Constellations (48 page)

“No,” Scott agreed soberly. “Perhaps not.” He brooded for a moment, then asked, “And if he
did
leave, who would take over? Mr. Spock?”

“I seriously doubt it,” McCoy said. “If Jim left, I imagine Spock would leave with him. I can't imagine those two not working together.”

“Sulu, then? I know he's keen on the idea of commanding his own ship, but I don't see them moving him up so quickly.”

“Maybe it should be you, Scotty. You've sat in the chair more times than anyone besides Jim or Spock.”

Scott tossed back the remains of his drink and laughed loudly. “Ha! Now there's as daft an idea as any I've heard in a long time. Me?! Captain of the
Enterprise!
” He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “I'd consider it a demotion. I'm already her master; why would I want to be a captain?”

McCoy grinned, then, finding the comment funnier and funnier every second, began to laugh along with his friend. Maybe it was the drink or, as the case was,
drinks.
Or maybe it was the relief of finally discussing some of the things that had been swimming around in his head for the past several weeks. Whichever, Leonard McCoy tilted his stool back on two legs and laughed with gusto.

When the two of them finally quieted down a couple of minutes later and were ordering another round, McCoy noticed that the narrow-faced man with the bristle-brush mustache was no longer in the pub. A mostly-full glass of something remained on the table for a long while as their chat continued and the Starfleet officers began to work on their third round, but when no one returned to claim it, the waiter picked up the glass and unceremoniously dumped its contents into the sink behind the bar.
Strange,
McCoy thought, and then completely forgot about it.

 

Spaytak couldn't believe his good fortune. Well, not the part where he had to leave most of his drink on the table, but when he heard what he heard, there was no way he could stay seated.
The master of the
Enterprise
was in Meekrab!
How many others might know this? Stooped low while attempting to cloak his lanky form in the odiferous gloom that wreathed the alley between Nirah's bar and the butcher shop, Spaytak struggled to order his thoughts. There were, he decided, two possible answers: nobody else and everybody else. Money might be made if the first answer was the correct one, so Spaytak proceeded as if it were. The question, then, was who to approach. He knew the answer immediately, though he spent a couple more minutes crouched down in the semi-liquid darkness just in case another idea swam past in the shallow trough that ran down the middle of the alley. Alas, nothing stirred. “Krong, then,” he muttered, and briefly touched his forehead with the tips of his right hand in silent prayer.

Spaytak hated Krong. He also, after his fashion, worshipped him. Krong was everything Spaytak wished he could be and knew, in his heart, he was not. Krong was strong, fierce, clever, and worldly, and generally had a clean but manly aroma. In contrast, there was at least one bookie taking bets on when the funk that swirled around Spaytak would spontaneously combust.

Krong was a Klingon, and according to Spaytak's limited knowledge of the man, he would most likely be in a bar. The question: Which bar? Krong had a few favorites that he liked to rotate through based on some arcane formula known only to him.

Spaytak actually prided himself on
knowing
things. If he had owned a business card, it might say something like “Spaytak Narwingenssen, Information Purveyor.” Less kind observers, if they could be convinced to admit they knew Spaytak, would have called him a spy. The select minority who had actually used his services knew the correct title: Spaytak was a sneak, though not a particularly good one. On the couple of occasions when he had been able to score premium intelligence, the wind-falls had been mostly a result of the fact that he could blend into the background, as long as the background was a mottled gray color.

While Krong had never purchased information from Spaytak, he had bought him the odd (sometimes very odd, sometimes wriggling) dinner here and there, usually because when Krong was deep enough in his cups, he craved company—
any
company—and very few Denebians were willing to risk their reputations being seen with a Klingon. Since Spaytak had no reputation worth saving, he also had no such reservations.

A flutter of a breeze from the southwest told Spaytak that the garbage barge was leaving the docks, which also meant the fishmongers were selling what was left of their weekend catches at half price. He recalled that Krong seemed to particularly enjoy the small, silver fishes called
fren,
but only if they were at least three days old. Spaytak also remembered that there was a bar near the dock—Jarek's—that would permit the Klingon to bring in a bucket of three-day-old
fren
and eat handfuls of the stuff as long as he washed it down with jugs of their overpriced bloodwine. As good a place as any to start looking.

 

The
fren
were too old to be wriggling and too young to have fermented properly, yet still Krong scooped up a handful, opened his mouth, and let them slide off his palm down into his gullet. If he was lucky, one of the fish's small bones would become lodged in his windpipe and he would choke to death. None of them did, so Krong had no choice but to chug a half liter of bloodwine to wash the greasy flavor from his mouth. When he was finished, he tapped his mug on the edge of the table, the signal to the barkeep that he required a refill. When he had first arrived on Denebia, he had employed the time-honored Klingon signal of throwing the mug at the barkeep's head, but Denebians' skulls weren't as thick as Klingons' and there had been some near-fatalities. Jarek—Krong couldn't believe he knew the man's name, but he did—nodded, hefted the small keg up under his meaty arm and walked the length of the bar to where Krong perched on his customary stool at the left-most edge.

The bar was as full as it usually was at the noon hour—dock workers coming in for fried bread and a beer—but no one dared sit in any of the three stools to Krong's immediate right. When he had first come to this horrible, stinking city, no one would sit in any of the next
four
stools. Krong sighed and shook his head minutely. His prestige was being slowly whittled away. An ignoble fate, like being nibbled to death by tribbles.

For the twelve thousand and forty-second time since that horrible day, Krong wondered what had possessed M'kar, his commanding officer, to turn away from him at the fateful moment when he was about to deliver the honorable blow that would elevate Krong to first lieutenant. Afterward, one of Krong's shipmates had told him that M'kar had been distracted by Shajara, whose chest plate had been particularly snug that day, but Krong had never known for sure. All he knew was that instead of a promotion, he had been exiled from Klingon space.

No one had liked M'kar enough to seek revenge on Krong, so the only other option had been ritual suicide, an option his father had strictly prohibited until all other paths had been exhausted. When he had last heard from his family several months ago, one of his uncles claimed to be making some progress in finding the bottom rung of the long ladder of factotums that would inevitably lead to the ears of the high council, but Krong had long ago given up hope. He knew he was going to die on Denebia, in this city that smelled of urine and fish. The only question that remained was whether he would finally do the job himself or goad someone into doing it for him.

Looking up, Krong saw his reflection in the greasy mirror behind the bar. What he saw reminded him of something he would once have scraped off the bottom of his boot. No—wait—he would have thrown the boots into the garbage rather than try to scrape off what he beheld.

Somehow, magically, his mug was full again. Krong considered pressing his face into the thick, crimson liquid and snorting it into his lungs. How much would he have to take in to drown himself? He inhaled deeply and mulled over the idea, but then winced when his sinuses were stung by an unexpectedly sharp tang. For a second, Krong thought maybe the
fren
had suddenly taken a turn for the better, but then memories of previous encounters with the aroma slid into place.

Spaytak.

Surprisingly, the Denebian had managed to ooze onto the stool next to Krong's without the Klingon hearing him. Krong chose to believe this was possible because he had been preoccupied with other, more pressing matters, but his more ruthless inner self smacked him on the forehead for being careless and losing his edge.

“Hey, Krong,” the Denebian said.

“What do you want?” Krong asked without turning his head to look at his visitor. Rather, he took a pull from his mug, set it on the bar, then picked up the two-pronged fork he had been given with his
fren.

Spaytak had the good sense to shift nervously at the sight of a Klingon with a pointy object.
Well, that's something, isn't it?
Krong thought, but then had to concede,
But not very much.

“I have some important information,” Spaytak whispered, apparently forgetting the cardinal rule of imparting important information.

“I'm thrilled for you. Go away.”

“But it's really import—”

Faster than Spaytak could slither away—or even blink, for that matter—Krong stabbed the prongs of the fork through the sleeve of the spy's cuff, pinning it to the bartop. With the Denebian immobilized, it was a simple matter for Krong to reach over and reluctantly pinch the bridge of the Denebian's nose between his forefingers and squeeze. Spaytak began to screech, but cut it off when Krong said, “Shut up.”

Spaytak tried to nod, but couldn't move his head.

“When I loosen the pressure on your nose, I'm going to let you say one word. If that word isn't good-bye—which, yes, I know, technically is two words, but I'll allow that under the circumstances—then the word you say had better be very, very compelling or I will be forced to grind your nose up into your forebrain. And, before I do or say anything else, please let me express how very, very displeased I am that I have to
touch
you.” He paused then to wet his lips with his tongue. This was the longest single speech Krong had made in several weeks and his lips were cracked. Finally, he said, “Ready?”

Spaytak whimpered.

Krong loosened his grip slightly.

Spaytak appeared to be thinking, which Krong considered a very bad sign. He might actually be trying to find a word that wasn't good-bye and wouldn't result in his being killed. Krong wondered how hard he would have to strike the Denebian to slay him and whether he could do it at the present angle without putting down his mug.
Well, what the hell,
he decided.
I'll just have to hit him twice.

Finally, after several long, agonizing seconds, Spaytak whimpered, “K-K-K-Kirk.”

Krong lowered his head to reflect on the moment. The Denebian hadn't said good-bye, but he had to confess he wasn't sure precisely
what
he'd said. Maybe his mind had snapped under the pressure. The choice of responses was staggeringly large, but he settled for, “What?”

Spaytak did not immediately reply…or repeat himself. Instead, with slightly greater volume, he said, “Spock.”

Krong said, “That's not what you said the first time.”

“I know,” Spaytak said, except it came out more like “I dough,” because Krong was still squeezing pretty hard. “But I wanted to say both words or else you wouldn't understand…”

Krong squeezed harder, cutting off the Denebian's voice and, likely, breath. “I
still
don't understand. And not understanding is giving me a headache. I'm not very pleasant when I have a headache, so I vehemently urge you to
dispel
my confusion. Now.” He loosened his grip.

“Kirk
and
Spock,” Spaytak sputtered. “From the Federation
Starship Enterprise.
They're here. They're in a bar alone. Talking. Drinking…”

Not sure whether to laugh or weep with pity, Krong decided to compromise and simply reasserted pressure on Spaytak's nose and pulled the Denebian's face closer to the top of the bar. Leaning in (despite the churning stomach Spaytak's odor provoked), he said quietly, “There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don't even know how to begin explaining them all to you, so I'm not going to try. As a substitute, I'm going to make your face a permanent feature of this bar.”

To Krong's surprise, Spaytak neither tried to escape nor prevaricated. He stuck with his story: “It's
true,
Krong. One of them said he was the captain of the
Enterprise.
Do you really think I'm stupid enough to come here and tell you this if I didn't hear it with my own ears?”

Krong had to wonder: Was Spaytak that stupid? The Klingon was surprised to discover the answer that came to him was,
No, he isn't.
Delusional, perhaps. Inflated with entirely inappropriate self-importance, yes. But not stupid. It would be dishonorable to kill a man or even severely dent his skull simply for being an idiot, wouldn't it?