STAR TREK - TOS - Shadows of the Sun

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Shadows on the Sun
a star trek novel
by Michael Jan Freedman
published in 1993 by pocket books and copyright by Paramount pictures.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I was young, I really detested the idea of becoming a doctor. My
mom and dad would of course suggest it from time to time, as was their
sworn duty as Jewish parents. But the medical profession never appealed
to me, never beckoned, never caught my eye. Looking back, my parents say
it was probably because they wanted me to become a doctor that made me
so dead set against it.
In any case, as an eleven-year-old sitting cross-legged in front of the
television set, I always felt a lot closer to the character of Captain
Kirk than to that of Leonard McCoy. After all, McCoy was just a
physician. Nothing much heroic about that. He didn't get into fistfights
very often, he almost never got the girl, and-well, he just didn't seem
very happy, did he?
Spock was kind of cool and aloof. Scotty got to tinker with things. Sulu
was an expert swordsman. But McCoy?
All he got to do was practice medicine. And medicine was the stuff I
hated.
It wasn't until I got older that I realized the mark DeForest Kelley and
his character had left on my psyche.
Not because McCoy was a doctor necessarily, but because he was a human
being in the finest sense of the word.
Fallible, ill-tempered on occasion, contrary, and far too vulnerable,
but also devoted, tenacious, and courageous in a way that means more to
me now than any Kirk-style derring-do.
I see these qualities in the best people I know-people who stubbornly
hold on to their ideals, people who remain true to a higher principle
when they could get away with a lot less. Funny enough, some of them are
doctors.
For instance, Dr. Keith Ditkowsky of New York's Long Island Jewish
Medical Center and Dr. Seth Asser of the University of California at San
Diego, who have long been my sources of information regarding things
medical. Also Dr. Michael Ziegelbaum of Greak Neck, who officially
joined the brain trust when he helped me develop the concept of
bloodfire.
As always, I owe thanks to a lot of other people as well.
Dave Stern, for caring enough about this manuscript to put me through
the ringer. Kevin Ryan, for his patience when I called to gripe about
how depressed I was getting while writing the darn thing. Bob
Greenberger, for giving me so many good excuses to goof off when the
task seemed intolerable. And Paula Block, for her trust and cooperation.
To my son, Brett, who just the other day told me he wanted to be a
writer, of all things, making my fatherly heart swell with pride. (Of
course, I think he should be a first baseman, but that's another story
entirely.)
To my mom and dad, of course. To Lorraine, Carol and What's-his-name,
Lois and Cliff, Lori and Lee, Patti and Marc, and all the little ones
Fara, Eric, Amy, Craig, Matthew, and Jared.
To the Guys, for giving me a chance to let off steam without inhibition.
To my Friday night card game, for being good enough to relieve me of my
royalties about as quickly as I receive them. And to Roseann Caputo, for
giving me the opportunity to contribute to as worthy a cause as
Make-A-Wish.
Finally (I've saved the best for last, of course), I want to thank my
wife, Joan, for her understanding and forbearance during that month and
a half of husbandless late nights and weekends. If you don't know how I
feel about Joan now, I trust you will by the time you've finished this
book. She and Jocelyn have a lot in common, you see, and in many cases
the feelings I ascribe to McCoy are my own.
So in many more ways than one, this book couldn't have been written
without her.
Port Washington, New York April 1993 HISTORIAN'S NOTE
This story begins shortly after the events that took place in Star Trek
VI.- The Undiscovered Country.
Book One
On the Federation member-planet Ssan, there is a drop of blood.
It quivers for a moment in the breeze from an open window and then falls
into the large, white, quarry-tile basin below it. Disturbing the blood
and water that have already mingled there, the drop creates a series of
concentric circles that radiate to the limits of the basin's walls and
then shiver into nothingness.
A meter or so above the basin, there is a man-sized bench seat, also
made of white quarry tiles. Laid on its back across the length of the
bench seat, there is a male corpse in a bathrobe of the palest blue,
illuminated by the morning light from the open window. The robe is made
of Ssan silk, woven by worms in the mountains of the southernmost
continent. The corpse's skin, all that is visible of it, is almost as
pale as the robe,- its tiny, indigo eyes have rolled up beneath the body
brows of its hairless head, which is tilted back over the edge of the
platform.
A slender thread of blood, as red as a perfect ruby, runs from the
corner of the corpse's open mouth. It traces a languorous, loving trail
across a clean-shaven cheek to the bottom of a long, bulbous earlobe-a
physical characteristic typical of the Ssana. There, the trickle of
blood collects and forms yet another drop.
Before it became an empty vessel, this body housed the spirit of Thur
Cambralos, master governor of Pitur, Ssan's largest city-state. Until a
very short time ago, he was the single most powerful political figure on
the planet. He will continue to be thought of that way for another few
minutes, until his lifeless flesh is discovered by a servant.
Except for the thin trickle of blood, there is no mark of violence on
the corpse, no outward sign of the death that overtook it. But then, one
would not expect there to be.
On the Federation member-planet Ssan, assassination is an art unto
itself Retirement.
Leonard McCoy, chief medical officer of the Enterprise, mulled the word
over as he stared at the featureless ceiling of his bedroom. It was so
heavy, so final. Like the clash of a wooden gavel in some old-fashioned
courtroom.
Boom.
I hereby sentence you to the rest of your life. And may God have mercy
on your soul.
Frowning, he pulled away his bedcovers, then sat up and swung his feet
around in a single movement. Across the floor, standing against the far
wall, was his nemesis a metallic gray storage container, identical to
the one every officer on the ship had been given for his or her personal
effects.
He'd put off dealing with the container for days now.
Once, not so long ago, he had been looking forward to retirement. But
that was before his dealings with the Klingon called Chang. In opposing
the traitor and his plot, the doctor had been forcibly reminded of how
exciting and satisfying life on a starship could be.
On the other hand, it also left one open to experiences like the one
he'd had on Rura Penthe, the Klingon asteroid archipelago. McCoy
shivered just thinking about the place, with its murderous cold and its
flesh-carving winds.
But that wasn't the reason he'd decided to go ahead with his retirement
after all. He just couldn't picture himself serving on another vessel or
taking orders from some whippersnapper of a captain. He just couldn't
contemplate starting all over again.
If he'd had some better options, he certainly would have considered
them-but he didn't. So, getting to his feet, he padded across the floor
and faced the storage container like a man.
The thing was empty-painfully empty, he might have said, except it would
be more painful to him when it was full. Looking around, he found a
shelf full of medical monograph tapes that he'd accumulated over the
years.
Most of the tapes were written by people he'd never met. Maybe now that
he'd have nothing else to do, he could visit with some of them-talk some
shop, get to see how planet bound physicians spend their time.
He shook his head. Who was he kidding? At this point in his life, he
had about as much in common with a planet bound doctor as a Romulan had
in common with an inchworm. Come to think of it, maybe less. Not that he
wasn't interested in the science behind the monographs -on the contrary.
But when the scientific talk was over, he'd be longing for a view of the
stars streaming by at warp three, not a tour of some old geezer's
research lab.
McCoy sighed. Come on, he told himself. A journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step.
Slowly, deliberately, he went over to the shelf and picked up a few
tapes in either hand. Then he returned to the storage container and
placed the tapes inside.
There, he thought. It's a beginning. Hell, maybe someday I'll look back
and wonder why I didn't retire earlier.
Yeah, he thought. Maybe someday. About the same time pigs learn to fly.
At the house ofkimm Dathrabin, master governor of the Ssani city-state
Tanul, there is a knock at the door.
" Yes?" a servant says, opening the door and peering at the visitor,
whom he does not know.
"My name is Ham Baraffin, " the visitor tells him. "I come with news
from Pel Sarennos, second governor of Pitur. Is Master Governor
Dathrabin at home?"
"He is, " says the servant, "but he is occupied.
"This is urgent, " Baraffin interjects. "It concerns Master Governor
Cambralos. " Then, glancing about and speaking in a quieter, more
confidential tone "The master governor has been assassinated."
The servant considers this information. The very reason his master
decided not to see visitors was to protect himself from assassination.
But if Cambralos has been killed, he would surely wish to hear the
details of it.
"Very well," the servant says, motioning the emissary inside. "Come with
me."
Careful to lock the door behind him, he guides the visitor through the
large foyer, past the pair of armed bodyguards, and up the broad,
winding stairs to the house's second floor. Making his way past a set Of
celebrated tapestries de picting the development of the McCoy rule of law
in Tanul, the servant shows his charge to the very door of the master
governor's suite, where two more armed guards stand.
"It is all right, " the servant tells the guards. "He is an emissary
from Pitur, with news."
The guards eye the visitor suspiciously. One of them produces a flat,
plastic stick with what looks like a square piece of sponge at the end.
The sponge has been treated to react to the presence of certain
chemicals.
"Spit, " says the guard.
The emissary works up a drop of spittle and allows it to fall on the
piece of sponge. The guard holds the stick up to the light. There is no
change in the color of the sponge.
He nods to the servant. "You may go in, " he says.
Without further discussion, the servant opens the door and escorts the
visitor inside. The walls of the suite are adorned with a different kind
of tapestry, the subject matter more entertaining than edifying. A
thousand years earlier, they were the property of a slavemaster who
specialized in imaginative young concubines.
Even under the present circumstances, the emissary cannot help but gaze
at the tapestries. Grunting softly but derisively, the servant advances
to the other side of the room, where he knocks softly on an arched door.
"Yes?" comes the master governor's reply.
"There is someone to see you, " the servant says. "From Pitur- with news
of Master Governor Cambralos."
Seconds later, the door opens and the master governor's bulk fills the
space. He looks past the servant and finds the emissary at the other end
of the room. Then he glances back at his servant. "He has been
screened?"
The servant nods. "He has."
Looking more confident, the master governor crosses the room. "You have
news for me?" he asks.
"Master Governor Cambralos has been assassinated in his bathing room, "
the emissary replies.
Dathrabin curses beneath his breath. "When?" he asks.
"Last night. Shortly after dark, it is believed.
"Then Sarennos is in charge?"
"That is correct. He hired me to bring the news to you.
"I see. We will have to meet soon, then, Sarennos and I.
There were a number of... understandings between Cambralos and myself
Trivial things, mostly, but. . . "He clears his throat, remembering the
company in which he is thinking out loud. "In any case, you must tell
him to get in touch with me."
"I will tell him, Master Governor, " the emissary replies.
"Will that be all?"
"Yes-unless you can suggest a way to rid us of Shil Andrachis and his
ruffians."
The servant takes that as his cue. Indicating the door, he ushers the
visitor in the proper direction. But just as they reach it, the Pitura
stops and looks back.
"Master Governor?" the emissary says. "There was one more thing."
"And that is?" Dathrabin asks.
"This, " the visitor tells him. And before the servant can draw another
breath, much less intervene, the Pitura moves across the room, faster
than the servant would have believed possible, and leaps, driving his
heel into the center of the master governor's forehead. For a moment,
Dathrabin staggers. Then he falls backward, like a great tree cut at its
base. There is no doubt that the blow was fatal,- assassins do not make
mistakes.
The servant is stunned. He finds that he is frozen in place, unable to
move.
"I will not kill you, " the assassin whispers. "Unless you make it
necessary."
The servant agrees. Remaining still, he watches the
assassin step over his victim to avoid Holarnis's shadow.
Then, bending down, the Ssana uses his knuckles to rap the master
governor in four places- the forehead, the center of his chest and the
heel of either foot.
As the servant knows, they are the residence-places of the soul. The
assassin is driving off the remnants ofholarnis's earthly spirit.
Then, apparently satisfied, the Ssana rises and advances to the window,
shrugging off his robes as he goes. Underneath, he is wearing a less
ornate set of clothes-more appropriate for slipping down the side of the
building and through the streets without drawing attention.
The servant knows that there are two guards out there, but they will be
no match for the assassin, particularly since they do not expect an
attack from above. He could scream and improve their chances, but he is
not a courageous man.
The assassin turns back and glances at him. "Don't you want to know?" he
asks.
The servant shakes his head. "Know?" he croaks.
"Why the guard's test did not expose me, " the assassin says. Taking the
servant's silence for an affirmative response, he removes a tiny bladder
from his mouth and squeezes the contents out. He watches the servant's
reaction as it drips slowly to the floor.
"Cambralos's own saliva. It was the High Assassin's idea. Rather
appropriate, don't you think?"
He chuckles and then, without hesitation, turns and leaps through the
open window.
Captain James T. Kirk stared at the rather austere, dark-haired image on
the forward viewscreen and leaned forward in his command chair. His
mouth had gone inexplicably dry.
"Would you repeat that, Commodore?" he asked.
On the viewscreen, Commodore Montoya, a petite woman with strong
cheekbones and braided raven-black hair, nodded. "You're to meet me here
at Starbase Twelve, Captain. Upon your arrival, I'll brief you on the
details of your mission."
Kirk grunted. "That's what I thought you said."
At the navigation console, Pavel Chekov turned away from his controls
and shot the captain a querulous look.
At the helm, Ensign Joe Christiano darted a glance at Kirk as well. The
captain didn't have to see Uhura to know she was just as surprised as
the rest of them.
Montoya must have noticed the reaction on the bridge.
"I can understand your confusion," she told Kirk. "Your last orders were
to report to Earth, to be decommissioned as scheduled. Basically, that
hasn't changed. But since neither you nor any of your officers are
scheduled to retire for another couple of weeks, Starfleet wants you to
make a little detour along the way."
The captain nodded. "Acknowledged, Commodore."
He felt the roil of conflicting emotions as he turned to Chekov. "Set a
course for Starbase Twelve, Commander."
"Aye-aye, sair," said the Russian, putting aside the curiosity that must
have been consuming him as he swiveled around again to perform his task.
Kirk fixed his gaze on Montoya again. "Is it permitted to ask where
you'll be sending us?" he queried.
"You'll be serving as a diplomatic envoy to Alpha Gederix Four, a planet
the natives call Ssan," she said.
The captain shrugged. He'd never heard of the place, though the computer
could certainly give him its location and some historical background.
"In any case," said the woman on the screen, "I'll see you shortly.
Montoya out."
No sooner had the commodore's image faded than a McCoy buzz permeated
the atmosphere of the bridge. Kirk looked around at his officers, who
discontinued their muttered conversations.
"I don't know why we've suddenly been taken out of mothballs," he told
them, answering the question in all I their minds. "But for those of you
who were disappointed at our decommissioning, I wouldn't get my hopes
up. As the Commodore said, this is only a short detour."
The captain felt a pang as he said that-the same kind of pang he'd
experienced three months ago, when Uhura had notified them of the
decision to scrap the Enterprise in the first place. Since that time,
he'd come to accept their fate. He'd even come to look forward to his
well earned retirement-an endless series of long, lazy days with his
once and present lover, Carol Marcus.
But the thought of another mission, another chance to see places and
people he'd never seen before ... coming so unexpectedly, at the
eleventh hour ... it had a kind of poetic justice to it. As if fate were
rewarding an old warhorse for services faithfully rendered.
Even if it was only as a diplomatic envoy.
Suddenly, Kirk felt compelled to share the news. "Mr. Chekov," he
announced, "you have the conn."
And before Chekov could even begin to signal his assent, the captain was
heading for the turbolift.
"So it has come to this, " Zar Holarnis says, his voice strangely flat.
"Merciful deity. How could we let another High Assassin come to power?"
Holarnis, the blade-thin master governor of the city-state Larol, is in
his Hall of Governance, surrounded by his second and third governors,
his advisers, and his security officer. All know his question is largely
rhetorical, and so they do not answer.
"Four master governors in the space of one day, Holarnis continues.
"Cambralos, Dathrabin, Lefarnus
... and now Kinshaian."
"They will strike here next, " says his security officer.
"Merciful deity, " Holarnis repeats.
Again, no one speaks-not even his second governor, who is normally full
of ideas. The great hall whispers something, but it is unintelligible.
"We must strengthen our defenses, " the security officer begins
hesitantly. "More men-and not just in the building but in the
surrounding streets."
Holarnis snorts and looks up at him. "Do you think Cambralos didn't have
guards? Or Lafarnus?" He shakes his head. "No amount of security will
keep Andrachis's murderers out."
The security officer frowns. "Then what do you propose?
Surrender?"
The master governor glares at him. "Of course not, "says Holarnis. "But
sitting around here would be worse than surrender. I have to go
somewhere else-somewhere they will not find me."
The security officer grunts. "Now? When they will be watching the Hall
of Governance?"
"Tithranus is right," an adviser says of the security officer. "If they
see you leaving, they will follow. And then you will have no chance at
all."
"Perhaps, " responds the master governor, "if I leave alone. But what if
I send out six or seven hovercars-all well guarded, all with polarized
windows? How will Andrachis know which one is mine?"
they look from one to the other, all around the table.
The third governor nods. Before long they are all nodding, all except
the security chief But even he seems satisfied with the strategy up to a
point.
McCoy
"A good plan, " confirms the second governor.
"I will make the arrangements, " pledges the security chief
"But do you have a destination?" asks an adviser.
"I do, of course, " replies Holarnis. "But I will share that only with
Tithranus."
There is some squirming around the table. Suspicions flicker in the eyes
of those assembled.
"But, Master Governor, "says the third governor. "Surely we can all be
trusted with such information. If we should need you. . ."
"Then you may inform me, and I will apprise the master, " responds the
security chief
"That is correct, " agrees Holarnis. "If you need me, Tithranus will
know where to find me. " He sighs. "Mind you, it is not that I lack
trust in any of you. But I must leave as few chinks in my armor as
possible."
"Do not be concerned about us, " the second governor assures him. "Our
egos will heal The only matter of any importance is your survival,
Master Governor.
For the first time since the beginning of this meeting, Holarnis allows
摘要：

ShadowsontheSunastartreknovelbyMichaelJanFreedmanpublishedin1993bypocketbooksandcopyrightbyParamountpictures.ACKNOWLEDGMENTSWhenIwasyoung,Ireallydetestedtheideaofbecomingadoctor.Mymomanddadwouldofcoursesuggestitfromtimetotime,aswastheirsworndutyasJewishparents.Butthemedicalprofessionneverappealedtom...

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