Two
“Approaching Varba II,” Spock announced. “One minute to entering upper atmosphere.”
Galileo descended toward the planet, whose northern hemisphere filled the shuttlecraft’s forward port. Dense, swirling, mustard-colored clouds concealed whatever seas and continents graced the planet’s surface. The impenetrable mist, which possessed a strange, subtle luminosity, blanketed Varba II and was apparently the source of the peculiar electromagnetic interference garbling the signal from the planet. It also posed a significant challenge to the Enterprise’s sensors and transporters. Hence the decision to employ the shuttlecraft rather than beam blindly down to the planet.
“And I thought Argelius was foggy.” Doctor Leonard McCoy eyed the glimmering vapors warily. “We sure there’s solid ground down there somewhere?”
McCoy occupied a passenger seat in the cockpit, next to Spock, who had chosen to pilot the shuttle himself, the better to trace the signal to its exact point of origin. A Starfleet medkit rested at the doctor’s feet, in the event that they were indeed responding to some manner of distress signal, as well as in anticipation of any possible injuries the landing party might incur. Spock hoped the precaution would prove unnecessary, but he was well aware that exploring an unknown planet often entailed hazards to life and limb. He had taken part in more Starfleet funerals than he cared to remember, including his own. Inadequate data only increased the number of variables.
“We can be certain of nothing,” Spock stated. “The planet’s unusual atmosphere makes detailed sensor readings problematic, but there are indications of a marginally Class-M environment beneath the heavy cloud cover.” The science officer examined an illuminated display on the control panel before him. “I am attempting to zero in on the source of the transmission, which I have already narrowed down to a radius of five hundred kilometers.”
“Five hundred, you say?” McCoy replied, scoffing. “You’re slipping, Spock. I expect something a bit more precise from you, out to a couple of decimal places at the very least.”
“I assure you, Doctor, that my faculties are quite undiminished. As we draw nearer to the point of origin, I have every expectation that we will be able to shrink the search area substantially.”
“I should hope so,” McCoy said. “Keep in mind that we’re not as spry as we used to be. I don’t mind a little healthy exercise, but I’d just as soon not hike all over the planet in search of this blasted signal.” He stretched uncomfortably in his seat, bones and muscles creaking. “We don’t all age as slowly as you Vulcans do.”
“My condolences, Doctor. That must be most inconvenient.”
“Don’t rub it in,” McCoy grumbled, before changing the subject. “It has to be killing Jim that he had to skip this expedition.”
“It was a logical decision,” Spock said. “The captain could hardly abandon the dignitaries in his charge to lead a potentially hazardous landing mission. He had little choice but to remain behind on the Enterprise.”
“Oh, I understand why he couldn’t join us,” McCoy said. “Somebody has to unruffle those VIPs’ feathers after all. But you and I both know that Jim would rather be flying down into that soup with us.”
Spock had to agree with that assessment. “You are undoubtedly correct, Doctor.”
Along with McCoy and himself, the landing party consisted of Chekov and a three-person team of security officers. Saavik had volunteered to join the party, but her particular skills were not required for this specific mission. Moreover, as her mentor, Spock was obliged to avoid even the appearance of favoritism by granting her request without good reason. She was disappointed, no doubt, but disappointment was an emotion and, therefore, something any Vulcan could readily overcome.
Or so he assumed.
Varba II grew ever larger before them. A proximity alert flashed on the control panel.
“Entering planetary atmosphere,” Spock said, raising his voice so that those seated in the shuttle’s passenger compartment could hear him. “We may encounter some turbulence. Brace yourselves.”
“Oh, boy.” McCoy checked to make sure he was securely belted into his seat. “I knew I shouldn’t have eaten breakfast this morning.”
Spock’s warning proved well founded. Although the shuttle entered the shimmering yellow clouds at a gentle angle and velocity—in order to minimize the stress on Galileo’s hull—the planet’s upper atmosphere turned out to be far stormier than the placid vacuum of space. The Galileo’s sleek design was more aerodynamic than the older, boxier shuttlecrafts that had been standard in Spock’s younger days, but the weather conditions were challenging regardless. Violent winds, registering at hundreds of kilometers per hour, buffeted the shuttlecraft, rocking it back and forth. It required all of Spock’s concentration and piloting skills to keep Galileo under control and on course. Loose articles tumbled noisily about the rear compartment. Chekov swore in Russian.
“I never thought I’d say this,” McCoy said, the turbulence rattling his voice, “but I think I’d prefer the transporter.”
Spock found himself in agreement with McCoy once again, but he refrained from saying so, preferring to remain focused on the increasingly difficult task of piloting the shuttlecraft. A cyclonic gust struck Galileo’s port side with the force of a phaser barrage, sending it into a roll. McCoy yelped out loud, and Spock was grateful for both the straps binding them to their seats and the shuttle’s own artificial gravity, which helped to mitigate the dizzying effect of the roll. He coolly but hastily worked the controls to stabilize their flight, despite the riotous winds pummeling Galileo from every direction. The fierce keening of the gale could be heard even through the shuttlecraft’s insulated hull. The sound reminded Spock of the baying of a pack of hungry Le-matyas back on his native Vulcan.
“Raising shields,” he said above the shrieking din. “Deflectors engaged.”
He had hoped that the shields would provide additional protection from the storm, but instead a blinding white flash ignited right outside Galileo, causing Spock’s inner eyelids to snap into place. A thunderous explosion jolted the shuttle. Sparks erupted from the helm controls as vital systems abruptly shorted out. Dust and debris rained down from overhead, and cracks spread alarmingly across the forward port, further obscuring his view. The shuttlecraft’s interior lighting flickered, creating a strobe effect inside the vessel. Bulkheads buckled inward, the straining metal crying out in protest. The smell of smoke and burning circuitry contaminated the shuttle’s pressurized atmosphere. Spock’s ears rang from the noise of the blast. He glimpsed fragments of the hull’s exterior plating flying off outside.
“What the devil!” McCoy exclaimed. “Spock—”
“Later, Doctor.” Spock was already formulating a theory to account for the unexpected blast, but more urgent matters demanded the bulk of his attention. The explosion had thrown Galileo off course and into another spin. Propulsion had been knocked off-line, causing the shuttlecraft to dive through the storm at a precipitous rate and angle, zooming like a meteor toward the unseen surface thousands of meters below. Spock calculated that he had only moments to avert an inevitably fatal crash. Height times acceleration equaled catastrophe.
Unless I alter the equation, he thought.
Vulcan training and discipline precluded panic. Working swiftly and efficiently, he bypassed burned-out circuits via the auxiliary systems in order to bring the control panel back on-line. An instant survey of the working display screens informed him that Galileo had been severely wounded by the explosion. Its shields had collapsed (which was possibly just as well, he suspected), while insistent red lights and gauges reported damage and malfunctions across the board, affecting critical systems. Artificial gravity and inertial dampers were both down, leaving Galileo at the mercy of Varba II’s own unyielding gravity, which was roughly comparable to that of Earth or Vulcan. Structural integrity had also been compromised, raising the unwelcome prospect of an imminent hull breach, even as the crippled shuttlecraft plummeted toward certain destruction.
First things first, Spock thought.
The primary impulse drive units were disabled, having apparently sustained major damage, so he attempted to engage the landing thrusters. To his relief, the thrusters activated, allowing him some control of Galileo’s headlong dive toward the planet. The helm was sluggish and balky, but at least the ferocious winds seemed to abate as the shuttle descended rapidly and the omnipresent fog began to thin to a degree, offering a modicum of visibility. Struggling with the controls, Spock managed to arrest Galileo’s spin and orient the shuttle right side up with respect to the planet’s surface, which was coming into view all too quickly.
A nocturnal swamp, partially shrouded by a thick canopy of leafy trees and vines, could be glimpsed through the phosphorescent yellow mist. The marsh appeared to be rushing up at them like a Klingon battle cruiser on a collision course. Straining thrusters could only slow the shuttlecraft’s downward acceleration, not reverse it.
“Spock?” McCoy asked anxiously.
“I see it, Doctor. Hold tight. A soft landing is no longer possible.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Thrusters sputtered erratically. Frantic red lights on the control panel warned of a total system failure. Spock briefly regretted that Sulu was not on hand to lend his superlative piloting skills to this crisis. Much depended on how the shuttlecraft handled in the next few moments.
“Brace for impact!” he shouted.
He retained the presence of mind to transmit an emergency distress signal to the Enterprise. The first officer was uncertain whether the signal would be able to get through the pervasive atmospheric interference, but he judged it worth the attempt. Captain Kirk needed to know that the landing party required assistance.
Assuming they survived the landing . . .
Nose down, Galileo crashed through the verdant canopy into the swamp. Splintered branches and tree trunks scraped loudly against the shuttle’s hull. The thrusters labored to soften the impact but were outmatched by the vicious alliance of gravity and sheer momentum that had the plunging shuttlecraft in its grasp. Murky black waters of unknowable depth surged into view, and, banking sharply, Spock steered Galileo into the water, barely missing the nearby shore.
Now if only the water was deep enough . . .
Galileo slammed into the swamp. Even landing in water, the impact was considerable. Only their safety straps kept Spock and McCoy from being flung from their seats. Water splashed against the prow of the shuttlecraft. The cracked port shattered, spraying Spock with jagged shards. He threw up an arm to protect his face. In the general tumult of the crash, he barely registered a sharp pain in his right shoulder. Survival—and duty—took priority.
The shuttle came to an abrupt halt.
Momentarily stunned, Spock lost precious heartbeats before reacting to the crisis. Blinking, he shook his head to clear it as he hastened to take stock of the situation and the personnel under his command, starting with the slumped figure to his right.
“Doctor?”
“Still in one piece,” McCoy said, stirring beside him. He groaned and grimaced in discomfort. “I think.”
“Commander Chekov?” Spock called out, looking back over his shoulder at the rear compartment, which was rapidly filling with smoke from various small electrical fires. His eyes struggled to penetrate the noxious fumes, which assaulted his nose and throat. “Report!”
“No fatalities, sir!” Chekov said, coughing. “Not yet, that is.”
There was no time for further inquiries. Brackish water gushed through the shattered port, flooding the cockpit, as Galileo sank nose first into what appeared to be a substantial lagoon. The weight of the incoming water caused the shuttlecraft to tilt forward even faster, raising the rear of the vessel, where Chekov and the security officers could be heard scrambling from their seats. Coughs and exclamations punctuated the commotion.
“Move it!” Chekov urged his companions hoarsely. “Time to stretch your legs!”
The water was already knee-deep in the cockpit and getting deeper. Between the flood and the smoke, Spock swiftly assessed the situation and issued the only logical command:
“Abandon ship!”
Unbuckling himself, he secured his tricorder and turned to McCoy, who was already shrugging out of the safety straps. The doctor winced as though the rapid movements pained him. Spock knew the feeling. The crash had hardly left him unscathed either.
“Can you walk, Doctor?” Spock asked.
“Just watch me.” McCoy rose from his seat and began to exit the cockpit, only to turn back as though he had forgotten something. “Wait! The medkit!”
The crash had cracked the kit open, spilling its contents into the flooding cockpit. McCoy frantically tried to recover as much of the equipment as he could, tossing hyposprays and medicinal vials back into the kit, but time was not on his side. Within minutes the front of the shuttlecraft would be completely submerged. The water was unpleasantly cool but not freezing. Spock estimated the temperature to be approximately forty degrees Celsius.
“We must go, Doctor,” Spock urged. “There is no time.”
“But my supplies—”
“Are not worth drowning for.” Spock took hold of McCoy and half guided, half shoved the other man out of the cockpit toward the rear of the shuttlecraft. By now, the port hatchway was partially underwater as well, so, splashing through the surging liquid, they made their way up a steep incline, their boots slipping and sliding on the tilting floor. Through the acrid haze, Spock spotted Chekov and the others at the aft hatchway up ahead. Smoke billowed from an overhead storage compartment, while scattered supplies were being washed away by the flood. A fallen mess kit sank beneath the rising tide, which at least helped to extinguish any potential blazes. A loose playing card drifted past Spock’s shin. It was a queen of spades.
“Stand by!” Chekov manually activated the emergency release lever, and the hatchway blew open explosively, letting out some of the choking smoke. He beckoned urgently. “Up and out, everybody!”
Holding on to the edge of the hatchway to keep from slipping backward into the flood, Chekov hustled the other three security officers—Fisher, Yost, and Darwa—out of the shuttlecraft while waiting for Spock and McCoy to catch up with him. Damp air and yellow mist invaded the compartment, mingling with the departing smoke. Leaning toward them, Chekov held out his free hand to help pull McCoy the rest of the way up.
“This way up, Doctor. Swiftly, please.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” McCoy grumbled, but he did not refuse the hand up. He clutched the battered medkit under one arm. “I know enough to leave a sinking ship.”
He stumbled out of the shuttlecraft into the waiting lagoon. Spock heard him splash down into the water, accompanied by a fountain of salty spray.
The Vulcan accepted Chekov’s assistance as well. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that the water was rising to fill the passenger compartment, the weight of it dragging the shuttle down so that Galileo was practically at a ninety-degree angle to the upset surface of the lagoon. Turning his gaze forward once more, he peered out the hatchway.
“After you, Mister Chekov.” He held up a hand to fend off any heroic protests. “That’s an order, Commander.”
Chekov nodded and jumped from the hatchway into the water. Spock took a moment to ensure that his tricorder was still securely strapped to his shoulder before quitting the shuttle as well, just as Galileo slipped entirely beneath the roiling water, vanishing from sight. For Spock, it was less a matter of jumping into the lagoon than merely letting Galileo drop away without him. The undertow of the departing shuttlecraft tugged at him, but Spock had no desire to follow it to the bottom of the lagoon. His responsibilities lay elsewhere.
Alien waters enveloped him. Paddling to stay afloat, he surveyed their surroundings. Through the dimly glowing mist, he spied a muddy bank several meters away, beyond which lay a forbidding expanse of exotic trees, bushes, vines, moss, and fungi. The vegetation was unique to the planet, naturally, but seemed comparable to the mangroves, ferns, and other plant life frequently found in terrestrial wetlands. Fog and shadows filled the gaps between the overgrown foliage, along with worrying flickers of movement. That some of the shadows seemed to shift did not bode well. Probes had reported no sentient life in the system, but that did not preclude fauna as well as flora. Inexplicable squawks and screeches came from somewhere deeper in the overgrown swampland, accompanied by the buzz and drone of insects. Who knew what varieties of wildlife might inhabit this biome?
Hardly the most inviting of settings, Spock thought, but, as Captain Kirk might say, any port in a storm. “Swim for the shore,” he ordered, perhaps unnecessarily.
“Now there’s a heck of an idea,” McCoy said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“I’m sure you would have, Doctor. Eventually.”
The members of the landing party kicked and splashed and eventually waded toward land. Just for a moment, Spock was reminded of an equally watery evacuation not too long before, when he and various others had been forced to abandon a captured Klingon bird of prey as it sank beneath San Francisco Bay, immediately after their voyage home from the twentieth century. But that had been a joyous, even jubilant, occasion marked by the success of their mission to save Earth from an enigmatic alien probe.
This plunge into chill waters was far from a cause for celebration.
Pulling himself up onto the shore, he looked back at the lagoon, whose dark surface was once more flat and untroubled. No trace of Galileo remained.
And beaming back to the Enterprise was not an option.
We are stranded, Spock deduced. And cut off from the ship.
Survival was now the order of the day.
“Sit still and let me treat you, Spock. You’re wounded, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Soaking wet and none too happy about it, McCoy tried to get Spock’s attention as the stranded landing party regrouped on what barely qualified as dry land. A muddy hummock, rising above scattered pools, puddles, and shallow streams, was only a slight improvement over the lagoon that had swallowed Galileo. The air was damp and thin and reeked of mold, rotting vegetation, and a few other odors McCoy was in no hurry to identify. Tiny, gnatlike insects buzzed incessantly. An overcast sky, scarcely visible through the overhanging greenery, made it difficult to distinguish day from night. What feeble light there was mostly came from the shimmering fog, which drifted through the fetid swamp like so many will-o’-the-wisps, or else hung low over the ground, swirling around the doctor’s ankles. His boots sloshed as he hurried after Spock.
“I’m serious, Spock. You need to let me look at that.”
A jagged piece of transparent aluminum, nearly three centimeters in width, was lodged in Spock’s right shoulder. What looked to be dark green blood—it was difficult to tell in the faint lighting—streamed from the wound, indicating that the shard had hit a vein, not an artery; Vulcan arterial blood was generally a brighter shade of green and would have been spurting, not streaming. McCoy thanked their lucky stars that the fragment had not struck Spock another half centimeter to the left. The Vulcan glanced down at the injury, as though indeed noticing it for the first time.
“Never mind me,” he said brusquely. “Please attend to the others first.”
“Not a chance.” McCoy couldn’t blame Spock for having other things on his mind, but that wound demanded immediate attention. “We can’t have you losing any more of that coppery green stuff you call blood. It’s not as though we have a ready donor on hand to transfuse you.”
Spock grudgingly conceded the point. “For once, your logic is irrefutable, Doctor.” He sat, with obvious reluctance, on a fallen log that was practically upholstered in moist moss and fungi. The soggy timber sagged beneath his weight. Disturbed creepy-crawlies scurried away. “You may proceed.”
“’Bout time you saw it my way.” McCoy wrapped some soaked dressings around his own hand to protect it from sharp edges, then took hold of the shard jutting from Spock’s shoulder while bracing his other hand against his patient’s left shoulder. “This is going to hurt,” he warned. “Ordinarily, I’d give you something for the pain first, but most of my analgesics went down with the ship.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Doctor. Any physical discomfort is the least of my concerns at present.”
McCoy could believe it. Even as he yanked the shard from Spock’s shoulder, eliciting nothing more than a grimace from his patient, the doctor remained all too conscious of the larger crisis unfolding around him. Chekov’s security team was busy staking out a perimeter, phasers at the ready, while Chekov had his communicator out and was trying again to make contact with the Enterprise; unfortunately, it seemed the damn fog was getting in the way.
“Chekov to Enterprise,” the Russian said, sounding understandably frustrated. Like McCoy, he had shed his waterlogged field jacket, but the clothing underneath was just as soaked and streaked with mud. He held the communicator up to his lips. “Repeat: Chekov to Enterprise. Please respond.”
McCoy tossed the bloody shard aside and helped Spock out of his own soaked jacket so that he could get at the actual injury. He guided Spock’s other hand to the hurt shoulder. “Keep pressure on the wound while I see if I can scrounge up some sort of antibiotic to stave off infection.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Spock said, complying. He nodded at Chekov and the others. “A medical report on the party, please.”
“Battered and bruised but still in working order,” McCoy said, having already done triage on the entire landing party. A hypospray hissed as he injected Spock with an all-purpose sterilizing serum that had somehow survived the crash; McCoy didn’t want to think about what sort of alien germs might have been swimming around in that lagoon. “Some sore ribs, a touch of whiplash, minor lacerations and pulled muscles, and I’m moving a little stiffly, thanks for asking. Nothing life-threatening, however, although I wish I hadn’t lost half my supplies in the crash.” He shuddered at the memory of their so-called landing. “That could have been a lot worse. We’re lucky to be alive.”
“Vulcans do not believe in luck,” Spock said.
“So I’ve been told.” McCoy recalled the explosion that had brought the shuttlecraft down in the first place. His ears were still ringing from the blast. “What in Sam Hill happened up there anyway? Were we struck by lightning, or what?”
Spock shook his head. “Nothing so prosaic, Doctor. Ordinary lightning would not have collapsed our shields or ignited an explosion of that magnitude. Starfleet shuttlecrafts are, as a rule, built to withstand most atmospheric disturbances.”
“I would certainly hope so.” McCoy was no engineer, so he took Spock’s word for it. Certainly they’d flown through some rough skies before without ending up in the drink. He remembered a particularly nerve-racking flight above a chain of erupting fusion volcanoes on Kaskadia IV, which had nonetheless ended with Galileo touching down safely at the Federation science station that was studying the planet’s unique geology. “Then what was that? It felt like a photon torpedo going off all around us.”
“The data is inconclusive, but I believe that some volatile compound or energy in the planet’s atmosphere reacted explosively to our shields, triggering the disaster.”
McCoy blinked in surprise. “You mean our own shields set off the blast? Is that even possible?”
“I would not have thought so, yet here we are.” Spock expounded on his theory, perhaps to distract himself from McCoy’s efforts to clean out the wound before bandaging it. “Further testing and analysis, under more controlled conditions, is needed to confirm the hypothesis, but, upon reflection, such scenarios are not without precedent. It is well documented that certain gases and minerals are incompatible with transporter beams, while dilithium crystals can be affected adversely by specific frequencies of electromagnetic radiation—”
“If you say so.” McCoy was not particularly interested in the technical details. Lacking a protoplaser to seal Spock’s wound or even a spray-on dermal patch, he resorted to bandaging it with a strip of (relatively) clean fabric sliced from the inner lining of his discarded jacket. “I suppose it’s not unlike mixing medications as well as applying them to different humanoid species, each with their own peculiar metabolisms and body chemistries. Sometimes a bad reaction can blow up in your face.”
“An apt analogy, Doctor.” Spock inspected McCoy’s handiwork and moved his shoulder experimentally. “Clearly, this planet’s ubiquitous mist bears closer examination.” Wincing slightly, he retrieved his weatherproof tricorder and began to scan a drifting patch of fog. He peered intently at its readings. “Intriguing. I’m detecting an unusual form of quantified plasma that defies ready classification. The atmosphere appears to contain large quantities of discrete, free-floating, plasmoid structures with an improbably skewed energy-to-matter ratio. It’s possible that this proliferation of airborne plasmoids is generated by the intersection of the planet’s magnetic fields with certain wavelengths of solar radiation, catalyzed by the presence of unique compounds in the atmosphere; the combination is not dissimilar to the forces that were found to generate ball lightning on Earth and sand-fire storms on Vulcan, but on a much more severe scale.” Pure scientific curiosity was evident in his voice. “A pity that we cannot study the phenomena under less dire conditions.”
McCoy barely understood half of that. He cared less about the fog’s composition than how the heck they were going to get out of it. He glanced up at the overhanging branches as though attempting to spot the Enterprise high in orbit above the planet. The ship—and sickbay—seemed very far away.
“Jim’s bound to launch a rescue mission anytime,” he said hopefully, “even if we can’t make contact with the ship.”
“In time, Doctor, but perhaps not immediately. We anticipated that the landing party might be out of touch with the Enterprise for the duration of the mission. I transmitted a distress signal moments before the crash, but I cannot guarantee that the captain received it.”
McCoy clung to the idea that help would be on the way eventually. “Still, when we don’t return in a decent amount of time, Jim will realize that something went awry and—”
A horrifying possibility struck him with the force of a disruptor blast. “Spock, what if the rescue mission makes the same mistake we did and raises their shields up there in the clouds?”
“That would be unfortunate,” Spock said gravely, looking up from his tricorder readings. “By all indications, the vapors are extremely volatile.”
A few meters away, Chekov had gathered a pile of damp kindling in an apparent attempt to start a fire. Raising his phaser, he took aim at the accumulated sticks, moss, and leaves. The phantasmal mist glided about the area, wafting between him and his target. He rubbed the back of his neck, which he had strained in the crash.
Spock’s eyes widened in alarm. He sprang to his feet.
“Chekov! Wait!”
His warning came too late. A ruby-red beam shot from the phaser, passing through a drifting patch of mist—which detonated on contact. A fiery white blast knocked Chekov backward into a stagnant puddle, while everyone else scrambled for cover. McCoy felt the heat upon his face even from several paces away. For an instant, he feared that the entire swamp would go up in flames, but the fireball burned itself out just as quickly as it had burst into being, leaving behind a charred stand of marshland, along with a dazed and startled landing party.
Chekov sat up unsteadily, looking understandably shaky. “Bozhe moi,” he murmured.
McCoy rushed to his side. “Chekov, are you all right?”
At first glance, the Russian appeared in decent shape. His face was reddened, as though by a sudden solar flare, and his eyebrows were singed, but McCoy didn’t spot any serious burns or obvious fractures. Good thing he wasn’t standing any closer to that blast, McCoy thought, while wishing for at least one handheld medical scanner.
“I believe so, Doctor.” He blinked and shook his head while gingerly testing his limbs. His pupils appeared normal. He recovered his phaser, which he had dropped after the blast. “Just got the wind knocked out of me by . . . whatever that was.”
“An unfortunate combination of an energy beam and a highly combustible vapor,” Spock stated, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I strongly advise that we refrain from using our phasers while immersed in this mist. We cannot risk setting off an even larger explosion.”
McCoy looked away from Chekov to contemplate the omnipresent fog. They were in the thick of it, all right—in more ways than one.
“You said ‘combustible,’ Mister Spock,” one of the security officers said. Ensign Fisher was a wiry redheaded young man with a pronounced British accent. Constellations of freckles made his boyish face resemble a star map. He’d picked up a split lip in the crash. “Does that mean no torches or campfires at all?”
“I regret so,” Spock said. “This atmosphere is too volatile. A lit flame could also ignite the mists, with possibly catastrophic results.”
“Terrific,” McCoy said with a dour expression. “So much for drying out.”
“I suspect, Doctor, that damp attire is—”
Spock halted abruptly, turning his head toward a shadowy corner of the swamp as though his keen hearing had detected something amiss. McCoy followed his gaze but saw only dense fog and underbrush. His merely human ears heard only a breeze rustling through the fronds and branches. Was there something else out there, within the endless greenery?
“Fisher!” Spock shouted. “Watch out!”
Something came charging out of the mist, brush, and darkness, bursting into view: a large, six-legged life-form, roughly the size of a lion or tiger, which resembled a nightmarish cross between a giant eel and a ferocious jungle predator. Instead of snarling jaws, the creature had a circular mouth lined with concentric rows of vicious, saw-like teeth. Scaly plates, armoring its segmented body, looked slimy to the touch, while its mottled greenish-yellow coloration was perfectly adapted to blending in with its surroundings. At least six pairs of opaque black eyes budded in rows along the top of its head. Thickly muscled limbs, two in the front and four in the back, propelled the beast toward the landing party with terrifying speed. A high-pitched screech, keening like an overloading phaser, assailed McCoy’s eardrums and sent an icy chill down his spine.
Before any of them could react, before Fisher could even turn around, the monster attacked him from behind. Its voracious maw clamped on to the man’s back, tearing audibly through his jacket and uniform to reach the tender meat underneath. Shock and pain contorted Fisher’s face and a strangled scream briefly escaped his lips before his entire body stiffened in paralysis. The creature lifted Fisher off his feet and shook him like a dog with a bone. McCoy heard a horrible grinding sound.
“Fisher!” Chekov drew his phaser, as did Darwa and Yost, but he hesitated to fire, unwilling to blow Fisher up in order to save him. The fog was everywhere, rendering their phasers useless. “Mister Spock. What should—”
Before Spock could answer, the creature sprang into the overhanging branches, taking Fisher (or his body) with it. The predator and its human prey vanished from sight. Leaves and vines rustled noisily overhead before quieting. Only the fog remained.
A hush fell over the survivors, broken only by the ceaseless drone of the tiny insects. It had all happened so fast that McCoy needed a moment to process the fact that Fisher was gone. He hadn’t known the ensign well, aside from giving him the occasional physical, but Fisher had struck him as a promising young officer with a bright future ahead of him. Hadn’t he mentioned a sister once, who was a colonist on New Lancaster or somewhere like that?
If so, she had just lost her brother.
Startled gasps and exclamations betrayed the others’ reactions to the sudden loss of one of their own—and the realization that they all faced a similar fate. Chekov and his team turned their phasers toward the now-menacing canopy above them, even though firing the weapons was probably as dangerous to them as whatever lurked in the trees. Apprehensive eyes searched the mist and shadows, on guard against another attack. Only Spock maintained a stoic expression, although the worry lines in his somber countenance deepened almost imperceptibly. McCoy could see the regret and concern in the Vulcan’s face, even if most people couldn’t. He knew Spock that well.
“It took him, just like that,” Chekov said, aghast. “I wanted to save him, but I didn’t know how. There wasn’t time.”
“Do not blame yourself, Commander,” Spock said gently. “The beast struck swiftly. There was nothing you could have done.”
“He’s right,” McCoy added. “That creature caught us all by surprise.”
Chekov didn’t look like he believed it. He stared angrily at his useless phaser. “If only I could have defended him . . . fired on that monster . . .”
“But you could not,” Spock stated. “Blame the circumstances, not yourself.”
“Easier said than done, Mister Spock,” the Russian said bitterly.
Spock nodded. “I know, Mister Chekov. I know.”
“Should we go after them?” Lieutenant Darwa asked. She was a fit young woman who had previously served with Chekov aboard the Reliant. A slight accent betrayed her Mumbai roots. Lustrous black hair was cut short so that it couldn’t easily be grabbed in a fight. She had the beginnings of a nasty bruise on her forehead, left over from the crash. “Do you think Fisher could still be alive?”
“Unlikely,” Spock said. “I do not say so callously but only realistically. From what we witnessed, we must assume that Fisher has already fallen prey to the creature.”
McCoy remembered that awful grinding sound—and the razor-sharp teeth lining the monster’s circular maw. Chances were Fisher was already dead or dying even before the creature carried him off into the treetops. McCoy didn’t want to think about what happened next. For all they knew, the monster was busy feeding on Fisher’s remains at that very moment. To be honest, he hoped to heavens that the unlucky ensign had died quickly.
“What was that thing?” Lieutenant Yost asked, getting right to the point. A stocky, fair-skinned specimen with cropped blond hair and a beefy physique, he looked every inch the career security officer he was. He was third-generation Starfleet, his grandmother having served under legendary Starfleet captain Jonathan Archer, and had moonlighted as a bouncer back in his Academy days. Putting away his phaser, he picked up a stick to use as a spear or club. “I only caught a glimpse of it, but . . . ” His usually stolid face twisted in disgust.
“A predator, obviously,” Spock said. “Fast and agile and well adapted to this environment. Its head and mouth parts resembled those of a Terran leech or lamprey, while its limbs were more akin to those found on a great cat or sehlat.”
McCoy scowled. “In other words, we’re talking a giant leech that moves like a tiger?”
“So it seems.” Spock peered out into the foggy marsh. “We must be on guard as we make our way across the planet.”
“Make our way?” McCoy gave Spock a puzzled look. He didn’t have a clue what Spock was talking about. “To where?”
“To our original destination: the source of the signal.” He consulted his tricorder and pointed ahead, more or less in the direction that the leech had taken. “By my estimation, it is approximately one hundred and sixty kilometers in that direction.”
McCoy’s temper flared. “For God’s sake, man, you’re not still thinking about the mission? Don’t you think we’ve got bigger issues on our plate right now?”
“Undoubtedly,” Spock agreed. “But that is where Captain Kirk will first think to look for us.”
“Oh,” McCoy said, slightly embarrassed by his outburst. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
It said something about the severity of their situation, McCoy realized, that Spock refrained from needling him about that admission. Instead he offered McCoy an apologetic shrug. “We crashed some distance off course. I’m afraid, Doctor, that we will be hiking a good ways after all.”
“Through a godforsaken swamp that’s home to giant, man-eating leeches?”
“A less than ideal prospect,” Spock admitted. “But the only logical course of action.”
McCoy wished he had a better idea.
“How many of those things do you think there are?” Darwa asked.
Spock gazed at the spot where Fisher had stood only minutes before.
“That, Lieutenant, remains to be seen.”