Star Trek - Log 4

by Alan Dean Foster

  Unrestrained cheering indicated the emotions on the Klothos' bridge. Anyone would have thought the crew had just won a major battle against overwhelming odds. In a sense, they had.

  Her commander and first officer stared expectantly at the viewscreen in anticipation of further pyrotechnics. Long-range scanners struggled to hold the fast-moving dot that was the Enterprise.

  For a moment, something seemed to have gone wrong. Then there was an impressive flowering of violet light. The cheering died quickly as the rest of the crew turned in surprise to gape at this new phenomenon. First one gaze, then another, and another, turned toward the command station.

  "Exalted One," Kaas said formally, "this is a great moment for the Empire. May I have the honor of . . .?"

  "Not yet, not yet," Kor countered thoughtfully. "Give everyone time to think on it. Let them reach the proper conclusion by themselves. The result will be that much more pleasurable for them. We can confirm it at our leisure. I want to enjoy this as long as possible."

  His predatory smile widened as he watched the angry flare fade from the screen . . .

  To see familiar stars again was a pleasure Kirk had not expected.

  No, no . . . that was not true. Inside, he had always really believed they would successfully escape the continuum trap—no matter how many times the Elysians had failed. There wasn't a barrier in the universe that Spock, Sulu, Arex and Scott couldn't break once they set their combined brainpower to searching for a solution.

  That belief had wavered only once . . . when the Klothos had tried the barrier and failed. Maybe he had felt so sure about it because they had never really been threatened. Kirk was used to facing down death—the promise of eternal life was something hard to feel terrified about.

  Uhura interrupted his musings. He noted a calmness in her voice again that no promise of extended life could put there.

  "Sir, I'm picking up a deep-space transmission at the extreme range of reception. It's from the Klothos." She paused. "Commander Kor is heading for his home station—there, they've just passed outside our effective communications limit."

  "Don't keep us in suspense, Lieutenant," Kirk prompted. "What's the good commander done? Probably taken full credit for our escape from the time-space trap."

  Uhura seemed to be having trouble controlling herself. "It's not . . . that, Captain. They saw the device they planted aboard go off and apparently they felt it was still aboard.

  "He thinks we've been destroyed—and he was trumpeting his triumph all the way back to Klingon Imperial Headquarters!"

  "Commander Kor is exhibiting the typical egocentrism of . . ." Spock stopped, observed that Kirk, Sulu and even Arex were now sharing in Uhura's laughter. A steady high-pitched noise of a less ominous sort now permeated the bridge.

  "I had thought that if such information inspired emotion in you," he said uncertainly, "it would have been of anger and not amusement."

  "Don't you see, Spock?" Kirk turned to him, trying to retain his composure.

  "See what, Captain?" The first officer was still confused.

  "Consider what Kor is reporting, is claiming, Spock . . . and then try to visualize his face when the Empire's emissaries in the Federation send back word that we are still in excellent condition!"

  Spock glanced around the usually efficient, smoothly running bridge. It had taken on the air of a carnival. He turned back to his console.

  There was a certain problem in abstract mathematics he had been working on. He would return to a consideration of it now. But first he reviewed Kirk's explanation. The incongruity of the situation he perceived, of course. But he would not, if he lived to be a thousand, understand how it could produce in normally sensible human beings a state of transitory imbecility.

  In response to his request, the computer laid the details of the problem before him once again. Bending his gaze to his hooded viewer, he found relief from the surrounding hysteria in the cool perfection of higher calculus. He was not, however, isolated in his reaction to the situation.

  Had he known, it is quite likely that Commander Kor would not have been laughing, either . . .

  PART III

  MORE TRIBBLES,

  MORE TROUBLES

  (Adapted from a script by David Gerrold)

  XI

  The call came in a few days later.

  "Message from Starbase Twenty-three, Captain," Uhura announced. "Indication is priority signal, but not confidential."

  "Put it on the main screen then, Lieutenant."

  "Very good, sir."

  Dim with distance, a face appeared ahead—a portrait of a young and rather harassed-looking communications officer. "Captain Kirk, my name is Massey. I'm with Emergency Interstellar Relief . . . Communications Section."

  "So I see," Kirk replied.

  From what Kirk had seen, members of the IRS wore expressions akin to this Massey's nearly constantly. The nature of their work, naturally. The young officer's gaze, however, seemed especially mournful.

  "We've been trying to contact you for ages, Captain. Uh . . . how did your mission into the Delta Triangle go?"

  Word certainly gets around in Starfleet, Kirk reflected.

  "Standard exploration," he replied blandly, ignored a muffled choking sound from the region of the helm. "In this case, if it had taken us a day longer, you would have spent those ages trying to contact us."

  The Sub-lieutenant looked uncertain, aware that Kirk was trying to tell him something and thoroughly unsure how to interpret it. A hand wiped wavy brown hair from his forehead.

  "Glad to hear that, sir," he mumbled in response. "You're familiar with the operations of the Relief Service?"

  This one was even younger than he looked, Kirk mused. Had he ever been that young? "I have some familiarity with the functions of Starfleet peripheral organizations," he deadpanned. "What can we do for you?"

  Missing the sarcasm completely, the Sub-lieutenant turned crisply businesslike. "Do you know the location of Sherman's Planet?"

  Kirk glanced over a shoulder. "Mr. Spock, could you . . . ah, never mind. I remember." He looked back to the screen. "A newly settled world on the periphery of the Federation. Population is mixed human and Edoan." Arex nodded in confirmation. There were few worlds where the Edoans felt comfortable outside of their home system. Sherman's planet was one of them.

  "I have a cousin in that colony, Captain."

  That lent whatever difficulty Massey was about to delineate a touch of immediacy, as far as Kirk was concerned.

  "I recall that Sherman's Planet is a fairly successful venture. Not a paradise world, maybe, but certainly a tame one."

  "Quite true, Captain." The youngster was nodding vigorously. "It gave every promise of being a rich agricultural world, capable of exporting a wide variety of staples to the rest of the Federation. Records indicate that the initial seedings of the colonists would produce a first crop beyond anyone's expectations." His expression became more doleful.

  "Unfortunately, it seems that the first survey team overlooked something. Occasionally, new worlds have surprises locked inside them that are not revealed at once. Sherman's Planet looks to be one of them.

  "We're still not sure what the basic cause of the trouble is. A shifting deficiency in the soil, maybe the presence of a cyclic virus in the atmosphere. Whatever it is, it's deadly where mature grains are involved. As I say, we don't know yet. But the initial crop seems to be a complete failure.

  "The soil chemists think they can solve the problem, develop a defense against it. But that will take a minimum of six standard months. The farmers on Sherman don't have six months. It's not a question of export now—it's a question of survival.

  "What they do have is a double growing season, thanks to the planet's lushness and long summer. We've turned up a hybrid seed grain on the plains world of Kansastan. According to tests, it ought to be impervious to what's been hitting the Shermanites' crops.

  "Two large cargo drones loaded with the hybrid seed are
in parking orbit around KS. You are to proceed there, pick up the drones, and escort them to Sherman's Planet. At standard cruising speed you should get them there in plenty of time for the colonists to get the seed into the ground.

  "If they don't get the seed, they'll face the coming winter without any crop at all. This is supposedly an established colony. They have only minor emergency supplies left. No crop and they'll face widespread famine. Predictions run as high as ten to eighteen percent fatalities. And the colony proper might never recover."

  "The grain will get there. Don't worry, Massey. As you say, we've plenty of time." The best catastrophes, he reflected, were the ones that could be prevented.

  "Enterprise out, Lieutenant Massey."

  The Sub-lieutenant managed a weak grin—as much of a smile as the people in his business could mount—and signed off. Probably to turn his attention to some new disaster, Kirk mused. It took a special kind of person to stand up under the kind of anguished reports the IRS had to handle daily. Kirk did not envy the young man his job.

  "Mr. Arex, Mr. Sulu . . . set a course for Kansastan."

  "Aye, Captain," sounded the simultaneous acknowledgment.

  They had no difficulty in securing the drone grain ships. Each was somewhat smaller than the Enterprise, but nearly as powerful. High-speed, bulk carriers, their sole purpose was to convey enormous loads across the plenum in the shortest possible time.

  The monitoring officer on the small space station orbiting Kansastan was garrulous to the point of boredom, so Kirk was glad when linkup was completed, giving him a chance to depart.

  Still, he couldn't help feeling sorry for the fellow. He was assigned to a world whose people went about their Federation business efficiently and with little fanfare. They didn't get many visitors.

  And that monitor might serve in that isolated post until his retirement without a single promotion.

  The journey to Sherman's Planet was passing uneventfully. So uneventfully that when they were three-quarters of the way to the outpost colony, Kirk was considering beaming the nearest Starfleet base for further orders.

  Instead, he sighed, activated the recorder in the arm of the command chair.

  "Captain's Log, stardate 5526.2. Having been assigned to escort two robot grain ships to Sherman's Planet, the Enterprise is now approximately . . ." He looked to Arex. The navigator nodded, turned to his readouts and recited a figure. Kirk repeated it into the recorder.

  ". . . from the colony. Upon completion of delivery of the quinto-triticale seed, the Enterprise will proceed to . . ."

  "Captain? Captain." Sulu's tone was anxious.

  Mildly irritated, Kirk put the Log on hold. "What is it, Mr. Sulu? You know better to interrupt when I'm making an official . . ."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I've just picked up some kind of smaller vessel. A one-man scout or an independent trader . . . can't be sure at this distance. It's running an evasive course, sir, at top speed—with a Klingon battle cruiser in close pursuit."

  Kirk thought rapidly, lifted his finger from the hold button. "Changing course to investigate the pursuit of a small ship of unknown origin by a Klingon ship of the line. Out." He looked to the front.

  "Mr. Arex, alter course to put us on an intercept route with the smaller craft."

  "Changing course, Captain," the navigator answered promptly.

  Kirk drummed fingers on a chair arm, studied the screen impatiently. "Any confirmation of identity on either ship, Mr. Sulu?"

  "Not yet, Captain." Sulu was bent over a gooseneck viewer.

  "Captain?" Kirk looked around.

  "Yes, Mr. Spock?"

  The first officer looked over from the library computer console. "Among the information received by high-beam code transmission from Starfleet Science Center in the past several days was an item that it has not been necessary to mention until now. There are rumors from Federation agents that the Klingons have a new weapon, abilities unknown.

  "Your timing is remarkable, as always, Mr. Spock," Kirk commented, straight faced. "The Klothos didn't have it."

  "No, Captain. Had she, it seems certain Commander Kor would have employed it."

  "Cruiser is closing rapidly on its target," Sulu announced, forestalling any further discussion of new Klingon potential. Spock turned to his sensor readouts.

  "Initial scan indicates the smaller vessel is a one-man scout ship of common design. Federation manufacture and registry probable but not yet certain."

  "I think I can get the other ship on a high-resolution scope, Captain," Sulu offered. He worked at his instrument board.

  A second later the new picture appeared on the screen, showing the small scout with unusual sharpness, considering the range. A sudden burst of light flashed across the screen, disappeared, as if something had arced for a microsecond between the Enterprise and the fleeing scout.

  Kirk already guessed the explanation. "Mr. Sulu, shift pickup, please."

  Sulu figured it out only seconds later. His tone was one of puzzled amazement. "They're firing on him, Captain."

  He adjusted another switch. A different scanner took over from the first. The new view showed the little craft's massive pursuer, clearly recognizable as a Klingon battle cruiser. As they watched, multiple ripples of light flared from the warship's prow as she let go with her secondary disruptor batteries.

  Again Sulu changed views. This time the scout ship eclipsed the disruptor bolts and they passed on its far side. Kirk doubted the Klingon gunners would miss again. The scout vanished from the screen and from then on some instrumental calisthenics were required of Sulu to keep it on the screen.

  The pilot was going all out to avoid being hit, Kirk noted. He was good, and his ship was mobile; but it couldn't dodge a warship's electronic predictors forever, couldn't continue to escape disruptor fire that could obliterate much larger prey.

  A bigger question was the sanity of the Klingon's commander. His ship was so far within Federation space there was no possibility of navigational error. Unless he and his executive officers had gone completely mad, they knew exactly what they were doing and what chasing the scout ship this far implied. To risk such a blatant violation of Federation borders was a sign that someone desired to destroy that tiny ship very much, indeed.

  Territorial intrusion took clear precedence over escort duty. "Ahead, warp-six."

  Sulu and Arex coaxed response from the ship's engines. Kirk activated his chair intercom.

  "Transporter room, report." A crackle of opening channels, and then a familiar burr. "Transporter room . . . Scott speakin'."

  "Scotty?" Kirk's brow furrowed in mild surprise. "What are you doing there? Where's Chief Kyle?"

  "On his second off-shift, Captain. I thought I'd take it for him. I've been goin' crazy tryin' to figure out how the Elysians picked you and Dr. McCoy off right through our defensive screens and . . ."

  "Never mind that now, Mr. Scott," Kirk interrupted quickly. "You haven't taken the console apart, I hope?"

  "No, sir." Now it was Scott's turn to sound surprised. "I intend to eventually, but right now she's fully operational. Why? What's happenin'?"

  "We've run into a Klingon battle cruiser chasing a solo scout and . . ."

  "A Klingon? This deep inside Federation . . .?"

  "I know, Scotty, I know. She's firing on the smaller ship. We're going to try and rescue its pilot."

  "Aye, Captain!" There was a pause at the other end, then, "He's nothin' in the way of a screen, sir, but at this distance it'll take some time to scan the pattern of whoever's on board. I dinna want to bring him in in pieces."

  "Get to work on it, Mr. Scott. When you lock in on him, don't hesitate. Bring him aboard."

  "Aye, sir."

  Kirk turned his attention back to the screen. Another set of light waves passed close by the scout. The cruiser was still firing. Someone muttered that the Klingons couldn't shoot worth a damn.

  At the tail end of the mutter, a last bolt struck the ship a glancing blow.
A tiny white cloud billowed from it as escaping atmosphere froze solid. The scout continued to move, but it was clearly disabled now.

  Still no word from Scott. He spoke over his shoulder.

  "Open general hailing frequencies, Lieutenant." Kirk waited a moment, giving Uhura time to comply, then spoke into the pickup once more.

  "Klingon battle cruiser . . . identify yourself. This is Captain James Kirk commanding U.S.S. Enterprise speaking. You are violating Federation space. Identify yourself . . . halt firing on scout ship."

  Sulu switched the forward scanner back again from the weaving scout to the cruiser. It did not take long to tell that the Klingons had no intention of altering their course or ceasing their attempts to destroy the fleeing scout. Several more disruptor bolts darted from the prow of the warship.

  "Doesn't even bother to acknowledge," Kirk muttered. A certain amount of hesitation on the part of an interloper could be tolerated. Such outright contempt for a major treaty could not.

  "Mr. Spock," he ordered, his voice lowering meaningfully, "you will note this violation and enter it officially in computer records. Mr. Sulu, arm all phasers. Deflector shields up. All hands to battle stations."

  After Uhura activated the alarm, the Enterprise became a hive of instant activity. Dropping whatever they were doing when that klaxon sounded, each moved to his or her position of readiness.

  "All stations report battle status, Captain," Uhura reported a few moments later.

  "Phasers armed," Sulu announced. "Shields up." Several other switches were snapped over. "Ship is battle status." Kirk nodded, spoke to the mike in one last try.

  "Klingon battle cruiser, this is your last chance. Identify yourself." Only the faint static of distant suns sounded back over the speakers. "Ahead, warp-eight . . . range, Mr. Sulu?"

  "Closing, sir." Again the view foreward altered, back to the scout ship.

  "The injured vessel is losing speed rapidly, Captain," informed Spock.

  Kirk studied the image worriedly, spoke to the intercom. "Scotty, have you got that pilot yet? We're running out of time up here."