Four

They found Fisher’s body lying facedown in a puddle not far from the lagoon. A circular wound in his back, which made it look like he’d been attacked by a mechanical boring machine, left little doubt as to the cause of death, but McCoy felt obliged to perform a quick postmortem examination anyway. He knelt to inspect the body, noting immediately the conspicuous absence of blood pooling around the remains. If anything, the body appeared withered and shrunken, like an empty husk. McCoy was grateful that he didn’t have to view the man’s face, at least not right away. The look of utter terror and anguish on Fisher’s freckled features right before the creature carried him off was burned into his memory.

“From the looks of it, most of his blood and soft tissues have been sucked out through that ugly hole in his back.” The doctor tried to bend a stiff, withered arm that stubbornly resisted his efforts, even though not enough time had elapsed for rigor mortis to occur. “There are also indications that he was injected with a powerful paralytic.”

“No doubt intended to immobilize the creature’s prey, swiftly and efficiently.” Spock stood to one side, observing the procedure. He braced himself against a mossy tree trunk with one hand, as though even his Vulcan stamina was being tested by his recent injury and blood loss. “We have yet to observe any other sizable animal life-forms, but we must assume such beasts also inhabit this environment. Humanoids are unlikely to be their natural prey.”

“But apparently we’re just as tasty,” McCoy said, scowling. “Lucky us.”

The surviving members of the landing party were gathered around the body, surrounded by the same fog and foliage they had been coping with ever since they had crawled ashore after the crash. They had been hiking through the swamp for only several minutes, but McCoy was already feeling winded, not to mention sore and thirsty. The thin air reminded him of Vulcan’s, albeit considerably damper. Spock was probably having an easier time breathing, despite his injury, but McCoy’s lungs would have liked more oxygen and less fog, and he had to imagine that his fellow humans felt the same. If only he had some tri-ox compounds to administer to Chekov and the others.

“We’re not going to leave him here, are we?” Darwa asked. Averting her gaze from the corpse, she kept a wary eye on the surrounding brush while gripping a crude spear that she had fashioned from a broken tree branch. A jagged shard from the shattered viewport was affixed to the tip of the spear with tightly wrapped vines. “Just lying here like this?”

McCoy expected Spock to stress the need to keep moving, which would be the logical thing to do, but Spock surprised him by reassuring Darwa.

“We cannot realistically transport his remains with us, but we can allow time to bury him properly.” He nudged the moist, mucky soil with the toe of his boot, confirming that it was not hard packed. “If we are prompt about it.”

“Leave it to me,” Yost volunteered. He began to dig into the damp soil with the blunt end of his own spear, while Chekov kept watch with Darwa. It was a crude tool, but Yost strenuously made do with it. He shrugged off his soiled red jacket. “The rest of you, just watch my back.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Spock said. “I am certain Fisher would appreciate your efforts.”

McCoy watched as Yost briskly dug a shallow grave, working up a sweat in the process. It was more of a muddy ditch, to be honest, but it would have to do. The explosive vapors ruled out the possibility of cremation by phaser. McCoy was tempted to assist in the digging, but he figured he needed to conserve his strength. Instead he quietly sidled up to Spock.

“You know,” he said in a low tone, “there was a time when you would have considered this a waste of time, as well as an unnecessary concession to foolish human sentimentality.”

Spock did not dispute the point. “You are thinking perhaps of the ill-fated Taurus II incident of decades past.”

“Hard not to,” McCoy said. This was far from the first time he and Spock had been stranded on a desolate planet, beset by hostile life-forms. On that particular occasion twenty-some years before, Spock’s cold-blooded Vulcan logic had led to friction with the more emotional human crew under his command. Matters had nearly come to blows before they’d finally made their escape from the planet.

“I was much younger then,” Spock said. “I like to think that, over time, I have gained a better understanding of the importance of maintaining morale in difficult situations, as well as the need to take into account the feelings of one’s crew, provided they are not, in fact, Vulcans.” He regarded McCoy quizzically. “Does that surprise you, Doctor?”

“I guess not,” McCoy said, now that he thought about it. In recent years, Spock had indeed mellowed somewhat, having apparently made peace with his human side at last. He had become warmer and less severe, at least compared to his younger self. Almost avuncular at times, in his own reserved Vulcan fashion. “Just don’t expect me to start spouting logic at you all the time.”

“Do not sell yourself short, Doctor,” Spock said dryly. “If I can evolve over time, perhaps you can too . . . someday.”

McCoy snorted. “Who says I need to—”

“Beware, Doctor!” Spock shoved McCoy away from him, sending the doctor stumbling across the soggy wetlands, and spun about to face the thick brush and bracken behind him. A hungry leech came barreling out of the misty gloom, its serrated tongue flicking from its gaping maw. The monster headed straight for Spock, who snatched up a spear in self-defense, but then it veered away from the Vulcan at the last minute. Moving as fast as a cheetah or a Denevan hunting lizard, it sprang across the open grave at Yost instead. The startled security officer stabbed at the leech with his own spear, jabbing ineffectually at its scaly hide, but the hideous creature kept on coming, slamming its open mouth into Yost’s chest and propelling the man backward into the swamp without the leech even slowing down or breaking its stride. Before McCoy could even catch his breath, Yost was gone.

“My God!” McCoy murmured.

Chekov hurled his spear at the fog that had swallowed yet another member of the landing party, but it was too little, too late. No cries, alien or otherwise, came from deep within the misty bogs. Chekov stared in shock at the empty space Yost had occupied, looking just as stunned and horrified as McCoy felt. Darwa glanced around uncertainly, clutching her own spear. There was no way to tell from which direction the next attack might come. For all they knew, there were leeches all around them, only meters away.

“Was that the same creature as before,” Chekov asked aloud, “or another one?”

“I’m not sure it matters,” McCoy said. “Not to Yost.”

Yost had been a friend of Chekov’s, the doctor recalled. He realized, with a twinge of guilt, that he couldn’t remember the man’s first name; everyone just called him Yost. McCoy resolved to look up Yost’s file, if and when they made it back to the Enterprise.

Darwa looked to Spock. She skirted around the open grave. “Now what do we do, Mister Spock?”

“Finish burying Fisher,” he said. His face was frozen in an impassive mask; if he was shaken by his own close brush with the creature, he did not show it. “And keep on moving.”

McCoy wondered who would dig the next grave.