Star Trek - Log 5 Page 3

  Kirk appeared to reach a decision.

  "Let's get another look at it before the stun wears off," he announced. "That was a pretty strong jolt it absorbed . . . we should be safe."

  He glanced back over his shoulder.

  "Submerge, Lieutenant. Keep the currents here in mind."

  "Aye, sir, submerging . . ."

  II

  Clayton maneuvered the streamlined craft with ever greater skill. After several minutes of searching they had found no sign of the monster. But the view about the dome made up for it.

  They had sunk into a green mist tinged with the ever-present amber and were now making their way through a world of green glass. The bottom here was close enough to the surface so that sunlight penetrated all the way to the sand.

  If the world above with its monotonous, unvarying seascape and its looming island appeared simple and unchanging, the bottom presented a gaudy contrast.

  Exotic marine flora abounded, formed a kaleidoscopic background for the alien zoo that lived in and about it. The slanting sunlight combined with an Argoal coral-analog to enhance the similarity to an Earthly topical lagoon.

  Some of the ichthyoids wore broad, feathery tails that would have been more at home on a peacock than on a swimmer. And the moss which so strikingly decorated the island peaks grew even more abundantly below the surface.

  Here and there schools of thousands of minute crimson fish darted in and about the densest mosses, so thick in places that the water appeared to be on fire. They reflected metallically off the polished, backs of lumbering, clownish molluscs which scoured the nooks and crannies in the coral like old women at a rummage sale.

  "There it is," McCoy exclaimed, even as Clayton was turning the shuttle in the direction of the somnolent sea monster. The creature had drifted slightly south of where it had gone down. Now it rested immobile on the amber sand.

  "Look out," Kirk observed. "Try and set us down close by the head, Lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir."

  As the smooth metal hull settled gently into the soft bottom there was a slight grinding noise. Moss and hypnotically swaying ferns genuflected in opposite directions, while a small colony of crustaceans protested this unannounced eviction from their apartment rock with considerable verve.

  Spock and McCoy adjusted their tricorders, began to take basic readings. McCoy found something which stimulated the first scientific controversy of this exploration.

  "Dual respiratory system," the doctor observed. "Lungs and gills."

  "Most odd," Spock agreed. "Unless our assumptions are correct. If land subsidence and emergence here is cyclic, then it would be natural for the animal population to stand ready to live in either environment.

  "However, one specimen cannot be considered representative of every species on the planet. More readings of other types are essential."

  "There's that amber moss, too," McCoy pointed out "It seems to grow just as well above water as below."

  The stunned monster chose that moment of temporary disinterest on the part of its bipedal observers to stir slightly. Its tentacles quivered, disturbing the sand. Abruptly, the gigantic tail jerked spasmodically.

  The glancing blow was powerful enough to send the shuttle tumbling across the sea bottom, to come to a stop against a sand hill. Amber rain fell on the plexalloy dome as the displaced sand settled back toward the bottom.

  A groggy Kirk decided that this particular specimen reacted a mite too unpredictably for casual study. A second stun burst as strong as the first might kill it, anything less prove ineffectual.

  As Kirk stared out the dome, the monster momentarily seemed to have developed eight tentacles instead of four. And two heads. Also, there were two Spocks and two McCoys pulling themselves to their feet.

  However many limbs the creature possessed, at the moment all of them were moving in furious motion as it fought to regain its internal balance.

  "Take us up, Lieutenant, it's coming around, and I think we'd better be elsewhere when it does." Clayton nodded.

  The shuttle angled upward, rose from the sand and started toward the island. Kirk had one final glimpse of the beast, still thrashing about aimlessly, before the angle of ascent cut off his view.

  Any normal creature, having received such a pounding, would have escaped as its first thought. This inhabitant of Argo, however, was used to running from nothing, except perhaps a larger one of its own kind. Its flailing quelled for a moment . . . then the creature rolled over with a weird whistling roar and shot off with incredible speed in pursuit of the rising shuttle.

  Melting greenness gave way to blue sky and a view of the island dead ahead. Expecting to see nothing but calm water, Kirk looked out the rear of the dome. And as expected, the surface rolled on unbroken—until the father of geysers erupted almost on top of them, the burst sending the nose of the shuttle slamming forward and down. It bobbed up like a cork.

  Kirk had had enough of maintaining concern for nonsapient alien life-forms. "Prepare to fire phasers . . ."

  Spock moved to the console, adjusted the proper controls, leaving Clayton free to steer the craft. He snapped a hurried look at Kirk when a certain critical light failed to wink on as expected.

  "Phasers do not respond, Captain. Obviously we have sustained some damage from being struck below."

  Relief or no relief, he still should have ordered a check as a matter of course, Kirk cursed. Too late for recriminations. He looked back again, hoping that the monster had perhaps lost interest or gained satisfaction.

  Instead, he saw that the hunter had moved off, turned, and was now rushing back at them, mouth agape and wide as the corridor of an underground transportation system.

  "Lift off, Mr. Clayton, now!"

  The lieutenant worked the proper instruments, paused as if shot, ran through the sequence again twice as fast before throwing Kirk an anguished look.

  "No response, sir! Propulsion units have been cracked . . . I'm not registering a thing."

  That cavern of a gullet was drawing closer and closer. Stalactites and stalagmites of polished amber ivory lined its roof and floor.

  Kirk didn't waste time on shuttle communications. If both phasers and lift engine were out, chances were bad for the more delicate beam transmitter to have survived. He used his pocket communicator.

  "Kirk to Enterprise—red alert!"

  Engineer Scott's voice reflected the urgency in Kirk's own.

  "Enterprise, Scott speaking—what is it, Captain?"

  "We're under attack, Scotty, emergency—beam us aboard." His last words were drowned in the thunderous bellow which erupted from the monster's throat.

  "Full ahead, Mr. Clayton . . .!" The lieutenant hit controls, but not fast enough; the great tentacled head rose up, up, blotting out sun and sky—then came down. Kirk barely had time to grab for a hold before the gargantuan skull slammed into the shuttle.

  Another deafening howl penetrated the dome and it grew dark as two huge jaws closed on the aft section of the tiny vessel.

  Despite various grips, the impact sent everyone sprawling. Part of the upper jaw came down on the plexalloy dome. The transparent molding was incredibly strong, but its designers had never meant it to take this kind of pressure. It finally cracked.

  Shaking the shuttle like an infuriated mastiff with a piece of meat, the monster banged it against a rocky protrusion lying just under the surface. That finished the remainder of the dome. Another shake sent shards of dome, torn internal components, and McCoy and Clayton flying.

  The interior was a shambles. High-impact seats were twisted like licorice sticks. Spock lay jammed between the pilot's chair and the base of the control console, and Kirk was entangled in the remnants of some restraining straps.

  Both men were unconscious, their limp forms bent and loose. But they didn't come free as the creature swam off, still battering at its stubborn prey.

  "We've lost contact, Captain," a tinny voice yelled from somewhere within a maze of twisted metal. "We've
lost contact. Come in, Captain, come in! Spock . . .!"

  McCoy let out a whoosh as he broke the surface, looked around fearfully. But the only struggling form he saw was weak and small. He gave Clayton some support, helped him clear the water from his lungs.

  Together they stared at the distant but still visible form of the monster, the cylindrical shape of the shuttle still clutched tightly in its tentacles . . . what was left of it. Even as they watched, the creature rolled over on its back and vanished beneath the waves.

  McCoy tried to shout, call, but couldn't manage the breath. Once more the water was calmed, once more the distant island the only projection above the gentle swells. The shuttle, the monster . . . Kirk and Spock . . . all gone.

  Hopefully they had been thrown free, probably in the other direction. As he and Clayton had been—oh, hopefully!

  As McCoy was about to suggest they start searching, a not-so-alien mist distorted his vision and he experienced a brief sensation of falling.

  Once the feeling had passed, he found himself standing in the main transporter chamber of the Enterprise, staring at the distant forms of Scott and Transporter Chief Kyle across the room. There was the sound of flesh meeting plastic alongside him, and he turned to help the fallen Clayton. Scott was there in a second to assist him.

  "What happened, Bones?" But before McCoy could form a reply the chief had turned and was calling back to Kyle, "Call Sick Bay, have them get a team up here double-time!" He gazed back into the transporter alcove.

  "The captain, and Mr. Spock . . ." His voice faded as he saw the look on McCoy's face.

  "I didn't know . . . for certain, Scotty. We were taking readings on the local version of a sea serpent and . . . we got a little careless. It's reaction-recovery time . . . phenomenal . . ." A hand ran through hair matted with amber salts. He was aware he probably sounded as tired as Clayton looked.

  "It attacked instinctively—wrong bedamned instinct! Threw the shuttle around like a toy. A previous attack had rendered the phasers and lift engine inoperable, but we didn't find that out until too late. I don't know if we could have outrun it on the surface anyway. That thing was fast." He took a few steps, found out how tired he really was and sat down at the edge of the alcove.

  "I don't know what's happened to the captain or Spock. I hope they got thrown free like Clayton and myself."

  "I'll get a search party together immediately," Scott announced. McCoy was too exhausted to do more than nod.

  Planetary ocean stretched unbroken to infinity. Only an occasional curl of foam turning in on itself broke the translucent evenness.

  That, and a small slim boat of silver. A small slim boat which had been plying the surface of Argo for some time now, plying zig-zag and spiral routes across computer-suggested courses.

  The narrow silhouette was broken only by a pair of compact powerpacks attached to its stern . . . and three irregular shapes seated within.

  McCoy and Clayton stood in the bow, patiently scanning the horizon with telescopic binoculars. The doctor paused to rub his tired eyes, something he was doing with increasing frequency.

  He stopped, stared at the dappled surface without the aid of the mounted telefocals. "Five days and we've found nothing. Nothing."

  "They can't just have dropped out of sight, sir," said a sanguine Clayton. McCoy turned to eye him sadly, shook his head.

  "Currents, scavengers, a little shift in the lie of the bottom . . ." He shrugged. "They're gone, that's all there is to it."

  Clayton said nothing and both men turned their gaze back to the telefocals. It was the lieutenant's turn next to break the silence.

  "I see something, anyway. Barely above sea level, bearing thirty, forty degrees to starboard, about three kilometers off, I'd say." He fiddled with the fine adjustment on the precision focals as McCoy turned his own glasses in the indicated direction. Clayton's voice rose.

  "There's something on them catching the sun—and I don't think it's rocks!"

  All the exhaustion had gone from McCoy's eyes now. His gaze was surgeon sharp. Scott had moved to stare through his own set, rest turn or no.

  A dark mass of cracked, tumbled boulders, worn smooth by the constant wave action. The highest point on the low-lying island rose barely two or three meters from the water. McCoy pressed the telescopic switch, and the image jumped nearer.

  Details revealed odd-shaped fragments of reflective material . . . bits of the hull and cabin section of the lost shuttle, for sure. They lay displayed on the rocks like ornaments on a tree.

  McCoy lurched slightly as the boat shifted, lost his gaze. Scott was swinging the prow around. He gunned the twin power-packs and they jetted toward the rocks.

  "Any sign of them, Bones?" the chief engineer shouted as he nosed the gig into a notch between two protruding rocks. McCoy shook his head. Clayton scrambled out with a rope in one hand, secured it around a projecting knob of worn obsidian that looked solid enough to anchor the Enterprise itself. Clearly, this island had not appeared within the last couple of days.

  McCoy climbed out of the gig. Ignoring the debris strewn around his feet, he started for the peak of the little islet, picking his path carefully around sharp edges of metal, plastic and volcanic glass.

  No doubt about it, though, the bulk of the shuttle had been washed up—or tossed up—here. He topped the gentle rise and looked down the other side.

  That's when he spotted Kirk and Spock.

  On the other side of the islet the water was barely a meter deep, washing up over amber-white sand into a miniature bay. The motionless forms of the Enterprise's captain and first officer lay face down in the sand.

  "They're here!" he yelled back. "Hurry!"

  Seconds later Clayton and Scott were splashing through the water, dragging in panic at the two bodies.

  "You think they're still alive, Bones?" Scott didn't look at his friend as he said it.

  McCoy's reply was grim, honest. "Not if they've been down there for five days."

  Both forms seemed to weigh tons. They fought to move Kirk to the nearest dry land while keeping his head above water.

  "They might have swum here, crawled ashore dazed, and just fallen into the water recently from weakness," McCoy said wishfully. "Very recently, I hope."

  They finally managed to drag Kirk's waterlogged form onto a flat section of island. Leaving his feet dangling in the water, they went back for Spock.

  As soon as both men were lying alongside one another, McCoy reached into his backpack and removed the medical tricorder. Adjusting it quickly, he passed it over Kirk's chest, then reset it and did the same with Spock. Then he made additional adjustments and repeated the action, including head and neck this time.

  While Scott and Clayton looked on anxiously, McCoy studied the resultant readouts. Without a word, he ran through the entire sequence again, finally sat back and frowned at the instrument as though it had suddenly grown arms and legs.

  "For the sake of Reaction, say somethin'!" Scott eventually exploded. "Are they alive?"

  McCoy blinked, appeared to come out of a dream. He looked at Spock without seeing him—then ran through the examination yet another time.

  "Their life systems are still functioning," he finally said, as Scott was about to scream. "Metabolism is slowed, heartbeat slightly faster, all other bodily functions altered—but within acceptable parameters." He looked up in confusion.

  "I say 'acceptable' because they're incontrovertably alive. But there's something about their lungs and the rest of their respiratory systems I can't figure at all." He shook the tricorder. "Not with this toy, anyway."

  Clayton interrupted, gestured at the bodies. "They're coming around."

  Kirk's eyes opened first . . . opened, and opened, until they stared skyward in shock and fear. He grabbed at his throat, and his words came out in a feathery, agonized whisper as he twisted on the damp stone.

  "Can't . . . breathe. Suffocating . . .!"

  "No . . . air . . . choking . . .
odd . . ." Spock said huskily, like a dying asthmatic.

  All three officers stared at their two comrades in horror: helpless, confused, uncertain. Spock's hands went to his chest in a reflexive spasm, Kirk's shifting between chest and throat. Both men began tearing at their shirts, the actions of someone fighting to clear some invisible constriction from his lungs.

  That was when McCoy first noticed the fine membrane stretched between their fingers. It looked organic, not artificial—almost like webbing, in fact. And that slight, silvery-amber flaking on the backs of Kirk's hands . . . why, it was as if the captain had grown scales!

  "Help . . .!" Kirk whispered hoarsely, "Can't . . . breathe . . ."

  "What's happening to them, Bones?" Scott pleaded. "What's goin' on?"

  "Something's changed their whole respiratory structure," McCoy whispered in awe. "They can't live in the atmosphere anymore. Not a gaseous one, anyway." He stood, grabbed Kirk's arms. "Get his ankles! Help me get them back in the water!"

  They had an easier time wrestling the two men back into the shallow pool than they had had pulling them out. As soon as their faces passed beneath the clear surface, both men ceased struggling. Instead of grabbing at their chests, they relaxed completely.

  McCoy stared in disbelief, even though he half expected what would happen, as Kirk rolled over on the sand and stared up at him through the crystal-clear surface. As to which officer was the more shocked, no one could say.

  Scott walked over to stand next to him, likewise gazing down at his two good friends in horrified fascination.

  "What do we do now, Doctor?" McCoy hesitated, then turned to the chief engineer and spoke with conviction.

  "We get the captain and Mr. Spock on board, Scotty." And he went on to outline what had to be done.

  The corridor was empty except for McCoy. The security chambers in Sick Bay were used (infrequently, at that) for the care and treatment of criminals or dangerous aliens. Now one of them had been converted to a much different—and more vital—use. McCoy would encounter no one as he spoke into the recording pickup.