STAR TREK - TOS - 39 - Time For Yesterday

Time for Yesterday

by

Ann Crispin

This is a sequal to Yesterday's Son.

"THE PERSON WHO COMMUNICATED WITH THE GUARDIAN WAS MY SON...

Admiral Morrow looked at Spock incredulously.

"Your-" Kirk doubted that Morrow could have looked more thunderstruck if

the conference table had come to life and danced a hornpipe. It was a

full thirty seconds before the admiral could speak.

"I apologize, Mr. Spock ... but your personnel records never . . ."

He cleared his throat. "At any rate," Morrow continued, "the important

thing is that contact was established. What your son did once, he may

be able to do again. Where is he?"

"I am afraid that will be impossible, Admiral," Spock said levelly, but

something shadowed the dark eyes for a moment. "My son has been dead

for five thousand years."

POCKET BOOKS

New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

This novel 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.

Excerpt from "Me Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" from Collected Poems

the publisher.

E. E. Cummings. Reprinted from Complete Poems 1913-1962 by E. E

Cummings by permission of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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

Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright C 1988 Paramount Pictures Corporation.

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures Corporation.

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

Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures Corporation.

portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New

York, NY 10020

ISBN 0-671-70094-4

First Pocket Books printing April 1988

10 9 8 7 6 5 4

POCKET and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

This book is dedicated to my friend Deb Marshall, who patiently

listened, enthused (as only she can) and encouraged me from the moment

of Zar's conception, through the long years of gestation, and proudly

midwifed the printed birth with champagne, flowers and hugs.

Thanks, Deb.

Acknowledgments

For editorial criticism, advice, hand-holding and an occasional

(well-deserved) kick in the pants

The Whileaway Writers Co-op Teresa Bigbee, Deborah Marshall, Anne Moroz

and, of course, Kathleen O'Malley

(who is truly a rare bird, genus rubricatrix splendiferous)

Special thanks also to Jannean Elliott for patient, longdistance

listening My friends Howard Weinstein, Bob Greenberger and Dave

McDonnell Rusty Wornam, who discovered D'berahan's secret identity Also

Merrilee Heifetz, my agent-who sold it Karen"Haas-who bought it David

Stem-who edited it For scientific information pertaining to black holes

and other astronomical phenomena (any errors are exclusively my own)

Dr. Robert Harrington of the U.S. Naval Observatory, the man who saved

Centaurus from a horrible fate, for information on Alpha Centauri and

its three stars

INTRODUCTION

Trek story began emerging from the typewriter-Yesterday's Son. To be

honest, I didn't really write that book ... it wrote me.

I was obsessed. I bought a used IBM typewriter for 400 (a fortune to

me, then ... I had to borrow the money from my credit union and pay it

back at the rate of 18 a month, and there were times I scraped to make

that payment), but by that time, I'd have mortgaged my soul to keep

going.

Writing fever is worse than gold fever, and I had it bad.

Every night I'd call my long-suffering best buddy and read her whatever

I'd produced that day. It's a wonder Deb didn't move to Outer Patagonia

to escape.

By the time I was three chapters into the story, it had become more than

a lark, more than "just fooling around" -I wanted to sell that book. And

there was a little voice inside me that kept whispering I would sell it.

Even when I snarled at it to shut up, that the entire notion was nuts,

the little voice in the back of my head kept insisting that the book

would be published-somehow, someday. It whispered at me the entire year

it took to write the five drafts of the novel. It continued to whisper

when the manuscript was submitted. It whispered for the next three

years, while the fate of the book hung in limbo.

But you know the rest, if you read Howard Weinstein's introduction to

Yesterday's Son.

What you may not know is that the story not only got published, it

surprised everyone by becoming the first Star Trek book (excluding the

movie novelizations) to make it onto the New York Times bestseller list.

Since then, that occurrence has become fairly commonplace, but at the

time, it was a minor phenomenon.

(And you, the readers, were responsible for putting it there, so I'd

like to thank each and every one of you who plunked down your

hard-earned cash and bought the novel.

While I'm on the subject, thanks for buying this one, too' Maybe you

should pick up a second copy for a deserving friend, as long as you're

in the bookstore. I wouldn't object ... )

All kidding aside, the success of Yesterday's Son gave me the

opportunity to become a full-time writer, and I now realize that, all

those years ago, I was telling Mrs. Duckett the truth-I just didn't

know it then. I never wanted to be anything else than a writer.

But when Yesterday's Son was released in 1983, I thought I was finished

being a Star Trek writer. Zar's story was over, as far as I was

concerned.

Hah!

Then in 1985, I was sitting at my word processor, and my treacherous

mind suddenly said, "What if?" again. And, so fast I could scarcely

believe it (about a month, as I recall), I had a contract to write a

sequel ... the book you're holding in your hands.

Oddly enough, a couple of months after I contracted to write Time for

Yesterday, many of the fan letters I received began asking if I'd ever

considered doing a sequel to Yesterday's Son. Telepathy? Empathy? A

Star Trek group consciousness? Your guess is as good as mine ...

Speaking of fan letters brings me to my real reason for writing this.

Since the advent of my first Star Trek book, I've gotten literally

hundreds of letters. (Most with an SASE, bless you, Howie!) The

overwhelming majority have been the kind that gladden a writer's heart.

So far I've answered over five hundred, and am currently about fifty to

sixty behind. (I'm always behind, so if you write me c/o Pocket Books,

please be patient. If you just want a quick response to a specific

question, or an autograph, try enclosing a stamped, self-addressed

postcard.)

I love hearing from fans, please believe me. I really enjoy knowing

what you think about what I've written. However, answering dozens of

letters does take time away from my writing schedule. Especially since

fully three-quarters of the folks who write ask me the same question. So

I'm taking this opportunity to respond en masse to that most-oftenasked

question, which is

I have written a Star Trek book of my own. How do I get it read and

published?"

I'm truly sorry to say this, but you probably don't.

Pocket Books no longer reads unsolicited Star Trek manuscripts, as they

did back in 1979 when Yesterday's Son was submitted. Due to the

overwhelming number of submissions they have received, they now only

read and purchase manuscripts submitted by professional literary agents.

My editor tells me that they currently have books scheduled for years

from now.

So what is my best advice for people who want to sell a Star Trek book?

It's to write an original book or two set in your own universe. Rewrite

until your book is good enough to publish (aye, there's the rub!) and

then keep submitting it to publishers until it's sold.* When that

happens, you'll be able to get an agent without much difficulty. Your

agent will submit your Star Trek novel, it will be read, then maybe

Pocket Books will want to buy it. (And, yes, they're the only company

with the legal right to publish Star Trek novels.)

Unless you're dead-set on becoming a professional writer, that's a lot

of trouble to put yourself through just to get a Star Trek book

submitted. And nobody makes a decent living off simply writing Trek

novels. You can't sell enough of them.

If you're dead-set on becoming a professional writer, my advice is about

the same Write in your own universe, sell your books, get a reputation

in the field, then Pocket Books will be pleased to read your Star Trek

manuscript when your agent submits it.

Believe me, I understand the attraction writing Star Trek stories has

for Star Trek fans. It's a siren lure ... wanting to put words in the

mouths of characters we know and love so well. And for me (and for

other writers I know), part of the enticement is that it's much easier

to write Star Trek stories than to write original stories.

To me, writing a Star Trek novel is like swimming in a nice heated pool.

You grow tired, you get exercise, but it's comparatively effortless.

But, as I discovered when I began working on other original stories,

plotting one of my own novels, or the first book in my upcoming Star

Bridge series, writing in my own universe was like trying to swim in the

cold ocean surf. You have to work harder just to stay afloat; making

headway is slow, difficult going. (For example, I've been working on

o ne book of mine, Suncastle, for five years.)

But writing stories set in your own universe is infinitely worthwhile

... though there are times when you have to keep reminding yourself of

that. There are days when you feel as though you can't write another

page, another paragraph ... sometimes even another word.

But you do. If you're a writer, you can't stop.

Best of luck to all of you out there. Here's hoping you enjoy reading

Timefor Yesterday half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Ann Crispin August 1987

Historian's Note Time for Yesterday takes place after the events

chronicled in Star Trek The Motion Picture and Howard Weinstein's novel

Deep Domain.

Prologue

SECOND-IN-WAR CLETAS PACED nervously before the guarded door to his

Sovren's office, toes squashing inside his boots with every stride. Even

through the thick stone walls of the fortress, he could still hear the

dull booms of thunder, the furious hissing of the rain. His dark gray

cloak was black with water; it dripped soggily, but Cletas barely

noticed the discomfort-he was too tired, too worried, too miserable.

The torches in their wall sconces flickered in the draft as the door

opened and Voba, the Sovren's aide, peered out.

"You can come in now," he whispered, stepping into the hall. "Ingev and

Reydel are just finishing up their report on the range we can expect

from the new-what do they call them?-catapults."

Cletas beckoned to the aide-de-camp, a short, slight man with reddish

hair and a comical blob of a nose. "How is he tonight?" he asked,

pitching his voice for Voba's ears alone.

The wiry little man shrugged. "The damp is playing rough with his leg,"

he said, sotto voce. "But is it true what I heard? That today the High

Priestess of the Danreg foretold-"

Cletas silenced the aide-de-camp with a glare, knowing that his refusal

to speak would be taken as assent, even so.

Voba flushed angrily as he signaled the guards to open the door.

Cletas stepped into the study, a small, almost cozy chamber in

comparison to the rest of the fortress. His empty stomach lurched, then

knotted with anxiety. As the three figures seated at the massive inlaid

table turned toward them, Voba announced formally, "Second-in-War Cletas

requests audience, sire."

" It looks more like Second Cletas should be requesting a hot meal and

bath," the Sovren said, his mouth quirking in what Cletas, from long

association, recognized as a smile.

"Come in and shed that waterlogged cloak! You're dripping on my rug."

Cletas swung the steaming folds off his shoulders, nodding to Ingev and

Reydel, First and Second Heavy Weapons Commanders, as he crossed the

planked floor (avoiding the brightly woven blue rug with his wet

footgear), then saluted and dropped to one knee, head bowed. "My

liege."

"Tonight is hardly the night for formality, Cletas," his Sovren said

mildly, one slanting eyebrow rising with amusement. "Sit down and ask

Voba to help you off with those boots. I could hear you squashing from

out in the hall."

As Voba wrestled with the Second's feet, the Sovren turned back to his

other two officers. "So we can expect nearly twice the range of the

experimental model?" he asked. "What about the size of the stones?"

"We can adjust the size of the throwing-cup from that of twice a man's

helmet to nearly half a meter in diameter, sire," Ingev reported. "Of

course, the heavier the stone, the shorter the range. Perhaps 450

meters at most for the biggest missiles, those weighing more than

twenty-five kilograms."

"Good. Shore up the bankings on the paths they must travel and check

the drainage."

"Yes, sire," Ingev and Reydel murmured, rolling up their vellum lists

and drawings.

"Voba, please bring the Second something to eat," the Sovren said to his

aide-de-camp, as Cletas moved his chair to join them at the table. "Will

you have sufficient troops and draft vykar to move all six of the

machines, Commander Ingev?"

Ingev, a short, squat man with the bowed legs of a cavalryman, exchanged

a sideways look with his tall blond Second-in-Command. "We could use

another 120 troops, my liege," he said, after a moment's thought.

"Twenty for each machine."

"Very well. Cletas, see to it that Commander Ingev is detailed 120 of

your auxiliary infantry. Most of them should have time to rejoin their

companies before they engage. The catapults will only be useful while

the enemy is crossing the Redbank, before we engage."

The Second-in-War caught himself before he could grimace outright, but

the keen gray eyes opposite him had picked up his reluctance, he knew

... they missed very little. "As you order, sire," he said, stiffly.

Ingev and Reydel were already standing. "Have we your leave, sire?"

"Of course," the Sovren nodded, sketching a salute in answer to theirs.

"Try to get some sleep."

As their footsteps faded in ' the hall outside, Cletas turned to his

Sovren, his protest no longer hidden. "A hundred and twenty infantry

fighters, my liege! That's a whole company and more I may lose if they

can't rejoin their ranks. And for what-to nursemaid and push along

those-those-" he sputtered to a halt, realizing he was on the verge of

insubordination. "Why, sire?"

"Because, Cletas my friend, those catapults may spell the difference

between outright defeat and stalemate for us. I don't dare even think

the word 'victory'-that would be rank folly considering the odds we

face." The Sovren's lean face was hard and drawn beneath his clipped

black beard and moustache, and his gray eyes held his Second's with a

bleak intensity. "But the Asyri, the Kerren, and the Danreg have never

seen anything like what we've so painstakingly built, and the terror

their hordes will feel when faced by a sky raining boulders will cause

them even more harm than the rocks themselves."

"But can you be sure the things will actually work in a combat

situation? They've never been tried-"

"Oh, yes, they have. Not here, not now. But they'll work.

Have I been wrong before?"

Cletas ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair in tired resignation,

thinking of all the changes the Sovren had introduced in the twenty

years he'd known him. New ways ofcounting, oftneasuring, even

ofspeaking and reading ...

lamps, drainage systems, schooling the children, riding the vykar in

addition to hitching them to wagons, better armor, smelling iron instead

of the softer, more malleable bronze ...

"No, my liege. You haven't been wrong," he admitted.

"Still . . ." He grinned ruefully. "I wish we didn't have to try them

for the first time in the last battle we both may see.

If you've finally made a mistake, I'd hate to miss the chance to sa. "I

told you so."

His Sovren's mouth- softened into a genuine, rare smile.

"I'll keep your wish in mind." He rolled up a parchment map, his hard,

long-fingered hands moving with his customary quick efficiency. "Did

you meet with your spies, or did they all drown on the way?"

"We met, sire," Cletas said. "The situation hasn't changed much.

Heldeon of Danreg Ford has set up camp on the northern slope of Big

Snowy, and this afternoon the War Queen Laol and Rorgan Death-Hand met

with him there.

They talked for about two hours, then rejoined their troops.

"My informant said that the meeting was interrupted by the discovery of

three spies, which caused some finger pointing, but then they calmed

down and shared wine and broke bread like the best of friends. Even the

rain couldn't damp the greed in their eyes as they looked down at New

Araen."

The Sovren's face retained its usual impassivity, but Cletas was quick

to note the sagging of his big shoulders.

"So we can't even hope they'll cut a few of each other's throats before

they open ours," he said softly, bitterly. "And with this rain still

continuing, Moorgate Plain will be so soft the enemy will scarcely need

shovels to dig our graves.

Presuming they have the decency to bury us, which is doubtful."

Cletas nodded, knowing that, although he could no longer hear the

downpour outside, his ruler could. "If this rain keeps up, we might as

well forget about fighting. The troops won't be able to march, the

catapults won't roll, and the cavalry will look like pottery figures

ready for firing."

"We'll need two days of sun in order to have decent footing."

"I know," Cletas agreed, staring gloomily into the savory stew Voba slid

in front of him. Absently, he broke off a chunk of hard reddish bread

and began chewing on it. "We may be forced to abandon the cavalry

flanks if the ground is this bad. After all that drilling . . ." he

sighed. -Vykar Troop Commander Yarlev will cry, you know."

The Sovren ignored the levity this time, his eyes intent on his Second's

face. "The meeting with your spies and scouts," he said. "How did it

go? Something is disturbing you. I could feel it as soon as I saw

you."

Cletas shivered a little, thinking of all the times his Sovren had

somehow sensed matters that he would have rather kept secret. At times

it frightened him to realize that this man, so different physically from

his adopted people, was also different inside. He thought differently,

in some manner Cletas couldn't explain. He could sense thoughts and

emotions and, sometimes, the coming of death.

"I'm sorry, old friend," the Sovren said gently. "Did I rattle you

again? You ought to be used to it by now. But what about the rest of

your report? Is the Redbank still flooded? Has the High Priestess of

the Danreg pronounced the battle oracle yet? When will they march?"

"No," Cletas said heavily, "she hasn't pronounced it yet.

We know that Heldeon's people-and, for the moment at least, we can

include Rorgan Death-Hand's Asyri and Laol's Clan Kerren also-won't

fight without it. As for the river, my sources estimated that they

won't be able to cross the Redbank until day after tomorrow at the

earliest. More likely three days."

The Sovren watched him intently as Cletas spooned gravy onto his bread.

"Then what did happen today? Voba knew something, too ... I could

tell. What is it?"

The Second took a huge bite of the gravy-sopped bread and chewed, while

trying desperately to think of a way to phrase his news. Perhaps if he

started with the plan he'd developed, it wouldn't seem so ... final.

Cletas swallowed the bread, aided by a swig of rochab wine. "The High

Priestess, Wynn," he began, "is Heldeon's daughter, in addition to her

service to the Goddess."

"So?"

"She's a widow, who lost husband and child two years ago in an Asyri

raid. Not a lass anymore, but still of bearing age, my liege ... they

say her father values her counsel more than any of his clan chiefs. And,

it's reported, likely looking ... tall, with-"

"I repeat, so?" The Sovren's voice was as hard and flat as his eyes now,

and Cletas felt himself flinching away from the palpable wave of anger

emanating from his ruler.

"Explain what all this has to do with her battle oracle, damn it!"

..Sire," Cletas met those nearly colorless eyes, then, all his

resolutions toward subtlety forgotten, blurted, "it's been nearly a

score of years now since the Lady Araen-the Goddess keep her-passed the

Final Veil. If you wish, it could be a matter of State, no true union!

Consider it, my liege, please!"

"Cletas, if you're implying what I think you're implying, you're out of

line." The Sovren's face was drawn, its harsh, angular planes making him

appear almost inhuman. "if I've misread your admittedly disjointed

statement, then clarify your meaning."

"My meaning, sire, is this If the High Priestess Wynn could be captured

before she can pronounce the oracle for the coming battle, then the

Danreg will be thrown into confusion. Their troops may even refuse to

march."

One slanted brow rose in surprise. "Hmm ... Cletas, that's a far more

logical suggestion than most of the ones the Council voiced today. Do

you think a small raiding party could engineer such a capture?"

"I would volunteer to lead it personally, my liege," Cletas said.

"Tonight." He braced himself. "However, that only constitutes the first

part of my plan, sire. Once the woman is within our walls, it may be

possible to . . ." he hesitated, searching for words, "it may be

possible to ... reason ...

with her. Convince her that an alliance by marriage would benefit both

our peoples. Bride-raiding is common among the Danreg, something they

will excuse if done for the purpose of honorable marriage."

With an abrupt, furious movement, the Sovren stood up and turned his

back on his Second-in-War. Cletas went on, stubbornly, "Heldeon's

people hold the ties of blood-kin and marriage-kin so sacred that they

would never fight against one of their own. If you could convince this

woman to ally with you in a State handfasting, Heldeon might even be

moved tojoin our cause. At worst, he would withdraw his troops to avoid

the sin of raising sword against one who is blood-by-marfiage."

As Cletas finished, the Sovren began pacing, and even his limp (caused

by a spear he'd taken through his left thigh years ago) could not mask

STAR TREK - TOS - 39 - Time For Yesterday

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