THE ROMULANS IN PURSUIT
"The Romulans continue to pursue, Captain," Speck reported. "And they are increasing their speed."
"Can we outrun them, Mr. Spock?"
Spock hesitated, studying readouts as fast as the battle computer could supply them. "Indeterminate, Captain. With three ships in pursuit, prediction becomes extremely complex."
"Captain," Uhura interrupted. "I've received an incoming transmission from the commander of the Romulan force. He seems anxious to talk to you."
"I'll bet," Kirk replied. "Put him through ... I've got a couple of things to talk over with him!"
Other titles by Alan Dean Foster on the
Ballantine Books list:
STAR TREK LOG ONE
STAR TREK LOG TWO
STAR TREK LOG THREE
STAR TREK LOG FOUR
STAR TREK LOG FIVE
DARK STAR
THE TAR-AIYM KRANG
ICERIGGER
available at your local bookstore
STAR TREK
LOG SIX
Alan Dean Foster
Based on the Popular Animated Series Created
by Gene Roddenberry
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
Copyright © 1976 by Paramount Pictures Corporation
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Ballantine Books of Canada, Ltd., Toronto, Canada.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 74-8477
ISBN 0-345-24855-1-150
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Ballantine Books Edition: March, 1976
Cover art supplied by Filmation Associates
For Lou Mindling...
Expediter, friend, oasis in the desert of
deviltry and dementia, and all-around human being.
CONTENTS
PART I
Albatross
PART II
The Practical Joker
PART III
How Sharper Than a Serpent's Tooth
STAR TREK LOG SIX
Log of the Starship Enterprise
Stardates 5532.8 - 5535.2 Inclusive
James T. Kirk, Capt., USSC, FS, ret.
Commanding
transcribed by
Alan Dean Foster
At the Galactic Historical Archives
on S. Monicus I
and
Frontier Outpost Moran
stardated 6111.3
For the Curator: JLR
PART I
ALBATROSS
(Adapted from a script by Dario Finelli)
I
It had form but faint substance, shape but little color, face but no visage.
Body but no soul.
Its sword was an extension of its own right arm and it moved and danced with a grace and fluidity that was not human.
Sulu parried and thrust, beat and lunged with his own insulated blade. Initially he had been casual in attack, though his tenebrous opponent made up in nimbleness what it lacked in knowledge and experience.
But it was rapidly absorbing every trick Sulu the fencing master could think of - memorizing each one, analyzing its weaknesses and strong points, and then using them on Sulu in return. It had not yet mastered the subtle intricacies of multiple combinations, thus preventing the Enterprise's helmsman from being skewered a dozen times over.
But since Sulu's opponent did not tire, the combat loomed as increasingly unequal.
Sulu relished the contest. Never before had he faced so dangerous a fighter, nor one so eerily beautiful. His luminescent antagonist shone like a billion golden glowmites in the light of the room. Though its skull was featureless, it did not lack eyes.
Those enigmatic orbs kept close watch on the helmsman's movements, on the placement of his feet, on the way he held his balancing back hand, and most especially on the tip of that deadly foil.
Sulu feinted low, then went high with the point of his blade. As his opponent moved his blade up to parry, the helmsman shot his left leg out in a strong side kick.
The gilded wraith knocked the point aside and lunged forward to finish the fight. But instead of skipping back out of range, Sulu stood his ground, shot vertically into the air and executed a perfect jump-spinning back kick. His shoe struck the sword-arm, smashing it aside, while his foil whipped around simultaneously to stab straight through that gleaming, glittering throat...
The attacker froze as Sulu withdrew his blade. No blood had gushed forth on contact, no stream of molten yellow fluid. There had been only an indifferent buzz at the mortal blow.
Walking away from his paralyzed opponent, Sulu picked a towel off a nearby bench and mopped at his sweating face.
"The computer annex's getting too clever, Mr. Scott. It's getting harder and harder to think up new combinations to use against it."
Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott nodded as he pressed the switch on the makeshift control panel. Sulu's dervishlike opponent, a man-shape given form and body by ionized gas held in a rigorously restricted force-field, disappeared - a solid-state djinn.
"I don't see why you've never used that kick-parry before," Scott observed. "It worked marvelously."
Sulu smiled as he toweled the back of his neck. "Never had to get that fancy before. Trouble is, the computer rarely lets me get away with a successful move more than once." He let out a short sigh.
"The problem with that defense is that if you miss the parry-kick, you're left floating in mid-air with your sword at your side - a ripe candidate for shish kebab." His expression turned studious.
"Its movements are still a little unnatural, still a bit machinelike. And I noticed a few other problems, too. There were several times when it fought while floating a couple of centimeters above the floor." He grinned. "No fair. The computer's got enough advantages as it is."
"Not enough to reduce the experience of actual combat, though," Scott countered, checking a tiny window in the panel. "You're still well ahead, laddie, twelve touches to five."
"I remember when I used to beat it seventeen to nothing. It's learning, all right."
Scott shrugged. "That's one of the functions of a games computer. If I could program the ship's computer, you'd have a mechanical fighter who'd act perfectly human, even to experiencing fatigue as the battle wore on. But you know what the captain would say if we asked for ship computation time for a project like this." He indicated the wire-fringed control panel.
"I had a bit of a snap with the stores records cagin' the material for this - filed the requisitions under the 'emergency repairs' column. Shouldn't be any trouble with it unless Starfleet springs a surprise inventory on us. But usin' the main computer -," he shook his head firmly, "we've as much chance of that as me grandmother has of throwin' the caber in the next interstellar Highland games."
Sulu accepted the engineer's declaration as he straightened his blade. The foil was insulated on pommel and blade, leaving only the metal tip uncovered. Whenever that naked point intersected the ionized gas in the force field, it registered as a touch on the control box Scott had rigged. Unfortunately, there was no equally accurate way of judging when his computer-controlled opponent scored a hit on him. For now, that had to be done visually. But the system was new, and Scott was still working on that problem as well as on several others.
They would have plenty of time during this long, dull mission to Draymia to perfect his katana-to-ashi opponent. Unlike say, Mr. Spock, who could always find plenty of challengers for tri-dimensional chess and other logic games, there wasn't anyone else on board who possessed more than a perfunctory knowledge of the mode
rn martial art, which merged European-style fencing with the old karate of the Orient. Those crew members who were athletically inclined preferred bowling, or a good round of water polo.
When he'd finally grown deathly bored with fencing and kicking at his own shadow, Sulu had gone to Scott to see if the circuit-wizard could concoct something in the way of a robotic fighter. It hadn't taken the chief engineer long to produce his golden-gas hominoid.
Scott cocked an eyebrow as he glanced up from reintegrating one of the tiny modular components which controlled the fluidity of the force-field. Sulu was at the open arms cabinet.
"More, Lieutenant? Aren't you worn out yet?"
"Just a little saber work."
The engineer looked disapproving. "The final flurry? You know this thing can't score saber near as well as foil. Half the time I've no idea whether you're hittin' the target or not, with all that blade area. Let alone when it's hittin' you."
"Just a few minutes," Sulu pleaded. "I don't want my edge work to get rusty."
"All right, then, if you must." Scott didn't quite grumble. "I've the little matter of a ship to watch over."
He pressed a switch on the panel. Instantly, still frozen in the pose of its last execution, Sulu's antagonist glowed to life again. Scott adjusted controls, manipulated dials. The games computer set the newly programmed tape in motion and the lambent duelist assumed an en garde position.
Sulu lined up across from it. "Ready," he announced, turning his gaze to the gilded ghost. Scott touched a red switch.
The chief engineer had been right, though. At times Sulu himself couldn't tell whether or not he was slipping the first blow in. In a real fight, however, it would be more than merely satisfying to know whether a certain move worked. It would be vital.
The fight lasted only the few minutes Sulu had asked for, but not for the reasons originally given. His nebulous opponent had just performed a good parry, faked high and thrust low. Sulu had fallen for the feint. He jumped, trying to avoid a supposedly high attack. When he saw it was really going low, he attempted to recover by twisting in mid-air to kick-block downward, and got himself confused.
Trying simultaneously to parry with his own sword, the net result turned out to be a neat slash with the metal blade across the thin shoe he was wearing. He came down on both feet, immediately dropped the saber and buckled to the floor, wincing.
Having registered an undeniable score, the computer-controlled figure paused and resumed the ready position, awaiting the command to reengage once more.
Scott flicked it out of existence. There was a brief, dying whine as the force-field's power was cut. Then the engineer hurried over to where the helmsman sat, trying to unsnap the latches on his right shoe.
"Maybe you ought to go back to shadow-fightin', Sulu."
The helmsman grimaced as he worked at the latchings.
"Very funny, Mr. Scott."
Both men saw that the top of the shoe was already stained red. The humor of the situation was relegated to the background.
Scott put one hand on the heel, took a gentle grip on the toe with the other. "Easy, lad ... I'll try and get this off."
While he pushed and pulled, Sulu leaned back on both hands, stared at the ceiling of the gymnasium chamber and tried to think of other things. He couldn't repress a little gasp as the shoe finally slipped free.
There was a three-centimeter long gash across the top of his foot. Though it bled profusely, Sulu still counted himself lucky. The blade had struck at an angle which caused it to miss the big tendons. He made no move to rise.
"Stay there," Scott ordered him. He moved to a nearby cabinet and came back with a first-aid kit. The bandaging was crude, but at least they halted the flow of blood.
"Sorry, Sulu," he apologized when the temporary repair job was finished. "I'm much better with a needlepoint welding laser."
Sulu eyed him archly. "Thanks just the same, Scotty, I'll settle for the bandages."
"Can you walk, or d'you want me to call for a stretcher?"
"No - no stretcher!" Sulu objected quickly. "The captain's liable to hear about it." He struggled to his feet. "Cut's on the top, not the sole. I can make it. Give me a hand to Sick Bay."
Scott mumbled about the waste of time as he helped Sulu get a large sock over the injured foot. Sulu was right, though. The captain wouldn't take kindly to the news that one of his Bridge officers had disabled himself at a game.
The few personnel they encountered in the corridors inquired solicitously as to the cause of the helmsman's limp. It was explained that he had slightly sprained an ankle playing handball. Much to Sulu's relief, this explanation seemed to be accepted by all.
McCoy was in a testier mood than usual. He unwrapped Scott's makeshift bandage job and stared disgustedly at the neat wound, muttering to himself as he went about the business of cleaning it out and closing it up.
"You cut your foot how?"
Sulu looked away and repeated the story for the third time.
"I've already told you, Dr. McCoy. Mr. Scott was kind enough to use some of his off-duty hours to develop an artificial warrior for me to practice against. I was making a parry where I shouldn't have been and I cut myself, that's all."
McCoy shook his head as he used three tiny organic clips to clamp the edges of the wound together. Spray from a can coated the wound and clips with an anesthetizing sealant. Eventually, the modified protein clips would be absorbed by Sulu's body, but not until the wound had completely healed over.
"That's a fairly deep cut, Helmsman," McCoy commented as he put away the can. "Try not to kick anyone with that foot till it heals up, hmmm? It should be okay."
Sulu looked as if he had something further to say, but instead glanced at Scott for help. The chief engineer looked indifferent, then abruptly remembered how many times his senior officer had bailed him out of a difficult situation.
"Uh, Dr. McCoy...."
McCoy looked back at him.
"We'd kinna hoped you wouldn't mention this little episode to the captain. I know it has to be entered in the medical log, but the lieutenant would appreciate it if you didn't go out of your way to tell him about it. You know what his reaction'd be."
"More than 'It'll be okay'," the doctor muttered. He didn't look at Sulu as he added, "I haven't got time anyway - not with that ton of medical supplies we're to deliver to Draymia to check out."
Glad for the change of subject and, incidentally, curious, Sulu swung his legs off the table and wondered, "Why should you have to bother with them at all, Doctor? Aren't they prepacked and self-contained?"
In reply McCoy sat down before a viewscreen and manipulated the controls. Peering over his shoulder, both Scott and Sulu saw vast columns of words and figures, massed tightly together like the ranks of an advancing army. McCoy gestured in an uncomplimentary manner at the screen, shaking his head dolefully.
"The instructional manuals for the equipment and supplies are all mixed up. If I don't get them properly relabeled before we arrive, the Draymians won't be able to tell an encephalograph from an endocrine monitor, or a case of Draymian aspirin from the serum for treating brain damage." He angrily snapped the picture off, turned to them.
"Whoever precoordinated this shipment's a likely candidate for a good shot of the latter drug."
"Can't you get someone to take over your regular assignments until you get everything sorted out?" Scott asked.
McCoy stared back at him evenly. "Would you want me to delegate my duties to someone else? Suppose Sulu had really sliced himself up? Or you, Scotty? How would you feel if I was off cataloging packages someplace?"
Neither man said anything.
He switched the screen back on, swiveled around to stare at the new display. "Besides, the health of hundreds of thousands of intelligent beings might depend on the safe delivery of these supplies. I'm not about to entrust their proper delivery to anyone but myself.
"Now if you don't mind," he growled, "I'd like to get back to my imp
ortant work."
Sulu grinned as he gingerly put more weight on his injured limb. It was amazing how much better it felt already, after McCoy's precise ministrations.
The doctor's surface gruffness deceived neither of them.
"He'll make it all right, if he has to push himself double-shift," Scott declared as the two men entered the corridor outside Sick Bay. "He's got a good two weeks' ship-time before we make orbit around Draymia. It's only stardate fifty-five..."
***
"...thirty-two point eight," Kirk finished, his voice slightly hoarse from the dry atmospheres of Draymia. As he spoke into the communicator, it relayed his voice back to the official log recorder on board the Enterprise, now orbiting far overhead.
"Preparing to beam back aboard ship following successful delivery of medical equipment and supplies to the planet Draymia in the Draymian star system. Kirk out..."
They stood on a balcony outside the chambers of the Draymian capital city administration, awaiting the arrival of the Supreme Prefect for the final embarkation ceremony. While Spock and McCoy discussed some obscure point of Draymian physiology as it related to certain of the supplies they had brought, Kirk turned and allowed his gaze to roam over the capital's skyline. Once one became used to the size of everything, built to nearly one and a quarter human scale, this world looked almost familiar. This, despite its extreme distance from the nearest Federation outpost planet.
The vegetation here was not terribly alien, likewise the animal life. But the hue of sky was just a touch too green, the tree trunks a bit too orange, the flying creatures' wings too scaly for hominess. In other words, Draymia was one of those many humanoid worlds whose weirdness was all the more disturbing for its elusive familiarity.
It wasn't a world where the local ungulates rolled around on wheels instead of walking on normal legs, or where the vegetation grew upside down like the ostrich forest on Olibaba. No, on a world like Draymia you always had the feeling that if you could just hit the right switch inside your head, there would be a little click, the proper lens would slip into place in front of your eyes, and everything would suddenly slide over into the normal.
Star Trek Log Six Page 1
