Star Trek: The Original Series: Miasma

by Greg Cox

  “That would be unfortunate,” Spock said gravely, looking up from his tricorder readings. “By all indications, the vapors are extremely volatile.”

  A few meters away, Chekov had gathered a pile of damp kindling in an apparent attempt to start a fire. Raising his phaser, he took aim at the accumulated sticks, moss, and leaves. The phantasmal mist glided about the area, wafting between him and his target. He rubbed the back of his neck, which he had strained in the crash.

  Spock’s eyes widened in alarm. He sprang to his feet.

  “Chekov! Wait!”

  His warning came too late. A ruby-red beam shot from the phaser, passing through a drifting patch of mist—which detonated on contact. A fiery white blast knocked Chekov backward into a stagnant puddle, while everyone else scrambled for cover. McCoy felt the heat upon his face even from several paces away. For an instant, he feared that the entire swamp would go up in flames, but the fireball burned itself out just as quickly as it had burst into being, leaving behind a charred stand of marshland, along with a dazed and startled landing party.

  Chekov sat up unsteadily, looking understandably shaky. “Bozhe moi,” he murmured.

  McCoy rushed to his side. “Chekov, are you all right?”

  At first glance, the Russian appeared in decent shape. His face was reddened, as though by a sudden solar flare, and his eyebrows were singed, but McCoy didn’t spot any serious burns or obvious fractures. Good thing he wasn’t standing any closer to that blast, McCoy thought, while wishing for at least one handheld medical scanner.

  “I believe so, Doctor.” He blinked and shook his head while gingerly testing his limbs. His pupils appeared normal. He recovered his phaser, which he had dropped after the blast. “Just got the wind knocked out of me by . . . whatever that was.”

  “An unfortunate combination of an energy beam and a highly combustible vapor,” Spock stated, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I strongly advise that we refrain from using our phasers while immersed in this mist. We cannot risk setting off an even larger explosion.”

  McCoy looked away from Chekov to contemplate the omnipresent fog. They were in the thick of it, all right—in more ways than one.

  “You said ‘combustible,’ Mister Spock,” one of the security officers said. Ensign Fisher was a wiry redheaded young man with a pronounced British accent. Constellations of freckles made his boyish face resemble a star map. He’d picked up a split lip in the crash. “Does that mean no torches or campfires at all?”

  “I regret so,” Spock said. “This atmosphere is too volatile. A lit flame could also ignite the mists, with possibly catastrophic results.”

  “Terrific,” McCoy said with a dour expression. “So much for drying out.”

  “I suspect, Doctor, that damp attire is—”

  Spock halted abruptly, turning his head toward a shadowy corner of the swamp as though his keen hearing had detected something amiss. McCoy followed his gaze but saw only dense fog and underbrush. His merely human ears heard only a breeze rustling through the fronds and branches. Was there something else out there, within the endless greenery?

  “Fisher!” Spock shouted. “Watch out!”

  Something came charging out of the mist, brush, and darkness, bursting into view: a large, six-legged life-form, roughly the size of a lion or tiger, which resembled a nightmarish cross between a giant eel and a ferocious jungle predator. Instead of snarling jaws, the creature had a circular mouth lined with concentric rows of vicious, saw-like teeth. Scaly plates, armoring its segmented body, looked slimy to the touch, while its mottled greenish-yellow coloration was perfectly adapted to blending in with its surroundings. At least six pairs of opaque black eyes budded in rows along the top of its head. Thickly muscled limbs, two in the front and four in the back, propelled the beast toward the landing party with terrifying speed. A high-pitched screech, keening like an overloading phaser, assailed McCoy’s eardrums and sent an icy chill down his spine.

  Before any of them could react, before Fisher could even turn around, the monster attacked him from behind. Its voracious maw clamped on to the man’s back, tearing audibly through his jacket and uniform to reach the tender meat underneath. Shock and pain contorted Fisher’s face and a strangled scream briefly escaped his lips before his entire body stiffened in paralysis. The creature lifted Fisher off his feet and shook him like a dog with a bone. McCoy heard a horrible grinding sound.

  “Fisher!” Chekov drew his phaser, as did Darwa and Yost, but he hesitated to fire, unwilling to blow Fisher up in order to save him. The fog was everywhere, rendering their phasers useless. “Mister Spock. What should—”

  Before Spock could answer, the creature sprang into the overhanging branches, taking Fisher (or his body) with it. The predator and its human prey vanished from sight. Leaves and vines rustled noisily overhead before quieting. Only the fog remained.

  A hush fell over the survivors, broken only by the ceaseless drone of the tiny insects. It had all happened so fast that McCoy needed a moment to process the fact that Fisher was gone. He hadn’t known the ensign well, aside from giving him the occasional physical, but Fisher had struck him as a promising young officer with a bright future ahead of him. Hadn’t he mentioned a sister once, who was a colonist on New Lancaster or somewhere like that?

  If so, she had just lost her brother.

  Startled gasps and exclamations betrayed the others’ reactions to the sudden loss of one of their own—and the realization that they all faced a similar fate. Chekov and his team turned their phasers toward the now-menacing canopy above them, even though firing the weapons was probably as dangerous to them as whatever lurked in the trees. Apprehensive eyes searched the mist and shadows, on guard against another attack. Only Spock maintained a stoic expression, although the worry lines in his somber countenance deepened almost imperceptibly. McCoy could see the regret and concern in the Vulcan’s face, even if most people couldn’t. He knew Spock that well.

  “It took him, just like that,” Chekov said, aghast. “I wanted to save him, but I didn’t know how. There wasn’t time.”

  “Do not blame yourself, Commander,” Spock said gently. “The beast struck swiftly. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “He’s right,” McCoy added. “That creature caught us all by surprise.”

  Chekov didn’t look like he believed it. He stared angrily at his useless phaser. “If only I could have defended him . . . fired on that monster . . .”

  “But you could not,” Spock stated. “Blame the circumstances, not yourself.”

  “Easier said than done, Mister Spock,” the Russian said bitterly.

  Spock nodded. “I know, Mister Chekov. I know.”

  “Should we go after them?” Lieutenant Darwa asked. She was a fit young woman who had previously served with Chekov aboard the Reliant. A slight accent betrayed her Mumbai roots. Lustrous black hair was cut short so that it couldn’t easily be grabbed in a fight. She had the beginnings of a nasty bruise on her forehead, left over from the crash. “Do you think Fisher could still be alive?”

  “Unlikely,” Spock said. “I do not say so callously but only realistically. From what we witnessed, we must assume that Fisher has already fallen prey to the creature.”

  McCoy remembered that awful grinding sound—and the razor-sharp teeth lining the monster’s circular maw. Chances were Fisher was already dead or dying even before the creature carried him off into the treetops. McCoy didn’t want to think about what happened next. For all they knew, the monster was busy feeding on Fisher’s remains at that very moment. To be honest, he hoped to heavens that the unlucky ensign had died quickly.

  “What was that thing?” Lieutenant Yost asked, getting right to the point. A stocky, fair-skinned specimen with cropped blond hair and a beefy physique, he looked every inch the career security officer he was. He was third-generation Starfleet, his grandmother ha
ving served under legendary Starfleet captain Jonathan Archer, and had moonlighted as a bouncer back in his Academy days. Putting away his phaser, he picked up a stick to use as a spear or club. “I only caught a glimpse of it, but . . . ” His usually stolid face twisted in disgust.

  “A predator, obviously,” Spock said. “Fast and agile and well adapted to this environment. Its head and mouth parts resembled those of a Terran leech or lamprey, while its limbs were more akin to those found on a great cat or sehlat.”

  McCoy scowled. “In other words, we’re talking a giant leech that moves like a tiger?”

  “So it seems.” Spock peered out into the foggy marsh. “We must be on guard as we make our way across the planet.”

  “Make our way?” McCoy gave Spock a puzzled look. He didn’t have a clue what Spock was talking about. “To where?”

  “To our original destination: the source of the signal.” He consulted his tricorder and pointed ahead, more or less in the direction that the leech had taken. “By my estimation, it is approximately one hundred and sixty kilometers in that direction.”

  McCoy’s temper flared. “For God’s sake, man, you’re not still thinking about the mission? Don’t you think we’ve got bigger issues on our plate right now?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Spock agreed. “But that is where Captain Kirk will first think to look for us.”

  “Oh,” McCoy said, slightly embarrassed by his outburst. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  It said something about the severity of their situation, McCoy realized, that Spock refrained from needling him about that admission. Instead he offered McCoy an apologetic shrug. “We crashed some distance off course. I’m afraid, Doctor, that we will be hiking a good ways after all.”

  “Through a godforsaken swamp that’s home to giant, man-eating leeches?”

  “A less than ideal prospect,” Spock admitted. “But the only logical course of action.”

  McCoy wished he had a better idea.

  “How many of those things do you think there are?” Darwa asked.

  Spock gazed at the spot where Fisher had stood only minutes before.

  “That, Lieutenant, remains to be seen.”

  Three

  “Kirk, I must once again object in the strongest possible terms to this increasingly unconscionable delay.” The Troyian ambassador confronted Kirk upon the bridge of the Enterprise, invading the command well to take her objections directly to the captain. Anger flushed her face a deeper shade of turquoise. She wore her coiffed white hair like a crown. “The Musgrave conference has been months in the planning, and many vital issues await our attention. You had no right to divert us from our course to pursue some wild-fowl chase.”

  “So you and the other delegates have made abundantly clear,” Kirk replied, doing his best to maintain a diplomatic tone. He was definitely starting to wish that he had left on Galileo after all. Being a starship captain had its perks, but dealing with self-important politicians and diplomats wasn’t one of them. “And you are free to file a formal protest with Starfleet if you’re so inclined. But my decision stands. I have people down on that planet, including my first officer and ship’s surgeon, and the Enterprise is not going anywhere until they’re back aboard.”

  His answer did little to mollify the ambassador. “And if your people do discover something of value, which requires further investigation . . .”

  “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Kirk said firmly. He was not about to commit himself to anything before he heard from the landing party. Depending on what Spock and the others found, the Enterprise might well be able to continue on to Musgrave IV, postponing further efforts on Varba II to later; or, alternatively, other arrangements might have to be made if any discoveries on the planet required a longer stay. It was impossible to say at this point. “In the meantime, Ambassador, I suggest that you and your distinguished colleagues avail yourselves of the ship’s hospitality. Have you visited the botanical gardens on the lower decks yet? I hear the Arcturian lunar tulips are blooming.”

  The ambassador knew when she was being dismissed. She raised her chin haughtily and adopted an even more withering tone. “This is no joke, Captain. You may expect to hear from me again.”

  “Of that I have no doubt, Ambassador.” Kirk remained in his chair. “Rest assured that I will keep you and your fellow delegates informed as the situation develops.”

  “I should hope so, Captain!”

  Silken garments rustled as, with a great show of righteous indignation, she stormed off the bridge. Kirk waited until her turbolift had departed before emitting a sigh of relief. He considered banning visitors from the bridge for the duration.

  “Finally!” Uhura said, voicing her own exasperation. “I was starting to think she’d never leave.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Just who does she think she is?”

  “A high-ranking official of a friendly government.” Kirk wondered if he still had any friends at the Troyian court. He had been very close to their empress . . . once. I might need to call in some old favors when this is over.

  Damage control could wait. “Any word from the landing party?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Uhura replied. “As we feared, the planet’s atmosphere is blocking transmissions, both to and from the Enterprise.”

  “Understood.” Kirk rested his chin on his knuckles as he considered the cloudy yellow globe spinning slowly upon the viewscreen, its shifting veil of vapors guarding its secrets as effectively as a Romulan cloaking device. More than five hours had passed since Galileo had left for Varba II, but it felt like it had been much longer. They had anticipated communications problems, but how long could it take to locate the source of the signal, make a preliminary assessment of the situation, and return to the Enterprise to report on their findings? Unless the landing party had run into some kind of unforeseen complications or difficulties . . .

  I knew there was a risk of danger.

  Once again, Kirk found himself wishing that he could have led the mission personally instead of staying behind to babysit a pack of demanding dignitaries. Maybe some captains preferred to delegate from the bridge, but that had never been his command style. Given a choice, he’d always wanted to lead from the front, not from his chair, which was probably why he was no longer an admiral. He leaned forward, willing Galileo to rise up from the misty depths of Varba II.

  Come on, Spock. Let me know what’s happening.

  Chekov’s concerns that the enigmatic signal could be a trap or warning remained fresh in Kirk’s mind. Certainly he’d run into both scenarios over the course of his career, sometimes with dire results. That the content of the signal remained a mystery did not make waiting any easier.

  “Uhura, any progress translating that transmission?”

  “Some, Captain,” she reported. “The interference from the planet’s atmosphere hasn’t left me a lot to work with, but I’m running some advanced linguistic algorithms that may be able to fill in some of the blanks once all the static is cleared away.” She checked a display panel on her console, keying in some adjustments to the program. “I’m hoping to have at least partial results for you shortly. I apologize for the delay.”

  “No apologies necessary, Commander,” Kirk said. “I’m sure you’re doing all you can.” He squinted at the viewscreen. “I just wish I had some clue what was going on down there.”

  “As do I,” Saavik said.

  The helmsman was also gazing at the screen intently, while keeping the Enterprise in a tight orbit around the planet. Kirk suspected that, despite her Vulcan reserve, she was just as worried about the landing party as he was. She and Spock were close, he knew, and not just because they both hailed from the same planet. They had all been through a lot together, including Spock’s short-lived death five years before. Saavik had even shed a tear at Spock’s funeral, Vulcan dignity be damned, and she had
been there when David died as well, on another scientific expedition.

  Kirk couldn’t blame her for being worried about the continuing silence from the landing party.

  He certainly was.

  Four

  They found Fisher’s body lying facedown in a puddle not far from the lagoon. A circular wound in his back, which made it look like he’d been attacked by a mechanical boring machine, left little doubt as to the cause of death, but McCoy felt obliged to perform a quick postmortem examination anyway. He knelt to inspect the body, noting immediately the conspicuous absence of blood pooling around the remains. If anything, the body appeared withered and shrunken, like an empty husk. McCoy was grateful that he didn’t have to view the man’s face, at least not right away. The look of utter terror and anguish on Fisher’s freckled features right before the creature carried him off was burned into his memory.

  “From the looks of it, most of his blood and soft tissues have been sucked out through that ugly hole in his back.” The doctor tried to bend a stiff, withered arm that stubbornly resisted his efforts, even though not enough time had elapsed for rigor mortis to occur. “There are also indications that he was injected with a powerful paralytic.”

  “No doubt intended to immobilize the creature’s prey, swiftly and efficiently.” Spock stood to one side, observing the procedure. He braced himself against a mossy tree trunk with one hand, as though even his Vulcan stamina was being tested by his recent injury and blood loss. “We have yet to observe any other sizable animal life-forms, but we must assume such beasts also inhabit this environment. Humanoids are unlikely to be their natural prey.”

  “But apparently we’re just as tasty,” McCoy said, scowling. “Lucky us.”

  The surviving members of the landing party were gathered around the body, surrounded by the same fog and foliage they had been coping with ever since they had crawled ashore after the crash. They had been hiking through the swamp for only several minutes, but McCoy was already feeling winded, not to mention sore and thirsty. The thin air reminded him of Vulcan’s, albeit considerably damper. Spock was probably having an easier time breathing, despite his injury, but McCoy’s lungs would have liked more oxygen and less fog, and he had to imagine that his fellow humans felt the same. If only he had some tri-ox compounds to administer to Chekov and the others.