by Diane Carey
carried our own reputations, but the reputations of the
office rs who'd stuck their necks out to put us here.
The odds were by no means equal. Though each team
consisted of one command candidate and one science
specialist, that's where the equity ended. The com-
mand candidates could be anything from tactical ge-
niuses to wizards of offensive improvisation. And each
knew how to apply that specialty to incapacitate an
enemy.
The science specialists filled an even wider spec-
trum life science specialists in Earth or alien medi-
cine, chemists, biologists and every other kind of
-oiogist, including neurophysiologists who could
short-circuit a whole nervous system given the right
circumstances, electrical experts, sound wave theo-
fists, astrophysicists, speed/time people--anything be-
yond knitting, and sometimes they could even do that.
And Star Fleet twisted itself into curls to keep any two
teams from being alike during any one Outlast. There
was no help, no planning ahead, no cramming for this
test. Survive or don't. We would endure solely on our
talent for guerrilla improvisation. How well we could
use and merge our respective talents would tell the
test.
The Outlast was not exactly the kind of honor
anyone really wished to get. One thing, however, was
sure if you got it, you'd better not turn it down. You
might go in scared, sick, or alone, but you go.
"I am a specialist in energy-wave direction and
mechanics. You are versed in the history and applica-
tion of strategy and tactics," Sarda began. "I am a
Vulcan, therefore I have audio, visual, and muscular
capabilities superior to those of our opponents. I can
sense life form presence within roughly twenty me-
ters. I have typical Vulcan sensory capabilities for
estimating distance, volume, and speed. Since I am the
99
only Vulcan participating in this particular Outlast, we
may consider those to be advantages." "Okay," I agreed. "What else?"
"You are human. All of our other opponents are also
human, with the exception of the Skorr entomologist
in team six. We may assume that they expect you to
behave in a human fashion. You are not an Earth
native. Three of the other team commanders are also
not of Earth. Of the three, we are aware of only
Vesco's home planet, Altair Nine, which is primarily
an ice planet. He will have no natural advantage in the
jungles of this planetoid." Sarda tipped his head, then,
and looked directly at me in the midst of his analysis.
"You, however, come from Proxima Beta, which is a
swamp and jungle planet. This environment is more
natural to you. How well can you reconnoiter in this
kind of terrain?"
"Well enough," I agreed. "I know how to move
through thick growth without making noise. I know
how to test the ground before putting my weight down.
I know how to use plant organisms to make ropes,
nets, camouflage, shelter, and a few other tricks." I
shrugged, hoping it would all mean something to him.
Immediately, though, I was dissatisfied. "It's not
enough. We've got to have advantages, not tricks."
Sarda sat down heavily in a way that, for a human,
could have been interpreted as surrender. "We cannot
gain advantage against the unknown."
Then the rustling began... a sound both distant and
near, as piercing as the Red Alert klaxon. Enemies!
Stunned, almost as though we'd forgotten, we
stared at the gently waving ferns, then at each other,
then scrambled for cover. It was early in the Outlast, a
wise time to let someone else be the aggressor. Let
them take each other out for a while and leave fewer
teams for us to deal with. Of course, that also meant
we would have to deal with the best teams.
But that was for later. For now--hide!
lOO
We squirmed backward, kneeling low, finally crawl-
ing on hands and knees. I caught a glimpse of one of
our opponents, Gruegen, a honey-mouthed Norwegian
who was much more clever than his demeanor sig-
naled.
"Down," I whispered.
"We can ambush them," Sarda suggested, almost
inaudibly.
"Not ready."
We flattened ourselves to the moss and let the ferns
and cycads close over us. The rustling sounds grew
closer, then began to fade. Soon we were alone again.
Sarda stood up cautiously to check the surround-
ings. "They've gone," he said. He turned to me
sharply. "Why did you not attack them? They were
perfect targets."
"I told you I'm not ready. I'm not going on the
offensive without a plan of action. Gruegen's not the
type to let himself be trapped that easily. The last thing
I'm going to do is underestimate my enemies. Lesson
number one in basic tactics at the Academy."
His response was caustic. "And lesson number two
is not to allow opportunities to slip by."
"That doesn't make sense. We've got all the time it
takes. There's no reason to rush into a confrontation
that would give away our position before we have any
advantage. When we do confront them, we don't want
the odds to be equal, do we?"
Sarda's arms stiflened at his sides. "I would be
satisfied simply to make a good showing during these
games. Winning is an outlandish goal considering the
odds. I find myself... wishing for early defeat," he
murmured. The tone was quiet, weary.
I looked at him and frowned. "Don't you care
whether we win or not?"
His amber eyes caught the deep greens of the ferns
again as he met my glare. "I am a scientist, not a
strategist. These games are of no use to me. I find them
101
an unnecessary strain and can see no way for us to
emerge as the superior team. Had I not been recom-
mended--"
"But you were recommended," I snapped, slicing
off his self-pity. "This is an assignment, Lieutenant, a
mission. You might not care whether we win or not,
but I do. You're not going to drag me down. I don't
know how Vulcans feel about mission purpose, but if
they're all like you, why do they bother to join Star
Fleet?"
He bristled at my attack on his race, having no
defense against my caustic, almost mocking tone,
though he nearly shook with the effort to contain his
feelings. The coldness returned to his face; the eyes
dropped, shaded by drab russet lashes. Neat brassy
hair flashed in a ray of sunlight filtering through the
twisted trees overhead.
I stood up, fists clenched. "We're not under any
time constraints other than the need for food and
water. Eventually hunger and thirst will force us all to
forage. I'm not going to wait. I'm going to build up a
food store now, and we're going to hole up here and let
> the other teams take each other out. When only three
or four teams are left, that'll be the time for us to take
the offensive." I paced the mossy clearing, scanning
the foliage and cultivating my analysis as I moved.
This was my little bridge, the think tank of my ship.
Here I would make my decisions and our "lives"
would depend on them. This was the core of the
Outlast. From here I would decide how we could take
out the minimum two teams we would need to claim
our superiority in the games, provided, of course, we
were the last to survive. The two-team kill was re-
quired for good reason; to prevent the teams from
simply hiding until all the others were down. It was a
participation event, and I would indeed participate--
later.
"Our strongest weapon," I thought aloud, "is infor-
102
mation about the other teams. Rule number one know
the enemy. This high'round is a vantage point. We
can see pretty well down into the ravines on both
sides. Maybe we can get an idea of the tactics the
others are using." I pushed down a puff of ferns and
looked between them, scanning the lush, dark ravine
below. All around us, insects and seedpods fluttered
on the hot thermals. Eerie fingers of sunlight glowed
with dust particles and tiny life forms. Behind me, I
could feel Sarda's unenthused glare. "We'll wait here
for a while. We'll hide."
"Hiding is not a very honorable tactic," he pointed
out, sharply reproving me.
I twisted around. Revenge? From a Vulcan? I was
right; I didn't know him very well at all. "I've got my
reasons," I said. "I'm going after food. While I'm
gone, you survey our supplies and see if there's any
way to use them offensively."
His brow crinkled. "Offensively? Our supplies are
not--"
"Just do it, all right? You can argue its logic with me
later." Resentment rode my tone. Or perhaps it was
nerves. Deep in my mind's basement I knew I was
attacking him as part of a defense against my own
apprehension. I really did want to win, and I also did
understand the odds against it. I was blaming him for
my own insecurities and disguising it in that I'm-in-
command tone of voice. That tone... it could be quite
a tool. For a moment there it almost convinced me. I
hoped it convinced Sarda, at least that I was serious.
As I cautiously gathered nut clusters and wild fruit
for our store, my disgruntlement with him slowly
dissipated. Maybe it was my fault. As the command
element, wasn't I supposed to be able to generate
enthusiasm, or at least loyalty, in my crew? His atti-
tude would be a reflection of my own success as a
commander. Ouch--that was a chilly discovery. Could
I be that powerful? Powerful enough to fire a Vulcan's
103
sensibilities? Damn it all! It was tough enough to be on
the Outlast, much less to be teamed up with a Vulcan.
If only we were both Vulcan, or both human... our
differences were too much of a burden.
I wondered what his problem was, why he resented
his selection to attend the Outlast.
No. I wouldn't think about it. It didn't matter. Only
winning mattered. One way or another, I would entice
him to cooperate, even if I had to find some "logical"
reason to dangle before him. Somewhere out there in
theoryland, there had to be logic in the shape of a
carrot.
Thus, we waited. We wat ched. The first three teams
went down quickly, within the initial five hours of the
Outlast. We actually saw two of the teams ambushed
by others, saw their frustration when the dye darts hit
them, and we knew the third had gone down when we
heard the subtle hum of the transporter beaming them
back up to the monitoring ship orbiting somewhere
above us. Two more teams were eliminated just before
sunset.
Sarda and I hid on our shaded escarpment, deep in
the ferns and palmettos, trying to get a feeling for what
we were up against. This planetoid had no moons, so
after dark there was nothing but starlight to see by.
Anyone with any common sense would settle down
and not attempt to move about. Movement or light
could only draw attention, and none of the remaining
teams wanted that, including us. Night came, and was
accepted. Even for command candidates, there is a
time when rest is part of the strategy.
Morning dawned hazily over the five remaining Out-
last teams. It was time for us to move out. At least two
of the four other teams had to be ours.
For two hours we hunted our opponents, doing little
more than homing in on their locations and move-
ments. My classmate Vesco and his Skorr scientist
104
were the most aggressive, setting some very creative
snares while Sarda and I watched enviously. Why
hadn't we thought of those? Vesco was a devious
young man and he worried me. As we'd watched over
the past hours, he had been the victor in three
matches----one more than he needed to claim superior-
ity in the Outlast for himself and his teammate. Now
all he had to do was arrange for his team to be the last
alive. But from what we could see, that wasn't enough
for Vesco.
Nor was it enough for the Norwegian command
candidate and his sultry science specialist. Those two
had looked like a guy-and-girl advertisement for Al-
pine skiwear--tight skiwear--when we'd all met for
the initial briefing before the Outlast. They hadn't
seemed like they could discuss anything more compli-
cated than theft latest romp at the lodge, and I was
taken down a notch when I realized they had devel-
oped a crude kind of communication system using the
lights on their medical sensors. As I huddled behind a
palmetto, the rough texture of the trunk scratching my
arm, their code flashes deflated my creative ego as
they arranged an ambush. I wasn't usually concerned
with my own levels of femininity, certainly not at
times like this, but I got a funny twinge of jealousy
when I realized a woman that luscious could also be
inventive.
Sarda evidently saw my shoulders sink. "Is some-
thing wrong, Lieutenant?" he asked.
"They're communicating," I groaned. "It's only
Jacob's Elementary Light Code, but it's giving them
an advantage."
"Why should that disturb you?"
"Why? Because I should've thought of it, that's
why."
He paused, probably trying to assimilate my dis-
gruntlement, but finally gave up on that and said,
105
"Communication is decidedly an advantage. However,
theirs is limited to the distance from which the Fein-
berger light can be seen during daylight hours."
"Right," I admitted. "It also has another flaw."
"And that is?"
&nb
sp; I held out a flat palm. "1 just read it."
Sarda contemplated that revelation, then flattened
his lips and nodded.
"It also gives away their position," I added. "We
need something better. We need some way to pool our
abilities and still put distance between us. We need a
communicator that can't be visually read."
"We aren't allowed communicators," he said.
"Wrong," I told him. "We weren't given communi-
cators. Nobody said we weren't allowed."
He shifted to one knee and balanced himself in the
more comfortable position. "You're playing with
words, Lieutenant. We have no private auditory means
to communicate if we are separated. We shall have
none."
"And you're being pessimistic," I accused. "Try
opening your mind."
"Neither an open mind nor blatant optimism can
change the facts," he countered irritably.
The irritation was catching. "For a Vulcan, you
don't know how to think very well," I snapped.
"There are alternatives. We just have to find them, or
invent them, or something. I mean to win."
Sarda's expression hardened at the thrust of my
words, and he icily pointed out, "The others do also.
Determination is not in short supply during Outlast
games, Lieutenant Piper. Your human obstinacy will
gain you no ground here."
There were times when I hated the truth, and this
was one of them. I hated him for telling me what I
already knew. Yet something inside me refused to
believe that I didn't have just that fraction more grit
than anybody else in the Outlast, just that extra bit of
106
tenacity that would help me win if I used it right. He
was a Vulcan. He'd never understand. I dropped the issue.
"Let's add up our supplies," I said. "Maybe we'll
get an idea."
"We have already done that."
"Let's do it again."
Frustrated, he glared at me before unrolling his
landing-party kit. Before us lay the usual sparse pro-
visions, things any ordinary landing party might have.
There was a Feinberger mediscanner, an electronic
match, Sarda's mock phaser, a hook and line for
fishing or snaring, a standard emergency beacon, and
a simple steel knife. No compass, no tricorder, no