by Greg Cox
The memories were all but overwhelming, but Saavik did not retreat from them. Instead she let their shared history and the strength of her feelings amplify her connection to Spock, so that it almost seemed like she could reach out and touch him. Her eyes snapped open and she gazed on the forbidding planet ahead. Spock was there, waiting for her, drawing her to him.
“I feel you, Spock,” she murmured. “I am coming for you.”
But would they reach him in time?
Twelve
“Saavik-kam,” Spock murmured in Vulcan, much to McCoy’s confusion. Although fading fast, Spock managed to raise his arm and shakily hold up two joined fingers before him. McCoy recognized the greeting from past encounters with Vulcans; it was the way Spock’s parents had discreetly shown affection in public. He wondered what the devil was going through Spock’s mind, even as the dying Vulcan whispered deliriously. “Kashkau—wuhkuh eh teretuhr . . . .”
McCoy had no idea what Spock was babbling about. Where’s our Universal Translator now that I need it?
He was crouched beside Spock, helplessly monitoring his friend’s rapid decline. It felt like a deathbed vigil, just wetter and muddier and surrounded by giant, bloodthirsty leeches, which seemed bound and determined to make a midnight snack out of the remainder of the landing party, despite the tireless efforts of Chekov and Darwa to ward them off. The latter dropped down beside him and held out her empty hypospray.
“I’m sorry, Doctor.” She cast a worried glance at Spock. “I wouldn’t ask again, but . . .”
“Hurry!” Chekov called out frantically. “There’s more of them!”
He tried to compensate for Darwa’s brief retreat from the fray by spraying a tight circle of repellent around the party, waving his own hypospray through the air to leave a trail of floating green mist behind it like the tail of a comet. The tactic momentarily discouraged the growing pack of leeches lurking in the fog, but the spray was already thinning, dissipating into the swirling yellow fog. Chekov tried to patch up the barrier, but his hypospray was starting to sputter as it ran low as well.
“Doctor,” Darwa pressed him.
McCoy looked at his failing patient. He knew what Spock would want him to do.
Damn it.
“All right. Give me that thing.” McCoy snatched the empty hypo from Darwa’s hand and pressed it against Spock’s good shoulder again. It hissed like a viper. “Forgive me, Spock.”
He felt like a goddamn vampire as he handed the reloaded instrument, now bearing another seventy ccs of Spock’s blood, back to Darwa, who hurried to assist Chekov, who emptied the last of his “ammo” into the gaping maw of an impatient leech, which screeched angrily before withdrawing back into the fog. Breathing hard, Chekov spared a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. Both security officers were showing signs of exhaustion; adrenaline could carry them only so far without any rest or food or water. Darwa was the youngest of the crash survivors, but even she was looking like she’d just run the Martian Marathon. She fired back at the leeches in a two-handed stance, using one tired arm to support the other. The bruise on her forehead had turned an ugly shade of purple by now. Another burst of atomized blood polluted the air.
McCoy winced on Spock’s behalf. “Make it last!” he shouted.
“I’m trying, Doctor,” she replied. “Believe me!”
Chekov joined McCoy at Spock’s side. He peered anxiously at Spock. “How is he doing, Doctor?”
“Not good,” McCoy said bluntly. “Just look at him. I’ve seen corpses with more blood in them.”
Spock was slumped against the moldy log, his head lolling limply to one side. His ashen complexion was as gray as an old-fashioned steel bulkhead. Half-lidded eyes gazed blearily past the two other men, seeing only his own delirious imaginings, even as he continued to hold up two joined fingers in greeting. His voice was by now little more than a raspy whisper.
“Saavik-kam,” he said, almost too faintly to make out. “Kashkau—wuhkuh eh teretuhr.”
Chekov’s brow furrowed. “What is he saying, Doctor?”
“Hell if I know.” McCoy leaned in closer, straining his ears, not that this did him much good. His knowledge of Vulcan grammar and vocabulary was only barely greater than his Klingon, and apparently Chekov wasn’t any more fluent in the language than he was. Too bad Spock’s not speaking Russian.
“Saavik?” Chekov echoed. “You think he believes he’s talking to Saavik?”
“Possibly.” McCoy regarded Spock’s upraised fingers. He wondered what parting words Spock was trying to convey to his protégé. Something only another Vulcan could understand?
A shame she can’t hear him.
Thirteen
Kirk piloted Copernicus into Varba II’s seething atmosphere. They couldn’t waste time cruising above the planet anymore, not after Saavik had sensed Spock dying. Kirk’s plan was still to home in on the source of the warning beacon and hope that the landing party had managed to make it to their original destination before running into problems. From there, he could expand the search area in ever-widening circles until, with any luck, he detected some sign of Galileo or its passengers. The thick fog and lack of sensors made spotting the lost party something of a long shot, but it was one Kirk was willing to take.
Spock said I make a habit of beating the odds, Kirk thought. Let’s hope he was right.
Saavik stirred to his left, murmuring something in Vulcan. He glanced at her and was surprised to see a single tear trickling down her cheek, just like at Spock’s funeral a few years back. He wanted to think that was a good sign, that it demonstrated that her link to Spock was getting stronger, but the tear came with ominous associations, too. He had no desire to eulogize his friend again.
The planet’s roiling, mustard-hued atmosphere was even stormier than anticipated. Serious crosswinds rocked Copernicus, eliciting startled responses from the security team seated behind Kirk in the shuttlecraft’s passenger compartment. The bumpy ride disturbed Saavik, too, breaking her trance. Her eyes opened, although they still seemed a little unfocused. She glanced around uncertainly, as though not entirely sure of her surroundings. Kirk hoped she hadn’t lost the link completely.
“Captain?” she said.
“Sorry, we’re running into some heavy turbulence.” He tried to level out their flight, but the cyclonic winds resisted him. A powerful gust tipped Copernicus sharply to port, tossing its passengers to one side, before Kirk managed to stabilize the shuttlecraft. He felt like he was trying to fly a starship through an ion storm. “I’d better fire up the shields.”
He reached for the deflector controls, only to be halted by Saavik, who abruptly took hold of his wrist. Her grip was cold and sweaty, but firm enough to restrain him. He could feel her Vulcan strength; it was easy to forget that, lacking a half-portion of humanity, she was probably even stronger than Spock.
“Don’t,” she said emphatically.
Kirk was puzzled. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” she confessed, loosening her grip somewhat. “But I . . . feel . . . that it would not be wise.”
Kirk eyed her curiously. It wasn’t often that a Vulcan acted on behalf of a mere hunch, so he was inclined to pay attention when one did. “Is this something you’re picking up from Spock?”
“Possibly,” she said. “Probably.”
“Then that’s good enough for me.” He didn’t like the idea of flying through the storm without any shields, but they would just have to rely on the shuttlecraft’s sturdy hull and solid construction—not to mention his own slightly rusty piloting skills. He reminded himself of the multiple layers of protection built into the shuttle’s hull and outer plating. “Do you still sense him? Do you know where he is?”
“I believe so.” She let go of his wrist and turned to face the viewport. All that could be seen at the moment were the churning yellow storm clouds, but the color return
ed to her face and her eyes came back into focus. Resolution entered her voice, and she wiped the stray tear from her cheek. “Kindly turn the navigational controls over to me.”
Kirk did so, even as the storm continued to toss them about. He bounced in his chair and felt sorry for the crewmen seated in the back. Fortunately, he had never been prone to airsickness. His bigger concern was that the violent weather conditions would complicate their rescue mission.
“You certain about this?”
“This is about feelings, not logic. There is nothing certain about feelings, Captain.” A wry smile lifted her lips. “Why else do you think wiser Vulcans shun them?”
“Wisdom be damned,” Kirk said. “Let’s go find our friends.”
They dived deeper into the fog.
Fourteen
The leech came at McCoy, bounding across the foggy glade. The creature had gotten past Chekov and Darwa and was charging at the unarmed doctor, who found himself staring straight down the maw of the monster. Rings of saw-like teeth threatened to burrow into McCoy’s flesh and bone. A serrated tongue flicked hungrily, waiting for a taste of fresh blood and viscera. Saliva dripped from its mouth, betraying its intentions. Its breath reeked of blood.
“Doctor!” Chekov hollered from a few meters away, where he was driving back another leech with a spray of repellent. Similarly occupied, Darwa stood guard at the other end of the clearing. Chekov risked looking away from his own defensive efforts long enough to spare an anxious glance at McCoy. “It’s coming for you!”
No kidding, McCoy thought, unable to look away from the oncoming predator. Time warped, subjectively, so that every terrifying second felt like a nightmare playing out in slow motion. Heart pounding, McCoy groped frantically for a convenient rock or stick, but he found nothing that could realistically stop the monster for more than an instant. He clutched a broken heartbeat reader like a baton, knowing that it might as well be a tribble when it came to serving as a weapon. Spock stirred beside him, only semiconscious and looking worse than ever. McCoy took some comfort from the fact that Spock at least was safe from the leech’s sanguinary appetite, thanks to his ridiculous Vulcan blood.
Wait a second, he thought. What if . . .
Moving fast, McCoy grabbed the supine Vulcan and pulled Spock over on top of him, using the dying man as a human shield. The coppery smell from Spock’s wounded shoulder invaded the doctor’s nose and throat, even as he prayed that the odor would be even more repulsive to the charging leech—and that the monster would not simply tear through Spock to get its actual human target.
“Doctor?” Spock whispered. He blinked and shook his head groggily. “What is—”
“Not now, Spock! Just sit tight and cross your fingers!”
McCoy braced himself for the worst, but the leech slowed to a halt less than an arm’s length before the two men. Peering over Spock’s bleeding shoulder, McCoy watched tensely as the creature swung its grotesque head from side to side, its extended tongue tasting the air, as though puzzled by the mixed stimuli it was detecting. The leech crept forward warily, emitting a confused whine. Six pairs of bulging black eyes examined its prospective prey. Impatient paws scratched at the muddy soil. The creature’s primitive, non-mammalian features offered no hint as to its next actions. McCoy remembered reading somewhere that leeches had multiple brains, spread along their entire length. Who knew what they were thinking now?
Go away, you ugly bloodsucker, McCoy railed silently. I’m a doctor, not an entrée.
Spock raised his hand before his bleary eyes, seemingly oblivious to the ferocious predator right in front of them. “Are my fingers crossed, Doctor? I am having some difficulty focusing.”
The leech came closer. Its tongue reached out, grazing McCoy’s forehead. It felt sticky and scratchy against his skin. McCoy swallowed hard. His dry mouth got even dryer. The leech stopped whining. It leaned back on its hind legs, poised to strike.
So much for this brilliant idea, McCoy thought.
A hypospray hissed, only centimeters away, and an effusion of green spray misted between McCoy and the leech. The aerosolized repellent was so close that McCoy sputtered and turned his face away, his gorge rising at the thought of what the spray really was. The leech screeched furiously as it reared up on its hind legs and pawed at the contaminated fog in disgust. Its tongue retracted into its mouth.
“Get away from them!” Chekov yelled, brandishing his hypospray like a phaser pistol. He practically jammed the improvised weapon down the monster’s gullet before spraying the creature again. “You heard me! Get lost! Vamoose!”
Choking and gagging, the leech tumbled backward onto its segmented spine, then righted itself and scurried away from its intended victims, rejoining the pack of other leeches prowling through the fog. McCoy gasped in relief. His heart raced as though dosed with cordrazine.
That had been a close one.
“My apologies, Doctor,” Chekov said, checking on McCoy and Spock. He helped ease Spock into a more comfortable position, propped up with his back against the log. “The creature got past me. There are just too many of them.”
“You think?” McCoy let Chekov help him to his feet. The smell of Spock’s blood hung in the air and clung to McCoy’s filthy garments, which were nearly unrecognizable at this point. They were more mud than fabric by now, and spackled with bits of leaves and vegetation, so that it looked like he’d been marooned on the planet for weeks, not merely several hours. The doctor’s heart rate was still elevated but not quite as severely as before. He sucked in the thin, dank air. “Thanks for the timely rescue, by the way. I’d like to hang on to my own blood, at least for a little longer.”
Chekov kept his guard up, searching the fog for the next attacker. “Any time, Doctor. Just doing my job.”
Above and beyond, McCoy thought. The seasoned security chief had come a long way since joining the first Enterprise as a green young ensign. McCoy appreciated Chekov’s heroic efforts but feared that they had gained merely a brief respite. The landing party was nothing but leech bait at this point, and badly outnumbered to boot. The swamp echoed with the menacing squawks and screeches of the monsters, drowning out the steady drone of the flying insects, while more and more shadowy figures could be glimpsed through the fog, circling the landing party. The only question was which would run out first: Spock’s blood or the humans relying on it.
“You know, a Fabrini fortune-teller on Deep Space 4 once told me that I’d live to a ripe old age and even make admiral someday,” McCoy said. “Suddenly, I have my doubts.” He shook his head ruefully. “Of all the ugly, uncomfortable, and just plain miserable places to finally cash in my chips . . .”
Darwa fell back to join them, and the three humans formed a tight cluster around Spock. McCoy looked for a way out but saw only fog, muck, and the vague outlines of too many leeches. Resigned to his own demise, he felt sorry for the others, including Spock. Even if the monsters left Spock alone, the dying Vulcan was too debilitated to last long on his own. Blood loss and exposure would kill him just as surely and mercilessly as any leech.
“Well, it was nice knowing you,” Chekov said, clearing thinking along the same lines. He gave Darwa a quick thumbs-up. “Excellent work, Lieutenant. Consider yourself commended.”
She kept up a brave front. “Thank you, Commander. I suppose this is the wrong time to ask you for a little extra shore leave next month, to attend my cousin’s wedding on Tilton VI?”
“We get through this,” Chekov promised her, “and I will personally make your travel arrangements.”
“I’m going to hold you to that, Commander.”
A leech tried to come at them from the side, but Darwa still had her Starfleet reflexes and training. She slipped past McCoy to intercept the creature, spraying it in the face before it got too close. She did so automatically, almost numbly, as though it had already become second nature to her.
“Yeah.” She reached into her pants pocket for a spare vial of blood, reloading the hypo while remaining on high alert. Sweat ran down her face. “Lucky me.”
“Doctor?” The commotion seemed to bring Spock out of his stupor. Sagging eyelids lifted, as did his head. He sounded a bit more lucid than before. Bloodshot eyes surveyed the ominous scene, taking in the details as he attempted to bring himself up to speed. He struggled to sit upright. “The creatures?”
“Converging for a banquet,” McCoy said, not mincing words. “And we’re the main course.”
McCoy knew better than to be encouraged by Spock’s apparent turn for the better. In his experience, the dying often rallied shortly before the end. He couldn’t explain it, but he had seen it more than once. It was a human thing, and Spock was half-human after all.
“Do not lose hope, Doctor.” Spock lifted his eyes to the murky heavens. “Help is on its way.”
McCoy was skeptical. “And what makes you say that?”
Spock shrugged, then winced as the gesture aggravated his injury. “Call it . . . a feeling.”
“A feeling?” McCoy snorted in disbelief. “Well, now I really have heard everything. Guess I can call it a day.”
“Sarcasm, Doctor, is hardly conducive to morale. I advise you to work on your bedside manner.”
Chekov interrupted their banter. “Look sharp! Here they come again!”
Sure enough, at least three leeches broke from the fog, making another pass at them. One for each human, McCoy thought. He was starting to get the impression that the predators did not ordinarily hunt in packs, but were making an exception in this case.
And they were learning fast.
