STAR TREK - TOS - 52 - Home Is the Hunter

Home is the Hunter

by

L. A. Graf

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.

The plot and background details of Home Is the Hunter are solely the

author's interpretation of the .universe of STAR TREK and vary in some

reec from the universe as created by Gene Roddenberry.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster 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,

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 0-671-66662-2

First Pocket Books printing December 1990

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster.

Printed in the U.S.A.

Historian's Note

This adventure takes place shortly after the events chronicled in Star

Trek The Motion Picture.

Chapter One

Sulu AWOKE in the middle of a battle.

He awoke, but didn't open his eyes at first. His mind told him, quite

logically, that he could not possibly be where he thought he was. I'm

not really in a battle. I'm not awake yet, I'm still dreaming.

A clang again, steel on steel, and the kind of shout that demanded

attention. Even if this were a dream, he had to see it. Opening his

eyes, he peered through the coarse grass and spat out a mouthful of

grit.

Yes, ahead there were about a dozen men, or at least there were a lot of

waving arms and swinging weapons.

I'm dreaming all right, Sulu thought, not daring to believe his eyes.

Whatever this dream was, it was a good one. "Ballet of death" was an

over used phrase, and yet it fit these samurai in the midst of pitched

battle.

Sulu leapt to his feet and discovered he was wearing laminar armor. So

much the better. He reached for his katana, with the assurance of a

dreamer that it would be there. It was. He ran, or rather waddied,

with the ungainly speed armored men had known for the history of

warfare, slashing, cutting, screaming at whatever moved. But he was

still too far from the center of the fighting to do much more than lop

off some branches of offending trees. He called out a challenge to the

nearest soldiers--and in the finest classical Japanese. Yes, this was a

super-fine dream.

When he woke up, he promised himself to really learn the language of his

forebears.

The exertion left him giddy, his thoughts moving like thick mud. He was

also sweating and breathless as he took stock of the fight. The adage

"fight smart" had been drilled into him too well for him to go tumbling

off like this, even in a fantasy battle, although he was beginning to

notice that this fantasy was pretty gritty.

The cold suspicion that this wasn't a dream flirted with his

consciousness, but he told himself that was impossible.

A small column of samurai still held the road some yards ahead. A

palanquin sat in the road, defended by four women slashing with

naginalas. Then the noble-woman stepped from behind the curtains, a

small sword in her hands, joining her personal maids in the final

assault. The soldiers were fast giving ground to the attackers, who

seemed more like a mob of brigands than anything else.

Sulu shook his head. This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream.

Besides, a lady was in trouble, he concluded.

Sulu belted out his best kei and ran hell-bent at the attackers, his

sword slashing across a man's chest. The man cried out as he went down,

and the warmth of the splattered blood stopped Sulu.

And a warning screamed in Sulu's mind It's no dream/You just cut down a

human being as if he were kindling/

Sulu stepped back, reality versus fantasy smashing against his brain. It

was real. It couldn't be real. He had been... where? Not here.

Fleeting recollections of the Enterprise, and then there had been a

flash...

There was an empty space in his mind that he could almost feel, as if it

were a physical block.

He was alerted by the furious screams of the others attacking him. The

first man was still writhing on the ground. Sulu took a defensive

stance and knew he was in trouble. He couldn't kill. He wouldn't...

except they were clearly not hampered by such constrictions.

The movements came to him as if he'd always known them, and yet he

overrode the compulsion to take men's lives. Instead every blow was

carefully aimed at an extremity--to disable rather than kill.

He slashed to his right, cutting down a man who was blindsiding him,

while blocking a blow from the left with his sia, or scabbard. With a

fluid motion he supported the back of the razor-sharp blade of his

sword, blocking a blow from the front, then stabbed another man behind

him as he spun the sword around to dispatch still another who raced at

him. The blood sprayed from the blade in a haze of red. Too deep, he'd

cut too deep. My God, my God...

He blocked the downward slash of a naginata wielded by one of the

brigands, sliding down its long wooden haft and disengaging to cut the

legs out from his next opponent. It took on an unreal slow motion, each

cut and parry by the numbers, a mindless and deadly dance. Very soon he

stood alone, the pile of moaning bodies surrounding him.

He found his voice and cried out, "What's happening?

What am I doing here? Who are you? Tell me!

Now!"

And then, as if on cue, each of his opponents suddenly trembled and

died. Just like that.

He spun in place, confused, not understanding.

Then he saw their faces, framed in a rictus of death, and he understood.

Poison. Possibly concealed under their tongues, or secreted on their

person. Death was an acceptable, even preferred, substitute for

capture.

His mind struggled to comprehend.

Shaking, he turned back to the palanquin, his head bowed in pain and

shock. Sulu forced himself to look 'up. One man stood protecting the

lady, surrounded by his own share of defeated enemy. Two of her maids

were still alive, and perhaps a half dozen of the soldiers from the

column.

Sulu bowed to the man--although it was his body, not his mind, that

seemed to be in charge.

The man barked out, "Who are you?"

"Suru," he said, and frowned. He wondered why'he 'couldn't pronounce

his name correctly, but of course in Japanese there is no "letter l,"

and he was speaking Japanese. "Heihachiro, my lord," he replied,

smiling to himself as he gave the name of "Starfleet's Commanding

Admiral," Heihachiro Nogura.

A voice like the tinkling of bells said to him, "I am the Lady Oneko.

You have served me well." The woman stood, both fragile as a reed and

strong as a sword blade, almost disdainfully ignoring the blood that

clung to her silken outer robe. Sulu caught his breath at her beauty.

She was an ancient painting come to life, all the more glorious for the

exotic, almost jarring perfection of her white-powdered face and red

lips.

He noted that she was only a gift, a child-woman probably not yet out of

her teens. Her ivory face and almond eyes were framed in demure beauty

by a cascade of black hair, artfully draped over her shoulders, where it

flowed back to be caught up in a ribbon. She wore an outer silk kimono

of peach lined with blood red, and the layers of her other robes peeked

out at her throat like a field of brilliantly colored wildflowers. She

was carefully wrapping the now sheathed small sword in a bag of silk

brocade. When she was done, she tucked it, cocooned in its innocence,

back into the belt of her robes.

She looked up, barely brushing his eyes with hers.

Sulu felt as if he had been hit in the gut with a phaser stun. The

feeling was not rational, or logical, but it was there. She returned to

her palanquin.

A tall gray-haired man, handsome by any standard, strode to his side. "I

am Watanenabe Sadayo. 'Suru,' eh? 'The one who tries." But I think

that the word 'suru' is also a pickpocket. Hmm," he said, scanning Sulu

up and down. "You will return to the castle with me. The lord will

wish to reward you. Take a horse from these brigands and follow me."

Sulu stood there, trying to digest what was happening. Should he just

stay where he was? And do what? Wait for more brigands to show up?

Perhaps he wouldn't be as lucky the next time.

"Why are you standing there?" came the no-nonsense demand. "Is there

something wrong with the offered hospitality and reward of my lord?"

Sulu realized that if he inadvertently challenged someone's honor, there

was going to be swordplay... and someone would die.

Which--if this was a dream--was immaterial.

But it wasn't. God help him, he was becoming more and more convinced of

that.

Sulu bowed quickly. "Of course not. Your hospitality is most

gracious."

"Then let us go quickly to the castle before we're accosted again," said

Sadayo

"What castle? Who is the lord?" Sulu asked, trying to shake the image

of the woman which was still burned into his mind's eye.

"Fushimi Castle. Torii Mototada-domo," the leader said, swinging up to

the saddle.

Wow, Sulu thought, Torii Motoraria. Sulu had some favorites among the

great samurai of history. His mother had quieted his restless childhood

spirit with the stories of Benkei and Yoshitsune, and the fortunes ,of

the House of Minamoto. As a teenager he had discovered the intricate

military politics of Hideyoshi and Tokugawa. And bushi, the w arrior

code of the samurai.

He rode on for hours, his thighs cramping from the unfamiliar activity.

Nevertheless, he rode tall and proud as they traveled along the great

Tokaido Road to meet with people from history that had died centuries

ago.

What in hell am I doing here? he thought.

Chapter Two

Centuries Later...

KIRK HAD LOST MEN BEFORE, heaven knew. Losing men was nothing new for

him. He'd lost men, women, and children. He'd seen planets struck down

by invaders or forces of feast or famine. He'd seen worlds destroyed,

suns collapsing on themselves, and starships swallowed by monstrosities

huge beyond comprehension.

Death and destruction, so much death. Enough to overshadow all the good

that he had done, and hopefully, would continue to do. But no matter

how much he faced death, he would never acknowledge that death was a

better man than he. Even though death would win, and continue to win,

and--sooner or later--triumph over James T. Kirk. It was a matter of

honor. Or perhaps just bull-headed stubbornness--as Dr. McCoy had said

more than once.

He placed a hand on the unmoving, lifeless body of Lieutenant Garrovick,

which lay in a small room adjacent to sickbay. Kirk winced at the ugly

wounds studding the lieutenant's face and upper torso. His clothes were

torn, and even though his face was lifeless, his final expression was

one of chagrin and pain.

Damn, but losing a crewman was hard, even after all this time.

Especially a crewman with whom he had a history, such as Garrovick,

whose father had once been Kirk's commanding officer--another man Kirk

had watched die.

".Bastards," he murmured. "Klingon bastards."

There was a soft footfall next to him, but Kirk didn't turn. He didn't

need to.

"Never gets easier, does it, Jim?" the doctor asked.

Kirk let out a slow sigh. "The day it gets easier is the day I go

behind a desk for good, Bones."

McCoy raised a bemused eyebrow. "Why? You think you can then calmly

and coldly give orders that send other people to their potential deaths?

Not you, Jim. You always feel that you can't order someone to do

something that you wouldn't do yourself. That's why you always lead

landing parties."

Kirk looked down at Garrovick once more. "Out of some misguided feeling

of honor?"

"No. You lead landing parties because you're a damned fool who thinks

he's going to live forever."

"Oh." Kirk's lips thinned. "Thank you for clarifying that."

"No problem. Jim, total faith in one's own immortality--that's the

province of the young."

Kirk shook his head and eyed the dead man. "A lot of good it did

Garrovick."

He turned and left sickbay. McCoy hesitated a moment, trying to decide

whether his captain was in a mood to talk or to be left alone. McCoy

was still unclear about the details of what in the world had gone wrong

on the surface of Cragon V, which spun gracefully, and deceptively,

peacefully below them. He knew that five men had gone down, and now four

men had come back... except now three of the four who had returned had

vanished to somewhere in the past.

He decided that remaining in ignorance wasn't going to do him a damned

bit of good... perhaps about as much good as it was going to do Kirk,

who was eating himself up over all of this.

McCoy knew that a short distance away sat a Klingon battle cruiser,

staring at the Enterprise, as helpless and as frustrated as the

Enterprise herself.

And sitting in sickbay staring at the walls wasn't going to help. McCoy

walked out, stopping only to pick up a flask of Romulan ale.

He entered Kirk's quarters and stopped dead still as Kirk aimed a phaser

at him. He sputtered a moment and then got out, "Good lord, Jim... have

my bills been that high?"

Kirk did not so much as crack a smile. Instead he aimed the phaser just

to McCoy's left and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened. Not so much as a faint whine of energy.

"Out of power?" asked McCoy, trying to appear nonplussed.

"Out of frustration," replied Kirk. He tossed the phaser onto a nearby

couch. "They're all like that. Every phaser on the damned ship. And

our ship's phaser banks, and the photon torpedoes. All thanks to that

blasted Weyland. I've got a man lying dead in sickbay, the individual

responsible sitting contentedly in his ship kilometers away... and I

can't do anything except..."

"Drink?" offered McCoy.

He kept the label of the Romulan ale away from Kirk so that he wouldn't

have to tolerate the captain's half-hearted protests. He poured Kirk a

swig, which the captain promptly tossed back. It hit his system the way

Romulan ale always did, and he gagged slightly. Kirk, graciously, didn't

say anything.

"So what happened?" asked McCoy.

Kirk made a slight, dismissive wave. "You don't want to know."

"No, of course not," said McCoy reasonably. "I just came here to watch

you act cranky and frustrated." The doctor's expression turned serious.

"Besides, Jim, you think you're the only one with responsibilities? You

lost a man. Well, I lost a patient. This situation is as much my

business as it is yours."

Kirk regarded McCoy a moment, fingers steepled. "For someone who had to

be practically dragged, kicking and screaming, back into Starfleet, it's

good to know you haven't lost your ability to annoy your commanding

officer."

"It's a knack."

Kirk nodded. Then he leaned forward and said, "All right. Here's what

happened..."

In many ways, Cragon V reminded Kirk of Organia. A world where the

people were hardworking and simple. The technology was, by Earth

standards, blindingly primitive. Also, like Organia, Cragon V was of

interest both to the Federation and the Klingons. Rather than having

strategic importance like Organia, Cragon had an abundance of minerals

that were of value both to the Federation and the Empire.

There were several other significant differences. First and foremost

Organians were not what they appeared to be. But the people of Cragon

were exactly what they appeared to be simple and easily influenced.

In the case of Organia, as well as other planets subsequently contested

under the Organian Peace Treaty, the Klingons and the Federation had

shown up at roughly the same time. Not so with Cragon, unfortunately.

In this case, the Federation had been caught flatfooted. Previous

mining surveys had been improperly carried out, and the Klingons were

sharp enough to slip into the gap and show up on the planet several

months before the Federation caught wind of it.

Kirk disliked many things, and high on that list was the idea of being

one step behind the Klingons on anything of importance--especially when

the lives of an innocent people were at stake.

Kirk stopped momentarily as the landing party drew up short to wait for

him. He took a deep breath, the fresh air of Cragon tingling in his

lungs. As much as he loved the Enterprise, and as carefully as the air

inside the starship was treated to simulate a real environment, it still

was not the same as standing on a genuine planet, breathing in fresh

air.

Chekov stepped up to his silent captain, concerned. As security chief,

it was his job to be concerned. "Is there a problem, Keptin?" he asked.

"No. No problem."

Lieutenant Garrovick smiled. "The captain has his own way of doing

things, and tends to set his own schedule."

Kirk glanced slyly at the lieutenant. Most subordinate officers tended

to walk on eggshells with Kirk, but not Garrovick, who had served with

Kirk before. In fact, Garrovick had seen Kirk when the captain was

probably at his lowest point emotionally, dealing with his guilt over

his failure to respond to a threat, a bloodsucking cloud. It had been

with the help of then-ensign Garrovick that Kirk had been able to

finally destroy the creature.

Garrovick had received Kirk's highest recommendations and had been

briskly promoted. Now, when Kirk's return to the Enterprise had been

announced, Garrovick had requested transfer to the starship that had

been his first deep-space assignment. Kirk had cheerfully welcomed him

aboard, and Garrovick had been made Chekov's right-hand man.

In that position, Garrovick qualified as a member of the landing party

for the Cragon expedition. Montgomery Scott had been selected for his

engineering expertise and his ability to assess firsthand the

technological state of Cragon--and, most importantly, whether the

Klingons had seriously affected the status quo of the planet. Sulu was

there too, since he had once been assignedwearly in his careertto a

three-month observation of a planet remarkably similar to Cragon. Chekov

and Garrovick were there to provide security support. Kirk would have

liked to bring a platoon, but attention to the Prime Directive meant

trying not to come stomping through people's backyards with a veritable

army. It would give the wrong impression of the Federation, since that

type of force was not what the Federation was all about.

A pity, Kirk had thought glumly, that the Klingons felt no similar

constraint.

"Quite right, Mr. Garrovick," the captain said briskly. "A schedule

that we have to keep. Let's press on, gentlemen."

"The castle is just ahead, Keptin," Chekov informed him, stepping

carefully through the underbrush.

"Good," said Kirk, carefully picking a bramble from his uniform.

Scotty was muttering under his breath. "What the devil is the good of

transporter technology if it drops us off in the middle of nowhere?"

Kirk didn't bother to answer. Scotty knew the answer perfectly

welltwith less developed societies, the Federation felt it was best not

to openly display advanced technology.

The castle was indeed ahead, perched high atop a steep hill. Scotty's

breathing was labored and he thumped his stomach. "Glory, I'm out of

shape. Only one thing for it."

"Exercise?" suggested Sulu. "You could take up running, or perhaps

fencing..."

"Exercise, Mr. Sulu?" Scotty looked at him with exaggerated disdain.

"I'm talking shore leave. Some time away."

"This from the man who used to turn down shore leave so he could read

technical journals," Kirk said, brushing leaves out of his hair. He

stopped to kick mud off his boots against a tree.

"I know how he feels," said Sulu. "I could use some heavy duty R and R

myself."

"Maybe a week on a pleasure planet?" Chekov asked wistfully. "No, home.

I really want to go home for a while."

"San Francisco?" Scotty asked.

"No, I mean a real home. Japan, the way it was a few hundred years

ago." Sulu's eyes glistened. "Yes, someplace where a man could really

believe in living and dying for his king and country. Sometimes I

almost envy the Romulans, and the Klingons, too. Their life is simple."

Scotty was about to chide Sulu for his rather militaristic outlook at

life. But then he thought of the claymore that hung on the wall of his

cabin. As much as he pooh-poohed Sulu for his fencing and romantic

pretensions, Scott's heart swelled with pride at the long tradition of

the Scots soldiers, a simple world of right and wrong.

"Yes," Chekov said thoughtfully, "a week in my homeland, sitting in a

dacha with a glass of vodka, and a .pretty girl, and the sound of

balalaika music..." But what he saw in his mind was the last Pan-Soviet

May Day Parade he had attended. And the strains of his national anthem

hummed in his mind. How much his nation had endured, and how lroud he

was.

If they were lesser officers, Kirk would have re minded them that they

should be on their toes. But he knew that their easy familiarity and

chat was not distracting one iota from their attention to their duty and

to their surroundings. Nevertheless, as they climbed up the steep hill

that led to the castle where the ruler of Cragon was ostensibly in

residence, Kirk felt constrained to say something.

"Careful, gentlemen," he said with humor. "You should always be wary of

what you wish for. You may get it."

Chapter Three

Scotland, 1746 Scott woke up with a galactic headache, and a peculiar

chill to his hindquarters. He reached down and felt a bare hairy leg.

That woke him, and he sat up, the contents of his brain pan lurching

around like thick coolant.

"Ach," he groaned, covering his eyes protectively with one hand, his

other propping him up on the very muddy ground. The chill wind was

making his sinuses ache, and the light was bright enough to make his

STAR TREK - TOS - 52 - Home Is the Hunter

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