Four

Captain’s log: Stardate 5960.2 We have ascertained that there was indeed one survivor of the earthquake on Sherman’s planet: Agricultural Specialist Czerny, and that she was captured by Klingon Commander Kang. We have returned to Sherman’s planet to reestablish the agricultural work and monitor the Klingon outpost there while awaiting a response from the Organians.

CAPTAIN KIRK FINISHED recording the log and turned to Lt. Uhura. “Any results yet, Lieutenant?”

“None, sir. If they have any communication capability at all they must have received us by now. They are maintaining complete communication silence.”

Kirk swung his command chair to face Spock’s position. “Sensor scan, Mr. Spock? Are they still where we first spotted them?”

“Affirmative, Captain. They have enstrenched themselves at Mousse Rock, two-point-six kilometers upriver from our agricultural station.”

“Moose Rock, Mr. Spock?”

“Mousse, Captain, as in the Terran French dessert. I understand Lieutenant Le Clerc of the initial survey team fancied it resembled that confection. It would appear they are developing it as a natural fortification.”

“Any better reading on how many there are there?”

“Only a rough approximation on life-form readings—thirty-five to fifty is as close as we can estimate.”

“Lieutenant Uhura, any report from our landing party we left at the station when we went after Kang?”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant DeCastro reports all is quiet and cleanup work is progressing nicely. No sign of the Klingons there.”

“Fine. I want that station functional as soon as possible. First priority is to get systems going, especially communications. Notify transporter room that first relief team will consist of Chief Engineer Scott, Lieutenant Kevin Riley, Lieutenant Johnson and Ensign Tamura from Security, and yourself, Lieutenant Uhura.” Kirk noted Sulu’s sudden glance at the mention of Riley, a good friend of his. Sulu hadn’t been off-ship for some time … “And Mr. Sulu, also,” he finished.

The helmsman flashed him a grin of startled pleasure. “Thank you, Captain.”

Kirk nodded. “Both of you get your reliefs up here and report to transporter room in thirty minutes.”

Sulu looked around curiously. They had beamed down near a building that had been undamaged by the earthquake. It was a single-story, flagstone house set in a rather extensive garden. A short distance beyond, the flat land gave way to a series of craggy outcroppings of dark rock and low rolling hills. Sulu’s hobby was botany, not geology, so he had paid scant attention to the discussions on the earthquake. He was satisfied to know that it was due to a singular concatenation of events unlikely to recur for a century or more. The garden, and most particularly that part of it devoted to local flora, was what interested him. Despite the slight autumn nip in the air, he was looking forward to the next several days here.

Off to his left, Lieutenant DeCastro, of the first landing party, was briefing Lieutenant Johnson while the second of his three units slowly dissolved in the transporter beam. This house had its own generator which had been restored to working order. The communications room of the central administrative complex some distance away was the only part of that building not totally destroyed. The main power supply for the colony was gone. Restoring those two items was the top priority now.

Soon, Sulu and Riley were helping move and catalog equipment near the administration complex while Scott monitored its arrival from the Enterprise’s cargo transporter. The five remaining members of DeCastro’s detail were working with them while Uhura meticulously checked relays and circuits in the communications room. It was a hot, tired group that gathered at the house late that afternoon. DeCastro ordered the last of his detail into position for beam up. Uhura and Riley headed for the two available showers. Sulu sat down on the front steps, his eyes fixed on the spot where the relief detail would materialize. They didn’t appear.

A short distance away Scott muttered impatiently to himself, then snapped open his communicator. “Scott to transporter room. Kyle, what’s keepin you, mon? Let’s get them down here.”

The answer was prompt but not reassuring. Instead of the soft British accents of the transporter room officer, they heard a melee of muttered oaths and directions. Lieutenant Kyle’s voice came through briefly. “A moment, sir. We’ve a problem here.” More confusion, then Kyle’s voice again. “There’s the last one. Move, man—get him out of there.” A sharp report. “That tears it!” Kyle’s voice carried as much disgusted frustration as Sulu had ever heard from the man.

Scott could contain himself no longer. “Will somebody up there tell me what in the name of little green gremlins is going on?”

“Sorry, Mr. Scott, we ran into a transporter malfunction on that last transfer. We almost lost them. I pulled them in all right, but I had to augment so much that we blew the main circuit. At least. I suspect a couple of secondaries are gone, too. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait awhile for the relief detail unless you want me to send them by shuttlecraft?”

Scott swore softly. In his lexicon of disasters, there was only one thing worse than having something go wrong with his ship, and that was having something go wrong with his ship when he wasn’t in a position to do anything about it personally. He turned to Lieutenant Johnson. “Lieutenant?”

The hefty, brown-haired Security man shook his head. “We can manage until tomorrow, sir, if we need to DeCastro reported no activity outside of the Klingon compound since they arrived—not even recon patrols. We’ve got trip alarms around this compound.”

Scotty addressed his communicator. “No, Lieutenant Kyle, no need for the shuttle yet. Just get a maintenance crew on that transporter and see if you can get it operational by tomorrow. Scott, out.”

Johnson promptly assigned Ensign Tamura first watch and put himself on mess detail. As Johnson disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, Scott, mopping his brow, sank down on the steps of the porch beside Sulu. Together they watched the petite Japanese woman disappear around the corner of the house. “What are the chances they can have it fixed by morning?” Sulu asked.

Scotty shook his head. “I canna say without seeing it. But even if it’s just the main circuit it’s not likely to be ready for a good eighteen hours.”

Sulu shook his head sympathetically but he wasn’t unduly worried. There were still the Enterprise’s firepower to back them up in the event of trouble with the Klingons. Otherwise there was no problem—just maybe a couple extra days planetside. He certainly wasn’t going to object to that.

A damp but enthusiastic Riley stuck his head out the door. “Next. My shower’s free. Hey! Where is everybody?” Sulu explained the transporter mishap. “Uh, oh. My first planet assignment since I’m back on the Enterprise and this happens. Doesn’t say much for the luck o’ the Irish, does it?”

Dinner was a pleasant surprise. Rusty Johnson was a gruff, taciturn man of generally solitary pursuits but it turned out that gourmet cooking was one of his seldom indulged hobbies. As they polished off the crepes suzette, Scotty happily threatened to put him on permanent mess duty as soon as reinforcements arrived. The engineer was so pleased he even volunteered to help Uhura with K.P.

As they worked on kitchen cleanup, Uhura finished filling Scott in on the results of her afternoon’s work. The Scotsman was as thoroughgoing and meticulous in the kitchen as he was in the engine room, she observed. One of the more important satisfactions of being a Starfleet officer was the satisfaction of working side by side with extremely versatile as well as talented colleagues. Continued surprises.

Kevin Riley wandered into the kitchen humming “My Wild Irish Rose.” “Uhura,” he said gleefully, “you’ll never guess what I found in the den closet!”

Uhura straightened from putting a pan back in its place. “Well, with that cat-ate-the-cream lilt in your voice, Kevin, I’d say it had to be either a pair of Irish colleens or a leprechaun with a pot of gold.”

“Nope!” he declaimed triumphantly. “One genuine, intact guitar. How about a concert tonight?”

Uhura bestowed a warm, motherly smile on the eager young engineer. “Well …” she glanced at Scott who was putting a final polishing touch on the counter top as if it were one of his Jeffries tubes.

“Och, and why not, Uhura? As long as there’s no sign of trouble, I kin scarce think of a better way to spend an evening.”

She gave him a teasing smile in return as she agreed. “All right. At least it will keep your mind off the transporter room which is where you’d be spending your off-duty evening if you were aboard ship.” The wry grimace he gave her in reply merely confirmed what they both knew.

They gathered in the den. Rusty Johnson, seated in the doorway where he could watch the front door and security console, tilted his chair back against the door frame and discreetly lit his pipe. Uhura tuned the guitar then treated them in succession to an east African lullaby, a Scottish air, a Welsh ballad and an Irish sea chanty. Then she played a nonvocal Vulcan piece followed by “Beyond Antares.”

Kevin said quietly, “It’s been a long time since I first heard you sing that.”

Unwilling to let them slip into a somber mood, Uhura strummed a few brisk chords. “Here’s one that none of us wanted to hear again for a very long time.” She broke into “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” to the accompaniment of mock groans and grimaces from the sofa. Even Rusty managed an oblique smile. Kevin turned a delicate shade of red. A lighter mood restored, Uhura relaxed into a series of improvisations.

“That has the sound of a new song. Am I right?” Scotty observed from the sofa.

Uhura nodded. “It’s something that’s been running through my head for a couple of years. I guess being back near Sherman’s planet brought it up.”

“Try it out. Let’s hear it.” Sulu urged.

“All right,” she laughed. “I call it ‘Uhura’s Lament.’”

I’ll sing you a song of Cyrano Jones

Redoubtable space trader he,

Scourge of the Klingons and bane of James Kirk,