Six

They didn’t find Yost’s body.

Probably just as well, McCoy thought. While this meant that Yost wouldn’t get a hasty burial like Fisher had, McCoy decided he could live without stumbling onto another grisly reminder of the fate that likely awaited them all. He was having enough trouble keeping Fisher’s bloodless, ravaged remains out of his thoughts. That doesn’t make me selfish, just human.

The landing party, now sadly diminished by two, fought their way through the seemingly endless swamp and fog, shoving past tangled vines and ferns and curtains of hanging moss while slogging wearily through the mire. Sodden clothing hung upon their exhausted frames, weighing them down like malfunctioning gravity plates. Branches and thorns scratched their faces and hands and tore at their clothing. Hanging vines snagged them, slowing them down, while protruding roots, hidden beneath the fog, waited to trip them. McCoy could barely remember what it was like to be dry; he had given up trying to dump the water out of his boots every so often, and they sloshed with each step. His lips were parched and he would have killed for a drink of fresh water or something edible. Unfortunately, all their emergency rations had gone down with Galileo and the native water was too brackish to drink, not to mention probably swimming with alien bugs and parasites. Breathing hard, he silently cursed the planet’s thin, dank atmosphere. The persistent haze and gloom made it all but impossible to tell how much time had passed; McCoy felt like they had been trudging forward all day or all night or whatever this perpetual misty twilight was supposed to be. The unchanging scenery and lack of visibility made it seem like they were just walking in circles. He couldn’t even tell if they were heading in a straight line.

I hope Spock knows where he’s going.

The Vulcan marched at the head of the ragged procession, using his tricorder to guide them toward the elusive source of the mysterious signal, while Chekov and Darwa took up the rear. Electronic beeps and chirps issued from the tricorder. Glancing around at his companions, McCoy could tell that the arduous trek was taking its toll on all of them—even Spock, who was using his spear more like a walking stick than a weapon. Like McCoy, they had all discarded their sodden red jackets, stripping down to their turtleneck shirts, trousers, and boots. The whole party was drooping and badly in need of rest. And the constant apprehension, as they stayed on the lookout for the monster leeches, starting at every stray rustle or flicker of movement in the fog, wasn’t doing their nerves any favors either.

Nothing like expecting to be attacked at any minute, McCoy thought, to make trudging through a swamp all the more enjoyable. As hiking expeditions go, I think I preferred Yosemite.

Something splashed loudly up ahead, beyond a rising slope covered with thick vegetation. A low-pitched barking echoed through the trees and tributaries, followed by yet more splashing noises. Exchanging anxious glances among themselves, the landing party halted their procession. Chekov and Darwa hurried to the front of the line, gripping their spears.

“Now what?” McCoy asked, keeping his voice low. “You hear that?”

“I could hardly miss it, Doctor.” Spock turned his head sideways and cocked a pointed ear toward the ruckus. “Fascinating.”

“It doesn’t sound like those leeches,” Chekov observed. “Perhaps another variety of life-form?”

“That would be my supposition.” Spock consulted his tricorder, which was beeping far too loudly for McCoy’s peace of mind. “The fog makes reliable scans problematic, but there are indications of multiple life-forms directly ahead, perhaps no more than a hundred meters away.”

“But are they dangerous, Mister Spock?” Chekov asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

“As do I,” Spock concurred, “but we presently lack the data to make that determination. Visual reconnaissance is required.”

“Leave that to me,” Darwa volunteered. Spear in hand, she began to scramble up the overgrown slope as stealthily as she could, given the conditions. Despite her efforts, twigs snapped and bushes rustled as she made her way up the hill. She grabbed on to a gnarled root to use as a handhold as she pulled herself higher.

“Careful, Lieutenant.” Chekov kept watch behind her. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”

“That’s what I aim to find out, sir.”

Reaching the peak of the slope, she lay down atop the brush and lifted her head above the rise. McCoy watched from below, hoping that nothing nasty would spot her, but after a few moments she signaled the rest of the party to join her. “You need to see this,” she said quietly.

The short climb was still a tiring one. McCoy was the last one to reach the top, only a few paces behind Spock, and he was panting by the time he had lain down beside the others to check out the scene below. His eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be,” he murmured. “Will you look at that?”

The hill overlooked the muddy banks of another sizable lagoon, where a small herd of alien creatures were frolicking in the muck, while feeding in a reassuringly vegetarian manner. Amphibians of some sort, the size of walruses, they had rusty brown hides and massive flippers instead of legs. Fluttery scarlet gills ruffled at their throats, but they seemed to be able to breathe easily out of the water, suggesting that they had rudimentary lungs as well. Emerging from the lagoon, they wallowed in the mud and feasted on the lush ferns and reeds growing at the water’s edge. They barked intermittently, when not lowing in a deep bass tone. McCoy counted at least half a dozen of them, possibly more. The way they were milling together, both in and out of the water, made it tricky to keep them straight. They had wide flat heads with only two eyes each, and drooling jaws that didn’t seem to contain anything in the way of fangs, thank goodness.

“What are they, Mister Spock?” Chekov asked.

“Some species of mega-amphibian, possibly akin to a terrestrial salamander,” Spock said. “I suspect they live primarily beneath the surface of the water but occasionally emerge to feed or mate.”

“That might explain why we haven’t seen them yet,” Darwa said. “Or maybe we just wandered into their territory?” She peered down at the creatures. “Do you think that perhaps they’re what the leeches ordinarily feed on? Instead of us, I mean?”

“A likely candidate,” Spock agreed, “although I am reluctant to jump to any conclusions without further evidence or study. We have only just begun to scratch the surface of this planet’s biology.”

“Well, I like them better than the leeches already,” McCoy said. “At least they don’t—”

The amphibians’ harmless revels were disturbed by an attacking leech, which had apparently been hiding among the tall, leafy fronds. Screeching like a banshee, the predator pounced on a large adult salamander, bringing it down, while throwing the rest of the herd into a panic. Barking hysterically, the other salamanders abandoned the leech’s victim to scamper back into the lagoon as fast as their flippers could carry them. The ravenous leech ignored them, concentrating on its captured prey instead. Paralyzed, the downed amphibian put up no resistance as the leech’s circular maw latched on to its hide. McCoy heard a familiar grinding noise.

He looked away.

“I guess that answers that question,” Chekov said.

The party retreated down the slope, ducking out of sight of the leech beyond. McCoy suspected none of them really wanted to watch the creature feed. Not after what had happened to Fisher and Yost.

“What do we do now?” Darwa asked as they huddled at the base of the slope. She brushed stray bits of leaf litter from her disheveled hair and uniform. A scraped knee showed through a tear in her trousers. “Wait for that monster to finish and move on?”

Spock shook his head. “If that is indeed one of the leeches’ preferred hunting grounds, I would not advise attempting to traverse it. Moreover, the presence of the lagoon poses an obstacle in its own right.” He looked to their left. “I fear we are going to have to detour around the lagoon in order to stay on course for our destination . . . and avoid the leeches prowling the banks ahead.”

McCoy didn’t like the sound of that, and neither did his weary legs.

“How long a detour are were talking here?” he asked. “I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty much beat. We’ve been hiking through this blasted bog for hours already, without any food or water.”

Darwa groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“As long as necessary, Doctor,” Spock said. “No more, no less. I assure you that I am no more eager to prolong this expedition than you are, but much depends on the terrain and whatever other obstacles we may encounter. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

Chekov rubbed his sore neck. Dirt obscured his lightly toasted face. Unlike Darwa, he didn’t even try to brush off his soaked, defiled uniform. He gazed morosely in the direction Spock had indicated and irritably swatted away a swarm of tiny insects. “Join Starfleet, they said. It will be good for you, they said.”

McCoy took Spock aside for a moment.

“You sure this death march is worth it?” he asked quietly, not wanting to undermine Spock’s authority. Guess I have evolved, too, come to think of it. “Maybe we’d be better off digging in somewhere and trying to rig up some kind of shelter?”

“And how then would the Enterprise manage to find us in this environment?” Spock set off to the right, leading the way once more. “A planet is not easy to search without sensors. Even if they commence with the right hemisphere and continent, the conditions are hardly conducive to us being spotted from above. Our best hope remains getting as near as we can to our original destination, in the expectation that that is where a rescue mission will begin their search for us.” He raised his voice so that it would carry through the thin air. “In addition, should we succeed in reaching the signal’s point of origin, we may be able to employ whatever technology we find there to transmit a message to the Enterprise.”

McCoy guessed that Spock was throwing out that encouraging possibility to provide hope and bolster morale. Not something the old Spock would have concerned himself with, McCoy noted again, but maybe we have all gotten a bit older and wiser.

“Works for me,” he said. “Especially if it means we can warn Jim not to fire up his shields in those touchy clouds up there.”

“That thought had indeed crossed my mind,” Spock said, leaning heavily on his spear. Fatigue was beginning to crack his stoic veneer. “As has the pressing question of why the predator diverted from its path to attack Yost rather than myself.”

McCoy recalled how the charging leech had veered away from Spock to go after Yost instead, despite the fact that Spock had been nearer to the creature at first.

“Maybe that Vulcan blood of yours just wasn’t as tempting.”

“Perhaps so,” Spock replied. “You jest, Doctor, but for once your habitual gibes at my Vulcan physiology may hold some wisdom.” He contemplated his injured shoulder, where a greenish stain soaked through his rumpled white shirt, proclaiming that all this strenuous activity had caused his wound to start bleeding again. A judicious application of the right anticoagulant might have helped, had not those medication ampules been lost with Galileo. “As you have often noted, my copper-based blood chemistry is quite different from yours . . . and from Yost’s and Fisher’s.”

McCoy realized that Spock was serious. “You think your blood repelled the creature?”

“Quite possibly,” he said. “These predators are some variety of leech, after all. They may well be attracted to the iron in your blood . . . and discouraged by the copper in my own.” A pensive look came over his face as he pondered the implications of his theory. “Which suggests that we may have a means at hand to defend the party from these creatures.”

McCoy balked at the idea. “You can’t be suggesting . . .”

Spock nodded gravely.

“My blood, Doctor. We need to weaponize my blood.”