by Diane Carey
After two false starts, he hit the comlink. “April to bridge. George, are you there?”
It wasn’t George, but Drake who came back over the intercom, backdropped by frantic sounds from the bridge—recognizable voices in an unrecognizable situation.
“Oh, Captain, are you over your brain sprain?”
“Drake, what’s going on? Where’s George?”
“Ah, well, you see, we have this little problem ...”
“Why do you look at the sky?”
The Romulan’s question shook George’s concentration on the pink-blue sky.
“I’m trying to imagine what’s going on up there,” he replied, and continued squinting into the light of the distant pinkish sun.
T’Cael could tell that Kirk’s experience in actual battle was limited by watching his expression. He offered the hard-won wisdom of his own past.
“It is a simple choreography. My ship is circling the area like an insect, hoping to come near enough to scan for us ... especially for me. Your ship, I must assume, is why my ship is taking so long between batteries. The variables are distance, technological differences, and the battle experience of your crew. I won’t deceive you about the experience of mine.”
George looked down at him. “Good?”
For the first time in his life t’Cael was ashamed to admit it. “We have an abundance of military enthusiasm in our culture. As such, we can easily afford to put only our best in space.”
[209] Cradling his injured arm, George drawled, “Pardon if I’m not reassured.”
T’Cael gave a noncommittal nod, quite able to empathize with Kirk’s resentment. He lowered his gaze, making it clear that he would supply no more information. He was no traitor, nor would he put himself in a position to make that alternative tempting.
Besides, he knew that death would be his next phase, whether at the hands of his own crew or here. Either way, he would never again see the suffused topaz skies of his home province. His family would have to deal with the repercussions of his “unfortunate” death. Would his enemies call his death honorable? Or would they say he defied imperial process, and forced them to act against him?
No matter. He was no longer part of the web. Only one thing was certain: he had grossly underestimated Ry’iak.
“What are you doing?”
T’Cael glanced up. Kirk was standing over him, leaning on the rock wall to support his injured left side, and he was looking at t’Cael’s hands.
Ordinarily t’Cael wasn’t prone to absent-mindedness, but somehow the seed pods and cut bits of plants from his quarters had gotten into his hands. Had they been in his pocket the whole time? A warm incubator, and a memory of Idrys.
“My hobby. Growing things. It seems they cling to me.” He fingered the seed pods, habitually careful not to rupture them. “A rhythm of life we no longer understand. So different that we forget to think of it as life at all. This one,” he said, holding up a chubby seed, “will be a cycad.”
George forced himself not to look too feeble as he moved to sit on a convenient outcropping. “Dinosaur food.”
“On Earth, yes. In fact, this particular one is an Earth variety, preserved by micropropagation on one of your colonies. The parent species is extinct. An incalculable loss.”
At the moment, George had trouble sympathizing with an orphaned seed. His brows came together in a confused frown. The Romulan really felt for that seed. Weird.
“And this small pod,” the Romulan went on, holding up what looked like a wad of mold, “is a type similar to your Asian waterlilies. And it’s charmingly punctual. Its flower blooms precisely at dawn, pollinates at midday, and sinks into the mud at sunset, where it leaves precisely five pods.” Without missing a beat, he plucked up a long [210] flimsy growth that looked like a cross between a slug and a piece of rice. “This will be a fern. You have many ferns on Earth, I know. This one is a prospector fern. By its color changes it tells us the locations and concentrations of certain metal deposits below the surface. It was understandably helpful during our industrial regeneration. Such value ... and only one cell thick.”
“Where’d you get so much information about Earth plants?” George asked.
The Romulan’s large eyes flared, and he smiled. “I stole it. Smuggled, actually, at respectable cost.”
“Why? I mean, why Earth?”
T’Cael turned his head and squarely addressed George. “Don’t you know?” he asked accusingly. “You humans may wander as far as you please into the galaxy, but only rarely will you find a planet as lush as your own.” He straightened, and gazed across the mossy landscape. “Think of your assortment of races. Humans of such a variety of color and size and height that they hardly seem one species at all ... and the blinding variety of animal and insect life on Earth—astonishing. Even within a single species you have vast differences. Dogs, for instance. A thousand breeds that conceivably could mate with each other. Cats of every description, from sublime to savage. Rodents. Butterflies—your insect life alone is dizzying. You have a range of environments to keep science hungry for lifetimes, and you humans are capable of living in all of them in some fashion. And what moves in your waters ... there are hardly words for the variety. Or perhaps I don’t know the words.”
The Romulan seemed to grow tired. George watched him silently, embarrassed that he had never seen these things in this light.
“Plants are the first sign of life,” the Romulan went on. Then he stopped and glanced up. “The perception is new to you.”
“I ... never thought about it,” George admitted.
T’Cael shook his head. “I find your inattention distasteful. And a waste. Such an attitude has caused the plundering of your planet, and now you move into the greater galaxy to spoil other worlds.”
George bristled. “Our planet isn’t so plundered,” he retaliated. “My sons still have fields and forests to run in, and the jungles are still there for your ferns.” Stiffly he got to his feet again. “For a conqueror race, you sure take things personally. Humans make a lot of mistakes, but it’s only because we’re willing to take chances. And we’ve fixed a lot of our mistakes too, because we admit to having made them. That’s [211] why we could forgive if it was your ship that accidentally fell into our space. I don’t notice your people exhibiting anything resembling generosity. What you’ve got is just plain suspiciousness.”
“And a spider’s sense of ambush,” t’Cael mused in rueful agreement, more to himself than to Kirk.
George watched him, and a quiver of pity ran up his spine, not enough to make him understand, but enough to keep him from venting another accusation. He knew the other man was more a victim than he was. Unless this was some kind of elaborate test—or trap—
The wave of paranoia made his arm and leg ache. Itching for something to do, he wrestled out his communicator and held it in his left hand even though the muscles of his arm protested. If he could send out a strong enough signal, if the empress was close enough ...
Suddenly the Romulan stood up, stiff and erect, and held his breath.
George stopped moving, and glared at his reluctant companion. “What?”
T’Cael swept a silencing hand toward him and continued concentrating on something he heard, sensed, felt—
“We’re being stalked,” he announced tersely,
George caught his breath, stared an instant longer, then pushed off the rock wall and leaned over the escarpment. What he saw melted his spine. He pushed back.
“Get going,” he said, his voice edged with urgency. “Higher ground. Let’s go.”
T’Cael’s eyes narrowed. “What did you see?”
“Move. Come on, get going.” With an authoritative push, George aimed the Romulan at the mossy crags that gouged upward from their hiding place. As they moved, he drew his hand-cannon.
T’Cael buried his curiosity about what was coming up the mountain and began climbing. The two men worked their way up an increasingly jagged cliff face, and the Federation officer needed
help more often than he seemed to want to admit, but whatever he had seen coming after them was hideous enough that he accepted t’Cael’s assistance without a single argument. Only when they paused to let Kirk rest in the crook of two rocks was t’Cael able to look down. Once done, he regretted it.
The beasts weren’t the biggest they’d seen on the face of the little planetoid, but certainly they were the ugliest. Bristle haired and wolflike, but big as a thrai, with heavy shoulders and powerful forequarters, the creatures had massive jaws and lips that weren’t quite able to [212] close around teeth made for butchery. They moved with studied slowness, and from every crevice came another one to add to the pack. There were already more than a dozen, and the climb didn’t seem to slow their advance at all. As they moved up into the rocks toward him, their rough coats rippled like shoregrass, as though tipped with quicksilver. They were grim and intent on their hunt. Grim, savage, silent. The silence was the most distressing element. George listened for the crack of a stick under a paw, the rustle of a leaf, the rasp of harsh fur against a bush—anything. But there was nothing. Nothing but eyes fixed on him, red-ringed and hungry.
T’Cael pressed back against the rock, forcing himself not to look anymore. “Interesting form of life,” he murmured. “I wonder what they are.”
“They’re carnivorous,” George said flatly.
T’Cael pressed his lips together. “They’ve grouped in a pack. We can’t effectively fight them with single-shot weapons.”
“Why not?”
“That’s the idea behind pack strategy. Or Swarm strategy,” he added with an ironic edge that only he understood. “Individuals are sacrificed to the pack. While we fight one, the group moves closer. So it seems we die here one way or the other.”
“Huh-uh,” George grunted as he struggled to his feet. “My life insurance isn’t paid up. Let’s go.”
“You go.” T’Cael saw the momentary confusion in Kirk’s eyes and explained, “I cannot forecast your fate. But I can accept mine.”
“Bunk.”
“It is the wiser course for me, Kirk.”
“Damn you, get up!” George reached over and hauled t’Cael to his feet. “Now move!”
T’Cael pulled away, though he couldn’t entirely break Kirk’s grasp on his arm in this cramped space.
“Goddamn you,” George growled. “Nobody with any intelligence gives up that easily. Start climbing.”
They glared at each other for a moment. Then t’Cael’s expression mellowed. “I suppose I’d rather not die under a tag of stupidity.” He raised a hand. “After you.”
For George, the uphill climb was a constant fight against the pain in his hip and shoulder. In addition to the predators below and the wrenching ache every time he pulled himself higher, he was plagued with thoughts of the starship. Could Drake handle the enemy vessel [213] now that they were in combat? Silly question—Drake had nothing resembling the experience he would need to move against a trained Romulan crew. Drake was audacious; maybe that would help. Drake didn’t believe in rules. He might be able to keep the starship from being destroyed, but George didn’t harbor too many false hopes about being rescued. There was only the slimmest possibility, if, if they could stay alive long enough.
He hated being here. The frustration of having to deal with being chased by animals when he wanted to be in space where the bigger action was happening ... he felt like a disembodied hand. Still twitching.
He took a moment to glance downward. The animals were slowly and steadily closing the distance between them. They had been a hundred yards below them; now they were fifty, moving with slow deliberation.
As he wedged his fingers into a niche and tried to haul himself to a moss-coated ledge, the muscles in his shoulder spasmed and he lost his grip. He slipped downward, the rock scraping his face, and only the Romulan’s strong grip on his belt kept George from falling into the jaws of their hunters.
“Try again,” t’Cael encouraged.
Panting, George only managed a nod. With an embarrassing gasp, he gathered his strength and pushed his fingers into the niche once more. He concentrated on the ledge, a chance to rest, to evaluate the situation, see if they’d climbed high enough to discourage the animals stalking them.
He gritted his teeth and refused to slip again, no matter how his fingers quivered or his arms trembled.
Almost within reach now ... his fingers were on the ledge. From below the Romulan gave him another boost, and he was up. He was safe.
Exhausted, he flopped onto his side and rolled over, his breath coming in ragged gasps. If he could just rest—
He pushed himself up onto his good elbow, then over onto his knees, and reached over the edge to grasp the Romulan’s wrist. What he saw beyond t’Cael made his spine tingle with a primal fear. Eyes, reddish eyes set in massive bearlike faces—but no bear had ever looked so capable of mutilation. These animals could never be mistaken for stuffed toys, that was for sure. Their teeth intermingled like thorns, their lips permanently peeled back in aberrations of smiles, [214] unable to close around the walls of gray-white teeth. And now there were more than thirty of them.
“Hurry up,” George said.
T’Cael heard the intensity in the human’s voice and interpreted it correctly. The animals were closing in. He tried to move faster.
A sudden noise made him look up—and he found himself staring into a face far more horrid than the face of combat had ever appeared.
The beast rose up from a buttress behind Kirk, massive paw and flexed finger-length claws raised to strike.
“Kirk!”
T’Cael’s warning only gave George the time to roll over and get a good look at the death barreling down upon him. There wasn’t even time to raise his hand-cannon.
But t’Cael had a precious extra second to gather his wits and vault up onto the ledge. With a single heave, he shoved George out of the beast’s swiping range and took the blow himself. The beast’s paw caught him between the shoulder blades and smashed him up against the rock wall.
George rolled and came up on one knee with the hand-cannon raised and firing. Long, separate bolts of laser energy seared into the animal’s fur, finally cutting through to its heart. The beast turned its thorny snout to the sky and screamed in rage, twisted, reeled backward, shrieked again, and toppled from its perch. A few thumps on the rocks below, and the silence returned.
T’Cael slumped against the rock, his eyes cramped shut, his arms and legs shuddering.
George scrambled to him. “Let me look.”
The bright blue jacket was deeply sliced at least a half-dozen times. Below that, two more layers of clothing were also sliced, and the Romulan’s skin was scored with claw marks. Two of the marks were open wounds. The blow itself had knocked the wind out of him, a blow hard enough to have killed George if it had landed on his neck or head, as it had been intended to.
T’Cael made no attempt to hide the pain. In fact, for several seconds he was unaware of anything but the agony that burned its way across his back. He felt the blow all the way through his body, and his hands closed around the rocks as he struggled for composure.
“Thanks,” George murmured.
There was no response.
“I didn’t think to bring a first-aid kit,” George said as he checked [215] t’Cael’s wounds again. They were bleeding now, a thick olive trickle, and he dabbed at them with the edges of the ripped jacket. It was disorienting to see pain openly displayed by someone who looked so much like a Vulcan, and it brought out all his compassion for the Romulan.
He glanced up. The crags got steeper from here on. Trapped, utterly trapped. Even if there was some way to force his own injured limbs to climb, there was no hope now of getting the Romulan up there. He turned back to t’Cael.
“I see it,” t’Cael gasped, fighting for control. “Futile.” He rearranged himself against the rock wall with distinct effort. “Please, though, make the attempt yourself. They may be busy with me long enough f
or you to—”
“Can’t,” George snapped, not wanting to hear it again. “My leg won’t take it.” He struggled to recharge the power pack on his hand-cannon, then squinted up at the rocks. “I think I see some loose rubble. Maybe ... if I do it right ... just maybe I can jar enough rocks loose to cause a rock slide. Take cover.”
He braced himself on a crag and held the weapon in both hands, aiming as carefully as he could in the fading light, fighting the desire to look down until he’d at least made one attempt. The laser bolt shot upward in a clean glow, and pecked at his chosen outcropping. Pebbles flew, specks of stone spitting down into his face, but he kept firing until the falling rocks were the size of a man’s fist. Then he ducked back toward the Romulan and waited.
A shower of rocks tumbled past their hiding place, making a jangling racket against their mother mountain. When the last chips had sprinkled, George crawled out and looked down.
On the face of the cliff, there wasn’t a sign of the predators. Nothing. Not a whisker.
“They’re gone,” he said, confusion showing in his voice.
“Impossible,” the Romulan said.
He was right. As George watched the last pebble settle, lumps of fur began rising from a dozen hiding places. Then more. And still more. How could animals that big find places to hide on this boulder?
Gradually, more and more of the creatures appeared, their grizzly faces intent. The hunt resumed.
George slithered backward and pressed against the rocks as he checked the intensity of the hand-cannon and looked up again, trying to find another weak spot on the cliff face above.
[216] “You’re wasting your weapon’s energy,” the Romulan said.
George glared at him. True, these rocks seemed too stable to shake loose with this little weapon, but he didn’t particularly want to be told that right now. He’d have to wait, pick the animals off one by one as they attacked, and hope he had enough firepower to do it. How many of them were there? Two dozen? Four? More?
He felt as though he was slipping his head into a guillotine, and waiting—waiting those long last seconds for the blade to fall.
