The Assignment

Star Trek – Animorphs

A ten-minute dash upriver, cold notwithstanding, proved a delicate job of little-used intuition and not insubstantial amounts of fortunate coincidence.

Or, as his human crewmates might term it, 'luck'.

Hand carried so as not to crush or damage the crystallised corsite samples, time and a growing weariness did not allow for further studies of the natural world of Eirin. The heat of the jungle prickled on his shoulders while icy waters stole feeling from his toes.

Moving swiftly required one not to mistake his footing. If the vulcan were to slip, to be covered by that black fluid, he may not have the strength to be of use to the captain.

A bone-rattling shiver beneath synth-plastic leggings wavered his foothold on the fine mud coating the river bottom.

Perhaps Spock might not be able to continue at all, if he were to be submerged. It would be a close thing.

His communicator activated with a click. The others. He did not wish to stop, to stand still and waste time. Continuing with a simple answering 'click' sufficed.

The curve of the shallow river turned left five metres ahead. Passing under tangled vines heavy with deceptively small fruits, his gaze on them, missing the few moments it would take to learn about a potential food source or perhaps a clue as to the eating habits of the wildlife, Spock did not see the brilliant blue light before it was all he could see.

He fell. Into the shallow depths.

Shocking cold, enough to completely blank the burning fever that was his waking mind, took the last moments of lucidity from him.

If Spock had managed another moment - seen the beam of energy, the scowling face behind it - he might have realized the danger in time to avoid the next weeks of torment. But for now, limbs askew, lungs taking contaminated water in frozen hiccups, Spock's life rested in the hands of three men and women dragging him away.

It may have pained him the more to see the grin, delighted, golden as the rising Eirine star, on the face of the human he trusted most.


"Cut the chatter."

Dark chuckles ceased under the sharp cut of the captain's hand. He gave the three individuals a stern look, cold lightning in his eyes. They proceeded in silence, the female's dark ringlets clinging to her face as she manipulated the pinked vulcan's face. He focused on that.

Allowing for the body to breathe, pumping the lungs to clear them of dangerous fluids, had been the first task. Now, moments from new headquarters, Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three accessed his host's memories - ignoring the constant, animalistic growl and futile struggle against his reaching palps - to a disgusted frown.

So fragile. Despite the creature's high ranking among its human allies, this new host had weaknesses he would never contemplate for himself.

Digging further to a howl, distracting if not enjoyable, a short memory attempted to ensnare him.

The yeerk contemplated watching it. Making his host squirm. It related to this being, so important to the host, to 'Kirk', and if nothing else he enjoyed making the reality of the situation clear to a new and subversive slave.

Well. If the colour growing in the alien's cheeks were of such concern to Kirk, the human's concentration split between spitting pointless hostilities at his new master and at worrying for the pitiful figure being dragged over the leaves, perhaps understanding the why of it could be of use.

Why did this human care so about the male captive? Why did an involuntary reaction, uncomfortable, unexpected, cause his host's heart to periodically flutter?

The Sub-Visser decided to take the opportunity by the horns. After all, taking risks had made him the leader, the conqueror he was today. And so another sharp bark had the vulcan dropped in a patch of warm sunlight; a rarity on this planet, as he had been made to be aware.

A fix on the unsteady gaze of his unofficial 'second', Abor 1292, matched his own mood. The fellow yeerk's face split in two at the mouthparts, a human's way of expressing joy. Yes. His head bobbed in a nod.

"Abor, watch the plants. We don't want any unwelcome visitors."

"Why are we stopping - sir?" Heraff 866 spat. An unsure look passed between him and the female, an Evere 1554 if he was not mistaken.

Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three faced the hostility head-on. Shoulders bunched, fists clenched in the frisson of electric energy this body always seemed to be ready to supply, Heraff's off-colour skin paled further when he deliberately towered over the smaller male specimen. It wasn't a case of height. Kirk's stature, though physically powerful - for a human - defied the natural obeisance to a larger and stronger body natural to humans.

In short, he wasn't any taller than Heraff's snivelling body. Yet the unconscious ability to cow another yeerk seemed to express itself naturally in this body. He didn't even need to try.

"Because I ordered it."

"Yes - yes, Sub-Visser, sir." Eyes averted, arms held close to his sides, Heraff refused to give him a reason to make an example of disobedient fools. The Sub-Visser did not feel disappointed about this, exactly. Rather, his irritation piqued by the waste in time, the turned back and complete dismissal of such a weakling should prove discipline enough.

He had better things to do.

"If he starts to wake up, shoot him again."

«No - no! You can't shoot Spock!»

Repetition had its amusements. He held the weapon himself. Deliberately thumbed the activator switch, for which this new host's brain had so easily supplied the necessary information and training in correct usage.

But he hadn't the time for trifles. After all - there would be countless, uncounted hours with which to threaten, to command, to take this little mind apart. It was his. It belonged to him. And it always would.

So, like a good yeerk and commanding officer, Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three restrained himself and sank, deep, into the memory. The one Kirk didn't seem to know what to do with.

He saw those thoughts. The plans. The worries. He saw them all. And it made him chuckle, reverberate the skull with it if he may allow such romanticisms into the situation, to see the care that made his captive mind withdraw from his own worries. Retreat and cool his emotions, hands-off, not worried about the yeerk hunting for such apparently useful intel.

He'd infested many a host. That trick of compliance, of non-interest, did not concern him. Eager now to understand, hungry for it, the Sub-Visser sank himself into a thought of a cold, wintry night. A day and a night spent in the inhospitable reaches of space.

Beyond a starship. Past the protective shields. Drifting, alone, if not for each other. If not for these two beings, alien though they were.

Faint, growing stronger in recall, a muttered voice. It belonged to Kirk. Rasping. Dry.

Coughing. No air. No, there was a little oxygen. Enough to speak, if such expenditure of needed air was truly necessary. The Sub-Visser sneered. That sense of fear, of dying in space, outside protective walls and away from his precious crew. How very human of you, James Tiberius Kirk.

«Foul, destructive thing.» The host watched, too. It could not avoid it. «How dare you take this - take my body, my thoughts! This isn't for you!»

Oh, but it was. It was most certainly his. The yeerk savoured the moment, the breathlessness, the horror of seeing a motionless 'Commander Spock' just out of reach. However the human tried, gloved fingers grasping nothing but vacuum, his ally - his friend - did not respond. Could not, he supposed. If the vulcan's body weakened so in exposure to mere cold, the Sub-Visser did not imagine it would react with vigour to being deprived of breathable air.

Of course, sub-zero temperatures did not allow for mercy. Not even a yeerk would live for long in such conditions. He'd seen it happen. The few to truly provoke a murderous rage from Visser Thirty-Eight.

But he digressed. Here was the answer.

As the commander, Spock, drifted to the right, victim of some nudge to begin an endless rotation in frictionless space, the remembered sorrow and helplessness clamped down on Kirk. The human couldn't reach. Couldn't help. All he could do was talk.

Tasting the foul air, swallowing it to speak, Captain Kirk urged his friend on. To live. To - what? To wake up, yes. But what was that?

The memory paused. It rewound. Like the recording tapes, horribly archaic, on the homeworld of these useful bodies, both he and the host watched the last few moments process again.

And again.

And again.

Sweat despite a frosted visor, a tickle on sensitive mouthparts as the salty droplet travelled down the human's face. His mouth, lips, moved in a specific way. Pause. Earlier state. Continue.

Fascinating. What a time to tell your friend, dying, unresponsive, to 'meditate'.

This human certainly held self-control in high regard. Perhaps meditation had a different meaning to it here. A sub-culture of humans. It merited further study.

But what he cared about was the part the host, the Kirk, avoided. A tell-tale sign from a brand-new host, unused to control, so predictable. The yeerk transmitted a secret 'smile' to the mind held captive in its own head, behind its own eyes, gleeful. Yes. Very responsive.

Meditation. Several prompts came from this. Many less than useful, if swiftly understood, and passed over. Rifling through the less recent editions, Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three finally found what he was looking for.

Mental control. Slowing the heart, the other organs, complete bodily awareness. And, what was this, another skill! A trick with the hands, with the apparently magnificent brain hidden in that reddening skull.

And a warning. The last of the memory played to its unsurprisingly promising end of rescue. But the vulcan Spock did not come out of space unscathed. He'd had to...

Meditate. So it could heal itself. How interesting... And Kirk remembered clearly the shock of an alien face, always sallow, always the yellowish skin that reminded one of the staining chemical iodine, flushed a very human pink. And the fear.

A frantic week of effort. Apparently vulcans should not be pink.

Coming out of his host's mind took several moments. Steadied by the sensations, the touch of the gold cloth and bitter smells of the wilds on this planet, he shook his head. A reflex.

"Evere 1554, you will maintain close contact with the prisoner to share body heat." An unpleasant thought, he agreed silently, but necessary. Her curled lip was the only sign of displeasure in silent obedience to slide arms around the Spock creature.

He considered. "And you too... Heraff 866. No arguments; we need this one alive."

"Yes, Sub-Visser," a quick agreement and wrapping of limbs the yeerk's deliberate attempt to stay in his good graces.

Abor met his eye with a raised eyebrow. Useful indicators, those hairy, ugly things.

"To camp. This 'Spock' requires medical attention. And, of course, the tender care of our personal... technicians."

To his credit, he did not snigger. But the smirks, hidden in a too-familiar nuzzle of human nose under the vulcan's chin, did not enrage him. Sub-Visser Four-hundred-three enjoyed a horror emanating somewhere behind the occipital lobe too much to discourage the lack of professional conduct.

After all, they were not under an official command on Outpost 01-A. Which meant his word, as the only acting Sub-Visser on the planet, was law.

It could make a yeerk shiver. The thrill of a brand-new world, his for the taking. All his.

Kirk blustered on. He listened. Listened with well-deserved glee as they passed the outer limits and into main camp.

And when the sharp points of those strangely lovely alien ears dipped down, greyish fluid lapping past the lobes, against that fierce brow, he lavished the screams.