Star Trek - Log 6

Kirk nodded, turned back to Scott. "I want you to push the navigation computer, Scotty. Get us to Draymia as fast as possible—overshoot, if necessary. Minutes may count. The Draymians," he finished, glancing up at Demos, "are impatient for their revenge."

  "Most assuredly," the security chief confirmed.

  "I'll pour on the coal, Captain," Scott grinned.

  They were ten minutes out from Dramia II and nearing Draymia when Kirk finally relaxed from the hysteria of last-minute emergency preparations long enough to check with Sick Bay.

  "Mr. Spock, are you still with our patient?"

  "Affirmative, Captain," the calm voice came back.

  "How's he doing?"

  "A moment, Captain . . ." Spock glanced back to where Kolti was sleeping the sleep of the exhausted in the infirmary bed behind him.

  Only Spock had noticed how utterly fatigued their passenger was. He had gone along with the other's pose, admiring the silent fortitude as he had answered questions for both Kirk and then Chapel. As was the case with most sophonts, his expression was far more truthful in sleep.

  Chapel hurried past him, to adjust the makeshift instrumentation rigged over the slumberer's bed.

  "He appears to be in reasonably good health though terribly debilitated and worn out. At the moment he is resting quietly. A brave man, Captain."

  "Brave enough to be the unimpeachable witness we need, I hope," Kirk replied. He glanced up at the main viewscreen. Their truncated course was taking them through the body of one of the magnificent intersystem auroras. "Let's hope the trial hasn't already begun."

  Sulu spoke to him. "Approaching Draymia orbit, sir."

  "You heard, Spock? I think we can get Demos to beam down to put a hold on the proceedings long enough until our witness is fit to appear before a legal assemblage and to answer questions."

  "The trial may be academic, Captain."

  Kirk sat straighter in his chair. Spock's voice had abruptly taken on a new tone, even as always but touched now with a faint twinge of . . . worry?

  "What's the trouble, Mr. Spock?"

  At the other end of the comm, the Enterprise's first officer was once more studying the sleeping Kolti. The survivor of Dramia II still rested quietly . . . but the expression on his face was no longer content. Nor was that the most noticeable change in his features.

  "Captain, Kolti is turning blue."

  Very blue. Normally a creamy chalcedony in color, the alien's skin had shifted to a pale shade of cerulean. The color shift might have seemed amusing to some, at worst worrying. But the implications were neither of a humorous nor of a mildly upsetting nature. The implications were deadly.

  Especially for one Leonard McCoy, M.D., USSIT

  Kirk touched the switch and the door dilated, admitting him to Sick Bay. Followed closely by Spock and Demos, he rushed to the quarantine chamber where Kolti had been isolated hurriedly. Chapel was at the Draymian's bedside, taking readings with a modified medical tricorder.

  "I'm sorry, Captain," she finally said. "Everything correlates with the readings the built-ins give. I have no idea what . . ."

  "Plague!" Demos gasped after only a quick glance at the prone Draymian.

  Kirk spun on the security chief. If there was any foul play at work here, any attempt to offer up McCoy as scapegoat by eliminating his only convincing witness . . . His suspicions were dulled by two things—the fear in the commander's voice and the expression on his face. Not even a master Draymian thespian, he suspected, could have managed to conjure up a look of such pure terror.

  "Seal off this entire infirmary, Lieutenant Chapel. No one else is to be admitted, no one is to leave." Chapel darted to the nearest intercom to issue the requisite order, all the while working with the recalibrated tricorder.

  Spock was bent over the motionless form of Kolti. "I know little Draymian physiology, Captain, and even less of their reactions to specific diseases. But consider that Kolti has been through nearly twenty of our years of extreme privation. When brought aboard he was weak, undernourished and on the verge of physical collapse.

  "Now . . . this. Plague or not, he is no longer in a condition to submit testimony at any kind of trial."

  "We've got to save him," Kirk added quietly.

  Demos smirked. "For McCoy's sake."

  "Yes, for McCoy's sake!" Kirk shot back angrily. "And for Kolti's sake, too." He stood close to the Draymian officer and stared up at the towering biped, for all the world like a terrier challenging a mastiff.

  "You see, Commander, we place considerable value on lives other than our own. Does that shock you?"

  Demos was suddenly tongue-tied. Kirk's reaction had been unexpectedly violent. Or maybe it was the human's smaller size and controlled politeness which had deceived him till now. He could only begin to stammer, "It is not that . . ."

  His jaw dropped and his pop-eyes bulged frighteningly.

  Kirk studied him curiously. Surely the brief outburst couldn't have stunned him this much.

  "Captain . . ." There was something in Spock's voice . . .

  Kirk wasn't sure where the impulse originated, but he had a sudden urge to look down at himself. He held up his hands, then slowly turned them over. The palms were blue. Recently examined records welled up in his mind.

  Certain species, such as Tauran and Vulcan, are immune. Others . . . The thought died away as he finished, to himself, ". . . such as human, are . . . not."

  "Chapel . . . Lieutenant Chapel . . ." He was walking with increasingly rapid steps towards the door leading to the head nurse's office.

  She was there . . . sprawled across her desk and turning a rich hue of azure even as he stared.

  "Mr. Scott, Chief Kyle, others exposed—quarantine too late," he called back to Spock . . . even as his lower leg muscles turned to water and he slumped to his knees.

  Demos weakly reached out a hand to catch him. The Draymian Commander had become sky-colored. Kirk muttered, his head swimming.

  "Vulcan immunity! Mr. Spock, take . . . take command." He tried to add something else; but though his mouth moved, no words came forth.

  Spock caught him before he collapsed completely. He carried Kirk to an empty bed, then went back and transferred Chapel. He tried to do likewise for the massive Demos; but the Draymian commander's bulk defeated him, and he had no time to wrestle with the huge form. He settled for making Demos as comfortable as possible on the infirmary floor.

  Two things must be done immediately—depending on the condition of the crew. It was not good. As Spock made his way toward the bridge, he saw other crew members sprawled where they had fallen, with still-healthy companions trying to aid them. Quarantine appeared to be out of the question. This mysterious affliction spread too fast.

  It took hold with alarming speed, the effects irresistible and overwhelming. He ordered the healthy crew members to make the ill as comfortable as possible right where they were found, and then to return to their own posts to continue functioning as long as they were able. It was a brutal, unavoidable order to have to give.

  No one argued, no one objected. After all, this was the Enterprise.

  The situation was no better on the Bridge. Only Sulu still retained anything like his normal color. But even he was showing signs of initial blueness. He did manage to aid Spock in placing the ship into proper orbit around Draymia.

  Posterity came next, before survival. He assumed Kirk's seat and activated the recorder.

  "Captain's Log, supplemental. First Officer Spock in command, recording.

  "We are in orbit around the planet Draymia under conditions of general quarantine. The situation is critical. We have apparently contracted the plague which wiped out the Draymian colony on Dramia II. Nearly the entire ship's complement has already been affected, some seriously.

  "A few have shown slightly stronger resistance than others, but this appears transitory. As Acting Commanding Officer, I have ordered the activation of General Order Six." Spock paused, looked over to where Sulu was turning
a deep blue color.

  "Has the General Order been engaged, Lieutenant?"

  "Yes . . . sir," the helmsman replied, painfully, slowly.

  "If everyone on board has perished or been rendered incapable of action at the end of a twenty-four-hour period," Spock continued, "and the computer has not been contacted with proper authority to cancel, the ship will self-destruct in order to protect other beings from the disease."

  As he completed the entry—the last entry, perhaps—he reflected on the irony of the situation. It seemed that Dr. McCoy might outlive them all.

  "Interesting," he whispered.

  "What, sir?" asked Sulu.

  "Report to Sick Bay, Lieutenant."

  Sulu's voice was growing thick, unintelligible. "But sir . . . you need someone . . . to monitor . . . to . . ."

  "I gave you an order, Mr. Sulu. I will . . . manage the necessary instrumentation."

  Too weak to reply, Sulu got shakily to his feet and started for the elevator. The doors slid apart before he could reach the switch.

  Kirk stood there, swaying slightly, but apparently alert and in control of himself. Every step as he moved forward was painful, every shift of an eye felt like the blow of a hammer on his orbicular nerves.

  "Spock . . ." he succeeded in whispering.

  The first officer whirled, showing as close to an expression of alarm as he was capable of. "Captain, how . . .? In your condition, it shouldn't be—"

  "Stimulants," Kirk muttered. "Pumped full . . . temporary . . ." Spock was at his side, helping him to his command chair. Kirk brushed aside his objections. "Have to find an antidote . . . fast. Only one man . . . maybe. McCoy."

  "Captain," Spock countered gently, "the entire medical staff of an advanced world like Draymia could not find an answer to this plague in many years of research."

  "We don't know that they applied themselves directly to the problem, Spock. Demos told us how fearful of contamination their observer teams were." His expression twisted. "Whereas Bones always liked to get right into a problem.

  "I'd guess the Draymians' quarantine extended to medical personnel too, as soon as they found the plague was one hundred percent fatal. Maybe a few physicians sacrificed themselves trying to find an answer. At the beginning. But even then, they didn't have the advantage of a Federation medical library computer, or a researcher with Bones' skill and experience in dealing with rare diseases.

  "We've got to get him back here . . . back here . . ."

  "The Draymians will not permit . . ." Spock started to say. He stopped.

  Kirk had lapsed into semiconsciousness.

  Spock sat thoughtfully, weighing this possibility against that solution, juxtaposing alternatives with probabilities, before eventually making his way to Uhura's vacated communications station.

  "Draymia Port," the visage that appeared on the main screen announced.

  "This is the Federation starship Enterprise, First Officer Spock. I must speak immediately with the Supreme Prefect."

  "We know of your power and capabilities, Officer Spock," the figure at the other end said, "but do you think that the Supreme Prefect is a personage who can be called up at every—"

  "If I do not speak with the Supreme Prefect instantly," Spock informed the other, "I predict with ninety-seven point eight percent surety the advancement of your status in a backward direction. This matter concerns the Dramia II plague."

  Bulging eyes rolled and the communicator began shouting off-screen demands, as the Draymian worked his hands in a series of furious gestures.

  The screen flickered. For a moment abstract electronic images danced across the face, then the static cleared and the face of the Supreme Prefect hastily appeared. He was wrestling with his tunic and his dignity as the focus sharpened.

  "Mr. Spock, what is the meaning of this? What is this about the plague—and why do you speak and not your captain?"

  "Captain Kirk and the majority of the ship's complement are presently incapacitated," Spock answered smoothly. "The Dramia II plague has struck the ship."

  "Plague aboard." The Prefect assumed a look of panic. "Surely, Mr. Spock, you must not—"

  "The plague will not be brought to the surface. I am not here to threaten, but to seek help. In the event no antidote for the plague is found, the Enterprise will destroy itself before the next ship-day is over."

  The Prefect had been absorbing all this stolidly. Now he suddenly looked suspicious as Spock continued.

  "Commander Demos will be killed with the rest of us. I regret this. There is only one way to save him and to save the survivor we found on Dramia II, who can attest to the innocence of your prisoner. A great many lives and truths are at stake here, and only one man can find the solution to them all: Dr. McCoy. You must release him immediately. Temporarily, if you will—but no one else has the skill to find a possible antidote in the time that remains."

  The Prefect considered for long seconds—understandable, in light of the barrage of information Spock had just thrown at him. His decision was obviously agonized, but firm.

  "I cannot," he announced finally.

  "The survivor, Kolti, is a witness for Dr. McCoy. He can testify for him. There are many others, of different races, on board the Enterprise who will die if he is not released. We may all die anyway, Dr. McCoy among us. If you have so little confidence in his medical ability, at least release him to die of the plague with his friends."

  "You argue plausibly, Vulcan, but without facts."

  "You must trust me. I have no other assurances to give."

  The Prefect seemed to be a reasonable being. If Spock was interpreting the alien expression correctly, the Draymian leader was going through some tortuous mental gymnastics.

  His expression turned crafty. "There is another who might persuade me. Let this witness, this claimed survivor, speak."

  "Impossible. He, too, is seriously stricken."

  Frustration all too suddenly replaced deliberation at the other end of the transmission. "Demos cannot speak, the witness cannot speak, even Captain Kirk cannot speak—yet you wish us to release the accused McCoy. On faith. Do you think you can secure the freedom of such a criminal so simply? Did you not think I would see through your desperate ploy?"

  The screen went blank.

  "McCoy," Kirk mumbled from behind Spock. "Got to get McCoy."

  The first officer tried to re-establish the contact, but this time the ground station on Draymia refused to acknowledge his signals. He finally stopped trying, turned and walked over to Kirk.

  "Captain, are you . . .?"

  "One minute I'm fine, the next I can taste oblivion—it's the stimulants, Mr. Spock. Uneven effect on the system, guesswork dosage . . . my body will pay for it in the end, I suppose. What about . . .?"

  Spock shook his head. "The Draymians refuse to release him. Unfortunately, they have no reason to trust us. They have a right to be cautious, but at the same time they are not reacting logically in this."

  "No, Spock," Kirk breathed heavily, "they're reacting emotionally. I'm sorry so much of the universe turns out to be more unreasonable than Vulcan."

  "It is distressing at times," Spock admitted, missing Kirk's sarcasm entirely. "But if you'll grant me the freedom to improvise in the face of adversity, I believe I can secure Dr. McCoy's release anyway."

  Kirk stared painfully up at him. "That would mean contravening the official warrant, Mr. Spock."

  "Only the letter, Captain. Dr. McCoy could be returned to stand trial afterward. I hardly need point out this is a desperation measure I am proposing. We will borrow Dr. McCoy for a little while. If we die, I do not think he will care what the Draymians do to him anyway."

  "You're sure you can pull this off, Spock?"

  "I intend to—"

  "No, don't tell me." Kirk didn't have to think. He put his palms on the arm of the chair and shoved. Spock hurried to get a supportive arm under one shoulder.

  "I think I can handle the transporter for you, Spock .
. ."

  "Be careful, Captain," the first officer admonished. They had staggered down to the transporter room. Spock waited within the alcove while Kirk adjusted the settings. "I would dislike materializing several kilometers above the streets of the capital city."

  Kirk nodded, managed a grin, and engaged the instrumentation. There was something on his fevered mind, something else he had to ask Spock . . .

  He hadn't thought of it by the time the first officer was gone.

  It was dark where Spock rematerialized on the street parallel to the justice building. Dark and late.

  He still felt exposed, but fortunately there appeared to be no strolling Draymians about to observe his arrival. Not that the average Draymian would pay much attention to him.

  Unless, he mused distastefully, the Draymians had better control of their emotions than their leaders had displayed thus far, the word of McCoy's arrest must have been kept secret. Otherwise a mob surely would have overrun the building by now. Hence he could expect to be regarded by the average citizen with curiosity rather than animosity.

  This time he would turn the government's secrecy to his own advantage.

  There were definite benefits in being smaller than the local inhabitants. It enabled Spock to make his way skillfully through the labyrinth of corridors in the building, dodging the night staff. The latter were too engrossed in their own drudgery to peer hard at places where Draymians would not fit.

  But the two guards standing watch outside the chamber housing McCoy's force-cell were a different lot. They appeared fit, alert, and fully capable of rapid employment of the primitive but lethal-looking apparatus strapped at their waists.

  For a moment Spock hesitated uncertainly, wondering at the presence of only two guards for so great a suspected criminal as McCoy. Then he realized that the doctor had been handed over freely. The Draymians had no reason to suppose the Enterprise would relinquish him only to take him back suddenly.

  Hence the reason for Spock's haste—for if the Prefect had a little time to reflect on his recent conversation with him . . .

  Of one thing he was sure—this was not the time to debate the ethics of the situation with McCoy's guards. Such individuals were rarely selected for their receptiveness to logical persuasion or, for that matter, to original thought. He did not think they would react politely if he announced his intentions.