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Star Trek - TOS - Battlestations

Page 12

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

 

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