Star Trek - TOS - 30 - DEMONS

by J. M. Dillard

  her midsection, the mischievous glimmer in her eyes replaced by

  something very close to dull panic. It was at that instant that McCoy

  decided he was no longer off duty.

  "Easy .. . I'm Dr. McCoy. Is there something I can do for you?" he

  asked gently.

  She had to lift her head to look at him as she was hunched over. "Yes,"

  she said, gritting her teeth. "Perhaps there is. I seem to have

  developed this strange compulsion to double over. Do you think it

  might be significant?" She clearly had no intention of taking herself

  seriously.

  "Might be." He took the arm that was not wrapped around the area of

  concern and helped her to an examination table. She would not lie down

  at first, but tried to sit up. McCoy gently kept pushing her back

  down. "Now, just lie there. Where does it hurt?"

  "Three guesses," she said, patting her stomach. In the monitor's

  light, she looked even younger than she had in the lounge.

  "Uh-huh. Can you describe the pain for me?"

  "It hurts."

  "I mean, is it stabbing, a dull ache .. ."

  "It's sharp. It sort of burns."

  An internal scan showed McCoy exactly what he expected. "It looks like

  you're working on an ulcer, my dear. For some reason, you've been

  producing too much stomach acid. If this had gone on much longer,

  you'd have a bona-fide hole in your gut. What I don't understand is

  why this didn't show up during an earlier checkup. Someone should have

  caught the beginnings of this long ago."

  "I'm fast at everything," Anitra said.

  "Well, you may be fast but you're going to need some medication," McCoy

  said. "I'm going to check your file. Lanter, isn't it?"

  She partially sat up again and frowned at him. "Have we met?"

  "I watched you play a little chess in the rec lounge. I can remember

  the name of anyone who can beat Spock--besides, it made me ten credits

  richer."

  "Gambling," she said, her face twitching with the pain, but McCoy

  fancied he caught a bit of the glimmer in her eyes. "Really, Doctor.

  I'm shocked." She paused one beat for effect. "I netted a hundred."

  McCoy grinned broadly as he accessed her file. "Lanter, Anitra,

  right?"

  She nodded and bit her lip.

  "Hold on," McCoy said. "I'm just checking to see if the medicine I'm

  about to prescribe is contraindicated." He bent down to read the

  terminal screen .. . and his smile quickly metamorphosed into a frown.

  "What the--"

  "A problem?" Anitra asked, staring solemnly at the ceiling.

  "Something wrong with the computer. This says it's your file, but the

  information--" McCoy broke off, confused.

  "What does it say?"

  "Your medical file lists you as a o160 year old Benecian slime worm

  with a history of prostate trouble. No allergies."

  "That's absurd!" she protested. "I break out in hives every time I

  eat chocolate."

  McCoy subjected her to his sternest gaze for a long time. "If you

  think this is funny, Ensign, think again. I'm not going to prescribe

  anything for you until I read your file. And what the devil are you

  doing monkeying around with those, anyway? I'd better not find any

  other files tinkered with--"

  "You won't." She was sitting up now and tilted her chin upward. It

  gave her an almost feline, haughty look. "It can only be accessed

  under Lanter, Anitra M. Enter anything else and you get the

  Benecian."

  "Thank you," McCoy said. He entered it. "That's much better." He

  scanned the file briefly and then went back into the lab. When he

  returned, he gave her a vial of pills. "Take one now."

  Anitra swallowed one, closed her eyes and sighed as the muscles in her

  body relaxed in response to the absence of pain. When she looked at

  McCoy again, the light in her eyes had returned.

  "I'd like to try to figure out how that ulcer got started," McCoy said.

  "I couldn't detect any physiological basis for the excess acidity. Is

  there any unusual stress that you've recently come under?"

  "Swallowing acid comments," she said archly.

  McCoy smiled faintly. "You know what I mean-the new job going all

  right and all that?"

  "It's going great," she said.

  "Which department?"

  "Astrophysics. Research. Actually, things are sometimes slower in

  there than I'd like, but that's okay. Spock and I are working together

  on a project-particle physics, my one true love--so that keeps me

  interested."

  "A project? On or off duty?"

  "Off. We're hoping to publish a paper on our findings."

  "How much free time do you spend on this project?"

  "Not enough. I know what you're getting at with all this, Doctor. All

  I can say is, maybe it's just being assigned to a new ship. I don't

  find anything here particularly disturbing, and I enjoy working in my

  off duty hours. I know you'll tell me all work and no play--but that's

  the way I've always lived. So don't worry." She sighed. "I'm sure

  I'll adjust."

  "Wait a minute. I'm supposed to be reassuring you. Besides, I can't

  imagine anyone wanting to spend their off-duty time with Spock."

  She cocked an eyebrow in perfect imitation. "Actually, he's a

  fascinating individual."

  McCoy grimaced. "You have been around him too long, haven't you? Maybe

  you need to find other outside interests besides physics."

  "Ah, but I do, Doctor." She smiled mysteriously. "I do. And Spock

  and I sometimes talk about things other than physics."

  "Spock? Talk about something other than science?"

  "Why not? He's been teaching me Vulcan philosophy and culture. He's

  even taking me to visit his family when we take shore leave."

  McCoy heard a tiny internal alarm go off. "That's fine, but why don't

  you take some time off from the project? Meet some other people

  besides Spock-people your own age."

  She frowned. "I don't understand. What does age have to do with

  anything?"

  "You know .. . young men."

  Her creamy complexion turned a delightful shade of pink. "Maybe I'm

  not interested, Doctor. I have far more important concerns right now,

  and frankly, I don't think it's any of your business. I've had enough

  of this kindly old doctor routine and your quaint, chauvinistic

  notions--"

  In spite of himself, McCoy responded hotly to her sudden anger. "Now

  look here, I'm just trying to be helpful--"

  "You've already helped enough," she said huffily, and, pills in hand,

  climbed off the exam table and headed for the door. "You just need to

  know when to stop."

  "Well, I'll be .. ." McCoy said in amazement as the door closed behind

  her.

  Amanda had not slept well; she had dreamed fitfully the night before,

  anxious dreams about Sarek and his brother, and a dead civilization.

  She glanced at the chronometer on the ceiling; it was early, but as

  always, Sarek's side of the bed was already empty.

  Outside, the morning was gray, and the air still held

  a hint of the evening chill that descended each night over the desert.

  Sarek was in the garden, as she had
expected, but not at his usual

  place on the stone meditation bench. He stood looking down at the

  ground.

  Amanda's mind at first refused to believe what she saw. Two of the

  five bushes she had planted the day before were uprooted, torn out of

  the ground, their bare, thorny limbs bent and broken. A sudden rage

  swelled up within her; in all her years on Vulcan, she had never seen

  the willful destruction of a thing of beauty.

  "Who--what--did this?" she choked, her fists clenched.

  Sarek studied his wife coolly. "A chkariya, most likely."

  "A what?"

  "Rather like a ferret." Sarek looked thoughtfully at the destruction

  and walked over to one of the bushes. He turned it over with his

  foot.

  "We've never had them before! Why would it single out my rosebushes

  like this?" Amanda made a sweeping gesture at them.

  "Chkariyas are not known for their logic."

  His placid answer served as fuel for her anger. "Well, I don't care

  what they're known for. I want the damn things stopped, and I don't

  care how you do it."

  Sarek gazed at her calmly. "Anger serves no useful purpose, my wife.

  The roses can be replaced."

  "Not that easily," Amanda said, embarrassed by the fact that she was

  actually near tears. Why did the loss of two bushes bother her so?

  Sarek was right; they could be replaced. And three had survived. But

  it was

  just that the destruction of them seemed so--willfully evil, so

  intentionally aimed at her.

  "I will buy a trap," said Sarek, "and tomorrow take the creature to the

  desert. Your other flowers will be safe, Amanda."

  "Yes, of course," Amanda said automatically, but did not look at him;

  her eyes were fastened on the ruined bushes on the ground.

  It wasn't like him at all. In the year she'd known him, al-B had never

  reported late for duty, not even by a minute. Tomson's first thought

  was that he was sick--too sick, maybe, to call in or answer the page.

  Her second thought was one that worried her even more Moh was taking

  advantage of his new rank. She shook her head and dismissed it,

  although it still nagged in the back of her mind. She couldn't have

  been that mistaken about the person he was--especially now. No,

  something had to be wrong.

  Tomson clicked off the intercom and bit her lip. If Moh were any were

  on the ship, he would have answered by now. The nagging thought

  surfaced again he doesn't think he has to. He knows you wouldn't

  report him--not only because of what it would do to his promotion, but

  because of what it would do to your credibility with the review

  board.

  It struck her then the transfer. Would he really jeopardize

  everything just to stay? He had kidded about it last night, kept

  repeating how he didn't want to leave her now .. . and her anxiety was

  replaced for a short while by anger. Pulling something like this would

  prove him to be more of a fool than she'd thought.

  She looked over at Nguyen, who had reported in and was waiting

  patiently for her assignment. "Stay here for a few minutes," Tomson

  said. "If al-B reports in, page me."

  It seemed only natural to look for him in his quarters. If he were

  elsewhere on the ship, Tomson reasoned, someone might see him and

  report that he was ignoring his page. It would be smarter just to

  ignore the intercom and the pages while laying low in his quarters.

  When she got there, she pressed the buzzer. She was not at all

  surprised when no one answered. She leaned closer. "Al-B," she

  called, and put her hand on the door. To her surprise, it opened.

  It was dark inside. Tomson fumbled for the light panel and pressed it.

  Seeing that the outer office was empty, she moved toward the darkened

  bedroom, and was just able to make out a human figure lying on the bed.

  She squared her shoulders. "Al-Baslama," she said sternly and turned

  on the light.

  And began to scream and scream and scream, as though she would never

  stop.

  Tomson was waiting in front of al-Baslama's quarters, paler than usual,

  her arms folded tightly, fighting to keep her composure.

  "In there," she said to McCoy and Kirk. "Please try not to touch

  anything."

  The dead man's body was stretched out on his bunk. McCoy was used to

  dead bodies, and Kirk had steeled himself for the sight of this one,

  but both of them flinched involuntarily. Tomson did not even try to

  look again; she had already forced herself to see more than

  she could bear. Mohamed al-Baslama had been beaten to death--not just

  once or twice in the strategic places, but over the entire surface of

  his body. His face was disfigured almost beyond recognition, the jaw

  and cheekbones broken. McCoy raised the dead man's tunic, and Kirk

  fought the desire to look away. The spleen had swollen the stomach to

  ghastly size, and the skin above it was mottled dark red and purple.

  "Internal bleeding," McCoy said. "Probably the ultimate cause of

  death."

  "Any idea who did this?" Kirk asked Tomson.

  "A professional," she said. "Did you notice, no signs of a struggle?

  And al-Baslama was a damn good martial arts man Not a hair, not a

  fingerprint, nothing out of place. I'm the only one who's been here,

  but I did a preliminary checkout. I have some people coming who'll go

  over this place with a fine-tooth comb. Al-B had a lot of friends in

  security." She faltered foray moment and looked away. "And Dr. McCoy

  needs to do an autopsy. So I can't really say we don't have any leads

  yet."

  McCoy was muttering to himself. Kirk leaned over him. "Find anything

  unusual, Doctor?"

  "If you want to call it that," McCoy said with disgust. He pointed at

  the dead man's hands. "Look there; every finger on both hands broken,

  smashed." He looked up at the captain. "Jim, this man was tortured to

  death."

  The next day, McCoy caught Spock in the hall outside his quarters.

  "I wonder if I could speak to you about Anitra Lanter."

  "What is it you wish to discuss?" Spock asked.

  "Last night she came to me complaining of severe stomach pains. It

  seems she's working on an ulcer."

  McCoy imagined he detected a note of concern in Spock's voice. "Is the

  condition serious?"

  "Not at this point, but if it doesn't improve, it could become that.

  What has me concerned is Anitra's ..." McCoy tried to find the right

  word, ".. . lifestyle."

  "That is none of my concern." Spock started to move away, but McCoy

  blocked him.

  "It is very much your concern, Spock. A blind man could see that she's

  been your constant companion since she came on board. In fact, you two

  have spent every off-duty moment together."

  "That is, as usual, a gross exaggeration, Doctor," Spock said in the

  long-suffering tone he used to explain the obvious to the

  unenlightened. "And I fail to see how my company could induce Dr.

  Lanter to develop an ulcer."

  "Well, ulcers are caused by over secretion of stomach acid, which is

  usually caused by an excess of stress--"


  "I am constantly amazed, Doctor, by your ability to state the obvious."

  "Dammit, Spock, let me finish. I'm simply trying to figure out what's

  causing the stress. Now I know that she's working on a project with

  you during her off-duty hours. Could it be that you're working her too

  hard?"

  Spock frowned slightly. "I do not invoke the privilege of rank--we are

  merely two scientists working in our free time on a project of mutual

  interest. Dr. Lanter works as much as she cares to. I neither

  encourage nor discourage her."

  "Well, frankly, I wish you would discourage her a little, Spock. I

  think she's suffering from overwork."

  Spock raised an eyebrow. "That har dly seems my place, Dr. McCoy. If

  you, as her physician, feel that she should spend less time on the

  project, then you should tell her so."

  "I did," McCoy muttered, "but I don't trust her to."

  Spock made no reply, but turned to walk away.

  "Wait, Spock, that's not all.... I don't know quite how to say this..

  .."

  "That has never stopped you before."

  The Vulcan was in rare form today. McCoy forced himself to ignore the