Constellations (8 page)

“Manprasad, check those smaller rooms off to the rear, see if there's any working technology there. Lindstrom, go left, I'll go right. Let's see if we can find some way to turn this off.” He heard confirming ayes and was satisfied that they were respecting his position as leader. Now he had to make sure they still felt that way once they were safely away from the building.

The first thing Sulu did was take more detailed readings of the force field. While the energy disrupted his communicator, it didn't prevent the tricorder from performing as expected. That told him something, but he wasn't sure what yet. According to his scans, the energy was charged plasma at a very high temperature. He didn't dare touch it for fear of severe burns.

From deep in the building, he heard Manprasad call out, “Hey, this room just woke up!”

“Anything beyond lights?” Sulu called back.

“Nothing. I'm looking around,” she replied.

“Be careful,” he added.

“No kidding, Sulu, I have it covered,” Manprasad said. Sulu turned his attention to Lindstrom, who was on the far side of the large central room. Looking up, Sulu saw what fascinated the sociologist: some alien writing on the upper portion of the wall.

“Anything interesting?” the helmsman asked.

“I really like the way the loops intertwine, but only in certain places. That may be a clue to how the language is constructed.”

“Let me guess, you need more time before you can hazard a guess as to what it's saying?”

“Something set this far back and this high, even for being this size, it's probably something standard, not a warning, if that's what you want to hear,” Lindstrom said.

“I'll take anything to reassure us—” Sulu's words were cut off as Manprasad's shriek pierced the air. In one fluid motion, he swung his tricorder behind him. His left hand was already grasping his phaser as he hurried toward the smaller room.

Sulu skidded to a stop when he saw the same energy fill the doorway, felt the rising heat that barred him from reaching the geologist. He could, however, see seven metallic arms snake out of secret places in the wall, ceiling, and floor. They reflected the orange light as they writhed, curling around her wrists and ankles. Manprasad stopped screaming, but he could hear her heavy breathing as she struggled against the tightening tendrils. At the end of each one were five pincer-like devices that she was trying to pry loose, but with each passing second, she was losing the struggle.

“Lindstrom! Where are you?”

Sulu heard a gurgle and the scratch of boot heels skidding in the dirt covering the slick floor. He took a few steps for a better view and saw that Lindstrom was doing his level best to avoid getting himself ensnared by another set of these obvious security devices. Without the energy field as a factor, Sulu took a calculated risk, leveled his phaser, checked the setting, and fired a quick burst. The crimson beam lashed across the room and struck the nearest tendril's base, causing some sparks but mainly being deflected in another direction. He placed the pistol back on his belt and reached around for his tricorder, desperately needing to know what they were dealing with.

“Manprasad! Are you okay?”

“I wouldn't call it okay,” she shouted back. “I can't move! I'm totally immobilized.”

“We'll get you free,” he said to reassure her, even though he didn't actually believe his words. Some commander he was, lying to his team. “Lindstrom, where are you?”

“Back near the exit,” the sociologist called.

“Reach into our gear and set the emergency beacon. We need help!” Sulu disliked the volume and tone of his voice, and vowed to modulate it lower next time in order to sound the part of the commander even if he didn't feel it.

Sulu quickly swiveled his head around from one side to the other, searching for more of the tendrils. The ones that had tried for Lindstrom had retracted back into their wall pockets, sealed behind what had looked like wall decorations.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of panels opening, and sure enough, a set of coordinated tendrils reached for him from the floor, tearing through what appeared to be a small bush. Sulu ran forward, cracking an elbow against a console. Still free, he leapt away from the security system, closer to the sociologist. As he got farther away, the tendrils stopped at their limit, paused, and then began to retract.

Sulu watched briefly as Lindstrom reached their gear and started assembling the tripod to hold the beacon. Satisfied that he was in good shape, Sulu returned his attention to Manprasad. Carefully, he approached her room, now more like a prison cell. She was suspended several feet off the ground, spread-eagle. She gave a shake to once more test the strength of the metal confines. They didn't even quiver.

“They hurt?”

“Damn uncomfortable,” she said, and gave him a small, reassuring smile. He should be the one reassuring her.

“There were more out here, but we seemed to avoid them.”

“Lucky you.”

“Any clue what these smaller rooms are?”

She gave him a look indicating she thought he was mad, asking about something so mundane. “I only stepped into this one, but I'd say it's a monitoring post for a specific set of systems. Other than lights, nothing else went live.”

“Got it. Once we figure out more about this place, we'll likely find a way to free you.”

“Well, I'll be right here.”

He chuckled at that and then turned his attention to a sound over his head. A series of panels were retracting inside the ceiling, and several platforms, each stuffed with technological items, descended into the main chamber.

“Lindstrom, watch out!” he shouted as several of the devices swiveled, clearly homing in on the life-signs. One stopped moving, a dull orange light appearing at its tip. A moment later, it fired a beam of coherent light at the sociologist. He ducked and then twisted his body, avoiding a second blast.

Sulu tried to ignore Lindstrom's gymnastics, being otherwise occupied by the platform nearest his position. Sure enough, two cylindrical elements had locked on to him, cool blue light growing in intensity along the length of each one. He looked for safe cover and threw his body forward, tucking into a somersault and scrambling beneath the main console. As he moved, twin beams of light crisscrossed once, twice, and sizzled as they struck the floor where'd he'd just been standing, scoring it.

The scientist in him wanted to understand the principles behind the light, but the man shoved those thoughts to the rear and concentrated on survival. With his phaser once more in hand, he took aim at the platform's base and fired a more concentrated burst. His energy beam reached the ceiling and seemed to be having some effect on the base.

“Lindstrom! You okay?”

There was no reply, and Sulu worried that his crewmate was unconscious or worse. A moment later, he heard the scream and his breath caught in his throat.

 

On the bridge, Spock removed his earpiece as the tricorder playback reached the point of Lindstrom's cry. He cross-referenced the three tricorder downloads, but there were no visuals for what had occurred to Lindstrom. He mused that the lack of that particular datum may have been for the best.

 

Kirk was completing a report regarding the landing party, reluctantly preparing notes for the inquest that needed to follow. The door buzzer sounded. Kirk looked up and invited his visitor inside.

McCoy ambled into the captain's cabin carrying a tray containing two glasses and a delicately curved dark green bottle. Kirk smirked despite himself. “Are those the sort of prescriptions I can expect from you?”

“If you're lucky,” McCoy answered. As he filled each thick, squat glass about one third of the way with an amber liquor, the doctor said, “They're both going to be fine, Jim.”

“But you said Sulu might have psychological injuries.”

Kirk accepted his glass as McCoy settled into the high-backed chair opposite the desk. He saluted the captain with his own glass and took a healthy swallow. Kirk followed suit and enjoyed the burning sensation of the liquor.

“He does, and we'll see how deep they are. He's talking to Rand right now, and maybe talking to her will be better than talking to me.”

“She's a yeoman, trained to keep things on schedule, not a psychiatrist.”

“True, but she's been one of his closer friends on the ship.”

“I didn't know that,” Kirk admitted. He grasped the glass in his right hand, tipping it back and forth, watching the liquid move.

“My understanding is that they both signed aboard around the same time, so they were sort of thrown together. It's better when crew rotate aboard a ship in groups as opposed to solo.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Of course,” McCoy said, raising his eyebrows at the captain. “I beam aboard right after you return from the galactic edge and everyone's preoccupied with the deaths of Mitchell, Dehner, and Kelso. It was days before someone thought to give me a ship's tour.”

“Sorry,” Kirk said, feeling somewhat guilty about the oversight. They had all been preoccupied, and he had never stopped to consider how a newcomer would react. He made a note to improve crew indoctrination, a matter to discuss with Spock. He mused whether or not the first officer would see the “logic” in the extra attention, but it mattered to the captain.

“How's your other patient?”

McCoy took another sip, placed his glass down, and thought about it. “On the mend. Lindstrom will be fit for duty in a couple of days. Of the two, Sulu seems to have gotten the worst of the hell they went through down there. I'm guessing you want Sulu back at the helm as soon as I release him.”

“It's to get him back on track,” Kirk admitted.

“I know the theory,” the doctor agreed. “Still, I told you seventy-two hours based on his physical condition. I'll adjust that once I see how clear his head is.”

“I'm counting on it. I have a lot of faith in his ability to bounce back and get this job done.”

“How much of that is your faith in Sulu and how much is it to prove to Spock you were right?”

Kirk gave the doctor a sharp look, eyebrows drawn down in a frown. His debate with Spock may have been in the mess, but he had been fairly certain no one was paying that much attention, and he knew McCoy wasn't present; otherwise he'd have joined in the conversation. For the first year of his command, Kirk had relied pretty much on Spock for counsel and advice as befitted a first officer with more years in the service than the newly minted captain. However, since McCoy had beamed aboard, he found that the duo had somehow morphed into a trio, and it gave him some fresher perspectives. In fact, he thought McCoy's probing questions hidden within snide comments were actually helping Spock adjust to a primarily human crew. After eleven years with a similar crew under Pike, Spock still seemed overly uncomfortable but stubbornly refused to ask for help. McCoy might be just what Spock had been waiting for.

“And just how did you know about that conversation?” Kirk asked bluntly.

“There are only four hundred and thirty of us aboard this boat, Jim,” McCoy said, and sipped again at his drink.
Okay,
Kirk concluded,
someone overheard and gossiped.
The perils of having that conversation in public.

“You win. But what if Spock's right? Is Sulu really better off being a scientist?”

“Didn't he go to you with the idea of switching to command?”

“Yes. Sat where you are now,” Kirk admitted.

“Okay, so he asked for the post. You gave it to him. How's he handling the ship?”

“Actually, better than Kelso,” Kirk said, finishing the glass. “He has such a feel for the mechanics of space flight.”

“And you've left him in charge of the bridge a few times, right?”

A nod and then a gesture for a refill.

“He do fine with it?” McCoy poured two fingers' worth and sealed the bottle. He handed the glass back to the captain.

“According to Spock's reports,” Kirk said.

“Not everyone is born to wear that gold shirt,” McCoy said casually. “Some rise to the occasion when there's no choice. Others are better followers, and sometimes they don't learn that until after they've tasted command. Now you, you were born to it. I knew that the day we met.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. And Spock's a follower, the best second-in-command you'll ever find. That green-blooded physiology of his makes him damn efficient, able to remember every rule and regulation they think of back at HQ. But he has no feel for leading a crew and may never make a good captain.”

Kirk grinned at the doctor. “You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you? What about you? Were you born to be the chief medical officer?”

“Hell, no,” McCoy said with a laugh. “I'm just an old country doctor who stood on the wrong line.”