Star Trek - Log 5 Read online

  Here the coral rampart dropped off in a steep cliff to a broad sandy plain deeper and wider than the one they'd just left. What rose lofty and ethereal there made the manicured gardens and jeweled schools of fish they'd seen pale to insignificance.

  What they had come upon was an underwater city, constructed with complete disregard for any ancient cataclysm, any present currents, any concern of any sort save aesthetics . . . a metropolis of faery.

  Thin winding towers emulated the internal configuration of spiral seashells in grace and strength. Another huge, shell-shaped structure dominated the city, rising in its center. It was as if the city had been poured whole, entire, from a single, carefully sculpted mold, instead of being built by piece and bit.

  At the point nearest the base of the coral cliff, a large archway formed a prominent break in the wall that surrounded the city. Variously clad inhabitants were swimming in and out in a steady two-way stream, intent on unknown aspects of Argoan commerce.

  "Beautiful . . . and fascinating," Spock commented. "Notice the wall and use of the archway, when both are easily avoidable. Both carry-overs from land-dwelling times."

  "All the more reason to wonder, Spock," said Kirk, shaking his head in puzzlement. "A civilization capable of building something like this, able to withstand continental subsiding, capable of medical accomplishments unheard of in the Federation—why should they be afraid of us, Spock?"

  "Perhaps the proper term would be abhorrence, Captain, not fear. It is quite possible they find us grotesque and ugly. Basis enough for their reactions thus far. There is ample precedent in Earth's history."

  Kirk nodded slowly. "Agreed. Still, we've got to get inside, no matter what they think of our features. There seems to be much less activity on the far side." Spock strained his gaze.

  "I also feel no cultural inhibitions about ignoring the archway, Captain."

  Dodging occasional solitary Argoans and taking care to remain a good distance from the city proper, the two men began to swim in a broad curve away from what they'd determined to be the city's main entrance.

  Eventually they approached a section of wall that looked deserted. Even so, they felt conspicuous against the bright white and amber sand bottom. They waited until the lowing sun formed a dark shadow behind one thick tower, then swam for it.

  A quick survey revealed they were in a little frequented section of the city. Kirk motioned and they swam slowly toward its center. He had no definite plan in mind—there was nothing to formulate one on—only that they had to contact the physician-scientists who had instigated the initial mutation. Persuasion would hopefully follow.

  They made rapid progress, keeping close to the walls of low-lying structures wherever feasible. Once they almost kicked head-on into a crowd of busy Argoans as they stumbled into a central crossway. They had to dart back into a nook between buildings and wait for the aliens to pass.

  "There it is," Kirk finally whispered.

  They were floating on the opposite side of a broad, open plaza from the huge shell-shaped central structure. Right now it was devoid of strollers, and both officers wondered at the absence of citizens.

  "Perhaps everyone is out in the fields at this time," Spock speculated, "or deep within the structures engaged in daily tasks we cannot conceive of. Or it may be that . . ."

  Words and actions were cut off abruptly as a large weighted net dropped neatly over them. Two males appeared on either side and above them, crossed in a deadly precision maneuver beneath the two startled officers and pulled the net tight.

  Kirk and Spock found themselves unable to get a purchase on anything solid, unable to get any speed in the folds of the net, and unable to break it. All the while they were discovering these depressing facts, their captors were towing them efficiently toward the very domed edifice they'd sought to reach.

  Kirk finally stopped fighting the netting and relaxed. They might need their strength later and have a better chance to use it. He also tried to look on the bright side of things.

  They had wanted to enter the shell-shaped building—very well, it seemed they were going to do that. Not as stealthily as he had planned, perhaps, but half an apple was better than none.

  They entered through a broad, low, open arch much like the anachronistic city gate, were towed through several twisting, winding halls. Inside, at least, the Argoans had managed to shuck off enough of their land-based memory to build without regard to land-based gravity.

  Some of the hallways dipped up in curves, others ran down to undisclosed depths at crazy angles. Eventually they emerged into a huge auditorium near the roof of the building. As they did so Kirk realized why they had seen so few Argoans swimming over the rooftops.

  Most of the buildings were doubtless arranged like this one, with transparent or translucent roofs to let in the light of day. Mass movement overhead would not only be disconcerting, it would block the light as well as eliminate privacy.

  Kirk then turned his attention to more immediate matters. The chamber walls were decorated with huge globes of a creamy, pearl-like luster. Here was a raised dais at the far end of the chamber. Its three carved seats were occupied by male Argoans.

  It was difficult to judge age with any accuracy. But judging from their attitude and bearing as much as outward appearance, Kirk felt these three were fully mature specimens. One was slim and appeared to be regarding them with a thoughtful, though amused air. The one on the far right was slightly paunchy, and his expression was less readable. Between them, the tallest of the triumvirate studied Kirk with piercing amber eyes that seemed to cut right through him. A remarkable personality, Kirk decided instantly, and the one to be watched most carefully.

  There was a lower dais set to the left, again with three seats. Two of its occupants were males, the third female—attractive in a fishy sort of way. They were generally little smaller than the other three. But their motions were quicker, their eyes moved faster, and Kirk had the definite impression that they were considerably younger than those sitting on the main platform.

  Time for analysis vanished as Kirk found himself tumbling head over heels toward the dais, net and all. He thrashed about, trying to regain his balance in the enclosed space.

  "Here are the spies, Tribune," the translator reported in his ear—the words of one of their captors. There was an unmistakable hint of disgust in his final words: "Air-breathers!"

  The tall one, the one with the eyes, rose from the dais to hover in the water before them. He studied Kirk and Spock coldly, and the translator managed to convey some of that coldness across unemotional circuitry.

  "You stand."

  "Inaccurate," mumbled Spock, struggling to turn erect within the clinging coils of the net.

  "I am Domar," their questioner began, "the High Tribune of the . . ."

  "Aquans" was the nearest the translator could come to interpreting the unpronouncable name these folk had for themselves.

  "These are my advisors, Cadmar and Cheron," the imposing speaker continued, indicating the beings to his right and left.

  Kirk gave up trying to extricate himself from the net, settled for striking a dignified post within. "I am Captain James Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. This is my first officer, Mr. Spock."

  The thin brows of the High Tribune drew together uncertainly. "Your words are meaningless. You are air-breather enemies from the surface. We have been expecting you for a long time, never letting down our guard from the Old Days."

  "If you find my words meaningless, I confess I find yours confusing, Tribune," Kirk admitted truthfully. "We came here in peace."

  Domar's frown deepened. His two companions gazed grimly at the officers. "The ancient records," he announced, "warn that air-breathers never come in peace."

  "Are you saying," broke in a new, challenging voice, "that they come in war, then . . . without any weapons?"

  Kirk looked sharply to his left. The young female was on her flippers, staring belligerently at the Tribune. On her right side on
e of the males added, "Can we do nothing without consulting the ancient records? Have we no ability to analyze and decide without the advice of the long-dead?"

  Obviously this was a very different society from, say, that of Earth; for this challenge produced definite hints of hesitation in the attitudes of two of the Tribunes—Cadmar and Cheron. One minute they appeared as inflexible as the walls of the city, the next and their convictions showed cracks at the first objection from their younger colleagues. If the High Tribune Domar felt the same lack of assurance, he didn't show it.

  There was an unmistakable weariness in Cheron's voice as he countered, "Why do the Junior Tribunes always wish to change the records? Are the words of those who built this city empty for them? Are they . . .?"

  Domar put out a quieting hand, then the council leader turned and made a gesture to the two guards.

  "Let the mesh be removed—but stand ready. Beware the air-breather's deceptiveness."

  With considerable relief, Kirk and Spock felt the netting being removed. As they were freed, all six Tribunes inspected them with renewed interest. The powerful amplifier in the tiny translator brought Kirk a whispered translation from—he struggled to recall the vaguely Greco-Roman sounding names. Lemas—that was the youngster's name.

  "The surgeons did their jobs well," he was murmuring. "Observe the perfection of the metamorphosis and the ease with which their bodies have adapted."

  Kirk felt faintly flattered—the sort of mild exhilaration one experiences when participating in the hard-won success of others. Still, the Tribune's words were not conclusive evidence. The process still might have been initiated naturally and only completed by artificial means. It would pay to be sure.

  His natural inclination was to address himself immediately to the younger, seemingly friendly Tribunes. He needed his years of diplomatic experience to tell himself that their elders wouldn't look kindly on the implied slight. So he directed his first words to Domar.

  "Then your scientists did induce these mutations in our systems?"

  "We had no other moral choice. Unlike air-breathers," he finished roughly, "we do not wish to kill."

  "You could simply have left us where we were and let us drown," Spock pointed out.

  A twinge of contempt was added to Domains coldness.

  "Indifference to the injured is merely another form of murder. A typical air-breather observation. You were brought here unconscious, barely alive. You were returned to a place near where you were found still unconscious, far more alive. Our obligation was discharged."

  "It would seem that their own ancient records are as well preserved as ours," Cadmar put in. "They found us again anyway, to come among us as spies."

  Again that shrill female voice cut the water. "You do not give them a chance to defend or explain themselves, Cadmar. Our law does allow that, even for unmentionable air-breathers who come among us."

  "Rela is correct," said Domar, then turning back to Kirk and Spock. "You may speak . . . if you have the nerve."

  "Look," Kirk began, ignoring Domar's invitation to fight, "you've apparently had some pretty bad experiences in the past with the last remnants of whatever branch of your race remained on the surface of this world. I can tell you with some assurance that you've no longer anything to fear from that quarter!

  "As for ourselves, we come from another world entirely. Our only desire in returning to your city—which we found simply by following some of your farmers—was to . . ."

  He did not get a chance to finish. The excitement his words had generated in the younger Tribunes finally spilled over.

  "You do not live on the surface places?" Rela inquired wonderingly.

  "Not of this world," Spock began, "we . . ."

  The conversation was getting too complicated for Cadmar, at least. "Enough!" he cried, the violence of his comment bringing him out of his seat. "Clearly, this is a great lie. Another world, indeed! The situation is plain. The air-breathers are come again to wreak havoc among us."

  "You are mistaken, sir," Spock objected quietly. "As Captain Kirk was about to say, our only purpose in returning here was to find a means of reversing the mutations you induced in us."

  "That, at least, is impossible," Domar informed them brusquely. "There is nothing in the surgical records we retain that designates a method for reverse mutation."

  Kirk slumped inwardly. That was it, then. He was doomed to spend the rest of his life drifting in a portable container. A curiosity, a freak for Federation scientists to ponder on and take periodic samples from.

  Spock, undoubtedly, would handle it better than he. He wondered what it was going to be like to spend the rest of his life at the wrong end of a microscope.

  The slight dot took on shape and form as Scott adjusted the telefocals. It resolved into a long, narrow creature with broad fins, a long thin tail, flapping wings and fishlike body. It skimmed low over the distant surface and he thought he could make out feathery gills on the back of the thing's neck.

  Apparently an amphibious flier. Interesting. He wished Spock were here to see it and venture an opinion.

  He wished Spock were here, period.

  There was a buzz at his hip. He acknowledged the communicator call and McCoy's voice drifted up from the speaker.

  "Enterprise to Mr. Scott."

  Scott watched a moment longer as the flier folded leathery wings against its body and dove into the water. Then he turned his attention to the communicator.

  "Scott here . . . what is it, Doctor?"

  "All departments have been proceeding with their own missions, as per Jim's orders, Scotty. We just got a bulletin from seismology. There's a major quake due in that area."

  "How soon?"

  "Meier can't be certain, but it's going to be a bad one. Complete topography shift."

  "All right, he can't be exact . . . I know those guys down there. What's their best estimate?"

  A pause at the other end, and then McCoy's voice came back tense, worried. "Probably within four hours, Scotty. That's a conservative guess."

  "And inside the captain and Mr. Speck's report-in time," he replied in alarm.

  "Inside! Can't you contact them before that?"

  "Kinna do it, Doctor. They've no communicators and . . ." He stopped, thought a moment. "Wait . . . there ought to be a trace signal from their translators. Those gadgets are small, but they use a lot of power. We can try like blue blazes, anyway. Scott out."

  He flipped off, turned to the anxiously waiting Clayton. "Let's get out those other suits and the life-support belts, Lieutenant. Contact our other boats. We're goin' fishin'."

  The green body suits were the closest thing to camouflage they had. But there was no way to disguise the glow from the belts. One by one the belts were activated and the little party dropped over the side.

  Scott descended rapidly, braked to study the reading on the wrist guage he had donned along with the suit and belt. He turned slowly, finally stopped facing toward deeper water.

  "Directional pickup indicates they're in that general direction, toward those dunes. Let's go." The little knot of crewmen started off in the indicated direction, shining like fireflies in the clear water.

  Searching eyes roved over gorgeously colored underwater life, exotically shaped, remarkably shaded. Plant or animal or both, all were resolutely ignored. The party was hunting for more simply clad, more awkwardly built swimmers.

  Two pairs of eyes studied them from behind a concealing dune of amber sand and rock. One pair belonged to one of the farmers Kirk and Spock had encountered earlier.

  "More air-breathers," she reported to her companion. "We must inform the Tribunes." The other nodded and they streaked away, weaving in and out among the bemmies and beds of pseudo-kelp.

  "The name of our starship, our above-the-air vessel," Kirk explained to the intent Tribunes, "is on the wreckage of our underwater craft. If you want proof, examine the remains."

  "Yes," insisted Rela, "let us examine the wreckage b
efore we pass judgment."

  "To what end?" wondered Cheron tiredly. "The fact that their vessel has a name is no proof of extra-Argoan origin." Kirk was about to point out that they would find more conclusive evidence in the wreck when the discussion was interrupted by the breathless arrival of two females at the far end of the chamber. They rushed forward.

  Kirk noted that no one objected to their entrance, no one sought to bar them from the room. This society had much to commend it, he reflected.

  "Important news, High Tribune."

  Domar made a curt gesture. "Speak."

  "Several air-breathers have invaded the outskirts of the cultivated areas. We saw them. They were moving toward the city. They glowed most strangely."

  "That's only . . ." Kirk began, but Doman drowned him out as he turned angrily to the Junior Tribunes. "Defensive screens, as the records speak of! Do you still believe these creatures come in peace?"

  Some of Rela's self-righteous assurance faded, apparently drained by this unexpected information. "We do not know what to believe," she finally whispered unhappily.

  Domar looked satisfied, turned his attention to the pair of guards who stood ready behind Kirk and Spock.

  "Take these spies to the surface and leave them there. They wish to return to their element. So be it. Justice enough for our enemies . . .!"

  IV

  Kirk choked, gasped for breath. He got a half mouthful of water and gulped it gratefully.

  Whether Domar, the other Tribunes, or the guards were responsible for the particular agony he and Spock were being subjected to he didn't know. But right now all he wished for was a smooth scaly neck under his fingers.

  They had been taken to the spot where McCoy and Scott had found them and tied securely to the low-lying boulders there, just barely above the water line. Occasionally a wave would sweep over the rocks and give them a momentary respite from slow suffocation.

  But the steady deprivation of air-rich water was making them weaker and weaker. At their present infrequent intake, they wouldn't last much longer. Nor was there any hope here of a life-giving incoming tide.