The Unsettling Stars

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Thank you, Mister Ben-Haim.” Kirk started past the other man. “I’ll deal with it. Go about your business.”

  “Yes, sir.” The engineer moved past the captain.

  One did not have to have a bat’s sonar to locate Montgomery Scott. The chief engineer’s bellowing burr reverberated loudly between the walls and conduits, tubes and instrumentation. Kirk found Scott by himself, noting the information being displayed on a panel.

  “Scotty?”

  The chief engineer’s less than profound and decidedly off-key chorale stopped. “Ah, Jim! That little dustup was one for the ages, it was! We have done a good thing. Rescued some lost and kindly souls from an evil slug with one too many eyes, we have.” He wagged a knowing finger in Kirk’s direction. “First rule of interstellar contact: Never trust anyone with more than two eyes. You never can tell what the others might be looking at.”

  “Not my first rule.” Kirk regarded his chief engineer. “I was told there was a problem here.”

  Scott looked away. “Nothing mechanical, Captain.”

  “So what’s troubling you, Scotty?”

  The chief engineer hesitated, then turned from the panel. “I heard that you’re making the first visit to the alien craft via shuttle.”

  “And…?”

  “Captain, I put you and Mister Spock inside the Narada under considerably more stressful circumstances. Suddenly you feel you have to use a shuttle when both ships are practically within caber toss of each other.” His eyes searched Kirk’s face. “Have you lost confidence in me and my abilities, Captain?”

  “Is that what’s bothering you?” The suddenly serious Scott nodded. Kirk smiled and put a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Scotty, I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are not only the finest chief engineer in all of Starfleet, but the most inventive and adaptive one as well.”

  “Captain, the words are profoundly gratifying, but it still doesn’t explain why you’re not usin’ the transporter.”

  “We are unfamiliar with the interior of the Perenorean vessel, Scotty. You know that.” When the chief engineer appeared ready to protest anew, Kirk raised a forestalling hand. “Yes, I know, we were also relatively unfamiliar with the layout of the Narada. In contrast, we know absolutely nothing about Perenorean design.”

  Scott was only partially mollified. “I still think that given the opportunity I could put the three of you right on their bridge.”

  “We have barely an inkling of what their ‘bridge’ may be like, Scotty. It would be bad for interspecies relations if, purely by accident of course, we were to materialize inside, say, one of their hydrology conduits.”

  Scott eyed him sharply, seemed about to say something equally cutting, and then slumped. “I cannot argue with that, Captain. Shuttle it is, then. And—I appreciate you explaining the decision to me in person.”

  “Just as long as you understand that the choice of transportation is in no way a reflection on you or your competency, Scotty. I’m just proceeding cautiously.”

  The chief engineer hesitated, then broke out in a wide grin. “James T. Kirk proceeding ‘cautiously’? For sure, the galaxy is full of surprises.”

  “There’s a time and a place for everything, Mister Scott. Even caution. Especially when working to establish a relationship with a newly contacted species.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “There’s even a place for song.”

  Scott blinked. “Captain?”

  Drawing himself up, Kirk replied in as officious a voice as he could muster. “You’ll kindly oblige me by finishing the song you were singing when I arrived here. I have always had a secret interest in regional terrestrial poetry.”

  “What?” A broad smile spread across the chief engineer’s face and he winked. “Oh, aye, aye! ’Tis an old sailors’ chantey from Glasgow. It sounds better in its original dialect, but if it’s sung that way, then no one but another Glaswegian can understand it.”

  For the next few minutes, the metal and composite–ribbed jungle of engineering echoed to the sound of something more boisterous and considerably more warming than the unfeeling machines that were its permanent occupants.

  * * *

  “I’m looking forward to making some new friends.” McCoy’s tone soured. “Though not to the trip across, of course.”

  Kirk’s exasperation was plain. “I swear, Bones, for someone with such a visceral dislike of space travel, I don’t understand why you didn’t just ask for a permanent posting on a Federation world.”

  McCoy looked away. “I would have, but it’s important for me to keep moving. If you want to know why, ask my ex-wife.”

  “Physician, heal thyself,” Spock offered, though not a glimmer of a smile cracked the Vulcan’s face.

  The doctor responded immediately. “Oh, so now you presume to know the intricacies of human personal relationships? I didn’t realize that your studies of our culture had progressed to that point.”

  “I am merely an interested observer, Doctor. I confess that I find such particulars highly illogical. In contrast to human males and females, the relationships between subatomic particles and waveforms act in a logical manner.”

  “You need to do more work in chaos theory, Spock,” said Kirk. “You’d be surprised at the analogies that crop up.”

  They entered the shuttlebay. Positioned in the stern, a pair of the unlovely but functional craft were lined up within yellow and black launch lines, facing the airlock doors. Storage and equipment bays lined both walls. Two techs were concluding a final inspection of one of the shuttles. At the approach of the trio of senior officers, they straightened up. Kirk returned their acknowledgment with a casual wave. He was still getting used to being a senior officer.

  Not that he didn’t enjoy the perks.

  * * *

  The colony vessel loomed larger. It was not overwhelmingly vast—it looked like the living quarters, work areas, and supply sections formed by the six interconnected globes were spacious.

  I must remember to ask exactly how many colonists there are, Kirk reminded himself as Spock maneuvered the shuttle into the welcoming open bay of the Eparthaa.

  As the science officer set the shuttle down and the bay doors closed behind them, the three visitors had their first opportunity to examine aspects of Perenorean engineering. It was, Kirk decided as he peered out the shuttle’s forward port, oddly indistinct. In place of the usual highly visible conduits and instrumentation one would expect to find on any other starship, there were only a few ivory-hued bumps and ridges. Perhaps for aesthetic reasons, he thought. The Perenoreans might prefer to conceal their engineering works. The absence of in-your-face material did not necessarily mean a lack of skill.

  Leaderesque Taell was there to greet them. As the three Starfleet visitors made fine adjustments to their translation earbuds and the translator systems woven into their uniforms, the Leaderesque alternated speaking with a pair of dignitaries who accompanied him in spilling a stream of embarrassingly effusive praise on the Starfleet officers. By the time the last of the formal welcome speeches had concluded, the translator algorithms had both the guests and their hosts conversing without difficulty.

  Their grammar is pretty straightforward and simple, the Enterprise’s communications officer had explained earlier, but their vocabulary will take some time to process. It’s quirky.

  Essential communication would not be a problem, Uhura had assured them. She was confident in the ability of the ship’s science officer to make any necessary on-the-spot corrections.

  They were led through a corridor and onto an internal conveyor. Unlike the turbolifts aboard the Enterprise, the Perenorean lift seemed to follow a variety of curves. Was this too a decision driven by aesthetics? Kirk wondered.

  Expecting to be transported to the Eparthaa’s bridge, or its engineering section, or perhaps a conference chamber of some kind, the visitors were surprised to find themselves in a sickbay.

  Not a sickbay, McCoy thought. A triage area.<
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  In line with the Perenoreans’ slightly smaller stature, the ceiling was low, though not claustrophobically so. The large room, the original purpose of which remained obscure, was filled with what appeared to be a variety of inflatable pads or cushions. Administering medication or treatment as needed, Perenorean medical technicians moved among the dozens of wounded. Interrupted by the occasional soft, whistling cries of injured younglings, the dominant sound in the chamber was a persistent collective mewling around the visitors.

  Taell’s multijointed arm rose and fell like a dancer’s as he pointed out individual survivors. “You see before you the consequences of relentless Dre’kalak pursuit and attack. If not for your timely intervention, my friends, all you see receiving treatment here would likely be dead.”

  McCoy looked to Kirk. “Jim, if you and our hosts don’t mind, I’d like to help. Certainly I can learn something.”

  Taell’s ears folded forward and down in the doctor’s direction: the Perenorean equivalent of a polite bow. “As you wish, noble physician. Any assistance you can render will be welcomed, even if it is no more than a thought or a suggestion. We are always eager to learn from our betters.”

  McCoy flushed. “Hey now, nobody said anything about anyone being better than anyone else. I’m just hoping to learn a little about your physical makeup.” He held up the tricorder he had brought with him. “I’d like your permission to take some readings.”

  “Do as you wish, physician.” Taell’s remarkably flexible ears folded forward a second time. “We will provide you with an escort suitable to your expertise. You will be welcomed wherever you go and may ask whatever questions you wish.” The small mouth pooched slightly forward, like a human blowing a kiss. “But be warned. You will likely have to suffer many questions in return.”

  McCoy smiled. “I’m not shy. Happy to share information.”

  The Enterprise’s science officer was less enthused. “Stay within visual range, Doctor.”

  “Relax, Spock.” McCoy was already wading in among the closely packed patients and their solicitous attendants. “If an unforeseen problem should develop, Mister Scott has a transporter lock.”

  While McCoy immersed himself in the rudiments of Perenorean medicine as they waited for his special guide to arrive, Kirk and Spock were given a more formal tour of the expanded hospital sector. Just as in the shuttlebay, there was a notable paucity of visible instrumentation: only a great deal of what appeared to be white-clad conduits and apparatus buried in the walls, deck, and overhead. When queried, Taell was quick to explain.

  “The equipment and mechanisms are present; it is just that we prefer to keep such things out of sight.”

  “Is it a matter of aesthetics?” Spock asked, precisely echoing Kirk’s previous thoughts.

  Once again, Taell gestured with his ears. “Yes, that, and also of practicality. The smooth surfaces that you seem to find so remarkable everywhere exist because they are difficult to bump into or trip over.”

  Kirk nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. Can’t trip over a pipe or cable that’s been subsumed into the body of the ship.”

  A new Perenorean approached, halted, and ear-bowed. His face was the narrowest of any they had seen thus far. It was matched by the solemnity of his attitude and voice. There was about him the suggestion of great age.

  “Most honored guests, I am Founoh. As masteresque physician in charge of colony well-being, I have been asked to solicit the advice of your own ship’s doctor.”

  “That’d be me.” Stepping forward, McCoy extended a hand. Founoh studiously regarded it.

  “Thank you for your kind offer, but I already have a sufficiency of my own.”

  “Excuse me?” McCoy did a double take, then chuckled. “Well, well; right off we learn that the Perenoreans have a highly developed sense of humor.”

  “Your pardon, Doctor,” commented Spock, “but the reply struck me as a perfectly logical response to your straightforward offer.”

  “Yeah, it would.” Smiling, McCoy gently reached out to take the elderly Perenorean’s more delicate seven-fingered, double-jointed hand in his own and carefully moved it up and down. “Among my species, this is a common method of extending a friendly greeting. We call it a handshake. Do you have an equivalent?”

  Founoh acquiesced to the contact. “One might lick the ear of another.”

  McCoy flinched slightly. “Why don’t we stick to the human method for a while? I can always try yours later.”

  “Perfectly satisfactory.” Turning, Founoh gestured into the interior of the vast chamber. “If you would care to accompany me, I will try, in my wholly inadequate way, to acquaint you with some details of Perenorean physiology. It may be that our internal systems are not so different, and you may be able to offer some assistance. At the moment, we are a bit overwhelmed with the number of injuries. Any suggestions you might have will be greatly appreciated.”

  “I’ll do what I can and learn as I go.” In the face of broken bodies and crushed bones, too many of them belonging to younglings, McCoy activated his tricorder, eager to start.

  Spock leaned over to whisper to Kirk. “Captain, while I am not personally averse to Doctor McCoy embarking on a medical mission, do you think it wise for him to be on his own?”

  “He has his communicator, Mister Spock.” Kirk similarly kept his voice low. “If these people wanted to hurt us, they’ve had ample opportunity to do so already. I have a feeling they’re far too grateful to us for helping them escape destruction at the hands of the Dre’kalak to consider any such kind of treachery.”

  Spock straightened. “Ah. That ‘feeling’ again.”

  “That’s right, Spock,” Kirk replied cheerfully. “Might as well get used to it.”

  “I am not sure that I ever will, Captain. But for now, at least, we have other matters to focus on.”

  “Why do you lower your voices?” Taell sounded honestly bemused. “I cannot hear what you are saying.”

  “Private matter,” Kirk informed the Perenorean captain. He then took out his communicator. “I’ll have our chemists analyze some of your food and medicines. I doubt that we can supply everything you need, but if our synthesizers can reproduce what you’ve lost, we can certainly help make up the shortfall until you can make it to…” A new thought gave him pause. “Where are you going to, anyway?”

  “That is just it, Captain Kirk.” Taell’s ears flared as wide as possible. “We don’t know. We have come too far, burned too much fuel, and used too many of our supplies to be able to get anywhere near the planet that was recommended to us as a potential colony. And the Dre’kalak may be waiting. We cannot go back, yet it seems we cannot go forward.” Huge golden eyes met Kirk’s own, pleading. “For us, it is no longer a question of wanting to settle somewhere. We have to settle somewhere, before the last of our supplies run out. We were hoping that you or your Federation might have some ideas.”

  Kirk was taken aback. He had hoped to be able to provide the battered colonists with additional food, medicine, and other supplies. He had not expected them to ask him to provide an entire world.

  “Taell, I don’t see how we can—”

  Once again Spock interrupted. “Captain, I am sure the Federation Council would want us to help the Perenoreans.”

  “That’s all very well and good, Mister Spock,” Kirk grumbled, “but I don’t happen to have a spare habitable planet in my pocket.”

  “I may, Captain.” Without further explanation, the science officer pulled out his communicator, and connected with Uhura, who went to work researching the problem.

  Taell proceeded to show the two officers around the Eparthaa. It was impossible in a couple of hours to get a complete overview of the huge colony vessel—the two officers were given a good look, not only at the sickbay adjunct, but also at the ship’s bridge and engine room. Both sectors featured the same bland, oddly featureless design and construction as the vessel’s shuttlebay. Nor did it escape the two Starfleet officers tha
t in addition to their requests to see certain parts of the alien vessel being immediately granted, these comprised even the most strategic portions of any starship.

  “They are being awfully accommodating.” Kirk looked on with interest as a pair of passing Perenoreans engaged in what appeared to be a brief exchange of ideas simply by manipulating their swept-back ears. “Bridge, engineering—I wonder if they’d be willing to show us their weapons systems as well?”

  “People in desperate need cannot afford the luxury of secrecy, Captain.” Spock continued to alternate his attention between their constantly changing surroundings and checking his communicator. “If, as they say, they are running desperately low on energy and supplies, there is little for them to gain by hiding anything from us.”

  Kirk nodded toward the floating holo that accompanied them while providing multiple views of the rest of the six-part ship. Taell had explained that unless dismissed, the projection followed him wherever he went so that as leaderesque he could keep constant tabs on the vessel under his command no matter where he happened to find himself.

  “If they are hiding something, they’re mighty good at it. Everything we’ve asked to see they’ve shown us. Every question has been answered. As far as I can tell, we’re being granted access.” Kirk pulled out his communicator. “Bones? We’re seeing everything and it’s all interesting, but I’m starting to feel like we’re overstaying our welcome. It’s time we got back to the ship. How are you coming?”

  McCoy sounded tired but exhilarated. “Learning a lot about Perenorean physiology, Jim. It’s unavoidable when they open someone up right in front of you.”

  Kirk glanced at Spock, who frowned. “Excuse me? Say again, Bones?”

  “Right under your nose, Jim. It’s remarkable. They have only one surgery on this whole enormous vessel, and it’s used only for the most serious cases. According to my guide Masteresque Founoh, most of the time they use what they call a ‘hermetical orb.’ It’s a little difficult to describe. They blow a multifunction bubble around the patient. It exudes a special kind of moisture that filters the air inside the bubble so there’s no need to sanitize an entire room. You can stick your hand and whole arm in it, and everything you’re holding is sterilized by the intrusion. Then you go to work with whatever portable instruments you choose. It’s like operating in an antiseptic fog. And Jim—they don’t use anesthetic! When I asked, Founoh told me that every Perenorean learns from an early age how to control their pain. The young and badly wounded remain conscious through the entire operation—and sometimes they offer advice to the surgeons who are working on them!” There was a pause. “Spock would understand.”