Star Trek - Log 6 Read online

  "Not the most enchanting scene I've ever beheld," he finally murmured.

  "Plague seldom leaves behind fields of flowers and dancing children, Captain."

  Kirk glared angrily at the security chief, who simply stared over the Captain's head with the serene gaze of the self-righteous. Spock raised an eyebrow.

  "There must have been local medical facilities—one central hospital, at least. I would assume they are less severely damaged than these structures here, as logic dictates they would be the last buildings to be abandoned. It would be a good place to begin our search."

  Again, Demos made that strange Draymian shrug. "As you wish. This is so hopeless. Why not depart our system in peace, now, and leave destiny to take its inevitable course?"

  "I'm afraid," Kirk said tightly, "that inevitable is a word I'm not familiar with. If you could direct us . . .?"

  Demos turned and pointed toward a slightly higher cluster of ruins lying near the approximate center of the first town.

  "That must be what remains of the communications station. According to Draymian town plan, the medical facilities should have been built several blocks further north and a little to the east."

  Kirk nodded curtly, and they slogged off through thick sand in the indicated direction. Soon after they started their progress improved as the clinging sand gave way to pockmarked but still serviceable pavement.

  They were in the outskirts of the town proper when they noticed something moving on their right—moving sharply and jerkily, it was neither subtle nor inconspicuous. All three marchers saw it. Surprisingly, it was Demos who looked fearful while they surveyed the rubble.

  "Some danger?" Kirk wondered. Demos' eyes studied the rim of the debris with practiced skill.

  "If you remember, Captain Kirk, I said that nearly everyone on Dramia II was killed. There were reports of some survivors by later survey crews—which did not touch down, of course. I think 'survivors' is an overly optimistic classification for any pitiful souls forever marooned here.

  "One drone was sent down some eight years ago. It was at that time that these survivors acquired a reputation for not liking outsiders."

  "Hardly surprising," Spock commented, "in view of what they must feel. They could not be expected to act logically. But surely you cannot be considered an outsider, Commander. You are as Draymian as they. I should think the sight of a fellow being would fill them with pleasure."

  "The sight of a fellow Draymian might," Demos replied, with a bitter half-chuckle. "But there are no Draymians left on this world . . . not as we know them. The gulf between us now is that which separates the living and the walking dead."

  There was more movement to the far right of the crumbled wall they were watching. Kirk would never have noticed it had he not been looking idly at that exact spot when the figure decided to abandon the area.

  "Walking dead he may be but he still has some spirit left in him. He mustn't get away!"

  Kirk started on the run after the retreating biped. Spock moved up quickly alongside. Demos hesitated for several long seconds. Apparently deciding it would be better to go along than remain alone in the open street, he raced after them. Enormous strides quickly caught him up to the two smaller men.

  Had the figure been healthy it undoubtedly could have lost its pursuers easily in the maze of tumbling walls and hollowed-out structures. The few glances they had of it showed it to be ragged and hunched. It ran with a peculiar loping gait.

  "There, Captain," Spock husked, "it went around that mound."

  The mound had once served as the foundation for a higher, silo-like building. Now it was all crumbled in on itself, a concrete caldera. Sharp-edged blocks of broken masonry protruded here and there from the circular heap.

  They rounded the hillock—and came to a sudden halt on the other side. The pavement here was open for several meters in every direction, save where the furrowed brow of a cliff-faced hill backed into the town. There were no structures, tumbled or otherwise, that their limping quarry could have reached in time to conceal himself before they had rounded the ruin.

  "I was afraid of that," Kirk panted. "He's got some secret cubbyhole he's slipped into. Almost looks like someone pulled him out with a transporter."

  "Hardly likely, Captain," Spock observed drily. He moved toward the cliff-face while Demos and Kirk stood surveying the nearest ruins.

  "I believe your initial supposition was correct, Captain," Spock soon called to them. They walked over to where he stood, staring into a vertical slit in the naked stone.

  The crevice wasn't wide, but by turning sideways and holding his breath, a Draymian could squeeze through. It would be easier for Kirk and Spock.

  Spreading out as far as possible to cover one another, the two officers from the Enterprise approached the opening. Nothing inorganic and unpleasant issued to meet them.

  They started in. It grew darker . . . and then it didn't.

  "Light inside," Kirk murmured softly. "Can't be a cave, then."

  "Possibly one whose roof has collapsed wholly or partially," his first officer theorized. They continued to edge forward, hugging the cold rock wall. A grainy tenor sounded behind them.

  "I would advise against this, Captain," Demos said. "Dramia II is little visited. We have no idea what kind of mutations the plague may have spawned among the local life-forms, of which several . . ."

  "Save the biology lecture, Demos. You won't mind if I ignore your advice."

  "Extreme caution in this restricted area would seem advisable, Captain."

  "I'll watch myself, Spock, but I'm not going to lose that survivor. There may not be any others nearby, and we haven't much time. Also, if this one escapes, he may warn others of our presence. We may never spot another one."

  The captain moved forward steadily, trying to make as little noise on the gravel underfoot as possible. "Bones' life is on the line, Mr. Spock. I don't mind taking a few risks."

  The light dimmed until it was almost dark, but it never died entirely. Ahead he could detect patches of brightness. A few more steps, and Kirk emerged into a broad chamber.

  Spock had been right. They stood in a cave whose ceiling had collapsed in places. The floor was dotted with mounds of fallen roof. He looked around, but there was no sign of their quarry.

  Water waxed the rock dark and shiny where it issued in a steady trickle from cracks in a rock face. The tiny rivulets formed a small pool. Shade from the desert sun, protection from unrestricted carnivores, and water. His senses sharpened—this had to be their limping refugee's home. Kirk hoped they hadn't scared him out of it.

  "Captain . . . are you all right?" Kirk snapped back to wakefulness, aware that Spock and Demos were waiting for his okay to proceed.

  "All clear, Mr. Spock, come ahead." Kirk walked to the edge of the pool, nudged a pile of charred wood with his foot. "Cave dwellers," he muttered, "in a civilization as high as Draymia's."

  "The result of your Dr. McCoy and his civilized medicine," the security chief responded coldly. Kirk whirled.

  "Look, Demos, I'm getting a mite sick of your steady accusations. Until you can prove—"

  A shadow suddenly detached itself from its dark companions and flung itself forward. It was no less gargoylish in form than its inorganic brothers.

  At one time it had doubtless been intelligent—an intelligence now transcended by the madness shining in its eyes. It landed just behind Kirk, knocking him to the ground, and began flailing at him in frantic, howling anguish.

  Momentarily stunned, Kirk couldn't dislodge his assailant, because of the latter's sheer bulk and unthinking rage. Fortunately, the same blind fury that drove the pitiable specimen to attack Kirk saved the captain from any serious harm, for the Draymian struck aimlessly, with neither skill nor design. Thus Kirk was able to shield himself from all the wild blows until Spock and Demos could wrestle the hysterical figure away.

  The captain rolled over, his only injury a lack of breath.

  "Captain . . ."<
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  "Okay, Spock . . . I'm okay. He wanted to hurt me more than he actually did."

  "And why do you think he attacked you, Captain?" asked Demos, struggling to restrain the gradually subsiding madman.

  Kirk got to his feet, spoke slowly. "I was the nearest to his hiding place." Demos indicated the negative.

  "You are also the only human among us, Captain Kirk. Don't attempt to evade the obvious. You were attacked because you are human—as is Dr. McCoy."

  Damn you, Demos, Kirk cried silently. And damn this whole insane system. But he said nothing, merely dusted his uniform and moved to study the captive.

  Fear had been replaced on the latter's face by remorse, anger by sorrow and misery; and that initial cry of fury became an utterly heart-rending whimper. Clearly the creature was no longer a threat.

  "Let him go," Kirk whispered.

  "Are you sure, Captain?" Spock asked.

  Kirk stared into the captive's eyes. They didn't meet his own. Instead they were focused on some other, greater horror now—one too distant to encompass the three figures around him.

  Cautiously, Demos and Spock turned Kirk's assailant loose. That tortured soul turned, took two steps, and fell to his knees. He dropped onto his side and just lay there, moaning and sobbing uncontrollably.

  Now Kirk knew they had to find absolute, incontrovertible proof that Bones was innocent. Supposition and verbal reasoning were not going to sway the decision of people who had been subjected to reports of this kind of emotional and mental destruction.

  Nevertheless, he couldn't keep from voicing the inner certainty that kept him going.

  "Demos, you've got to believe me. Dr. McCoy could never be responsible for something like . . . like that." He gestured to where the insane being gibbered mindlessly on the stone floor.

  "Good intentions cannot wipe out the existence of evil results, Captain."

  "But how did this one survive the plague?" Kirk wondered aloud, when an especially tortured howl rose from the no-longer-dangerous survivor.

  Demos explained. "He and a few others were away, on the home world and elsewhere, when the plague struck. They returned before they could be stopped, to find everyone they'd known—loved ones, companions, everyone—dead of the plague.

  "They chose to remain, to live here in the home they had once known." The security chief's voice was close to cracking. "Nineteen years of grief—there are worse plagues than those caused by germs. You see now, Captain Kirk, there were no actual survivors on Dramia II."

  III

  "I thought I heard sounds of fighting, and voices!"

  The words that penetrated to the startled listeners were clear and strong, ringing loud in the cave.

  "You're wrong, whoever you are," it continued. "There was at least one survivor."

  A tall Draymian was walking toward them, climbing over a rocky hillock formed by part of the fallen ceiling. His clothes were ragged, his countenance worn, but otherwise he resembled Demos far more than he did the twisted figure rolling about on the cave floor.

  "I was not found by any of the observation parties, nor by the crews of those ships which came to leave the mourners here. But I survived the plague—by what miracle I do not know. I'd given up hope of ever being rescued."

  "You must remember what it was like, then," Kirk began excitedly. "During the plague . . . you can tell us."

  "I remember," the newcomer nodded, oblivious to Demos' unbelieving stare. "I remember the people around me, even the doctors, turning blue, then green, and finally a dull red color, collapsing, strength ebbing, then . . ."

  He stopped, his strong voice fading, the last softly whispered words echoing down hidden pathways in the cave.

  "The pigmentation changes associated with the disease, as mentioned in the records, Captain," Spock commented.

  Kirk nodded quickly, keeping his attention focused on the survivor. "You must remember," he asked anxiously, "before the plague struck, there was a visiting mission here from the Federation, a medical mission that included humans among its personnel.

  "They were led by a man named McCoy—Dr. Leonard McCoy, He was responsible for seeing to the vaccination of the entire colony. He must have treated you too . . . or at least overseen your treatment. Do you remember him?"

  Kirk had no idea what to expect from the long-isolated alien, surviving amidst the ruins of a forgotten colony and its unstable inhabitants. Some hesitation, surely—a first imperfect attempt at resurrecting a faint memory of a distasteful past.

  Instead, the survivor brightened immediately and spoke as though he were talking of yesterday.

  "A Terran physician, young—of course, I remember Dr. McCoy. How could I forget the being who saved my life?"

  Despite social and physical interspecies differences, the glances that passed then among Kirk, Demos and Spock needed no interpretation.

  "Then that is also the man," Demos finally declared, "who is responsible for the death of this colony." And he waved at the surrounding desolation.

  The survivor was neither intimidated nor impressed—as one might expect of a being who had successfully survived among the corpses of thousands, living and dead. He stared evenly back at the Commander of Draymian security.

  "We knew little of the Federation and its various races, those many years ago," he began slowly. "It has been a long time. Perhaps we know more of them now. But I believe that even those many triads ago we knew that the differences between us were not great.

  "Although I knew this Dr. McCoy very briefly, I think I came to know him well. I cannot believe you are speaking of the same person who saved my life." The survivor looked thoughtful, reminiscing.

  "At times he appeared less than positive, yes, and sometimes gave the impression of hesitation. But he did everything with a kindness and concern for the afflicted that was honest. You, Commander whoever-you-are . . ."

  "Demos, of Draymian Internal Security."

  "Well, Demos, Commander of Draymian Security, I, Kolti, think you have the wrong man," he concluded firmly. "One who saves does not also murder."

  Demos threw Kolti a stare of frustration and anger; but the survivor had seen far worse things these past years than the gaze of the overbearing security chief. He gave no sign of altering his story or his regard for Dr. McCoy.

  A smile had replaced Kirk's concerned stare. Spock's eyebrows ascended as the captain inquired, "So you're certain it was this Dr. McCoy who saved you?"

  "Indeed, this is so."

  "It's been several lifetimes for you, Kolti," Kirk observed, eyeing the tall Draymian appraisingly, "and I know you're anxious to be home."

  "I've outgrown impatience," Kolti told them softly.

  "You look like the sort of intelligent being who would place certain things above personal comfort. You've heard what your security chief says. Dr. McCoy saved your life. Not many have an opportunity to repay such a debt. You do.

  "Will you delay your return to friends and family long enough to help clear his name and prevent a permanent stain from entering the annals of Draymian justice?"

  "I would not be here to be offered the choice were it not for your Dr. McCoy. I will do whatever you ask of me."

  Kirk nodded. He had his proof . . . committed proof, from a source which could neither be argued with nor intimidated. He pulled out the communicator.

  "Mr. Scott . . . beam us aboard, all four of us. And quickly—we may have spent too much time here already."

  "Aye aye, sir," came the chief engineer's enthusiastic response.

  Near the back of the cavern, by broken shards of limestone and shale, a rocking, moaning figure suddenly rolled upright and ceased its whimpers as the miracle took place before its eyes. Fragments of the sun appeared and swallowed up the four figures.

  It was over quickly. Then he was alone in his cave again with the nearby water and approaching night . . .

  Kirk was stepping down from the alcove and speaking as soon as full reintegration finished.

&nb
sp; "Get me the Bridge, Mr. Scott." Scott activated the transporter console intercom, stepped aside as Kirk took up station behind it.

  "Sulu, Arex, get under way immediately. Back to Draymia, at top intersystem speed."

  Acknowledgment came back over the speaker, and Kirk clicked off, then saw Scott staring at the ragged but unbent Kolti.

  "I know you told me to beam up four, and four I beamed up, Captain. But, who is that?"

  "A Dramian friend of Dr. McCoy's."

  "A Dramian friend . . .?"

  Scott broke off in astonishment but continued to gaze open-mouthed at Kolti. The survivor stepped gingerly from the transporter alcove and stared in amazement around him. Scott walked around the console and extended a hand to the bemused alien.

  "I don't know where you've been hiding yourself, laddie, but somehow I get the feelin' you've got to be a clan member in good standin'. What's your tartan like?"

  "Clan member . . . tartan?" Kolti wondered aloud as Kirk and Spock conducted him toward the turbolift, with Demos trailing along.

  "Merely Mr. Scott's way of saying that we find in you a kindred spirit which heretofore has seemed lacking in your people." Spock turned pensive. "We may still be too late to save Dr. McCoy. Even if we are not, your testimony may not be enough to shift the tide of feeling which has been raised against him. But there is historical precedent—instances where the courage of one has been enough to overcome the reckless emotionalism of many."

  "Spock's trying to say," Kirk explained tautly, "that we think you've got the guts to go through with this." He waved off Kolti's reply. "Be modest later, after we've saved McCoy. For now, Mr. Spock, conduct Kolti to Sick Bay. Have Nurse Chapel check him out completely. Pull everything we've got on Draymian medicine. And see that he has anything he wants."

  "I would settle, Captain Kirk," Kolti murmured, "for some food and a clean bed."