Night of the Eagle
Chapter Five:
The cold brought him around – that and the eldritch whine of the drift-wind whirling flakes of snow over his head and shoulders. Spock lay where he had fallen forward, climbing painfully out of the darkness, surprised to find that he stilled lived. He pulled in a shaky breath and the freezing air hurt his throat, ripping like knives in his straining lungs. Incuriously he watched the ice crystals forming on the walls of the shuttle, creeping inexorably towards him, and knew if he did not move, and that speedily, he would die, frozen in a metal tomb.
Forcing himself to his feet, he lurched towards the hatch, wrenching at it with numb fingers. But it was jammed and he no longer had the strength to force it. Belatedly, his senses swimming, he remembered the window broken in the crash and stumbled awkwardly back It seemed to take an eternity to reach it, but eventually he managed to push himself out feet first and drop into the snow. Ony then, as he stood shivering in the biting cold, did Spock know there was no place for him to go.
"…get the hell out of there, Mr. Spock. Don't want you taking any chances… …"
Something moved within the blanketing whiteness. Spock looked up dully…straight into feral, hungry eyes. White bulk against white snow, and even as he saw it, the animal charged – a high, wailing snarl torturing sensitive ears; shock, agony as claws and fangs tore at his chest and shoulder; a flurry of snow, then nothingness.
"… told you it was a crazy way to spend your vacation, Spock. Told you… toldyoutoldyoutoldyou…."
O0o
Keetah had the Lur-hide cut, the pieces ready for stitching, a pot of vegetable stew simmering at the back of the fire, when the sound she had been waiting for came at last: a low moan, so faint it might have passed unnoticed had she not been listening for it. The Vulcan moaned again. She studied him for the space of two breaths; nodded to herself, and slapped him with all her strength, the blows rocking his head back and forth.
Sooner even than she expected, a hand grabbed her wrist and weakly, the Vulcan whispered, "Enough…"
For a moment longer, she waited. Dark eyes, still bemused and dazed, stared uncomprehendingly up at her until a flicker of intelligent awareness stirred to life. Keetah gently withdrew her arm from his grasp. With a hand at his nape she raised his head, held a mug of water to his parched and blistered lips.
Speaking with clear distinctness she said, "You are safe here. Sleep now and we will speak together when you have rested sufficiently."
He nodded acceptance, eyes closing wearily. Keetah tucked his arm back under the furs and returned to her sewing. If all had gone well, he would sleep for an hour or two, and then there would be speech between them. To be alone, that was not the Apache way; to live as she had been forced to do was to skirt madness. Only the thought of Sirak, the unarmed and unsuspecting Vulcan supply ship, had kept her going. No longer alone on the wolf-world, the weight of a burden she had not fully understood until that moment lifted from her.
That he was Vulcan – Keetah pondered the thought. It was both good and bad, she finally decided. Good, for she need not sleep with one eye open, unsheathed knife ready to hand, as might have been the case were he human. Bad, for the Vulcan ideal of non-violence might prove a formidable handicap, one impossible to overcome, if she was to carry out her plan of vengeance.
To venture into the heavily fortified Klingon garrison without disposing of as many ndendai – enemy – as she could was madness. She must warn Sirak – the Federation. With two to stalk and ambush, the odds against her plan succeeding correspondingly lowered. But would the Vulcan agree to turn hunter?
There was the matter of his own vessel, of course; a starship, no less, fully armed and more than capable of handling both the garrison and the cargo freighter, which would soon be arriving – if she had correctly understood the fragments of conversation she had overheard while scouting the garrison. A starship – and it, too, unwarned. Much would depend on the strong Vulcan sense of loyalty. Keetah wove plans as her bone needle continued to weave thread into fur.
O0o
It hurt to breathe and his left shoulder and chest were a blazing torment. Spock opened his eyes and stared at a low, rocky ceiling. He turned his head slowly to one side - another rock wall. This was clearly not sickbay.
The memories returned sluggishly… the research team on Hiemal…Klingon interceptor…the crash. An animal had appeared abruptly in the whirling snow and brought him down….
He hazily recalled a human face, odd in some fashion he could not quite identify. Again, he studied the rock walls searching for some clue as to his whereabouts, became aware of the animal hides and furs, other objects he recognized as ancient weapons, hanging there. A bow and arrows, a ferocious looking hand axe, skin pouches and different sized bundles festooned the walls. Light from a series of small fires reflected off pots, plates, mugs - a row of sharp knives…
Only slowly did his gaze come to rest on the other occupant of the cave, seated cross-legged beside yet another small, bright fire. Wide, dark eyes regarded him calmly from a high-cheek-boned face. Spock's fascinated gaze took in the generous mouth, short, straight nose, and determined chin along with the long, blue-black braids wound with colorful beads. Though he was unused to evaluating feminine charms, he thought she would no doubt be accounted beautiful by the standards of many red-blooded males, his Captain and Doctor McCoy among them… except for the thick black stripes that marred the left side of her face. He wondered at their significance. Maybe they had some cultural … or tribal import. Her apparel – fringed buckskins, the shirt belted loosely over the trousers, moccasins of the same fabric – suggested the garb of a native Earth North Amerindian, circa 1860. That idea also fitted the shirt he presently wore, the weapons – including the big knife in a beaded sheath the girl wore at her side - the smoking meat, and the furs. Hiemal certainly had no indigenous population. Could she be a visitor, a guest of the research team?
During his examination, the steady, unflinching gaze of those dark eyes did not waver, nor did she speak. So, he cleared his throat, and after a moment managed to huskily articulate, "I… am Spock. If I may enquire… as to your name, and the whereabouts of this place?"
"I am Keetah, Cuchillo's daughter. You crashed in the Mako-s'ica, the badlands. I found you and brought you here."
"The badlands?"
"The hill country. It is very dangerous to those who do not know it well." She spoke coolly, making light of a task Spock realized could not have been easy for one of such slender build and small stature. Yet behind the calm exterior, he could sense a profound sadness, a forcible suppression of powerful emotions.
"The Klingons…?"
"Will not find us here," she interjected abruptly. She came over to him, her hands quick and deft but gentle as she removed bandages and eased cloths away from his wounds. The waist-length braids and soft buckskins gave off a faint, piquant fragrance that he slowly identified as the smell of leather and herbs.
Spock closed his eyes, submissive as she bathed his injuries, protesting only when she busied herself with some gear of her own, taking a number of salves from a hide-wrapped bundle.
"Further unguents will be unnecessary," he sternly objected.
"Your opinion is noted." Her tone remained respectful but quite firm. Spock knew that without the strength to enforce his wishes, any further argument would avail him nothing. The salves she applied burned and stung, and then settled down to a pleasant numbness. With a supreme effort, he pushed himself up on one elbow, feeling his wounds pull as the soft fabric of the shirt he wore rubbed against the dressings.
Keetah noticed his look. "Your own shirt could not be mended. The Lur fight well. You also fought well. There are not many who walk away from such an encounter."
Spock privately agreed, but he did not intend to wear her shirt.
"It will not show beneath these," she touched the small pile of furs beside her.
"You made these garments?"
"That is so. There is also a spare thermal suit." Keetah watched his face in the flickering shadows cast by the lamps and fires, guessing at some of his thoughts as he stared about him. Such opinions as he held were not new. They had been verbalized with varying degrees of tact to her: barbarian, primitive, throwback, savage: words used to hurt and degrade, and behind them a grudging respect. The Apache had fought ruthlessly, viciously, under war chiefs like Geronimo, Cochise, and perhaps the greatest of them all, Magnus Colorado, to stem the white tide sweeping across their ancestral lands – bloody wars lasting decades with no quarter given from either side. Yet, the clans survived, denying the culture the Pinda-lick-o-yi sought to impose on them.
"Where is your ship, Mr. Spock? Why are you alone here?"
Simple questions, logical, but Spock had no quick or easy answers. He had in fact hoped to gain information, not impart it. He told her what he knew, his tone dry, "I was…disturbed… by the lack of communications. My ship, the Enterprise, is undergoing repairs at Starbase 17. They will rendezvous with me here in four-point-two-three weeks. I am at a loss to interpret the Klingon attack, although they do have a tendency to strike first and ask questions after the event. I can only speculate they do not want the destruction of the research facility to become known. Perhaps you know more…"
The spark of hope extinguished in Keetah at Spock's news of the Enterprise, but she nodded, "It is so."
Before he could ask anything further, she hurried on, "I am…was…the biochemist on the team. When the attack began, myself and another team-member were on duty at the hibernation labs. He died from his injuries. I escaped but …. Main Base was… no longer there. The attacks must have been simultaneous."
"You were the only survivor?"
"It seems so. I found this cave months ago when I was setting traps for the animals needed in our work. It has remained undetected … so far."
"And the reason for the attacks?"
At first, Keetah had seen no motive for the sudden destruction of the Vulcan research facility. Primarily motivated toward conquest, Hiemal wolf-world was useless for their needs. She found the answer literally under her nose, her very closeness blinding her to the obvious. She picked up a small bowl, took a piece of dark blue fungus from a nearby shelf, and placed them both beside Spock. The bowl was full of a thick, viscid substance. Spock examined the items curiously, awaiting her explanation.
"A fast acting nerve poison for which there is no known antidote. It can be extracted from this," she indicated the fungus. "It grows in widely isolated patches only on Hiemal. It is a mutation unknown elsewhere. I have tested it thoroughly and… Sirak confirmed my results. Once distilled, the poison is a hundred times more deadly than that of the Le-matya on your world. How the Klingons learned of this, I do not know. What they intend doing with it requires little guesswork or imagination."
Spock nodded, "If the Klingons synthesize the fungus and produce it in bulk, no Federation world would be safe. Are you aware of the viability rating?"
"I know only that it is a neurotoxin, attacking through the respiratory system and causing death in minutes. And those minutes are not pleasant."
"The effects are selective, of course…"
"Doxa-da – this is not so. It strikes indiscriminately against all living organisms. There is no cure."
The more Spock considered this news, the less he cared for the implications. There had to be a way to warn the Enterprise. If he couldn't Captain Kirk was going to fly right into the middle of a major crisis.
Keetah studied him. "Our supply vessel will already be on its way from Vulcan. It is unarmed. We must warn them of the Klingon threat."
She put the bowl carefully away before returning to the fireside. She ladled soup into a bowl. This Spock of Vulcan was partway committed now, but little could be done until he was up on his feet again – a process she hoped with his constitution and strength would not be long delayed. She raised his head gently, placed a rolled up fur behind him, then knelt to feed him, ignoring the expected protest. He took a sip or two, before turning his head aside.
"You have a subspace radio?"
"It was at Main Base. The Klingons have one."
"Are you suggesting we storm their base?" Spock's tone was drily ironic as he considered the idea. Two people, one of them a human female, and – judging from the acute discomfort in his chest and shoulder – a partly crippled Vulcan, against a highly trained and well-armed Klingon force.
"You wish to warn the Enterprise, the Federation. I too, have a debt to settle." Keetah's fingers crept to brush the stripes on her cheek. "Is it not logical we combine our joint ambitions?"
"I am not about to start a war, Miss Keetah."
"It has already begun, Mr. Spock." Keetah rejoined.
"Indeed."
In all truth it was amazing the amount of disapproval that could be squeezed into a single word. For a fleeting second Keetah was vividly reminded of Sirak… the only member of the Vulcan team left. He, too, would be at the mercy of the Klingons as he traveled back from Vulcan on the supply ship, totally unaware of what awaited him.
"The Klingons rest uneasily on the wolf-world." Keetah abruptly brok the taut silence. "They fear… with good reason."
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord," Spock murmured almost inaudibly.
Usually slow to anger, Keetah's retort was hot and quick, "Tell me not where vengeance lies, Spock of Vulcan. What has the god of the Pinda-lick-o-yi – the white eyes – to do with me – or you? Without my help, the garrison is inaccessible. Reflect on that when the Klingons shoot down your Enterprise, decimate Federation worlds with their plague. Then tell me again of this god who will repay Keetah for what has been taken."
Spock recalled things he had read about the ancient Amerindians. Wounded as he was, he could not deny his chances of reaching the Klingon garrison - much less using their subspace radio and getting away safely again - were minimal. But whatever the cost, the Federation had to be warned; the Federation – and Jim.
"What do you propose?"
His abrupt compliance lifted a weight from Keetah's shoulders. "It can be…it will be done. I, Keetah, Cuchillo's daughter, have said this." Without further ado, she proceeded to outline most, but not all, of her plan to him. Enough, she decided at last. Let him now balance death against death, accept that he had no choice. She was too fully aware of the Vulcan philosophy of IDIC to take pleasure in this bending him to her needs, but such things must wait for the present. The beads of sweat on forehead and upper lip belied the impassive face he showed her.
She brought the mug gently steaming from the fire and raised his head. "Drink. You must sleep if you are to regain your strength. This will aid your recovery."
And she knew she was correct when he accepted without murmur. Wishing him a restful night, Keetah sought her own furs.