by Greg Cox
“Stampede!”
His warning came too late for some of his men. The herd crashed into the raiders like a marauder at ramming speed. One man was gored upon a bony horn, while another was trampled beneath an onslaught of heavy hooves. The pirates fired at the stampede, cutting animals down right and left, but it was like trying to repel a meteor storm with a disruptor cannon; for every panicked beast they killed or stunned, dozens more galloped into the fields. An agitated megayak tossed an impaled raider into the air, honking loudly as it did so. He landed smack in the path of yet another oncoming beast. His gutted corpse vanished beneath an unstoppable tide of wildlife.
Habroz did not waste time mourning the fallen. The life of a raider was often a short one; that came with the job. Along with what was left of his men, he turned and ran from the stampede. “Climb the trees!” he hollered. “Get out of their way!”
Racing back up the hill, he clambered up the side of the nearest leafy sanctuary. Prosthetic steel fingers found purchase in the living bark and wood as he ascended to the upper branches of the tree. Just as he’d hoped, the stampede parted to go around the obstacle. Speeding megayaks streamed past him on either side of the tree trunk. Another pirate scrambled to climb up after Habroz, but not quickly enough. The herd slammed into him, sweeping him away. Habroz mentally added him to the death list. The man’s weapons and property would be auctioned off to pay for his funeral expenses, after the captain got first pick of his effects, as was his due.
The shuttle circled overhead, further agitating the herd. Habroz realized belatedly that the stampede had been no accident. He shook his metal fist at the flying shuttle.
Starfleet scum! You will pay for your trickery!
Climbing to his feet atop a sturdy branch, he saw that maybe half of his men had made it to safety. Pommu waved at him from a nearby tree, even as a never-ending flood of horned megayaks continued to rush past them. The bosun appeared to have lost his pistol in the chaos but looked otherwise intact. Who knew the fat old bastard could move so fast?
“Captain!” Pommu shouted to be heard over the thundering hooves. Choking clouds of dust coarsened his voice. “The time traveler! What about—”
A wooden spear slammed into his back, reducing his words to a bloody gurgle. Clutching his back, he tumbled out of the tree and into the path of the stampede. Pounding hooves drowned out his final breaths.
“Pommu!” The unexpected attack caught Habroz by surprise. “What in perdition?”
Since when did Starfleet resort to spears?
More missiles came whistling through the air. Spinning around, Habroz spied a party of red-skinned humanoids targeting them from the crest of the hill. The white-haired natives took shelter from the stampede behind the widest tree trunks, while continuing to take arms against the Orion invaders. A spear sped toward Habroz’s face, and he snatched it out of the air only a heartbeat before it took out his eye. His metal grip crushed the shaft of the arrow, reducing it to splinters. He glared furiously at the offending natives.
They should mind their own business!
He drew his pistol, intending to teach the ignorant hunters a lesson. Crude spears were no match for disruptors. He laughed scornfully at the natives’ primitive weaponry. Next they’ll be throwing rocks at us!
Then a flying stone slammed into the ground nearby, exploding with tremendous force. The concussive impact nearly knocked Habroz from his arboreal perch. Smoke rose from a newborn crater, only a few meters away. The explosion left Habroz dazed, his ears ringing.
“What—?”
He saw a native pluck another stone from a bag. The red-skinned hunter drew back as though to throw the rock at the Orions. More spears took flight.
“Enough,” Habroz muttered. A wise captain knew when a battle was turning against him. Firing back at the cursed natives, he shouted into his wrist-communicator. “Habroz to Navaar! We’re under attack! Beam us up now!”
They would have to snatch Annika Seven another day.
Alarmed by the spears and explosion, the panicked megayaks tried to change course. Their enormous weight crashed into the tree trunk below, almost spilling Habroz once more. Sparking emerald transporter beams flared across the hillside, grabbing the surviving raiders. Habroz managed to regain his balance even as he dissolved into atoms. A final blast from his disruptor killed one of the spear-tossing natives, avenging Pommu’s death.
It wasn’t enough.
• • •
“Commander Spock!” Chekov exclaimed. “The Navaar has lowered its shields again. They’re beaming a party aboard.”
The silent marauder maintained its inexplicable orbit around Gamma Trianguli VI. The Enterprise’s main viewer kept watch over the Navaar, which had yet to reveal its purpose here. Spock processed this latest development as he occupied the captain’s chair. Had the marauder’s landing party completed its unknown mission? And what did that mean for Captain Kirk and the others?
He had too many questions—and too little reliable data.
Chekov’s fingers were poised above the weapons controls. “Shall I target their engines, sir, before they restore their shields?”
“Hold your fire,” Spock instructed the impetuous ensign. “The Navaar has taken no hostile action against us. It would be premature to initiate a military engagement.”
“But they are Orions!” Commissioner Santiago blurted predictably. “How long are you going to cling to this ridiculous, and frankly irresponsible, insistence on giving them the benefit of the doubt? For all we know, they’ve already butchered your captain . . . and taken possession of Seven!”
“That possibility cannot be ruled out,” Spock conceded, “but we know nothing for certain. I will not open fire on a vessel on the basis of sheer speculation. To do so would be in clear defiance of Starfleet’s rules of engagement . . . and basic diplomacy.”
“Don’t talk to me about diplomacy!” Santiago snapped. “I’ve ended wars!”
“And I am hoping to avert one, Commissioner. Not all Orions are criminals and slavers.” Spock could think of at least one noted Orion astrophysicist. “If the Orions attempt to enslave or exploit the Vaalians, then we may have to consider taking action to protect the native population on Gamma Trianguli VI, but not before carefully weighing the facts as we know them.”
“But why won’t they talk to us?” Chekov asked. “What are they hiding?”
“A pertinent question,” Spock replied, “but mere silence does not constitute grounds for an attack. Only judicious caution on our part.” He gave the Navaar his full attention. “Your apprehensions are not unwarranted, however. Stand by to defend the ship if necessary.”
Spock was not naïve. Although the Orions had done nothing to provoke them so far, he knew that Chekov—and the commissioner—had good reason to be suspicious of their motives. History indicated that Starfleet and the Orions frequently had conflicting agendas, and the ruthless aliens were not known for their pacifism.
As the captain and the others may have already discovered.
“Lieutenant Uhura.” He addressed the communications officer. “How go your efforts to reestablish contact with the landing party?”
“Negative so far, sir.” She diligently worked her controls. “This interference is posing a challenge, but maybe if I stagger the phase variance and scan on all frequencies . . .” Her expert fingers kept up with her improvisations. “Yes! I’m getting through to them!”
Spock admired her creative thinking. “Well done, Lieutenant.”
But her jubilation was quickly supplanted by alarm. “Mister Spock! I’m receiving a distress call from the planet. Doctor Seven has been hurt!”
Hurt? Spock was immediately concerned, not just for Seven’s well-being but for the possible effects on the time line of her perishing long before her birth. Logically, this news was preferable to discovering that Seven had fallen into the hands of the Orions, but it was hardly a development to be welcomed. “What is the extent of her injuries?”
“Commander!” Chekov interrupted. “The Navaar has raised its shields again. It’s pulling away from the planet!”
“They’re still on impulse power,” Blackhorse confirmed. “Shall I set course to pursue them? We’ll have to move quickly if we want to catch up with them before they warp out of the system.”
“Negative, Lieutenant,” Spock said. While he remained curious as to why the Orions had set foot on Gamma Trianguli VI, now was not the time to investigate; the distress call took priority. “Beam the landing party aboard. And alert sickbay to expect casualties.”
“Aye, sir,” Chekov responded.
On the main viewer, the Navaar warped out of sight. Moments later, the long-range sensors lost track of it as well.
“The Orion ship has left the system,” Chekov reported.
The marauder had vanished as it had appeared: without explanation. Spock wondered where it had gone—and whether the Enterprise would encounter it again. Although he had little data on which to make such a prediction, he suspected that they had not seen the last of the Navaar and its crew. Captain Kirk might call such an expectation a hunch; Spock preferred to think of it as an educated guess.
“Damn it,” Santiago said. “They got away . . . again!”
“Good riddance,” his aide said. “If you ask me.”
Spock had more pressing matters to attend to. “The landing party?”
Uhura received confirmation from the transporter room. “Doctors McCoy and Seven are back aboard, sir, but the captain chose to return via the shuttle instead. A full trauma team is currently conveying Doctor Seven to sickbay.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Spock said, curious as to why Kirk had decided not to beam back with the others. “Keep me apprised of her condition.”
Chekov stared at the vacated space on the viewscreen. “I hope we didn’t just let the people who hurt Doctor Seven escape.”
Spock’s stoic expression never faltered. “I share your concern, Ensign.”
Thirteen
Kirk rushed into sickbay, muddy and out of breath. He had run straight from the shuttlebay after arriving back on the Enterprise. The backpack containing the captured fragments was strapped to his shoulders. After rapid deliberation, he had taken the pack from Seven so that they could beam her directly back to the ship without risking her disappearing again. Just to play it safe, he had ridden back in the shuttle with Sulu instead.
He found McCoy tending to Seven, who was stretched out on a bio-bed, beneath an insulating gold blanket. A sterilization field protected her from further infection, while the overhead sensor cluster monitored her vital signs, which were reported on the wall monitor above the bed. Kirk saw at a glance that her pulse and respiration were weak but climbing. To his relief, she was able to speak.
“The components?” she said anxiously.
He patted the pack. “Safe,” he assured her. “Don’t worry about it.”
His words seemed to calm her. Her eyes closed as she drifted off. Kirk eyed the monitor tensely.
“How is she, Bones?” he asked.
“She’ll live,” McCoy said. The doctor had changed into a clean and presumably more antiseptic uniform, but he still had traces of mud in his hair. Both men looked as though they’d been through the wars. “It was touch and go for a while there, and she’s going to need plenty of rest, but I’m pretty sure she’ll pull through.”
Kirk was glad to hear it. “Good work, Doctor.”
“I wish I could take all the credit, but her . . . unique . . . recuperative abilities did most of the heavy lifting.” McCoy glanced around to see if any of his staff was listening and lowered his voice. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Jim. As nearly as I can tell, there are microscopic machines in her bloodstream that are already filtering out the toxins and repairing the damage to her cells. It’s uncanny.”
Kirk caught a note of unease in the doctor’s voice. “You sound like you don’t entirely approve.”
“Maybe,” McCoy admitted. “As far as I’m concerned, some people—and technologies—should stay in their own eras. What’s been done to her body seems to go beyond medicine . . . and maybe even humanity.”
“Commissioner Santiago would disagree,” Kirk pointed out, “at least about the future technology part. And who knows? Maybe he has a point. From what you’re saying, there’s a lot we could learn from her.”
Kirk was curious to get McCoy’s take on the dilemma. Knowing Bones, the doctor was bound to have an opinion.
McCoy did not disappoint.
“I don’t know, Jim.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “Maybe we’re not meant to know the future. How do we know we’re ready for whatever Seven is hiding?”
Kirk was inclined to agree, but he felt obliged to play devil’s advocate, if only to address his own doubts. “But what about the potential medical breakthroughs? Suppose she’s holding back a cure for Anchilles Fever? Or Irumodic Syndrome?”
McCoy wavered. “You’ve got me there,” he admitted. “I’d give up my miserable excuse for a pension to crack just one of those plagues. All the same, something about this business doesn’t sit right with me. Even seemingly harmless new medical advances can be abused if they fall into the wrong hands. Life-saving new drugs can lead to addiction and social collapse. Revolutionary surgical techniques can be used to lobotomize, mutilate, and torture. Cybernetics can transform people into machines. Expanding lifespans and fertility can lead to overpopulation, like on Malthus Prime.” His voice grew heated as he warmed to his theme. “Look at Earth’s own history. Genetic engineering held the promise of eradicating birth defects and hereditary disease. Instead we ended up with the Eugenics Wars . . . and Khan Noonien Singh.”
“Good point,” Kirk said. “But like it or not, Seven is part of our time line now. Perhaps we can’t just ignore that?”
“Why not?” McCoy argued. “I swore an oath enjoining me to ‘First do no harm.’ Maybe Commissioner Santiago should take a hint from Hippocrates.” He glanced down at his sleeping patient. “I don’t know about you, but I’m planning to scrub all records of those micro-machines in her blood . . . and everything else that’s not of this era. I’ll sleep better that way.”
Kirk nodded. “You make a persuasive case, Doctor.”
“Damn straight I do.” McCoy looked the disheveled captain over. “Now then, let’s get you checked out as well.”
“That’s not necessary, Bones.” Kirk started toward the exit. “I’m needed on the bridge.”
McCoy moved to block him. “Not until you get some of those cuts and scrapes looked at.” Kirk started to protest, but McCoy cut him off. “Don’t even try arguing with me. Have you glanced in a mirror, Jim? You look like hell.”
Kirk peered down at himself. His tunic was torn and muddy. His soggy uniform dripped onto the sterile white floor. Water sloshed in his boots. Various nicks and scratches barely seemed worth bothering with, but it probably wasn’t a bad idea to have them cleaned out and disinfected. Who knew what sort of alien microbes had been lurking in Gamma Trianguli VI’s air and water?
“All right, Bones. You win.”
Confident that Seven was out of immediate danger, and that Spock could hold down the fort a while longer, Kirk let McCoy lead him away to an adjacent examination room. Stripping to the waist, he sat down on the edge of a spare bed while McCoy tended to various small cuts and bruises. Nurse Ufgya, a petite blue-skinned Andorian, fetched the captain a towel, which he used to wipe away most of the mud caking his face. Kirk tugged off one boot and tipped it over. Dirty brown water spilled onto the floor.
“A shame about Jadello,” McCoy said. “He was a good man.”
“That he was,” Kirk agreed. He made a mental note to recommend him for a posthumous commendation. Like Bergstrom back on Yusub, the martyred lieutenant was hardly the first crew member to perish under his command, and he would surely not be the last, but Kirk hoped that he would never take such sacrifices for granted. He was not lookin
g forward to notifying Jadello’s family of his demise. Was he married? Did he have any children? Siblings? Kirk hoped not. He knew what it was like to lose a brother . . . and a child.
Somebody was going to miss Jadello. That was for sure.
And all because some cutthroat tried to kidnap Seven.
Anger flared inside him as he recalled the ambush. A rapid-fire briefing, conducted en route back to the Enterprise, had brought him up to speed on the ship’s inconclusive encounter with the Navaar. His fists clenched at his sides as he committed Captain Habroz’s name and face to his memory. As he’d promised McCoy back on the planet, he wasn’t going to forget about the Orions’ vicious attack.
Nobody kills my people and gets away with it.
“Please lift your arms, Captain,” Ufgya requested as she supplemented McCoy’s efforts by waving a glowing wand over Kirk’s battered torso. The sterilizing radiation raised goose bumps on his skin. Minor lacerations itched all over. Her twin antennae studied him professionally. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
“I’ll bet you get tired of saying that.”
Ordinarily, Kirk might enjoy being fussed over by an attractive nurse, but right now he had more serious matters on his mind. As he submitted to Ufgya’s ministrations, he considered the full implications of what had transpired down on Gamma Trianguli VI. Hostile forces were after Seven, either the Orions themselves or whomever they were working for.
“How did they know how to find us?” he asked aloud, after the nurse had wandered off. “Could there be a leak at Starfleet . . . or maybe even a spy on the ship? I don’t want to think that a member of my own crew might sell us out, but not even Starfleet’s screening processes are perfect. Look at Ben Finney or Marla McIvers.”
“Heck, they let you into the Academy,” McCoy cracked. “And Spock.”
Kirk appreciated his friend’s attempt to lighten the atmosphere, but he wasn’t in the mood. “I’m serious, Bones. How did the Orions manage to jam our comm systems? They would need to know classified Federation codes and frequencies to pull that off. Are we dealing with a snake in the grass, or am I just being paranoid?”