Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (15 page)

I am having a dream,
Arreed told himself,
the most wonderful dream imaginable.
He renewed his efforts, anxious to reach the dream’s denouement.

Jesha cocked his head, then abruptly ended his pursuit—so abruptly that Arreed’s face slammed into the heel of Jesha’s boot—and turned his head to shout. Arreed cursed him, then turned to follow Jesha’s gaze.

At the same time, he realized that a few seconds before, he had heard, but not entirely registered, a sound—a frightened neighing from the oasis far below.

Three dark figures had reached the campfire, and were stealing their horses.

Arreed roared with anger at the deceitful songstress. He reached for the knife on his belt; like fools, they had left the rifles back at the camp. Above him, Jesha fumbled for a weapon as well; the horses were lost, but at least they would have the pleasure of shredding the dark temptress to ribbons.

The music ceased. Startled by the absence of sound, Arreed glanced up at the summit; far from showing fear, the moon goddess was smiling. Each delicate
hand held a phaser—one directed at Jesha’s head, the other at Arreed’s. On either side of her, uniformed Federation soldiers appeared, all of them similarly armed.

“I’ve always wanted to play to a ’captive’ audience,” the woman said.

K
IRK DREW THE COWL
of his stolen cape over his face to avoid breathing in the sand kicked up by the tsemus’ hooves. The barrel-chested animals kept up an admirable pace: the stark night landscape hurtled past as Kirk and five of his crew—Spock, Sulu, McCoy, and two from the security team—drew closer to the glittering lights of Paradise. All six wore clothing surrendered by the captured members of the Galactic Army of Light; the long cloaks caught the chill breeze and whipped in the air.

Even in the darkness, Jim caught an eerie sight: moonlight glinting off the great bleached rib cage of an unfortunate tsemu. Jim’s own mount was gasping and lathered from her effort. She was stockier and shaggier than any Earth horse, and the species had not had
time to adjust to the abrupt changes in Nimbus’s weather following the Great Drought. Still, she responded well enough to Jim’s signals.

Spock rode close to captain. At first, Jim almost shouted for the Vulcan to allow more room between the animals, to avoid an accidental collision—until he looked over to see Spock, bouncing stiffly in the saddle, one hand on the reins, the other clutching the saddle horn for dear life. Jim grinned faintly, remembering his own unfortunate first experience on horseback, painful at the time, amusing only in retrospect. If this kept up, the Vulcan would be too sore to be of much help.

“Mr. Spock.” Jim shouted to be heard over the thunder of the beasts’ hooves.

“Yes, Captain?”

“You’ve never even ridden a
horse
horse, have you?”

The Vulcan’s face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, but the dryness in his tone was quite evident. “Obviously.”

Jim fought hard to repress a grin. “Look, Spock . . . the way you’re bouncing up and down in the saddle—well, you could injure yourself. In a very vulnerable area, if you know what I mean.”

A pause. “I’m afraid I’m well aware of that, Captain. Damage has already been done.”

It was a good thing he couldn’t see the Vulcan’s face; if he had, he would probably have laughed aloud. As it was, he could no longer hold back a smile. “Loosen up your hips, Spock. You’ve got to sway. And the most important advice ...” Kirk paused dramatically, unable to resist his chance for revenge.

Spock waited, still slapping miserably against the saddle.

“Be one with the horse.”

Again, the faint rumble of thunder on the desert.

J’Onn stood on the high rampart of the city wall and squinted out at the darkness. This time, the sound reminded him not of rain, but of something ominous: the sound of approaching battle.

Fear brushed against him, but he refused to embrace it. Fear was no longer a part of him, or of what he and the rest of Sybok’s army were about to do; yet, despite J’Onn’s resolve, as the rhythmic thuds of hoofbeats increased, so did his uneasiness. He had joined the soldiers on the rampart not out of necessity, but out of restlessness . . . perhaps, in all honesty, out of impatience to see their commmon dream fulfilled: to capture a starship and escape from Nimbus, to at last be free after all these years.

He refused to even consider the possibility that one so deserving as Sybok might fail to see his destiny fulfilled.

One of the sentries directed a spotlight onto the desert, revealing a small band of riders. With a slight jolt of alarm, J’Onn recognized them; their unexpected, hasty arrival meant that something had gone wrong, seriously wrong. J’Onn shouted an order to the soldiers below,

“It’s our lookout party! Open the gates!”

He turned back to gaze intently at the dark, shadowy figures on horseback as they approached the massive gate.

* * *

With the tsemus’ help Kirk and the others arrived in a short time at the gates of the city. Stealing the soldiers’ clothing had paid off; as the six approached the walls, the massive gate swung open to permit them entry.

The tsemus galloped in at full speed. Jim played his role to the hilt; cowl in place to hide his features, he shouted frantically at the sentries who stood high atop the wall at their lookout posts.

“Federation soldiers—about a kilometer behind us! Close the gate!”

Homesteaders scurried to draw the huge metal gate shut. Jim reined his mount to a halt; Spock and the others followed suit. Crowds of men and women swept past, ignoring them. One settler, however—an emaciated, balding male from Regulus—headed right for Kirk. His manner clearly indicated that he was in charge . . . and the way he was frowning made Jim distinctly nervous. Kirk tipped his head back and shouted at the sentries: “There’s more than a hundred of them! Fortify the walls!”

It worked. The Regulan hesitated, then grabbed the shoulder of a passing homesteader and began barking orders as he pointed a bony finger at a high rampart.

Jim released his breath silently, then glanced at Spock beside him. The Vulcan gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod: the coordinates lay directly down the unpaved dirt street. As nonchalantly as possible, Jim coaxed his horse in the direction Spock had indicated. The group rode slowly down the street; no point in attracting any more attention than they already had.

On the rooftops of the run-down, dingy buildings
huddled more members of the Army of Light, each of them armed with crude—but probably very deadly, Jim reminded himself—rifles. If they were to become suspicious of the six riders on the street below …

Fortunately, the soldiers’ attention was consumed by the commotion as reinforcements scaled the walls. Several soldiers struggled to place a gigantic metal bolt across the gate. One by one, so as to not arouse suspicion, Sulu and the two from security stole away from the group to lay down cover for the upcoming escape.

“Spock,” Kirk whispered, when he was certain they were not being watched.

“Hold your horse, Captain,” Spock replied quietly. “I am scanning.” The Vulcan had effectively concealed a tricorder beneath his black robes; now he held it uncovered, but too low for anyone but those beside him to notice. Jim detected a faint hum as the device did its work. Spock glanced furtively at the readout, then inclined his head toward an area a few dozen meters away. “The hostages are in the structure just ahead.”

Jim looked. It was an unappealing two-story box of a building with old-fashioned swinging doors, a rickety porch, and, facing the street, a single large window so dust-covered that peering inside was impossible. Flashing across its filthy surface in illuminated letters was the legend:

Kirk shielded his communicator with his hand and cautiously raised it to his lips.
“Galileo,
this is Strike Team. Start your run.”

“Aye, sir,” Uhura’s voice replied. “On my way.”

Timing was now critical. If the strike team failed to free the hostages by the time the shuttlecraft arrived at the city, the mission would have to be aborted . . . and the time necessary to regroup would give the Klingons a chance to arrive and blow the planet—not to mention the
Enterprise—
off the charts. Jim refused to think about what might happen if the shuttlecraft failed to show.

He replaced his communicator and nudged his tsemu toward the saloon.

While the others on the ramparts directed their attention to the desert, J’Onn alone turned to see where the recently arrived lookout party had gone. The sense of foreboding he’d experienced since he first heard the sound of hootbeats pounding across the desert increased steadily. There was something not quite right about the group, something indefinably
wrong
. . .

J’Onn peered down the dim, unpaved street and saw the dark figures, still on horseback. “Where are
they
going?” he asked no one in particular. They were not, as they should have been, hurrying to fortify the walls.

Instead, they were cautiously making their way toward the saloon, toward Sybok and the diplomats.

In a flash of understanding and rage, J’Onn dashed to the nearest spotlight and swung it so that its brilliant beam flooded down onto the intruders.

Kirk was immediately blinded by a painfully brilliant beam of light. The masquerade was over. He
shielded his eyes with his left hand and squinted; someone high on a rampart was shining a spotlight on them. His left hand dove for the phaser hidden beneath his cloak. “Phasers on stun! Get rid of the mounts! Sulu, take out that light!”

Graceful as a centaur, Sulu spurred his steed. Together they charged the spotlight, ignoring the blasts of pebbles that whizzed by them. As they neared the giant light, Sulu half rose in his saddle and took aim. A beam of pure force streamed from his phaser into the center of the spotlight, shattering it.

The street darkened instantly, lit now only by the flare of weapons and the faint illumination coming from inside the saloon. The soldiers on the rooftops opened fire.

At the sound of gunfire, Sybok turned away from the communications screen, where he had been engaged in a pointless and frustrating dialogue with the star-ship captain. He had been on the verge of threatening violence—a lie, of course, but how was the Federation to know?—against his captives when the sounds of battle floated into the room.

He was seized by sudden irrational fury. How dare the Federation try to trick him! If they would only try to understand what he was trying to do . . . but people were never willing to change, to listen to reason. All they understood was force.

“What’s going on?” Sybok demanded of the image on the screen. His voice shook with ill-contained rage.

The starship captain did not flinch at the display of temper. “I instruct you to surrender at once,” Chekov
said. His voice was as cold and hard as flint. “You are under attack by superior Federation forces. There is no way for you to win, and no way to escape.”

“You
fool!”
Sybok exploded. He brought a fist down hard beside the terminal, denting the metal surface of the desk. The outmoded keyboard rattled. “Do you realize what you’ve done? Now there will be killing! It wasn’t bloodshed I was after!” Robes furling, the Vulcan turned to leave.

“Wait—” Chekov protested. But it was too late.

Grieved and angered by the sounds of violence, Sybok strode from the room.

Spock was first to make it through the gunfire and stampeding tsemus to the saloon. He dismounted with silent thanks to the creature for its assistance. The direct physical contact with it had allowed for a small degree of mental contact as well. The tsemus were benevolent beings, of limited intelligence but nonetheless highly adaptable, as their survival despite Nimbus’s severe climactic changes proved. Spock had found the mental experience most pleasant; and, in time, the physical experience had grown less painful, for the more he concentrated on his mount’s thoughts (or, more accurately, its sensations) the easier it became to attune his body to the animal’s movements.

The creature snorted as if in response to his expression of gratitude. Spock left it untethered so that its chances of making it to safety would be improved. He hoped he would have no further need of its help.

Spock had scarcely turned his back on the tsemu to dash into the saloon when an odd combination of
sounds—the dull slap of clothed flesh against leather, followed by the tsemu’s nervous whinny—made him look back. A homesteader had leapt from the saloon’s balcony onto the creature’s back—and landed directly in the saddle. Spock felt faint admiration for the skill necessary to accomplish such a feat—but the emotion was short-lived. The soldier brandished a sword and urged the animal forward; it was quite clear that his intent was for the tsemu to trample Spock to death.

In a matter of a few seconds, Spock found himself pressed against the side of the building with no obvious means of escape. The soldier tugged hard at the reins, forcing the frightened, reluctant animal to rear up on its hind legs; the tsemu’s hard, keratinous hooves grazed Spock’s chest.

He reached for the phaser hidden beneath his cloak, intending to stun the soldier, but before he could take aim, the tsemu reared again, knocking the weapon from Spock’s hand.

He was left with no alternative. Spock relaxed and caught the animal’s eye. Although he was a touch telepath, perhaps at this perilously close distance, he would be able to communicate his intent to the tsemu.

He concentrated. The creature, as if in response to the message, loomed even closer. Spock sidled toward it, and this time with a silent word of apology, reached out with his right hand. It rested upon a massive, bunched muscle in the tsemu’s shoulder.

Spock squeezed.

The tsemu’s dark green eyes rolled back until nothing but blue-veined whites showed. It gave a shrill little cry, then, with a rumble, toppled onto its flank.
The rider barely managed to scramble out of the huge creature’s way in time. He paused, stunned, and gaped at Spock in disbelief for a few seconds—then dropped the sword and ran away.