Home Is the Hunter Page 6

  Weyland ignored him. "I was a part of a continuum of beings," he said. "Beings so evolved, so powerful, that they have taken to merely observing life in various universes, instead of using their abilities for helping lesser beings. I sojourned for a time in this universe, and found, purely at random, the good, simple people of Cragon. They touched something within me, and I knew that I would never be able to continue being a part of an entity that exists to ignore existence. I returned to them to tell them of my resignation from their alliance. But time is a subjective matter, far more so than I thought. I perceived myself as gone to my fellows for mere moments, but on Cragon months passed. Months that the Klingons put to use, and that you Federation men exacerbated. And your hostilities, Captain Kirk, resulted in the death of a child."

  "It was a Klingon grenade that did it!" said Kirk. "I lost a man as well!"

  "It was you who gave your word of honor to make sure no harm came to my people."

  "You're the one who said you didn't need our help!" Kirk reminded him.

  "That is irrelevant," Weyland said archly, and it was at that point that Kirk became convinced they were not dealing with a being who had any sort of solid grip on reality. "One of my people is dead as a result of an altercation between the Klingons and the Federation. The Federation is by far the worse aggressor, because of your moral posturing and high-minded ideals … when, actually, you are no better than the Klingons."

  "That's not true," Kirk protested, beginning to feel like a broken record.

  "Deny the truth of this, then—a child is dead because of the inability of the Federation and the Klingons to cooperate and act in a manner that betokens honor for all. Do you agree?"

  Kirk paused. The bottom line was, Weyland was right. A child had been caught in the crossfire. The Klingons had initiated, the Klingons had caused it, but the Starfleet officers had been the target. How many times were innocents caught in between in the past of human history, because two groups were too thick-skinned to work out their differences?

  But these were Klingons, dammit …

  And they were the Federation. They believed in liberty and self-determination and the right of the weak to be defended and protected …

  All of which made no difference to the charred corpse on the planet below, or the parents who were doubtless in mourning at that moment.

  "I don't deny that," Kirk said softly. "But—"

  "Good," said Weyland. "Sentence is carried out. Now."

  There were three sounds, all the same, all simultaneous. Kirk looked around in confusion, trying to locate the source.

  Spock was on his feet, his eyebrows arched, which was the closest he ever came to expressing surprise. Uhura gasped in shock, and then Kirk realized.

  Sulu was gone. And Chekov. And Scotty. Gone, as if they had never been there.

  "What have you done!" shouted Kirk. "I don't understand! If you're upset with me, punish me! I'm the commander. It's my responsibility!"

  "But I am punishing you," said Weyland calmly. "Your punishment … is not knowing what happened to the fellow members of your landing party. The most effective way to discipline a commander of men … is to discipline his men, and leave the commander helpless."

  "Where are they!" shouted Kirk.

  "They are lost in time out of mind," Weyland told him. "And you can sit and rot waiting for them to return. This audience is ended."

  And Weyland vanished.

  Chapter Eleven

  Scotland, 1746

  MONTGOMERY SCOTT SAT in his comfortable loft, eating the food the boy had sneaked him, and reveled in his newfound understanding of himself.

  He was a Miracle Worker. He knew that. He had the ability to do things … things that no one else could do.

  At first he wasn't sure what that was. He had clung to the description as if to a life preserver, and then facts had started to float into his head. Facts as if they had been given him from another time, another land.

  Facts about his situation.

  They tumbled through his head, names setting his recollection off. Fat Billy, the boy had said. Prince Charles, the boy had said.

  Fat Billy was William Cumberland.

  Prince Charles—Bonny Prince Charlie, as he was known (was known? What sort of thinking was that?)

  —who was …

  Was what?

  Scotty pulled at his memory.

  Defeated. Fat William to his enemies and Sweet William—for whom the flower was named (will be named?)—to his friends. Either way, William had defeated (will defeat?) Bonny Prince Charlie.

  His concept of past and future rushing together, Scotty remembered forward and backward.

  Prince Charlie had landed in a remote part of Scotland, hiding out for months, gathering a ragtag army from the independent-minded clans that divided the Scottish highlands into a patchwork of holdings which were half feudal fiefs and half barbarian tribal lands. Then he proceeded to declare himself the rightful King of England and Scotland and commenced his march south. Needless to say, London was not amused, but the English crown had never been amused by any of the troubles caused by its Celtic peoples, be they Scot, Irish, or Welsh. It had been warfare in the long months that followed.

  The Great Rebellion, it was called …

  "Will be called," he muttered.

  "What are you talking about?"

  He looked up and saw the teenage boy again, looking at him oddly. "I'm remembering things … that haven't happened yet."

  The boy's mouth dropped open. "Are you saying you have 'The Sight'?"

  Bemusedly, Scotty rubbed his eyes. "If I do, my sighted eyes are fair tired about now. Still … I canna stay up in this loft forever." He looked at the boy with curiosity. "Tell me, lad—what's your name?"

  "Seamus MacIntyre it is, but when I hired on here I told them to call me James. Lowlanders they are. No better than Englishmen. Damn Sassenachs," he spat, using the Gallic word for the English that was more a curse than a translation.

  Inwardly, Scotty grimaced. Lowlanders. Highlanders. Clans upon clans that would cause the vision of a united Scotland, under the command of Bonny Prince Charlie, to split apart.

  Interestingly, he realized that his own name, Scott, was considered a lowland name. Since this Seamus obviously had no love for lowlanders, it was curious that he hadn't remarked on it. Mentally he shrugged it off.

  "Well, Mr. MacIntyre, what do you propose now?"

  "Well, Mr. Scott, I think it would be best if you came in by the front door, and perhaps applied for day work. You were the one who got the slops the other day, were you not? But I'll wager the mistress will not know you. She is short of sight. So if you come as a man who needs work, what with the Duke coming, I'll wager you'll be welcomed, and make a penny on it."

  "Aye, and perhaps hear a thing or two? That is a sharp plan, boy. After that?"

  "After that I'm running off to fight with the prince. And you?"

  "I think that might not be a bad plan, either," Scott said, offering his hand. The boy hesitated a moment before he reached out to shake hands, bowing slightly with gentlemanly courtesy.

  "The prince could use someone with The Sight. Tell me, Miracle Worker …" And his voice was eager. "When will the prince win?"

  Not if. When. The boy's confidence was boundless.

  Who was he to tell the boy otherwise at this early date? Facts and dates still whirled in his head. He had suspicions, beliefs, but of nothing was he absolutely sure.

  Scotty put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "When the time is right," he said. "When the time is right."

  Scott managed to get clear of the inn, with the boy acting as lookout, and cut his way around a field. When he was safely out of sight, he turned back and marched up to the front door. In his new dry clothes Scott didn't look half disreputable or feel half bad.

  His second encounter with Mrs. Nesbit, which was the coarse woman's name, was fractionally more amicable. She growled and threatened and warned, but she did hire him. Her h
usband had no idea that this man was the one with whom he had struggled a couple days earlier. Seamus's description had been nothing like this man before him. The bandage Scott wore about his head was not even questioned—nowadays, with all the fighting going on, it was a rare man who was not injured in some way or other. So Commander Montgomery Scott, late of Starfleet, began his career as an apprentice publican at The Hanged Woman.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stalingrad, 1942

  "OH, MY GOD!" Chekov muttered in English, a chill running through him. "Kirk, you say?"

  The man was silent.

  "Lieutenant Kirk, please, are you all right?" Chekov asked desperately, feeling in the dark for the silent man.

  "Yeah," the flyer said. "I told you, you won't get anything out of me."

  This couldn't be. This was too insane. John C. Kirk. Maybe, Chekov told himself insanely, the C stood for "Captain." It wouldn't be much crazier than what was going through his mind.

  Kirk wasn't a rare name. It couldn't be what he thought. Whatever had happened to him, whatever fate had dropped him in another time and place with no explanation, it couldn't be that cruel.

  Could it?

  Chekov thought of some of the beings he had encountered in his life—everyone from Apollo to V'ger. Could it be?

  "What does the C stand for?" he asked neutrally.

  "Claudius," the man answered. He sounded charmingly defensive about it. "My grandfather had a thing about Latin studies. It's sort of a family tradition. I don't suppose that's giving away anything. Can't see Uncle Adolf getting much mileage out of that."

  "You don't have to be embarrassed about it," Chekov said.

  "It's not embarrassment. Not anymore," he added reluctantly. "Sure, I admit it was a real burden in school. Always hid what it meant. God, it's good to talk to someone, anyone. Got to shut up," he went on, more to himself than Chekov. "Got to shut up before I can't stop talking," he said, and then lapsed into silence. Then he added softly, "If you're a spy the Nazis put in here, you'll probably die of boredom before you hear anything useful out of me."

  Chekov suspected he was right. He suspected a lot of things, none of which he liked.

  It was too much of a coincidence, that odd Roman middle name. Like James Tiberius Kirk. Chekov struggled to calm himself. Where did the Prime Directive fit into the scheme of things here? he wondered. His captain's great-great-times-how-many grandfather? Was it possible?

  "Have you any brothers, or uncles?" Chekov asked after a while. "Or a son?" At first the man wouldn't answer.

  "What business is it of yours?" he finally muttered.

  "None. Just trying to pass the time," said Chekov with an indifferent shrug.

  Nothing got people talking quite like acting as if you couldn't care less whether they talked.

  "All right," said Kirk gamely. "More important info for Uncle Adolf. My father is dead, I have no brothers, and one sister who works in the U.S.O. and is engaged to some guy named Capelli. Okay? I'm not married, and frankly, in these circumstances, the pickings are pretty slim. Unless you're doing one hell of an impression and actually you're going to turn out to be Betty Grable here to boost my morale."

  "Afraid not," said Chekov.

  Inwardly, Chekov's mind was racing. Oh, God! The captain … If he were right, this man was his captain's ancestor.

  It was the no-win scenario all over again. He was not supposed to interfere. Such was the Prime Directive. Except he had, automatically, rather than let the Russians be shot down like dogs. And that action had seemed to backfire horribly—except it led him to someone who desperately needed his help, because otherwise the future that Chekov knew might not exist. Except he wasn't supposed to help … except if he didn't …

  Chekov moaned softly.

  "What's your problem?" asked Kirk.

  "Time," replied Chekov.

  "Well, we've got nothing but that," said Kirk.

  The door creaked open and a man in a tattered German uniform came stumbling in. Chekov tried to stand, but his legs were shaky, and then the door slammed before he could do anything.

  Anything like what? Get shot?

  "Friend of yours?" asked Kirk.

  The American airman leaned forward, the faint light from the single overhead bulb highlighting him. Now there was no doubt. Despite the terrible swollen bruises that deformed the airman's face, a young Captain Kirk looked back at him.

  The man in the German uniform fell to the floor, looked up groggily at Kirk, and then at Chekov. They recognized each other at the same time.

  "Oh, God," moaned the soldier in Russian. "You're the one I shot."

  Kirk looked up at Chekov and, in flawless Russian, said, "You're obviously a very popular guy."

  "It's a knack," replied Chekov. He remained where he was, staring at the newcomer. "You have an odd way of expressing gratitude, comrade."

  "I am so, so sorry, as I cannot begin to express," said the soldier, sitting up. From the look of him, he wasn't in much better shape than Kirk. "I'm Ivan. Ivan Romanoff. A sergeant," and he looked around ruefully, "for all the good it did me."

  "Romanoff. Why did you shoot me?"

  "I saw you coming at us. In the confusion, it was automatic. Even as I was squeezing the trigger, I realized that you were the one who had created the diversion. What in the name of sanity were you doing inside of a German camp?"

  Chekov thought fast. "Trying my best to do what I can for my people."

  "Nice reply," said Kirk. "Very smooth."

  Chekov did not reply. He saw no reason to. "What were you doing here?"

  Ivan pursed his lips for a moment, then shrugged. "Transport plane they have on premises. Looked nice. We thought it would make a nice trophy."

  Kirk looked from one man to the other. "We're quite trusting, aren't we, Romanoff? We know each other from before, but how do you know he isn't a spy?"

  Ivan shrugged. "I've developed a talent for telling friends from foes. For example, I can always spot the secret police. A sixth sense. It tells me that this man is okay."

  "Secret police?" asked Chekov.

  Ivan looked at him strangely, and Chekov immediately realized that his obvious confusion about the secret police was obviously something that would not be shared by a present-day Russian. Already he was dredging up memories of it from who-knew-where, and he said without pause, "You can actually tell who is with the secret police? Hard to believe. And where do you two know each other from?"

  Kirk and Ivan looked at each other. "One wild night in Moscow," Kirk recalled with a smile that definitely evoked memories of a man not yet born.

  "Um-hm," said Chekov. "So tell me … why am I supposed to trust the two of you? How do I know the two of you aren't spies out to trick me?"

  A full grin split Kirk's face. "He's paranoid," said Kirk.

  "That proves he's Russian," said Ivan.

  Chekov shook his head. "Paranoia … secret police … it's difficult to think of these as part of what it is to be Russian."

  "Welcome to the twentieth century," said Ivan.

  It was a welcome the man from centuries hence could have done without.

  Chapter Thirteen

  VLADRA OF THE SCIENCE DEPARTMENT on the Ghargh looked up in surprise as the door to her quarters slid open. She was even more surprised when Kbrex stepped in quickly, his gaze moving sharply over the room as if taking in every corner. As if looking for a trap.

  "I do not recall inviting you here, Kbrex," she said with deliberate informality.

  The Ghargh had been sitting over Cragon V, helplessly, for twelve hours now. Vladra and her team had been exploring every possible means of breaking free from its helpless situation. So far, their efforts had proved fruitless.

  "I think you know why I am here," he said. The door hissed shut behind him.

  "Certainly. You are here to berate me for taking the first few minutes' rest in hours. I am sorry for being so lazy." Every syllable was dripping with sarcasm.

  He st
epped forward and put his hands firmly on either shoulder of the aristocratic-looking Klingon woman. "I have had enough of this nonsense. I have spoken to you in oblique, nondefinite terms as to my plans. You have chosen to remain oblivious of my meaning, so I shall be plain. I find you attractive, woman. I also find the prospect of command even more attractive. I would like to have both, and I wish to know of your loyalties to our present commander."

  She looked away, her arms folded. "My loyalties are my own. As with any Klingon." She turned and stared at him with an icy gaze. "You will just have to take your chances."

  Kbrex stared at her for a long moment. Then he nodded briskly, turned and left.

  She waited for a full minute after Kbrex had left, her mind racing. It had been his murmuring and hints that had prompted her to go to Kral in the first place. It was clear that Kbrex was planning to gain from the debacle that was Cragon V.

  None of this—none of it—was Kral's fault, Vladra told herself. He had done everything that any reasonable commander could be expected to do. But none of that was going to matter. In the Klingon empire all that mattered was results. Results got you promotion, command, and respect. Lack of results got you dead.

  That was exactly what Kral was going to be. Dead.

  Her mind raced. Kbrex was aggressive, experienced. More experienced, in fact, than Kral. That certainly had to be sticking in his craw, and pushing him into making a move against Kral. Who knew how many of the crewmen were on Kbrex's side? Some were always looking for excuses, always eager to hang any failure on one individual Klingon. So that they could tell themselves that the failure was the weakness of one individual and not a reflection on the entire race.

  She might be better served if she aligned herself with Kbrex. It was clear from his demeanor, from words both spoken and unspoken, that he regarded her as far more than a potential ally. He was aggressive and powerful—all the things attractive in a Klingon male.

  Kbrex was going to be the way of the future, and yet she called to mind an image of Kral. Young, vital, muscular and alive … so alive …