Ice Trap

by L. A. Graf

  Howard nodded shortly. "Aye, sir."

  Steno chuckled as Howard trotted between the other two guards, gathering up both their phasers and extra power cells. "Well, Lieutenant Chekov, what a pleasant surprise."

  Chekov looked around to find the station commander drumming his fingers together with unconcealed satisfaction. "You almost had me convinced you hadn't a reasonable bone in your body," Steno purred. "Perhaps this trip won't be a total loss after all."

  Chekov didn't need a warning from Uhura to know he should keep his mouth shut. Still, he saw her head angle to glance over at him as he took the phasers from Howard and handed them across into Alion's waiting hands. The negligent ease with which Alion signaled two of the waiting natives forward to take charge of the weapons made Chekov's stomach ache.

  "Many thanks." Alion turned back to Uhura with a deep, reverent bow. "Now we go to our village and make you ready to meet our gods." He pivoted to face his people, one hand circling the air above his head, and the group sprang into motion with a burble of untranslatable sound.

  While Steno's people labored to secure their gear for transport, Chekov motioned Tenzing to bring the Enterprise gravsled into line with the column Alion's people had already begun to form. He kept himself close to Uhura's side while supervising the lineup, serving as sentinel until Howard could take over and leave him free to shadow Alion. When they finally fell into step beside Tenzing and the gravsled, Chekov thumbed off his outside mike and touched the insulation suit communicator by his ear. "You know," he commented privately to Uhura, "where I come from, 'going to meet your gods' usually entails some kind of dying."

  Uhura laughed, punching him on the arm in friendly admonition. "Don't be so gloomy. Sometimes, I think you'd consider your own mother a danger to starship security."

  "My mother never asked me to give up my phaser."

  "Maybe she should have." She angled her head up at him in a gesture he assumed meant she was smiling behind all her insulation suit gear. "You're being paranoid again."

  He wasn't sure how to tell her that his greatest fear of all was that he wasn't paranoid enough.

  Chapter Five

  TO UHURA'S EYES, the Kitka village looked no different from any of the other mounded hills of ice Alion had led them through for the last few hours. The fading arctic sunset painted the west face with rose-violet streaks of light, leaving the other sides charcoaled with shadows. It wasn't until one of the Kitka hunters lifted his face shield and let out a fluting cry that she could see the stir of movement in one of those shadows.

  The dark patch resolved into an ice-carved doorway as they came closer, a small cluster of fur-clad Kitka climbing out of it. They called back across the ice, a questioning note clear in the rise of their high-pitched voices.

  "Uhura, can you tell what they're saying?" Chekov's voice sounded oddly metallic through her communicator, distorted by the static-filled distance between them. The security chief had kept pace with Alion on the long walk from their landing site, staying so close that he could have been a thin, dark shadow cast by the native's paler bulk. Steno trudged a half meter behind them, eyes trained on the uneven ground. He didn't seem to have heard Chekov's question. Uhura guessed that Chekov had turned his voice mike off so the Kitka wouldn't know he was talking.

  "My translator didn't pick up anything definite," she replied. Howard glanced at her, his goggles a shimmering bright spot against the dark expanse of ice behind him. He'd stayed about as close to her as Chekov had to Alion, on what Uhura suspected were direct orders from his chief. "I'm increasing sensitivity on my unit. I'll let you know if that helps."

  "Right."

  The cries across the ice cut off abruptly as Alion answered with a long, falling howl, eerily similar to the radio interference generated by Nordstral's auroras. Uhura wondered if the natives had actually picked up the purely electromagnetic signal. Was it possible the Kitka were even more in tune with Nordstral's environment than her reference materials hinted? Once again, though, her translator stayed stubbornly silent. She let out her breath in a quiet sigh of frustration.

  "They may just be exchanging voice signals, sir." Howard must have heard her through the open communicator channel. "After all, we didn't have any trouble translating when they talked to us before."

  "I know," Uhura agreed. "But Alion was being careful to speak slowly then, so our translators could distinguish each word and hear them clearly. If their normal speech pattern is as rapid as this"a chorus of rising and falling wails now volleyed back and forth between the villagers and the returning party"the translator may not be able to separate out individual words." She turned one gloved hand upward to indicate her helplessness. "I'd hate to think we could only translate their language when they wanted us to."

  "You'd hate it?" This time it was Chekov's voice in her ear, a distant growl through the static. "If we can't even understand" He cut off abruptly when Uhura saw Steno close the distance between them. A moment later the security chief spoke again. "Commander, the planetary officer wants to go inside the village for the night. I think you'd better come talk to him."

  "I'll be right over." Uhura took a deep breath, hoping Steno would have enough sense to be polite to Chekov. Her second-in-command was getting understandably short on patience with him. "Coming with me, Mr. Howard?"

  The tall security guard glanced over at the swarm of Kitka villagers heading out toward the gravsleds. "With your permission, sir, I'd like to go help Publicker and Tenzing guard our gear."

  "Good idea." One of the small fur-clad natives was already poking with childlike curiosity at the Nordstral sled, ignoring the company guards' attempt to shoo him away. The gentle Kitka seemed to have no fear of Steno and his men, although Uhura noticed that they parted ahead of her like startled fish when she walked through them. Natives clustered around the Enterprise sled in a cautious halo of windswept fur, pointing and whistling to each other in what sounded like surprise. None of them made any attempt to approach the gear, however.

  " I'm telling you, the equipment will work better down in the tunnels." Steno's sudden bellow dragged Uhura's attention away from the natives and back to her own party. The planetary officer was glaring down at Chekov, who was busy blocking the taller man's access to the ice-carved entrance. She bit her lip and hurried forward. "Can't you get it through your foam-insulated head that there's nothing to be afraid of here?"

  "Mr. Steno." The intensity of Chekov's accent told Uhura he was probably talking through clenched teeth. "May I remind you that we still have a missing research team out on the ice sheet? I don't see how sleeping unprotected inside a native village is going to help us locate them!"

  "That's because you're an idiot," said Steno unwisely. Uhura saw muscles jump in Chekov's shoulders as he clenched his fists, and she hurried forward to put a hand on his arm. It felt rock-hard beneath her fingers. Steno switched his unshielded glare to her, his cheeks mottled with frost and anger. "Lieutenant Commander, would you please explain to your chief goon that electronic equipment functions better above minus thirty degrees than below it?"

  Uhura winced and quickly tapped her voice mike off, dialing her communicator to a coded channel that Steno couldn't overhear. "Chekov, he's right." Static crackled in her ear as she paused, waiting for a reply. "Even a ten-degree difference will enhance our reception by a hundredfold. It could make all the difference in hearing a distress call from the shuttle."

  "Sir." The strain in Chekov's voice when he finally spoke surprised Uhura. "I understand that, but I still don't think we should enter this village. Not with our phasers in the natives' control and no assurance that our translators will allow us to speak with them."

  Uhura glanced over at Alion, waiting with stoic patience for them to follow him down into the village. His mantle of feathers stirred in the evening wind, with a faint sound like chattering teeth. "I think you're overestimating the danger, Lieutenant." Chekov started to protest, but she overrode him. "However, I'll grant you the r
ight to be cautious. You'll keep our security guards out here on the ice, while I help Mr. Steno set up his communications center down in the village. If we encounter any problems, I'll let you know."

  "But, sir " Chekov sounded distinctly unhappy with this arrangement. "You're the one we're here to guard!"

  "No, Lieutenant." Uhura shook her head, giving him a little push away from the doorway. He didn't move. "You're here to guard all of usincluding the shuttle survivors we were sent to find. And our best chance of doing that is to let Mr. Steno into the village."

  The security chief looked down at her, his masked and goggled face expressionless, but he yielded to her push and stepped aside. Steno gave him a scornful look on his way past, signaling his men to come with him. Chekov caught Uhura by the wrist when she turned to follow.

  "I'm sending a guard down there with you," he said grimly. "Don't argue with me about it."

  Uhura gave him a concerned glance, although she knew he couldn't see it. "I'm not the one arguing, Chekov." One of the Nordstral men brushed by her, equipment case balanced on his shoulder. Two furclad Kitka danced around him with excited whistles, so tiny they had to be children. Uhura watched them with a smile. "I really don't see anything to worry about."

  "I know." Chekov hadn't noticed the children. He was staring at something over Uhura's shoulder, and when she turned to look, Alion ducked away from the doorway to disappear deeper inside. "That's what worries me."

  Soroya had been under way for approximately half an hour when Nuie returned to Kirk and McCoy with another crewman. While the captain was escorted to the bridge to meet with Mandeville, McCoy followed Nuie to Soroya's sickbay.

  The door to the medical section stood open when McCoy and Nuie arrived. "This is our infirmary," the first mate explained, ushering the Federation officer in ahead of him. "Dr. Muhanti's probably in back, in his lab. Come with me."

  McCoy looked about as they crossed the room, comparing it to the sharp, clean lines of the Enterprise infirmary and finding it adequate, although lacking in what he considered a "healing" atmosphere. He was proud of his sickbay, proud that it didn't have the notoriously sterile smell and look of so many hospitals on so many planets. Here the walls were bland, the riveting undisguised by color or wall hanging. The few tall beds were narrow and gray-sheeted and looked hard as hell.

  "Dr. Muhanti?"

  "One moment, Nuie."

  McCoy stopped just behind the short first mate's shoulder and looked into the lab. Vaguely familiar experiments ran at two of the three work stations. Sticky-looking dried areas spotted the lab table, and used beakers and test tubes layered with crud were piled near the sterilizer. A dark-haired man perched on a stool at the center work station, his back to the door and his hands in his hair. McCoy at first thought they'd caught the doctor in a moment of frustration, and felt a pang of sympathy. He knew how hard it would be for him if the Enterprise crew was suddenly afflicted and he could find no way to help them. Then he noticed the odd, systematized way the doctor felt at his head, and he frowned in puzzlement.

  Muhanti abruptly pivoted the stool to face them.

  Fingers still probing the depths of his hair, the Indian doctor blinked at McCoy with surprise on his dark-featured face. "Who is this?"

  "Dr. Muhanti, Dr. McCoy of the Federation starship Enterprise. He and Captain Kirk have come to aid us."

  "Indeed." Was there veiled malice in that tone, or was it just McCoy's imagination? Muhanti's face abruptly split into a friendly, but almost condescending, smile. "How nice of the Federation to notice us." His hands dropped into his lap. "You look confused, Dr. McCoy, by my actions. Could it be that the knowledgeable Federation has yet to discover the new science of phrenology?"

  Caution alone halted McCoy's derisive snort before he could vent it. This was becoming strange. "Phrenology?" he queried politely, mind running scattergun.

  "Ah! It's somewhat comforting to know that the Federation is not first in all things." He took a pose that put McCoy in mind of several of his professors back when he'd been a lowly first-year med student. "Phrenology is an analytical method based upon the fact that certain mental faculties and character traits are indicated by the configurations of the skull. I have mapped the contours of my own skull as an experiment and found the science to be highly exacting in its diagnosis. I intend to use it as the basis of my research into the aberrant behavior of my fellow crewmen. Within a relatively short amount of time, I believe I'll have a cure for their various psychoses."

  "Really?" McCoy replied dryly.

  "Do I detect a tone of disbelief, my good colleague? I find that skeptics are often those most afraid of what a new science will illuminate. Perhaps you'd allow me a small experiment?" He stepped toward McCoy, hands lifting to feel the doctor's skull.

  McCoy was saved by Captain Mandeville's voice over the intercom. "First Mate Nuie to the bridge. Bring Dr. McCoy with you. I think he'd like to see this."

  McCoy looked curiously at Nuie. "See what?"

  The first mate was grinning. "I think I know what it is, and she's right." He bowed shortly to Dr. Muhanti. "If you'll excuse us."

  McCoy spread his hands wide in mock apology. "Duty calls."

  "Of course," Muhanti sneered down his nose. "Perhaps another time." He turned away, fingers already worming back under his hair, and McCoy followed Nuie into the corridor.

  McCoy resisted bringing up Muhanti's strange behavior. Maybe this was normal for the Indian. Maybe all the crew was skewed a little left of center by whatever had caused the abnormal behavior in those crew taken up to Curie. He didn't want to bring it up unless Nuie did so first, and since he didn't, McCoy prudently kept his mouth closed.

  He followed the silent crewman through the harvester and to the bridge. Here, as elsewhere in the ship, areas for personnel had been trimmed as much as possible to allow maximum cargo space for harvested plankton. McCoy gave the crew points for maintaining what sanity they could during long dives in such cramped quarters.

  McCoy spied Kirk immediately and moved among the colorfully clothed Nordstral employees to his captain's side. "What's this all about?" he murmured.

  Kirk shook his head. "I don't know." He didn't appear worried, and that alone was enough to make McCoy relax his cautious stance somewhat.

  Kirk's hazel eyes scanned the viewscreen, and McCoy followed his gaze. Water granulated with tiny floating particles of sediment or something like it surrounded the ship, lit by the sub's running lights to a murky green. An amazing abundance of sea life flourished here under the ice sheet. Beyond the reach of the lights was a darkness even deeper than that found in space. McCoy understood why the ocean had truly been mankind's last unexplored frontier.

  Kirk's head tocked sideways toward a young woman hunched over a radar screen, one hand to her tiny earphone. "They've picked up something, but I don't know what it is," he said quietly. "Nobody seems upset, though."

  That was true. In fact, everyone seemed slightly excited. McCoy's eyes hunted the murky depths to no avail. "Is it always so dark?"

  "Ah, yes." Captain Mandeville strolled across the cramped bridge to stand between them. "Under the ice sheet it's very dark, indeed, Dr. McCoy. That's the seaman's night. Only for us, night lasts a good deal longer than you're used to." She chuckled.

  McCoy couldn't see what was so damned amusing.

  He'd almost managed to forget they were underwater, let alone submerged under several meters of ice. Now the reality of their situation returned and a shiver of fear took a meandering stroll from his ankles to the top of his head. He suppressed the desire to reach up and feel if his hair was standing on end.

  "Where is it?" Mandeville spoke over her shoulder to the radar tech.

  "Dead on, Captain. It's holding in one spot, so it must be a mater." She looked over her shoulder, face lit expectantly. "If we up the floods, we should be able to see something."

  "Hit floods," Mandeville said.

  "Aye-aye, Captain." A Kitka crewman several ye
ars younger than Nuie shifted at his station and flicked a bank of switches. The floodlights illuminating the ship's path suddenly brightened considerably, banishing the darkness for several hundred meters ahead. Something writhed in the near distance. Something large and looking like nothing McCoy had ever seen before. At the same moment, an eerie ululation reached them. The throaty cry rose and fell, ending in a ponderous sigh of sound.

  McCoy's eyes bugged. "What the hell's that?" he gasped, grabbing Kirk's arm.

  "That," said Mandeville dryly, "is a kraken."

  "No." Nuie's voice was reverent. "That is god."

  The Kitka village was cut from tunnels barely taller and wider than the Kitka themselves. For once, Uhura's smallness was an advantage. She took some unrepentant pleasure in watching Steno try to navigate the narrow warren, his curses booming off the icy walls when he banged against them. There wasn't much illumination beyond the glow of their small flashlights and the occasional flicker of a native oil pot.

  "What are they burning in those things, Tenzing?" Uhura asked softly as they passed another of the small lights. A drift of spicy fragrance stole through her air filter to tickle at the back of her throat. Beside her, the security guard Chekov had assigned her pointed a tricorder at the pot and called up a quick analysis.

  "Some kind of fish oil, sir." Tenzing's voice sounded surprised. "It sure doesn't smell like fish to me."

  "No." Uhura glanced at the fur-clad Kitka walking behind them, wondering if the translator was actually working. She'd set it for maximum sensitivity and was trying to choose her words carefully, but the Kitka equivalent still came out in unsteady rushes and stops. "What kind of fish makes this oil?"

  The small native looked up at her, then ducked away from her glance with a muffled warble of sound. The translator hummed, then supplied a single word: "Kraken."

  "Kraken?" Uhura blinked. The word conjured up an image of mythical monsters from Nordic legend, not an alien arctic fish. "What is a kraken?"