Star Trek 09

by James Blish

  Behind him Kirk and Anne were slowly recovering from the effects of the alien possession. Kirk's eyes at last fluttered open. McCoy had to stoop to hear his whisper. "Bones . . ."

  "It was close, Jim. You and Anne barely got back in time. Unless this formula works, we can't risk another transfer."

  In the pharmacology laboratory, two hypos lay on a table. Hanoch-Spock held the third one. He made some adjustment on it, Christine behind him, watching. At last, he spoke. "This formula will reduce heart action and body function to normal. Whenever their bodies are occupied, administer one injection, ten cc.'s every hour."

  "I understand," Christine said.

  "Code this one for Thalassa. And this hypo, code it for me."

  "Yes, sir." She affixed the appropriate seals to the hypos.

  "Each contains a formula suited to the physical traits of that individual's body."

  She pointed to the third hypo. "And that one is for Captain Kirk when Sargon is in his body?

  Hanoch-Kirk handed it to her. "Yes. Of course."

  Christine had taken the hypo to mark it when she noticed the color of its fluid. She examined it more carefully. Then, troubled, she said, "This hypo doesn't contain the same formula."

  Hanoch-Spock smiled. On Spock's usually expressionless face, the smile was extraordinarily charming. "Since I will arrange for you to give the injections, no one else will notice that."

  "But—without the correct formula, Captain Kirk will die."

  "So he will—and Sargon with him."

  Christine, staring, had begun to protest when Hanoch-Spock, reaching out, touched her forehead. Her head swam with dizziness. Then all sensation left her. Entranced where she stood, she could only look at him helplessly.

  "Thalassa I can use," he said. "But Sargon must be destroyed. He would oppose me in what I plan. You wish to speak, my dear?"

  "Please, I . . . I was . . . I wanted to say something." She passed a hand over her whirling head. "I've . . . forgotten what it was."

  He touched her brow again. "You were about to say you watched me prepare the formula and fill the three hypos with it."

  She swayed. "Yes—that was it. I will tell Dr. McCoy that each hypo is properly filled for each patient. You must excuse me. I lost my train of thought for a moment."

  "It will not occur again," he said. "You are under my guidance now, child." Looking quickly toward the corridor, he made for the doorway. "And now for Dr. McCoy . . ."

  But McCoy had snapped the lab door open. "If you require any further drugs or assistance, Hanoch—"

  "I've encountered no difficulties at all, Doctor. I left the formula on your computer if you care to examine it."

  In her trance Christine picked up the hypos. She spoke the words implanted in her mind. "I watched them prepared and coded, Doctor. Shall I take them to Sickbay?"

  McCoy nodded. As the door closed behind her, Hanoch-Spock smiled. "It's good to be alive again, Doctor. I will find it most difficult when the time comes to surrender this body I so enjoy.

  Was it the implication of the last words that disturbed McCoy? Or was it the shock of the excessively charming smile on Spock's face? He didn't know. All he knew was the sense of trouble that oppressed him as he watched the alien stride from the lab with Spock's legs.

  Nor did his feeling of foreboding diminish as construction of the robots progressed. He found himself spending more and more time in Sickbay—his sole haven of retreat from the nameless anxieties that beset him. Christine, too, seemed unlike herself—constrained, diffident. It irritated him.

  As she approached him now, he didn't look up when she said, "You asked to see me, Doctor, before the next injections."

  "Yes. You're staying alert for any side effects? any unusual symptoms?"

  "The shots work perfectly, sir. There are no problems at all."

  He struck his desk. "The devil there aren't!" He crossed to the three receptacles. "That flicker of energy there is Jim Kirk! And Spock there! Anne Mulhall! Suppose the bodies these aliens are using are not returned to them?"

  "If I'm to give the injections on time, Doctor, I should leave now."

  "Well, walk, then! Don't just stand there, talking! Do it!"

  "Yes, sir."

  Alone, McCoy stalked over to the Sargon-Kirk globe. "You and your blasted rent-a-body agreement, Kirk!" He moved to Spock's receptacle. "The only halfway pleasant thing about this is you, Spock! Must be humiliating for a logical superior Vulcan not to have a larger flicker than that!"

  One of McCoy's persisting, if minor, anxieties was the chaos that had descended upon his immaculate laboratory. Workbenches now crowded it; and his marble slabs were littered with the elements and other paraphernalia that would ultimately be assembled into the android robots. Hanoch-Spock over at his bench was manipulating a complex tool under difficult circumstances, for across the lab Sargon-Kirk and Thalassa-Anne were sharing a chore together. The intimacy between them angered and distracted him. He saw them both reach for a component at the same time. They smiled at each other, their hands clasping, their eyes meeting. She touched his hair.

  "Sargon, I remember a day long ago. We sat beside a silver lake. The air was scented with the flowers of our planet and . . ."

  He nodded. "I remember, Thalassa. We held hands like this." He hesitated, removing his from hers. "And I think it best not to remember too well."

  "In two days you'll have hands of your own again, Thalassa," Hanoch-Spock said. "Mechanically efficient, quite human-looking—android robot hands. Hands without feeling, of course. So enjoy the taste of life while you can."

  "But our minds will have survived. And as androids, Hanoch, we . . ." Sargon-Kirk suddenly looked very tired.

  "What is it, Sargon?" Thalassa-Anne asked anxiously.

  "Our next injection . . . will renovate me. Do not be concerned." He addressed Hanoch. "As androids we can move among those who do live, teaching them, helping them to avoid the errors we made."

  "Yes, moving as machines minus the ability to feel love, joy, sorrow."

  Sargon-Kirk spoke sternly. "We pledged ourselves that survival would be sufficient, Hanoch. Now that we've taken human bodies not our own, the ancient evil temptations would plague us again, haunt us with the dream of a godlike master-race."

  "It is only that I feel sorrow for your wife, Sargon." He spoke to Thalassa-Anne. "You were younger than we when the end came. You had enjoyed so little of living."

  She said, "We made a pledge, Hanoch." But her face was troubled. The sympathy had weakened her; and she, too, looked suddenly exhausted. She was leaning back against the wall as Christine entered with the hypos. She extended her arm for the injection. "Nurse," she said, "Sargon does not appear well."

  "I've checked his metabolic rate every few hours, Thalassa. It hasn't varied from normal." And moving on, Christine administered the other injections. As the hypo hissed against his arm, Hanoch-Spock said, "I was fatigued, also. I feel much better now."

  But though color had returned to Thalassa-Anne's face, concern for her husband had not been allayed. He smiled at her. "Do not worry. I shall have recovered in a moment." But he showed none of the rejuvenating effects seen in the others. He had to make an effort to resume his work.

  McCoy noted it as he entered the lab. He looked at Christine. "Nurse," he said, "I want to see you in Sickbay. Bring those hypos."

  In his office he selected the hypo coded for Sargon-Kirk, examining it. Christine watched him, troubled as though trying to remember something she had forgotten. After a long moment, he handed it back to her. She took it, still puzzling over it, and finally passed over a tape cartridge to him.

  "Something wrong, Miss Chapel?"

  "Yes . . . I . . ." She paused, trying to find words. "I—had something to say. But I can't seem to remember."

  "Regarding our patients?"

  "Yes, that must be it. I—am so pleased by the way they are responding, sir." She gestured to the hypo on his desk. "The formula is working perf
ectly."

  "You look tired," McCoy said. "If you'd like me to handle the next few injections . . ."

  Abruptly her face lit with a smile. "Tired? Not at all, Doctor. But thank you for asking."

  She turned to replace the hypos in a cabinet. McCoy eyed her for a moment. Then, deciding he had been concerned over nothing, he returned to the reports on his desk.

  The aliens worked swiftly and skillfully. Within the following hours, the robot bodies were partially assembled. Thalassa-Anne was alone in the lab when Scott entered to deliver some supplies. He paused to watch her deft hands moving over a torso.

  "Thank you," she said. "Have you prepared the negaton hydrocoils per the drawings Sargon gave you?"

  Scott nodded. "For all the good they'll do you. Fancy name—but how will something that looks like a drop of jelly make that thing move its limbs? You'll need microgears, some form of pulley that does what a muscle does."

  She smiled her charming smile. "That would be highly inefficient, Mr. Scott."

  "I tell you, lady, this thing won't work." As he spoke, Hanoch-Spock had come in. Now he sauntered over to them. "It will have twice the strength and agility of your body, Engineer, and it will last a thousand years. That is, it will if you'll permit us to complete these robot envelopes of ours."

  Scott strode to the lab door, his back stiff with irritation. Hanoch-Spock crossed over to Thalassa-Anne, his eyes intent on her raven hair. "Actually, a thousand-year prison, Thalassa." He leaned toward her. "And when it wears out, we'll build a new one. We'll lock ourselves into it for another thousand years, then another and another . . ."

  Disturbed, she looked up from her work. He went on. "Sargon has closed his mind to a better way with these bodies we wear."

  "They are not ours, Hanoch."

  "Three bodies. Is that such a price for mankind to pay for all we offer? Thalassa." He seized her hand. "The humans who own these bodies would surrender them gladly to accomplish a fraction of what we'll do. Are we entitled to no reward for our labors—no joy?"

  She snatched her hand away; and pointing to the robot torso on the bench, he said, "Do you prefer incarceration in that?"

  She leaped to her feet, her tools flying. "No! I'm beginning to hate the thing!"

  In a corridor, not far away, Sargon-Kirk, collapsing, had crumpled to the deck.

  Lifeless, inert, Kirk's body lay on a medical table in Sickbay where Nurse M'Benga and a medical technician were hurriedly but expertly fitting the cryosurgical and blood-filtrating units over it. A tense McCoy watched.

  His mind was a tumult of confusion. Too distant from his receptacle to transfer back into it, Sargon had died when Kirk's body died. So that left the big question. Kirk's consciousness still survived, despite the death of his body. It still glimmered, faint but alive, in Sargon's globe. Then could Kirk be called dead? McCoy wiped the sweat from his face—and ordered in another resuscitating instrument.

  Meanwhile, in his once-shining lab, Hanoch-Spock was operating a different instrument. He passed the small device over the nearly completed android robot that lay on a slab. It looked sexless. It still lacked hair, eyebrows, the indentations which give expression to a human face. Thalassa-Anne watched him wearily, lost in her anguished grief. Christine, blank-eyed as ever, stood beside the slab.

  "Hanoch, why do you pretend to work on that thing? You killed Sargon. You murdered my husband. You murdered him because you do not intend to give up your body. You've always intended to keep it."

  A sudden rage possessed Thalassa. Sargon had labored so hard to restore them to joy, to life in the body. He had kissed this body she wore! In a short while, it would all be for nothing. This body he had embraced would have to be vacated, returned to its owner. She rushed from the lab on the surge of her fury to fling open the door of Sickbay.

  McCoy looked up, startled. "Doctor," she said, "would you like to save your Captain Kirk?"

  "Not half an hour ago you said that was impossible. When we found him, you said—"

  "Dismiss these people!" she commanded.

  McCoy stared at her. "We have many powers Sargon did not permit us to use! If you care for your Captain, dismiss these people!"

  McCoy waved the nurse and technician out of Sickbay.

  "Well?" he said.

  "This body I wear is sacred to me. My husband embraced it. I intend to keep it!"

  So it was out at last. "I see," McCoy said. "And Hanoch? He intends, of course, to keep Spock's body."

  "Hanoch's plans are his own affair. I wish only to keep the body my husband kissed!"

  "Are you asking for my approval?"

  "I require only your silence. Only you and I will know that Anne Mulhall has not returned to her body. Isn't your silence worth your Captain's life?" At the look on McCoy's face, the fury burned in her again. "Doctor, we can take what we wish. Neither you, this ship, nor all your little worlds have the power to stop us!"

  McCoy looked down at Kirk's lifeless body. Jim Kirk—alive again, his easy vitality, his courage, his affectionate "Bones". This was a command decision: a choice between loyalty to the dearest friend of his life—and loyalty to himself. And he knew what the dearest friend would want.

  "I cannot trade a body I do not own," he said. "Neither would my Captain. Your body belongs to a young woman who—"

  "Whom you hardly know, almost a stranger to you."

  McCoy shouted. "I do not peddle human flesh! I am a physician!"

  The blue eyes flashed lightning. "A physician? In contrast to what we are, you are a prancing, savage medicine man—a primitive savage! You dare to defy one you should be on your knees to in worship!" She made a gesture of acid contempt. "I can destroy you with a single thought!"

  A ring of flame shot up around McCoy. He flung his hands before his face to shield it from the rising fire.

  As he did so, Thalassa gave a wild cry. She fell to her knees, crying, "No! Stop! Forgive me, forgive me . . ."

  The flames died as suddenly as they had come. Even the smell of their smoke was gone; and where searing fire had encircled McCoy only a moment before, not a mark of its presence remained.

  She was still on her knees, weeping. "Sargon was . . . right," she sobbed. "The temptations are . . . too great. But understand. In the name of whatever gods you worship, understand! The emotions of life are dear—its needs, its hopes. But . . . our power is too great. We would begin to destroy . . . as I almost destroyed you then. Forgive me . . . forgive . . ."

  "I am pleased, beloved. It is good you have found the truth for yourself."

  Her head lifted. "Sargon! Oh, my husband, where are you? Hanoch has killed you!"

  "I have power, my wife, that Hanoch does not suspect."

  "Yes. Yes. I understand." The words came slowly. She rose to her feet, staring at McCoy. "My Sargon has placed his consciousness within this ship of yours."

  Christine Chapel opened the door of Sickbay. She was crossing to the hypo cabinet when McCoy galvanized. "You! Get out of my sight!"

  Thalassa shook her head. "No, Doctor. She is necessary to us."

  "Necessary? She is under Hanoch's control!"

  "My Sargon has a plan, Doctor. Leave us. We have much work to do."

  After a moment, McCoy obeyed. But as the door closed behind him, he heard a dull crunching explosion come from inside. The ship shuddered slightly. The sound came again.

  "Thalassa!" he shouted. "What's going on?"

  When the sound came for the third time, he raced for the corridor intercom. This is Sickbay. Get me—"

  Behind him Sickbay's door opened. Empty-eyed, Christine emerged to move on past him down the corridor. He rushed inside—and came to a dead halt. Kirk was standing there, smiting at him.

  "I'm fine, Bones," he said. He reached out a hand to draw Anne Mulhall up beside him. "We're both fine, Bones."

  "Thalassa . . ."

  Anne spoke quietly. "She is with Sargon, Doctor."

  "With Sargon?" He looked past them to the three glo
bes. They were broken, melted, black, dead.

  "Jim! Spock's consciousness was in one of those!"

  "It was necessary," Kirk said.

  McCoy flung his arms up. "What do you mean, man? There's no Spock to return to his body now! You've killed your best friend, a loyal officer of the Service!"

  "Prepare a hypo, Bones. The fastest and deadliest poison to Vulcans. Spock's consciousness is gone, but we must now kill his body, too. His body—and the thing inside it."

  On the bridge, Uhura screamed. Then she slumped against her board, trembling. Nonchalant, Hanoch-Spock left her to go to Kirk's command chair. The bewitched Christine waited at his side. He spoke to Sulu. "Shall I make an example of you, too, Helm? Take us out of orbit! A course for Earth!"

  Sulu hit his controls. Then he wheeled in his chair. "Look for yourself! The ship won't respond! Nothing works!"

  The elevator doors slid open. Kirk and Anne stepped out. Behind them came McCoy, his hypo carefully hidden. The alien in the command chair didn't trouble himself to turn; but just before they reached it, it said, Pain, Kirk. Exquisite pain. As for you, lovely one of the blue eyes . . ."

  Kirk had dropped as though shot, gasping, his throat hungering to scream. Hanoch-Spock pointed a finger at Anne. She froze, shudders shaking her—and Sulu, pressed beyond control, leaped from his seat only to fall, moaning with pain. As Anne crumpled to the deck, McCoy dove for the command chair; but Hanoch, holding up a palm, halted him a foot away from Spock's body.

  "I know every thought in every mind around me," he said. Chapel, remove the hypo from the Doctor."

  Christine, reaching into an inside pocket of McCoy's white jacket, obeyed. Hanoch said, "Good. Inject him with his own dose—an example to all those who defy me."

  She lifted the hypo toward McCoy—and without the slightest change of expression, wheeled to drive it, hissing, into Hanoch's arm. He stood up. "Fools!" he shrieked. "I'll simply transfer to . . . another space, another body!" Suddenly, he reeled. "It's you, Sargon!" He whimpered, "Please . . . please, Sargon, let me transfer to—"