Star Trek - Log 3 Read online

  MORE LIVELY ADAPTIONS

  FROM TELEVISION'S MOST POPULAR

  SCIENCE-FICTION SERIES!

  —Complete in this volume—

  ONCE UPON A PLANET

  The crew lands on a planet for rest

  and recreation, a planet programmed

  to play out each person's

  favorite fantasies. Suddenly, the system

  runs amok, and the crew is

  chased by fantastic creations of their

  own imaginings.

  MUDD'S PASSION

  That reprobate trader Harry Mudd

  smuggles a love potion

  aboard the Enterprise. The first two

  people affected are Nurse Chapel and—

  would you believe—Mr. Spock.

  THE MAGICKS OF MEGAS-TU

  Captain Kirk and company meet

  a strange goat-man named Lucien on a

  mysterious planet. But

  why does he look so familiar?

  WE GET LETTERS . . .

  "I just finished reading Star Trek Log One and loved every single line."

  "I very much enjoyed Star Trek Log One. It was one of the best screen-to-book adaptions I have read . . ."

  "At last a Star Trek series that reflects the way I feel about the stories. One that takes the basic situations and characters and builds intelligently on them. I see that you are tying them together—good!"

  "Thank you, Mr. Foster, for helping Star Trek live!"

  "I found your style of writing refreshing and invigorating . . . you supply a large amount of background material which is not explained in the episodes."

  "Bravo!"

  "I couldn't put the book down once I started it."

  "Congratulations . . . Mr. Foster has accurately, tastefully and faithfully reproduced the full flavor of Star Trek and its cast of characters."

  "LIVE LONG AND PROSPER!"

  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 0-345-33318-7

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition: January 1975

  Seventeenth Printing: September 1991

  Cover Art by Stanislaw Fernandes

  For Judy-Lynn del Rey

  who has the beauty to match her name . . .

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  Once Upon a Planet

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  PART II

  Mudd's Passion

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  PART III

  The Magicks of Megas-Tu

  X

  XI

  STAR TREK LOG THREE

  Log of the Starship Enterprise

  Stardates 5510.1–5524.5 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

  ONCE

  UPON

  A PLANET

  (Adapted from a script by

  Len Janson and Chuck Menville)

  I

  The officer entered the tent and came unbidden to full attention. For several moments he stood quietly, his eyes never wavering from the tall, impressive figure seated behind the old scarred table. But old campaigner or not, he found himself beginning to fidget. Perhaps his entrance had gone unnoticed. A slight cough as prelude, maybe . . .

  "The troops are assembled as you ordered, sir. They're waiting for you."

  "Thank you, Centurion," came the warm reply. Caesar did not look up immediately. The battle map sketched out on the tabletop still commanded the full attention of the greatest tactician Rome would ever know.

  Their situation was not yet grave, but every hour's delay strengthened the position of the enemy as fresh rebels rallied to their cause.

  On the right flank lay the traitor Aranius with his cavalry. To the north Ventrigorix was positioned with the Belgians. A scout had just ridden in with reports of catapults concealed in the high forest to their left that was laden with Greek fire which blackened men and panicked horses.

  If their own mounted were dispatched to deal with Aranius' renegades, the thrust of any main assault at the enemy's center would be weakened. Besides, sending even a portion of them to deal with the hidden catapults, whose strength was uncertain, would lessen possibly crucial reserves needed for a decisive conflict. A flank attack would surely follow any center attack, and the entire cavalry would be needed to turn it.

  A rising din was heard from outside the tent. Veterans all, the men of the XIIth, XXth, and XXIInd legions had been goaded to a fighting fever by their officers. They were anxious to do battle. To leave them standing while further tactics were deliberated would be folly.

  Cries of "Caesar, Caesar!" rose steadily in volume as the troops gave vent to their emotions. The leader of the Roman army thought once more about the vital holocaust ahead.

  If this campaign were successful, it would finally break the back of barbarian resistance in northern Gaul. The way would be open to the ice-bound lands across the northern seas, bringing the whole continent under the iron control of Imperial Rome once and for all.

  Caesar grinned wolfishly. Then let those limp-wristed Senators and Patricians try to chip away at the Emperor's powers! Rome would see a triumph it would never forget.

  Caesar's decision was made even before the fist slammed down onto the table. Eyes rose along with the battle-hardened torso to stare evenly at the tensely waiting centurion.

  "Flavius, the moment is at hand. We march!"

  Snapping to a position of attention the centurion's right arm shot up and out in salute. The words he had been waiting for—the words three legions of Rome's finest troops had been waiting for.

  "Hail, Caesar," he intoned admiringly. "Your legions await your command."
/>
  And this was more than rhetoric, for by now the tent was all but swaying to the combined shouts of thousands of massed soldiers.

  Donning his helmet, Caesar buckled on the short sword, adjusted a chinstrap, and strode toward the waiting thunder to address her men . . .

  "What's the matter with you, Yeoman?" asked a worried Lt. Davis. "Haven't you got that stand-by program for the menu worked out yet?"

  Yeoman Deb Colotti blinked and looked up from her dream.

  "What . . .? Sorry, Lieutenant. My . . . my mind was floating."

  "That's because it's lighter than air," snapped the section chief. She glanced over Colotti's shoulder and tapped a finger on the bright digital readout.

  "Code SCRP-D-220. You've just programmed two hundred and twenty chocolate raisin pies into the month's menu. And the captain hates chocolate raisin pie. Get busy and fix it."

  "Yes, ma'am." Colotti shook her head at her own idiocy and started in on the tedious task of erasing and resetting the faulty program she had just fed into the Enterprise's galley computer.

  Dry leaves crackled like brown foil underfoot and N'gombi froze. Behind him, the other four men of the hunting party did likewise, becoming as motionless as the surrounding trees of the great rain forest. Much care was necessary here, on the very edge of the veldt. Only anxious eyes continued to move, searching, probing nervously into the surrounding wall of green.

  The hunting party remained frozen in place several minutes longer before moving forward again. Almost immediately N'gombi threw up a warning hand. A clear section of soft, rain-soaked earth lay in front of them. Kneeling, he examined the track left in the drying mud.

  A sniff, loose earth crumbled appraisingly between sensitive fingers. "Fresh . . . very fresh," he muttered.

  His senses wholly alert, N'gombi looked up and into the forest. The spoor was barely minutes old. Behind him he could feel the tenseness of the others as they waited for his words.

  All were brave men—the bravest of the village. But they had no stomach for this kind of work and none could blame them. Especially in dense undergrowth where a group had no room to spread out and maneuver, where death could sneak smell-close to strike and crush and rend before a man could turn to see.

  Only the willingness of the great slayer N'gombi had given them enough courage, enough to go too. But even with the quiet assured presence of their greatest hunter, the sudden absence of normal jungle sounds—the monkey cries and the shrieking of brilliant-plumed parrots—was frightening them.

  N'gombi rose and started to step over the track. As he did so, a frightening crashing sounded in the foliage to their left. For a moment the party held. Then, screaming in fear and sudden panic, the other four hunters dropped their spears and ran for their lives retreating back down the path.

  Turning quietly, N'gombi grounded his spear-butt firmly into the dirt, knelt on one knee, and braced the hardwood shaft . . . and waited.

  Like a falling sandstone cliff, the tawny form of the huge rogue lion exploded out of the brush and at him . . .

  Subengineer Duchamps shouldered his overchalked cue and stared curiously across the green-felt-covered table.

  "You're not on your game today, Henry. That's the fourth round of eight-ball I've taken from you this morning."

  "Yeah," agreed security guard Henry Ndugu, observing idly that his partner had indeed swept the table surface clean. "Guess I can't concentrate."

  "Don't wonder why," nodded Duchamps knowingly. He glanced at the chronometer on his wrist as he swung the cue free. "Must be only a couple of hours out by now." He sighed deeply.

  "I'm having a hard time keeping my attention on the game, too. But I figure I might as well fulfill at least one fantasy right now. It's nice to beat you for a change. Rack 'em up . . ."

  In the pilot house, Captain Benjamin O. Lee puffed nervously on his pipe and glanced out of the corner of an eye at his pilot. Strange sort of chap, this pilot, giving up a promising literary career just to come back to his home town and sign on with a dirty old steamboat.

  But the fellow seemed steady enough. Lee was damned happy to have him. Had the surest eyes and steadiest hands on the river.

  It was a quiet summer day. Just enough of a breeze wafted over the river to keep the humidity from killing. From the iron stacks, gritty black smoke seemed to rise vertically into otherwise azure sky. The Cairo was entering a sharp bend in the channel.

  Noticing the direction of the captain's eyes, the pilot smiled that funny, wry smile of his. "Don't worry, Cap'n. Well get through easy as my grandfather's old ram."

  "I sure hope so, Sam. Never seen the big muddy this low. If those folks at Paducah don't get these medical supplies and that new vaccine we've got on B-deck, well . . ." His eyes lowered.

  "Now I told you not to worry, Cap'n. I know every log, every sandbar and old wreck this river's ever belched up. She's never played me false yet, and I don't see her doin' it now. Even so," and he eyed the swirling, muddy water ahead where a narrow stream entered the main course, "it'd be good to take a sounding about here."

  The captain nodded. Something at least to take his mind off less happy thoughts. Leaning out the side window of the pilot house he shouted forward.

  "Mr. Hansen . . . take a sounding!"

  "Aye, Cap'n!" came the mate's reply. The Swede uncoiled the measured, weighted line and chucked it easily over the bow, slightly to port. He checked the line markings as the paddle-wheeler pushed steadily ahead.

  "Mark Twain!" he called back toward the bridge. The pilot nodded and turned the wheel slightly to starboard. His eyes, perpetually twinkling under bushy brows, looked skyward. If the weather held they'd make Paducah in plenty of time . . .

  "Not much point in letting a recorder run if you're not going to use it," observed Yeoman Lancer.

  Ensign Ub Jackson started, looked up, suddenly aware that the screen in front of him was illuminated but quite blank, patiently awaiting instructions.

  "Sorry, Lily. Seems I just can't turn out any poetry today."

  "What's the matter?" She checked the list of suggestive titles available on another unoccupied viewer, and resolutely turned away from it. Best save her fantasies for the real thing. "No inspiration?"

  By way of answer Jackson activated the recorder. But instead of slipping in a program cassette, he dialed the image currently displayed on the main viewscreen up on the bridge.

  The screen fluttered momentarily, then cleared to reveal a blue-white world draped in a delicate peignoir of clouds. It had grown visibly since the last time he had looked at it.

  "No," he finally replied, eyeing the approaching planet longingly, "too much of it."

  "Captain's Log, stardate 5510.1," Kirk informed the patient pickup at his wrist He paused, glancing around the quietly efficient bridge. Spock, Uhura, Sulu, and Arex were occupied preparing for orbital insertion, each at his respective station. Dr. McCoy stood at Arex's shoulder, peering past the helmsman at their destination.

  "The crew of the Enterprise," he continued, satisfied that everything and everyone was operating normally, "is ready for some well-deserved rest and recreation. And the sooner the better. Mr. Spock informs me that normal ship efficiency is down twenty-two percent from the standard level—due in part to anticipation of Omicron planetfall."

  That was an understatement. Ship's personnel were so involved in plotting out the elaborate fantasies they hoped to enjoy once down on the surface of that azure ceramic world that only automatic instrumentation kept the Enterprise in working order.

  "Having secured the situation on Phylos and submitted the information concerning the mutant clone Stavos Keniclius V and mutant Spock Two—clone of our own first officer—to Starfleet sector headquarters, I requested that the crew be granted something special in the way of shore leave. Said request to visit the Omicron region was duly submitted and approved.

  "Course was set and traced without incident. We are now approaching that so-called 'shore-leave' world.

/>   "Those studying this log may recall that this particular planet was programmed long ago by some unknown but highly advanced alien race. The extremely complex machinery installed there is designed solely to provide fun and amusement for interstellar passersby.

  "Its extensive mind-reading devices and attendant manufacturing machinery are capable of materializing any fantasy they can pick up. I confess to looking forward to our return to this planet myself."

  Switching off the recorder Kirk sat back and watched his fellow officers at work. Although they betrayed no outward emotion, Kirk was certain they shared the same feelings of expectation he did.

  As he stared at the earthlike globe floating in the center of the main viewscreen, his mind relaxed for the first time in weeks. At last they would have a real rest, unencumbered by requests to explore, aid, fight, or otherwise exercise themselves on behalf of Federation policy.

  Matter of fact, a little anticipatory daydreaming wouldn't hurt right now . . .

  The Enterprise was run on three eight-hour shifts. Her crew would take a shore leave the same way. A games computer served to scramble a complete roster of personnel and then print out one lucky third of them.

  Uhura, Sulu, and McCoy were all in the first group scheduled for beam down. McCoy in particular made no effort to hide his pleasure in being among the first of the ship's complement permitted to sample the dream-satisfying pleasures ahead.

  The outcome did not sit very well with Engineer Scott, however. He looked up disapprovingly from his station behind the transporter console.

  "You needn't look so smug about it, Doctor."

  "Now, Scotty, no need to be jealous. You're due to beam down with the next group anyway, aren't you?"

  Scott shook his head mournfully. "Uh-uh . . . I'm in the third shift."