STAR TREK - TOS - 34 - Dreams Of The Raven

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Dreams of the Raven [030-066-5.0]

By Parimount Pictures

Synopsis

A merchant ship's frantic S.O.S. sends the U.S.S. Enterprise TM speeding

to the rescue! But the starships mission of mercy soon becomes a

desperate struggle for survival against a nightmarish enemy Captain Kirk

can neither identify nor understand, an enemy he must defeat without the

aid of one of his most trusted officers

the Leonard McCoy Kirk knew is gone. In his place stands a stranger--a

man with no memory of his Starfleet career, his family, his friends.. or

the one thing James T. Kirk needs most!

The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you

purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was

reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed." Neither the author

nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this "stripped

book."

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are either the product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster

Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket

Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN 0-671-743562

First Pocket Books printing June 1987

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

Dedicated to my mother and father

.Prologue.

KYRON GENTAI-HANN, nephew by marriage to the Exalted House of Kotzher,

and captain of the IKF Falchion, was bored and angry. He had been in a

perpetual state of boredom and anger for an entire year, ever since the

Klingon Military Council had -"honored" him with a posting to the

Belennii star system, a worthless holding of the Empire set in a

position of supreme strategic unimportance in a fardistant corner of

undisputed space. That Kyron, a warrior of acknowledged skill and long

years of service to the Empire, should have received such an assignment

was directly attributable to his alliance to the Exalted House of

Kotzher, now exalted in name only. This last year had given Kyron

sufficient leisure in which to regret, with increasing bitterness, his

marriage into a family which had fallen into imperial disfavor. Of his

wife he thought nothing at all, confident that she returned his lack of

interest. Being a Klingon, Kyron did not feel compelled to keep his

growing resentments to himself. On the contrary, the privilege of

bullying the crew of the Falchion was one of the few meagre

compensations still left to him. His subordinates--no less bored Jot

angry, but perhaps even more resentful since they had less scope for bad

temper--had spent the first months of the long voyage to Belennii

engaging in frequent bouts of petty bickering which inevitably

culminated in physical violence. The resulting fatalities reduced the

somewhat crowded conditions of the crew quarters, thus easing the most

unbearable of the tensions. By the end of the first year of their tour

of duty, the remaining crew members had settled into a sullen acceptance

of the tedium of routine patrol over a quadrant of space that contained

one white dwarf; two yellow stars without planets; 4,020 asteroids of

sufficient size to merit a star-chart notation; and a periodic comet

which would reappear in their area in 845 years. On the 451st day of

that patrol, Captain Kyron was expatiating at great length on the

cowardice of the Imperial Ministry in advising the Emperor to accept a

truce with the Federation. Such criticism bordered on treason; however,

if the captain cherished any hopeful fantasies of being recalled to

Klinzhai in order to stand trial, he was greatly deluded. His crew had

long since ceased to hear his words, despite the loud and bellicose

manner in which they were delivered. "Peace is for the soft worms of the

decadent Federation dung-heaps?' screamed the captain from his command

throne. Beads of sweat gathered on his bronze-dark skin; his forked

eyebrows bristled stiffly with rage while his mustache drooped damply

from the exhalations of his oratory. "Peace is the corpse that feeds

their maggot growth!" He had reached a fever pitch of invective against

his own government and was now marching into a denunciation of its

former enemies. As he peered down into the red shadows of the crew pit,

his voice dropped in pitch. "Do not be fooled by their treachery," he

warned his listless navigator. "They are weak, but they are also

cunning..."

"Commander,' called out the communications officer. "I am receiving a

transmission."

"... and should be killed outright like defective newborns." Kyron

paused for breath, and only then did he realize that one of his crew had

spoken. In the last 451 days he had never been interrupted in the midst

of his diatribes; he was unprepared for such a novelty. "It isn't time

for a scheduled communication, Kath," he barked angrily at the offending

officer. Having built up a storm of temper, it made little difference to

him where it was directed. "No, my lord," agreed Kath with proper

subservience. He, too, seemed rather stunned by the occurrence. "But it

is not a message from Command Base; it is from an alien craft." At those

words, a hunched figure in a dim corner of the bridge came to life with

a guttural curse. The sound of frantic, if somewhat belated, computer

activity followed soon after. "Scanners reveal an unregistered scoutship

at 457 kilometers, approaching on an intercept course, rendezvous at

94-mark-12," announced the negligent science officer as calmly as his

anxiety allowed. Kyron gave an exultant howl of glee. "Imbecile! Eye of

a rotting cadaver!" He pulled a disrupter from his belt and stunned his

science officer into unconsciousness. Thus appeased, the captain turned

his attention to the intruding alien. "Raise shields," he ordered with a

spreading grin. "Lock phasers on target." An unregistered craft was fair

game for his battle cruiser. He cared little whether it posed any real

danger; the Falchion was long overdue for battle maneuvers. Almost as an

afterthought, he inquired of Kath, "Who are they?" Kath released the

broadcast from the alien. "... your Imperial Servant, most unworthy of

attention, beseeches most humbly..." came the bleating voice from the

communications translator.

"Gleaners!" spat out Kyron with disgust. He had little use for this race

of scavengers that eked out a subsistence living from the leavings of

the Klingon Empire. "Prepare to fire."

"We bring you great wealth and power," continued the voice from the

scoutship. Kyron stayed his next command. "What trickery does this scum

propose?"

"A wreck, such salvage we have found," whined the Gleaner. "We can offer

information..." The captain of the Falchion ordered Kath to open

communication channels.

"Where?" he demanded of the alien. "Where is this wreckage?"

"Ah, worthy ship chief," answered the Gleaner with humble solicitude.

"We would be only too glad to share this knowledge with you in the

privacy of your vessel..." And for a percentage of the haul, thought

Kyron with a touch of pragmatism. He loosed a savage kick at his stunned

science officer, urging him to regain consciousness with greater haste;

Jaeger was quite adept with the mind-scanner and would be needed soon.

"Very well," Kyron said grudgingly. "I will discuss terms with you.

Prepare to beam aboard." His toothy grin returned. He would have plenty

of opportunity to destroy the Gleaners later, after they had given him

the information he wanted.

Chapter One.

Captain James T. KIrk of the U.S.S. Enterprise stopped dead in his

tracks at the sight of the phaser rifle aimed at his chest. His two

companions followed his example. The weapon was impressive its polished

metal surfaces were studded with jewel-like power settings which pulsed

with a hypnotic rhythm. The face behind the gun was impassive. "We come

in peace," declared the starship captain calmly. He was shorter and

stockier than the men who flanked him, yet he possessed an air of

command that owed more to force of personality than to his gold tunic

and braid. Kirk smiled his most winning smile and turned his hands palm

up in a gesture of friendship, but the sturdy form which stood in their

path showed no signs of giving way. The round face of the riflebearer

twisted into a scowl and his hands gripped the stock more tightly.

Passage through the narrow corridor remained blocked. "Try

"Take us to your leader,'" suggested the first of Kirk's companions, an

older man dressed in science blue. "Hardly original, Bones."

"To old troopers like us, perhaps, but he may never have heard it

before." The second of Kirk's companions tried his own approach. "We

require immediate access to the next area. Let us pass." The Vulcan's

tone was decidedly more emphatic than that of his captain, but just as

ineffectual. More so--the whine of the phaser's power pack grew in

volume. McCoy snorted. "Well done, Spock. Your diplomatic powers are

astounding. If you're not careful, you'll get us shot. And a loose

phaser bolt could pierce the hull and destroy this entire section of the

trading post." The broad wave of his arm included the corridor in which

they stood and a generous amount of the metal structure to which it

belonged. "I, for one, do not want to eat vacuum for breakfast." The

science offic er stared coldly at the doctor. "The illogic of this

situation is not fascinating. It is tedious." He took a step forward.

"Steady, Mr. Spock," cautioned the captain, holding him back. "We

mustn't alarm the native population." He continued smiling down the gun

barrel. "In fact, I'm sure we'll all be friends before too long." This

time Kirk took the step forward. The phaser burst into fire and bright

bolts of red light rained over the bodies of the three officers. "Die,

Klingon pigs!" yelled their assailant. Loosing another salvo from his

gun, he turned and ran down the corridor. "Am I expected to fall to the

floor, wounded and dying?" asked Spock archly as the young boy

disappeared around a corner. "You're no fun at all," complained McCoy.

The three men continued their walk away from the outer docking ring of

the station and headed for its center hub. "See if I ever ask you to

play cops and robbers." The Vulcan could think of no reply to this

reference to traditions of Human childhood. The doctor took advantage of

Spock's silence to turn his attention to Kirk. "Better not let Star

Fleet hear of this fiasco, Jim. It could ruin an otherwise sterling

military career."

"You win some; you lose some," said Kirk philosophically, smiling at the

memory of the freckled face which reminded him of his own nephew, Peter,

at that age. When their corridor reached an intersection with the

station's third ring, Kirk looked to the left and right along the

curving walls, searching for another glimpse of the boy, but the small

form had disappeared amidst the adult crowds. Purple-suited station

personnel--mostly Human and Andorianstrode briskly about their duties;

merchants and traders of various species moved with more leisure,

passing in and out of the small shops that lined the ring. A group of

Tellarites waddled across the path of the two Humans and their Vulcan

friend; a single Crysallid sprinted jerkily ahead of them. "That young

child," said Spock, recovering the conversational initiative, "is a

prime example of the difficulties inherent in implementing a truce with

the' Klingons on a sustained basis."

"You mean to say that you found him hostile to the initiatives of

peace?" asked McCoy solemnly, lifting a rounded eyebrow to match the

cant of Spock's slanted one. Kirk noted that the doctor's impersonation

of the Vulcan was improving. ""Die, Klingon pigs,' does lack a spirit of

reconciliation," said Spock with equal solemnity. If he was aware of

McCoy's mimicry, he chose to ignore it. "That such attitudes are to be

found in one so young presages obstacles to extending amicable relations

with the Klingon Empire through the next generation."

"The truce didn't maintain that we had to like

Klingons, Spock," countered McCoy. "It just said we had to stop killing

them. And, more to the point, that they had to stop killing us." From

long experience, Kirk sensed that his two officers were laying the

groundwork for an extended argument, although the actual terms of their

conflict had not been settled yet. He launched a tactical diversion.

"I've always wanted one of those." Spock and McCoy followed the line of

their captain's outstretched arm and its pointing finger to the window

of a small tradegoods shop which specialized in used equipment for

asteroid-miners. The display held a familiar array of battered

environment suit accessories, solar cookpots, and out-of-date

entertainment tapes. From amidst the clutter, McCoy's eyes picked out

the one small item that had drawn Kirk's attention. "The knife."

"A Tyrellian blade, Bones. Fifth Dynasty." Spock contemplated the long

thin blade and its squat handle. "More likely Fourth."

"Whoa, Jim." McCoy grabbed Kirk's arm and pulled him back. "If that

trader gets one look at your face, he's going to double the price." He

waited until the eagerness in Kirk's eyes was properly subdued. "Okay,

now we can give it a try." As they crossed the threshold of the store,

the doctor looked back over his shoulder at Spock. "And you, don't say a

word." The Vulcan stood silent as his Human companions were greeted by a

short, plump man draped in the flowing robes of the local Trade Alliance

Guild. They exchanged meaningless pleasantries and engaged in the ritual

discussion of merchandise which was of no interest to either side. At

the first mention of the knife, however, the trader quickly pulled the

weapon out of the display window.

"A beautiful artifact, one that I am not often privileged to handle.

Tyrellian blades are prized for..." McCoy cut the speech short. "How

much?" The trader pressed the blade into Kirk's hands. "Feel the weight

and balance of a knife made by a true craftsman. You won't find its like

in the whole sector."

"How much?" insisted the doctor. Kirk was too obviously entranced with

the weapon, The trader paused for a quick assessment of his customer,

then named a price. "Two hundred credits?"

McCoy gave a soft hoot of derision. "Jim, this man heah thinks we're

tourists."

"Gentlemen, please." The trader shook his head forlornly.

"Two hundred credits is a bargain for this item. Planetside, this would

cost close to three hundred. It's your good fortune that this station is

a backwater and demand for antiques is low." Spock reached out to

inspect the blade but McCoy had already taken it from Kirk's hand. The

trader donned a well-practiced expression of sincerity. "Of course, I'm

always willing to give Federation officers a special discount." McCoy

and Kirk smiled back as if they believed him. "Just how much of a

discount are these stripes worth?" Kirk flashed the cuff of his sleeve

over the counter. "For you, Captain, at least twenty-five credits."

Spock opened his mouth, then quickly closed it as McCoy shot him a

warning glance. The doctor turned the knife around and around, peering

critically at its surface. "The handle is cracked."

"It's very old," said the trader, jerking it out of McCoy's hands. "Age

leaves its traces." He profferred it to Kirk again. "One hundred and

fifty credits."

"And the blade's edge is dull," pointed out McCoy. A swift kick to

Kirk's shin cued the captain to lose interest. The man behind the

counter studied the effect of McCoy's comments on his customer. "The

edge is worn because the knife has been used, Captain. This was a

working weapon, not a decorative toy." Kirk's interest appeared to

revive somewhat, but his enthusiasm was not high. The trader's show of

exasperation approached a genuine emotion. "One hundred and twenty-five

credits, and that's my final offer." This time the Vulcan first officer

spoke aloud before McCoy could stop him. "If that price is acceptable,

the item is either a forgery or illegally obtained." At those words, the

trader whisked the knife out of Kirk's grasp and under the counter. "I'm

so sorry. This item is not for sale after all." He removed his smile as

well. "Jim, it wasn't a forgery," declared McCoy as the three of them

left the shop and resumed their walk down the corridor. "No, it wasn't."

Spock could not confirm their judgement since McCoy had not given him an

opportunity to study the weapon. "Doctor, if it was indeed a genuine

Tyrellian blade, then it was certainly smuggled out of the Tyrelli

System."

"We're starship officers, not Interstellar Customs." The Vulcan was

unmoved. "There is little satisfaction to be gained in the possession of

an artifact which has been removed from its planet of origin against the

wishes of its native population."

"No, I suppose not," said Kirk in what he hoped was a convincing tone.

"It would have been one helluva bargain," muttered McCoy with regret.

Kirk saw that the lines of battle were now clearly established, but

there was no time left for McCoy and Spock to indulge themselves in

verbal sparring. The long corridor came to an end in an arched portal.

Beyond the portal lay a large domed area, the center hub for the

wheel-shaped Wagner Trading Post. The eyes of the starship officers were

drawn to the spectacular view provided by the room's construction. Both

the deck and the dome itself were formed of faceted clearsteel which

allowed the rich inky-black texture of space to spread over, around, and

beneath them. Above the dome, gleaming softly like a small moon, the

U.S.S. Enterprise hung motionless on the dark velvet backdrop of space.

Walking across the transparent floor to the railing which marked the

curving wall, Kirk feigned a casual interest in the sight of his ship,

but deep within he felt the same knot of excitement he experienced each

time he saw her from a distance. His eyes eagerly traced the familiar

lines of the diskshaped primary hull and the slim nacelles which powered

it. Spock, too, walked up to the dome's edge, but he looked out, not up,

to inspect the four concentric circles of the space station structure.

"Wagner Post was designed by T'rall of Vulcan, though admittedly in her

youth, before the full scope of her engineering powers was developed."

Kirk beckoned to McCoy to join him, but the doctor stood rooted in the

center of the circular deck, his eyes calculating the distance to the

nearest exit. "I don't mind being in space so long as it keeps a low

profile." He pointed an accusing finger at the invisible surface beneath

his feet. "This is definitely letting it get out of hand." Spock looked

up from his inspection. "True, there is no functional necessity for this

architectural feature. However, it shows evidence of the aesthetic

influence of her Andorian training. Andorians are susceptible to

claustrophobia."

The soft chiming of a chronometer rang through the air, bringing Kirk's

attention back to duty. If he didn't hurry, he would be late for his

meeting with the station manager, a lapse which might be viewed as a

sign of military arrogance. Small space stations such as this one, s o

often ignored by a distant central government, were quick to take

offense when they were noticed. He reluctantly turned his back on the

Enterprise. Motioning to Spock, Kirk returned to the center of the room.

"Why, doctor, you look as green as my first officer."

"I'm not fond of heights," said McCoy irritably. "In the future I'll

know to avoid Andorian architecture. Hortas have the right idea--they

dig tunnels through solid rock."

Spock pointedly ignored the doctor's grumbling criticism. "Captain, we

are due to meet Post Manager Friel in eight point six minutes." He

pointed confidently to one of the eight portals, all seemingly

identical, that opened .into the dome. "That way."

"Coming, doctor?" asked Kirk, his legs straining to match his first

officer's long strides.

"No way," stated McCoy emphatically. He ducked his head as they passed

under three Pegasi hovering gracefully in the air. "I'm off-duty, which

means I can forgo official calls. This is a trading post, and I have

every intention of promoting interstellar commerce to the limits of my

credit line."

"Just stay out of trouble," called out Kirk as the doctor veered off in

another direction.

Led by Spock's unerring sense of direction, the two officers actually

arrived early. Unfortunately, they weren't early enough to suit Manager

Friel. "It's about time you got here," stormed a large, imposing woman

as they walked through the doors of her office.

Kirk suppressed a sigh of exasperation and prepared himself for an hour

or two of tiresome diplomacy. He feigned a smile and cast it in the

manager's direction. However, Friel made it immediately clear that her

impatience was not an expression of temperament, despite the reddish

glints in her hair and the fair Irish features of her face. "We're

receiving a Priority One distress call from an incoming freighter.

Captain claims they were attacked by a Klingon battleship."

Spock's eyebrows flew upwards. The corners of Kirk's mouth flew

downwards. "In Federation space?"

"I don't have the details," said Friel, sweeping a mountain of tape

cassettes and paper printouts from her desk onto the deck in order to

reach her computer terminal. She flicked a combination of switches that

brought forth the image of a slender cobalt-blue Andorian. "Timmo, have

you re-established contact with the Saucy Lady?"

"No," he whispered in the reedy tones of his race. Friel snapped off the

terminal with a moderately good rendition of an especially vile Orion

expletive.

"I couldn't agree more," said Kirk. He ignored Spock's obvious curiosity

concerning the translation. "What have you heard so far?"

"Static mostly. Timmo picked up the distress call fifteen minutes ago.

The priority code was clear enough, but the explanations were too

fragmented to get a full account of what happened. There was definitely

an attack," she insisted angrily, seeing the skepticism lurking in

Kirk's eyes. "Neil's an old spacedog. He's been on the Wagner run for

seven years and he doesn't get hysterical over an occasional sighting of

a Klingon battleship."

"An occasional sighting?" A slow burn worked its way up from Kirk's

collar to his face. "Just how often have Klingons crossed over into this

sector?"

Friel developed a rather unconvincing cough, but the delay was good for

only a few seconds. "Oh, well, now and again."

"When was the last time?"

Her attention was suddenly riveted by the tapes and papers scattered

across the floor. "Eight, maybe nine months ago."

"The truce negotiations were completed only last month," noted Spock.

The station manager addressed her reply to the impassive Vulcan rather

than face Kirk's stony rage directly. "We're all a long way from home

out here.

Klingon, Human, Andorian. After a few years of routine patrol, a crew

gets sick and tired of living on a ship. They need shore leave."

"And they're willing to pay top dollar for new provisions," said Kirk.

Friel shrugged. "I'm not a military post or a military target. I don't

shoot them and they don't shoot me. So what's the harm..." Her defense

was cut short by the bleep of her intercom. The communications tech

appeared back on the screen, his delicate antennae quivering with

agitation.

"Yes, Timmo?"

"Captain Neil on communication band 12," he announced.

Simultaneously, the broadcast from the freighter echoed into the office.

"... they need help in a bad way. One ship blasted--the other badly

crippled and leaking its guts out all over the sector. Need medical

assistance for heavy casualties and techies for engine repair. If it can

be repaired."

"Who needs help?" shouted Friel into the intercom. "Frenni merchant

caravan. Except it's not a caravan anymore. The Verella was destroyed

and the Selessan won't be going anywhere without help." Kirk drew a

sharp breath when he heard the ships named. He moved to the terminal.

"Who attacked them?"

"Klingons." The man's bitterness cut through the crackling of static.

"The caravan had established subspace contact--they were expecting trade

negotiations for ship's stores--but the battlecruiser attacked instead.

No explanation, no warning." The captain whisked out his communicator.

"Kirk to Enterprise," he called in a low voice, still keeping one ear

tuned to the report from the Saucy Lady. "... and we picked up their

distress call ten hours ago. I volunteered to change course and pick up

survivors, but they advised me to leave the sector fast and send back

armed rescue. So I got the hell outta there." Kirk's communicator beeped

in reply to his call. "Enterprise here, Captain."

"Cancel shoreleave, Lt. Uhura," he announced grimly. "Recall all

personnel to the ship and inform Mr. Scott that we'll be warping out of

orbit within the hour."

Chapter Two.

Captain's Log, Stardate 5302.1 Despite a recent truce which has

suspended formal hostilities and military engagements between the Empire

and the Federation, the Enterprise is responding to a report of Klingon

aggression... JIM KIRK BROKE off his narrative at the approach of his

first officer.

"Strictly speaking," said the Vulcan, moving to one side of the command

chair on the bridge, "Frenni space is not Federation territory."

"A civilian ship and its crew have been blasted to smithereens and

you're arguing the subtleties of diplomatic law," snapped McCoy from

Kirk's other side. "The distinction is hardly irrelevant, doctor,"

insisted Spock. "An attack against a neutral ship--in that ship's

territorydoes not constitute an attack against the Federation."

"He's right, Bones," said Kirk, stemming any more of McCoy's comments.

The captain amended his log entry accordingly. "By custom, the ancient

space routes of the Frenni race are invested with the rights of a

planetary system. These corridors of travel tunnel through both

Federation and Klingon space.

The nomadic merchants have 'maintained a strong neutral relationship

with both sides, a relationship based on commerce and trade. Now, for

reasons unknown, a Frenni merchant fleet has been attacked by the

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DreamsoftheRaven[030-066-5.0]ByParimountPicturesSynopsisAmerchantship'sfranticS.O.S.sendstheU.S.S.EnterpriseTMspeedingtotherescue!ButthestarshipsmissionofmercysoonbecomesadesperatestruggleforsurvivalagainstanightmarishenemyCaptainKirkcanneitheridentifynorunderstand,anenemyhemustdefeatwithouttheaidof...

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STAR TREK - TOS - 34 - Dreams Of The Raven

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