Ice Trap

by L. A. Graf

  "Where the hell's the crew?" he groused, pacing back and forth. "They can't all be up by the bridge." He faced Nuie. "What are the intercom capabilities aboard ship?"

  The first mate shrugged from atop one of the sickbay beds, legs crossed and clear of the rising water. "Standard Nordstral communications network. There are speakers throughout the ship."

  "Can we transmit from the lab?" McCoy asked eagerly.

  "I don't know. It wasn't something I ever had to worry about, but I expect so. Standard operating procedure for Nordstral, even on a vessel as old and rundown as Soroya, is to have everyone easily accessible to the captain. The doctor is next in command after me."

  McCoy nodded grimly, his thoughts of Muhanti warring with his desperate desire to be just about anywhere but here. "Let's give it a try."

  McCoy hated slogging through the chill water to Muhanti's cramped corner desk, stuck in a tiny area between the last bed and the lab's outer wall. Water trickled around his knees. His joints felt tight from the cold. The intercom unit was a push-button wall affair not unlike those intermittently spread through the vast corridors of the Enterprise. Thoughts of the great ship gave McCoy an odd admixture of feelings. Would he ever see her again?

  His thumb stabbed the button and held it down. "McCoy to bridge. This is Dr. Leonard McCoy calling the bridge or anyone else who can read me. Over." Nothing. "This is Dr. Leonard McCoy. If you can hear us, First Mate Nuie and I are trapped in the lab. There's a hull breech and water is coming in." He licked his lips, needing to stop and calm the tremble in his chest. All that water. All that water, just waiting to rush in and fill his lungs

  "Dr. McCoy!" The sharp urgency in Nuie's voice, and his hard hands, warm on McCoy's arms even through the cold, wet parka, brought the doctor's eyes up. The Kitka's face was pinched with worry. "You got very gray for a minute. I thought you might pass out."

  "The thought crossed my mind," McCoy rasped, chest tight. "NuieI can't take this. We've got to get out of here." McCoy hated the way his voice shook; hated that he couldn't stop it from shaking. "II'm afraid of water. Can you understand that? I don't know what I'll do if"

  Nuie's hands tightened on his arms and shook him gently. "Dr. McCoy, relax! It's just the brain sickness. You're being affected like the rest of the crew."

  McCoy drew himself up straight and shook off Nuie's supportive hands. "Bull! I know the difference between brain sickness and being scared out of my ever-loving mind!"

  The ship abruptly slewed to one side. Equipment flew off counters and something crashed in the lab. McCoy would have fallen but for Nuie's quick reflexes. They froze, arms tight around one another, waiting to see what the Soroya would do next. She shifted sideways, sighed, and was silent.

  "What the hell was that all about?" McCoy's voice was a thready whisper. His throat was dry and he was too scared to work up spit.

  Nuie shook his head, nostrils working the air. "Dr. McCoy do you smell smoke?"

  The fierce yank of the cable slammed Uhura back toward the edge of the crevasse, boots skidding uselessly across the wind-blasted surface of the ice. She struggled to unknot the loop around her waist, her gloved fingers stiff and slow with fear. Her breath jammed in her throat, already anticipating the fall into freezing-cold water

  Then Chekov grunted, and the tension on the rope suddenly went slack. Now that she was no longer fighting the pull of two guards dangling below, Uhura caught her balance and managed to loosen the loop of rope. As it dropped, she swung around to see Chekov on his back at the edge of the crevasse, legs rammed into its upthrown rim and shoulders straining to hold the humming rope. His boot heels ground against the snow-crusted ice, slowly losing their fragile purchase.

  Years of Starfleet training broke through Uhura's shock with memories of climbing exercises run on walls of slick, wet granite. "Pitons!" She spun and scrambled across the snow for the loaded gravsled. "Chekov, do we have pitons?"

  "Inequipmentcase." His voice came in painful gasps, as if he could barely spare the effort of making words. "Redbag."

  Uhura yanked the case out without bothering to undo any straps, then tore it open with frantic haste. A canvas bag of climbing pins spilled out at her feet when she shook it. She grabbed up a handful and ran.

  "I've got them." She scrambled to a stop just behind Chekov and smacked a piton into the ice as hard as she could. Its sharp steel point barely made a dent, but a quick twist detonated its internal charge, blasting a hard plastic extension down into the ice. Uhura grabbed the cable and anchored it with a swift loop and turn around the pin, then knotted it as hard as she could.

  Chekov grunted again, even more breathlessly. "Set?"

  "Let me get one more in " Uhura tugged the rope taut between him and the first pin, in case Howard and Publicker were dangling just above water level. Despite the ominous silence from their communicators, she refused to think about the chance that they might have fallen in already. Surely the weight on Chekov wouldn't be so great if either man was floating. A second piton exploded down into the ice sheet. She snagged the rope around it, then caught up the free end and knotted it there, too, for good measure. "All right, I've got it. You can let go."

  Chekov did so, rolling sideways with a sharp gasp of relief as the rope thrummed and snapped tight around the pins. The gasp became a cry of pain when he tried to scramble to his feet. Uhura looked over in concern, seeing the security chief bent double on the ice.

  "Chekov! Are you hurt?"

  He shook his head vehemently as she dropped to her knees beside him. "Just cramped from holding the rope." He sounded as though he were talking through gritted teeth. "Give me a minute, then I'll haul Howard and Publicker up"

  "Don't worry." Uhura patted his pain-knotted shoulder gently. "I can do that."

  "You?" Chekov tilted his head to stare at her in what looked like amazement. "How?"

  She grinned, although she knew he couldn't see it, and rose to her feet. "With the solar-powered winch you put in the equipment case."

  A spate of caustic Russian followed her as she headed back toward the gently drifting gravsled. Uhura's grin faded when she saw how far the sled had traveled from the spilled bag of climbing pins. She snagged the tow bar and pulled it back with her, using the dangling end of the cable to fasten the sled to her embedded pitons. Then she dug the bright yellow winch out of the equipment box and turned back toward Chekov.

  He had levered himself up to a painful crouch by then, peering intently down the side of the crevasse. "I can see them." He tapped impatiently at the transmitter inside his insulation suit collar, as if that would make it work better. "Howard, can you hear me? Publicker?"

  "They may not be"Uhura swallowed at the sudden fierce turn of Chekov's goggles toward her"conscious," she finished lamely. She knelt on the ice near where the rope disappeared over the edge, digging in the snow crust with her hands to make enough space for the winch. "They must have hit the side of the ice pretty hard."

  "True." The security officer fell silent. Uhura finished threading the rope into the winch, then switched it on. The heavy metal drums growled and began to turn, hauling the rope in despite its icy hiss of protest. Uhura sighed and sat back, looking at Chekov.

  He was staring at the far side of the crevasse, shoulders tense under his snow-splattered insulation suit. "I can't see the Kitka," he muttered, so softly he must have been talking to himself. "Dammit, where are they?"

  Uhura dared a glance into the blue-edged depths below them. Gray slabs of ice floated in the foam-dark water, the shattered remnants of the bridge they'd crossed. On either side, the break in the ice sheet stretched into the distance, widening to their left into a black arc of open sea. "Chekov, there's no way they can reach us now. They've probably gone back to their village."

  "Maybe." He fidgeted with his communicatordialing the radio down to listen to the outside mike, Uhura guessed. The growl of the winch deepened as it reeled in more rope. She kept a careful eye on the slithering cable, ready to reach
out at the first glimpse of an insulation suit. After a moment Chekov came to join her. "Any sign of them yet?"

  "Not yet." Even as the words left her mouth, though, something scraped heavily against the ice ledge they leaned over. As smoothly as if they'd practiced the maneuver, Chekov reached out to haul the black-suited figure up over the edge while Uhura spun to switch off the winch. When she turned back, it was with a cry of horror.

  "Publicker!" His insulation suit was so badly shredded it hung loose across his chest and neck, his breath filter held in place only by his own desperate grip on it. He'd somehow lost his goggles, leaving his face white with frost. Blood had frozen in a thin trickle below one ear, where the ice had slashed too deep for his insulation suit to protect him.

  "His communicator's gone." Chekov unknotted the rope from around the young man's waist, then shook it free. Uhura switched the winch on again, and the security chief lowered Publicker to the ground. "Publicker, can you hear me through the mike?"

  Publicker nodded, squinting his eyes painfully open. He took a deep breath, then erupted into coughing. The moisture from his unfiltered breath glittered in the air around them. "Can't breathe," he gasped, his voice hoarse and weak in the arctic air. "Can't"

  Chekov cursed and leaned down to wrap the remnants of Publicker's tattered insulation suit as closely around him as he could. "There should be a spare filter in the sled," he told Uhura grimly. "And a set of goggles, too."

  "I'm going." The gravsled bobbed beneath her frantic fingers while she searched. "I can't find them. Where" The deepening growl of the winch warned her an instant before she heard the scrape of something against ice. She and Chekov lunged forward at the same time, catching at the limp, misshapen figure that bumped its way over the lip of the crevasse. Uhura bit at her lip hard when she saw the awful way Howard's arm dangled in front of him.

  "Oh, Godwhat happened to him?"

  "Steady." Chekov gripped her arm briefly. "I think he's dislocated a shoulder, that's all." He bent to lift the tall guard's other arm, then let it go. It fell back limply, and Chekov grunted. "He's still out. I'll try to put his shoulder back before he wakes up. Go find Publicker's breath filter, or his lungs will burn on this air. There should be one in the emergency box, up in front near the medikit."

  "All right." Uhura scrambled around the tangle of rope and winch, heading for the front of the sled while Chekov knelt over Howard's sprawled figure. She dialed her outside mike up as she went, listening to Publicker's gasping cough. "Hang on, Publicker!" she called back to him. "We'll have you fixed up in no time."

  His reply was a cry of hoarse, wordless panic. Uhura swung around, startled. The guard had risen to his knees, swaying on the very edge of the ice sheet as he stared across it. Her gaze followed his as a shiver of distant howling split the air again.

  On the far side of the crevasse, a flicker of white on white was all that showed her the feather-clad Kitka running directly toward the gaping chasm. Uhura watched in horror as they flung themselves toward the edge, wondering what on Earth they were trying to do. Then she noticed the slender flash of bone-white poles they carried, and realized with a sickening catch of breath what they intended. Chekov must have looked up and seen it, toohis warning shout rose with hers as two of the natives planted their long spears into the icy edge of the crevasse and vaulted themselves across.

  The leap began in deadly silence, a long, glittering white arc through the snow-frosted air. It ended in a crash as the natives landed on their side of the ice, bare meters from their sled. Uhura cried out as the ice shook with the impact, hard enough to throw her to her knees. For some reason, though, the crashing didn't end when the natives hit. It got louder, joined after a moment by a familiar groan of shattering ice. Uhura felt a jolt of separation, and suddenly realized that the entire ice sheet had fallen away beneath them.

  She screamed once as they fell toward the water below.

  McCoy's nostrils flared, catching a whiff of acrid odor. His eyes darted around the sickbay's close confines and his fingers twisted in the material of Nuie's shirt. "There!"

  A thread of smoke drifted out the lab door, riding low on the air currents, delicately touching the water like early morning fog burning off the surface of a mountain lake. It grew as they watched, darkening, and they heard the crackle of flames.

  The men hurried toward the lab, legs laboring against the cold wash of water caressing their thighs. McCoy spared the leak a brief glance as he passed, and his heart fell, seeing it fountain ever faster.

  His outthrust arm stopped Nuie in the doorway. Beyond them, flames rode the rising water like proud flagships of an ancient, conquering race. Fire licked the walls and blackened the edges of the lab furnishings. Smoke billowed and thickened.

  McCoy cursed luridly, coupling Muhanti's name several times with physical feats one could only do if they were ten feet tall and possessed a double-jointed spine. At that moment McCoy would have been only too happy to donate the time and energy into making the necessary adjustments to Muhanti and perhaps a few more besides.

  "It's his stupid experiments," he explained to Nuie, raising his voice to be heard over the rising crackle of flame. "When the ship shifted, it must have sent everything flying." His brows drew together. "Something must have been oil-based." The flames slicked and slid across the water's surface like ice skaters with weak ankles.

  An errant flag of smoke made Nuie cough. He tugged McCoy back out of the doorway. "We've got to put it out, Doctor. It'll use up our oxygen before the water reaches ceiling level."

  Frankly, McCoy wasn't thrilled with either prospect. Both involved death by suffocation, and that was never his first choice when it came to picking a way to die. In bed, surrounded by loved ones and admirers, was more his style, but he didn't bother telling that to the Kitka.

  "I don't know where Muhanti kept his extinguishers. They're probably underwater, anyway," McCoy added sourly.

  "We'll close the door," Nuie responded simply, "and the fire will burn off its oxygen."

  McCoy stared at him in admiration, feeling patently stupid. "Nuie, I stand in awe."

  "Don't bother." Nuie gestured unhappily and McCoy turned around. The back wall of the lab was bent and twisted like that in sickbay. Water poured silently down the wall, deadly as any stealthy killer. "Oh, damn "

  A klaxon suddenly went off over their heads, and McCoy nearly leapt out of his skin. Water sprayed in every direction from a ceiling conduit as the sprinkler system came into play.

  "Just what we need," the doctor groused, wincing as his heavy jacket settled soggily around him. "More water."

  Nuie's expression was sardonic. "Come on, Dr. McCoy. Help me close the door."

  It took both of them to drag the door shut against the pressure of water. By the time they finished, the water was to their chests. The alarm inexplicably quit as abruptly as it began. McCoy listened with feverish hope, but there were no sounds of impending rescue. "If that didn't get their attention, nothing will."

  "I'm afraid you may be right, Doctor."

  A sad little laugh escaped McCoy. He wasn't sure whether to hug Nuie or hit him for sounding so much like Spock. Looked like it would be the Vulcan delivering the eulogies, after all.

  The press of frigid water against his chest made it hard to breathe. "Nuie, I"

  With a scream of outraged protest, the ship rolled. Both men went flying. McCoy landed hard and submerged. All of the air shot out of his lungs in a panicked rush, leaving him bruised and sore and abruptly breathing water. His eyes flashed open to the sting of saltwater and a murky, greenish hue. With a bellow of utter terror, he burst to the surface clawing for purchase, feet slipping unfeelingly along the deck.

  Hands grabbed for him and he batted them away in his fright. Eyes wide and staring, he didn't see much at all until Nuie bodily lifted him onto one of the submerged bunks and held him there. The first mate's soothing litany finally calmed McCoy enough to blink and bring their surroundings into focus. His ch
est spasmed, rising and falling rapidly with the terrified cadence of his breathing. He took a deep breath and ordered himself to slow down, relax. McCoy's head sagged between his shoulders, and it was several moments before he could bring himself to release the stranglehold on Nuie's sleeve. "I'm sorry "

  "There's nothing wrong with being afraid," Nuie said firmly. "It's stupid to apologize for it."

  "Then I'm stupid and sorry. It's just " McCoy ran a wet hand through his dripping hair and shook his head, unable to find words.

  "Stay on the bed." Nuie's hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "It'll keep you farther out of the water a little longer."

  McCoy raised his head and stared bleakly into the other man's odd eyes, eyes he suddenly knew he would remember for the rest of his life. "We're going to die, aren't we?"

  Nuie's gaze never wavered. "Yes, Doctor. I think we are. I guess it's a little too late for this Kitka to learn to lie."

  The small joke elicited a weak chuckle from McCoy. "Yes, I guess it is." His gaze wavered, wandering into the middle distance. "I always thought I'd die with Kirk, or maybe with Spock. At least, with a friend."

  "You are dying with a friend, McCoy."

  That brought his attention back. The serious expression on the Kitka's face only confirmed his words.

  McCoy held out his hand. "Thank you, Nuie. And the name's Leonard."

  The worn hand gripped his tightly for a moment, and released it. "Nuie of Ulu Clan. The ulu is the special knife of the Kitka. You can do many things with the ulu." Nuie reached for the back of his belt and pulled forth a blade shaped like a one-third cut of pie. What would be the inner point was capped by a protruding handle made of bone and decorated with a kraken cut in relief. "I am knife bearer for Clan Ulu."

  McCoy blinked at the sharp device, not sure he liked even more dangerous objects inserted into this situation. "I thought you were a city kid, Nuie."

  "Some things go beyond city or icebound, Doctor." The Kitka looked down at the blade, pensive. "The ulu stands for a lot of things to the Kitka, most of which wouldn't mean anything to you. Mostly, though, it stands for my people's need to meet with the god when the time comes for us to die."