Yesterday Son (22 page)

Just as he reached a fever pitch of rage, though, something happened. It was like looking at one of those pictures Jan Sajji had, the kind where there were two outlines, but you could only see one at a time. The black and the white images—and somehow, as you stared, by some trick, there would be a whole new image fronting you. He fingered the blanket that had been pulled over him, and McCoy’s words echoed,
“Illogical as it may seem, all fathers tend to be over-protective.
...”

Anger was gone, burned away by understanding, and somehow Zar knew the reason behind that nerve pinch, understood Spock as he never had before, and a strange, sad pride grew out of that comprehension. The Vulcan had chosen to leave
him
behind—although the emotion Zar sensed his father felt for Kirk was strong, Kirk was not here,
he
was.

When he was able to move, he stumbled out of the wrecked building, unable to endure the stink of death, and sat down on a boulder to think—to plan. They’d been captured, or were in immediate danger of some sort, but at the moment, were still alive. (Somehow he was sure that if Spock died, he’d
know,
apart from the concern he felt for the Captain.)
[172]
Assuming that they were still alive, then the Romulan camp was the place to look first.

He searched his pockets, found the phaser and his communicator. Having never used one before, he fumbled for a moment, but finally opened the channel, cleared his throat.

“
Enterprise?
Lieutenant Uhura?”

A crackle of static, then a startled contralto. “Zar? Wait until I scramble!” The voice faded out, was replaced after a brief interval by another.

“Lad, is that you? Where are the captain and Mr. Spock?”

“Scotty, they’ve been captured, I think. We need to go after them,
now.
They’re in danger.” Zar winced as pain flashed behind his temples.

“But the cloakin’ device is still up, lad. We
canna’
send the landin’ party in blind. And how do ye know they’re in danger? Did you escape?”

“I didn’t go with them.” Zar bit his lip, frustrated, then remembered something. “Ask Doctor McCoy, he’ll tell you that I know what I’m talking about. And I can get the landing party into the camp without being seen.
Ask McCoy
.”

After a short pause he heard the Scottish burr again. “All right, lad. I canna’ leave myself, but I’ll send down a party. They’ll be joinin’ you directly.”

Zar remembered something. “Is Doctor McCoy still there?”

“Yes, I’m here. What is it?” The Doctor sounded impatient.

“There’s a bundle in the left-hand cabinet in my quarters. I’ll be needing it. Can you send it down?”

“Send it? Hell, I’ll
bring
it. I’m not sitting up here biting my nails one minute longer. McCoy out.”

Zar closed the channel with relief, and waited for the others.

The party was made up of six security people and Doctor McCoy, with Lieutenant Uhura commanding.

“How are things aboard the
Enterprise?”
was Zar’s
[173]
first question, as he munched on an emergency rations wafer from Uhura’s supplies.

“We’d thought we’d had it for sure, then the Admiral and the other four ships showed up.” Uhura replied, “We sustained a few injuries, but fortunately no deaths in the battle. The Romulan ships self-destructed immediately—we didn’t take any prisoners.”

“I wonder if the Romulan forces here know about the outcome of the fight?” Phillips, one of the security force spoke up, methodically checking the extra charge for her phaser. “If they do, they’ll be massed against us.”

“Unless their communications equipment is specially geared to penetrate that energy barrier, they
can’t
know,” Uhura said. “That cloaking device sets up bands of interference as bad as seli-irinium shielding. I wasn’t able to pick up any transmissions directed at the camp from the enemy ships, either.”

“Good.” Zar took a swallow of water. “Then our first move should be to get inside the perimeter again, and locate the Captain and Mr. Spock. I can find them ... I think.” He frowned slightly, rubbed futilely at the dirt on his face with an equally filthy hand. “But once we locate them, how do we get them out of the camp?”

“We don’t have the force for a direct assault,” Uhura said thoughtfully, drawing patterns in the dust with a long fingernail. “Some sort of diversion would be our best answer. Preferably one that would destroy the cloaking device at the same time. That way, we could call for reinforcements afterward.”

“Do you have any idea what it looks like?” Zar asked.

Uhura shook her head. “I saw the one we stole from the Romulans several years ago, but there’s no guarantee this one will resemble it. But there’s one thing ...” The fingernail tapped against a rock as she considered, “It’s bound to be large. Possibly too
[174]
large
to move easily. There’s a good chance it’s mounted in the landing craft.”

Zar nodded and stood up. “That gives us something to go on, then. And destroying their shuttle, even without the cloaking device in it, should be enough to cause our diversion. Let’s go.”

Zar led them back inside the perimeter at a steady dogtrot, assuring them that there were no Romulans around.

“They must believe their fleet destroyed or captured the Federation forces, and that they’re safe,” McCoy said, puffing a little as they crouched in the lee of a tumbled wall. “Or else they think we wouldn’t dare mount an offensive as long as they hold Jim and Spock prisoner. Still, I don’t like it. They may just be playing cat-and-mouse.”

Slanted brows drew together in a frown, and the gray eyes were puzzled. “Cat-and-mouse? Another game like poker?” Zar hazarded.

“Sort of,” Uhura smiled, then lowered her voice. “We can only keep going. Where is the Guardian in relation to here?”

“About 60 meters, that way,” the young man said, pointing. “I brought us through the screen in a different area. I didn’t think you’d want the others to see it, since the Captain said it was a secret.”

“Right.” Uhura bit her lip. “Still, we should check and see if the force field has been activated. Doctor, you stay with the others, here. Zar and I will check the shielding.”

The two were back in a few minutes. “They got that far, anyway,” Uhura said, relieved. “Now for the camp.”

The rescue party surveyed the Romulan forces from the shelter of a broken pavement that was located on a slight rise. “Nine tents, and a supply dump,”
Chu
Wong, the ranking security officer whispered thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowed even more than usual. “I’d estimate a force of about 80.”

Uhura was looking at the two shuttles positioned
[175]
side by side directly across the camp from them. “Probably less, Lieutenant,” she said, “unless they transported down another group and sent the other shuttle back.”

McCoy looked over at Zar, who was staring straight ahead, gray eyes unfocused. “Which tent are they in, son?”

The younger man shivered, then blinked and his gaze cleared. “That one,” he said confidently, “the third from the left end.”

“Are they both there?” McCoy asked.

“Yes,” Zar nodded. He’d picked up the Captain’s emotional emanations easily, even though they were subdued, edged with pain. Spock’s presence had been harder to sense, but he’d finally caught the concern, the continually logical evaluation of the situation. And pain, though masked, unacknowledged.

“They must be under restraints,” Zar breathed, “and the Captain is barely conscious. I think he’s hurt. They’re alone.”

“All right,” Uhura thought for a moment. “Zar, if you can cause that diversion, we’ll take care of the Captain and Mr. Spock. Do you think you can get in there and out without being seen?”

Zar hefted his phaser and a faint smile bracketed the normally sober mouth, “Easily,” he said, and McCoy had seen that touch of arrogance on another face. “Give me ten minutes, and then be ready to move—fast. You’ll know when.” With a hiss of fabric against stone, he was gone.

Spock lay on the rock floor, feeling the cold seep upward into his body. In one way it was a blessing, for it numbed the pain of twisted arms and legs, of bonds pulled too tight, of the gag that made it agony to breathe. In another way, the cold itself was torture for him, he who felt perpetually chilled in temperatures humans regarded as comfortable. He closed his eyes, summoning strength, bringing the vedra prah
[176]
controls into play, forcing his mind to acceptance of the discomfort, then negation of it. He was successful, to an extent, but the effort ate further into his physical reserves. Exhaustion was close, and when it set in ...

How much time had passed? Fatigue dulled his time sense, but yielded to disciplined concentration—twenty minutes and thirty seconds since Tal’s departure. One hour and fourteen minutes exactly since their capture. And how many minutes until their deaths? He listened to the breathing beside him—regular, shallow—the Captain was either asleep, or unconscious. The Vulcan wished that he’d been able to leave Jim behind, too. He had no personal fear of death—it was simply a lack of biological existence, with either something or nothing following—but the thought of Kirk’s death was a pain that mind-control could not block.

Time—how much time did they have left? By now, Zar should have awakened, contacted the ship—he felt a stab of concern for the
Enterprise
—perhaps help was on the way? Reason overcame hope. It was unlikely—involuntarily his mind computed the odds—that anyone from the ship would know they’d been captured. Nobody would know of their deaths. ...

No.
As the thought occurred, he knew it for error. One person would know, he was sure of it, despite all logic. Zar would feel their deaths,
his
death, through the bond, that link that was no longer something that could be accepted or denied, but existed, a fact, and therefore inarguable.
Forged in mind, tempered in blood
—the ancient Vulcan phrase ran through his mind, followed by its Human analogue—
bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh.
...

He felt intense regret that Zar would be a helpless partner to his demise, but could think of no way to avert it. Hopefully, the Romulans would be quick—for both of them.

Kirk roused from a cramped half-doze, wincing as his ribs stabbed fire against the cold of the rocky
[177]
floor. As his mind cleared, he began rubbing his jaw hard on the gritty rock beneath his cheek. He heard another swishing noise, realized Spock was doing the same.

Both sides of his face were raw fire, but the gag slipped. He spit it out, worked his mouth to get the jaw muscles moving again, swallowed a fraction of the cottony dryness, “Spock?”

A grunted assent from the Vulcan, then the quiet voice, “Captain—are you hurt badly? You’ve been unconscious for some time—ever since Tal left. ...”

Kirk made an impatient sound. “Never mind that. If they untie both of us, you know what to do if you get the chance.” He waited for agreement, heard none. “Damn it, Spock, that’s an order. I’ll do it myself if I get the opportunity. ...” He turned his head toward the First Officer, ignoring the slowly tightening loop around his neck—and then realized what a fool he’d been. Deliberately, he began thrashing, feeling the noose tighten, holding his breath against the pain in his ribs and throat.

“Jim, no!”

The Vulcan moved, ignoring the jerk of the noose on his own throat, vainly trying to reach that gasping figure whose struggles were fast weakening. Then, behind him, he heard the opening of the tent, and a muffled exclamation—Tal’s voice. “Kirk, no!” Feet stumbled over the Vulcan’s legs as the Romulan flung himself between them.

Spock could hear the rasp of a blade against the cords, and knew that the Romulan Officer was cutting the Captain’s bonds. He strained sensitive ears, and was rewarded by a faint gasp—Kirk wasn’t—

The ground beneath them rocked, and the Commander pitched between the two prisoners with the force of the explosion. Shards of rock and debris spattered against the tough outside of the tent, and gradually the shock waves died down. Tal scrambled to his feet, shouting orders and inquiries, and rushed
[178]
out of the tent, leaving the two Federation officers alone.

Outside, Spock could hear shouts, orders, and running feet. Inside, there were only those wheezing breaths. He called his Captain’s name repeatedly, but Kirk was either unconscious or unable to talk. He stopped in the middle of one cautious inquiry to listen—heard a rip at the back of the tent, and then a voice.
Uhura’s? Impossible.
...

But it was. “Thank heaven we found you, sir.” Gentle hands that nevertheless moved with sure strength severed his bonds, and the Vulcan sat up, blinking, as he pushed the blindfold off. Even in the dim light of the tent, it was hard to make out the Lieutenant’s features—his eyes watered after the total blackness.

“The Captain—” he began, and heard McCoy’s reassuring mutter.

“Jim’s all right—well, depends on your definition. Shock, exhaustion, three broken ribs ... he should be in sickbay. But if I know him, he’ll want to—” The Vulcan could hear several shots from the hypo hiss, then McCoy’s grumble again, “... the worst patient in Star Fleet, won’t rest, has to do it all himself, you watch—”