Star Trek - Log 4

by Alan Dean Foster

  The Devisor continued to approach confidently as the remaining robot grain carrier peeled off on a new course. As soon as she was far enough off, Sulu activated the helm and the Enterprise also changed course.

  "Commencing evasive tactics," he reported crisply.

  Governed now in part by her battle computer, the Enterprise began an erratic weave designed to leave the Klingons with the minimum possible target. The Klingon ship adjusted its path correspondingly, but not to pursue.

  "Devisor is veering away," Spock observed.

  The battle cruiser fired a single powerful disruptor bolt—not at the starship, but at the remaining drone. The bolt neatly severed the clumsy cargo module from the dual propulsion units.

  "My error, Captain," Spock corrected. "They were not veering away. They were moving to attack the grain ship."

  Sulu checked his gooseneck viewer. "But they didn't destroy it, sir." Kirk relaxed a hair. "They only wrecked the propulsion units. The cargo pod is intact." He looked up from the viewer. "Maybe we should modify our opinion of Captain Koloth's marksmen."

  "It appears they are quite accurate," Spock concurred, "when firing on undefended cargo drones."

  "They've changed course again," Sulu reported "They're coming in after us."

  "Stand by phasers," Kirk warned.

  "Phasers armed and ready, sir." Sulu's hand hovered over the firing switch. Arex shifted their position so that the main batteries would have an unobstructed line of fire on the Devisor. On the viewscreen, brilliant blue flares erupted from the cruiser's nose.

  "Disruptors," Spock announced calmly.

  A second later the bolts impacted on the Enterprise—only to sputter harmlessly on their shields. They felt a mild lurch as the ship reeled with the absorption of the tremendous destructive energy, but no one was knocked from their seat.

  "Damage report, Mr. Sulu."

  "No damage reported, sir," said the helmsman quickly. "Shields holding firm."

  "Fire at will, Mr. Sulu."

  "Firing, sir."

  The battle continued for several minutes—long by intership standards—as the Enterprise and Devisor wheeled about a common center which shifted every second. Disruptor bolts alternated with phasers, probing for a weakness in the absorbing screens. Multiple barrages glanced off, were handled by opposing defenses.

  The repetitive rattling caused only minor damage on the two cruisers. The Enterprise suffered slightly more than the Devisor because the temporary cargo she was carrying in her corridors and holds was not secured for battle running.

  Succeeding jolts broke open one grain container after another. Of itself, the damage was minor. The containers could be easily repaired, the grain recollected.

  Except in a couple of corridors, corridors no one was watching because all were at battle stations—corridors where a concerted mewing and cooing suddenly rose appreciably in volume.

  Like a fuzzy glacier, clumps of tribbles started creeping rapidly toward the protein-rich kernels of quinto-triticale.

  Some of the tribbles were no longer very small . . .

  XIII

  Now was the time, Kirk decided, to see if his strategy had paid off. By this time, Captain Koloth was hopefully convinced that the Enterprise was armed only with phasers and he had adjusted his defenses accordingly. They had one chance to catch him napping.

  "Photon torpedoes, Mr. Sulu. Fire."

  "Torpedoes away, sir."

  All eyes moved to the screen, where computer-guided deep-space scanners held the Devisor fixed on the screen like a bug under chloroform.

  "Three, two, one . . . impact," Sulu counted down. Then, "Torpedo miss."

  But the image of the Devisor was starting to shrink. Spock checked his sensors, frowned. "They appear to be running away, Captain. Most odd. They did not use their stasis weapon at all."

  "Maybe you were right, Mr. Spock, and they could only partly recharge their power cells, only enough to manage a conventional attack."

  "Then why break off the engagement?" Spock wondered aloud. "I detect no sign of serious damage. Unless their attack achieved some unimaginable purpose."

  "They disabled the robot carrier, " Sulu noted.

  "Before they engaged us," mused Kirk. "No, Spock's right. It doesn't make sense. Koloth knew his battle capabilities before he attacked." He shook his head, feeling they were missing something.

  "Well, put a tractor beam on the disabled drone. We'll have to try and take it in tow."

  "Now that could be their intention exactly, Captain," Spock suggested. "Towing the drone will be a drag both on our available power and maneuverability. We're already carrying the extra mass of the first carrier's cargo. Captain Koloth's engineers have undoubtedly calculated how much energy this will sap from our battle capacity."

  "We can't do anything about the extra mass on board, Mr. Spock, but we could break the tow instantly in the event of another attack."

  "That is true, Captain. But the Devisor could attack and run, attack and run. If Koloth is aware of the situation on Sherman's Planet he knows we are operating within certain time restrictions. Eventually his chances of catching us with the second drone under tow will increase."

  "That seems logical," Kirk admitted.

  "Thank you, Captain."

  "Well, Mr. Spock?" he said, after a short pause.

  "Well what, Captain?"

  "You've already correctly analyzed the situation. We cannot tow the damaged robot ship indefinitely, nor can we abandon it. And there is no room for more quinto-triticale on board. I assume you have some suggestions as to what we can do."

  Spock paused in thought, Vulcan gears turning at top speed. "Yes, Captain, we can throw tribbles at them."

  Kirk's expression underwent a succession of variations. Arex's reaction was mostly internal, but much the same.

  "I thought Vulcans didn't have a sense of humor," he finally ventured.

  "We do not, Captain. Allow me to think this out."

  Kirk regarded his first officer with a gaze of honest confusion.

  Down in one of the lower storage holds a door had burst, flooding the deck with quinto-triticale. Instantly the hillock of golden-brown seeds was inundated by a horde of tribbles of impressive bulk.

  At the base of the broken door the glommer was struggling with one of the tribbles. This particular one had the dimensions of a large, furry hassock. It ignored the furious, frustrated glommer on its topside and continued to munch contentedly on the sudden nutritious bonanza.

  As Scott was returning to the bridge, he made a quick trip back to Engineering Central for a first-hand check on the amount of power the cargo drone tow was drawing. A harried security sergeant confronted him in a corridor, tried to babble an explanation of what he had seen. His story was enough to detour Scott temporarily from the bridge.

  He was still talking when the elevator doors opened to the low deck. Scott needed less than two minutes to evaluate the situation and head for the bridge at top speed.

  "Captain," he said, walking directly to the command chair, "we've got broken cargo pods in all the corridors, and some of the storage holds themselves have burst. The tribbles have gotten into the grain. No need to tell you what they're doing." He paused to catch his breath.

  "Eating, I should suppose," observed Spock blandly. He glanced at the base of the navigation console significantly, where a fifty-kilo tribble had appeared. The enormous fur ball was rubbing at the legs of an irritated Sulu. Then Spock began making some quick computations at his console.

  "Given the exceptional nutritive value of the hybrid grain, I should say that at their estimated rate of conversion these altered tribbles will . . ."

  "Altered!" Kirk stopped listening to Spock. "Get Cyrano Jones up here on the double, Scotty."

  "Aye, sir." He headed for the elevator again while Uhura notified the brig.

  Kirk rose and walked to the helm-navigation console, nearly tripping over an elongated tribble in the process. Glancing up occasiona
lly at the main viewscreen for signs of the Devisor, he examined certain readouts.

  "Any sign of Captain Koloth's ship?"

  "Nothing yet, sir," Sulu reported.

  "Keep scanning. They'll probably come at us from a different quadrant this time."

  It wasn't long before Scott reappeared, pushing a puzzled Cyrano Jones urgently before him.

  "Ah, Captain Kirk. What can I do for you? From the attitude displayed by your chief engineer," and he looked reprovingly at Scott, who returned the favor with a glance suggesting that he would have liked to display Jones in the nearest converter, "I gather that it is a matter of some gravity."

  "Not gravity—grain," Kirk corrected him furiously. "Your shribbles are all over my trip . . . your tribbles are all over my ship." Easy, James T., easy. "My security personnel can't find them all, despite the fact," and he kicked at a hundred-kilo tribble where an eighty-kilo tribble had been only moments before, "that they're hardly inconspicuous anymore."

  The tribble cooed, tried to rub against his ankle.

  Jones shrugged. "You need better security men then, Captain. As you say, they shouldn't be hard to find." He looked interestedly at the apparition Kirk had just kicked.

  With enormous effort, Kirk held his emotions in check. "Mr. Jones, you are in enough trouble already. Feeble attempts at humor will only exacerbate your situation." He returned to his station.

  "Oh, Captain," Jones protested, "a harmless little tribble. What can they hurt?"

  Kirk put his shoulder to the hundred-kilo tribble sitting in the command chair and shoved it out "Harmless? Maybe. But little? In any case, the main problem is that they're eating the quinto-triticale."

  "The what?" Jones looked confused.

  "The grain."

  The trader looked troubled for the first time. "Captain, you have grain on this ship?"

  "What?" Kirk was staring at the screen. Naturally the Devisor would show up any second. "Yes . . . grain. Seed grain, to prevent a serious famine on Sherman's Planet. It won't be prevented if your tribbles continue eating at the rate they are."

  "But they're hungry, Captain," Jones protested, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  "So are the people on Sherman's Planet!" Kirk countered tightly. His shout echoed across the bridge. The gigantic purple tribble he had just pushed out of his seat mewed uncomfortably and edged away a little.

  "A little tribble, Jones, doesn't eat much. A big tribble does. And these are getting bigger."

  That's when it came to him.

  "Jones, is this the ecological sabotage the Klingons are so mad about? Is this why Captain Koloth is willing to risk his ship to get you back7 The Klingons have a lot of pride, Jones. No wonder they want you."

  The trader started to object, but a sudden shout from Sulu's station shattered the conversation.

  "Captain, the Devisor is coming back."

  There, he knew it was too much to hope for. Now he understood why the Klingons wouldn't break off the engagement.

  McCoy chose that moment to enter the bridge. Both hands were full of tribble. "Jim, there's something about these tribbles . . ."

  "Later, Bones," Kirk interrupted tiredly. He started to sit down, paused. The tribble in it weighed at least one hundred and forty but otherwise it was just like the one he'd shoved out a minute before.

  Which raised another interesting question. How fat did the tribbles grow . . . and how fast?

  One crisis at a time. Panting, he shoved the tribble out of his seat once more, sat down.

  "Mr. Sulu, release the tow on the robot carrier. All deflector shields on full. Stand by phasers and photon torpedoes." He paused and looked first at Jones and then McCoy. "And all non-combatants off the bridge."

  McCoy nodded, took charge of Jones. But first he dumped the overflowing tribble he had been holding.

  Everyone's attention was fixed on the screen, which now showed the approaching Devisor once again. Kirk diverted his attention long enough to thumb a certain switch under his right hand.

  "Captain's Log, supplemental," he recited in a soft voice. "The Klingon battle cruiser Devisor, under command of Captain Koloth, appears about to force us into another battle for custody of the trader Cyrano Jones." He cut off. Elaboration would have to wait for leisure time.

  On screen, the Devisor continued its relentless approach with little recourse to subtlety. Apparently this was to be another head-on attack like the first.

  "Contact in thirty seconds," announced Spock.

  "Ready photon torpedoes, Mr. Sulu."

  The Devisor now filled the screen. An ominous cloud of fluttering azure began to form at its prow. Apparently the stasis projector was back in operation. And this time they had no robot ships to throw at it.

  "Fire one, fire two."

  "One and two away," Sulu announced. "Three, two, one . . . impact." Seconds pause, then, "Minus one, minus two . . . something's wrong, Captain. I show impact but no reaction."

  "Are you positive, Mr. Sulu?"

  "Absolutely, sir. We show definite . . ."

  "I think I know what has happened, Captain," said Spock. "Both torpedoes impinged on the stasis field the Devisor is building. Considering the known power of such a field, I have no doubt that the drive and detonation mechanisms of the torpedoes were paralyzed when they reached it."

  "Evasive emergency maneuvers, Mr. Sulu," was all Kirk could say.

  "Aye, Captain."

  Too late—the field enveloped the Enterprise even as Sulu directed a convoluted course across the starfield. Enveloped them in a rippling miasma of brilliant blue.

  The Enterprise gave a sickening lurch. Kirk groaned inwardly. That had not done the weakened grain containers below any good. Little could be done to repair them while the ship remained on battle status.

  And so in numerous corridors and holds, the tribble orgy continued unabated.

  "That's done it," cursed Scott, looking up from his engineering console in anger and alarm. "We're caught again."

  "Message coming in, Captain, over ship-to-ship hailing frequency," Uhura announced. Kirk sighed. He already had a fair idea of what the message would contain.

  "Put it through, Lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir." Moments later a picture of Captain Koloth—a broadly grinning, self-satisfied Captain Koloth—appeared once more on the main viewscreen. Kirk noted the clarity of the image though he would not have objected to some distortion blotting out some of his smile.

  Visual and aural communications were low-order field functions, of course, and thus were not affected by the stasis field, as were . . .

  Something was trying to fuse in the back of his head. He could not spare the time to study it. Koloth wouldn't give it to him.

  "Captain Kirk. I am so glad to see that you have not suffered any injury yet, nor," he looked to left and right, "have any of your crew. This pleases me. We will take control of your vessel intact, it appears."

  "Not if I can help it," Kirk said grimly. Koloth's smile disappeared and barely controlled fury colored his cheeks.

  "You cannot help it and I want your prisoner, Captain."

  "Control yourself, Koloth, or you'll burst a blood vessel. Much as it pains me to admit to it, Cyrano Jones is a citizen of the Federation, and therefore is entitled to Federation protection. I am afraid I must refuse your request." He thought, added, "You have no idea how much it pains me to refuse your request."

  "I regret any emotional upset it has caused you," Koloth continued with biting sarcasm. "If it will alleviate your agony any, Captain Kirk, let me assure you this is not a 'request.' " For an unguarded moment he sounded almost regretful—for a Klingon.

  "Don't force me to take steps we will both regret."

  "Not a chance," Kirk snarled. Stasis field or no, he had taken about all he could handle of Koloth.

  "Close channel, Lieutenant," Kirk ordered, pacing near Sulu.

  "With pleasure, sir." She hit a switch and Koloth's image abruptly faded from th
e screen.

  Kirk started back to his seat . . . and stopped, his lower jar descending slightly. Even a friend would have been hard put to interpret his expression.

  A contentedly mewing tribble occupied the command chair. It weighed two hundred and fifty kilos if it weighed a gram. Folding his arms, Kirk turned to stare at the viewscreen again.

  "Aren't you going to sit down, Captain?" Spock inquired.

  "I think I'll stand for now, Mr. Spock—haven't you got some important computations to do?"

  Spock hesitated, started to say something and thought better of it, turning back to his console.

  Meanwhile, Captain Koloth and his first officer were deep in a strategy conference. The next move was theirs. Koloth finally muttered to Korax, "Initiate boarding plan C." The first officer's eyes lit and he replied enthusiastically.

  "Yes, Exalted One!"

  Kirk was still eyeing the behemoth tribble purring noisily in his chair when everything that had been floating loose in his head suddenly got together. He walked over to Scott, who was monitoring the engineering console and looking distraught.

  "Mr. Scott," he instructed, a slightly dreamy, thoughtful expression on his face, "we are going to implement Emergency Defense Plan B."

  "Yes, sir," Scott answered snappily. "Emergency Defense Plan B." A look of uncertainty came over him and he asked hesitantly, "Ah, Captain . . . I don't believe I'm familiar with Emergency Defense Plan B."

  "That's because it's only used in extremely unusual circumstances, Mr. Scott."

  "Oh," the chief engineer commented.

  "And also," he added, turning away, "because I've just made it up—thanks to a suggestion by Mr. Spock. Stand by."

  "Standin' by, sir," Scott said, still puzzled but ready for orders.

  Odd, Scott mused. The ship's engines and all of their weaponry were frozen; the Klingons were threatening to take over the ship; they were suffering under the combined appetites of an influx of Fafnirian tribbles—and yet it had seemed as if Kirk had a smile on his face . . .