Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (14 page)

How we struggle against our true destiny,
Sybok mused,
caught up in our petty lives with their petty concerns and regulations! Is that what gives your life meaning, Captain Pavel Chekov? To warp around the galaxy enforcing the silly rules of the overgrown bureaucracy that calls itself the Federation?

“I would appreciate it if you would stop smiling and respond,” Chekov said.

“Forgive me,” Sybok replied. He had not been aware that he was still smiling. “But your threat amuses me. Exactly what consequences did you have in mind, Captain Chekov?”

And at the human’s confused expression, Sybok threw back his head and laughed.

The lights were dimmed inside the shuttlecraft
Galileo 5
as it streaked downward through Nimbus’s stratosphere. Kirk took the phaser and hand-held force shield Uhura offered him; she turned away and continued dispensing equipment to the seven-person security team accompanying them.

Kirk returned his attention to Spock, who sat huddled over a graphics screen. “Their scanning systems are primitive and of greatly limited range, but efficient,” the Vulcan stated. He pointed to a spot on the grid. “I recommend we land here, at coordinate eight-five-six-three.”

Jim frowned as he studied the blinking screen. “That puts us pretty far away from Paradise City, Spock, and time is a major concern.”

Spock looked up, his expression implacable. “To land any closer would be to risk detection.”

The statement was impossible to argue with. They’d simply have to find a
fast
way to get to the city undetected. Jim sighed unhappily. “Did you get those coordinates, Mr. Sulu?”

Sulu half turned from the pilot’s seat to nod at him. “Aye, sir. Programming coordinates in now. All hands, prepare for landing.”

“Joy of joys. I can’t wait,” McCoy muttered sarcastically, fastening his restraints. He sat directly behind Jim.

Kirk turned to give him a sharp look. “It’s a little early to be complaining already, Doctor. Besides, you
were the one who insisted on coming along. I tried to talk you out of it, remember?”

McCoy sighed. “Don’t remind me. But you know as well as I do that the hostages might need medical help. Besides, I’ve gotta keep an eye on you these days, Jim.”

“What’s to worry about? As long as you and Spock are with me—”

“As long as we’re with you, we won’t let you pull any more ridiculous stunts, and that’s the extent of it. Don’t let yourself get superstitious. Next thing you know, you’ll be taking us with you to go to the head.”

Jim grimaced and turned back to fasten his restraints and settled back in his chair. McCoy wasn’t all that far off the mark. Jim
had
felt relieved when the doctor volunteered for the landing party. He glanced at Spock, seated beside him. The Vulcan had once again withdrawn into the privacy of his thoughts.

“Spock,” Jim admonished, and leaned over to fasten the Vulcan’s restraints.

Spock did not react. Concerned, Jim peered at him. Clearly, Spock was hiding some bit of information about the Vulcan terrorist from them—something that was troubling him greatly—but Kirk knew his old friend well enough to know that it was futile to pressure Spock to reveal anything. He would explain things if and when it became necessary, and not a moment before. Feeling helpless, Jim asked, “Spock, are you okay?”

Spock stiffened as if startled by the question, but recovered immediately. “I am fine, Captain.” And,
when Kirk appeared unconvinced, he added,
“Damn
fine.”

Jim smiled faintly. “We’re not in the twentieth century, Spock. You don’t have to swear to persuade me.”

Spock acknowledged this with a brief nod, then withdrew into himself again as
Galileo
began her descent.

“Even as we speak,” Captain Pavel Chekov said, “a Klingon warship is on its way to Nimbus. We estimate arrival within the hour.”

Sybok nodded. He no longer feared death at the Klingons’ hands. His mission would succeed; his confirmation of that fact was this very starship. He and this vessel, the
Enterprise,
were divinely protected, and no Klingon Bird of Prey, no dark force in the galaxy, would be able to harm them. “I imagine the Klingons will be quite angry.”

The human bristled. “You are a master of understatement. They are likely to destroy the planet! You and your hostages will be killed!”

Sybok responded with good humor. “Then it’s fortunate I have you and your starship to protect me. In the meantime, Captain, I instruct that you and your first officer beam down to my coordinates.”

The young captain eyed him cagily. “We will be happy to beam down, but first we must have certain . . . assurances.”

With a twinge of frustration, Sybok realized the human was stalling for time. This could not be allowed. Oppressed by a sudden overwhelming weariness, he ran a hand over his hot forehead. He was
physically and emotionally drained from the events of the past few days, and he had expected no obstacles, not even a minor one such as this. Not now; not after the moment of confirmation.

Perhaps his belief had been unrealistic, or perhaps this was a test.

Sybok drew upon his deepest reserves of strength and straightened to face Captain Chekov with a face devoid of emotion, a trick he’d acquired during his early days on his native planet.

“Name them,” he told Chekov.

With impressive finesse, Sulu navigated the
Galileo
5 to a soft landing in the sand, where it nestled, hidden from a view of the city by an imposing dune. They had descended in radio silence at night, without benefit of landing lights, but Jim was still concerned. He made his way out of the craft, then struggled to the crest of the dune to get a better view of their destination.

Undimmed by the glow of civilization, the stars and twin moons shone fiercely on the desert landscape, almost obliterating the feeble spark of the town ahead. Jim lifted infrared binoculars to his eyes to get a better view.

“At foot speed, I estimate the journey to Paradise City at one-point-two hours,” Spock said.

“We don’t
have
one-point-two hours, Mr. Spock.”

“Agreed,” Spock admitted. “However, I am at a loss to suggest alternate means of travel.”

Kirk scowled as he stared through the binoculars. There was nothing between the
Galileo
and Paradise City but a flat, unbroken expanse of sand. Jim scanned the area for obstacles, or the Vulcan leader’s
scouts, until he caught sight of something bright orange and flickering and, next to it, something hulking and dark. “Wait a minute … ”

It was a fire, and the dark hulks were tsemus, beasts of burden the human settlers on Nimbus indiscriminately referred to as horses. Less than a kilometer away from the dune was a small oasis, a pathetic spring where a group of six armed soldiers had gathered to warm themselves by a campfire and let their tsemus drink. If they had seen or heard signs of the
Galileo’s
arrival, they seemed unconcerned by it.

Jim was on the verge of muttering a curse. Trying to get past these six, obviously part of the Galactic Army of Light, would cost time. Attacking them directly would cost time as well.

He grinned suddenly. How could he have missed something so obvious? Here was the solution to their time problem standing right before them, tethered to a few scraggly desert trees.

“Captain?” Spock asked softly, puzzled by the abrupt change in Jim’s expression.

“Mr. Spock, have you ever ridden a tsemu?”

“Indeed not, Captain.”

“Well, you’re about to have your first lesson.”

A Rigellian homesteader named Arreed sat on his haunches in the sand and watched the fire with the others while his horse drank from the little spring. A mere five years ago, Arreed had come to Nimbus on the advice of his defense attorney. The plan had been to save Arreed from serving fifteen to twenty years of rehab for his small role in a plot to smuggle outlawed
weaponry into the Federation—for collectors, of course, Arreed had assured the judge. At the time, Nimbus had sounded like a good idea; now Arreed promised himself that if he ever made it home, a certain Rigellian public defender would suffer. Nimbus made the rehab colonies, which many of Arreed’s peers had frequented, sound luxurious in comparison.

No one had told him about the drought. It was impossible to make a living as a farmer here, even more ridiculous as a miner. The planet was as barren as its two moons, and just as devoid of anything valuable. Even his former skill, smuggling, was useless here: there was nothing worth smuggling, and no trader ships came near the planet, anyway. There was, quite simply, no escape.

Arreed was still young, and yet here he was on Nimbus, wasting away on a dry, worthless rock. Had there been the slightest chance of leaving—of stowing away on a vessel, perhaps—Arreed would have happily risked his life in the attempt. In the interim, he survived by virtue of his association with a band of thieves. There was no wealth to be had, but most times they were able to steal supplies: food, perhaps a freshly slaughtered tsemu, or property that could be bartered with the city dwellers for rations. Arreed had grown thin and bitter on such fare.

But recently something strange had happened to Jesha, the leader of the group. He spoke of a Vulcan called Sybok, who could free the others from the pain of existence. The others, one by one, had gone with Jesha to see this Vulcan, this Sybok, whom Jesha called a prophet. Soon the others refused to ply their
trade against the homesteaders; Sybok had shown them the truth, they said, and they no longer had the desire to harm their co-worlders. Jesha said that Sybok would gladly do the same for Arreed, free the young Rigellian from his pain.

“Pain!” Arreed scoffed. The radical shift in philosophy mattered not to him, so long as he was well fed . . . and in truth, since the Vulcan had arrived, the group had not wanted for supplies. But he would not be forced into madness; his friends had turned into wild-eyed religious fools. This Sybok was nothing more than a hypnotist, and Arreed would be damned before he’d let a hypnotist control
him.
“All this ridiculous talk of pain! The only pain
I
feel is that of an empty stomach—from starving to death in the middle of this damnable desert!”

Then they told him about the starship.

He still refused to see the hypnotist, as he called the Vulcan, but he ceased his protests and did everything this Sybok ordered. When the starship came, Arreed promised himself, he would find a way to board her.

At the present moment, Arreed sat patiently with his friends and felt the warmth from the campfire in an effort to offset the night’s growing chill. He could afford patience: it would not be long before he tasted freedom. Word had spread through Sybok’s army that the Federation starship had arrived. Before long, Sybok would release it from the grasp of its crew as easily as one might steal money from a corpse. Arreed and his cohorts were one of three groups charged with the responsibility of guarding the outskirts of Paradise.

And, like the other groups, Arreed and his friends were caught up in the spirit of celebration at the news of the starship’s arrival. Jesha had surreptitiously removed three bottles of fine liquor from the Paradise saloon and passed them around the circle of six. It had been some time since any of them had tasted hard liquor—a weak native wine was somewhat less rare, but in such demand that Arreed had not had any in the past month—and it was not long before all of them reached a festive level of intoxication. Arreed drank until he noticed that the campfire seemed to be slowly revolving.

Loud talk and much laughter followed. They were thus engaged when the shuttlecraft passed overhead, and none of them paid it any notice. Some moments later, however, something much subtler, much softer, caught Arreed’s attention and held it.

A sound. Arreed reached out and grabbed the arm of a gesticulating companion, then raised a finger to his lips. The sound came again: Arreed strained this time to hear. The sound emanated from a point above and behind him: it was a woman singing, low and sweet.

Arreed turned. The sudden movement made his head spin, and he held the pose until the vertigo passed. There, on the crest of a gray-white dune, a female form swayed gracefully, silhouetted against the brightness of low-hanging twin moons. In the stillness, her song traveled easily to the oasis below; it spoke of seduction, of deep mystery.

For a heartbeat, no one moved, so startled were they by a sound of such ethereal loveliness in the
desert. In one swift, simultaneous motion, the homesteaders scrambled to their feet. Women either rode with the gangs for protection or stayed within the questionable safety of the outpost walls. A woman alone in the desert was a remarkable rarity.

Too much so for Arreed and his companions to resist. He staggered toward the moonlit vision; he would have dismissed her as an apparition caused by the alcohol, but the others saw her, too. And so Arreed stumbled with difficulty through the yielding sand.

His mind was a swirl of bizarre and drunken thoughts, but he managed to seize upon one of them. His knowledge of human religious lore and custom was almost nonexistent, but he vaguely remembered human myths of a moon goddess. Perhaps this beauteous apparition was some sort of goddess of the moon—correction:
moons,
at least here on Nimbus—and she had appeared to them as a sign of. . . Here Arreed’s questionable train of reasoning faltered. A sign of approval, perhaps, of what Sybok and his followers were doing, a sign that the starship was now theirs to command.

Arreed hiccuped and laughed aloud at the absurdity of such a thought as he lurched unevenly toward his goal. He prayed with his entire being that this was no goddess at all, but a real flesh and blood female. He had little use for goddesses, but a
woman. . .
the thought was altogether more divine. He reached the foot of the dune and began to climb on his hands and knees in the still-warm sand.

The climb took a great deal more effort than Arreed had anticipated; the dune was unusually tall and
steep, and Arreed, who had been first, fell behind. He was gasping by the time he stopped three arm-lengths behind Jesha, who was by now near the summit. The woman was very nearly in their grasp. She stood only a few meters from them now, and in the moonglow, Arreed could see that she was as comely as her song: large-eyed, dark-skinned, slender. Clearly, she saw her pursuers, but instead of reacting with fear, she continued to sing, as if to welcome them.