Star Trek: The Original Series - 161 - Savage Trade

by Tony Daniel

  Sulu magnified.

  Not an asteroid—or, at least, no longer an asteroid.

  A space station, a rotating clump of technology, instrumentation, and weapons platforms perhaps five kilometers in diameter. It was covered in crenellations and superstructure that looked utterly alien to Chekov—and he’d seen a great deal of strange architecture in his travels.

  “Got any idea what it is?” he asked Sulu.

  Sulu shook his head, checked a readout. “That structure is approximately four hundred years old.” The lieutenant gazed back out the front viewport. “Waiting for computer database confirmation,” he said. “But I believe we’re looking at an old space platform of the Hradrian Empire.”

  “That doesn’t look like a relic,” Chekov said. “It looks like it is still operating.”

  “I think we’ve discovered the answer to a long-standing archaelogical enigma,” said Sulu.

  “What is that?”

  “The riddle of where the Hradrians went.”

  Chekov nodded toward the habitat. “You don’t think—?”

  “I do,” Sulu replied. “Some of them came here.”

  Ten

  The interior of laboratory C in the Zeta Gibraltar outpost was mostly dark. It was the night cycle outside, and most lights were turned down or off in the complex. In the middle of the lab, however, at a table coated with a black, anti-interactive sheath, a sort of low-level deflector shield, a pool of light from the ceiling illuminated the golden-brown surface features of a most unusual device.

  The artifact, taken from a L’rah’hane vessel, was very difficult to bring into focus. It was like a blurred photo, and no matter how hard you concentrated on it, there was a smearing visual effect. And when you touched it, the surface felt as if your hand had passed through some sort of membrane or force field. Your fingers came away tingling.

  In that pool of light a most incongruous pair of persons sat on stools. One was dressed in Starfleet science blue. The other wore a brown velvet waistcoat over a linen shirt. His cravat was undone and dangling around his neck, and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung on the end of his nose.

  How they might look was the furthest thing from the two men’s minds, however. They were bent over the device, prodding and poking it with a variety of instruments as well as their bare hands.

  “Readings indicate that the L’rah’hane component is partially biological,” said Spock, bending down to gaze at the device through discerning eyes. “Yet there are electronic logic circuits within, if I’m not mistaken. You can make them out through the translucent surface, yet analysis seems to show they serve no function.”

  “Difficult to believe,” Benjamin Franklin said. “Obviously they do something. Those are not accidental structures.”

  “Agreed.”

  Spock ran a tricorder one more time across the device’s surface, using a modified electron stream to penetrate deeply enough to give them a display of the interior.

  “It is fascinating,” said Spock.

  “Now, Spock,” Franklin said. “Would you agree that the living matter congealed around these electrical conduits and capacitors seems to be a power source? I don’t know if you’re aware of Mister Luigi Galvani’s experiments with the Leyden jar and its ability to vitalize the legs of frogs.” Franklin pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, but they promptly slid down again to just before its tip when he leaned down to further study the component. “It occurs to me that the process might be reversed and the frog legs used to power the Leyden jar, in a manner of speaking.”

  “I believe that is precisely what is happening here, Doctor Franklin,” said Spock. “The living material is the power source, and it appears to be self-perpetuating so long as it is bathed in a simple sugar solution.”

  “And yet such might be only a secondary purpose. There is a great deal more bio-matter than would be necessary for such a function. Something else, something larger, is going on with the living components.”

  “The excessive bio-matter does bear a strong resemblance to nerve cells,” Spock replied. He sat back and looked over at Franklin, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Doctor Franklin, I believe you have already arrived at a preliminary conclusion or you would not have sent a sample to the biological laboratory for analysis.”

  Franklin cocked his head to look at the device sidelong. “Do you know if they have the results?”

  “They do, and I requested permission to deliver them to you.” Spock pointed to a pair of colored data cards he’d put upon the table between them when entering. “The analysis is on the yellow cards,” Spock said. “The raw data is collected on the red one.”

  “Thank you, Mister Spock,” Franklin said. He took up the yellow card and inserted it into the data reading device beside the console computer built onto the side of the examination table. Instantly, its viewscreen lit up with a transparent image of the L’rah’hane device. Spock reached over and pressed a button. The room lights dimmed and a holographic, three-dimensional representation of the device, with multiple layers visible beneath, appeared several centimeters out from the viewscreen, hovering over the examination table.

  “Wonderful things, these computers and visual display machines,” Franklin muttered. “Even if they are, sometimes, a bit distracting.”

  Franklin reached over and put a finger within the device image. It rotated as if touched. Franklin chuckled with delight. “Never will get used to how realistic these holograms can be,” he said.

  “You come from a species that is able to create entire alternate scenarios with a thought.”

  Franklin sat back, shook his head. “Not really, Mister Spock. I have come to understand that reality has a way of reasserting itself no matter how carefully an illusion is constructed. Witness the fact that for all our alleged great advancement, we were unable to break free of the L’rah’hane slavers.”

  “Point taken,” Spock replied with a nod.

  “Let us say the large portion of me that is Benjamin Franklin is delighted, and my Excalbian portion is just happy to be alive at present.”

  Spock did not reply to this, but inclined his head toward the L’rah’hane device hologram. “It seems we have a paradox, Doctor Franklin. According to one analysis, this device cannot exist. According to another, it exists in several places at once due to quantum smearing.”

  “Even more marvelous,” Franklin replied. He turned the device again, spread his fingers to increase magnification, poked it to zoom in, increased magnification again, and finally pointed to several clusters of indentations. “Yet these are receivers, as I had supposed. See the direction of signal flow here and here.” Animated sparks appeared where Franklin touched the hologram and traveled inward toward the interior electronics.

  “But what do they receive?” Spock said. “Nothing electromagnetic. They resemble subspace receiver nodes in some ways, but this is not their function, as the data readings make clear.” Spock pointed to two other spots where there were convex bumps on the device. “These are subspace transceivers, and it would appear they are merely present to report telemetry, so the device can remain oriented toward galactic center.”

  Franklin tapped a point on the side of the device. “I’d say it is these indentations that are at the heart of this device,” Franklin said. “My intuition tells me as much. Yet I’ll be damned if my rational side can tell me how they might work.”

  “Might I suggest a consultation?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We do have present at the outpost some of the greatest minds in history, yours included. Perhaps one of the others could shed some light on the device’s function.”

  Franklin slapped a knee and laughed heartily. “You are absolutely right, Mister Spock,” he said. “I believe I know just who we’re looking for, too. He’s the sort that can look at a rock or a feather—or even a dangling necklace—and see a million possibilities.”

  “That description would seem to fit you, sir. Who e
lse did you have in mind?”

  “Why, Galileo Galilei, of course,” Franklin answered. “And if he doesn’t know anything, then we can try Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “Two excellent suggestions, Doctor Franklin.”

  “And it will do Galileo good to take on a project. He’s been in a funk about this church edict against his work. He knows it has been lifted for centuries, but somewhere deep inside, he still feels on trial for the very act of conducting scientific investigation! That period of captivity with the L’rah’hane seems to have dredged up some very uncomfortable memories for Galileo. His childhood was not the most stable, as I understand it.”

  “I was not aware that he, or any of you Excalbians, could be so affected by entirely artificial memories.”

  “Artificial to you, Mister Spock. They don’t feel artificial to us, even though we know they must be. I realize this sounds quite illogical, but this is pure human behavior we’re talking about,” said Franklin. “And the fact of the matter is, Galileo is quite a moody fellow. He’s an Italian, after all.”

  * * *

  “They most definitely aren’t human, Doctor,” said Naftali Levin, the medical officer for Zeta Gibraltar outpost. He slid a data card into his office computer and invited McCoy to have a seat. “Watch this and I’ll show you.”

  McCoy sat down in the white chair. It was more deeply padded than the ones in his sickbay, and McCoy felt for a moment as if he were sinking into a bog.

  Cushy places, these ground-side exam complexes, McCoy thought. But I’ll take my sickbay any day.

  Levin activated the computer, and McCoy turned his attention to the viewscreen in front of them.

  It showed an Excalbian in a sitting position on an examination table. He was just rolling up his sleeve, and Levin was putting away what McCoy recognized as an interior blood analysis tool—a specialized device that provided far more data than the usual bio monitor.

  On the upper right-hand corner of the screen was a record of the stardate and time the data card was made. The seconds ticked away as McCoy continued to watch.

  “Now,” Levin said. “Let me show you what led up to this examination. Doctor McCoy, I give you a friendly duel between Commodore Stephen Decatur Junior and the honorable Cyrano de Bergerac.”

  The screen switched to a view of another room with two men in fighting stances.

  The two men circled each other. Each held different swords. One was a flat-bladed sword with what looked like an inlaid silver guard. McCoy was no expert, but this was not a long sword. It had only a single-sided blade. It was the sword of a cavalryman or sailor, perhaps. Its bearer was dressed in pants of gray wool with suspenders over a white, blousy shirt. Stephen Decatur, McCoy guessed.

  The other had on clothing of an older time, Renaissance Europe. He wore a leather singlet vest over a shirt and billowing pants that disappeared into high leather boots that came up above the knee. This must be Cyrano de Bergerac. He wielded two swords, or one sword and a long dagger, McCoy couldn’t be certain. The dagger was flat-bladed and double-edged, but the sword was a rapier. It was longer than the other man’s, thin and bladed—and it ended in what looked like an extremely sharp point.

  The two men came together, and it was immediately clear that the wielder of the rapier was the better swordsman. He danced circles around the man in gray and made taunting thrusts now and again that the other could barely parry.

  “Are they actually fighting with sharpened swords?” McCoy asked Levin.

  “Oh yes,” the other doctor replied. “Wait for it—”

  During a particularly deadly looking thrust from the rapier-using man, the other stepped aside. The rapier thrust went wide, missing him, and de Bergerac leaned over to retain his balance.

  When he did so, he exposed his head, and the other was quick to punish him. With a fast chopping motion, all in the wrist, he brought his sword down. The rapier bearer turned his head to avoid the blow—but did not turn away fast enough. The blade sliced down into his shoulder and sank into his arm like a cleaver sinks into raw meat. De Bergerac let out a scream and stumbled back.

  “Ouch,” said McCoy.

  “I know, right?” Levin replied.

  The fight did not last long. McCoy had seen enough physical brawling to know that most fights did not stretch out into long displays of skill. Usually, both parties came in bashing and whoever was stronger, luckier or, sometimes, more skilled, was the one who walked away alive.

  The blow caused the stricken man not to give in, but to fight back. He began a furious fusillade of thrusts, working his blade like a sewing needle through fabric. The other fought back, but finally the rapier found its mark just over the victim’s heart.

  After a moment of gurgling in protest, the stabbed man fell to the ground, his blood sloshing out in great gouts as his heart pumped on.

  He has to be dead, McCoy thought. He must be dead.

  After a few moments slumped there, he stood back up. Meanwhile, the man with the rapier cleaned and sheathed his blade. Only then did he reach up to feel his neck and shoulders for injury.

  The cut into his shoulder was deep enough to fit a finger into. But there seemed to be more blood than need be.

  “The ear, of course,” the man said. He had a French accent. “You struck downward through the cartilage, you scoundrel.”

  He reached up to touch the spot, seemingly fearful of what he might find.

  He found nothing. Ragged skin around a bleeding hole. The other had chopped off the man’s ear.

  “Merde.”

  The rapier-bearing man began a careful search of the ground. Only after he grimaced and said “Aha!” could McCoy make out what he’d picked up.

  It was a human ear. His own.

  “Well,” said the rapier man to the other, “that’s never happened before.” Then the image feed went blank.

  McCoy sat back in his cushioned chair. “That must have hurt.”

  “Oh it did, it did. That’s why de Bergerac came. He wanted a pain spray to take the sting out.”

  “Take the sting out? That ear was amputated by a blade. It will take weeks of treatment to regenerate completely. Do they really fight with sharpened swords?”

  “Have to,” said Levin. “That’s the only kind of swords the Excalbians have.”

  Not sure what he means by that, but let it go—

  “Okay then, why do the damn Excalbians do it? It’s obviously crazy and dangerous—”

  A notification bell beeped, and Levin shot McCoy an amused glance. “Hang on to that thought for a moment, Doctor, and allow me to introduce you to Cyrano de Bergerac. You can ask him yourself.”

  McCoy saw from Levin’s expression that something was going on that he didn’t want to reveal yet. The outpost doctor turned to the door control sensor. “Enter.” The door slid open, and in walked Cyrano de Bergerac. His nose, McCoy noted, was on the largish size, but was certainly not a monstrous protrusion. He was otherwise an extremely handsome man.

  “Mister de Bergerac, come in, come in,” said Levin. “This is Doctor Leonard McCoy of the Starship Enterprise.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” said de Bergerac. He reached out a gloved hand to shake, and McCoy took it.

  Odd to wear gloves in a climate-controlled environment like this, McCoy thought. But to each his own.

  “Mister de Bergerac, I was wondering if you would mind if Doctor McCoy examined your wounded ear,” Levin said.

  “Not at all, not at all,” de Bergerac replied. “But I think you’ll find it much better.”

  McCoy had risen as soon as permission came and had a look at the ear.

  He reached up his hands to part the curly hair around it. “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Please,” said de Bergerac.

  McCoy pushed back the hair, examined the ear, then thumbed it to be sure it was flesh and not some kind of prosthetic.

  “It’s completely healed,” he said.

  De Bergerac only smiled and shrugged.
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  “You’ll find that it isn’t merely healed,” Levin said. “It is exactly the same as it was before the accident. I can show you molecular analysis that proves as much.”

  McCoy broke away from looking at the perfectly undamaged ear and turned to Levin. “Okay, what gives?”

  “Tell Doctor McCoy about your gloves, Mister de Bergerac,” Levin said.

  “His gloves? I want to know about that ear.”

  Levin held up a hand. “Indulge us, Doctor.” He spoke again to de Bergerac. “You took one of your gloves off this morning, did you not?”

  “I had to so you could use your medical instruments to examine me.”

  “Yes, the compact bio monitor is very sensitive. Unlike the lab medical sensors, it can easily operate through clothing. It was the right arm, I think.”

  “My sword arm, oui.”

  Levin reached over and opened a drawer. “In fact, here it is,” he said. He pulled out a large cuffed brown leather glove, slid the drawer shut, and tossed the glove to McCoy.

  “Okay,” McCoy said. “It’s leather. It’s a glove. Same as the one he has on now.”

  “Mister de Bergerac, do you happen to have a supply of those particular gloves? Replacements for when you lose one or one becomes damaged?”

  “I do not need one, Docteur,” said de Bergerac. “You know that.”

  “And why don’t you need them?” he asked, nodding toward McCoy. “Please, enlighten the good doctor here.”

  “Well, because they grow back,” de Bergerac replied. “This takes about an hour, sometimes two, depending. Same with the ear.”

  “You mean to tell me that ear regenerated in a few hours?” McCoy said.

  “Not at all,” Levin said. “An exact replacement formed, down to the cell level. We’ve documented the whole process. That glove you’re holding you would find to be an exact replica of the one Mister de Bergerac is now wearing on his right hand. Exact to the molecule.”