STAR TREK - TOS - 56 - Legacy

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LEGACY
(Star Trek The Original Series)
The novel by Michael Jan Friedman
Prologue
On the Merkaan interstellar ship Clodiaan, Acquisitor Hamesaad Dreen considered his reflection in the
gilt-edged, freeform mirror that hung on his anteroom wall. Try as he might, he could not make himself
believe that the image before him was that of the young stalwart who had commanded the Clodiaan ten
years before.
Ten years.
His eyes, once dark and unflinching, had sunk into the striated flesh around them like large, vicious insects
taking shelter in their nests. His cheekbones, at one time his best feature, had lost their definition; the skin
around them sagged, flowing into the beginning of jowls at his jawline. And his mane of black hair, in
which he used to take such pride, had thinned and lost its luster.
Ten years.
Dreen cursed and lifted his goblet to his lips. The tawny Maratekkan brandy-actually better than the
overrated Saurian variety-was every bit as chilled as he liked it. But it didn't begin to wash away the
bitter taste in his mouth-or cool the heat that climbed into his cheeks as he thought about the time that had
been stolen from him.
If all had gone well, he might have owned the Clodiaan by now-and a few more like her. He might have
been a frequent visitor to the potentate's court, like Gareed Welt and that fat fool Luarkh. He might have
been a state hero.
Instead, he'd spent a decade redeeming himself, proving he was worthy of leading an expedition again.
Ferrying booty from one manor moon to another-or if not booty, then some lord's snotnosed broodlings
off to see their aunt on the homeworld. Finally cajoling his way back onto a privateer, where he had to
play the subordinate to one pompous, self-important fop after another until the owner conceded he was
capable of his own command. And even then, he'd been allowed to pursue few real opportunities- mostly
half-empty Dardathian cargo ships and creaking Confaari freighters.
And all through that agonizing time, the memory of his undoing had irritated him as a grain of sand might
irritate a Tellarite bloodworm and churned up his digestive juices until they literally ate away at his insides.
The result? A couple of years ago, the doctors had been forced to replace his stomach cavity with a
prosthesis.
Since the operation, the physical pain had gone away, even to the point where he could indulge his taste
in liquor again. But the mental anguish hadn't diminished a single iota.
Ten years.
Dreen looked at the mirror again over the rim of his goblet. He considered the scowling, somewhat
less-than-dashing figure he saw there. Another man in the same circumstances might have counted himself
lucky. After all, he had salvaged his career. He had regained what was rightfully his--command of an
acquisition triad, and one of the very finest triads at that. He had beaten the odds.
But it wasn't enough. It didn't make up for his humiliation, his suffering. It didn't come close to what might
have been.
There was only one balm that would soothe his pain revenge on those who had disgrace him. Not only
their deaths, but their complete and utter mortification. Of course, he harbored no illusions about his
chances of finding them, much less exacting his retribution.
The Federation was immense. And starships seldom stayed in the same sector for very long.
The acquisitor wondered what had become of the hated ones. Had their lives been happy? Had they
prospered from his defeat? The very thought made his heart beat faster with rage.
And then a worse possibility occurred to him-that they might not even remember. That if he stood eye to
eye with them, they might not even know who he was.
Hamesaad who? It's been so long, it's hard to recall.
His fury boiling to the surface, Dreen rose and hurled his goblet at the mirror. Instantly his reflected image
exploded, littering the carpeting with a swarm of prismatic shards.
The brandy spattered over the wall. The goblet bounced once and came to rest among the shards.
A moment later, his mesirii-a matched white pair, rare even on the homeworld-slunk into the anteroom
from their place in his sleeping quarters, their tiny earflaps erect. Naturally theyd heard the sound; the
acuteness of mesirii senses was legendary. There was both caution and curiosity in the way they held their
lean, powerful bodies-muscles bunched at the shoulders and the haunches, as if ready to spring-in the
way their long black tongues snapped in and out past ridges of sharp fangs and in the cast of their
protuberant golden eyes. Without question, they knew something was amiss.
Dreen stared at them and at the ruin he'd created, shocked by the intensity of his own emotions. Then he
swore under his breath.
The mirror would have fetched a tidy sum from some manor lord. Now it was junk. Nor did the
symbolism elude him.
He snorted. At least he wouldn't have to be reminded of his age anymore-and his loss. Falling back into
his chair, he reached out and pressed the communications plate.
A moment later, his personal servant poked his head into the room. His eyes were drawn to the gleam of
broken mirror-glass on the floor-to the goblet, and to the dark spot which was slowly spreading down
the wall. Looking past the beasts, he considered the master they had in common.
"Is everything all right, Acquisitor?
"Obviously not. My mirror has fallen and broken. See to it that the damned thing's cleaned up."
The servant bowed as he withdrew. "Yes, Acquisitor."
The sun was hot on his naked back. Raising his head to see over the forearm that was cradling it, he
peered at the woman lying next to him on the beach blanket.
Her eyes, the color of the ocean, were open. She was looking at him-and had been for some time,
probably. She was smiling.
But then, that was nothing new. She smiled a lot.
So, come to think of it, did he.
Don't tell me," she said, speaking over the rush of surf against the distant shoreline. "Your back hurts."
He nodded. "Do you think you could douse me again with that lotion?"
Getting to her knees with uncommon grace, Vina reached for the brown plastic container of sunscreen.
The late afternoon light caressed her hair, touching off sparks of pale gold as she tossed it back over one
firm brown shoulder.
"You know," she said, pouring some of the lotion into a cupped hand, "you don't have to burn."
"Don't I?" he asked. "I thought our friends wanted to experience the whole picture." There was a
sprinkling of sand on the blanket, having been deposited by the wind. He brushed it off.
"They do," she replied. "But not if it causes us discomfort." Popping the container top back into place
with her thumb, she let the lotion slide out of her other hand, onto his back.
It felt like ice-water, which was to say it felt great. He sighed.
"Anyway," Vina told him, "I'm onto you, Christopher Pike. You invite these sunburns-just to get me to
rub this stuff into your back."
He chuckled. "Interesting theory."
As Vina worked the sunscreen into his skin with slender, supple fingers, Pike considered the beach house
she'd conjured up-a wooden affair, rising against the azure sky on a set of rather ungainly-looking poles.
The poles, Vina had informed him, were a protection against storm-driven tides-or so her aunt had told
her when she'd visited this place as a little girl.
It was funny how he'd stopped trying to find flaws in the Keeper's illusions-stopped questioning the
benign turn of events that had landed him on Talos IV, the one place in the universe where he could find
happiness.
Somewhere, in some other reality, he was a scarred hulk of an ex-starship captain, dependent on a
machine to do the work of his crippled organs. And Vina, the survivor of a crash landing, wasn't in much
better shape herself. But in this reality, in this world of their own choosing, they were young, whole-alive.
They had all two people could ask for.
"Honestly," his companion said, "it's not as if you need to trick me into massaging you." Suddenly, her
face was pressed against his. She smelled like the beach blossoms they'd found earlier up by the dunes
-sweet and fresh and vigorously alive. "All you have to do," Vina whispered, "is ask."
Rolling over, the heat in his back forgotten, Pike drew her to him. Running his fingers through her hair, he
kissed her.
Maybe it wasn't a real kiss, but it certainly felt like the genuine article. And that was good enough.
Hell, it was more than good enough.
Chapter One
McCoy frowned, giving new emphasis to the worry lines in his face. He looked up at the captain, his blue
eyes full of pathos. "It's dead, Jim."
Kirk's first inclination was to laugh. But when he saw the look on the doctor's face, he decided against it.
"Bones," he said, keeping his voice down so not everyone in the rec room would hear him, "it's just a
marrae-marrae plant. It's not supposed to live forever."
No question about it the Balphasian houseplant McCoy called Lulu had seen better days. Its leaves,
normally a lusty scarlet in color, had faded, shriveled, and gone brittle.
McCoy held the sorry-looking specimen up to the light. He shook his head in that doctorly way he had.
"I know that. It's just that I've had it for so long, I sort of expected it to be around until Doomsday." He
sighed. "Besides, it's practically a family heirloom. It's been a McCoy now for-"
"Two and a half years?" the captain estimated. "Including the time your daughter had it?"
The doctor snorted. "Longer. Nearly three."
Ruefully, Kirk glanced at the game of Chinese checkers he'd set up. The original idea had been for him
and his chief medical officer to engage in a quick contest-at least, until Spock completed his preparations
for their survey of the planet below. And since Chinese checkers were more McCoy's speed than
three-dimensional chess, that's the diversion Kirk had agreed to.
But when Bones had entered the rec room with his marrae-marrae cradled in his arms, the captain
sensed their game was in jeopardy. It appeared now that his instincts were on the money.
McCoy must have noticed Kirk's glance, because he suddenly looked contrite. "Sorry. We came here to
play a game, didn't we?" He looked at Lulu. "Just excuse me for a second, will you?"
Getting up from his seat, the doctor crossed the rec room and deposited the deceased plant in the waste
disposal unit. When he returned to the table, his mood had lifted a little-but just a little.
"All right," McCoy said, "let's play."
"You sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Why? Don't I look sure?"
"To be honest," Kirk observed, "you look like a pallbearer."
The doctor grunted and sat back in his seat. "It's not so much that the damned thing died on me," he
explained, unable to keep an ironic quirk out of his voice, "it's that I never got a chance to say goodbye."
"You know," Kirk said, "I have a feeling you'll get over it. Maybe even get a new plant someday."
"No." McCoy looked the captain in the eye, maintaining a perfect deadpan. "There'll never be another
marrae-marrae like Lulu."
"Captain Kirk?"
Recognizing Spock's voice, Jim looked up at the intercom grid. "Yes, Commander?"
"The survey team has been assembled. We are ready to beam down to Octavius Four."
McCoy raised an eyebrow. "That was quick."
"I saw no reason to delay. Doctor," the Vulcan answered, never breaking conversational stride.
Bones snorted. "I guess respect for the dead isn't a reason."
"I beg your pardon?" the science officer said.
"Nothing," Kirk assured him. "We'll meet you in the transporter room in five minutes, Spock."
"Acknowledged." The Vulcan wasn't inclined to mince words today, Kirk noted. But then, wasn't that
always the case when a planet survey beckoned?
"Come on," the captain told McCoy. "If we're late, Spock'll never let us forget it."
The doctor got up, though not with any great alacrity. "I don't know what all the fuss is. You've seen one
Class M world, you've seen them all."
As Kirk and McCoy entered the transporter room, they found Spock, Sum, and a couple of young
science officers waiting for them on the platform, while the rest of the survey team stood off to one side.
Turning his tall, slender form ever so slightly, the Vulcan trained his dark eyes on them. Though the
Vulcan's features were characteristically devoid of emotion, his posture fairly reeked of impatience.
"All right, Spock," the doctor commented, "don't get your knickers in a twist. You'll be sniffing the
undersides of those rocks before you know it."
The first officer shot McCoy a wilting glance. "Doctor, I fail to see the relevance of-"
"Gentlemen," the captain said, cutting them short before they really got started. "I want this to be a
peaceful survey. Not like the last one."
Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk couldn't help but notice a rather attractive blonde among the other
members of the survey team. Purposely, he ignored the distraction, focusing on the task ahead of them
Stepping up onto the raised platform, Kirk watched Bones do the same, then turned to Lieutenant Kyle.
"Energize."
"Aye, sir," the transporter chief replied.
A fraction of a second later, Kirk found himself standing in six inches of diamond-bright, gently swirling
water-part of a stream which bisected the clearing in which they had materialized. In fact, they were all
standing in the stream-a necessary inconvenience, considering it was the only parcel in the area that was
both level and completely free of foliage. Outside of the clearing, there was a great, aromatic tangle of
green and growing things rippling in a warm, tropical wind. Your basic jungle, Kirk mused, except for the
absence of whistles and squawks that one normally expected in a place such as this.
Not that he'd been expecting any of that here. Starfleet's long-range sensor readings of Octavius Four
had declared this world devoid of complex life forms. Of course, there had been some holes in the scans,
attributed to sensor-foiling minerals in the planet's crust, which was why the Enterprise had been
dispatched for a closer analysis. A "hands-on analysis," as Admiral Kowalski liked to put it.
"Of all the damned-"
Turning, the captain saw McCoy pick up one of his feet and consider it sourly. There was something
slender and brown and slimy encircling the doctor's boot at the ankle. As if it knew it were being
watched, it lifted its head and returned McCoy's scrutiny with what looked like tiny black eyes.
"It appears you've made a friend, Bones," Kirk observed.
The chief medical officer grunted and aimed his tricorder at the creature. "Well," he said, consulting the
device's monitor, "at least it's not poisonous." Reaching down, he pulled the thing off his boot and
dropped it into the water downstream.
"I didn't notice any snakes in the survey," Sulu remarked.
Spock trained his tricorder on the creature as it wriggled away. "Actually," he said, "this life form is
considerably less evolved than either the Serpentes or Ophidia suborders. It only looks like a snake."
That was when the second half of the team arrived, including the woman that Kirk had tried to not notice
too much up in the transporter room. What was her name-Karras? That's right, he thought. Selena
Karras.
Slowly but surely, he recalled the details from her personnel file. Karras had signed on less than a month
ago, straight out of the Academy, after completing both the Science and Command curriculums. A bright
woman, but one who seemed a little out of place at times-not all that unusual, perhaps, for
dual-curriculum graduates, who often seemed torn between the captain's chair and the lab.
"If something slithers up your leg," McCoy warned the newcomers, "it's nothing to worry about. I have it
on good authority."
If that was meant to be another jibe, Spock didn't even seem to hear it. He had turned his attention from
the snakelike thing to a small marshy pool that fed off the stream. As Kirk watched, he knelt and used his
tricorder again. When the captain came closer to get a better look, he saw some greenish-brown spots in
the water.
Obviously aware of Kirk's approach, the Vulcan turned to him. "Free-swimming invertebrates," he said.
"Not unlike those we have encountered elsewhere, except this species seems not to have any active
defense structures."
The captain knelt too. For a moment, he watched the small, round opacities make their way around the
pool. Then he looked up at Spock.
His first officer would never show it, but he was having a good time. Spock was really in his element
when it came to exploring virgin territory.
"Sir?"
Kirk shielded his eyes from the direct sunlight and found himself looking up at Sulu. "Yes, Lieutenant?"
"I'd like to take a group over that rise," the helmsman told him. He pointed to a long, green ridge that
hunkered up out of the jungle a few hundred yards distant. Turning back to Kirk, he said "According to
the survey, the vegetation's a little different there. We may get a different set of fauna samples." A grin.
"Besides, there's no point in all of us getting wet."
The captain smiled back. "You've convinced me, Lieutenant. Take three of the others and see what you
can see."
"Aye, sir." And Sulu was off, not wasting a moment. But then, that was no surprise. Spock wasn't the
only one who looked forward to survey duty.
The wind moved, blowing about large, spade-shaped leaves and long, fuzzy tendrils. It made an almost
musical sound, like those that came from a Sonsfilian feather-lyre.
Kirk recalled something he'd heard at the Academy Watch out for the places that lull you to sleep. More
often than not, you don't wake up.
He laughed softly. By now, he'd seen enough planets to know that every cautionary maxim had an
application somewhere.
So, you watched your step. But you didn't have to go around with your heart in your mouth.
Spock looked up and cocked an eyebrow. "Something... amusing?" he asked.
The captain shrugged. "You had to be there, I think."
The Vulcan nodded and returned to his study of the invertebrates without giving the matter another
thought.
I guess he's getting used to his captain's whimsical behavior, Kirk thought. He took a moment to check in
with Scotty and to inform him that there were now two parties for Lieutenant Kyle to keep track of. The
engineer already knew about it, however-Kyle had noted the change in the configuration of
communicator signals and informed him before Kirk could. The captain smiled at his transporter chief's
efficiency.
In the meantime, the landing party-or what was left of it after Sulu had finished his recruiting efforts-had
fanned out from the stream and was taking samples of the plant life. McCoy was among them, perhaps
looking for a replacement for Lulu, despite his earlier protestations.
Suddenly, one of the younger science officers-a lanky black man named Owens-came thrashing through
the undergrowth, in Kirk's direction. Out of reflex, the captain stood.
"What is it?" he called.
Owens jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Sir, there are some caves back there. Big ones."
By then, Spock was standing as well. He and Kirk regarded one another. "Sounds intriguing," the captain
said.
"Indeed," Spock agreed, starting off in the direction Owens had indicated. "We will see what, if anything,
grows without benefit of sunlight on this world."
The caves became visible after they'd gone about thirty meters into the jungle. There were two of them,
about four feet high and twice as wide, set into the base of a grassy slope and overgrown with flowering
vines.
"Actually," Owens told the captain, "it was the flowers that caught my eye. If not for them, I might never
have seen the caves at all."
Spock was the first one to reach the openings. Running his tricorder past the vines, he made certain that
they weren't harmful. Then he bent over, held a yellow blossom to his nose, and inhaled.
Kirk couldn't help but stiffen a little at th e sight, recalling their experiences on Omicron Ceti III. But the
vine blossoms emitted no spores-just a pleasing fragrance, judging by his first officer's reaction.
As the captain caught up with Spock, he felt a breath of cool air from the caves-cool enough, in fact, to
dry the perspiration on his face and hands. It felt good, providing a break from the humid warmth of the
jungle.
Unfortunately, it didn't smell very good. Kirk's nose wrinkled at the odor.
"What the hell is that?" McCoy asked as he joined them. He waved a hand in front of his face, as if to
dispel the scent. "It's like the time a raccoon died in the chimney."
"You're exaggerating," the captain told him.
The doctor inhaled another sampling. "Not by much," he insisted.
Spock looked back over his shoulder at Kirk. "There does appear to be something rotting in there," he
concluded. "However, I cannot obtain a tricorder reading. The sensor signal is blocked, probably by a
mineral deposit of the variety that thwarted the long-range survey."
The captain nodded. By then, everyone in the party had clustered around the caves-not only Kirk,
Spock, Owens, and McCoy, but also Karras and a squarish, stolid-looking security officer named Autry.
The Vulcan stuck his head into the larger of the two openings, ignoring the rude smell coming out of it. "It
may be possible," he reported, "to crawl inside and circumvent the mineral deposit."
"Not while I'm in command," Kirk told him. "I don't know what's down there, Spock, but it's not worth
risking your hide for."
The Vulcan lingered, as if reluctant to leave even this small mystery unsolved. But after a moment or two,
he withdrew and got to his feet.
"Now, then," the captain said, "we've still got a lot of ground to-" He stopped as a vibration climbed
through the soles of his boots and up his legs. He looked around.
Karras had a strange expression on her face. "I think I just felt a tremor," she said, sounding not at all
certain.
"You did," Spock advised her. He consulted his tricorder. "Albeit a small one."
McCoy cursed under his breath. "Terrific. I thought the long-range survey showed no indication of
seismic activity."
"That's what I thought too," Kirk said. "Of course, vibrations as small as that one might not have been
noticed."
"True," the Vulcan confirmed. "And in any case, long-range surveys are hot flawless."
Autry looked to the captain. "We are going to continue, aren't we, sir?"
Kirk considered the alternative, but for only a second. "Yes," he assured the security officer. "We're
going to continue. It'd take a lot more than that to scare us out of-"
As if on cue, the earth shook again. And this time, it was more than just slightly noticeable. It was a
full-fledged earthquake, one that made the captain's teeth grind together.
Before it was over, Spock was announcing his readings "Twelve-point-four times the strength of the last
tremor. And three times the duration."
McCoy glanced at Kirk. He looked a bit pale-not exactly the picture of confidence. But he had too much
respect for his friend to sound a retreat without his say-so.
Frowning, the captain flipped open his communicator. "Mister Sulu?"
The helmsman's voice came through loud and clear. "Aye, sir?"
"Everyone all right over there?"
There was a moment of hesitation, which the captain translated into surprise on Sulu's part. "Of course,
Captain. Why shouldn't we be?"
Was it possible that Sulu's party hadn't felt the tremor? Kirk posed the question via his communicator.
"We haven't felt a thing," the helmsman reported.
Spock raised an eyebrow. "Apparently, a localized phenomenon."
"Apparently." Kirk echoed. He addressed Sulu again. "Carry on, Lieutenant-for now. But be prepared to
beam up on short notice.
The response was crisp and immediate. "Acknowledged, Captain."
Closing his communicator and replacing it on his belt, Kirk listened to the wind sighing through the dense
foliage. There were no fallen trees, he noticed, which probably meant that the quakes didn't get any
worse than that second one.
Unless, of course, the tremors were unusual occurrences-which just happened to coincide with the
survey team's arrival.
Somehow, he couldn't buy that. The first possibility was far more likely-that the quakes were just a
periodic fact of life here.
He looked at Autry. This time, the man didn't have to ask.
"We're staying," Kirk told him. "Still."
Autry smiled. "Glad to hear it, sir."
Bones looked as if he would have liked to have protested. But, scowling, he kept his thoughts to himself
and headed back toward the stream.
"Acquisitor?"
Dreen had been studying the specs of Vandren Luarkh's new triad. When he heard his attendant's voice,
however, he swung aside his, library monitor and got to his feet.
"You may come in," he said.
Obediently, the servant pushed aside the heavy metal door and stepped gingerly across the threshold,
making way for a larger figure who stood behind him, a figure dressed in field attire, complete with
disruptor and the ritual pair of ancient daggers. This was Kinter Balac, Dreen's second-in-command.
Balac smiled that thin-lipped smile of his. "It is time, Acquisitor."
Dreen had never much liked Balac. The man was too crude, too eager. There was no subtlety in his
manner. But he did his job thoroughly and efficiently, and that was infinitely more important than any of
the acquisitor's personal predilections.
"We have locked into orbit?" Dreen asked.
"We have indeed."
"And the acquisition force?"
"Assembled and awaiting your pleasure," Balac reported.
Thorough and efficient, all right. Dreen nodded approvingly.
"The optimum time for transport is in sixteen minutes," the man went on. "Will the acquisitor be leading
this expedition personally?"
Dreen searched his second's eyes. Was there a little too much ambition glinting there? A bit too much
desire for advancement?
He would have to keep a watch on his friend Balac. "Of course I will," Dreen replied. And then, more
pointedly "Don't I always?"
Balac inclined his head. "As you wish, Acquisitor."
As I wish indeed, Dreen thought as he gestured casually to his attendant. Without a moment's hesitation,
the man scurried across the room and opened the acquisitor's cleverly tooled chest. Selecting the more
ornate of Dreen's two field tunics, a blue one, he draped it gently across his forearm and carried it to his
master, who had already begun stripping off his silken cabin jacket.
Dropping the cabin garment on the floor, Dreen pulled on the brocaded tunic. It felt coarse against his
skin-irritating. But that is as it should be, he mused. One should not be too comfortable in the course of
an expedition; it leads to laxity, and laxity leads to failure. No, he thought, it was much better to be
uncomfortable and on one's guard.
Dreen was still pondering this philosophy as his servant finished fastening the last of the clasps on the
front of the tunic. Making sure the garment fit correctly, the man then bent to retrieve the cabin jacket and
returned to the chest to lay it inside. It was bad luck to clean a cabin jacket before its owner returned
from an expedition; Dreen had heard tales of acquisitors' attendants who'd lost their lives for such a
transgression.
Turning to his arms cabinet, Dreen pulled out the drawer that held his disruptors. Taking one out, he
checked to make sure it was fully charged. Satisfied, he tucked it into the holster pocket provided in his
tunic. Then he closed the drawer and opened a set of glass doors, behind which his daggers were
displayed on a background of red velvet.
Being a full-fledged acquisitor, he naturally had a selection of them. Perusing that selection for an
appropriate amount of time, disinclined to rush any part of an expedition-no matter how trivial-he
decided at last on the pair given to him as a token of his current commission. Esthetically speaking, they
were not his favorites; that distinction went to the oldest set in the cabinet, the daggers he had worn on
that fateful foray ten years earlier.
But he would never wear those again, despite their beauty. The last thing he needed was another
reminder of failures past.
Removing the newer set from its place on the red velvet, Dreen slipped the daggers into the leather belts
sewn into his tunic for just that purpose. Considering them critically, he decided he liked the way they
looked. He had made the correct choice.
Fully prepared now, he shut the arms cabinet, turned, and called to his mesirii. "Memsac. Sarif." A
second later, the beasts came padding out of the next room.
Dreen knelt, lowering his face to the level of their long, tapered muzzles, and they came to him. They
licked his hands, their black tongues hot and wet on his skin.
How he loved these beasts-and not only for their comeliness, for their grace and intelligence, but also for
what they signified. Who owned mesirii these days? Especially a pair of matched whites? Only manor
lords. Manor lords and Hamesaad Dreen.
Memsac and Sarif had cost a good deal more than he could afford. And he'd had to train them himself,
shivering in the mountains with them for weeks on end-lacking the wealth to pay someone else to do it.
But it had all been worth it. They were a symbol to him-a symbol of how far he had come, and how far
he would ultimately go. A taste of the rewards that had been denied him, but would soon be his in full.
The mesirii looked up at him with their large golden eyes. They were alight with hunger-not for food, but
for a challenge commensurate with their abilities. They seemed to glow with a confidence that bordered
on arrogance.
Hunter's eyes, Dreen mused. The kind that couldn't imagine failure.
Which was just as well. Homeworld law called for the destruction of mesirii who fell short for their
masters' expectations. It was a measure to maintain the integrity of the breed, and in Dreen's view a good
one. After all, it was their unerring talent for success that made the beasts so sought after.
"I will see you soon enough," he told them. "Go now."
Absolutely compliant, they did as they were told. He watched them move, his heart swelling with pride.
Then he remembered where he was. Getting up, he strode out of the cabin. Without looking, he knew
that Balac had fallen in behind him and that his servant- whose name he could never seem to
remember-had closed the door on his way out.
The Clodiaan had been designed more with storage capacity in mind than efficiency. The way from the
acquisitor's quarters to the transporter hall was a long and circuitous one, leading as it did past the
computer core and the starboard weapons center. And it was bare of decorations, like all the ship's
corridors, which made the journey seem even longer.
Finally, however, Dreen entered the high-ceilinged facility, with Balac the requisite two strides behind
him. Every one of the cabin's five platforms was full to capacity with expeditors, each a veteran of one or
more of the Clodiaan's previous ventures. They raised their fists in salute.
With calculated detachment, he returned the gesture. Turning to the transport technician, he barked an
order ''Proceed on my command."
"It will be done, Acquisitor," the technician responded. At the same time, he sent a signal to his
counterparts on the triad's other two ships, where similar masses of expeditors were ready to aid in the
expedition. All in all, nearly a hundred men.
Dreen glanced surreptitiously at the chronometer on the transporter console. He was right on time. They
were directly over their target. Smiling to himself, he ascended to one of the two empty spots on the
central transporter pad. A moment later, Balac assumed his place on the other.
Eyeing the transport technician, the acquisitor snapped off a second command "Dispatch."
Immediately, they were caught in the crackling scarlet clouds of energy that indicated imminent transport.
For a full second, the energy mounted. Then the transport facility was gone, and they stood, instead, in
the crowded main plaza of a wintry Federation mining colony, surrounded by square and guileless
buildings of indeterminate color and substance.
The plaza was full of people, all of them moving briskly-each, no doubt, intent on an assignment related
to the colony's mining and processing functions. They wore heavy primary-colored coats against the chill.
As the invaders took on form and substance, the colonists started. Some cried out. All withdrew.
Dreen's eyes narrowed with amusement as he saw the looks on their faces. Without exception, the
colonists just stood there, mouths open, waiting to see what would happen next. They clearly had no idea
what was going on, or what to do about it, and could sense only that the Merkaans, with their weapons
in their hands, meant danger.
To Dreen, they looked for all the world like ripe fruit, waiting to be picked. Ripe, juicy fruit.
He would not give them a chance to recover from their surprise. Drawing his disruptor, he aimed it into a
crowd at the edge of a stone fountain. There were screams, but he ignored them and activated the
weapon.
An intense burst of pale green force speared one of the colonists, creating a gaping hole in his middle that
spread to his extremities in less than a second. By the time the acquisitor removed his thumb from the
trigger, there was nothing left of the man.
On the other, side of the square, a woman was sharing the same fate, the victim of Balac's disruptor. At
least Dreen thought it was a woman-he had so little time in which to decide before she vanished.
Horrified, paralyzed with fear for their own lives, the colonists put up no resistance as Dreen's expeditors
moved among them. A couple of people picked up children and held them protectively, but that was
hardly an act of defiance.
So far, so good. Picking out a likely subject-a middle-aged man who looked more fearful than the
rest-the acquisitor approached him. As the man retreated, an expeditor thrust him forward again. Dreen
stopped only after he'd come close enough to smell the human's anxiety.
Towering over his chosen informant, the acquisitor asked "Where is your seat of government?"
The man's brows came together. There was perspiration on his forehead, despite the cold. He glanced to
the side and pointed.
"There. That's the colony administrator's office. But-"
Dreen's nostrils flared at the man's impudence. "But what?"
Quickly, the human shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
The acquisitor nodded. "I thought not." Looking past the colonist, he established eye contact with the
expeditor who had pushed him forward. He didn't have to say anything; his look was enough.
Turning his back on the human, he headed for the building identified as the administrator's office, his
expeditors spreading out on either side of him to protect his flanks from the possibility of foolhardy
resistors.
It was never a good idea to let acts of rebellion- even tiny ones-go unpunished. Especially at the
beginning. First impressions were so important.
Dreen never heard the disruptor-he hadn't expected to. The weapon barely made a sound ever when one
held it to one's ear. But the humans loud and high-pitched reaction told him that the informant had been
dispatched-and the lesson completed.
When he heard it, he smiled and quickened his pace. This was going to be easier than he'd thought.
"My god," said Bradford Wayne, administrator of the Beta Cabrini mining colony. And then again "My
god."
Outside his window, the main square-which had been such a picture of tranquillity moments earlier- was
a scene of terror. Armed aliens-a variety he couldn't immediately place-were jamming the colonists up
against buildings in tight groups of ten to twenty.
"You see?" Santelli hissed from behind him.
Wayne nodded, loosening a lock of unruly red hair. "I see," he replied grimly. He was fighting for
balance, trying to think of what to do.
"Who are they?" his assistant asked. "Where did they come from?"
The administrator shook his head. He didn't know the answers.
As Wayne watched, a protest was met with an abrupt blast of green energy, and then the protestor was
gone. It hit the administrator like a physical blow. "Those bastards," he rasped.
He still didn't know what was going on. But he was sure of one thing he couldn't allow it to continue.
These were his people, his charges. He had to keep the invaders from killing any more of them. Setting
his jaw, he headed for the front door.
But before he could hit the panel that would open it, the door slid aside, revealing a bunch of the same
aliens who were terrorizing the colonists outside. And with a chill, Wayne realized that he knew who they
were after all.
Particularly the one who stood before the others, a cruel grin festering on his sunken, cadaveric face. Of
course, the last time he'd seen it was on a starship viewscreen, a number of years ago, but he recognized
it all the same.
The insight wasn't shared, however. At least, it didn't appear to be. Dreen gave no sign that he had ever
seen Wayne before.
As the Merkaans entered the administrator's office, one of them pushed him back against his desk.
Wayne found himself looking into the business end of a disruptor.
Santelli was manhandled in a similar fashion. Stumbling backward, he was pinned against a wall.
"Greetings," the acquisitor spat, as guttural as ever. He eyed Wayne. "You are the administrator of this
colony?"
"I am," the human responded.
Dreen's mouth pulled up at the corners. "Good. I will require your help."
Wayne returned the scrutiny. "And what makes you think I'll give it to you?"
The acquisitor's brow wrinkled. "Perhaps you did not see the object lessons I administered in the plaza.
Perhaps I should make a lesson of you as well."
The administrator kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to die. He desperately didn't want to die. But he
wasn't going to just roll over for this murderer either.
"On the other hand," Dreen went on, "you will make my job here much easier. So perhaps my next
lesson should be-" He turned to Santelli. "Him."
The Merkaan pinning Wayne's assistant raised his disruptor to the man's face and moved his finger to
press the firing mechanism.
Santelli's eyes grew wide with fear as he turned to his superior. Please, they said. Don't let them kill me.
The Merkaan's finger reached the firing stud. "No!" the administrator bellowed.
Dreen gestured casually. "Spare him," he instructed.
The Merkaan stopped and lowered his weapon. He looked disappointed.
"I think we have struck a bargain," the acquisitor told Wayne. "At least, in symbolic terms. Cooperate
and your people live. Fail to cooperate and..." He left the rest to the human's imagination.
Wayne sucked in his pride. He had no choice but to give in, to go along with Dreen's demands.
"All right," he said slowly, hating the words. "What is it you want?"
Chapter Two
Kirk watched as his survey group began to spread out again. Spock, of course, remained by the cave
openings. The captain wasn't sure how much could be learned there, but he knew better than to argue
with his first officer's instincts in such matters.
If anyone knew how to unearth something interesting, it was Spock.
Kirk scanned the jungle. Speaking of something interesting...
摘要：

LEGACY(StarTrekTheOriginalSeries)ThenovelbyMichaelJanFriedmanPrologueOntheMerkaaninterstellarshipClodiaan,AcquisitorHamesaadDreenconsideredhisreflectioninthegilt-edged,freeformmirrorthathungonhisanteroomwall.Tryashemight,hecouldnotmakehimselfbelievethattheimagebeforehimwasthatoftheyoungstalwartwhoha...

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