Home Is the Hunter Page 9
Kbrex felt all eyes on him, and he felt a slow, bubbling fury. "Summon Weyland on the communications grid."
"I had been trying to, sir, for some hours. Those were Commander Kr—ex-Commander Kral's orders, and I assumed you wanted me to continue."
"That was a dangerous assumption," said Kbrex warningly. "I will excuse it, however. Any word?"
"None, sir."
His fury mounted. He had staged a coup, unseated the young upstart Klingon, and taken over command … of a powerless hulk that would be a fireball before too long.
It was all Kral's fault. The fool had left him with an impossible situation, and Kbrex could tell from the way that eyes were on him, that they were already blaming him for a situation that he had inherited.
It was time to refocus blame where it belonged.
"Damn Kral for getting us into this. Honor guard, attend for an execution," and he walked briskly for the turbolift, four Klingons following him.
As they headed for the brig, Kbrex was running through his mind all the things that he would say to Vladra to convince her of the folly of her preferences. He would be alternatively calm, reasoning, and firm. He imagined lines of dialogue, and polished his intended speech to a gleaming shine.
When they arrived at the brig, Vladra and Kral were locked in a passionate embrace. Upon seeing it, all of Kbrex's high-born plans went out the torpedo chute.
Klingon ships were built with airlocks. They were emergency portals only, to be used in the unlikely—but not impossible—event that some sort of exterior work had to be done on a ship and the transporters were out of commission. After a major battle, for example.
Seeing them entangled in each other immediately gave Kbrex another use for an airlock.
Suddenly aware that they had an audience, Kral and Vladra broke their clinch and looked at Kbrex and his followers. Kbrex told himself that, at this moment, the decision was still Vladra's. She held her own life in her hands.
She spit at him.
It arced through the air and sizzled into nonexistence, several inches short of Kbrex's face, thanks to the brig force shield. But the gesture was more than enough to decide matters for him.
"Careful now," he ordered the half dozen guards who held the commander aloft by his twisting, kicking limbs. "We don't want the damned superbeing alerted." Kral screamed and thrashed like a spit lizard. They threw him in, punching Vladra out of the way as she charged with crazed fury to Kral's aid.
"Kral," she screamed with despair as the heavy door of the airlock slammed on them.
A brusque, recorded Klingon male voice said curtly, "Thirty seconds to vacuum. Thirty seconds to vacuum."
Kral sat stunned for a moment. Vladra knelt by his side, burying her head into his shoulder.
"Twenty seconds to vacuum. Twenty seconds to vacuum."
The growling male voice of the computer galvanized Kral into action. He scrambled to his feet, pushing Vladra away, and lurching toward a storage cabinet marked "Environmental Units." He fumbled with the door.
"Damn it to Cymele's Hell," he screamed as he tugged at the door. It sprung open. It contained environmental suits, all right; the damaged ones destined for salvage.
"Fifteen seconds to vacuum. Fifteen seconds to vacuum."
"Shut up!" he bellowed at the wall speaker. He looked around wildly. There were two more storage cabinets, but no time to try them.
"Here, get in this," he shouted at Vladra, thrusting a mostly intact environmental suit at her. As she slithered into hers, he struggled into his, a heavier model designed for extensive use and even, in an emergency, for an escape pod.
"Ten, nine, eight …"
Before he slammed down the mittenlike paws of the suit, he fished around for a roll of silver repair tape. "Damn it," he screamed, as the hiss of the escaping air grew more insistent. "There," he shouted, and he drew a great strip of the stuff and grabbed her up, strapping her to himself. He was about to fling the tape aside when he saw a dangling flap of torn silver fabric in her suit.
"Seven, six, five …"
"Bunch it up. There's a tear in the arm of your suit. Squeeze your arm down. There," he said, making a futile attempt at a patch with a final strip of the tape.
"Four, three, two, one …"
As he reached around her to turn on her air, the great airlock doors whisked open and they were sucked out in a whirlwind of debris and what little air remained.
Chapter Nineteen
Japan, 1600
"COME ON, Great One Cut." The shrill voice had feet, and Sulu felt himself booted out of his blankets by one of them.
He recognized the voice immediately. It was Motonaga, the youngest son of one of Mototada's retainers. The last person Sulu needed to see after a sleepless night of wishing that his comfortable bed on the Enterprise were beneath him.
Sulu groaned, opening one eye to Motonaga's nasty grin. The sun wasn't up yet, although the sky was already a warm slate-pink.
"Shut up," one of the pile of sleeping men grunted.
"Come on, demon slayer," the boy taunted.
"Come on, Motonaga, give it a rest," Sulu mumbled in colloquial Japanese. Motonaga was only sixteen years old, but being the son of Naito Ienaga, a garrison commander and one of Torii Mototada's generals and trusted retainers, gave him much license. He was hell-bent to prove himself a samurai worthy of his father, his older brothers, and his lord. As a result, he was something of a pain in the neck to the samurai of more years but less rank.
"That's what I like about you, Heihachiro," the boy said, grinning and dragging Sulu up. "You have no manners, and that makes me look good."
Sulu made a quick lurch at the boy, grabbing a handful of kimono as Motonaga darted back.
"You'll have to get your satisfaction later. The lord wants you."
"Why didn't you say so?" Sulu burst out, scrambling to pull out his clothes from the chest against the wall, wading over the snoring men.
"Well, I'm saying so now," the boy taunted, striding out with such an exaggerated gait that he almost looked like a caricature of a samurai.
Sulu dressed quickly, slicking back his hair. He stuck his small sword in his belt, took his katana in his hand, and with a last minute tug on the front of his kimono and uniform, strode to the master's quarters.
All the way there his mind was racing. He was too visible and, for that matter, the land was too wild, to just go sneaking out. He was going to have to figure out some graceful way of getting out of this. At least, he knew, he had a little time.
And, although he hated to admit it, the concept of running out on his "lord and master" was rubbing him the wrong way. He reminded himself that he was a Starfleet officer, and tried to remain detached.
But it was not easy. To read history books, when people are reduced to glowing letters of text, or to hear stories from one's mother—that was one thing. This, though—walking with people of flesh and blood, who look at you and smile and nod their head—that precious detachment was no longer easy. The question became—was it even possible?
He knelt outside the screen and called out, "Okiri Heihachiro here," politely announcing himself before he opened the screen and entered. He bowed low, and dropped cross-legged to the ground, bowing again. He quickly assessed the men assembled and scooted on the ground to take the place to which he was entitled. It looked as though none of them had gotten any sleep that night.
"Heihachiro-domo," the lord called out, using the honorific which reinforced Sulu's status as a retainer.
"Hai, tono." Sulu scooted forward again, bowing low. Mototada waved his hand toward the ground, motioning Heihachiro to a place closer to his presence. Again Sulu scooted forward, the kind of dignified crabwalk which was the customary method of locomotion in formal situations. He sat cross-legged and waited.
"Lord," he snapped efficiently.
"I want you to lead a guard and accompany my concubine, Oneko, to her uncle's house in Edo."
He couldn't believe it. The prob
lem was solved. He was being given a free pass out of there—at the request of Mototada!
"Hai," Sulu snapped, the word yes coming out like a blast of air. "I am honored by such a responsible duty," Sulu added, again pressing his back forward, his fists on the ground to his sides.
"Tono! Lord!" The emotional cry came from the open doorway. It was young Motonaga again, this time his slender form and angular face almost quivering with restrained anger. "Why is this upstart, this unknown, allowed the honor? When will I be able to prove my worth as a samurai to my lord? Do we even know we can trust this one?" he screamed, pointing his finger accusingly at Sulu.
Naito Ienaga, the boy's father, bellowed back, "Such insolence," and turning to the daimyo, whose frown seemed to harbor some amusement, "Forgive my son, lord. He is impetuous."
"Motonaga," the master said sternly, "you must learn when to attack and when to wait, if you would be a great war leader. Your turn will come, soon enough. It is important that no one know who she is. You are known, but our new retainer is not, and so he shall accompany her. If Tokugawa does not win the battle to come, then my surviving kin may not be safe, and if she carries a son, it will be her duty to hide my remaining heir and rebuild the Torii clan."
He turned again to Sulu. "There is something about you, something not of this land. Perhaps the gods of my family have sent you for luck. But no matter. Do you understand that this task is very important?"
"Hai, tono." The irony was staggering. Oneko, the woman he'd saved—and endlessly second-guessed himself over—was being entrusted to him once more. It was a bizarre situation. If they were attacked en route, he could then stand aside and let her die and rectify the original error … except, what if it wasn't an error? What if he was supposed to be her savior? What if letting her die was wrong?
Once again he told himself that he should trust his instincts. And his instincts were telling him that drawing this assignment—and having the opportunity to spend time with the fascinating Oneko—was luck of the highest order.
"When she is safe," said Mototada, "you will return with what new intelligence our allies have been able to gather. I only pray to the gods and the buddha we will not be engaged by our enemy until we have that information," he added, the fire of an old campaigner in his voice. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, lord," Sulu snapped.
"Good. My administrator shall give you funds and tell what arrangements have been made for the trip."
With that Sulu was dismissed.
At breakfast he toyed with his rice, still in a daze as he reviewed every word of the interview with Mototada.
He was expected to return. Well … he just wouldn't. As difficult as it was to simply abandon Mototada, there was no point in just giving up his life for no reason.
Was there?
For the first time he started to toy with the idea that he should return. That he owed an obligation to … to whom?
To Mototada? His lord? Nonsense. He owed his allegiance to James T. Kirk. No one else.
Besides, what did he know about this world? It was all so new, so fragile. And what did the world know of him? Could he change something important, something sacred to the history of his people?
Midmorning found him on an errand in the inner court.
"Wait. Young man. Come here." The sweet singing voice of the woman rang out to him like a bell in the breeze.
His heart almost stopped. Oneko! "My lady," he said, turning and bowing.
"I hear that you are to be my escort to Edo," she said gently.
"Yes, my lady," he said, suddenly remembering that Edo was the old name for Tokyo. Sometimes it was too confusing to think about.
"They say you fight like a mountain demon. Tell me, are you a god? Or a ghost?"
"No, my lady," he said.
"And yet, they say you are strange, different. Perhaps I will uncover your secret on the road." With that she swept off in a gliding shuffle of little steps, followed by her attendants.
"Pretty, isn't she?" The voice was behind him. Sulu spun around.
"Oh, it's you, Watanenabe Sadayo-domo," he stammered, still red-faced.
"Some warrior! The god Hachiman would never let himself be snuck up on while he was gawking at a lady."
"Er, I, er, that is …" Sulu stammered.
"Don't worry," the man said, clapping him on the shoulder, laughing. "She does that to all of us. Come along to the sword dojo. I've been watching you practice the past few days. You are one of those fellows who is inspired in battle, but not so in practice. I think I have a few tricks to teach you. I am the lord's sword master, in case you didn't know."
"No, I didn't," Sulu said, bowing politely. "I would be pleased to learn from you."
"Besides, working up a good sweat is the best way to forget women," Sadayo added, grinning as they marched along the paths and verandas of the great estate to the practice hall.
Already they could hear the echoing shouts, the dull thud of bare feet on the wooden floor, and sharp snapping clacks of wooden swords on wooden swords, as the young samurai practiced katas, the formal exercise sets, and tried out their cuts in free-style duels with wooden practice weapons.
Sulu had already worked up a sweat, and had almost forgotten about Oneko, when the young hothead, Motonaga, swaggered in.
"Well, let's see how good you are," he challenged Sulu.
Sulu shrugged. He didn't want to make an enemy of this boy, but on the other hand, if he didn't hold his own with a sword, he would never get the kid's attention long enough to explain that. Motonaga was galloping across the floor before Sulu was even in position. He sidestepped the charge but was unable to bring down his own cut before the boy was out of range and had turned again to face him.
Motonaga struck downward with a strong cut to the head. Sulu blocked, the shock burning through his tired arms. He disengaged his sword, using the boy's own strength against him as Motonaga's sword swept uselessly down, unable to stop Sulu's cut to the boy's head. Sulu stopped it short of contact. It was, after all, practice, not war. The boy bowed stiffly, turned and left.
"There! That's better. More like battle fighting," the sword master said, coming up to Sulu, reaching out to correct his grip on the wooden weapon. "Practice that cut," he ordered.
And then his voice went low and he said, "Are you familiar with the story of the samurai who was sent by his lord to deliver a treaty, but an enemy changed letters and the man carried his own death warrant?"
Sulu stared at him, uncomprehending.
"On the road," continued the gray-haired samurai, "he meets a samurai in a lion-face helmet and fights him, only to find it is his own brother, who in dying confesses that he was the treacherous enemy, and bids him destroy the letter. Now … to whom do your sympathies go?"
Sulu frowned, still not getting what he was driving at. "The dead brother, I suppose. He tried to make up for a misdeed and wound up dead."
"He was a traitor," said Sadayo through thinned lips. "Remember that, when you are on the road with the lady."
And he walked away from Sulu like a ghost on glass.
Chapter Twenty
"UHURA, KEEP TRYING to raise Weyland."
Uhura sat at her station and shook her head slowly. "You realize, Captain, that I'm broadcasting blindly here. The tech readings on Cragon V say that they don't have the facilities for receiving starship communications. Or any communications, for that matter."
Kirk sat in his command chair and nodded, staring at the image of Cragon on the screen. He was stroking his chin thoughtfully as he said, "Yes, Uhura, I'm quite aware of that. But if the immortal Weyland is as powerful as he seems to be, then I'm sure he can read our signal if he chooses. Keep trying. Likewise, keep trying to raise Starfleet."
"Negative response, Captain. Would you like me to try and raise the Klingon ship?"
Kirk thought about the Klingon grenade detonating, blowing up a good young officer and a boy who hadn't even had the opportunity to live yet.
At the helm, Lieutenant Ryan was filling in for Sulu, and she turned in her seat and said softly, "Captain. I hate to bring this up …"
Ryan was new, and cautious. Kirk could understand—no one wanted to be the bearer of bad tidings, least of all someone who had just arrived on board. Nevertheless, Kirk was not in the mood for prevarication. "Go ahead, Lieutenant."
"Instruments indicate that our orbit is beginning to decay. In approximately," she glanced at her controls, "25.3 hours, we're going to descend into the planet's atmosphere and …"
She didn't have to complete the prediction. Everyone on the bridge knew what it was.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," was all Kirk said. What he thought in addition was, My day is complete.
"Bad news?"
The question came so abruptly, and from such an unexpected spot, that everyone on the bridge jumped involuntarily. There on the screen, replacing the image of the planet, was Weyland's face, much as it had been the last time they saw it.
Kirk's mouth moved a moment, and then he found words. "We wish to speak with you."
"Speak," said Weyland noncommittally.
"I wish to know how long you intend to keep us here."
"I have already told you that," said Weyland.
"Telling us we will stay here until we rot is not what I would call a useful answer."
"If that is what you heard, then that is your answer."
Kirk shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Then that, too, is your answer."
"I'm getting tired of your riddles," said Kirk, trying to keep a rein on his anger and only partly succeeding. "You can't simply keep us trapped here indefinitely. Sooner or later the Federation, and the Klingon empire, will send ships to investigate our absence."
"That would be most unfortunate for them," Weyland said mildly.
"Are you saying you're powerful enough to stand up against the might of the Federation and the Klingons?" demanded Kirk. "Because that's exactly what you're going to have to do."