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  THREE EXCITING EPISODES

  FROM TELEVISION'S MOST POPULAR

  SCIENCE-FICTION SERIES!

  —Complete in this volume—

  THE AMBERGRIS ELEMENT

  Marooned on the strange water

  world of Argo, Kirk and Spock are in

  incredible danger . . . pursued by a hideous

  sea monster!

  THE PIRATES OF ORION

  Spock is desperately ill with a

  disease fatal to Vulcans . . . only a miracle

  can save him!

  JIHAD

  The Skorr are on the warpath . . .

  threatening to launch a holy war against

  the rest of the civilized galaxy!

  TO SAVE MR. SPOCK . . .

  "If we don't have that strobolin in twenty hours, he'll die," McCoy stated flatly. "That's a minimal figure, but it's pretty accurate.

  "I wouldn't like to to have to stretch it even five minutes."

  There was nothing more McCoy could say . . . just as there was nothing more he could do.

  Probably there was nothing as agonizing to a doctor of McCoy's ability as knowing exactly what to do to cure a patient and simply not having the material to do it with!

  By Alan Dean Foster

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  The Black Hole

  Cachalot

  Luana

  Dark Star

  The Metrognome and Other Stories

  Midworld

  Nor Crystal Tears

  Sentenced to Prism

  Splinter of the Mind's Eye

  Star Trek® Logs One–Ten

  Voyage to the City of the Dead

  . . . Who Needs Enemies?

  With Friends Like These . . .

  The Icerigger Trilogy:

  Icerigger

  Mission to Moulokin

  The Deluge Drivers

  The Adventures of Flinx of the Commonwealth

  For Love of Mother-Not

  The Tar Aiym Krang

  Orphan Star

  The End of the Matter

  Bloodhype

  Flinx in Flux

  The Damned

  Book One: A Call to Arms

  Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  A Del Rey Book

  Published by Ballantine Books

  Copyright © 1975 by Paramount Pictures Corporation

  STAR TREK® is a Trademark of Paramount Pictures Corporation registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 74-8477

  ISBN 0-345-33351-9

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition: August 1975

  Tenth Printing: September 1991

  Cover Art by Stanislaw Fernandes

  For my best friend, Fred Foldvary . . .

  Who knew and had confidence years

  before it all started . . .

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  The Ambergris Element

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  PART II

  The Pirates of Orion

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  PART III

  Jihad

  IX

  X

  XI

  STAR TREK LOG FIVE

  Log of the Starship Enterprise

  Stardates 5527.0–5527.4 Inclusive

  James T. Kirk, Capt., USSC, FS, ret.

  Commanding

  transcribed by

  Alan Dean Foster

  At the Galatic Historical Archives

  on S. Monicus I

  stardated 6111.3

  For the Curator: JLR

  PART I

  THE

  AMBERGRIS

  ELEMENT

  (Adapted from a script by Margaret Armen)

  I

  (Sun to Queen four plus two)

  "Starrfleet Academy?" M'mar murmured wonderingly. "You werre trrained as a historrian, daughterr. Historry, sociology, anthrropology . . . those werre yourr forrtes in school. Not physics or spatial engineerring or some such."

  M'ress' mother reclined on the lounge, her expression one of concern, feline pupils of carved jet narrowed against the warm evening day of mid-summerset on Cait.

  "Is it something else that's led you to this line of thinking, daughterr? Perrhaps something else trroubles you . . . that boy, now . . ."

  M'ress made a soft sigh of exasperation. "It has nothing to do with N'nance, materr. Orr with V'rrone, orr D'irraj, orr any of my frriends. I've simply decided that . . ."

  "You've decided," M'mar whispered half to herself.

  ". . . I want to learrn morre about people as they arre now instead of how they've been. Is that so surrprrising? Becoming a Federration Starrfleet officerr is the best way to do that."

  "And what about yourr litterr mates? What do they think of this sudden switch in mid-stalk?"

  M'ress looked smug. "Sister M'nass thinks I'm as crrazy as you do, but both brrotherr M'rest and M'sitt say it's wonderful . . . and typically me."

  "They'rre half rright," M'mar muttered. "Take carre, M'ress. As eldest of the litterr, you have a rresponsibility to set good examples forr them. Considerr that whateverr you do is likely to be copied."

  "I rrealize that, materr," M'ress replied, tail flicking nervously from side to side. It was that very thought which had caused her to delay the announcement this long. "But I'm deterrmined on this thing."

  M'mar eyed her daughter appraisingly, but M'ress refused to break the stare. "All rright then," she finally conceded, "if you'rre bound on it, trry yourr best. By the Prrey, yourr academic evaluations are high enough. But bewarre, daughter, you could end up on a satellite-to-planet shuttle in some farr corrnerr of the galaxy and see no morre in a lifetime than that one corrnerr."

  "I'm not worrried about that, materr," M'ress countered, with the confidence of the young. "One thing at a time. Firrst I have to get into the Academy."

  "And if you can't, despite yourr evaluations?"

  "Then I'll apply forr ttraining as common crrew, of courrse," she said matter-of-factly.

  M'mar offerred the ultimate Caitian argument. "This will separrate the family."

  Now M'ress was forced to look away, and her voice dropped. "I know, materr, but this is something I have in my hearrt and mind to trry. Paterr will underrstand."

  "Yourr crrazy sirre underrstands everrything!" M'mar half spat. "You inherrited yourr foolishness from him! He even pretends to underrstand yourr poetrry." She quieted abruptly, held out a paw to stroke her daughter's forehead with. "Naturrally, we'll both brreak ourr dewclaws to help you make it . . ."

  (Satellite four to Probe six less one)

  "The branch classifications have been posted!"

  Lena, the human cadet-aspirant with whom M'ress was quartered at the Academy, burst into the room. Her face was flushed, her breath racing.

  Instantly the hair on M'ress' neck rose. Her tail flicked from side to side, bottled up. Lena caught her breath long enough to answer her roommate's unasked question.

  "We both made the twenty percent cut. That's all I know, Kit."

  M'ress relaxed to the point of collapse. Only the top fifth of all applicants who were accepted to Starfleet were p
assed on for the full multi-year course of training. Now the arduous six-month ordeal of endless tests—physical as well as mental—was over . . . and she had made it, she had actually made it!

  Almost as one they reached for the switch which would activate the tiny computer screen each room came equipped with. Lena hit it first. The rectangle lit, and the words AWAITING INPUT appeared. At that point the enormity of their accomplishment supplanted the initial excitement, and the fear that it was all a dream took over.

  "You do it, Lena . . . you firrst."

  "No . . . I can't. All of a sudden, I can't."

  "I'll rriddle you forr it."

  "Oh no!" Lena grinned warily. "You're much too good at word games for me." She let her gaze travel around the immaculately kept room, eventually spotted the ancient toy top resting on the pile of workbooks.

  "I'll spin you a dredel for it."

  "Orrf! All rright . . . choose sides."

  They did so. Lena spun the tiny top on the counter in front of the screen. "Gimel," M'ress chortled triumphantly. "I win."

  "You always win, Kit," Lena grumbled, but only briefly. After all, they had both made the cut. She punched out her name with the attendant request for information.

  An ultra-rapid series of pictures blurred the screen as the desk-top brain hunted through the records. Finally, an immensely detailed chart—Lena Goldblum reduced to numerical molecules—appeared.

  "One thousand eighty-three," she read from the blow-up of the bottom line.

  Excellent out of ten thousand . . . about average among those who would advance. And of the two thousand, only twenty percent again would graduate . . . the Four Hundred.

  "Not too good, but I have plenty of time to bring it up," she observed confidently.

  "Yes, and that's betterr than—"

  "And look!" Lena shouted excitedly. "I've been approved for my first request, security training!"

  Two numbers, M'ress thought, that would determine their lives for the next several years. Class ranking and section. Two numbers.

  "Now you, Kit."

  M'ress made the request. Again the high-speed hunt, again the computer settled on the necessary card.

  It was hard to say which girl was the more flabbergasted.

  "M'ress," Lena gulped, "I never knew." She looked at her roommate for half a year as if she were seeing her for the first time.

  There it was . . . class ranking: 0022.

  "Means nothing," M'ress whispered. "Someone always has to rrank numberr one and someone has to rrank ten thousand. They'rre not absolutes . . . just rroughs. Just a convenient statistical abstrract for the administrration."

  "But, M'ress . . ." Lena stopped, sensing a sudden shift in her friend's attitude. "Kit, what's wrong? Sure it's only a rough number, but even so, aren't you pleased?"

  "Look." M'ress pointed to the other critical number. It translated as: COMMUNICATIONS. "I wanted Science Section," she growled bitterly. "Administrrative science with a culturral anthrro over-majorr leading to executive officerrship and eventual Captaincy."

  "Practically everyone wants administration and a chance at command, Kit," said Lena comfortingly. "You know how pitifully few even get a chance to try for it There's always the possibility of a field commission, though."

  "In communications?" M'ress cried.

  "Look, at least you've got a chance to reach the Bridge. That's a lot closer than I'll ever get. Of course, I know I would never have it upstairs for command anyway."

  She forced a smile.

  "Maybe the computer read some of your poetry."

  M'ress had to smile at that.

  "I suppose I should be thrilled even to pass on. But I've been making rrankings like that all my life and you get to expect them afterr a while."

  "This is Starfleet Academy though, M'ress," Lena reminded her. "Not some—excuse me—provincial school."

  "That's so," M'ress was forced to admit. She brightened. "Yes, by the Prrey, I ought to be prroud, and excited, mrrrr! Ssst . . . if I have to worrk my way up thrrough communications, then it's thrrough communications I'll worrk."

  "That's the spirit," encouraged Lena.

  "And I'm going to keep on with my poetrry, too . . . no matter wherre it puts me in the mind of some central collection of solenoids and scrrews."

  (Sun to Black Star . . . even!)

  "M'ress . . . we've been hit, badly!"

  M'ress looked up from her seat at the library viewer and stared anxiously at Ankee, the short, stocky Jarite engineering ensign who had become one of her closest companions on the heavy cruiser Hood. Their sections were totally different in function, as were their individual assignments; but they shared a deep and abiding interest in the construction of reform-era poetry.

  Now he looked exhausted, badly battered about one side of his head, and a little scared.

  "I felt a slight shudder, Ankee, but I didn't think . . . I only heard the yellow alert sound and saw no harm in continuing with this work."

  "Surprise attack," he told her tiredly. "No one had time to do more than react instinctively. Not even time to sound battle stations." He added, seeing her brow furrow, "Kzinti."

  "Oh, we hit back at them, all right. Knocked out both engines, from what I hear; and scuttlebutt has it she's lost a lot of atmosphere, but . . ." he paused worriedly, "there's been no further word from the Bridge in some time."

  "What Bridge?"

  M'ress looked past Ankee as her friend turned. Lieutenant Morax was standing in the doorway, fighting to keep from shaking. Despite his three legs, the soft-voiced security officer looked none too stable.

  "The Bridge is gone."

  "What?" both ensigns gasped simultaneously.

  "Gone," Morax continued to mutter, in a tone that hinted he still didn't accept it himself. "Just . . . gone. Captain Oxley, Commander Umba, Lieutenant Commander D'Uberville . . . everybody."

  "Then who's in command?" wondered M'ress. "That would leave . . ."

  Morax shook his head sadly. "Chief Ellis was on the bridge, too. Which means—"

  "You," Ankee put in.

  "Me. Believe me, it's an honor I could do without."

  "What happened?" M'ress pressed.

  Morax made a complicated gesture. "The first attack. Direct hit on the Bridge by a disruptor bolt before we could get our screens up. We missed deflecting it by seconds. Too long." The security chief seemed about to cry.

  "What's ourr status?" M'ress asked tightly.

  "Engines disabled, Bridge gone, Fire Control scrambled to hell and gone. "We're a derelict," Morax told them. "The Kzanti's in little better shape. You know what that means."

  "Open to salvage," Ankee said huskily.

  M'ress had moved quickly to the tiny computer console. She cleared off her work, project—three weeks' study gone, no time to mourn—ran through several shunting operations while the other two watched. She tried again, a third time, finally quit in disgust.

  "I could have told you," Morax said sympathetically, "our communications are completely gone, as well."

  "So," guessed Ankee, "we sit here, both ships drifting forever in space, unless by accident . . ."

  "No, Ensign," Morax cut in. "The Kzinti is totally disabled from a mobility standpoint, true. Offensively, true. But our remaining backup sensory equipment indicates they are managing to put out a signal—faint, but a signal nonetheless—toward their nearest relay station.

  "We're deep in Federation territory, but we might as well be on the Galactic rim since we can't generate a similar signal. When theirs is picked up, it'll send another Kzinti warship racing here. They'll take the Hood in tow, after disposing of any inconvenient vermin who happen to be witnesses, of course."

  "So that's it, then," cursed Ankee fatalistically, slumping in the portal. "No way of fighting back. We can't run and we can't fight—we can't even call for help. But they can."

  M'ress was thinking furiously, then she asked, "What arre you going to rrecommend?"

  "A gr
eat deal of prayer," Morax replied. He turned to leave.

  "There's another possibility. Less spiritual, but with a betterr chance of succeeding, I think."

  Morax stopped, gaped at her.

  "Come now, Ensign, I . . ."

  "No, rreally—if you'rre cerrtain the Kzinti communications arre still intact."

  "We've got a definite indication they're putting out a signal," the security chief replied. "It will take some time to reach a Kzinti border relay post, considering the lack of power behind it. But it will reach."

  "So," M'ress went on, "if we could get contrrol of that same transmitter and beam to one of ourr stations, a Federration vessel would get herre in half the time the nearrest Kzin could."

  She waited while Ankee and Morax exchanged puzzled glances.

  "I'm not sure what you're proposing, Ensign," Morax said finally, "but if it's what I think, I absolutely . . ."

  She slid out of the chair, came to the door. Her words were low, urgent. "You've got no choice, 'Acting Captain Morrax.'

  "We Caitains and the Kzinti sharre common genetic rroots in the farr past, as do the Vulcans and the RRomulans. With a little carreful makeup, I could pass for a Kzin. A small one, but pass I would. Communications arre my specialty. With Lieutenant Tavi gone . . ." she swallowed stiffly, "I'm the best qualified to trry this.

  "I can speak Kzin well enough to fool theirr own warr council. And the last thing they'll be expecting is a boarrding party of one. Now, what's ourr trransporrter capability?"

  "I haven't had time to check," began Morax, "but . . ."

  "Then find out, and if anything still worrks, have someone stand by to beam me aboarrd when I'm rready. If I can rreach theirr station and hold it long enough to get a single burrst off towarrd the Cetacea system . . ."

  "How long," protested Ankee, "do you think you could hold such a spot against an aroused bunch of Kzinti? Against even one Kzin?"

  "All I need is a couple of minutes to re-align the directional antenna—they've got to be using the dirrectional, otherrwise one of ourr patrrols might pick up theirr signal—and get off one little scrream."