Star Trek - Log 6 Read online

  "Hold it," Uhura suddenly exclaimed. "Captain, I'm picking up Romulan intership and intercom transmissions—evidently something's gone wrong with their broadcast equipment."

  Kirk looked puzzled. "More than wrong, Lieutenant. Aside from the waste of power, putting intercom transmissions on ship-to-ship frequencies is a serious breach of comm security. I wonder what—Uhura, what are you smiling at?"

  "I'll put it on the Bridge speakers, sir." She adjusted controls.

  The first voice they heard happened to be that of the task force commander railing at his engineering staff.

  ". . . and turn off those food synthesizers!" he was shouting as the broadcast cleared. "We're knee-deep in hot fudge sundaes, and they're starting to impede passage in the corridors!"

  The arguments from all three ships and numerous sections went on in that vein—increasingly confused, increasingly angry, increasingly frustrated.

  McCoy grinned broadly. "I didn't even know the Romulans knew what a hot fudge sundae was—much less that their fabricators were capable of synthesizing one."

  "I daresay that the entire situation is rather upsetting to them," Kirk chuckled. "It would seem that something's gone wrong with their computers."

  "Shall we tell them how they can reverse the effects of the field, Jim?"

  "Oh, eventually, I suppose. After all, I don't think I'd want even the Romulans to go through too much of what we've been subjected to. But . . . let's not spoil their fun just yet."

  The laughter that sounded on the Bridge then was spontaneous—and decidedly non-mechanical in origin. To Spock, however, it was all the same, even if the motivation behind it was less threatening.

  "Inexplicable, incomprehensible and irrational," he muttered, turning back to his console. He set about resuming his theoretical studies where he had been forced to leave off when the Romulans had attacked. Laughter filled the air around him.

  There was one important difference, though. This non-gaseous stimulation didn't give him a headache.

  And while he mused on his research and his companions made jokes about the Romulans' present predicament, he couldn't know that events had been set in motion which would prove of greater importance than anything examination of the records of the central computer's temporary hysteria could produce . . .

  PART III

  HOW SHARPER THAN A

  SERPENT'S TOOTH

  (Adapted from a script by Russell Bates and David Wise)

  IX

  The network of detector drones and interwoven patrols which guarded the Federation home worlds, its industrial and population centers, was as thorough and as efficient as that highly advanced multiracial civilization could make it. It was designed to protect and defend against even a surprise Klingon attack in force.

  A single ship, moving at high speed and employing radical evasive maneuvers, could conceivably penetrate that electronic web. The one which did so moved in a predictable, straight path and made no attempt to disguise its destination. It compensated for the lack of concealment by moving at a speed previously thought impossible.

  No one could be sure, but the probe executed such extreme changes of direction at such incredible velocities that it seemed certain it was uninhabited. Also, it went about its business with supreme indifference to all attempts at contact. When all such methods were exhausted, and the probe continued to refuse repeated warnings to steer clear of Federation worlds, the Federation council reluctantly decided to destroy the interloper. This decision was modified by the science councilor to include some initial attempt to capture the craft. The Federation engineering division desired at least a look at those remarkable engines.

  The attempt at capture met with the same result as those at destruction, however. No Federation warship could overtake it, and the alien interloper did not linger in the vicinity of any armed vessel it approached. So in spite of intensive efforts to halt it, the probe performed the most rapid survey of the United Federation Systems in history . . . and it did so with a silence that was an unnerving as it was baffling.

  All the while, however, the Federation's most advanced electronic predictors were slowly analyzing the drone's performance. Continued observation showed that it held to a prescribed pattern of survey and dodge, inspection and flight.

  At each new world, larger and stronger Federation forces closed in on the craft. Each was programmed with a particular attack pattern, which was backed by a third set of reinforcements that would stand by in case the probe escaped the first two. Soon entire fleets had been mobilized in a mounting attempt to corner a single, uninhabited, as yet inoffensive ship.

  The problem was that the probe never lingered long enough for the huge forces to catch up with it. Nonetheless, the Vulcan logicians programming the predictors were certain that given enough time, they would trap the drone in a maze of phasers and torpedoes so intense that nothing could escape. But they weren't given the required time. The probe executed its final survey—a brief, yet impressively thorough multiple circuit of Earth itself.

  Even as the most powerful Federation force so far was weaving its way toward the probe, it paused in free space and aligned itself toward a predetermined point. It appeared to be blithely unconcerned with the increasing possibility of annihilation. Once positioned, the probe discharged an extremely high-frequency, lengthy blast of energy. The thunderous broadcast utilized far more power than it seemed a ship of that modest size could muster.

  The broadcast lasted only a few minutes. At its conclusion, the probe activated its engines. It disintegrated just outside the orbit of Luna in an explosion of sobering magnitude. Auroras formed as far south as Hong Kong and Istanbul for several weeks, and most of the transmitting equipment on Earth's lone satellite required extensive repair immediately thereafter.

  The mysterious intruder was gone. Several fragments of eyelash-size metal gave no clue to its origin. It had carried out its lengthy mission for the incomprehensible motives of as yet unknown beings.

  From where had it come? Who had constructed such a marvelous machine and what were their intentions? Why had it shunned all contact with Federation intelligences? These obvious questions and more were asked again and again by important individuals serving in the highest echelons of Federation government. And those whom they asked for the answers could only shrug.

  A measure of the importance attached to the enigmatic visitation was the readiness with which the Klingons and Romulans cooperated. The wonder at this vanished when both opponents of the Federation sheepishly admitted that before the Federation had been surveyed, their own respective empires had been similarly inspected. Though no one could be certain, it appeared that the same isolated probe had been involved in each instance.

  A few zealots within the government warned that it might all be an elaborate plot, concocted by the Klingons and/or Romulans to obtain military information from frightened government authorities.

  Impartial engineering experts quashed such thoughts immediately . . . neither Klingon or adaptive Romulan physics were even close to producing something as advanced as their visitor had been. If they were, it was ruthlessly pointed out, they would be putting it to more effective use than casual surveillance.

  The intricate recording equipment based on Luna, on Earth and on Titan could track even the path of a butterfly at interstellar distances. So when the suicidal probe began regurgitating its concentrated information, those several stations were already tracking it. They detected the transmission the instant it began, recorded it minutely for rechecking at later leisure.

  So efficient was that tracking equipment, however, that no rechecks were required, no computer enhancement of that blindingly powerful signal necessary. Instantaneous triangulation was produced by the three stations.

  The beam had erupted from the probe along a line as clear and precise as white ink on a blackboard. It was along that path that the Enterprise had been ordered to proceed.

  The amount of energy expended in that minutes-long
broadcast had been immense—far in excess of anything Federation science was capable of. And although that energy was still on the near side of infinite, there was reason enough to believe that the receiving end of the transmission might lie outside this galaxy . . .

  If that were the case, Kirk thought to himself, the Enterprise could have rather a longer trip than anyone expected. No one had anticipated what the orders might be if she found herself poised on the rim of such extremes.

  But Kirk had to consider that the beam had intercepted no known star systems, not even suns without planets, and they were now well outside Federation boundaries. He idly watched Spock at work with the library computer and sighed. They had been retracing the course Starfleet had supplied for weeks now.

  No telling how long this could go on. The orders had been for the Enterprise to proceed until, as the ethereally worded document stated: "all possible doubt has been removed as to the potential dangers posed to the Federated peoples by the alien intruder."

  That order was sufficiently vague to keep them cruising for months, even years, unless recalled—or until the halfway point of their irreplaceable supplies was reached.

  Lately Kirk had been subject to a particularly chilling nightmare. Some junior clerk at Starfleet headquarters was continually misplacing the Enterprise file, or allowing the recall orders to slip down behind some spool storage case, or accidentally erasing all record of the cruiser from the Starfleet central computer.

  The ship was forgotten. It continued on, taking on new stores at various puzzled worlds, whose inhabitants stared sadly at the wrinkled, white-haired crew trapped in its Tantalus-like quest.

  He grew aware of a presence next to him. The presence was clearing its throat delicately. "What . . .? Oh . . ."

  Turning away from the patient yeoman, Kirk studied the order form the latter had handed to him. Hmmm . . . standard request for use of the main recreation room.

  For a second he almost handed it back unsigned, remembering what had nearly happened to McCoy, Sulu and Uhura in that same room several weeks ago. But the story of their entrapment in that chamber had circulated throughout the ship. A scare like that would die hard. He doubted anyone would go in for any exotic manipulations of the environment for a while. It was one thing to be threatened on a new, alien world—quite another when your own games facilities turned on you.

  Someone wanted the proper atmosphere for a birthday party of some such, no doubt. He signed the chit, saluted casually as the yeoman departed, and turned his gaze to the view forward.

  The screen displayed the same gloriously monotonous image it had for days and days—unfamiliar star patterns speckling the blackness. Kirk found himself growing sick of unfamiliar star patterns speckling the blackness. If they didn't encounter something soon—a derelict spacecraft, a postal drop, anything—he was going to have Uhura tight-beam the nearest starbase and patch him through to fleet headquarters, where he could give vent to his emotions.

  He began running his speech over in his head. He would discourse on the futility of the entire expedition and add some appropriate thoughts about the power wielded by a few panicked bureaucrats. Above all, this expedition was proving to be a sinful waste of ship's power and crewpower.

  He forced himself to clear the welling irritation from his voice as he called for the current status report from his first officer.

  Spock paused an instant at the gooseneck viewer, checked another sensor before turning to face Kirk. "We are continuing along the path plotted by Starfleet Central, Captain. However, I feel it is time for me to point out that the accuracy of that plotting diffuses with every parsec we cover.

  "It has now reached the point where . . ." he hesitated long enough to check a last readout, ". . . the margin of divergence has increased to nearly a tenth of a degree."

  Kirk nodded. "I see. Not a serious range of error . . . if we're hunting for a planet. But if we're looking for a ship, we could miss it by many trillions of kilometers. Soon that'll be true for a star system, too.

  "What would you recommend, Mr. Spock?"

  "Reducing our speed to accommodate our long-range, peripheral sensing equipment, so that we do not rush past anything such as a small vessel."

  "Reasonable—though I don't like the idea of cutting our speed. Mr. Walking Bear, bring us down to warp-factor two."

  The ensign who was occupying Sulu's position usually drew the third shift—when both Kirk and Spock were off-duty and asleep. Sulu, however, had elected to take some extra time off that he had accumulated, and Walking Bear had gladly volunteered for the opportunity to serve with the ship's executive command.

  He had performed well so far, Kirk mused. Must remember to make note of the ensign's competence in the supplementary log. Unaware that he was being subjected to close scrutiny, Walking Bear made the necessary adjustments. "Aye, sir, warp-factor two."

  His accent was faint, but the long black hair and rich rust color marked him as an Amerind of the North American Southwest. Kirk struggled to recall an early academy seminar in Basic Ethnics.

  It was impossible to be more than cursorily familiar with the background of every one of the Enterprise's four hundred thirty assigned personnel. That didn't stop the captain from trying, however. It was something with a hard ch sound in it, now . . .

  Kirk wondered how much time the ensign had in . . . perhaps he was eligible for promotion to lieutenant. Even though this expedition had proven routine, maybe he could come up with some way to test the young helmsman's mettle.

  As it developed, he would be spared the trouble . . .

  "Captain," Arex reported, "sensors have picked up a vessel at extreme range."

  "Any indication as to heading, Mr. Arex?"

  The navigation officer studied his readouts a moment longer, made a high, snuffling sound as he expelled air through high-ridged nostrils.

  "It appears to be proceeding on the same plot followed by the alien probe's final broadcast, sir—but the vessel is moving toward us, instead of outward. Approximate speed, warp-three."

  "Mr. Spock?"

  "Range is still too extreme to attempt detailed observation, Captain." He studied his small viewers. "Possibly this is a second probe. It may be that the first did not complete its assigned task, and merely malfunctioned instead of self-destructing. This may be another drone coming to conclude the operation."

  Kirk frowned. "True, Mr. Spock, or it could be the original probe's owner."

  "If this one's coming in search of its predecessor, it's not going to find much," Uhura noted.

  "Order all stations, yellow alert, Lieutenant," Kirk ordered. "Open standard hailing frequencies." He gestured at the main viewscreen. Despite maximum magnification, the scanners still showed only awesome darkness, strange suns and feathery nebulae.

  Whatever it was, maybe it would prove a little more talkative than its super-fast ancestor—if indeed the two craft possessed any relationship at all. They might merely be racing to meet another deep-space explorer like themselves.

  The alarm blared throughout the Enterprise, sending a second shift scurrying to join the one already on duty.

  Kirk stared expectantly at the screen. "Any identification yet, Mr. Spock?" There was no point in straining his eyes, but every Starfleet officer with any real experience was innately certain that his vision could range just a few kilometers further than his ship's electronic scanners. Kirk was no different.

  "Not possible yet, Captain," Spock finally declared, "but preliminary sensor analysis indicates an object at least twice our size. Variance could be substantial on closer inspection."

  "Not another double of the probe, then," Kirk commented thoughtfully. "I'd feel better if you'd said it was half our size, with variance either way."

  "We have no reason to assume it has a hostile intent, Captain," the first officer felt compelled to point out. "If it acts as its possible predecessor did, we can expect it to regard us with studied indifference."

  "People who send dr
one probes through other people's homes without acknowledging even a hello or how-d'you-do don't strike me as overly friendly, either, Spock."

  "The one does not imply the other," Spock argued amiably. Discussion was interrupted by the arrival of new information on his instruments. "Regardless, it appears extremely unorthodox in design—much more so than the drone." He made a quick check of the proper records.

  "No record of anything like it in the Jane's—and Starfleet information insists there should be no vessels of any known civilization cruising in this extreme region."

  "Reduce speed to warp-one, Mr. Walking Bear," Kirk murmured.

  "Warp-one, sir?" The ensign looked uncertainly over at Arex. The navigator asked the question spinning through the less-experienced officer's mind.

  "Same course, sir?"

  "Same course, Mr. Arex. Activate minimal field, ultra-extreme scanner, please." Abruptly the starfield ahead seemed to leap toward them, then come to an abrupt stop. Essentially it remained unchanged. Only now an object lay in its approximate center. It was still only a vague blob of light, but it grew larger with perceptible speed.

  "Anything out of those hailing frequencies, Lieutenant?" he asked over his shoulder.

  "No response, sir," she told him. "So far it's the probe all over again."

  "Continue hailing. Try every frequency you know . . . and when you've exhausted those used by the Federation, go through the special Klingon, Romulan, and lesser alliance levels."

  "You believe the probe and this vessel may be the work of some small, isolated race, Captain?" Arex wondered.

  "Not one we know of, Mr. Arex," Kirk said absently, still staring at the unresolved luminescent image growing larger with the minutes. "But it's possible that whoever is behind both craft has had contact with a smaller independent system like Michaya or the Yoolian worlds. If that's the case, they might respond to such an infrequently used hailing frequency while ignoring ours.