IX
Two of the Klingon vessels paralleled the K’normian trading craft’s descent while the third remained hovering overhead. Despite the threat of destruction, Kirk briefly contemplated throwing full power to the engines and making another run for it, but stopped himself.
Even if they were able to somehow get clear without heavy damage, their presence was now a recorded fact. A patrol vessel had chased them. Its commander had patently called for assistance, and two others had joined in the hunt. If the intruding vessel got away again, there was no telling how extensive an alarm might be raised on this corner of the planet.
Kirk was willing to play long odds, but not three to nothing.
Rocking slightly in the steady wind, the trading craft landed: no easy task among the tangled, collapsing ruins. Wings folding upward, the K’normian ship’s descent was paralleled by the nearest of the Klingon patrol vessels. As soon as its drive shut down, a dozen armed Klingons in severe military attire emerged from it. Close-fitting helmets the color of bruised antimony covered everything above the neck save eyes, mouth, and nostrils, while multiple layers of faux leather that was tougher than anything gleaned from a dead animal protected muscular arms and torsos.
To the Klingons, the only mystery about the now-cornered and powered-down intruding vessel was where it had come from and what it was doing in the forsaken city. It had already demonstrated that, militarily, it was not a serious threat. One of the soldiers insisted to his companions that whatever it was, it was anything but a designated warcraft. Another remarked that he had seen more intimidating small vessels serving as funeral transports.
Conversation ceased among them as the airlock door opened in the grounded intruder’s side. The Klingon soldiers did not even bother to draw weapons as a single figure emerged. Bipedal and rather small, it was clearly unarmed and wore no armor. Nor did it require the use of a special suit or supplemental atmospheric gases, indicating that wherever it hailed from, it breathed the same air as the soldiers themselves. Eyes concentrated on the physically unimpressive creature as it approached. It halted almost within arm’s reach of several of the heavily armed troops, a cardinal mistake of combat on the part of the visitor that suggested either congenital stupidity or supreme confidence. When the newcomer spoke, there was a hint of command that hung in the air. By now, every one of the soldiers had identified the arrival as human. They were not half as shocked by this realization as they were by the visitor’s consummate command of their language.
Within the K’normian ship, Kirk and his companions strove to make sense of the confrontation outside while keeping themselves concealed from possible view by the Klingon squad. An anxious Kirk regretted not paying more attention to his extrasolar speech studies. Along with several other specified languages, he had of course also tried Klingon, but the language had proven too much of a struggle for him. Speaking it made him feel as if he were going to sprain his larynx.
From what he could see, however, Uhura appeared to be making contact. Whether that would mean anything depended on . . . He sucked his teeth and whispered to Spock.
“This isn’t going to work.”
The science officer murmured a reply. “You don’t know what she’s doing.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kirk hissed. “Whatever it is, it isn’t going to work.”
“It may . . . whatever it is. And if you interrupt her now, you will not only incur the wrath of the Klingons, but that of Lieutenant Uhura as well.”
“What if they just decide to shoot her?” It was maddening, Kirk felt, to only be able to listen to what was taking place outside, but he had no choice. If he, Spock, and the others showed themselves at the wrong moment, the Klingons might react instinctively. The first thing they would do is shoot the communications officer. On the other hand, if the four men charged the local patrol, she was likely to end up dead anyway.
As he scrambled to unpack their sidearms, he found he was not as much worried about the existence of a “wrong” moment as he was the absence of anything resembling a right one.
“I am here to help you. Who’s in charge?” Uhura demanded in Klingon so guttural it hurt her throat. But it had the intended effect. Instead of immediately and wordlessly attacking, which would not have been out of keeping with local procedure, the officer who stepped forward challenged her only with speech.
“Silence, human!” declared the foremost of the armored, helmeted troops. “ You will answer my questions.”
She met his concealed gaze unflinchingly. Showing uncertainty now, or lack of resolve, could be fatal.
While the captain of the Enterprise was cogitating fruitlessly, his communications specialist continued to confront the Klingon officer. When the Klingon tried to propound a traditional intimidating posture by leaning over her, she simply took a step back and rose on her toes. Exasperated, the Klingon was compelled to resort once again to mere words.
“How do you know our language?”
Uhura replied immediately, without missing a beat. “We K’normians are famous as traders. Knowing the language of others is my business.”
Decidedly un-martial looks were exchanged by the surrounding soldiers. One of them made a barely audible comment that generated unmistakable amusement among his immediate companions. At a withering glance from their commander, they went stone silent. He returned his gaze to the lone visitor, his tone slightly less inquisitorial than before.
“Your presence here is not authorized. What could possibly cause you to take the risk of making an unauthorized landing?”
Uhura’s appropriately curt response was emphasized by a suitably severe accompanying gesture. “With respect: There is a terrorist hiding in these ruins. He has killed many of our people. The reward for his capture is substantial: worth even the risk of landing on Qo’noS. We intend to collect it.”
The Klingon commander pondered her explanation. Slowly, he removed his helmet. It was then that she could see that he was smiling. When he spoke again, his tone was suspicious, his expression accusatory.
“Why should I care about humans killing humans? Why should any Klingon?”
Uhura didn’t hesitate. “Because you care about honor. And this man has none.”
From inside the grounded trading vessel, Kirk could only watch. She can’t keep playing this game forever, he thought in frustration.
“You say you come to gain a reward,” the Klingon commander spat back at Uhura. “There is no honor in that, either.” Turning, he spoke to the nearest soldiers. “We must find out how she came to be here. Her explanation may be truthful, but no matter how powerful the motivation, no human should be in this place.” Abruptly, he reached out with one hand and grabbed her face, his fingers digging deeply into the flesh. “Reward or honor, it matters not. You should not be on our world.” With his right hand he reached down to draw a knife from his ankle sheath.
It was at that moment that a succession of killing blasts tore into the tightly packed squad of soldiers, dropping one after another. While Kirk couldn’t see who or what had unleashed the surprise barrage, he was not one to look a gift phaser in the muzzle—besides which, the issue had now been forced. He charged out the ship’s open portal while firing as fast as he could take aim.
Out of the crushed pillars and structural ruination off to his right came a hooded humanoid figure. It was firing two weapons: one a large handheld, the other—the other was designed to be mounted on a tripod and manipulated by two or more fighters. It was long and heavy and ought not to have been carried, much less operated, by one individual. Yet the new arrival wielded it as effortlessly as if it was a light pistol.
Uncertain where to train their fire first, the startled Klingons were forced to split their attention between the crew of the downed craft and the absurdly over-weaponized interloper. Lowering the muzzle of the impossibly large weapon he was wielding, the heavily garbed humanoid figure began to pick the Klingons off with extraordinary precision. The size of a small cannon and featuring a peculiar tooth-shaped muzzle, the heavy gun he held in his right hand continued to wreak havoc among the scattering soldiers.
Angling his oversized weapon upward, the stranger proceeded to hit one of the patrol ships precisely in its most vulnerable spot as it drew close and attempted to intervene. Gushing fire and racked by a succession of explosions, the craft veered sharply to one side before coming to ground in a gout of flame. Even as he took out the patrol craft, the newcomer was repeatedly firing the smaller weapon he gripped in his other hand, taking down one Klingon after another, no matter where they attempted to seek shelter.
In response to the downing of the patrol craft, a second brace of Klingons rappelled swiftly down from its companion vessels to join in the fight on the ground. As soon as they landed, they found themselves under fire from the intruder, who swiftly decimated their ranks, even swinging the enormous power rifle he was manipulating so that the heavy barrel took out the legs of the one Klingon who got near enough to threaten him.
Moving into narrower gaps among the ruins, the fight had quickly devolved into hand-to-hand combat. Narrowly avoiding a shot, Kirk took out his attacker in time to save Hendorff. He lived only another moment, however. Ducking around a debris-strewn corner, Hendorff all but ran into the lethal edge of a bat’leth that caught him square across his neck. Death came quickly.
Not only was this group of Klingons big, Kirk noted, but they were fast. Thanks to the intervention of the still-unknown stranger, however, their numbers were being rapidly reduced.
That did not prevent two of them from taking Kirk down. One quickly put a foot on his neck, preparatory to delivering a fatal blast. With astounding precision, a pair of carefully placed bursts from the intruder’s hand weapon blew both of them off the prone captain. Seeing him go down, Uhura had rushed to his side.
Yet another direct hit from the stranger’s larger weapon damaged the second hovering patrol craft so badly that it lost control. Careening to starboard, it spun wildly to one side before it slammed into the ground nearby and burst into flame.
Stunned, Kirk and his companions looked on as, by himself and without apparent strain, their savior proceeded to battle the remaining Klingon forces. It was a display of individual martial capability that seemed more appropriate for a war machine than a single, living individual.
And the intruder’s identity, concealed behind the cowl and overcoat, was soon revealed as he pulled the protective wrappings away from his face.
Leaping from the crossbeam that had been his perch since the start of the fight, John Harrison took down the remaining Klingons in brief, efficient hand-to-hand combat, utilizing a combination of edged weapons and bare hands that seemed better suited to sport than to unregulated combat. Picking up a dropped rifle, he moved quickly to where Kirk lay flanked by his friends.
Aiming his own weapon at the rapidly approaching Harrison, Spock barked an order. “Stand down!”
Rifle still focused on Kirk, Harrison ignored the warning as well as the Vulcan who had spoken it. “How many of the new torpedoes are on board the Enterprise?”
“Stand down!” Spock repeated, more insistently this time.
Raising his weapon, Harrison fired with the same uncanny speed and skill he had already demonstrated to such devastating effect in the course of the preceding confrontation. The shot blew a startled Spock’s weapon right out of his grasp.
While an equally stunned Kirk simply stared back at him, the renegade raised his smaller weapon to point it directly at the captain’s face. “The torpedoes. The weapons you threatened me with in your message. How many are there?” His voice was insistent, demanding, and devoid of any indication that its owner had just participated in a lengthy battle so physically debilitating that he ought to have been fighting for breath instead of issuing calm demands.
Kirk found himself unable to reply. Not because he lacked the ability to do so, but because the rage that had now begun to build within him overwhelmed everything else. The last time he had seen the face now gazing earnestly back at him, it had been inside the transparent cockpit of a mortally crippled jumpship plunging to earth outside Starfleet headquarters in San Francisco.
Standing before him was the man who had slaughtered his surrogate father. Kirk lowered his gaze until it was focused on the gun that was pointed at him. Close to him now, Harrison smiled. The mass murderer looked none the worse for wear.
“I wouldn’t, Captain Kirk. I assure you my feet can move faster than your hands.” He gestured ever so slightly with the weapon that hung easily from one hand. “Not to mention a phaser blast. I’ll ask one last time: How many torpedoes?”
Recognizing the possibility of a foolish move on the part of an increasingly angry Kirk, one that would inarguably lead to disaster, Spock quickly answered for the still-dazed captain.
“Six dozen—seventy-two in all, as I recall from my one encounter with the manifest.”
Clearly the number meant something to Harrison. While noting the science officer’s response, the renegade shifted his attention back to Kirk.
Harrison pondered Spock’s reply for what seemed an excessive amount of time . . . at the conclusion of which he did something as extraordinary as anything that had come before. He dropped his weapon at Kirk’s feet and lowered his voice.
“In that case, I surrender.”
A dumbfounded Uhura looked over at Spock. If she was seeking enlightenment from the Vulcan, there was none to be found there, as the science officer was equally bewildered by Harrison’s action in voluntarily disarming himself. That did not prevent Spock from recovering his weapon and training it once more—and with greater alertness—on the unexpected prisoner.
After a moment’s hesitation, a glaring Kirk rose and moved forward, halting short of the man who had just put down his own weapon.
“On behalf of Christopher Pike,” he said tightly, “I accept your surrender.” Following which he struck out as hard as he could at their savior.
Blow after blow landed as adrenaline fueled a purging rage. Uhura tensed and Spock took a step forward, only to halt when it was apparent that the object of the captain’s fury was not fighting back. Harrison did not even raise his hands to defend himself. Making no attempt to ward off Kirk’s fury, Harrison occasionally stumbled once or twice, staggering backward under the repeated impact. Only when blood began to flow from his face did he reach up. Eyeing the red stain on his fingers, he smiled. His response was not contemptuous, not accusatory. More than anything, it smacked of the tone an exasperated adult might use with a child.
“Captain!” Uhura finally yelled.
It was his target’s expression that finally caused a grimacing, winded Kirk to cease his assault. His own knuckles were red, though whether from his blood or Harrison’s, he couldn’t tell. They were as numb as the rest of him. For a long moment the two men stood regarding each other, the only sound that of Qo’noS’s wind howling through the long-forsaken city.
Harrison eyed him pityingly, his voice soft. “Captain . . .”
Glancing down, Kirk considered the weapon Harrison had set aside. He could pick it up. One shot . . .
In the end, despite his personal grief and rage, James Kirk was still a Starfleet officer. His look, if not his response, was murderous as he glared back at Harrison. Turning, he headed in the direction of their waiting, empty ship.
“Cuff him,” he muttered, turning to walk away and leaving that task to Spock and Uhura. Having already put his hands on the traitor, Kirk did not trust himself to do so again.
“Captain’s Log, supplemental. For reasons unknown, our warp core has failed. We are stranded deep in enemy space. After an action on Qo’noS during which we lost a member of our crew, we now have in custody Commander John Harrison. This—man—has surrendered to us for reasons I don’t understand. Knowing full well it was our intention to capture, if not kill him, still he saved our lives. I don’t know why, but I intend to find out.
“Kirk out.”
Standing on the bridge, staring out at stars and nebulae, Kirk spoke without turning toward the interior.
“Lieutenant Uhura, did you let Starfleet know we have Harrison in custody?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied from the vicinity of the communications station. “No response yet.”
McCoy strove to keep up with Kirk as they moved quickly down the corridor, with Spock following close behind.
“You don’t look good, Jim,” the doctor opined. “What’s your concern?”
“I want you to run a full physio panel on our prisoner.”
The doctor’s tone was, as was frequently the case, querulous. “Why? Is he sick?”
“I don’t know what he is, Bones, but I do know that he just took out an entire Klingon security team single-handedly. I want to know how—and don’t tell me it’s because he has a good shooting eye. There’s something else going on here that’s more than passing strange. I need you to help me substitute ‘facts’ for ‘strange.’”
McCoy considered. “Sounds like we have a superman on board.”
“You tell me.” The captain looked over at Spock as the three men turned into another corridor. “It’s evident that unless one of those three patrol craft managed to get off a warning, the Klingons continue to remain unaware of our presence. We can’t continue to rely on that. I don’t want to push our luck any longer than necessary.”
His first officer nodded concurrence. “The sooner we depart this vicinity, the better, Captain. We have been fortunate not to have been detected by full planetary defenses thus far. Or it is possible orbital sensors have detected the Enterprise’s signature, but in the crush of daily processing have not yet identified it. If that is the case, I would not count on our ability to remain anonymous for much longer.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Spock,” Kirk assured him. “I have no intention of lingering here one nanosecond longer than we have to.”
Indifferent to his stark-white, smooth-walled surroundings, John Harrison stood calmly on the far side of the brig. Studying the individual on the other side of the transparent floor-to-ceiling security barrier, the doctor was not especially impressed. Standing nearby, Kirk and Spock looked on, the captain particularly anxious to get the procedure over with.
From the other side of the cell wall, McCoy considered the prisoner. Other than appearing preternaturally calm, there was nothing visually exceptional about him.
“Excellent posture, well-developed lean musculature, but I see nothing remarkable.” Picking up a hand-held voider from a nearby table, McCoy placed it against the barrier. The irising device generated a slightly-larger-than-fist-sized hole in the transparency. Nodding at the individual on the other side, McCoy indicated the circular opening he had just created between them. “Put your arm through the hole, please.” When Harrison just stared back at him, the doctor added, “I’m only going to take a small blood sample. Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.”
The prisoner appeared to ponder the request. Then he approached the barrier and put his arm through the gap. McCoy placed the extractor against one of several prominent veins. When nothing happened, he frowned and pushed harder. Still nothing. The faintest hint of a smile creased the prisoner’s face. In response to a third, harder shove, the device finally started to fill with red fluid. Harrison showed no reaction at all. Ignoring the flow of blood, he focused instead on Kirk.
“Why aren’t we moving, Captain?” Harrison asked. When Kirk chose not to reply, not even to acknowledge the question, the prisoner freely elaborated. “Allow me to guess. An unexpected malfunction? Perhaps something to do with the warp core, conveniently stranding your ship on the edge of Klingon space?”
McCoy looked up from his work and gaped at the prisoner. “How the hell do you know th—?”
“Bones.” Kirk cut him off before the doctor could finish the thought. Glad the captain had caught him before he inadvertently said anything else revealing, McCoy finished the blood draw. As soon as he removed the extractor, he nodded to its subject. The prisoner obligingly withdrew his arm; the opening through which it had protruded automatically closed behind his retreating fingers. Without bothering to inspect the site of the draw, Harrison calmly regarded his captors.
“I think you’d find my insights valuable, Captain. Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?”
Ignoring him, Kirk turned to McCoy. “We good?” The doctor made a quick check of the extractor and its dark red contents before nodding. “Fine. Let me know what you find. As soon as you’ve got something.”
“Assuming there’s anything out of the ordinary to be got,” McCoy responded. Kirk didn’t hear him, having pivoted sharply to head back toward the bridge. Spock and McCoy fell in behind him.
But while he failed to overhear McCoy, Kirk could not help but hear the reverberant warning that rose behind him.
“Ignore me, and you will get everyone on this ship killed.”
Kirk slowed to a halt. Steadying his breathing, he turned to his two companions. Spock was watching him closely, McCoy curiously.
“Give me a minute, Mr. Spock.”
The first officer started to raise a hand. “Captain, I would not recommend engaging the prisoner further in . . .”
“Give us a minute.”
Spock hesitated, started to say something else, then left without further comment. Only when he was sure his companions had departed did Kirk pivot and stride back to the containment cell. Harrison was waiting for him, standing close to the transparent barrier between them. The only physical barrier. Meeting the other man’s gaze, Kirk considered unleashing the rage he felt, giving in to the urge to lay into the prisoner with feelings held just below the surface. But he doubted it would do him any good or Harrison any harm. Besides, he had already vented his emotions physically, and that had been shown to have little effect on the prisoner either.
There had to be some way to get to him, Kirk thought tightly. Perhaps through what was obvious and inescapable. Spock would have approved. There had to be something capable of wiping that smirk off Harrison’s face. Unless, of course, Harrison was completely mad and therefore unaffected by the sane world around him.
No, Kirk told himself. Harrison might be psychopathic, but he was not insane. Not in the clinical sense, at least. His crimes had involved too much planning, too much careful preparation. A crazy man might have sought refuge on Qo’noS, but he would not have survived there, not even for a short time. Something else drove the man on the other side of the containment barrier. Something besides madness.
Just possibly, if he proceeded carefully and calmly, Kirk felt he might be able to identify it. Barely keeping his anger under control, he addressed the cell’s occupant.
“Let me explain what’s happening here, in terms you can’t possibly misconstrue. You’re a criminal. I watched you murder innocent men and women, people who were doing nothing but going about their daily jobs. People with families. None of that mattered to you. I was authorized to end you, and the only reason you’re still alive is because I am allowing it. If I had chosen to do so, I could have had Dr. McCoy slip a full measure of something suitably toxic into his extractor. He could have pulled your blood, concurrently fatally dosed you, and I’d be signing off on the orders for the disposal of your carcass instead of having this face-to-face right now. Think about that for a moment. So until I decide what to do with you, I recommend you shut . . . your . . . mouth.”
Digesting this, Harrison studied Kirk quietly for a moment before replying. “Oh, Captain, are you going to punch me again? Over and over until your arms weaken and you can’t raise them high enough to hit me anymore? Clearly you want to. You so desperately want to. So tell me—there is one thing I am very curious about. Why did you ‘allow’ me to live? Why do you continue to do so?”
It was a valid question, Kirk knew.
“We all make mistakes.”
“No.” Harrison looked away, thoughtful.
“Why did you surrender to me? You could have killed me. For that matter, you could have let the Klingons kill me and my companions and maintained your refuge on Qo’noS. At least, you could have until Mr. Sulu unleashed the waiting volley of torpedoes.”
That observation generated an unexpected smile that did not last long, as Harrison grew serious once again. “I surrendered to you because, despite your attempt to convince me otherwise, you seem to have a conscience, Mr. Kirk.” His tone became almost familiar. “If you did not, then it would be impossible for me to convince you of the truth. And it is imperative that I convince you of the truth.”
Kirk hesitated. This was not the reaction he was expecting, this confession hinting at something akin to camaraderie. It simultaneously repulsed and intrigued him.
“What ‘truth’? What are you babbling about?”
“23174611. Coordinates not far, spatially speaking, from Earth. If you want to know why I did what I did, if you can find room in your head and heart for more than just a primitive, animalistic desire for revenge, go and take a look.” He smirked. “Such a search would not be out of keeping with your overall mission statement. There would be no repercussions from Starfleet.”
Clever. The man facing him on the other side of the barrier was as adept mentally as he was physically. It was what Spock had warned him against. Kirk was wary of allowing himself to be drawn in even to something as seemingly harmless as a suggestion.
But Harrison was right. The Enterprise could scope out the indicated coordinates without the risk of being countermanded by Starfleet. Especially since said coordinates might somehow relate not only to the capture of Harrison but to the carnage that had taken place back home in San Francisco. Kirk wanted very badly to comply. Still he hesitated.
“Give me one reason why I should listen to you?”
Harrison leaned forward until his face was almost pressing against the barrier. “I can give you seventy-two. And they’re on board your ship, Captain.” His tone was relentless, matter-of-fact. “They have been all along.” Gratified by Kirk’s reaction, by the evident surprise on the captain’s face, the prisoner stepped back from the transparent wall that separated them. “I suggest you open one up—and take a look.”