Faces of Fire Read online

  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.

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  Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

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  ISBN: 0-7434-2009-8

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

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  For Gene Roddenberry

  Historian's Note

  This story begins on Stardate 3998.6, which would place it about halfway through the starship Enterprise's original five-year mission.

  Prologue

  AS KIRUC ADVANCED on the ancient, abandoned observation post, he naturally anticipated the possibility of a trap. Certainly, it had all the makings of one.

  First, the way he'd been summoned—the secrecy and mystery surrounding it, not to mention the anonymity of the summoner. Then, the location—secluded, unfamiliar to Kiruc, rife with potential hiding places—especially now, in the blackness of night. And finally, the instruction to leave his men behind as he approached.

  He glanced back over his shoulder at Zibrat and Torgis. They looked like hunting beasts tethered against their will, prevented from accompanying him, though their duty as his bodyguards was clear. Recalling the vehemence and persistence of their protests, he smiled a thin smile and turned again to face his destination.

  The observation post was a dark and craggy thing, looming up out of the colorless hills like a swamp spider. A one-eyed swamp spider, for a single window of the place was illuminated with a faint, orange light.

  His every Klingon sense cried out danger. Like anyone of his political stature, Kiruc had no lack of enemies. Any one of them might have arranged this encounter, using his curiosity as bait. And yet, he hadn't dared ignore the invitation.

  Because if he was right about who had called him here, so far from the imperial space routes, the greater danger by far would have been not to come.

  As Kiruc got closer to the post, he could make out the individual buildings that comprised it. They were squat, stark, designed entirely for function and not esthetics. None of them had been used in half a century, since the Klingons subjugated the last of their enemies along this border and incorporated their worlds into the body of the empire.

  Fifty meters from the outermost structure, he discerned Klingon silhouettes among the shadows. Instinctively, his hand wandered to his hip, where his empty holster reminded him of that other condition he'd been given: no weapons, not even a dagger.

  Not that a single disruptor could have made a difference anyway. If this was truly a snare fashioned by his enemies, he would certainly be vastly outgunned—and he was out here in the open, whereas his adversaries could take advantage of concealment.

  Perhaps, then, the silhouettes were a good sign. An indication that he'd been right about whom he was meeting. On the other hand, maybe they were just a decoy, a way of enticing him to come closer so his adversaries could get off a better shot.

  He would know the truth before very long. Clenching his teeth, he narrowed the gap. In the distance, a winged predator shrieked, calling out its claim on some earthbound prey. An omen? His father would have said so. But then, his father was a superstitious man.

  And I am not, he told himself. I am of the new breed, one who makes use of the superstitions of others. Still, it was difficult to ignore the uncanny timeliness of the flyer's cry.

  Kiruc was close enough now to see more than just silhouettes. He could see faces—hard eyes, cruelly shaped mouths. Having had ample experience in judging men at a glance, he could tell these were not the average run of hired warriors. These were specialists.

  And that gave even more credence to his theory.

  Holding his arms up, he showed them he was unarmed. Once they saw that, they swarmed around him, surrounded him. They themselves were armed to the teeth, some of them even holding disruptor rifles at the ready.

  But he was not jostled. He was not treated roughly. In fact, he almost had the feeling he was being protected.

  One of the men gestured—a sharp, quick chop with the barrel of his pistol. It seemed he was the leader. As he headed back toward the heart of the installation, the others followed. Kiruc went with them.

  They negotiated a path around this building and that, all the time getting nearer to the main edifice, the one that held that baleful eye of a window. A dark figure was visible now in the soft glow, someone who seemed to be standing with his hands locked behind his back, watching.

  At the door to the edifice, Kiruc found additional warriors—even more than he had expected. He had the feeling that there were weapons trained on him that he couldn't see.

  Then the door opened and he was ushered through. The place was as stark inside, he noted, as outside. Just a few pieces of severe furniture, the kind an administrator would have had in the days when this post was operational, were caught in the meager light of a single standing fixture.

  But his gaze didn't linger on the furnishings. It was drawn to the Klingon who stood by the window—the massive form that turned as he entered and fixed him with his gaze, one eye still hidden in the shadows.

  "Leave us," the massive one said. His voice was deep, strident, commanding.

  Kiruc expected the warriors to protest. They did not. Without a single word, they filed out; the last one closed the door behind him.

  "Sit," the figure commanded. With a casual sweep of his arm, he indicated a chair beside a large, gray desk.

  Inclining his head slightly, Kiruc did as he was told. The room smelled musty. There were spiderwebs in the corners where the walls met the ceiling, and patterns of dust on the floor.

  The figure moved toward another chair, one closer to the light. As he left the concealment afforded by the shadows, his features were thrown into stark relief.

  Even though Kiruc had suspected all along who had summoned him, the sight of the man still came as a shock to him. He swallowed involuntarily.

  Careful, he told himself. It was important not to show weakness. And to be caught off-guard was most definitely a weakness.

  As his host sat, there was silence. Their eyes met and locked. "You know who I am?"

  Kiruc nodded. "You are my emperor."

  Kapronek, the most powerful being
in the Klingon empire, grunted. "Very good. First, I should tell you this: I have not brought you here to threaten harm to you or your kinsmen."

  "I am relieved," Kiruc replied in earnest.

  The emperor's eyes bore into him. They were a pale and startling sea green—very unusual for a Klingon. "What have you heard about the 'loyal opposition,' Kiruc, or, to use their proper name, the Gevish'rae?"

  Ah. So that was what this was about. The rise of the Gevish'rae—the clans of the homeworld's southern continent, thoughtless fools who would plunge the empire into premature war with the Federation. The Gevish'rae—literally, the Thirsting Knives.

  Kiruc thought for a moment. "I have heard they are gaining ground in the council," he responded. "Increasing their influence."

  Kapronek harrumphed. "That is a polite way of putting it. The Gevish'rae are sending my councillors to early retirements—by whatever means seems most expedient in each case. Some they are buying off; others they simply assassinate, blaming their deaths on one obscure blood feud or another."

  The visitor nodded. His intelligence had been accurate, then; his spies were to be commended.

  The emperor's lip curled in savage and magnificent disdain. "Noisemakers like Dumeric and Zoth are gaining in stature. And the proud and noble Kamorh'dag—my people and yours, who have ruled the empire for ten generations—are sinking like a herd of puris in a salt-marsh."

  An apt image, Kiruc mused. In his youth, he had seen a puris sink in a marsh east of his family's hereditary lands. Too bad, too. The beast had been fat and sleek; it would have fetched a hefty price at market.

  What's more, puris were indigenous only to the northern continent—like the Kamorh'dag themselves. That lent the image an additional shade of meaning.

  "We are losing our grip on the empire," Kiruc's host went on. "We are dying. For I assure you, once the Gevish'rae gain the upper hand in council, they will not be as tolerant of us as we have been of them."

  All very likely true, Kiruc conceded. Still, what did it have to do with him? What role did the emperor have in mine for Kiruc, son of Kalastra?

  Kapronek looked at him with hooded eyes, the eyes of a hunter. Not a puris but a bird of prey. "I will not see my people trampled, Kiruc. I will not see the empire brought down by southern-continent barbarians. And I most definitely will not give up my throne without a fight." A pause. "Emperor Kahless, the most famous Kamorh'dag of all, warned us of times like these, when our rule would be challenged. You are familiar with his teachings?"

  The visitor nodded. "I am." In fact, he had been a student of Kahless for years, ever since he gained access to the family library as a youth.

  "I thought you would be. Do you recall his advice? In his Ramen'aa?"

  The words were very much alive in Kiruc's memory. He recited them out loud: "Darkness will fall. Enemies will circle us 'round and 'round, their swords as numerous as the trees of the forest. But we will not yield. We will wear faces of fire."

  "And what does this mean to you, this phrase faces of fire?"

  "According to the commentaries I've read, it has two meanings. One pertains to the quality of determination—in other words, if one's strength of will is great enough, he can surmount any obstacle."

  "And the second meaning?" the emperor asked.

  "A reference to one's skill at deception. An admonition to remain circumspect in all one's dealings—particularly with one's enemies, or potential enemies."

  Kapronek made a sound of approval deep in his throat. "Very good." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing to slits. "I've chosen well, it seems."

  Kiruc shifted his weight in his seat. His heart was beating hard, but he dared not show it. "How may I serve you?" he asked.

  The emperor sat back again and smiled grimly. "How indeed."

  Chapter One

  AS CAPTAIN JAMES T. KIRK entered sickbay, he saw Leonard McCoy standing in front of one of the new biomonitors that hung over each bed. The doctor was shaking his head in dissatisfaction.

  "Bones?" the captain interrupted.

  McCoy turned at the sound of his voice. "Damned new-fangled displays," he said. "They still don't work right." He sighed. "What's on your mind, Jim?"

  Kirk eyed his chief medical officer critically. "You mean besides that paunch you're carrying around?"

  "Now don't you get started, too. M'Benga was all over me a couple days ago. Five pounds and it's like the world ended!" McCoy patted his stomach, and smiled sourly. "I've got an exercise regimen all mapped out—as soon as I'm done working out the kinks in all this new hardware."

  Kirk chuckled. "Good. I can't have my ship's surgeon setting a bad example for the crew."

  "You know," said McCoy, "you're beginning to sound like me. And the last thing this ship needs is another me." He turned back to the biomonitor. "So? Is my paunch all you came to talk about?"

  Knowing the doctor's feelings about the topic he was about to bring up, Kirk wasn't exactly looking forward to this. But a captain had to do what a captain had to do.

  "We've got an assignment, Bones. We're picking up an ambassador at Starbase Twelve. And we're taking him to the Alpha Maluria system, which is about six days from here at warp six."

  McCoy's smile faded. "An ambassador. Terrific. I hope that wasn't meant to cheer me up."

  Kirk sighed. "He comes highly recommended. From what I understand, he worked wonders at Gamma Philuvia Six."

  The doctor harrumphed. "Sure. They're all highly recommended. Then they show up, and they get under your skin like Mechlavion mountain ants."

  On the other end of sickbay, Nurse Chapel was calibrating the new batch of tricorders. She looked at McCoy disapprovingly.

  The doctor returned her look. "Don't give me that, Christine. If you had to deal with the damned diplomatic corps, you'd feel, the same way."

  "Bones," said the captain, trying to be reasonable, "he's not exactly the Klingon emperor, you know. He's on our side."

  "I think I'd rather he were the Klingon emperor," the doctor went on. "That way, we would only have to worry about a frontal assault."

  Truthfully, Kirk had no more love for ambassadors than McCoy did. But that didn't mean he was going to let it show.

  "Doctor," he pushed on, you can't judge the man before he sets foot on the ship. He could be the exception to the rule. He could be …" He searched for the right word. "Helpful," he said finally.

  McCoy snorted. "Right. And mugatu have wings."

  "Listen," the captain said, a little more forcefully this time, "he'll be beaming up in about forty-five minutes. I'd like you to be in the briefing room when he arrives."

  "I figured as much."

  "And I want your word you'll at least be civil. No pokes at the diplomatic corps. No comments about their success rate. And definitely no suggestions that we'd be better off without them."

  "Even if it's true?"

  "No matter what," Kirk underlined.

  The doctor shook his head. "I'm not making any promises, Jim."

  Finally, the captain played his trump card. "It isn't a proposal, Bones. It's an order."

  McCoy cursed under his breath.

  "What was that, Doctor?"

  "I said I'll see you in the briefing room," Bones told him. "And I'll be on my best damned behavior."

  Kirk smiled. "That's the spirit. Remember—forty-five minutes."

  McCoy grunted. "I'll count the moments."

  By the time McCoy reached the briefing room, it was already occupied. As he entered, Spock looked up from the table that dominated the place.

  "Doctor," the first officer said, inclining his head ever so slightly. His eyes were hooded but darkly piercing, his long, narrow features completely devoid of emotion. Impeccably Vulcan, McCoy noted, as always.

  "I see you've been roped in as well," the doctor said.

  The first officer cocked an eyebrow. "Roped in?" he echoed.

  "Included against your will," Bones translated. But before he'd finished, he realized
that Spock might not have dreaded the presence of an ambassador the way the ship's other officers did.

  After all, the Vulcan philosophy of IDIC—infinite diversity in infinite combination—taught tolerance for even the most repugnant life forms. And the diplomatic corps, even in McCoy's purview, was no more repugnant than a Tellarite bloodworm.

  "I believe you are mistaken," Spock told him. "I have not been included against my will. In fact, it is necessary to the fulfillment of my responsibilities as first officer that I be apprised of—"

  The doctor held up a hand for relief. "Never mind, Spock. Just never mind."

  The Vulcan regarded McCoy, more like a scientist studying some new form of plant life than someone who'd just been rudely interrupted. "As you wish, Doctor," he replied simply.

  "Thank you." Bones pulled out a chair and sat down.

  A moment later, of course, the briefing room doors opened and the captain ushered in their guest. The doctor frowned at his sense of timing and got to his feet again. Across the room, Spock did likewise.

  "Gentlemen," Kirk said, flashing that pleasant smile he normally reserved for state occasions and ravishing redheads, "this is Ambassador Marlin Farquhar. He has been assigned by the Federation to mediate a civil conflict on Alpha Maluria Six." He indicated the Vulcan, then the doctor. "First Officer Spock and Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy."

  Farquhar was nearly a head taller than the captain, though he seemed to stoop a little at the shoulders. His age was difficult to ascertain—somewhere between forty and sixty, McCoy judged, though even that was just a guess. The man had thin, sand-colored hair, neatly combed except for a cowlick that stuck up obtrusively, almost comically, at the back of his head. His eyes were a watery blue; they didn't move, they darted. Like frightened fish, McCoy mused. His mouth was a thin, straight line, which dropped at the corners as he surveyed the Vulcan and then the doctor.