Part 1 (1/2)
Strike Zone.
by Peter David.
Prologue.
THE SAND CRUNCHED beneath the sole of Budian's three-toed boot. Then he stopped so suddenly that his feet skidded just a bit beneath him, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of his immediate crew of three. He spun around, hissing between his sharpened teeth. ”Shut up! Shut up, the lot of you!”
If one did not have a Universal Translator one would have heard only a series of gutteral grunts, coughs, and snarls, with an occasional body slap for emphasis. The Kreel, for such was their race called, were notable for having one of the singularly least elegant languages in all the known galaxy.
Their exterior was just as appealing as their language. The Kreel had spindly legs that, in one of nature's more curious design aberrations (right up there with the b.u.mblebee and the duckbilled platypus), supported a ma.s.sively sinewed, almost triangular torso. Their arms were long, their knuckles hanging almost down to their knees. They took great pride in their bodies and were not shy about displaying them, usually sporting breeches and skimpy tunics cut to display a maximum amount of muscle. This was unfortunate for other races, since Kreel skin was unbelievably wrinkled, dry, and red, as if they all had permanent cases of sunburn. In addition, a thin layer of coa.r.s.e, matted hair, spotted their bodies.
Their heads seemed to rise up straight from their shoulders. As a result, when they turned to look to the side or behind them, they had to practically twist all the way around. They tended toward large lantern jaws, and their eyes were huge, almost like handb.a.l.l.s-appropriate for a race whose home planet seemed shrouded in almost perpetual gloom. The planet they were on now-under a blazing alien star-was so appallingly opposite from their home that it was physically painful.
In response to Budian's command, the three other members of the Kreel landing party quickly bowed their heads (by bending slightly at the waist, almost in the way the traditional j.a.panese did). Budian smiled then, showing his teeth once more, before gesturing that his second-in-command should join him.
”What do you think, Aneel?” said Budian. ”What do the instruments say?”
Aneel pulled out the detection device that was based loosely on the design of a Federation tricorder, a marvelous instrument that current Kreel technology didn't have a chance in h.e.l.l of duplicating. He swung the device around hopefully, and then said nervously, ”I'm not getting anything. I think it's broken.”
”Well?”
”Well what?” said Aneel cautiously.
”Fix it! Fix it, you feldling idiot!”
Unnerved by his commander's display of temper, Aneel did the only thing he could: He smacked the detector with the side of his fisted, three-fingered hand.
The detector obediently lit up and started to hum contentedly. Aneel blinked in surprise and then looked to his commander for approval. Budian nodded curtly and then said ”Which way?”
Aneel checked the readings on the detector and pointed. ”Over there.”
Slowly, they made their way in the direction that Aneel led them. Budian was one step behind and to the right. He was trying to watch everywhere at once-watch Aneel, watch his own men behind him, because he didn't trust a single one of the pack, and, most of all, watch the sky.
The last wouldn't have done him the least bit of good, he knew, because if that accursed Other Race showed up (d.a.m.ned be their name and barren be their women) to make a fuss over this planet (which was indisputably in Kreel territory), then there was no possible way that Budian was going to be able to see them in orbit from the planet surface. The idea was preposterous. He knew that, and yet he couldn't help himself as he kept glancing heavenward.
It was midday, and the air was just hanging there, the sky a blistering, uniform red. In the distance, Budian could hear the steady chittering of insects. No potential threat, but it was annoying.
”Through there.”
Budian looked up, mentally chiding himself for his lapse in attention. Such lapses could prove fatal in the future. ”Through where, Aneel?” he demanded.
Aneel was pointing straight ahead, but before them was only a wall of solid rock-part of a large mountain range that seemed to extend before them.
”Through there?”
”Yes, sir.”
”How the flarg do we get through there?”
Aneel gestured helplessly. ”I don't know, sir.”
Budian let out the sigh of one who does not suffer fools gladly-either that or the sigh of one who is afraid he's about to be made to look like a fool. He reached for his belt and pulled out his weapon. ”Stand back,” he said, gripping the disruptor tightly with both hands and bracing himself. The kick on these weapons was not to be taken lightly.
Ten feet away from the mountainside he fired, blasting a steady wave of pure sound at the mountain. Rock and dirt exploded, covering the Kreel with a fine layer of filth. This did not bother them particularly; Kreel were not renowned for bathing.
”You're doing it, sir!” shouted Aneel. Budian nodded, keeping it up until so much dust was swirling up that even they, with their enlarged eyes, couldn't see much. His finger lifted away from the trigger and the blast ceased.
”Wonderful, sir!” said Aneel.
”Shut up.”
”Yes, sir.”
Budian stood and watched, silently urging the dirt out of the way so that they could see just what, if anything, they had uncovered.
Within moments, the debris had settled, and Budian's breath caught in surprise.
There was an opening. Clear as anything, there was an opening. There had been some sort of door there before; gleaming metal edges were still visible where the disruptor had torn it away. But now they had access to whatever it was that lay inside.
The Kreel glanced at one another and then, out of deference, stepped aside and indicated that Budian should go first.
There were times, it occurred to Budian, when being the leader wasn't all that it was cracked up to be.
The sleek battlecruiser Kothulu settled into orbit around the planet which was, at present, simply designated as DQN 1196. The blazing red sun, a paltry several million miles off, cast a gentle glow off the gleaming hull of the s.h.i.+p.
”Commander?”
The commander did not look up immediately. One never looked up immediately when a subordinate requested attention. It gave the impression that you were anxious to hear what he had to say. A good commander, particularly a good Klingon commander, always made it appear that whatever the subordinate was about to say the Commander was already aware of it. The unspoken message was ”Why did it take you so long to report the obvious?”
”Commander?” came the prompt again.
Count to three, turn, look, then speak. ”Yes, Tron.”
”Picking up life-form readings from planet surface.”
The commander nodded. ”Kreel, I'd wager.”
A pause. Then Tron nodded. Keeping just the slightest touch of admiration out of his voice he said, ”I believe so, sir.” Subordinates knew that you never let ranking officers be aware when you were impressed by some feat of theirs.
Once again the commander nodded, his ma.s.sive, ridged head bobbing just a bit. ”So our intelligence was correct, then. The Kreel sc.u.m are rooting around in this system.”
”What is there around to interest them, Commander?” Tron asked, then promptly chided himself mentally. Never ask a question. It implies you don't know.
Too late, though. The commander had heard.
”What is there, Tron?” he said in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the entire bridge crew. ”Nothing. Nothing of any interest except to a backward race such as the Kreel.”