Home Is the Hunter Page 8

  "You mean they could just be plummeting forward, or backward, in time, out of control, forever?" said McCoy in horror.

  Kirk, in spite of himself, shuddered at the image that conjured.

  "That is possible," said Spock neutrally, as if it meant nothing to him. He could just as easily have been discussing star charts or gravity fluxes. Or at least if he was feeling anything, he was hiding it with his customary efficiency. "The second possibility is the literal one. That they are in some other time, drawn from the mind. Their minds."

  Kirk nodded slowly, trying to make sense of that, and then his eyes widened. "Of course! When we were down on the planet, they were discussing various time periods from their respective backgrounds. If Weyland was somehow able to tap into their consciousness or subconscious, then perhaps he sent them back in time."

  "A lot of ifs, and a lot of maybes," said McCoy. "How do we know he can do all that?"

  "Thus far all we've done is underestimate him, and it's gotten us into nothing but trouble," replied Kirk. "It'd be better if we started giving him the benefit of the doubt. And if they've gone back in time, then we can get them back. I remember the time periods they were discussing. We have ways of going back in time."

  "May I point out, Captain, that the engines are still not functioning, courtesy of the immortal Weyland," said Spock. "Furthermore, may I point out that when you and I returned to the past, to 1938 on Earth, it was only with luck that we were able to locate the doctor. And it was at the cost of a personal tragedy to yourself that current history was preserved. All lies in the balance, Captain, and we are unable to do anything to change that. That is unfortunate, but logical. Either the men made no significant changes in history, and they have long since lived out their lives in another time, or they will return to us in our future. We must wait."

  "I cannot accept that. I will not." Kirk sighed deeply and dropped his head, closing his eyes as if to shut out the clear and irrefutable argument of Spock's analysis. He looked back up, fixing his eyes on Spock. "And there is nothing we can do?" he asked coldly.

  "We can make a computer search for clues as to their actual presence in past history, but records in precomputer time are incomplete. As to what we could do to reverse their trip into time, I do not think there is anything we can do."

  "Then I must try to contact Weyland, and convince him to reverse this terrible thing."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Scotland, 1746

  IT WAS ACTUALLY half a day before the command staff of William Hanover, Duke of Cumberland, came riding in, accompanied by a number of young sports in expensive and well-tailored coats, and an even larger number of support personnel less regally appointed.

  Scott stared, fascinated at the famous general. "Fat Billy" was an understatement. The man, fastidious in his remarkably clean uniform and lace-trimmed shirt, was huge both in stature and as a product of good living. His horse was as large as a racing stallion could get and still not qualify as a draft horse.

  The Duke shouted encouraging epithets to the assembled soldiery, the cheapest form of largesse, and was rewarded with loud but unenthusiastic cheers and waving hats. When the Duke actually dismounted in the yard of The Hanged Woman, Mr. and Mrs. Nesbit were all but overcome with humble appreciation of the honor.

  Despite his grandiose and foppish manners, Scott recognized in Duke William a razor-sharp mind and the carriage of a soldier who, despite his indulgences, had seen a lot of death and deprivation.

  "I'm not paying you to gawk at the gentlemen," the proprietress bellowed, breaking the reverie of the assembled servants, and Scott put his back into unloading the wicker baskets of fine food and the chests of clean clothes the noble Duke and his entourage had brought for the night's stay.

  The excitement of the exalted company was a blessing for Scotty, who was quickly lost in the shuffle. He soon found that his willingness to work and gentlemanly manners bought him a certain acceptance.

  It certainly afforded him the opportunity of listening in on the conversation of the great; unlike Seamus, who was kept busy in the kitchen and out of the way of the gentlemen guests.

  The company at table was certainly impressive. A fair bit of the Duke's senior staff, and other key persons from the various armies under his command, had been gathered here for some serious strategy. And although it was clear that the secret talks would take place in more private circumstances, there was enough table talk to make Scott almost tremble with the excitement of it.

  The excitement Scott felt, however, quickly turned into carefully controlled, but nonetheless quite real, inward rage. The English officers, each competing to gain the favor and attention of Fat Billy, thought nothing of endeavoring to undercut each other's achievements while, at the same time, aggrandizing their own. William Hanover, for his part, seemed to gain a good deal of mental exercise playing one of them against the other, and watching in amusement as they had at each other.

  And in each of their recountings and retellings, the withering and nasty descriptions they gave of the Scotsmen they were battling—"bastards," "damned barbarians," and the like—gave rise to a fury that Scotty could barely contain.

  Finally, one of them—a Lord Bury—held up a hand to try and still the sniping. "Should we continue this bickering, we shall come to resemble the Celt himself, strutting and braying like so many jackasses," he said with a self-satisfied smile.

  "And how their brutish tongue is as the braying of an ass," another young rake opined, snorting and hee-hawing to make his point. This was greeted with hoots and hilarity from his fellows.

  "Best to let the Campbells loose, or other of the lowlander, to lead the highland Celt, as one leads the braying jackass with a carrot on a stick," said another. "Is there a 'mack' whatever worth his fodder who would not chase bare-legged and bare-assed across the heather for the nip at any Campbell? And what better food for the impetuous asses than a Scottish-held carrot?"

  As furious as the words made Scotty, he knew the truth in them. The greatest enemy of the people of Scotland was the people of Scotland. The conflict of interest between the chiefs who adhered to the old clan ways and those who threw in their lot with their English masters had hit an all-time high in the rebellion of 1715, and the massacre at Glencoe. The bad blood between the Donalds and Campbells would endure a millennium, not just the thirty or so years that had just elapsed.

  While the young dandies chortled over their puns and clever repartee, Scotty still felt the flush of humiliation. He found them patronizing and shallow. And he felt ashamed for the noble clans who were being treated with such a lack of honor.

  The ranking officers retired to the privacy of the large upstairs room, while some of the younger dandies made themselves available to the country girls who had gathered to see and be seen, and also to earn a coin working in the kitchen for the day—or if luck would have it, working in the bedrooms at night. The men who had no interest in risking a case of pox for a night's diversion went off to their bivouac to gamble, a privilege that would have earned a common soldier a flogging but was considered a harmless pastime for a man to the manor born.

  After supper Scott addressed himself to the chore of cleaning up the mess. He reflected that it gave new meaning to the traditional military use of the word.

  "Mr. Scott, Mr. Scott." The boy's insistent voice took a moment to ooze through Scott's confused and dark private thoughts.

  "Ah, yes, lad. And what did ye make of that?" he asked in a jovial but careful way.

  The boy looked at him with a hostile curiosity. Scotty could almost hear the boy's thoughts, guessing about this stranger who had appeared wild-eyed and lost in a worn kilt, but who fit in so well with these gentlemen soldiers. If he had been seated at table with them, the boy's eyes begged, he would have gone unnoticed and unremarkable.

  "Nothing, sir," Seamus answered quietly, and he slipped off about his chores.

  Scott sighed. What could he say to the boy? Certainly he was grateful for the clothe
s and the help. Without them, by now he would be jailed or hanged as a traitor to king and country.

  His thoughts wandered as he thought of what he knew.

  Bonny Prince Charles would lose.

  Or … might he lose?

  Was there something that could be done? Was the sight that Scott saw absolute … or could it be changed by the actions of man? And … should he? Did any man have the right to attempt to thwart destiny?

  "Are you planning to wipe the pattern off the plate?" Mrs. Nesbit shouted at Scott, causing him to start so suddenly he nearly dropped the precious piece of real china.

  "Ach, no, indeed, madam. I was only thinking of this evening and all the famous men I have seen," he said, attempting to sound as much the country bumpkin as he could.

  "Well see to it that you do your dreaming in your bed, man. Candles cost good money, and that dish is now quite dry." She fussed about the kitchen, setting things in order with the peculiar fashion which was her own, as is the kitchen of every housewife, and snapping little curses whenever she found an item relocated.

  "May I be off to bed then, ma'am?" Scott gallantly asked.

  She shot him a disapproving look which was her all-purpose ploy to keep from agreeing to anything, but she nodded him away, the wrinkles around her eyes softening a bit, moved by his sweet manners.

  In his bed, the questions returned and whirled in his head. But whether by plan or despair, the best he could come up with was wait and see what else happened. More data, Scott, he told himself. You need more data. Then he wondered why such an odd word as "data" came to his mind.

  As he dropped off into a fitful sleep, he prayed, "Please Lord, make this go away. Let me go home."

  And he was awakened by the shouting, and a shot being fired.

  And then everything fell apart.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Stalingrad, 1942

  CHEKOV BLINKED into the light that was shining into his face. Standing just beyond the rim of the light was a man in a uniform Chekov recognized as belonging to the SS. He stood over Chekov with the sort of calm, confident expression that indicated he knew that Chekov would tell him what he wanted to know, sooner or later.

  There were other Nazi soldiers in the room. They were secondary to the main problem of the SS man.

  "Who are you?" said the Nazi.

  "Chekov."

  "Really. Gentlemen, we have a playwright with us."

  Chekov sighed. That joke was wearing thin with him very quickly.

  "How did you get here?" said the Nazi. "How did you get a German uniform?"

  "I don't know," said Chekov.

  "You don't know?"

  "I don't know."

  "Tell us your troop strength."

  "I don't know."

  "Tell us how many rifles you have."

  "I don't know."

  The Nazi's eyes narrowed. "Do you know what will happen if you refuse to cooperate?"

  Chekov thought about the men back in the cell, covered with bruises and cuts. "That I do know," he said softly.

  "I will give you one chance to cooperate."

  Chekov shrugged. "You would not believe me if I told you."

  The Nazi smiled. "Try me."

  Chekov tried.

  He was right. They didn't.

  When he was brought back to the cell, it was with a swollen lip and a cut over his eye. Those were just the visible injuries.

  They hurled him into the middle of the cell, where he landed heavily, a gasp knocked out of him. The door slammed shut behind him, plunging him once again into the dimness of the cell.

  This was insane. He had never had the opportunity—unlike other members of the crew—of being to the past. It had always sounded, from what he'd heard, like a grand adventure … although Captain Kirk never wanted to discuss his experience with the object called the Guardian of Forever.

  This, though, was no grand adventure. Since the moment he'd gotten there, Chekov had felt dirty, harassed, or just plain scared. This was no grand adventure. This was something he'd just as soon get out of, except he didn't have the faintest idea how to go about it.

  Cells, interrogation, secret police. The clean, pure world of the Enterprise seemed far away. He was beginning to understand why people of this time considered space travel and creatures from another world to be patently absurd. To him it was his reality, and it already seemed unreal.

  He heard the voice of John Kirk say, "Well, if your being here is a Nazi trick, you've certainly thrown yourself into it."

  Chekov looked around. "Where's Ivan?"

  Kirk shrugged. "Don't know," he said with careful control that was clearly covering his concern. "They came for him right after they took you. I imagine they wanted to ask him some of the questions they asked you." Then he paused and, with some of his real emotion showing through, added, "He was in pretty bad shape when they took him. I don't know how much more he can take."

  "How much can any of us take?" said Chekov.

  Again Kirk shrugged. There was no answer, and Chekov hoped he wouldn't have to find out.

  Ivan did not come back.

  The next day the Soviet shelling kept the Germans busy enough that Chekov and John Kirk were spared further interrogation. The throbbing pain was terrible, but the thirst was worse. They didn't talk—it hurt too much. But in the dull light the two men became friends in little ways: a smile of hope, aid in moving a broken body to a more comfortable place on the filthy floor. Things that mattered.

  Chekov awoke from a troubled sleep by the door being burst in. He looked up, as did Kirk. The SS man was in the doorway with several soldiers standing behind him, looking as if they meant business.

  Without a word the soldiers stepped in and grabbed both Chekov and Kirk by the arms. They were dragged out and into the main courtyard. The sky was as slate-gray as it had been when Chekov had first looked up at it.

  "You think they're letting us go?" said Chekov, in a tone that indicated that he, for one, certainly doubted it.

  "Oh, they've just come to realize that they'll never win, and they've decided to be nice to us," said Kirk. "They figure that it'll do them good later."

  Then Chekov and Kirk saw where they were being directed. It was a free-standing brick wall, with enough pockmarks in it to show that it had been hit with lots of bullets. Chekov suspected, correctly, that it hadn't been simply used for target practice.

  There was blood on the dirt in front of the wall—blood directly at the feet of where Chekov and Kirk were made to stand.

  The Nazi SS man smiled into Chekov's face, his jaw jutting outward in a cocky grin. "Do you have any final things to tell us?" said the SS man.

  Chekov smiled, inwardly pleased at his total cool in what were undoubtedly his last moments on earth. "Your Führer is going to kill himself, and your precious Reich is going to stand as a symbol of all that's vile," he said in Russian.

  The SS man shoved them against the wall and stepped away. Chekov stood next to Kirk, and the American muttered, also in Russian, "Don't worry."

  "No?"

  "No. I'm working on a plan."

  Chekov looked at the firing squad before them, raising their rifles and taking dead aim.

  "I can't wait to hear it," he said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  KRAL SAT across the tight, unpleasant room from Vladra. She was not looking at him, but staring straight ahead. He, however, was looking at her and shaking his head. His lower lip was swollen, and dried blood caked his beard.

  "Why?" he asked at length.

  She turned to look at him. "You have to ask?" she said softly.

  "Yes. I do."

  "Because I love you."

  His eyes widened and his voice shook with fury. "You tried to dishonor me because you love me?"

  "Dishonor you?" She shook her head. "I don't underst—"

  "Coming to my aid! Acting as if I could not take care of myself."

  Now Vladra was incensed, and she stood and waved her ar
ms. "Well, now I wonder, Commander, why anyone would ever think such a thing? After all, you've only been beaten, bloodied and bruised, stripped of command and defeated in combat. Who in the galaxy could possibly think that the great Commander Kral could not take care of himself!"

  He sat with his arms folded, smoldering. Vladra threw herself back down on a seat, and then she said slowly, "Why did you come down at that particular moment?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "When I went to your cabin to warn you … and you showed up, just in time …"

  He shrugged. "I am not sure. I was on the bridge, and Kbrex was not there, and suddenly I simply got this … feeling. I cannot explain. I only knew that I should get back down to my quarters. That something was definitely wrong."

  "Oh," she said.

  Kral leaned back, his head against the stark wall. He closed his eyes and sighed softly.

  "Love," he said. "What a truly alien concept."

  "I'm sorry that you think so," she said sharply.

  He spoke as if he hadn't even heard her. "I have never been in love," he said, "or had a woman say she loved me. I have spent my life in my constant endeavors to conquer, to rise in the ranks and conquer others. Such softer emotions seemed a waste of time and useless. And yet perhaps," and he turned and looked at her, "perhaps those emotions that I've considered to be too soft are, in fact, the only ones that really matter."

  She stared at him. "Such things you're saying …"

  "It is amazing what one thinks of when death beckons. Once you've made your peace with death, then thinking about love can hardly be too frightening a prospect."

  On the bridge, Kbrex sat in the command chair and stared in frustration at the peacefully orbiting globe below.

  "Sir," came the quiet report from the engineer, "our orbit is starting to decay."

  Slowly Kbrex turned and eyed him. "What?"

  "With our engines inoperative, we are unable to adjust our orbit. Our orbit is decaying. It's not immediate, but within twenty-four hours we will begin our descent into the planet's atmosphere."