[Star Trek Logs 02] - Log Two Read online

  STAR TREK

  LOG TWO

  Star Trek Logs - 02

  Alan Dean Foster

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  For Mom & Dad,

  Without whose sincere cooperation,

  This author wouldn’t have been possible

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  The Survivor

  PART II

  The Lorelei Signal

  PART III

  The Infinite Vulcan

  STAR TREK LOG TWO

  Log of the Starship Enterprise

  Stardates 5402.7-5503.1 Inclusive

  James T. Kirk, Copt., USSC, FS, ret. Commanding

  transcribed by

  Alan Dean Foster

  At the Galactic Historical Archives

  on S. Monicus I

  stardated 6110.5

  For the Curator: JLR

  PART I

  THE SURVIVOR

  (Adapted from a script by James Schermer)

  I

  Space is not silent.

  If one has the ears—the appropriate methods to listen with—the seeming emptiness and black desolation is transformed into a raucous chorus of bleeps, pops, whistles, and hums. The steady modulated whines of patient quasars, the discordant sizzle of black holes, and the stentorian drone of unseen pulsars—all contribute their voices to a heavenly choir of awesome complexity and rhythm.

  From white dwarf to red giant, every sun exhibits its own distinctive, individual sizzle-plop in the same way that animals give off special odors, or flowers display color.

  At this particular moment, in this typically insignificant corner of the universe, an exceptionally unusual sound was being generated. It came from a minute, irregularly shaped and rapidly moving object of considerably less than solar mass. And yet the sounds it was producing were at once less powerful and more distinctive than those given off by any sun, or pulsar, or radio nebula.

  Anyone passing near this object would have needed very, very sensitive instruments indeed to pick up the sound at all. But if one had the proper detection equipment and an enormous quantity of amplification at immediate disposal, one might just be able to hear:

  “Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-lalala-lala-lalala… Tis the season to be jolly, fa…!”

  But by then, of course, the Enterprise would have shot far out of detector range.

  Once a year the tree was carefully unwrapped and lifted from its special cold-storage compartment in the bottom of the starship’s cold-storage room. Then, amid much gaiety and boozing, it was set up in the main crew lounge and decorated with everything from genuine gingerbread cookies to holographic angels.

  It was a real evergreen, too—as fine and upstanding a tannenbaum as any celebrant could wish for. No one minded that it had sprung from the soil of a world unknown to Man when words were first spoken on his moon.

  A group of engineers and technicians had organized an unprofessional but enthusiastic barbershop quartet near the base of the glowing tree. They were caroling away lustily to the accompaniment of a small electric piano.

  Lt. Uhura leaned against the fake fireplace set up nearby. She was talking to a tall young ensign from quartermaster section. Every so often she’d emphasize some point or other by jabbing him in the chest with a finger—one of those not wrapped around a glass.

  For his part, the ensign was still unsure about how to react. On the one hand, the sudden unexpected situation involving the most desirable lieutenant on the ship was developing promisingly. On the other, he couldn’t forget that she was his superior officer. Given the current lack of equilibrium the senior lieutenant was displaying, he’d have to be careful things didn’t turn awkward.

  “Lischen… listen, Ensign Burns… I tell you there’s nothing like working in communications! Communication is the most important, most necessariest section on this ship. Why, without communication we… we couldn’t talk to each other!” She seemed overwhelmed at this sudden insight.

  “I ask you… where’d the Enterprise be without communications? Where!”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Lieutenant,” agreed Burns, cautiously slipping an agreeing arm around her shoulders. “Of course, we should bear in mind that there are all kinds of communication… here, let me get you a refill. I have some interesting theories of my own which I’m sure would benefit greatly from the comments and suggestions of a senior officer like yourself.

  “If you could spare a minute… I’ve drawn up some interesting schematics that…”

  On the far side of the lounge, Engineer Scott had corralled Spock at an unoccupied table. The surface between them was swamped with seemingly numberless sheets of paper filled with hurriedly roughed-out engineering diagrams.

  “Now you see here, Spock,” Scott was saying intensely, tracing a rather wobbly line on one sheet with his drafting pen, “this is—” He paused and stared disapprovingly at the Enterprise’s, first officer.

  “Och, smile, Spock, why don’t you? ’Tis the season to be jolly, fa-lalala …”

  Spock’s reaction was similar to the one he’d already used several times that day, in response to the sudden explosion of illogical activity. To him this “season” seemed a cyclical madness that, fortunately, had to be borne only once a year.

  But, by Vulcan’s long deserts, it was hard on him.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Scott. First of all, I do not ‘fa-lala’, as you well know. Also, even if this were my holiday and not yours, I do not think I could bring myself to perform even the slightest of the many unreasonable activities that seem to be the normal method of celebration.

  “For one thing, Vulcans do not voluntarily pollute their bloodstream with odd combinations of ethyl alcohol molecules.” That seemed to outrage the chief and he drew back in stunned disbelief.

  “Pollute? Mr. Flock, do I understand you to be sayin’…? Are you callin’…? Do you mean to say that you regard this outstandin’ eggnog as a pollutant?”

  “I believe that is what I just said, Mr. Scott. Really, if you cannot see—”

  “No. No, that’s all right, Block, I see. I see, all right.” He shoved his chin out and managed to look like a Scottish martyr. He started gathering up armfuls of drawings. They overflowed his arms and fell to the floor. When he bent over to retrieve those that had fallen, he lost another set.

  “If that’s the way you feel about it,” he continued, picking up one and dropping three, “I’ll just have to find someone else to share this with. Someone who can appreciate my design. Someone who’ll be happy to share the income.”

  Apparently deciding he’d reached the point of diminishing returns as far as dropped papers were concerned, he turned and staggered off in the direction of a knot of nearby subengineers, dripping diagrams all the way. The subengineers saw him coming, but couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.

  Spock watched him go. A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned ’round, looking up at the new arrival.

  “Hello, Captain.” Spock’s first worry—that he might find the Enterprise’s commanding officer in a state similar to that of its chief engineer—was unfounded. On the contrary, Kirk’s face was noticeably devoid of seasonal spirit. His current expression was a mixture of curiosity and puzzlement.

  “Something is happening?”

  Kirk nodded. “It’s probably nothing important, Mr. Spock. As you know, meteor activity has been unusually heavy in this sector for two days now. This morning, Sulu thought he’d detected a blip in the normal shower pattern that shouldn’t have been there. I checked his readings and the computer seems to confirm them. There’s something moving in the shower that’s acting very unmeteorlike.

  “Still, it may be
nothing more than a somewhat different hunk of cosmic flotsam—but it’s drifting in a course almost parallel to ours. Since it’s not out of our way, I told Sulu to veer toward it.”

  “Any idea what it might be, Captain?”

  Kirk looked skeptical. “Sulu thinks it might be a ship.”

  “You have of course considered our position?”

  Kirk nodded. “I know we’re on the edge of the Romulan Neutral Zone, Mr. Spock. If it is a ship, there’s the chance it might be Romulan. Regardless—” He glanced around the lounge, in which the noise level had risen several unsteady decibels in the last few minutes, “if you can spare a moment away from the local hilarity, I’d appreciate your presence on the bridge.”

  “I assure you, Captain, I can spare a great deal more than a moment.”

  Spock continued his thoughts as they started moving toward the bridge-elevator.

  “In fact, sometimes, Captain,” and he looked back to where Ensign Burns was now chasing Uhura around the tree, “I often wonder how you humans ever managed to discover fire.” Kirk hit the elevator switch, and they entered the lift.

  “Sometimes, Mr. Spock, we aren’t quite sure ourselves.” He nudged the lever that sent them rising toward the bridge.

  Spock said nothing for a while as the lights indicating other decks flashed past. But Kirk knew his first officer well enough to tell that something was digging at him.

  “What is it, Spock?”

  “An absurdity, Captain. It is merely that Engineer Scott was forcing me to look at plans for…” He paused awkwardly in midsentence, something he rarely did.

  “Captain, do you think there would be much of a market on human-populated worlds for a four-dimensional Christmas tree?”

  “A what? Mr. Spock, have you been…?”

  “Captain, I do not object to the diverse ingredients included in the liquid solution known as eggnog… though I find many of them frivolous rather than nutritional. But please rest assured the beverage itself has no attraction for me.

  “Besides, I believe I may be allergic to nutmeg.”

  Kirk lost the answer to Spock’s original question in the atmosphere of this rarified possibility.

  Mr. Sulu was the only officer at station on the bridge. On special occasions Kirk sometimes allowed the Enterprise to cruise free, operating on the reasonable theory that no one had yet found a way to get a computer drunk. Sulu would have his own chance at losing control of himself when the starship changed over to the next shift.

  For now, the helmsman’s full attention was focused on his fore scanners.

  “We’re coming up on the object now, Captain.”

  “How’s shower activity, Mr. Sulu?” Kirk slipped easily into the command chair and Spock moved to the library computer station.

  “Heavy, sir, but not abnormal. Our shields and deflectors are handling it easily.” Concern was in his voice. “But from what I can read, that ship out there hasn’t done nearly as well.”

  “It is a ship, then?”

  “Yes, sir.” He made a delicate adjustment to a control. “Should have it on the screen any second now.”

  The main viewscreen blurred, then cleared. Meteors that occasionally shot across the field of vision moved too fast to be seen, but the tiny craft centered in the viewfinder stood out sharply in amplified starlight.

  Its design was compact and very expensive. Only the very rich could afford to put warp-drive engines in small ships. That maxim held true for governments as well as individuals.

  Right now, however, the ship looked more like a prime candidate for the scrapyard. The rear section had been twisted and bent in places by some violent, overwhelming force. The engines weren’t twisted or bent because they weren’t there anymore. The whole power plant was missing, torn from the stern of the battered craft.

  Numerous gaping holes showed in the mid- and fore-sections as well. It was a choice hunk of junk.

  “Take us in closer, Mr. Sulu.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Matching velocity and direction with care, the helmsman edged the Enterprise close to the small vessel. It was a feat made possible only with the aid of the starship’s navigational computer. No human could handle so many complex calculations alone.

  “It’s not a Romulan, anyway,” Kirk muttered. He was mildly relieved. Realistically, aiding a distressed craft could in no way be interpreted as warlike. Not by humans or Vulcans, anyway. But the Romulans were not always realistic. They had some peculiar ideas as to what constituted an aggressive act. At least Kirk would be spared that worry. Instead he could concentrate his thoughts on the plight of the survivors, if any.

  He didn’t have to consult the computer records to see that the tiny craft was of Federation design and make. “Close scan, Mr. Sulu.”

  Sulu touched a switch. Immediately the rear section of the injured ship seemed to jump out at them. Moving slowly forward along the pitted fuselage, the telescopic scanner finally stopped on a set of identification numbers. Set just behind the living area, the glowing numbers were barely intelligible. A near-miss by a small chunk of iron-nickel had almost obliterated them.

  “I have it, Captain,” noted Spock. That was the signal for Sulu to move the scanner further along the side of the craft.

  “I am now checking the number against Federation records.” There was a short pause and then Spock added idly, “I might also say, Captain, that unless you are wrong and it is possible to induce a state of inebriation into computers, our sensors claim that at least one occupant of that ship is still alive.”

  Kirk’s surprise was genuine. He hadn’t really expected that a ship this badly hulled, drifting alone in a little-visited sector of space, might still be able to sustain life.

  Still, they didn’t know how long the vessel had been drifting helplessly or when its power plant had been destroyed. Its life-support systems could have been successfully sealed off from the rest of the damage and might have continued to function on stored emergency power, but—The state of the ship indicated otherwise.

  Yet life-sensors rarely made mistakes.

  Possibly someone else was due for a merry Christmas.

  “Mr. Sulu. Since Lt. Uhura is… uh, otherwise engaged, I’d like you to try contacting that ship.”

  “Trying, sir,” replied the helmsman, as he rerouted basic communications through his own board. There was a pause of several minutes, after which Sulu looked back and shook his head slowly.

  “Nothing, sir. Not even a carrier wave. And no SOS.”

  Kirk tried to sound philosophical. “I guess it’s too much to expect any of their communications equipment to have survived intact. Not after the beating she’s taken. Your occupant may still be alive, Mr. Spock, but I wouldn’t bet that he or she is in very good condition.” He nudged a switch on his armrest.

  “Sick Bay—Dr. McCoy, please. Captain calling.” All that came back over the intercom was a muffled and suspiciously feminine giggle. “Bones, are you there?” An unidentifiable fumbling sound followed.

  “Here, Jim. What’s up?” Kirk suppressed an urge to echo McCoy’s query and follow up his own curiosity. Instead he managed to concentrate on the problem at hand.

  “Bones, we’ve run across a small Federation ship. It’s a derelict, been through the mill, but according to our sensors at least one survivor is on board. We can’t be sure yet. I’m going to have them beamed aboard, and you’d better be standing by in the transporter room.”

  “Okay, Jim.” The giggle sounded again, and McCoy switched off—rather hurriedly, Kirk thought. He sighed, turned to Spock.

  “Anything on the ship itself, yet?”

  “Not yet, Captain. But we should have some information soon. I have already established that it is not a government vessel. Private listings of interstellar ships require rather more time to check thoroughly. I will join you and Dr. McCoy in the transporter room.”

  “All right, Spock.”

  McCoy was already waiting when Kirk arrived in
the transporter chamber. The doctor was engaged in amiable conversation with Transporter Chief Kyle. Chatting ceased abruptly when Kirk entered and he had the impression their discussion had been on matters other than the derelict ship. McCoy struggled to put up a concerned front.

  “Do we know anything about her yet, Jim?”

  “Only that she is Federation, that she’s probably privately owned, that in all likelihood she contains no more than one survivor, and fix your shirt.”

  McCoy looked down at himself and fumbled quickly with his clothing. Kirk nodded to the transporter chief.

  “All right, Mr. Kyle,” he ordered dryly. “The doctor is ready. Bring ’em aboard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A familiar musical whine started to rise in the room. Spock walked in and moved to stand between Kirk and McCoy as the transporter effect began to build.

  “Readings indicate only one person aboard, Captain,” informed Kyle. Kirk acknowledged.

  “Thank you, Chief.” He glanced at his first officer. “Have you identified her, Mr. Spock?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Spock replied quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the reception alcove. Was there a hint of suppressed excitement in Spock’s voice?

  “You may find it difficult to believe—as difficult as I find it—but the vessel is registered to Carter Winston. I cross-checked, triple-checked. There is no mistake.”

  “The Carter Winston?”

  Spock nodded once.

  “That’s impossible, Spock!” objected McCoy. He had recognized the name instantly, too. So had Kyle, but the transporter chief was too busy to give vent to his disbelief.

  Everyone knew what Carter Winston had been.

  “Carter Winston’s been missing and presumed dead for over five years.”

  “It is possible, Doctor,” mused Spock unemotionally, “that he is no longer missing.” Kirk gestured towards the alcove where the outline of a figure was building.