Star Trek: The Original Series: Miasma

by Greg Cox

  The embattled castaways relied on teamwork as well. “I’ve got the one on the left!” Chekov shouted. “You take the right!”

  “And the middle one?” Darwa asked.

  “Whoever gets it first!”

  McCoy wished for a hypospray of his own, even if part of him still hated the very idea of using a medical instrument as a weapon. He tugged on Spock’s arm. “Quick! Crawl inside the log. It might buy you time . . . if help really is on the way!”

  A fourth leech lunged from the back of the clearing, taking advantage of the fact that the security team was otherwise engaged. It keened triumphantly, a sound McCoy was heartily sick of. It would almost be worth being taken down by one of the beasts if it meant not hearing that ear-grating caterwauling ever again.

  “I have a better idea, Doctor. Keep back.”

  Spock startled McCoy by rising to his feet. McCoy would not have thought the moribund Vulcan capable of standing, let alone walking under his own power, but apparently he had underestimated Spock’s constitution and/or cussedness. Stepping over the log, Spock staggered forward to block the craftier leech. He tore the blood-soaked dressings from his shoulder, causing the wound to bleed afresh. He threw out his arms and faced down the creature. Splattered in mud, pale as death, he looked more like an apparition than a Starfleet officer. Perhaps some gaunt, forbidding specter out of Vulcan mythology.

  “No,” he croaked, every word an effort. “You will not have them.”

  McCoy had no idea what was keeping Spock going, except maybe that inexplicable hope he’d mentioned before. The doctor stared in horror at the nerve-racking tableau before him. “For Pete’s sake, Spock, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Whatever is necessary, Doctor.”

  Wailing unhappily, the blocked leech backed away from Spock, but it did not retreat entirely into the fog. It looked from left to right, searching for the best route past the bleeding Vulcan, who stood stiffly like a scarecrow between it and McCoy. Spock’s legs quaked visibly, threatening to buckle before long. His labored breathing made McCoy’s own chest hurt.

  Hyposprays hissed and sputtered behind McCoy, who heard Chekov and Darwa shouting to each other as they waged their own life-or-death battles. Unable to tear his gaze away from the momentary standoff between Spock and the leech, he could only listen in on them.

  “Commander!” Darwa yelled over the screeching of the monsters. “There’s no stopping them! It’s no use!”

  “Keep fighting, Lieutenant!” he urged her. “The captain would not give up, so we can’t either!”

  McCoy admired their spirit, but a good doctor knew when there was no saving a patient. The landing party’s prognosis was a terminal one, and the duration of their lives was clearly measured in minutes, not hours. They had fought the good fight, but this was the end. He hoped Kirk wouldn’t risk any more brave men and women in a fruitless attempt to rescue them.

  At least Jim and the rest are safe back on the ­Enterprise. That’s something, I suppose.

  A blinding white light suddenly shone from above, piercing the fog and turning the perpetually misty twilight into day. After untold hours tromping through the gloom, the incandescent glare came as a shock to McCoy’s eyes. Shielding them with his palm, he squinted upward, half expecting to see a heavenly staircase leading up to eternity. He had always heard about people going “into the light” but had thought that was just a quaint, archaic expression.

  Then Copernicus came into view, its forward searchlights blazing before it. The force of its thrusters rustled nearby leaves and branches and caused the taller trees to sway. Kirk’s amplified voice boomed from the shuttlecraft.

  “Ahoy, landing party! Stand by for rescue.”

  The sudden appearance of the shuttle, with its bright headlights and blaring noise, panicked the attacking leeches, which turned tail and scattered in all directions, abandoning their prey. The sheltering fog absorbed the creatures as though they were never there.

  If only, McCoy thought.

  “It’s Copernicus!” Chekov shouted jubilantly. “They found us!”

  Hurling away an empty hypospray, he hugged Darwa, who was grinning from ear to ear as well. It wasn’t entirely professional, but McCoy doubted that anyone would object under the circumstances. He’d be jumping for joy himself if he wasn’t so damn exhausted.

  “Well, I’ll be a Mugato’s uncle,” he said. “How in blazes did they find us?”

  Spock turned slowly, painfully, toward McCoy. “I believe, Doctor, the appropriate human response is, ‘I told you so.’ ”

  “I think I liked it better when you were delirious.”

  “That hardly seems in keeping with your Hippocratic—” Spock began, before his legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground. An anguished moan escaped him.

  McCoy raced to his side.

  “Spock!”

  Fifteen

  The mucky swamp offered no ready landing spot, so Copernicus hovered approximately three meters above the clearing, which was now mercifully free of leeches. The shuttlecraft’s rear hatchway opened, disgorging a pair of security officers who dropped nimbly onto the planet’s surface. McCoy spotted the phasers in the officers’ grips and had a moment of panic. Despite the bright glare of the searchlights, the explosive fog was as thick as ever.

  “No phasers!” he shouted. “Trust me on this!”

  Chekov hurried forward to brief the new arrivals, while McCoy tended to Spock, who had slipped back into unconsciousnes—or worse. That last, life-saving exertion had taken its toll. His pulse was down to fifty, low even for a human. McCoy needed to stabilize Spock if he was going to make it to sickbay alive.

  “Somebody get me a medkit! Pronto!”

  His demand was answered with commendable speed. McCoy sighed in relief as he opened the fresh kit and saw all the familiar tools at his disposal. For the first time in far too many hours, he didn’t feel like he was trying to make bricks without straw.

  “Hold on, you stubborn, green-blooded son of a bitch,” he said, applying a dermal seal to Spock’s wounded shoulder, getting the bleeding under control at last. An infusion of concentrated nutrients and vitamins would hopefully help Spock’s body find the strength to keep fighting for its life, while an emergency saline treatment and stimulants were needed to elevate Spock’s blood pressure and keep him from going into shock. McCoy scanned the patient with a brand-new tricorder. “Don’t you even think of dying on me after all this. You’re reporting to sickbay, mister, if I have to carry you there myself.”

  Thankfully, that wasn’t necessary. A collapsible ladder had been lowered from the rear of Copernicus, but Spock was in no shape to climb it, so a portable antigrav lifter was drafted into service as a makeshift stretcher. Despite his own fatigue, McCoy insisted on supervising as Lieutenants Cassano and Borkowski loaded Spock on the lifter and strapped him in securely. McCoy hadn’t seen Kirk yet; he assumed that Jim was still at the helm of the hovering shuttle.

  “You’re next, Doctor,” Cassano said, indicating the hanging ladder. Chekov and Darwa had already clambered aboard Copernicus, with only a little help from the new arrivals, who had insisted on relieving the exhausted survivors. “After you.”

  “Forget it,” McCoy said. “I’m not going anywhere until I see my patient safely stowed away.”

  The burly, dark-haired security officer shrugged. “If you say so, Doc.” He shouted to the shuttle: “Sending up Mister Spock!”

  McCoy spied Saavik peering down through the open hatchway, observing the operation intently. “Acknowledged,” she replied. “Apply all due caution transporting him, gentlemen.”

  McCoy thought he spotted more than simply Vulcan concentration in the tense rigidity of her expression. He remembered Spock calling out to her in his delirium.

  Saavik-kam . . . Saavik-kam . . .

  Could it be that she had ac
tually answered him?

  The last human standing on Varba II, McCoy waited until the stretcher had been successfully loaded into the rear of the shuttlecraft before starting up the ladder himself. About time, he thought. If I never see this reeking swamp again, it will be too soon.

  A bloodcurdling screech nearly gave him a heart attack. Looking back over his shoulder in alarm, he saw a huge leech barreling toward him. Overcoming its fear of the shuttlecraft, the leech was intent on bringing down its prey before it got away. McCoy recalled just how high the creatures could leap.

  “Take her up!” he hollered. “Now!”

  Not waiting for him to finish climbing the ladder, Copernicus took off at a steep angle, dangling McCoy and the ladder behind it. The determined leech sprang after McCoy. Its extendable tongue snared his ankle, but a sturdy boot protected him from the tongue’s jagged serrations. The weight of the monster tugged on McCoy, and he hung on to a metal rung for dear life. For a second, he was sure he was going to be yanked from the ladder and back down into the swamp, but gravity came to his rescue. The leech’s slimy tongue snapped in two, one half going limp around McCoy’s ankle, and the rest of the leech went tumbling down into the fog, keening in pain and fury. It splashed loudly out of sight.

  “Ugh.” McCoy hastily shook the leftover piece of tongue from his boot. He almost felt sorry for the mutilated animal—until he remembered Fisher and Yost. Serves it right for getting greedy.

  Copernicus ascended steeply, clearing the treetops. The ladder retracted mechanically, dragging McCoy aboard. Strong hands grabbed hold of his shoulders, making sure they had a good grip on him despite his muddy clothing, as the aft hatchway closed behind him. It locked into place.

  McCoy remembered to breathe.

  The clean, oxygen-rich air was intoxicating. McCoy inhaled deeply, grateful for a pressurized atmosphere that he couldn’t actually see and smell. Somebody thrust a canteen into his hand and he took a long, sweet drink before stopping to orient himself. The water tasted even better than black-market Romulan ale, which was saying something.

  The passenger compartment was packed. It was a tight fit, but McCoy wasn’t complaining. Spock remained secured to the stretcher, which was laid on the deck between the rows of seats. McCoy took a seat beside him, the better to monitor his life-signs. He looked up to see Kirk emerge from the cockpit, where Saavik had taken the helm. He grinned at McCoy.

  “Welcome aboard, Bones.” He inspected the drenched and disheveled physician. “I have to say, you’ve looked better.”

  “You try wading through a leech-infested bog the whole damn day or night and see if you’re fit for a diplomatic reception.” McCoy glanced around the compartment: One could tell the castaways from the rescuers by how torn, wet, and filthy their uniforms were. A somber thought lowered his spirits. “You heard about Fisher and Yost?”

  Kirk’s grin evaporated. “Yes,” he said, nodding grimly. “But I’m glad we didn’t lose all of you.”

  “Me, too,” McCoy admitted, although he still intended to find out Yost’s first name. And write a letter to Fisher’s sister. The dead men had shared their final hours with him. He wanted to get better acquainted with them, if only posthumously.

  Kirk drew nearer to Spock. He looked anxiously at McCoy. “How is he, Bones?”

  “I’ve done my best to stabilize him, but he needs to be in sickbay, as quickly as we can manage.”

  Kirk turned back toward the cockpit. “You hear that, Lieutenant?”

  “My hearing is excellent, sir.” Saavik adjusted the flight controls. “I advise everyone to buckle up . . . and hold on tight.”

  A dramatic burst of acceleration sent Copernicus rocketing upward into the turbulent clouds. McCoy experienced a moment of panic.

  “The shields!” he blurted. “Whatever you do, don’t activate the shields!”

  Kirk took his outburst in stride.

  “So I gather,” he said.

  Sixteen

  A bosun’s whistle signaled an incoming message. Kirk activated the comm unit on Doctor McCoy’s desk in sickbay. “Kirk here.”

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Captain,” Uhura’s voice said, “but I’ve finally managed to translate the warning signal in its entirety. Do you want to hear it?” She paused at the other end of the line. “Or is it a bad time?”

  Kirk and Saavik were keeping vigil in McCoy’s office while the doctor and his staff treated Spock in the intensive-care ward. Chekov and Darwa had already been checked out and discharged, after being treated for minor cuts and bruises and dehydration; they were currently recovering in their respective quarters, but Kirk had no intention of budging from sickbay until he knew if Spock was going to be okay. Saavik had asked to be permitted to wait with him, and Kirk had readily assented. She’d earned that privilege and then some.

  “Go ahead, Uhura,” he instructed. “Patch it through to the main terminal on Doctor McCoy’s desk.”

  “Aye, sir. Coming through now.”

  Kirk sat down at the desk in front of the monitor, while Saavik scooted her own chair closer. She had remained comfortably seated through their vigil. Vulcans apparently did not pace.

  The screen came alive with a cascade of visual snow that was oddly reminiscent of the shimmering yellow fog on Varba II. An androgynous voice, possessing an odd, lilting accent that Kirk was pretty sure he’d never heard before, emanated from the static:

  “Attention and beware. This is High Mariner Johhuj of the long-range interstellar explorer Quantum Valence, addressing all future travelers to this baneful system. By the time you receive this, I and my surviving crew will be long gone, undone by the many hidden perils that render the second planet in this system a deathtrap to be avoided at all costs. If you value your lives and safety, attempt no landing here. Our own ship, damaged irreparably upon entering the planet’s treacherous atmosphere, will never see the stark serenity of space again. My valiant crew, despite their courage and fortitude, is outnumbered by the relentless predators that have already woefully depleted our numbers. There is no hope for us, but you still have the opportunity to avoid our dire fate. Heed my words, tomorrow’s travelers, and turn away from this malignant and unforgiving world. Do not suffer the same doom that has befallen us. Take care, and journey on.”

  The voice fell silent, trailing off into silence. Kirk paged Uhura. “Is that all of it?”

  “Aye, Captain.” Her face appeared on the monitor. “As nearly as I can tell, the message is more than three hundred Earth-years old.” She shook her head sadly. “It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Very much so,” Kirk agreed, “but their determination to warn others speaks well of their people and their character. I would have liked to have met that captain and crew.”

  It was strange to realize that Johhuj and his fellow explorers had met their end three centuries earlier, long before the birth of the Federation. Humanity would have still been making its first tentative steps into a new frontier back then.

  “In theory, the remains of their vessel might still be found at the signal’s point of origin,” Saavik pointed out. “Perhaps further investigation is indicated—with the proper precautions, naturally.”

  “Another day, maybe,” Kirk said, “but not today.” He was more than ready to heed Johhuj’s warning and leave Varba II behind, but perhaps there was still one more task to complete before they could truly take their leave of the deadly planet. “Uhura, place a warning beacon of our own in orbit above Varba II, transmitting in all major galactic languages known to us. Facing certain death, High Mariner Johhuj went out of his way to try to make certain that no future explorers suffered his tragic fate. The least we can do is further that selfless gesture.”

  Especially since the Enterprise had lost two of its own to Varba II as well. This struck Kirk as a fitting way to honor Fisher’s and Yost’s sacrifice and to ensure that the two of
ficers had not died in vain.

  “Absolutely, sir,” Uhura responded. “I’ll see to it at once.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” Kirk said. “In the meantime, tell Mister Scott to set a course for Musgrave IV, maximum warp. Seems to me that we’ve got some impatient diplomats to deliver.”

  “They’re a little less impatient since Scotty broke out his private stock of spirits, Captain, but I’ll see that he gets the message.” Uhura paused before signing off. “Captain, if you don’t mind my asking, how is Mister Spock?”

  Kirk sympathized with her concern. “The doctor is still with him. I’ll keep you posted. Kirk out.”

  He rose from his seat at the desk and strode restlessly around the office. Unlike Vulcans, humans did pace when anxious. He was completing his fifth circuit of the room when the door whisked open and McCoy appeared in the doorway.

  “All right,” he said. “You can come see him now.”

  The doctor had showered and changed into a set of fresh scrubs, but he was still distinctly the worse for wear after his own ordeal on the planet. Dark pouches hung under his eyes, and minor cuts and scratches added extra character to his weathered features. He clutched a mug of black coffee as though his life depended on it. Kirk guessed that McCoy, who had scarcely rested since returning to the Enterprise, was himself in need of a hearty meal and a good, long sleep.

  But, to be honest, Kirk was more worried about Spock at the moment.

  “How is he, Bones?”

  McCoy shrugged, the casual gesture boding well. The doctor did not have the mournful air of a concerned physician preparing to deliver bad news. “See for yourself.”

  He led them into the recovery ward, where they found Spock sitting up in bed. He looked wan and weary, but much better than he had on Copernicus before. The life-signs monitor above his head gave no immediate cause for alarm. He lifted his gaze from his bed’s built-in library access terminal, which he had been employing when they walked in. Various nurses and medics quietly went about their business nearby.