Star Trek: The Original Series - 161 - Savage Trade

by Tony Daniel

  “It seems you owe Mister Chekov a debt of gratitude,” Kirk said.

  Spock looked surprised. “My death or dismemberment would have disrupted the mission,” he said. “It was the only logical thing for Ensign Chekov to do.”

  Kirk looked at Chekov with a wry smile and shrugged. The navigator returned the smile and shrugged back. They both knew to expect that reaction from the first officer and were amused rather than irritated.

  What Spock lacked in emotional response, Ensign Thibodeaux made up for in buckets. The young ensign had his hands to his knees and was gasping for breath.

  Kirk was about to go to him to see what was the matter, but Chekov spoke first. “Captain, allow me. I believe I know what he is going through very well. It was not so long ago that I was a green officer on his first assignment.”

  “All right, Mister Chekov, handle it,” Kirk said. “Spock, let’s see what else we can find out.” He was about to leave it at that, but added: “And watch your step, won’t you?”

  He knew the teasing statement would likely have no effect on his first officer, but he couldn’t resist if only for his own amusement.

  “Indeed, Captain,” Spock replied, with a raise of the eyebrow. “That type of landmine has a blast radius of fifteen point three meters, if I’m not mistaken. The ensuing explosion would likely have eliminated the entire landing party as well as myself had I activated it. I shall take care not to trigger one.”

  Did I get to you, Spock, or was that merely a display of routine logic? Kirk thought.

  It was always impossible to tell—which was another fascinating characteristic of his friend and second-in-command.

  Two

  Ensign Pavel Chekov took a sip of his vodka and nodded sympathetically toward Ensign Jerry Thibodeaux, who was seated across from him at a recreation room six table.

  “Go on,” Chekov said gently.

  “I don’t know what came over me, Chekov,” said Thibodeaux.

  “Call me Pavel,” Chekov said. “We are off duty.”

  And I want to give you space to speak freely without the worry that I may be filing a report.

  Thibodeaux nodded that he would.

  “Go on.”

  “I saw where Spock was about to put his foot, and I just thought, We’re all dead. And I froze. Then I backed away even though I saw Mister Spock was in danger.” Thibodeaux took a sip of his beer. “No, that’s not really right. What I was thinking was that I was dead. I didn’t really care about anybody else at all in that moment.”

  Thibodeaux and Chekov were seated at a corner table. Chekov took another sip of vodka. He noticed that Thibodeaux was now working on his second beer.

  “You haven’t gotten used to danger yet—real danger. It takes time. I know.”

  “Pavel, I spent four years at Starfleet Academy training my heart out. I was supposed to be ready. I requested security. There wasn’t a simulation at the Academy that I didn’t pass with flying colors.” Thibodeaux lowered his head and put a palm to his forehead. “All for nothing.”

  “I believe you are not right about that,” Chekov said. “The training will serve you well, do not worry. And let me tell you, you will never stop experiencing that adrenaline rush. Your mind goes completely blank for an instant, and all you feel is the urge to either flee or fight. This never goes away, my friend.”

  “Then I’ll never be effective in a real-life situation.”

  “It never leaves you, but that moment of pure terror becomes shorter and shorter, the more you are used to it. And then your training kicks in. You will know what to do.”

  “You sure did,” said Thibodeaux. “That was amazing.”

  Chekov shook his head. “It is something Commander Spock has done for me more than once—perhaps not in that exact manner, of course, but he has certainly prevented harm from coming to me.” Chekov gestured around himself at the others in the rec room. “That’s what it means to be part of this crew. You don’t just look out for one another. After a while, you owe one another your lives. Everyone understands this, and yet we seldom mention it to one another. It is a fact of life on a starship such as this.” Chekov took another sip of his vodka and smiled. “Especially under Captain Kirk. He does take the mission of this vessel seriously.”

  “He’s becoming a legend back at the Academy. And I made an idiot blunder right in front of him.”

  “Don’t let it define you. Learn from it,” Chekov said. He raised his glass. “Here’s to your first real landing party mission. May there be many other adventures.”

  “That I don’t mess up quite so badly.” The navigator nodded but said nothing and took his sip. Jerry Thibodeaux would be all right, Chekov was fairly certain. They finished their drinks and headed off to their quarters for rest period. Soon it would be time to return to duty. Chekov looked forward to it. What he hadn’t told Thibodeaux—because the young man would soon find out for himself—was that danger and action had their rewards as well as their costs.

  The adrenaline surge went both ways. After experiencing it a few times, one might not only stop dreading it, but come to enjoy it. This was the real secret a Starfleet officer learned after a while: the fact that no other life could ever be quite as satisfying.

  At least not to me, Chekov thought. He yawned as he came to the door of his personal quarters and realized he really did need that bit of scheduled downtime. Duty would call soon enough, and he planned to be ready.

  * * *

  Kirk contemplated the viewscreen on the bridge as Spock and Uhura worked together on an idea suggested by the communications officer. Communications and records had been wiped from the Zeta Gibraltar computer, but she had managed to locate what proved to be an overlooked file of meteorological events on the planet’s surface. Going through this, and knowing the approximate time of the raid—or whatever had occurred at the outpost—Uhura pinpointed a momentary surge in nearby temperatures and the same curious ion signature that Spock’s tricorder had picked up at the blast site.

  The outpost equipment was more sensitive than the tricorder, and Spock and Uhura were narrowing down the identification characteristics by running both scans through the Enterprise’s state-of-the-art information comparison programs.

  The planet below had no large bodies of water—most of what water there was occurred in the subsurface. This led to a planetary appearance that varied from light brown to chocolate-orange interspaced by the ubiquitous blue smears where there were concentrations of the planetary algal plants. Zeta Gibraltar was not a very inviting place when viewed from space. The planetoid did have one singular characteristic, however. It was on an extreme outlying tendril of Federation territory and was the farthest full-time inhabited planet from Earth in Federation space.

  After Spock’s close call, Kirk had examined the white item he’d found in those blue bushes.

  A gentleman’s silk cravat.

  Silk. Wood. Wool. What did it add up to?

  One thing he knew: he had a missing outpost crew and he had to find them.

  A data slate was handed to Kirk by a yeoman and he rose and stretched before signing it and handing the slate back.

  “Spock, anything?”

  Spock turned from the communications console. “Affirmative, Captain. We have isolated the ion signature. It is indeed that of a craft using matter/antimatter propulsion.”

  “It’s also unique, Captain,” Uhura said. “We should be able to identify it.”

  Spock stepped back over to his science console. “Running sensor sweeps now, sir,” he said. “It may be possible to . . . yes. There.”

  “What is it, Spock?”

  “An ion trail leading away from the planet, Captain. It matches the signature the lieutenant and I found within the planetary records as well as my tricorder readings.”

  “Can we follow it?”

  “Transferring path out of the system to navigation now.”

  “Excellent work, Spock, Uhura.” Kirk sat back down. Now they were
getting somewhere! “Helmsman, take her about. Mister Sulu, follow that ion trail.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  It did not take long to see exactly where the ion trail was leading them.

  Out of the Zeta Gibraltar system—and straight into the glowing dust and debris of the mysterious Vara Nebula.

  Three

  Captain’s Log, Supplemental. We are venturing into one of the great melting pots and star forges of our galaxy: the Vara Nebula. We are following an ion trail with a unique signature that we believe was left by a ship carrying the Zeta Gibraltar science station personnel. That trail has led us directly into a dangerous region of the nebula. We are being buffeted by meteoroid strikes, but we are still venturing forward in hopes of bringing home the Zeta Gibraltar staff.

  Kirk was glad to see Chekov report to the bridge just as the Enterprise reached the nebula’s outer boundaries. This was going to be a tricky passage, and Chekov had not only great skill, but something that it was impossible to teach a navigation officer: excellent intuition. Much would depend on the young ensign.

  The Enterprise forged ahead for several hours through the material miasma of the outer Vara, shields up, but not yet at maximum. There was simply no way to journey into the nebula without encountering micrometeoroids—and quite a few that were not so “micro” at all. The ship was buffeted by several large strikes, but the shields held and had remained at full power. He could not order them to absolute maximum—because of the nebula’s interference with the sensors—which meant that a portion of the energy of any large meteoroid strike would be transferred through the shields to the physical structure of the ship. This was unavoidable. They must be able to use maximum sensors to track the ion trail. But the safety of the Enterprise was also uppermost in Kirk’s mind. It was a fine balance.

  The captain touched a button on his command chair armrest. “Engineering, report. Are we still within structural limits?”

  Scott’s voice answered over the ship’s intership. “Aye, Captain, she’s holding together. But I don’t like it. There’s only so much of this she can take—and then something’s bound to give.”

  “Keep an eye on the situation, Scotty,” said Kirk. “We wouldn’t be pushing forward under these conditions if there wasn’t a high probability that lives are on the line.”

  “Understood, Captain,” Scott answered, sounding only a trifle mollified. “We’ll do everything we can to hold her together. I hope we find who or what we’re looking for sooner rather than later and get the ship out of here.”

  “I hope so, too, Scotty. Bridge out.”

  Moments later, a whistle came from the command chair intraship. “Sickbay to bridge.”

  Kirk activated the intercom channel. “Kirk here, sickbay.”

  “We’ve finished analysis on that very odd surprise you brought up for us from the planetoid surface.” The familiar drawl of a gentleman from the North American south let him know his friend and the Enterprise’s chief medical officer, Leonard McCoy, was speaking.

  “What have you got for me, Bones?”

  “It matches no known current species. But I seemed to recall something from a paper I read a while back about forensics research on a set of historical remains. There was a report of that DNA having an odd triplicate structure. So I ran a check, and it matched up. Jim, that arm belongs to a member of the species known as the L’rah’hane.”

  “The L’rah’hane? The old pirates the Federation sent packing long ago?”

  “About seventy-five years,” McCoy said. “They had three sexes—‘have,’ I should say. That arm belongs to a hermaphrodite of the species.”

  “Interesting,” said Kirk. “Good work, Bones.”

  “Got another surprise for you, Captain.”

  “Yes?”

  “The manner in which that extremity was separated from its unfortunate former owner,” McCoy said. He paused a moment for effect, then delivered his verdict. “A blade.”

  “As in a knife?”

  “Something that could shear through it in one cut,” McCoy replied. “I’d say a battle-ax or sword.”

  This was getting more interesting by the minute.

  “Thanks, Bones,” he replied. “Keep at it. Bridge out.”

  Kirk turned back to the viewscreen and sat musing as the nebular debris flew by. At least now he knew his likely quarry. L’rah’hane pirates.

  The last of whom had been encountered and defeated seventy-five years ago.

  A few moments later Spock turned from his constant monitoring at the science station sensor readouts. “Sir, we have lost the ion trail.”

  “Lost it? Can we get it back?”

  “I do not think so. I have attempted to employ multiple methods.”

  Kirk touched a hand to his chin, considering. To have come so far, and risked lives, only to reach a dead end. Without that trail, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack. The nebula was a vast hiding place many light-years across. Yet Kirk knew he wouldn’t give up the search if any chance of finding the outpost personnel remained.

  “What about long-range probes, Spock? Can we send them out in a radial sweep?”

  “It would require some adjustment to their sensory programming and shielding characteristics. Ten minutes if I am able to work steadily.”

  “Do it, Mister Spock.” Kirk turned back to the helm. “Bring us to a stop exactly where that ion trail ran out, Chekov. I want to be able to follow that breadcrumb trail back home, if need be.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Spock completed his modifications, and the probes were launched. Kirk settled in for a long wait, but, surprisingly, one of the probes soon streaked back and, when it came within close enough range that the nebula’s natural radiation didn’t scramble its communication channels, it sent its report.

  “Captain, probe seven seems to have found something. Or multiple somethings,” Uhura said, turning in her bridge chair. “It is sending a full report including images.”

  “On-screen,” said Kirk.

  The display showed faint traces of structures that looked very much like two spread hands joined together at the thumbs. Weird, but obviously created by intelligent life. Sensor readings confirmed there were beings within those structures.

  A quick pull back and size comparison revealed they were, in fact, slightly smaller than the Enterprise. Four of them.

  The ion trail signature was all around them.

  “Those are ships,” Kirk said.

  “I concur, Captain,” said Spock.

  They were several thousand kilometers away, hidden within a cloud of dust that looked, upon examination, suspiciously globular, as if it had been created on purpose. Its center was rocky and had the readings profile of an asteroid.

  So that dust globe is likely camouflage, Kirk thought. It’s a meet-up spot. Or a transfer station. A treasure island, perhaps. Let’s find out what it’s hiding.

  “That’s enough, Lieutenant, thank you,” Kirk said, indicating with a finger that Uhura could return the viewscreen to its customary exterior display. “Release a navigational beacon to mark our present position, Mister Sulu, and then let’s go and have a closer look at those ships.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “All sensors forward, Mister Spock. I don’t want any nasty surprises.”

  “Sensors forward.”

  Kirk stared at the viewscreen. Nothing but dust flying past on all sides.

  Like looking up into a rain storm, he thought. If the rain were rocks moving at thousands of kilometers an hour speed.

  The globular cloud was a darker patch ahead of them.

  Uhura switched the viewscreen display to infrared, and the false color imagery showed reddish bodies, with the curious handlike shapes, within a cloud of yellows and oranges.

  The pirates.

  “Intercepting various communications frequencies, Captain,” Uhura said.

  “Subspace?”

  “Negative, sir. Electromagnetic. They ar
e . . . old-fashioned radio waves.”

  “Please put it on bridge audio, Lieutenant.”

  “Switching over.”

  A patch of static, and then a spate of wordlike guttural sounds that Kirk could have sworn was cursing.

  Spock looked up from his sensors, intrigued.

  “Words, Spock?” Kirk said.

  “That would be my guess, Captain, although—”

  Uhura interrupted. “Captain, the signal modulation correlates with a known language.”

  “Don’t tell me, Lieutenant. Is it L’rah’hane?”

  Uhura’s face took on a look of surprise. “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what it is.”

  “Then let’s have a translation.”

  “Working on it, Captain,” answered Uhura. “The universal translator should have it . . . now.”

  Suddenly the sounds coming over audio began to make sense.

  “You stupid foolish stumpwalker, if you don’t get back here this instant with the bounty, I’m going to blow you out of the sky.”

  “Is he talking to us?” said Sulu, looking up from his helm console with some alarm.

  “No. I don’t think so,” Kirk replied.

  As if to confirm this, another voice broke in, replying to the first with a taunt. “You try and make me, you virus-brained moron. The Hradrians will pay a lot more in credits for this lot than your sorry pay will ever add up to. We’re leaving, and you can’t stop us.”

  “I’ll blast you from the sky!”

  “And destroy your precious slave consignment? I don’t think so, Erget.”

  “Damn you, Splo, you won’t get away with this.”

  “Oh, but I will! You’re the one who is going to be out of luck this time, you old tyrant.”

  “Looks like we arrived at a bad time for them, but a good time for us,” Kirk said. “Mister Sulu, find a place nearby to hide us from sensors while those two squabble. Perhaps a radiant hotspot that will conceal us in its general brightness. I want to assess this situation before we act.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”