THE COVENANT OF THE CROWN

by Howard Weinstein

  “Oh, good. He doesn’t always. Vulcans aren’t too keen on killing unless it’s absolutely necessary—and what most people might consider necessary, Spock doesn’t always agree with.” He reached up and touched his head near the gash, then looked at his fingertips. “Well, it stopped oozing. You did an excellent job of first aid.”

  She blushed. “How do you know I did it?”

  “Oh, just a guess. Speaking of guesses, where are we?”

  “Mr. Spock wasn’t very sure of that.”

  “Oh, great. If he actually admits to that, then we must be in real trouble. It felt cold when you opened the door.”

  “It is. Mr. Spock says it’s five degrees Celsius.”

  McCoy noticed that Kailyn was wearing one of the Galileo’s thermal “second skin” jumpsuits, shiny and tight-fitting. “What’s the terrain like? I couldn’t help but notice we didn’t exactly land on a tabletop,” he said, gesturing up toward the front of the cabin. He could see gray sky through the front viewing port.

  “We’re in a valley. Nothing special about it. Oh, there’s a river nearby, so at least we have water.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, all right, I guess.”

  “No reaction?”

  She shook her head.

  McCoy smiled. “That’s good. You remember what I told you about being under stress.”

  She thought about all they’d been through, and her face lit up. “I guess that is pretty good.”

  “Damn good,” said McCoy. “We’ll give you a shot in a few hours.”

  The door slid open again and Spock climbed in. “Ah, Dr. McCoy, I see you’ve regained consciousness.”

  “Yes, and I see you’ve managed to get us into quite a fix with your blasted piloting. I told Jim he should’ve sent somebody along who knew how to fly this thing.”

  “I also see you’ve regained your agreeable personality.”

  “Never lost it. So what do we do now? Where in blazes are we?”

  “As nearly as I am able to determine, we are on the correct continent—”

  “That’s great aim, Spock.”

  “—within perhaps one hundred kilometers of the Kinarr Mountain range where the Crown is hidden.”

  “That’s not that far off,” Kailyn volunteered.

  “I wouldn’t want to have to walk it,” said McCoy.

  “For once, you and I agree, Doctor. We are to rendezvous with the Enterprise outside this system in less than four days. And there would appear to be no way for us to traverse the distance here within that time.”

  “What’s the difference?” said McCoy glumly. “We can’t get off the planet anyway.”

  “Can’t the shuttle be repaired?” asked Kailyn.

  Spock shook his head. “Not without spare parts. Not even the communications system.”

  So,” said McCoy acidly, “the facts are, we’re stranded on this planet, we can’t get to the Crown, and we can’t get to the Enterprise.”

  “Our immediate concern,” Spock said, “is survival. Assuming the ship returns to meet us according to schedule, they will not find us, and they will effect a search here on the planet. Our automatic distress signal is operative. If we can stay warm and fed, we can expect assistance to arrive. Captain Kirk is notably punctual.”

  McCoy brightened. “So all we have to do is tuck ourselves in, close the door, and hope no one knocks till the ship gets here to pick us up.”

  Kailyn and Spock exchanged glances and McCoy’s eyes darted from one to the other. “Why do I get the feeling you haven’t told me something I ought to know?”

  Spock clasped his hands behind his back. “A substantial portion of our food supply was contaminated. Fluid from various components leaked upon impact. But there is vegetation nearby, despite the rather cold local environment. We should be able to gather a sufficient amount. Kailyn and I will—”

  “Hold on, Spock. I’m not staying here all by myself while you two pick berries and nuts. As long as we’re stuck here, I’d at least like to stretch my legs. Besides, you’re no gourmet—you need me out there.”

  “Very well, Dr. McCoy. Put on a thermal suit and join us.”

  Where Orand had been a planet that seemed oblivious of the creatures living on its sand-scoured surface, not caring who or what might stay there and try to endure the heat, Sigma 1212 was quite another matter. Like a wild beast that refused to be saddle-broken, it was vigorously, openly hostile; from the violent radiation belts cloaking it in space to its tempestuous atmosphere, this rock-world bucked and howled and skittered to keep civilization from gaining a foothold amid it sullen valleys and forbidding peaks.

  In fact, Sigma’s desolation was one of the prime reasons Stevvin had chosen it to hide his Crown. He knew it would serve to discourage casual attempts to search out the concealed icon. Unfortunately, the planet’s inhospitable nature could not be peeled aside for Spock, McCoy and the King’s daughter.

  Hunched over to cheat the wind’s ice-pick edge, the trio moved away from the shuttle wreck. The ground was hard beneath their feet, and not a ray of sun penetrated the curtain of clouds stretching to every horizon. Sigma seemed painted in shades of gray. Even the hardy plants and bushes looked dull and colorless as McCoy and Kailyn broke off berries and leaves that might be edible. Spock dug out roots, checked everything with his tricorder, and carried the food collection in a shoulder bag. If their meals for the next few days wouldn’t be especially tasty, at least they would be nonpoisonous.

  McCoy scanned the general area, hoping to see some small animals they might be able to capture and cook. His stomach growled uncomfortably and refused to be pacified by thoughts of fibrous vegetation soup. But he spotted nothing furry and footed on the ground; they walked along the edge of a forest zone that extended for at least a half-mile, and he couldn’t see anything scurrying among the branches, either. Mixed with the continuous moan of the wind, he heard the rush of water over rocks.

  “Spock, let’s head down to that stream. Maybe we can catch some fish.”

  The Vulcan nodded and led the way down a slope covered with grass laid flat by the current of the breeze. McCoy and Kailyn carefully followed. The stream was no more than thirty feet across, and it flowed steadily though not especially fast. Perhaps twenty feet up from the water’s edge, the bank angled more steeply; the grass stopped, giving way to hardened mud, rocks, and gravel, and Spock knelt to investigate furrows etched into the ground.

  “Fascinating. These appear to be caused by flowing water.”

  McCoy shuddered. “You mean that little stream gets up this high? What could make it rise like that?”

  “Any number of factors. Heavy rains, runoff from the mountains, tidal effects. Meteorological reports on this planet do indicate a high incidence of severe cyclonic low-pressure systems. Such high winds and intense precipitation could account for a rapid increase in water levels of such minor tributaries.”

  Involuntarily, McCoy glanced up at the clouds, looking for signs of a storm; there were none apparent, but somehow that made him feel no less uneasy. “I don’t like being marooned here Spock.”

  “Nor do I. But while we are, there is little we can do, except to stay alert.”

  Kailyn stood up straight, turning her face into the wind. “I don’t know if I’m just imagining it, but it feels wetter.”

  “I think you’re right,” McCoy said. “We better get back to the shuttle.”

  Spock stood and hefted the shoulder bag. “Very well We have enough for now. Perhaps it would be safer to observe the weather from a place of shelter for a while.”

  With that, he took one step up the hillside—and froze, his slitted eyes sweeping the trees along the upper bank. Without lifting his gaze, he whispered back to his companions: “Walk down here along the stream bed. I believe we are being watched from those woods.”

  Grabbing Kailyn by the wrist, McCoy swallowed hard and silently followed the first officer back toward the clearing whe
re the shuttle waited.

  The stream seemed to be flowing more strongly now, and the spray coating the waterside rocks made them slippery. Spock set a rapid but careful pace, and kept one eye on the trees looming above them.

  When they reached a bend in the stream, where the woods grew down the bank and right up to the water, Spock made a sharp turn, cutting ahead of who or whatever was shadowing them. He offered Kailyn a hand to help her make the steep grade more quickly. They heard a pair of crisp thwangs—and two arrows neatly split a tree trunk no more than a foot from McCoy’s head. Kailyn gasped; McCoy stared first at the splintered tree, then at Spock. But before anyone could speak, the mysterious trackers stepped out of the gloom of the deeper forest. Eight humanoids surrounded the shuttle party without a word or sound. All were seven feet tall or over, clad in brown and black fur cloaks with animal-skin leggings and boots, their massive heads almost completely covered by matted hair and beards. One hunter, with silver hair, stood taller than the others; he uttered a growl, and his band frisked their prey and relieved them of phasers, tricorders, packs, and communicator. McCoy and Kailyn remained motionless out of fear, Spock out of extreme caution; their hands were bound with leather thongs and they were roughly pushed along a trail through the trees—heading away from the shuttle.

  “I don’t know what time it is,” McCoy whispered to Spock, out of Kailyn’s hearing. “But she’s going to need a shot soon. Without it, she may not be alive in four days.”

  Spock stumbled as one of the hunters shoved him. “The same may be said for all of us, Dr. McCoy.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Spock flexed his wrists, testing the strength and tightness of the woven leather rope binding them behind his back. The pain as the rope bit into his skin was merely distracting, not critical, but it made it clear that the bindings were there to stay.

  He, McCoy, and Kailyn were tethered by short lengths of rope to a stout post in what seemed to be a village square, in the center of about two dozen animal-hide tents. The post was designed with deep notches through which the ropes were tied. Had no one been guarding them, Spock might have been able to free himself, but they were being watched by one hunter, the one with the wild silver hair and the girth of a giant redwood. No one in the village was small—even the females were generally a head taller than Spock—but this hunter was among the largest. Judging by the bows with which he was greeted by passersby, he appeared to be some sort of clan leader.

  The Galileo party had been leashed to the post over an hour ago, almost immediately after the hunters had brought them into the village. The ropes weren’t long enough to permit them to sit, so they remained on their feet. Kailyn was tiring, and she leaned alternately on Spock and McCoy for support.

  Activity in the square began to pick up. Crude wooden benches were dragged out of tents by perhaps a score of villagers, both male and female, and vending stalls were set up. Some displayed furs and articles of clothing, others stone and wood tools, still others baskets of roots and berries, even vegetables and fruit that appeared to be garden-grown. Villagers not involved as sellers began to mill about the edge of the square. After several minutes, a wizened old male, skin hanging loose like an oversized coat on his rawboned frame, ambled to the center of the grassy marketplace. He had a drum cradled in the crook of one long arm, and he turned his wrinkled face up toward the clouds, mumbled a few words to himself, then beat the drum three times with his fist. At that signal, shoppers spread out and vendors began calling out repetitively, hawking their wares.

  As the unlucky group from the Galileo watched, they realized that they were the only live goods on offer, and they did not seem to be in great demand. Villagers with other products clutched in their arms and draped over their backs seemed to be giving the silver-haired hunter a wide berth. When a male and female finally wandered too close, he leaped from his tree-stump seat and accosted them with the zeal of a born salesman, chattering in a guttural language that was completely alien to Spock, who listened closely.

  The customers were obviously reluctant, and they tried to edge away, as the female tugged at the male’s hairy shoulder. But the hunter would not be denied his full pitch, and he clamped a vise grip on the male’s wrist. With his other hand, the big hunter scooped up a fair-sized tree branch, almost a log, though in his grasp it looked more like a twig. He dragged the couple closer to the merchandise, and he prodded McCoy with the end of the branch, poking him in the side. The doctor tried to twist away, and his motions seemed to delight the hunter, brightening his face as he spoke ever more excitedly. But the customers remained unimpressed.

  The hunter swung the branch over Kailyn’s head and stabbed Spock in the ribs. The Vulcan winced momentarily but braced himself and stood stock-still. The hunter did a double-take and glared at Spock. He prodded him again, and his eyes flashed in anger when the captive refuse to budge. With a growl, he raised the branch and cracked it like a whip across Spock’s shoulder. Spock closed his eyes, moved his shoulder just a jot—and the tree limb splintered with a sound like a rifle shot. The broken piece flew off end over end, and the hunter stared in disbelief at the stump left in his white-knuckled fist. The male and female stood back in wide-eyed awe, then realized this was their chance to escape and scuttled quickly to the next stall.

  The silver-haired hunter cast a rumbling sneer at his human livestock, shrugged, and tossed the last bit of tree branch off into the brush. Then he resumed his seat on the tree stump.

  “How did you do that?” said McCoy in a whisper.

  “Temporary suspension of pain input, and a simple exercise of muscle control,” Spock answered quietly.

  “Could I learn that?”

  “I doubt you could sustain your interest over ten years of Vulcan Kai’tan classes, Doctor.”

  “Probably right. Anyway, its not all that often that someone tries to break a tree over my shoulder.”

  McCoy peeked back at the hunter, whose anger at losing a sale had subsided. “I don’t know if I should be happy or sad that no one seems to want to buy us.”

  A dirty band of children had been making its round of the marketplace. The hunter took notice as they approached his captives, but only his eyes moved. They ventured closer, these squat miniatures of the village adults, clothed in hide britches. But they stayed carefully out of reach of the small hairless creatures tied up for barter. Even the youngest children had hair on their faces, though less than the adults, and less again on the young females. They stared at the naked-faced ones with eyes narrowed in suspicion—what if the strange ones kicked or spat, or even bit?

  One female, as tall as Spock, waited until the hunter’s attention had wandered back to seeking out potential buyers, then reached out a fuzzy hand and pinched Kailyn, who yelped. The big hunter sprang to his feet with a roar that sent the young ones scattering like buckshot. Arms crossed over his barrel chest, he gave the merchandise a look, then turned back to his tree stump.

  “Isn’t that nice,” McCoy said in a low voice. “He doesn’t want us bruised.”

  Suddenly, Kailyn slumped and Spock tried to catch her on his hip. The ropes tying them to the post were too short to allow her to fall to the ground, and she dangled, semiconscious.

  “She’s having a reaction, Spock. She needs a shot of holulin.” McCoy peered into her half-shut eyes. “We’ve got to have that drug.”

  Spock turned a rapid look toward the hunter. “Even if he could understand us, he does not seem disposed toward treating us any more kindly than he is at present.”

  “We’re his stock. If one of us dies, that’s less he’ll get for having captured and kept us. He’s got to understand that.”

  Spock nodded. “They do seem to have a clear comprehension of the rules of the marketplace. In fact, it is quite fascinating to observe such a clearly defined though rudimentary capitalistic system in a—”

  “Forget the economics lecture, Spock.” McCoy swallowed and faced the huge hunter, without the slightest notion of wha
t to say. He spoke the first words that popped into his head. “Hey, sir . . .”

  Spock gave him an arched eyebrow. “Sir?”

  “Well”—McCoy shrugged—“it couldn’t hurt to be polite.”

  “I hardly think he’d notice the difference.”

  But the hunter did notice the attempt at communication. He stirred, raised himself to his full height, and came over to his prisoners, looking more curious than angry.

  McCoy felt his heart racing, and figured an extra shot of adrenaline was just what he needed to get him to continue talking to this mountain of a humanoid looming over him.

  “She’s sick. The female . . .” He pointed at Kailyn’s limp body slung against the post. “She’s ill.” He let his own head slump onto one shoulder in a mock faint, but was sure he wasn’t getting through.

  The hunter furrowed his brow, leaned over, and picked up Kailyn’s head by the chin. He let it go and it fell back onto her chest; he seemed to understand that something was amiss, and he called to a younger, brown-haired male passing by. He was almost a head shorter than the silver-haired hunter, but with his dark mane and beard, and shoulders as broad as a mountain, he resembled a great bear on its hind legs. And he carried a spear.

  “A metal-tipped spear, Doctor,” Spock noted.

  “So what?”

  “That means these tribesmen have had some kind of contact with a more advanced culture.”

  Discussion was cut short by a growl from the old hunter, and the bear pointed his spear menacingly at the captives while the hunter released the leather thongs from their notched post. He held them securely and shook them like reins to get the prisoners moving. The spear carrier brought up the rear, keeping his eye and weapon trained on them as they moved toward an unoccupied tent. Spock glanced at the sky—night was coming, and the wind that had settled down to a breeze was whipping up again, making the tents flap in a percussion chorus.

  The hunter led them into the tent; there was an overpowering stench inside and McCoy almost tried to back out—the glinting tip of the spear convinced him otherwise. The old hunter reached down into a dark corner, picked up a small animal carcass and tossed it out, his only comment a grumbling syllable that could have been an oath. The spear carrier kept up the guard as the hunter exited and came back a few moments later with a heavy stone-headed sledgehammer and three horseshoe-shaped posts, larger in diameter than a man’s fist. Somehow, the wood had been soaked and curved, the ends sharpened into ground-penetrating stakes. The hunter hammered each one into the soil, then tied his captives securely to them. Once again, Spock, McCoy, and Kailyn were shackled, though at least this time they were bound in a sitting position. The hunter and spearman stepped out, then ducked back in long enough to toss several fur blankets onto the prisoners. The hunter’s head drooped onto his shoulder, imitating McCoy’s fainting demonstration, and he and his spear-carrying friend left amid growls of something like laughter.