

  "Where's the boy?" McCoy asked.

  "There wasna enough left of the lad to bring back up," Scotty had said softly.

  "Who did this?" McCoy said, looking at the landing party.

  For answer, Kirk had crossed quickly to the comm panel and hit it. "Kirk to bridge."

  "Spock here," came the brisk reply. "Captain, your return is none too soon. A Klingon ship has decloaked and is bearing," the most minute of pauses, "611 mark five."

  "He wants to finish this," snapped Kirk. "That's what he'll get then. Shields up."

  "Already up, sir. Phasers fully charged."

  "If they're decloaked, they're about to fire. Evasive maneuvers. I'm on my way."

  They were there in record time. Kirk heard the sounds of Klingon disruptor fire thudding against the Enterprise shields. Next to him in the turbolift he saw Sulu's fingers twitch slightly, as if imagining that he was returning fire. Chekov's face was set, and Scotty's was equally expressionless. Normally Scotty would be down in the engineering section, but it was clear from his face that he was intending to man the engineering station on the bridge. Obviously this was one encounter he wanted to bear witness to firsthand.

  The four men virtually exploded out onto the bridge, lower ranking officers immediately vacating the stations to let the senior officers take charge. Spock smoothly removed himself from the command chair as Kirk slid in. Sulu and Chekov barely had time to seat themselves when Sulu called out the warning that the Klingon ship was firing once more.

  The ship shuddered, and just as the word "Fire!" emerged from Kirk's lips, the Klingon battle cruiser vanished from the screen. Sulu sent out a torpedo spread in the area where the Klingons had been moments before, but his instruments told him that it was a clean miss.

  "He took pot shots at us and then timed his vanishing act perfectly," muttered Kirk.

  "He's good, Captain," Sulu said, his voice steady. Still, despite his calm, there was nothing in his attitude to indicate that battle was a casual experience.

  "Helm, thirty degrees starboard," the captain ordered.

  Sulu brought the ship around, and suddenly the engineering sections and underside of the engine nacelles were battered by phaser fire. The Klingon ship had rematerialized … directly under the starship. Then it vanished again. Hit and run.

  Kirk was starting to get annoyed.

  "Come about. Shields, status?"

  "Shields forty-two percent and dropping, sir," Chekov said crisply.

  And now Sulu spoke up. "Helm is sluggish to respond, Captain."

  Scotty visibly winced at that, in anticipation of his captain's next question. "Scotty, why aren't we moving?"

  "Sir, the right engine pod is down to fifteen percent, and the other is overheating. I canna give you maneuverability. I'm not sure I can give you warp."

  "Captain," said Sulu crisply, "it's only approximate, but I believe I've got them nailed on the motion detector."

  "Then hammer them, Mr. Sulu. Fire phasers."

  And that was the moment when the mission, which had seemed incapable of getting any worse, got worse.

  Sulu let out a cry, drawing his hands back. His skin was blistering and puckering on his palms. He gasped in amazement, and Chekov, thinking that somehow Sulu's board had overheated, tried to reroute phaser locking controls into his own console. A worthwhile but futile effort, for suddenly Chekov likewise found his controls unmanageable. The temperature had gone from normal to scalding within a nanosecond.

  To Chekov and Kirk, it was momentarily confusing. To Sulu, it was a sensation that immediately brought back unpleasant memories.

  "Sulu, what the devil's wrong?" demanded Kirk.

  "Surface temperature of the weapons instruments has just gone nova, Captain," said Sulu. "Just like the time on Organia!"

  "Forward drive is out, Captain," Scott told him. "We're not moving."

  "The Organians?" said Kirk. "That's just … marvelous."

  Uhura looked up. She was somewhat surprised that her comm board was still working, for when they had gone through this before, her station had become as overheated as anyone else's. "Captain," she said, "I'm getting a hailing frequency from the Klingon ship."

  Kirk looked up at the viewscreen. Lo and behold, the Klingon ship had come floating into view, visible and helpless. Except for all that the Enterprise could do right now, they might as well still be cloaked and maneuverable.

  Controls too hot to handle? Kirk was tempted to try and operate them using environmental gloves, but he had a feeling that wouldn't accomplish anything. Whoever was doing this—the Organians, apparently—might not take kindly to that, and cause the phaser banks to self-destruct, taking the Enterprise with them.

  "On screen, Uhura," said Kirk.

  The snarling and furious face of the Klingon commander—what was his name … Kral, was it?—appeared on the screen.

  "All right, Federation bastards, you have us!" he snapped. "You've rendered us helpless! Destroy us and be done with it!"

  Kirk's eyes widened momentarily and he glanced at Spock. The answer was clear—they thought the Enterprise had employed some sort of weapon against them and had incapacitated them. They didn't realize—at least not yet—that the starship was in the same fix.

  "No," said Kirk sharply, barely containing his fury. "We'll kill you when we're damned good and ready."

  "Rot in Dargoth's h
ell, Kirk," snarled the Klingon, and the transmission was cut off.

  Kirk looked at his bridge crew. "All right. Now we wait for the other shoe to drop."

  At that moment something began to shimmer into life directly in front of them on the viewscreen. Space seemed to cloud over and the cloud started to assume a shape.

  "I believe, Captain," said Spock calmly, "that the remaining footwear you had mentioned is about to plummet."

  Kirk wasn't sure what he expected. Ayelbourne, perhaps. Or one of the other members of the Organian council. Or maybe someone new. What he did not expect, however, was what he saw, and in retrospect he would wonder how he could not have seen it coming.

  The screen dimmed, blocking most of the most painful glare. A man, ancient but still strong, fullbearded, with piercing eyes, stared out at them.

  "Weyland!" Kirk muttered.

  Spock raised an eyebrow. "The same Weyland, I assume, as the so-called god of the people of Cragon."

  "A step above 'so-called,' I'd say," Kirk commented.

  Weyland's massive face filled the screen.

  "What … are you?" asked Kirk.

  With a sepulchral voice, Weyland replied, "In charge."

  "Vague but accurate," Spock observed.

  Kirk did not have the time or enthusiasm to take pleasure in Weyland's brevity.

  "You committed a crime against my people," Weyland said. "A child has died."

  "Yes," said Kirk softly. "We know. We saw it. And we regret what happened."

  "What happened was a direct result of your savagery," said Weyland, his fury clearly growing. "You doubtlessly think of my people as primitive—but the actions of the Klingons in their 'training' has destroyed my people's beauty of spirit."

  "And where were you!" said Kirk sharply. "You claim to protect and love these people, yet you abandoned them for months, allowing the Klingons to do as they wished."

  Weyland frowned, and then he said, "If it will make you understand what is about to happen to you more, then I will tell you …"

  "What do you mean, about to happen to us?" said Kirk.