CAPTAIN’S LOG—STARDATE 7823.6:
As Chief Engineer Scott oversees the transfer of equipment, supplies, and personnel from Starbase 18 to the Enterprise, Science Officer Spock and Lieutenant Chekov are outfitting the science scout shuttle Cousteau. They’ll be departing before we will, headed for Akkalla, where they’ll begin reviewing the work done over the past thirteen months by Dr. Cynthia McPhillips and her team. Akkalla is of great scientific interest because of its unusual ecology. It’s one of only a handful of worlds with a surface almost completely covered by water yet also having developed a normal variety of flora and fauna, including intelligent humanoid life. It would seem a routine assignment, easily handled by two of my best officers. But we have been made aware by Starfleet Command of certain potential problems. First, although Akkalla is a Federation member, it’s been a troublesome one, with a government leaning substantially toward the authoritarian. Second, I’m concerned with the fact that there’s been no direct contact with the McPhillips science team, only messages relayed through the Akkallan government. Official Federation protests against this Akkallan policy have had no effect.
THE STARSHIP HUNG in a synchronous orbit about one hundred miles from the large space station that housed Starbase 18. The station was shaped somewhat like a rather odd dumbbell, with spacedock modules on either end of a long central cylinder, where twenty decks of habitable work space and living quarters were located. Each docking module had room inside for up to a dozen ships of various sizes, with other vessels in numerous parking orbits outside. But traffic patterns were rarely that heavily filled in this sector, and at present the Enterprise was the only ship of any great size in the vicinity.
Kirk drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of the command seat. With his crew doing their jobs, he found himself in the unenviable position of simply waiting. He checked the chronometer on his control panel, then pressed the intercom button.
“Bones, how’s everything going?”
McCoy came into view on one of the overhead screens. “Everything isn’t going at all,” he said with mild sarcasm. “I don’t know what’s going on down there, Jim, but base seems incapable of beaming people and cargo at the same time. So until they’re finished filling our holds, no personnel are transporting up. So I’m just cooling my heels.”
“Oh.” Keeping McCoy on, Kirk contacted the ship’s lower cargo section, which appeared on a split screen with the picture from sickbay. The cargo levels were bustling with activity. But Scott was nowhere in sight. “Mr. Scott, progress report, please?”
After a few seconds’ lag, Scott lurched into view, wiping beads of sweat off his forehead. “Aye, sir. Scott here.”
“Dr. McCoy says base won’t beam personnel until they’re done transporting cargo.”
Scott’s eyes widened, and he gritted his teeth. “I don’t believe it. That’s what they were supposed to be usin’ the shuttles for. The plan was t’do it at the same time. Y’d think they were havin’ a bloody picnic down there instead of doin’ work. D’y’want me to call and knock some heads together?”
“Looks like you’ve got enough to keep you busy. Finish up with the freight. We’ll take care of the problem up here.”
The cargo deck faded from the screen, leaving McCoy on visual. “Marvelous operation they’ve got going over there, Jim.”
“Yeah, well, I think we’ll have this straightened out in a minute. Stand by, Bones. You’ll have guests any time now.”
The screen went blank, and Kirk turned to his communications officer. “Uhura, tackle the bureaucratic maze, please.”
She tapped her earpiece with a manicured fingernail. “I’ll clear it up, sir.”
“Kirk to Cousteau. Progress report, Mr. Spock?”
The Vulcan’s voice came over the speaker. “Spock here. We have just completed final prelaunch checklist.”
“Mr. Spock” Chekov broke in. “We have launch clearance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chekov. I presume you heard, Admiral.”
“Yes. Good luck, Spock. I hear the Cousteau’s a good ship.”
“Do you have any idea yet when we can expect to rendezvous with you at Akkalla?”
“At the moment, I don’t even know when we’re leaving here. But I don’t think it’ll take more than two or three days.”
“We should be well along in our evaluation by that time.”
“Good. We’ll see you then, Spock. We’ll be in touch if anything unexpected comes up. Kirk out.”
Spock and Chekov sat side by side in the contoured seats of the science shuttle.
“All moorings cleared, Mr. Spock,” Chekov said as he handled the navigation controls with a sure touch.
On the broad curved viewscreen in front of them, Spock and Chekov watched as the docking bay’s great doors engaged and began sliding ponderously aside, gaping like a whale’s mouth. When the opening was wide enough, the red blinking lights along the ends of both doors changed to steady green. A female voice came over the Cousteau’s speaker.
“Cleared for departure, Cousteau. Take good care of the rowboat, Commander Spock. Remember, she’s only rented. Bon voyage.”
“Thank you, Starbase Control,” Spock replied. “Mr. Chekov, take us out.”
“There she is,” Uhura said, adjusting the viewscreen angle so the bridge crew could watch their colleagues leaving. The Cousteau was sky blue, with leaping dolphins emblazoned on her flanks adjacent to the ship’s name and registry number. Constructed especially to explore watery worlds, it was capable of landing on water as well as land and could even submerge and operate as a submarine. So it wasn’t surprising that, like animals nature had intended for life in the seas, the science craft seemed ill at ease anywhere else.
Chekov changed the craft’s attitude and flew directly past the Enterprise. Both ships winked their running lights in salute.
“Mr. Chekov, set course for Akkalla, warp three. Engage when ready.”
“Course already laid in, sir. Warp three.”
He gripped the throttle with a firm hand and moved it ahead. The science shuttle’s warp drive kicked in, and with the familiar rainbow effect it blasted into hyperspace.
Spock knew why he’d been placed in charge of assessing the work of the Akkallan science outpost. He was, after all, the Enterprise science officer, he had both command and hands-on science experience, and he’d previously done this sort of rating of independent projects as well as evaluating the starship’s own science departments. His assignment by Kirk was, in fact, the logical thing to do. But the Vulcan couldn’t help feeling vaguely uneasy. As a Vulcan, he based his judgments only on demonstrable, objective findings by the science team under scrutiny. Data were entered into the computer program Spock himself had designed for just such tasks, a program deemed so effective at providing a sound system for measuring scientific endeavors that it was used throughout Starfleet and the Federation.
Subjectivity was all but eliminated from the process, and the conclusions reached were inarguable, built strictly on statistical analysis. And with Vulcans and other rigorously rational races, the results were accepted without question or quarrel. Unfortunately, in Spock’s opinion, there were many more intemperately irrational beings to deal with than rational ones. And with those, any remotely negative ratings invariably elicited displays of damaged, prideful ego. Spock had faced similar distasteful situations often enough to prefer avoiding evaluation duties altogether. But half a lifetime as a Starfleet officer made him all too aware that certain onerous tasks were part of the service.
The Cousteau was a small spacecraft, but it could accommodate a maximum crew of eight, so it seemed roomy with only two aboard. Guidance computers were on automatic, and Chekov was taking his sleep period in the aft cabin. Alone, Spock used the quiet time to review all data on the McPhillips team and Akkalla itself. He popped a cassette into the computer and scanned the readout at high speed.
McPhillips, the ecologist in charge, was from Earth, born on the Irish coast and raised in Hawaii. She’d studied at the University of Hawaii Marine Biology Department and Cetacean Communications Center, got her doctorate there, then received her first Federation science grant. For the past seven years, she’d proven quite adept at writing proposals and obtaining funding for ecological studies that had taken her to four very different planets around the galaxy: one unnamed world where life was just being born in the nutrient-rich ooze of primordial seas; Kochev’s Planet, a chilled fossil reaching the end of its existence in the feeble light of a dying ember of a sun; Ra-Menae III, the only habitable planet in a rare trinary star system, where giant shell-encased creatures dominated in an otherworldly version of earth’s age of dinosaurs; and, finally, Akkalla, the water-covered planet that allowed McPhillips to return to her first love, marine ecology.
Interestingly, McPhillips was younger than her colleagues. Dr. Enzo Piretti, born on the Italian isle of Sicily, was seventy-three. Dr. Naw-Rocki, the only non-Terran of the group, was one hundred and thirty. But he was a Rannican, where life spans commonly reached three hundred. Cynthia McPhillips was only forty, but she was so highly regarded in her field that she’d had her pick of colleagues for this study.
As for Akkalla, it was the third planet of six in its system. The second planet, Chorym, also harbored intelligent life. In fact, the Chorymi were more advanced, having developed interplanetary spaceflight capability. But they’d made it very clear on several occasions that they had no inclination whatever toward becoming part of the United Federation of Planets.
Spock found himself questioning the logic behind the Federation’s unstinting effort to get as many planets as possible to become members. Privately, he believed more attention should be paid to quality of applicants than to quantity. Granted, there was a certain security in having the Federation flag fly in all corners of the galaxy. It made adventurism by Klingons, Romulans, and a host of other less powerful antagonists somewhat less likely. But certain planets, no matter that they’d sworn to abide by the codes of conduct of the Federation Charter, simply didn’t seem able to fit in comfortably.
Not that Spock wanted to alter the way any particular worlds chose to conduct cultural and societal affairs. After all, he subscribed wholeheartedly to the Vulcan IDIC philosophy: infinite diversity in infinite combinations. But combination was a key word, and in order to be successful, or at least feasible, any combination had to include a tolerance and acceptance of differences in other parties. Some worlds seemed unwilling to make tolerance a two-way proposition.
And not that he had any easy answers. To the contrary, Spock had none. But he would have been more sanguine about the whole political process had Federation Council leaders shown more open recognition of the need for discussing organizational inadequacies.
He often wondered how his father had managed to be a diplomat for so many years, having to confront so regularly the illogic inherent in political relationships. Yet Ambassador Sarek’s reputation was one of nearly imperturbable restraint and patience. Spock admired his father for that, though he was quite certain his own temperament would never lend itself to similar accomplishment, not in the diplomatic field at any rate. No, scientific evaluation assignments were as close as he cared to get to walking that fine line between truth and tact.
The computer beeped at him, indicating that the data cassette had ended. On the viewscreen above the paired pilot seats, a blue-gray globe had come within visual range. It had ice caps at both poles, and much of the planet was shrouded by clouds. There was a single major land mass, an uneven continent straddling the equator, with mountains rising up along a north-south line like a spine and jagged coastlines studded with bays and inlets. Rivers criss-crossed the island continent like veins on a leaf, with many feeding or originating at numerous lakes of all shapes. There were a few islands of varying sizes in both northern and southern polar waters, others lying just off the western continental coast, and some scattered far off the mainland. But the dominant feature of this world was the endless sea.
“Akkalla, I presume,” Chekov said, wiping sleep from his eyes as he climbed up to the control cabin. “It really is all ocean. I’ve never seen a planet with so little land surface. Easy to see why they never developed air travel there.”
“Indeed. The continent has an eminently navigable river and tributary system. It is approximately equal in size to your Australian continent.”
“And I thought we had a lot of water on Earth.”
“Yes,” Spock agreed. “Seventy point eight-five-three-one percent by a recent calculation, taking into account glacial melting and silt buildup in the larger river delta regions. That is among the higher water-to-land ratios in the known galaxy.”
Chekov gestured at the screen. “But nothing compared to Akkalla. Ninety-eight percent—”
“Ninety-eight point six-one-one, Mr. Chekov. We must maintain maximum accuracy in our data.”
“Aye, Mr. Spock,” Chekov sighed, silently chastising himself for dispensing with the decimals.
“Would you care to fly manual final approach?”
Chekov grinned. “As a matter of fact, I would. Flying this vessel is very different from the Enterprise.”
Spock’s long fingers flipped a pair of toggles and disengaged the automation systems. “Very well, lieutenant. The ship is yours. Take us in.”
Their destination was Tyvol, the mainland capital set on the shore of Havensbay, a well-protected harbor on the northwest coast, with three rivers flowing through the city and emptying into the bay. Tyvol also had an extensive canal network.
The Cousteau was still some distance away, and the planet’s rotation was carrying the continent out of view. The other side of Akkalla was a stunning sight—just a few small outcroppings of land rising from a vast blue-gray sea, probably the tips of submerged mountains and volcanoes. They looked like forgotten scraps left behind after the planet was created, lonely and lost.
“Not much to see on this side of the world,” Chekov said.
“Nothing apparent, but oceans are noted for hiding things of great interest, Mr. Chekov. Your own planet’s history is replete with examples of surprises yielded by the oceans’ depths only after decades or centuries of exploration.”
“That’s true. I remember reading about that fish they found in the twentieth century after they thought it was extinct for millions of years—”
“The coelacanth,” Spock said.
“Perhaps a survey orbit or two would be a good idea then, sir?”
Spock nodded. “Set coordinates, please.”
Chekov tapped the keys of the navigation panel, and the Cousteau heeled over to its new course.
“Computer,” Spock said, “begin full scan of planet, including cross-sectional scan of ocean and categorization of life forms.”
As the survey craft swung into orbit, it accelerated to exceed Akkalla’s rotational velocity, starting on the night side but rapidly approaching the line of demarcation between night and day on the continental side of the world.
Chekov frowned and put one hand up to his communications earpiece. “Sir, I’m receiving a message.”
“Source?”
“The planet—an Akkallan government channel.” The Russian flipped a switch, routing it to the cabin speaker. They heard an official-sounding female voice.
“To unidentified spacecraft intruding on Akkallan orbital territory—you are warned to turn back immediately. Do not approach—repeat—do not approach. The Akkallan government is not responsible for your safety if you proceed past this point.”
Spock activated the comm system. “To Akkallan government—this is Commander Spock of the Federation science vessel Cousteau. We are on a scheduled approach and request clearance. We—”
The voice interrupted, repeating its message: “To unidentified spacecraft intruding on Akkallan orbital territory—you are warned to turn back immediately. Do not approach—repeat—do not approach. The Akkallan government is not responsible for your safety if you proceed past this point.”
“Presumably an automated broadcast,” Spock said, his eyebrow elevated. “Set comm system for the government contact channel previously authorized.”
“Aye, sir.”
To be on the safe side, Spock reduced their speed while Chekov punched in the local frequency. The speaker came to life again with the now-familiar warning: “To unidentified spacecraft intruding on Akkallan orb—”
As abruptly as it had started, the message was cut off, sliced by static. Chekov winced as he yanked out his earpiece with one hand and decreased the volume with the other.
Spock glanced at him. “Did you break contact?”
Chekov shook his head. “No, sir.” He replaced the earpiece carefully and tried to pick up the automatic warning again, to no avail. “It’s being jammed, Mr. Spock.”
“At the source?”
“No, sir. Something between the broadcast station and us.” Chekov tried other channels. “All communications are inoperative, sir.”
The Cousteau drifted forward, into Akkallan daylight. In the sudden glare of Akkalla’s sun, they saw something that shouldn’t have been there—a half-dozen spaceships. Five were insignificant insects buzzing around the sixth, a giant vessel nearly the size of a starship. Its configuration was totally different, though, with no grace to its form. Utilitarian, ugly, lumbering, it had a wide, blunt bow, a dome on top, stubby protrusions on its lower flanks, and a tapered area that swept back before flaring into a squared engine housing. The housing had small thrusters on all sides and a matched pair of main engine nozzles at the stern.
The five escort ships, each smaller than the Cousteau, were shaped like sculpted diamonds, longer at the bow and truncated behind. By the way they were arrayed in protective formation around the larger ship, Spock judged them to be fighters of some sort.
“Mr. Spock, those ships are doing the jamming.”
“Switch scanners, Mr. Chekov. We will need as much information on those vessels as possible.”
The other spacecraft were moving purposefully in the same direction as the Cousteau and had not yet noticed the newcomer behind them. “Reduce speed,” Spock ordered. “Pace them.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Computer, is there sufficient data for identification?”
“Affirmative. Ships registered as Chorymi military fighters accompanying harvest ship.”
The Vulcan’s eyebrow arched again at the word military. “Fascinating. There is no record of hostility between Chorym and Akkalla.”
“No, sir. In fact, I remember reading that there have been a number of treaties of peaceful cooperation between them.”
“Then why a Chorymi military convoy—and why were we warned away by a message evidently triggered automatically by our approach? Recommendation, Mr. Chekov?”
“Continue to maintain our distance, but follow the ships and see exactly what’s going on.”
Spock nodded. “I agree.” He adjusted the viewscreen to maximum magnification, and the huge mother ship filled their field of vision. “Full power to deflector screens, Mr. Chekov.”
“Aye, sir.” As Chekov diverted reserve power to the ship’s defensive shields, the cabin illumination dimmed and the emergency lights blinked on. The yellow alert indicator flashed on the overhead instrument console.
The convoy slowed and entered a polar orbit around Akkalla. Spock nudged the Cousteau into matching orbit as the Chorymi ships moved into position high over a vast stretch of Akkallan sea.
“Most interesting,” said Spock. “Their course seems deliberate. Analysis, Mr. Chekov?”
The Russian’s fingers skipped over several keys at the science console. A second later, sensor data appeared on the small screen to his right. “They’re in geosynchronous orbit, six hundred kilometers above the surface, approximately five thousand kilometers off the coast, and six hundred north of the equator.”
“And sensors indicate they are scanning deep into the sea itself. They appear to be searching for something in particular. Divert one-quarter of our sensor capability to scan the same region.”
“Aye, sir.” Chekov peered into his science station scope while commanding the computer to switch scanner targets. Then he felt the ship change course and gain speed, and he looked up.
“Whatever it is they seek, it seems they have found it,” Spock said as he guided the Cousteau to follow, though still keeping a discreet separation. “Any data yet, lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. I’m getting overwhelming life-form readings from that part of the ocean. There’s so much there it’s almost impossible to analyze.”
“Recorders at maximum. We shall examine the data later.”
The Chorymi convoy was diving toward Akkalla, as if making an attack run at the planet surface. The Cousteau trailed behind, a faint pink glow curling around the small ship as it encountered the first diffuse particles of the atmosphere’s upper fringes. Their angle of descent was steep, and Chekov concentrated on the sensors as the Chorymi spacecraft began sweeping curves, using atmospheric friction to help reduce their speed.
“Altitude one hundred thirty kilometers. Speed eight thousand kilometers per hour,” he said.
The coral glow enveloping the Cousteau deepened to fiery orange, and the ebony darkness of outer space began to change from inky indigo, with the stars still visible as unwavering pinpoints, to cobalt, then azure. The stars blurred, then gave way to the power of the Akkallan sun. Below, a cottony floor of clouds seemed to rush up at them—and with a sudden thump and shudder, they broke through the thick shroud and into a grayness that stretched to every horizon. Rain spattered across the viewscreen and the image of the giant Chorymi ship that loomed before them.
“Altitude five kilometers,” Chekov continued. “Four … three … two …” The Russian stopped and took a startled breath. “Mr. Spock, there are ten surface vessels converging on the same spot!”
He initiated a computer search for any communications from the spacecraft or the surface vessels. “The surface craft are Akkallan patrol boats—and the Chorymi spaceships are definitely not welcome.”
Chekov’s face twisted as he read the computer’s instant sensor report. “This is impossible. I’ve never seen such a powerful magnetic flux artificially generated. It’s—it’s coming from the mother ship.”
Spock leaned over to glance at the same readout. “I see it, Mr. Chekov. It appears to be creating an energy field around it. I would surmise that we are about to find out why the Chorymi convoy is not welcome.”
The ocean churned with increasing violence, jolting the Akkallan ships as they raced along. High overhead, the dark bulk of the Chorymi mother ship continued its precipitous drop. The Akkallan cutters had sharply streamlined silhouettes, all curves and angles, decks completely enclosed, but they were having increasing difficulty slicing through the ever higher seas. Even worse, the waves rose in no normal pattern, rearing suddenly, cresting and swirling all at once. The closer the invading spaceships got to the water, the more turbulent the seas became.
“It stopped.” Chekov’s voice was a stunned whisper. “It’s—it’s just hovering.”
On screen, the monstrous vessel had indeed paused, a thousand meters above the crashing seas, like a ship becalmed in the eye of a tempest. But it was a tempest of the spacecraft’s own creation, and the Chorymi ship was quite clearly immune to all its violent effects.
From the ocean below, the Akkallan defenders launched surface-to-air rockets, each cutter firing missiles in pairs. With their contrails twisting like angry snakes, the rockets homed in, and the diamond-shaped Chorymi fighters broke their geometric formation to engage in battle. Two tackled the incoming projectiles with pulses of blue flame spitting from their bellies as cannon pellets picked off the missiles soaring up from the ocean.
The remaining trio of fighters arced high over the mother ship, then banked into a dive to strafe the Akkallan patrol boats. The new attack was too much for the boats, already floundering in the waves, and they broke off their abortive defense. Survival became their first order of business.
Spock called up an infrared image of the area directly around and below the big Chorymi vessel. Tightening red coils whipped about a blank core, with orange and yellow tendrils like the arms of a whirling galaxy. Splashings of green and blue measured the much cooler temperatures of the seawater farther from the center of the disturbance. The patterns changed even as they watched, and the Vulcan’s eyes narrowed with deepening interest. “Most ingenious.”
“What is it, sir?”
“The large craft is actually manufacturing an intense miniature hurricane.” Spock pointed at features on the infrared chart. “Their energy field has somehow produced a ripple in the prevailing winds, which trapped moist air at sea level. Such air contains energy in the form of latent heat absorbed from the sun. When this vaporous air is drawn up, it cools, condenses, and warms surrounding air molecules, which also rise, in turn drawing additional air up. The Coriolis force caused by planetary rotation directs winds converging at the center of this rapidly developing low-pressure system, imparting a counterclockwise spiraling.”
“All that just to fight off the Akkallan surface ships?”
“I suspect they have another purpose, although it was an effective air-to-sea weapon.”
“What are they up to?”
It wasn’t long before they witnessed the next phase of the Chorymi raid. The huge craft tipped slightly forward and dropped inexorably toward the ocean. The unnatural squall grew more and more violent, the fury of the blow spreading and tossing the Akkallan boats like toys.
Then the lower part of the harvest ship’s prow yawned, resembling the mandible of some nightmarish beast lowering to eat.
“Mr. Spock, barometric pressure dropping in the vicinity of the spacecraft.”
“Indeed. Still dropping?”
Chekov blinked in disbelief. “Affirmative. It’s—it’s down to zero at the eye of the”—he wasn’t sure what to call it, then finished with a shrug—“the storm.” He held his breath for a moment, then sat back and looked at Spock’s hooded eyes. “Negative pressure.”
A funnel of seawater gathered and surged from the ocean’s surface, freed of gravity’s constraints by the Chorymi energy field. With a cyclonic spin, the vortex weaved uncertainly, seemingly anchored. The harvest ship dipped even farther until it was barely above the frothing waves. The waterspout widened suddenly and was sucked into the gaping maw of the giant vessel as it crept forward, swallowing vast volumes of Akkallan ocean.
Of the overmatched patrol cutters, three had been swamped. The others fought to escape the pull of the alien energy field and the storm it had generated. The sleek boats vaulted towering whitecaps, only to be battered by cross-swells crashing in from all sides.
“Analysis of the contents of that water funnel, Chekov.”
“Seawater, trace elements, and … thousands of life forms, ranging from microscopic to creatures up to twenty-five meters long, the size of whales.”
Unconcerned by the destructive forces set off in its wake, the harvest ship earned its designation by skimming the roiling waves and vacuuming up thousands of tons of water. Spock and Chekov could see torrents cascading out of the ship’s mouth through grates on the ventral surface of the jaw.
“It has a filtration system,” Chekov said, reading the scanners again. “The water coming out of the bottom is free of life forms. They’re being held inside.”
The big vessel made two more long sweeps, and then, like a sated leviathan, the harvest ship took a leisurely path to higher altitude, making a wide turn as its escort fighters returned to regroup for the voyage home. And they spotted the Cousteau for the first time. Two of the small angular craft peeled away from the harvest ship and streaked directly toward the previously unnoticed spectator.
Spock quickly opened a communications channel—and got a shriek of feedback. “We’re still subject to their jamming. Probably interference caused by the energy field.”
“Which means we can’t tell them who we are.”
“Correct. Stand by for evasive maneuvers.”
The science shuttle held its course, then ducked sharply, causing the Chorymi fighters to zip directly overhead. Spock rolled up into the desirable position of having their attackers flying away from the shuttle at high speed. He had to assume they’d be back but hoped they didn’t consider this unidentified quarry worth much of a chase. “Mr. Chekov, calculate the most direct course to the Akkallan mainland.”
None too delicately, Spock shoved the throttle control to maximum intra-atmospheric speed, and the G-forces squeezed them back into their seats.
“Damn.” Chekov glanced up from his scanner. “They’re closing on us. They were built for this … we weren’t.”
Spock replied by throwing the Cousteau into an evasive spiral, taking care to keep relatively on course toward the Akkallan capital of Tyvol. The first burning blue streaks of Chorymi cannon fire sizzled past the shuttle’s flanks, and Chekov flashed the tactical readout on Spock’s display screen.
The fighters were still closing on their tail.
Suddenly, Spock yanked the throttle back and cut their speed to a standstill. The pursuing Chorymi ships rushed past, trying to duplicate the maneuver long after it was too late.
Chekov grinned wickedly. “Good move, Mr. Spock.”
“Let us hope it was good enough.” Spock spurred the shuttle back to top speed as the engine whined in protest. The Akkallan continent was in sight, its flat shores protected by a string of volcanic islands rising up from the sea.
But the tactical screen showed the dogged Chorymi fighters hadn’t yet given up. They were back within weapons range, and they fired a second volley. Spock threw the Cousteau into a spin, but not in time. He and Chekov both felt the shuttle take two hits at the stern. A muffled explosion shook the craft, and acrid smoke seeped up from the lower deck, burning their eyes. Cabin lights flickered, then steadied at a low level when Chekov cut the main engines and patched in emergency battery power. They could smell the chemical foam of the automatic fire control system from the rear compartment.
Just as they were expecting to be finished off, the aggressor blips on the tactical grid veered away to catch up with the rest of their fleet, which was already nearing the upper atmosphere on its way back home. Chekov acknowledged this providential twist of fate by letting out a very long breath.
“We’re lucky, sir. I thought they were going to blow us out of the sky for sure.”
“Vulcans do not believe in luck, Mr. Chekov. And even if we did, I would be forced to question your conclusion. Our main engines are inoperable, and our batteries are damaged, as are our navigation and guidance systems. We may not have sufficient power to reach the mainland—”
Chekov brightened. “But this ship can land in the water.”
“We do not know the extent of structural damage. The ship may not be seaworthy. If we set down in water, we may sink.”
Chewing on his lip, Chekov regarded his senior officer silently. Well, he thought. We Russians are supposed to be fatalistic. “I will go below and check our survival gear.”
“A constructive idea. I shall attempt the best possible landing.”
As he clambered out of the cockpit area, Chekov paused. “Even though you don’t believe in it, good luck, sir.”
“As we have seen, Mr. Chekov, luck is a relative term.”
Relatively speaking, their luck held out, though it took their combined technical skills to guide the ship manually and ditch it within sight of an island off the coast of the continental mainland. With landing skids stretched forth prayerfully, the Cousteau hit the water and skipped like a flat stone before settling.
Chekov hit a console switch, and they heard a hydraulic grinding, followed by a vacuum-release hissing. “Auxiliary flotation devices deployed.”
Spock made a quick check on the external environment via ship’s sensors. “Temperature thirty-three Celsius. Humidity eighty-one percent.”
Chekov’s lip curled disapprovingly.
“Such readings are to be expected,” said Spock. “We have landed at an equatorial latitude.”
“Russians,” Chekov sighed, “were never meant to live in a rain forest.”
“We shall make every effort to keep our stay here as brief as possible, lieutenant. Now, we are approximately one point two-six kilometers from the nearest land. Our best course of action appears to be abandoning ship.”
“I guess so, sir.” Chekov gave a grudging nod. “I’ll go below and get the life raft ready. I’ll also anchor the ship so we can find her when the Enterprise gets here.”
“I’ll gather what we need here.”
The younger officer unstrapped his safety harness and climbed out of the cockpit. He paused at the hatch. “I knew she’d be seaworthy.”
Spock busied himself packing data cassettes as well as old-fashioned maps and charts in waterproof packs. Then he heard bootsteps climbing up the ladder from the lower deck and turned to see Chekov with a dubious expression on his face. He was soaked up to his knees.
“She’s not quite as seaworthy as I thought, Mr. Spock.”
“How bad is it?”
“I couldn’t find the leaks, but water’s coming in from somewhere. She may not be afloat for very long. But everything else is ready. The raft is packed and on the winch.”
The Vulcan handed two packs to Chekov and took two himself. With one last look around the cabin, they made their way through a cramped midship passage to the open exterior hatchway. The inflatable life raft hung on its cables, and they stepped in. Chekov touched the remote control switch, and the winch assembly lowered them three meters down to the waves. With a nod from Spock, he released their last mooring lines, and the raft floated free of the science shuttle, which was now listing slightly to starboard. Again using the remote, Chekov sealed the hatch.
The life raft had a small motor, as well as watertight compartments containing food, medical kits, tents, tools, and devices they’d need for survival. Spock opened one seal and withdrew a pair of tricorders—and phasers.
“Navigator’s discretion, Mr. Chekov. Head for shore, and we’ll take stock of our situation.”
“Aye, sir.” He opened the throttle wide and grasped the rudder handle, aiming for the mountain island facing them across the expanse of sea. “Maybe we’ll find dancing girls in grass skirts who’ll greet us as conquering gods.”
“Doubtful. Our purpose would be better served by finding residents capable of guiding us to Tyvol on the mainland.”
“Well, why not wish for both?”
The beach stretched like a narrow grayish apron around the island. With the raft riding the crest of a low wave, Chekov cut the motor and let the surf push them up on the coarse, gritty sand. Before the undertow could take hold and tug them back, he and Spock jumped out into knee-deep water and caught the mooring cords, beaching the inflatable out of reach of the salty fingers of breakers rolling in and foaming on the shore.
Though the beach seemed to form an unbroken rim as far as they could see, at least a mile in either direction until the coast curved back, it was a shallow strip, and lush forest crept toward the water’s edge. High tide might cover the sand altogether, judging by the seaweed and flotsam washed nearly all the way to the foliage. It was clear they wouldn’t be able to camp right along the shore.
The humidity made its presence felt with every breath of dank air. They stripped off their uniform jackets and bunched their shirt sleeves up around their elbows. Up in the sky, the clouds parted and the sun burst through.
If the Russian wasn’t genetically suited for equatorial weather, neither was Spock. His home planet was certainly known for its ovenlike heat, but Vulcan was also dry as a parched streambed.
Considering the likely tidal path, they hauled the raft to the top edge of the sand and lashed it firmly to a pair of sturdy tree trunks curving high over their heads. Wherever their reconnaissance might take them, they wanted the only means of water transport they had to be there when they came back. Spock scuffed the toe of his boot down into the sand, turning up a greater concentration of darker grains below the surface level.
“Volcanic.”
“All these islands are volcanoes, aren’t they?”
“Affirmative. Built up by thousands of years of eruptions. Volcanic material produces high-nutrient soil once it breaks down.”
“Do you think this one is extinct?”
Curiosity raised the Vulcan’s eyebrow, and he picked up a tricorder, scanning the island and forest. They stepped back for a better look over the trees. The mountain’s gently sloped cone wore a coat of green along its base, then faded into mist. “I am reading some signs of activity—heat release, movement of magma deep within the core.”
Chekov looked worried as Spock continued.
“But no indications of recent—or imminent—eruptions.”
Spock came back and sat on the soft side of the raft, pulled out a data cassette, and inserted it into the tricorder. According to their charts, the island was known as Shilu. It was the largest of a string of six, about seventy miles across, and it consisted essentially of one five-hundred-thousand-year-old volcano called Shiluzeya. Last known eruption two hundred years ago, now classified as dormant, but definitely not extinct.
Shilu was about a hundred miles from the continental coast and nine hundred miles from Havensbay, the protected harbor where the capital city was located. Since the raft’s motor was fueled by hydrogen that it got directly from seawater, there was no limit to distances that could be sailed in the tiny craft. And navigation wouldn’t be hard, just a matter of following the coast. But the lifeboat was not fast, and they had no idea what conditions they’d be facing out on the water. In all likelihood, it would take them longer to reach Tyvol than for the Enterprise to get to Akkalla from Vestra V.
The only certainty at that moment was the time of day, perhaps three hours before nightfall, too late to do any further traveling. The decision on their next moves could wait until morning. For the present, Spock decided they should scout the forest slightly inland, then return to the beachfront, and spend the night there, near the raft.
With tricorders held high and phasers in hand, they ventured through the curtain of ferns and vines and into the rain forest. The ground was spongy, a carpet of dead leaves and rotting wood, cushioning their footfalls and allowing them to move in near silence. But the sounds of footsteps would have been overwhelmed in any case by the music cascading from the leafy canopy above, a symphony of screeches, whistles, chirps, grindings, and howlings. While their ears and tricorders registered unmistakable imprints of life, the animals might well have been invisible, hidden as they were in the treetops. The only visual hints of their existence came when an occasional vine could be spotted swinging with leftover momentum after some creature had used it to sweep from one tree to another.
Once they’d penetrated the outer fringes of dense, ground-hugging vegetation, they found their way unobstructed. The branches of the tallest trees effectively screened out direct sunlight to the forest floor, preventing much growth around the tree trunks themselves. Chekov looked up at bright rays filtering through, shimmering in the dimness, with insects flitting like tiny dancers in spotlight beams. The darkness made it noticeably cooler than it had been on the beach. The still air carried the sweet scent of fresh humus, which was constantly being replenished by dead foliage falling from above to decompose rapidly in the moist soil and enrich the living trees, completing the rain forest’s cycle of life.
Graceful arches formed by intertwined boughs and ethereal dappling painted on the ground by flickering sunbeams gave the forest the feel of a natural cathedral.
“There’s so much life up there.” Chekov’s tricorder registered the activity they could hear but not see.
“Yes. When rain forests are part of a planet’s ecology, they are often the most densely populated habitat. On your planet, rain forests were being destroyed at such an accelerated rate in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries that fully half of all known plant and animal species disappeared within a thirty-year period. It was ironic indeed that, at a time when many of humanity’s great scientific minds were studying the extinctions of antiquity, their fellow Terrans were causing a mass extinction to rival the most devastating ever produced by nature.”
“I wish we could see some of the animals here.”
“Perhaps we can.” Spock pointed to something shadowed between two stout tree trunks, and they approached cautiously. It was a bower, carefully woven from vines, twigs, grass, and leaves, built to a height of five feet. Chekov aimed a small flashlight at the leafy structure, and they spotted a foot-high opening at the base. Suddenly, a lethal-looking beak sprang out, snapping savagely. Chekov and Spock were momentarily startled and didn’t move as the beak’s owner emerged—a three-foot-tall birdlike creature with eyeballs waving on short stalks, huge talons on its toes, and graygreen skin that looked like a rumpled coat. It shrieked as it charged to within a few feet of them, and they retreated hastily, phasers ready just in case. But as soon as they scrambled away, the creature halted its advance, evidently satisfied that it had staked out its territory in no uncertain terms. It fluffed its coat and waved its beak in their direction with a bullying cockiness. With a few more snaps for good measure, the creature strutted backward toward its lair and disappeared inside.
“A fascinating specimen,” Spock said.
“From a distance,” Chekov decided, flashing a doubtful look at Spock.
With phasers on their lightest utility setting, it didn’t take long for them to cut away some of the bushes and undergrowth at the edge of the rain forest. When they were done, they had a flat spot of ground large enough for a two-man sleeping tent and a cooking area. While Spock constructed the tent, Chekov popped open the compact stove.
Preparation didn’t take long, and Spock was soon nibbling on a vegetable stew. Chekov ate cold borscht and a meat-filled croissant. Between bites, the Russian started absently humming a dirgelike melody, eliciting a fractional arch of Spock’s eyebrow.
“Dinner music, Mr. Chekov?”
Chekov grinned. “Just remembering songs we used to sing around the fire at Youth League campouts.” He leaned back on a tree, hands folded behind his head as he reminisced. “Ahh, summers in the Caucasus or on the Black Sea. Cooking decadant western marshmallows …”
“Marshmallows? I am not familiar with them.”
“Really?” Chekov leaned forward. “Well, they’re … uh … it’s hard to describe them. They’re sort of little cylindrical puffs of sugar and air.” His fingers formed a rough approximation. “And you stick them on the end of long forks or just twigs, and you hold them over the fire. A real fire works better than one of these.”
“And then what happens?”
“They turn golden-brown and crisp on the outside, and they start to melt inside. And then you eat them directly off the stick, or you try to pull them off without having them fall apart. They’re very sticky and rather messy, I suppose.”
“And yet you find these marshmallows a pleasurable food item?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Based on the ingredients you mentioned, they are not nourishing.”
“No. But they taste so good, we would eat so many of them … sometimes we’d get sick.”
Spock cocked his head as he considered the facts. “It would seem they serve no useful dietary purpose.”
“No, sir. But … I wish we had some now. Then you’d understand.”
“Perhaps, but I tend to doubt it. The attractive elements of many human preferences are not readily apparent to Vulcans.”
“Don’t Vulcan children ever sleep out under the stars and sing songs around a campfire?” Chekov asked with an expansive gesture. After he said it, it occurred to him he’d have a hard time picturing the scene he’d just described.
Spock thought for a moment. “We sleep outdoors during the kahs-wan, the ten-day survival test of maturity Vulcan children must pass according to ancient custom. But that is not, as humans would classify it, fun.” Then he shook his head. “No, we never sing songs around a campfire … although, at the hottest time of summer, Vulcan youngsters might accompany their tutors outside to enjoy the cool evening air.”
Chekov clapped his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere! Do they look up at the stars and the Vulcan moons?”
“Yes, now that I recall.”
“Are you sure they wouldn’t sing songs?”
“Quite certain, lieutenant.”
“Then what would they do?”
“Their tutors would quiz them about quantum mechanics and astrophysics.”
Deflated by inescapable reality, Chekov sank back against the tree. “I should have known.”
Suddenly, a searing light flashed into his eyes, and he tried to shield his face. At the same time, he and Spock both reached for the phasers on their belts. But they froze when a deep voice boomed, “Hold still—hands on your heads—drop to your knees.”
Instead, Chekov tried to stand, reaching again for his phaser. He was rewarded with a stinging blow to his chin, strong enough to stagger him.
Spock was aware that there were two separate light beams, one shining on his face and one on Chekov’s. Their intent was to blind, to prevent them from seeing their assaulters. The beams held steady as rough hands enforced the order to kneel and took their phasers and communicators. The voice came from another angle. That meant he and Chekov were outnumbered at least five to two. Bad odds. Time to assess the situation, not to act without knowing the exact circumstances of their apparent capture.
Footsteps scuffed the ground … the rustle of fabric as someone spread the tent flaps open and hastily searched inside … voices conferring in rumbling whispers, too faint even for Spock to hear clearly … Chekov’s breathing, first rapid, then growing calm as he gained control over his fear … sounds floating in from the darkness.
Powerful hands locked under Spock’s arms and dragged him to his feet. The light beams raised to stay on target. He could tell Chekov had also been hauled up from his kneeling position. Except for the couple of orders barked at them, there’d been no attempt at purposeful communication. Too little information about their foes to make any reasonable assessments of their likely fate. Spock judged it unlikely that he’d be killed just for speaking, and any reaction he might evoke would be of some use in gauging their status.
“Our vessel was disabled at sea. We—”
He was silenced with a fist to the midsection, doubling him over more out of surprise than pain. The punch wasn’t that hard, and he straightened quickly. The commanding voice spoke again, snarling this time.
“You keep quiet unless you’re told otherwise.”
Finally, the lights were aimed at the ground. Spock’s vision cleared almost instantly—five people, three men and two women, dressed in camouflage outfits to match the colors of the rain forest, baggy pants gathered at the ankle, arms bared to the shoulder, sandals, hair in close-cropped unisex style, utilitarian rather than fashionable, framing young faces hardened by experience. Except for one face. The leader was much older, old enough to be father to the other four. And his expression was the hardest of all, the stone-set jaw, the glint of fanaticism in the eyes, like a knife blade reflecting a pinpoint flash just before it slashes for blood.
“You’re prisoners of the Cape Alliance,” said the leader. He was a thin man with weathered features and a raw-boned strength. “Got anything to say for yourselves?”
Spock measured the man with a probing gaze. “As I attempted to explain, we were forced to seek shelter on this island when our vessel was disabled. We are not your enemies, sir.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Obviously. However, since you clearly occupy a position of leadership, you bear the responsibility to be a fair judge, weighing all relevant facts prior to passing sentence.”
“You’ve got a brave tongue, considering your predicament. What’s your name?”
“Spock. This is Chekov. Do you also have a name?”
“I do. It’s Zzev.”
“May I ask what the Cape Alliance is allied against?”
“The Publican of Akkalla and his illegal government. Enough questions from you, Spock. You give me some answers. You’re no Akkallan, with those ears. Vulcan?”
Spock replied with a silent nod.
“Where’s your ship?”
“It was approximately one kilometer off shore when we abandoned it.”
“How were you damaged?”
“We were observing the altercation between your defense forces and the intruder convoy from Chorym.”
“Not our defense forces, Vulcan,” Zzev sneered. “We’ve got no love for this planet’s Paladins. Tell me, how did they do?”
“They were rather soundly beaten—something of a mismatch of firepower.”
Zzev snorted a short, mirthless laugh. “That’s an understatement. But it serves them right. They invited the Chorymi to harvest our seas to begin with. Now that the harvests have turned into raids, there’s not a damn thing Akkalla can do to stop them.”
“You are not then allied with the Chorymi either?”
“We hate the Chorymi, Vulcan. Though it’s hard to fault animals for following their natures, I suppose.”
One of the younger rebels had gone off to rummage through the life raft and returned carrying a maroon uniform jacket. Zzev snatched it and growled, “Starfleet officers, eh? That answers my question about where you two came from. You’ve got something to do with that Federation science station, don’t you—and don’t lie to me—”
“We are members of the crew of the starship Enterprise, here to evaluate the work of the Federation outpost to—”
“A whole starship of Federation slaysharks gathering for the kill. Well, they’re going to be in for a surprise when they get here. So will the Publican … and at least we know what crime to charge the two of you with. Tie them up.”
Two of the others moved to bind Spock’s and Chekov’s hands behind them.
“I tell you, we have committed no crimes,” said Spock.
“You and your friend here are charged with conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy with who?” Chekov blurted.
“With the Publican, to keep the truth from the Akkallan people. If those scientists of yours sided with us instead of him, we wouldn’t be outlaws now.”
“But our scientists do not take sides in local disputes,” Spock said.
“More Federation lies, Vulcan. We may be hunted as traitors now, but once the Publican is overthrown and we take control of the Continental Synod, we’ll see a few differences on this planet. So—your starship’s coming here. You two may be pretty valuable commodities, so we’ll keep you alive for the time being. But if you’re worthless sea scum, you’ll face the revolutionary court. And I can tell you now, the sentence is going to be death.”
The rebel band moved into the forest, then picked a spot to rest for a couple of hours. As the first streamers of sunrise bled across an indigo sky, they started a long hike up the gently sloped flank of the Shiluzeya volcano. For purposes of cover, they stayed under the forest’s leafy canopy most of the way. But twice they came across geologic zones that reminded them that the island they were on was actually a giant volcano. These were rifts in the mountainside where lava had bubbled forth from deep within the planet’s molten core. Early in its history, Shiluzeya had been a simple crack in the planet’s crust. Over millions of years, undersea eruptions had built up sufficient material to create an island with enough altitude to rise up above sea level.
The rifts allowed streams of lava to creep down toward the sea, and the old lava the rebels and their captives crossed was hardened like rough black pavement now, with golden highlights marbling its mottled surface.
It was almost dark by the time the guerrillas followed the downturn of a gulley and approached a cave entrance burrowed into the mountain.
“Are we going in there?” Chekov asked the young blond woman who was escorting them.
“That’s our base on this side of the island.”
The Russian swallowed hard, his pulse racing. His palms turned cool and clammy, but the way his hands were bound behind him made it impossible to wipe them off. Sweat-soaked from the heat and humidity, his face blanched to chalk white. The thought of going deep inside a mountain, hands tied, no way to protect himself, no idea when—or if—he might emerge, had his stomach doing gymnastics and his legs transforming to rubber. Spock noticed as they paused at the entrance.
“Mr. Chekov, are you quite all right?”
“Never better, Mr. Spock. Why—why do you ask?”
“Your complexion.”
Chekov’s dry lips parted into a wan imitation of a grin. “It’s—it’s just that caves aren’t my favorite places.”
“Indeed. Perhaps I should request that we be permitted to remain outside.”
Before Chekov could reply, a scrabbling sound from the trees nearby snared the attention of the rebels, who dove for cover behind boulders and trees, shoving their Starfleet captives unceremoniously face-down onto the moist ground. One of the young men pulled his sidearm and fired at a target barely glimpsed in the shadows beyond the clearing. The weapon flashed with a blunt report. Spock’s eyes were able to follow the streaking bullet as it weaved around tree trunks and found its mark. The target screeched and thrashed briefly, then tumbled to the ground.
The entire incident had taken a total of perhaps three seconds. While Chekov and Spock waited, still flat on their bellies in the dirt, their blond escort cautiously side-stepped toward the victim. The others covered her from protected positions.
She bent down. “Dead. But not a Paladin.” When she straightened, she held a small corpse up by one of its legs.
Zzev shined his flashlight in her direction. “What is it, Ttrina?”
She came back to the group, displaying a small, furry primate with veinous flaps of skin stretched between its arms and legs. “Just a glider.”
Chekov’s stomach lurched as Spock helped him to his feet, and he weaved unsteadily. “They seem a little jumpy, sir. I don’t think this is the time to complain about the accommodations. I’ll be all right.”
Two of the younger rebels led the way into the cave, painting the rock walls with roving light beams. Spock and Chekov were pushed in next, with Zzev and the others just behind. At intervals, the leaders paused to ignite chemical torches mounted on the cave walls. The torches crackled as they cast quivering shadows out past the group.
“Claustrophobia is not an unusual problem, Mr. Chekov,” Spock whispered. “Although I am somewhat surprised that the symptoms do not manifest themselves within the confines of a small spacecraft.”
Chekov tried to coax some saliva into his mouth, where he was certain alkaline tufts of fuzz had taken root. “It’s not—not claustrophobia. It’s—it’s just caves. One summer, on one of those camping trips I told you about—”
“The ones with the marshmallows.”
“Da. Some older children told me they wanted to show me something scary, but they thought I wasn’t brave enough to go with them. I said I was, and they said they’d only take me if I went blindfolded.”
“Did you?”
Chekov nodded. “They took me into a cave, left me standing in the middle with my eyes still covered. Then they crept away—and at the last second, they threw a rock and scared all the bats off the cave ceiling. The bats flew right past me and … well, I was almost the first eight-year-old in the history of the Youth League to have heart failure. Ever since then, I haven’t liked caves very much.”
“But you are now an adult, Mr. Chekov. Is it not time to overcome childhood obsessions?”
“Logically, yes. But we humans aren’t ruled by logic.”
“So I have observed.”
The narrow passageway broadened into a triangular chamber with a vaulted ceiling soaring overhead. A half-dozen torches were lit, revealing a cavern like a cathedral, with crystalline stalactites hanging down and stalagmites rising up from the cave floor like magical columns. In the central part of the grotto, stalactites dripping down had formed ornate pagodalike pillars, wide at the bottom, then spiraling up into the darkness. Water droplets splashed in atonal harmony.
Judging by its contents, this particular cave was indeed a regular guerrilla base. In addition to the chemical lights in wall brackets, the main chamber had simple metal-framed cots, cooking implements, and supplies in sealed containers. Spock quickly scanned the cavern, absorbing and cataloging every detail. Then he turned back to see how Chekov was coping. The Russian seemed considerably calmer.
“This cave has some amenities, lieutenant. Remember that irrational fear is a construct of an undisciplined intellect.”
“I know that, sir.”
“In fact, I would estimate that the cave itself presents less of a danger to us than our captors do—unless, of course, this volcano reactivates while we are inside, emitting toxic gases which would kill us within five seconds, or erupting and adding molten lava flows to the manufacture of the gases.”