CHAPTER THREE

After years of galloping around the cosmos he should be used to it by now. But he's only more aware of what can go wrong. Kirk likes to tease his ship's CMO about his eternal distrust of pattern buffers but, if the truth be told, he's never felt as blasé as he pretends.

Even as, once again, his molecules reassemble in apparently the right order there's always that disconnect; a disconcerting lag as if his consciousness arrives a moment before he has a body to inhabit. And then... Well, everyone's different. But for him the first sense to return on reconnection is always smell. Lush alien vegetation, ancient dust in heated air, sharp metallic winds - every planetfall has its own scent.

Deneb III smells of decay. Unclean. He can taste the rot's sweetness at the back of his throat.

He's not the only one. As the team around him take in their surroundings he can see them react, although they're too professional to pass comment. At least the smell doesn't seem to have an immediate source. As the sensors promised, they're alone. The buildings around them are standard prefab warehouses and they appear deserted. But Kirk wants to be sure.

"Giotto. Take your men and make a swing around the perimeter. Phasers on heavy stun. And remember anyone wearing a Starfleet uniform may be hostile."

A gesture from the chief and his team melt into the shadows, almost invisible in their blacks. Not for the first time Kirk wonders why Starfleet generally chooses to outfit those on the front line in a colour more suitable for target practice than camouflage. Yet another baffling anomaly he plans to challenge as part of his end of mission debrief.

End of mission. Three banal little words that signpost the end of Kirk's world. That debrief is looming ever closer. Along with decisions to be made about his future. About Spock's future. In his more optimistic moments Kirk hopes he might have some say in those decisions. In his darker moods, such as the ones that shadowed a certain cell in a Bandi outpost, he's convinced certain stuffed shirt admirals back at Starfleet command have already determined where he's going and it's not anywhere good.

Which gives him something of an odd perspective on this expedition to a planet that stinks of death. Despite the horror of what's happened on the SS Demeter, despite the horrors which no doubt lie ahead, at least here he can make a difference. At least he's where he belongs. Although, he thinks wryly, giving himself a mental kick in the hindquarters, if this penchant for navel gazing continues then some members of his command team might start to challenge those assumptions.

McCoy and his team of medics are gathering their equipment, stacking containers and slinging medkits over their shoulders. Meanwhile his science officer is already frowning over his tricorder readings and Kirk moves to his shoulder.

"Anything, Mr Spock?"

"No life signs in the immediate vicinity, Captain. But these readings are unexpected." The Vulcan taps the screen. "See, here... and here. The fluctuations are at the top end of the magnetic scale. The survey team who visited several years ago provided a comprehensive geological analysis. These wavelengths do not match the spectra for any mineral I would expect to find on Deneb."

Kirk cannot summon up the same fascination for Deneb's geology. Right now, his focus is on finding the colonists who fled the Demeter andtracking down the elite Starfleet team who appear to have vanished. But before he can spell out his disinterest to his first officer the planet has another unpleasant surprise in store. The rumble from the sky has him reaching for his phaser before he realises the attack is meteorological. The rain begins with no preamble and escalates from downpour to drenching torrent in seconds. And seconds is all it takes for his eyes to start stinging and for the bare skin on his face and hands to redden and tingle.

McCoy heads over, holding a med kit over his head. He has to shout over the roar of falling water. "Looks like we packed everything we needed except the damned umbrellas. I don't like this, Jim. It doesn't feel right. We need to get inside."

Kirk eyes the nearest dark doorway. He doesn't relish the idea of being trapped within four walls. But his science officer is studying his tricorder readings.

"Captain, I also recommend we take shelter. This precipitation is registering a high concentration of active hydrogen ions, ph. 3.5."

Acid rain, thinks Kirk grimly. God knows what possessed Starfleet to consider this planet a suitable target for colonisation. The security section carry protective clothing but stores didn't have enough kit to equip the whole team.

"I concur, Mr. Spock." He turns to the rest of the team and shouts, gesturing toward the nearest warehouse. "Go, go - inside, now!"

As he watches the medics head towards the doorway he flips open his dripping communicator. "Kirk to Giotto. Report."

"Giotto here. We're all clear here, captain."

"Commander, we're heading inside. Post look outs as needed and then follow us in."

"Acknowledged. Giotto out."

There is no power inside the warehouse; sea-green light filters through the skylights giving their wet skin an unhealthy pallor. Starfleet supplies have arrived and been unpacked here; the evidence is all around them and it feels a little like swimming underwater as the team step in slow motion past broken crates and empty containers. For a moment Kirk thinks he sees movement above him on the gantry but when he focuses his gaze and his phaser there's nothing there but the dangling seaweed ribbons of packing tape.

The smell is stronger inside and it doesn't take them long to discover why. The bodies are stacked under tarpaulins along one wall. Fourteen of them. The Starfleet issue boots are the giveaway. McCoy's face is grim as he scans.

"Eight males, six females. Varying ages. Varying stages of decomposition too." He swallows, and Kirk thinks it's not often he sees his ship's surgeon struggle for words. "Some of 'em have been here a while, Jim. Five weeks. Maybe more depending on diurnal temperature and the microbes on this godforsaken planet."

One of the junior medics is retching quietly in the corner. Kirk sympathises, the bile bitter in his own throat.

"Cause of death?" His voice sounds hoarse.

"Indeterminate. No signs of injury, minor contusions on some of 'em but nothing that should have proved fatal." McCoy frowns over his tricorder. "I'm seeing some sort of ante-mortem cellular breakdown here. But I can't be sure without access to the ship's lab."

"Right." Kirk pauses. These are Starfleet officers. They have died in the line of duty. But there's no time. "Bones, we need answers. Get Scotty to assign one of the science team and beam one of them up to the lab for a post-mortem."

A flash of anger. "And which one do you suggest we turn into a lab specimen, Captain?" Kirk opens his mouth to answer but the anger's gone as quickly as it came. "No, don't answer that. Sorry, Jim. The one who died most recently of course. Leave it with me."

"I want identification made a priority too, Doctor. Cross reference their tags with the latest colony records." He'll have to write the letters. To the families of officers he never met and will never have the chance to know.

Kirk turns away from the tarpaulins, away from the raw emotion he can't afford right now. He can't escape the feeling that they're being watched. It's instinct that makes him look over to seek out the calm gaze of his first officer but Spock is several yards away on the other side of the open doorway. It's a relief to leave the worst of the stench, to weave between the mess of broken crates and discarded packaging to join him.

The Vulcan is crouching beside a smear of yellow on the warehouse floor, tricorder whining.

"What have you found, Spock?"

"Fascinating. I need more data, a bigger sample. But, Captain, the combination of minerals here is unique. It cannot be a coincidence."

Before Spock can continue Giotto appears in the doorway, phaser raised. He makes an unmistakable downward gesture with both hands, calling for silence. McCoy, who has been hailing the bridge, closes his communicator slowly and takes a step back into the shadows.

And now Kirk can hear it too, boots marching, voices raised. He flattens himself against the wall and signs for the rest of the team to follow his lead. Giotto, closest to the doorway, keeps his phaser up. Spock flanks his other side, a reassuringly solid presence at his shoulder.

The voice that drifts through the open doorway is harsh. And oddly familiar.

"No, not in there. I told you W-4 has been cleared already. The latest stock went to W-5. Unless Rawlson screwed up the paperwork again."

The voice's owner is silhouetted against the light in the doorway. Kirk stares at the muddy boots, puddling water, at the threshold and tightens his grip on his phaser. From behind another voice is unintelligible. The silhouette laughs but there is no mirth in the sound.

"Well, you'd better get used to the stench. I've heard the next lot are already falling like flies." The boots turn away. "I don't know why we don't leave them where they lie. Can't see the point in dragging bodies around. It not as if... Gods, does it ever stop raining on this hellhole...?"

The men move on and the next sentence is too far away to be heard. Once the coast is clear McCoy is up and beside him in a flash.

"Jim, did you see that? It can't be. But I could have sworn...that voice."

And Kirk turns to his ship's doctor and says slowly, "No, Bones, you're right. I saw his face." He seeks and finds confirmation in the eyes of his security chief. "Either the colony records are wrong and Lieutenant Marcus Miller has a twin brother. Or we've just seen proof of life after death."

-oOo-