“If only this was someplace else,” he murmured with a sigh. ‘Well, I can’t be that old if I can still get a pretty girl to go camping with me.”
He smiled to himself as he recalled the days of courting young girls when he’d been young himself, and the stories his Granddad and Great-Granddad used to tell of their own romantic exploits. Oh, there’d been all manner of social upheavals and sexual revolutions and trends that came and went. But the feelings between a boy and a girl hadn’t changed that much over time, even over centuries. In the Georgia hills, the old customs held their ground.
McCoy had met his wife at a square dance the summer after his first year in medical school. They’d walked down the road that led away from the old Simpson barn, on the dust and gravel still warm from a day filled with sultry July sunshine. By the time they’d reached the cool sweet air of the woods and sat on the bed of pine needles and kissed, he’d suspected he might be in love. Across the hills, they’d watched the freighters and shuttles lift off, headed out to orbital stations around the globe—that had been their excuse for the walk, that and getting away from the noise and bustle of the dance—but the launches weren’t all that frequent, and they’d had lots of time to chat and spark.
There was a great old word—sparkin’. He sighed again, and remembered where he was now. What’s it all worth in the end, anyway?
He looked down at Kailyn, who snored gently. He could just make out the profile of her face, silhouetted against the inky gray of the cave opening. He kissed her forehead, his lips barely brushing her skin.
Then he heard a howl outside, and a scuffling noise over the rocks. His hand tensed on the stick, but he did not move
Chapter Twelve
There was no escaping the rain and sleet that pelted down through the trees as Spock made his way back to the stream. The wind had escalated to gale force, with gusts bending supple tree trunks double; branches were transformed into lethal whips, lashing at anything in their path.
Spock’s face and hands were already cut, and the thermal jumpsuit layered on top of his uniform had been slashed as well, letting the rain seep through. He was soaked to the skin. But following the stream trail was his only sure way of finding the shuttle, so he pressed on, protecting his face as best he could.
They had first come upon the stream less than sixteen hours ago, though it seemed like days. It had been a brook then, burbling through the overhanging forest. Saplings had crept their roots toward the water’s edge to drink. But the saplings and the banks sloping up into the woods were gone now, submerged under torrents of white water. The gully, where Spock had knelt to examine rills in the cold soil, was completely filled by the surging current. Even the forest floor where he walked was drenched. Puddles were linked by rivulets, and the nearly frozen ground could drink up little of the flood. The footing was treacherous, and it was all Spock could do to keep from falling. He moved to the edge of the woods, walking just above the river’s rushing waters. Spray kicked up to mix with the wind-driven rain, and freezing drops swirled all around, burning his eyes.
He didn’t see the rock—it was hidden by an ankle-deep pool. But his right boot found it. His heel hit the rock and skidded. By sheer reflex, he grabbed a slender tree trunk on his left as his body fell in the opposite direction. Momentum threw his full weight down toward the river, but his left hand held tight. The tree bent, snapped, but didn’t break. The pain in his shoulder almost made him cry out; somehow, he clung to the tree and the roiling waters hissed past him, seemingly in anger at having a sure victim snatched away.
Slowly, holding the tree for support, he got to his feet. His left arm dangled at his side for the moment, and the numbness there was punctuated by a sharp, recurrent twinge. He couldn’t decide whether serious damage had been done, but for now he would rely solely on his right. With careful steps, he moved on through the forest.
The howl had only been the wind, and McCoy let himself doze on and off. Even on this wild planet, he had to guess that nature had endowed its creatures with a sense of survival that would keep them all safe in deep, dry places on such a night. It was unlikely they’d have hostile visitors, for only a thing with a penchant for suicide would wander out in this storm. Suicide—or desperation. He could only pray that in Spock’s case the second would not become synonymous with the first.
McCoy’s eyelids were fighting to close, but he refused to accept sleep at this moment, though he wasn’t sure why.
Sure I know why . . . I don’t want to wake up dead.
“That’s stupid,” he whispered to himself. “You wouldn’t wake up at all. Good grief, I’m talking to myself. . . .”
Dead. Never really got used to death.
Lightning crackled outside, flickering through the cave opening with a ghostly glow. Seconds passed, and the delayed thunderclap rumbled over the hillside.
He’d wondered all through medical school whether facing death would ever grow easier. Oh, in some ways it had. After his first clinical encounter with a cadaver, McCoy hadn’t quite made it to the sink before he’d vomited the eggs and muffins he’d had for breakfast. In the years since, especially out in space aboard the Enterprise, he’d dirtied his hands with more than a score of gruesome deaths, examining crewmen for whom the mysteries of space had included mysterious ways to die. He didn’t throw up anymore. Not even the slightest urge. He didn’t know if that lack of reaction was good or bad, but it made life a hell of a lot easier—and neater.
Autopsies, deciding cause of death, filling out those damnable death certificates. It had all become routine. It was almost as if the end of a life wasn’t final or real until recorded in a data bank somewhere, placed in a computer for easy recall. Modern man’s contribution to the funeral rites.
The years had made other people’s deaths a shade more acceptable, if only to protect his sanity. But his own demise —that was quite another matter.
A harsh question drove itself relentlessly into his thoughts: would he and Kailyn ever see Spock alive again?
Finally, McCoy’s eyelids closed, and he drifted into a netherworld of fitful sleep. . . .
. . . Fog hovered everywhere, a spectral veil, shifting with the winds but never dissolving. It hung thickly over the cave opening as Spock approached. The science officer moved slowly, his feet seeming not to touch the ground. Anguish contorted his face as he struggled to reach the cave, arms flailing, slicing the fog as if swimming through it. He floated down, into the cave, and saw two bodies ripped and shredded beyond recognition. From the bottom of a reservoir of suppressed emotions, the hidden fears and dark corners of his Vulcan life, Spock screamed with an agony that went deeper than the soul . . . then he turned and saw the fang gleaming in the darkness. The creature sprang . . .
. . . and McCoy stumbled out of the forest, clothing tattered, skin raw and torn, a growth of stubble on his chin. He was alone. In the clearing before him, the shattered wreck of the Galileo sat, burning. And though he couldn’t see them clearly, he knew that the bodies of Spock and Kailyn were in the flames as well. They were dead, and this was their pyre. . . .
. . . Sweating, McCoy wrenched his eyes open with a suddenness that hurt. He shook his head to wipe out the flaming image that had just seemed so real he could feel its heat. He was breathing as if he’d sprinted a mile, and he estimated his racing pulse at over a hundred. But he was still in the cave, and the only warmth was Kailyn curled next to him.
So, fears of death could still produce nightmares. He held Kailyn close and stared into the darkness.
The shuttlecraft had been cruelly treated by the wind. Not only had the atmospheric maelstrom caused it to crash, but the nighttime gales refused to let it rest in peace. The ship had been tossed like a toy from the rocky perch where it had landed, and it had rolled over an embankment; now, it was almost belly-up, with the door angled down toward the soaked ground.
Spock stood, hands on hips, surveying the hulk. He crawled under he nose, then slithered snakelike through the
cold surface mud. Mud. That meant the ground had thawed slightly. Was the air temperature rising? Encased in his wet clothing, Spock couldn’t judge.
The shuttle door had been torn open by a boulder, and Spock lifted himself up into the cabin. His eyes made a slight adjustment, and he scanned for things they would need for survival. Only one system still functioned on board—the sealed emergency beacon. He found the medical pouch lodged against the command seat. Spare communicators had been smashed, but the weapons cabinet in the bulkhead was intact and he took four phasers out. Food concentrates. Two hand-sized electro-lanterns. A spare tricorder. Maps of Sigma. A tent packed in a pocket-size pouch. Laser flares.
Spock sealed the supplies in an unbreachable pack and hoisted it over his good shoulder. The injured left one felt slightly improved; at least it was mobile again, though he was sure a thorough exam would find something wrong. That, however, was a luxury that would have to wait.
He glanced quickly around, decided he’d taken everything that might be of use, then lowered himself through the hatchway and slid out from under the Galileo on his back. The precipitation, more sleet and freezing rain than liquid now, cut into his face like needles, forcing his eyes shut for a second. He set his mouth in a grim line and ran for the woods, splashing across the flooded clearing.
Spock tried to drive all extraneous thoughts from his mind, saving his concentration for placing one foot ahead of the other as safely and quickly as possible. Anxieties flashed by as single-frame images before they could be quashed by Vulcan self-discipline: McCoy fending off beasts seeking the shelter of the cave . . . Kailyn slowly dying without her holulin injection . . . the Enterprise doing battle with Klingon ships determined to undermine this mission.
Vulcans do not worry, he assured himself. We accept what we must. We do what we must, logically.
He reached the densest part of the forest, and it became apparent that the trail was nearly impassable. Fallen tree limbs, some the size of logs and too heavy to move, crisscrossed the path like barbed-wire barriers. A jagged pair of blue-white lightning streaks split the northern sky and found their mark some distance away. Spock decided to cut through toward the river—he had to quicken his pace.
The storm had lasted almost all night long, and showed no signs of blowing itself out. The fury of the sky and clouds powered the river to new heights, and the frenzied water pounded its banks without letup. Stones that had marked high water on Spock’s last pass had long since gone under. Oceanlike waves swept high and crashed into the trees just ahead of him, and he braced himself and waited. The surge passed and he took a step. The ground gave way beneath him and a ton of earth and rock tumbled into the river with him. The wave dipped low, poised like a beast about to attack, then cascaded over him. He swallowed a mouthful of muddy water, tried to hold his breath, then felt a tug downstream. The equipment pouch was still snagged on his shoulder, and the air sealed inside made it buoyant.
He tried to slip it under his chest, giving him the best chance to keep his head above water and push himself away from rocks jutting into the river’s path. But the ride was too rough for maneuvering, and he simply held tight to the pack straps as the current dragged him downstream, away from the direction of the cave, where McCoy and Kailyn waited—and toward the brink of a towering waterfall.
Chapter Thirteen
The silver-haired hunter had not enjoyed his morning meal. The inside of his cheek was raw where he had cut it the night before, and he was angered by having to get up before dawn to seek the bodies of the escaped slaves. And if by some miracle of the wind gods they were not dead, he would surely kill them with his bare hands for all the trouble they had caused him. How much more he would enjoy running them through with a shiny-tipped spear; but he couldn’t get one unless he had something to trade, and right now, the slaves were his only goods . . . or had been. Therefore, if he did find them living this dawn, he would not be able to kill them after all. He growled.
His bearlike friend squatted on the forest trail. The rain had stopped, and the wind was beginning to dry out the ground. Preserved in the hardening mud were three sets of clearly etched footprints. The big hunter glowered as he looked down at the tracks; he had an urge to smile, but that would only have ruined his terrible mood.
The tracks continued. The naked-faced ones had gone toward the hills, and so did the two hunters.
McCoy rubbed his eyes and convinced them to focus. The cave was still dark, but a shaft of light edged through the entryway. It was morning, though certainly not bright out. Kailyn slept almost silently, still nestled in the crook of his arm. His hand tingled; the arm was asleep.
He tried to shift the elbow without disturbing Kailyn. It didn’t work. The moment her neck moved, her eyes opened, blinking groggily.
Spock still had not returned.
“Where are we?” asked Kailyn in a hoarse whisper.
“In a cave.”
“I guessed that,” she said as she stretched.
“Do you remember last night?”
“Not really. I had a dream about going through a forest in the rain. I was wet . . . and cold. I guess it was more like a nightmare than a dream.”
“It wasn’t either one. It was real. Spock went back to the ship to get your holulin and some other supplies, and he’s not back. I’m worried.”
He stood up and started for the cave opening. He heard a pebble roll down the rocky face of the hillside, and he froze. Was it the wind? A wild animal? Then he heard voices, speaking the rumbling, guttural words of the villagers who had captured them. Noiselessly, he reached down and grabbed the stick.
“What is—?”
“Shhh . . .” McCoy tiptoed to the side of the doorway and pressed his back to the cave wall. He held the stick head-high, poised like a gun trigger. He motioned for Kailyn to join him. She left the blanket and scuttled over to huddle behind him.
“At least I can belt one of them if they try to come in here,” he whispered.
McCoy held his breath and waited. The soft steps of the hunter’s boots were barely discernible, betrayed only by an occasional scuff of leather on sand and rock. But they moved closer, no longer accompanied by voices. A shadow cast itself across the cave floor, covering the morning light that shone in dimly. The shadow paused and the scuffing ceased. McCoy could hear his own heartbeat, feel it from his knees to his throat. Kailyn stood frozen next to him, anchored to the floor.
A whining phaser beam suddenly sliced the stillness, the shadows fell away from the cave entrance, and McCoy and Kailyn gasped together as they heard a sound like two filled sacks thumping onto the hard ground. But they didn’t move until Spock’s head poked into the cave. His face was dirty and bloody, but at the moment, McCoy decided it was good enough for him.
“It sounds to me like we owe our lives to two well placed trees, Mr. Spock.”
“How so, Doctor?”
“Without them, you probably would’ve drowned twice.”
“My reflexes and ability to remain in control under stress played some small part.”
“Sure they did,” said McCoy as he dabbed at a cut on Spock’s forehead. “In a pig’s eye.”
Spock raised an indignant eyebrow. “I could hardly have predicted that the bank would collapse the moment I stepped—”
“If that tree trunk hadn’t been skewered between two rocks, you’d have gone over the falls, Spock.”
“But I had to have the presence of mind to grab it, Doctor.”
“Poppycock. It sounds to me like it practically hit you on the head.” Without skipping a beat, he turned to Kailyn. “And how are you feeling, young lady?”
She was resting on the cave floor, curled in the blanket, one of the electro-lanterns near her. “Much better.”
“Nothing like a little holulin injection and food to put the bloom back in those cheeks.”
Spock sat cross-legged and went through a series of isometric exercises. He was bruised, but entirely functional. The heat of the n
earby lantern had dried out his clothing and he felt more comfortable. “Considering the obstacles that have confronted us so far, I would say our condition is satisfactory at present.”
“We’re all alive and in one piece,” McCoy admitted, “but we’re also low on supplies, we’ve got two unconscious cavemen”—he gestured at the hunters tied up and lying in the corner—“who’d love to kill us, we don’t know where we are, and we don’t know where we’re going. I’d hate to see what you call unsatisfactory.”
Spock pulled a pair of plastic-coated maps out of the supply pouch. McCoy knelt next to him.
“I believe we are closer to our intended destination than we had originally thought,” Spock said. He pointed out several features on the charts, which had been drawn up combining space survey records with details recounted by King Stevvin. “We may be within one day’s walk of the mountains.”
Spock watched McCoy mull over that possibility, then raised one eyebrow. “You have an opinion, Doctor?”
“Well, we can’t stay here. That’s for sure,” he said, glancing back at the hunters.
“Is Kailyn strong enough to travel?”
“I am,” she piped up.
McCoy glowered. “I’ll make the medical judgments.”
“It will be a strenuous journey,” Spock said.
“I know, I know.”
“We may not find shelter.”
“Stop playing devil’s advocate—though the ears fit the part. Look, we have the thermo-tent, and it’s big enough for the three of us. And if it turns out that we have to stop and camp out in the mountains, we’ll be no worse off than we were down here last night. The sooner we get going, the better I’ll feel.”
Spock raised a questioning brow again.
“Why so surprised?” asked McCoy.
“I expected you to resist the idea of our traveling farther.”
THE COVENANT OF THE CROWN Page 10
