Constellations (50 page)

Without turning, Spaytak hissed, “Shut up, you idiots.” The pair fell silent. “Now where's Churt? He said he could get a vehicle.”

“He'll be here,” Mot said. “Or I'll disembarass him.”

Spaytak frowned.

“Here he comes,” Lort whispered. “Just like we planned.”

Like
we
planned?
Spaytak thought but didn't say aloud. Better that the fools think they were an integral part of the plan, when in reality they were mostly just being used as ballast. Having reasoned that Kirk and Spock couldn't be taken by force—especially not the force Spaytak had to muster—he had decided to use guile. If things
did
get rough, Mot, Lort, and Churt might be able to subdue one of the Fleeters and Dorsoll would likely be able to pacify the other if the oaf could be convinced to sit on his opponent. The important thing was that neither Kirk nor Spock be killed, at least not until they had been delivered to Krong. What the Klingon did with his prisoners after he had paid Spaytak was inconsequential…as long as the Denebian got to watch.

Spaytak decided not to ask where Churt had procured a hired vehicle, though the cab looked as if it had recently been hauled out of an open sewer. Neither of the Fleeters raised an eyebrow when the vehicle screeched to a halt in front of them, but seemed to accept it as their due. Churt lowered the side window screen and asked if they needed a ride.

Staring out into the gloomy evening, Kirk seemed to ponder the question for what felt like a very long time, but then finally said, “Might you know where we could find a couple comfortable rooms for the night?”

Spaytak couldn't believe his ears. How could it have worked out any better? He had been anticipating that the Fleeters would ask to be taken to a particular hotel and then Churt would have to pretend to get lost, but this…
this
was too good to be true. Unfortunately, this fact registered on Churt, too, and the lummox actually turned to look at the spot in the dark alley where he thought Spaytak was hiding and leered gleefully. Then he turned back to Kirk and said, “Certainly. Climb on in, gents, and I'll take you to the nicest, cleanest little joint in this part of town. It's run by my sweet old auntie. She makes the best
galopoly
stew in town.”

“Oh, aye?” Kirk asked as he tugged open the rear door and guided his first officer into the rear of the vehicle. Spock didn't so much climb in as tumble forward. “I don't believe I've ever had that.”

“You'll love it!” Churt cried. “It's sensational. She even makes her own noodles!”

“That sounds lovely, it does. You think she has any about tonight? I could do with a bite before putting me head down.” Kirk elbowed his companion. “What do you think? Fancy a little stew?”

“Ehhhhh…” Spock said without lifting his head from the seat. Apparently the stories about these two having an almost telepathic bond was true because Kirk simply said, “All righty then. Off we go.”

And off they went into the night. Spaytak was flummoxed. “It can't be this simple,” he said aloud.

“Whataya mean it can't?” Mot asked. “You got us working with you. Of course it's gonna be simple.”

Spaytak knew better than to try to respond to that. Instead, he said, “He knows to drive around for a bit, right? We have to get to Krong before Churt does.”

“He'll remember,” Mot said. “'Cause if he doesn't, I'll castigate him.”

Eyes narrowed, Spaytak stared down at the ugly little man in disbelief, then finally asked, “Don't you mean…?” Observing the blank stare, he said, “Never mind. Let's go.”

 

The driver hummed tunelessly and tonelessly as he guided the vehicle through Meekrab's narrow, dirty, underlit streets. Scotty, veteran of many a late-night pub crawl, strongly suspected they were being taken to the hotel by a longer than necessary route in order to inflate the fare, but decided he did not particularly care. Unfamiliar coins jingled in his coat pocket and, as he always did whenever he visited a planet that used hard currency, Scott knew that when they arrived at the hotel he would set aside one of each so that later he could throw the coins into a wood box he kept on his nightstand. Whenever Scott returned to Earth for a visit, he would take along the box of mementos to show to his nephew Peter, who would engagingly ooh and aah over each and every one.

Keeping one eye on the driver, Scott glanced over at the doctor who sat quietly, his eyes half shut. He didn't like the idea of having to wake McCoy, so he decided to keep him engaged. “What's on your mind, Leonard?”

“Hmmm?” McCoy tried to sit up, but the seat was slippery with age and wear, so he surrendered back into a slump. “Oh, I was just thinking about the tribbles.”

Scott cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

“There's something that always bothered me about what happened with them. You know, back on the
Enterprise.
”

“Aye?”

“When you beamed them to the Klingon ship…”

“Aye.”

“I've always wondered…what do you suppose the Klingons did with them?”

“Eh?”

“Well, they didn't make them into pets, right? The Klingons hate them.”

“No, I expect not.”

“And they wouldn't
eat
them, would they?”

Scott shook his head. “Not much there to eat, even for a Klingon.”

“So…what?”

Scott considered the options, then, after a long moment, conceded, “I expect they probably…beamed them into space.”

McCoy nodded and muttered, “Me, too.”

Scott slumped back into his seat. “Well, now I'm depressed again.”

“Sorry I brought it up,” McCoy said.

“Stupid Klingons.”

“Nothing you can do about it now.”

“Poor little beasties…”

 

The hour had grown late and the shadows in Jarek's had grown so long that Krong was no longer sure what the bartender was pouring into his mug. The Klingon suspected the place was now empty except for himself and Jarek, but the owner knew better than to ask Krong to go before he was ready.

Krong looked up at his reflection in the smoky mirror and asked himself,
Am I ready? Is it time to leave this pathetic existence? Do I feel one single iota of hope anywhere within me?
Looking inward, he explored every nook and cranny, searching for a glimmer of anything that might resemble a reason to continue. Looking outward again, he held his hand up in front of his face and found he could barely make it out. “Too dark,” he grumbled.

Without warning, Krong felt a damp, cold wind at his back and the overhead lights blazed forth blindingly. Krong clamped his eyes shut and growled, “Too bright!”

Someone behind him shouted, “We have them! They'll be here in a minute, Krong!”

Krong felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. “If I turn around and that's you, Spaytak, then I'm going to have to kill you. Slowly. If it isn't you, then whoever you are, I'll have to kill you because you made me think of Spaytak and I cannot forgive that.” He felt a hand fall on his shoulder to pull him around. The temerity! His hand fell onto the hilt of his
mek'leth.
“Now I have to kill you because you actually have the gall to lay your filthy—”

It was, in fact, Spaytak who was touching him—actually
touching
him.
So many reasons to kill you now,
Krong thought.
Which shall I choose?
“I told you it was them,” the Denebian sputtered. “And I was right and they're almost here.” The reek of Spaytak's breath was almost more than Krong could stand.
What is this idiot babbling about?
the Klingon wondered.
Is he still going on about the Federation captain?
He tugged his blade from his belt and prepared to surreptitiously slip it between Spaytak's ribs, but a flutter of motion by the door caught his attention.

“Here they are!” a new voice shouted. Four more Denebians—three small and one gigantic—stood clustered near the entrance, all of them pointing at a pair of slim figures who were wincing against the glare of the bright overhead lights. “We did it! It was us! Where's our money?” The three small Denebians chattered and prattled mindlessly, while the fourth—the giant—merely pointed, an empty, foolish grin on his face.

One of the slim figures batted away the Denebians' pointing fingers and strode forward. Despite the unnervingly bright lights, Krong saw that he was, in fact, a human and though he wore a nondescript jacket, he believed the clothing underneath might actually be a Starfleet uniform. The Klingon felt the underpinnings of his universe suddenly come undone. Had he been wrong? Had these idiots, against all hope, actually found him a prize that might buy him back his lost honor and a ticket to the Klingon homeworld?

Whoever the man was, he clearly did not feel threatened by the Denebians. “What in the name of heaven is going on here?” He looked at one of the small Denebians and said, “You said you were taking us to your…” He stared around at the establishment's grimy walls, the smoked mirrors, and the line of sticky bottles behind the bar. “I hope this isn't your aunt's because if it is, she needs to work on her housekeeping.”

The three small Denebians closed in around the figure and one said, “Hey! You can't say that about our aunt!”

Spaytak stepped forward and shouted, “Would you numskulls shut up and close the door!”

Krong slid off his barstool and, squinting against the light, approached the human, stopping less than an arm's length away. He had met only a few Terrans in his time and most of those only at a distance, but the face of the
Enterprise
's captain was well-known to every warrior of the Empire. Most humans looked alike to him, but this man—he might be the right age, and there was something about the shape of his face that seemed familiar. Without really knowing what he was doing, he asked, “Kirk?”

The human stared back, suddenly aware of who was staring him in the face. Sneering—Krong thought it was a sneer—he asked, “What the hell is a Klingon doing here?”

Krong had to concede that at least the human didn't seem one bit fearful. He responded, “What the hell is a Starfleet captain doing here?”

The human drew back, then looked over his shoulder at his companion, who, up to that point, Krong had ignored. The second figure, Krong saw, was another human. A small, fragile object that resided in the Klingon's chest, something that he briefly recognized as hope, crumbled and was lost to the darkness. Pointing at the second human, he looked over at Spaytak and asked, “You thought that was Spock?”

“It
is
Spock,” the Denebian insisted.

“He's a human.”

“So?”

“Spock is a Vulcan. Have you ever even seen a Vulcan?”

The second human, who had been quite docile, even sleepy, suddenly stepped forward and, eyebrows twitching, blurted, “You thought I was
who?
”

Suddenly, Krong noted, everyone was holding a chair or a stool or a bottle, or some other kind of makeshift weapon. The first human, the one who Spaytak had mistaken for Kirk, grinned broadly and said, “As if there was any other way to end such an enjoyable evening…”

 

“This way, Captain.” Spock pointed his tricorder at a shabby building near the end of a narrow opening that might charitably have been called an alley. A tepid miasma clung near the ground as the early-morning sun heated the slick cobblestones. Kirk wished he could hold his nose, but decided that the stance would be undignified. Not that anyone was around, but there were conventions to be observed.

“What do you think they were doing down here, Spock?”

“I cannot say, Captain. Lodgings, perhaps?”

Kirk nodded and they headed down the shadowy alley. He knew he should have brought along a security detail, but this was a nonaligned world, and he didn't want Starfleet's presence to be provocative. Rolling his shoulders, limbering up, Kirk strode to the door Spock indicated, his hand never far from his phaser.

Rusty hinges creaked as the door slowly swung open. Kirk and Spock, both well-schooled in the practice of entering potentially hostile locations, flattened their backs against the doorframe. The interior was dimly illuminated by a handful of guttering candles throwing jagged shadows in every direction. Kirk instinctively held his breath and heard a series of raspy groans. In the corner farthest from the door, he detected the shifting of shadows that indicated sudden movement. Inhaling deeply, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline, he bunched his muscles to leap into the room. Somewhere in the back of his mind, some part of Kirk recognized that he was grinning, that he was about to do something, be something, that he hadn't done or been in too long a time: the man of action. It felt good. It felt right. It felt like…