Elusive Salvation (Star Trek: The Original Series)

by Dayton Ward

  “Let’s keep moving,” said Holmes, who for the current hunt had taken the lead on their departure from the ship, setting a pace Dunning knew would get them in short order to the area that had proven fruitful for hunting. “If we hurry, we can find something worth eating and get it back to the ship before dark.”

  Dunning nodded as he shifted his rifle to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. “Lead on, mate.” He knew he would feel better once he had a decent meal. While the raw meat procured from whatever they might shoot today would serve to bolster what had long since become a maddeningly boring diet, it would succeed in its primary purpose: keeping the men alive.

  Still, Thomas Dunning longed for the day he could sink his remaining teeth into a fresh apple, pulled from a tree in the orchard on his family farm. Imagining the crisp, sweet taste and the juice running down his chin brought forth another smile. Such thoughts and momentary diversions filled both his waking hours and his dreams. Would he see home again? What about his shipmates or his brothers on the Rescue? Would either of their vessels sail again into New York Harbor?

  The skipper’s seen us this far. He’ll get us home, all right.

  What had begun the previous spring as a search and possible rescue mission for the Advance and Rescue had turned into an odyssey of survival for the crews of both vessels. Dispatched from New York at the behest of Henry Grinnell, a shipping merchant with enough money to buy and loan them to the navy to do his bidding, both ships traveled north with the mission of determining the ultimate fate of a British expedition into the Arctic. For whatever reason, Grinnell had become fascinated with the story of Captain John Franklin, who in 1845 had led two ships on a voyage to chart those areas of the Northwest Passage that had not been navigated. A previous expedition by the British had failed to turn up any traces of the lost expedition, after which Grinnell had approached the U.S. Navy about a search party of its own.

  At least, that was how it had been explained to Dunning and the rest of the men crewing the Advance and the Rescue. Scuttlebutt aboard both ships was that one or both vessels had become trapped in Arctic ice and crews were forced to abandon them in an attempt to survive the harsh winter weather on land. That idea seemed to become more likely when evidence of encampments were found in the area of Devon Island, where no previous British expeditions were known to have ventured. This seemed to galvanize the Advance’s captain, Lieutenant Edwin De Haven, as well as the Rescue’s commanding officer, Samuel Griffin, to continue the search. It was obvious that both shipmasters believed that they had to be within striking distance of finding Franklin and the more than one hundred twenty men who had accompanied him into this vast, unexplored region. It was this sense of looming success that also had motivated the crews of both ships. Dunning had been surprised to learn that in addition to the two American naval vessels, ten other British ships on separate expeditions also were charting the region in search of Franklin’s party. This, of course, had led Dunning to wonder just how important this fellow might have been, or whether he may have possessed untold riches that justified such efforts to find him.

  Dunning’s interest in such matters, along with that of the rest of the men, withered and died once the Advance and Rescue both became trapped in the same sort of ice floe believed to have captured Franklin’s ships. From that point forward, there had been only one mission: stay alive long enough to break out of their prison and return home. Days had stretched into weeks and then to months, as both crews worked to keep their vessels from being torn apart by the always-shifting ice. The floe in which they were entombed had drifted first north and then back to the south, and after months of this, salvation seemed as though it might be at hand. Open water was visible beyond the ice pack, and the efforts of the crew to cut with long saws through the ice around the ships was bearing fruit. Lieutenant De Haven was predicting that both vessels might be free of the floe within the week. This news had raised the men’s spirits, though only to a modest degree. The unrelenting monotony of their predicament had worn on them all, to the point that even a deviation such as this, the possible final hunt of their ordeal, was not sufficient to elevate Dunning’s mood. Holmes had expressed a similar sentiment as the two men departed the ship, and the gray, gloomy skies felt like fate slapping them just one more time before releasing them and their shipmates to set sail for home.

  In actuality, he was thankful for the fickle elements on this day. Navigating the ice packs in bright sunlight brought its own risks, not the least of which was how the harsh rays of the sun illuminated the incessant blanket of white, all but blinding anyone luckless enough to be assigned to a working party or other detail off the ship. On those days, Dunning preferred not to go ashore but instead see to any of the ever lengthy list of tasks to be carried out aboard the ship. There was always something to do, in particular anything that contributed to combating the effects of the relentless winter weather.

  “Almost there,” Holmes called over his shoulder.

  Dunning was about to reply when something ahead of them caught his eye. Squinting to make out what he at first thought might be an exposed outcropping of rock fifty or sixty yards ahead of them, he realized that the dark object contrasting with the surrounding snow and ice was moving.

  “Will!” he said, pointing, but by now Holmes also had seen it and was lifting the carbine from his shoulder even as the dark object changed direction and ran away from them.

  “Is that a bear?” Holmes shouted, dropping to one knee and sighting down the length of his rifle’s barrel. “No, wait. That ain’t no bear. What the hell . . . ?”

  It was running upright like a man, but something about its silhouette just seemed wrong, somehow. For a moment, Dunning thought they might have come across an ape. What would the rest of the men back on the Advance think of that? However, even as he pondered that notion he realized how crazy it had to be. Apes and monkeys and things like that were found in warmer regions like Africa, thousands of miles from here, right? This was something else, either a man in odd clothing or something he had never seen or even heard about before this minute.

  “Wait,” Dunning said. “That looks like—”

  Holmes fired his rifle and the Colt roared like thunder, the report echoing across the ice. The man or animal or whatever it was kept running, and Holmes cocked the carbine with a speed born of skill and practice before firing again. This time Dunning saw the runner stumble and fall to the ice.

  “You hit him!” he shouted, running past Holmes with his own rifle held to his chest. “Come on!”

  Could it be a member of Captain Franklin’s expedition? That unwelcome thought made itself known as Dunning heard the runner utter what could only be a shout of warning, but in a language he did not understand. Dunning lumbered over the ice, feeling his boots slipping despite his scored soles and the burlap tied around his feet and legs. Ahead of them, the figure disappeared around a mound of broken ice that jutted upward where parts of the floe had come together.

  “Wait!” he shouted, wondering why he bothered. Whoever the person was, he had just been shot at and possibly struck without provocation. It made perfect sense that he would keep running. By this point, Dunning had closed the distance to less than twenty yards, and he was certain he could hear the sounds of feet running ahead of him. He glanced to the ground he was traversing and saw no sign of blood. Had Holmes not hit the man?

  Moving around the ice cropping, Dunning raised his rifle to his shoulder, looking for a target. There was nothing ahead of him but ice.

  What in the name of all that’s holy . . . ?

  He heard the sound of labored breathing from behind him, and Holmes lurched into view. His face was flushed, and his breaths were coming in deep, rapid gasps. Lifting his rifle, Holmes pulled the weapon to his shoulder and stepped around Dunning, who had swept the area ahead of them and seen no sign of their quarry. Likewise, there seemed to be nothing of consequence that could be
used for concealment. The ground ahead of them was all but flat.

  “Where the hell did he go?”

  • • •

  Drevina listened to Glorick’s strained attempts at respiration as her friend struggled to recover from his exertion. Her hand was on his arm, signaling him to remain quiet as the two of them along with Canderon watched the two humans who were standing a body length in front of her. Both males were turning in circles, their projectile weapons at the ready.

  “Damn it. I know I hit him,” said the human whose weapon had grazed Glorick’s arm.

  His companion replied, “He fell, all right, but I didn’t see no blood.”

  Drevina glanced to her friend and saw that Glorick was holding his other hand over the superficial wound. Whatever blood it was producing seemed to be absorbed by the layers of his protective clothing, but she looked to the ground just to be sure. She did not think her ability to influence the thoughts of these primitive beings extended to masking the presence of spilled blood or anything else they might drop, and she did not want to test the limits of her gifts just now. The muzzle of the human’s weapon was close enough that she could reach out and touch it, or even take it from him.

  “You think he’s got a camp near here?” asked the second human. “Maybe he’s one of Franklin’s men.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” said his colleague, “but why would he run? We’re supposed to be out here trying to find him, right?”

  “Because you shot him? That ain’t real friendly, mate.”

  Even with the translator units Drevina and her friends wore around their necks, understanding the nuances of human language had proven difficult. Their furtive study of the previous groups of humans they had encountered in this region had helped the translators build a linguistic database from which to work, but the process was far from perfect. As was the case among her people, the denizens of this world appeared to employ numerous languages, and within each there existed any number of regional variations.

  That seemed to be the case here, as well. Drevina and the others had been observing this group of humans at regular intervals for hundreds of days, based on their calculations of the planet’s rotation. The two sailing ships in which they had arrived in the region had been icebound even prior to the Iramahl’s discovery of them. She and her companions had watched the vessels’ crews work not only to survive but also to free their ships from the ice, or at least keep them from being destroyed as they moved with the ice floes. As their food supplies dwindled, and they began suffering from disease due to lack of proper nutrition, the humans had ventured out onto the ice and to the adjacent land, hunting lower life-forms for sustenance. They had persevered, and from Drevina’s observations at least, they had done so with remarkable spirit.

  “Come on,” said the first human. “We should get back to the ship. The skipper will want to know about this. We can get more men for a bigger search. Whoever he is, if he’s running around out here with no gear, his camp can’t be far.”

  His companion grunted something Drevina could not understand, despite her proximity. Neither human harbored any suspicion that their prey stood before them. Drevina could sense the man’s thoughts, and she detected no hint that their presence had been detected. The gift with which she had been born and which she had mastered throughout her life was serving her here in the manner she had used it against Ptaen soldiers during her time with the resistance. It was a rare ability, one possessed only by a fraction of her people, and numerous theories had attempted to explain the phenomenon. Drevina had stopped paying attention to the debates long before joining the resistance movement, satisfied that she carried within her at least one more weapon to use against the Ptaen oppressors, and that was before her science knowledge became an even greater asset.

  She had discovered her ability worked during earlier observations of another group of humans whose ships had become similarly trapped. Unlike this party, however, the first group had abandoned their vessels and moved to land in their bid for survival. Drevina and her friends had found the encampment they had established and used for a time before forging onward over land, and she also had discovered where three of their number had apparently been interred. The text carved into wooden markers at the burial site was indecipherable, but the intent seemed obvious enough, based on what she had been able to glean regarding human death rituals.

  “Yeah,” said the second human, lowering his weapon. “You’re right. Let’s get back.” Drevina watched him shake his head. “Damnedest thing I ever saw.”

  The three Iramahl waited in silence as the two men turned and began retracing their steps. Only when they were out of sight, and Drevina could no longer feel the proximity of their thoughts, did she allow herself to relax.

  “Are you injured?” asked Canderon, moving to Glorick and gesturing to the operational specialist’s arm.

  Glorick shook his head. “It is a minor wound, easily treated, but we should not waste time. This may be an opportunity, Drevina.”

  “I think you are correct, old friend.” After the seemingly unending string of days they had spent coping with this inhospitable terrain since crashing their ship, she had wondered if they might spend the rest of their lives here. There were advantages to such a choice, of course. The climate here made it uninviting to all but the hardiest of this world’s higher-order life-forms, but shelter and food were a constant challenge. Drevina and her friends had debated attempting to travel to a warmer region, and even one that was home to more people, but the prospects of doing so on foot were remote, at best.

  Only when they had encountered the first expeditions attempting to navigate this region’s hazardous, ice-stricken waterways did a plan begin to take shape. They might be able to secret themselves aboard one of the vessels making such a transit, but even that idea was fraught with obstacles. One group of ships had already fallen prey to the ice floes, but this newer contingent had fared far better. Now, after drifting toward comparatively warmer waters for numerous days, it seemed that the two trapped vessels were on the cusp of reclaiming their freedom, and with that might come the chance Drevina and her companions were seeking.

  “If those two are correct,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the departed humans, “they will bring others to search for us. That may be our best opportunity to board one of their vessels.”

  Canderon frowned as he worked to treat Glorick’s wound with a suturing instrument from their emergency medical equipment. “Should we not wait a while longer? It is impossible to predict when the ships will be free of the ice.”

  It was a risk, of course, but their observations of the ships and their crews as the ice in which they were trapped approached open water had convinced Drevina that escape was imminent. A handful of days at most, based on her scanner readings, during which the humans would be finalizing their preparations as well as doing whatever they could to accelerate the process of breaking free. She had watched them toiling with cutting tools to weaken the ice around the two ships and seen them celebrate their progress even as their emotions rose at the sight of the water that was so very close. Escape was within reach, they knew.

  “Now is the time,” said Drevina. “We can always abandon the plan if discovery becomes a possibility, but we were going to have to face the risk. At least now we can have a decent chance of finding a better place to hide, while the bulk of the crews are away from their ships.”

  “Very well,” said Canderon. His treatment of Glorick’s injury completed, he returned the suturing tool to a pocket of his clothing. “If we are to do this, we should wait for darkness.”

  Glorick replied, “We will have to abandon some of our belongings. There will be limited capacity to store such things on the ships.”

  “Agreed,” said Drevina. Almost all of their possessions had been utilized to affect their survival since arriving on this world, but they could make do with essenti
als such as weapons, scanners, medical supplies, and a few other items. Even this desolate environment had served them well, allowing them to forage for food and other things necessary to sustain and protect them. They would have similar success, she knew, once they relocated to a more welcoming climate.

  Where these unsuspecting humans and fate chose to take them, Drevina did not know.

  Four

  San Francisco, Earth

  Earth Year 2283

  “How is it possible to be this busy and this bored, all at the same time?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Admiral James Kirk studied his day’s schedule. He waded through the time stamps, messages, notes, and suggestions from the numerous people who sought to provide him with all manner of unsolicited yet hopefully helpful advice. What was left? Inspections, paperwork, staff meetings, paperwork, personnel reviews, and still more paperwork.

  Somehow, without his noticing, let alone attempting to put up a fight, this is what had come to define his existence. How had that happened? How had he allowed it to happen?

  “It’s my understanding that admirals are required by regulations to be bored, sir,” said his aide, Lieutenant Commander Shanna Gilkeson, from where she stood on the other side of his desk while holding the data padd that Kirk had come to view as an extension of her left arm. Rare was the occasion that she went anywhere without the ubiquitous device. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’re handling it far better than most of your peers.”

  Kirk smiled. The easy familiarity between him and Gilkeson had taken time to build. Upon her assignment to his office as his aide and despite her best efforts, she had been unable to suppress what she later admitted to feelings of “hero worship,” as she had described it. Though he tried to take such confessions in stride, Kirk had never grown accustomed to the celebrity that had been foisted upon him. Never was he more uncomfortable with such attention than when encountering young, eager officers on their first assignment, or when he found himself addressing a class of enthusiastic, idealistic cadets at Starfleet Academy. That sort of thing had been much more common in the months following the U.S.S. Enterprise’s return to Earth after the completion of its five-year mission of exploration. Starfleet had wasted no time or effort promoting the significance of this accomplishment, as though no other starship crew or commander in the history of space travel had ever carried out their orders. There was much about which to be proud as far as what he and his crew had accomplished. However, Kirk remained troubled by the romanticizing of the Enterprise’s missions, which tended to overlook the less pleasant aspects of what happened during those five years. Whenever he felt himself sliding in that direction, he reminded himself of the ninety-four men and women who had perished under his command.