by Greg Cox
“Leaving him behind, you mean,” McCoy snapped, “along with Chekov and Sulu and Seven! You coldblooded, procedure-spouting machine, these are human lives we’re talking about!”
Roberta jumped to her feet, newly energized by what she had just heard. This changes everything, she thought. If the Enterprise took off for Earth, as Mr. Pointy-Ears clearly intended, Seven would be marooned on an alien planet so far from Earth that not even NASA could bring him home. Forget it, she resolved. That wasn’t happening as long as she had something to say about it.
She snatched her control cube off the top of the computer, relieved that she didn’t have to detach any wires or cables connecting the cube to the computer station. Let’s hear it for trouble-free technology, she thought. Now that she had established a link between the cube and the ship’s computerized brain, proximity shouldn’t matter. In theory, that is.
No time like the present to check it out, she thought, approaching the closed door confining her to the guest quarters. She rapped gently on the metal door, but nothing happened; the door remained shut. “Computer,” she instructed, “open door.”
The cube blinked once, the green light reflecting off the polished steel surface of the door. “Doorway to Suite 14-J ordered shut under security protocols gamma-xy-5,” it announced.
Roberta rolled her eyes. She could have predicted that. “Override security protocols.”
“Working,” the cube reported. Moments later, the door slid open, revealing the corridor beyond. So much for house arrest, she thought. These future people shouldn’t depend so much on their computers.
Then she noticed the guard posted outside her door. Oh, she thought, I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
The guard was an athletic-looking Asian man wearing a red shirt, black trousers, and a surprised expression on his face. He obviously hadn’t expected her to find a way out, although Roberta was relieved to note that he didn’t immediately reach for his gun. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to step back into your room. Captain’s orders.”
Talk fast, Roberta thought. “But my food processing whatchamacallit isn’t working.” She pointed back at the open doorway. “Maybe you can take a look at it?”
The guard shook his head. “I can’t leave my post,” he explained. He crossed his arms over his chest. “If you want, I can call for a technician.”
“But I’m starving to death,” Roberta lied, conveniently forgetting her groundbreaking experiments in pizza processing. “I haven’t eaten since 1969!”
“Well . . .” he said hesitantly, thinking it over. He gave her a quick once-over and relaxed his posture somewhat. That’s right, she thought, I’m just a poor, primitive waif from the twentieth century. No threat to anyone, let alone a highly trained starship trooper. He uncrossed his arms and stepped toward the door. “Maybe you’re just overlooking something obvious.”
Like a transparent escape attempt, maybe? She moved to one side to let the guard enter her quarters, then waited until he was all the way inside. “Hey, what kind of trouble were you having?” he asked. “There’s food all over the floor in here.”
You won’t be hungry then, she thought, and darted into the hall, blurting instructions to the cube even as she ran. “Seal Suite 14-J immediately! Security Protocol, er, lincoln-roberta.” The cube flashed rapidly, its flickering green radiance escaping through the cracks between her fingers.
“Stop!” the guard shouted, rushing after her. “Wait!” He grabbed for his phaser, but the steel door came whooshing shut, trapping him half in and half out of the doorway, like a New York commuter stuck between closed subway doors. “Come back! Captain’s orders!”
He’ll get free in a minute, Roberta knew, but that may be enough. All I need to do now is find one of those turbolift thingies and take an express trip straight to the bridge, just in time to keep Mr. Spock from stranding Gary Seven on the wrong side of the universe.
You know, maybe the twenty-third century wasn’t so complicated after all. . . .
* * *
“C’mon, kitty, what do you want?”
Nurse Christine Chapel offered the caged animal another piece of nutrient bar. They didn’t actually have much in the way of pet food in sickbay, but the all-purpose emergency ration couldn’t do the cat any harm. Unfortunately, the animal wasn’t showing any interest in the snack, although she clearly wanted something.
Just like Zoe, she thought, her old cat back in her Academy days. Zoe was more tortoise-shell-colored than midnight black, but she could be just as finicky. And opinionated.
The cat emitted a singularly plaintive yowl and tried to stick its paws through the steel grating between it and Nurse Chapel. Golden eyes stared longingly into the nurse’s.
“I know, I know,” Chapel said, “you want out of that cage. But Doctor McCoy said that the captain wanted you locked up.” She didn’t know the full story behind the animal; the doctor hadn’t even mentioned the cat’s name, just muttered under his breath, then stormed off to the bridge, saying something about “keeping an eye on that green-blooded robot.” Chapel winced slightly at the thought. She didn’t exactly share McCoy’s acerbic opinion of the ship’s first officer.
The pads of the cat’s front feet protruded through the metal lattice hemming it in. The caged feline made a sound that sounded heartbreakingly like a whimper. Chapel glanced at the magnetic lock on the lid of the carrier. All she needed to do was key in the right three-character combination, which McCoy had programmed to be simply C-A-T. She looked again at the unhappy animal. She always was a sucker for a sob story. “Well, maybe it wouldn’t do any harm. Just for a few minutes . . .”
She reached for the lid and typed in the first two characters. Inside the cage, the cat watched her with eerie concentration. Then Chapel noticed the yellow alert lights flashing above her head, just as they had been flashing since the captain beamed down to the planet. Maybe this isn’t such a great idea, she thought. They were in enemy territory, after all. What if the Romulans caught up with them again? Casualties might come flooding into the sickbay, and there would be this cat getting in the way, contaminating the sterilization fields . . .
“Sorry, kitty.” She reset the lock and stepped back from the cage. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay where you are until things are a little less crazy.”
To her surprise, the cat hissed angrily and turned its back on her.
* * *
Their communicators wouldn’t work, but nothing was stopping the rain from pouring down. A force field, Kirk thought, located somewhere in the stratosphere. That makes sense. The field must have gone up just in time to block the transporter beam from the Enterprise, forcing Seven’s molecules to reintegrate violently. It had been a close thing; another second, plus or minus, and Seven would have been safely aboard ship, or else too far gone to solidify again. Seven had nearly become background radiation, permanently.
Kirk felt a pang of relief. Nobody deserves that, he thought, not even Gary Seven. Grudgingly, he recalled Spock’s list of Seven’s various accomplishments in the twentieth century, then watched as Sulu helped the stricken man assume a sitting position next to the puddle of mud. Apparently, he was still alive after all. Muck trickled from Seven’s mouth as he coughed violently, shaking his entire body.
Okay, he amended privately, especially not Seven.
But who was responsible for the force field? Kirk’s mind raced through the possibilities. Not Seven, surely; Seven didn’t want to be transported back to the Enterprise, but Kirk couldn’t imagine that Seven would subject himself to such an ordeal, risking his very corporeal existence, just to avoid a detention cell. Hell, he had seen the shocked look in Seven’s eyes when the beam jerked him back to the surface. The man had been just as caught off guard as the rest of them.
It had to be the Romulans, then. Not Commander Motak of Gladiator, but whoever was in charge of this top secret installation on this supposedly nonexistent planet. Cloa
ks and shields, Kirk thought. Someone really doesn’t want to be found.
And if the shield just went up, that could only mean two things. Either they had detected the Enterprise in orbit around the planet, or they had noted the arrival of the landing party. One way or another, they know we’re here, Kirk thought. For all he knew, they could be closing in on him and the others at this very moment—and/or attacking the Enterprise. He didn’t like either notion.
“Mr. Sulu,” Kirk called to the helmsman. To his surprise, Sulu was already helping Gary Seven onto his feet; Kirk couldn’t believe the man was still conscious after what he’d been through. “Can he be moved?”
“I think so, Captain,” Seven answered for himself. His voice sounded a bit shaky, but determined. He used his sleeve to wipe some of the mud away from his mouth and eyes. “We have to try.”
Kirk nodded. “Let’s get going. Sulu, you help Mr. Seven. Chekov, watch out for ambushes, but keep us heading toward that installation.” If nothing else, he thought, we have to shut down that force field before Spock can beam us back.
Part of him hoped, however, that Spock would follow his orders to the letter and flee with the Enterprise within an hour, if not earlier. The sudden appearance of the force field clearly indicated the presence of hostile forces responding to their arrival; the smart thing for Spock to do would be to get the ship out of here—and out of Romulan territory—as quickly as possible. Surely, Spock wouldn’t risk the Enterprise just to wait for Kirk and the others—or would he? Despite his professed devotion to logic, Spock could be remarkably unpredictable at times, not to mention stubbornly loyal to his friends. Just look at all he had risked for the sake of poor Chris Pike. Don’t do it, Spock, Kirk thought, wishing that the Vulcan’s telepathy was strong enough to hear him even from so far away, don’t wait for me. With any luck at all, the ship was already en route to the Neutral Zone. Good luck, he thought, imagining all the obstacles between the ship and the Federation and recalling the friends he might never see again: Spock, Scotty, McCoy, Uhura . . . if any crew could give the Romulans the slip all the way back to the Federation, then they were the crew who would do it. Godspeed, he thought.
Then he was running after Chekov through the rain and the mud and the dark. The underbrush was not too thick to traverse; the leafy canopy overhead kept sunlight away from the jungle floor, cutting down on ground-level biomass. Still, stringy vines and exposed roots tugged on his legs as he jogged behind Chekov, while thorny brambles snagged onto his trousers. His boots splashed through puddles, sometime ankle-deep in thick, clingy ooze. The extra gravity only made the trek harder. The available light grew even fainter as the rain became a downpour. Soon he could barely see Chekov in front of him. The young ensign was only a vague, gray silhouette, dimly glimpsed through the pouring sheets of rain and ever-darkening shadows. Kirk glanced back over his shoulder, worried about leaving Sulu and Seven behind. He saw them trailing behind him. Seven still had one arm draped over Sulu’s shoulders and was limping slightly. Kirk was amazed the man could move at all, after the ordeal he’d been through.
“Keep your eyes on each other,” he ordered Chekov and Sulu, raising his voice to be heard over the deluge. “We don’t want to lose anyone.”
Muffled acknowledgments came from the two crewmen. Maybe even from Seven, too; the voices were difficult to make out. The only good thing about the foul weather, he thought, was that it would help conceal them from any Romulan search parties. He tried to listen for any sounds of pursuit, but heard only the rain cascading in his ears. His uniform, soaked through, stuck to his skin as he ran, weighing him down even more. He wiped trickles of cold rain water from his eyes and kicked his way through the clotted jungle growth.
A roar cut through the night, followed by a cry of alarm. Kirk spun around just in time to see a dark shape drop from the trees onto Sulu and Seven. He got a quick impression of four outstretched legs, green-and-black striped fur, and a glimpse of something that looked like ivory, before he yanked his phaser off his belt, disregarding the sticky brambles that hindered his arm as he did so.
The beast had knocked both men to the ground and now had one of them pinned beneath its heavy paws. Kirk couldn’t tell if the creature’s prey was Seven or Sulu; all he could see was a confusion of flailing human limbs and emerald fur. Worried about hitting the downed man by mistake, he fired a warning shot just above the creature’s head. The incandescent beam burned through the air between Kirk and the beast, momentarily dispelling the shadows so that Kirk got a brief glimpse of enraged green eyes, a maw full of gleaming white fangs, and a glistening ivory horn in the center of the creature’s forehead.
The beam got the creature’s attention all right, distracting it from its fallen prey. With a fierce growl, the predator sprang off the other man and charged toward Kirk, who aimed his phaser at the attacking beast. Before he could fire, though, something sprayed from the tip of the creature’s single long horn. Half liquid, half gaseous, the foreign substance stung like acid. The spray burned Kirk’s hand where it touched his exposed flesh; caught by surprise by the sudden pain, he let go of his phaser, which went flying into the underbrush. Fumes stung his eyes and throat. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with pelting raindrops, as he coughed the noxious vapors away from his lungs.
A heavy weight slammed into him with the force of a meteor. Kirk landed on his back in the mud with the full mass of the creature on top of him. Ignoring the pain from the creature’s venomous spray, he grabbed onto the animal’s throat, digging his fingers into the thick, corded muscles beneath the creature’s matted coat. The pungent odor of the creature’s fur filled his nose and mouth. Sharp talons sank into Kirk’s chest as he fought to keep a set of snapping jaws away from his neck. The beast’s jagged fangs were only centimeters away from his jugular, and getting closer.
“Captain!” Kirk heard Chekov splashing through the rain-drenched jungle. The alien predator raised its head long enough to release another dose of its venom at the Russian. Chekov cried out in pain and Kirk saw the flash of a phaser beam, wildly off target, zip by overhead, missing the creature entirely.
The ensign had distracted the beast for an instant, though. Kirk took advantage of the animal’s inattention by rolling over onto his side and tossing the creature’s massive body into the surrounding foliage. The beast’s claws left bloody streaks down the front of Kirk’s shirt as he leaped away from the animal and scrambled to his feet.
The predator regained its bearings just as swiftly. Landing on its feet, it turned around and confronted Kirk once more. Its jaws opened wide to roar its challenge; Kirk found himself looking straight down the creature’s gullet, past forbidding rows of pointed teeth. He could smell the animal’s breath, as hot and fetid as the swamp that sheltered it. The creature’s ferocious roar filled his ears.
“J’sshwato ormeur! Ki agbo Seven!” a voice called out. Kirk glanced away from the beast long enough to see Gary Seven rising from the mud where he had fallen. His voice, though tremulous at first, gained strength as he called out to the animal. He staggered through the muck until he was only centimeters away from the creature, who turned its head to watch him quizzically. “Kiy sora sta-riis-nokta!”
Kirk expected the monster to tear Seven apart. Instead it lowered its head and padded over to Seven’s side, suddenly looking no more ferocious than a kitten. Seven stroked the creature’s fur-covered skull and the animal closed its eyes. Kirk wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard . . . purring?
“Lower your weapons, gentlemen,” Seven said to the Starfleet officers. “Osiris poses no threat to us.”
Kirk approached Seven and the animal warily. Now that he had a moment to catch his breath and take a better look at the creature, Kirk could see that Seven’s friend was quite definitely feline in nature, despite the ivory horn that sprung from its forehead like a mugato’s. A thin trickle of venom leaked from the tip of the horn. The green and black stripes upon the animal’s pelt, well-suited to camouflage i
n this verdant rain forest, resembled a Terran tiger’s markings, just as the quivering whiskers beneath the creature’s muzzle bore further evidence to its similarity to terrestrial felines. Kirk stared into the big cat’s emerald eyes, looking for some sense of its intelligence. Was this beast Seven called Osiris actually sentient, he pondered, or was that merely animal cunning peering back at him? Kirk remembered the sleek black cat that accompanied Seven everywhere and wondered, for the first time, whether Isis might be more than a mere pet. He wished there was some way he could warn Spock to keep a closer eye on the cat.
Osiris emitted a throaty squawk. “He apologizes for the misunderstanding,” Seven translated, “but Osiris is suspicious of strangers, especially these days. Thankfully, no one was seriously harmed.”
“More or less,” Kirk said. His eyes and throat still burned from the cat’s toxic spray, but the symptoms seemed to be fading away. He inspected his right hand. The skin was red and irritated, as from a sunburn or minor allergic reaction, but otherwise undamaged. Osiris’s venom was intended to stun its prey, he deduced, not finish them off. He stretched out his hand, letting the cool rain soothe the reddened skin. “Chekov,” he called out, remembering that the young ensign had been sprayed as well, “are you all right?”
“I think so, Captain,” Chekov answered, coughing mildly and rubbing the tears from his eyes. “It stings some, but that’s all.”
“How about you, Sulu?” Kirk asked. He watched the helmsman slowly lift himself from the soggy ground. A thick layer of mud coated the front of Sulu’s uniform, which looked torn and shredded around his shoulders. Kirk looked for bite or claw marks, and was relieved not to spot any.
“I’m fine, sir,” Sulu reported. “I just had the wind knocked out of me.”
“Your men got off easy,” Seven commented to Kirk. “Osiris can be quite lethal, under the proper circumstances.”
“Such as?” Kirk prompted. His mind raced ahead furiously, as he dug through the underbrush, searching for his phaser. Seven’s familiarity with this animal, so reminiscent of Isis the cat, only confirmed Kirk’s suspicions that Seven and his mysterious alien supervisors were intimately connected to this entire cloaked planet. But where did the Romulans fit in? Kirk still couldn’t figure it out. “Exactly what sort of circumstances are we dealing with here? And why would Osiris be, as you said, unusually jumpy these days? What’s going on?”