Star Trek - Log 6

  "I don't buy that, Bones," Kirk said firmly. "I'm not going to sit around and let someone else sell it to the Federation, either."

  "You have something in mind, Captain," Spock responded. It was not a question.

  Kirk turned. "A little pretrial investigation, Mr. Spock. A bit of harmless fact gathering—independent fact gathering—to aid Draymian justice." He gestured.

  One of the several guards in the chamber moved to the wall, touched a series of switches on a small hand control. The secondary force-field vanished, and Kirk and Spock moved clear. The guard touched another combination and the backup field flamed up again, leaving McCoy totally isolated.

  Kirk flipped open his communicator without a backward glance. "Kirk to Enterprise—beam us up, Mr. Scott."

  "How many, Captain?"

  "Two. Just two, Mr. Scott."

  "Captain," the chief engineer's voice began, "I think—"

  "Beam up, Scotty—now," Kirk repeated.

  "Aye, sir."

  The twin dissolution that followed was colorful, not destructive. McCoy was left alone in his cell. Well, not entirely alone.

  The single guard who remained after Kirk and Spock had departed strolled over and peered curiously at the prisoner. He knew of the Terran's reputed crime. It was an honor to be one of those assigned to watch him, to be one of the few designated to see to his health—so he would be fit and well for the trial.

  McCoy did not object to serving as the bug in an alien bottle. He was too depressed to think coherently about anything save his own sudden, shocking change of fortune.

  "Your friends may scour the surface of Dramia II to the bedrock," the guard informed the despondent figure within the cage. "They will find nothing to save you. We are a civilized race. Our court system is swift and efficient." In the manner of all jailers, he grinned at his own ironic joke.

  As is universally the case with prisoners subjected to such humor, McCoy did not find it amusing.

  Words alternated with pictures alternated with charts. Sometimes all three combined on the lab screen to form an especially brilliant and impressive display. The men studying it now were not interested in superficialities, however. They were hunting desperately for a clue to a friend's salvation, and they were not having much luck.

  Kirk moved from a small computer annex which was connected to the central computer to stare at the other screen over Spock's shoulder. While Spock was running backward through time, the captain was triple checking the legal fine points of the Federation warrant—to no avail. It was as solid as a warp-drive equation.

  "Anything yet, Mr. Spock?"

  "No, Captain." The first officer did not turn from the steady flow of information pouring across the screen in front of him. "Our historical records for the Draymian system are few, going back barely two standard decades. Dr. McCoy's medical team was one of the first Federation groups to visit here."

  "Kind of unusual, isn't it—for a medical team to be called into a new system so soon after initial contact is opened?"

  "Yes, Captain. But apparently the Draymian need was considerable. Understandably Starfleet felt that if we did not respond to their request for assistance, someone else might be only too happy to oblige. The Klingons, for example."

  "Granted," Kirk admitted. As usual, Spock's assessment of the situation was infallible.

  "Most of the information available on early Federation contact with the Draymians comes from the technical survey teams—planetary and solar data, geophysical statistics—the usual enormous mass of pure information which takes many years to properly integrate and codify for easy computer retrieval."

  Abruptly the rapid stream of lines and words froze on screen. Spock pressed another switch and several significant paragraphs blossomed into easily readable lines.

  DRAMIA II, LOCAL COLONIZATION, HISTORY OF.

  "It's about time," Kirk muttered.

  The two officers ran through a mass of detail until they came to: Plague, Dramia II, colony of Draymia. Origin unknown, characterized by pigmentation shift in skin of victim, debilitation, followed by the onset of terminal coma. Theoretically can affect several species of humanoid including man, quorman, and others. Those dead from exposure included corpsman Micheau Pochenko, anesthesiologist Severin Alonzo Hart.

  Spock glanced back at Kirk. "It appears that two of Dr. McCoy's own team also died from the plague. Our Draymian hosts neglected to mention that. Certain species," he read, turning back to the screen, "believed to be naturally immune, notably Tauran and Vulcan. Interesting."

  "Go on, Mr. Spock," Kirk prompted, ignoring the parade of legalese across his own, now unwatched screen . . .

  Done with taunting the unresponsive prisoner, the guard reported to Demos what he'd overheard when the murderer had spoken with his two superiors.

  "You are certain?"

  "Yes, my commander," the guard insisted stiffly. "The Federation Captain is planning to visit Dramia II to gather material negative to our case against human filth, McCoy."

  "Thank you, guard. Speak of this to no one else, please. You may leave."

  "It shall be as you desire, Commander." The guard saluted and left.

  Demos sat thinking for several minutes. There was no telling what distortion of truth the clever Federation officers might glean from the poor, blighted ruin of Dramia II. But the people of Draymia had waited stoically for their revenge these past years. He, Demos, was not about to see them deprived of it. Whatever tricks, whatever perversion of logic Captain Kirk could concoct from the ruined colony must not go unobserved. And this was not something he could trust to underlings.

  He activated a switch within the bonelike mass of the desk, a switch that didn't appear to exist.

  "Ready my personal skiff immediately . . ."

  Kirk was aware he was proceeding without proper authority. But he wasn't about to contact Starfleet for permission—after all, that proper authority had issued the damning warrant in the first place. They could call him on the deck afterward—after he had proven Bones' innocence.

  "Estimated time of arrival, Mr. Sulu?"

  Sulu checked a readout, reported, "Four hours ship time, sir."

  "Move it up a little if the computer can handle the acceleration compensation. The Draymians will probably stick to their normal courtroom procedure. However, this is a special case to them, and they may be interested in rushing it to completion. Also, we've no idea how long it may take us to turn up proof of Bones' innocence.

  "Demos, their security chief, emphasized the civilized nature of his people. But if it becomes public information that the government is now holding the being they consider responsible for the extinction of their sole off-planet colony, I wouldn't be surprised to see a spirit of vigilantism take over."

  "Do not confuse human and alien motivation, Captain," advised Spock.

  "I wish that were a uniquely human tendency, Mr. Spock. Unfortunately, it appears from stellar history that we've no monopoly on mob law."

  "Unfortunate, indeed, Captain."

  Spock's observation had ramifications that Kirk would have liked to pursue but the captain's thoughts were interrupted by a call from the helm.

  "Ship in pursuit, Captain."

  "Origin?"

  Sulu hurriedly checked sensors. "Undoubtedly from Draymia, sir. I'm running the recorder back—here it is, no bigger than a two-man scout."

  "Full magnification of the aft screen."

  "I'm on full, sir."

  Kirk squinted at the screen, which showed only distant stars. "I don't see anything, Mr. Sulu."

  "No, sir. Sensors had it for only a moment. The ship apparently was following just out of maximum scanner range. When we suddenly increased our speed, its pilot jumped to stay with us and for a second or two, over-compensated. He's dropped back out of detector range again."

  "But not transmission range," Uhura observed. "Shall I attempt contact, Captain?"

  "No, Lieutenant, not just yet."

  "May I i
nquire as to the reason?" This from a curious Spock.

  "We seem to have two choices, Mr. Spock. We can let this busybody—who is obviously out to make things difficult for us, else he wouldn't be skulking about our stern—continue to think he's succeeding at his game. Or we can try to make things easier for him."

  "Easier, Captain? I fail to understand."

  "He could certainly cause us more trouble at a crucial moment by sneaking aboard. That would be simple for him to do, since we've carelessly left open the doors to the Shuttlecraft Bay."

  "Captain, the doors aren't open," Uhura pointed out.

  "Oh, yes—take care of that little undersight, will you, Mr. Sulu? Mr. Spock, issue a general order—all internal lights near exterior ports, all observation lounge illumination, to be extinguished.

  "As far as I know, no Draymian has ever been aboard a Federation cruiser while it was in transit. They know as little about us as we do about them. I'd like to give the impression that most of the crew is off-duty, asleep."

  "Anyone approaching would assume we still have automatic detectors operational, Captain."

  "Any representative of a seasoned space-traveling race would, Mr. Spock. But the Draymians are new at this. Besides, we've already given in to their demands to hand over Bones. Why would we have defensive screens up within their system, when we've already shown we abide by the law?

  "Whoever's back there is convinced he's eluded us so far. Let's at least give him the opportunity to elude us a little farther . . ."

  The lights went out aboard the great starship. On board his small skiff, Demos saw them fade.

  He only had suppositions about Federation habits with which to judge the situation, but there had been no sign from the cruiser that his presence had been detected yet. If it had, he couldn't understand not receiving at least a querulous hail. So the decision he reached was precisely the one Kirk was hoping he would.

  He edged his tiny vessel ahead—slowly at first, then, as silence continued, with increasing confidence. If the big ship's hangar doors were not automatic, he would be forced to use a suit.

  The skiff slid silently into the cavernous hold and settled to a stop. Atmospheric considerations vanished when the hangar doors closed behind him and gauges monitored the rise of air pressure outside. The hold was empty of personnel, but not of concealment. Demos slipped his craft between two others, concealing it from all but direct view. In size and shape it did not differ enough from a Federation scout to immediately catch the attention of some idly strolling crew member. Of course, these were all rationalizations. But the chance to actually inspect the inner workings of a Federation battle cruiser was too tempting to Demos' martial mentality for him to pass by.

  Let him have two time-parts . . . one even . . .

  He found the door leading to the first access corridor and peered cautiously through the transparent port set in its upper third. The passageway beyond was deserted. Opening the door and stooping slightly to avoid the overhead arch, he made his way into the empty main corridor.

  If he could just find someplace to secrete himself for a while till he got his bearings . . .

  The next doorway had no port. He would have to take a chance. The opening mechanism was clearly marked and easily operated. He activated it and the door slid aside.

  Reflexively, he reached for the weapon at his belt.

  "Not now, Demos, you're hardly in a position to take on the entire crew," Kirk murmured evenly.

  The hand dipping toward the gun relaxed, continued smoothly onwards to scratch at an imaginary itch on his leg.

  "And you," he countered with a touch of impatience, "are not in authority to conduct an investigation in this system."

  Kirk's tone was conciliatory as he turned to his first officer. "You will remind me to report my unbecoming attitude to the Federation, won't you, Spock?"

  "Of course, Captain."

  "I demand you report to your superiors now, and that I be permitted to sit in on—"

  "Actually, Demos," Kirk interrupted, "you're hardly in a position to demand much of anything. But I'll surprise you, I think, by saying that I'll happily oblige. Unfortunately, we're out of communications range with Starfleet Central at the moment."

  "Report to the nearest Starbase, then—"

  "Sorry, you asked me to report to my superiors. By your own admission, exceeding our authority to conduct this type of investigation is a matter for consideration at the highest levels. And I wouldn't think of insulting you by laying the matter before some minor functionary."

  "Then, I myself will proceed to your Starbase and report this violation for you." Demos turned and started back down the corridor, feeling strangely flat eyes on the back of his head.

  "I'm afraid your ship has been impounded, Commander, for your own protection."

  Demos whirled, furious. "My own protec—"

  "You'd never reach Starbase with it."

  "So you say," Demos muttered angrily. "Just as you say you are out of communications range with your Central Headquarters."

  "Yes, and there's something else I say," Kirk went on, now even more firmly.

  "You are a stowaway, Commander," Spock informed the angry security chief. "You are in violation, I believe, of one of your own laws."

  Demos started to say something, but his words became tangled as a sudden realization of his situation set in. "You planned it . . . you planned this so that it would appear legal, so that my abduction would not seem to break any laws."

  "We merely offered you the chance to realize your own desires, Demos," Kirk replied firmly. "I seem to recall a similar course of action recently taken against a Federation citizen by your own government. You wouldn't happen to remember the name of that unlucky individual, would you? His name was McCoy, Leonard McCoy. Maybe now you can sympathize with his situation a little more, Commander. In fact, I'd think you'd begin to acquire a personal interest in it."

  "I have a personal interest in seeing justice done," Demos snapped, drawing himself up.

  "Excellent." Kirk turned to leave. "Mr. Spock, see to the Commander's comfort. It's good to hear he's after the same thing we are . . ."

  Dramia II loomed on the screen before them, a brown and red crescent splotched only fitfully with greens and blues. A harsh-looking world on which to try to mold a new civilization.

  The Draymians had been courageous enough to try. They had been rewarded with death and desolation.

  Ironically, the vacuum surrounding that stark planet blazed with beauty. Dramia II swam in the midst of one of the massive deep-space auroras for which the Dramian system had first been noted. Brilliant reds, purples, and blues glowed under powerful bombardment from Dramia's sun, forming a fiery curtain in space. Several shifting, metallic streamers draped themselves across the planet, masking portions of it with ionized glory.

  "Lovely phenomenon."

  "Yes, Captain," Spock agreed. "According to records, it is one of several such scattered through the system. It was the highlight of the first Federation survey here." He nodded toward the screen.

  "This band of particulate matter is the farthest out from the sun itself."

  "I see. Surface radiation level, Mr. Sulu?"

  "Still working on it, Captain."

  A moment, then, "I see the figures," Spock reported. "The level is strong, but nowhere lethal. There are some as yet unclassifiable aspects to the readings obtained where one of the auroral streamers intersects the atmosphere of Dramia II, which—"

  Kirk cut him short. "We'll have time for research after we secure Dr. McCoy's release."

  "Yes, Captain."

  Nearby, Demos made a derisive sound.

  "All I'm concerned about is that it's safe for us to beam down," Kirk continued. "Since it appears to be . . . shall we, gentlemen?" He rose from the command chair and started for the elevator door, followed by Spock and Demos.

  Scott was waiting for them in the transporter room. He voiced his own concerns immediately.


  "Are you sure it's safe, Captain?"

  "As safe as our sensors are sure, Scotty. Absolutely."

  "Not absolutely, Captain. Our sensing equipment is never absolutely sure," Spock corrected.

  Kirk grinned, looked over at Demos who was studying the transporter alcove with what seemed like momentary hesitation.

  "Mr. Spock, you're not trying to scare our Draymian comrade, are you? You can still remain aboard if you wish, Commander."

  The Draymian chief of security stared evenly back at him. "I came to make certain you fabricated no intricate lies, Captain Kirk. I go."

  He stepped up into the transporter and assumed a somewhat cramped pose of readiness.

  "You heard him, Mr. Scott. Energize."

  Scott looked unhappy, but set about the familiar operation. He adjusted the necessary switches, pulled the requisite levers. There was the familiar whine of complaining atoms, and the three figures were gone . . .

  Three pillars of shattered crystal solidified on the sandy surface and shaped themselves into upright containers of intelligence.

  Kirk stumbled slightly on rematerialization—the surface underfoot was loose and windblown. Part of the region they had set down in was still verdant. Trees and hedgerows of Draymian flora had been planted here.

  But the irrigation systems had broken down under nineteen years of neglect. The desert had encroached ever more boldly on what had once been the fertile periphery of the two colony towns.

  Around them lay the battered, partially decomposed remains of homes and warehouses and offices—evidence of angry winds, of sand pitted against walls. Dunes were piled up to the sills of windows devoid of glass, which stared with vacant sockets at the advancing drifts.

  Here and there were signs of old fires. Kirk hoped they had been caused by natural means and not by the last vestiges of isolated, panicked sentience. Reversion from civilization to barbarism in a single generation was never very pretty, no matter which world was involved.

  The physical detritus was sobering. He could imagine what that final, plague-rotted collapse must have been like. Still, it was one thing to imagine and quite another to stand in the midst of such imaginings. His quota of sympathy for the Draymians went up another notch, though the sight of this graveyard of hopes did nothing to shake his confidence in McCoy's innocence.