[Star Trek Logs 02] - Log Two

by Alan Dean Foster - (ebook by Undead)

  McCoy’s seamed face was every bit as shocking.

  He started to run for the remembered exit and pulled up, grabbing at his left leg. It seemed that in the past few hours he’d not only acquired wrinkled hands and face and a streak of white in his hair, but also a mild case of bursitis.

  He felt unbelievably helpless.

  Uhura and Chapel stared down at the readout screen of the main medical computer in Sick Bay. They mentally tried to urge the machine to greater speed. As if in response to their unvoiced pleas, a microtape cassette promptly popped out of the response slot.

  Chapel picked it up and both women moved to the desk playback table. She inserted the small plastic rectangle, hit the necessary switch. She spoke to Uhura as the machine automatically rewound the unplayed tape.

  “The results of every scan, every probe made by the female science teams. If there’s an answer it’ll be on this.” The accompanying screen winked on and there was a tiny hum as the computer voice activated.

  “Computer evaluating.” The two officers took a deep breath. “Summation of recent medical and astrophysical scans, with analysis, as per request Head Nurse C. Chapel.”

  Faint sounds of mechanical life followed. Each second took an hour. Then the voice finally came again, indifferent as it was authoritative.

  “Probe is directed at ship from indicated planet, as initially surmised. Probe wavelengths are severely enervating to humanoid males. Prolonged exposure to probe’s effects over a long period of time, or if signal is intensified according to figures shown on chart, can cause increasing weakness and accelerated aging to the point of death.”

  Chapel made a slight strangled noise and Uhura looked stunned.

  “At least we’ve some idea now what we’re dealing with,” the communications officer said grimly. She directed her next words to the computer pickup. “How do we counter this effect?”

  “Countering methodology not available. No projected medical antidote to hypothesized effects. Initiate search?”

  “Initiate—and keep advised,” ordered Uhura sharply. She moved to the wall communicator as Chapel ran through the figures once again.

  “Lieutenant Uhura to Security Officer Davidson.” A middle-aged, efficient-looking woman appeared on the tiny intraship screen.

  “Davidson here. What’s going on Lieutenant? The men in my section have been …”

  “…acting like lotus-eaters ever since we entered orbit, I know. I’ll explain later, Davidson. Right now I want an all-female security team in the main transporter room as of five minutes ago. All-female security teams are to be mobilized at every entrance to the transporter deck and in the shuttle bay. Anyone—particularly any male—who attempts to transport down to the surface is to be placed in protective custody. I don’t think any of them will become violent—we’ve no indications of that so far. But instruct your personnel to be prepared.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant, but—”

  “You and Lieutenant M’ress will be in command of the ship until I return. I’m taking down a security detail myself.”

  “As you say, Lieutenant.” Davidson looked doubtful, but saluted briskly. Uhura cut the transmission and turned to Chapel; she found the head nurse staring at her with wide eyes.

  “What are you planning, Uhura?” The latter was already heading for the elevator.

  “I’m taking command of this ship!”

  Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and Carver stood in the audience chamber facing the imposing dais. Theela sat there, watching them. Darah and the other women relaxed nearby, also watching. The men swayed weakly, the blue gems set in their headbands now glowing brightly.

  Only Spock and Carver were a step above total collapse. Kirk and McCoy were in bad shape.

  “We must return,” the Enterprise’s first officer murmured tiredly, “to our duties on board our ship.” Next to him, Kirk frowned uncertainly. He was clearly straining to remember… to remember… what?

  Duties—that was it, duties. He looked up at the staring women. “Duties… I have…” He stumbled again as the jewel pulsed brightly and had to grab at Spock’s arm for support. That arm was not what it should have been and as a result, both men nearly fell.

  Theela spoke. She seemed genuinely sorry, no longer adequate consolation to Kirk and his men. “You cannot leave, Mr. Spock,” she said slowly, “for you are needed here. As the low waves of the Lura-mag work on your crew, they will come to feel as you do. They are also needed, and they too will join us here.”

  Kirk drew himself up, finding a last reserve of strength somewhere. “We must go.” Turning toward the door he staggered off. McCoy tried to follow and nearly collapsed. Again, it was Spock who steadied him.

  “Obstruct them!” Theela shouted.

  The other women moved rapidly to form a barrier between Kirk and the other officers, blocking their path to the main exit. Shaking with stabbing, suddenly increased weakness the men hesitated. They had nothing to fight with, their weapons having been taken from them while they slept.

  “Together!” Kirk gasped. Somehow they managed to rush the women. But the giantesses grabbed their arms and pushed and dragged them back easily. Their weakness seemed to increase sharply at the physical contact, and they grabbed at their headbands. One by one they slumped helplessly to the floor. On each man’s forehead the blue gem shone with appalling intensity.

  On the bridge of the Enterprise, Engineer Scott lounged dreamily in the command chair. His eyes were focused on the viewing screen and the dreamworld that seemed to be depicted therein. A constant flow of sensuous, beckoning images drifted back and forth in front of him.

  The Scottish beret he now wore was tilted at a rakish angle. He was singing an old Gaelic love ballad. Normally, Sulu would have found the rendition distasteful and Arex would have been indifferent. But both seemed to find Scott’s performance the greatest musical experience since Gabriel.

  Uhura and Chapel entered from the elevator. The lieutenant’s gaze was drawn immediately to Scott. The ballad approached its end as the two officers approached.

  She’d been dreading this moment. How would Scott react? Regardless of any objections, he had to be removed from command—by force, if necessary. In his present condition there was no telling what he might order. She hoped Chapel wouldn’t be forced to use the hypo secreted in her belt. There was no hesitation in her voice, however.

  “Mr. Scott, as senior lieutenant I’m taking responsibility for the safety of this ship.”

  Scott turned at these astonishing words and stared up at her. There was an awkward silence. Uhura fidgeted inwardly. Was the strange probe capable of inducing emotions other than pleasure?

  Apparently not. Scott merely smiled absently up at her.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, luv.” He swiveled in his chair and returned his gaze to the viewscreen. Uhura should have been relieved. Instead, she felt only disgust.

  “Not as hard as I expected it might be. Damn. Whatever it is, it’s really got its hooks into them.” She reached around the humming engineer and switched on the log ’corder. Scott made no move to interfere—not that he was in any shape to offer resistance.

  “Ship’s log, supplemental. Lieutenant Uhura recording.

  “Due to Chief Engineer Scott’s euphoric state of mind, which precludes effective direction, I am assuming command of the Enterprise in the absence of senior officers Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. I accept full responsibility for my actions.

  “A detailed account of the events leading up to and dictating this action will be entered later.” Off went the recorder and she added to Chapel, “I hope. Christine, until further notice you will serve as chief medical officer.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  In a small chamber somewhere within the main temple, Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and Carver lay stretched out on a huge slumber platform. It was neither as spacious nor as lavishly furnished as their former “slumber chamber.” All four were groggy from sleep.

  They were apparently al
one in the tiny, dark room. There was little light, but it wasn’t dark enough to prevent each man from seeing that his companions had aged even further in the last hour.

  McCoy’s hair was now almost pure white, while Spock’s eyebrows were salted with gray. There were deeper lines in Kirk’s face, heavy pouches under his eyes. He rolled over on his side and studied the room.

  “They’ve gone.”

  “Yes,” agreed Spock. Experimentally, he stood, testing his aged muscles. Kirk and Carver imitated him. Spock walked over and gestured at McCoy’s waist.

  “Your medikit, Doctor. Does it contain anything that might help us?”

  McCoy glanced down at the belt in surprise. Sure enough, his compact medikit was still strapped in place and seemed to be intact.

  “I wonder why they took everything else and let me keep this?”

  “Perhaps because it cannot be used either as a weapon or for communication, Doctor.”

  “How would they know that?”

  “If their question to the device they call the Oyya was phrased so as to only indicate those instruments, then the machine would, as is the nature of machines, not volunteer additional information. We are lucky.”

  “I have seen no evidence of practical medicine here,” the science officer continued. “This entire community of women is a most peculiar mixture of the ancient and ultramodern. No doubt they assume your kit contains only food supplements or hygienic materials.”

  “They’ll be hygienic, all right!” McCoy fumbled at his waist and pulled out a short, thick cylinder with tiny studded dials running down one side. “Cortropine. It ought to help. It’s a powerful stimulant—but it’ll make its demands later. Not the safest stuff in the world to use.”

  “There may not be a later if we don’t use it, Bones.” Kirk slid off the platform. “I’ll take the first shot.”

  McCoy administered a dose to the captain’s upper arm. Kirk rubbed at his tingling bicep and began to examine their prison in detail. McCoy continued handing out doses of the fast-working drug to Spock and then Carver.

  Kirk found the door, tried it. Not surprisingly, it didn’t budge. A close examination of its edges revealed that it was designed to open outward.

  “Locked,” he offered unnecessarily. McCoy placed the cylinder against his left arm and gave himself the final jolt. He started to replace the cylinder in the open medical pouch, but Spock stopped him. The science officer began examining the kit’s contents with interest.

  “What’s this, Doctor?” He lifted a thin piece of hinged metal from a plastic tube.

  “Portable surgical probe, Spock. The tip’s full of impulsors and fragment manipulators.”

  “Good enough.” Spock opened the instrument to its full length and moved to the door. Kirk stepped aside. In response to the captain’s unvoiced question, Spock gestured at the door with the probe. “This appears to be a magnetic seal. If so, the slight output of the doctor’s probe may be sufficient to disrupt the locking field.”

  He selected a narrow tip and inserted its slim prong into the nearly flush join of door and wall. Moving it up from the floor slowly, it rose until clicking against something set at eye level. Spock lifted an eyebrow in satisfaction. He activated the tiny power supply.

  Nothing happened.

  Manipulating it carefully, occasionally activating another setting, he turned and poked the impulsor prong back and forth against the lock.

  There was no snap, no sound at all. The door panel moved away quietly, just far enough to let them squeeze out of the room. Spock gave the probe back to McCoy who carefully refolded it and replaced it in its receptacle in the medikit. They might have occasion to use it again.

  Spock led the way with Kirk and the others close behind. A surprisingly short walk down the narrow corridor and they came to a thin curtain backed with brilliant light.

  Kirk edged ahead of Spock and glanced carefully around one edge of the thin fabric. They were back at the audience chamber. The enormous room was deserted.

  Putting finger to lips he led them forward, heading as quickly as he could for the main entrance. The main entrance? Kirk had a disquieting thought.

  The doors had appeared to be automatic when they first entered. If they weren’t, the four men would have had a terrible time trying to move them manually, even at full strength. He needn’t have worried.

  When they were less than two meters from the towering stone/metal, the thick doors began to swing aside. Quietly they moved down the outer steps.

  Theela chose that moment to enter the audience chamber from a side corridor. She spotted them just as the doors began to close behind the fugitives.

  “Assistance, assistance!”

  Already the four old men were in the garden that surrounded the temple. It was delicate, tasteful, maintained like a fine clock. However now the polished trees, the neatly pruned bushes, all looked threatening and alien.

  Shortly they found themselves breathing with increasing difficulty. The cortropine was beginning to wear off even sooner than Kirk had hoped.

  “It’s our aged bodies, Jim,” gasped McCoy. “The drug is less effective because it has so much less to work with.”

  They were losing strength rapidly. Already Spock had to assist McCoy. Kirk found himself searching desperately for a cave, an easily climbable tree, any place that could serve as a temporary refuge. But the only asylum in sight was a huge urn magnificently inlaid with ceramic mosaic.

  He gagged, cleared his throat. “The big urn, it’s the only place!” Then he turned to McCoy.

  “Bones, another dose of the drug.” McCoy shook a withered hand.

  “Another shot in our present condition would be fatal, Jim. Even if I had it.”

  They hurried to the base of the urn. The curving upper edge seemed to tower over their heads, the smooth convex sides an insurmountable barrier.

  “I think I can make it,” was all Spock said. He backed off a few steps, took a short run, leaped, and managed to catch one of the big projecting handles near the top. He struggled and succeeded in pulling himself up to a sitting position on the outthrust handle.

  A quick glance showed that the interior of the urn was spacious, relatively clean—and empty. It was covered with a heavy metal grid, but they should be able to move that. He locked his legs tightly around the handle and reached down.

  With the others helping from below he was able to get McCoy alongside. They had to hurry. Already the women were racing into the first trees, splitting up to cover the many paths.

  Theela noticed a tiny flash of red that was part of no plant. She moved closer and saw it was a piece of torn fabric. Reaching down, she picked it free. No question, it was from one of the alien male’s uniforms.

  Turning, she cupped her hands and yelled. “Over here, this way!” Without waiting to see if her comrades had heard, she started up the path that curved ’round the bush. Long strides ate distance quickly—and time.

  Once, she glanced at the sky. It was growing dark. A typically sudden Taurean storm was coming. The rain could aid the escape of the men. She would have to hurry.

  Carver was lowered carefully into the urn. McCoy was let down next. Quickly Kirk helped lower Spock into the waiting hands of McCoy and the security guard.

  Then only Kirk was left on top. He unhitched his legs from around the bracing handle and started forward, grabbing for the lip of the rim—he grabbed and missed. His fingers slipped on the slick surface. For a horrible moment he found himself sliding helplessly down the smooth porcelain.

  Only a last, desperate grab enabled him to clutch the projecting handle. A supreme physical effort brought him back onto the top of the urn.

  “Captain, are you all right?” came Carver’s concerned voice. Kirk couldn’t spare the wind for a reply. He felt at least a thousand years old.

  He made another, more careful approach to the opening. This time both hands got a firm grip on the rim. Pulling painfully and scrambling with his knees, he tried to
pull himself up and over.

  A sound came to his ears—the sound of running feet, getting closer. That was sufficient to spark a redoubled effort. A final, agonizing pull which closed the heavy grid over the opening—and he fell headfirst into the urn. Spock and Carver barely retained enough strength to keep him from smashing into the unyielding bottom.

  Darah and two other women came into the small glade, searching every direction. There was no sunlight left in the gathering darkness to throw an accusing glare off the polished ceramic. The three separated and moved off in different directions.

  Feeling more alone than he’d felt in his life, Kirk stood inside the urn and listened to voices and footsteps moving back and forth outside the urn.

  “They’re not here, Theela,” one voice exclaimed. The leader’s reply came quickly.

  “Come, they might have tried to return to the spot where they arrived!” Footfalls and voices faded into distance.

  Inside the urn the officers exchanged relieved glances. That was when Kirk, the temporary respite restoring a bit of his normal alertness, noticed something:

  “Our headbands, look at them!” Sure enough, the once brilliant blue gems set in the hellish headbands were now only dull, faceted rocks. They no longer fluoresced with some alien internal heat. The men inspected one another carefully. Not one of the headbands showed a hint of light.

  Spock had puzzled over the phenomenon of the glowing gems since he had first become aware of them. He’d formed a theory, and the present absence of light seemed to confirm it.

  “I’ve noticed that the glow diminishes when the women are not present. I believe,” he continued, his voice but not his words emotionless, “that they are polarized conductors of some sort, which transfer our vital energy to their bodies.”

  “Life-force feeders?” queried a doubtful McCoy. “Among some primitive parasitic species it’s been noted, yes, but here…?” He looked faintly sick.

  Spock nodded. “That is the explanation I can think of which ties our advanced—no, enforced—aging to these devices.” He tapped his own headband.