CHRISTMAS SHOPPING

Planet HB22147-C, Gaza City
Stardate 2260.358

- 2258 hours -
"Surprisingly logical deduction," Spock muttered to himself as he closed the communicator. It was already after nightfall, a stifling darkness in which no creature dared venture into the ruins without benefit of a tricorder and an orbiting starship to support. The only lights visible were the faint pinpricks of tricorder screens and hand lamps moving through the canyons of crumbling buildings and ancient streets, the perfect lure to attract the more daring predators, or the perfect deterrent for the more timid ones. Presently, Spock's position on the hilltop overlooking old Rafah gave his tricorder an almost un-restricted angle on the ruins, and it only took a few seconds to chart a path through the ancient refugee camp that would take him through some likely points of interest.

A few paces in front of him, Doctor McCoy glanced over his shoulder, "What's surprising about it? Jim's pretty sharp when he needs to be, even when dealing with a notoriously hostile intelligence."

"Indeed." Truth be told, Spock never thought much of Kirk's intellectual abilities even after some of his most brilliant turnabouts had come to save the day. Kirk's command decisions didn't seem to derive from intellect at all, but from instinct, his propensity to automatically default to the most logical conclusion when all other considerations failed. This, Spock found especially perplexing; it was if Kirk was making perfectly sound command decisions entirely by accident.

"Aren't we at war with the Gorn?" asked Ensign Janice Rand, one of the three officers assigned to Alpha Team's security detail, from her spot just behind Spock.

McCoy shook his head, "War is what happens when two governments decide to fight. With the Gorn, it's more of a reflex action."

"Well at least now we know what happened to this planet," Presently, Rand hovered over the Vulcan's shoulder with a phaser rifle in one hand and a tricorder in the other, apparently using the latter to calibrate the targeting sensors on the former; the targeting sensor on the back casing of the phaser was flashing error lights all the colors of the rainbow. The adjustments were consuming more and more of her concentration and at this point, even Spock was beginning to notice the sudden reduction of pace.

"Ensign," Spock asked disinterestedly, "is your life support belt active right now?"

Rand suddenly looked half a foot shorter. "Oh, uh... Yes, Sir... Should I...?" she reached down for the thick utility belt wrapped around her field jacket and began to fiddle with the controls.

Before she could do anything, Spock reached back and tapped a control on the back of the rifle, and the malfunction light vanished. Rand blinked a few times in confusion until Spock explained,"That button activates the field conductor for the phaser's umbrella."

"The... Umbrella... Right... What?"

Patiently, professorially, Spock explained, "The EM-102 combat phaser is designed to extend the forcefield envelope into a protective umbrella slightly forward of the emitter assembly. The conductive elements in the power supply must be activated first, however, or the electrical charge from the field will adversely affect the phaser's targeting sensors."

"Yes, Sir. I'm... I'm sorry, Sir, I'm still getting used to the security department."

"You'll find many practical differences from the personnel section, Ensign. And to answer your question: our understanding of Gorn technology is severely limited, but there is very little corroborating evidence of prior Gorn involvement here. Their previous conquests have all followed a logical pattern which is not in evidence here."

"Maybe they're here for revenge?"

Doctor McCoy said, "Maybe they're here for a deep-dish pizza? Who the hell knows? We don't know the first thing about Gorn culture or Gorn psychology. We don't even know if they have a unified government. For all we know the Gorn we fought last time were their equivalent of Khan Noonien Singh."

"That's a fair point... But God I hope they don't come here."

McCoy chuckled, "Hope for a Christmas Miracle."

Spock glanced back at him, "A what?"

Rand smiled, "Don't you know, Spock? It's Christmas eve!"

"I am unfamiliar with that calendar reference, Ensign.

"Oh, uh... it's an old Earth holiday steeped in religious imagery and commercialism. It's mostly a celebration for children, gourmets and young lovers."

"Ah... similar to Halloween or Valentines day."

"Something like that."

Starting back down the slope, Spock followed the map on the tricorder screen as if it were a computerized treasure map. Rand followed just behind him, while Ensign Wells and Ensign Gallager stayed in step just a few meters behind. As they got to the edge of the town, their formation changed, with Wells and Gallager moving in front of Spock and making "leapfrog" progression forward, each one moving to a cover position as the other moved past.

Spock flipped open his communicator and stopped just behind Wells in one narrow alley on a downward slope, "Spock to Eighteen."

"Eighteen here," answered Ensign Meyer in the cockpit of shuttlecraft eighteen, now hovering more than half a kilometer directly above them.

"Check on obstacles ahead. Any life forms or other hazards."

"Looks clear for the next five hundred meters along your path. Your target building seems mostly intact, though part of the east wall has collapsed into the building next to it."

"The one with the satellite dish on the roof, correct?"

"Affirmative."

Spock flipped the communicator closed and batted Gallager on the shoulder, "Set your pace to five hundred meters and then regroup. Move out."

Gallager moved forward, passing Wells on the way and then crouching a position using part of a rubble pile as cover from whatever may have been ahead. As soon as he stopped, Wells advanced behind him - as did Spock and Rand just behind - until Wells passed Gallager and stopped at another position still farther ahead. Slow as it seemed, Spock estimated that at their present pace they would arrive at the first building in twelve point nine minutes.

So far - uninvited guests notwithstanding - everything was going exactly to plan.

Stardate 2260.365
- 0431 hours -

Echo Team, location in Grid 17, day eight of survey mission. Ensign Kevin T. Riley reporting.

Nothing to report.

I've just stumbled on the corpse of a humanoid male. About fifteen years of age. Partially dressed in some kind of khaki outfit that looks like a army fatigues patched together from four different sources. There is an old-style Kalashnikov rifle lying on the ground nearby. It doesn't have a battery pack, so I'm assuming this is a powder and gas-operated version. It must be the source of the cordite traces we came here looking for. The corpse is mangled, partially crushed, but I'm not sure by what. In the condition it's in now this kid couldn't possibly have gotten here under his own power. I'm a little wierded out by the fact that this corpse isn't wearing any pants. I'm documenting the scene with spatial and photographic analysis for forensic reconstruction of the-

Wait...

Tricorder just picked up a life form reading. Five meters away. Is there someone else here? Hello? What the f-

Ensign Riley did not completely see the thing that was rushing towards him in the pale light of dawn. He did feel it, though, as a curled up fist the size of a pumpkin slammed into his chest and knocked him on his ass some ten feet to the other side of the room. As it moved again it passed through a spot where sunlight trickled through a crack in the wall and Riley was able to see its outline. His first impression was that it was enormous; if it wasn't for the forcefield from his life support belt that fist would have crushed most of his ribcage. But that brief glimpse of the creature's shape triggered synapses in his brain that materialized the rest of it, like a transporter beam assembling a lone passenger from a particle stream, and he recognized the oversized arms and shoulders and relatively scronny legs to be that of an Other-Earth Reaver, that type of omnivorous apex predator that - Spock had warned them all - was an incredibly violent yet less-than-proficient killer.

Instinct handled the rest from here, the basic fight or flight reaction universal to every organism that had ever harbored a desire to not be eaten: Riley set a course for the nearest hole in the wall and pounded his feet towards it like a rabbit diving for a hole.

The reaver followed him, waving its gigantic arms dementedly like a bird flapping its wings out of synch. It was shockingly fast for something so bulky, but to no avail, as the hundred and sixty pound Irishman slipped easily through the crack in the wall. Well not exactly easily; something snagged a corner of his uniform he emerged through the crack without his pants. He landed on his face with his legs in the air, flopping in the dust.

The first sound he heard was the sound of Ensign Torens exploding into belly laughs. The second sound was a mortifying crash as the three hundred and sixty pound predator crashed into the wall behind him and thrust one arm through the opening with a bone-chilling snarl. That arm was almost as wide as Riley's entire torso, each spindly finger as long as his forearm.

Torens was still laughing, but now more from shock and surprise than humor. Petty Officer McCarthy said something unintelligible, and Ensign Doyle screamed like the leading women in old horror movies.

Despite the pain of his face-vault, Riley still had the wherewithal to reach for his phaser, theoretically still clipped to his belt on his uniform trousers. But the phaser was gone, as was the belt and trousers; all three were now dangling on the end of one of the Reaver's flailing digits, a tangled mass of shredded fabric and tumbling equipment that somehow managed to stay together.

Riley grabbed the belt before he could think not to; the Reaver snatched its arm back with such force that it almost dragged him back through the hole in the wall with it. The buckle snapped against the concrete and the phaser, tricorder and communicator all spun into the air in different directions and clattered to the ground.

Another snarl and a crash against the wall and a three-foot section of concrete exploded into the alley, followed by the Reaver's opposite arm. McCarthy fumbled with his equipment belt in a panic before aiming his tricorder and pressing what - had he drawn a phaser like he intended - would have been the trigger until he tripped over a hysterical Doyle and landed on his shoulders behind her. Torens scooped up his phaser rifle and leaned into the opening, just in time to be plunged into oblivion as the Reaver smashed a section of the wall next to him and buried him in half a ton of reinforced concrete.

Riley found his communicator first, then fiddled through the rubble until he found his phaser. He snapped the weapon to its stun setting just as one last blow shattered the wall in front of him, brought the phaser to bear as the Reaver vaulted into the alley. He saw the dot from the sight beam appear over the target before he really knew what the target was, and as the beast lunged at him he squeezed the trigger.

For an instant the Reaver vanished behind the crackling blue flash of a phaser beam, and for a horrifying second Riley thought he had accidentally vaporized the poor beast. But as his finger relaxed, the creature was still there, swinging its arms in the air in front of it, still very conscious if the growing intensity of its snarls were any indication. After a short disorienting moment it occurred to Riley that this thing was probably too big for his phaser to stun it; at this point he collapsed into a mass of panic, scrambled to his feet, and shot down the alley like a rocket on twin plumes of terror. Predictably the Reaver followed, snarling after him, swaying oafishly with its its massive arms slapping the walls every step it took.

McCarthy scooted to the side just in time to avoid being stepped on by the Riley as he passed him. Then he scooted aside again as the Reaver stomped past. A few meters ahead the alley opened into an ancient debris-strewn courtyard. Riley looked around for anything that might provide an obstacle; he set his sights on a narrow doorway off to one side, and made exactly one step in that direction before something caught his foot and he bellyflopped painfully on the bare concrete. Just paces behind him the Reaver picked up speed, screaming balefully as it went...

And it ran right past him without slowing down. Both of its arms were hanging limp by its sides, fingers actually dragging in the dust as it ran/swayed ahead, and now that he had a moment to think about it, its primal calls sounded more pained than angry. And as the creature came to the end of the courtyard - still making no obvious effort to slow down - it ran head-first into a concrete wall and tumbled unconscious onto its back.

Riley clambered to his feet and picked up his phaser. He thought about stunning it again to be safe, but not wanting to actually kill the thing he decided against it. At this point the rush of adrenaline finally wore off and Riley became aware of three things: first, that the courtyard he was standing in was completely covered with relatively fresh carcasses, most of them stripped to the bone, plus a few mounds of dung piled up in the corners. Second, that a distant howling of other creatures was growing steadily closer as this beasts' family raced to its aid, which made sense since this courtyard-evidently-must have been their nest. And third, possibly most seriously, that his pants were missing and his boxers were soaked in a warm yellow liquid that he seriously hoped was rainwater.

"What in the cosmic hell was that all about?!" McCarthy asked, running after him with his tricorder in hand.

"I was just checking out a corpse in that building," Riley said, catching his breath, "Then that blasted thing came out of nowhere and knocked me on my ass!"

McCarthy jogged past Riley, knelt down next to the Reaver and popped the medical scan head out of its slot on the side of the tricorder. "Blunt force trauma, skeletal damage... what the hell did you do to this thing?"

"I stunned it, but it didn't work for some reason."

"I'll say. You shot it in the arms."

"Oh..." then Riley thought about this and his eyebrows arched, "Oh! Right, because these things use their arms to balance at high speed."

McCarthy nodded. "Probably panicked."

"Well, it doesn't know about phasers, it must have thought I'd poisoned it or something."

"I wasn't talking about the Reaver, genius."

"Oh..."

"Why didn't you just shoot it again?"

"Hell, I dunno." Riley sighed, partly for the fate of the Reaver but also for the demise of his favorite uniform slacks. "Anyway, good news for us, right? We've finally got a live specimen for Mister Spock."

"I guess so, yeah... where's the kit?"

"Torens had it." Riley looked back to the alley and a pile of crushed concrete under which the still form of Ensign Torens had moments ago been buried alive. "Hey Torens!"

"Torens!" McCarthy shouted, "You okay?"

From somewhere below the rubble, in a low Klingonish growl, Torens managed to utter back, "I hate you, Riley!"

"Yeah, he's fine." McCarthy snapped open his communicator and tapped in Enterprise' monitoring frequency. "Echo Team to Enterprise. McCarthy here."

"Go ahead, Echo Team," Uhura answered from orbit.

"Just had a close encounter of the wild kind. We've got a Reaver specimen here that might need some medical attention, and I think our science officer needs an ice pack."

"Acknowledged, Echo Team... indigenous life forms are closing on your position, collect all equipment and specimens and standby for transport."

"Give us thirty seconds. McCarthy out." he flipped the communicator closed, then turned to Riley with a grin, "Cheer up, Ensign, you're not the first man in Starfleet to piss yourself on an away mission. You're just the first to have it documented in a ground-team log entry."

Riley smiled like this was the most charming thing anyone had ever said to him and replied, "You're a bastard."

"No I'm not, I just really hate you."

Riley sighed.

"C'mon, let's pack up so they beam us over to the camp."

- 0455 hours -

It didn't seem that Captain Kirk had actually bothered to decorate his own quarters. Lieutenant Uhura didn't know what to make of this, whether as a strike against or for him, although in fairness it was only by pure force of will that she had managed to customize even her own quarters after the Vulcan Incident at the fleetwide pandemonium that followed. Ensign Chekov and Lieutenant Bailey, on the other hand, hadn't even had time to unpack, and Lieutenant Scott had been living out of a suitcase so long he'd basically forgotten how.

This eclectic mixture of opinion provided a seventh impression of the Captain's mindset that only reinforced the previous six: he was a man who didn't seem to plan anything, even when he was in complete control of the situation. Which all in all was consistent with the spirit of this impromptu and almost certainly clandestine meeting in his quarters, in the wee hours of the morning when only the graveyard shift was on watch and the ship's civilian contingent wasn't likely to be encountered accidentally.

All four officers took seats around the table in the middle of the Captain's office, and once they were settled, Kirk took the most official part of the business out of the way first. "Bailey. Any changes from our visitors?"

Bailey straightened up and reported, "Their teleporter landed on one of the Aleutian Islands off the coast of Alaska. It's difficult to tell what they're doing down there, but we're tracking twenty to thirty individuals fanning out in what looks like a search pattern around the landing site. Rodriguez thinks they're focussing their attention on coastal areas, close to the water's edge. Might be surveying local aquatic life."

"Any response to our hails?" Kirk turned his attention to Uhura.

"None. I'm sure they're receiving, but so far they've given no reply."

Next, the Captain turned to his newly-anointed chief engineer, "What's your analysis of the Gorn ship, Mister Scott?"

"Surprising, Captain. They use alot of the same biomechanical technology as the Gorn we encountered last year, but the similarities end there. It's beyond the basic hull configuration - which, by the way, is a lot more efficient than the designs we've seen. They have a very different sensor and propulsive setup in that ship, some odd thermal management systems, some new equipment I can't begin to identify."

Kirk raised a brow, "You think it's a more advanced faction?"

"I wouldn't say more advanced. The technology is the same, just more refined, more sophisticated. It's like they're a more expensive version of the same product line."

Chekov nodded, "There are many different types of Gorn, maybe there are many different types of ships?"

"I've been wondering about that," Bailey drummed his fingers on the table, "You normally don't see that kind of biodiversity in a single species, even the ones who do tinker with genetics. I mean, even the Suliban follow a baseline phenotype no matter how much they're enhanced. I'd bet my pilot's license that most of the Gorn we've encountered are actually a more primitive species uplifted to intelligence as proxy warriors. Like, the Gorn equivalent of chimpanzees."

"If that's true," Chekov said, "Our fight last year might have inwolved a very small faction of the Gorn species. Maybe even renegades?"

"Or it could have been a girl scout troop for all we now. We'll keep an eye on them for now, but speculation gets us nowhere." Kirk finally took his seat at the table himself and, anxiously, waded knee-deep into the purpose of this meeting, "Uhura... Are we at war with the Klingons yet?"

Uhura was both surprised and bothered by this question. Actually, everyone on the ship had been bothered by this same question ever since the circumstances of the creation and destruction of the USS Vengeance came to light. The Klingons had been understandably furious, and the Federation's blustering response hadn't made matters any better. But in spite of the ratcheting tensions, in spite of maneuvers and actions and counter-actions all through disputed space, the Klingon Empire still refused to make the first move. "Last reports suggested some unusual fleet movements in the Gamma Hydra sector," Uhura said, "But nothing provocative. As usual, they seem restless, but so far they're behaving themselves."

"Am I imagining things, or is that behavior completely at odds with absolutely everything we know about Klingons?"

"What do you mean?"

Scotty picked up the subtext and nodded agreeably, "The Klingons are a warrior race. They value strength and viciousness and have few other virtues except for their ability to copy other people's technology."

"And they never forgive offenses," Chekov added, "There is an old Klingon proverb: 'Revenge is dish best served cold.'"

Kirk flinched, "I thought that was a French proverb?"

"Pashtun, actually," Uhura said. Then something else occurred to her and she added, "Which... Well, makes a lot of sense, now that I think about it, since many Klingon cultures have so much in common with Pashtunwali... Maybe there's your answer, Captain?"

"I don't think I follow..."

"Just a minute ago you were saying the Klingons are a warrior race, right? But there are subgroups of humans on Earth that have similar cultures, a proud warrior tradition that dates back at least as long. If some Pashtun tribesmen had discovered warp drive in the twenty first century, the Vulcans would have thought we were a warrior race."

"As if a bunch of Afghan nomads could discover the secrets of faster-than-light travel," Bailey said.

Kirk raised a brow, "Well then, how did the Klingons do it? I kind of see Uhura's point, the Klingons probably aren't a monolithic culture. We sure as hell aren't."

"It could be that the warrior class in the Klingon Empire is spoiling for a fight," Uhura added, "But the reins of government are controlled by a more moderate bloc. Or maybe even less than that... Could be a subversive faction within the government that's secretly trying to prevent a war."

"A Klingon bizzaro Admiral Marcus."

"Something like that."

Scotty shrugged, "Am I hearing an echo in here? Are we really about to decide that the Gorn and the Klingons - two hostile species that keep trying to kill us - oh, they're really not so bad once you get to know them!"

"Once again, Scotty, neither are we. When I think about somebody like Admiral Marcus being the head of Sol Fleet..." Kirk shook his head, "I think this is more about people than governments. I think we're being dragged down a rabbit hole by a handful of psychopaths that just happen to be on opposite sides of a border. I think that's been the root of a lot of our problems lately."

"You think Starfleet's being run by a bunch of dangerous maniacs?" Bailey asked.

Kirk shrugged, "I think the universe is run by dangerous maniacs. I think if you really dig deep enough all of the major wars and conflicts of history mainly boil down to a bunch of crazy people telling everyone else what to do."

Scott straightened up suddenly, "You're not exactly a picture of mental health yourself, Captain."

"Start worrying if I ever try to start a war with the Klingons. Besides, I've got Spock to keep me grounded if I ever get carried away."

Bailey snorted, "And who the hell's gonna keep him grounded?"

Lieutenant Uhura cleared her throat. Bailey shot her a glance and then quietly retracted the question.

"Keptin," Chekov interrupted, "How would we make that work to our adwantage? If the problem being poor leadership all around..."

"People who serve under crappy leaders usually realize it when they do. I figure we can use that to our advantage. Not turning people against their own commanders, but it would be enough to get a little extra breathing room, a little more information. I mean, think about if, if the average Klingon isn't looking forward to war, you could get him to tell you how to avoid the ones who are."

Bailey rolled his eyes. "Because the Gorn are really gonna appreciate us having secret conversations with their armies of trained monkeys, right?"