“It is most interesting, but courtesy demands that before asking for an opinion it should be subjected to more detailed analysis so that I can… can…”
He sneezed. Loudly. And again. As he turned away, covered his mouth, and continued to violently expel air, the puzzled Perenoreans exchanged a glance. Seeing several crewmembers coming toward them, they abandoned the ship’s science officer to what would surely be at most a transient respiratory reaction to the mist and headed purposefully up the corridor toward the as-yet-unsprayed humans. As they did so, one of the aliens withdrew a small pocket communicator from the folds of her clothing and whispered urgently into the pickup.
Spock’s sneezing finally ceased just as he stepped out of the lift and back onto the bridge. The peculiar encounter with the two Perenoreans had left him wary and bemused. While insofar as he could tell, inhaling the cloud of mist had left him unaffected save for the uncharacteristic burst of sneezing (and the dredging up of old memories), it seemed a peculiarly atypical gesture on the part of the Perenoreans, their penchant for constant invention and improvisation notwithstanding.
On the bridge, everything seemed normal. Nothing had changed since he had last been on duty. Moving to his station, he said, “Ensign Marinsky, you are relieved.”
“Hmm?” The younger officer’s reply was barely audible. Seated before the science station, he appeared to be intent on contemplating nothing, his gaze locked on some unseen, distant speck.
“I said,” Spock reiterated a bit more forcefully, “that you are relieved.”
Blinking and shaking his head, Marinsky finally turned to look up at him. “Oh. Hi, Mister Spock. Relieved…?” Incredibly, he seemed to be having trouble comprehending the simple directive. “Right—thanks. Good timing, sir. Because I think I’d like to lie down for a while.” Rising, he shuffled glassy-eyed past his superior. A frowning Spock watched him head for the lift.
“I think perhaps you need to lie down, Ensign.” Having voiced the admonition, Spock took his seat.
Odd, he thought. Perhaps Marinsky had missed a sleep cycle. His speech had been slow, slightly slurred, and his expression borderline vacant. Turning to the science console, Spock ran through the standard quick check of department operations. Everything was functioning normally. Only when he turned away from the console and back to his colleagues did it strike him that something was very wrong. It was quiet on the bridge.
Too quiet.
Normally there would be at least a little casual chatter. Human volubility was a trait that practically defined the species. Sulu should be discussing matters of tactics or navigation with Chekov. Or Chekov would be issuing periodic updates and casual status reports to Kirk. For his part, the captain would be requesting information on this or that matter of the ship’s operation. Uhura would be…
Swiveling farther around in his seat and looking toward communications, he saw that Uhura was singing softly to herself. Unusual. Nyota had a beautiful voice, but she quite properly did not employ it for amusement while on duty. No one was commenting on her vocalizing.
His attention shifted to the captain’s chair. Staring straight ahead, eyes half-closed, Kirk looked completely relaxed. That in itself was neither unusual nor unprecedented. What Spock found disturbing was that the captain also appeared utterly disconnected from his surroundings. That was unprecedented.
Something was very wrong.
Rising, he walked immediately over to stand to the side and in front of the commander of the Enterprise.
“Captain, I am troubled.”
It took a moment for Kirk to react. Too long. His friend gazed up at him—and smiled. It was a wide, uncaring, contented, lazy smile. As the science officer had already surmised, disconnected.
“Hi, Spock.” His smile widening even more, Kirk slid lower in the command chair.
“Captain… something is not right here.” The science officer looked up and gestured at the rest of the bridge. “Everyone here is acting abnormally. No one is talking to anyone else.”
“Maybe…” A frowning Kirk struggled to find appropriate words. “Maybe—they’ve got nothing to say.” His smile returned, more fatuous than ever.
“Humans always have something to say, even if it is not worth saying. It is a truism of human culture that the worthlessness of subject matter never prevents it from being voiced, frequently to excess.” Spock paused a moment. “To give just one example, you always have something to say. What is going on here?”
Maybe it was Spock’s demanding tone, but Kirk sat up a little straighter and looked around before returning his attention to the steely-eyed science officer. For the briefest of instants, the captain seemed alert and himself.
Then he shrugged.
“Everything looks okay to me. Better than okay.” He smiled afresh. “You know, you worry too much, Spock. You need to calm down. Take it easy. Lean back and smell the Felaran roses.” He slid down in the chair again.
Smell. Putting both hands on the arms of the command chair, the science officer thrust his face toward Kirk’s.
“The Perenoreans, Captain. They were to be confined to quarters except under designated escort. I just encountered two of them walking freely about the ship. They sprayed me with something they called a perfume. Have any of them been here, on the bridge?” He anxiously looked around. Sulu and Chekov were still seated at their stations, working silently and grinning to themselves. Uhura was communicating with no one but her inner muse. The science officer returned his attention to Kirk.
“Did they spray you with something, Jim?”
“Spray? Me?” Kirk’s expression twisted. Plainly he was struggling to remember. Finally he looked back up at his friend. “I don’t recall any spray, Spock. ‘Sprayspock’—that has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” He looked around, once more blissfully happy. “Today everything has a nice ring to it.”
“The Perenoreans,” Spock persisted. “Were they here? Their movements should be restricted.”
Reaching up, Kirk tried to place the tip of his right index finger on the end of Spock’s nose. The science officer drew back and Kirk sighed as he slumped back into the chair.
“Spock, Spock—always so tense, so controlled. You really do need to… lighten up. Enjoy life a little more.” He spread his arms wide. “Why lock anybody up in their cabin? There’s plenty of room on the ship, and our guests aren’t gonna do anything. They’re nice, friendly people. Today everybody’s nice, friendly people. Even you, you pointy-eared old stick-in-the-mud.” His eyelids fluttered and half shut again.
Spock stepped back, regarded the sleepy captain a moment longer, and then moved purposefully to communications. Taking Uhura by the shoulders, he swung her around in her seat, peered hard into her eyes, and shook her firmly.
“Nyota! What’s wrong with everyone? What happened here? Did the Perenoreans come in and spray everyone with something? Tell me!”
Loose as a rag doll in his hands, when he released her she finally opened her eyes fully to meet his. Her expression brightened. “Spocky-honey! Where you been?” Her arms went around his shoulders and neck, and her eyes, like Kirk’s, remained half-closed. “Slip us a little of that Vulcan sugar, won’t you?”
Tenderly, worriedly, Spock disengaged himself. “Perhaps later.”
He stepped away from the bridge and into the turbolift.
Who else but the Perenoreans could be responsible? While he still had no proof that their fragrant spray was responsible, the deliberateness with which he had been approached and doused in the corridor seemed to point toward the mist as a causative factor. Yet insofar as he could tell, he remained unaffected. His Vulcan respiratory system differed just enough from that of humans to make such an outcome conceivable.
He needed confirmation. And where physiological variants and their effects were concerned, there was one man on the ship who could provide a response as fast as any computer.
McCoy was in sickbay when Spock arrived.
“Doctor.
Much as it pains me to have to say this, I need your advice.”
As soon as McCoy turned from where he had been working, a sick feeling spread through the science officer’s stomach. The doctor had that same contented, blissed-out, stupid-drowsy smile Spock had last seen on the faces of everyone on the bridge.
“Spock. Really nice to see you!”
If the science officer needed any further proof the doctor had been drugged, McCoy had just provided it. Nevertheless, he pressed on with his questions.
“Doctor, I think everyone on the ship—everyone except possibly myself—has been chemically impacted by an aromatic spray disbursed by the Perenoreans. Even the captain is displaying an inexplicable happiness.”
McCoy drew himself up to his full height. His expression darkened, and for a moment Spock felt hopeful. The hope lasted only until the doctor’s quasi-insulted response.
“Leave it to a Vulcan to think something must be wrong when everyone else is feeling good. There’s no such thing as ‘inexplicable happiness,’ Spock. Like any other sensation, happiness has an explanation.”
“Fine, Doctor,” Spock responded. “Think! What could be the reason behind this outbreak of inexpli—of widespread happiness?”
As he leaned toward the science officer, McCoy’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, I’ll tell you, Spock. It’s because… because…” Drawing back sharply, he broke out into a reprise of his earlier absurdly wide smile. “Because everyone is—happy!”
“That’s what I thought, Doctor. And that’s what I was afraid of.” Leaving McCoy to his joy, Spock hurriedly exited the sickbay.
Back out in the corridor, the Enterprise’s science officer periodically passed other members of the crew. Without exception, each and every one of them wore the same sappy, self-satisfied smile. Insofar as he could tell, he was the only one on the ship who had not been affected by the Perenoreans’ delightful-smelling but—he was now almost certain—ultimately insidious perfume spray. Cunningly, they had not taken control of the Enterprise so much as they had rendered its crew apathetic to their presence. In keeping with the Perenorean belief of gratitude, no one had been harmed. Sulu, Chekov, Uhura, even Kirk: all continued to carry on with their duties as usual, if a bit more slowly. The significant difference was that they had been rendered so content that they were now indifferent to the potential threat in their midst.
What, Spock wondered as he stalked the pleasant-smelling but narcotized levels of the Enterprise, would the Perenoreans do next? And what, if anything, could he do about it?
Assuming that they had begun logically from a tactical viewpoint, the Perenoreans had doubtless commenced their program of spraying with Kirk and the other senior officers on the bridge, intending thereafter to work their way gradually down the Enterprise’s chain of command. Very well. He could and would proceed with his own efforts in similar fashion.
Pivoting on one heel, he went looking for Leaderesque Taell.
15
As luck would have it, Spock nearly ran into the Perenorean commander. Taell was accompanied by his chief medical officer and two escorts. The leaderesque and the physician gripped modified atomizers. To the science officer’s quiet dismay, their companions carried not spray bottles but phasers. Taken, no doubt, from stupefied crew who no longer felt the need to trouble themselves with such potentially mood-destroying devices.
The Perenoreans did not waste valuable seconds engaging in useless dialogue, time-consuming questions, or querulous looks. Without uttering a word, Taell and Founoh simultaneously sprayed the science officer right in the face.
The fine droplets of sweet-smelling mist enveloped him from bangs to chin. As he blinked away the liquid, he noted that the two Perenorean officers bringing up the rear had their phasers pointed in his direction.
Coughing hard, he bent double and clutched at his throat. The Perenoreans looked on compassionately.
“Too much went down his throat.” Founoh was genuinely sympathetic. “It will take a moment to clear.”
Taell gestured apologetically in the science officer’s direction. “It could not be avoided. He came too close and…”
Reaching up and lunging forward, Spock got both hands around the Perenorean leaderesque’s torso. Turning his captive parallel to the deck as he raised the lighter body into the air, the science officer threw the slender form with all his strength. Thrown backward, a startled Taell slammed into his two armed companions. All three landed in a jumbled heap on the deck as the surprised Founoh continued to frantically pump mist into the Vulcan’s face. Unaffected by the spray, Spock whirled and fled back down the corridor. By the time the fallen Perenoreans managed to untangle themselves, the science officer was gone around the nearest bend and vanished from view.
Carefully straightening the traditional fabric that encircled his body, Taell gazed down the corridor where the science officer had disappeared.
“That was quite instructive. We thought we might encounter anatomical anomalies among some of the Enterprise’s crew. Mister Spock’s apparent lack of susceptibility has confirmed at least one such.”
“We naturally focused on human biochemistry, as humans comprise the bulk of the crew,” Founoh replied. “Even though the records identify him as half-human, some Vulcan component in his physiology renders him immune to the mist.” He whistled softly, the Perenorean equivalent of a resigned sigh. “While you secure the rest of the ship, I will return to our lab and make chemical adjustments to the spray. The next time we encounter Mister Spock, I do not believe there will be any further difficulty persuading him to join his human colleagues in carefree tranquillity.”
* * *
It did not matter whom he encountered or yelled at. Despite Spock’s most strenuous efforts to gather some allies among the crew, everyone responded to his increasingly anxious entreaties with the pleasant bemusement of those who have suddenly discovered nirvana only to learn that actual thinking was no longer required of them. They drifted about the ship, some wandering aimlessly while others stayed at their stations as if waiting to be told what to do next. The science officer could envision the Perenoreans would be giving the orders.
The Perenoreans had taken over the Enterprise—and without firing a shot.
Her stupefied crew could not have cared less. As far as they were concerned, everything was fine. Things were “peachy,” according to one bemused but still on-duty officer. “Apple pie” in order, according to another. “Copacetic,” in the words of an ambling and notably weaponless security team member who was one of the few Spock encountered who did not favor cheerful fruity analogies. The crew of the Starship Enterprise was utterly convinced that everything was operating just fine.
Moving swiftly and with resolve through the ship’s corridors, its science officer felt decidedly different.
Flattening himself against a corridor wall while taking care to keep a wary eye on his immediate surroundings, Spock tried to think of what to do next. As thoughts swirled, he started sneezing again. But there wasn’t a spray-wielding Perenorean in sight. A glance upward in the direction of a corridor vent supplied the explanation. Having taken full control of the Enterprise’s life-support systems, the Perenoreans were now pumping the disabling mist directly into the ship’s atmosphere. The hope he had been holding on to that the effects of their addling vapor might start to wear off vanished under the wave of pleasing scents that came pouring out of the vent.
If they were smart, their next step would be to—
He cut the thought short. If it had ever been in doubt, the one thing that was no longer open to question was the extent of Perenorean intelligence. Recognizing that Spock was immune to their disorienting spray, they would surely by now have taken steps to secure his own cabin. That meant he had no ready access to a weapon. Even if he did manage to get ahold of a phaser and succeeded in surprising the Perenoreans anew, any threat he made could be met by a counterthreat to use the weapons they held against Kirk and other members
of the crew. Perhaps even more importantly, they had to be modifying their spray to be used against him.
Ignoring the wall communicator, Spock flipped open a hand communicator, hailing Taell. The Perenorean leader responded immediately, as if he had impatiently been awaiting the call.
“Yes, Mister Spock. I am here.”
The science officer knew there was nothing to be gained by trying to conceal his identity. They already knew he was the only one left on the Enterprise capable of engaging in coherent conversation.
“Leaderesque Taell, you must cease this interference with ship operations. Your actions are only delaying the inevitable. Once we reach the Sol system and prepare to dock, you will be taken into custody. You cannot introduce your disabling mist into an entire starbase. That is even assuming we can successfully complete the necessary docking maneuvers once we arrive in orbit. Two dozen of you cannot run an unfamiliar starship.”
There was no hint of concern in the leaderesque’s eerily confident reply. “But the Enterprise is not strange to us anymore, Mister Spock. We have been passengers on it for a fair number of days now. In fact, we are sufficiently comfortable and familiar with its operation that we are even now in the process of introducing some improvements. To give one example, the ship’s computer now recognizes us as legitimate users.”
Spock was taken aback. If what Taell was telling him was true, then the Perenoreans had managed to reprogram the security restrictions of the main computer. Such external intrusion into and interference with the most sensitive portion of the Enterprise was presumed to be impossible.
As Spock broke off the communication and headed back the way he had come, toward the lower cargo bays, there was no doubt in his mind that if they were given the opportunity to comment on the situation, the much maligned Dre’kalak would say they tried to warn the Enterprise.
Warn. An idea suddenly came to mind.
The Unsettling Stars Page 21