The Assignment

Star Trek – Animorphs


Cassie here.

A strong shiver belied the shimmer of the desert kept in Spock's room. My arms wrapped around me as I listened to my new friends and couldn't keep from smiling. Shivering and grinning like a fool.

Spock and Dr. McCoy moved as they talked. A white sheet tied over the Yeerk's new prison jar shoved none-too-gently into a hidden wall closet. Moist carpet rubbed out by the doctor's boot, his constant glances either keeping me involved or worried about something.

He didn't know Yeerks. I was free. Free.

So I nodded each time and hugged myself tighter.

Mr. Spock borrowed the blocky tech from his friend's waist, satchel holding them both still for a moment. The doctor strung the strap tight and glared.

Spock didn't look up, serious as ever. "If my presence has led to betterment of our position, we will all owe you our gratitude, Doctor."

"Me?" Dr. McCoy tugged on his satchel.

"Herun 332 would not have indulged idle curiosity without outside pressure." Spock released it. The doctor didn't go far. "As Chief Medical Officer, he risked suspicion by disobeying your order."

A huff, grim eyes meeting mine. "But all I did was send you to bed."

I smiled back.

Spock paused over the loose bag left on the floor, materials in-hand.

"No-one's ever taken back control without losing the Yeerk first. At least, none I've ever met, not even the Andalites," I said.

Infested and free. That's a knot wrapped up in an enigma.

Spock nodded to me. "Indeed. My attempts were futile."

McCoy rubbed dry hands. "So, what happened?"

"Herun allowed what he saw to be simple subroutine within a captive mind. He thus engaged in a battlefield equipped to my own strengths." Bag sorted to satisfaction, he hooked it over a shoulder. "Meditation loosed the gates."

"No, a simple subroutine? The fool." The doctor tapped his noggin. "Having a motherboard saved the day?"

Spock breathed smugness. "I can only assume it a most fortunate coincidence."

The wise nod from our doctor friend piqued my curiosity.

"Meditation?"

"He's a Vulcan." Dr. McCoy accepted a handheld device I unfortunately recognised. It must have a safety mode on, the button depressed as he tucked it away. "It's how their complete lack of emotion works without collapsing 'round his pointy ears."

Spock raised himself to another barely discernible centimetre.

"I do not require respite nor sustenance for some time through meditative spells. In this circumstance my greater mental powers, restrained by physical barriers of the parasitic organism, were mistakenly released by my captor," he said.

"Huh?" I said eloquently.

The doctor leaned over my spot on the floor. "Spock can go for weeks without eating or sleeping and he's bragging about the abacus in his head kicking that thing in its slimy tuchus."

"Oh."

McCoy winked. "He likes to use big words."

"And you did the same thing for me?" My mind raced. "Can you do it for anyone?"

"In theory. Yes." Spock quirked his head, eyes flashing beneath a high brow. "My attempt on Serat 4893 succeeded beyond my best hopes."

"Spock," Dr. McCoy snapped, "you let it attack me! Are you saying that psychic brain surgery on Cindy was experimental?!"

I stretched out a hand and climbed to my feet. Their pacing about laden by stuffed bags challenged the need to sit still and enjoy having my own body back again.

"He got the slug out of my head," I said. Forced to normal voice levels, a glance at the door, I locked Spock's gaze on mine. "I'll never repay you for that."

The officer's eyes wandered away. "Your gratitude is unnecessary. And Doctor, no permanent damage was necessary to remove it."

"It wasn't your call to make!" McCoy said immediately.

"Permanent damage?" I wondered. As in brain damage?

"None, Cindy. You have my word," Spock said. His tone left no room for argument.

"So... impermanent damage?" I persisted.

Those flexible eyebrows, the most mobile part of Spock's face, drew together in very human irritation.

I pushed a little harder. "Am I gonna lose any motor skills? Forget how to play the piano?"

"Muscle memory should suffice. Have you been practicing?"

"I don't actually play," I shrugged. "Just asking."

Spock almost leered.

"Why would you ask a question not requiring an answer?" he said as if to himself. He actually considered his own question. "I believe one of our objectives to be complete, Doctor."

"Great," came from near the hidden wall closet.

My long look at hidden spot matched the shadow over his eyes.

Serat, Mr. Spock said. Numbers I didn't remember. The Yeerk hadn't told me his name.

"...And what's that, Mr. Spock?" I asked.

"Come on, don't give in! He's just wanting for attention."

"That our guests," Spock talked over his friend, "are indeed of terrestrial origin. This could not be overlooked by any sapient observer."

"It's just curiosity, asking stuff we don't need to know," I said. "I don't think people'd get out much if they didn't care about seeing a brand new sunset every day, no matter how many times they've seen it before."

Mr. Spock's eyebrows flew up, lips pursed.

McCoy waited a moment.

"Why Spock, I believe this is a first," he drawled. "You're speechless!"

"Merely appreciative, Doctor. One does not interrupt aptitude in the very young for fear of discouragement."

McCoy's level gaze lasered across and pinned me to the spot. I looked at Mr. Spock instead.

His arms crossed over his chest, chin down. He seemed to contemplate something.

"Now," the doctor said. "We need a strategy to clear off the Enterprise."

"Clear off?" I asked.

"Y'know." A clear slice line across the neck with his thumb. Spock near-frowned at being used as a test dummy. "Get rid of 'em. Clear the ship up."

"To escape," the Vulcan added.

"Now how's escaping going to help anyone?" Dr. McCoy whipped back. "We've got no idea of the long-term effects on a host body with one of those slugs snug inside!"

"It is inevitable, Doctor. I have access to the mind of a highly-ranked Yeerk among those already present and have seen their plans." His mouth twisted perhaps a centimetre. "Your presence will only bring focused retribution upon any resistance measures."

I fidgeted, stepping closer to the squeak of someone else's boots.

"But you can free people, Mr. Spock. Can't you?"

Spock opened his mouth.

"What do you mean, 'focused retribution?'" The doctor looked mutinous.

"Sounds like you're already thinking about resisting," I said, the flutter in my stomach somewhere between excited and anxious.

"And - wait." McCoy's gaze grew intense. "Access to Herun? Spock, are you in contact with it? Right now?"

An inclined head.

Cold stole up my toes. "What's it saying?"

The officer spoke after a few moments. He considered each word.

"It does not have contact with my mind any longer. I have, in effect, datamined Herun for his every memory, every thought. He is not conscious, nor is he aware. I have disabled his every function."

Oh. That sounded safer. I nodded, thinking.

McCoy's drawl thickened breathy horror. "You're controlling its mind?"

That pale yellowed skin over Mr. Spock's temples fluttered. "It is a necessity."

Dr. McCoy swore.

Tall beside the doctor who already stood about two heads above me, Spock somehow managed to shrink within himself.

"Trust me. Yeerks don't care about free will." Venom wrung the sleeves of my stolen shirt. "They don't pity their victims."

Most of them don't. I nearly tore the loose material apart.

But not all of them.

"We're not Yeerks. So I'm glad it's under control but Mr. Spock, I hope you're not going to hold him in there forever."

A rough edge played to McCoy's haggard face. "What do we do now?"


"Damned unnatural way to... Why's it so dark?"

Heavy tread stopped to a gasp. The ruffle of material in-hand shouted across collective silence.

"Computer?"

"Transporter Room 3 classed Inactive. Evacuate premises. Danger!"

"Danger?" Heels slid more than clicked to my harsh whisper. Quieter steps shuffled as if over cracked glass.

Cooled to just above freezing point, a monotone voice spoke above the whispers. "Computer, commence manual override. Acknowledge."

"Working."

"Activate all essential functions in Transporter Room 3. This is Commander Spock, science officer. Override sequence Spock-2-2-3."

Breathing humid in the pitch of space followed our companion's order.

Impatient fidgeting in those milliseconds of waiting. Eyes wide, ears strained to the starkly feminine computer, we could have been staring each other in the face and not known it.

"Voice and code Spock-2-2-3 verified and correct."

Above colour blooming red and grey, full figures waited by a newly bright rectangle of the outside corridor. Myself, swiftly becoming the smallest, ducked to an alcove out of direct sight.

The computer paused. "Override sequence complete and engaged."

"Seal Transporter Room 3."

Whoooosh.

The door finally slid shut.

A no longer silhouetted Dr. McCoy rounded on his tall crewmate. Rubbing his knee, the older man made the most of a pained grimace.

"I'm not going down there, Spock. You can go. I'll use that Serat fella, make a cure. You know I'm most useful on the Enterprise."

"Doctor, I am the only possible choice. We have discussed this." The Vulcan let irritation bleed across repetition.

Air drier than the stuff recycled through the vents practically crackled the back of my throat. I tried not to sniff the air.

The human brain didn't understand. It knew blood. Knew raw meat. Knew better things, things like Dr. McCoy's porridge and melted cheese on nachos.

It didn't have the hyper-developed grey matter to decipher that lingering stench. But I had a good idea why my skin crawled to be in here. The memory of a hundred Hork-Bajir Controllers brought down by my wolf burned that exact smell into my memory.

I didn't need to understand it. Wolves can smell fear.

Call it a hunch.

"D'you think hanging around down there will be useful -"

"We discussed -"

"No, the fight's up here! I ain't running away when there's people need helping." McCoy jabbed at the ceiling. Spock's face narrowed.

Demorphed from the unfortunate Mr. Tatum, saliva pooled on my tongue as I peeked around the compartment subsection edge. Regulation garb pooled at my elbow. I could have been at a slumber party in these comfy pajamas.

My light frown met his.

The vulcan crossed to the darkened console. Stride refreshingly secure, a slight curl of his finger brought me wandering to his side. I slapped the console support to keep from tripping in overlarge boots.

The outer edge of his well-defined small finger brushed my wrist. Spock pulled my sleeve to cover exposed skin.

I stared at him.

The science officer raised full sail in his neck and avoided Dr. McCoy's large blue glare. "Your patient," he said, "is standing right here, Doctor."

Light as a butterfly. Neither human avoided cringing.

A rounded chamber marked by silvery spots on the floor stood opposite the console. Now lit and engaged to low power levels, some inner glow cast the doctor's studied gaze in a less comforting light.

His deliberate grip under my arm escorted me to the chamber steps. More sour than I'd ever seen him, Dr. McCoy reclined to sit by my side.

McCoy growled. "Not over, Spock."

Spock maintained grace through a grunt.

"I'd sooner operate on myself than let those pincers at my brain. Don't worry, little lady, I'll make sure he didn't cut anything important."

"A bold statement from your department, 'Sawbones'," the Vulcan said evenly.

I piped up. "It's okay. I'm kind of used to losing organs. It's no biggie."

Explosive, McCoy's huff grew in power every time he used it.

Complete silence spoke for Spock.

My hands made a complicated mess of calm-down gestures. Two bony fingers nabbed a wrist to find the pulse. "Morphing pops them in and out," I told Dr. McCoy more quietly. "It's gross, but... well. I guess you never get used to it."

Rough skin left my hand and encircled my ear. I winced from the penlight in his off-grip.

"What I mean," I stressed, "is I'm not worried about a lobotomy."

He turned my chin with his thumb.

Close enough to see stubble, distressingly close. The salty crush of deep ocean eyes held back absolutely nothing, nothing of wrinkled trenches around his mouth or crinkled crows' feet.

"Hold still for a sec, darlin'."

It felt wrong to sigh. I watched work-loose hair blow back from it.

Rubbing my fingers together, I tucked them into the crooks of my knees. Spock walked among machines and buttons beyond us, pulling levers to the slight sounds of their space-age technology. Bleeps and bips, cranking like the thing sailors pulled on the Titanic to make it go faster.

The technical term. And our plan would probably prove just as successful.

At least I'd face death in familiar skin.

Whiiiiiiiirrr.

"Explain how this works again?" Nodding to the nearby pad, I eyed the little salt-shaker device pass by. Circling my ear, he ran it in gentle loop-de-loops to a rhythmic buzz.

It set my teeth on edge.

Dr. McCoy shook his head, squinting at the doodad. "Don't wanna know."

Mr. Spock gave me a significant look.

Frissions of nervous energy coursed down my arms. I stood and staggered up the steps. McCoy came with me, staring down at his blocky scanning device.

"Aren't you supposed to make me curious?" I wrinkled my nose. "Like, educated?"

"I'm doing you a favour," the doctor muttered. He tugged a little at my arm. "So please, shut up. No offense."

Sharp flash of light.

Bang!

Metal clattered on metal, my sidestep just missing stepping on one of three thrown to our feet. They skidded, starry and bright. Just like the brooches on Starfleet uniforms.

McCoy's stare transferred to them. His frown began to wake into outright fury.

My knees buckled over heavy bags tossed straight into them.

"Beginning dematerialisation," said Spock.

Dr. McCoy's outrage met my idiotic smile.

"De-what? That doesn't sound good!"

"SPOCK."

Whiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrr.


Eyes open.

Black so dark to spin blue and green in kaleidoscopic patterns, rapid blinking helped absolutely zip. I couldn't see.

Then hit pungency to make a fly morph swoon.

Fruity. Necrotic. Wet and juicy plant material, the green so strong I could taste it in the air. A mild breeze blew against my face and my tongue flopped out to pant.

Smells! Wonderful!

Without seeing one leaf, I knew we were in a jungle. Cold sucking pressure on my boots confirmed it. A try to lift a step forward nearly pulled the leather from my foot.

"CRAWFORD!"

Wheeling to my right met a scrabble over my nose. I yelped.

It transferred to my collar. Yanked me closer.

Mr. Hopefully-still-a-friend bawled inches from my face.

"Crawford! Did you just – you've helped that green-blooded hobgoblin, ain't you?! You've kidnapped me!"

"Doesn't feel great, does it?"

I didn't mean to sound sarcastic. Honest.

He snarled.

"There's no point arguing, Doctor." Mindful of the tiny electronics somewhere round our feet if the teleporter worked like it should, I tiptoed to the side, held aloft by loose shirt. "Can you stop? I know you're upset."

"Do I sound upset to you?"

He let go.

Squelch. Ugh. Over the top and into my socks.

I knelt and patted the earth. Cold and sticky. Not far from holes quickly filling with water lay a couple hard stars.

Bony knees nudged my shoe. He crouched right beside me. Distant touches of sweet-tooth breakfast still wafted on his breath.

And he didn't say a word.

My back slowly tensed.

Human hearing isn't wonderful. A wolf can hear the flap of a bat's wings against winds crashing branch against branch. It knows the difference between a human scream and the distress call of an elk, eerily similar as those can be.

But it wasn't just Cassie seeing the world through dim human senses.

And to be honest? Teleporting started with a tingle.

My tingling didn't stop. In fact, it grew stronger. As it did, my neck snapping around to stare blindly at the night, the darkness beneath the trees, warning bells raised the hairs on my nape.

A different smell. Fishy. Strange.

«Cassie?»

I gaped. Unstuck my tongue, remembered how to use it.

"Tobias?"

"Eh?"

Oh. Oh, darn it.

«Cassie.»

It practically breathed over my mind. Familiar and full of awe. To meet again, and here, on an alien world so far from home.

McCoy's new grip on my shoulder turned into a one-armed hug. "Cindy? You okay?"

Biting my lip to keep from sobbing, I nodded. Couldn't speak.

«You're okay,» Tobias said wonderingly. «Cassie. I'm sorry for this.»

Sorry?

Warning bells. Warning!

WHAM.

Split flash of light. Mud thick as a pillow. Then I didn't think at all.