STAR TREK

ICE TRAP

BY

L. A. CRAF

POCKET BOOKS

New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo

Singapore

This book is a work of fiction. Names,

characters, places and incidents are either

products of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or

locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental.

An Onginal Publication of POCKET BOOKS

of_

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon

& Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

Copyright 1992 by Paramount Pictures. All

Rights Reserved.

A

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of 0

Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a

division of Simon & Schuster Inc., under

exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

All rights reserved, including the right to

reproduce this book or portions thereof in any

form whatsoever. For information address

Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas,

New York, NY 10020

ISBN 0-671-78068-9

First Pocket Books printing July 1992

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

POCKET and colophon are registered

trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

To Julia, Karen Rose, and Melissa,

without whose inspiration and cooperation

this book would never have been possible

E

Chapter One

LEONARD MCCOY GLARED at the

transporter from which he, Kirk, and Spock had

just disembarked. The small of his back felt sticky

with nerve sweat, as it always did when he was

forced by circumstance to use a transporter

rather than a more conventional, safer method of

travel like his feet. He snaked an index finger

inside the pale green collar of his uniform and

tugged gently. If man were meant to fly . . . he

thought sourly. "I hate those damned things."

"I know you do, Bones." Jim Kirk paused beside

him, his voice tuned sympathetically and, to

McCoy's ears, a trifle resignedly to an old and

oft-aired complaint. "Just think of it as one of

those wonders of the modern space age."

The doctor snorted, glancing up at the tall

Vulcan beside his captain. "I consider Spock one

of the wonders of the blasted galaxy, but I don't

like him, either."

.L. A. Graf

"Thank you, Doctor," Spock replied. "I shall

take that as a compliment."

Kirk's hazel eyes danced with barely contained

humor. "As I'm sure he intended it."

McCoy snarled and let it ride. Shifting his

medikit from one hand to the other, he looked

around.

The transporter room aboard the Nordstral

Pharmaceuticals orbital station Curie was spare

and utilitarian. A flat-finished hue known back in

McCoy's school days as "institutional pond-scum

gray" colored the unadorned walls. McCoy

assumed the only door afforded access to the rest

of the station. Behind a glass-fronted area to the

right, a lone technician with the bright-hued logo

of Nordstral Pharmaceuticals splashed across the

front of his coveralls worked diligently at a

console, ignorant or uncaring of their presence.

McCoy couldn't decide which rankled him more.

`'You two didn't have to come with me, you

know. I'm a big boy I can handle a simple

medical consultation on my own. You have a

rescue team to lead."

"Spock doesn't," Kirk said, avoiding discussion

on McCoy's first comment. "This stop won't take

long, and I want to find out as much as possible

about this medical crisis Nordstral's having before

I go down to look for their lost shuttle. After all,

Nordstral Pharmaceuticals asked us to help with

both problems."

"And they may prove to be related," Spock

pointed out.

McCoy grunted reluctant agreement. "Wasn't

someone supposed to meet us?"

"That's what I was told." Kirk stepped off the

final riser, obviously bent on hailing the

preoccupied technician. At that moment the door

at the other end of the room slid open to admit a

short, dark-haired

2

ICE TRAP

woman of middle years. She hurried toward them,

her pale blue lab smock rustling faintly against her

trousers. Her eyes flicked over their rank insignia

and she extended her hand.

"Captain Kirk? I'm Maxine Kane, station

physician for Nordstral Pharmaceuticals. Welcome

aboard Curie. "

Kirk's hand met hers. "Thank you, Dr. Kane.

This is my first officer, Mr. Spock, and my chief

surgeon, Dr. Leonard McCoy."

"Mr. Spock." Kane nodded politely to the

Vulcan, then offered her hand to the doctor. "Dr.

McCoy."

Her handshake was firm, but her palm was

damp. She attempted a genuine smile at McCoy,

but it faltered at the edges. The skin around her

green eyes was pinched tight with fatigue and

worry, giving her face a harsh cast. McCoy would

have laid odds she was nursing a massive

headache. He smiled. "My pleasure, Dr. Kane."

As though unsure what to do with her hand

once McCoy released it, Kane shoved it into her

pocket. The pull of the smock's loose material

showed the fingers curled into a fist.

"I apologise for not being here when you

arrived. Things have been . . . hectic lately.

Between the shuttle crash and the problems in my

own division, I'm usually needed in about fifteen

places at once." She chuckled, a decidedly sad

sound, and ran a hand through her gray-shot hair.

"Too bad our cloning facilities only work for the

local plankton."

Spock cleared his throat. McCoy rolled his eyes;

he could guess what was coming.

"Unless I am mistaken, Dr. Kane, 'plankton' is

not a technically correct term for Nordstral's

indigenous marine protists. Plankton, such as

found on Earth, are 3

L. A. Graf

photosynthetic, using sunlight to convert carbon

dioxide and water into carbohydrates and oxygen.

Nordstral's marine biota, however, use energy

from the planet's strong magnetic field to perform

the same function."

"I really wouldn't know about that, Mr. Spock,"

Kane said with a sigh that McCoy thought

sounded suspiciously like his own. "I'm a medical

doctor all I know is that Earth plankton and

Nordstral biota both float around in the oceans

and churn out the planet's oxygen. That's enough

for me."

"But since these plankton" McCoy threw a

defiant scowl in Spock's direction "are the main

reason Nordstral Pharmaceuticals is here, it seems

to me they can call them whatever they want."

Spock lifted an eyebrow. "The company did not

invent the biota, Doctor."

"Yes. Well." Kane stared at the floor when they

all turned back to her, then looked up with a

faintly embarrassed grin. "I'm sorry Dr. Stehle

isn't here to discuss this with you, Mr. Spock.

Vernon. .." She paused. Emotion washed her

features, changing them like the permutations of

warm wax. "Vernon Stehle headed the planetary

research team that vanished. He's the one who

could have explained the plankton's

pharmaceutical uses I just do first aid." She

breathed deeply and expelled it in a huge, gusting

sigh. "Why don't I take you someplace more

comfortable to talk?" She left the room without

waiting for a reply, trailing the Enterprise officers

behind her.

Kirk caught McCoy's eye as they followed Dr.

Kane down a well-lit corridor. Eyebrows sought

hairline as he mouthed, What do you think?

McCoy shook his head and shrugged

fractionally, his eyes reading the slump of Kane's

shoulders. She 4

ICE TRAP

was an obvious victim of stress, fatigue, and, if her

comments were any indication, overwork.

She led them to a small laboratory. McCoy

couldn't help but think that only a scientist would

find a lab a "comfortable" place to hold a serious

conversation. Places and names might change, but

labs had a tendency to remain the same, world to

world.

She motioned for them to sit at one of the

tables. "Can I get you anything?" When they

refused, Kane ordered an enormous cup of coffee

and two aspirin from the servitor in the corner

before sitting across from Spock. She popped the

aspirin, knocked back a mouthful of the steaming

black beverage, and sighed. "It may be ersatz

coffee, but at least the caffeine's real." She toyed

with the cup, running a finger around and around

the damp rim. "Sometimes I think it's the only

thing keeping me functioning."

"Perhaps sleep would help," Spock suggested

diplomatically.

A corner of her mouth quirked with a sad little

twitch. "It's a precious commodity around here

right now. I don't know of anyone who's had a

whole lot of it lately. Too much has been

happening."

"Why don't you start wherever's easiest?" Kirk

said.

"Nowhere's easiest." Kane slumped back, fingers

clasping the coffee cup. "Suffice it to say that

several weeks ago some of our staff began acting

erratic. We've learned over time that a certain

amount of odd behavior is normal in the people

on longterm company assignments, particularly

when the planet is as nasty as Nordstral. But this

was like nothing we've ever documented. We

currently have over a dozen personnel in

residence at the medical canter."

L. A. Graf

McCoy pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "What

kind of behaviorare we talking about, Doctor?"

Kane held up one hand and ticked down the

fingers as she talked. "Paranoia. Hallucinations.

Hysteria. Violent mood swings. Suicidal ideation."

She snorted. "You name it, we've had it." Her

fingers twisted, lacing together like mating spiders.

"And then it got weirder."

Spock tilted his head. "Could you be more spe-

cific?"

She put aside her cup and stood. "Come with

me and I'll show you."

Kane tapped a short identification code into a

recessed panel beside a high-security door. A tone

sounded, and the indicator light flashed from gold

to blue. She pressed another button and the door

silently slid apart down the middle.

"Home, sweet home," she said, ushering t hem

before her. "This is the psychiatric section of our

complex." She made certain the door was secured,

then preceded the three men down the hall.

A young mea-crew staffer sat behind a station,

back bent over her work. She looked up at the

sound of footsteps and smiled in greeting,

obviously glad for the opportunity to take a break.

Kane returned the young woman's smile. "This

is the help Starfleet promised us." She indicated

the men beside her with a short sweep of her

hand. "They're finally here."

"Thank God," the medtech commented without

rancor. She rubbed her eyes and stifled an

enormous yawn. "These late hours are killing me."

"How's the gang tonight?" Kane asked.

The medtech rested her chin in one hand. "I

6

ICE TRAP

checked them an hour ago and they were quiet

watching vid and playing cards."

"Well, that's promising, at least." Kane snagged

a chart from the rack beside the work station and

tucked it under her arm.

"Be forewarned, though," the medtech added in

a lower tone. "Mr. Personality is looking for you."

Kane's expression of bitterness and utter

contempt startled McCoy. "What did the. . . what

did he want?" she amended, her eyes shifting only

slightly toward her guests.

"He didn't say." The tech splayed one hand

across her chest. "I'm just a lowly peon,

remember?"

"Right." Kane sighed with such irritation that

McCoy, beside her, felt her whole body shudder.

"Well, let's hope he's given up and gone to bed.

Gentlemen, if you'll follow me?" She started down

the hall.

"'Mr. Personality'?" Kirk queried when they

were out of the medtech's earshot.

Kane's lip curled. "Nicholai Steno, Nordstral's

station manager. If you haven't met him, you're in

for a singular treat. He makes you hope the old

adage of everyone having a twin somewhere in the

universe isn't true." She stopped beside a door

and keyed in another code. The smile she flashed

over her shoulder momentarily eased the tension

around her eyes. "Come on in and meet the gang."

The community recreation room was similar to

many McCoy had seen in his long tenure as a

doctor. Colorful and well-lit, the walls were

decorated with what appeared to be native

handicrafts. Better than a dozen people dressed in

generic spacers' civvies were in attendance. Some

read from viewers in secluded carrels, while others

sprawled in comfortable-looking 7

L. A. Graf

chairs and watched an old movie on a

wall-mounted via. A card game was under way at

a table in the center of the room.

"Hey, Dr. Kanet" A stocky, dark-haired man in-

volved in the card game greeted her with a wide

grin. "Care to try your luck?"

She toggled a finger at him. "Not tonight,

Bracken." She rested a hand on another patient's

shoulder. Her genuine affection for these men and

women was obvious. "How's everyone feeling?"

From around the room came responses in the

affirmative.

"Are you doctors, too?"

McCoy looked down at the gentle-eyed man at

his elbow. At Kane's nod of encouragement, the

ship's doctor smiled. "Well, I am, at least. This is

Captain James Kirk and First Officer Spock."

"Are you here to help us?" A slight woman,

curled in a chair, had spoken up. Her hands

tussled nervously in her lap. "We'd all like to

know what happened. Why we went so crazy."

"You're not crazy," Kane stressed in the uncom-

fortable silence that followed the woman's remark.

"You have to believe that."

"Then what happened to us?" someone else asked.

Kane appeared stymied. Before McCoy could

frame a reply to the patients' fears that wouldn't

sound condescending, Kirk jumped in.

"We don't know yet. But we'll do everything in

our power to discover what happened." Kirk's

voice fairly rang with assurance. He stood in the

center of the room and, one by one, caught each

person there with his eyes and drew them in.

With pride in his friend and something

bordering on amazement, McCoy saw every set of

shoulders in the room relax. Even among people

other than his 8

ICE TRAP

crew people with no idea who he was or what

he'd accomplished in his lifetime, people who had

no reason whatsoever to believe in him Kirk won

instant trust. If he said it was so, then it would be

so, or he'd die trying to make it that way.

Somehow McCoy knew these patients had picked

up on that and would believe in Kirk when they'd

lost the ability to believe in themselves. McCoy

shook his head in gentle wonder, supremely glad

for his friend's presence.

Dr. Kane cleared her throat, obviously moved

by what had just occurred. "We've got work to do,

so we'll say good-night." She glanced at the

chronometer on the wall. "Lights out at ten," she

reminded them, and headed out the door.

Down the corridor and two turns later, they fol-

lowed Kane into her spacious, pleasantly

appointed inner sanctum. She urged them to pull

up chairs around her desk, then leaned between

them to key into the computer system. "Watch the

main screen on the far wall."

The screen flared to life. It was obvious they

were watching from the viewpoint of a wall

camera situated somewhere to the side and above

the subject. McCoy immediately recognized the

slender man who'd first spoken to him. The man

sat cross-legged, arms outstretched, fingers

crooked and plucking the air.

"He's playing a harp," Kane murmured by way

of explanation when Kirk made a

confused-sounding noise. "Or thinks he is, rather.

Said he was Rory Dall Morison. The computer

identified the name as belonging to a Highland

harper who died on Earth in 1713."

The view changed to the woman who'd asked

whether the Enterprise crew were going to help

them. A man sat to her right, watching her

intently. She

9

L. A. Graf

chattered animatedly, aiming most of the

conversation to the empty area on her left. She

was so frenetic, Kane keyed down the volume.

"That's Risa. She started talking to saints." She

shrugged when McCoy glanced sharply at her.

"This particular discussion took place between her

and Saints John Bosco, Raymund Nonnatus, and

Dympua."

"Who's the man with her?" Kirk asked.

"Captain of the John Lilly, where Risa was

stationed. When she demanded to see a priest, he

filled the bill until they could get her topside."

"What kind of ship is the John Lilly?" Spock

inquired. "One of your orbital Beet?"

Kane shook her head. "Oh, no. It's one of the

submarine plankton harvesters that work under

the ice sheets on Nordstral. The other two are the

Cousteau and the Soroya."

"Were all of these occurrences on the John

Lilly?" Kirk asked, not taking his eyes off the

screen.

"No." Another scene change, this one so abrupt

and startling that McCoy lurched in his seat as a

close-up of Bracken's face filled the screen. He

paced the confines of a tiny room with lurching

strides, arms swinging spastically and colliding

with the walls. Abruptly, Bracken lifted his shirt

and distended his stomach as far as he could. "I

call this my monument to an unsung hero!"

"Bracken was stationed on the harvester Soroya,

and had never met either Risa or Davis. In fact,

almost none of the affected staff had any contact

with each other."

The scene shifted again. Another room, with all

the appearance of having been hastily padded. A

woman stood in one corner, face to the wall. She

turned abruptly and staggered to the center of the

room, legs 10

ICE TRAP

trembling. She straightened as much as she could

without losing her balance, and lifted her hands

toward the ceiling. She'd scored her arms with her

fingernails, and blood streaked her flesh like gory

comets' tails. Head thrown back, eyes clenched

like fists, she began to shriek.

"That's Baker." The sorrow in Kane's voice

made McCoy look up. "We didn't get to her in

time." Kane's hand slapped down, cutting off the

video and consigning the room to darkness. "She

suicided in a very ugly manner shortly after what

you just saw. Incidentally, fifteen minutes before

this was recorded, she'd been given the highest

dose of Valazine considered safe."

The lights abruptly came up and McCoy blinked

painfully in the sudden brightness. "That's impossi-

ble!"

"You're so right," Kane agreed. "She should

have been flat on her back and snoring. I've been

over it a million times and it beats me all to hell."

She shoved the chart into his hand. "So you figure

it out."

Kirk stared at the empty screen, lips pursed,

while Spock steepled his fingers in thought.

"Those people. .." The captain waved a hand

vaguely toward the distant rec room. "They seem

sane and lucid . . ."

"Very sane and very lucid, Captain. There's not

one who's crazy."

"The drug protocol worked, then?" McCoy

flipped through the chart. "What did you use?"

"That's the whole point, Dr. McCoy. Beyond the

use of drugs to calm them enough to get them to

our sickbay, there hasn't been any drug protocol

because there hasn't been any need for one." She

waved a hand toward the silent screen, her voice

tight. "The patients

11

L. A. Graf

seem to be healing themselves without the benefit

of psychotropic drugs and, so far as we've been

able to determine, without any lasting deleterious

effects."

Spock looked at her. "Mental illness does not

usually cure itself."

"Oh, you're correct, Mr. Spock. But this illness

does, whatever it is, and we have absolutely no

idea how it's happening. And believe me when I

say we've tried every angle we can think of."

McCoy flipped through the chart, eyes racing

over the lines of small, tight print. "These are all

the personnel who have been affected?"

"So far." She didn't sound hopeful that it would

stop with these hapless few.

"Did any of these people have anything to do

with the shuttle explosion that stranded Dr. Stehle

and his team?" Kirk asked.

Kane's short, bitter laugh seemed out of place

with her dismissive wave. "No. That was just a

common Nordstral accident. We've been losing

equipment to the planet since the day we set up

shop here."

"Given that Nordstral's magnetic field is many

times stronger than normally found on a class-M

planet," Spock remarked, "such losses are not

surprising."

Kirk frowned, drumming his fingers on the table.

"The Enterprise was told you lost that shuttle

because of sabotage. Are you telling me Nordstral

Pharmaceuticals lied to Starfleet about what's

going on?"

Kane sighed. "According to our station manager,

sabotage is always a possibility. He says other

pharmaceutical companies would love to get their

hands on our concession with the native Kitka."

She waved a hand at the screen. "But I don't see

how it could be related to these mental problems."

12

ICE TRAP

"Are there other records we could see?" McCoy

interjected. "I'd like to check their personnel

records, to see if there's some medical risk factor

they all shared."

Kane shrugged. "Certainly." She leaned across

her desk to swing the computer console toward

McCoy. "Be my guest. I don't mean to sound

short, but I've run out of ideas."

"That's what we're here for," Kirk assured her as

McCoy began to work. "Sometimes all a problem

needs is a new set of eyes."

"I hope you're right."

McCoy accessed the personnel files and sent the

computer searching for corollaries between the

sick crewmen. Anything had to be considered

because nothing seemed likely. Despite hope that

he might find a common home planet or

education or-a genetic link like eye or hair color,

there was only one match he felt had any

credence.

"Did you know that all your sick personnel came

off surface installations and harvesters? None of

them is from your orbital fleet or from this

station."

She leaned over McCoy's shoulder and followed

his finger as he traced the corollary. "My God . .

. you're right!"

"So whatever's happening is confined to the

planet's surface." Kirk turned to Kane. "We'll need

to investigate this at the source. Can my people go

down to visit one of the company's permanent

installations?"

"That won't be easy. Our contract with the

native Kitka limits us to only a few employees at

our harvester docks. We might be able to find you

space to stay on a harvester, but they're hard to

reach by radio. It's those damned magnetic

storms." She reached

13

L. A. Graf

across to blank the computer screen and bring up

further information. "You're in luck, though the

Soroya's due for a brief stopover at Byrd Station

midday tomorrow. I can call ahead to have

Captain Mandeville expect you."

"That would be fine," Kirk agreed.

"Jim . . ."

Kane sighed. "Is there anything else you need

me to arrange?"

"Jim . . ."

Kirk cocked his head thoughtfully. "You could

transfer Dr. Stehle's plankton research files to the

Enterprise for Mr. Spock to analyse. It might turn

out to be useful."

"Jim "

"After all, I What is it, Bones?"

McCoy's stomach felt awash with bile. "I hope

I heard wrong, but when you said 'your people'

would go down to the planet surface, you didn't

include me, did you?"

Kirk looked confused. "Of course I did. You

have to examine the workers down there for

evidence of illness."

"I don't like water, Jim."

Kirk blinked and stared at his friend. "It's not

water, Bones, it's ice."

"Under that ice is a lot of water, and I don't like

water unless it's surrounded by a glass and mixed

with Kentucky bourbon."

A chime sounded, cutting them off, and Kane

looked up in irritation. "Come."

McCoy heard her heavy sigh when the door

opened to admit a tall, angular gentleman with

blond hair. "Dr. Kane." His voice was heavily

accented Swiss, or Swedish, or something like

that, McCoy couldn't be 14

ICE TRAP

sure. "You're a hard woman to track down. I'd

like some infor "

"Mr. Steno," Kane coolly cut him off. "May I

present Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, and Dr. McCoy

of the Federation starship Enterprise? Gentlemen,

this is Nicholai Steno, Curie station manager for

Nordstral Pharmaceuticals." There was no

mistaking the undertone in her voice.

Steno either hadn't picked up on her dislike or

didn't care. He came into the room as though he

owned it which, McCoy mused, he technically

did. "So, Captain. Report to me."

"I beg your pardon?" Kirk asked with far more

politeness than was deserved.

"Report, report! Tell me what you've found."

Kirk's gentle hand squeezing McCoy's shoulder

stilled the doctor's tongue. "Nothing as yet, Mr.

Steno. We've only just arrived."

"Don't waste my time, gentlemen. I hate when

my time and money are wasted. Dr. Kane's been

virtually worthless coming up with a solution to

our difficulties. I was told the Federation could do

better. Now I'm not so certain."

"We will do our best." Kirk's voice, low and

calm, displayed the best of the diplomacy and tact

drummed into him at the Academy, when, McCoy

suspected, he'd really like to drive Steno's teeth

down his lanky throat.

"I certainly hope so," the station manager

sniffed. "We're planning to get an early start down

to the planet's surface tomorrow to hunt for Dr.

Stehle and his team. I don't want to be kept

waiting."

"You don't . . .?"

"I'm heading the rescue team, Captain. You

didn't think I'd leave it in the hands of amateurs,

did you?" 15

L. A. Graf

"Captain Kirk and our security force can hardly

be considered amateurs," Spock commented.

Steno snorted. "They're amateurs on Nordstral.

This is a dangerous planet and with the magnetic

storms we've been having lately, you can't just

beam offit when you get yourself in trouble." He

glanced at Kirk. "Fortunately, my people will be

along to keep you and your rescue team from

doing anything stupid."

-Kirk's body practically thrummed with

irritation. Caught between his captain and Dr.

Kane, McCoy felt like a tuning fork. "I'm sure my

rescue team will appreciate that, Mr. Steno," Kirk

said tightly. "But I'm afraid I'll have to miss out

on the expedition."

Steno struck a pose apparently meant to convey

righteous indignation. "But I thought you came all

this way to find our missing shuttle crew. Are you

going to look for them from orbit?"

"No." Kirk glanced over at Kane. "Judging from

what I've just seen, your missing shuttle crew is

the least of your problems on Nordstral. I've

decided to send Lieutenant Chekov with the

Enterprise search and rescue party, while I

investigate what's causing the mental instabilities

on the planet."

"I see." Steno sniffed. "And just who is this Lieu-

tenant Chekov? Your second-in-command?"

"No." Kirk sounded amused. "He's chief of

security aboard the Enterprise. My

second-in-command is standing right next to you."

Steno scowled at the silent Vulcan, thin mouth

pulled into a frown of displeasure. "For goodness

sake, Captain. If you refuse to see to your own

duties, I at least expect your second-in-command

to take over for you."

"In case you haven't noticed," Kirk stated in tones

16

ICE TRAP

so clipped McCoy expected them to draw blood,

"Mr. Spock is a Vulcan. If we send him down to a

glacial planet like Nordstral, he'll freeze."

"Is that true?" When Spock nodded, Steno rolled

his eyes with a subvocalsigh. "Isn't that just like

Starfleet? They always find a reason to do exactly

what they want."

Kirk favored the businessman with a smooth, if

chilly, smile. "Then it's good for both of us that

Starfleet wants to help Nordstral Pharmaceuticals.

I think you'll find Lieutenant Chekov's very good

at what he does. He'll find your missing research

team."

Steno huffed. "He will if he has the sense to stay

out of my way and do what I tell him. And I'll

expect timely reports from you as well, Captain.

You can be sure I'll report your change of

plans and obvious lack of desire to cooperate

with Nordstral management to Starfleet."

Without saying goodbye, Steno left the room.

"I hate that man," Kane rasped angrily.

"I can't say I blame you," Kirk replied. He

looked down at McCoy's snort of laughter. "What

is it, Bones?"

The doctor's blue eyes danced. "So, Chekov's

leading the shuttle rescue team now, eh? Does he

know this?"

"He will shortly," Spock replied. "In fact, I will

deliver the message personally upon my return to

the ship."

McCoy chuckled. "Spock, you get to have all the

fun."

Kirk shared his friend's smile. "Not all the fun,

Bones. We get to beam up with him, long enough

to pack and catch the shuttle down to Nordstral."

"Some fun." McCoy tried to hide the wash of fear 17

L. A. Graf

that flashed through him, suspecting he wasn't

too successful. "First I get to have my particles

spread all over the known galaxy, then I get to

drown under billions of metric tons of water."

"Would you rather not come planetside?"

McCoy looked away when concern flicked

over Kirk's features, knowing he'd do it if only

because Kirk wanted him to. "No, I'll come. But

I promise to hate it."

18

Chapter Two

'SCHIEF? I THINK we've got company."

Pavel Chekov glanced up from his work station,

quelling a twinge of irritation at having his hurried

landing party preparations interrupted for what

felt like the hundredth time that evening. Ensign

Michael Howard, y oung and bearded, hung

through the office doorway with his hands on

either lintel, looking apologetic for barging in with

a message after the chief specifically ordered he

be left alone. "I can ask her to wait out here, sir,

if you don't want her brought to your office."

Chekov leaned back in his seat without setting

aside his note-taking stylus. Even so small a

gesture of abandoning his work bothered him, and

he was determined to finish these arrangements

before morning, despite having to plan on such

short notice. "Tell whoever it is to talk with

Ensign Lemieux." He flicked eyes to the

chronometer on his desk even though he

19

L. A. Graf

already knew the time, then caught himself

kneading the back of his neck more from

frustration than because it actually helped

anything. "I haven't got time to see anyone before

we go planetside tomorrow, and Lemieux will be

in charge while I'm away."

"Uh . . ." Howard tossed an uncertain glance

over one shoulder, and Chekov heard voices

approaching from the outer room. "This is kind of

a 'now' thing, sir," Howard said. "I don't think she

wants to see Lemieux."

"You keep trying to have these boys stall me,

Lieutenant Chekov, and I'll just pull rank and

force them to let me come through."

Chekov smiled tiredly at Lieutenant

Commander Jhura as she leaned through the

doorway beneath Howard's arm. Her black eyes,

as bright as the silver disks on her earrings and

necklace, matched her brilliant smile and playful

tone.

"You could try," the security chief allowed, "but

it wouldn't do you any good. I've a loyal

crew they'd never disobey my orders." He threw

a mockthreatening glare at Howard and Publicker,

now behind Howard's shoulder in the doorway.

"Would they?"

Both guards fidgeted abruptly, drawing

themselves a little straighter, their hands coming

down to their sides. "Oh, no, sir." "Of course not,

sir." The red on Howard's cheeks stood out nicely

above his dark brown beard.

Chekov shrugged. "See? They would die for me."

Uhura's musical laughter lifted his spirits, just as

it had from the moment he'd first met her.

Chekov didn't think he'd ever known anyone so

truly pleasant. Suddenly willing to be interrupted

at least for the moment, he tossed his stylus to the

desktop and

0

ICE TRAP

pushed back his chair. "So what brings you down

to security? I'd think you'd be seeing enough of us

tomorrow."

"Well, that might be." Hands behind her back,

Uhura slipped past Howard with the delicate grace

only available to the very small. "But there's one

of you I haven't seen quite enough of lately." She

brought her hands forward to reveal a small tray,

packed with ice and bits of what looked to Chekov

like uncooked cat food. "You weren't in the rec

hall for dinner tonight."

Chekov leaned over his desk to peer at the

bundles of greyish mess, wrinkling his nose at the

distinct odor of raw seafood. "If this is what they

served, I'm glad I wasn't there."

Uhura reached out to swat him atop the head.

"You haven't even tried it yet."

"That's all right I don't intend to."

"Pavel!" She slid the tray onto his desk, pushing

aside what papers and diskettes he didn't snatch

out of her way. "I'll have you know this is

authentic native cuisine. The Nordstral natives

survive almost entirely on a diet of seafood, and I

went to a lot of effort to dig up these ingredients."

She plucked a small sample from among the bed

of ice and offered it to him between two slim

fingers. "Try it."

Chekov looked at the tidbit, looked at her, and

slowly shook his head. "It's raw."

Uhura sighed dramatically the same sigh she

used every time Chekov refused the various native

foods she felt the need to foist upon him and

popped a piece into her mouth as though to prove

it was edible. Chekov assumed she'd someday

believe him when he told her he wasn't interested

in being experimental about what he ate. So far, it

was eight years and 21

L. A. Graf

counting. "Be brave," she persisted when she'd fin-

ished chewing. "They don't have sophisticated

cooking facilities the Kitka live in an arctic

environment."

Chekov rotated his chair to face his terminal

again, feeling about for his stylus. "So do the

Siberians, but we don't eat raw fish."

"No," Uhura snorted. "You eat forty versions of

baked and boiled cabbage."

"What's wrong with cabbage?" He made a note

to bring additional food rations for himself and his

squad. Let Uhura eat the native fish if she wanted

to.

Puming her lips in wry annoyance, Uhura turned

to offer the morsel to Howard. "Come on, Ensign

Howard."

The guard glanced up from the slim reader

screen he'd been scanning, his face a study in

apprehension. "Sir?"

"Prove yourself a better man than your boss."

The ensign's eyebrows shot up nearly to his

hairline and he slipped the reader back into his

pocket. "That's all right, sir. It's his job to be the

better man."

Chekov kept his eyes fixed on the notes in front

of him, trying to recapture his train of thought

while he counted supplies and played with mental

images of the arctic terrain they would scour for

Dr. Stehle and the missing shuttle crew. "Go

ahead, Mr. Howard. You and Mr. Publicker

assured me you'd be willing to die for me." He

flicked both ensigns a crooked smile. "Now's your

chance."

Uhura scowled playfully at the lieutenant while

handing both Howard and Publicker a small

sample. "You must be in a bad mood because you

haven't eaten."

The computer inserted a flag into Chekov's list 22

ICE TRAP

additional power packs for the them units couldn't

be expected to maintain their effe ctiveness due to

Nordstral's strong magnetic fields; shielded packs

within the units should be fine. "I 'm not in a bad

mood." Scratching a quick delete through the

packs, he tallied the mass allotments again for

what they could leave behind in favor of add

itional thermals. The only things in the running

rere the smaller communications equipment and

lanterns.

"You're just overworked and orrtired." Uhura

moved up behind him to rest he r hands on his

shoulders. He could feel her attenlion shift to the

terminal screen, scanning his collection of lists and

scribbled notes. "Other officers sledp before planet

landings, you know. I'd think you'' appreciate

the need for alert security personnel."

"I do." The accusation still stung enough to burn

his cheeks, though. He was only wi]ling to cut

their lanterns by a third; not enough to ad d an

appreciable number of thermals. "Other officers

also have longer than twelve hours to prepare. If

Mr. Spock had told me sooner that the captain

had a ssigned me this rescue mission, I'd have had

all this done by now."

Her hands tightened briefly on hi' shoulders.

"He didn't have a lot of choice. That's w thy they

call it a Priority One emergency."

Chekov sighed. "I know." is if knowing

Nordstral's desperate situation sttould somehow

make him feel better about outfitting a landing

party at the next to the last minute. He hated

planning planetary rescue parties, especially

wlen he had every reason to believe the

rescuees were a Iready dead. He could think of

few things worse than stumbling across the

pitiful remains of people who die d believing help

would come to save them. "Do you think the 23

L. A. Graf

Nordstral shuttle pilot will complain if I make him

strip the interior?"

"I suspect so. Call it a hunch." Uhura leaned

forward to frown over his shoulder at the screen.

"Did you remember to include my special suit

translators? I want to be sure I can talk to the

Kitka, and I can't read your handwriting well

enough to tell if you've got them."

He didn't have the heart to tell her that was

probably because he tended to note-take in a

random mixture of Cyrillic and English. Keying

the terminal to translate his notes into text, he

switched screens so she could see the more

readable version, pointing to the notation for

sixteen grams worth of translators for the

insulation suits.

Uhura nodded her satisfaction, then reached out

to tap one entry with a fingernail. "Why all the

lanterns?"

"It's winter in the northern territory that

means it's probably dark there, as well." It always

was in Siberia. He remembered visiting his uncle

during school break as a boy, getting up in the

dark running about all day in the dark, going to

bed in the dark. It stayed like that for six months,

his uncle told him, with six months of unbroken,

watery daylight to follow. Chekov hated the

thought of hiking Nordstral's ice sheets in

perpetual night, especially with no allowance for

lost or broken or malfunctioning lanterns.

"Oh, no, Chief, we've got normal night and day."

Howard, Chekov noticed, took the opportunity to

spit his raw fish into a napkin under the pretence

of talking more clearly. "It says here" he fished

out the reader again, waving it in one hand "that

Nordstral

24

ICE TRAP

doesn't have an axial tilt. That means no seasons,

and no arctic night."

"Just one big, long ice age," Publicker added.

He was still close to the door, his own reader now

open, and no sign of Uhura's fish sample about

him. Chekov wondered if he'd actually eaten it, or

if he'd managed to otherwise dispose of it without

Uhura seeing. He had to give both men points for

being sneaky, that was for certain. "The Kitka are

apparently the only sentient species known to

have developed in an environment like this. It

says here their biology is so tied to Nordstral's

unique ecology, they can't even go offplanet for

more than a few hours at a ti me. Nobody's sure

why yet."

"Now you see why I keep them around," Chekov

told Uhura as he recalculated the number of

lanterns and replaced their mass with thermal

units. "They're a font of random information."

Howard quirked a little smile, stuffing his

waddedup napkin in the disposal chute. "It's the

random part that makes it easy."

"Is that why you're keeping these boys up late

with you?" Uhura leaned to one side and helped

herself to another piece of fish. "To be random

fonts?"

"No." He still had nearly five kilos of

allotment too much for additional food, too

little for another thermal. "They stay because they

love me." He ordered an emergency medikit for

each of the security officers, two more insulation

suit repair sets, and one solar-powered

winch just in case.

"The chief has us doing research." Howard dis-

played the reader screen for Uhura, holding it so

she could read the title beneath the shimmering

Nordstral Pharmaceuticals logo NORDSTRAL

A PLANETARY STUDY. 25

L A. Graf

"We usually do this, just to make sure everybody

knows at least a little about what we're going

into." He shrugged and lowered the reader,

thumbing through the screens. "It ends up that we

all remember different things, which means the

group of us together usually remembers just about

everything. That works pretty well."

Uhura crossed the office to inspect the screen

more closely over Howard's right arm. "Can't you

just take the readers with you? That's what I'm

doing with most of my native liaison

tapes there's no way I'm going to remember it

all."

"It's not worth it," Publicker explained with a

shrug. "You need the knowledge most when you're

in the middle of a crisis, and then it's kind of hard

to stop and take time to look things up."

"True.'"

Drumming his fingers on the terminal, Chekov

let Uhura force another serving of uncooked

seafood on his ensigns while he called up stat files

on the security landing force. He'd requisitioned

insulation suits and body slips for five immediately

after hearing from Kirk the computer verified

only three suits and four slips. He could match up

his and Publicker's, but the last suit wasn't

anywhere near big enough for Howard, and the

size listed for his third security ensign, Tenzing,

came as close as it could to fitting her without

actually matching.

Catching Uhura's attention, he pointed her

toward the listing. "Is this your suit size?"

She pushed the food tray aside and perched on

the edge of his desk, twisting a little to look at the

screen. "Oh." Her voice sounded distinctly

disappointed. "Do we have to use the insulation

suits?"

Chekov twisted a look back at her, a little

surprised

26

ICE TRAP

by her reaction. "If you don't want to freeze to

death we have to."

"I mean can't we use parkas?" She rushed ahead

over his impatient sigh. "Arctic peoples have worn

parkas for centuries."

"Insulation suits are lighter than parkas,"

Chekov pointed out. "More flexible, more

efficient. Why would you want to wear a

six-kilogram bundle of synthetic fur when you

have the option of something more comfortable?"

The intercom in the front office shrilled, and

Uhura jumped with a startled gasp. By the time

Chekov had waved Publicker out to take the

message, she'd slid off the desk to clean up her

half-eaten dinner offering, blushing lightly.

"Besides," he went on, "parkas are too massive.

We don't have room for them."

"That's all right. I was just curious." She smiled

her stunning smile and nodded toward the screen.

"Yes, I'm a size five."

That meant Tenzing and Howard still needed

full suits. Publicker turtled his head around the

doorway while Chekov was typing in the new

requisitions. "Lieutenant Chekov? That was

Commander Scott, sir. He'd like to see you in

engineering about the phaser modifications, if you

have time."

He didn't, but he needed the phasers too badly

to refuse. His mind darting ahead to the next few

hours' work, Chekov committed his lists and

powered down the terminal.

"Phaser modifications?" Uhura asked as Chekov

got to his feet and kicked his chair beneath the

desk.

He slipped past her, wishing she'd thought to

bring some more conventional fare for dinner, his

stomach now twinging with remembered hunger.

Maybe he 27

L. A. Graf

could grab something portable on his way to

engineering. "Nordstral's strong magnetic field

could interfere with our power supplies and

incapacitate our phasers." He handed the disk

with both requisitions to Howard and nodded him

out the door. "Get these from the quartermaster.

Burglarize supply, if you have to, but don't come

back without them."

"Yes', sir."

He continued his explanation to Uhura as

Howard ducked out the of lice door. "Mr. Scott is

trying to find a way to make our phasers at least

minimally operable." Retrieving his duty jacket

from the back of his chair, he shook his head and

shouldered into it. "It's not proving easy."

Uhura stacked the last of the napkins atop her

tray, apparently not caring that the ice would ruin

them. "Can't you just go without them?"

Chekov paused in latching closed his uniform.

With all the things he could possibly say to

placate her, he decided on a simple "No."

Uhura stopped her own cleaning to stare up at

him in surprise. "Chekov, we're talking about a

primitive village, the closest thing Nordstral has

left to an aboriginal tribe. We don't need phasers

to feel safe among them. What is it you expect

them to do?"

"We're talking," he answered very carefully,

"about a tribe who may very well be responsible

for the disappearance of an entire team of

researchers."

"You don't know that."

He fought hard against an impulse to stubbornly

cross his arms. "Uhura, they were probably the

last to see those scientists alive the shuttle

landed within walking distance of one of their

villages. In any murder investigation, that has to

make them the first suspects."

28

ICE TRAP

She let her food tray clap to the desktop with a

ring of tinny thunder. "We don't know that anyone

has been murdered."

"But we do know that one of Nordstral's two

shuttles detonated while making a planetary

survey. We know that in their last communication

the survivors from that shuttle said that they'd

arranged to meet a Kitka hunting party within the

hour. We know that every last one of the survivors

is now missing, and the Kitka are denying any

knowledge of the accident. If nothing else, we

know that communications with the Enterprise will

be severely limited that communications

between landing parties will be impossible

altogether. With the magnetic storms making it

impossible to use our transporter, that means I

can't even expect a quick pull-out if things turn

ugly. No." He strode past her for the door, all his

tiredness, frustration, and worry twisting together

to feed a headache he'd been hoping not to have

to nurse. "I will not go into a situation like that

with absolutely nothing to use as protection."

"Paver . . ."

He stopped, poised in the open doorway. The

silent industry with which Publicker sat at his

table, reading, assured Chekov the ensign had

heard everything just fine, and was officially

prepared to claim otherwise.

"You really don't like this," Uhura said gently

from behind him, "do you?"

Chekov tightened one hand on the edge of the

door. "I don't like retrieving dead bodies, no."

She stepped up beside him, close enough that

she could tip her head and see his face while still

talking softly enough to not be overhead. "We may

not even find anything, you know." Her hand on

his arm urged

29

L. A. Graf

him to turn and face her. He acquiesced after only a

little pulling, stepping around to let the door hiss shut

behind him as she slid her hand down to slip it into

his. "Not even why that shuttle went down, much less

the crash site itself."

He nodded unhappily. "I know." Not that the

prospect of never locating a crash site or bodies made

him feel any better about the assignment; there could

be few things worse than leaving a family without even

anything to bury.

He shifted his gaze back to her face, not wanting to

leave her on such a harsh note after she'd gone to the

effort to look in on him. "You know I hope that

nothing happens while we're planetside," he said,

wanting her to believe that, and understand it as well.

"I hope the phasers never matter. But I have to be so

careful."

"Of course you do." She smiled gently and patted

him on the cheek. "That's your job." Then, leaning

around him, she keyed open the door and let go of his

hand. "Go talk about your phasers. I promise to

stay

out of your hair until tomorrow."

He smiled down at her wryly. "And then you'll be in

my hair for the entire mission. I know you." Her

laughter relieved at least one small knot of worry; he

couldn't stand the thought of her thinking badly of

him, even if only for the duration of one mission.

"Thank you for coming by tonight. I do appreciate the

food."

"Even though you didn't eat it."

"Even though I didn't eat it," he acknowledged,

nodding despite his embarrassment. "I promise when

we get back, I'll treat you to dinner." He hooked a

thumb at the abandoned tray. "I'll even make sure they

cook the food."

30

ICE TRAP

Laughing, Uhura planted both hands on his

chest and shoved him out the door. "All right,

Lieutenant. It's a date."

McCoy stared out the narrow shuttle window be-

side his chair and made no attempt to hide his

disgust. Beyond the thick, protective material,

Nordstral's icy landscape stretche d to the horizon.

It set his teeth on edge. Even after decades

aboard a starship, McCoy was still too much a

southerner to have much of a liking for snow or

cold. His blood had thinned in the lizard-baking

heat of New Orleans and the gentle, balmy

breezes of Georgia's sunny peach orchards, and

never thickened again, no matter how many

different climates he'd experienced as a member

of the Enterprise crew.

He recalled a handful of vacations spent at the

home of an uncle who'd braved the cooler climes

of the North American continent. As a child,

Leonard enjoyed the novelty of cold days,

fire-warmed nights, and being tucked under so

many thick blankets he could barely move. He

remembered the snow being soft and delicate on

his upturned face, feather-light against kicking

boots bent on creating their own blizzard, bright

white against the tumbling grey sky.

The memory bore no resemblance to the

sculpted landscape before him. Here the snow was

harsh, packed hard by the searing cold, and

molded into fantastic shapes by a slicing wind that

could cleave flesh from bone and freeze blood in

its heated passage. The snow and ice didn't even

look white here; more a pale blue shading to

indigo in the deepest, most secret hollows, which

McCoy had absolutely no desire to explore.

His crewmates weren't as jaundiced, and expressed

31

L. A. Graf

their delight when the Nordstral Pharmaceuticals

shuttle cleared enough outer atmosphere for them

to see properly. The sun glared off a sheet of

trackless white and would have blinded the pilot

but for the polarised screen.

"Oh, it's beautiful!" Uhura drew their attention

from the interior of the cramped shuttle and the

monotony of one another's faces to the wasted

landscape visible below them. The passengers,

Kirk included, jockeyed for position around the

windows for a first look at the planet's surface,

excited as always by someplace new and different.

McCoy took one look and pointedly returned to

his seat. He found no beauty in Nordstral's

skeletal starkness. The windcarved designs and

unending white seemed sinister to him, like a

large beast playing dead.

While the shuttle pilot traded information with

ground-crew radio, repeating waves of wailing

static rendered their conversation almost

unintelligible to McCoy's ears. "Does the radio do

that often?" the doctor asked one of the Nordstral

techs working near him.

The younger man shrugged and glanced toward

the cockpit. "Most of the time, at least. Annoying,

huh?"

McCoy grunted. "Only if you have to use your

communicator."

Kirk's deep voice captured McCoy's attention,

and he turned back to the others just to give

himself something to do. Kirk, just like McCoy,

looked like a bulky burgundy snowman in his

fleet-issue parka and heavy boots, especially

compared to the sleek, dark lines of the security

crew in their insulation suits. Chekov reminded

him of a compact, slender, watchful predator.

Shoulder to shoulder with his security force, the

dour young Russian did more than just admire the

32

ICE TRAP

scenery as his serious eyes skated the territory

below the lowering shuttle. Howard looked even

taller in the ebony clothing, one foot tapping

frenetically as a giveaway to his excitement or

nervousness. And there were also obvious delights

in watching Uhura in her close-fitting insulation

suit.

McCoy's cheeks reddened and he looked away,

feigning interest in whatever it was the pilot was

up to, not that anyone was watching him to notice

his discomfort. If Uhura knew what he was

thinking, she'd read him the riot act, and rightly

so. A long time ago, the doctor had learned great

respect for this lovely woman who was as delicate

as ten-penny nails and as defenceless as a

cornered tiger.

To clear his thoughts, McCoy glanced over the

remaining members of the landing party and sup-

pressed a grin. Tenzing looked as comfortable and

calm as her Sherpa ancestors. Publicker, with

insulation suit goggles pushed up onto his

forehead, looked like a tadpole. Steno had been

so rude before takeoff, McCoy didn't even glance

in the direction of him and his men.

"Take your seats, please." The shuttle pilot's

voice sounded tinny over the small, recessed wall

speakers. As smoothly as oil over water, the

joking crew became Chekov's well-disciplined

security force. Without comment, they returned to

their seats and began a final check on their

insulation suits. The Russian lieutenant spoke

briefly with each of his officers before taking a

place beside Uhura.

Kirk jostled McCoy's leg with his knee. "You're

awfully quiet, Doctor."

"Nothing much to say, I guess," he replied, and

tried a smile that felt like a rictus. He turned

away, pretending interest in the sweeping passage

of snow33

L. A. Graf

field beneath their rushing shuttle, and felt Jim's

eyes on him.

The shuttle landed smoothly, and McCoy and

Kirk disembarked. Kirk hunched into the coat

collar as frigid wind tugged his hair, dusting it with

fine snow crystals. McCoy cursed and pulled the

hood up to shield his face.

"Lieutenant Chekov..." Kirk steadied himself

with a hand on the frame of the open hatchway as

a gust of wind threatened to knock him off his

feet. Loose snow skirted around them like a

tangible fog, and briefly obliterated the long,

oblong, Quenset-type building nearby. "Good luck

to you and your crew." He nodded, briefly

touching each of them with his eyes and the

reassurance of his smile in a way that made them

all sit a little straighter. "I have every confidence

you'll find the missing research team."

"We'll do our best, Captain."

"Lieutenant Commander Uhura, keep me posted

on your progress." Kirk patted the communicator

at his hip.

Uhura nodded. "Mr. Scott modified the

communicators, sir, but he wasn't completely

certain how they'd operate under the magnetic

fluctuations of the planet. He may be able to

reach you via the Enterprise, but I'm not sure we

can make contact between landing parties."

"Noted."

The shuttle pilot grinned at them over her

shoulder. "If that engineer of yours does make 'em

work during the storms, Nordstral Pharmaceuticals

may just buy him off you."

Kirk smiled in return. "He's not for sale."

"Jim." McCoy nudged him with one arm rammed 34

ICE TRAP

stiff into a pocket to keep his fingers from

freezing. "You're leaving the refrigerator door

open."

"Right. Good luck, everyone." McCoy and

Kirk stepped back with a final wave. The shuttle

hatch slid closed on their good-byes and secured

with a reassuring thump. The pilot waved them

back out of range, watching until they were

within the security of the Quonset vestibule,

then lifted off and headed north.

McCoy had never known a wind to feel so cold.

35

Chapter Three

THE BRIGHT STREAK of the Nordstral

Pharmaceuticals shuttle burned across the horizon

and left its roar hanging in the clouds behind it.

The slate-grey sky rumbled with echoes for a

while, then faded down to a silence that seemed

too deep to be real. Uhura lifted a hand to the

ear mike embedded in the hood of her insulation

suit, wondering if the superinsulating plasfoam

was muffling its sound pickup. A quick adjustment

shot the volume upward until she could hear frost

crackling in the air, but otherwise the ice sheet

stayed dead silent.

A footstep crunched snow behind her, painfully

loud. Uhura hurriedly dialed her mike volume

down again, then turned to find a night-black

figure with huge opalescent eyes staring down at

her.

"I don't see any natives," Chekov said, his voice

sober, slightly muffled by the insulation suit's

breath filter. The reflective goggles protecting his

eyes also

36

ICE TRAP

hid any trace of expression, but Uhura knew the

security chief well enough to read the tense set of

his shoulders under the sleek-fitting suit. "The

company official said that some natives would

meet us here."

"Maybe we're not at the right place." Uhura

glanced at the area around them. It was mostly

flat, with occasional spoon-shaped mounds of

dirtier ice strung across it in parallel lines. To her

untrained eye, the mound on which the company

shuttle had dropped them looked no different

than any other. "Why don't you ask Mr. Steno?"

Chekov made an irritated noise. "I would, but as

far as I can tell, he's busy unpacking his lunch."

"What?" Uhura turned to see a cluster of men in

ice-green insulation suits huddled over an untidy

pile of gear, muttering as they rummaged through

it. Their iridescent Nordstral Pharmaceuticals

insignia glistened like fallen shreds of aurora on

their shoulders as they moved from one open pack

to another. Beyond them, the three black-clad

security guards from the Enterprise stood quiet and

watchful, their own gear neatly loaded onto a

gravsled. "What on earth are they doing?"

"You mean, besides making a mess?" The angle

of Chekov's jaw tightened in disapproval as he

watched. "I have no idea."

"Well, hadn't we better find out?"

"I'll send Tenzing over to check." He sent a

quick hand signal to one of his attentive security

guards, just as the tallest green-clad figure

straightened with a pistol-shaped object in one

hand.

"Chekov!" Uhura gasped, but the security chief

was already moving. His hand signal turned into a

chow ping wave that sent Enterprise guards diving

forward even as he leapt toward them with what

looked to 37

L A. Graf

Uhura like recklessly long strides. Four sleekly

muscled black figures converged on the company

official. He vanished beneath them, but not before

a blast shattered the icy silence.

Uhura blinked and tipped her head back,

watching as a sulfur-yellow flare feathered its way

up into the clouds. It burned there for a moment,

then sizzled out just as a rising growl of voices

drew her attention back to the landing party. She

squared her shoulders and headed for them.

". . . what right you have to interfere?" The

Nordstral officer scrambled to his feet as the

Enterprise crewmen moved apart, shoving his hard

plastic face mask back so Chekov could see his

scowl. Uhura recognised the jutting features of

Curie's station manager, and winced. Captain Kirk

had warned her that Nicholai Steno was not an

easy man to deal with. "Just who the hell are you

anyway, mister?"

"Lieutenant Pavel Chekov, Federation Starship

Security." The Russian sounded calm enough, but

Uhura could hear suppressed dislike in his

deepening accent. "Captain Kirk put me in charge

of security for this landing party."

"The hell he did! All he put you in charge of

were those goons you brought with you!" Steno

waved at Chekov's security personnel, two of

whom had swung to face their startled Nordstral

counterparts while the third cradled the

confiscated flare gun. "As of this moment, I am

the senior planetary officer of Nordstral

Pharmaceuticals. I'm the one in charge here!"

"Begging the senior planetary officer's pardon."

Chekov's voice had turned so cold, Uhura barely

recognised the undertone of sarcasm in his words.

"Federation articles clearly state that in a Priority

38

ICE TRAP

One emergency, starship personnel outrank their

equivalent planetary authorities. Sir."

"I'm not your equivalent authority, you bug-eyed

idiot!" It amazed Uhura that the company man

would snarl into Chekov's face like that, as if he

couldn't see the readiness in the younger man's

stance. Despite the half-meter difference in their

heights, she had no doubt who would win if this

came to a fight. The possibility made her pick up

her pace. "You deepspace jockeys like to think

you run the universe, but I'm not going to let

you "

"You have no authority "

The snarled braid of voices rose to a roar.

Uhura skidded the last few feet down the rocky

ice slope, hurriedly tapping a dial on her

insulation suit's translator as she went.

"Gentlemen!"

Both men swung around as her amplified voice

cracked through the frigid air, Chekov with a swift

pivot, Steno with a jerk and a curse. Uhura tapped

her volume adjustment down again and faced

them, trying to project as much calm patience as

she could.

"Lieutenant Chekov, Mr. Steno please try to

remember that we're here to rescue people, not to

fight with each other."

"Yessir," Chekov muttered, ducking his chin

against his chest. Steno snorted scornfully, and

Uhura turned toward him, flipping up the goggles

covering her eyes so he could see her frown. The

sudden unshielded brilliance of the ice sheet made

her eyes burn, but she kept the goggles up anyway.

"For your information, Mr. Steno, Lieutenant

Chekov is entirely correct about Priority One

emergency rules. In point of law, his rank may not

make

39

L. A. Graf

him your equivalent in authority, but mine

certainly does."

The snap in her voice must have gotten through

to the station manager. A muscle jerked in his

cheek as he blinked down at her, his

frost-whitened eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"Thank you, Commander." Chekov put a little

more stress than usual on Uhura's title, and she

heard Steno grumble a reluctant acknowledgment.

With a sigh of relief, she lowered her goggles and

blinked as the polarisers the white blur of the ice

sheet back into focus.

"Now, Mr. Steno," Chekov said, very politely.

"Would you care to explain to the lieutenant com-

mander what you were doing with that flare?"

The Nordstral official grunted, wrestling his old-

fashioned plastic visor back down over the coating

of frost that had gathered on the edge of his foam

suit. "It's standard procedure," he said curtly.

"That's how we tell the Kitka to send out guides

for us."

Uhura scanned the barren expanse of ice

around them. "Do the natives have a settlement

near here?"

"Who knows? They're nomads, they follow fish

around from one open crevasse to another as the

ice sheet drifts. When they do stop, they burrow

down inside the ice like moles. It's easier to let

them find us when we need guides."

"Do we need guides?" Chekov still made an

effort to sound polite, but the undertone of

skepticism in his voice must have gotten through

to Steno. The taller man scowled through his

frost-clouded visor.

"Listen, Lieutenant this planet has more tran-

sient magnetic fields than a galactic core! You try

finding your way around it alone, and you'll find

out real fast how well your fancy Starfleet

instruments 40

ICE TRAP

work in a mess like this. We don't even have any

decent maps, the way the ice sheet keeps cracking

and moving it's like trying to map the scum on

a stagnant pond." Steno snorted, blowing a cloud

of mist out his breath filter. "Trust me,

starboy.When the boreal winds kick in this

afternoon, you'll be damn glad to have a Kitka

here to guide you to shelter."

"Will I?" Chekov's voice sounded grim. "I

wonder if your missing research team was glad of

it."

The Nordstral officer took a step back, almost

bumping into the tall Enterprise guard behind him.

"What's that supposed to mean? You think the

Kitka had something to do with us losing that

research team?"

The sheer amazement in Steno's voice surprised

Uhura was the man so stupid he'd never even

thought of that possibility? She didn't consider it

very likely herself, but if twelve years in Starfleet

had taught her anything, it was never to discount

the improbable on unknown planets.

Chekov muttered in Russian, then said quietly

to Steno, "You have no idea how your research

team vanished, sir. All we know is that they

probably sent up a flare just like this one, and you

never heard from them again. We have to

consider every possibility."

"Not that one." The station manager snorted out

another cloud of mist. "Of all the stupid things

I've heard today, blaming the Kitka for this mess

is the worst. Listen, Lieutenant Checkers or

whatever your name is you just mind your goons

and do what your little lieutenant commander tells

you to. Leave the thinking on this trip to me."

Uhura watched speechlessly as Steno turned and

strode back to his messy sprawl of equipment,

swerving awkwardly around the security guard

behind him. 41

L A. Graf

The tall, black-suited figure swung to follow him,

then glanced back over his shoulder when Chekov

snapped out, '`No!''

"But, Chief!" Michael Howard's voice sounded

oddly fierce through the breath filter. "He called

you "

"Being rude does not make him a security risk,

Mr. Howard." Chekov sent a quick signal to the

rest of his crew, and they left the uneasy Nordstral

men they had been guarding to gather around

him. "This is a Code Three situation. Potentially

dangerous ground parties are now aware of our

location and converging on this site. I want

perimeter guard at twenty meters, with

surveillance cross-checks on anything that looks

suspicious." The security chief glanced around.

"Positions clockwise starting from that tall rock

Publicker, Tenzing, Howard, me. Phasers on stun."

"Yessing" The three guards scattered outward

without another word, leaving Uhura and Chekov

standing together. She lifted her eyebrows

inquiringly at him, then remembered he couldn't

see the expression through her goggles.

"Is there anything you'd like me to do?" she

asked instead. "You know I haven't got a real job

here until the Kitka show up."

"I was hoping you'd ask." Chekov jerked his chin

toward their gravsled. "How about keeping an eye

on the supplies?"

"Is that really necessary?" Uhura asked, peeking

under the gravsled's cover to see what was hidden

beneath it. "What's going to happen to a few kilo-

grams of tents and " Catching sight of a bundle

snuggled near the bottom of the load, she angled

a look up at him. "A solar-powered winch,

Chekov?"

42

ICE TRAP

He shrugged, obviously not put off by her

amusement. "We had extra room and I like to be

prepared." He tugged the cover back into place as

though to forestall any further comments. "I'd

rather have you on perimeter with the rest of us,"

he admitted, "but if we leave our gear Iying

around unwatched, it might get ransacked by these

Nordstral "

He paused, evidently searching for a word.

Uhura smiled and supplied one. "Goons?"

"Goons." A flicker of his usual wry humor

surfaced for a moment in his voice. "That's not

exactly what I'd call them in Russian, but it's close

enough."

Kirk stopped pacing the land station's narrow

confines when a technician's voice rang out. "Yo,

Clara!"

A short woman had entered the other end of the

docking hut from a rabbit's warren of tunnels con-

necting it to the other buildings. She was dressed

for outside in pants, knee-high boots, and a parka

that appeared twice as thick as the

Federation-issued garb. A large, bulky pack lay

secured across her shoulders, and goggles hung

around her neck.

She turned at the docking technician's call and

waved a mittened hand. She tossed back the jacket

hood and set free a wealth of multibraided hair

that reminded McCoy of Medusa's snakes. "Don't

be yarpin' at me, Tootsie. I got mail-run, and you

know how them sailors hate to be kept waiting."

The tech jerked a thumb in their direction. "Two

for the Soroya."

She nodded. "Ah, yes." She smoothly shrugged

out of the cumbersome pack and left it leaning

against the wall while she approached the Starfleet

officers, pulling off her mittens as she walked. She

offered a strong

43

L A. Graf

handshake first to Kirk and then to McCoy, and

smiled broadly, her perfect teeth very white

against her chestnut-colored skin.

"You'd be the Federation men," she said in a

lilting, singsong accent. "I heard you were coming."

"Captain James Kirk and Dr. Leonard McCoy,"

Kirk replied briskly. "You're our guide? You'll

take us to meet Captain Mandeville?"

Her grin broadened, puffing her cheeks up like

a squirrel's. "Ah, yes. I'm Clara." The vowels were

broadened to "ahs" in an almost

southern-sounding dialect. She jerked her head

toward the door. "Come on, then." She strode

across the room without waiting to see if they'd

follow, reshouldered the pack, and opened the

outer door.

The frigid air made McCoy hiss. Clara cast a

dark eye toward him over her shoulder while she

adjusted her goggles and watched the men do

likewise. "You don't sound used to this weather,

Doctor."

"I'm not," he grumbled, securing the hood

soundly around his ears as he walked. The snow

and ice screamed and squealed under his boots

and made him feel like he needed a good scratch.

"I'm a southerner."

She chuckled as though she understood. "Me, too."

"You're not a native?" Kirk asked, sounding

surprised.

Clara hooted with good-natured laughter. "You

must never have seen a live Kitka to be saying

that," she said, still grinning. "Bandy little folk,

they are square and squat, not like this skinny

body." She slapped herself in the stomach, but

didn't seem displeased with her proportions.

"More yellow than brown, too, with eyes that

sparkle like fish scales. Blue- or green-eyed, most

of them, going whiter and 44

ICE TRAP

whiter as they get old. You'll never take a human

for one, once you've met them."

Kirk nodded, glancing nervously around them.

"But I'd heard Nordstral Pharmaceuticals hired

native guides to lead everyone across the ice."

"Oh, that was in the beginning, when we first

arrived. This area's as stable as anything gets on

Nordstral, so we're all used to it by now. They still

have to use guides out on the pack ice up north,

though. Bad, dangerous stuff, that. Grab you up

and swallow you whole without a trace. Whatever

mystic ways they have, those northern Kitka are

the only folk can walk around safely up there."

She grinned when the men exchanged looks; or it

might have been a continuation of the same grin,

McCoy wasn't certain. She seemed to smile more

than anyone he'd ever met, except for maybe Sulu.

"No need to worry, though. I'll take care of you.

As for being native, well, I thank you for the

compliment, and I'm probably the next best thing,

having been here as long as I have. I'm from

Earth Jamaica, to be exact."

"How did you end up here?" McCoy asked,

curiosity getting the better of him.

Clara shrugged one shoulder and dipped the

other for further emphasis. "Oh, that's a long

story. I'll tell it to you, maybe, sometime."

"Can you tell us a little about the company?"

Kirk asked, sounding as though he was just

making conversation.

Their guide turned around and walked

backward as easily as she had facing forward. "I'll

do what I can," she replied agreeably.

"I'm curious. How do you harvest plankton on

an icebound planet?"

45

L. A. Graf

"Only partially icebound. The Kitka hunting

holes are open, as are various areas where the

action of the glaciers calving has kept free water.

And there's a good, sound band of open water

around the equator." She pointed down as she

walked. "Which is here."

"Doesn't plankton need sunlight to bloom?" Kirk

asked. The tips of his ears and nose were red with

cold, and his breath steamed and curled about his

face.

"To get the biggest and heaviest blooms, sunlight

always helps. But most of the plankton's energy

comes from the planet's magnetic field, and that's

present everywhere."

McCoy frowned. "It's not too cold under all that

ice for plants to grow?"

Clara shook her head. "The ability of marine

plankton to thrive under heavy ice sheets was first

discovered on Earth by Russian fleets. They

brought ice cutters in to catch the schools of fish

that fed off the plankton." She cocked her head

and studied McCoy. "What's so funny?"

He pursed his lips around a smile. "I was

thinking about one of our crewmen. He's Russian,

and he'd be proud as punch to hear you tell this."

"He should be. If not for the Russians, we

probably wouldn't be on Nordstral now." Again,

the grin. "Then again, maybe I don't exactly owe

them a debt of thanks for that, eh?"

Clara swung her arms and shifted the pack

across her shoulders. "Anyway, what the Russian

fleets found under the ice where they'd previously

thought plankton could not exist was an

abundance of wildlife, all subsisting on plankton

or plankton feeders. Fortunately for this company,

Nordstral proved to behave exactly the same way,

only on a much greater

46

ICE TRAP

scale. Using submarine harvesters makes it fairly

easy to gather the plankton."

"Indigenous life?" McCoy asked.

"Well, there's the Kitka, of course. And lots of

marine life." She waved a thick arm at their

surroundings. "Not much else can stomach what

Nordstral has to offer."

"And the Kitka serve on the harvesters?" Kirk

queried.

"Quite a few of them, yes." She winked playfully

at the captain. "Don't let all those glaciers fool

you. They've got quite a tech level in the cities

that are strung along the equator."

"Are they hostile? Upset by the harvesting or

having their skilled people drawn away to the

harvesters?"

"Not to my knowledge. They don't seem to much

care what we do, so long as we don't dirty up the

place and we pay our rent. And it's not just the

skilled working the harvesters. We've got plenty of

young folk looking for good money, not to

mention Kitka well into their middle years, with

plenty of hunting and ice experience behind them."

Her eyes twinkled. "That's to our advantage."

"What about Captain Mandeville?" Kirk squinted

against the glare and turned the full force of his

gaze on Clara.

She didn't seem particularly affected. She

shrugged, turned about-face again and trudged

forward. "What do you want to know?"

"What kind of man is he? How is he with his

crew? Do they like serving under him?"

The pack shifted under the movement of her

shoulders. "As much as sailors ever do. Somebody

always complains about something, Captain Kirk.

Such talk isn't worth much."

47

L. A. Graf

"Isn't it?" Kirk pressed, obviously expecting that

any captain, even one as good as he, would have

disgruntled someone somewhere down the line.

"I can't know it all, obviously, but nothing's

come to these ears worth discussing, and I do

have a talent for hearing most things that go on

around here."

"You wouldn't say that just to protect him?"

Clara stopped and turned to face him. For a

change, her expression was completely serious.

"Captain Mandeville doesn't need protecting from

anyone. That much I can tell you." Without giving

him an opportunity to respond, she turned away

and continued toward the harbor.

McCoy, hunched as deeply in his parka as he

could go without curling into a fetal position,

looked at his friend. "So much for round one."

Kirk's eyes were pensive as he watched Clara

trek across the ice ahead of them. "It's only the

groundwork, Bones. Just because she doesn't

know anything or is pretending she doesn't,

doesn't mean someone else won't talk. I want to

check out this Captain Mandeville close up. I

think Clara's protecting him for some reason, and

I want to know what it is." He followed Clara's

retreating back.

McCoy watched him for a moment, then let his

gaze drift beyond Kirk's broad shoulders. A cold

fist clenched around his heart and he swallowed

hard. He'd been so caught up in the conversation

between Kirk and the guide, he hadn't realized

how close they'd come to the water. The tiny

ribbon visible from the hut had widened into an

enormous channel of black, seemingly thick water.

Icebergs as small as a child's snowman or larger

than a shuttle floated majestically on the surface.

He murmured and hurned to catch up with Kirk.

48

ICE TRAP

"What did you say?" Kirk barely glanced at him.

McCoy shook his head, finding it odd the way

his hood stayed still and his head moved around

inside it. "Nothing. Just something from an old

song I once heard about the Titanic."

"You'll have to sing it to me sometime." Kirk

glanced sideways and gave McCoy a tolerant,

lopsided grin.

"In your dreams, Captain."

Clara trotted back to meet them, her breath

streaming in the air behind her. "We'd best stop

here. Soroya's due up any time now, and

sometimes there's a backwash in the rise. We

don't want you being flooded off the ice into the

water, now, do we?"

McCoy took one giant step backward. "What

are we here to investigate?" the doctor muttered.

"I'd be nuts, too, if they locked me in a

submarine."

Kirk sharply nudged McCoy's arm. "You saw for

yourself, they're not nuts. That's what makes this

whole thing so weird." He watched the smooth

surface of the water for several moments. "What's

the matter, Bones?" he asked quietly. "We're

going to be in a ship."

"If you poke a hole in a ship, water rushes in."

McCoy glared at the icebergs and tried hard not

to imagine what kind of damage they could inflict

on a vessel.

Kirk la ughed gently. "If you poke a hole in a

starship, space rushes in."

McCoy scowled at him. "It's different and you

know it!" He suddenly gripped Kirk's arm, gloved

fingers tight around the biceps. "You feel that?"

"Yes." The ice quivered faintly under their feet.

McCoy shot a frightened look in Clara's direction.

Her eyes flicked from the sea to the sky and back.

She

49

L. A. Graf

looked altogether far more comfortable than

McCoy felt anyone had a right to, given their

surroundings. It annoyed him, which was better

than feeling scared, and it certainly kept him

warmer.

"Here she comes,"' the woman drawled.

First, the surface of the water moved. Eddies

built and swirled, humps of water ebbed and

receded. McCoy was reminded of a bass rising

from the depths of a lake and not quite breaking

the surface. Then the ship was suddenly there,

emerging out of nothing like a khaki-green

magician's rabbit out of a top hat.

The turret rose like an oblong head sheeted

with water. The rest of the harvester followed,

surfacing in an almost stately fashion, as though

aware of scrutiny. Water rushed and roared,

falling off its pocked sides and cascading back into

the bay.

"We're actually going to board this rust bucket?"

McCoy growled under his breath, eyes wide.

"You'll be fine, Bones." Kirk's eyes roamed the

harvester. "I thought it would be sleeker," he

mused. "Less worn."

"What for?" Clara snorted. "The money men

don't care what the ships look like so long as they

do the job. This tub's in pretty decent shape, given

her age and the wear and tear she's seen." She

pointed one long finger at a dent running a third

of the length of the long ship. "You see that?

Surfaced too close to a 'berg, didn't judge its drift

right. It's hard to, sometimes. Those damned

magnetic storms screw up everything."

"Is Mandeville careless?" Kirk asked innocently.

Before Clara could reply, the Soroya settled at

the surface with an enormous sigh and a wash of

water that nearly reached their feet and had

McCoy backstepping nervously. A top hatch

opened with a

so

ICE TRAP

clang. A man with thick, iron-grey hair emerged to

waist height and leaned on the hatch rim. Even

from this distance, McCoy knew the man must be

a Kitka. The heavy bone-lines of his cheeks and

jaw swept his features into a broad, exotic circle;

his eyes showed a clear and frosty green against

the turbulent waters behind him. When he smiled,

his copper-skinned face creased into a million

lines. "Yo, Cap'n. You bring in the mail?"

McCoy thought at first he was addressing Kirk.

Obviously, so did the Enterprise's captain, until

Clara raised one hand and caught the rungs of a

metal ladder welded to the side of the ship. She

snorted. "As though your family ever needs to

write. You crazy Kitka talk through the ice." She

turned, one foot on the bottom rung, and speared

Kirk with a hard look. "No, Captain Mandeville is

not careless." She started up the ladder, shrugged

out of the heavy pack and tossed it to the waiting

crewman. At the top she paused only long enough

to clap the dark man on the shoulder. "Those are

the Federation men. Show them where to bunk.

I'll be up front." She didn't even favor McCoy and

Kirk with a look before she disappeared down the

turret like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Kirk stared after her, jaw working and hazel

eyes blazing.

McCoy's eyebrows rose and a smile tugged up

one corner of his mouth. "You're looking a little

hot under the collar, Captain."

Kirk glared at him. "I don't like being deceived."

"She didn't deceive you." When Kirk's

expression didn't ease, McCoy stepped closer.

"Jim, she never once denied being Captain

Mandeville. You just didn't ask her if she was."

From below came Mandeville's voice. "Get them in

51

L. A. Graf

here! Dammit, Nuie, we're a harvester ship, not a

damned trundle cab!"

The gray-haired crewman smiled with

encouragement. "There's nothing to it. One, two,

and you're up and in."

When Kirk gestured for McCoy to ascend the

iron ladder ahead of him, the doctor obediently

took the first water-slicked rung in a hand gone

clammy inside its glove. Both feet still firmly

grounded on the ice, he looked back at his friend

and found a smile despite his fear of the ship and

the ebon water. "What you don't like, Jim, is

being outfoxed. Mandeville was just being careful

with her words around a stranger, just like you

would." He levered a finger under Kirk's nose.

"And don't tell me you'd have done it any

differently, because I've seen you do it a million

times."

"Maybe." Face still flushed with embarrassment,

Kirk waved a hand for McCoy to get a move on.

"I just hope Chekov's having a better time of it

than we are."

The boreal winds arrived without a rustle of

warning. One moment the ice sheet lay wrapped

in its usual dead silence, its noon brilliance slowly

dimming into a gray-green afternoon. The next,

Uhura heard a distant, high-pitched shriek and

saw the security guards stop pacing their careful

quarter circles to look around. She stood from her

seat on the gravsled just in time to be buffeted

back into it by a fierce slam of cold air against her

insulation suit.

"Boreal winds," shouted Steno across the three-

meter distance separating them, with just a note

of smugness in his voice. The wind's shriek rose to

a howl, one that went on and on without remorse.

Uhura winced and dialed the volume on her ear

mike 52

ICE TRAP

down as far as she could, then tried clicking on

her insulation suit's communicator channels. She

got only the same strange static she'd heard on

the shuttle radio, a falling whistle that repeated

itself as monotonously as the wind's howl.

It occurred to Uhura that the planet Nordstral

was about as close to a communications officer's

vision of Hell as she could imagine. She shivered

and tried to huddle deeper into the shelter of

their piled gear as the wind bit through her

insulation suit. With her sound input damped, the

first hint she had of company was the tap on her

shoulder. She jumped and swung simultaneously,

not seeing the familiar black insulation suit until

too late. Her fist rebounded from hard stomach

muscles, just as Chekov's faint voice said, "It's only

me."

"Sorry." She rubbed her knuckles with a wince,

then tapped her ear mike's volume back to

normal. "Are the Kitka here?"

"No. I don't know if that's good or bad." He

lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

"Uhura, can you do anything about these suit

communicators? I can barely hear my guards past

the static."

She shook her head. "It's planet-wide

interference. I think Nordstral's magnetic field is

so strong that it spins off magnetic storms as well

as auroras when it gets hit by solar wind. Our

communicators can't distinguish the radio output

of the auroral storms from real transmissions."

"That's what I was afraid of. We'll have to rely

on our hand signals." He glanced down at her,

expressionless under the bright shimmer of his

goggles. "Are you all right here?"

She shrugged and rubbed her arms. "Just a little

cold, now that the wind's blowing. I'll survive."

53

L. A. Graf

"It's warmer if you keep walking." Chekov

glanced at Steno and the other company men,

huddled close around their hastily repacked gear.

"With this wind blowing, I don't think we have to

worry about the, ah, goons."

"All right." Uhura scrambled to her feet beside

him, swaying a little when the wind buffeted her.

"This is another thing I don't like about insulation

suits," she complained as they headed out to

Chekov's sectionof perimeter. "They don't break

the wind."

"That's because they're designed to reduce wind

friction. You'd be getting hit twice this hard if you

were in a parka."

"But I wouldn't feel it half so much." She

noticed that he put himself on the windward side

as they started patrolling, and smiled without

saying anything. Chekov hated to be caught doing

something gallant.

"What's the first thing?" he asked after a moment.

"Hmm?" The wind was stirring up fine snow into

a knee-high mist that hid the ground around

them. She didn't bother to look up from her feet,

since she wouldn't have seen Chekov's expression

anyway. "What first thing?"

"You said that the wind was another thing you

hate about insulation suits. What was the first

thing?"

"Oh, that. It's nothing important." Uhura lifted

a hand wistfully to her throat. She was too

embarrassed to admit that she felt lost without the

comforting brush of polished metal against her

skin. An insulation suit's skintight construction

didn't allow her to wear anything as nonessential

as jewelry beneath it. "So you haven't seen any

sign of the Kitka?"

"Not a whisker." Chekov turned a slow circle as

54

ICE TRAP

though her question had reminded him to look

again. "Assuming that the Kitka have whiskers.

You should know, you're the expert."

"On their language, Chekov, not their facial

hair." She sighed. "And to be honest, I'm not even

an expert on that. The information that Nordstral

Pharmaceuticals gave us was awfully sketchy."

"Our suit translators will work, won't they?"

"Nordstral says they'll catch most of the words

for most of the Kitka, most of the time." Uhura

shrugged. "The Kitka distinguish words by pitch,

and that makes it hard to translate into English.

God only knows what happens when the machine

tries to translate from English to Kitka."

"Great." Chekov blew an exasperated breath out

through his filter. "We're expecting possibly hostile

natives, and we may not even be able to talk to

them."

"Chekov." Uhura reached out and caught his

arm as they turned to head back the way they'd

come. The wind was swirling snow mist around

them at shoulder height now, making it hard for

her to see. "You don't have to worry about the

Kitka so much, honestly. They're a tiny remnant

of the pre-ice cultures that lived on this planet

before the glaciers pushed everyone else down to

the equator. All available information says they're

isolated nomads, dedicated to preserving their

environment, so peaceful they won't even harpoon

a fish without asking its forgiveness first."

Chekov made a frustrated noise, nearly drowned

by the rising wind. "And do you think that they

understand what the fish say back to them any

better than they'll understand us?" He turned his

back on a particularly severe gust, pulling Uhura

around to 55

L. A. Graf

stand in the shelter he made. "Commander, I'm

not trying to say that they're evil people. I just

think that we should be . . ."

The shriek of the boreal wind stopped as

suddenly as it had started, dropping the snow mist

like a curtain to reveal what had been hiding

inside.

Uhura stared in silent shock at the circle of

needlesharp harpoons surrounding them, held by

a circle of burly figures in ragged white furs. The

tip of each harpoon head looked as if it had been

dipped in ruby-dark blood.

". . . careful," Chekov finished grimly.

56

Chapter Four

CLAUSTROPHOBE SHUDDERED McCoy s

insides as he stepped off the iron 1adder's final

rung and put both feet firmly on the harvester's

inner deck. He bit down on the fear, forcing it to

bay. The inside of his mouth tasted filmy and

bitter, and he was briefly reminded of the

unsweetened lemon drops his grandfather had

favored.

The corridor walls curved closely around him,

not even wide enough for two men to walk

abreast. The floor was a straight lane as far as he

could see, riveted metal covered with some

nonskid material. The ceiling was low, heightening

the sense of closeness, of being shut in an iron

coffin. He was grateful for the open hatch above

his head, the touch of breeze snaking down the

entry to stir the fur of his hood and bring the

freshening scent of saltwater.

"I'd hate to end a promising surgery career."

57

L. A. Graf

Kirk's teasing voice broke into McCoy's

thoughts. The doctor tilted his head back and

peered up at his captain, standing halfway down

the ladder. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Kirk bent one knee and nudged McCoy's

knuckles with the toe of his boot. "It means that

if you don't let go that death's grip on the ladder,

I'll be forced to tramp on your fingers. StarfIeet

might never get over the loss."

"Oh." Doubly embarrassed at not only having

been caught holding the rungs for support, but not

even realising he was doing so, McCoy released

the smooth worn metal, crammed his hands into

his pockets and stepped back to afford Kirk room

to climb down. The Enterprise captain's feet had

no more touched the decking than the hatch

above closed with a resonant clang. There was the

muffed thud of catches being thrown, insurance

(McCoy hoped) against an inwash of seawater,

and Nuie landed lightly beside them. He pulled

shut the inner hatch and turned the locking wheel

as far as it would go, then faced them.

In the overhead lighting, McCoy saw that Nuie's

eyes were silver-green, a striking contrast against

his weather-roughened copper skin and sleek,

thick grey hair. He was shorter than them both by

several inches, boxy and squarely built. He smiled

now, as broadly as his captain had, and jerked his

head. "I'm Nuie, first mate on Soroya. Come with

me, please."

They followed him to a lozenge-shaped door

several meters down the corridor. Nuie dogged it

open and stepped aside to allow them entrance,

but remained in the doorway, one hand curved

around the jamb. "Captain Mandeville offers her

quarters to you," he stated formally, as though in

recitation. "She asks that you remain here until

we're under way. I'll be back to

58

CE TRAp

fetch you then, and give you the . . ." His face

screwed up in concentration. "Ten cents tour?" He

appeared confused by the idiom.

Kirk smiled. "That'll be fine, Nuie, thank you."

The crewman paused with the door halfway

closed to bob a quick nod before he was gone.

Kirk crossed the room and checked the door. It

was unlocked and opened at his touch. He closed

it again after glancing down the corridor in each

direction. "Well, we're not being watched." His

eyes hunted the corners of the room.

"What are you looking for?"

"Surveillance. Cameras of some kind."

"Would you know them if you saw them?"

"I don't know." Kirk tabbed open his parka and

spread it wide, hands perched on his trim hips.

"I'd like to get a look at that bridge."

"You'll probably get your wish. I don't recall

you ever being comfortable with strangers on the

bridge when you're coming out of dock, either."

"True."

McCoy crossed his arms over his chest and

looked around. The walls, floor, and ceiling were

the same monochrome colon A metal storage

locker was bolted in one corner, presumably for

Captain Mandeville's clothing, toiletries, and

personal effects. A tiny desk was hinged to the

wall and depended from two chains. The chair

before it was bolted to the floor but could swivel

freely above the pedestal of its legs. Two pictures

vied for space on the wall above the desk. The

one on the left was a reproduction of an oil

painting. It showed a large ship, its bow awash in

a sea pocked with icebergs. The tiny brass plate at

the bottom of the frame read, "Maiden Voyage of

Titanic."

"That's not very damn funny!" McCoy jumped 59

L. A. Graf

back, afraid that studying the painting too closely

might just tickle the Fates into bringing it back to

life, starring the Soroya. He knew he was being

foolish, but that didn't change the face of his

unhappiness or the macabre fascination that made

him step closer again to peer at the painting,

searching the Titanic's decks for the faces of the

doomed.

"Hmmm . . . what did you say, Bones?" Kirk

frowned at the other picture, an ancient

photograph of a man with short, dark hair, a

round, cheerful face, and wire-rimmed glasses,

posed before an old-time submarine. "Who do you

suppose this is?"

"I don't " McCoy's hand seizured out and

clutched Kirk's arm as movement threw him

momentarily off balance. The blood drained from

his face and, for all he knew, disappeared into the

bulkhead. He was suddenly cold all over and slick

with sweat.

Kirk eased him onto the edge of the bed. "Come

on, Bones. Out with it."

Embarrassed, McCoy looked up from the floor

beneath his feet. "Out with what?"

"With whatever's bothering you."

"What makes you think anything's bothering

me?" McCoy made the effort to look his captain

right in the face and smile sickly.

Kirk snorted, but the doctor couldn't tell if it

was in disbelief or annoyance. "Well, for one

thing, you're not displaying your usual sterling

personality."

McCoy returned the snort. "I don't have Spock

here to serve as inspiration." He burrowed his

hands under his armpits on the pretence of

crossing his arms.

Kirk surprised his friend by leaning down and

placing a firm hand on the bed to either side of

McCoy, effectively trapping the doctor where he

sat. "What's eating you?"

60

ICE TRAP

"Nothing's "

"Bones." He spoke quietly, without annoyance,

and drew McCoy's attention like steel filings to a

magnet. Blue eyes met hazel ones of an intensity

the doctor had never experienced with any other

single human being. "I need you with me on this

one. I need your way of looking at things to help

me figure out what's happening on Nordstral. I

can't do it by myself."

Staring into those eyes, McCoy found himself

wondering just when he decided he would die for

this man. He felt a flush of shame for pulling

away, even momentarily, from the friendship and

understanding he knew Kirk constantly offered.

"I'm with you, Jim," he murmured, then nodded

his head firmly. "I am."

"Then what's wrong?"

McCoy's eyes strayed across the cabin's narrow

width to the wall opposite. The picture of the

Titanic showed much the same view as Nordstral's

surface, a ribbon of black interspersed with

lurching chunks of white. The scene reminded

McCoy of the harborarea where they'd waited for

the Soroya to come for fuel and supplies, where all

the harvesters came to discharge their loads of

plankton. McCoy couldn't remember the last time

he'd seen something that looked so evil.

When he finally spoke, his voice was very soft.

"When I was, oh, seven or eight, my family had a

reunion, a picnic along the banks of the

Chattahoochee River." The memory did not elicit

a smile, even though McCoy could still hear his

relatives' voices, still smell the glorious food, still

feel the breeze offthe river ruffling his hair. "The

men pitched green and yellow pavilions to shield

the ladies from the sun. There was all kinds of

food, and I remember drinking a lot of lemonade

because it was so hot. The men

61

L. A. Graf

played horseshoes and smoked horrible cigars. I

spent most of the morning catching frogs with my

cousin David and throwing them at the girls." His

lips curved gently. "Some of the older cousins had

gotten together earlier and built a raft of logs, like

something out of Mark Twain. The

Chattahoochee's nothing like the Mississippi, but

it served our purposes. In the press of people,

with so many children running around, I guess

every adult assumed every other adult was keeping

watch. Nobody thought it prudent to make certain

all us kids knew how to swim." Before McCoy's

unfocused eyes, the Titanic's ages-old fate

vanished, replaced by a wide expanse of grass and

a deep, slow-moving river glinting in the sun.

Something that tried to be a laugh, and died as

a short gasp of air, hitched McCoy's chest. "There

must have been a dozen of us kids on that thing,

maybe more. I guess my cousins weren't as smart

as they thought. We got out to the middle of the

river and the raft just fell apart. I went down like

a stone." His eyes squeezed closed, drawing the

memory closer with morbid fascination. He ran a

hand across one cheek. "I don't know how long it

took them to figure out little Leonard wasn't with

them, or who pulled me up. They said I was blue

and that my grandfather walloped me sound and

got me breathing again." He opened his eyes and

focused on a blank area of wall beyond Kirk's left

shoulder. "I remember being scared. I remember

looking up as I sank, and seeing the whole sunlit

world fading to a distant spot of color on the

surface of the river. I remember my lungs filling

with water."

His gaze jerked sideways to Kirk's astonished

face. McCoy's hands felt cold despite the room's

heat and he curled his fingers into his palms.

Someplace deep 62

ICE TRAP

inside him a pit shivered open after all these years

and a wailing cry echoed where only he could

hear. "I wasn't the only one who didn't know how

to swim."

McCoy looked across at that damned picture.

No grass. No sun-dappled water. Just chunks of

ice like dancing mountaintops, bobbing on the

ocean's black surface. "They didn't bring David up

until after dark." He closed his eyes again and

dropped his face into his hands.

Chekov stretched out one arm to tuck Uhura

behind him, instinctively wanting to shelter her

from the Kitka. She resisted slightly with a hand

on his shoulder; he shrugged it away, afraid of

being distracted.

The Kitka blended into their arctic landscape

with fluid, natural ease. Thick, ice-silver parkas

obscured faces already hidden behind carved ivory

masks, the wind corkscrewing frost-flower patterns

in the long animal fur. Their bodies were

uniformly square and small, their limbs short and

strong from generations of trudging across barren

tundra. When they jostled amongst each other like

a band of disturbed foxes, Chekov caught himself

restlessly squeezing his hands into fists.

The Kitka fluttered back to either side,

harpoons swinging to their shoulders. From behind

them a single native taller and more slimly built

than the rest swept forward through a swirl of

glittering snow. Stiffened feathers clattered faintly

against a chest plate sewn of native bone, and

gloves almost as supple and thin as those on a

Starfleet insulation suit made his hands seem

infinitely delicate in contrast with the bulky Kitka

parkas and mittens. For some reason, the fact that

he didn't walk or stand like the others bothered

Chekov more than the foot-long bone 63

L. A. Graf

knife at his waist. Knives Chekov understood and

could deal with disparity hinted at danger.

Steno, however, apparently lacked the same

reservations. "Align! My old friend!" Dancing

around the end of his untidy gravsled, Steno

popped open his faceplate on his way across the

ice to greet the feathered man. Chekov noticed

that Alion didn't reciprocate the gesture. "How

has life been at your village?"

The first fluting words to pass between Steno

and Alion were too faint to pick up on Chekov's

translator. Even body language could not be

trusted Steno was as insincere and erratic as

they came, and Chekov hadn't observed enough

Kitka yet to know what any of Alion's movements

might mean. From Steno's effusive reactions,

though, Chekov was forced to assume Alion

hadn't offered to murder the station commander.

Too bad. He was probably the first person to

meet Steno who hadn't. Chekov would have liked

a peek past Alion's ivory mask with its temple-

to-temple eye slit, though, if only to judge

whether Kitka grimaced over Steno's blabbering

as readily as humans did.

"See." Uhura placed both tiny hands at the small

of Chekov's back and delivered a playful shove

obviously not intended to disturb his stance. "I

told you they were friendly. You worry too much."

Chekov twisted a look over one shoulder,

unsure whether or not she'd intended that remark

to be funny. Even without seeing her expression,

he could read the eager interest in her body's

balance when she leaned around him to study the

natives. "You must be joking." He glanced back at

Steno and Alion while the businessman tried to

thaw the ice statue with his words. "They don't

look friendly to me."

64

ICE TRAP

Sunlight flashed white across Uhura's goggles

when she tipped her head up to sigh at him.

"You're paranoid."

Chekov turned his attention back toward the na-

tives without letting Uhura know how much her

comment stung. It was his job to be paranoid, to

make sure the rest of a landing party could go

about their duties without worry it annoyed him

to be criticized for being careful.

Steno turned neatly to bring himself shoulder to

shoulder with Alion, head still inclined in a very

political display of interest. Chekov watched the

two men start toward his group across the ice, and

his stomach tightened with apprehension. He liked

Alion better at a good stone's throw away.

"Chief?" Howard's voice came very quietly over

the suit communicators. Chekov answered him by

moving one hand behind his back to signal the

squad into a four corners watch. Uhura glanced

up at him, then behind her at the others, as the

three remaining officers pulled together into a

diamond with Chekov at the head and Uhura near

the center. Chekov almost expected her to say

something further about his paranoia, but she only

stood close beside him in silence. He never knew

when he'd be most surprised by her when she

agreed with him about something, or when she

didn't.

Alion came to a halt just more than an arm's

length away. His carved ivory mask shifted to look

downward at Uhura, then lifted again to angle at

the guards behind Chekov's left shoulder. He

stood even in height with Chekov not tall by

human standards, perhaps, but impressive enough

among the Kitka if the natives around him were

any example. When he straightened his shoulders

to stare straight at the

65

L. A. Graf

lieutenant, something about the ease with which

he dismissed the other officers left Chekov certain

Alion assumed him to be party leader. "I am

Alion, the Speaker to Fishes."

Chekov wondered if these were the same fishes

who didn't answer when the Kitka asked

permission to kill them.

"I'm Lieutenant Commander Uhura." Voice

pleasant with friendliness, Uhura stepped out in

front of Chekov not far enough to panic him, but

just far enough to make his hands itch with an

urge to pull her back a step. "I speak to other

peoples for our leader. This is Lieutenant

Chekov." She gestured behind her without turning.

Alion's expressionless mask made it impossible to

tell if he shifted his gaze even once throughout

the exchange. "He and his people provide us with

protection when we travel."

Steno pursed his lips and snorted.

Alion nodded, lifting his ivory face to the sky.

"You come from houses above the aurora." The

English words came through Chekov's translator

well behind the sound of the native's throaty

ululations. Long pauses disjointed the phrasing,

hinting that the translator was having difficulty

choosing words and deciphering meanings. "You

come to search for your broken airship."

The meaning of that seemed clear enough,

though. "You know about the shuttle accident?"

Chekov wondered if he should have tried to

phrase things more simply when the translator

sang back an extended string of verbiage only

after a noticeable delay.

Even so, Alion seemed to understand. He lifted

one delicate hand to indicate Steno. "Only what he

tells me."

"Apparently" Steno folded his arms with a 66

ICE TRAP

business-weary sigh that would have frosted his

faceplate had he left it down "our idiot company

pilot landed the shuttle's life-pod in some sort of

Kitka ceremonial ground. Alion and his people

have been reconsecrating the area all week."

Chekov turned back to Alion, found that the

native was still focused on him, waiting. "What

about the survivors?" he asked.

Alion offered nothing, but Steno shrugged as

though not particularly concerned. "Align says

they saw none only the explosion where the

shuttle went down."

Chekov frowned in irritation. "Can't your native

friend speak for himself?"

"Lieutenant!" Uhura's startled exclamation made

Chekov glad for their goggles, if only because they

protected him from what he was sure was a killing

glare from the communications officer.

"No. I understand." Alion put up one hand to

placate Uhura, his dispassionate translator voice

giving no clue as to whether he felt anger or

amusement or irritation at this treatment. "I have

lived with humans at the equator, so I know some

of how they think. Lieutenant Chekov believes

some man must always be to blame for things that

happen, so he wishes I should prove myself

blameless." Stepping away from Steno, Alion

brought himself so close that Chekov could see

reflections from his own goggles dance light

patterns on the Kitka's ivory cheeks. "My hunters

saw the flash of your airship's landing. It came to

rest in a holy area, and none of my hunters could

cross the spirit boundary to go to it."

"What about your holy people? The ones who

consecrate the grounds?"

"They have not yet been made ready." 67

L. A. Graf

"So you haven't made contact with anyone from

the accident?" Chekov could almost see the color

of the native's eyes inside the shadowed eye slit.

"No radio contact? Not even a flare?"

"He told you no!" Steno blurted.

"He's told me nothing." Chekov put out one

hand when Steno made as if to come forward,

warning him back from where he didn't belong.

"Let him answer, Mr. Steno, or I'll have my

people remove you so that I don't have to put up

with your interruptions."

Steno slapped at the restraining hand, exposed

cheeks flushing from more than wind when his

blow had little effect on Chekov's barrier. "I'm not

afraid of you."

"That's your problem."

"Listen, you pompous little son of "

"Mister Steno!" Uhura flashed forward to snatch

Chekov's extended wrist. He let her push his arm

back to his side, recognising her stern grip as a

reprimand, although she kept her face and voice

directed at Steno. "If you're unhappy with how

Lieutenant Chekov conducts an interview, then I

ask you to express your opinions in a polite and

professional manner, or not at all." The brief

tightening of her fingers on his wrist obviously

said, And you, too! "Am I understood?"

Steno slapped his faceplate back into place not

specifically an answer, but a retreat, at least, from

what Chekov could tell. The lieutenant,

meanwhile, kept silent. Uhura would no doubt

have plenty to say to him as soon as they weren't

in front of civilian personnel, and he was perfectly

willing to wait for that lecture.

"If we're finished here," Uhura went on,

releasing Chekov so she could chafe her hands

against her arms,

68

ICE TRAP

"can we go someplace a little warmer to finish our

discussion?"

Steno fidgeted openly, kicking his heel into the

ice to watch the spray of glittering shards it rained

across his shadow. Alion simply waited, blind

ivory face looking at nothing, while Chekov's

stomach knotted with worry. "Mr. Steno?" he

prodded.

The sound of Chekov's voice seemed to remind

Steno that his job was to be decisive and

impervious, not to sulk like a four-year-old.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he stated

bluntly, "Before they take us to their village, you'll

have to hand over your phasers."

That was easy enough to deal with, at least.

Chekov crossed his arms. "No."

Alion actually responded in what Chekov almost

recognised as surprise, jerking his chin as though

to avoid a sudden blow.

"You must understand." Uhura patted the

phaser on her hip. "These things are our only

means of protection."

Alion made a harsh sniffing noise, and a curl of

steam feathered past the bottom of his mask. "I

thought he was your protection." He pointed a

slim finger at Chekov.

Uhura glanced up at the lieutenant, hesitating.

"These things belong to him," she said at last,

obviously thinking carefully before saying each

word. "The way those harpoons belong to your

men."

"He knows what they are," Chekov said, peering

at Alion. "He lived at the equator, worked around

technology."

Alion answered Uhura as though Chekov had

not interrupted. "Harpoons are for fishing," the

Kitka

69

L. A. Graf

told her. "For hunting, for food. Our village will

gift you with all the food you need nothing and

no one can harm you if you stay with us." He

fluttered impatient fingers at the phaser under her

hand. "These weapons are not necessary."

Very aware of the dozen native harpoons still

surrounding them, Chekov touched the casing of

his own weapon behind the cover of his folded

arms. "Then why do you have to take them from

us?"

Steno brought his hands together in front of his

waist. "It's a trust thing, Lieutenant something

you wouldn't understand." He shot a quick look at

Uhura before she could say anything, and added,

"I was polite."

Chekov still wanted to tear Steno's voice mike

out if he did one more thing to undermine

negotiations.

"Our spirits do not allow us to bring another

tribe's hunters onto our holy grounds." Alion kept

his face close to Chekov's, ignoring Steno in favor

of fingering the hilt of his knife in mimicry of the

lieutenant's uneasy gesture. "We cannot purify you

to travel to our holy places to find your missing

crewmen if you carry your weapons."

Without being able to see eyes or even hear a

real voice, Chekov couldn't tell how much of

Alion's words and mannerisms should be taken as

a threat. He decided that being accused of unfair

paranoia was preferable to overlooking dangers

just because he wasn't certain.

"Howard." He waited for his

second-in-command to slip up beside him, then

unclipped his phaser and slapped it into Howard's

palm. Alion's mask shifted position ever so

slightly, following the path of the weapon. "Stay

with Tenzing and Publicker," Chekov 70

ICE TRAP

went on, not taking his eyes offthe native. "I'll go

with Lieutenant Commander Uhura "

"No." Uhura pulled her own phaser from her

belt, checked its charge, and handed it across to

Alion. "We're not splitting up the party."

Chekov nearly lunged in front of her to

intercept the transaction. "Commander "

"Lieutenant." She put the back of her hand to

his chest, an ages-old signal to halt, and Chekov

was forced to stand maddeningly immobile while

Alion took the gun and slipped it into some carry

place beneath his cover of feathers. "If I was safe

enough with only you and no phasers, I'll be

plenty safe with four of you and no phasers." She

clicked off her outside mike and added over their

private channel, "We don't even know if the

phasers will work down here Scotty said he

wasn't certain."

"That isn't the point."

"That's entirely the point." Steno cocked his chin

a fraction higher when Chekov shot a sharp glare

in his direction, assuming he knew their full

conversation, although he'd only heard Chekov's

part of it. "Begging Federation Starship Security's

pardon" he echoed Chekov's earlier platitude

with a sneer "but your lieutenant commander's

right. We're not going into a combat zone. We've

sent visitors to the Kitta at least a million times in

the last ten years, and every time we've

complied with their religious tenets and walked

among them as honored guests."

"Have they always taken your phasers?" Chekov

asked.

Steno sketched a little shrug, obviously a little

put off by the question. "Not until recently. But I

don't see how that matters. They still haven't

cooked us for 71

L. A. Graf

dinner, or shrunken our heads, or anything else

similarly dramatic."

Chekov considered suggesting that Steno could

stand to have his head shrunken, but bit back the

comment to avoid igniting the already volatile

feelings between them. "In the past," he said

reasonably, "you haven't been among them

searching for shipwrecked personnel."

"Missing personnel don't affect how much I

trust them," Steno countered, "any more than

standing here arguing brings you one step closer

to finding those people." He appealed to Uhura,

hands outspread in hopeless submission. "Align

won't budge on this matter, believe me."

Uhura nodded, her breath filter hissing on a

tiny sigh. "Lieutenant, give him your phaser."

Her acceptance of the conditions struck Chekov

like a physical blow. "Sir . . ." He stiffened beside

her, bringing his hands to his sides and schooling

what he could of the annoyance from his voice. "I

would rather not."

"I think that's obvious." She lifted her goggles to

squint first at Chekov, then across at Alion.

"They'll give the phasers back when we leave.

Yes?" Alion nodded slowly, and Uhura echoed his

gesture with faint smile crinkling at the corners

of her dark eyes. When Chekov didn't move right

away, she turned her gaze back up to him. "I can

make it a direct order, if you want me to."

For an instant he thought about going on record

as objecting to her decision, then clenched his jaw

with disgust that he'd even considered that course

of action. The responsibility for what he did was

his, and he refused to shirk that responsibility by

either lodging some formal complaint or by

forcing Uhura to 72

ICE TRAP

pull rank. If he had more to go on than an

abstract gut feeling, even her direct order couldn't

compel him to surrender their weapons he

would do what he thought best for the safety of

the party, and deal with the consequences later.

With no concrete threat before them, though, he

couldn't justify disobedience, and so had no

choice but to comply with his commanding

officer's wishes before she was forced to turn

them into law.

Turning to Howard, he collected back his

phaser, then tugged the ensign's weapon from his

belt as well. "Go get the others' phasers," he said,

his voice as neutral and even as possible. "Bring

them here to me."

Howard nodded shortly. "Aye, sir."

Steno chuckled as Howard trotted between the

other two guards, gathering up both their phasers

and extra power cells. "Well, Lieutenant Chekov,

what a pleasant surprise."

Chekov looked around to find the station com-

mander drumming his fingers together with

unconcealed satisfaction. "You almost had me

convinced you hadn't a reasonable bone in your

body," Steno purred. "Perhaps this trip won't be a

total loss after all."

Chekov didn't need a warning from Uhura to

know he should keep his mouth shut. Still, he saw

her head angle to glance over at him as he took

the phasers from Howard and handed them across

into Alion's waiting hands. The negligent ease

with which Alion signaled two of the waiting

natives forward to take c harge of the weapons

made Chekov's stomach ache.

"Many thanks." Alion turned back to Uhura with

a deep, reverent bow. "Now we go to our village

and make you ready to meet our gods." He

pivoted to face 73

L A. Graf

his people, one hand circling the air above his

head, and the group sprang into motion with a

burble of untranslatable sound.

While Steno's people labored to secure their

gear for transport, Chekov motioned Tenzing to

bring the Enterprise gravsled into line with the

column Alion's people had already begun to form.

He kept himself close to Uhura's side while

supervising the lineup, serving as sentinel until

Howard could take over and leave him free to

shadow Alion. When they finally fell into step

beside Tenzing and the gravsled, Chekov thumbed

off his outside mike and touched the insulation

suit communicator by his ear. "You know," he

commented privately to Uhura, "where I come

from, 'going to meet your gods' usually entails

some kind of dying."

Uhura laughed, punching him on the arm in

friendly admonition. "Don't be so gloomy.

Sometimes, I think you'd consider your own

mother a danger to starship security."

"My mother never asked me to give up my

phaser."

"Maybe she should have." She angled her head

up at him in a gesture he assumed meant she was

smiling behind all her insulation suit gear. "You're

being paranoid again."

He wasn't sure how to tell her that his greatest

fear of all was that he wasn't paranoid enough.

74

Chapter Five

To UHURA'S ES'ES, the Kitka village looked no

different from any of the other mounded hills of

ice Alion had led them through for the last few

hours. The fading arctic sunset painted the west

face with rose-violet streaks of light, leaving the

other sides charcoaled with shadows. It wasn't

until one of the Kitka hunters lifted his face

shield and let out a fluting cry that she could see

the stir of movement in one of those shadows.

The dark patch resolved into an ice-carved

doorway as they came closer, a small cluster of

fur-clad Kitka climbing out of it. They called back

across the ice, a questioning note clear in the rise

of their high-pitched voices.

"Uhura, can you tell what they're saying?"

Chekov's voice sounded oddly metallic through

her communicator, distorted by the static-filled

distance between them. The security chief had

kept pace with

75

L. A. Graf

Alion on the long walk from their landing site,

staying so close that he could have been a thin,

dark shadow cast by the native's paler bulk. Steno

trudged a half meter behind them, eyes trained on

the uneven ground. He didn't seem to have heard

Chekov's question. Uhura guessed that Chekov

had turned his voice mike off so the Kitka

wouldn't know he was talking.

"My translator didn't pick up anything definite,"

she replied. Howard glanced at her, his goggles a

shimmering bright spot against the dark expanse

of ice behind him. He'd stayed about as close to

her as Chekov had to Alion, on what Uhura

suspected were direct orders from his chief. "I'm

increasing sensitivity on my unit. I'll let you know

if that helps."

"Right."

The cries across the ice cut off abruptly as Alion

answered with a long, falling howl, eerily similar

to the radio interference generated by Nordstral's

auroras. Uhura wondered if the natives had

actually picked up the purely electromagnetic

signal. Was it possible the Kitka were even more

in tune with Nordstral's environment than her

reference materials hinted? Once again, though,

her translator stayed stubbornly silent. She let out

her breath in a quiet sigh of frustration.

"They may just be exchanging voice signals, sir."

Howard must have heard her through the open

communicator channel. "After all, we didn't have

any trouble translating when they talked to us

before."

"I know," Uhura agreed. "But Alion was being

careful to speak slowly then, so our translators

could distinguish each word and hear them

clearly. If their normal speech pattern is as rapid

as this" a chorus of rising and falling wails now

volleyed back and forth

76

ICE TRAP

between the villagers and the returning

party "the translator may not be able to separate

out individual words." She turned one gloved hand

upward to indicate her helplessness. "I'd hate to

think we could only translate their language when

they wanted us to."

"You'd hate it?" This time it was Chekov's voice

in her ear, a distant growl through the static. "If

we can't even understand " He cut off abruptly

when Uhura saw Steno close the distance between

them. A moment later the security chief spoke

again. "Commander, the planetary officer wants to

go inside the village for the night. I think you'd

better come talk to him."

"I'll be right over." Uhura took a deep breath,

hoping Steno would have enough sense to be

polite to Chekov. Her second-in-command was

getting understandably short on patience with him.

"Coming with me, Mr. Howard?"

The tall security guard glanced over at the

swarm of Kitka villagers heading out toward the

gravsleds. "With your permission, sir, I'd like to go

help Publicker and Tenzing guard our gear."

"Good idea." One of the small fur-clad natives

was already poking with childlike curiosity at the

Nordstral sled, ignoring the company guards'

attempt to shoo him away. The gentle Kitka

seemed to have no fear of Steno and his men,

although Uhura noticed that they parted ahead of

her like startled fish when she walked through

them. Natives clustered around the Enterprise sled

in a cautious halo of windswept fur, pointing and

whistling to each other in what sounded like

surprise. None of them made any attempt to

approach the gear, however.

". . . I'm telling you, the equipment will work

better down in the tunnels." Steno's sudden bellow

dragged Uhura's attention away from the natives

and 77

L. A. Graf

back to her own party. The planetary officer was

glaring down at Chekov, who was busy blocking

the taller man's access to the ice-carved entrance.

She bit her lip and hurried forward. "Can't you get

it through your foam-insulated head that there's

nothing to be afraid of here?"

"Mr. Steno." The intensity of Chekov's accent

told Uhura he was probably talking through

clenched teeth. "May I remind you that we still

have a missing research team out on the ice

sheet? I don't see how sleeping unprotected inside

a native village is going to help us locate them!"

"That's because you're an idiot,"' said Steno un-

wisely. Uhura saw muscles jump in Chekov's

shoulders as he clenched his fists, and she hurried

forward to put a hand on his arm. It felt

rock-hard beneath her fingers. Steno switched his

unshielded glare to her, his cheeks mottled with

frost and anger. "Lieutenant Commander, would

you please explain to your chief goon that

electronic equipment functions better above minus

thirty degrees than below it7"

Uhura winced and quickly tapped her voice

mike off, dialing her communicator to a coded

channel that Steno couldn't overhear. "Chekov,

he's right." Static crackled in her ear as she

paused, waiting for a reply. "Even a ten-degree

difference will enhance our reception by a

hundredfold. It could make all the difference in

hearing a distress call from the shuttle."

"Sir." The strain in Chekov's voice when he

finally spoke surprised Uhura. "I understand that,

but I still don't think we should enter this village.

Not with our phasers in the natives' control and

no assurance that our translators will allow us to

speak with them."

Uhura glanced over at Alion, waiting with stoic

patience for them to follow him down into the

village. 78

ICE TRAP

His mantle of feathers stirred in the evening wind,

with a faint sound like chattering teeth. "I think

you're overestimating the danger, Lieutenant."

Chekov started to protest, but she overrode him.

"However, I'll grant you the right to be cautious.

You'll keep our security guards out here on the

ice, while I help Mr. Steno set up his

communications center down in the village. If we

encounter any problems, I'll let you know."

"But, sir . . ." Chekov sounded distinctly

unhappy with this arrangement. "You're the one

we're here to guard!"

"No, Lieutenant." Uhura shook her head, giving

him a little push away from the doorway. He

didn't move. "You're here to guard all of

us including the shuttle survivors we were sent to

find. And our best chance of doing that is to let

Mr. Steno into the village."

The security chief looked down at her, his

masked and goggled face expressionless, but he

yielded to her push and stepped aside. Steno gave

him a scornful look on his way past, signaling his

men to come with him. Chekov caught Uhura by

the wrist when she turned to follow.

"I'm sending a guard down there with you," he

said grimly. "Don't argue with me about it."

Uhura gave him a concerned glance, although

she knew he couldn't see it. "I'm not the one

arguing, Chekov." One of the Nordstral men

brushed by her, equipment case balanced on his

shoulder. Two furclad Kitka danced around him

with excited whistles, so tiny they had to be

children. Uhura watched them with a smile. "I

really don't see anything to worry about."

"I know." Chekov hadn't noticed the children. He

79

L A. Graf

was staring at something over Uhura's shoulder,

and when she turned to look, Alion ducked away

from the doorway to disappear deeper inside.

"That's what worries me."

Soroya had been under way for approximately

half an hour when Nuie returned to Kirk and

McCoy with an other crewman. While the captain

was escorted to the bridge to meet with

Mandeville, McCoy followed Nuie to Soroya's

sickbay.

The door to the medical section stood open

when McCoy and Nuie arrived. "This is our

infirmary," the first mate explained, ushering the

Federation of fleer in ahead of him. "Dr.

Muhanti's probably in back, in his lab. Come with

me."

McCoy looked about as they crossed the room,

comparing it to the sharp, clean lines of the

Enterprise infirmary and finding it adequate,

although lacking in what he considered a "healing"

atmosphere. He was proud of his sickbay, proud

that it didn't have the notoriously sterile smell and

look of so many hospitals on so many planets.

Here the walls were bland, the riveting

undisguised by color or wall hanging. The few tall

beds were narrow and gray-sheeted and looked

hard as hell.

"Dr. Muhanti?"

"One moment, Nuie."

McCoy stopped just behind the short first mate's

shoulder and looked into the lab. Vaguely familiar

experiments ran at two of the three work stations.

Sticky-looking dried areas spotted the lab table,

and used beakers and test tubes layered with crud

were piled near the steriliser. A dark-haired man

perched on a stool at the center work station, his

back to the door and his hands in his hair. McCoy

at first thought 80

ICE TRAP

they'd caught the doctor in a moment of

frustration, and felt a pang of sympathy. He knew

how hard it would be for him if the Enterprise

crew was suddenly afflicted and he could find no

way to help them. Then he noticed the odd,

systematised way the doctor felt at his head, and

he frowned in puzzlement.

Muhanti abruptly pivoted the stool to face them.

Fingers still probing the depths of his hair, the

Indian doctor blinked at McCoy with surprise on

his darkfeatured face. "Who is this?"

"Dr. Muhanti, Dr. McCoy of the Federation

starship Enterprise. He and Captain Kirk have

come to aid us."

"Indeed." Was there veiled malice in that tone,

or was it just McCoy's imagination? Muhanti's

face abruptly split into a friendly, but almost

condescending, smile. "How nice of the Federation

to notice us." His hands dropped into his lap.

"You look confused, Dr. McCoy, by my actions.

Could it be that the knowledgeable Federation

has yet to discover the new science of

phrenology?"

Caution alone halted McCoy's derisive snort be-

fore he could vent it. This was becoming strange.

"Phrenology?" he queried politely, mind running

scattergun.

"Ah! It's somewhat comforting to know that the

Federation is not first in all things." He took a

pose that put McCoy in mind of several of his

professors back when he'd been a lowly first-year

med student. "Phrenology is an analytical method

based upon the fact that certain mental faculties

and character traits are indicated by the

configurations of the skull. I have mapped the

contours of my own skull as an experiment and

found the science to be highly exacting in its

diagnosis. I intend to use it as the basis of my

research 81

L. A. Graf

into the aberrant behavior of my fellow crewmen.

Within a relatively short amount of time, I believe

I'll have a cure for their various psychoses."

"Really?" McCoy replied dryly.

"Do I detect a tone of disbelief, my good

colleague? I find that skeptics are often those

most afraid of what a new science will illuminate.

Perhaps you'd allow me a small experiment?" He

stepped toward McCoy, hands lifting to feel the

doctor's skull.

McCoy was saved by Captain Mandeville's voice

over the intercom. "First Mate Nuie to the bridge.

Bring Dr. McCoy with you. I think he'd like to see

this."

McCoy looked curiously at Nuie. "See what?"

The first mate was grinning. "I think I know

what it is, and she's right." He bowed shortly to

Dr. Muhanti. "If you'll excuse us."

McCoy spread his hands wide in mock apology.

"Duty calls."

"Of course," Muhanti sneered down his nose.

"Perhaps another time." He turned away, fingers

already worming back under his hair, and McCoy

fallowed Nuie into the corridor.

McCoy resisted bringing up Muhanti's strange

behavior. Maybe this was normal for the Indian.

Maybe all the crew was skewed a little left of

center by whatever had caused the abnormal

behavior in those crew taken up to Curie. He

didn't want to bring it up unless Nuie did so first,

and since he didn't, McCoy prudently kept his

mouth closed.

He followed the silent crewman through the

harvester and to the bridge. Here, as elsewhere in

the ship, areas for personnel had been trimmed as

much as possible to allow maximum cargo space

for harvested plankton. McCoy gave the crew

points for 82

ICE TRAP

maintaining what sanity they could during long

dives in such cramped quarters.

McCoy spied Kirk immediately and moved

among the colorfully clothed Nordstral employees

to his captain's side. "What's this all about?" he

murmured.

Kirk shook his head. "I don't know." He didn't

appear worried, and that alone was enough to

make McCoy relax his cautious stance somewhat.

Kirk's hazel eyes scanned the viewscreen, and

McCoy followed his gaze. Water granulated with

tiny floating particles of sediment or something

like it surrounded the ship, lit by the sub's running

lights to a murky green. An amazing abundance of

sea life flourished here under the ice sheet.

Beyond the reach of the lights was a darkness

even deeper than that found in space. McCoy

understood why the ocean had truly been

mankind's last unexplored frontier.

Kirk's head socked sideways toward a young

woman hunched over a radar screen, one hand to

her tiny earphone. "They've picked up something,

but I don't know what it is," he said quietly.

"Nobody seems upset, though."

That was true. In fact, everyone seemed slightly

excited. McCoy's eyes hunted the murky depths to

no avail. "Is it always so dark?"

"Ah, yes." Captain Mandeville strolled across the

cramped bridge to stand between them. "Under

the ice sheet it's very dark, indeed, Dr. McCoy.

That's the seaman's night. Only for us, night lasts

a good deal longer than you're used to." She

chuckled.

McCoy couldn't see what was so damned

amusing. He'd almost managed to forget they

were underwater, let alone submerged under

several meters of ice. Now the reality of their

situation returned and a shiver of fear took a

meandering stroll from his ankles to the 83

L. A. Graf

top of his head. He suppressed the desire to reach

up and feel if his hair was standing on end.

"Where is it?" Mandeville spoke over her

shoulder to the radar tech.

"Dead on, Captain. It's holding in one spot, so

it must be a mater." She looked over her shoulder,

face lit expectantly. "If we up the floods, we

should be able to see something."

"Hit floods," Mandeville said.

"Aye-aye, Captain." A Kitka crewman several

years younger than Nuie shifted at his station and

flicked a bank of switches. The floodlights

illuminating the ship's path suddenly brightened

considerably, banishing the darkness for several

hundred meters ahead. Something writhed in the

near distance. Something large and looking like

nothing McCoy had ever seen before. At the same

moment, an eerie ululation reached them. The

throaty cry rose and fell, ending in a ponderous

sigh of sound.

McCoy's eyes bugged. "What the hell's that?" he

gasped, grabbing Kirk's arm.

"That," said Mandeville dryly, "is a kraken."

"No." Nuie's voice was reverent. "That is god."

The Kitka village was cut from tunnels barely

taller and wider than the Kitka themselves. For

once, Uhura's smallness was an advantage. She

took some unrepentant pleasure in watching Steno

try to navigate the narrow warren, his curses

booming off the icy walls when he banged against

them. There wasn't much illumination beyond the

glow of their small flashlights and the occasional

flicker of a native oil pot.

"What are they burning in those things,

Tenzing?" Uhura asked softly as they passed

another of the small 84

ICE TRAP

lights. A drift of spicy fragrance stole through her

air filter to tickle at the back of her throat. Beside

her, the security guard Chekov had assigned her

pointed a tricorder at the pot and called up a

quick analysis.

"Some kind of fish oil, sir." Tenzing's voice

sounded surprised. "It sure doesn't smell like fish

to me."

"No." Uhura glanced at the fur-clad Kitka

walking behind them, wondering if the translator

was actually working. She'd set it for maximum

sensitivity and was trying to choose her words

carefully, but the Kitka equivalent still came out

in unsteady rushes and stops. "What kind of fish

makes this oil?"

The small native looked up at her, then ducked

away from her glance with a muffled warble of

sound. The translator hummed, then supplied a

single word "Kraken."

"Kraken?" Uhura blinked. The word conjured up

an image of mythical monsters from Nordic

legend, not an alien arctic fish. "What is a

kraken?"

The native looked up at her again, face and

gender hidden behind a plain bone face mask.

Still, uncertainty was easy to read in the tilt of the

native's head. This time the warble was longer,

and deliberately slow.

"Kraken hunter under ice," said the translator.

"Kraken eyes like your eyes."

"My eyes?" Uhura repeated, puzzled. The little

Kitka couldn't possibly see her eyes through the

reflective goggles over them. Then she laughed,

realizing that the native couldn't know there were

eyes under that bright shine. "Those aren't my

eyes," she said, and pulled off the goggles.

A startled wailing sound was her reward. Uhura

squinted against the bite of frigid air, wondering

if 85

L. A. Graf

she'd managed to frighten the little nat ive even

more with the sight of her dark skin. The Kitka

answered her by pouncing forward and patting at

her arm excitedly. "Kraken eyes gone," said the

translator, after sorting through the native's rapid

whistling squeaks. "Kraken eyes gone!"

"Yes." Uhura glanced over at Tenzing, unsure

whether the security guard's less complex

translator could handle the Kitka's sudden rush of

speech. "The goggles seem to remind the natives

of something scary, Tenzing. Would you mind

taking yours off, too?"

"Not at all, sir." Tenzing lifted her goggles,

revealing Asiatic eyes and pale brown skin. She

looked curious. "Is it this kraken-thing, sir?"

"Apparently." Uhura looked back at the small

native standing next to them in time to see the

bone face mask fall from a young girl's eager face.

Her eyes were dark blue and thickly lashed above

oddly flattened cheekbones. The coppery tone of

her skin deepened to amber around her lips and

eyes, paling upward into a mane of shining silver

hair. "Is this better?"

- "Better," the young Kitka said, and touched her

mittened fingers to her lips in a gesture of what

looked like thanks. Then she reached up to pat

curiously at the reflective plastic of Uhura's

goggles. She seemed to have no shyness now that

recognisable eyes could be seen. "Kraken eyes not

real?"

Uhura smiled back at her, delighted. "The

kraken eyes are a mask, just like your mask." She

reached out to touch the thin bone plate now

dangling around the girl's strong throat. "They

keep the wind out of my face."

Amber lips parted in a snow-bright smile. "Mask 86

ICE TRAP

for going outside," she agreed. "Not wear mask in-

side."

"No." Uhura glanced around as they turned a

corner and emerged into a junction of several

tunnels. The roof was higher here, allowing Steno

and his men to move around a little more freely.

They promptly began unboxing their

communications console. Uhura frowned and

moved over to watch them, her little native friend

skipping beside her.

"Mr. Steno, is this where you usually set up your

equipment?" she asked quietly. The two Nordstral

guards emptied the last of the insulated boxes and

left, presumably to bring in the rest of their gear.

Most of the accompanying natives went with them,

except for two of Alion's harpoon-bearing hunters

and Uhura's small friend, who still hovered by her

arm. Tenzing was making brief forays into the

darkness of the surrounding tunnels, taking some

kind of measurements with her tricorder.

The planetary officer grunted. "It's the only

place in this damned snake nest where I can sit

without hitting my head on the roof. What's wrong

with that?"

Uhura glanced at the dark mouths of tunnels

gaping in silent emptiness around them. "It doesn't

seem very well protected," she said at last, feeling

as if some of Chekov's suspicions had rubbed off

on her. "For the equipment," she added hurriedly,

as Steno glared down at her. "Won't there be a lot

of natives coming back and forth through here?"

"No, of course not." He snorted and bent to

plug his amplifier units into the main receiver.

"Align will tell the other natives to leave us alone."

Uhura bent to help him run the cable to his

transmitting disk, her slender fingers untangling

the cold wire faster than his bulky gloves could

manage. 87

L. A. Graf

She got an ungracious grunt in response. "Is Alion

the Kitka's leader?"

"He must be they all seem to dislike him

enough." Steno slid a packing case over to make

a seat in front of the console, then dropped onto

it and began to warm up the central processor

without even bothering to consult her. Uhura felt

her lips tighten involuntarily. She was the

communications specialist here, not this glorified

corporate policeman! Now she knew how Chekov

must have felt when Steno ignored his security

precautions.

"Personally, I'm not sure the Kitka really have

leaders," Steno continued absently, watching the

monitor spit out its start-up codes. "That's one of

the reasons they're so damned hard to cut a deal

with. You talk to one group and think you've got

everything straight, then some other group comes

in and gets hysterical because you're walking

around on their sacred icebergs."

Uhura stifled an urge to reach out and slap off

Steno's translator, which was still emitting its un-

steady equivalent of native speech. She glanced

down at the Kitka girl and saw that she looked

puzzled but not particularly offended. With luck,

Steno's rudeness was being lost in translation.

"Then what is Alion?" she inquired, keeping her

voice soft with an effort.

"Some kind of religious guru, I think. Like a

witch doctor or a shaman. Maybe he hears their

confessions and makes them do penance, I don't

know." Steno scowled as the communications

console buzzed and flickered an error message at

him. "Damn those idiots! They forgot to put the

signal equaliser in. I'd better go make sure they

don't leave it sitting out on the sled."

88

ICE TRAP

Uhura stepped back as he surged angrily out of

his chair, making the little Kitka skitter out of his

way. The planetary officer scowled when he saw

her. "Don't let her touch anything!" he snapped at

Uhura as she started to speak. "And don't you

touch anything, either. This isn't Starfleet

equipment."

Uhura frowned but stayed silent until he left,

the Kitka hunters trailing after him like quiet

drifts of snow. She glanced down at the young

native girl, who was watching her with wide eyes,

then up at Tenzing, who had come back into the

main room in time to hear the last exchange. "If

I'm not allowed to touch anything," Uhura said,

thoughtfully tapping on a small box hidden in the

clutter of unwrapped insulation, "I suppose that

means I can't install this while he's gone." She saw

Tenzing's puzzled look and added, "It's his signal

equaliser."

Tenzing's eyes crinkled into slits a moment

before her gruff laughter filled the frigid air.

Uhura burst into laughter with her, letting out her

frustration with the shared joke.

The Kitka girl made a quick hooting noise that

sounded remarkably like laughter, too, and she

tugged at Uhura's hand. "Time for dinner now."

"Is it?" It certainly was for her, Uhura thought.

It had been a long time since she'd eaten on the

ship. She wondered if Chekov would remember to

eat something, with no one but his well-trained

guards around to remind him.

The native girl tugged at her again, harder.

"Time for dinner," she insisted. "Kraken Eyes

come home with Nhym."

Uhura glanced up at Tenzing with a smile. "I

seem to have a dinner invitation. Are you in the

mood for raw fish?"

89

L. A. Graf

"Uh, no, sir. But I've got the lieutenant's

orders." Tenzing slung her tricorder over her

shoulder. "Good thing I remembered to bring

ration packs."

McCoy canted his head back to look at Nuie,

torn between wanting an explanation and the

desire to watch the magnificent creature

suspended in the murky depths ahead of them. "I

beg your pardon?"

Mandeville laughed. "Gentlemen, meet the

planet's largest predator. When Nordstral

Pharmaceuticals first came here, the initial survey

crews saw these creatures and wanted to learn

what they could about them, so they asked the

Kitka. The natives told them how their heroes

dream of coming back to life as pieces of 'god,'

and how the planet punishes wrongdoers by

sending them this visitor in the night. The closest

the translators could come for a human word was

'kraken.'" Her mouth twitched. "I guess it's as

good a word as any."

McCoy slid into a vacant seat at the console and

intently watched the creature as it circled. It was

impossible to divine its true color under the harsh

glare of the floodlights. It might have been grey

or brown or the same green as the water. The

color was milky pale over the length of its body,

unmarked by variation except around the head.

The skin didn't appear leathery, but rather like

that which whales were supposed to have had.

The animal was huge, nearly the size of the

harvester, as far as he could tell at this distance

and with the weird properties of water coming

into play. Its head was small, suspended on a

long, graceful neck. Large, iridescent eyes sat

close together on the front of the head, above two

slitted nostrils and in front of what appeared to be

gill-like membranes of brilliant white that

resembled stiff,

90

ICE TRAP

water-buoyed feathers. The four limbs were short

and broad, but tipped with claws. The tail was

short, broad, flat, and set perpendicular to the

body's general orientation.

"It's amazing," Kirk murmured, and McCoy be-

came aware once again of his surroundings. "What

does it eat?"

"Kitka," someone replied, and the crew laughed.

Nuie shook his head as though with long

tolerance. "They like to make jokes about it,

Captain Kirk, but you don't see anyone going for

a swim, now, do you?" He glanced around the

bridge, and the crew shifted and looked aside,

embarrassed. "The kraken feed on the same sea

creatures as the Kitka. It may be the largest

predator on Nordstral, but the Kitka are the

strongest." He said it with great pride.

"I've got another blip, Captain!" The radar

tech's excited yelp captured everyone's attention.

"Looks like the show is on!"

'The show?" Kirk queried over the rising

murmur of the crew's voices.

"Mating fight," Mandeville replied, excitement

coloring her tone.

"Mating ght?" McCoy asked, unsure he'd heard

her correctly.

She nodded and took the seat beside him,

motioning for Kirk to take another. "Quick

biology lesson. Kraken are water breathers. They

can also breathe air for short periods of time,

usually when they're busy munching Kitka. They

bear their young underwater, and the young are

independent from birth. In fact, they have a set

period of time something between six and twelve

hours, as we've judged it to get the hell away

from Mommy or be eaten."

A sound was building outside the ship. McCoy felt 91

L A. Graf

it first like a pressure deep within his ears. It

grew, becoming fully audible, like the roar of an

approaching comber. Something huge and pale

flashed by above the ship, arrowing straight for

the kraken, which had stopped its haphazard

circling and turned to face the newcomer.

"Kraken spend the majority of their lives

asexual, androgenous," Mandeville continued.

"Until mating rapture strikes. Then they meet in

pairs and battle to the death."

"Doesn't that kind of forestall any type of

mating?" Kirk asked, eyes intently following the

converging pair.

"The victor becomes female, Captain, and steals

what she needs." Mandeville leaned forward.

"Here they go."

The roar of the meeting leviathans was enough

to make McCoy cover his ears. Double-hinged

jaws gaped wide, whipping about on lean necks

like lethal snakes, seeking a stranglehold or a

major vein. Dimly, he heard Mandeville call for a

full stop at a safe distance.

The water roiled where the two giants collided,

obscuring the view. Clawed appendages raked

unprotected sides and underbellies. The kraken

twined their necks, lurching from side to side in

an effort to snap vertebrae. One pulled back in an

effort to improve its hold, and the other slashed

forward, using its opponent's weight against it.

They collided hard, rolling in the swell, and were

suddenly obscured by a brilliant blooming, like an

underwater Dower. Bright arterial blood swirled

in the saltwater as the victor sliced her enemy

from neck base to tail and dragged forth a large,

yellow sack. She rent the sack and gobbled the 92

ICE TRAP

contents greedily, then caught the dead kraken in

her claws before it drifted away on the tide, and

began to feed.

Mandeville's hand clapping down to dim the

floods startled McCoy, but it was the strident

whistle over the ship's communication board that

made him jump. The communications tech

listened for a moment, then turned to the group

of officers with confusion on his round Kitka

features. "Captain Kirk, I'm receiving a

transmission from the Enterprise. It's secured on a

Priority One channel, sir, and flagged emergency."

Kirk exchanged looks with McCoy. "Put it

through," he ordered, striding toward the comm

station.

"Captain, this is Spock."

McCoy moved up quietly behind Kirk, not liking

this particular lack of expression in the Vulcan's

voice.

"Spock," Kirk said in acknowledgment, "fancy

hearing from you. What's the matter?" So he

hadn't missed the stillness in Spock's voice, either.

"Captain, I am afraid I have grave news." Spock

paused, and McCoy glanced over at Kirk in time

to see the captain steel himself. "We have just

been informed by orbital station Curie that the

Nordstral shuttle bearing the remainder of the

Enterprise landing party exploded while in transit."

Kirk's jaw hardened, his eyes very bright. "Ex-

ploded." It wasn't even a question. "You're

certain?"

"Indeed. At this time, we do not know if it was

on its way to the northern rendezvous point or

returning. It is unknown if there are survivors."

McCoy didn't realize he'd sat until he felt the

chair's hard seat under him. His entire body felt

93

L. A. Graf

numb, the way a foot does if you sit on it too

long. It seemed a long while before his eyes

sought Kirk.

The captain stood with his arms held rigid at his

sides. The muscles of his shoulders and back

stood out in relief under the close fit of his white

shirt, knotting and relaxing like a fist. "Have you

attempted to raise Chekov or Uhura?"

"I have. No contact has been made."

"But the planet's magnetic interference is

devilish, sir," Scott's voice interjected, strained and

emotional against Spock's stoic report. "Being

unable to reach them might not mean a thing."

"I know that, Scotty." Kirk's voice sounded

husky. "Thank you." He took a deep breath then,

shoulders pulling back in a stance McCoy knew all

too well. "Spock, I want Scotty to start the

necessary modifications to one of the Enterprise's

shuttles. I want a team at the crash site as soon as

possible."

"May I remind the captain that Lieutenant Com-

mander Uhura already headed such a rescue team

for another shuttle's crew?"

"I hear you, Spock. But I won't just leave them."

He pursed his lips in fierce thought. "Two shuttles

in such short order . . . We can't rule out internal

sabotage. I want the next shuttle to come from

our fleet so we can guarantee its integrity. Besides

. . ." A tiny, sad smile flashed across his face.

"Nordstral Pharmaceuticals doesn't have Mr.

Scott."

"Thank you, sir." Scott's broad accent came over

the comm. "I'll do my best."

"You always do, Scotty. Keep me posted on

when that shuttle's ready. And I want updates on

any information you get."

"I shall do so. Spock out." 94

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McCoy watched Kirk close his eyes, hands

wound into fists of frustration. He thought the

captain would say something, or the Soroya's

crew would do something to shatter the illusion

and make it all not so real. Instead, the silence on

the tiny bridge only grew, until it finally made a

sound all its own.

95

Chapter Six

NHYM'S HOME proved to be nothing more than

a deep alcove hollowed along one tunnel wall,

curtained with the leather skins of sea mammals

and lit with several oil-pot lamps. The spicy smell

of kraken oil filled the enclosed space, masking

over the mushier scent of unwashed Kitka. Uhura

took a step inside the curtained area, Tenzing

following cautiously at her heels, then stopped to

blink sudden moisture from her eyes. The faint

trapped warmth of the oil fires had melted the

frost off her eyebrows and lashes.

Nhym threw back her fur hood and shook water

off her hair, the thick silver strands falling into

place as neatly as a seal's pelt when she was done.

The three Kitka inside the alcove greeted her with

a chorus of rising trills, although their voices

sounded thin and whispery compared to Nhym's.

"Granddaughter," provided the translator for two

of them, and "Great

96

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granddaughter" for the last, a tiny huddled figure

in smoke-dark furs.

"Grandmother, Grandfather,

Great-grandmother!" Nhym skipped around a

long, carved-bone table to pat affectionately at

each of them. "Guests come for dinner! People

from above the aurora who wear kraken eyes for

masks!"

The two Kitka kneeling behind the table looked

up at Uhura and Tenzing, surprise turning to

delight in their pale blue eyes. Their response was

so fast and excited that Uhura's translator couldn't

catch it, but the slower whistle from the huddled

older woman came through dearly. "Align's

guests?"

The distaste in the old woman's voice was

obvious, and Nhym gave Uhura an uncertain look.

"We prefer to be the guests of all the Kitka," the

communications officer said in reply, hoping the

translator had some way of expressing that. It

seemed to work well enough. The oldest Kitka

made a fluting sound of satisfaction and rose from

her huddle of furs. She moved strongly despite the

age that yellowed her face and made her eyes

bone-white.

"Welcome, Hunters of Stars. I am Ghyl of

Chinit Clan."

"I am Uhura of the starship Enterprise." Uhura

tried to keep her introduction in the same format.

She took a chance and touched her gloved fingers

to her lips. "I thank you for sharing your dinner."

"It is our honor," said the old Kitka, her amber

lips lifting in a smile that looked a lot like Nhym's.

"Please sit at our table. You came with Nordstral's

Steno?"

"Yes." Uhura settled herself on the thick

leathery skin that covered the floor, folding her

legs gracefully beneath her. Tenzing squatted

silently beside her, 97

L. A. Graf

tricorder discreetly scanning the alcove to record

the Kitka in it. "We came to look for people from

one of our ships. They are lost somewhere on the

ice north of here.t9

Ghyl's answer was a falling wail that sounded

grim. "Not good," said the translator after a pause.

"The ice sheet hurts too much to hunt on it now."

Uhura wasn't sure how to answer that.

Fortunately, Nhym interrupted, pushing a carved

bone platter across the table to her. "Special

dinner for guests," she said, looking anxious.

"Kraken Eyes eat?"

"Um..." Uhura looked down at the seaweed-

wrapped bundles. Instead of the gleaming raw fish

she'd seen them chopping before, these contained

translucent blobs of something that glistened like

wet gelatin. "What is this?"

"Tail blubber." The young Kitka smiled at her

brilliantly. "Very best part of sea mammal!"

Uhura's nose wrinkled despite herself. She

heard Tenzing choke over what sounded like a

laugh and knew if she refused to eat, Chekov

would never let her hear the end of it. She took a

deep breath and lifted one quivering bundle.

"Lieutenant Commander Uhura!" The shout

came muffed through the skin curtains, but it still

sounded urgent. "Lieutenant Commander Uhura,

where are you?"

"Here!" She dropped the food and headed for

the door, ignoring the fluting cries of the Kitka.

Tenzing was already ahead of her, scanning the

outside tunnel warily. A pale green insulation suit

glimmered at one end. "What's the matter?"

One of Steno's men scuttled toward her,

obviously trying to hurry despite the cramped

space. "We're

98

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getting some kind of signal on the monitor, but

Mr. Steno can't make any contact. He wants to

know if you can help us."

"Of course I can." Uhura turned back to the

alcove and found Nhym already sliding out after

her. "I have to go away now." The girl's

disappointment showed in her dark blue eyes. "For

a little while," Uhura added quickly. "May I come

back later?"

"Yes!" The Kitka's answering trill was emphatic.

"Nhym comes with you to show the way back."

"All right." Uhura didn't have time to explain

that Tenzing's tricorder could have guided them

just as easily. She followed the Nordstral guard

back to the junction of tunnels where Steno sat

glowering at the communications console.

--'If you don't mind, Mr. Steno . . ." Uhura

pushed past him without waiting for a response

and crouched in front of the console. A familiar

contact code flickered across the screen and sang

in her ear like a mother's call when she picked up

the transceiver. "No wonder you couldn't make

contact! That's not the shuttle party, that's the

Enterprise."

Steno looked disgruntled. "What would your

starship be calling us about?"

"I don't know." Her fingers ran across the

control panel, automatically adjusting their output

from wide surface band to a narrow skyward

beam. "Enterprise, this is Lieutenant Commander

Uhura. Do you read me?"

There was a pause before a familiar calm voice

came through the console's falling howl of

interference. "We read you clearly, Lieutenant

Commander Uhura," said Spock. "And it is

gratifying to know that you are still alive."

99

L. A. Graf

For some strange reason, the static behind him

sounded like Sulu cheering.

"The shuttle exploded?"

When Chekov asked the question, it was in the

desperate hope Uhura would laugh and tell him

that wasn't what she'd said at all.

Instead, she stood in the open doorway of their

dome tent with her hands on a young native girl's

shoulders and nodded miserably. "I just got the

message from Spock."

Publicker, sitting on the edge of the gravsled

next to Howard, looked up from his half-finished

dinner with blond brows knit in confusion. "You

mean the shuttle we're looking for, don't you?"

He had the top of his insulation suit unsealed and

peeled back, just like the other men in the tent,

and the bright white of his suit's body slip

highlighted the muscle tension in his shoulders

and neck. "Not our shuttle."

Chekov crumpled together the remainder of his

own rations and paced across the tent to jam

them into the disposal unit. "She means our

shuttle."

"But . . ." Publicker glanced anxiously at

Howard, at Uhura, up again at Chekov. "But that

means we're stranded."

"Yes, Mr. Publicker." Sighing, Chekov ran both

hands through his hair. "We're stranded."

"Only temporarily."

Chekov turned, hands locked behind his neck,

and frowned at Uhura. "How temporarily?" He'd

allotted a certain amount of extra rations and

gear, but not enough to survive on Nordstral

indefinitely not even to attempt a hike to the

equator, if the situation came to that.

"Mr. Scott's working on modifications to one of

our

100

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shuttles," Uhura explained, making a point,

Chekov noticed, to turn a reassuring smile on

Publicker. "He thinks we can look forward to a

pickup within thirtytwo hours."

Howard looked up from policing his own dinner

area. "I thought the company shuttles were already

modified specifically for use here on Nordstral."

He reached over and gathered Publicker's things

together with his own. "What's to keep our

shuttles from having the same problems?"

Old navigator knowledge filtered to the surface

even as Chekov paced the four-stride width of

their tent, tallying their options. "Our shuttles

have to tolerate warp speeds, so they're better

shielded. Nordstral's magnetic disturbances are

less likely to disrupt their engines." Not that those

magnetic disturbances hadn't already disrupted

plenty. Chekov wondered how Steno had reacted

to this news, and if the planetary official intended

to abort their rescue mission now that his own

skin could be in danger. Chekov wouldn't put it

past him, and, in fact, more than half expected

word to come up at any moment.

"The magnetic fluxes have been a lot worse in

the past couple months." One of Steno's young

retainers ducked his head past Uhura's so he

could look into the tent from where he waited

behind her, out in the snow. Pushing his visor

away from his face, he glanced among the

Starfleet occupants until he caught sight of

Chekov to his left, then continued earnestly to the

lieutenant, "The Kitka say it's their god, raging in

his sleep about some sacrilege. All I know is, the

pilots say it didn't used to be this bad. And now,

losing two shuttles so close together . . ." He

shrugged apologetically, as though the rest were

obvious.

Chekov paused in his pacing to look at the boy. He

101

L. A. Graf

was half as dark as Uhura, maybe all of nineteen,

with a narrow face and huge, soulful brown eyes.

He was also the first Nordstral employee to speak

civilly to the Starfleet contingent. That in and of

itself made him noteworthy. "What's your name?"

"Jimenez, sir. Emilio Jimenez."

He waved the boy inside, catching Uhura's eye

to nod her in as well. "Well, there's no sense

standing there with the door open, Jimenez. We

may not have a shuttle, but we can at least hold

onto our heat."

Publicker gave a half-hearted grunt. "Such as it

is."

Chekov ignored the ensign's comment. He and

Publicker had already had their discussion about

what temperature they would keep the tent's

interior. Chekov's memories of poorly insulated

houses sunk into quagmires of melted permafrost

had finally prevailed over Publicker's loving

reminiscences of his native California, so the

automatic thermal units were set to maintain the

tent's air temperature at no higher than ten

degrees centigrade. That was positively tropical by

Nordstral standards, and less likely to melt them

through to the bottom of the ice sheet by

morning.

Little native girl still clinging to one hand,

Uhura stepped out of Jimenez's way when he

turned to seal the doorway. Chekov stood behind

Uhura's shoulder to look down at the girl, with

her mass of silver hair and curious violet eyes,

and found himself suddenly uncomfortable with

how the other Kitka might react to one of their

children being locked up in a tent filled with

unfamiliar human men.

Leaning over Uhura's shoulder, Chekov said

quietly into her ear, "Maybe your friend had

better wait outside."

Uhura turned to look at him in surprise, her lips 102

ICE TRAP

pursed in disapproval and annoyance.

"Chekov,she's just a little girl, and she's as cold as

the rest of us. She's not going to do anything."

He started to protest that what the little girl

might do wasn't his concern, but stopped himself

with a sigh. Uhura had spent hours before

planetfall studying the Kitka culture, and she'd

already been walking among them down below for

at least an hour. If there were anything about this

situation that might upset the native elders, she

was in a better position to know than he. He

nodded, smiling down at the little girl when she

tipped her head back to blink up at him.

"All right," he said softly to Uhura, "I'm sorry. I

didn't mean for it to sound that way."

Uhura reached back to squeeze his arm, smiling

to prove he'd been forgiven.

Officers shifted and gear was shoved aside as

everyone congregated toward the center of the

nowcrowded tent, where the automatic thermal

put offits soothing waves of gentle warmth. Uhura

took a seat on the gravsled between Howard and

Publicker, her native companion squatting

comfortably at her feet. Jimenez settled himself

on their stacked sleeping gear across the thermal

from the others, and Chekov feeling oddly like

the family watch dog sat on the floor to

Howard's left, more or less between his people

and Jimenez. Warmth from the silent thermal felt

good as it soaked through the open front of his

insulation suit and into the body slip beneath.

Without being told, Publicker dug out an extra

ration pack and tossed it across to Jimenez. The

Nordstral employee caught it between both hands

with a grin and a sincere, "Gracias. The food here

isn't exactly what I'm used to."

Uhura only made a little sound of amusement, but

103

L A. Graf

the Enterprise security force laughed aloud. "We

brought extra," Chekov assured Jimenez, and the

young man thanked them again.

Howard, meanwhile, had slipped out one of his

breakfast packs and liberated a honey compress to

dangle in front of the native girl's nose. She

sniffed at it, a bit cautiously, then furrowed her

brow with concern when no scent reached her past

the airtight seal. Fumbling inside his pushed-back

hood, Howard activated his translator and said

slowly, "Go ahead you can eat it."

Chekov watched the girl cross her hands on the

Mooring her feet, cocking her head to half watch

Howard while his translator struggled with the

alien phrasing. Although she tried to keep her

wide face expressionless, the lieutenant recognised

the sharp brightness of fear in her twilight eyes

and felt a pang of regret. The price of eternal

vigilance, he thought while Uhura coaxed the girl

to take Howard's offering having native children

be as frightened of us as we are distrustful of their

elders. He wished they'd have longer to stay with

the Kitka, time to learn from them and learn with

them so that no side would have to be afraid of

the other. Wouldn't Uhura just laugh to hear him

thinking that.

A shrill Kitka whistle and the sound of humans

laughing called Chekov's attention back to the

doings in the tent. Uhura's native friend had

apparently divined the workings of the ration air

seal and now sat, eyes wide and lips pulled into an

amazed smile, while she chewed the first bite

offher honey compress.

"See?" Howard reached behind Uhura to swat at

Publicker's shoulder, inciting another round of

laughter. "Love of sweets is universal. I told you."

Apparently responding to whatever Howard's 104

ICE TRAP

translator made of his remark, the little girl broke

a fingerful off the compress and passed it over her

head to Publicker. He accepted it with a blink of

surprise and a short, untranslated, "Thanks."

Pieces followed for Uhura and Howard, but when

the girl stretched her hand out to offer a clump to

Chekov, he only grinned and shook his head. "No,

thank you. I'm not hungry."

Chekov saw Uhura roll her eyes, as usual.

Apparently, she didn't care whether he'd just

finished his dinner; she believed hunger had

nothing to do with eating, as far as Chekov could

tell.

Reaching around the back of his collar to locate

the unit in his hood, he depressed the button with

his thumb. "I'm not hungry," he said again, waiting

this time for the slow, stilted translator to finish

its wailing. "I don't need to eat you can keep

that."

That only seemed to reassure the girl

marginally. She sank back against Uhura's legs,

retaining what remained of her honey compress

but frowning at Chekov in that way children do

when they suspect they're being made fun of.

Laughing, Uhura stroked her hair and leaned over

to report, "Don't feel bad, honey he does the

same thing to me all the time."

Chekov snorted. "You just don't give up so

easily." Propping his elbows on his knees,

he-folded his hands between them and leaned his

chin on his fists. "Thirty-two hours?" He sighed,

his mind sliding quickly back to their predicament.

Uhura shrugged. "Maybe sooner. You know how

Scotty is."

Chekov nodded. Careful but quick, and the best

chance they had of safe rescue, even hoping for

some sort of Nordstral ground transport.

105

L. A. Graf

"Is this going to keep us from bringing in that

shuttle crew?" Howard asked.

Chekov glanced up at him, shook his head with

a frown. "No. We came down with everything we

need to locate the survivors." All the same, his

brain started sorting through mental lists of

equipment and supplies, pondering how far they

could stretch all of it. "They still need to be found,

even if we can't lift them off-planet immediately."

"The Kitka tunnels are warm, at least." Even

mentioning the native race prompted Uhura to

unconsciously brush the little girl's hair. "If all else

fails, I'd think the company could send a harvester

north for us."

Jimenez shook his head emphatically, struggling

to swallow a mouthful of food before speaking.

"The ice sheet's almost five hundred meters thick

around here. Even if they wanted to, I don't think

they've got a ship that can crack through."

"Ground transport, then," Publicker suggested,

looking hopeful, and Jimenez nodded.

"It takes a while," the Nordstral man admitted,

"but, yessir, they've got sledges that could make

the trip."

"A while?" Chekov prompted.

Jimenez shrugged. "A week, sir. Maybe two."

They wouldn't starve or freeze to death, then,

although they might have to cut back to two

meager meals a day. Uhura would hate that,

Chekov thought. "All right." He glanced around at

them, trying to seem decisive and sure. "Come

first light, we'll set out looking as we originally

planned." He cocked a questioning look at

Jimenez. "Has Mr. Steno had any luck contacting

the survivors?"

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"No, sir. And that's not good." Jimenez sounded

genuinely apologetic, and Chekov felt a surge of

annoyance with Steno that the man could make

his own people feel guilty about something none

of them had any control over. "We've found in the

past that if we don't locate missing personnel on

the ice sheets within twenty-four hours, we usually

don't find them at all. That's why we depend so

much on sending up flares for the local Kitka." He

cast helpless eyes toward the food in his lap. "Dr.

Stehle's group has been missing almost four days."

"We'll find them."

Jimenez looked up at Chekov, face open and

hopeful, and relaxed without even seeming to

realise he did so. The lieutenant fought off a faint,

uncomfortable twinge. This must be how Kirk did

it, he realised. You say the words as though

nothing made by God or man could make you

break them, then worry later about whether or not

you can make them come true. "We'll find them,"

he said again, as though repetition would help.

"Not if our children continue to bother you

while you're working."

The words over Chekov's translator startled him,

but not nearly so much as they did the young

Kitka girl at Uhura's feet. Leaping upright, Nhym

stuffed the remainder of Howard's treat into

Uhura's hands and spun to face the doorway. The

seal whisked open and fluttered aside, and a

broad, unmasked Kitka face appeared in the

opening, surrounded by brilliant feathers and

swirls of windblown snow.

"Go back, Nhym, to your grandparents. These

people don't want you here."

Chekov recognised the arrogance of the Kitka's

107

L. A. Graf

words even though he couldn't recognise the face.

"We asked her to be here, Alion. She may stay."

Alion kept his stare fixed steadily on Nhym.

"She may do as I tell her, and I tell her not to

bother you. Go, Nhym."

Uhura rose, keeping one hand on the girl's

shoulder as she fitted her insulation suit hood

back over her head. The young girl was obviously

scared. "I'll go with you, honey," she offered. Her

voice was comforting, but Chekov could read the

flashes of anger in Uhura's eyes. "You promised

me I could come back."

"Oh, yes!" Nhym reached up to tug at Uhura's

hand. Byes!"

Chekov flicked a glance at Tenzing. She nodded

silent understanding, an overnight pack already

tucked beneath one arm.

"I'd better get back down, too." Jimenez stood,

looking awkwardly about with the empty ration

pack in both hands. Howard leaned across to take

it from him, passed it to Publicker for disposal.

"Mr. Steno said he didn't want us spending time

with you, either," Jimenez explained with a shrug

as he followed Uhura toward the door. "I guess

he's afraid we'll get smart or something." He

bobbed a nod to the security force. "Thanks for

the food."

Chekov acknowledged him with a wave. "No

problem."

"I'll be back up before morning," Uhura

promised from the doorway.

Chekov caught her eyes with his, knowing he

didn't have the authority to stop her, but wanting

her to see his displeasure with her decision. She

conceded his feelings with a nod, but still slipped

out past Alion, with Nhym and Tenzing in tow.

The hiss of gusting 108

ICE TRAP

wind drowned out even the crunching of their

footsteps on the frozen snow.

Alion stepped a little to one side when Jimenez

moved to squeeze past him, but didn't relinquish

the doorway. The Kitka's persistent lingering

bothered Chekov, made him uneasy about being

down on the floor with an entire tent between the

two of them. He pushed to his feet to join Alion

at the doorway. "Can I help you with something?"

The Kitka's round, flat face was slit by a narrow

smile. His weird eyes a white-ice green in

contrast to Nhym's brilliant indigo danced in

what might have been either laughter or secret

malice. "No one here needs help,

Lieutenant either from you or your Federation.

I am in control here."

Hearing the native's voice come straight from

his mouth in fluid English snatched Chekov's

breath like a sudden slap. So much for the

northern natives not being able to speak human

language. Alion must have learned English during

the time he claimed to have spent at the equator.

When one of the men rose restlessly behind him,

Chekov thrust a hand back without turning to

keep the crewman in his place. "I'm glad you

chose to come to us this way," he told Alion in a

tone held carefully neutral. "In fact, I rather

prefer it."

"Yes." The native glanced over Chekov's

shoulder at whoever stood toward the back of the

tent. "So do I. It grants one a great deal of

insight." His eyes darted back to Chekov's, and he

commented dryly, "For example among my

people, dark eyes are considered a sign of youth

and stupidity."

Even Publicker the only blue-eyed human in

the tent uttered an indignant protest to that.

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L A. Graf

"Among my people," Chekov told Alion without

responding to Publicker's grumble, "your value

isn't judged by the color of your eyes."

Alion's smile twisted wryly. "Then you'll be the

ones at a disadvantage here, won't you?"

Chekov wished he'd thought to record this

conversation before it started, if only to prove to

Uhura that not all paranoia was unfounded.

"We'll see who's at a disadvantage."

"Yes. I'm sure we will." Alion backed out the

door with hands held out to either side, as though

proving he carried no weapons against them.

Chekov had a feeling Alion's greatest weapon

would be all the things about him that Chekov

had no hope of discovering until far, far too late.

"You know," Howard remarked conversationally

from the rear of the tent, "I don't think I like that

guy."

Chekov resealed the door flap, shivering a little

despite the resurgence of inside warmth. "If you

can convince Lieutenant Commander Uh ura to

feel the same way, Mr. Howard, I'll put you in for

a promotion."

110

Chapter Seven

McCoy STARTED to run his fingers through his

hair, then thought better of it. The gesture

reminded him too much of Muhanti's fixation on

phrenology. He settled for pressing the palms of

his hands tightly over his eyes. The insides of the

lids felt like coarse-grain sandpaper against the

tired irises, and he wondered if they were as red

as they felt.

He'd spent the last couple of hours since the

kraken fight alone in Muhanti's lab, cleaning. The

accumulated waste and clutter made quite an

impressive heap, which he jettisoned into the

disposal unit, all the time wishing irritably that he

could do the same with the Soroya's doctor. No

self-respecting scientist would ever let his or her

work station deteriorate to such a degree. That

Muhanti had allowed just that to occur was only

further evidence in McCoy's mind of the Indian

doctor's instability.

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L. A. Graf

At least now the place was clean enough to

begin to do some work without something heinous

contaminating the results, McCoy reflected. He'd

left Muhanti's noxious experiments alone, and

only hoped he could ignore the fumes and tune

out the happy bubbling long enough to build up

some concentration.

His mind replayed the last few hours since

Spock's soul-numbing call. He and Kirk had met

with Mandeville in her quarters. "Captain," she

said somberly, closing the door behind them. "I'm

sorry about your people."

"Thank you." Kirk managed to sound gracious

despite his own turmoil. "This is asking a lot but

there may be injured survivors. I'm requesting that

the Soroya detour from her present heading to

the crash site and cut through the ice in an

attempt to pick up the survivors."

Mandeville shook her head, braids lashing like

cats' tails. "That's impossible."

McCoy stepped nearer, convinced Kirk would

not be able to stop from shaking the woman. He

was relieved to see Kirk's hands merely curl into

fists at his sides. "This is an emergency, Captain

Mandeville." Kirk's tone was under tight control.

"You may not care about your rescue team, but

Icare about mine. If they're alive and injured, they

won't last a day unprotected on the ice."

"If they're injured and on the ice without protec-

tion, they won't last an hour." She wasn't being

flippant. Her expression was gravely serious. "I

appreciate your concern, but there's nothing I can

do." She held up a hand to forestall any argument.

"Not because I won't, but because I can't. Or,

rather, the Soroya can't. The ice sheet in the

north is almost five

112

ICE TRAP

hundred meters thick. There's not a ship in the

fleet that can bust through that without damaging

itself and probably killing everyone up on the ice

or in the ship to boot."

"So where does that leave us?" McCoy asked

after a long, painfully silent pause.

"It leaves us," Kirk said decisively, "with doing

what we can from this end. We'll have to rely on

Nordstral ground personnel and Mr. Scott to take

care of the shuttle crew." It was a wish and a

prayer rather than a confidence. McCoy saw that

at once. But it wasn't the first time he'd seen Jim

Kirk want something to be so badly that he

brought it into existence by sheer force of will.

James Kirk carried his own brand of magic with

him, and Leonard McCoy had learned a long time

ago to place a great deal of faith in it. Things just

had a way of turning out, if Kirk wanted them to

badly enough.

"What can I do to help?" Mandeville asked.

Kirk glanced at McCoy. "Bones?"

"Well, I'd like your permission to use the lab. I

want to take some samples from the air filtering

system, waste disposal, that sort of thing, to see if

I can get a handle on what might be causing the

aberrant behavior we were sent here to track

down."

Mandeville nodded sharply, hands sliding into

her back pockets. "That's fine. I can assign one of

the crew to help you."

"If you don't mind, Captain Mandeville, I'd like

it to be Nuie or no one at all. It's not that I

question their integrity," McCoy hurriedly added.

"It's just that I want to keep the variables as small

as possible. And I've already decided Nuie can be

trusted."

She answered his smile with one of her own.

"All right. What else?"

113

L. A. Graf

"That'll do for starters," Kirk said. "Let me start

discounting things before I put too much on my

plate." He quirked a not-quite-happy grin. "Maybe

I'll get lucky on my first shot."

"I'll start praying to the kraken if you do," she

vowed. She held the door open for them to pass

into the corridor ahead of her. "And, listen, Dr.

McCoy. About the aberrant behavior? Just

remember that harvester workers will do almost

anything to break the monotony. That's just to

give you some kind of rule to judge them by." She

peered more closely at him, and he felt like a bug

under a glass. "Have you seen something?"

He reluctantly nodded, his eyes flicking to

Kirk's first for approval. "I suspect another of

your crew might be falling victim to whatever this

sickness is."

"Who?" Mandeville asked anxiously.

"I'd rather not say."

"Dr. McCoy, if my people are in danger because

of an illness one of them has contracted, I need to

know."

"I appreciate that, Captain Mandeville. And as

soon as I know for certain that this person is ill

and not just . . . eccentric, you can be assured I'll

come to you immediately. I have no desire to put

you, your crewmen, or your ship at risk."

She studied him for a moment, obviously not

entirely happy, then nodded. "All right." She

pulled the door shut behind her. "You know your

way to the lab, Doctor? Good. Nuie's on the

bridge. I'll send him down to help you. Captain

Kirk, you can come with me." Her teeth flashed

whitely against her dark skin. "You can be first

mate in Nuie's place."

A smile graced the Enterprise captain's lips. "I'd

be honored."

114

ICE TRAP

They went their separate ways. The first mate

arrived in the lab and listened seriously to what it

was McCoy wanted. He then patiently led the

doctor from one end of the ship to the other,

holding supplies as bidden, shining probing lights

into dark corners and along damp filters and

conduits. Snippets of remembered conversation

played across the back of McCoy's mind as he

wiped the counter a final time, methodically

hunting out the last bits of dirt and sticky residue.

He felt almost as though he could traverse the

submarine blindfolded. Certainly, he could ace a

test on how often the filters were cleaned and the

waste disposal units cleared. He'd hunted out

every speck of mold he could find, uncertain what

he thought he'd discover, and afraid he wouldn't

know it when he saw it.

He bowed his head, mentally preparing himself

for the work at hand, forcing sleepiness to bay.

He'd contemplated a nap, but the noises of the

ship through the water, the disquieting creaks and

snaps of a vessel under enormous pressure, kept

him uneasy and awake. He wasn't going to sleep

until he got back aboard the Enterprise.

A deep, distant sound reverberated through the

ship's metal hull, and McCoy raised his head,

staring at the wall with eyes a little wider than

normal. Another kraken? Or something else he

didn't want to know anything about? He shifted

his shoulders, feeling the tension. "Get a grip on

yourself, McCoy," he ordered under his breath.

"You're acting like a kid at his first autopsy." He

reached for the nearest vial of sample, this one

labeled, Center conduit; crews quarters; aft.

"What are you doing here?"

Already more jittery than he probably had a right

to

115

L. A. Graf

be, McCoy jerked and spun about. The disk of the

petri dish fumbled against his fingers, slid from

his grasp and shattered on the floor. Green

gobbets spewed in a bright sweep.

McCoy glared at Muhanti, unsure which he was

most angry about being frightened or losing the

sample. "Don't you ever knock?"

"At the door of my own lab?" Dark spots of

color shaded Muhanti's cheeks as he advanced

into the room.

McCoy bent to pick up the shattered glass.

"You always go around sneaking up on people?"

"Only people I feel have no right being where

they are." The Indian doctor stopped, the sole of

his boot almost brushing McCoy's busy fingers.

"Leave it alone, or I'll crush your hand."

McCoy froze, a long sliver of glass between two

fingers. He'd learned the art of reading tone and

nuance at Jim Kirk's knee. He didn't have to look

into Muhanti's face to know that if he didn't stop

immediately, there was every chance Muhanti

would carry out his threat. He gently replaced the

shard where it had lain, slowly brought his hands

close to his knees and stood.

Muhanti's eyes were white-rimmed and angry.

'You've made a shambles of my lab."

McCoy goggled. "This lab's never been so

clean," he rasped.

If Muhanti heard him, the insult had no impact.

"Who gave you permission to use my facility?"

"Captain Mandeville."

"Captain Mandeville," the other doctor

mimicked, his voice a sneer. "She would. I

suppose it never occurred to her that it was

common courtesy to ask if I minded."

116

ICE TRAP

"Then let me apologise." McCoy strove to make

his voice as sincere as possible. "I take full

responsibility. I should have asked your

permission before I ever approached her."

"Yes. You should have." Hands on hips,

Muhanti pivoted slowly, eyes scanning the room,

always between McCoy and the door. When he

looked back, he was more furious than he'd been

before.

McCoy's mind singsonged madness in a babble

of hysterical bird voices, like a flock of sparrows

driven into sudden, terrified flight.

"Bad enough my good captain was so rude as to

give you access to my laboratory without my

consent. But I don't believe she's stupid enough to

give you permission to tamper with my

experiments."

"I never touched them, Muhanti." McCoy tried

hard to keep his voice neutral, gentle. "But those

are rudimentary experiments, and we both know

it. Child's play. If it's your way of letting

Mandeville think you have a handle on things,

that's your business. I won't say anything. But we

need to work together to "

"I don't need to do anything! I had everything

under control! I was this close" his fingers

spanned a tiny distance "to breakthrough. I

could have saved hundreds of crew the fate of

madness, but you had to intervene. The great

Federation doctor comes to lead the savages out

of darkness." He spat, face angry as a cat's. "You

just want the glory for yourself! Well, you aren't

going to get it with my help!" He bent, graceful as

a stooping crane, snatched a shard of glass from

the floor, and lunged for McCoy's throat.

McCoy jumped back from Muhanti's attack and

cracked his backbone against the rigid edge of the

lab table behind him. The sharp, unexpected blow

mo

1 1 7

L. A. Graf

mentarily numbed him from the waist down, and

his knees felt rubbery. His feet skidded on the

spray of shattered glass and he collapsed onto one

knee, cutting open- the pant leg and the skin

beneath it. He raised a hand in awkward defence,

balance lost, and felt a blast of pain as Muhanti

sliced into his palm.

Vision suddenly tunneled, McCoy stared at the

hand as though it belonged to someone other than

himself. Shock briefly numbed the realisation of

injury as he watched blood well from the gash like

an encroaching tide.

Just as swiftly, pain returned, galvanising him

into action. He lurched sideways under Muhanti's

second swing, shoving the Nordstral doctor back

and leaving a lurid red cameo of his hand across

the company logo on the doctor's chest. McCoy

scrabbled across the floor, tiny splinters of glass

digging into his hands and knees, gaining his feet

as he ran. He clutched at the end of the lab table,

reaching Uindly for anything with which to defend

himself. His undamaged hand curled around the

neck of a bottle awaiting cleaning. He spun

around and flung it at Muhanti. The Indian

skipped aside with an unbelievable agility and

came on, the glass shard held low and dangerous,

in a hand slicked with its own blood where he'd

cut himself and taken no notice.

McCoy's fingers felt wet and sticky where they

curled tightly into his palm in an effort to staunch

the blood flow. A whisper of thankfulness kissed

his mind that his fingers could curl at all, given

the suspected depth and angle of the slash. He

backed up, eyes on Muhanti's taut features, his

free hand flailing for a weapon of any kind, and

brushed heat. Fingertips danced in rapid

exploration of the hot surface. Muhanti's stupid

experiments still bubbled, uninter

118

ICE TRAP

rupteduntil now. Unmindful of the damage he

might do his good hand, McCoy grabbed one of

the vials and launched the contents at Muhanti's

face.

The Indian doctor shrieked and ducked aside,

covering his eyes with his arms as hot liquid

sprayed over him. McCoy dove forward and

tackled Muhanti around the waist. They crashed

to the floor and McCoy twisted to get astride,

kicking savagely at the hand still holding the

blood-tainted shard of glass, knowing that if

Muhanti got the chance, he'd slit him from neck

to gizzard.

Blood-slicked fingers loosened and the shard

went flying, striking the floor and spinning like a

gory top. It skittered across the floor with an

almost musical sound and slid under a bank of

cabinets. McCoy was never so glad in his life to

see something disappear.

He grunted as Muhanti attempted to knee him

sharply in the back, and shifted, grabbing for the

other man's hands, twining bloody fingers with

those of his assailant and biting back on the pain

that lanced up his arm from his lacerated hand.

Muhanti rocked from side to side and back and

forth, trying to dislodge McCoy, and all the time

he was deathly silent, his eyes fixed solidly on

McCoy's face as though burning it in effigy onto

his pupils.

McCoy struggled in despair. His wounded hand

was going numb, the fingers useless. His fingers

slipped within the confines of Muhanti's, and the

harvester ship's doctor lurched to the side, rolling,

pinning McCoy beneath him. He freed his hands

from McCoy's with a snap of his wrists and

grabbed for the Starfleet officer's throat. His

hands were warm and wet around McCoy's neck,

his thumbs firm across the windpipe. McCoy

bucked frantically, clawing desperately at the other

man's hands with fingers that would

119

L. A. Graf

not obey him. His vision began to blur and

darken. There was a rushing and roaring in his

ears, as of much water through a confining space,

and a responding growl from somewhere outside

the ship, echoing distantly through the hull and

leading McCoy into oblivion.

A distant, bone-deep rumble crept into Uhura's

sleep and woke her. She stirred, pushing back

folds of cold-stiffened fur from her face to blink

into the frosty darkness. The Chinit alcove was so

quiet, she could hear the whispers breaths of

sleeping Kitka and the low hum of Tenzing's

insulated tent. The security guard hadn't tried to

stop Uhura from staying inside the native village

for the night, but she'd drawn the line at sleeping

in her insulation suit under furs.

Another rumble edged the silence, so deep and

far away Uhura could barely hear it. She frowned

and sat up in her nest of furs. Originally, she'd

thought it might be the approach of an Enterprise

shuttle, but the noise was too irregular for an

impulse drive. It sounded as if it came from

somewhere deep in the ice sheet. Uhura put her

gloved hand on the floor to feel for vibrations,

then gasped as another hand dosed hard over

hers. She looked up to see ghost-pale eyes staring

at her from the darkness.

"Ice hurts." Ghyl knelt beside her, almost

invisible in her ancient dark furs. The elderly

Kitka spoke in a quiet, falling hiss. "The ice hurts.

You hear, Kraken Eyes?"

"Yes." Uhura spoke softly, knowing the

translator would match its tones to hers. She could

feel the thin tendons in Ghyl's hand shake when

the native released her grip. "Does it do this every

night?"

"No. Only when god is angry." Ghyl lifted her 120

ICE TRAP

hands and played with the blackened bone mask

she wore around her neck. Beneath it, her face

looked more lined than it had the day before, as

if worry had aged her. "Great-granddaughter says

you talk to god, Kraken Eyes. Tell me then, why

ice hurts?"

"Um . . ." Uhura frowned, hunting for an

explanation the Kitka could understand. "The god

I talk to lives above the aurora. He doesn't know

things like that."

"I know." The sudden bitter note in Ghyl's wail

caught at Uhura's breath. "Only gods lived in

deep water, before humans came down from

auroras. Now Kitka live there, too, and hunt

things gods don't want them to have."

"The plankton," Uhura said. She wasn't sure

how the translator made that come out, but Ghyl

grunted something that sounded like agreement.

The native fingered her mask, face crumpled in

deep thought. "Gods give Kitka everything light

to see, furs to keep warm, weapons to hunt. Ask

us only to go meet them, and apologise to hunted

things before we catch." Ghyl looked up at Uhura,

her bone-colored eyes sharp with suspicion. "Do

men in deep water apologize to small swimming

things before they catch, Kraken Eyes?"

"I don't know." Uhura put out her hand to

touch Ghyl's shoulder reassuringly. "But there are

Kitka who work under the water, too. Surely

they'll remember to apologise before they catch

the plankton."

"Some, maybe." Ghyl's voice wailed very softly,

in what might have been despair. "Others maybe

not know. Many Kitka, like Alion, come from

villages in far south, where now no one goes to

meet with gods. How can they know the proper

things, growing up so?"

121

L A. Graf

"Oh." Uhura pulled her hand back inside her

furs, feeling helpless. The elderly Kitka sat

huddled for another moment, lips working

although no sound emerged. Around them the

other natives slept, undisturbed by the quiet

conversation, although a rustle of motion stirred

inside Tenzing's tent. A third faint rumble gnawed

at the silence, then died away again.

"Time to go." The sudden strength in Ghyl's

rising voice startled Uhura and woke the other

Kitka into sleepy murmurs of inquiry. The elderly

woman ignored them, sliding her bone mask back

over her face with hands that no longer shook.

She stood and lit one of the oil-pot lamps with a

quick strike of flint, then began to gather things

from the carved bone chests lining the walls.

Uhura heard the odd little keen she made under

her breath, but the translator provided no English

equivalent.

"Great-grandmother!" Nhym's slight form

hurtled out of her sleeping furs almost explosively.

Her whistle sounded shrill with fear. "What you

do?"

"Time to go meet god, Great-granddaughter."

The keening note in Ghyl's voice was stronger.

"Ice cries, and no one goes to ask gods why. Kitka

need answers before all things come to an end."

The young Kitka made a sound like a spitting

cat. "Make Alion go!" She tugged at the older

woma n desperately. "Make him meet god and talk

to him! Alion is the one who makes god angry!"

Ghyl shook herself free with a reproving whistle.

"Align does not meet gods as we do, Great-

granddaughter. He thinks it helps to make others

talk to god for him, but gods stay angry." She slid

her gathered belongings dried shreds of fish, a

fistful of crumbled seaweed, and one small bone

knife into a

122

ICE TRAP

fur-lined bag. "I do not trust his way. I will talk

myself."

"No!" Nhym's voice had taken on the same

keening note as Ghyl's, only stronger. Uhura

realised it was the Kitka way of crying and felt her

own throat knot in sympathy. "Chinit Clan needs

you here, Greatgrandmother, not gone to sacred

place. You haven't told me kraken stories yett"

"Your grandfather can tell them." Ghyl glanced

over at the two older Kitka, who watched her in

painful silence. "Hunt well, children. I will bless

you all from Chinit's sacred place when I meet

god there."

She turned, slinging her travel sack across her

shoulder, and crossed the alcove with unhesitating

strides. The furred skins marking the entrance to

the tunnel barely quivered around her when she

slipped through.

"No!" Nhym cried again. Her grandmother

caught her when she would have followed the old

woman, hissing a wordless comforting sound in

her ear. The male Kitka merely bowed his head,

stripping off one mitten and dipping his callused

fingers into one of the unlit lamps. He brushed

the clinging oil onto his face mask, streaking it

with a dark film of wetness.

"All Kitka go to god." His wail sounded

unsteady, but his hand moved without shaking

until the entire mask was smeared with oil. "As

god comes to all Kitka in the end. So it is."

"So it is," echoed the old woman, and dipped

her fingers, too, rubbing the oil across Nhym's

paler mask. The little girl was still keening, in

short strangled gasps that sounded just like sobs.

Uhura desperately wanted to comfort her, but she

knew better than to interfere in what was clearly

a native ritual.

123

L. A. Graf

"This doesn't look good." Tenzing's gruff voice

caught Uhura by surprise, speaking through the

insulation suit communicator channel without the

background accompaniment of the translator. The

security guard had emerged from her tent, fully

dressed except for the shimmer of her goggles.

"What happened, sir?"

Uhura took a deep breath that eased the ache

in her throat a little, then turned to face her

companion. A quick tap switched her own voice

from mike to communicator, so the Kitka

wouldn't be bothered by their exchange. "Nhym's

great-grandmother just left on some kind of

sacred journey. She said the Kitka gods were

angry. She's gone to talk to them."

"I wonder if that means she's going to where the

shuttle crashed to their sacred place." Tenzing

knelt and began to decompress her tent. "If

Alion's right and it's safe to travel there now, we

may be following her today."

"That's true." Uhura shook herself free of her

furs, feeling a little better. "Maybe I can explain

that to Nhym "

But when she turned back toward the Kitka,

only two fur-clad figures stood in the wavering

lamplight. Uhura glanced toward the swaying

doorway skin and her eyes widened. She tapped

her translator back on. "Where is Nhym?"

The female Kitka's whistle sounded both

resigned and puzzled. "She follows her

great-grandmother, to watch her leave. It is not

right, but the time comes too soon "

A stronger rumble broke across her whistling

voice. This time the sound didn't die away, but

gathered itself up into an enormous slow roar like

a shuttle rising. Uhura gasped and swayed as the

alcove's floor

124

ICE TRAP

rolled beneath her. She caught at the nearest wall

to steady herself.

"It's a quake!" she shouted to Tenzing, who'd

been thrown down into the folds of her collapsed

tent. The roar tore the ice sheet apart around

them, cracking the floor and shaking the skins

down from the ceiling. A chorus of terrified Kitka

shrieks echoed down the tunnel, and Uhura felt

her heartbeat slam into her throat.

"Nhym!" She managed to stagger toward the

alcove door, skidding and catching her balance as

the floor thrashed in slow waves beneath her feet.

"Tenzing, stay here and help the others. I'm going

after Nhym!"

"Sir, don't " Whatever else the security guard

meant to say was lost beneath a fierce crackle of

static across the communicator. All around Uhura

ice splintered and cracked, fracturing the polished

walls of the alcove. A chunk fell from the ceiling

as she lurched into the tunnel outside, barely

missing her as it shattered against the floor. She

recoiled instinctively from the ominous darkness,

then gritted her teeth and reached for her

flashlight. The wavering circle of light caught a

small furred figure up ahead, huddled in the angle

where two passages met.

"Nhym!" Uhura skidded across the buckling

floor of the tunnel, stumbling when one block of

ice thrust up suddenly and caught her across the

knees. She threw her arms up as she fell, trying

desperately to protect her unshielded face from

the ice. The roaring in the ice had become a

thunder that made her bones shake with its growl.

Dimly beneath the chaos, Uhura heard a frantic

wailing, and small hands caught at her shoulders

to drag her across the ice.

"Nhym?" Uhura managed to catch herself

against a shaking wall of ice long enough to find

her balance 125

L. A. Graf

and scramble to a crouch. Nhym'ssmall form plas-

tered itself to her side, bone-masked face digging

into her insulation suit with painful force. "Hold

on tight, Nhym," she said as the icy ceiling above

them groaned ominously. Flying shards of ice

pelted them from above. "Just hold tight!"

With a crash that made her ears hurt, the

ceiling fell.

Air rushed back into McCoy's lungs in a

whooping roar that left his throat raw,

accompanied by a loud voice over the ship's

intercom. "Doctors Muhanti and McCoy to the

bridge immediately! We have an urgent medical

situation! Repeat, Doctors Muhanti and McCoy to

the bridge immediately! Urgent medical situation

requires immediate assistance!"

Muhanti let up the pressure on McCoy's throat

at the intercom's intrusion. His fingers still coiled

wetly around the Starfleet officer's neck, but they

were loose, relaxed as he listened, captured by the

sound. His weight shifted slightly, back onto his

heels from the pressing confine over McCoy's

abdomen. With his last reserve of strength,

McCoy bucked fiercely and threw him off.

Muhanti collided hard against a cabinet and

sprawled, stunned.

Shaking, McCoy struggled to his feet and

staggered out the door, turning left toward the

bridge. He heard the clatter of Muhanti behind

him in the lab, then the louder sound of running

feet. McCoy was almost afraid to hazard a glance

over his shoulder, certain he'd find Muhanti

gaining on him, a murderous gleam in his eye and

another shard of glass clutched in his lacerated

fingers.

A flash at the edge of McCoy's vision an arm 126

ICE TRAP

pumping in time to the running man, one dark

hand clutched around a generic-issue medikit in a

bright green Nordstral wrapper. McCoy's feet

fumbled and he caught himself against the

bulkhead, breathing hard, hand throbbing and

welling fresh blood. He stared as Muhanti ran

past, one arm waving. "Hurry, McCoy! They need

us on the bridge!" He dashed through an

interconnecting doorway and on down the

corridor.

McCoy's chest heaved, adrenaline running so

high as to give him the shakes. He tipped his head

back against the cool metal and stared at the

riveting overhead. "What the hell . . .?" he gasped.

Groaning, he levered away from the wall and ran

after Muhanti.

"Chief7 Chief!"

Chekov rolled to all fours, spitting snow out of

his mouth and shielding his eyes with one arm.

Painful morning sunlight blazed like daggers off

broken ice and snow, and bitter wind froze his

tears to ice against his cheeks. Taking off his

goggles to watch the morning auroras suddenly

seemed an amazingly stupid thing to have done.

"Lieutenant Chekov?" Publicker's voice clear

and open, not across the insulation suits'

communicator channel sounded frantic and very

nearby.

"I'm here." Covering his eyes with one hand,

Chekov squinted between his fingers to cut the

snow glare. It only helped a little, blurring

everything to a fuzzy, white-laced patchwork that

only hinted at the destruction wrought on the ice

field around him. Still, he was able to sight the

tent a few dozen meters away, as well as the

waist-high upthrust that hadn't been there before

a few moments ago. "Howard! Publicker! '27

L A. Graf

Over here!" Maybe they'd be able to spot his

missing goggles, or at least fetch a spare set from

their sled full of equipment.

The guards hurried across the broken ice to

him, arms pinwheeling for balance on the uneven

terrain. "Are you all right?" Chekov asked, using

one hand to lever himself up to their level.

Howard stooped to give him a hand, nodding.

Publicker cast anxious looks all around them, his

own goggles cracked and misted. "Just shook up,"

he admitted, sounding it. "What happened?"

"Some kind of earthquake. I don't know..."

Chekov had crept out of the tent just before

dawn, awakened by the sheeting brightness of

auroras while the sun was still making its

approach on the horizon. Then, the stark

sameness of the rainbow-washed landscape had

seemed almost beautiful in its stillness.

Now, the ice sheet looked like someone had

tried to wad it into a ball, strata crumpled until

icy layers flaked and sh attered into rubble. Sunken

trenches of broken snow sketched out the Kitka

village with intersecting dotted lines the legacy

of caved-in tunnel passages between more sturdily

constructed alcoves and inner rooms.

Chekov scanned the white-and-grey-clad bodies

pouring out of the destroyed village, searching for

some flash of human black among the natives.

"Where's Tenzing?"

Howard turned to follow his gaze. "With

Lieutenant Commander Uhura, sir."

Chekov felt the first twistings of panic in his

heart. "Still down below?"

". . . Yes, sir . . ."

"Oh, my God." He broke into a run without

waiting to see if the other men followed.

128

ICE TRAP

Natives milled around their damaged holes,

howling in fear and confusion. Chekov started

counting them in groups of three or four, then

realized he didn't know how many lives this village

barbered to begin with, so he couldn't assess the

damage this way. Skidding to a stop beside a

cluster of white-eyed elders, he flipped on his

translator. "How many are still inside?"

They turned to stare up at him, their wide, flat

faces registering only uncomprehending shock.

"How many?" His own taut worry made the

words come out more harshly than he intended,

but no Kitka words came out of his translator. He

stared back at the natives, equally confused, until

it suddenly struck him that nothing he said was

being translated for the frightened natives to

understand. And vice versa. "Chortov!"

The old man closest to him shied away, and

Chekov caught at his arm to stop him as Howard

joined them with already-assembled shovels in

hand. "My people," Chekov insisted, trying to

make some connection with the old man, if only

through shared panic. "The two women who were

with the little girl where are they?" He ducked

his head to wrestle his voice back under control.

Even the insulation suit's communicator channel

blew only deadly static. "God, can you people

understand anything I'm saying?"

One of the women answered in a complex

flutter of whistles and whines that meant nothing

more to Chekov than he knew his own pleading

meant to her. Still, she pointed with one hand

while plucking at his wrist to make him look

behind. A sunken tunnel snaked away from them,

still hissing with internal falls of ice and snow.

Chekov felt nearly dizzy with grief. "They're under

that?"

129

L. A. Graf

Her only response was to push him toward the

collapse.

Howard climbed into the trench behind Chekov,

handing his chiefoneofthe shovels without waiting

to be asked. Chekov tried to keep his shovel

strokes rhythmic and steady, ignoring the

brilliance of snow light in his eyes, ignoring the

fearful trembling that wanted to shiver through

him as they worked. The quake had broken much

of the snow into heavy powder, the ice into

manageable splinters that two men could easily

enough heave out of their way. He tried not to

think about the speed with which a phaser set on

stun could melt past this jumbled blockage. If he

had seen Alion at any time during their digging,

though, he'd have been hard pressed not to turn

his shovel on the shaman instead of the ice.

Kitka men gradually converged on their work

space, keening softly among themselves but

apparently understanding the uselessness of trying

to communicate with the Starfleet officers just

now. Chekov accepted their help in grateful

silence. It was somehow reassuring to know

translators weren't needed yet for all forms of

sentient communication.

Howard turned over the first shovelful of bloody

snow. He sank to his knees, one hand covering his

breath filter. "Chief. . . oh, no . . ."

The pain in Howard's voice shot through

Chekov like lightning. He threw down his shovel,

scrambling past confused Kitka to land on his

knees beside Howard. The young ensign had

already scraped out a slushy pile of scarlet ice,

and sat now with his hands on his lap, looking

downward. Trembling, hands made clumsy by

desperation and fear, Chekov leaned over the

open hole without letting himself think about what

he would find there.

130

ICE TRAP

Tenzing's goggles had been shattered in the

earthquake, and meltwater sheered her golden

skin in a glaze already frozen brittle by the wind.

Chekov saw only enough of her eyes to confirm

that they were dull and inanimate, then he rocked

back on his heels and closed his eyes against the

blinding whiteness of the snow.

McCoy dashed onto Soroya's bridge at

Muhanti's heels and nearly ran the Indian doctor

down when he stopped quickly. Kirk and

Mandeville knelt on the floor, Nuie stretched

limply between them. Both doctors landed on

their knees, one to either side of the unconscious

crewman. Muhanti batted Mandeville's hands

away. "Don't move him!" he ordered, digging into

his medikit.

"What the hell happened to you two?"

McCoy looked up and met Kirk's baffled

regard. Clotted blood wiped off on Nuie's clothing

as McCoy routinely took vital signs the

old-fashioned way, listening with one ear while

Muhanti muttered over his equipment and ran a

medical scanner above the Kitka. "It's a long

story."

"I'll want to hear it." That was an order.

"Later." That was a promise. "What happened?"

"He fell. The ship hit a wave, or a current

pocket, or something, and he fell and hit his

head." Kirk gestured at a nearby panel.

"Is he going to be all right?" To McCoy's relief,

Mandeville directed this question to her own

ship's physician.

"I don't know, Clara." He met her eyes briefly,

and McCoy got a glimpse of the kind of doctor

Muhanti probably was when he wasn't influenced

by whatever was happening on this godforsaken

planet. Muhanti

131

L. A. Graf

pressed a loaded hypoagainst Nuie's neck and shot

it home. McCoy recognized the drug, almost

unconsciously noting that it was the correct dosage

for the Kitka's build.

"I'll need to examine him in sickbay." Muhanti

grasped Nuie's arm and shifted to get an arm

around his waist. "McCoy, get his other side and

help me carry him. I want to run a battery of "

His voice was cut off by an ominous rumble.

They stared at one another, frozen by the rapidly

growing sound. Suddenly, the Soroya heeled over

on her side. McCoy slammed into the decking,

crying out as he landed on his wounded hand.

Kirk's fingers snagged his shirt and dragged at him

as the helm fought for control.

"Icequake!" someone cried.

"Damn! Damn!" Mandeville moved along the

canted interior of the ship, pulling herself from

the back of one tipped chair to the other, her

fingers tight and white-knuckled on the well-worn

upholstery. "Take us down! Dive! Get us into a

canyon!" Her eyes raked the map above the tech's

station.

"Can't!" the pilot grunted, hands fighting

controls. "There's no response! Radar's gone to

hell!"

"Not good enough!" Mandeville snapped,

reminding McCoy of a certain Starfleet captain he

knew. "Get us upright if you have to go out and

push her! Activate the cutting turret! Blast us a

big enough hole that we don't breech her on the

ice!"

"Trying, Captain!" His fingers ran scattershot

over his controls. "Not responding, Captain!

Mechanism seized!"

Mandeville swore explosively and snagged some-

one's jacket off the back of their chair. She flung

132

ICE TRAP

her arms into it and hurled herself up a wall-clung

ladder. "I'll do it manually!"

Kirk caught Nuie's rolling body and pushed him

into McCoy's arms as he struggled to his feet. "I'll

do it!"

Mandeville looked down at him from her perch.

"Not your ship, Captain. Here, you're just cargo."

She sped up the ladder and disappeared into the

upper decking.

A moment later another shock, much worse

than the first, rocked the harvester again. Rending

metal sounded like the scream and tear of living

flesh, and there was one short, loud cry from

Mandeville. Kirk lunged toward the ladder and

was blocked by another crewman hurtling up the

worn metal rungs. An enormous roaring filled the

air, and a fount of water gushed from the access,

bringing the crewman's battered, lifeless body back

down with it.

"Bones! Get out of here!" Kirk struggled

forward into the gout of water. "We've hit

something! Evacuate the bridge crew!" he

thundered, physically hauling people away from

their stations and shoving them toward the door.

He grabbed the pilot's arm tightly. "Can we secure

the hatches?"

Her reply was lost to McCoy in the surge and

wash of thundering water. A klaxon began its

raucous cry, alerting the rest of the crew to

danger. McCoy hauled on Nuie's limp form, his

hands locked across the Kitka's chest from behind.

Where was Muhanti? One brief glance over his

shoulder as he dragged Nuie toward the door

showed Muhanti trying to get through the water

rushing about his knees. He shouted something

about trapped crew and Captain Mandeville, but

McCoy couldn't make out the words. 133

L. A. Graf

Kirk clutched at Muhanti. The Soroya's doctor

shoved him aside and disappeared.

Someone pushed McCoy into the corridor, Nuie

still locked in his embrace. The Soroya rolled,

driving him to his knees, and there was a sound

like someone had pierced the ship's heart and

ripped free her soul. The roar of water

intensified, and McCoy looked up to see a wall of

water bearing down on them.

134

Chapter Eight

UHURA WOKE with her face pressed against a

hard, cold surface that blocked out half the light.

Distant thumps and scrapes echoed around her,

so muffed she couldn't tell where they came from.

She lifted her head, but somehow the hard

surface moved with her, refusing to go away. Her

mind spun in dizzy circles for a moment, then

focused enough to realize there was a leather

thong tied around her neck, holding something

onto her face. She lifted her hand and felt the

curved bone contours of a Kitka mask, slipped

over the head of her insulation suit.

"What on Earth...?" She sat up, bumping her

head on ice. Through the narrow eye slits of the

mask, she could see a dim blue light refracting

through the shattered tunnel walls, with one

bright sliver of glare overhead where the ceiling

block had cracked away from the wall. The

enormous slab of ice canted steeply

135

L. A. Graf

down into the passage, meeting the floor just past

Uhura's legs. She pulled in a startled breath,

seeing how close she had come to being crushed.

If Nhym hadn't tugged at her

"Nhym!" Uhura looked around frantically, then

saw the small, fur-clad body snuffled under her

arm and released her.

"Kraken Eyes awake!" The little Kitka sat up

and patted at Uhura, her face bright with

pleasure. "Not hurt?"

"I don't think so." Uhura managed to get her

feet under her despite the cramped space in which

she had to move. One numb ankle complained

about the return of circulation with tiny needles

of pain, but otherwise she seemed undamaged.

"Face not hurt?" Nhym persisted, peering up at

Uhura in concern. "Nhym's mask keep warm?"

"Yes. Thank you for lending it to me." Uhura

put up her hand to untie the leather strings, but

small mittened fingers caught at hers and stopped

her.

"Nor" Nhym's whistle sounded fierce. "You keep

Kitka mask now. Better for you than kraken eyes."

Uhura glanced down at her through the

confining slits of the bone-carved face shield. She

ought to be wearing her own goggles, but hadn't

thought to bring them when she left the Chinit

alcove. "Do you have another mask to wear?"

The girl sat back on her heels, looking

indignant. "Always have two," she told Uhura as

she pulled a second bone mask from one of her

parka pockets. "Need if first one breaks."

Uhura smiled at her in wry affection. "A child

after Chekov's heart," she said, then looked

around their ice-walled prison with a new

determination. The comment had reminded her

that she didn't know 136

ICE TRAP

where the other members of her party were.

"Nhym, can we get out of here?"

The little Kitka paused in tying on her shield.

"Maybe," she said. "Lots of ice down in tunnel, but

Nhym hears people digging through."

Uhura recalled the muffed thumping sounds

she'd heard before. "That sounds like something

Chekov would do." She reached up to tap on her

insulationsuit communicator. The ear-splitting

static was gone, she noticed thankfully.

"Lieutenant Chekov, can you hear me?"

There was a pause, then a passionate burst of

Russian in her ear. Uhura blinked as the

translator dutifully transcribed it into English.

"Uhura!" Chekov's voice sounded rough with

relief and some other emotion, hidden below the

urgency of his words. "Where are you? Are you

injured?"

"No, I'm fine. Nhym and I are trapped in one of

the tunnels, about twenty-five meters away from

the Chinit alcove. Tenzing can show you where "

"Tenzing's dead." The relief vanished from his

voice, leaving it grim with self-reproach. Chekov

always took his squad's losses hard. "We just dug

out her body."

"Oh, Chekov, no!" Uhura closed her eyes,

remembering how she'd left the security guard

without listening to her warning. She took in a

shaking breath, feeling a chill creep into her

despite her insulation suit. Gentle hands patted at

her arm, and she heard a wordless hissing, the

sound Kitka made to comfort each other. Uhura

opened her eyes to see Nhym looking up at her,

violet eyes worried behind her mask.

"I'm all right," she murmured to the girl, and

saw her face brighten with a smile.

137

L. A. Graf

Chekov must have heard her, too. He cleared

his throat. "Commander, I think we're near the

alcove that you stayed in last night. Where are

you relative to that?"

Uhura frowned, trying to remember the layout

of the Kitka tunnels. "On the right-hand side of

the alcove's opening, down where the tunnel

bends to the right. There's a big block of ice

slanting down from one side of the ceiling."

Uhura heard a shout that echoed through the

ice as well as through her communicator. It

sounded like Publicker. "Down here, sir! I can see

her!"

Nhym yelped and pointed upward. Uhura tilted

her head back to see a familiar shimmering mask

peering down through the overhead crack in the

ice. She reached her hand up into the narrow

opening and felt gloved fingers close around it

briefly.

"We'll have you out in no time, sir." Publicker

looked up as thudding footsteps signaled the

arrival of the rest of the squad. "Looks like the

main slab's too big to move, sir, but there's a

smaller chunk down to the left."

"Let me look." Chekov's masked face replaced

his guard's for a moment. "Yes, that looks

movable. Howard, stay up here and lever it back

with the shovel while Publicker and I dig out

around the base."

"What can I do?" Uhura asked as two dark

shadows slid down the thick slab of ice above her.

Nhym went to peer curiously around the edge of

the block while metal scraped and thudded against

the outer side.

"Just keep the little one out of our way,"

Chekov said. Uhura reached out to pull Nhym

back to her side as the shoveling sound grew

closer. "I'm afraid this block might "

A splintering sound interrupted him as the smaller

138

ICE TRAP

block toppled outward without warning, letting a

dazzle of arctic light into the tunnel. Uhura

scrambled to her feet in alarm.

"Chekov! Are you all right?"

Another explosion of Russian answered her, and

two snow-dappled black forms picked themselves

out of a shattered mound of ice. Uhura sighed in

relief, then bit her lip as the translator patiently

repeated Chekov's words in careful English.

"I don't think you can do that," she said to the

lieutenant, trying not to laugh. "Especially while

you're dancing."

The chief security officer groaned, reaching out

to pull her into a quick, fierce hug. "I forgot the

translator was on," he said sheepishly before

letting her go. Then he glanced down at Nhym,

watching silently from beside Uhura. "I hope that

didn't make any sense translated into Kitka."

"Don't worry," Uhura assured him. "It didn't

make very much sense in English." She heard a

chorus of excited Kitka wails, and looked up to

see several natives peering down into the tunnel

at them. She recognised Nhym's grandparents by

the damp streaks of oil on their face masks, and

touched Chekov's arm gently. "Can you lift Nhym

up?"

"If she'll let me." He glanced down at the little

girl, then surprised Uhura by pushing up his

goggles before he bent to pick her up. The girl

went into his arms willingly, lifting her mittened

hands for her grandmother to catch as Chekov

hoisted her to the tunnel's lip.

"Your turn next." The security chief turned back

toward Uhura, his gloved hands already laced and

lowered to form a boosting stirrup. His eyelashes

were white with frost. Uhura smiled and reached

up to 139

L. A. Graf

lower his goggles for him, then put her foot into

his interlocked hands and let him toss her up to

Howard. The taller guard caught her wrists and

swung her onto the ice sheet, then leaned down to

haul the other men out.

"Good lord." Even through the narrow eye slits

of her Kitka mask, Uhura could see the

devastation the icequakehad wreaked upon the

native village. Alcoves stood open to the bitter

cold along crumbled tunnels, their furred skin

hangings torn away to reveal scattered belongings.

The Kitka were already combing through the

ruins, gathering what could be salvaged and

packing it onto tables that turned upside down

had suddenly metamorphosed into long,

gleaming bone sleds.

"Is anyone else missing?" Uhura demanded,

turning back to the little cluster of Chinit still

standing beside her. Nhym's grandfather whistled

a negative reply.

"All Kitka asleep in furs when ice shakes." He

gave Nhym an affectionate swat on the shoulder.

"Except for bad children out in halls."

Nhym ducked her head, then glanced up at

Uhura in concern. "Time now to pack and move,

Kraken Eyes. You come with Chinit?"

"No," Chekov said, before Uhura could answer.

He pivoted to scan the scarred ice surface,

shoulders tense beneath his snow-streaked

insulation suit. "We're still missing personnel."

"Steno's people!" Uhura's eyes widened when

she realized that neither the planetary officer nor

his men were anywhere in sight. She reached up to

dial her communicator to maximum output. "Mr.

Steno, can you hear me? Are you trapped under

the ice?"

140

ICE TRAP

A faint hiss of static answered her, followed by

an equally faint voice. "He's not, sir, but I am."

"Jimenez!" Chekov identified the barely audible

voice without hesitation. "Where are you?"

"At the communications console. I think I

managed to save most of it " His voice broke

into a hiss of pain.

"If the console's working, I should be able to get

a fix on its signal." Uhura toggled the directional

receiver on her suit communicator, then swung

around in a slow circle. "There." She stopped,

facing sunward. Past the dazzle off the ice, she

could see a large crumpled dent several hundred

meters away. "I think that's where he is."

Chekov grunted, swinging his shovel up to his

shoulder. "Publicker, I want you to get our

supplies loaded onto the gravs led while we dig

Jimenez out. Meet us there."

"Yessing" The guard hurried back to the

collapsed puddle of their tent, careful to skirt the

milling groups of natives as he went. Uhura

followed Chekov and Howard across the ice sheet,

listening to the console's signal grow steadily

stronger in her ears. She stumbled once over a

jagged ridge of ice, and felt Chekov catch her arm

to steady her.

"You should be wearing goggles," he said

sharply. "Publicker." He motioned sharply, and the

guard ran an extra pair up to her, the strap

already shortened.

'`Oh. Thanks." Uhura pulled down Nhym's Kitka

mask to dangle around her neck, and fitted the

goggles over her eyes. The welcome blue screen

of the polarizer slid down over the ice glare,

bringing the windscoured arctic landscape into

sharp focus. "I forgot I wasn't wearing them."

i4i

L. A. Graf

Chekov grunted again as they reached the side

of the collapsed area. Here, the thinner arch of

roof had broken like an eggshell, raining chunks

down across a straggle of Nordstral gear. Uhura

could see the tilted edge of a gravsled buried near

one wall, a scrap of ice-pale green showing behind

it. She opened her mouth, but Chekov was already

moving, skidding down a slab of fallen ice toward

the sled. Howard jumped down after him while

Uhura picked her way more cautiously across the

snow-crusted debris.

"Jimenez?" Chekov crouched beside the over-

turned sled, careful not to touch it or the slab of

ice it supported. As Uhura came closer, she could

see the young Nordstral guard curled in the

sheltered space beneath, the silver gleam of the

console visible beside him. "Where are you

caught?"

"Left ankle," said Jimenez, his voice barely

louder over his mike than it had been on the

communicator. "Between the gravsled and the

wall. I think it's broken."

Uhura quickly unsealed the emergency medikit

strapped onto her insulation suit belt while

Chekov and Howard hauled blocks of ice off the

gravsled. "Here." She pulled out a thin hypo and

dropped to her knees beside the young man. "This

should help."

"Thanks, sir." He showed her where to open the

shoulder seam of his insulation suit, then sighed

when she pushed back his body slip and pressed

the hypo to his pale brown skin. It hissed as it

discharged its dose of painkiller. "That feels better

already."

"Good." Uhura fastened his suit shut against the

cold, then reached down to pat his hand

reassuringly. "Lieutenant Chekov will have you out

soon, then we'll get your ankle splinted."

"That's great." Under the dull gleam of the guard's

142

ICE TRAP

plastic visor, Uhura saw the clenched muscles of

his jaw relax. "I'm glad you're here. You're a lot

better at this rescue stuff than we are."

"It's our job to be better at it." Ice crunched as

Chekov came around the edge of the overturned

sled and squatted down to search for a handhold

along its base.

The young man sighed. "I know that, sir. I tried

to tell Mr. Steno "

"But he didn't listen to you," Chekov finished for

him. "Small wonder." He rocked slightly on the

balls of his feet, securing his grip on the sled.

"Ready to lift, Mr. Howard?"

"Aye, sir."

"All right. On my count of three "

"Where is Mr. Steno?" Uhura asked, more to

distract Jimenez from the sled-lifting than from

any real wish to know the answer. "Did he leave

you here when the quake started?"

The young guard shook his head. "No, sir. He

left a lot earlier than that . . ."

"One," said Chekov between clenched teeth. His

shoulders knotted with effort as he hefted the

sled. "Two . . ."

". . . with Alion," finished Jimenez.

The heavy sled rose without warning, then went

crashing down into the ice a meter away.

McCoy knew there was no way he could outrun

the cascading flood, particularly with the

unconscious first mate limp in his arms. He

turned, Nuie protected by the curve of his body,

and met the onslaught of inrushing sea with the

broad of his back. The biting, rotten-fish odor of

brine stung his nose. Water colder than

imaginable washed around his hips, making his

443

L. A. Graf

legs as unresponsive as logs. The sodden weight of

his clothing dragged at him, making it hard to

stand. His injured hand screamed a throbbing

litany of pain as saltwater scoured it like

old-fashioned steel wool.

The water surged past and ran down the

corridor to meet the panicked rush of crew

erupting from their quarters and elsewhere

aboard the ship. Their shouted cries and queries

flew about like erratic ammunition.

Someone grabbed his arm. "Dr. McCoy! What

happened?"

"I don't know." He shook his head, shoulders

sagging under the combined weight of Nuie and

their water-soaked clothing. "There was a call to

the bridge. Nuie..." He shifted the Kitka's heavy

form. He needed to get him to sickbay and check

his vital signs, if he wasn't dead already. "Then

everything Somebody said something about an

icequake . . ."

A wealth of profanity greeted that information.

"Where's Captain Mandeville?" someone else

asked.

"I don't know." Captain Mandeville? Where was

Kirk? For the first time, McCoy noticed the water

had subsided from around his legs, sloshing about

his ankles as though he were a child wading in the

Chattahoochee. He turned as best he could, Nuie

dragging at his arms. The door to the bridge was

closed and Kirk wasn't in sight. That meant . . .

"Oh, dear God!" McCoy slammed to his knees

on the hard decking, cradling Nuie, forgotten, in

his arms. He stared at the door like it was the

final epitaph on the headstone of a friend

wrongfully taken, and felt a cold deeper than

Nordstral's sea take hold of him.

"Dr. McCoy?"

Dammit! It was just like Kirk to make certain

everyone was safe, then stay behind to face the

danger 144

ICE TRAP

by himself. McCoy knew it would get Kirk killed

one day, but not yet, dear Lord, please not yet . .

.

"Dr. McCoy!"

Someone tugged McCoy's sleeve. He felt an

irrational urge to bite them for their trouble.

"There was water coming in." He struggled to get

up, and finally managed with the helpful aid of a

hand under his arm. "I don't know why. I think we

hit something. Captain Mandeville went to take

care of it. Captain Kirk got us off the bridge . . ."

He felt more exhausted than he ever had, as

though the fighting spirit had just been sucked out

of his bones like the winning kraken sucking down

the loser's vitals. How could he go back to the

Enterprise and tell everyone that Kirk was dead?

"They're still in there? Flooded bridge!" The

Soroya crewman looked grim as she turned and

started issuing orders. McCoy stared at the closed-

up bridge.

"Dr. McCoy?"

He suspected the query had been repeated

several times before he heard it. He caught

himself staring at the iron barrier of the bridge

door, his heart cold with dread, and shook his

head hard. His eyes met the crewman's. "Yes?"

"Do you need help getting Nuie to sickbay, sir?

I don't think you should be here, in case..." The

sentence died off.

McCoy felt a surge of annoyance. Here was

exactly where he should be, in case. But there was

also Nuie to consider. Nuie who, for more time

than was excusable, he hadn't even really been

thinking about. Kirk would have McCoy's head on

a platter if the Kitka crewman died because he

chose to needlessly hang around a rescue

operation when he could be putting 145

L A. Graf

his talents to better use elsewhere. He could

practically hear Kirk berating him, and was

amused by the man's ability to lead even when he

wasn't in the same room.

"I can handle him," he replied, and wondered

just exactly to whom he was referring. "Do Do

you think they might actually be alive?"

The crewman positioned herself a little more

noticeably between McCoy and the working crew,

giving him an intangible nudge toward sickbay. "If

they got to the life units in time, sure. If they

didn't, there's nothing you're going to want to

see."

He appreciated her bluntness. Now was not a

time for delicately skirting around the issue. "How

long?"

"Depends on how long it takes you to get out of

here and let us do our work."

A tiny smile curved McCoy's lips for just an

instant and he nodded. Stooping, he shouldered

Nuie into a fireman's carry and continued down

the corridor to sickbay. He never once looked

back to watch the crew at their industry. He didn't

want to jinx their efforts.

Chekov squinted up toward the sun, trying to

gauge their distance from the Kitka encampment

by the star's slow procession across the arctic sky.

He caught himself wishing he'd spent more time

before planetfall studying the Nordstral star

system, but discarded that thought with a steamy

sigh skirting curtains of snow corkscrewed across

the land and sky he could barely see the sun,

much less glean any useful information from it.

"Damn him," he muttered for what felt like the

hundredth time since they'd set out after Steno

and his men. He was meaning the invective more

and more every time he uttered it.

146

ICE TRAP

"Chekov, you're starting to sound like you take

this personally."

He looked back at Uhura, a few lengthy strides

behind him, and reminded himself again that

she'd never be able to match their pace if he

didn't force himself to walk slowly. Stopping to let

her catch up, he noted with approval that

Publicker and Howard nearly treading on the

lieutenant commander's heels halted, also, to

make sure their loaded gravsled didn't overtake

her. As far as Chekov was concerned, thinking to

put six-foot-three-inch Howard in the rear and

himself in t he lead had done wonders at forcing

their little group to stick together.

"Are we still on course?" he asked Publicker.

Bent over a tricorder, his goggles granting him

a false expression of manic, iridescent attention,

Publicker nodded. 'iYessir. There's a lot of

interference, though."

That didn't surprise Chekov he'd noticed the

returning static on their suit communicators.

"We'll see how far we can get before we lose it."

"Yessir.7'

Uhura stayed beside him when they started

walking again. "Are you planning to leave Steno to

freeze when we find him? Or merely walk him to

death?" Her breath billowed and steamed in rapid

rhythm beyond her filter, laying a furry rim of

frost along the top of the Kitka mask hanging

around her neck. Chekov eased his pace again,

feeling guilty.

"No." He scanned the broken ice horizon, saw

nothing of use or interest. "We'll render whatever

assistance Mr. Steno requires, collect what

survivors we can find, and escort them all back to

Curie."

Uhura nodded, making the bone mask bob.

"Uhhuh. Just checking."

147

L. A. Graf

Chekov frowned down at her, unsure whether or

not she was joking. He sometimes couldn't tell,

and it bothered him that she might think him

capable of something so unprofessional as

throwing Steno out an open airlock much as he

might want to.

"This isn't personal, Uhura, it's . . . professional.

I don't care that Steno seems to trust Alion more

than his own people do. I don't even care how

certain Steno was that Alion's people had actually

located the shuttle crash site. Steno jeopardised

the safety of any survivors he might find by

sneaking away without informing anyone else."

"He left Jimenez with the communication equip-

ment," Uhura pointed out. "Jimenez would have

told us he did tell us."

"Whether or not Steno left someone isn't the

point!" He brought his hands up in front of him,

frustrated at having nothing nearby to fidget with.

"You don't try to outperform your reinforcements

on a rescue mission. We're here to do a job

together dammit, we're the only chance those

people have to survive! If anyone suffers because

of Steno's arrogance..." No appropriate English

idiom suggested itself, and Chekov still wasn't

sure he liked what Uhura's translator had done to

his Russian before, so he left the sentence

hanging.

"You'll pin his ears back?" the communications

officer suggested.

Chekov glanced down at her, decided she was

smiling from the tilt of her head, and snorted. "I'll

pin something back," he grumbled, "that's for

certain."

"Lieutenant!" Publicker's voice interrupted them,

dragging everyone to a stop again. He shook his

head when Chekov turned. "I've lost the signal."

It was Howard who swore this time.

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ICE TRAP

"What was your last reading?" Chekov asked,

coming back to stand with him.

Publicker handed over the tricorder with a

shrug. "Faint and barely recognizable as human,

but only about a half kilometer from here." He

pointed over Chekov's right shoulder. "North, and

a couple degrees west of our position."

"All right." Chekov turned to take Uhura's arm

and pull her closer into their huddle. "Contact

Jimenez," he told her. "See if the Kitka have set

up in their new village yet. If Steno really has

found our shuttle survivors, we'll be sending up a

flare soon for an escort." He wasn't sure he liked

the idea of letting Alion's men try to lead them

back, even on the off chance the shaman knew to

what new location the Kitka had gone. The

thought of being alone and unprotected on the ice

sheets with Alion set his teeth on edge.

"Howard set the gravsled for automatic follow.

I'll want everyone's hands free in case "

"Chekov!" The cry, thin with pain and terror,

drifted to them across the tumbled ice sheet,

jerking everyone around to search for the source

of the call. "Lieutenant Chekov! Oh, thank God!"

Uhura spotted him and pointed with a silent gasp.

Steno's ice-green insulation suit nearly hid him

from view as he clambered toward them over a

sweep of broken ice. He was too far away to make

out any details, but Chekov guessed from the roils

of steam obscuring Steno's face that his plastic

mask was either broken or gone. There was no

mistaking his long, bony frame, though, or the

frantic impatience of his gestures. "He's gone mad!

It's a trap for all of us! We've got to "

An eruption of snow and glittering crystal

drowned out the rest of Steno's cry. Two

men short and

149

L. A. Graf

square like natives, and bedecked with white

feathers and rattling bones burst over the tilted

ice pack and swarmed over Steno like frost on

glass. One flashed a bone knife across the station

manager's midsection, and a curtain of blood

splashed over the snowfield to instantly burn its

way below the crust and out of sight. Steno went

down without a scream.

"Hold it!" Chekov didn't know what he hoped to

accomplish, standing on an open ice sheet in solid

black insulation suits that wouldn't do a thing to

stop those native blades. Instinct demanded he try

something, though, even when his hand reaching

for a phaser brushed only empty hip instead.

The second native pointed up that loss by

raising one of the stolen weapons and opening

fire. Phaser light cut a bubbling line of water into

the ice barely a meter in front of them. Chekov

knew what that setting would do to human flesh.

"Come on!" Grabbing Uhura by one arm, he

shoved Publicker into a run ahead of him.

Howard needed no such urging; he'd already

broken into a run, the gravsled purring along

obediently at his heels.

"They'll just come after us!" Publicker objected

even as he followed Chekov's lead.

"Then run faster," Chekov growled, keeping one

hand on Uhura. "We already know what they'll do

when they catch us." Kitka wails rent the air

behind them, and Chekov sprinted forward to

shove his underling again. "Go!"

The sound of unseen phaser fire had never

seemed so shrill and deadly.

150

-

Chapter Nine

"I THINK we're gaining ground."

Uhura glanced up from the windblown swirl of snow

across her feet, trying to decide which of the

black-suited figures near her had said that. Cascading

wails of interference on the communicator channel

made it hard for her to identify voices. Nordstral's

auroras had grown so strong that they were visible

even in daylight, iridescent streaks across the ice white

sky.

"Are you sure, Mr. Howard?" There was no doubt

whose voice that was the tense snap in the words

would have identified it even without the Russian

accent. Uhura wondered how Chekov could still be so

keyed up. In the hours since they started running,

she'd lost track of everything but cold and exhaustion.

Her right side had gone numb from the constant

battering of wind, and her left side felt like someone

had stapled it to her ribs. The Kitka mask around her

151

L. A. Graf

neck occasionally jerked in the wind like a

top-heavy kite.

"Not really, Chief." Uhura turned her head and

saw the tall security guard standing offto one side,

leaning into the wind as he scanned their smudge

of trail. "But there's no one back there firing at us

anymore."

"Maybe they used up all their charge."

Publicker sounded as breathless as Uhura felt. For

the past half hour he'd been fighting to keep the

gravsled from skating past them as they descended

a long, irregular slope on the ice sheet.

"Either that, or the magnetic field's gotten bad

enough to take out the phasers." As if to

emphasise Chekov's point, a particularly vicious

howl of static erupted on their communicator

channel. Uhura winced and dialed the volume

down.

"Whatever." Publicker sounded plaintive as he

yanked at the sled, battling a sudden gust of snow-

laden wind. "Do you think we could take a minute

to rest?"

"That depends." Chekov glanced around at the

blowing curtains of snow. The afternoon sun was

slowly dimming behind their frost-white veil.

"Uhura, do you remember what time those boreal

winds hit us yesterday?"

"I think " Uhura's side stitched with pain and

she doubled over, gasping. Chekov moved to stand

beside her, one hand cupped under her elbow to

support her until she could catch her breath and

straighten again. "I think they hit about 1400

hours, planet time. Do you think they're coming

back again?"

"It sounds like it." The air around them glittered

with snow as the wind rose to a howl. "Is there

any chance you can make contact with Jimenez in

this mess?"

152

ICE TRAP

"I can try." Uhura tilted her head, listening past

the wind's shriek to the fading wails of auroral

static. "The interference seems to be dying down

a little."

"All right." Chekov caught the gravsled's tow

bar as it floated past and angled it down into the

snow, to keep the sled anchored against the pull

of the slope. He turned the servomotors off to

conserve their charge. "Then let's give Publicker

his rest break."

"Not a moment too soon." Publicker collapsed

beside the silent sled, his breath puffing out

through his filter. "Boy, if there's one thing I hate,

it's sweating inside an insulation suit."

Judging from the sound of his snort, Uhura

guessed that Chekov didn't find that funny. "It's

better than getting caught by Kitka, Mr.

Publicker."

"Or trying to dry off in this tropical breeze."

Howard shouldered through the snow toward

them. He reached out to yank Publicker to his

feet despite the other man's reluctant groan. "You

want a perimeter guard, Chief?"

" Three corners watch." Chekov took his place at

the head of the gravsled, face turned outward

toward the snow-shrouded horizon. "This weather

didn't take long to clear last time it hit. Let's

hope that's the standard pattern."

Uhura adjusted her communicator for a narrow-

beam scan, then programmed the output to rotate

in a slow, searching circle. "Uhura calling

Jimenez. Repeat, Uhura calling Jimenez."

"He's probably asleep." Publicker was rubbing

his gloved hands up and down his arms, although

there was no way the frictional heat could have

penetrated his insulation suit. "Or passed out

from that broken ankle of his."

"We left him extra medical supplies," Howard

153

L. A. Graf

reminded him. "And he knows we need him on

the console, to relay our location to the

Enterprise."

"Uhura calling Jimenez," Uhura said, biting her

words off as crisply as she could to keep them

from fading into the background hiss of static.

The falling wails of interference had vanished for

the moment. "Uhura calling Jimenez, do you read

me? Uhura calling Jimenez "

". . . read you . . ." The words barely crackled

past the communicator's internal hum. ". . . tune

. . ."

Uhura hurriedly focused on that scrap of

response, patching Chekov's communicator into

her stronger output signal as she did so. "Uhura

calling Jimenez. Can you read me now?"

"Much better, sir." Despite the static, the young

man's voice sounded steadier than it had that

morning. "Have you found the shuttle crew?"

"Not yet," Chekov said grimly. "Jimenez, are you

alone?"

"Yessing" The urgency in Chekov's voice

brought a reply as crisp as a Starfleet cadet's.

"The Chinit brought me to one of their private

alcoves. They're out hunting now."

"Good," said Chekov. "This is a Starfleet Priority

command. Get in touch with the Enterprise. Tell

them that a group of Kitka headed by the shaman

Alion have been observed slaughtering Nordstral

personnel and are now pursuing us across the ice.

We need transport immediately."

"Yessing" Uhura could almost hear Jimenez

swallow down his shock. A distant howl of

interference shivered through his signal. "When do

you want me to contact you with their reply, sit?"

Chekov glanced over his shoulder at Uhura and

she shook her head. "We'll contact you, Jimenez,

when we 154

ICE TRAP

can," she told the wailing communicator. "You'll

have to keep alert for times of low auroral

interference."

". . . sir." The transmission began to fade again,

as the howls grew louder. ". . . luck . . ."

"We've lost him." Uhura closed her eyes, her

head aching from the combined shriek of wind

and static. She dialed the volume on her

communicator all the way down to give herself a

moment of relative silence, then jerked upright

with fear clawing at her throat. Even with the

communicator off, she could still hear howling.

"Chekov!" she gasped, then cursed and spun the

volume back up on her suit channel when he

didn't reply. "Chekov, listen to your outside mike!

This noise isn't just coming from the

auroras there are Kitka near us!"

"Damn!" The security chief swung around and

yanked her to her feet. "Howard, give me

tricorder readings. Number of aliens, estimated

direction and distance from us. Publicker, get that

sled turned on."

The tricorder whirred and spat its readings out

as the gravsled hummed to life. "At least five

Kitka, sir, but the magnetic flux won't let it

calculate distance or directions," Howard

reported.

"All right." Chekov kicked the tow bar out of

the snow and shoved it into Publicker's hands. "I

want you to head downhill."

"Downhill?" The guard sounded baffled.

"We've been traveling downhill all morning. It's

the only direction we can be sure the Kitka aren't

coming from. We need you to show us the way."

Publicker still didn't move. "But, sir how am I

supposed to know which way is downhill?"

Chekov said something short and pungent in

Russian. "Give me that sled!" He yanked the tow

bar out 155

L A. Graf

of the other man's hands, then deliberately let it

go. The gravsled skated past them, gathering

speed as it headed down the slope of the ice.

Chekov strode after it, pulling Uhura with him at

a near run. Around them the snow had whirled

itself into a solid white wall that blocked out sight

and muffled sound. Uhura turned up the volume

on her outside mike and winced as the wind's

scream became a roar. Beyond it, the Kitka

howling sounded closer. Her side tried to knot

itself as she ran.

The boreal winds fell suddenly into silence,

dropping their veil of snow to reveal a landscape

of cracked and shattered ice. Uhura shouted a

warning as she saw what lay directly ahead of

them the dark blue emptiness of a crevasse,

slashed canyon-deep across the ice sheet.

She flailed her arms and skidded to a stop a

bare meter from the edge, dimly aware of the

gravsled sliding past her. In the flurry of startled

yells and triumphant howling from behind, it took

Uhura a long moment to realize that Chekov

hadn't stopped when she did. Instead, dragged by

his stubborn grip on the gravsled, he was slowly

toppling over the dark rim of the ice.

McCoy eased Nuie off his shoulders and onto

one of the beds in sickbay. What he wouldn't give

for one of his good old diagnostic beds from the

Enterprise! He needed something with a readout

screen showing simultaneous vitals and other

necessary information, not this star scout's cot!

Oh, well. He didn't call himself an old-fashioned

country doctor for nothing. Be that as it may, he

wasn't going to examine Nuie until he'd taken

care of his hand. It was bad medical practice to

bleed on your patients.

156

ICE TRAP

He still didn't have his familiar medikit, but

didn't want to take any further time by retrieving

it from his and Kirk's makeshift quarters. He'd

spent enough time cleaning Muhanti's lab to have

a good idea where everything was that he'd need.

And what he didn't know where to find, he'd look

for.

Muhanti. Thought of his attacker made him

pause. The last he'd seen of the ship's doctor,

Muhanti had disappeared behind a curtain of

greenish seawater. Was he dead, too?

"What do you mean, 'too'?" McCoy growled to

himself. "Jim's not dead. It takes more than a slug

of cold water to kill Kirk." Anyway, he hoped that

was the case, and would try not to dwell on

possibilities. If he did that, he couldn't uphold his

end of the job, and Kirk would never forgive him

for that.

He found the necessary materials to clean,

suture, and bind his hand. Then he brought a

portable sphygmomanometer, a stethoscope, and

a tiny penlight from one cabinet. Nuie's heart beat

strongly and his eyes reacted to the light. McCoy

noted his blood pressure and hoped it was within

normal limits for a Kitka. He stepped away from

the bed, considering, and the communicator on

his belt beeped for attention.

Hope swelling inside him, McCoy snatched the

small device into one hand and flipped it open.

"Jim? Jim, is that you?"

The deep, impassive voice that answered did not

belong to Jim Kirk. "Dr. McCoy, can you hear

me?"

"Yes." Even Spock's voice was a welcome

familiarity right now. "And much as I hate to

admit it, you've never sounded so good."

"Indeed." He could almost imagine the Vulcan

lifting one saturnine eyebrow. "The planet is

current

157

L. A. Graf

ly experiencing a period of magnetic calm, no

doubt accounting for the clarity of your

reception."

The doctor rubbed his eyes, almost laughing.

"That's not what I meant."

"Dr. McCoy," Spock cut in, "we have little time.

Nordstral has just experienced a pole reversal."

"Pole reversal?" He searched his memory for

some clue to what this entailed, but came up with

nothing that made any sense. "Are you telling me

this goddammed planet turned itself upside

down?"

"No, Doctor." For a Vulcan, Spock's tone was

almost a sigh. "The planet's magnetic field has re-

versed its polarity such that the north pole has

now become the south pole."

"Is that what made our ship crash into the ice?"

Spock paused. "The Soroya has crashed?"

McCoy opted not to mention Kirk's absence or

his own worries about their captain's safety. "Some

kind of icequake, they said. Knocked us around a

little."

"Tectonic disturbances are often linked to

magnetic reversals," Spock admitted. "As are

volcanic eruptions."

McCoy snorted. "Volcanic eruptions oh, that's

just what we need. What's the prognosis, Spock?

Is Nordstral all done having its magnetic fit?"

"Standard theory states that dipole magnetic

fields generated in a planet's liquid core suffer

reversal only once every few million years.

However "

"Dammit, Spock, I hate your howevers."

"My apologies, Doctor, but scientific reality

cannot be altered to suit your preferences." A

flash of static cut across Spock's voice, then

dashed away just as quickly. ". . . computer

analysis of Nordstral's magnetic field indicates

that it is far more complex

158

ICE TRAP

than a simple dipole. There appear to be other

magnetic components controlling the field from

closer to the planet's surface. Increasing

fluctuation of these secondary components

gradually destablized the main . . ." Another burst

of static drowned him out again, for longer this

time. ". . . predict that the poles will continue to

reverse on an extremely short time scale, possibly

as often as every thirty hours."

"Good lord!" Interference screeched from the

small communicator, and McCoy winced away

from that as much as from Spock's news. "You

mean we're goi ng to get banged around like that

once every day?"

"I'm afraid so, Doctor." His voice sounded like

overheard whispers from a distant room, although

smothered in static and auroral wails. ". . . not

certain . . . the cause of secondary fluctuations . .

. ship's sensors indicate . . . extremely unusual

fashion . . . still analysing . . ."

McCoy waited until the white noise nearly gave

him a headache, then snapped his communicator

shut with a curse. Just like Spock to leave before

getting to the good parts.

A groan from the prostrate man swung McCoy

around and brought him striding back to the bed.

He bent down, one hand firm in the center of

Nuie's chest, holding him in place. "Take it easy,

Nuie. It's McCoy. You're in sickbay."

Weirdly colored eyes opened and stared up at

him in confusion. "Dr. McCoy?"

"It's all right, Nuie. You're fine. At least, I think

you're fine. How do you feel?"

The Kitka paused, as though taking internal

inventory. For all McCoy knew, he might be. "I

feel okay. A little dizzy, maybe. What happened?"

159

L A. Graf

"You had a little bump on the head." McCoy

helped the first mate to slowly sit up. "I'd like to

take more time to examine you, but "

"Dr. McCoy?"

"Yes, Nuie?"

"Why are we wet?"

The question shot an abrupt, unhappy bark of

laughter out of McCoy. "We're wet because the

bridge began to flood." Quickly as he could, he

recounted what occurred.

Nuie clutched his hand. "Dr. McCoy, do you

remember hearing anything?"

"Hearing? No. I " His eyes narrowed. "Wait a

minute. There was something." He remembered

when, too, but didn't feel he needed to get into a

discussion about Muhanti trying to carve him up

for Thanksgiving dinner. "A groaning kind of

sound. I thought it was a kraken again."

Nuie shook his head. "It was the ice. Oh, this is

bad." The first mate looked at McCoy worriedly.

"I have to get up to the bridge. They've probably

cleared it by now, and I need to know what's

happened. I need to find out how bad off we are,

and get in touch with the company. If Captain

Mandeville is lost . . ." Nuie shrugged and hopped

off the bed. His eyes widened with surprise when

his feet splashed down into several inches of

water.

McCoy stared at their feet. His had been wet

and chilled since the deluge on the bridge. He'd

never noticed the gathering flood.

A quick glance around showed the leak where

several rivets had been strained by the accident.

Water poured in a steady tide, unnoticed until

now.

McCoy grabbed Nuie's arm and pulled him

toward

160

ICE TRAP

the door. "We have to get out of here! Is there a

way to seal this room off so we don't flood the

ship?"

"The door itself should do it, but we'll need to

compensate for the intake, or the drag will keep

us under."

McCoy didn't want to think about that. It was

only one more worry in a string of worries he

didn't have time to consider. He reached the door

and stopped, staring at it. The door had been

chocked open when he arrived with Nuie. He'd

left it that way, in case anyone called, needing

him. Now the door was shut, flush with the ugly

wall around it.

Suddenly afraid, McCoy reached for the wheel

in the center of the door and gave it a tug. The

door didn't budge. He tried to turn the wheel first

one way, then the other, but it clunked to a halt

barely a quarter of the way around. He turned

and looked at Nuie. "I don't think I want to know

what this means."

The Kitka nodded, eyes hooded. "You already

know, Doctor. It means we're locked in."

Teetering on the edge of the deep ice crevasse,

Chekov's first thought was that they couldn't

afford to lose their gravsled and with it their

only sources of food and shelter. He clapped both

hands to the gravsled's tow bar as it lumbered

away and down, hauling back with all his strength

and praying the sled's straining servos wouldn't

insist on equalising with the crevasse floor a

hundred meters below them.

Howard shouted in alarm, and Chekov had no

time to order him away before the ensign had

flung both arms around his chief's middle and

added his own weight to the pull. Relenting, the

gravsled bobbed over the lip of the crevasse and

glided back toward 161

L. A. Graf

Publicker and Uhura as if that had always been its

goal. Howard and Chekov tumbled into the snow

still locked together, scrambling back from the

dropouts edge even as they fell.

Not pretty, Chekov allowed, disentangling

himself from Howard and getting to his feet, but

effective. "Thank you, Mr. Howard."

The taller man brushed a dusting of snow off his

insulation suit, still breathing raggedly. "Jeeze,

Chief, you scared me."

Turning to edge back toward the crevasse,

Chekov kept his hands carefully behind him, as if

that would somehow prevent his accidental

dislodgement. The rift went deeper than he could

see, its bottommost reaches obscured by slabs of

dancing light, blown snow, and awkward knobs

and ledges of broken ice. Everything was so

clear like a mountainside carved in glass that

light glared brilliant aqua through a crusting of

pockmarked snow. Only the faintest smudge of

darkness a few hundred meters to his left hinted

that something must span the crevasse to cast that

brittle shadow. Chekov peered down the length of

the crevasse, and was soon rewarded with a dim

glimpse of something long and ragged jutting out

across that abyss.

He caught Uhura's wrist and started off in that

direction. "Publicker! Bring the gravsled find the

repelling cable."

Uhura trotted beside him, her attention still half

behind them as the Kitka whistles grew closer and

more dense. "What are you going to do?"

Chekov's heart soared as the narrow ice bridge

solidified with nearness. Taking the cable Howard

ran up to him, he pulled Uhura to a stop and

turned her to face away from him so he could

loop the cable

162

ICE TRAP

snugly around her trim waist. "We're going over

that bridge."

"Oh . . ." Uhura stood very still, eyeing the

bridge. One hand played nervously with the blank

Kitka mask still hanging around her neck. "Oh,

Pavel, I don't know . . ."

"We haven't any choice." Cinching her tight,

Chekov estimated the length of the bridge and

played out a length of rope to hold between

himself and Uhura before passing the remainder

back to Howard. "Tie me, then Publicker, then

yourself." Taking Uhura's shoulders so he could

rotate her to face him, Chekov went on to explain,

"We can't run very much longer. This way, we can

knock out the bridge behind us so Alion and his

people can't follow."

"If the bridge doesn't knock us out first."

Publicker squirmed unhappily, twisting the excess

rope between his black-gloved hands while staring

at the slim tongue of ice. "That earthquake must

have cracked it all to pieces, sir."

It wasn't as though Chekov hadn't already

considered that. "That will just make knocking it

down easier. Come on." He led them toward the

foot of the bridge at an anxious trot. The only

certainty he knew right now was that Alion's men

would kill them if they caught them. God only

knew why. If Chekov could start his people across

the bridge smallest to largest the ice just might

hold long enough to get three of them across.

Then, when it collapsed, Chekov, Uhura, and

Publicker would have a better than even chance of

hanging onto Howard's line when he fell. If the

ice bridge didn't hold . . .

Then they were all dead, just like they would be

if they didn't try, so dwelling on that thought

wasn't worth it.

463

L A. Graf

At the foot of the bridge, Chekov twisted

around to wave the gravsled forward. Howard

shoved it up to Publicker, who jumped a little

with surprise at being distracted from his singular

study of the ice bridge. Reaching back to guide it

around Publicker, Chekov passed it forward to

Uhura and pressed the tow bar into her hand.

"Take this with you. It won't add any weight to

the bridge, and we need to make sure it gets

across." And you're the only ore I'm certain car'

make it.

She nodded, small hands tense on the bar.

Turning, she squared her shoulders with a sigh

and tried to laugh. "Hold tight, you guys."

Chekov nervously wrapped one hand in the

cable. "Always.'7

She set her feet gingerly on the irregular

expanse, toe first, heel to follow. The shrieking

auroral static drowned his ability to hear

individual footsteps, making it seem as though she

picked her way across the crevasse in miraculous

silence. To Chekov that silence only made her feel

even farther away that much more unreachable

and unsalvageable should anything go wrong.

Puffs of snow whitened the ankles of her black

suit, roiling in a milky cloud beneath the slow

gravsled; glitters of ice rained from the belly of

the bridge down into the crevasse below. When

Uhura leapt the last meter to stumble onto glacier

sheet at the other side, Chekov released a pent

breath so explosive he almost didn't hear Uhura's

voice squeak over the communicator, "I'm across!

It's all right I'm over!"

He raised both hands, thumbs up, and smiled

when she returned the salute. The gravsled drifted

lazily behind her, seeking some level point on the

rippling reach of ice.

Tapping his suit comm to a private channel,

Chekov

164

ICE TRAP

glanced back at Publicker and Howard. "Are you

ready?"

They nodded.

"Be careful." He hated to have to say it. "If I

fall, she's not going to be able to hold me."

"We've got you, sir," Howard assured him.

Publicker only nodded again, stiffly, and said,

"Don't fall, please."

"I'll try not to." Then, insides twisting and

knotting with vertigo, he eased up to the bridge

and stepped out onto the expanse.

He felt the crunch beneath his feet more than

heard it, felt the fractional layer of frozen snow

shatter beneath each step and sink down into the

hard ice beneath. He'd never considered himself

afraid of heights, but something like this was

entirely different not fear, but deadly mistrust

of his own beleaguered senses. Wind and sound

and light tried to fool him into illusions of

pendulumlike motion. Peripheral vision showed

him nothing but down, down, and more down for

as far as he could see to either side, but looking

at his feet made his whole body feel impossibly

tall and disconnected. Water, as black as obsidian

with foamy flecks of waves chopping across the

surface, wound a sluggish ribbon through the

bottom of the crevasse. Chekov forced his eyes

ahead, concentrating instead on Uhura's stark

black figure at the foot of the bridge. So long as

she stayed before him, he was all right so long as

she drew closer, he was all right. He was almost

nose to nose with her when his footing finally slid

from bridge ice to glacier ice and stumbled him

into Uhura on his way to more solid ground.

"Not a lot of fun, is it?" she commented quietly,

her tone of voice amused.

165

L. A. Graf

Chekov laughed a little, but otherwise opted not

to answer. Opening his comm channel, he stepped

aside to wave the next man over. "All right,

Publicker, come on.

Hands still worrying with the knot tied at his

waist, the figure poised at the bridge's lip shook

his head with slow resolve. "No..." Publicker's

voice sounded young and shaken over the

crackling channel. "I . . . I don't think I want to

do this, sir."

Chekov's stomach clenched with dread. "We all

have to do things we don't want to, Mr.

Publicker." It hadn't occurred to him that

Publicker's reticence was anything more profound

than his own. "I don't intend to come back over

there," he went on, trying to sound stern, "so

you'd better start moving."

Howard's lean figure moved up close behind

Publicker's shoulder. "It's okay, Mark, we've got

you."

Chekov lifted his eyes to scan the icescape

behind the two for signs of the approaching Kitka.

"There's no turning back, Mr. Publicker. You've

got to come on." And hurry,

Whether Publicker took the first shaky steps on

his own or Howard nudged him forward, Chekov

couldn't tell. Either way, Publicker inched onto

the spar of ice with his elbows tucked close to his

sides, his knees nearly riveted together with

terror. Chekov caught himself digging his feet into

the ice, afraid Publicker even had his eyes closed

as he shuffled across, but restraining himself from

calling out for fear of startling him into a panic.

At not quite halfway across the younger man

suddenly froze, his chin jerking as though he'd

heard a frightening noise.

166

ICE TRAP

Howard fidgeted at the foot of the bridge.

"Mark . . . ?"

"It moved!" Publicker gasped, and Chekov felt

his heart leap into his throat.

"Keep moving!" he shouted, running backward

to extend the cable between them and keep

himself as far as he could from the crevasse's

edge.

"It moved, sir!" Publicker staggered back the

way he'd just come, hands gripping his arms. "I

felt the ice move under me!"

"Publicker, come here!"

A thundercrack of sound underscored Chekov's

order, and Publicker spun to face the tumult just

as the bridge behind him shattered and tore loose

a segment of glacier wall. Howard, arms flailing,

did his best to backpedal while the ground

crumbled beneath his feet. He toppled headlong

into the crevasse, grabbing instinctively for the

cable that bound him only to Publicker

and through him to Chekov and Uhura on the

other side of the rift.

Chekov knew what was coming only moments

before the cable snapped taut and yanked

Publicker backwards off the disintegrating trestle.

He spread his legs wide, jamming his heels into

the brittle snow, bracing himself for the dual

weight of his plummeting guards and praying that

Uhura had the sense to cut him loose if he

couldn't save her from being hauled into the

abyss.

When both men slammed against the end of

their belay, Chekov had only long enough to see

the cable slice a deep wedge into the remnants of

the bridge before the force of their combined

weight jerked him off his feet and dragged him,

and Uhura, toward the lip of the crevasse.

167

Chapter Ten

McCoY EEVEEED A FINGER under the stocky

Kitka s nose. "Now, wait just a damned minute!"

He worked hard to keep his voice at a normal

level when panic wanted to send it shrieking, and

him along with it. "That door was wide open when

I brought you in. I didn't close it, I know for

damned sure you didn't, and there's no vagrant

breeze to help it along! So how "

"Only two doors lock from the outside aboard

the Soroya the door to Captain Mandeville's

quarters and the door to the wardroom. Even

then, you can't lock somebody in, as they're easily

opened from the other side." Nuie reached out

and ran a callused hand ruminatively around the

door's center wheel. His fingers tightened briefly,

checking the spin in either direction. The wheel

barely budged. "This has been jammed from the

outside."

"But that means " McCoy stopped, realized his

'68

ICE TRAP

finger was still thrust oratorically into the air. He

swore and jammed it into a pocket. Staring at the

heavy door, he worried the inside of his lip. He

didn't like what this meant any more than he

liked the chill sweat coating his body under the

wet Starfleet uniform. "Who would lock us in?" he

asked quietly, his voice almost calmly speculative

while his mind gibbered and capered around the

inside of his skull.

"How should I know?" Nuie replied with an

honesty that made McCoy want to knock his head

against the wall. "I was unconscious."

McCoy hazarded a look over his shoulder at the

leak. Was it his imagination, or had it grown in

strength during the few moments he'd taken his

eyes away? "Do you think whoever locked us in

knew about that?" He thrust a chin toward the

spill of water.

"If you're asking me do I think someone locked

us in here to kill us, I'd say there's a good

chance."

Ire momentarily put fear to bay and the

Starfleet officer glared sourly. "Don't Kitka ever

lie?"

Nuie blinked impassive silver eyes. "This Kitka

doesn't."

The man's frank honesty elicited a short laugh

from McCoy, when he felt about as far from

happy as he'd ever been. There was a flutter in

his chest, as of a million frantic birds beating their

wings against his ribs. "Well, I don't know about

the Kitka, Nuie, but the McCoys never go down

without a fight. Just ask the Hatfields."

"The who?"

"Never mind." Hands on his hips, McCoy turned

to watch the steady fall of water. "Can we plug

that, or at least slow it down?"

169

L. A. Graf

Nuie gave the wall brief, careful consideration

before answering. "Maybe . . . if we were outside.

Look closely, Doctor. The break isn't just there.

That's just an opening. The seams have been

strained here, but somewhere else, too." He

reached out and let the water cascade gently over

his fingers. "All of the equipment is up in the

turret, anyway."

"Forget I asked." McCoy crossed the room and

began randomly but quickly opening doors and

drawers.

"What are you doing?" Nuie splashed over to

stand at the doctor's elbow and watch.

McCoy tried not to think about how much the

water had risen while they talked; tried not to

recall what it felt like to drown. He knew once he

let the fear get hold of him, he was lost, and Nuie

with him. "I'm looking for something to whale the

tar out of that door." When that only made the

first mate look confused, McCoy sighed and rolled

his eyes. "I mean something to hit it with, Nuie.

To see if we can break through." He lifted free a

contraption made of weirdly jointed metal parts.

"Something like this." The crude instrument hadn't

been used in modern hospitals since before McCoy

was an intern. For the first time, he was glad to

find Muhanti's sickbay behind the times.

He grabbed another piece of equipment and

thrust it into Nuie's hands. "Here. Let's give it a

try." He led the way back to the door. The water

was above his ankles and his feet were numb with

cold. Salty brine odor tainted the air like iodine or

the taste of copper.

He hefted the implement back over one

shoulder and swung. It made a satisfying racket

against the wall. Nuie immediately joined in,

powerful shoulder

,70

ICE TRAP

muscles rippling the damp material of his shirt.

Their blows swung and fell together, developing a

kind of cadence. After several moments McCoy

held up a hand. "Is it any looser?" he puffed,

winded. He promised himself that if he got out of

this alive, he'd start taking Kirk up on his offers of

working out together in the gym.

Wet hair straggled across Nuie's eyes as he bent

and shoved a hand against the door. It didn't

budge. "No."

"Then we do it again."

And again. And again. By that time the water

had risen to calf height. The bottoms of McCoy's

uniform pants fluttered like underwater weeds.

His feet felt like unwieldy blocks of wood tied to

his ankles. He stamped when he walked, trying to

restore a sense of circulation because he couldn't

feel his individual toes.

"Where the hell's the crew?" he groused, pacing

back and forth. "They can't all be up by the

bridge." He faced Nuie. "What are the intercom

capabilities aboard sh ip?"

The first mate shrugged from atop one of the

sickbay beds, legs crossed and clear of the rising

water. "Standard Nordstral communications

network. There are speakers throughout the ship."

"Can we transmit from the lab?" McCoy asked

eagerly.

"I don't know. It wasn't something I ever had to

worry about, but I expect so. Standard operating

procedure for Nordstral, even on a vessel as old

and rundown as Soroya, is to have everyone easily

accessible to the captain. The doctor is next in

command after me."

171

L. A. Graf

McCoy nodded grimly, his thoughts of Muhanti

warring with his desperate desire to be just about

anywhere but here. "Let's give it a try."

McCoy hated slogging through the chill water to

Muhanti's cramped corner desk, stuck in a tiny

area between the last bed and the lab's outer wall.

Water trickled around his knees. His joints felt

tight from the cold. The intercom unit was a

push-button wall affair not unlike those

intermittently spread through the vast corridors of

the Enterprise. Thoughts of the great ship gave

McCoy an odd admixture of feelings. Would he

ever see her again?

His thumb stabbed the button and held it down.

"McCoy to bridge. This is Dr. Leonard McCoy

calling the bridge or anyone else who can read

me. Over." Nothing. "This is Dr. Leonard McCoy.

If you can hear us, First Mate Nuie and I are

trapped in the lab. There's a hull breech and

water is coming in." He licked his lips, needing to

stop and calm the tremble in his chest. All that

water. All that water, just waiting to rush in and

fill his lungs . . .

"Dr. McCoy!" The sharp urgency in Nuie's voice,

and his hard hands, warm on McCoy's arms even

through the cold, wet parka, brought the doctor's

eyes up. The Kitka's face was pinched with worry.

"You got very grey for a minute. I thought you

might pass out."

"The thought crossed my mind," McCoy rasped,

chest tight. "Nude I can't take this. We've got to

get out of here." McCoy hated the way his voice

shook; hated that he couldn't stop it from shaking.

"I I'm afraid of water. Can you understand that?

I don't know what I'll do if "

Nuie's hands tightened on his arms and shook him

172

ICE TRAP

gently. "Dr. McCoy, relax! It's just the brain

sickness. You're being affected like the rest of the

crew."

McCoy drew himself up straight and shook off

Nuie's supportive hands. "Bull! I know the

difference between brain sickness and being

scared out of my ever-loving mind!"

The ship abruptly stewed to one side.

Equipment flew off counters and something

crashed in the lab. McCoy would have fallen but

for Nuie's quick reflexes. They froze, arms tight

around one another, waiting to see what the

Soroya would do next. She shifted sideways,

sighed, and was silent.

"What the hell was that all about?" McCoy's

voice was a thready whisper. His throat was dry

and he was too scared to work up spit.

Nuie shook his head, nostrils working the air.

"Dr. McCoy . . . do you smell smoke?"

The fierce yank of the cable slammed Uhura

back toward the edge of the crevasse, boots

skidding uselessly across the wind-blasted surface

of the ice. She struggled to unknot the loop

around her waist, her gloved fingers stiff and slow

with fear. Her breath jammed in her throat,

already anticipating the fall into freezing-cold

water

Then Chekov grunted, and the tension on the

rope suddenly went slack. Now that she was no

longer fighting the pull of two guards dangling

below, Uhura caught her balance and managed to

loosen the loop of rope. As it dropped, she swung

around to see Chekov on his back at the edge of

the crevasse, legs rammed into its upthrown rim

and shoulders straining to hold the humming rope.

His boot heels ground against the snow-crusted

ice, slowly losing their fragile purchase. 173

L. A. Graf

Years of Starfleet training broke through

Uhura's shock with memories of climbing

exercises run on walls of slick, wet granite.

"Pitons!" She spun and scrambled across the snow

for the loaded gravsled. "Chekov, do we have

pitons?"

"In equipment case." His voice came in pain-

ful gasps, as if he could barely spare the effort of

making words. "Red bag."

Uhura yanked the case out without bothering to

undo any straps, then tore it open with frantic

haste. A canvas bag of climbing pins spilled out at

her feet when she shook it. She grabbed up a

handful and ran.

"I've got them." She scrambled to a stop just

behind Chekov and smacked a piton into the ice

as hard as she could. Its sharp steel point barely

made a dent, but a quick twist detonated its

internal charge, blasting a hard plastic extension

down into the ice. Uhura grabbed the cable and

anchored it with a swift loop and turn around the

pin, then knotted it as hard as she could.

Chekov grunted again, even more breathlessly.

.'Set?"

"Let me get one more in. . ." Uhura tugged the

rope taut between him and the first pin, in case

Howard and Publicker were dangling just above

water level. Despite the ominous silence from

their communicators, she refused to think about

the chance that they might have fallen in already.

Surely the weight on Chekov wouldn't be so great

if either man was floating. A second piton

exploded down into the ice sheet. She snagged the

rope around it, then caught up the free end and

knotted it there, too, for good measure. '`AII

right, I've got it. You can let go."

Chekov did so, rolling sideways with a sharp

gasp of relief as the rope thrummed and snapped

tight around

174

ICE TRAP

the pins. The gasp became a cry of pain when he

tried to scramble to his feet. Uhura looked over in

concern, seeing the security chief bent double on

the ice.

"Chekov! Are you hurt?"

He shook his head vehemently as she dropped

to her knees beside him. "Just cramped from

holding the rope." He sounded as though he were

talking through gritted teeth. "Give me a minute,

then I'll haul Howard and Publicker up "

"Don't worry." Uhura patted his pain-knotted

shoulder gently. "I can do that."

"You?" Chekov tilted his head to stare at her in

what looked like amazement. "How?"

She grinned, although she knew he couldn't see

it, and rose to her feet. "With the solar-powered

winch you put in the equipment case."

A spate of caustic Russian followed her as she

headed back toward the gently drifting gravsled.

Uhura's grin faded when she saw how far the sled

had traveled from the spilled bag of climbing pins.

She snagged the tow bar and pulled it back with

her, using the dangling end of the cable to fasten

the sled to her embedded pitons. Then she dug

the bright yellow winch out of the equipment box

and turned back toward Chekov.

He had levered himself up to a painful crouch

by then, peering intently down the side of the

crevasse. "I can see them." He tapped impatiently

at the transmitter inside his insulation suit collar,

as if that would make it work better. "Howard, can

you hear me? Publicker?"

"They may not be" Uhura swallowed at the

sudden fierce turn of Chekov's goggles toward

her `'conscious," she finished lamely. She knelt

on the ice near where the rope disappeared over

the edge, dig175

L. A. Graf

gingin the snow crust with her hands to make

enough space for the winch. "They must have hit

the side of the ice pretty hard."

"True." The security officer fell silent. Uhura

finished threading the rope into the winch, then

switched it on. The heavy metal drums growled

and began to turn, hauling the rope in despite its

icy hiss of protest. Uhura sighed and sat back,

looking at Chekov.

He was staring at the far side of the crevasse,

shoulders tense under his snow-splattered

insulation suit. "I can't see the Kitka," he

muttered, so softly he must have been talking to

himself. "Dammit, where are they?"

Uhura dared a glance into the blue-edged

depths below them. Gray slabs of ice floated in

the foam-dark water, the shattered remnants of

the bridge they'd crossed. On either side, the

break in the ice sheet stretched into the distance,

widening to their left into a black arc of open sea.

"Chekov, there's no way they can reach us now.

They've probably gone back to their village."

"Maybe." He fidgeted with his communicator

dialing the radio down to listen to the outside

mike, Uhura guessed. The growl of the winch

deepened as it reeled in more rope. She kept a

careful eye on the slithering cable, ready to reach

out at the first glimpse of an insulation suit. After

a moment Chekov came to join her. "Any sign of

them yet?"

"Not yet." Even as the words left her mouth,

though, something scraped heavily against the ice

ledge they leaned over. As smoothly as if they'd

practiced the maneuver, Chekov reached out to

haul the black-suited figure up over the edge

while Uhura spun to switch offthe winch. When

she turned back, it was with a cry of horror.

i76

ICE TRAP

"Publicker!" His insulation suit was so badly

shredded it hung loose across his chest and neck,

his breath filter held in place only by his own

desperate grip on it. He'd somehow lost his

goggles, leaving his face white with frost. Blood

had frozen in a thin trickle below one ear, where

the ice had slashed too deep for his insulation suit

to protect him.

"His communicator's gone." Chekov unknotted

the rope from around the young man's waist, then

shook it free. Uhura switched the winch on again,

and the security chief lowered Publicker to the

ground. "Publicker, can you hear me through the

mike?"

Publicker nodded, squinting his eyes painfully

open. He took a deep breath, then erupt ed into

coughing. The moisture from his unfiltered breath

glittered in the air around them. "Can't breathe,"

he gasped, his voice hoarse and weak in the arctic

air. "Can't "

Chekov cursed and leaned down to wrap the

remnants of Publicker's tattered insulation suit as

closely around him as he could. "There should be

a spare filter in the sled," he told Uhura grimly.

"And a set of goggles, too."

"I'm going." The gravsled bobbed beneath her

frantic fingers while she searched. "I can't find

them. Where " The deepening growl of the

winch warned her an instant before she heard the

scrape of something against ice. She and Chekov

lunged forward at the same time, catching at the

limp, misshapen figure that bumped its way over

the lip of the crevasse. Uhura bh at her lip hard

when she saw the awful way Howard's arm

dangled in front of him.

"Oh, God what happened to him?"

"Steady." Chekov gripped her arm briefly. "I

think he's dislocated a shoulder, that's all." He

bent to lift

177

L A. Graf

the tall guard's other arm, then let it go. It fell

back limply, and Chekov grunted. "He's still out.

I'll try to put his shoulder back before he wakes

up. Go find Publicker's breath filter, or his lungs

will burn on this air. There should be one in the

emergency box, up in front near the medikit.',

"All right." Uhura scrambled around the tangle

of rope and winch, heading for the front of the

sled while Chekov knelt over Howard's sprawled

figure. She dialed her outside mike up as she

went, listening to Publicker's gasping cough.

"Hang on, Publicker!" she called back to him.

"We'll have you fixed up in no time."

His reply was a cry of hoarse, wordless panic.

Uhura swung around, startled. The guard had

risen to his knees, swaying on the very edge of the

ice sheet as he stared across it. Her gaze followed

his as a shiver of distant howling split the air

again.

On the far side of the crevasse, a flicker of

white on white was all that showed her the

feather-clad Kitka running directly toward the

gaping chasm. Uhura watched in horror as they

flung themselves toward the edge, wondering what

on Earth they were trying to do. Then she noticed

the slender flash of bone-white poles they carried,

and realised with a sickening catch of breath what

they intended. Chekov must have looked up and

seen it, too his warning shout rose with hers as

two of the natives planted their long spears into

the icy edge of the crevasse and vaulted

themselves across.

The leap began in deadly silence, a long,

glittering white arc through the snow-frosted air.

It ended in a crash as the natives landed on their

side of the ice, bare meters from their sled. Uhura

cried out as the ice shook with the impact, hard

enough to throw her to 178

ICE TRAP

her knees. For some reason, though, the crashing

didn't end when the natives hit. It got louder,

joined after a moment by a familiar groan of

shattering ice. Uhura felt a jolt of separation, and

suddenly realised that the entire ice sheet had

fallen away beneath them.

She screamed once as they fell toward the water

below.

McCoy's nostrils flared, catching a whiff of acrid

odor. His eyes darted around the sickbay's close

confines and his fingers twisted in the material of

Nuie's shirt. "There!"

A thread of smoke drifted out the lab door,

riding low on the air currents, delicately touching

the water like early morning fog burning off the

surface of a mountain lake. It grew as they

watched, darkening, and they heard the crackle of

flames.

The men hurried toward the lab, legs laboring

against the cold wash of water caressing their

thighs. McCoy spared the leak a brief glance as he

passed, and his heart fell, seeing it fountain ever

faster.

His outthrust arm stopped Nuie in the doorway.

Beyond them, flames rode the rising water like

proud flagships of an ancient, conquering race.

Fire licked the walls and blackened the edges of

the lab furnishings. Smoke billowed and thickened.

McCoy cursed luridly, coupling Muhanti's name

several times with physical feats one could only do

if they were ten feet tall and possessed a

doublejointed spine. At that moment McCoy

would have been only too happy to donate the

time and energy into making the necessary

adjustments to Muhanti . . . and perhaps a few

more besides.

"It's his stupid experiments," he explained to Nuie,

179

L. A. Graf

raising his voice to be heard over the rising

crackle of flame. "When the ship shifted, it must

have sent everything flying." His brows drew

together. "Something must have been oil-based."

The flames slicked and slid across the water's

surface like ice skaters with weak ankles.

An errant flag of smoke made Nuie cough. He

tugged McCoy back out of the doorway. "We've

got to put it out, Doctor. It'll use up our oxygen

before the water reaches ceiling level."

Frankly, McCoy wasn't thrilled with either pros-

pect. Both involved death by suffocation, and that

was never his first choice when it came to picking

a way to die. In bed, surrounded by loved ones

and admirers, was more his style, but he didn't

bother telling that to the Kitka.

"I don't know where Muhanti kept his

extinguishers. They're probably underwater,

anyway," McCoy added sourly.

"We'll close the door," Nuie responded simply,

"and the fire will burn off its oxygen."

McCoy stared at him in admiration, feeling

patently stupid. "Nude, I stand in awe."

"Don't bother." Nuie gestured unhappily and

McCoy turned around. The back wall of the lab

was bent and twisted like that in sickbay. Water

poured silently down the wall, deadly as any

stealthy killer. "Oh, damn . . ."

A klaxon suddenly went off over their heads,

and McCoy nearly leapt out of his skin. Water

sprayed in every direction from a ceiling conduit

as the sprinkler system came into play.

"Just what we need," the doctor groused,

wincing as his heavy jacket settled soggily around

him. "More water."

180

ICE TRAP

Nuie's expression was sardonic. "Come on, Dr.

McCoy. Help me close the door."

It took both of them to drag the door shut

against the pressure of water. By the time they

finished, the water was to their chests. The alarm

inexplicably quit as abruptly as h began. McCoy

listened with feverish hope, but there were no

sounds of impending rescue. "If that didn't get

their attention, nothing will."

"I'm afraid you may be right, Doctor."

A sad little laugh escaped McCoy. He wasn't

sure whether to hug Nuie or hit him for sounding

so much like Spock. Looked like it would be the

Vulcan delivering the eulogies, after all.

The press of frigid water against his chest made

it hard to breathe. "Nude, I "

With a scream of outraged protest, the ship

rolled. Both men went flying. McCoy landed hard

and submerged. All of the air shot out of his lungs

in a panicked rush, leaving him bruised and sore

and abruptly breathing water. His eyes flashed

open to the sting of saltwater and a murky,

greenish hue. With a bellow of utter terror, he

burst to the surface clawing for purchase, feet

slipping unfeelingly along the deck.

Hands grabbed for him and he batted them

away in his fright. Eyes wide and staring, he didn't

see much at all until Nuie bodily lifted him onto

one of the submerged bunks and held him there.

The first mate's soothing litany finally calmed

McCoy enough to blink and bring their

surroundings into focus. His chest spasmed, rising

and falling rapidly with the terrified cadence of his

breathing. He took a deep breath and ordered

himself to slow down, relax. McCoy's head sagged

between his shoulders, and it was several moments

before he could bring himself to release the

stranglehold on Nuie's sleeve. "I'm sorry . . ."

181

L. A. Graf

"There's nothing wrong with being afraid," Nuie

said firmly. "It's stupid to apologise for it."

"Then I'm stupid and sorry. It's just . . ." McCoy

ran a wet hand through his dripping hair and shook

his head, unable to find words.

"Stay on the bed." Nuie's hand rested brieny on his

shoulder. "It'll keep you farther out of the water a

little longer."

McCoy raised his head and stared bleakly into the

other man's odd eyes, eyes he suddenly knew he

would remember for the rest of his life. "We're going

to die, aren't we?"

Nuie's gaze never wavered. "Yes, Doctor. I think

we are. I guess it's a little too late for this Kitka to

learn to lie."

The small joke elicited a weak chuckle from

McCoy. "Yes, I guess it is." His gaze wavered,

wandering into the middle distance. "I always thought

I'd die with Kirk, or maybe with Spock. At least, with

a friend."

"You are dying with a friend, McCoy."

That brought his attention back. The serious ex-

pression on the Kitka's face only confirmed his

words.

McCoy held out his hand. "Thank you, Nuie. And

the name's Leonard."

The worn hand gripped his tightly for a moment,

and released it. "Nude of Ulu Clan. The ulu is the

special knife of the Kitka. You can do many things

with the ulu." Nuie reached for the back of his belt

and pulled forth a blade shaped like a one-third cut

of pie. What would be the inner point was capped by

a protruding handle made of bone and decorated

with a kraken cut in relief. "I am knife bearer for

Clan Ulu."

McCoy blinked at the sharp device, not sure he

182

ICE TRAP

liked even more dangerous objects inserted into

this situation. "I thought you were a city kid,

Nuie."

"Some things go beyond city or icebound,

Doctor." The Kitka looked down at the blade,

pensive. "The ulu stands for a lot of things to the

Kitka, most of which wouldn't mean anything to

you. Mostly, though, it stands for my people's

need to meet with the god when the time comes

for us to die."

Before McCoy knew what was happening, Nuie

bared his forearm and slashed it deeply with the

ulu.

A roaring wall of water geysered up all around

their iceberg as it plunged into the green-black

ocean. Chekov scrambled away from the surging

whitecaps, trying to regain his footing on an ice

shelf now bucking and heaving in rhythm with the

churned-up waves. Water like a cold, firm hand

shoved against the back of his legs, hissed past

him over dissolving snow, froze to a glassy glare

before the edge could peel back on itself and slip

away. Chekov scrabbled, on hands and knees,

beyond its reach and beat at the frosty glaze

already adhering to his insulation suit. The ice

broke and scattered with a crackling loud enough

to challenge the static over his communicator.

Still unsteady with the iceberg's movement,

hands outstretched to either side, he stumbled in

a circle to take stock of their situation. The

gravsled bobbed at the end of its tether, bumping

ruts in the ice at what was now the highest point

of their sloping raft. Howard lay tangled in the

ropes and pitons near the sled; Uhura's frantic

anchors had saved him from watery death yet

again today. Near the top of a sharp incline,

Uhura's slight figure picked its way across frozen

snow and broken ice, fixated on something 183

L. A. Graf

below and ahead of her and not the stout, white-

feathered man clambering up the slope behind

her.

His heart spasming with fear, Chekov broke into

a run even as he pushed up the suit's external

volume. "Uhura!"

The native spun to face him, but Uhura only

waved impatiently, her attention elsewhere. "It's

all right," her voice crackled over the

communicator channel. "I see him."

She couldn't have been talking about the native,

but Chekov had no time to ask her to elaborate.

The Kitka abandoned Uhura without even a

pause, springing downslope at Chekov to tackle

him into the waterslicked snow.

Ice, hard and ridged, knocked his breath away

upon impact. Chekov rolled, trying to dislodge his

attacker, only to have the Kitka clamp strong legs

about his middle and pin him. Glossy feathers

afforded no hold for insulation-suited hands, and

Chekov found himself gripping nothing but air

when the Kitka swiveled to jerk a broad-bladed

knife from one boot top.

Oh, God, please no! Chekov recoiled

instinctively from the blade's downward swipe.

One hand flew up between them a desperate

attempt to keep the Kitka from his throat and

pain as bright as the Nordstral auroras shot

through his forearm.

He felt the gritty scrape of ivory blade against

human bone, felt the Kitka's weight rock forward

with the blow, and heaved his legs upward to slam

the native in the back. Overbalanced, the Kitka

whistled in surprise and faltered. Chekov

wrenched his injured arm away from the knife,

swung a right-handed punch at the native's

shoulder. The blow separated them again,

tumbling the Kitka down the ice toward the

184

ICE TRAP

open water and leaving Chekov to curl up on his

side, gasping.

The splash of the Kitka hitting water was an

oddly comforting sound it let Chekov know

exactly how far away the native was, assured him

that the native was busy with something else now

besides attacking him. Let the Kitka worry about

his own survival for a while.

Rolling to his knees, Chekov caught himself

with his good hand when nausea surged up

through him and turned his vision gray. Even so,

there was no mistaking the spattered pattern of

scarlet in the snow all around him. He moaned

softly through his teeth. Oh, please God, don't let

this be happening. He couldn't afford to bleed to

death not out here, not right now. Taking a few

deep, shuddering breaths to steady himself, he

clenched his jaw for strength and looked down to

access the damage.

Blood dribbled in a slow, dark patter between

the fingers he'd clasped over the wound. Not

bright enough to be arterial flow, not thick

enough to be venous. Good that meant no

imminent death, although his breath still came

tight and his heart still labored. He could flex his

left fist, too. It rifled pain clear up to his temple,

but it told him the knife had passed between

muscle and bone, not between the two arm bones

where severed nerves would have rendered the

hand useless. All in all, much better than he had

a right to hope for, considering the circumstances.

He staggered to his feet, still hugging his

wounded arm to his stomach. Shock had almost

numbed his senses, but he could feel a buzz of

dizziness behind his eyes, a slow, maddening

clench of muscles in his chest that fought his

breathing. Best to find Uhura, make 185

L. A. Graf

sure she was all right before adrenaline deserted

him and left him to pass out face first in the snow.

He'd probably follow the Kitka down into the

water then. Given his current condition, that

wouldn't be a good idea. "Uhura?"

Her voice came to him clearly, both over the

communicator channel and through the air

"Chekov! Come help me!"

It took nearly all his concentration to crest the

brief incline between them hands, knees,

remember to breathe. Even so, he was panting as

though he'd just climbed Mount Everest when he

slid down the other side. Uhura labored at the

water's edge, her back to him and her hands

nearly elbow deep in the frigid sea. When Chekov

saw what she struggled with, horror startled a

wordless cry from him and he lunged forward to

grab at her hands.

In the water at Uhura's feet, Publicker bobbed

barely even with the rocking iceberg. His eyes,

closed and sunken, looked bruised against his

ice-white face, and his lips were already the

damning purple-black Chekov had learned to

associate with people stranded out too long in the

snow. Publicker's missing respirator meant his

lungs were unprotected; the gashes in his

insulation suit meant water had splashed against

his skin since the moment their ice slab first broke

free. Prying at Uhura's fingers with his own

blood-slicked hands, Chekov ignored her frantic

protests and dragged her mercilessly away from

the water's edge. No longer supported by

someone else's efforts, Publicker sank out of sight

without a struggle.

"What are you doing?" Uhura jerked as hard as

she was able, panic and frustration sharp in her

voice when she discovered all her strength wasn't

enough to 186

ICE TRAP

loosen Chekov's grip. "Chekov, he's

unconscious! He could die!"

His own head spinning, his heart sick with

shock and despair, Chekov pushed her hands

firmly against her sides and held them there.

"You're wrong," he said, his voice very hoarse

and tired. "He's dead already."

387

Chapter Eleven

UHURA CLOSED HER EYES, unable to watch

as Publicker's frozen face sank below the dark

and silent water. She reached out blindly for

Chekov, wanting the touch of another person to

erase the lingering feel of icy hands sliding out of

hers. Her fingers met the security officer's rigid

arm, then jerked back from his flinch and gasp of

pain.

"You're hurt!" She spun around, eyes Eying

open to stare stupidly at Chekov's face, as if she

could read any expression past the shimmer of his

goggles. Then she saw the way he held his left

arm, hugged tight to his chest with his other hand

clamped below the elbow. The sleeve of his

insulation suit glistened with icy streaks in the

arctic glare, but it wasn't until Uhura saw the red

stains on the ice behind him that she realised it

was blood.

"Oh, my God!" She scrambled up the steep icy

,88

ICE TRAP

slope, pushing him back toward more stable

footing. "What happened?"

Lacking a free hand, Chekov jerked his chin

toward the dark water of the crevasse. Their slab

of ice rocked gently as some current stirred

beneath it, tugging it away from the jagged blue

walls. "Sub-zero water. With an insulation suit

intact, it wouldn't matter. Once it got inside his

suit, though, he never had a chance."

"No, I mean what happened to you?" Uhura

reached out to catch at his good shoulder when

he swayed.

"A native came at me with a knife." Chekov's

voice, which had been merely strained before,

thinned into breathless gasps as he spoke. "I

fought him off oh, God!"

He shocked her by lifting his good hand and

tearing at his breath filter. It snapped open,

letting out an explosion of frost-white air.

Glittering ice crystals swirled and vanished in the

arctic wind.

"Chekov, what's wrong?"

"Can't breathe " His words echoed Publicker's

so eerily that Uhura felt a shiver scrape up her

spine. "Can't " Chekov staggered down to his

knees, the smooth surface of his insulation suit

sliding out of her small hands.

"No!" Uhura grabbed at the security officer,

suddenly terrified that he would slide down the icy

slope into the water. One last shred of frost-white

breath choked out from his open insulation suit,

then he toppled facedown onto the ice. Uhura's

quick lunge barely kept him from landing on his

injured arm. He ended up in a twisted sprawl, half

across her lap and half across the ice. Through

the opened breath filter 189

L A. Graf

frost sparkled on his cheeks and chin, white as the

bloodless skin beneath it.

"Oh, no." Uhura fumbled at his belt for his

medikit. No simple knife wound could have

caused this kind of reaction in the security

chief unless the knife blade had been poisoned.

She snapped the hypodermic of universal

antitoxin out of his kit, then peeled Chekov's body

slip away from his face to expose the muscles of

his throat. She had the hype in position when his

limp body suddenly wrenched against her,

convulsing into a rigid arc of pain. Uhura gasped

as his head slammed backward into her arm, hard

enough to send the slim hypodermic flying. She

watched in horror as it landed meters away, then

skittered down the sloping ice into the sea.

"No!" Panic made the communications officer

ruthless. Shoving Chekov's stiffened body off her

lap, she grabbed across her waist, clawed her

medikit open and yanked out her own antitoxin

shot. This time she didn't bother looking for

muscle she slammed the hypodermic down onto

the nearest bare skin she could find and shot it

home.

And nothing happened.

"Chekov, damn you, don't you dare die on me!"

Uhura jammed both hands down onto his chest,

forcing out whatever air remained in his lungs.

Below the yielding foam ofthe insulation suit, the

muscles of his torso felt like solid metal. She

yanked her own breath filter off, gasping as the

cold air seared her lungs, then leaned over to

push what air she could into his frozen lungs. One

breath, two breaths, three and the tension ran

out of him like melting ice.

Uhura sat back, breathing so hard her lungs felt

burned. She couldn't see any difference in

Chekov 190

ICE TRAP

no rush of colorinto his ice-pale face, no sudden

flutter of closed eyelids. If he was breathing, he

was doing it so slowly she couldn't tell. Oh, God,

was he dead?

She leaned down, not even sure what she hoped

to do. Something thin and hard bumped against

her chin as she did, and she lifted a hand to feel

Nhym's Kitta mask, hanging loose and forgotten

around her neck. An idea struck her suddenly.

She dragged the bone mask over her head, almost

tearing offher breath filter in her haste. The

shining bone surface gleamed warm as milk as she

held it over Chekov's ice-rimmed lips. The shine

stayed in place for a long, excruciating moment,

then faintly clouded with a film of mist.

"Thank God." Uhura dropped the mask from

shaking fingers, then swung Chekov's breath filter

back over his face to protect him from the cold.

Her own cheeks were burning with frost. She

began to snap her filter closed, then stopped

abruptly.

From somewhere behind her, her outside mike

had picked up the unmistakable crunch of a

footstep.

The physician that was the heart and soul of

Leonard McCoy galvanised into action. He

vaulted off the bed into the stinking, frigid water

and grabbed Nuie. "What the hell are you doing?"

The shaman thrust him away like a bothersome

child. "You must not stop me in this, Leonard.

This is a part of my life that needs to be

completed. You cannot interfere."

"The hell I can't!" He attempted to grab the

Kitka's bare arm and failed, hands sliding free

across the flow of blood. "Dammit, Nuie!"

Someone pounded on the outer door. "Bones!

Are you in there?"

191

L. A. Graf

The muffled cry stopped McCoy dead, freezing

him for an instant before he spun and clawed his

way to the door, water spraying in all directions.

He hammered the thick metal with a fist made of

cold-stiffened appendages that only barely

resembled fingers. "Jim!" Relief so profound he

almost wept flooded through him and made his

legs flutter, threatening to send him under again.

Just hearing his friend's voice drove the terror to

bay.

"Bones, open the door!"

"I can't! It's been jammed from the outside!

Jim, it's flooding in here! We're almost under!"

He watched the door wheel took back and forth

a minuscule distance, then heard Kirk swear

loudly. "I'll get you out! I promise! Who's in there

with you?"

"Just Nuie."

"How high is the water?"

McCoy swallowed hard. "Almost to my neck.

We can get up on the beds and counters, but that

won't make much difference in a few minutes."

"Do it! It'll give you extra breathing time.

I What the hell is that?!"

Behind McCoy rose an eerie, ululating wail. He

whipped around and a cry tore from his throat.

Nuie stood with his arm stretched high and

straight above his head like a mountain's summit.

Blood tracked down the corded muscle, staining

his uniform and blushing the water with rosy

tendrils. Head thrown back and eyes closed, his

voice rose again in the weirdly pitched Kitka song.

"Get in here, Jim, before we have a ritual

suicide!"

"I'm coming as fast as I can!" Kirk cried.

McCoy licked his lips nervously and stepped to-

ward Nuie. "Put away your knife, Nuie. It's not

time

192

ICE TRAP

for us to die." Liar, a portion of his mind

singsonged. He reached up and clamped his

fingers firmly around Nuie's slashed forearm, one

eye on the ulu in the Kitka's other hand. Blood

welled under his palm from the cut, warm to the

touch, and he pressed more firmly against the

hard flesh. The first mate flinched and the song

cut off.

McCoy felt drawn into the silver eyes. "Nude,

we're not going to die. Not today," he stressed.

"Kirk's alive, and he'll get us out if anyone can.

I've known him a long time and there's no

stubborner man in the galaxy. He's cheated death

more times than anyone I know."

"You can only cheat death as long as she lets

you," Nuie replied pragmatically.

McCoy felt like beating a head against the wall,

uncertain if it was his or Nuie's he felt most like

bashing. I don't need this conversation. "Then death

must like Jim Kirk a lot, because she keeps letting

him beat her at her own game." His numb fingers

tightened, sticky against Nuie's skin. "Dammit,

Nuie, you're my friend! I won't let you die!"

"It's not your choice, Leonard, it's mine. If I die

without speaking with the god, if I don't offer

myself, I'm nothing as a Kitka, my world's afterlife

will reject me. My soul will be trapped forever

inside a shell at the bottom of the sea. I won't go

on to join the cycle . . ."

McCoy looked into Nuie's eyes and finally

understood what he saw there. The Kitka was not

afraid of death, but he was terrified of leaving this

world without performing this ritual. His dying was

intrinsically woven with his living, warp and weft

of the same material. Nuie had accepted McCoy's

fear with un193

L A. Graf

derstanding. The doctor could do no less,

although it galled him to admit that he had no

right to deny the man his culture.

"Okay! I agree! But we're not going to die!"

"Can you promise me that?"

McCoy couldn't lie when faced with that frank,

patient gaze. "I can't promise you anything, Nuie."

He sighed and released him. "I know what I

believe, but I can't expect you to believe it, too. If

we are going to die, though, when the time comes,

I'd like to speak with the god, too. I'd like my

death to mean something."

Deep emotion touched Nuie's eyes and was

gone. "You do me a great honor, Leonard, but

I'm sorry. I cannot accept. You're not Kitka. The

god wouldn't take you."

Annoyance rankled McCoy. "What's the matter,

do I smell bad?"

"I don't know how you smell to the god. All I

know is that it wouldn't accept you, and your body

would float around uneaten."

"Well, it's a damn sorry world when a man can't

slit his wrists or offer himself up to Heaven in lieu

of drowning." He glowered at the faint smile that

touched Nuie's mouth, and gestured at his arm.

"Have you bled enough for one day?"

"For now." Nuie's swished the gash in the water,

apparently unbothered by the sting of salt.

"For now," McCoy mimicked, and spat saltwater.

Fear shot him clawing for the submerged bunk.

He hauled himself atop it with arms that would

barely hold his weight and stood, putting his

mouth as far out of the water as he could. "Jim!"

"I'm here, Bones!" Kirk's response seemed to

come

194

ICE TRAP

from every angle and the quality of his voice had

changed.

"Where?"

"There!" Nuie pointed to a grillwork along the

ceiling juncture of one wall. "The ventilation

shaft."

"That's right," Kirk called. "You need to climb

up in here, Bones. I've got some of the crew with

me and they guarantee we can get you out this

way and dog a makeshift hatch to keep out the

flooding."

"What about the rest of the system? Won't that

flood, too?"

"We're taking care of it. Stop arguing and get in

here!"

McCoy peered through the murky depths.

"There's nothing to stand on."

"Then you'll have to tread water." Kirk was

beginning to sound impatient.

McCoy couldn't blame him, but... "Dammit, Jim,

I'm a doctor, not a synchronous swimmer! I can't

tread water!"

"Then you'd better learn."

"I'll help you, Leonard," Nuie offered, arms

moving rhythmically, feet already several inches

off the floor.

McCoy eyed the dark hollow of the shaft. "I'll

never fit."

An explosive sigh resounded through the

ventilation system. "Would you rather just

drown?! Get in the shaft, McCoy. That's an

order."

"I hate when you play hardball," McCoy

muttered. Arms held rigidly before him, he slid

forward off the bunk, eyes fixed intently on the

dark, square, hopelessly small ventilation grill.

* * *

195

L. A. Graf

"Is the chief all right?"

The anxious, husky voice on the commchannel

made Uhura's breath hiss out in relief. "Howard!"

She snapped her filter closed and scrambled to

her feet, turning toward the sound of footsteps.

The security guard's tall figure circled the

gravsled, then began climbing the tilted ramp of

ice toward her. He moved a little stiffly, but his

arm hung normally at his side. She assumed that

Chekov must have had enough time to reset it

before their ice slab fell.

"Thank God you're s till here." Uhura skidded

down the white slope to meet him, impatient with

his slow progress. "Give me the antitoxin from

your medikit."

Howard's shimmering goggles focused on her

for a moment, then swung back up toward

Chekov's still figure. "He's poisoned?" His left

hand moved awkwardly to his belt pouch. "How

did he get poisoned?"

"In a fight. The Kitka must put some kind of

paralysing venom on their weapons." Uhura took

the capsule of antitoxin he handed her, then

turned to hurry back up the slope. "I gave him

one dose, but it took a long time to work. I want

to give him another, just to be sure."

"Shouldn't one dose have been enough?"

Uhura shook her head, trying not to fumble the

antitoxin in her hurry. "I don't know. These are

supposed to be broad-base detoxifiers if they

can't neutralise the poison, they should keep a

victim alive long enough to get him to a sickbay.

That's where a real doctor could take blood

samples and manufacture some more specific

antidote." It frightened her to know they didn't

have that option.

Howard crouched down to watch as she

snapped Chekov's breath filter open and gave him

a second

196

ICE TRAP

shot. The security officer was still as pale as the

ice around him.

"He looks bad, sir," said Howard worriedly. "Has

he lost a lot of blood?"

"I don't know." Dull red ice crystals splintered

off Chekov's wounded arm as Uhura unsealed the

foam of his insulation suit. Beneath the torn body

slip a narrow gash in his forearm oozed a crimson

glaze of blood. Uhura bit her lip and fumbled in

her medikit for the canister of sterilising bandage.

The white spray hissed through the frigid air,

forming a film across the wound. Uhura sealed

the insulation suit over it, then stripped off her

glove so she could touch Chekov's bare cheek. It

felt cold as clay against her hand. "He's losing

heat."

"How can he be, with an insulation suit on?"

Howard sounded puzzled.

Uhura shrugged as she pressed Chekov's breath

filter closed again. He never stirred. "If his body

isn't generating any heat, the insulation suit can't

trap it. We need to warm him up from the

outside." She put the canister of bandage away,

then got to her feet with sudden decision. "The

first thing we need to do is set up the tent. Do

you think you can carry Lieutenant Chekov down

to the gravsled?"

"Sir?" Howard glanced up at her, clearly

startled. "The lieutenant's not that heavy."

"I know," said Uhura gently. "But you dislocated

your shoulder when you hit the crevasse wall."

"I did?" The security guard rotated his left arm

gingerly. "So that's why it feels so sore. I

wondered why I was out cold for so long. The last

thing I remembered was falling off that ice bridge,

and the next thing I know we're in the middle of

the ocean."

"In the middle of the ocean?" Uhura looked 197

L. A. Graf

around, eyes widening in amazement. In her

singleminded struggle to keep Chekov alive, she

hadn't even noticed their ice floe moving. Yet

now they rocked gently in the midst of a black

expanse of water, with the smudged grey cliffs of

the ice sheet far behind them. She could barely

make out the dim blue shadow of the crevasse

they'd floated out from. "Good Lord'"

"Aye, sir. Looks like we'll be camping here for

a while." Howard heaved Chekov up over his good

shoulder, then stood up with a grunt. "What do

we do after we set up the tent? Put the lieutenant

next to the heater?"

"No." Uhura glanced over at him, smiling. "I've

got a better idea than that."

"We're not going to tell the chief about this, are

we?"

Uhura finished closing Howard and Chekov into

the doubled sleeping bag. The dimming arctic

sunset lit the interior of the tent faintly, just

enough to show her the embarrassed expression

on the younger guard's face. She chuckled and

patted his shoulder.

"It's for his own good, Mr. Howard. He'd under-

stand."

"No, he wouldn't." Howard glanced down at

Chekov's dark head, pillowed against his shoulder.

Both men wore only their thin white body slips, to

let body heat pass between them. "I just hope he

gives me time to explain when he wakes up." He

glanced up as Uhura rose. "Where are you going,

sir?"

"Out to get some food from the gravsled. We

haven't eaten since last night." Uhura pulled on

her goggles, then unsealed the edge of the tent.

"Give me a yell if the lieutenant wakes up."

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"Don't worry," Howard said wryly. "If I don't, he

probably will."

Uhura smiled and slipped outside, hearing the

tent hiss shut behind her. A last gleam of

rose-quartz sunset lingered on the far edge of the

sky, casting a faint shimmer across the dark water.

The reflection continued behind them for another

hundred meters before it vanished at an indigo

wall of ice. Uhura felt fear clutch at her briefly, a

hollow feeling under her ribs that had nothing to

do with her empty stomach. Their floe seemed to

be drifting parallel to the icy shore, carried along

by some current in the water. What if it never got

any closer?

". . . Commander. . ."

The faint rasp of voice spun Uhura back to the

tent before she realized it hadn't sounded like

Howard and it hadn't come through her outside

mike. She gasped and dialed up the volume on

her insulation suit communicator. As she did, she

noticed that the usual howl of auroral interference

had faded to a distant whistle.

". . . Jimenez calling . . ." Static sizzled through

the words, the unavoidable static of long-distance

contact. Uhura tuned on the scrap of signal with

frantic haste, catching it just as it began to fade.

"Jimenez calling Lieutenant Commander Uhura.

Jimenez calling "

"This is Uhura." She dialed her transmitter up to

maximum output, praying it would carry.

Insulationsuit communicators weren't designed for

planetary distances. "Can you hear me??'

"I hear you, sir!" Jimenez's hoarse voice cracked

with relief. "Thank God you're still alive wait a

minute . . ."

199

L. A. Graf

Uhura opened her mouth to ask what she was

waiting for, but Spock's calm voice in her ear an-

swered the question before she could ask it.

"Update your status, Lieutenant Commander."

"Aye, sir." As usual, the Vulcan first officer

wasted no time on useless questions. Uhura took

a deep breath, marshaling the events of the past

day into some sort of order. "We're out of danger

from hostile natives, but are now stranded on an

iceberg, drifting in a stretch of open sea. Ensign

Howard has a bruised shoulder and Lieutenant

Chekov collapsed after being wounded by a Kitka

knife. We've treated him with universal antitoxin,

but he's still unconscious. Ensign Publicker "

Her voice shook, but she steadied it again.

"Ensign Publicker drowned when the ice collapsed

beneath us during a Kitka attack."

"A regrettable loss," Spock said. "Have you lost

much of your equipment?"

"No, sir. We still have the gravsled and the

survival gear. I think we also have enough food

for several days."

"Excellent. I hope to be able to send a rescue

party down to the planet sooner than that, but I

cannot promise it. Commander Scott has not yet

managed to completely shield the shuttle

stabilizers from Nordstral's magnetic fields. He

estimates at least another day of work will be

required." A distant wail of interference from the

auroras nibbled at the edge of Spock's

transmission. "I have managed to triangulate your

current position from your communicator signal.

Can you estimate the direction and rate of drift of

your iceberg?"

Uhura glanced at the faint smolder of sunset on

the horizon and did a quick mental calculation.

"Approx

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ICE TRAP

imately sixty degrees west of north, sir. We appear

to be moving at a rate of several meters per

minute."

"Acknowledged. If we fail to make contact

again, I shall attempt to extrapolate your future

location from that data." Spock paused as a

second wail shivered through their fragile contact.

"I must warn you, Lieutenant Commander, that

our ship's sensors indicate significant changes

occurring in Nordstral's magnetic field. It appears

that the planet's secondary magnetic components,

which previously kept the main dipole field from

destabilising, have begun to erode. The recent

reversal of the magnetic poles "

"What?" Uhura hadn't meant to interrupt, but

the concept left her dazed. "The entire magnetic

field reversed itself?"

"Yes, and it may continue to do so as

destabilization increases. Auroral intensity has

increased at all latitudes, with violent magnetic

storms raging in the upper . . ." His voice faded

under a snarl of louder interference. ". . .

magnetic reversal is likely to be accompanied by

further tectonic disturbances..." Another, longer

wail drowned him out again. ". . . take appropriate

precautions . . ."

A final shriek of auroral static broke their

contact and left Uhura's ears ringing. She winced

and tapped down the volume on her insulation

suit comm unit, then glanced up at the night sky.

Auroras rippled across the velvet darkness,

dropping long curtains of cold white fire down to

the sea. The colors shifted as she watched,

shimmering from icy blue to violet to a fiery

cascade of deep midnightred. It seemed to Uhura

as if Nordstral, locked in the endless gray-white of

glacial ice, had been forced to concentrate all its

colors in its glowing night sky. Her

201

L. A. Graf

sigh misted the air around her as she looked

away. It was hard to believe something so

beautiful could also be so potentially deadly.

She turned back towa rd the gravsled,picking her

way through the tangle of pitons and ropes that

still lashed it to the ice. Their equipment lay

scattered around it, half unpacked in their frantic

rush to put up the tent. Uhura rummaged in one

of the unpacked boxes for a flashlight, then

started looking through the marked cartons of

food. Maybe they could get Chekov to swallow

some nutrient broth

A sound brought her upright suddenly.

Somewhere, far out in the immense darkness of

the polar sea, someone or something had just

taken a deep Shuffling breath. It didn't seem

possible that anything could be alive in that

freezing cold water, but now that Uhura was

listening, she could hear a whalelike whistle

fluttering at the edges of her mike's sound range.

It seemed to be coming from the same direction

as the breathing noise. Uhura turned and gasped.

Several meters beyond the edge of the ice floe,

something glowed under the water. The glow grew

brighter as Uhura watched, coalescing into two

indistinct spots. Then, with a sudden rush of

splashing water, the glow surfaced and became

two huge phosphorescent eyes, staring down at

Uhura from a massive shadow-pale head. Breath

whooshed out in a storm cloud of frost from two

neck openings, making an odd clattering sound as

it did. For some reason the noise reminded Uhura

of Alion.

"Oh, no." She took a step backward as the beast

blinked its eyes and lowered its dripping head

toward her. After the accumulated terrors of the

past day waking up to an icequake, being

chased by Kitka, and then falling offthe edge of

the ice an encounter with 202

ICE TRAP

a sea monster was more than Uhura could bear.

She tilted her head back to meet its shimmering

eyes, unable to focus on anything except that

phosphorescent gaze . . .

And then remembered what her own gaze must

look like to it. With a curse, Uhura reached up to

slide her goggles off, blinking involuntarily as the

cold night air slapped her face. By the time she

managed to slit her eyes open past a rim of icy

tears, the glow in the night had vanished. Only a

gurgle of parted water marked the kraken's quiet

passage.

Uhura didn't wait to see where it was going. She

grabbed the nearest box of food and dove for the

tent.

McCoy floundered in the cold water for a

moment, panic catching sharply under his skin like

barbs on a hook, then felt the warm security of

Nuie's strong arm around him.

"Just relax." The Kitka's voice was gentle in the

doctor's ear. "Let me do all the work."

Easier said than done, in McCoy's opinion, but

he tried to do as he was bidden. He rolled onto

his back at Nuie's urging, although relaxing was

out of the question. Nuie secured an arm around

him and with two strokes had them both across

the room and treading water under the ventilation

shaft.

It appeared the ulu was good for something

other than slashing open one's arm; Nuie

manipulated the weapon to serve as a screwdriver

and release the brackets holding the screen over

the shaft. He tucked the curved knife out of sight

and snugged an arm around McCoy's waist. "In

you go." He hefted him up.

McCoy clenched frozen fingers on the edge of the

203

L. A. Graf

shaft and hauled himself upward. Water cascaded

off his clothing, running in rivulets back down the

shaft. The sight didn't particularly please McCoy

as it only lent proof-positive that the ship was

listing. "Jim?" His voice echoed oddly in the tiny

space, and for an instant he was a precocious child

again, scaring himself in the forbidden crawl space

under his grandparents' house.

"Bones! This way! Straight ahead!" A faint flash-

light beam shone down the dark tunnel. Like a

moth drawn to flame, McCoy forced his numbed

limbs to move toward it and tried to ignore the

closeness of the walls around him. He heard Nuie

lever himself out of the water and start down the

shaft.

Reaching hands grasped McCoy and pulled him

clear. He slithered to the ground, legs unable to

support his weight, all the heat leached from his

body. Someone threw a blanket around his

shoulders and hugged him soundly. He looked up

into Kirk's eyes and managed a smile. "I haven't

been so glad to see you since the last time you

hauled my butt out of the fire."

Kirk grinned with relief and briskly rubbed his

friend's arms. "It's good to see you, too, Doctor."

McCoy gave Kirk the once-over. One eyebrow

cocked speculatively at the captain's attire. The

pants fit decently enough, but the thick sweater

was a size too small. "I like your outfit."

"Good. You're getting one just like it." Kirk

looked up as Nuie pushed free of the air shaft.

"Nice to have you in one piece, Nuie."

The Kitka shed his shirt in one fluid movement

and accepted a worn towel from one of his

crewmates. He rubbed it hard over his wet hair

and across the raised flesh of his arms and chest.

"You have Leonard 204

ICE TRAP

McCoy to thank for that, Captain. Is there dry

clothing?"

"Right here." Another crewman handed them

each a bundle, and the next few moments were

spent struggling out of wet clothes that adhered

like a second skin and into the general-issue wool

worn by every seaman aboard.

McCoy rubbed a towel across his hair and

watched two of the crew secure the makeshift

hatch over the shaft opening. It didn't strike a

chord of confidence in him. "You sure that thing's

going to work?"

"It better," Kirk said gravely, his voice low.

Serious hazel eyes flicked over McCoy as he

turned and faced Nuie. "This isn't the place or

time I'd choose to deliver this information, but I

don't have any choice. Captain Mandeville and

Dr. Muhanti are dead, killed when we collided

with the ice sheet, along with the rest of the

bridge crew. I'm sorry."

Nuie accepted the news without comment,

although McCoy thought he detected a Bash of

sorrow in the stoic Kitka's eyes, and wondered

how long he and Captain Mandeville had been

crewmates. Had their relationship been like his

with Jim? Had Nuie been willing to die for his

captain, to follow her into any sort of danger the

way he would for Kirk? He supposed at some

point he could ask . . . but it wasn't his business to

know.

"You're senior personnel aboard Soroya," Kirk

continued. "As such "

"Begging your pardon, sir," Nuie interjected

smoothly. "But you're senior personnel. Federation

officers take precedence when they've been called

into a Priority situation. I have no doubts about

my ability to captain the Soroya, " Nuie added.

"But I'd appreciate it if you'd take command, sir."

205

L. A. Graf

Kirk studied the older man for a moment, then

nodded once. "All right. I accept. You'll remain as

first mate. The backup bridge is functional. I want

you to take the cone. The others can fill you in on

what happened. Start work crews to get us under

way and to search out any other leaks we might

have. Doctor, you'll come with me."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Nuie led the crew out of

the room at a brisk pace, turning in one direction

while Kirk, trailed by McCoy, headed in another.

"And just where are we going?" queried the

doctor, rolling his too-long sleeves as he hurried

to catch up.

"To the oxygen generator." Kirk's eyes speared

him. "It's inoperable. If we don't figure out a way

to start it working again, getting this ship under

way will be a moot point."

"Wonderful," McCoy remarked sourly. "Any

other charming points I should be made aware

off"

"Not at the moment, but I'll keep you posted."

"Thank you." McCoy tugged at his sleeve again.

"Jim, just what exactly did happen to us?"

"An icequake and tsunami, the crew tells me."

Kirk's expression was grave. "And aftershocks. As

near as we can figure, the force of the quake

threw us against the ice sheet. Mandeville tried to

cut through, but the laser was inoperable, so she

tried to do it manually. She was in the turret

when it was sheered off against the ice."

McCoy felt the color drain out of his face. He

had to remind himself to keep moving, to keep

following Kirk along the sub's wet passages. "The

turret's gone?"

"All three levels, including the laser and the

main drive for the oxygenation system. The bridge

began to flood."

206

ICE TRAP

"I remember. That's when you ordered everyone

out. Would have been nice if you'd come along."

"Believe me, Bones, I had every intention of

following you, but the door shut and I couldn't get

it open." For the first time, McCoy saw in Kirk's

face more than moral support for his fear of

drowning. Now he saw understanding, and was

heartily sorry his friend had gone through it.

"I don't remember much but the water coming

in." Kirk shook his head. "I don't think I'll ever

forget that," he mused. "I got onto an oxygen tank

before the bridge started coming apart. The rest

of the crew just wasn't fast enough for the surge

of water."

"How did you get out?"

The question made Kirk smile faintly. "Through

an escape hatch, believe it or not." His expression

grew distant.

"Jim . . ." McCoy halted him with a hand on his

arm, outside the room that housed the remainder

of the oxygen generating system. "Is Muhanti

dead?"

Kirk frowned. "The last time I saw him, he went

in after Mandeville and disappeared. No one's

seen him since. Why?"

"Well . . ." McCoy pursed his lips, afraid of how

he would sound. "Muhanti was a screwball . . ."

"Is that your professional diagnosis?"

"It's not funny, Jim. He was being affected by

whatever put those people into Curie's psych ward.

I'm certain of it. And he seemed to have

developed a personal grudge against me. If he's

de ad . . . then who locked Nuie and me in the

lab?"

"You think some other of the crew are being af-

fected?"

"We can't discount the possibility, especially

since we don't know what's causing the illness.

And we've

207

L. A. Graf

got to watch ourselves as well." He ran a hand

over his face. "If I get any more irritated, I'm

going to jump out of my skin."

"Take it easy, Bones. I think you're having a

normal reaction."

"I only hope that's what it is." McCoy

straightened his shoulders and tried on a brave

smile for his captain.

Kirk clapped him soundly on the shoulder in

mute thanks. "Let's take a look inside." He eased

open the unlatched door.

Except for several inches of water on the floor,

the room and its machinery seemed at first

examination to be undamaged. No motion or hum

broke the stillness, and the air already tasted

stales mute evidence of something being very

wrong, despite appearances.

McCoy slouched against the wall and hung his

head. "Where's Scotty when you need him?"

Kirk paced back and forth, eyes pensive. "Up

on the Enterprise, preparing a shuttle. We've got

to do it without him."

"In case you haven't noticed, neither of us is

Scotty. I flunked engineering, and, as I recall,

you "

"Come on, Bones," Kirk cut him off. "Ready to

walk in the steps of the miracle worker?"

McCoy grimaced. "Do I have a choice?"

208

Chapter Twelve

"I DON'T THrNK we're getting any closer, sir."

Uhura peered through the icy mist shrouding

Nordstral's polar sea, trying to make out the dim

blue line of ice cliffs in the distance. "Is the shore

curving toward us, Mr. Howard?"

"No, sir. It's straight as a phaser shot." By

balaneing at the sharp ridge of the fee floe, the

tall security guard could just see over the

sea-hugging mist. His voice sounded grim. "No

chance of hitting it by accident."

"Then we'll just have to hit it by design." Uhura

turned back toward the red splash of their tent,

barely visible through the glittering arctic fog. The

gravsled was a dim gleam of ice-coated metal

beside it. "Can you think of some way we can

maneuver this floe through the water?"

Howard followed her down the slope, boots

erunching on the mist glazed ice. "Not really, sir,"

he

209

L. A. Graf

admitted. "I didn't do too well in my engineering

classes at the Academy."

"Well, I did." Uhura gnawed on her lip, trying

to decide what Scotty would do if he were there.

Actually, she knew what he'd do he'd tell

everyone what an impossible job it was and then

he'd proceed to do it anyway. The question was,

how? "The gravsled hasn't got internal propulsion,

so it wouldn't do us any good. We don't have any

other large motors with us, do we?"

"No, sir." Howard skidded to a stop in front of

the tent and bent to unseal it. Looking in on

Chekov had become a standard half-hour ritual

between them since they'd gotten up that

morning. By now, several long hours later, they'd

done it so often that they only needed to

exchange a few words.

"Still unconscious?" Uhura asked from outside

the tent.

"Aye, sir." She heard the sleeping bag rustle as

Howard zipped it closed again. "He seems to be

breathing a little easier, but his color's still not

too good."

"At least he's staying warm." Uhura stamped her

feet to loosen the crystalline rind of ice that the

fog kept depositing on her boots. "Mr. Howard,

could you get me a canister of soup while you're

in there? I think it's getting colder."

"Here you go, sir." Howard emerged with the

self-warmed container already steaming in his

hand. Uhura took it from him gratefully, snapping

her breath filter off to drink it. The hot broth

tasted more like vitamin supplements than the

vegetables it was supposed to be made from, but

it spread a pleasant warmth through her once it

was down. Uhura crumpled the empty carton,

then tossed it toward one of the gravsled's waste

holders. It missed by half a meter. 210

ICE TRAP

"Wind!" She spun around, stretching her hands

out to either side. Misty air poured over them, a

flowing stream too slow to be felt through her

insulation suit. "The wind is blowing!" She scraped

away the glaze of ice over the watch embedded in

her insulation suit sleeve. "And it's not even 1400

hours yet. Come on, we need to get ready."

Howard followed obediently as she motioned

him toward the gravsled, but his voice sounded

puzzled. "Get ready for what, sir?"

"The boreal winds." Uhura began stacking equip-

ment back on the sled, forcing herself to be

careful despite the urgency sizzling through her.

"Try to keep the sled packed as flat as you can,

even if it means leaving something off. We'll have

to put Chekov on top when we take down the tent.

If we put him back in his insulation suit and

bundle him in a sleeping bag, he should stay warm

enough."

"Sir, wait." Howard caught her hands as she

reached for another carton of food. "I don't under-

stand. Why are we taking down the tent? Once the

winds come, won't we want to be inside it?"

"Not if we want to get this iceberg to shore."

Uhura lifted her trapped hands and thumped him

on the chest impatiently. "Think, Ensign. We'll

have a steady wind overhead and a floating raft

underfoot. Haven't you ever gone sailing?"

The young security guard ducked his head and

let her go. "I grew up in Calgary, sir," he said

apologetically. "We didn't see many sailboats up

there."

"Well, you'll get a close-up view of one now."

Uhura pulled a coil of rope out from their

climbing gear and handed it to him. "If I can't find

anything taller, Mr. Howard, you're going to be

the mast."

* * *

211

L. A. Graf

Wind blasted over the polar sea, embroidering

its dark surface with a rippling lace of foam.

Uhura glanced across the whitecapped water to

the icy shore, much nearer and clearly visible now

that the morning's mist had blown away. She

frowned as she saw the looming wall of

blue-green cliffs, shot through with glitters of

reflected sunlight.

"Mr. Howard!" She bent her head, trying to see

her companion past the bulge of their

tent-turned-sail. "Have you found us a place to

land?"

"I think so, sir bear a little more to the right!"

The security guard had a better view of their

forward progress than she did, stationed as he was

beside the makeshift mast they'd fashioned out of

tent supports.

"Acknowledged." Uhura knelt beside the crude

block and tackle she'd made from their climbing

winch, bracing herself against the tug of the wind.

The winch whirred into motion with reassuring

quickness, reeling in the mainstay and hauling the

sail several points to starboard. The tough nylon

tent fabric shivered as the wind caught it at a new

angle, then pulled taut again with a startlingly

loud crack. The mast swayed, straining at the rope

rigging she'd pitoned into the ice around it, but

nothing broke or fell over.

Uhura sighed in relief, feeling the ice floe rock

uneasily beneath her as it shifted direction in the

water. Caught between the drag of ocean current

and the driving force of the boreal winds, the

crude raft steered a wavering and uncertain path

toward the shore. Uhura only hoped the wind

would last long enough to get it there.

She fastened the rope mainstay to its piton

again, then glanced up at the gravsled, floating

just beyond the edge of the sail. Bundled inside

his sleeping bag,

212

ICE TRAP

Chekov's limp body made a barely visible mound

at the top of the equipment. Uhura regretted

having to abandon so much of their bulky medical

equipment, but knew bringing Chekov mattered

more.

"Almost there, Commander!" Howard's voice

sounded suddenly eager. "Just a little bit more to

the right . . ."

Uhura reached out for the winch, but never

touched it. The ice floe shuddered to a plowing

stop beneath her, slamming her forward into the

sail just as the overstrained mast snapped and

toppled over. She struggled to free herself from

the settling fabric, terrified that it would take her

with it into the ocean when it fell.

"Commander!" Hands yanked at the sail,

unraveling its tangled folds enough for Uhura to

see sunlight glinting between them. She dove

through the opening and was hauled to her feet

just as the sail splashed down into the sea.

"What happened?" Uhura stepped out of

Howard's grip and turned to glance at the shore,

baffled by their abrupt stop. The iceberg had

jammed into a jutting pinnacle of ice with its blunt

end firmly lodged against the shore. The

waterlogged sail trailed in the water behind it, like

the tail on a tree-caught kite. Uhura glanced down

at Howard, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

"So much for our careful navigating."

"Yes, sir." The security guard sounded as if he

were smiling. "We're not going to tell the chief

about this, either, right?"

"Right," Uhura said firmly. She glanced up,

gauging the short, snow-covered slope that led to

the ice sheet above them. "We'd better start

climbing. Now that we've lost the tent, we're going

to have to make some kind of shelter by nightfall."

23

L. A. Graf

"Aye, sir." Howard picked up the tow bar of the

gravsled and started up the hill, punching

footprints into the snow with each step. Uhura

followed him, stretching her legs to use the same

set of tracks. "What kind of shelter did you have

in mind, sir?"

"I don't know," Uhura admitted. The snow crust

got deeper as they made their way upward,

making her breath puff out a round her mask as

she struggled through it. "I don't suppose that

Nordstral manual you read told you how to make

igloos?"

"Afraid not." Howard leaned into the steepening

slope, his own breath shortening with effort. "We

could try to dig under the ice like the Kitka."

Uhura shook her head vehemently. "Not a good

plan. Spock said there might be more tectonic

disturbances as Nordstral's magnetic field got

worse. I think that means more icequakes."

"Well, at least they didn't happen while we were

floating out on our iceberg," Howard said

cheerfully. He gave the gravsled a final heave that

pushed it up over the icy crest of the hill ahead of

him. "Maybe our luck's finally starting to turn,

sir."

"Maybe." Uhura hauled herself up over the lip

of the ice sheet, eyes widening as she looked

around. Only a few meters away from them the

ice was split by an unexpected vertical slash of

rock, its black crystalline surface shattered with

frost cracks. It wasn't the stone island that startled

Uhura, though it was the unmistakable shadow

of a Kitka-small doorway, carved into its

ice-scraped side. "And then again, Mr. Howard,

maybe not."

McCoy sat back and pressed the heels of his

hands against his tired eyes, uncertain of just

when and by whom the heavy-grit sandpaper

under his eyelids

214

ICE TRAP

had been replaced by gravel and shards of glass.

A headache thumped insistently across the bridge

of his nose and behind his left eye. His wounded

hand kept time beneath its soiled coil of bandage.

He couldn't remember if he'd taken any

antibiotics, and couldn't recall the last time he'd

eaten or slept.

Wearily, but proudly, he watched Kirk prowl the

room like a watchful, hunting cat checking and

rechecking linkages, running the process through

in his mind, and no doubt bestowing a beneficent

prayer wherever he deemed appropriate.

That mind. McCoy hadn't been kidding when he

said he was no match for Montgomery Scott, but

Kirk . . . Tenacious as a terrier, the Enterprise

captain stuck to their task, approaching the

problem from every angle, until it began to

release its secrets to him. McCoy was surprised to

find that, after all these years, there were still

depths he'd yet to discover in James Kirk.

"Windisch showed me the ship's plans," Kirk

had said when he and McCoy first began to survey

the damage. He pointed at a machine squatting in

several inches of water in the center of the room.

"That's the oxygen generator. Saltwater infiltration

has left it inoperable, not to mention that the

ventiliation drive unit was located in the turret,

and that's long gone. We've got to come up with

another way to run the system."

"That's a tall order, Jim." McCoy pursed his lips.

"I know it sounds primitive, but . . ."

"Any suggestion is better than no suggestion at

all. What's on your mind, Bones?"

"Well, we've got a lot of manpower here. How

about a treadmill system? That shouldn't be too

awfully difficult to rig up."

215

L. A. Graf

"You're not thinking like an engineer, Bones,"

Kirk prodded. "Whoever's on the treadmill will

use more oxygen than they produce. We have to

come up with something better than that."

McCoy knew that tone in Kirk's voice from long

experience. Not only did they have to come up

with something better, they would come up with

something better. Kirk would accept nothing less,

not from McCoy, and particularly not from

himself.

The doctor stared around the room. Machinery

was not his forte. He was more comfortable with

the workings of a living organism than he was with

the alloyed flesh and bone of the Soroya. He'd

never quite been able to understand someone like

Scotty or Spock especially Spock who could sit

for hours tinkering with some busted piece of

equipment, happy as a pig in . . .

He made his mind veer away, and instead

watched Kirk out of the corner of his eye. The

captain scowled at the oxygen generator as though

it was a misbehaved intern. The mass of

machinery was little more than a metal lung, once

it was under way. And what did it take to power

a lung?

Kirk stamped his feet, splashing. "Stinks in here,

doesn't it, Bones? I wonder if this is what the

plankton holds smell like? No wonder they have

a good ventilation system . . ." His voice trailed

off and he stared down, swishing at something in

the water with the toe of one boot. His head

slowly came up and he turned toward McCoy.

"Plankton . . ."

"What about it, Jim?"

Kirk gestured sharply with one hand, eyes

focused into the middle distance as he fought to

grasp whatever thought had flitted through his

mind. He spoke slowly, measuring his words.

"Spock said the biota on

26

ICE TRAP

Nordstral acts just like earth plankton, except that

it uses energy from the planet's magnetic field.

That means it takes in carbon dioxide and water,

manufactures carbohydrates, and discharges..." His

eyebrows rose and he stared at McCoy.

"Oxygen! Do you think we can do it, Jim?"

"We have to, Bones! It's our only chance.

Soroya cleared her tanks when she picked us up,

but she's collected more plankton since then. We

should have enough to use."

"Providing the tsunami didn't rupture the tanks."

"You always look on the bright side of things,"

Kirk complained. "Nude will be able to find out.

That only leaves us with two problems."

"Which are?" McCoy slid off the pipe he'd been

sitting on and splashed down beside Kirk.

"How to extract the oxygen from the plankton

holds, and once we do, how to ventilate it through

the ship."

"Well, I haven't got the faintest clue for the

first, but I know a way we might be able to do the

second. When Nuie took me on tour of the ship,

he showed me the drive unit. If that's still

functional and we'd better hope to the kraken it

is or we're not going anywhere fast there must

be a way we can patch into it to jerry-rig a drive

for the ventilation system."

Kirk's smile was pure appreciation. "Bones,

that's amazing! Sometimes you remind me of

Spock."

"There's no need to get insulting, Jim."

The captain's smile widened into a toothy grin.

"It's a great idea. Let's get to it."

Nuie was left in control of the bridge, with a

warning that every crewman not doing mandatory

work should return to their bunk and try to relax,

thereby using as little oxygen as possible. Kirk and

217

L. A. Graf

McCoy commandeered a Kitka crewman and pre-

sented him with the problem.

Watching the Kitka work, glad to take a

backseat to his engineering expertise, McCoy was

reminded unwillingly of Spock. The Kitka was

coolly logical, his tools spread around him on the

floor, his hand reaching unerringly for whatever

he needed without his having to look up from his

task. McCoy and Kirk lent a hand wherever

necessary, be it hauling pipe from cannibalized

sections of the ship, securing fixtures, or passing

tools.

The scariest part for McCoy was hooking it all

together, drive unit to filtration system, and

waiting to see if it worked. The ship listed even

more dangerously when the engines were shut

down to allow the linkup; McCoy, left with Kirk

near the plankton tanks, was afraid they'd roll.

They heard the Kitka over the repaired intercom,

working in a near-silent fever. Still, he shouted

with relief when the last bolt tightened. "Fire her

up!"

"Now, Nuie." Kirk spoke quietly into the

intercom, voice laced with tension. They edged

closer to the door in case the entire makeshift

workings split.

The initial hum of the engines at the other end

of the ship built slowly, under command of Nuie's

voice coming gently over the intercom, and

McCoy held his breath.

"Captain Kirk?" Nuie's voice over the comlink.

"Hold your hand over the vent."

Kirk raised a hand above his head and in front

of the screening. A delicate breeze moved the hair

on his wrist, and he smiled with such relief,

McCoy finally relaxed. "Well done," Kirk said.

"Nude, you've got quite a crew here."

"I know this, Captain," the Kitka replied from the

28

ICE TRAP

bridge, his voice counterpointed by a ragged cheer

from the rest of the crew.

"I'm certain you do. Oxygen room how's it

look from your end?"

"We've got a few tiny leaks we're pinning down,

Captain, but other than that, I think we've got a

go-ahead." The Kitka engineer sounded very

satisfied, and with good reason.

"All right. Keep monitoring. I want someone by

the drive unit at all times."

"Aye-aye, sir."

And no rest for the weary at their end, either.

Here it was, better than an hour later, and Kirk

still roamed the tiny room outside the storage

tanks, checking and rechecking their handiwork.

McCoy realised he'd almost been asleep. He

forced his eyes open and shrugged away from the

wall, hunching deeper in the warmth of the

seaman's sweater. He was about to suggest that

one of them catch some shut-eye when Nuie's

voice came over the intercom. "Captain, would

you come to the bridge, please."

Kirk exchanged looks with McCoy, his arched

brows over weary eyes more than clearly

conveying Now what?"What's the problem, Nuie?"

"I'd rather speak to you here, sir."

The captain sighed and ran a hand through his

hair. "I'm on my way." He winked tiredly at

McCoy. "It's your baby, Bones."

"I've never been that fond of kids, Jim. Besides,

I'm not the babysitter Scotty is."

Kirk nodded in understanding. His hand on

McCoy's arm stopped the doctor from following

him. "I have utmost faith in you."

McCoy glowered. "I hate emotional blackmail." 219

L. A. Graf

With a disgruntled sigh, he straddled a length of

piping. "Don't be long."

"Depends on the nature of the latest

catastrophe." With a sardonic wave, Kirk was

gone.

McCoy swung his legs on either side of the pipe,

swishing the water that covered the floor. He

stuffed his gloved hands into his armpits and

hunched his shoulders. When he got back aboard

the Enterprise, the first thing he was going to do

was take a hot shower. A ion& hot shower. Maybe

one that would last until they reached a starbase.

And after that . . .

He had drifted into a slight doze, happy with his

daydreams, when he heard a sound behind him.

He shifted slightly, turning. "Jim?" His head

exploded with sudden pain and everything went

dark.

Consciousness didn't steal up on Chekov so

much as crash over him, driven forward by a swell

of panic so sharp it made him gasp and fight to sit

upright.

"Sir?"

He couldn't truly see only glittering darkness,

slashed by bands of twitching yellow and his

muscles knotted, stiff es twisted leather, at the

first hint of independent movement. He kicked at

the blankets covering him, suddenly too hot to

stand their weight.

"It's all right . . ." Strong, male hands pushed

him back to the uneven pallet. "Sir, it's all right!

We're safe for now we've found someplace to

stay." The voice flitted across his sick awareness

just beyond what he could identify. He knew that

it spoke out of loyalty, though, and loyalty he

could trust. That calmed him and let him relax,

even if only a little.

"Where are we?" Chekov wasn't sure at first if

he'd asked that in the right language. The

translators might

220

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not be trustworthy, might take too long to make

his words understood. So he asked again, more

carefully, and was rewarded this time with a

change of lighting and a small hand on his arm.

"Chekov? I'm right here." From somewhere

nearby he heard quiet, deliberate movement, then

a ration canister's whispered pop-hisss. Uhura's

brown face appeared on the fringe of his vision.

Hopeful concern moved in her eyes, but her

breath didn't steam when she breathed the

steam came from something she held out of sight

in her hands.

It occurred to him that perhaps he'd only just

opened his eyes.

Rock rough and glittering black formed the

sides and roof of their shelter. Yellowed furs lined

the uneven walls, and flat, smokeless oil lamps

skipped shadows across every surface. Uhura knelt

by Chekov's shoulder, her insulation suit peeled

away to leave her face and head uncovered. "I

don't suppose I can get you to eat something?"

He didn't know whether or not he answered,

but she coaxed him into drinking half the warm

soup mixture anyway. He didn't have enough

strength to fight her, so was glad that it tasted

recognisable and good and not like her usual

offerings. "That tastes wonderful."

Uhura laughed, her voice hoarse with strain and

exhaustion. "You must be in worse shape than I

thought." Then, just as quickly, her face folded

into a frown of quiet worry and she added, "It's

good to talk to you again. I don't know when I've

been so worried."

With those few words, she woke what memories

Chekov possessed their flight across the ice, the

attack by Alion's men, the loss of Publicker into

the 221

L. A. Graf

churning water. That last memory sliced him with

cold all the way to the bone. To try and drive it

away, he asked, "Where's Howard?"

"Outside. He sat with you all last night it's my

turn now."

I woke up for a while, then, Chekov thought,

but didn't say it. But he couldn't remember what

else had happened. "Where are we?"

Uhura glanced around as though only just

noticing the place herself. "A native shelter."

Reaching behind her, she drew a stooped, older

woman into his sight. Something about the

arrangement of her blunt native features looked

familiar to Chekov, although he couldn't recognise

her face. "This is Ghyl," Uhura explained, "a

friend I made back at the village. She came here

several days ago to pray." Her smile dashed,

nervous and grateful, against the darkness of her

skin. "It's lucky for us she did."

Chekov struggled into a sitting position, his

mind already whirling around three words from

the middle of her answer several days ago.

Dizziness swelled over him and nearly knocked

him flat again. "How long have I been out?" he

asked, fighting back the weakness.

Both women reached out to steady him as he

swung his legs over the pallet's edge and propped

his forehead against one hand. "About fifty hours,"

Uhura admitted, shaking out a nearby wad of fur

until it was recognisably a parka.

Fifty hours! Chekov waved aside the lieutenant

commander's attempt to settle the parka over his

shoulders, trying to make both his stomach and

vision settle enough to register the actual layout of

his surroundings. Predictably, Uhura ignored him;

when the fur slid away from the smooth surface of

his 222

ICE TRAP

insulation suit, she simply held onto the front of

it herself to keep it from falling again. Chekov

looked around at the cluttered native hovel,

rubbed at a bone-deep ache in his left arm and

asked, "What happened?"

The frown that skated across Uhura's face

warned him the answer would be unpleasant. "I

think one of Alion's men accidentally poisoned

you."

That figured. "Accidentally?"

The old woman spat a harsh hiss that sounded

deep with displeasure and disgust. "God's kiss,"

Chekov's insulation suit translator supplied,

echoed rapidly by, "Kraken venom." Not sure how

else to interpret this contradiction, Chekov

decided Ghyl's words must mean both things at

once.

Ghyl fussed with the blankets around him,

smoothing down the furs, straightening the

wrinkles while Kitka sentences squeaked out of

her almost too quickly for the translator to track.

"On harpoons," the English words came slowly,

"god's kiss helps the Kitka in our hunting. It

causes sleep for Kitka and animals, only pleasant

sleep. For humans, it seems the kiss causes much

more." She fixed him with a cold, white stare, her

hands moving angrily along her thighs, as though

rubbing for warmth. "But no accident," she

assured him. "Align knows this kills humans. He

has bragged to us of this. He takes his Feathered

Men to hunt god from the water he doesn't wait

for god to bring himself onto the ice to die. He

wants the kiss, but for his own bad things. He

wants to kill all humans."

Chekov lifted his head long enough to take the

canister of soup from Uhura's hands. His mouth

still liked tasting the soup better than his stomach

liked taking it, but he forced himself to drink it

anyway. He 223

L. A. Graf

needed something nutritious inside him. His brain

knew that, even if his body didn't agree at the

moment. After all, fifty hours down after being

shot full of native poison McCoy wouldn't let

him out of sickbay for a week once the doctor

found out.

"Your people are obviously frightened of Alion

and his men," Uhura said, reaching across to

touch Ghyl's arm. When the old Kitka woman

shook her head sternly, Uhura asked, "Why don't

you do something to stop him?"

Ghyl whistled her distress. "Fear makes the

people weak. He came from the south with strong

young men and strange, southern weapons and

ways, and began telling everyone what to do. This

is not the Kitka way."

Chekov looked up sharply, having to wait

through more translation even after Ghyl fell

silent with surprise. "Not the Kitka way?" he asked

her, putting the empty soup canister on the

ground between his feet. "Then Alion isn't your

leader? He isn't your shaman?"

Chekov guessed from the length of the Kitka

translation that something in his words hadn't

gone across easily. Ghyl's expression of anxious

confusion only verified this.

"Your . . . magic man." He shrugged off Uhura's

parka in unconscious irritation, feeling like he

ought to be using his hands to make things clear,

but not having the faintest idea what he wanted to

do with them. "The one among you who talks to

your gods."

Ghyl surprised him by turning her face away and

spitting violently. "Each person speaks to god in

whatever way god finds most fitting. Alion wishes

to make himself god for all the Kitka people,

that's why he uses young men to scare the old."

She pulled her 224

ICE TRAP

lips into a severe frown, eyes flashing. "Someday,

god will make Alion pay for his arrogance, and

only god will be god then."

If we're lucky, Chekov thought, god will come

get him before he catches up and kills us all.

"Lieutenant Commander Uhura?" Howard's

voice floated into the small chamber from

somewhere distant below them, effectively ending

the discussion before any further speculations on

Alion's spiritual future could be offered.

"Commander," he called again, youth and

uncertainty clear in the lilt of his words, "I think

you'd better come look at this, sir."

Guided by the direction of both women's gazes,

Chekov looked toward a corner to his right and

behind him, and spotted the irregular oval of a

carved doorway among the stone and leaping

shadows. Catching Uhura's arm with one hand, he

whispered simply, "Help me," and pushed

unsteadily to his feet.

The room only swayed a little as he lurched

upright, but even that steadied when Ghyl moved

in on his other side to take his elbow. He resisted

leaning against her, sure he'd topple her slight

frame if he so much as breathed against it.

Uhura bore his weight easily enough, though.

Perhaps too easily, he thought, if the effort still

left her free to tug the ever-present parka over his

shoulders again. "I have the insulation suit." He

nearly lost his balance trying t o move away from

the garment. "I don't need a parka."

Uhura countered by sliding his arm down one

sleeve and gesturing Ghyl to do the same. "You're

shivering." She reached up to fit a pair of goggles

over his head.

Not shivering, he could have told her, trembling

He felt so weak, he could barely hold his head up,

much 225

L. A. Graf

less stand. Explaining that would probably get him

shoved back into bed, though, and he didn't want

to be eat on his back right now. Walking around

a little would help. At least he hoped so. "All

right," he sighed, pulling down her own goggles for

her. "Let's go find Howard."

The oval doorway led down into a rough tunnel

of stairs, marching through lustrous rock toward

the moan and salty sigh of ocean. Ghyl led the

way, Uhura behind her so that Chekov could

steady himself with a hand on the lieutenant

commander's shoulder as they navigated the

humid half-dark. They broke into sunlight on the

side of an ice-streaked incline, alternating black

rock and blue ice delineating where steps had

been cut into the surface to carry a person close

to the ice-choked expanse of plankton-green

water.

At the foot of those stairs Howard stood with

rigid impatience, fists at his sides while he studied

something in the water below his feet, then

glanced upward to verify the others were coming.

He jerked his head in silent surprise when he

finally caught sight of the approaching trio, but by

way of greeting said only, "Chief, I'm glad you're

here," when they finally stepped down even with

him.

"What's going on?" Chekov asked. Out here now

in the wind and salt spray, Chekov was glad for

the parka, despite its heavy weight. By pressing a

handful of fur across his mouth, he could almost

breathe comfortably enough to forget he hadn't

bothered to reinstall his breath filter before

coming outside. "What did you find?"

In answer, Howard only pointed and stepped

away from the spar of cloudy ice to let the others

see. Chekov went down on all fours to study the

blurred image, but couldn't make sense of the

abstract pat226

ICE TRAP

terns of scarlet, black, and green beneath his

hands. "What is it?"

Uhura leaned over his shoulder, then gasped,

her hands flying to her mouth. "Blood," she said.

When Chekov frowned back at her, she pointed at

a cloud of bright color just below the surface.

"That's blood."

"And a face, I think." Howard leaned down as

well to sketch the outline of a pale oval just above

Uhura's frozen blossom. "It's somebody, sir. I'm

just not sure who."

Somebody. The images made sense, then, quite

suddenly. A cap of dark hair, obscure smudges of

black where eyes would sit, all positioned above a

man-sized column of Nordstral green. Over it all,

blood like dye cast into angry water, discoloring

everything from neckline to crotch.

Choosing a spot above the dead man's left

breast, Chekov scrubbed at the ice to heat it,

trying to force it clear enough to see. Just before

the wind skated over to frost his new-made

viewport, he glimpsed a scrawl of black, human

lettering in the shape of a name VERNON

STEHLE, M.D.

"It's the shuttle crew." He felt suddenly sick and

shivering all over again. "My God we've found

our rescuers."

227

Chapter Thirteen

McCoy WASN T UNCONSCIOUS for long. He

came to, stiffly upright against a pipe, arms bound

behind him. He blinked several times against the

pain at the back of his head and tried to orient

himself. Raising his head, he gaped at the man

standing against the opposite wall, his shoulder

leaning indolently against the pressure gauge for

the tank. "Muhanti! You're supposed to be dead!"

The ship's medical officer was soaked to the

skin, his dark hair plastered to his skull like a

shiny, black cap. His shoes were missing. His

entire body shook, but McCoy couldn't tell if it

was from cold or something else.

Muhanti smiled in an oily fashion, and McCoy

saw that he was quite insane. His eyes reminded

McCoy of Baker's, from the tape Dr. Kane

showed them all those years ago aboard

Curie someone lucid

228

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trapped behind a wall of thoughts they cannot

understand or breach. "That's what the Federation

would like, isn't it, McCoy? It's what you were

hoping. Unfortunately for you, it takes a lot more

than the Federation to kill Pushkali Muhanti!" He

proudly thumped himself on the chest, and his

shirt stuck to his skin.

"No one wants to see you dead, Muhanti."

"Liar," the doctor replied easily, obviously

amused. "The Federation learned about my

hypotheses and my discussions with Captain

Mandeville regarding the debilitation of our crew,

and decided to get rid of us." One finger rose to

lazily trace the contours of the pressure gauge and

the release lever beside it. "Your psychologists

must have had a field day studying her personality.

It isn't too awfully difficult to come up with a way

for an obsessive-compulsive to kill themselves." He

chuckled, but it wasn't a happy sound. "They

practically do it for you, any number of times.

Always putting themselves first, playing the

martyr." His fingers tightened around the dial,

palm flat against the face. His knuckles whitened

with strain, but Muhanti didn't seem to notice.

"Your captain has some of the same traits, I've

observed," he remarked conversationally, then

winked broadly as though he and McCoy had just

shared a delightful joke.

"What are you talking about?" McCoy struggled

in his bonds. "Untie me, Muhanti, and we'll

discuss it."

"We can talk about it just fine as we are, my

dear colleague. I'm not stupid enough to believe

Federation lies." He strolled toward McCoy, and

the Starfleet officer pressed back against the

piping behind him. "Do you know what the natives

think is happening? They say the gods are angry

with them. Glaciers calve 229

L. A. Graf

and the Kitka say it's the ice crying in despair for

what they've done in letting Nordstral come here

and take the plankton." He leaned conspiratorially

close, and McCoy swallowed hard. "Personally, I

think they've realized what they have here and are

trying to get out of the contract so they can sell to

the highest bidder." Muhanti laughed; it was a

sound with no soul behind it. "Good luck to them!

I know Nordstral Pharmaceuticals. Now that

they're making money from that plankton, there's

nothing the Kitka can do about it!" He twirled in

a slow circle, voice dreamy. "The Kitka say the ice

never cried before we came. That there were no

quakes, no mental illness, and no magnetic

storms. They say the winds are worse now, since

our coming. And all because we take a little

plankton for ourselves." He snorted in disgust.

McCoy barely heard him. Something Muhanti

had said made a resounding ping in McCoy's

brain.

"But I know the truth. I know what you're trying

to do here, and it won't work." Muhanti grasped

the release lever and slammed it home. The

Soroya groaned as her entire harvest of millions of

tons of plankton washed back into the Nordstral

depths.

McCoy fought his bonds. "Muhanti, don't!"

The Indian doctor snarled and stepped close

enough that McCoy could feel the heat of his

body even through the wet clothing. "The

Federation is the pirate king of the galaxy. I know

you want what we have here."

"You idiot!"McCoy railed. "We'll suffocate

without that plankton!"

"You're the idiot." Muhanti reached out and

snaked his fingers deep into McCoy's hair. "You

still think you have me fooled." He drew McCoy's

fore230

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head against his damp chest and held it there

despite the other man's struggles.

The intercom crackled to life. "Bones! What's

happened? Bones!"

"Ah, your captain's voice. Too bad you can't

warn him that the game is over and I'm in

command now." Muhanti's fingers traversed

McCoy's skull, probing like blind moles in dark

tunnels. "I see..." he murmured. "Oh, yes, it's all

right here for anyone to read." He bracketed

McCoy's head with his hands and tilted his face

up almost lovingly. "A shame to waste such a

brilliant mind."

"What the hell are you talking about?" McCoy

wished he could snap his head around and bite

Muhanti, but the other doctor held him too

firmly.

"I can tell by the bumps on your head that not

only is this a Federation plot, but one contrived

by none other than yourself, Dr. McCoy. It really

is quite brilliant. What a shame that I'm smarter

than you are, and that you put your mind to such

a wasteful scheme." He tsked-tsked in feigned

pity. "You realise, of course, that you'll have to

die."

"Now, wait just a minute, Muhanti "

The ship's doctor drew forth an ulu from his

back pocket. "The Kitka have been useful in some

ways," he murmured, almost dreamily considering

the lightcatching upward curve of the blade. His

eyes flicked to McCoy's. "Don't be alarmed or

worried, dear friend. I'm quite a skillful surgeon.

You won't feel anything too long." He grasped

McCoy's chin in one hand and lay the knife

against his cheek.

"Muhanti!"

Kirk's cry came from the door, but too late, too

damned late. McCoy felt the blade taste his skin

231

L. A. Graf

and the Soroya bucked under them as though

it were her metal flesh violated by the

ulu.Muhanti staggered sideways, catching himself

against the bulkhead and spinning to meet Kirk's

advance.

Kirk stepped into the room, hands open and

away from his sides. "Put the knife away, Muhanti.

No one wants to get hurt here."

"If I'd the time, I'd sit down and laugh at your

stupid jokes, Captain Kirk. Your being here only

points up the Federation's deficiencies. Imagine

you achieving a captai ncy when they could have

had me." He slithered behind McCoy and grasped

his chin from behind. "Your friend and I were just

discussing the best way to end this game, Captain.

Perhaps you'd care to watch to see what's in store

for you?"

Soroya shivered again, shimmying and gorging

like a bell, and throwing Muhanti aside. Kirk flung

himself forward and tackled him around the

knees. They crashed to the ground, water flying in

all directions. Muhanti eeled out of Kirk's grasp

and thrashed to his feet, kicking out to keep the

Starfleet officer at bay. Kirk rolled out of reach,

watching Muhanti's knife hand, and got to his

knees, poised to move in any direction. His eyes

darted, seeking an opening or a weapon of some

kind, but there was nothing to be found.

Muhanti thrust forward, raking the ulu before

him. Kirk's sweater parted with a sigh and hung in

unraveling tatters. At the moment Kirk pulled

back, sucking in his gut from the cruel blade, he

reached out and grabbed Muhanti's arm,

slamming it twice against his upraised knee. There

was the sound of something breaking and Muhanti

cried out. The ulu dropped from his fingers and

Kirk kicked it aside. One hand

232

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burrowed into the front of Muhanti's shirt, pulling

him up, and Kirk punched him hard, once, across

the chin. Muhanti's head snapped back and he

staggered. His feet slipped on the wet flooring. He

fought for balance and fell, striking his head

against one of the pipes. He landed limp at Kirk's

feet and didn't move.

Kirk swallowed, breathing hard, his eyes flicking

toward McCoy as he knelt beside Muhanti. He

felt along the man's jaw, then grasped a wrist and

waited. After a few moments he looked up. "He's

dead, Bones."

McCoy's eyes closed briefly. "Damn." He looked

across at Kirk, seeing the same disappointment in

his captain's face. "You might as well untie me."

The ulu sawed easily through the ropes binding

him. He rubbed his wrists free of the sensation of

bondage and tried to ignore Muhanti's slumped

corpse. "What the hell's going on here, Jim?"

"We've been visited by our friendly

neighborhood kraken." Kirk didn't smile. "That's

why Nuie called me to the bridge. It appears she's

taken a real interest in us since the accident."

"You mean that big ugly thing saved my life?"

McCoy looked at the wall as though he could see

beyond to the seabound leviathan. "I think I'm in

love."

"According to Nuie, she's following us because

of the bodies of the dead bridge crew."

McCoy made a face. "She's eating them?"

Kirk didn't reply. "Evidently, she thinks we're

another kraken, giving birth in her territory. She's

not particularly pleased." Another, lesser blow

rocked the ship and they stood their ground.

Kirk's eyes sought the wall gauge. "He jettisoned

the whole lot?''

233

L. A. Graf

"Every last little green particle."

"Bones, we need that plankton. We can't survive

without it."

"We can't be that far from open water," McCoy

half-asked, hopefully. "Can we?"

"I don't know, Bones." Kirk sighed quietly and

turned to face his friend squarely. "Maybe not.

There's just no way to tell."

Uhura's throat ached with shock and disbelief,

although she didn't know why she felt so stunned.

After watching Alion's white-feathered men kill

Nicholai Steno after being chased and attacked

by Kitka themselves it should have come as no

surprise that Nordstral's lost shuttle crew had

suffered the same fate. But somehow, in all the

rush of digging out from the icequake and then

escaping from the shaman's men, it had never

occurred to Uhura that their rescue mission might

be fruitless. She glanced over at Chekov and

Howard, still kneeling grimly over the frozen body

of the Nordstral medic, and wondered if they'd

expected this. Something in the focused tension of

Chekov's stance told her he had, at least.

Motion caught at the edge of her vision, and

Uhura turned to see Ghyl shoulder past Howard,

then lower herself in painfully stiff stages until she

lay facedown across the discolored patch of ice

where Stehle was buried. Chekov grunted in

surprise, hauling himself upright with a grab at

Howard's arm. Ghyl ignored him. She lay

motionless for a moment, then rose to hands and

knees and scanned the area where she had lain.

After a moment, her dark mask lifted and turned

in Uhura's direction.

"Chinit Kitka not do this." The elderly woman

sat back on her heels and pointed at the

discolored patch

234

ICE TRAP

of ice, cleared of frost by the brief contact with

her body. Uhura bit her lip, glimpsing the single

horrible slash across the Nordstral medic's

midsection. "Chinit Kitka cut three times, left to

right." Ghyl's mittened hand lifted to trace three

diagonal slashes across her dark fur parka.

Uhura's breath caught in sudden horror. She

took an involuntary step backward, although she

knew how small and frail the native was. "The

Chinit Kitka kill like this?"

Ghyl's wail sounded slow and troubled. "Not

kill," said the translator after a pause. "Kitka not

call kill, what you do to yourself."

Uhura gasped, then choked as cold air bit

through her filter at her lungs. She could hear

Chekov cursing across the comm channel in soft,

vehement Russian. "You cut yourself open with

knives?" he demanded of Ghyl.

The elderly woman touched both mittened

hands to her mask in what looked like a ritual

gesture. "It is forbidden for Kitka to speak ofthese

things," she said, then glanced down at Stehle's

body. Gathering frost had clouded it to a merciful

blur again. "But when such evil touches god, who

can be silent?" She looked back up at Chekov,

pale eyes steady behind her mask. "We open

ourselves with knives, yes. That is how we speak to

god."

"You said you came here to talk to god." Uhura

finally understood Nhym's horrified reaction to

Ghyl's departure. She tried hard to keep her own

shock out of her voice. "Why does god ask you to

do this?"

Ghyl shrugged, a surprisingly human gesture.

"When god's time is done, he gives himself to us.

When our time is done, or when we need god's

235

L. A. Graf

council, we give ourselves back in the same way.

As the ocean feeds us, so we must feed the

ocean."

"And do you also feed others to the ocean?"

Chekov swept a hand out toward the dark green

expanse beside them, his borrowed parka ruffling

in the wind. White-crested waves rode the heaving

surface in to smash against the lip of the long icy

ledge they stood on. A hiss of spray splashed up

from each impact, then froze to glittering mist and

drifted skyward. "Is that what happened to this

man?"

"I think perhaps," Ghyl admitted. Her wail

sounded grim. "This is not how Chinit talk to god,

but I have heard that other tribes speak

differently. Some in the south cut only once."

Uhura winced, remembering the single vicious

slash that had brought down Nicholai Steno. "And

Alion and his men are from the south."

Chekov's shimmering goggles turned toward her

briefly. "I hadn't forgotten that, believe me." He

looked back at Ghyl. "Do the southern tribes

usually send people to talk to god even if they

don't want to go?"

"No!" The elderly woman's reply hissed with dis-

gust. "God would know, and spit upon the one

who did the sending. No sane Kitka would do such

a thing."

"But an insane Kitka might," Uhura murmured.

Ghyl listened to the translation, then let out an

ice-sharp keen. "One whose wits were

wind-scattered, yes." She slapped a mittened hand

against the ice. "Anyone with eyes can see that

god refuses to talk to men from above the aurora.

Otherwise, why would this one be here where we

can see him? Alion believes god's anger is because

of humans, and so humans 236

ICE TRAP

must explain their works to god. Chinit Kitka

believe god cares not for humans, only for god's

own."

"Um " Uhura was saved from answering by the

faint crackle of radio signal in her ear. She gasped

and hurriedly tuned the communicator. "Jimenez!

Jimenez, can you read me?"

". . . read you . . ." The contact wavered,

disturbed by the background howl of auroral

interference. Uhura glanced up and saw the

crystal-pale shimmer of magnetic disturbance still

crawling across the sky. Either Jimenez hadn't

waited for the auroras to subside, or the lull

wasn't as complete this time as it had been before.

". . . urgent message . . . Enterprise . . . "

"Awaiting link." Uhura dieted down her outside

mike and translator so its noise wouldn't distract

her, then glanced at Chekov and made the

palm-to-ear signal that meant communicator

silence. The security chief waved back at her to

show he understood, then relayed the message to

Howard. Uhura's comm channel cleared slightly as

both men tapped their units off, just enough for

her to hear the distant murmur of Spock's voice.

She dieted up the volume, forcing herself to

ignore the descending wail of the auroras.

". . . has completed shielding modifications. The

shuttle will..." A drowning wail of static inter-

rupted. ". . . attempt to locate Admiral Kirk and

Dr. McCoy first, then come for you. Update on

your position, Commander?"

Uhura spoke in crisp bursts designed to pierce

the static. "We're in a native shelter, carved into a

large outcropping of black rock, along the shore of

the polar ocean."

"Acknowledged and triangulated." Spock's voice

strengthened briefly. "Your position appears to be

237

L. A. Graf

quite close to the last known fix on the missing

Nordstral shuttle. Have you seen any sign of the

missing scientists?"

"We found one of them, sir. Dead."

"Ah. Due to hostile native actions? "

"Yes, sir." Uhura swallowed hard. "We think the

shaman's group is killing them and feeding them

to the ocean. It's the traditional way that Kitka

die, but Alionseems to think subjecting humans to

it will fix the planet's problems."

"Fascinating." Spock's voice broke off as another

howl sounded, but this time it wasn't auroral

interference. Uhura's eyes widened as she

recognised the familiar sound of the Enterprise

going on yellow-alert. "Commander, I would

advise you to move to safe ground at once.

Nordstral's magnetic field . . ." Interference

snarled through his voice. ". . . a second complete

reversal. The probability of resulting earthquakes

. . ."

A screaming wail of static tore through the

communicator and drove the Enterprise signal into

complete disruption. Uhura winced, looking

around frantically for Chekov and Howard.

They stood near the edge of the Kitka's

ice-carved ledge, hands clapped to their ears in

surprise. Uhura opened her mouth to call to

them, but was thrown back against the hard rock

cliffby a sudden shudder of the ground beneath

her feet. A sun-washed explosion of auroras

washed across the sky as the ground shook again,

more gently, then was still.

Uhura steadied herself carefully, listening to

Chekov sigh with relief. "That wasn't as bad as last

time," he commented.

`'No." Uhura scrambled to her feet, then

glanced out at the polar ocean. It was sinking in

ominous 238

ICE TRAP

silence, its waves damping oddly flat as the water

level dropped. Uhura recognised the signs and felt

her throat contract with terror. She slammed her

voicemike volume as high as it would go.

"Chekov, Howard get back up the stairs now!"

Her voice rang urgently off the cliff behind them,

spinning both men around to face her. "There's a

tsunami coming!"

"Tsunami?" Chekov looked back over his

shoulder at the still-withdrawing ocean. "But it's

falling."

"Because it's still drawing water up." Uhura

whirled and caught at Ghyl, still standing guard

over Stehle's body. "Come on, we have to climb."

The native resisted briefly, her frail fingers

plucking at Uhura's hold. "Let me stay! It is time

to speak to god "

"Here, let me get her." Howard picked the old

woman bodily out of Uhura's clasp and headed for

the stairs. "Help the chief, will you, sir?"

"I'm all right," Chekov growled as Uhura slipped

an arm under his shoulder and hurried him

toward the first of the rock and ice steps. Despite

his firm words, she could feel the security officer's

wiry body shake with weakness as he scrambled up

the steep grade of the dark stone cliff. In the

distance she could hear a gathering roar, as deep

and bone-rattling as a starship's impulse drive.

Stubbornly, Uhura refused to turn her head and

look at the dark wall of water she knew must be

racing across the polar sea toward them. If it was

going to be higher than their flight of stairs could

take them, she didn't want to know.

"How did you know it was coming?" Chekov

demanded between painful gasps as they hurried

upward. The opening to the enclosed part of the

Kitka dwelling lay only a few flights up.

239

L. A. Graf

"Mr. Spock said the magnetic field had reversed

again and there might be earthquakes. On Earth,

that makes tsunamis." Uhura fought for breath as

they rounded the last landing. "He also said

there's a shuttle coming for us."

"Thank God." Chekov's unfiltered breath rasped

through the mike. More daring than Uhura, he

spared a moment to glance over his shoulder. "I

think we're going to make it."

Too winded to speak, Uhura only nodded and

took a better grip of his furred parka, although by

now she wasn't entirely sure who was supporting

whom. The roar of approaching water echoed

fiercely off the rock around them, along with the

pounding of their frantic footsteps. Uhura

concentrated on watching her footing, one icy step

at a time. A shadow of rock passed overhead as

they came up the last of the outside stairs, then

Chekov yanked Uhura to an unexpected skidding

stop.

"Chekov!" She turned to look at him in dismay,

seeing the grim twist of his mouth below his

opened breath filter. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"What isn't wrong?" It was a new voice, one

Uhura knew although she'd never heard it

speaking English. She gasped and jerked her head

back to look up the rock-cut tunnel of stairs.

Howard stood frozen a few meters above them,

Ghyl a darker shadow at his side. Beyond him, a

pale figure shimmered in the dimness. The

familiar sound of metallic feathers chattered off

the rock walls as he moved. A second white-clad

figure loomed behind him, harpoon gleaming in

his hands.

"What isn't wrong?" Alion repeated, his Kitta

voice snarling out the English words. A blast of

wind tore through the tunnel, nearly drowning out

his voice. "What isn't wrong since you outsiders "

240

ICE TRAP

His voice cut off as the tunnel darkened

abruptly. With a roar that shook the rock below

their feet, a wall of ice and foam and churning

arctic water crashed against the unprotected cliff.

"What do you mean our navigation is shot?"

"Just what I said, Bones." Kirk briefly glanced at

him as they strode toward the bridge. "The

magnetic reversal and the accident played hell

with our navigation equipment. We've got power,

but we don't have any way of knowing where we

are on the ice maps, and since the tsunami, there's

no way of telling how far we've been thrown off

course. We need to surface as soon as possible,

but we don't know where the ice sheet ends and

open water begins. Without a way of finding

direction, we could bump along under the ice "

"Forever," McCoy finished glumly. "And forever

isn't an option we have. Damn Muhanti!"

"Muhanti's no longer our concern," Kirk said

sternly. "The lives of these people depend on us,

Bones. We have to figure out a way to navigate

into dear water so we can surface, and we have to

repair our makeshift oxygen generator to supply

us until then."

"With what?" McCoy demanded testily.

"Muhanti dumped the entire load of plankton!"

Kirk's irritation showed in the way the muscles

bunched along his jawline like a clenched fist. "I

don't know with what, Doctor, but we'd better

think of something or none of us will be around to

tell this tale!" He hastened his pace, and McCoy

broke into a run to keep up.

All heads came up when they entered the

bridge. Every eye fastened instantly not on him,

McCoy

241

L. A. Graf

noted wryly, but on Kirk. There didn't seem to be

a person alive in the universe who didn't, on some

level, recognise Jim Kirk's innate talent for

command. McCoy felt a faint renewal of

confidence. They weren't dead yet.

Nuie's eyes widened as he took in Kirk's torn

sweater and the shallow gash along McCoy's

cheek. "What happened?" he asked, vacating his

chair and gesturing for the captain to sit.

"Muhanti happened." Kirk punched a button on

the console. "Crew, shut everything down and get

up here."

"Muhanti?" The remaining navigator's eyes were

round. "I thought he was dead."

"We weren't that fortunate," Kirk replied. He

glanced toward the door as two of the missing

crewmen skidded into the room. "He jettisoned

the plankton."

Stunned silence met his announcement. One of

the crewmen ran a hand through her short hair.

"What do we do now?"

"We're working on it." Kirk's voice was crisp

with command. "Any luck in contacting your land

station?"

"For all the good it does," the navigator replied

unhappily. "They know we're still alive and

damaged, but they're dealing with their own

problems. Part of the station caved in and there

are people trapped. The other ships are scattered.

We can't tell them where we are, so no one can

come after us."

"Is our visitor still out there?"

Nuie blinked away the shock of the plankton

loss and nodded. "Yes. She's maintaining a

peripheral, like she's calculating the next place to

attack. Some242

ICE TRAP

times she cruises downcurrent to investigate the

bodies."

Kirk studied the murky screen. It was nowhere

near as good as the one on the ship's true bridge,

but it was their only link to the ocean around

them. "Is she eating them?"

Many of the crew looked away at the question.

Nuie's face remained expressionless. When he re-

plied, his voice was very matter-of-fact. "She's

eaten several Kitka bodies. She seems to be . . .

tasting . . . the others."

McCoy cleared his throat into the

uncomfortable silence that followed. "One good

thing's come from all this, Jim."

Kirk's voice sounded very tired to his friend's

ears. He doubted if the crew had picked up on it.

"I could use some good news, Bones."

"I think I know what's caused the sickness."

McCoy kind of liked the way all their eyes tracked

to him. He leaned back, resting his butt on the

edge of a console, and crossed his arms over his

chest, tucking his sore hand into the crook of his

elbow. "It's Nordstral's magnetic field."

Kirk's eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?"

"The magnetic field, Jim. Something Muhanti

said while he was preparing to dice me up clued

me into it. I'll need some corroboration from

Spock just to make certain, of course." McCoy was

pleased to catch himself talking as though they

were going to be rescued. Maybe someplace deep

down inside, he believed it. "Muhanti said there

used to be no magnetic storms here, and that the

boreal winds have gotten worse. Back in the late

twentieth century, studies were done on the effect

of magnetic fields on people's 243

L. A. Graf

health. There was a lot of evidence to support the

notion that n ot only were human beings affected

physically, but mentally as well. Those findings led

to new rulings in housing materials, the laying of

telecommunication lines . . ." One shoulder lifted.

"A lot of things changed, but not before a lot of

people were harmed. As I recall, the symptoms

for overexposure to strong magnetic fields were

pretty similar to what's been going on around

here."

Kirk sat back, shaking his head. "If you're right,

and the magnetic field is causing the erratic

behavior, why isn't everyone affected?"

The doctor shrugged. "My guess is differences

in physiology. That, and whatever is causing

Nordstral's planetary problems is probably

exacerbating whatever magnetic properties are

messing with people's brains."

"What can we do, Dr. McCoy?" the navigator

asked.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. '`At the moment,

nothing. But if we could get our hands on

Erterprise's computer, I think I could come up

with some courses of action."

A groan shivered through the iron hull, and

they all fell silent, eyes wide.

"That's not the kraken's digestive tract, is it?"

McCoy asked hopefully.

The navigator's hands slammed the console

screen and she spun her chair around. "Hit the

deck! It's another quake!"

McCoy flung himself to the door and grabbed

for the nearest purchase. This time he felt the sea

drawing away from under the ship, the ship

dropping into the undersea trough with a

sickening lurch that left his 244

ICE TRAP

stomach behind, the gathering of potent energy

that was the tsunami. The ship groaned as the

sea picked her up, and McCoy prayed that her

seams would hold this second assault.

Something crashed into them, or them into it,

then the sea had them and they rolled

completely over.

245

Chapter Fourteen

THE QUAKE-SPAWNED TSUNAMI slammed

the cliff face with a sound like shattering glass.

One blow, three blows, six the ocean exhausted

itself against the worn rock face, salt spray

billowing across Chekov and the others in wild,

breathy roars. What moisture surged up the steps

around them froze to walls and floor with a hiss

of brittle crackling only enough to make footing

treacherous, not enough to soak anyone or wash

them down into the water. The ground beneath

them bucked a single, half-hearted spasm before

stilling again.

"Down the steps." Alion gestured impatiently,

and the harpoon-wielding Kitka behind him

supported the order with a sharp jab of warning.

"I want your blood to spill into the water, not all

over these stairs."

Chekov hesitated, mentally calculating the

distance between himself and the shaman, the

likelihood of

246

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disarming either Kitka before they could turn on

Ghyl or Uhura. The inside of his throat already

ached from the cold, though, his lungs feeling

tight and too small. Even a short fight without his

breath filter could prove disastrous.

As if reading his thoughts, Uhura tugged at his

parka hem in an effort to bring him down to her

level. "No," she whispered over their private

communicator channel. "He'll poison you, and we

don't have any more antitoxin."

Alion levered a chilling scowl on Chekov. "I'm

impatient, Lieutenant Chekov. Start moving."

The oceanside ledge ran barely wide enough to

hold them all, slick now with a new coating of ice,

thanks to the tsunami and its resultant choppy

waves. Chekov let Uhura drag him toward a

corner far from Stehle's body, waving Howard to

bring Ghyl close to them so they could keep both

women between them. A futile effort, Chekov

knew, but one he had to try nonetheless. There

was nowhere to run on this wasted expanse' not

with Alion and his man outside the steps, and

water below every ledge and drop-off. Bracing his

back to the rocky wall, Chekov hid his shaking

hands inside parka pockets and tried to keep his

breathing quiet. He could at least hide his

unsteadiness from Alion, for all the good that

would do them.

"You cannot kill them." Ghyl's wavering voice

rose loud and shrill above the snarling waves. She

stirred beside Uhura, fists clenched. "God will not

take them, and the ice turns rotten with their

bodies."

Alion laughed a very human laugh at her

objection. "The kraken god will learn to eat them,

if we spill their human blood enough. Maybe

being prey of the god will finally convince them

they should leave our 247

L. A. Graf

planet. Failing that, I only want to make sure

these few never report back to their Federation

about what I've been doing here."

"We've already reported," Chekov told him,

taking deep breaths to keep his voice firm and

steady. "There's a shuttle on its way even now."

Turning his knife slowly in one hand, Alion

shook his head. "Liar. The company had only two

shuttles both are now destroyed. I've paid plenty

of men to sabotage Nordstral's equipment through

the years. This latest crop were my best." He

paced along the edge of the drop-off, occasionally

glancing down at whatever lay below him. "So now

you're stranded here, where only I and the kraken

make the laws."

Chekov watched the ersatz shaman drift from

one end of their lineup to the other, waiting for

him to sheath his knife, or turn his back, or

something. Of course, he didn't. Insanity, in

Chekov's experience, tended to be more irritating

than helpful. "What is it you gain by killing us?"

he asked, hoping to keep the Kitka talking.

Alion shrugged. "Freedom."

"You've got that." He wondered if it was water

beyond Alion's feet. That would be convenient.

"Not the kind of freedom I want," Alion said

bitterly. "Not the freedom to grab and hold

whatever power I can. No one at the equator

would worship me, but among these primitive

northern tribes, the knowledge and weapons I

learned growing up in the cities give me power to

make them believe anything I tell them to." He

halted his pacing, knife clenched, trembling, in

one hand. "I know god speaks to me. I know that

I can rule the world, if only I can rid it of the

humans who would teach Kitka to think for them-

248

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selves. No matter what your Federation says,

you're here to give Nordstral its independence,

and that means you take power from me! I won't

allow you to do that!"

Pushing away from the cliff face, Chekov gained

his feet carefully to keep from alarming Alion or

his army of one. One of the other unfortunate

things about insanity was that you frequently

couldn't reason with it. Especially when you were

half sick and barely able to stand.

Switching off his external mike, Chekov pulled

the parka's hood across his face as though to

protect his breathing. Alion stayed where he'd last

stopped pacing, loudly explaining his plans for

ruling the northern Kitka.

"Uhura?" Chekov whispered. "Howard?"

"Sir?"

"Chekov, don't if he hears you "

Chekov cut her off, not wanting to take up time

they might be running short of. "Listen to me.

They're both smaller than we are, but armed. If I

distract Alion, can you two take care of his man?"

Howard hesitated slightly, then nodded without

voicing a reply. Uhura angled a goggled look up

at Chekov, her hand still on Ghyl's arm while the

elderly woman fingered her belt knife. "Distract

him how?" she asked, unhappy.

Chekov didn't worry about a verbal reply.

Dashing forward in the midst of Alion's speaking,

he dove low for the shaman's middle, knowing he

might not have the strength to tackle him

otherwise. God, I hope it's water! he thought

again as his shoulder plowed into Alion and

overbalanced them both.

Then, driven onward by the force of both their 249

L. A. Graf

weights, they plunged over the drop-off into

whatever waited below.

Soroya ended her travails upright and slowly

oozing water. Emergency lighting bathed the

interior a lurid orange-red and a klaxon shrieked.

"Turn off that damned thing!" Kirk ordered

close by McCoy's ear, and the sound cut off. The

doctor realized he was pinned under his captain

and a female crewman. He shifted as Kirk got up,

and the crewman rolled aside to free his legs.

"Sorry, Dr. McCoy."

"Under different circumstances, my dear, the

pleasure would be all mine." McCoy slowly got to

his knees, then stood. He felt battered over every

inch of his body. "Jim?"

"Come here, Bones." Kirk was across the bridge,

he and Nuie on their knees beside the navigator's

sprawled form.

McCoy knew by the angle of her head, even

before he touched her, that she was dead. For

benefit of the others, he snaked a hand beneath

her skull and felt along the neck. "Hangman's

fracture," he muttered.

"What?'7

"She must have hit her head. Her spine's

severed at the second cervical vertebra. I'm sorry,

Nuie."

The Kitka bowed deeply, touching his forehead

to the cooling skin of the navigator's face. He

remained that way a moment, then straightened.

Tears dampened the sides of his nose.

God, I want to get out of here. McCoy looked

around. "Jim?"

Kirk was busy with each of the crew, helping

them to their feet, making certain they were all

right, that there were no other deaths, no

life-threatening inju2s0

ICE TRAP

ries. He stood in the center of the bridge, hair

awry, sweater hanging in tatters. Bathed in

flashing color the shade of a desert sunset, he

looked like nothing so much as a barbarian

warrior out of history, bathed in the blood of his

enemies. Only now his enemy was nothing he

could touch, and McCoy knew from experience

that Kirk didn't like those kinds of odds.

"Let's assess our damages." Kirk's voice was

hoarse with strain. "Get someone out to check the

rest of the ship. The rest of you, stop the flow in

here if you can. Slow it down, at least." He

staggered and dropped into a chair.

McCoy was instantly at his side, one hand

stealing around his captain's wrist. Kirk shook him

off irritably. "Don't mother me, Bones, I don't

have time for it!" He shook his head, eyes

clearing.

Only a fool or the inexperienced ever argued

when that tone came into Jim Kirk's voice. McCoy

subsided, eyes watchful, and wished he had his

medikit on the bridge. Funny to think of it still

back in the wardroom. For all he knew, it was

underwater by now.

"Looks as though someone else sustained

damages, Captain." One of the crew nodded

toward the viewscreen and reached to twist a knob

and fight the picture into better focus.

The kraken floated before them and off to star-

board. She hung in the water like a bird

suspended in flight, but this bird was wounded. A

long rift had opened in her abdomen. Gouts of

bright blood jetted out of the cut and stained the

water like vermilion blooms.

A cry welled from Nuie and the kraken shifted

as though she heard. His eyes were stark with

pain, their iridescent color even odder in the red

light. McCoy touched him, but the first mate

didn't respond.

251

L. A. Graf

"Captain!" A crewman's cry tore everyone's eyes,

except Nuie's, from the wounded animal. He

straddled one chair, a comm link pressed tightly to

his ear. "A call coming in! It's . . . it's the

Enterprise!"

Uhura staggered back, sent sliding by the force

of Chekov's lunge for the Kitka shaman. She

watched in horror as the two men toppled over

the rim of the ice-coated ledge, her breath

catching as she waited for the fatal splash of water

that would follow. It never came. Instead, she

heard the painful thud of bodies hitting ice, then

the yammer of a nearby Kitka wail.

"Howard!" With a start, Uhura recollected the

second Kitka they were supposed to be taking care

of. She spun around to see the security guard

circling the armed native, arms lifted defensively

as he tried to avoid the threatening harpoon. Ghyl

crouched on the ice beyond them, looking down

over the edge where Chekov had vanished.

An idea hit Uhura and she tapped at her

communicator controls swiftly. "Tactical surprise,

Mr. Howard," she warned across their insulation

suit channel.

"Aye, sir." Howard paused briefly in his circling,

and Uhura dialed the volume of her

communicator up to feed the output directly to

her external mike. With an intensity that startled

even her, a shrieking wail of auroral interference

shattered the arctic silence. It sounded like a

cavalry troop of Kitka coming over the horizon.

The white-feathered native yowled in shock,

swinging around to see where the noise was

coming from. His dark-tipped harpoon moved

away from Howard for an instant, and the

watchful security guard sprang. A moment later

the Kitka lay sprawled and disarmed on the ice.

Howard straightened up with the harpoon in his

252

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hand, breath pulling around his filter. "Sir!" He

waved the harpoon, and Uhura skidded across to

him to get it. "Go help the chief' I'll get this guy

tied up."

"All right." Uhura took the bonearved weapon

in a careful grip, aware of the deadly stain of

kraken venom glistening at its tip. She turned and

ran for the place where Chekov and Alion had

disappeared, passing Ghyl's small wind-rufed

figure as she went. The Kitka woman lifted her

knife, but Uhura waved it aside as she rushed

past. "It's all right I've got a weapon." Instead,

Ghyl took up a steady, keening ululation at

Uhura's back.

Uhura skidded to a halt at the far edge of the

ledge, dark rock dropping down to a wave-lapped

platform of crystalline green ice. Two fur-clad

bodies struggled on that treacherous surface, one

dark and silent, one white and spitting Kitka

curses. Their breath grunted out in white

explosions as they heaved and staggered across

the narrow rock shelf. With a gasp, Uhura saw

that Chekov was doggedly pushing the shaman

toward the sea, ignoring the battering of blows

Alion rained against his bent head and shoulders.

The security officer's strategy was clear he meant

to knock them both into the freezing ocean water.

"No!" Uhura Bung herself recklessly down the

sheer rock face, boots slipping on its solid glaze of

ice. She hit the bottom hard. Her breath slammed

out of her lungs and left her gasping, but Uhura

tried to scramble to her feet anyway. Her left

knee spasmed into fire-hot protest with the

motion, and she fell back onto the ice with a cry

of pain.

The sound of her arrival must have jarred the

fighters apart. Uhura looked up, slitting her eyes

against the dazzle of pain-sparked tears, just in

time to see Alion's pale bulk looming over her.

The shaman 253

L. A. Graf

didn't waste any time with words. He pulled the

harpoon out of her fingers with a savage yank,

then turned and swung at Chekov.

"Spock!" Kirk's face was graced with the smile

McCoy hadn't been certain he'd ever see again.

"Patch him through."

McCoy cut Kirk off before he could speak

"Well, they say bad news comes in threes. First we

have a kraken, then a tsunami, and now you,

Spock."

"Greetings, Dr. McCoy." The Vulcan sounded as

dry and droll as ever. If he'd been there, McCoy

would have hugged him, past history be damned.

"It is good to hear your voice, as well."

"Spock? This is Kirk."

"I'm gratified to learn you're still alive, Captain.

Commander Scott has completed the shuttle

modifications you have requested and can

rendezvous with your party as soon as you bring

the Soroya to dock. How long do you think that

will take you?"

"I'm not sure, Spock. The Soroya's been hit by

two tsunamis, and we've sustained a lot of

damage. We have partial power " Kirk glanced

at the pilot for her confirming nod "and only

about six hours of oxygen left. Right now, we

don't even know where we are or how far we may

have drifted off course. We're looking for open

water, but if we don't find it, we're going to be

trapped under the ice. There's no way we can

break through."

"Unfortunately, the Enterprise cannot help with

that. Her sensors will not penetrate Nordstral's

magnetic field sufficiently to allow me to locate

your position. We can only track you so long as

we maintain radio contact."

"Which," Kirk sighed, glancing grimly at McCoy, 254

ICE TRAP

"we already know is sporadic. What about the

rescue team? Any luck in contacting them?"

"Yes, sir. Lieutenant Chekov, Lieutenant Com-

mander Uhura, and Ensign Howard have survived

an attack by the Kitka. They report seeing

Nordstral personnel murdered by one of the

Kitka's shamans, and there is evidence that the

crew of the initial shuttle were murdered as well.

According to Lieutenant Commander Uhura, this

Kitka shaman has been 'feeding' Nordstral staff to

the ocean in some sort of native ritual."

The hiss of air drawn through clenched teeth

drew McCoy's eyes to Nuie's face. The Kitka

stood rigidly over the navigator's sprawled body,

fists clenched at his sides and an expression in his

eyes which McCoy could not divine.

Kirk scrubbed at his forehead, frowning

thoughtfully. "Why the hell would the Kitka do

that? All the reports I've seen indicate they're

completely peaceable."

"I am not certain that the ritual itself is a

warlike act, Captain. Dr. Stehle's files on the

magnetic biota indicate that, given the strength of

Nordstral's magnetic field, their growth potential

is limited only by the presence of basic amino

phosphatic nutrients." Spock's voice took on the

faintly abstracted tone McCoy always associated

with the Vulcan's most impressive deductions.

"Due to the Kitka's proteinrich diet, these

nutrients tend to become concentrated in their

bodies. Were they all to die on the glacial ice and

remain frozen there, the sea would become barren

within a few thousand years. Apparently the Kitka

have come to somehow understand that, and have

evolved this system to keep the planet's ecosystem

in balance."

255

L. A. Graf

McCoy's eyes widened as he glanced at Nuie.

"So that's what you were trying to do when the lab

flooded "

"I was only trying to do what's right for a Kitka,"

Nuie said, smiling faintly. "I told you it wouldn't

be good for you to feed the ocean, too."

Soft as the exchange was, Spock must have over-

heard it. "Indeed it would not, Doctor. The human

nutrients in your body are entirely unsuitable for

maintaining Nordstral's ecologic cycle."

"Then why are the Kitka murdering Nordstral

personnel?" demanded Kirk.

"On that point, Captain, I do not have enough

data to hazard a conjecture." Spock paused.

"However, I can state that the Kitka's efforts to

keep their planet in balance have been completely

overwhelmed by the harvesting activities of

Nordstral Pharmaceuticals."

"What's the harvesting got to do with it?" Kirk

demanded.

"The secondary magnetic component!" McCoy

pounded one fist into the other, mind racing

ahead of his words. "My God, it's the plankton,

isn't it, Spock?"

"No, Doctor. It is the magnetic biota."

"Dammit, Spock, you know what I mean!"

"Well, I don't," Kirk broke in. "Will somebody

please explain this to me?"

McCoy swung around to face him. "The

plankton on Nordstral are magnetic, Jim! Spock

said there was a surface component to the planet's

field that was causing the poles to reverse. It's the

damned plankton!"

"Technically, Doctor, it is the absence of biota

that has triggered the reversals," Spock corrected.

"My computer models indicate that Nordstral's

marine

2s6

ICE TRAP

microorganisms exert a stabilising effect on its

internal magnetic dynamo one that must have

evolved through many milennia in order to keep

the planet suitable for life. Much like the Gaia

hypothesis developed for Earth "

"Spock," Kirk interrupted. "You're telling me all

the tectonic problems on Nordstral have been

caused by too much plankton harvesting?"

"Indeed, Captain."

Kirk began to pace the deck. "How long will it

take the planet to recover if we stop all harvesting

immediately?"

"According to my projections, approximately

three hundred Nordstral years."

McCoy snorted. "Fat lot of help that does us.

We need that plankton in the sea now, not three

centuries from now!"

"Can't we clone enough to replace what the

harvesters have taken?" Kirk asked. "Kane said

they had cloning facilities on their orbital

platform."

"The Curie would not be able to clone the

trillions of metric tons required, Captain."

"But the Enterprise should be able to," McCoy

pointed out triumphantly. It wasn't often he was

able to think of something before Spock. "Our

botany lab can churn it out and you can fill the

cargo holds with seawater and turn it lose in there

to breed."

McCoy was delighted with Spock's overlong

pause. "If we use the magnatomic decelerators to

provide a source of magnetic energy, that proposal

might actually have some merit," the science

officer agreed at last. "We would, of course, have

to physically deliver the blots to the planet's

surface, since the transporters "

Kirk's attention was drawn by movement on the 2s7

L. A. Graf

viewscreen. The wounded kraken was slowly

turning away from them, laboriously plying her

winglike flippers in slow, obviously painful,

sweeps. Blood trailed behind her, clouding the

image. "Where's she going?"

"Captain?" Spock sounded as close to confused

as he ever came.

"To ground," Nuie replied, voice tight with emo-

tion. "The god is dying and giving herself to the

people, even as we go to her in death."

"You mean she beaches herself?" Kirk's head

snapped around. "Pilot, we need all the power you

can coax out of this hulk. Get us moving!"

"Aye-aye!" She began snapping orders at the rest

of the crew and they fell to work with a

willingness gratifying to behold, given their

exhausted state.

"I beg your pardon, Captain?"

"Sorry, Spock. There's a wounded animal here

that beaches itself when it's going to die. We're

going to follow it to open water. Continue to

monitor this channel for as long as you can. We'll

let you know as soon as we reach surface.

Meanwhile, get plankton samples from Curie and

start Coning." He turned to the pilot and slapped

the back of her chair. "All right, Mr.

Windisch follow that kraken!"

The harpoon shaft stung Chekov's palms when

he flung his hands up to intercept Alion's swing.

Uhura stumbled back, out of Chekov's sight, and

he hauled back on the harpoon with all his

strength in the hopes of throwing Alion off

balance. Frost prickled his cheeks where the

shimmering goggles ended, knifing down his throat

to seize his lungs in icy claws.

The shaman countered by rocking his own

weight forward and stumbling the lieutenant back

several

258

ICE TRAP

steps. Chekov clenched his teeth against a cough,

but didn't loosen his grip on the harpoon.

"It's pointless," Alion told him. Kitka breath

swarmed in curling billows around the edges of his

mask. "I only need to scratch you you and her

both and you're dead!"

Chekov opted not to risk his breath by answering.

Uhura arrowed into his line of sight again, a

chunk of milky ice gripped in both hands. Blood

singing with panic, Chekov jerked at Alion's

weapon again, desperate to disarm him. He took

a breath to shout at Uhura, and every muscle in

his chest seized around a convulsive cough he

couldn't choke away.

Alion needed only that break in Chekov's

attention. With a powerful torque of shoulders

and arms, the shaman whipped the harpoon shaft

in a tight circle and snapped it from Chekov's

hands. Chekov tried to jerk back, but only slid on

the ice beneath him. The impact of the harpoon

shaft against his face knocked him to the ground,

facedown in the snow, with nausea and

unconsciousness washing over him in alternating

waves.

"See?" Alion's voice rose, high and triumphant,

from somewhere impossibly distant above him.

"This -kind of power keeps us all from being

equal. You should understand that now." Chekov

felt the harpoon head dig against the neck of his

parka and remembered, very vaguely, that he

ought to be afraid. "Be in awe, Lieutenant this is

where you meet a god."

Waves, crashing and roaring anew, drowned

Alion's voice in a frenzy of breaking ice and

hissing snow. Still coughing, blood stinging the

inside of his mouth with the taste of copper,

Chekov steeled himself for 259

L. A. Graf

the prick that meant Alion had delivered the last

wound he was ever likely to feel. He curled his

fingers into the frozen snow and closed his eyes.

The pressure at the nape of his neck lifted, then

a harpoon clattered to the ice beside him,

bloodless. He resisted an urge to look behind him,

even when someone's labored breathing blew hot

salt smell over him and someone else nudged him

heavily with one foot.

"Chekov. . ." Uhura's voice tickled his ear over

the inside channel, so faint as to be thought more

than spoken. "Oh, God, Chekov, don't

move don't even breathe!"

Fear crept over him again, leaching into his

bones like the cold from the ice sheet beneath

him. The rough handling moved erratically up his

legs, across his back, onto the hood of his parka.

He could see a shadow then long, thick, and

decidedly nonhumanoid. When a cool, white

nostril as broad across as his hand brushed his

cheek in its snuffing, he looked without meaning

to, pushing up on one elbow and turning such

that their faces almost touched for that instant.

The kraken reared back in surprise, blowing a

startled cloud of steam out either side of its

sinuous neck. Jaw feathers clattering, ivory chest

speckled with a mixture of Kitka blood and

tattered parka, the Kitka's enigmatic god blinked

orbs as wide and shimmering as reflective polar

goggles, then pulled back into the ocean and sank

silently away.

260

Chapter Fifteen

THE EMERGENCY HATCH clanged back, and

a crisp, cold gust of wind whistled down into the

Soroya. McCoy breathed deeply, relishing the

fresh air against his face. He elbowed Kirk aside,

only half-kiddingly. "Let me at the oxygen first."

"By all means, Doctor," Kirk said with an

obliging grin. "After you."

McCoy navigated the short corridor in

something just a little under light-speed, and

emerged into Nordstral's blinding sunlight.

Wincing, he slapped a hand over his eyes and

reached back with the other, fingers waggling.

"Give me the damned visor!" Someone tucked it

into his hand, and he bent his head to snap it into

place. He looked up, eyes protected behind the

polarised material, and gaped at his surroundings.

The ice ran in an unbroken sheet to the

horizon. Distance gave it the impression of

absolute flatness

261

L. A. Graf

and utter uniformity. It was only up close to the

ship that he could detect the fine whorls and

hollows created by the ever-present wind. Several

meters to their left lay the injured kraken. McCoy

couldn't tell whether or not she was still alive. A

large group of people he guessed were Kitka

stood not far from her, strung in a tight semicircle

and watching her in a very grave manner. Beyond

them was a familiar white and red Enterprise

shuttle, and lounging in the doorway

Someone poked him from below. "Move it,

Bones," Kirk griped good-naturedly. "No one

wants to stay in here any longer than they have

to."

McCoy's cheeks flushed. He hadn't meant to

sightsee. He swung himself out of the hatch and

stumbled upright onto the ice. In a moment, Kirk

landed gracefully beside him. Nuie was right

behind him, and the Kitka's appearance was

greeted by a cacophony of whistles and trills from

the assembled natives. He tugged up his hood and

answered them in kind.

"What are they saying?" Kirk asked.

"They want to know if we killed the god. I told

them no.

"How did they get here so fast? Is there a

village nearby?"

"Probably. I'm not sure where we are." Nuie

grinned broadly at the look Kirk gave him.

"They've been expecting us, though."

"What?"

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Well, not us,

but the kraken." He whistled a few lines and

waited for a reply. "One of the old women had a

dream the god would beach itself here." He

shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled

toward the assembled Kitka.

Kirk lifted his eyebrows in interest, but turned 262

ICE TRAP

away, only then recognising who approached from

the shuttle. "Mr. Scott! Welcome to Nordstral. It's

good to see someone besides McCoy for a

change."

"Aye, and it's good to see you, too, Captain."

The Scotsman's eyes twinkled, and McCoy could

just imagine what a spectacle they must be in

their borrowed clothing and battered condition.

"You didn't think I'd be letting Sulu fly one of my

shuttles all on his own, now, did you?"

"Of course not, Scotty." Kirk clapped him on the

shoulder. "Not and pass up a chance to see what's

been going on down here."

Scott grinned broadly. "It's also a chance to get

away from all that work Spock's had me doing."

He glanced over at McCoy. "You'll be glad to

hear that every nook and cranny on the

Enterprise's cargo bays is now filled with wee

magnetic b easties. Mr. Spock's almost ready to

start shooting the first batch into the oceans."

McCoy scowled. "Is he taking precautions to

keep the plankton heavily shielded? The last thing

we need is for the Enterprise to have an outbreak

of Nordstra1's magnetic insanity."

"Oh, aye. He had my engineers clad all the

holds with demagnetised plating "

"Can we debate the details of this plan later?"

Kirk asked plaintively. "Right now, all I want is to

get back to the Enterprise."

McCoy smiled at the note of longing in the

captain's voice. Too long away from his lady made

him anxious. He was as bad as Scotty in that

respect. "I'll be there in a minute, Jim." He

glanced toward the assembled Kitka.

Kirk followed his gaze and nodded. "Scotty,

power up. We'll be with you in a moment."

263

L. A. Graf

"Aye, sir." The burly engineer disappeared back

inside the shuttle's open hatch.

Together, Kirk and McCoy walked toward the

water. The Kitka parted to let them through, and

they found themselves close beside the injured

kraken. She sprawled across the bloodstained ice,

her tail limp and trailing like weeds in the water,

her neck outstretched to its full length, hard white

feathers frozen to the ground. McCoy watched

closely, but couldn't see any signs of respiration.

He marveled at the great creature, yet was

struck by a sense of wonder lost, as though here,

out of her element, she'd somehow been reduced

to the ordinary. Her mottled shadings were grey

and dull without the water, and her wide eyes,

staring ahead of her at nothing, were no longer

iridescent.

"She's dead," Nuie's sad voice confirmed behind

them. McCoy looked around and back at him, but

could find nothing to say by way of comfort.

Kirk, rightfully, didn't even attempt it. He held

out his hand. "Thank you for everything, Nuie.

You'll make the Soroya a fine captain."

"Thank you, Captain."

Kirk nodded and shook the man's hand a final

time. "Bones, whenever you're ready." He turned

and walked toward the shuttle.

McCoy watched him enter the ship, then turned

and extended his own hand. "Well, I can't exactly

say it's been a pleasure . . ."

The Kitka surprised him by laughing. "No, I

guess you can't. Here." He dipped into one pocket

and brought out the ulu. "Take this. Let it remind

you of our adventure . . ."

"As though I could forget!"

i'. . . and your brother on Nordstral."

264

ICE TRAP

Emotion clogged McCoy's throat. He took the

ceremonial knife and cradled it in his hand for

several moments before he could trust himself to

look at Nuie. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, go back to your people.

We'll take care of the kraken." Nuie squeezed his

shoulder once, then turned away and led the other

Kitka closer to the kraken. Several already had

their knives out.

McCoy looked away, staring at the Soroya

instead. He was amazed at how low she rode in

the water, and how awful she looked with the

gaping wounds in her sides. It was a miracle any

of them had survived.

He looked across the expanse of black water,

then at the surrounding ice field, dazzlingly

brilliant in the sunshine. It was alien to him. It

always would be. He ran the ball of his thumb

gently along the ulu blade and was astounded to

see a tiny line of red appear. "Damn." He

pocketed the weapon and sucked momentarily at

his thumb. It was time to go home.

Uhura watched in astonishment as the kraken's

glowing eyes made descending bright streaks in

the water, then vanished entirely. After seeing it

devour the Kitka shaman with one snap of its

sharp-toothed jaws, she still couldn't believe it had

left Chekov untouched. She hobbled over to the

security officer's sprawled body, forcing herself to

ignore the pain in her left knee.

"Chekov, are you all right? Did Alion hit you?"

Chekov made a choking noise that froze

Uhura's breath with fear until she realized it was

breathless laughter. "He hit me several times. You

didn't notice?"

Uhura gave him a gentle swat on the top of his

265

L. A. Graf

head the only place she could be sure he wasn't

injured. "I meant with the harpoon tip," she said

severely, but a smile of sheer relief tugged at her

lips beneath the breath filter. If Chekov had been

poisoned, he would have been showing the signs

of it by now. She reached out and helped him

struggle to his feet. "That kraken got here just in

time."

"Yes." The brief spurt of laughter faded from

Chekov's voice and left it grim. "I don't think that

was a coincidence."

"But what. . . ?" Uhura's eyes widened as she

suddenly realised he meant. A wash of horror

swept through her. "Oh, no! You don't think

Ghyl "

"I don't know." Chekov's mouth tightened below

the shimmer of his goggles, and they came to a

halt at the rock cliff rimming the ledge. He raised

his voice, tapping on his insulation suit's comm.

"Mr. Howard? Are you up there?"

Footsteps crunched on ice and a tall figure

appeared at the edge of the icy platform. "I tried

to stop her, sir," Howard said, his voice breaking

slightly. "But I had that Kitka to tie up, and she

did it so fast . . ." He held out one hand to show

them the scrap of bloody fur. "I almost caught her

when she threw herself in the ocean. This was all

I got."

Uhura swallowed tears, unable to reply. She

turned her face into the ice-crusted fur of

Chekov's parka, and felt his hand come up to

clasp her shoulder gently. His voice was gruff.

"It's not your fault, Mr. Howard. There wasn't

anything you could have done." He cleared his

voice, speaking more to Uhura than to the

security guard. "Ghyl knew what she was doing.

She wanted her god to make things right, and she

succeeded."

"I know." Uhura gave a last sniffand lifted her face

266

ICE TRAP

from the musty-smelling fur. "If she hadn't called

the kraken to come here, you and I would both be

dead."

"And Alion would be alive and armed with a

poisoned harpoon to use against Howard. She

saved all of us." Chekov bent before Uhura knew

what he was doing and made a stirrup of his

hands. "Come on. We need to get back to the

shelter."

"I'm not going to let you lift me! Chekov, you're

hurt worse than I am." She stepped back and

tugged him to his feet. "I'll kneel down, and you

can step on my shoulder "

"I'm too heavy to "

"Sir, if you would just "

Their tangled voices broke off abruptly when a

familiar hailing signal sang in their insulation suit

comms. "Enterprise shuttle calling landing party,"

Sulu's crisp voice reported through the wail of

auroral static. "Do you read me?"

"Loud and clear!" Uhura replied. The strength

of the shuttle's signal meant it had to be

approaching. "Have you got a fix on the native

rock shelter?"

"Right where Mr. Spock said it would be." A low

drone rolled over the horizon and grew louder.

The helmsman's voice grew clearer through the

static. "I can even see you guys now. Hey, what

are you doing down on the beach? It's too cold to

get a suntan today."

Chekov's laugh made a cloud of ice-white mist

around his face. "Finally, these damn black

insulation suits are good for something. Sulu,

there's a wide rock ledge down here it's probably

the best place to land the shuttle."

"Acknowledged." The silver shine of the

planetary craft caught the pale pink glow of arctic

sunset as it circled the platform they stood on,

then settled to a 267

L. A. Graf

landing. "Hope you guys are ready to start

talking. Captain Kirk wants to know why there's

a Kitka tied up down the ledge from us."

"Oh, no." Uhura took a deep breath and saw

Chekov doing the same thing. "He wants us to

report right now?"

"We have a long ride back up to the orbital

platform, gentlemen," said Kirk's unmistakably

cheerful voice. "We might as well make good

use of it."

"Yes, sir." Uhura looked over at Chekov and

laughed. "Welcome back to Starfleet."

268

Chapter Sixteen

CHEICOV CAUGHT the turboliftdoor with one

hand and stepped partway into the corridor.

Balancing a covered food tray on his hip, he

watched and listened carefully for signs of passing

foot traffic while ignoring two polite, "Please do

not block turbolift access," prompts from the

computer. He wasn't blocking it, he reasoned he

was holding it to secure an escape route. Good

security procedures. He didn't see or hear anyone,

though, so stepped bravely into the corridor and

let the lift hiss shut with a singsong, "Thank you."

He hadn't really expected to run into anyone on

his way to Uhura's quarters. It was just late

enough that the duty shift had changed, so the

press of people coming and going through the

corridors had eased. Anyone who wasn't at their

duty stations was busy unwinding before heading

offto bed. People tended to do such unwinding in

their quarters or in the rec

269

L. A. Graf

room, not in the open corridors. Waiting until

shift change ended had been worth it, then, even

if it had meant additional obstacles like fresh

personnel to his getting out of sickbay.

Yesterday, when the shuttle came for them at

the Kitka shelter, he'd thought he would sleep for

at least a solid week. Ile'd stood outside the

shuttle to make a verbal report to Kirk limiting

himself to bare bones for the sake of avoiding

awkward explanations helped Howard stow and

log whatever remained of their gravsled and gear,

then removed himself to the rear of the shuttle,

where he could be alone on the trip back to the

ship.

Threading his way between the narrow shuttle

seats, Chekov had stripped off the hood of his

insulation suit, aching from his teeth to his bones,

and unsealed the front panel of his suit as he

flopped into one of the empty seats. Just sitting in

a warm, safe environment had felt like a delicious

luxury; he almost tumbled into sleep the moment

his head hit the back of the seat.

He had letters to draft, though, decisions to

make. Tenzing's family would want to understand

everything their daughter had been and done

while she was away on board the Enterprise;

Publicker's family would want his belongings

shipped home, and they'd be disappointed to have

no body. These were the duties Chekov hated

most about his job, the ones he most wished he

could delegate to some other officer. At the core

of it, though, the people who worked under him

were his responsibility. It was his responsibility, as

well, to admit when he failed to take care of them.

A flash of pain exploded along his cheekbone,

making him jerk away with a sharp curse. He

hadn't realized how close he'd come to being

asleep. It took 270

ICE TRAP

him a moment to blink his surroundings back into

familiarity.

Standing at his shoulder, McCoy frowned down

at him in doctorly displeasure. "What happened to

you?" he asked, gesturing at Chekov's face.

The lieutenant reached up to rub at his cheek,

wincing at the feel of hot, tender skin beneath his

fingers. "Nothing." He forgot that Alion's final

blow would bruise so badly.

McCoy grunted. "Nothing?" Catching Chekov's

jaw in one wiry hand, the doctor held his head

steady while digging into the medikit on his belt.

"Well, this 'nothing' looks like it's worth at least a

hairline fracture. Hold still."

The whine of McCoy's medical scanner was

sharp enough to make his ears ring. "Doctor,

please, I'm fine " He had work to do, letters to

write, duty rosters to reassign . . .

"He was poisoned." Uhura climbed into the row

of seats ahead of him, her own insulation suit

shed, but her Kitka mask still dangling from

around her neck. "Some native toxin that the

Kitka get from kraken."

"What!"

Chekov dropped his head into his hands and

sighed.

"When did this happen?" McCoy demanded of

Uhura.

"About three days ago."

The doctor's scowl made Chekov wonder if he

was going to get hit again. "For God's sake . . ."

"Mr. Chekov, you didn't mention anything like

that in your report." Even Kirk had finally been

attracted aft by the subject of their discussion.

Chekov felt himself blush hard enough to make

his cheekbone throb. "Yes, Captain, I know, sir,

but "

27,

L. A. Graf

McCoy interrupted by swatting Kirk on one

shoulder. "I don't want to hear a word from you,

Captain! If it weren't for the example you set for

these boys, I wouldn't have to second-guess their

bumps and bruises in the first place!"

"Now, Bones . . ."

After that, McCoy was too busy giving Kirk a

piece of his mind to worry about further berating

Chekov. Suspecting that his best defensewould be

camouflage, Chekov simply let himself drift off to

sleep in the hopes McCoy would forget all about

him by the time they got home.

Instead, he had awakened later on a stretcher al-

ready headed down to sickbay, when it was too

late to do anything constructive. He'd slept off and

on throughout McCoy's shipboard examination,

then finally didn't awake again until sometime

early the next morning. While he felt rested and

healthy and ready to return to duty, McCoy

insisted he stay in sickbay for further observation.

Even Kirk wouldn't countermand that order.

As far as Chekov was concerned, the most

boring thing he could imagine was spending an

entire day confined to a bed in sickbay. Visitors

stopped by throughout the course of the

day Sulu, Riley, various contingents from his

security force but they couldn't do much to cheer

him; when he was already annoyed at being kept

from constructive activity, it didn't help to see

others interrupting their own work to come coddle

him.

The only solution, then, seemed to be escape. At

least temporary escape. An advantage of being

chief of starship security was that he knew the

ship's layout and duty schedules and,

consequently, the best time and way to absent

himself from sickbay

272

ICE TRAP

with the highest probability of success. He could

always go back later and try to make McCoy's life

so miserable that the doctor would release him

and wish him good riddance. Other than that, the

worst that could happen was they'd confine him to

bed. He could always just leave again if things got

too bad.

Uhura answered her door after only his second

knock. She looked tired and distracted, but

blinked at him in surprise when he smiled at her.

"Chekov! I thought you were in sickbay."

"I am. Let me in before someone sees me."

She ushered him inside, sliding the door shut

behind him. He tried not to notice the computer

work on her desk, the bone mask hanging on her

wall, or the bright, sunlit pictures of Kitka moving

about on her small terminal screen.

"I didn't come down to see you," she said, her

voice apologetic as she cleared off a chair for him

to sit. "I meant to, I'm sorry "

He waved her explanation aside, setting the

food tray on the chair instead of himself. "It's all

right. You've been busy."

Her gaze drifted toward the terminal and the

Kitka moving there. "Yes . . . going over tapes,

mostly. There's an awful lot to catalog."

He could imagine. Images of Ghyl giving some

lengthy explanation in the whistling Kitka

language shared the screen with views of Nhym

pointing out bits of food, and Uhura surprisingly

enough looking dubious about eating any of it.

Noting Uhura in the picture reminded Chekov of

where the films must have come from, and he

surprised himself with a lurch of pain even McCoy

and the Enterprise's sickbay couldn't make go

away.

"Tenzing took these, didn't she?" 273

L. A. Grat

Uhura touched his arm but didn't look up at

him. "Yes."

So many things lost, he thought, watching Ghyl

straighten Nhym's ivory mask and comb out her

tangled silver hair. So many things gained. "She

knew what she was doing," he said aloud to

Uhura. "Her world and people needed saving, and

she was willing to give everything to assure that.

I think she would be happy with our solution."

Uhura nodded, wrapping her arms about her as

if against a sudden chill. "She would be. I just

wish she could have lived to see it."

Chekov found himself thinking those same

words quite a lot lately.

Taking her hand, he turned her away from the

terminal to face her toward the food tray he'd left

sitting in her chair. "There's only one thing I know

of that can distract you from anything."

Uhura grinned, looking embarrassed. "Food."

"Food." He rolled the chair between them and

leaned against the back. "Remember before we

left for Nordstral? I promised to bring you

dinner."

"That's right, you did." She laughed, a little of

the sadness leaving her face. "Did you fix this

yourself?"

He made a face at her. "Are you kidding? I

ordered it through the sickbay food system."

Reaching over the chair back, he whisked aside

the cover in a cloud of aromatic steam. "What do

you think?"

Hands folded together, she bent at the waist to

sniff at the plates. Her eyebrows crinkled slightly

with concern. "It smells like cabbage."

"It's halushki."

She angled a skeptical look up at him. "Which is?"

Chekov shrugged, tossing the cover onto the

coun

274

ICE TRAP

tertop behind him. "Cabbage." He grinned at her.

"I ordered it especially for you."

She laughed again, a warm, welcome sound

after all the cold unpleasantries of Nordstral. "Oh,

Chekov what would I do without you?"

He handed her a plate and slipped a fork under

the contents. "If nothing else, probably eat a

whole lot better."

McCoy peered around the doorway to the

observation deck, trying not to sound too

disappointed when he found only Kirk and Spock

standing there. "Have either of you seen Chekov?"

Kirk glanced away from Nordstral's brilliant

white globe, brows raised in curiosity. "What's the

matter, Bones? Can't keep track of your own

patients?"

"Apparently not." He crossed the deck, hands in

pockets, to stand at Kirk's right. The stark black

terminus of Nordstral's nightside silently crept

across her surface as they orbited. "What's the

point of trying to treat a patient when he's just

going to override sickbay security and escape the

minute I turn my back?"

Kirk shrugged with amused tolerance. "You

guarantee he'll be in good health when he does

it."

This from the man who would chew his own leg

off to get out of a medical exam. McCoy decided

to quit while he was ahead. "How's our bigger

patient coming?" he asked, nodding toward the

planet. Even at night, Nordstral's atmosphere

sparkled with shreds of rainbow aurora, the

equator cities ringing her like a diamond bracelet

while the distant sun haloed her with a tiara of

gold.

"So far, the prognosis is good." Kirk's eyes danced

275

L. A. Graf

across the nighttime features with a gentle

pleasure that surprised McCoy. "They've got the

remaining two harvesters seeding nutrients

wherever they can reach in both hemispheres, and

Spock's had torpedoes full of plankton launching

all day."

"Marine biota," Spock corrected blandly.

Kirk grinned at him. "My apologies."

"I expect full recovery of Nordstral's magnetic

field within fourteen days," the Vulcan went on, as

though someone had asked him to elaborate. "The

Kitka around the equator report observing biota

reprod uctive blooms as far south as the thirtieth

parallel, and the northern tribes say both the ice

and the kraken have calmed remarkably in the

last twenty-four hours."

"So have Maxine Kane's mental patients."

McCoy hated agreeing with Spock, but he couldn't

see any way around it. "She says Nordstral's

planning to give the planet a couple months off

while they redesign a harvesting/seeding program

that'll guarantee nothing like this happens again."

He shook his head in wonder as Nordstral's

daylight side overwhelmed the stars around her

with brilliant albedo. "It's too bad that it takes a

disaster like this to remind us how delicately

balanced everything is and not just on Nordstral.

Maybe if every planet threw off earthquakes and

magnetic storms whenever things got out of

whack, sentient races all over the galaxy wouldn't

have messed up some of the things they did."

Kirk clapped his friend on the shoulder,

breathing a little sigh. "Every planet gives its

people whatever they need to do what's right. So

long as we go the right direction in the end, that's

all that matters."

"Let us hope," Spock said, "that Nordstral has

learned everything required."

276

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McCoy snorted before he thought better of it,

and found himself facing curious glances from

both his companions. "Well, I don't know about

Nordstral," he grumbled, shifting his weight a little

nervously, "but I've certainly learned my lesson

just fine."

"Oh?" Kirk asked, eyebrows raised. "And what's

that?"

"The next time you expect me to go swimming

around some planet with millions of tons of

freezing water on top of my head, I'm gonna

pretend to be a Vulcan. That way, you'll leave me

at home!"

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