Star Trek V: The Final Frontier (3 page)

J’Onn was mezmerized by those eyes, but even so, in the back of his mind lurked mistrust. His culture was rich with ancient legends of magicians who wielded untold powers to control weaker minds, and here, without a doubt, was one of them.

Yet, try as he might, he could not be afraid of the stranger. The brilliance seemed full of nothing more than kindness and love.

The stranger spoke again, his voice as soothing as a caress. “Each of us hides a secret pain. It must be exposed and reckoned with. It must be brought forth from the darkness into the light.”

“No!” J’Onn cried with sudden anguish. As the stranger talked, the image of Zaara, lying dead upon the hard narrow cot that was their bed, struck him full force. He could see her last few moments of life again, could hear her gasping for breath, unable even to speak his name, her eyes full of misery and concern for him. For him! She had chosen to be loyal to her husband, and the decision had destroyed her. J’Onn trembled under the weight of Zaara’s quiet suffering, under the weight of his own guilt.

The sensation of a cool touch upon his forehead.

“Share your pain with me,” the stranger said, with such tenderness that J’Onn wept. “Share your pain and gain strength from it.”

J’Onn ceased struggling. The horror of what had happened to Zaara—the look on her face when she
had been forced to leave her family, the expression in her eyes when she died, the drought that had rendered the land barren, the shame of banishment from Regulus . . . in short, the utter ruin that was his life—all of this misery washed over him, engulfing him with sorrow until he could bear no more. He cried out and sank to his knees in the hot sand.

And when he thought he could stand no more, the pain eased, as if gentle, invisible hands had reached in and lifted it above him. The events that had caused his grief did not disappear, but now he saw them with another’s eyes, eyes that were objective, yet sympathetic. J’Onn could face them now with a strength he recognized as not his own but the stranger’s. Even the memory of Zaara’s death was tolerable now, as if it had happened twenty sols ago instead of hours ago. J’Onn saw the part he had played in her misfortune . . . and knew with unshakable certainty that it had been Zaara’s decision to stay.

A strange peace descended on him, a peace born of the stranger’s wisdom. J’Onn realized that his eyes were squeezed tightly shut; he opened them and gazed with gratitude and awe at his benefactor. Euphoria replaced pain.

The stranger had been standing several feet away; now he reached a hand forward to assist J’Onn to his feet. His grasp hinted at great physical strength.

“Where did you get this power?” J’Onn whispered, when at last he could speak. “I feel as one reborn.”

The stranger released his grip on J’Onn’s hand; his face was still hidden in the shadows of his hood. “The power was within you, J’Onn.”

The stranger knew him by name, a fact that impressed
J’Onn but was certainly no more marvelous than the miracle the man had just performed. If not an angel or a god, then the stranger was at the very least a holy prophet. Overwhelmed with gratitude, J’Onn struggled to express himself. “I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my heart. How can I repay you for this miracle?”

“Join my quest,” the stranger said.

“What is it you seek?”

“What
you
seek,” the stranger replied earnestly. Next to him, the horse snorted and stamped impatiently, startling J’Onn, who was so hypnotized by the stranger that he had completely forgotten about the animal. “What
all
have sought since time began—the purpose of existence, the ultimate knowledge. But to find it, we’ll need a starship.”

J’Onn smiled, still giddy from the relief of his sorrow. Had the stranger professed himself to be a murderer on a rampage, J’Onn would gladly have followed. As it was, his heart was filled with near-unbearable joy at the sound of the stranger’s words. To know at least the meaning of his bleak, unhappy life . . . and to find a starship! It would mean freedom from this accursed desert! But Nimbus was isolated, far removed from any trade routes. And after the Great Drought came, all exports had ceased, and the homesteaders could no longer afford to buy expensive imported goods. No sane person came to Nimbus—at least, not voluntarily. No trading vessels bothered to make the journey, least of all, the starships.

“A starship?” J’Onn asked hesitantly. “There are no starships on Nimbus Three.”

Although he could not see the stranger’s expression,
he got the impression his question was met with amusement. “Have faith, my friend,” the stranger answered. “There are more of us than you know.”

The rider threw back his hood. He was ascetic-looking: hollow-cheeked, unshaven, uncombed, yet there was a handsomeness to his rugged, even features. Unshadowed, his eyes were startling, full of a piercing brightness that J’Onn found awe-inspiring and slightly frightening.

And then J’Onn saw the ears. Regulus was governed by Romulans; J’Onn could perceive the subtle differences between them and other Vulcanoids. He let go a gasp. “You . . . you’re a Vulcan.”

The stranger gave one slow, grave nod. And then he did something that J’Onn had never seen a Vulcan do before.

He smiled and threw back his head and laughed.

A
STARK AND FORBIDDING MONOLITH,
El Capitan rose out of the forest and into the clouds. At the campsite near the banks of the Merced River, in the shade of tall pine and cedar, Dr. Leonard McCoy peered through binoculars at the mountain’s face. El Capitan reared straight up to form a right angle with the forest floor; it was nothing less than a massive wall of rock, and from where McCoy stood, its sides seemed smooth, offering little or no purchase.

Only a fool or a madman would attempt to scale it.

The doctor raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and scanned El Capitan until he found what he was looking for: a lone human figure pressed against the rock, hugging the side of the mountain. From this distance, Jim Kirk appeared the size of a mosquito.

McCoy swore under his breath. Kirk had managed
to make his way a few hundred meters up, and he was doing it—against the doctor’s loud protests—with no equipment, no ropes, no grommets. If Jim’s grip should weaken at an inappropriate moment. ..

“’You’ll have a great time, Bones.’” McCoy mimicked sarcastically. “’You’ll enjoy your shore leave and be able to relax.’” He lowered the binoculars; without them, Kirk became a barely distinguishable speck on El Cap’s face. “You call this relaxing? I’m a nervous wreck.”

True, Jim’s suggestion had been a good one. Yosemite was the ideal location for shore leave, possessing a wild, remote beauty that filled McCoy with humble reverence. He hadn’t been to Yosemite since he was a boy, and it moved him to find that it had not changed: it was every bit as vast and breathtakingly majestic for the adult as it had been for the child.

Yet here he was in the midst of this rugged paradise, unable to relax and enjoy it, and for that he was honestly angry at Jim. The Federation Council had finally granted Kirk what he had wanted all along—a demotion to the captaincy and the
Enterprise,
or at least her namesake, back under his command. You’d think the man would be glad, but his demeanor aboard the ship was withdrawn, irritable, brooding. McCoy figured shore leave would solve it. And it did, to an extent, but now Jim’s attitude had become reckless. The day before, the doctor had taken him white-water kayaking. Jim had refused to wear a life preserver until McCoy put his foot down. And then Jim had intentionally sought out the most dangerous rapids, in the process nearly drowning himself and
McCoy, who had followed in his own kayak in a rescue attempt.

Kirk was not only unapologetic about the incident, he was belligerent, angry that McCoy had interfered. Shortly thereafter, he had announced his intention to climb El Capitan without benefit of safety equipment, and had the nerve to seem irritated that the doctor was upset about his decision. Only the most experienced mountain climbers attempted El Cap, and those who did so generally used equipment. Only the finest climbers in the world went without, and all of them, as far as McCoy knew, insisted on a wide-dispersal electromag cushion at the mountain’s base, in case the worst happened. More than one person’s life had been saved by the cushion when rocks, or muscles, gave way.

Jim wouldn’t hear of it.

Here was a man, McCoy reflected, who had just gotten what he wanted most out of life—his ship, his command—and he seemed determined to destroy it. . . or himself.

The most frustrating thing of all was that Jim denied it, refused to discuss it; in fact, suggested that the doctor was being paranoid and was himself sorely in need of R-and-R.

Which, God knew, McCoy would not deny. They were all in desperate need of shore leave—including the new ship, which had been slapped together so hastily that nearly half the crew had stayed behind to make her spaceworthy. And they had all been drained by the events surrounding Spock’s rescue: the death of Kirk’s son, David Marcus, the loss of the old
Enter
prise,
the harrowing ordeal of standing before the Federation Council and awaiting a verdict.

Yet, to McCoy’s mind, none of those events explained Kirk’s current actions. It was almost as if Jim was thumbing his nose at death. Not just the kayak incident, not just this mountain-climbing business . . . there were subtle things as well. Such as the way Jim paused a bit too long when setting logs on the campfire, as if daring the fire to burn him.

McCoy wanted none of it. He’d been through enough, thank you, after the mental stress he endured as the carrier of Spock’s
katra,
and the torment of the ritual of
fal torpan,
which separated his consciousness from the Vulcan’s.

“Just keep this up, Jim,” he said softly, “and if I’m not careful, I’ll end up talking to myself.”

He was just about to raise the binoculars again when he caught sight of Spock heading back toward the campsite. The Vulcan wore levitation boots and was navigating slowly through the trees a couple of meters above ground that was thickly carpeted with dried pine needles. McCoy remembered Mount Seleya all too well and figured Vulcan had its share of mountains far higher and more formidable than any Earth had to offer. It wasn’t all that surprising to him that, when Jim professed his desire to tackle El Capitan, Spock showed little interest. More than anything, the Vulcan seemed quite taken with the trees and had spent the entire morning examining a grove of ancient giant sequoias from their massive gnarled roots to their towering uppermost branches. Spock had politely invited McCoy to join him, but the doctor had begged off, leaving Spock and Kirk to
examine aerial phenomena by themselves; he preferred to seek excitement closer to the ground.

The sight of Spock gave him an idea; he gestured vigorously for the Vulcan to approach.

Almost three hundred meters above them, Jim Kirk balanced on a ledge no more than a few centimeters wide, his body pressed against the cool stone surface of the mountain. There was a narrow crack in the rock just above his head, and he reached cautiously up, probing. The gap was just wide enough to admit the middle two fingers of his right hand, up to the first knuckle; he inserted them securely, drew in a deep breath, then exhaled.

Concentration was critical. A single instant of distraction, a hesitation, one tiny slip, and death would be the inevitable outcome.

He honestly enjoyed mountain climbing, just as he had enjoyed white-water kayaking, and perhaps for the very same reason: because it forced him to
not
think.

And there were many things he wanted to avoid thinking about: the grief he still felt over the loss of his son, David, and the fact that Carol Marcus still wanted nothing to do with him. He could only assume her silence was an accusation, a laying of blame.

And then there was the different but no less keenly felt loss of the
Enterprise.
The new ship was no substitute, though at first he had been exhilarated to have a ship, any ship, to command.

But this ship wasn’t the
Enterprise,
regardless of the name emblazoned across her hull. To begin with, not a damn thing aboard her worked. The real
Enterprise,
even when crippled, had given her all and kept trying. The new ship couldn’t even synthesize a passable cup of coffee. It was simply a metal hull.

He had no son, no Carol, no ship. He had been attracted to Gillian Taylor, and he had hoped—hell, maybe he had only hoped for a distraction from his grief over David . . . but Gillian was far too absorbed by her work at the New Cetacean Institute, and the challenge of repopulating the humpback whale species.

At a time in his life when he should have been happiest, Kirk felt empty. Rudderless.

James T. Kirk, hero at large. You can save the galaxy from destruction, but you can’t put your own life in order.

Jim stopped himself and forced his mind back on the mountain. At eye level, he found a slight depression in the rock—not enough for a firm grip, but enough for what he needed. He rested his left hand in it and, gripping with the two fingers of his right, pulled himself up.

The act was at once exhausting and exhilarating; Jim paused for a moment to let his rapid heartbeat slow and to take in the phenomenal view of the Merced River as it cut a path through the tall forest beneath him and of the aptly named Half Dome on his right. A shame McCoy was not here to enjoy it with him, but then, knowing Bones, he’d probably complain that the sight was conducive to attacks of vertigo.

There was a sudden soft
whoosh
next to him. A hawk, Jim thought at first, and instinctively he tensed, struggling against the onrush of dizziness and fear,
and leaned into the mountain. The disorientation lasted only two seconds before he reclaimed his balance.

“Greetings, Captain,” Spock said. His hands were clasped behind his back, in a typical fashion. It took a moment for Jim to remember the Vulcan had brought along a pair of levitation boots on the camping trip.