The slik't soared and glided, sinuous, graceful for all its size and deadly capabilities. Kirk felt a burning in his chest as he strained for more oxygen than T'nufo was willing to give him. His legs started to get sore, sore and rubbery, as they felt the deprivation.
There was a broadening of the ledge he traveled, a hooting of the wind in the hills to his left. A further darkening of the sky by a shade.
A turning, a winding of both the ravine and the valley that rose around it—and the slik't was lost to his sight around a slope of naked rock.
Kirk surged forward, stumbled on some loose rocks, surged again, and came around the bend—hoping that the creature hadn't finally eluded him.
It hadn't. In fact, it was no longer coursing along on the air currents above the ravine. As he watched, hearing the breath rasp savagely in his throat, feeling his heart pound against his ribs, the slik't flung out its massive wings and came to roost.
The creature's nest was situated some twenty feet above the opposite ledge, on a chunk of rock that jutted out from the hillside. There were three or four younglings inside, and they sent up a chorus of piping sounds as soon as the slik't began to alight.
Kirk hadn't noticed it before, as he'd been behind the creature the whole time, but it had been carrying a small animal in its beaklike mouth. No sooner had the carcass been deposited in the nest than the younglings began to tear at it.
It was only after a moment that Kirk was able to tear his eyes from that grisly tableau. And that's when he noticed the humanoid form sprawled on the ledge below the nest, surrounded and nearly concealed by the scrub trees.
The P'othparan was sprinkled with loose branches, which he must have grabbed at as he fell. Also, a large rock seemed to lay across one of his legs. Had he dislodged it as he reached for the nest? And managed to somehow get pinned beneath it?
Kirk peered at the youth from across the ravine. There were no signs of blood, though it was hard to tell in the descending gloom. And no movement whatsoever.
The slik't screamed and spread its wings suddenly. Kirk looked up and saw that its long narrow head was pointed in his direction. He could barely make out the ruby-colored slits of his eyes, but he had a feeling he knew whom they were trained on.
As he slowly backed away from the brink of the ravine, his communicator beeped. He opened it.
"Kirk here," he said, still breathing hard.
"You've only a minute now before impact, Captain." It was Spock's voice, and Kirk thought he detected a trace of anxiety in his first officer's normally dispassionate tone. "Mister Scott is still waiting in the transporter room."
With Kirk's retreat, the slik't had returned to its nest. But it still had a bead on him.
"Spock," he said. "I thought I'd be hearing from you before long."
He turned his attention to the figure on the ledge. Gauged the distance across the ravine, and the space his own ledge would afford him for a running jump. Estimated the time it would take to roll that boulder off the P'othparan.
"Captain?"
"I'm still here," said Kirk. "And I've found the fellow I was looking for, though he's a little worse for wear. Alert Doctor McCoy that we'll need a trauma unit in the transporter room. And tell Mister Scott that there will be two to beam up—but not right away. I need a little more time."
"There's not much time left," said Spock. He could almost hear the Jim on the end of Spock's plea.
"Give me one minute," said the captain.
"Impact will have begun by then," said the Vulcan.
"But only barely. Kirk out."
He flipped the communicator closed and attached it to his belt again. Then he backed off even farther from the ravine—as far as he could, until he had a slope too steep to climb behind him.
Here goes nothing, he told himself.
And sprinted across the ledge. When he reached the lip of the ravine, he launched himself with his last step. Impenetrable darkness yawned beneath him, like the maw of a leviathan.
Then he was across, scrambling to keep his balance on the gravel that covered much of the ledge. He scraped one knee badly before he came up against the far slope—not more than a few feet from the P'othparan.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kirk saw the slik't dart out from its nest—heard the whoosh of its wings as it took to the air.
But he couldn't concentrate on that now. In a matter of seconds, he and the youth would be beamed up. And if he couldn't roll the boulder out of the way, it would be beamed up with them—become part of the molecular mix that the transporter had to sort out, a part it wasn't programmed for. Kirk didn't want to take the chance that they'd be integrated with the rock when they materialized.
As he laid his shoulder against the boulder, he caught a glimpse of the P'othparan's face. It was still, so still. Was he too late?
The slik't shrieked, stooped as if to slash at Kirk with its talons. But it was used to attacking on open ground, apparently. The sheer size of its wings and the profusion of scrubs kept it from getting too close to the slope.
Kirk threw his weight behind the boulder, pushed. It rocked a little, but that was about it.
The slik't shrilled and came at them again, from another angle. A second time, it found the space too difficult to negotiate, and managed only to slash one of the branches as it went by.
Suddenly, Kirk's eyes were drawn past the creature—up to the heavens, where streaks of gold were falling. As he watched, they multiplied, stretched across the darkening sky.
It gave him a new sense of urgency. With all his strength, he heaved at the boulder. Slowly, it began to budge. And a moment later, all at once, it rolled free of the P'othparan.
The youth stirred, murmuring something. Kirk leaned over him, saw the eyelids flutter, and then lie still again.
He gripped the youth's shoulder. "Hang in there," he told him, though he had no way of knowing if the P'othparan could hear him, much less understand the words.
The slik't was soaring, preparing to attack a third time, when the first meteor hit. It made a sound like a thunderclap, and the force of it made the ground shudder.
A big one, Kirk remarked to himself.
The second one was less noisy, but the third was as loud and as close as the first. Then they started coming in rapid-fire succession.
It relieved Kirk of one problem. Startled by the sound and the sudden streaks of light, the slik't rapidly sought the refuge of its nest, where its younglings were piping frantically.
However, his other problem was growing greater by the moment. So far, none of the meteors had fallen in this particular valley. But for how long would they continue to be spared?
He opened his communicator.
"Scotty?"
The chief engineer's voice was as taut as he'd ever heard it.
"A'm tryin', Captain—a'm givin' it m'best shot. But m'poor transporter's been strained t' th' limit, and she's just nae respondin'—sir!"
The sky was resplendent with meteors now. They exploded among the distant hills every few seconds, sending tremors through the earth.
"How long before you can get it working again?" asked Kirk, ignoring the cold slither of panic in his gut.
Scotty cursed eloquently. "A few minutes, maybe more.
She needs t'draw up enough power—"
Abruptly, he was cut off by a wave of static. Kirk made some adjustments in the setting, but it didn't help. The meteor activity must have blocked the signal.
The P'othparan murmured again.
"Don't worry," Kirk told the wan and expressionless face.
"It won't be that long. The transporter was working just a little while ago."
He glanced at the streaks of gold in the sky, felt their distant impacts.
"He'll have us up in no time," said the captain. "Scotty always works faster than he thinks."
The youth's mouth worked, but this time nothing came out.
Kirk swallowed. "C'mon, Scotty. C'mon.
" Suddenly,
there was a tremendous impact high on the slope opposite them. Kirk shielded his eyes from the blinding flash as the meteor shattered the rock of the hillside, producing a rain of fragments. Some of them burned as they plummeted.
Hovering over the P'othparan, Kirk took the brunt of the barrage. Fortunately, all the bigger fragments seemed to miss them—but even the smaller ones hurt like the devil.
For a while, as the dust cleared, there was silence. A space in time free of the terrible explosions, the ground-jarring impacts.
Kirk raised his head, wondering if the storm had somehow passed by the valley. Then he saw what was headed for them.
Instinctively, he ducked.
The meteor hit the slope above them about halfway up, and the whole island seemed to lurch. Fiery death blossomed from the hillside, came cascading toward them.
That's when Kirk felt the tingling he'd been hoping for. And before the blazing rain could claim him, he was kneeling on the transporter platform—with the P'othparan cradled in his arms.
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Chapter Three
ON THE STARSHIPHood, the distress call was distinct and unmistakable.
This is Doctor Aaron Brown. Repeat, Doctor Aaron Brown, of the Roger Korby expedition. Do you read me? This is Doctor Aaron Brown. . . .
Communications Officer Alan Paultic swiveled in his seat, to face the command chair and Captain Martinez.
"It's a preset message, sir," said Paultic, "transmitting on several different frequencies. On some kind of loop, so that it repeats continuously." He made some quick calculations. "And it's coming from deep beneath the planet's surface."
Martinez peered at the forward monitor and the blue-white world depicted there. "Return the signal," he said finally. "Pertinent data, Lieutenant Banks?"
Science Officer Banks consulted with his computer terminal. Small, vivid lights flashed on and off, reflected on his dark, flawless skin.
"Its name is Exo III, Captain. Gravity one point one Earthnorm, atmosphere breathable. But the surface temperature is a hundred degrees below zero—which is why, I imagine, the signal's coming from beneath the surface."
"So it would seem," commented Martinez, thoughtfully. Banks' temples worked as he called up another file.
"Doctor Roger Korby. Known as the Pasteur of …"
Martinez held up a hand.
"Spare me that particular bio, Lieutenant. I'm quite familiar with Korby's work." He paused. "And Exo III was the world he disappeared on, wasn't it?"
"It was, Captain. But that was more than five years ago. Since then, three expeditions have failed to find him. The most recent was that of the Enterprise—only a few months ago."
Martinez glared at the viewscreen, as if he could wring some more information out of it. But the blue-white world just hung there, impassive.
"What about this Doctor Brown? Can we confirm that he was part of the expedition?"
Banks keyed in another callcode. The file sprang up on his terminal.
"He was indeed," said the science officer. "Aaron Brown. First accompanied Doctor Korby on Orion excavation, stardate—"
"Thank you," said Martinez. "That's quite enough, Lieutenant."
Banks bit his lip and punched the button that would clear his screen.
"Sir?" It was Paultic.
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, I've made contact with Doctor Brown."
"Put it up on the screen, please, Paultic."
A moment later, an image coalesced on the monitor. The face they saw was a narrow one, with dark brows and graying temples.
"This is Doctor Aaron Brown," said the man on the screen. He smiled. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Captain Joaquin Martinez, U.S.S. Hood," returned the captain. "What's your situation down there?"
"One of delight," said Brown. "It's been years since we've seen another human face."
"You mean you and Doctor Korby?"
Brown registered sadness.
"I'm afraid," he said, "that Doctor Korby died shortly after our crash landing here." He seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Only I and another of his assistants—Johann Zezel—survived."
Martinez grunted. "I'm sorry to hear about Doctor Korby. I'd admired him for some time."
"So did we all," said Brown.
"Paultic," said the captain, "make arrangements with engineering to have these men beamed up."
"Actually," Brown interjected, "there's more than ourselves to beam up. We've made some … fascinating discoveries down here, Captain. You'll no doubt want to take a look at them before we bring them on board."
"Discoveries?" echoed Martinez.
"Yes," said Brown. "Of a sensitive nature. I'm sure you understand."
Martinez frowned. "Of course. I'll beam down with a few of my officers as soon as we can get a fix on your coordinates."
Doctor Brown nodded. "Thank you, Captain. We'll be waiting."
The image faded.
"Captain," said Paultic, "Mister Berg says he's established the source of the signal. He's ready to transport."
"Good," said Martinez. "But tell him he'll be beaming down instead of up. A party of three—myself, First Officer Stuart, and Science Officer Banks."
Paultic relayed the information to the transporter room.
For a moment, Martinez just sat there—staring at the dark and featureless viewscreen, massaging the lower portion of his face.
Something bothered him—had, in fact, since they first received the distress call. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
It was more than the question of survival. Given sufficient supplies and equipment from their wrecked ship, Brown and—what was his name? Zezel?—could have kept themselves alive, he supposed. Even reconstructed the devices they'd used to send out the signal.
But why hadn't the other expeditions turned them up—heard the signal? Jim Kirk, captain of the Enterprise, was about as thorough as anyone he'd ever known. Why hadn't Kirk discovered them?
Perhaps, he told himself, they'd only recently gotten the communications equipment to work. Yes—that would be it, wouldn't it?
Just in case, however, he had Paultic put him through to security.
"Simmons here, sir."
"Stand by with a landing party, Mister Simmons. Ready to beam down at my request."
"Will do, sir."
"Thank you," said Martinez.
He felt a little better now. Standing, he turned over the conn.
As Kirk came into the chamber, Brown was swiveling away from the communications system.
"They are beaming down," said Brown.
"Yes," said Kirk. "I heard."
He noticed the expression of concern on Brown's face—the lines that converged at the bridge of his nose.
"Is something wrong?" asked Kirk.
"I don't think Martinez was entirely convinced by my performance. I wonder if he suspects … something."
Kirk shrugged. "And what if he does? Can he refuse to honor our request, knowing what kinds of 'discoveries' Doctor Korby's teams have unearthed in the past?"
"But if he believes something is amiss, will he not take precautions?"
"Some," conceded Kirk. "He'll be armed, for one thing. And he'll probably have a security force ready to beam down at a moment's notice."
"Then perhaps," suggested Brown, "we should alter our plan. If we were to—"
"No," said Kirk. The chamber rang with his response. "There will be no alterations. You will do exactly as I've instructed."
Brown looked at him. "Even Doctor Korby did not speak to me in that tone of voice."
"Doctor Korby failed," said Kirk. "I will succeed."
"Doctor Korby was the creator," said Brown.
Kirk regarded him, saw the anxiety etched deeply into his face.
It was the wrong time to antagonize Brown. Without him, Kirk could accomplish nothing.
"Of course," he agreed. "But his was the mind of a scientist—a philosoph
er. Not that of a military strategist."
After a moment, Brown relaxed. He seemed to accept the distinction.
"Now, go," said Kirk. "Our friends will be transported to the surface momentarily." He smiled. "We don't want to keep them waiting."
Dutifully, Brown stood and crossed the room. A moment later, the door opened and he was gone.
Kirk watched him go, glad once again that he had introduced an obedience protocol into the replication program. It would make matters so much easier.
Science Officer Jamal Banks hated the cold.
His first tour of duty had been in a floating exploration base on the polar seas of Rakatut Two. In a year and eight months, he'd never felt warm enough.
Now they stood just inside a cave—or rather, the outermost of a system of caves—the snow-and-ice terrain of Exo III rising and falling all around them, until it culminated in a hard, serrated ring of mountains. The sky was gray and flat, with only a dim, pinkish disk of a sun to lend any color to the place.
Banks shivered, despite the fact that a transparent barrier protected him from the frigid temperatures outside.
"Well," said Stuart, "what do you think?"
"We'll give them a few more minutes to show up," said the captain. He peered into the half-dark cave. "I'd hate to ask Berg to transport us down there. It'd be pretty tricky, and I've got no desire to become a permanent feature of the rock."
Banks, standing closest to the opening, heard something. A scraping, as of footfalls on a coarse and uneven surface.
"I think they're coming," he said.
Martinez didn't address any response at all to him. And that was fine as far as Banks was concerned. Being ignored, he'd decided a while ago, was far better than being ridiculed and belittled.
He still didn't understand why Martinez disliked him so. He was a good science officer—efficient, dedicated, all he was supposed to be. Yet the captain had had it in for him since he stepped on board the Hood.
Somehow, he'd rubbed Martinez the wrong way—right from the beginning. Or was there any truth to Vedra's theory about Banks's predecessor?
No matter. His transfer was about to come through. His friends in Starfleet had told him as much. And when it did, he'd no longer have to put up with Martinez.
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