First I had to survive; then, to report. I heard movement in the brush, and a grunt. I peeked out again and saw the Klingon turn over Somabula with his toe. The Klingon looked around, then pulled my friend up, tying his hands with a leather thong found in the haversack Somabula was carrying.
If he’s tied, I thought, it means Somabula is alive. I watched surreptitiously as the Klingon secured Somabula’s hands to a limb, then tied his feet, leaving him staked out.
A goat.
In India they used to hunt tigers by staking out a goat and watching in ambush for a hungry tiger to take the bait.
Somabula was the goat, I was evidently the tiger. The Klingon was counting on the humanity of the “native” he had seen to attempt a rescue. I sat back and thought.
“Never fight by your opponent’s rules,” Jim Kirk had said. “Do not let him or her choose the ground, nor the time, nor the way of battle, not if you can help it.” I mentally sent a message to Somabula: Hold an. I cannot attempt to rescue you, for I will die and the secret be lost. It was more important that Starfleet should know that one or more Klingons were here on Earth.
I backed off and slipped into the underbrush as quietly as I could. All those games I had played as a child came back to me: Watch your shadow, watch where you put your feet, don’t get boxed in, keep them guessing, move silently and swiftly, don’t get predictable.
I used every bit of cover to get myself a couple of hundred yards away. Then I rose and started trotting through the jungle back toward the vehicle we had left behind.
Please, don’t let the Klingon kill him, I prayed as I ran. Then suddenly a shape rose up and a fist crashed into the side of my head, and as I fell, everything blacked out.
I awoke next to Somabula, with both of us tied hand and foot. The bleeding on his head had stopped, but he was not conscious. His breathing was shallow, and I felt he was dying.
Suddenly my head was wrenched around and there was an ugly Klingon face snarling into mine. He spoke Universal, his words harsh, his breath bad.
“Speak, Earthdog! Why are you here?”
He must not know I am from Starfleet, I remember thinking. “I … I was just with the Ranger, the Park Ranger. I’m … I’m his … we are to be married, and I—”
The Klingon snarled and wrenched back my head. I let out a scream of terror—not all of which was faked—to convince him I was only a kind of tourist. I knew he would kill me, and Somabula, too. He could not afford to let us go, however innocent. But I hoped to lull him as he pumped me, for information. Already I was trying to work loose from the leather thong that strapped my hands behind my back. I squirmed and writhed in fright to disguise my motions.
He growled other questions at me. Were there others? What were we doing there? At last he grew even more angry, and I knew my time was close. With a snarl, he shoved me back and stood up. My wrist bonds were loosened, but I was still not free.
He adjusted his phaser and I thought, I’m going to die. Then he turned away to a clear patch of ground and began to move the phaser back and forth over it, the blue beam disintegrating the ground.
He was making a grave.
I tore the skin on my wrists as I tugged at the thong, but a little skin was a small price to pay for a chance at life. Suddenly, my wrists were free. His back was turned, the grave taking up his concentration. I bent my legs, lying on my side, and brought my ankles up to my fingers. The knot was tied tightly and difficult to unravel, as it was a strange and overly elaborate Klingon knot.
Then my legs were free. Without a moment’s hesitation, afraid of being discovered and having the disintegrating beam swing around to me, I kicked out at the Klingon. He shouted gutterally and pitched forward. The wildly waving phaser blazed through several nearby plants before he fell sprawling into the half-made grave.
I was on my feet quickly, swaying and grimacing with pain as the circulation returned. My head already throbbed badly from the blow that had felled me. I lurched toward the edge of the grave, where the phaser lay in the dirt.
But the Klingon recovered quickly and reached for it. I knew I would not get to it in time, so I stomped on it. I caught his fingers under my heel, and he yelped. The weapon cracked, its plastic ruptured, but it might still have been functional. As the Klingon reached again, I kicked again. Pain shot up through my foot, but I heard the crunch of electronic parts and another yelp of outrage from the Klingon.
I staggered about a moment, then, as the Klingon pulled himself from the grave, I kicked him hard on the chin. The shock traveled up my leg to knock me on my back, but the Klingon fell backward into the grave and lay still.
I caught my breath and stood with chest heaving, looking at him. He was alive, and I knew that if our places were reversed, he would have killed me in an instant. But I could not. Certainly not in cold blood. I found the leather thongs I had been bound with, and untied Somabula as well, then tied up the Klingon.
I pulled Somabula to his feet. His head lolled loosely, and fresh blood appeared on the bandage I had contrived. I had to get back to the Park Station as soon as possible, not only to report the Klingon’s presence, but to save the life of my friend.
I found our spear and used it as a crutch as I helped drag and carry Somabula along. I had forgotten just how heavy the dead weight of a full-grown man was. I thought about putting him into a hiding place, running back to the ground car, and getting professional help, but I was afraid the Klingon would find him. The leather thongs would not hold him forever. I had had little practice in tying up anyone, much less a burly Klingon. Sooner or later he would get loose.
Or be found by other Klingons.
As I enter this into my log, and if anyone reads it, they will know that I survived, but I must say that it didn’t seem that way as I lived it. I was exhausted within a half-mile and decided I had to find Somabula some place to rest, then go on by myself; it was simply taking more time and therefore was more dangerous to him.
But I found nothing suitable. There were no caves, no little nooks in which to hide him. He was unconscious and perhaps would become conscious, or cry out in pain in his sleep, and be discovered. I struggled on, but my reserves of strength were diminishing quickly. I ached from fatigue and from my own, lesser, injuries. I had to stop.
Then I remembered something Somabula had told me long ago: hunters seldom look up. They watch the spoor upon the ground, the bush, the tracks, the land ahead, but seldom up into the trees. I began searching and soon found something: the deep crotch of a great tree.
If I could get him up there, he might be safe. I’d gag him to keep him from crying out, and if he was coherent as he awoke—unbound but gagged—he would get the idea. I hoped.
It took me forever to get him into the tree. I had to tear up most of my clothing to make straps to pull him up. Luckily my skirt was generous enough to retain some coverage, though frankly, at the time, I was not thinking as much about that as sheer survival.
I gagged him and left him in the ruins of a bird’s nest and climbed down and started wearily off toward the edge of the jungle.
Suddenly, a blue beam flashed next to me, searing off fern leaves and slashing through the bark of a nearby tree. Instantly I threw myself into the brush, rolled, bruising myself on the spear’s shaft, and then, in concealment, crept in another direction.
The beam zapped again, then again and again, stabbing randomly into the underbrush, disintegrating the foliage. The pungent scent of slashed plants was in my nose as I tried to press myself into the damp earth. This was no stun beam, this was the killing beam of a deadly Klingon weapon.
I had to lead him away from Somabula, yet stay alive. I moved as silently as I could, slithering like a dark snake through the brush. I found a stone and crept on, holding it tightly in my hand.
The Klingon’s beam cut randomly through the cool green underbrush; everywhere was the slithery sound of several limbs falling, as I used the noise to move unheard.
Then I heard the K
lingon speak—and another answered!
There were two of them, or more. That explained why the Klingon had gotten on my trail so swiftly. I froze, trying to think what to do next. Then there was the sizzle of another beam, and a great limb crashed to the ground in a flurry of leaves and noise. They were shooting into the trees!
I tossed the stone and heard it crash into some broad-leaved plants, and crawled in the other direction as they both blasted the plants into their component atoms.
I was trapped into a stealthy crawl. To stand and run would be suicide. I crawled behind a tree and risked a look. There were two of them, and one was a Klingon female! She was dressed in the dark, glittery cloth that was the fashionless clothing of that strange race, and held a phaser in her hand with easy skill.
I found another stone and hefted it, waiting. When they both turned to the side to slice their blue beams into a tree, I threw the stone. It arced over their heads and rolled through the brush beyond. They both pivoted as one, their phasers firing.
I jumped to my feet and hurled my government issue Spear, Primitive, Pseudo-handcrafted, M1-A1, with all my strength.
The male Klingon took it in the back of his shoulder. He let out a terrible cry and fell thrashing into the underbrush.
The female was quick. I got behind my tree just in time. The blue beam tore off a piece of the tree next to my head. My hair stood on end from the electrical discharge, my cheek burned, and my vision was momentarily blurred as the electricity befuddled my nervous system.
She fired again, and I felt the tree shudder as the disintegrating beam cut deeply into the trunk. Another blast would get through. I flung myself away, rolling into the brush as the phaser cut into the tree trunk. The huge tree quivered and began to fall toward the Klingons, for that was the side from which the deathblow had torn a great piece from it.
As the tree fell I jumped up and ran, this time circling to their right rather than straight ahead. I heard the female Klingon cry out, and then the tree thundered to the ground. Limbs snapped, leaves showered down like green snow, and then there was silence.
I waited, breathing hard. I counted to one hundred, then counted again. At this point it was a game of patience. She—they—were waiting, I was waiting.
I heard nothing, not even a groan. When at last the birds began to sing, I started back. I moved quietly, crouched over, fearful, without now even a primitive spear, for I had discovered my knife had disappeared in the crawling and running.
Then I saw the sprawl of black leather and maroon armor. And the shaft of my spear. The Klingon lived, but he was unconscious. It took some looking but I found the female, crushed beneath the broken branches of the great tree she had brought down on herself.
I found his phaser and cut away enough of the branches to see that she was to be no more trouble.
But there could still be other Klingons.
I walked to the ground car and radioed for an emergency vehicle, then asked for a patch to Starfleet Command. The ground ambulance had only just arrived when down came some armored assault carriers, with United States of Africa commandos, undoubtedly the first aircraft seen in the Park in over a hundred years.
• • •
Personal Log, Supplemental
I was visiting Somabula when my orders came. Incredibly, they were ordering me back to the Enterprise! I had just time to finish telling Somabula what the Commando colonel had told me: The Klingons had a buried ship deep in that part of the Park, from which they had planned to direct a hit-and-run terrorist group that would, they hoped, bring the world government of Earth to the breaking point.
“None of this will appear in the news reports, Commander Uhura,” the colonel told me. “They’ll just wait and snag each Klingon team as they get smuggled in. After two or three of their terrorist groups disappear without a trace, they’ll give up.”
“Or try something else,” I said, and he nodded somberly.
I said good-bye to Somabula, and we solemnly promised each other to finish the field trip another time. The mammoths were due an annual tagging, he said, and in what the press was calling “The Lost World” part of the Park, they were introducing nine different types of cloned dinosaurs to be studied in situ by scientists from concealed, underground laboratories.
We kissed each other a promise, and I caught a flight to Sahara. I was needed on the Enterprise. I don’t need a reason; just being wanted aboard was enough.
A Vulcan, A Klingon, And An Angel
Montgomery Scott sat alone in his quarters aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise. Before him was an empty flask of Coridan beer, a ceramic jug of Triacus pod wine with a few drops left, and a newly opened bottle of Andorian wine-analog.
I should be drunk, Scott thought. I’m not, but I should be.
Doesn’t work, not really. When you really want to forget, it doesn’t work. Spock is dead and no amount of poison in my bloodstream will change that.
To distract himself, Scott flicked on a viewscreen and changed to an exterior camera. Next to them in the spacedock was the immense bulk of the newest starship in the fleet, NX 2000 Excelsior, a superstarship, the new Queen of Space. Loyal to the end, Scotty sniffed at the sleek lines of the great ship. Coming into spacedock, the Enterprise, battered and scarred, had received a standing salute from all Starfleet personnel present. Now she was docked next to the bigger ship, the new potential champion.
Transwarp drive, they said, Scotty thought moodily. Aye, but what was her heart like?
No ship had a heart like the Enterprise, he thought. My ship; our ship; mankind’s ship.
Proven, tested, tough, been through everything there was to go through, or so it seemed. Tossed back and forth in time, teleported across the galaxy, shot at, hit, hurt, wounded, it had always come back. Once, outside the universe itself, with tantalizing glimpses of what might be other universes.
That was a concept difficult to grasp. The more one knew of this universe, the more one realized how huge, how complex it was. But other universes—?
Scott poured himself another glass of the potent wine-analog. Next to Saurian brandy, this was one of his favorites.
A wine to get lost in, at least normally. But this wasn’t normal, Scott thought, this was forever. A world—a universe—without Spock.
“I dinna know how much I would miss ye, Mister Spock, until ye were gone,” Scott said, holding up his glass.
The annunciator chimed, and Scott frowned at the hatch. “Who is it?” he bellowed. Without waiting for an answer he grumbled, “Oh, come in.”
It was an engineering trainee named Foster, a young black officer who sometimes annoyed Scott with his eagerness. “Sir? Commander Scott?”
“Yes, yes, what is it? Don’t just stand there, what is it?”
“Sir, I’m Ensign Foster and—”
“I know who you are, Mister Foster. Do you think I let anyone near my engines without knowing them all the way back to their great-grandmothers?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Then speak up. Do you want a drink?”
“No, sir, I’m on duty. Remember, you said while we’re in spacedock that—”
“Yes, yes,” Scott grumbled, looking into his depleted glass. “Get on with it.”
“Sir, the SM-23 circuit is malfunctioning and the Dilithium Crystal 45-L is—”
“Yes, yes,” Scott snapped, turning toward his screen. “Scott to Engine Room.”
“Bradley, Commander.”
“Pat, young Foster says the SM-23 is down.”
“Yes, sir, but not to worry. I shifted to the port micro-19 and we’ll have the unit out and replaced in no time.”
“The 45—L? No further strain?”
“No, sir; soon as the SM-23 was off the line, it popped back to norm.”
“Good work. Scott out.”
Scott looked at Foster. “Why did you come by, Foster? You could have used the intercom.”
Foster looked at the chronometer on Scott’s desk. “I … I wa
s going off duty … I am off duty in thirty seconds, and I thought … uh … I wondered…”
“Say it, Ensign. You don’t have time for hemmin’ and hawin’ around here.”
“Sir, I … well, I know Mister Spock was very important, and it’s always terrible to lose a leader but, well, I mean, we know the risks. He did die a hero and—”
“Mister Foster!” Commander Scott’s voice cut in with an icy edge. He started to speak, and then his expression changed to one of great weariness.
“Sit down, Mister Foster.” He shoved a glass toward the youth and sloshed some Andorian wine-analog into it. “Sit,” he ordered. “You’re off duty now, and a man should not drink to absent friends alone.”
Stiffly, the young officer eased himself into a chair and picked up the glass. He sniffed, made a face, and took a sip. His eyes blinked open and he swallowed hard.
“To Mister Spock,” Scott said.
“To, uh, to Mister Spock,” Foster said, gingerly sipping the wine.
Scott stared at the youth long enough to make the young engineer nervous. “So,” Scott said at last, “you want to know why Spock’s dying has made us all so gloomy?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir; no, uh, well, it’s just that—”
“You ever lose anyone, Foster? Someone close? Real close?” Scott took another swallow as Foster muttered a nervous answer.
“Well, um, my grandfather, sir. He died in a mine cave-in on the Moon when I was a boy. And I had an uncle aboard the Lydia Marano when she got caught by that black hole.”
“Well, Mister Spock was no grandfather and he died saving us all, including you. But he was already a hero. He didn’t have to die to prove that. A hero a dozen times over, a hundred times. Did you ever hear about him and the angel?”
Foster blinked, his eyes watering from another sip of wine-analog. “Uh, no, sir. An angel, sir? You mean, uh, like from Heaven, that kind of, uh, angel?”
Scott nodded solemnly. “An angel,” he pronounced. “Not that kind of angel, but maybe as close as you can get in this world.” Scott laughed, and waved his glass. “Not in this world, boy. You know, I think I am getting drunk. Good.” He picked up the bottle and filled Foster’s glass, much to the youth’s dismay. “Drink and I’ll tell you about Mister Spock, the Klingon king, and the angel.”
Star Trek III: The Search for Spock: Short Stories Page 5
