Star Trek - Log 2

  "More alive," murmured McCoy. "Yes, I see it now. Stupid of me not to see it before. How stupid!"

  "Do not blame yourself, Doctor. You are in a far more weakened condition than I. Your powers of observation have decreased commensurate with your physical decline."

  Kirk looked thoughtful. "If they find us, Spock, how much longer would we have?"

  "It is impossible to tell for certain without a tricorder or medical computer to confirm, Captain, but we seem to be aging roughly ten years per day. More in the presence of the women. This is, of course, only a guess."

  No one said anything. No one needed to. Not after McCoy voiced the feelings of all of them in a single, taut sentence.

  "Ten years per—in four days well all be dead!"

  "Dead," Kirk nodded angrily, "and useless to them. Not that they'll care. Theela said the other men of the Enterprise would join us. They'll be lured, drawn down here by the probe and the pull of their own imaginations.

  "We've got to contact the ship somehow. We must get to a communicator." Kirk put a hand against the hard concave walls and made a testing leap for the rim. He came close, but the effort exhausted him so much that he nearly collapsed. Obviously no one was going to make it out of their hiding place without the help of the others.

  "I've retained more strength than any of you," said Spock, stating the obvious. Carver might have disputed him, but chose not to. "My internal system is different, Captain, my life cycle longer. It would be wiser if I go alone to the temple to try and find the communicators and contact the ship."

  Kirk found himself reluctantly agreeing. "One man would stand a better chance of slipping past them than four. Still—"

  "It is the only logical thing to do, Captain."

  Kirk hesitated, searching for a better way. There was no route around the obvious, however.

  It took the combined remaining strength of Carver and Kirk to lift Spock until he could grip the outer rim and push aside the grid. McCoy was too weak to offer other than moral support. Somehow Spock maintained his grasp, pulled himself up (pushing the grid back in place so that the others would escape detection) and over the top.

  Panting heavily, Spock rested there and surveyed the glade. No one was in sight, for which he was thankful—though he wouldn't have objected, say, to the sudden appearance of a heavily armed Vulcan peaceforcer car.

  It took more of his fading reserves to lower himself safely and carefully to the ground. No logic in escaping their refuge only to break a leg in climbing down.

  Moving as rapidly as he dared and trying to keep under cover all the way, he headed for the temple. Once a pair of giantesses crossed close in front of him and he was forced to crouch under a bush whose waxy red blossoms he admired more for their concealing size than for their color.

  At least the Taureans didn't appear to have an extraordinary sense of smell.

  Once again it occurred to him that they seemed in no way up to creating the incredibly advanced sensory equipment which had been used on the men of the Enterprise. There was only one explanation: forgotten knowledge was at work on this world.

  Spock made it to the temple without further incident. Fortunately the doors were still open. Obviously this was the last place they expected the refugees to return to. The urge to dash inside was overpowering, but he paused long enough to peer cautiously around one huge marblelike pillar. Nothing moved in the vast audience hall.

  The corridors branching off from the main chamber also seemed to be deserted. All the women were outside, hunting them. Hunting him.

  A search of the first, luxurious slumber chamber produced nothing, not a single piece of their missing equipment. A thorough inspection of the central dais from which Theela had greeted them proved equally fruitless. There were plenty of interesting devices around, but none of starfleet issue.

  He was getting desperate when he passed the blue curtain concealing the Oyya.

  If the machine possessed some kind of internal alarm system to warn of unauthorized users, he'd give himself away. But they had to have a communicator!

  He thought, then hummed what he hoped was the right note. The curtain didn't move. He didn't think it would shift aside manually. It was made of metal, not fabric, and looked heavy. He tried again, still with no effect.

  But the third whistle seemed to catch the pitch of Theela's voice precisely. Somewhere an ancient piece of machinery agreed. The azure screen slid aside, revealing a now transparent, empty cube. The Oyya.

  He hesitated. Would it respond to his voice? But Theela had spoken to it in terranglo and as much as offered them a chance to try it.

  Answer any question, would it?

  "The equipment belonging to the men of the Enterprise," he asked firmly, "where is it?"

  There was no blur of shifting mists in the cube, no incomprehensible alien visual static. One moment the cube was as transparent as a block of lucite, the next it showed a three-dimensional miniature of a familiar object—the dais at the far end of the audience chamber.

  With one difference. There was a panel set into the left side of the platform's base, and it was open in the miniature. Spock wouldn't have known how to replace the curtain even if he'd wanted to. Anyway, he didn't have time. He rushed to the dais.

  A minute of frantic exploration around the paneled area revealed a large button set into the metal. He pressed it and the panel cover slid obediently aside, revealing the priceless treasure within.

  Tricorders, phasers, rechargers—all their missing equipment was there. He fumbled first for a communicator, frowning when a first grab missed badly. His vision was becoming weaker.

  A second try, and the compact instrument was firmly in hand. He flipped it open.

  "Spock to Enterprise." At that moment he felt rather than saw the crystal in his headband begin to brighten. There was some residual heat put out by it after all. As the glow intensified he swayed, suddenly dizzy. Was he too weak even to talk anymore? Had he even uttered the call?

  Uhura's voice echoed back from the orbiting heaven of the starship.

  "Enterprise . . . Lieutenant Uhura here! Spock, is that you? Spock!" He glanced toward the front of the chamber. There were footsteps.

  Several giantesses were just coming through the doors. Apparently they'd failed to locate Kirk, McCoy, and Carver and were returning to ask aid of the Oyya. They saw Spock. One shouted and they began to run forward. He tried to shake himself and spoke rapidly into the communicator.

  "Request rescue party—all female, emphasize, all female!" "Repeat," he added desperately, summoning his remaining strength. The room was starting to spin. "All female party . . . all . . ."

  His knees buckled like soft cheese and he slumped to the stone floor. The women encircled him.

  VIII

  Uhura was shouting into the communications grid.

  "Spock . . . Spock . . . acknowledge! We read you, Mr. Spock, come in!" Dead sound hummed back through the grid. She stepped back, her mind whirling. "Nothing. No, not quite nothing." She activated another switch and spoke again.

  "Security Officer Davidson."

  "Davidson speaking," came the prompt reply.

  "Uhura here, Davidson. I want four of your best women in the transporter room double-quick. Use the ones already there if you think they can handle it. Fully armed. Laser cannon, if they can manage it."

  "Yes m'am!" Davidson responded enthusiastically.

  Uhura left a bemused Scott—he was humming and bawling something in Welsh now—and headed for the elevator. Chapel went with her, aiming for a different level.

  Moments later she reached the transporter room. Subengineer Lewis—Chief Transporter Engineer Kyle being as incapacitated as any other man on board—was in charge.

  Chapel arrived shortly thereafter equipped with full medikit and tricorder. The four security girls were equipped with somewhat less benign instruments. No cannon, but Uhura didn't complain. The four were loaded with enough hardware to make themselves sufficiently impoli
te.

  "Transport stations, people. Let's go." She was the first one into the alcove.

  Subengineer Lewis outdid herself. They materialized inside the temple, at the far end of the audience chamber. There was barely time to orient themselves. Theela and the other women were waiting at the other end.

  The sumptuous settings of the temple interior and occasional strange alien artifacts didn't bother them. They'd all (especially Uhura) been on far more alien worlds, in far more upsetting surroundings. Starfleet security personnel were trained to fight by battling their way through robotic recreations of their own worst nightmares.

  What did surprise them was the size of Theela and the others. Women they'd expected, but not giants. Uhura's right hand strayed toward her hip. One burst from the heavy duty phaser strapped there would cut the biggest of them down to size.

  The giantesses were gathered around a large transparent cube set into one wall. Apparently the Enterprise security team had arrived just in time to upset some sort of ceremony connected with the cube. Certainly the giant women must have been surprised at the sudden appearance of the landing party, but they covered themselves well.

  "Greetings," said the largest of them finally, stepping forward. "I am Theela, head female of this compound."

  If this gesture was supposed to be conciliatory, it failed. Nor was it intimidating. Uhura took a step toward the bigger woman.

  "Lieutenant Uhura of the starship Enterprise, head female of this bunch of party crashers. We're here to locate Captain James Kirk and three other fellow crewmen. I have reason to believe they've been treated with something less than total hospitality by you and your friends."

  Theela seemed ready with an answer, but seemed to decide that Uhura wasn't about to be bluffed or stalled. "Return to your ship," she said coldly. "You are not wanted here."

  "Not until we find Captain Kirk and our friends." Theela motioned to the other women and they started advancing on the little knot of terran females.

  "Phasers on stun!" Uhura shouted. "Fire!"

  To their credit, none of the women halted their charge. Their courage didn't do them any good. One by one, the stopped-down phaser beams hit them and they dropped to the floor. One got close enough to grab Chapel in a not-so-delicate hand and lift her off the floor before a guard's phaser brought the huge attacker down. Chapel was more stunned than hurt.

  They left the giantesses like that, their nervous systems temporarily short-circuited. Uhura moved toward Theela, prodded her firmly in the side with a foot. She kicked a little harder.

  Satisfied that the other wasn't faking, and a little upset at herself for the pleasure she was deriving from booting the unconscious woman, she stepped back. Big they might be, but they possessed no supernormal resistive powers.

  She gave orders to the waiting group. "Search this place—parties of two. Christine, you come with me." The security teams immediately split up, taking three corridors at a time.

  In a tiny side chamber, Spock lay in darkness on a thin bench of unresilient stone. His hidden face was drawn, the lines in it deeper now. But his eyes were open and his breath was constant, if unsteady.

  Voices, were those voices? It took a tremendous effort just to raise his head from the stone. Then . . .

  "No sign of them anywhere. Keep looking."

  That was definitely Uhura! And Nurse Chapel was there, too.

  He tried to yell, failed. His body had grown too weak. That left him with one last possibility. Lifting his head higher, his eyes narrowed with effort as he stared toward the door.

  Uhura and Chapel found themselves moving down a high, featureless corridor when Chapel suddenly paused. She looked like someone had just hit her with a sockful of wet sand. There was a voice, Spock's voice! But it was in her mind.

  ". . . nurse chapel . . . nurse . . . chapel . . .?"

  "What is it, Christine?" asked Uhura. Chapel looked bewildered.

  "I thought . . . I heard Spock's voice. But I guess—"

  ". . . CHRISTINE . . ."

  There was no mistaking that mental shout! She found her eyes turning frantically to a seemingly blank section of wall. "It is Spock! But how? Of course, Vulcan mind projection. It has to be!"

  She moved to stand close to a section of the wall. A quick inspection revealed no hint of latch, knob, dial, or even a seam. She started running her fingers carefully along the dark metal.

  "There must be a hidden catch here, somewhere . . . there must be!" Uhura joined her in the hunt. Rapidly the two women went over the smooth surface. No, not completely smooth . . .

  It was Chapel who found the slight depression just above her head and pressed inward with her thumb. There was a slight click and a tall, narrow panel pivoted on its axis. They entered a dark room of indeterminate size. The only light came from the hallway they'd just left.

  But there was enough illumination to show them the long table. Spock lifted his head once again and tried to speak. As he did so, the light from the corridor struck his face.

  Chapel swayed. "Mr. Spock . . .!" Uhura wanted to scream, but that would have been out of character for an acting commander. Still, the calculated suppositions of the medical computer hadn't prepared her for anything like this.

  All she could do was ask inanely, "What happened?" Spock strained to reply but couldn't. He'd been thoroughly drained. He leaned back and closed his eyes, passing slowly from consciousness. Involuntary Vulcan nerves had had enough. This body needed rest. The effort required to generate the successful mind contact with Chapel had exhausted him.

  Uhura and Chapel could only exchange expressions of horror.

  The urn stood silent in the darkening garden, unnoticed, uninspected. A strong breeze was now nudging branches and flowers with ungentle force. It seemed to lull for a minute, then return suddenly as real wind, a lashing, tearing gale which bent all but the thickest trees.

  Sculptured lightning etched copper trails in the gray sky, while alien thunder rolled and echoed back from distant unseen hills. Rain began to fall, slowly at first, fat drops spotting the ground in hesitant, exploring patterns.

  Seconds later the storm turned into a raging downpour that would have shamed any tropical rainforest on Earth. Now the reason for the slight downward slant of the garden and temple grounds became obvious. Streams, rivers of runoff vanished down camouflaged, neatly screened holes and into a complex drainage system.

  The wind leveled off and blew steadily from the north, but the rain increased, became a torrent, a cataract, falling in solid waves from the clouds. It was a typical Taurean storm, but it would have appalled any terran weatherman.

  Kirk, McCoy, and Carver had been lying weakly in the bottom of the urn. Now they found themselves forced to stand as the downpour drenched them unmercifully. The slick sides of the urn provided capricious support.

  Each drop seemed to raise the water level in the urn by millimeters. It rose with shocking, alarming speed. And the storm showed no signs of abating.

  "We've got to get out of this," Kirk mumbled. The sound of his aged voice barely rose over the splash of accumulating water. Slowly, painfully. Carver struggled to lift Kirk toward the lid of the urn. But their faded strength proved unequal to the task. And the slippery convex walls were unclimbable. They tried again and again. Again and again Kirk slipped back.

  There was nothing but to keep trying, to no avail. Ordinarily, their situation wouldn't have been so desperate. Even if they couldn't reach the top all they had to do was tread water until the rising level carried them up. But in their severely weakened condition, such a constant effort might be beyond them.

  Even if they did somehow manage to stay afloat all that time in the cramped quarters, it was doubtful any of them would have the strength to slide aside the heavy metal grid covering the top. They might hold onto the grid, press their faces partway through to keep breathing . . . but eventually their grip would weaken, slip, and one by one they'd sink quietly beneath the surface.

  Chapel
transported back to the ship with Spock and immediately moved the first officer down to Sick Bay. Chapel hoped that just getting him off the planet might help. Initial sensor readings seemed to confirm her hopes, in part. His strength was coming back, but it was still the strength of an old man. His eyes remained closed.

  Chapel had been fooling with the headband encircling the first officer's forehead for what seemed like hours. Eventually she'd given up hope of finding a catch. Praying there was nothing automatic in it that would explode on release, she went to work with a surgical laser.

  The carefully controlled light removed it neatly. Setting the metal circlet aside she prepared a premeasured injection. The aged body didn't reject the strong medication. She'd been very careful gauging the amount of stimulant. No one on the ship was used to programming dosages for an old person.

  Removing the spray hypo from Spock's arm, she set it aside and sat back to watch him. After a few minutes the eyelids fluttered, opened.

  "Mr. Spock . . .?" His head turned. He'd grown no younger, no more supple, but at least he could talk now.

  "Instruct female engineer," he coughed, waited till the fit had passed and began again, more confidently. "Instruct female engineer to divert ship's energy to block probe. Use electromagnetic deflectors. Computer will calibrate probe frequency . . . block . . ."

  Chapel shook her head slowly. "We tried that, Mr. Spock. It didn't work."

  Spock shook his head violently, found the effort nearly blacked him out.

  "Don't use normal deflector energies." His voice was growing stronger as the drug raced through his system. "Divert all ship's power into shield. Everything but minimum life-support." His eyes closed but he forced them back open and extended a shaky, withered hand.

  "Hurry, Christine." She nodded obediently and turned toward the intercom.

  "Get me engineer Sco—" She stopped in midphrase. Chief Engineer Scott was in no condition to program a coffee pot, much less handle complete realignment of the Enterprise's generators. "Get me Subengineer Hondo McDuff."