“Good question,” Kirk said. “Dr. McCoy will be working on that problem soon. By removing Ensign George’s implant and adding another filter stage, the emotional input from her dop will be reduced to a manageable level. She’ll be ready for duty tomorrow morning. At that time, Dr. McCoy, Ensign George, and I will beam down. The rest of you will stand by for any action necessary.”
“One last question, Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Scott said. “What if things dinna work out as planned? If Spock has those birkies making guns…” Scott trailed off, staring at Kirk.
There was a long silence. When Kirk finally answered, his voice was stiff, betraying his strenuous efforts to control his inner anguish.
“If worst comes to worst, Mr. Scott, and we can’t stop Spock the way we plan, we must attempt to restore the culture to what it was before we came by excising the infection. By any means.”
Kirk surveyed the grim-faced personnel, his own face a frozen mask.
“Dismissed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Captain’s log: Stardate 6721.3:
The investigation into Spock’s sudden insanity has revealed a disturbing consequence of the cephalic implant experiment.
Feedback from the subconscious of her dop caused Ensign Sara George, one of the members of the survey party, to switch the programming for Commander Spock, giving him an unstable, highly emotional “host.”
Dr. McCoy and I are preparing to beam down, search for, and capture the Kyrosian to whom Spock is linked. Ensign George will accompany us, and McCoy feels it will be therapeutic. I do not hold Ensign George responsible for her actions while under the influence of her dop and have ordered her to act as our interpreter and guide since the time involved for McCoy and I to receive implants would consume nearly a day, a day which Kyros cannot afford.
Kirk released the button on the console of the transporter, shutting off the log channel. He was dressed in the uniform of a Kyrosian sea captain from the western islands: knee-length white shorts, sandals, and a vest-like upper garment with a short cape attached to the shoulders. The vest was held shut by a heavy gold chain with a dark blue stone, the symbol of his rank, dangling from a fob. At his waist was a soft, animal-skin pouch containing money in the form of triangularly-cut gold coins. Also at his waist was a short, heavy club.
“Where is Ensign George?” Kirk asked, glancing at McCoy. McCoy, dressed similarly to Kirk except that his chain was made of leather, merely shrugged.
“I just hope we don’t get arrested for passing Scotty’s funny money,” the doctor said, touching his pouch.
“Och, Doctor,” Scott retorted from the transporter console. “It’s as gude as gold… in fact, it is.”
Kirk smiled slightly. He approached the wall-mounted communicator and was about to issue a ship-wide call for the ensign, when she walked through the opening doors of the transporter room. Her small, trim figure was wrapped in the chiton-like garment characteristic of Kyrosian women.
“I’m sorry, Captain, I couldn’t find my comb.” Her hand touched the elaborate comb which rose a full fifteen centimeters above her long, black hair. It curved over her head from ear to ear and a short veil dangled from it, just brushing the nape of her neck.
“Beats me how you could miss it,” McCoy muttered.
The woman gave the doctor a grimace, but stepped toward the transporter stage. Kirk turned toward Scott, who waited patiently at the console.
“Are the inn’s coordinates locked in, Scotty?”
“Aye, Captain,” Scott replied crisply.
“Whoops!” McCoy said suddenly, glancing down at the pale hairy legs extending below the cuffs of his shorts.
“What’s wrong?” Kirk asked.
“Costume slipping. Unless I only stood night watches, these legs of mine are much too pale for a seafaring man.” McCoy stepped off the transporter stage and hurried out.
A few minutes later, he returned with his skin tinted a deep mahogany brown. “There. Shall we proceed?”
“Have you got the hypo for Gara?” Kirk asked.
“Right here, Jim,” McCoy replied, slapping his pouch. “It’s loaded with enough pirotoline to knock out a Rigellian mountain devil.”
“Good,” Kirk said. “When we locate him, and our little sex machine gets him turned on, our problems will be solved. Do you think you’ll be able to handle your end, Sara?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, her voice cool and professional. “The new filter stage in my implant is working perfectly. Enough of my dop is coming through so that I can imitate her actions—but with me firmly in control.”
“Good girl.” Kirk turned to Scott.
“All right,” he said to the engineer, “give us an hour. Spock wasn’t bluffing, I’m sure, when he said he rigged his tricorder to detect communicators, so we’ll be out of contact. We’ll have to work on blind coordinates from here on in. Keep the transporter locked onto the inn room and energize every fifteen minutes.”
“No problem, Captain,” Scott replied.
Kirk turned to face the other two. “That’s a fetching ensemble, Doctor, you must introduce me to your couturier,” he heard Sara say to McCoy.
“It’s what they’re wearing this season,” McCoy retorted.
“Are you two ready to beam down?” Kirk asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Jim,” McCoy replied unhappily. “I trust that what comes out down there bears some resemblance to what went in.” He glanced ruefully at his legs again. “Those knees may be knobby, but at least they’re mine.”
“With Scotty at the controls, you have nothing to worry about.”
“The last time he was at the controls, we ended up with duplicate Spocks,” McCoy said sourly.
See: SPOCK MUST DIE!, Bantam Books, 1970.
“This time,” Kirk said, as he stepped onto the transporter, “I’ll settle for just one. All right, Mr. Scott, energize.”
“Energizing, sir,” responded Scott. His thick fingers played over the controls, then gripped the phasing runners. The deep hum of power from the operating transporter filled the room, and the rising crackle of the carrier wave became more distinct.
The Enterprise began to fade from Kirk’s sight. He caught a glimpse of a darkened room with a single, glowing lamp. Then suddenly, the ship was back and solid around him.
“What’s the problem, Scotty?”
“Och! That damn radiation must be bollixing up the magnetic field of the planet and reflecting back the transporter beam.”
He worked the controls to compensate for the effects of the slowly increasing radiation front.
“Captain, if this interference keeps building up, an’ I ken it will, this transporter is nae going to be working at her best. None of them will.” He looked at his captain with a grim face. “I canna guarantee I’ll be able to bring you back.”
Kirk glanced at McCoy, and then George; she gave a slight shrug.
“We’ll try to be quick about it, Scotty,” Kirk said in a reassuring voice. “Energize, again.”
“Aye,” Scott said. He looked glum as he moved the phase controls a second time. The power hum resurged, and the Enterprise again faded from Kirk’s sight. It flickered once, then twice, then once more, before it finally disappeared.
Kirk watched as the darkened room solidified around him again. There was that seemingly interminable moment before it stabilized; then it did, and Kirk knew he was whole and could move. He stepped forward into the weak pool of light cast by a smelly lamp atop a smooth-surfaced table. The lamp held animal fat in an earthen cup with a lit wick floating in it. There were deep shadows in the corners of the room, and the ceiling was black as space itself.