STAR TREK: TOS - Enterprise, The First Adventure

by Vonda N. McIntyre

  The music of their communication soared around him like a wind-rider, the insubstantial creature of Vulcan that never touched the ground. The equiraptor snorted in alarm. Her feathered wings cut the air as Amelinda Lukarian tried to soothe her.

  The three new worldship people spread their arms wide. Long fingers that lay tight against the backs of their forearms unfolded, the frill at their sides extended, and they spread their wide wings.

  [246] They took flight into the dangerously low sky.

  Spock tried to rise, but his strength had vanished. His hands trembled on his knees. He could barely lift his head. When he did, he found himself gazing into the amber-flecked gold eyes of the scarlet being, who knelt facing him. It brushed its tongue across its sensory mustache; it raised its hand to its face and touched its forehead with one sharp-clawed finger. It made a sound in a tone that Spock interpreted as questioning.

  “Very well,” Spock whispered, his voice hoarse almost to silence. He had known this must occur, but he had expected it to be on his initiative; he had expected more time to prepare.

  Spock lifted his hands to the scarlet being’s face.

  He touched its mind.

  Back in the transporter room, Jim bolted for the nearest lift before the beam finished dematerializing Spock and the worldship people. He could get to the shuttlecraft deck on foot faster than the beam could recharge. McCoy barely managed to squeeze between the closing doors.

  “Stupid!” Jim shouted. “Stupid! I didn’t stop long enough to think! Damn!” He slapped the wall in fury and disgust. The lift crawled toward the shuttlecraft deck so slowly that Jim began to wish he had waited for the beam. The doors slid apart. He sprinted down the corridor.

  On the catwalk he stopped, astonished.

  Far from being injured, three of the worldship people glided back and forth, flying in the shallow airspace of the deck. Flying! Graceful and beautiful, they reminded Jim of falcons seeking prey over summer fields.

  Athene, unsure of her wings, half-trotted and half-flew after them, trying to follow, her head up, ears forward. The music of the beings reverberated against the bulkheads.

  “Mr. Spock!” Lindy said. “Mr. Spock, what’s wrong?”

  Lindy knelt beside Commander Spock and the scarlet being. The Vulcan lay rigid on the soft new grass, his hands clenched, the left side of his face bruised and dark with a smear of pulverized stone. The fourth being, the scarlet one, pushed itself up on one elbow, dazed.

  Jim leaped down the companionway, cursing himself. [247] Could the flying people have attacked in retaliation for Jim’s mishandling the gravity?

  “Lindy, what happened?” Jim knelt beside her.

  Commander Spock looked terrible. His skin had paled to an unhealthy yellowish green and his scraped cheek oozed blood of a deep emerald hue.

  “I’m not really sure,” she said.

  “Give him some air. Let me see him.” McCoy felt Spock’s pulse. “The beat’s slow for a Vulcan,” he said.

  “Dangerously slow?”

  “No ... I don’t think so. He stormed out of sick bay before I got much feel for his version of normal. Blast!”

  “Not much point in swearing at him now, Bones.”

  “I was swearing at me.” McCoy shook his head. “It was my fault—my mistake. I’ll get a stretcher down here.”

  “I’ll do it—you be sure our guest isn’t injured.”

  “I am ... I am not ... I am not physically damaged.”

  Jim bolted to his feet. The words formed song, the music created the words. The scarlet flyer slid its long-fingered hands over its arms. It opened its outer three fingers, the elongated ones that supported its wings, and stretched the short-furred skin. Its wide scarlet wings rose up above it. It swept them forward and curved them in a circle, touching the tips behind Jim’s back. Under the curtain of the wings, Jim wanted to shiver.

  The scarlet flyer folded its wings again. The flying webs folded with a sound-shimmer like silk.

  “Did you ... speak to me?” Jim said.

  “I have been speaking all along, but you did not understand me. The singing one might comprehend, in time. But this language of yours is so simple—”

  “How did you learn it so fast?”

  “I learned from—” The flyer spoke several words that sounded not at all like the sounds it had made before. “From Spock.”

  The flyer sat on its heels beside the Vulcan. The backs of its hands touched the ground at its sides, as if it hunched with drooping wings. Spock’s rigid body had begun to relax, but he showed no sign of regaining consciousness.

  “What happened?” Jim said.

  [248] “I thought to exchange patterns with him. He agreed to the exchange. But our communication went far beyond that.”

  Jim struggled to think of something to say that would make sense. “We don’t often meet people with abilities like yours, with a technology as high as yours. This is a new experience for most of us ... I’m afraid he is injured—I have to get help—”

  “Stretcher’s coming, Jim,” McCoy said. He returned from the intercom at the bottom of the companionway.

  The other flyers landed and joined them, curious.

  “Your flying area is very low,” the scarlet flyer said. “How does your colleague exercise her wings? Where does she hunt?”

  It was talking about Athene. “She’s only just learning to fly. It’s a long story. You’re all right, aren’t you, you and your friends? The gravity in the transporter room didn’t harm you?”

  “It would have, had Spock not stopped me, had you not moved us to this place.”

  “I’m sorry—I made an inexcusable mistake.”

  The flyers whistled and sang at each other.

  “That is of the past,” the scarlet flyer said.

  “But what did you do to him?” Uhura said.

  “I thought to give him joy and song,” the scarlet flyer said. “But my patterns cause him distress.”

  A couple of stretcher operators arrived, and McCoy took Spock away. Several security officers appeared on the catwalk, but Jim gestured for them to stay where they were.

  The scarlet flyer blinked. “You, the singing one, you are Uhura, and you are Captainkirk.”

  “My name is James Kirk. My title is captain—I’m in charge of the ship; Are you the captain of the worldship—of your vessel?”

  The scarlet flyer touched its tongue to the sensory mustache. Jim had begun to think of the gesture as thoughtful.

  “I am still assimilating the information Spock gave me. A name is applied to you at birth, and a title is given you at adulthood. Is this true?”

  “That will do for the moment.”

  “I am not, then, ‘captain’ of our—” The flyer hummed, [249] somehow producing two simultaneous notes. “ ‘Worldship’ must suffice, though it is a misapprehension. But you have no suitable word, and I fear your vocal apparatus may not duplicate its true pattern. As for ‘captain’—I have no such concept.”

  “Who gives the orders? How do you run the worldship? Who makes sure it doesn’t break down?”

  “I neither give orders nor accept them. The worldship cannot break down. It ... renews itself.”

  “Do you mean it’s a natural astronomical body? It evolved? You didn’t build it?”

  The scarlet flyer conferred in music with its companions. Uhura edged nearer to them, entranced.

  “The worldship is a natural body,” the scarlet flyer said. “How could it be otherwise? What would an ‘unnatural’ object be? Of course it evolved, and still evolves. All things evolve. And, no, I did not build it. I am but young, while the worldship is old.”

  That will disappoint Commander Spock, Jim thought, and please McCoy. Bones never can resist saying “I told you so.”

  “Since you know who we are,” Jim said, “perhaps you’ll consent to introduce yourselves.” He waited expectantly.

  The scarlet flyer blinked, touched its sensory mustache, blinked again. “I ha
ve no name,” it said. It whistled to the three other flying people, who replied. They gathered closer, head and shoulders taller than the humans, looming.

  “Oh.” Jim felt foolish.

  “But your language would adapt to our patterns with difficulty. Perhaps I should do as Spock does, and adopt a name your speech can reproduce.”

  “That might make things easier,” Jim said.

  “How are names chosen in your civilization?”

  “By family descent or personal preference. Patterns of stars in the sky or historical figures ...”

  Again it transmitted the information to the other flyers, but the conversation continued for several minutes, and Jim got the impression that the scarlet flyer had done something to displease the others.

  “I have none of these things: no family names, no historical figures. The patterns of my sky are inconstant.”

  [250] “You could use nicknames,” Uhura said. “They come from physical characteristics, vocations—whatever you choose.”

  “For example,” Jim said, “I think of you as ‘Scarlet.’ ”

  “ ‘Scarlet.’ Scarlet will do for the moment. More talk must be of the future.”

  “But—”

  “The companionship must confer.”

  “We have so many questions to ask you—”

  “May I listen?” Uhura said. “I’d like to try to ... to learn your patterns.”

  Scarlet remained silent.

  “Lieutenant!” Jim said. “After what happened to Spock—”

  “Did Mr. Spock mind-meld with you?” Uhura asked Scarlet. “I can’t do what he did—I have to learn more slowly. I’ll be all right, just let me listen. Captain, I think this is important!”

  Jim could hardly bear the possibility of her lying unconscious, her elegant face scraped in a convulsive fall. But her training had prepared her for an encounter such as this; if he ordered her to avoid it, he would be giving her notice that he distrusted her judgment and competence. That was the last message he wanted to give Uhura.

  “All right, lieutenant, if Scarlet doesn’t object. But ... be careful.”

  Without assenting to or refusing Uhura’s request, Scarlet joined the companionship and gathered Uhura into then-circle. Their voices soared and blended and enraptured her with their music.

  Keeping an eye on the circle, Jim backed away and contacted the bridge.

  “Quundar isn’t doing anything, captain,” Sulu said. “Nothing at all. But it’s still here.”

  “Just sitting there?”

  “Just sitting there.”

  “Then we’ll do the same,” Jim said. “For the moment. Yeoman Rand, announce change of environment. Ten-minute delay for critical objections.”

  The customary delay between announcing change of environment and making the change existed primarily to warn [251] researchers doing experiments that a variable soon would change, but since the Enterprise still lacked its research staff, Jim received no critical objections.

  He opened a channel to Engineering.

  “Mr. Scott,” Jim said, “please cut the gravity to one-tenth g on the whole ship.”

  “D’ye think that’s wise, captain? D’ye—”

  “We have guests, Mr. Scott. I’d like them to feel welcome.”

  “But captain, ye’ll be giving these people free run of the Enterprise! We dinna know—”

  Jim cut the connection. He glanced at the companionship, not wanting to leave. But Scott had argued with him once too often.

  “Lindy—I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t get too close to them, all right?”

  He leaped up the companionway, ordered the security officers to call him if anything changed, and headed for Engineering.

  Halfway to the lift, he tripped over the one-g gravity ledge that he knew, but had forgotten, was right there. He pitched in a header toward the deck. Almost by reflex, he ducked and managed to roll out of the fall. Tumbling, he ended up flat on his back, more surprised than injured.

  Jim climbed to his feet, gingerly testing his knee. It hurt no worse than before he fell. Now the whole rest of his body felt bruised.

  That’s just great, Jim thought. They’ll put this in my official biography: On his first first contact, he lets his science officer rush off and get killed, he can’t get his chief engineer to follow a direct order ... but he can fall down almost without killing himself.

  He felt carefully, calmly infuriated: angry at himself, angrier at Scott, and furious at Spock. The science officer had made an unconscionable decision when he communicated with the flyers without considering the risk. The Vulcan deserved to be brought up on disciplinary charges for the mess he had gotten himself into—assuming he survived. And as for the chief engineer—

  Jim reached the engine room, which looked as if someone had taken it apart without reading the instructions. Jim [252] stopped where several pairs of feet protruded from beneath a complicated piece of equipment.

  “Mr. Scott.” None of the feet moved. “Mr. Scott!”

  “Aye, captain?”

  Jim started. Behind him, Scott stood peering at him curiously, holding a set of plans.

  “I want to talk to you about the gravity,” Jim said.

  “Verra good, captain. I’m to leave the fields alone, after all?”

  “You are not. The warning announcement is out. I don’t intend to rescind it. Are you going to make the change—now—or shall I do it for you?”

  Scott gave him a wounded glance, but took himself off to a complex instrument panel. The change-of-environment alarm flashed a moment later. In thirty seconds the gravity faded to one-tenth g.

  “There, captain. Ye’ve got the environment ye want. But—” At Jim’s expression, he fell into an uncertain silence.

  “Mr. Scott,” Jim said, too softly for anyone but the engineer to hear. “You’ve disputed every order or request I’ve given you since I took command. I’ve put up with that till now, because you’re a good engineer. But I can’t put up with it any longer. I choose to believe that this is a problem of lack of rapport, rather than deliberate insubordination. So I won’t bring you up on charges. But one of us has got to go, and it isn’t going to be me. I think it’s best that you request a transfer. With any luck, Starfleet will find you a more congenial environment soon.”

  He waited for a reply.

  Scott stared at him.

  “Is that understood?”

  “Transfer, captain?” Scott said, stricken. “Off the Enterprise?”

  “Transfer. Off the Enterprise.”

  Scott said nothing. Jim turned and stalked out, aggravated, knowing he should have been able to solve this problem in a more satisfactory way, but having no idea at all what the way might be.

  On the shuttlecraft deck, Lindy stroked Athene’s iridescent sweat-soaked shoulder. She twined one hand in her mane and urged her forward. Her wings half-spread, the [253] equiraptor walked as if she could not bear to touch the ground. Her ears swiveled nervously, and a white rim showed around her eyes.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Lindy whispered. “Easy, sweetie, it’s going to be okay.” But the flying people both fascinated and terrified the equiraptor. Though Lindy urged her away, she edged closer to them as she walked, and she resisted turning away. Whenever the pitch of the companionship’s conversation changed, Athene snorted and pranced, tossing her head and jerking Lindy off her feet. Nothing Lindy did made any difference.

  Lindy saw Jim on the catwalk. He climbed down the companionway and joined her. He was as keyed up as Athene.

  “What happened while I was gone?”

  “Nothing. They just kept singing to each other.”

  “Are you all right? Is Athene?”

  “She doesn’t understand why they can fly and she can’t.” Lindy’s fingers hurt from holding Athene’s mane, and her arm ached with the fatigue of trying to guide the tremendously strong equiraptor, of trying to stay with her even when she reared.

  “Do you want me to get a rope?�
��

  “No. The harder you fight her, the spookier she gets. She just needs to get used to the flying people.”

  The song of the flyers crescendoed. Athene snorted and pranced sideways, jolting Lindy and knocking the wind out of her. Jim backed off fast.

  “At least put her in the repair bay.”

  “No! I can’t keep her quiet in there. Not now. She’d hurt herself.”

  “Lindy, I have to think of everybody’s safety—”

  “I won’t do it, dammit! Besides, she’s too hot, she’s got to keep walking or she’ll get sick. Just leave us alone and she’ll be all right. Jim, I can’t talk to you and calm her down at the same time.”

  Jim walked away from Lindy without another word, his shoulders stiff. He felt like he needed to do something, but he did not know what, so he called the bridge. Koronin’s Quundar still showed no sign of aggression. Jim wrestled down his wish that Koronin would take some action, [254] knowing it to be a reflection of his own frustration. He patched a channel through to sick bay.

  “Bones, how long before Commander Spock can be back on duty?”

  “Back on duty!” McCoy said. “Don’t count on him soon, Jim. He’s still unconscious.”

  “Damn.” Jim tried, without much success, to keep the aggravation out of his voice. The one time I could use a science officer, he thought, and he goes and gets himself put out of commission.

  “Jim—” McCoy said.

  “What?”

  “What’s going on down there?”

  The song soared, but the flying people had hardly moved: Uhura stood among them, silent and attentive.

  “Bones,” Jim said, “it beats the hell out of me.”

  He remembered soaring above the land, gathering the wind to him, his bones thin and hollow, his fingers enormously elongated, his narrow muscles powerful and tireless. He perceived sensory stimuli he had never before imagined. His preternaturally acute eyesight distinguished every blade of grass, every movement, every shadow. A small furred creature, oblivious to his presence, rose on its haunches in a tuft of grass and sniffed the air.

  He felt an acute surge of hunger. He swooped.

  McCoy puzzled over the readings on the medical sensors. Commander Spock’s pulse beat rapidly enough to sustain him. Treatment for shock pushed his temperature back toward its normal blast-furnace intensity. McCoy could find no permanent physical damage. Yet the Vulcan remained in a state of deep unconsciousness, the patterns of his brain depressed and erratic.