Star Trek - Log 5 Page 19

  He stared up and out at the object of their search. The ledge reached out a thin tentacle of itself, but stopped short of the soul. What they would do when they reached that point he didn't know.

  He felt himself shaking—and the cause was external.

  "Hug the ledge!" Spock yelled. The four of them dropped flat, trying to dig nails and toes into the unyielding metal. The quake stopped, then came on again stronger. But there was more bluster than threat in the tremor. There was no sign of the walls coming down or of the ledge collapsing beneath them.

  "We already know this world is geologically perverse," Spock commented, rising to his feet "It would be illogical for this edifice to be built without keeping that information in mind. Most likely it is mounted on flexible supports which absorb most of the violence of the quakes."

  "That's what I need right now," muttered Em-three-green.

  Kirk was tempted to add that the picklock shook even when the earth didn't. He quickly quashed the thought, which was undiplomatic and unworthy of a leader.

  It was just that, as they drew nearer and nearer their objective, his built-in warning system was winding tighter and tighter. They couldn't simply reach out and pluck it—they couldn't! Someone had gone to an incredible amount of trouble to build this supersafe on this unholy world. To believe they could get this close without additional opposition was naive in the extreme.

  The ledge turned a sharp corner and narrowed considerably. Sord could never have negotiated it. They had to turn sideways, backs against the wall, and edge across carefully. Then it was up, up, mounting ever higher—until they reached a point where the ledge broadened to a stop, from which a long, narrow arch extended out toward the floating soul.

  They needed a respectable hunk of nerve to walk out onto that thin projection, and even more to look down the dizzying drop to the floor below. Em-three-green huddled close to Lara and concentrated his full attention on remaining in the precise center of the platform.

  The metallic protrusion ended a couple of meters from the soul. "Close," Em-three-green groaned, "so close!"

  Lara was unwinding a length of cord from her belt. "Maybe I can get a line on it."

  Spock restrained her.

  "We have no idea what kind of force field may surround it. Best to wait and save direct contact as a final option."

  They hardly had time to discuss other possible means of retrieving the soul when a violent crump sounded behind them. Everyone ducked instinctively, but the blast was not repeated.

  Kirk looked back the way they had come and saw that a wide section of ledge had vanished. Smoke still rose from the edges of seared metal. They were marooned on the platform.

  That it had taken this long for their tormentor to show himself was all that surprised Kirk. But the motives of the mad are obscure and difficult to analyze. Kirk stared up into the far reaches of the fortress. They were two-thirds of the way up—from where he saw that near the roof the walls were not entirely unmarred. Instead, they were pocked with carved images, crevices, small craters and tiny dark tunnels.

  "I told you there had to be something watching, protecting here besides just a locked door. There had to be something besides reliance on freakish weather and the occasional earthquake. There had to be something besides this superegomaniacal metal box. Something more subtle, something even the Vedala couldn't defend against."

  "Which would be what, Captain?" Spock inquired.

  Kirk's reply was tinged with sarcasm.

  "A worm in the apple, Mr. Spock. A monkeywrench in the works, an activated positron in the dilithium, a rottenness in Denmark." He shook a challenging fist at the vast expanse of the roof.

  "I know who you are!" he shouted, his eyes searching, hunting. Who could have placed the soul in a restraining field here, three hundred meters up in open air? Who would think to build this travesty of a holy temple as a monument to annihilation? Who, but the Skorr themselves?

  "Show yourself, Tchar! The masquerade is over—take your bow."

  Nothing happened for several seconds. Then the prince of the Skorr dropped from an as yet undetected hiding place. He dove toward them and spread batlike wings at the last moment, braking to hover on the other side of the soul. Laughing, whistling, jabbing accusing fingers at them—mocking civilization, and worse.

  "Tchar," Lara muttered wonderingly, "in the name of the seven gods of the hunt, why did you do this? You and your little clique of militarists?"

  Kirk shook his head sadly, tiredly. "It seems history is doomed to repeat itself even across racial and spatial borders. It's not a little fascinating, and not a little sad. You and your accomplices would start a meaningless crusade of blood across the Galaxy, initiate the murder of your people and other innocents—for what, for what? Tell us why, Tchar."

  "The Skorr were a warrior race!" Tchar shrilled, whirling about in anger. "Slaves to the illusion of peace are we now—cowards, grown soft through the comforts of trade and weak by mental miscegenation." He gestured at the soul.

  "This sick dream," he spat, "stole our souls, it did not heal them!" Now a hint of the fanatic's pride crept into his voice. "But there were a few of us high ones, a very few, who were wise enough to perceive this gigantic illusion which had sapped our racial determination and courage.

  "We planned the theft, and none stopped us. None will stop us! There will be no time for another expedition before fury returns my people to glorious tradition. I, myself, came along to insure this. I alone saw the need, when I was told who would participate. And I was right—I was needed.

  "I, Tchar, hereditary prince, waster of mine enemies, drinker of blood—I will lead my people into glory and revenge!"

  "At best you can win only a Pyrrhic victory," Spock replied calmly, not in the least impressed by the sturm-und-drang speech of Tchar. "Most, if not all of your warriors will eventually be tracked down and killed. The Skorr homeworlds will be scoured clean of life when the warrior races of the Federation rise to do battle with you—as will the empires of the Klingons, and Romulans, and all the others."

  "Perhaps," Tchar admitted, in defiance of Spock's logic. "A noble death risked to win a great dream." He shook angry talons at them,

  "But no longer will we live like worms, crawling in the dirt. We will rise and conquer. You will be the fourth group sacrificed to the cause. But you have my respect—only you came this far. Only you necessitated my personal intervention. You will die in grace, as befits the enemies of a hereditary prince."

  "Tchar, wait!" Lara called, too late. The Skorr had already wheeled up to disappear back into the dark places of the ceiling.

  Far, far below a massive figure watched and tried to understand. Sord could tell something had gone wrong, but the sound from above dissipated in the vast expanse of the chamber. He had seen the ledge cut, of course, but there was nothing to be seen from below that could tie Tchar to the sabotage. Massive thoughts were considered and discarded as he tried to make sense of what had happened.

  Lara had walked to the very edge of the precipice and stared calmly over. "Absolutely unclimbable, as Mr. Spock said." She shook her head disparagingly. "We'd bounce awful high."

  As if to confirm her words, she suddenly drifted upward, followed by the others. Em-three-green spun frantically, clawing for a foothold.

  "I believe this renders the problem academic," Spock declared.

  "Gravity neutralizer—the building's equipped with null gravity," Kirk explained tightly.

  "It may be part of the edifice's own components," Spock added, spreading arms and legs and trying to keep relatively motionless. "It would surely explain how this structure has been able to survive the multitude of tremors and other natural disasters that must have struck this spot."

  Kirk found himself spinning despite his best efforts. Below, Sord found himself drifting, too, but had reacted more rapidly than any of them. He'd kicked out at the last instant, struck the floor a titanic blow, and sent himself sailing upward. His aim had been excel
lent. Reaching out, he had gotten a solid grip on the projecting ledge, pulled himself atop it, and was now the only one not floating free.

  Somewhere nearby, Tchar was whistling amusedly at them. Kirk struggled to orient himself, finally located the teasing, darting birdman.

  "Now you can fly and fight as a Skorr—a worthy way to die, is it not?"

  Kirk started to reply, but was interrupted by Sord. "No offense, little one, but let me have him." He slapped his chest with one paw, a blow that would have buckled the wall of a starship. But there was more to this situation than bulk and strength. Tchar would cut the clumsy Sord to pieces before the reptile could get a grip on him.

  "No, Sord, not in free fall."

  "Use your phaser on him, quickly!" Em-three-green suggested nervously.

  "Yes, Captain Kirk," the voice of Tchar mocked, "use your phaser on me."

  An invitation to destruction, Kirk knew. Tchar wanted them to fight him as a Skorr, so he could reassert his madman's version of Skorrian bushido. That meant hand-to-hand combat. No modern accouterments like hand phasers.

  If this structure was equipped with electronics as sophisticated as a gravity neutralizer, he had no doubt there was something trained on them this very minute capable of canceling out their phasers—perhaps even keying on their energy cells. To fire one might cause it to blow up in one's face.

  "It must be on his terms," he told Em-three-green.

  They might work this to their advantage. If they expressed a reluctance to fight, Tchar could probably dispose of them from a convenient distance. Instead he chose personal combat. His controlling phobia demanded he kill them personally.

  "Spock, how long since you've done zero-gee combat exercises?"

  "I subscribe to the prescribed dosage, Captain."

  That told him Spock was up on technique, without telling Tchar any more than was necessary. Let him interpret that as he might.

  "Well," he shouted to Tchar, steeling himself, "what are you waiting for?"

  Tchar was hard put to restrain his laughter. "You are turning slow circles, Captain Kirk, with no sign of stopping. A most disadvantageous tactical position."

  Tchar was right. Before they could do any maneuvering of any kind they needed a firmer purchase than thin air. Tchar didn't want the kill to be too easy, then. Worse for him.

  "Lara, throw your line to Sord." The huntress nodded. Uncoiling the line and wrapping one end around her right wrist, she tossed the gently weighted other end towards the braced and ready Sord.

  The action sent her spinning, but Sord caught the loop easily and pulled her in. While he braced her she reeled in Em-three-green, Kirk, and Spock.

  "Very good, Captain, very good!" Tchar applauded mockingly. Kirk thought he detected the gleam of insanity in the Skorr's eyes even at this distance. He was working himself up good and proper.

  So much the better. "If we can get him to lose control of himself, Spock, get him to stop thinking . . ."

  "An admirable objective, Captain," Spock whispered back. "Should I have a choice, however, I believe I would opt for a fast kick to the jugular."

  Kirk smiled grimly.

  "Let's go, then."

  Bracing himself, Kirk drew an imaginary line and kicked free of the platform. Spock did likewise, kicking harder. Thus he reached the far wall first and pushed off again to approach Tchar from the other side.

  Tchar whistled, charged straight at Kirk. Obviously he intended to deal with them one at a time. He had plenty of time to bleed Kirk, turn, and deal with Spock.

  Kirk had aimed for the soul. It was the only cover of any kind available in the dangerously open space. The maneuver generated only contempt in Skorr's eyes. He'd expected better than a desperate dash for the soul.

  Talons extended, he headed for Kirk's face. The human's soft hands worried him not at all. Kirk first, then the Vulcan, then the others at his leisure. The large stupid reptile would take many cuts to die. Em-three-green he would save for last. It would be interesting to see if he could frighten him to death.

  But first—the human.

  Wings beating to his sides, forelimbs extended—then Kirk moved. Tchar momentarily lost his poise and tried to change his angle of approach.

  At the last possible second, Kirk had curled into a tight spinning ball. When he came out of it it was with both legs tucked tight into his chest. He extended them just in time to meet Tchar's midsection.

  One claw struck home—only to glance harmlessly off the thick sole of Kirk's boot. But the unblocked leg drove deeply into the Skorr's stomach.

  As he tumbled awkwardly from the blow, screaming in pain and rage, the hereditary prince of the Skorr was met from behind by the late arriving Spock. Too late, Tchar sensed he had been duped, that the timing of the two bipeds had been planned to bring about just this situation.

  He'd committed a terrible error—underestimating his opponents. Now the Vulcan had a grip on both arms and despite his best efforts, Tchar couldn't dislodge him from his back.

  Kirk had continued on to the soul, met the expected force-field and used it to kick back toward Tchar. But this time Tchar was ready for the tumble-and-kick and he twisted away, slashing out with a clawed leg.

  Kirk wrenched aside and the claw ripped down his front, drawing a little blood. Straining, the Skorr managed to fight his way over to the force field. A couple of rough jolts against it were enough to knock Spock loose. Furious, Tchar turned to rend the Vulcan.

  But Spock was far from incapacitated. Although he had been shaken off, he had managed to get a grip on the outline of the force field. Now he used it as a barrier between himself and Tchar.

  By then Kirk had struck the far wall, kicked off, and was coming back for more. Tchar spotted him at the last instant, but by now he had had about enough: this exercise had been interesting and instructive, but it had taken rather too much time. Instead of turning to meet Kirk's charge he strove for altitude.

  "Very good," he called down to the two men bobbing near the soul. "Surprisingly good. But it was you, Captain Kirk, who called for an end to masquerades. Now this too, must end.

  Folding his wings, he dropped like a stone toward Kirk. Sord, Em-three-green and Lara watched, worried. Kirk was drifting free. Even if he reached the force-field around the soul, Tchar's power dive would drive curved talons right through him.

  Kirk reached the soul, got a grip on its edge. Tchar screamed in triumph—just as Kirk turned. Both sets of claws slammed into Kirk's backpack—and stuck.

  The force of the blow had almost knocked Kirk off the field—almost. Then, as Tchar screamed in frustration, Spock crawled carefully round and got a grip on the Skorr's wings.

  They made contact with the soul and contact with the thief. Now was the time.

  "Lara, call for retrieval!"

  "No!" Tchar shrieked desperately. Kirk had succeeded in his aim, making the Skorr forget everything but the fury of battle. They had to have him pinned before they issued that irreversible call. Had to, because there was a button on Tchar's belt, a button he now fought vainly to reach, a button which undoubtedly controlled the gravity neutralizer and in an emergency could have sent them all tumbling to the metal floor where, as Lara had predicted, they would have bouncd very high indeed.

  But Lara could now throw the switch on her pack without fear of that.

  A faint smell of ozone was in evidence as the air around them crackled. They had only one remaining fear—could the Vedala retrieval field penetrate the force-field holding the soul of Alar? Or would it retrieve only them?

  Or would the force-field interfere with the retrieval field and leave them all drifting in limbo?

  He speculated on it as his vision began to fade, as Tchar's wrenching cry of, "Let me die!" echoed in his ears.

  No Tchar, Tchar of the soaring wings and mad dream, you're coming back with us—though I truly wish that I could grant your wish . . .

  Running water played counterpoint to the wind in the grass. Kirk felt a wa
rm breeze on his face and smelled the smell of green things growing. He looked down at himself.

  There were no scratches on his arm, no gash in his chest where Tchar's claws had struck. They were standing in a familiar glade, back on the Vedala asteroid.

  Baring unabashed stares of astonishment, they stood as they had stood days ago—rested, clean, refreshed—before the expedition had begun. Had he dreamed it all—had the quest only taken place in their minds? Or, he thought as he turned to face the small, confident figure standing in the glade's center, had it all been simply an elaborate display of some strangely Vedalan sense of humor?

  "We give you thanks," the Vedala intoned solemnly. He moved aside to reveal a triplet of mobius strips, glowing golden against the greensward. "The soul of Alar is returned to his people. There will be no jihad."

  He gestured and the soul vanished. Presumably it was already well on its way to the central Skorr homeworld—along with a recommended list of precautions to prevent any future theft.

  "What about Tchar?" Kirk asked. "How are you going to deal with him?"

  Another gesture and they saw Tchar, arms and wings bound, sneering at unseen tormentors.

  "The hereditary prince is proud and brave and has many useful qualities. We will make a small adjustment in his personality. You would argue the morality of this, Captain Kirk, as is the peculiarity of your race—but you will not argue its efficacy. He will be made sane again." The picture of the bound Tchar faded.

  "We cannot reward you with other than our thanks and the knowledge of what you have prevented. Nor can the Skorr, for this must remain hidden from them. Tchar's co-perpetrators will be found out and dealt with, without subjecting their people to racial shock. The Skorr must never suspect that this monstrousness was engineered by some of their own, or they would engage in a vicious, useless witch-hunt for more blasphemers."

  "Oh well," Sord rumbled airily, "got nowhere to wear a medal anyway."

  "There will be questions," Spock remarked.