Star Trek - Log 2

by Alan Dean Foster

  "What is it, Carter? What's the matter?" Winston replied without hesitation.

  "When I left on that final journey, Anne, I fully intended it to be my last. One supreme foray into unknown regions to bring my finances back to where they'd been before. After that, I would return and marry you. But my ship was disabled, and I crashed on the planet Vendor. I'm told I was lucky to have survived at all. The Vendorians managed to help me repair my ship. I left their world after four years of hard work, only to be disabled in space once again."

  "But you've been rescued, you've survived," she almost shouted. "You're alive and we're together again! Nothing's changed." Winston looked away from her.

  "Anne, I've changed. First there was the surgery—a lot of surgery. Skin grafts, bone regeneration, replacement of damaged organs with artificial ones, blood replacement. The Vendorians are excellent surgeons." He smiled slightly at some distant memory. "They said I was more banged up than the ship.

  "After they put me back together again, the Vendorians assigned one of their own people to look after me and nurse me back to health?"

  All this was very interesting—fascinating, even—but it did nothing to explain Winston's original statement.

  "But you said you've changed, Carter. How? I don't see any change."

  "It's not a visible kind of change, Anne. It's a kind that—" He paused. Abruptly he seemed to give up any attempt at further explanation.

  "It's over between us, Anne. I can't really explain why, or how, but it's over. I didn't expect to have to go through this. All I can say now that it's happened is that I can't marry you, ever." He continued to watch her quietly.

  Her mouth moved but no sounds came out. Everything had happened so suddenly and seemingly so well. Even his first bits of explanation appeared to leave room for hope. Then he had abruptly grown firm and inflexible, hitting her with a declaration as blunt and cold as the dark side of the moon.

  She turned and, ran from the room, leaving Winston sitting alone on the cold examination table, staring after her.

  Kirk had performed the ceremonial gesture of drinking with the crew—sharing their spirits, so to speak. But he'd returned to the bridge soon enough. Now he was back in the command chair, using a light-writer to mark orders on a glass plate lined with metal. A young yeoman, Ayers, stood to one side, awaiting the captain's bidding.

  Nodding in satisfaction, he read back over the orders, signed the plate and handed it to her.

  "See these are delivered to the proper stations and processed through, Yeoman." Ayers saluted and left the bridge.

  A slight wave of dizziness assailed Kirk. He put a hand to his forehead. Possibly he'd overdone the annual Christmas camaraderie. He might be better off in his cabin for a while. It was one thing for the general crew to wander around mildly dazed during the holidays, but the captain was expected to remain cold sober at all times—in public, anyway.

  "Take the conn, Mr. Spock. I'll be in my cabin, completing the report on Winston's rescue."

  "Very good, Captain."

  Kirk rose and headed for the bridge-elevator. Spock shifted from the library station and took over the command chair.

  Kirk thought about the report as he made his way from the second elevator to his private quarters. He was still thinking about it after he'd kicked off his shoes and sat down at his desk. His finger activated the recorder, but for long moments he just sat and considered, unable to find anything to say. It was all so incredible, so utterly impossible.

  Five years completely out of touch with civilization! And who knew how much of that had been spent drifting free in space, without another human being for company.

  Oh, there were records of people surviving even longer periods of time adrift. The trouble was never with their bodies, but with their minds. Yet Winston seemed as sane and composed when he'd stepped out of the transporter as if he'd been gone only a day or two.

  Kirk shook his head in admiration. It had always been said the man was a remarkable person. Plenty of stories testified to it—the Cerberus incident being only one of many—and now Kirk knew it from personal experience.

  He was about to start dictating when the door chime demanded his attention.

  "Come—"

  The door slid back silently, and Winston walked in.

  "I hope I'm not intruding, Captain?"

  "No, please come in, Mr. Winston. I was just about to finish off the official report on your rescue." He grinned. "When Starfleet makes the details available, the news people will go crazy. You're liable to be faxed to death the moment you set foot on Federation soil."

  "I expect as much." Winston smiled back. "I've been down to inspect my ship. Your people were kind enough to stow it in the shuttle bay. You know, the steering propulsors still operate. Remarkable."

  Kirk turned away, hunting for the microtape analysis of Winston's ship. "Yes, it's an understatement to say the ship suffered severe damage. It'll never travel at warp-speed again, but some of the systems still function and are salvageable. And there are all your expensive fittings to consider.

  "Anyway, I've had my chief engineer examine it thoroughly and draw up a full report for you. It's here somewhere—"

  Winston crossed his arms over his chest. There was nothing particularly unusual in the gesture.

  The results were otherwise.

  His outline seemed to flutter, to blur, and then to flow like a thin, phosphorescent clay. The flow slowed, stopped.

  Where Winston had stood now rose a hideous, multicolored something. It had seven thick tentacles which met at the top and merged to form an oval bulge encircled with convex lenses. The lenses pulsed with faint light.

  One of the tentacles lifted from the floor. It touched Kirk gently, almost caressingly, on the back of the neck. The captain's eyes closed. Other tentacles moved to catch the slumping form. The creature lifted the unconscious Kirk and carried him effortlessly to the bed. Only a few seconds had passed from transformation to attack, and everything had been done in complete silence.

  Now the thing stepped back from the bed and crossed a pair of tentacles over its upper body—it had no recognizable chest. Again the blur, the watery flow. Once more the creature changed and became human.

  It didn't become Carter Winston.

  But it was human, nonetheless, and immediately recognizable.

  It was Captain James T. Kirk.

  Nurse Chapel entered the examination room from the laboratory area and moved to where Dr. McCoy sat engrossed in detailed inspection of a medical-engineering manual. She held the small hand scanner in one hand and several smaller supplementary instruments in the other. McCoy glanced up from his reading.

  "Well, Christine?"

  "Doctor," she said firmly, "I can't find a single thing wrong with these instruments. They all check out perfectly, including the principal scanner. But the readings still come out slightly off, still show those funny variations on Winston." She watched him expectantly.

  "What about the other tests you ran on Winston, after—" She hesitated. Two things travel faster than the speed of light—starships and gossip. Romantic gossip fastest of all.

  McCoy shrugged. Some things were impossible to keep secret. "After Anne Nored left? Some of them were off, some weren't. The differences don't even have the virtue of consistency, Christine. As it stands, these results make no sense at all. It's got to be our mistake." He stood.

  "Come on. We'll evaluate those readings again, and this time we're going to find the answer."

  The elevator doors opened onto the bridge, and Winston/Kirk entered. Spock looked back at him and rose from the command chair. Winston/Kirk took the seat as the first officer returned to his own station.

  Sulu glanced back at the command chair with interest. "Weren't you going to your cabin, sir?"

  "I've already been there, Mr. Sulu, but something came up before I could get started on the report. Something much more important. Lay on a direct course for Rator III." That prompted another loo
k, this time of more than just casual interest.

  "Through the Romulan Neutral Zone, sir?"

  "That was an order, Helmsman."

  Sulu looked uncertain. "But sir, if we're challenged in there, the Romulans can confiscate the ship. The treaty states that—"

  "I am fully conversant with the terms of the treaty, Mr. Sulu," responded Winston/Kirk, "and I believe you heard my order."

  "Aye aye, sir," the helmsman admitted reluctantly. He turned to the task of plotting the requested course.

  Spock, who had listened to this exchange with growing concern, finally felt obliged to at least say something cautionary. He wasn't normally in the habit of raising objections to any of Kirk's decisions, no matter how strange they sounded at first, because they always seemed to have a way of turning out to be reasonable in the end.

  But this one. Spock made a last check of his console. The readings confirmed his suspicions.

  "Captain, extreme long-range sensors hint at something within the neutral zone that lies along our anticipated course. At this exaggerated distance it is impossible to determine what it is. It might be another interstellar merchant ship like Winston's. It might also be a Romulan vessel. Or it might not be a ship at all. Still I do not feel it prudent to take the chance of trespassing unannounced in the neutral zone."

  "Mr. Spock," replied Winston/Kirk, "I've spoken with Winston about this at some length already. He has assured me that it is absolutely vital to get to Rator III in the shortest possible time. The survival of an entire planetary population may depend on it. Unfortunately, this necessitates our crossing through an arm of the neutral zone."

  "An admirable mission, Captain," Spock agreed. "But if we endanger our ship, we will be of no use to the people on Rator III."

  "We won't be of any use to them if we don't get there in time, either, Mr. Spock. I wouldn't have ordered it if I didn't feel it was safe to proceed. Winston said his sensors detected no sign of Romulans when he was passing through the zone, before his ship was disabled. I'm satisfied he was telling the truth. And his word is considered good, isn't it?"

  Spock hesitated a split second. "That has been his reputation, Captain."

  "Course laid in, sir," Sulu noted.

  "Execute," ordered Winston/Kirk. Sulu leaned forward and adjusted controls.

  "Proceeding."

  They felt no sense of motion-change. Space was too vast for inbuilt human senses to detect a switch in direction at warp-speeds. But the great starship gradually began to veer from the line it had been following and to turn in a broad curve that would take it into the neutral zone.

  Sulu needed only a few moments to double-check his readings.

  "We're on course, sir."

  "Very good, Mr. Sulu. Notify me if anything unusual should develop." He rose and moved towards the elevator. "I'm going back to my cabin. You have the conn again, Mr. Spock."

  Spock eyed the captain closely as the latter exited the bridge.

  Time passed. Nothing happened to disturb ship routine, which was perfectly all right with Spock. After some hard thinking, he finally thumbed the switch activating the ship's log and spoke softly into the pickup grid.

  "Ship's log, stardate 5402.7. First Officer Spock recording.

  "The captain's recent course change has taken us deep into the Romulan Neutral Zone. This change was apparently initiated on the request of our new passenger, Carter Winston. Information so far provided by Winston has proved accurate. We have detected no Romulan ships or, for that matter, other vessels of any kind.

  "Nevertheless, I have ordered all sensors kept on long-range scan and a close watch on any object engendering suspicion at the limits of scanner range. I have also . . ."

  Dizzy, he was still dizzy.

  Kirk winced and sat up suddenly in bed. Two things struck him right away. First of all, he hadn't had that much to drink. And eggnog had never, never had that kind of effect on him. He'd imbibed a lot of liquids quite a sight stronger than the holiday punch, which was pablum by comparison. None of them had ever hit him like this!

  And besides that—

  He glanced over at the chronometer set into the wall above his bed. Uh-uh, something was wrong with that, too. What had happened?

  Think back. Sometimes it was better to voice confusing thoughts in the presence of others. He couldn't figure out what had happened to him. Maybe someone else could.

  Kirk strode purposefully onto the bridge. Though he was feeling terribly confused, there was no point in letting anyone else know it, just yet.

  "I'll take the conn, Mr. Spock." Spock lifted an eyebrow slightly but moved away without comment. Sulu also glanced back at him curiously.

  Kirk sat back in the seat, relaxed, and tried very hard to remember. Introspection produced nothing, but a casual glance forward turned up an interesting node of information indeed.

  His gaze touched on the big chronometer on the navigation console, the one that set ship-time for the rest of the Enterprise. It read 1405.

  There was nothing world smashing in that. However, he distinctly remembered the time on his wall chronometer as he was leaving his cabin. 1404, it said. And when he'd been searching his desk for a certain cassette before—before falling asleep—he'd happened to notice the time on the desk timepiece.

  It had read 1400.

  Not shockingly significant, perhaps, but—

  Spock, who'd been watching Kirk indirectly ever since the other had returned to the bridge, noticed Kirk's confusion.

  "Is something wrong, Captain?"

  "I'm not . . . I'm not sure, Spock."

  "Do you feel all right, sir?" This from an alarmed Sulu.

  "Fine, Mr. Sulu, just fine. But am I?" He turned to Spock, mumbled half to himself, "I'd gone back to my quarters to dictate the rest of the rescue report . . . I remember that much. And I seem . . . to have fallen asleep. But the odd thing is, Mr. Spock, I can't recall moving from my desk to the bed. And I can't ever remember falling asleep so quickly—and so soundly—for just a few minutes.

  "If I was as tired as all that, it seems I ought to have slept an hour or so."

  "Possibly you needed the rest more than you think, Captain," suggested Spock, having no conclusions yet to jump to. "The body has its own system of checks and balances in that regard. You obviously required only the briefest of naps.

  "In any case, nothing has changed since you left. We're still on course through the neutral zone to Rator III."

  "But I don't remember going to—" Kirk stopped, looked at Spock in sudden amazement as his last words penetrated. "The Romulan Neutral Zone?"

  "It is the only neutral zone we were near, Captain," the first officer replied with gentle irony.

  "I gave no authorization to enter it, Mr. Spock. Did you order a course change?"

  "No, sir," Spock replied, now equally confused. "You did."

  "Ridiculous!" Kirk's mind was spinning. First a highly unnatural nap, and now Spock seemed to have gone crazy. Or maybe he was still asleep and this was all a bad dream.

  If so, it was long past time for him to wake up.

  "No one in Starfleet would issue such an order unless it was a matter of life and death, Spock."

  "I believe that was the rationale you employed, Captain." He turned and moved a toggle switch on the instrument panel above his head. There was a small screen set into the panel. Both he and Kirk stared at it.

  The screen came to life, and the scene that had taken place on the bridge only moments before was repeated.

  "Weren't you going to your cabin, sir?" intoned a recorded Sulu as Kirk watched incredulously.

  "I've already been there, Mr. Sulu . . . set a direct course for Rator III."

  "Through the Romulan Neutral Zone, sir?"

  "That was an order, Helmsman."

  Kirk turned away from the damning screen. He'd had enough. More than enough. "That will do, Spock." Spock obligingly shut off the recording and swiveled to face his captain.

  Kirk leaned
back in the chair, very thoughtful. A number of explanations suggested themselves. As he examined each one and moved on to the next, they grew progressively outrageous and less and less realistic.

  One thing he did know, though. Until this was all worked out and a reasonable explanation did suggest itself, he had to get off the bridge.

  "Mr. Sulu, locate Mr. Scott and have him report to the bridge to take command, please." He rose and headed towards the exit. Spock moved to accompany him.

  "Also, Mr. Sulu," he said back over his shoulder, "plot a course to take the Enterprise out of the neutral zone at warp-six. Lt. M'ress, put the ship on yellow alert."

  "Cerrtainly, Captain," acknowledged the concerned lieutenant.

  "Yellow alert, sir?" wondered Spock as the doors joined behind them.

  "I think it's necessary, Spock, until I can get a handle on this situation. I don't feel in a position to take any chances . . . with whatever's going on here. Surely by now you've noticed that both my actions and my orders of the past hour have been, well, contradictory."

  "I confess that something of the sort had occurred to me, Captain. But the reasons why—"

  "Mr. Spock," Kirk's voice was grim, "I don't remember giving those orders to enter the neutral zone. I left the bridge, went to my cabin, fell asleep for a few moments, and returned to the bridge. That's all."

  As usual, Spock's logic took precedence over tact, though Kirk didn't notice. He wanted answers, not sympathy. Too many vital things were at stake.

  "Perhaps it would be a good idea to have Dr. McCoy examine you, Captain?"

  "I agree absolutely. If I've become subject to mental blackouts, let alone physical ones, during which I give dangerous orders, then I've become a danger to the ship. I can't begin to imagine what's happened to me, but I can't take chances with a possibility like that."

  He hit a switch, and the elevator lights shifted from vertical to horizontal. They were now moving down the length of the Enterprise.

  It still didn't add up.

  The instruments themselves continued to check out, efficiency bordered on a hundred percent, and yet they persisted in coughing up the same ridiculous readings. McCoy muttered to himself, bent for the umpteenth time to try to correlate the numbers on the scanner with those in a printed table of fine print glowing on a small readout screen.