Star Trek: The Original Series: Seasons of Light and Darkness (3 page)

Two

ALPHA AURIGAE IV

(CAPELLA IV)

Stardate 683.5 (July 11, 2254)

McCoy stood uneasily on the
Yegorov
's transporter stage, listening to the whine it made as the technician behind the console powered it up. The rising din, which reminded the young doctor of a pipe organ playing a duet with a phalanx of wind chimes, reached its unnerving crescendo, permeating his bones right down to the marrow even as it faded away. The transporter's accompanying sparkle-laden tingle vanished an instant later, drowned out by the low moan of a gentle but very noticeable wind. McCoy realized that the pad beneath his boots had dissolved into crunching gravel, the transporter room's walls and ceiling having given way to the sides of a narrow, rough-hewn canyon. A pair of yellow suns now stared down from almost directly overhead.

McCoy doubted he'd ever get used to making such abrupt transitions.

He watched in silence as the other members of the landing party—Doctor Wieland, Science Officer Plait, Girard from the
Yegorov
's geology department, and Aylesworth and Shellenbarger from security—checked their equipment. Silently, McCoy noted that Girard seemed to be the only other person present who might have been visibly rattled by the beam-down. Since McCoy was already reasonably certain that his body had emerged intact from the transport process, he made sure the same was true of his equipment: a pair of fully loaded standard-issue medikits, one on each hip; the medical tricorder strapped across his shoulder; the communicator mounted on his belt; and the inconspicuous, palm-sized laser weapon right beside it.

“The
Yegorov
just signaled its departure from orbit,” Lieutenant Aaron Shellenbarger said as he clicked his communicator's antenna grid closed. “It's official, folks: We're on our own for now.”

Now and for the next four months
, McCoy thought with no small amount of apprehension. He silently wished the medical vessel could have remained in orbit at least until the landing party had made contact with the Capellan natives, but the Andronesian encephalitis outbreak at the New France colony couldn't wait. The
Yegorov
was the only vessel capable of dealing with the disease in time.

McCoy looked toward Doctor Wieland, who approached the higher-ranking of the two security officers. “Which way to the supply caches, Garrett?”

After glancing down at his tricorder, Lieutenant Commander Aylesworth pointed in the sunward direction, deeper into the canyon's gradually lengthening shadows. “I'm picking up the beacon, about one and a half klicks to the northwest. I made sure the matériel we beamed down ahead of us was off the beaten path, away from the main hunting trails.”

Wieland nodded. “Good. We don't want the locals stumbling across our supplies.”

McCoy hadn't been in Starfleet for as long as anyone else in the landing party, but he understood how valuable a secure storage cache was to any long-duration field assignment. The prefabricated shelters would be essential, at least at first. And until the planet's biome was better understood, it was only prudent to rely on the food from the storage cache in preference to the native fare.

The group fell in behind Aylesworth, who had taken point on the long hike toward the supply cache.

McCoy moved to Wieland's side. “Once we're finished checking out the shelters and rations, are we going to stay put overnight?” he asked. “Or do we keep going until we reach that nomad encampment we spotted from orbit?”

“Depends on how quickly we move,” Wieland said. He gestured toward the twin suns, which looked increasingly bloated and orange as they continued their slow horizonward drift. “The camp is about another four kilometers from the supply cache, so making contact might have to wait until morning. Encountering these people in the dark is
not
a good idea.”

“Too bad we couldn't have just beamed down closer to the camp,” said Lieutenant Mohammed Girard. He wiped his forehead with a sleeve, evidently feeling the intensity of the twin suns. “The sooner we make nice with the locals, the sooner we can see about gaining access to this planet's topaline.”

Topaline was indispensable to the operation of the artificial life-support systems used on colony worlds all across the Federation. The urgent need for the mineral no doubt accounted for Starfleet's rather loose application of the Prime Directive vis-à-vis this planet's prewarp civilization.

“I still don't understand why we need a treaty to get our hands on the topaline,” Aylesworth said as the team continued advancing through the canyon.

“Are you suggesting we take it by force?” Girard said.

“Not at all. I'm no mineralogy expert, but it seems to me a mining crew should be able to identify a vein of topaline from orbit and then quietly use a transporter beam to whisk away as much of the stuff as they like.”

Girard chuckled. “There's more than mineralogy at play here, Garrett.” Turning toward the science officer, he said, “Want to bring him up to speed, Phil?”

“Happy to.” Lieutenant Plait used one hand to shade his bald head as he gestured toward the twin suns with the other. “One of those stars has a pretty fierce X-ray output. If it weren't for the intensity of this planet's magnetic field, this entire local biosphere would have to go subterranean, or maybe even retreat to the ocean floor, or adapt to living inside a geothermal vent.”

Aylesworth blinked. “So?”

“So it's the interactions between those X-rays and the planetary magnetic field that keep us from making reliable subsurface mineral maps from orbit.”

McCoy also knew that the Federation didn't warp in and snatch whatever it wanted, but he kept it to himself.

Wieland made noises of agreement. “According to the first survey teams, those incoming X-rays can create some pretty spectacular auroras, even during the daylight hours—”

Aylesworth stopped abruptly. The rest of the landing party followed suit.

“What's wrong?” Wieland asked.

The security chief was scrutinizing his tricorder's small display screen. “Looks like we're about to have company.”

“I thought you said we were off the beaten path,” McCoy said.

“No,” Aylesworth replied as he turned in a slow circle, directing his scans in every direction. “I said our
stuff
was off the beaten path.”

“Are we being followed?” Girard asked.

Aylesworth nodded. “It's a group of humanoids. About a dozen individuals. And they read as pretty damned big.”

“A hunting party, perhaps,” Wieland offered.

“I thought the beam-down spot we picked was supposed to be away from the locals and their campsites,” Shellenbarger said.

“So did I,” Aylesworth replied, sounding defensive as he continued making his scans.

McCoy realized how terribly exposed and vulnerable he was feeling. “I wonder why we didn't notice them before we beamed down.”

“Probably for the same reason we couldn't map the planet's topaline veins from orbit,” Plait said. The science officer spoke distractedly as he manipulated the controls on his own tricorder. “An atmospheric interaction with a nearby topaline deposit might be a factor as well.”

Absurdly, McCoy recalled a conversation he'd had with Lieutenant Plait in the
Yegorov
's galley, during which they had discussed planetological doomsday scenarios. The doctor had been impressed by the science officer's seemingly boundless capacity for dreaming them up.

A low, feral snarl came from somewhere above him.

“I think we might have another problem,” McCoy said.

Craning his neck in the direction of the canyon's sunward wall, McCoy shielded his eyes against the brilliance of the swollen suns, which shone through a jagged gap in the rocks to frame a large but graceful silhouette. The sleek, low-slung shape reminded him of a large predatory cat from Earth.

The silhouette leapt from the canyon wall, heading directly for McCoy, bypassing the security officers' crisscrossing laser beams. An instant later the shadowy form struck him with the force of a rockslide. The ground did likewise half a heartbeat afterward. His body went rigid, as though electrified.

Then darkness engulfed him, thoroughly and completely.

Three

Stardate 685.4 (July 13, 2254)

The shards of a broken universe gradually reassembled themselves around Leonard McCoy. Very slowly he became aware of himself, beginning with the rhythmic pounding he felt emanating from somewhere deep inside his skull. At first, the pain felt like a thousand kettledrums pounding inside him. Fortunately it settled down, gradually but surely, to a dull but persistent ache all over.

It quickly came to him that he wasn't aboard the
Yegorov
. Nor was he sprawled across the floor of some windy alien canyon. Instead, the air was still and he lay supine on a rough, canvas-covered floor, surrounded by piles of brightly colored furs and oversized, fringe-edged yet incongruously hard pillows. What he'd at first thought was a burned-orange sky that stretched hundreds of kilometers overhead resolved itself into the inside of the top of a very tall, very wide tent.

He was in a mobile living space made for giants.

Giants.

McCoy remembered the tricorder readings Commander Aylesworth had taken in the canyon. The group of large humanoids the team was preparing to encounter.

He sat bolt upright and immediately regretted it; the tent spun as though some prankster had lashed it to a centrifuge. Groaning loudly, McCoy collapsed back onto the brocaded shambles that surrounded him. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to shut out this newest spike of pain.

Furs rustled against one of the tent walls. McCoy shut his eyes reflexively when a shaft of sunlight from outside struck his face. He heard movement and conversations nearby but couldn't make out any of the words.

Until he heard an energetic, childlike voice speaking Federation Standard with great urgency. “Come quickly, Ay-El Zurth! Mak-Koy awakens at last.”

Ay-El Zurth.
McCoy pondered the strange yet somehow familiar name.
Ay-El Zurth.

Aylesworth?

He opened his eyes again and noticed almost immediately that he was no longer alone in the tent. He saw a young humanoid male, hooded and dressed in a cloak. Despite his obvious youth, this was probably the biggest, most robust humanoid child McCoy had ever encountered, given that the timbre of the boy's voice pegged him as about ten years old.

A three-meter-high canvas flap behind the boy opened long enough to admit another shaft of light, along with more unintelligible gabble from outside. A relieved-looking Aylesworth stepped into the tent, followed by a smiling Doctor Wieland.

“Our thanks, Naheer. Good afternoon, Leonard,” the older man said with a gentle smile.

“The room keeps spinning,” McCoy said. He clutched at the furs around him, like a mountain climber grasping at a handhold.

“The disorientation is to be expected,” Wieland said. “But it'll pass soon. You're bouncing back faster than I expected.”

“Bouncing back? From what?”

“Doctor Wieland gave you something to put you out,” Aylesworth said. “I was starting to think you were never going to wake up.”

McCoy wrestled against a surge of panic. Focusing on Wieland, he said, “You
sedated
me?”

“Not precisely. I induced a temporary coma. I had no better choice, since we lack access to the
Yegorov
's sickbay. You took a pretty hard blow to the head.”

McCoy realized he might have had to do exactly the same thing had their positions been reversed. “What happened?”

“It seems we blundered into the path of a party of hunters headed back to this camp with their latest kill.”

“What was it they killed?” McCoy asked.

“The locals call it a lightningbeast because of the nasty electrical discharge it can deliver. The creature the hunters took down appears to have been the mate of the beast that attacked
you
.”

McCoy nodded. “That would certainly explain its unfriendly attitude. How long was I out?”

“Two days, give or take an hour or so.”

Two days!
McCoy thought, his head throbbing. Noticing for the first time since awakening that he was shirtless, he tried and failed to recall the journey from the canyon to this tent. But the incoherence of his memory didn't surprise him, given the trauma he'd obviously experienced.

“What about the rest of the landing party?” McCoy asked. “Plait, Girard, and Shellenbarger. Are they all right?”

“Perfectly,” Aylesworth said. “Shellenbarger and I took the thing down with our lasers.”

McCoy certainly hoped nobody other than his landing party colleagues had witnessed that. Firing modern weapons in front of the locals remained verboten under the Prime Directive, this planet's topaline notwithstanding.

“The others have been worrying about you,” Wieland said. “Whenever they're not engrossed in sampling the biota or picking up rocks, that is.”

McCoy was relieved to hear that nobody else had been hurt. “Please tell 'em they can stop. Worrying, I mean.” His head throbbed again, making him wince.

Naheer seemed to have taken notice of McCoy's poorly concealed distress. “Be of good cheer, one named Mak-Koy,” the boy said. “You have awakened from the sleep of death. This proves your worthiness.”

“Worthiness?” McCoy asked. “Worthiness for
what
?”

The boy tilted his head, as though he'd just heard one of the stupidest questions imaginable. “Survival, of course.”

McCoy found that pronouncement ominous.

He looked up at both of his uniformed visitors. “Is somebody going to introduce me to our new friend?”

“His name is Naheer,” the security chief said. “Judging from what I've seen of this place so far, he'll get a lot bigger when he gets older.”

“You might call him a warrior-in-training,” Wieland said. “In fact, he was part of the hunting party that brought us here.”

Focusing past his headache, McCoy directed a grateful smile at Naheer. “Then I owe you a very big ‘thank you.' ”

Naheer beamed. The recognition made him appear to stand even taller. McCoy guessed his height to be at least one hundred and eighty centimeters.

“One day I will lead my House into battle, Mak-Koy,” the boy said. “And I will visit the camps of each one of the Ten Tribes, and tell our tales there.”

“I don't doubt that for a minute, Naheer,” McCoy said, mirroring the lad's easy smile.

McCoy tried to rise, but Wieland laid his hand gently on his shoulder, stopping him. “I don't want you getting out of bed before you're ready, but . . .”

“But?”

“The local chieftain is very interested in speaking with you. It'll help make our case.”

“Our case?”

“The leader of this camp has been very hospitable to us, and that gives us the perfect opportunity to accomplish our mission here by returning the favor.”

McCoy understood immediately. “By offering him the wonders of modern medicine.”

“Exactly,” Wieland said. “Unfortunately, he hasn't been terribly receptive so far. These people evidently believe that only the strong should survive. They're not acquainted with the idea of actively nursing the sick or injured back to health.”

“So you're saying we're liable to face a very long four months here,” McCoy said.

Wieland shrugged. “Not necessarily. Maybe he's persuadable. For one thing, one of his men was injured during the hunt.”

“He speaks of my uncle, Efeer,” Naheer said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“How bad is it?” McCoy asked.

Wieland displayed a grave expression. “Bad enough to require treatment that's substantially better than the local standard of care. And it had better happen soon, before the question becomes moot.”

“Seems to me that a bad injury to one of the leader's own people should have persuaded him already,” McCoy said.

“Maybe he just needs to see the results from a different case first.”

“You're talking about me,” McCoy said.

Wieland nodded. “I made sure he saw the shape you were in when the hunting party carried you here.”

“Judging by how I feel now, I must have looked pretty bad.” McCoy was reasonably certain he was in no danger of winning any beauty contests, even after having spent the past two days under his medical mentor's expert care.

“None of the locals expected you to make it through the first night, Leonard. But if the Grand Panjandrum gets another look at you
now
. . .” Wieland trailed off, his meaning plain.

Slowly and tentatively, McCoy rose to a standing position, ignoring the insistent pounding in his head. The hard ground beneath his feet seemed to tilt slightly but quickly righted itself and stayed that way.

“Well,” he said, spying his neatly folded uniform tunic in one of the tent's corners. “Let's not keep our host waiting.” He looked at Naheer. “Or your uncle.”