Lieutenant Worf was not a believer in letting the grass grow under his feet.
Tasked with investigating the wreckage he had discovered on the planet below, he assembled a sensible landing party – himself, another security officer, two engineers, and Crewman Asenzi from the Medical Team to provide any First Aid that might be required, given that the site might contain hidden hazards. As the shuttlepod came in low over the wreckage, confirming all the opinions he'd formed from the scans, he thought that however long ordinary people could survive on this planet, it was unlikely in the extreme that anyone who'd been on board during so catastrophic a crash would have lived to tell the tale.
The vessel had been there for a very long time. The growth of plant life through the wreckage testified to that beyond any doubt. There were mature trees thrusting through the great rent in the floor where it had broken apart on impact. Although the alloy of which the outer hull had been built had resisted corrosion relatively well, the insides were so rusted and rotten they crumbled at a touch. Anything perishable had mouldered away long ago.
Given the time frame, plus the fact that the scanners had indicated the presence of wildlife, there was virtually no chance that any human remains would be found. Careful examination of the wreck and the surrounding area yielded enough clues to suggest that no more than three personnel had been on board, and it was unlikely any of them would have survived the crash; the extent of the damage suggested that the craft had fallen from some considerable height, and residual scorch marks suggested an explosion. The location of this, in the area of the engine, suggested a possible cause of the accident – though it was impossible to say after all this time whether it had occurred while in flight or on impact. The engineers carefully removed what remained of the communications equipment, just in case anything might be retrieved from it, and after carrying this back to the shuttlepod they transferred their attention to the outside of the wreckage and took numerous detailed photographs and scans for later study. In the meantime, Asenzi bravely examined the few pieces of protective gear that had survived, doubtless in case they might contain even a fragment of bone to help identify who had worn them.
Worf and his Security subordinate remained on guard in the meadow outside. Crewman Hayes had not long joined the ship, but he was steady and courageous, and his commanding officer already regarded him as a potential for career advancement. He came of a military family, but was not the first of them to venture into Space; his great-great-great-great-grandfather had apparently served aboard the NX-01, and been decorated for acts of outstanding bravery during the Romulan War.
As they stood a little distance apart, studying the encroaching woodland all around and checking their scanners every so often for early warning of danger, Worf spared a moment to glance assessingly at his junior. Hayes' gaze was never still, and though he had the phase rifle he carried ready for action his finger rested close to the trigger, not on it. Nor did he apparently feel the need to make idle conversation, thereby reducing their vigilance. A warrior himself, Worf noted approvingly the evidence that reinforced his previous opinion that his second on this mission was intelligent as well as brave.
The sun was shining. The surrounding landscape was quite lovely, soaring peaks whose topmost turrets were tipped with snow, though their lower slopes were thickly forested. There had been birdsong earlier, but now it was very quiet.
Very quiet.
Quiet enough for the Klingon to hear the faint sound of Crewman Hayes slipping the safety catch off his rifle, just as the communicator squawked in his pocket and he slid his own phaser from its catch at his hip. Without doubt Enterprise was sending a warning, but there was no time now to answer it. Both weapons were set on stun, but they were fully charged and a direct hit from either delivered a powerful blast to the nervous system.
"Lieutenant..."
"All personnel, back to the shuttlepod immediately!" shouted Worf. "Run!"
The scanner in his hand showed the approaching threat: over thirty of them, flowing in through the trees with deadly purpose. Whatever they were, they were fast and coming this way, and even as he himself turned to run he recognised the fluid ease of long practise in the way the pack split and diverged, forming two smaller packs to come at the quarry from either side.
All of the Enterprise crew were superbly fit, but the ground was foul with fallen branches and split with seams that the lush grass hid almost until the foot plunged into them. Running at full pelt was no easy matter, particularly when burdened with breathing apparatus. The hunters, however, knew every centimetre of the meadow, and poured over and around obstacles like water.
Growing up with his adoptive parents in Russia, Worf had seen Russian wolfhounds many times. These animals were like them, but bigger and more muscular around the shoulders, and their eyes were not brown but blazing blue coins. They were long-coated, and the hair flowed out with the speed of their going.
There was no doubt as to their intentions.
The Prime Directive forbade causing unnecessary harm to the denizens of any world the ship visited, but in this case there was no choice. Picking his targets, Worf loosed off a dozen shots, and almost as many black and tawny bodies crashed or somersaulted, stunned in mid-stride. But there were too many for him to deal with them all, and they were moving too fast, and he had to slow his own speed to aim with any accuracy, thereby opening the gap between his charges and himself. Hayes too was firing, but the rifle was harder to use under these conditions, which favoured the smaller and lighter weapon.
Ensign Davis had been trying to help Crewman Asenzi make better speed, but presently tripped and fell headlong himself. Worf swerved to help him up, but even as he bent to seize the man's arm a heavy body struck him from the side. He was knocked off balance, and as he fell heavily the faceplate of his respirator smashed against one of the rocks with which this part of the meadow was strewn.
Not just cracked: cracked open. A strand of viciously thorny bramble thrust through, tearing at his forehead; fortunately it missed his eyes, but as he jerked back in reflex more of the thorns buried themselves in his skin and tore it. The atmosphere flooded in too, and he couldn't help but breathe.
Not poisonous. He took what comfort he could from that. But there was no saying how long it would take for the psychotropic that Doctor Pulaski had mentioned to take effect, and he must get the landing party back safely to the ship.
He hauled himself back his feet, ignoring the pain from the thorn-scratches; they were minor, and could be dealt with later. Davis was already scrambling up. Asenzi, yelling abuse, had lifted a fallen branch and was swiping bravely at a snarling wolf who'd got between her and the shuttlepod; Worf pushed up his now useless visor, swiped away the blood now streaking his face and impeding his vision, took aim and dropped the brute with a single shot.
Crewman Nelson had already reached the shuttlepod but was unable to open the door. Two wolves were almost on him, and he dared not turn his back on them to operate the door control; even if he could have gotten the door open in time, they would have followed him in. He was pinned against the metal as they closed on him, his face pallid with terror.
Two rapid rifle shots from the right of the clearing dropped them before they could pounce, and Worf shot another three who were racing in to cut off the escape route. Somehow he got himself, Asenzi and Davis to the shuttlepod just as the door opened and they were able to tumble inside.
He turned in the doorway to give covering fire to the last man. "Hayes!" he yelled, swiping angrily at more blood trickling from his forehead.
At the far right of the meadow there was a mass of heaving furry bodies dragging something off into the trees. In a fury he took aim – even at this distance, he couldn't miss – but for all the wolves that dropped into the grass, the rest redoubled their efforts. In moments the whole crowd had vanished into the undergrowth.
In a rage, Worf jumped down to the ground again and took a couple of paces. But the chances of Hayes still being alive after being attacked by such numbers was negligible, and every breath he himself drew sucked that chemical-laden atmosphere into his lungs. By the bitterest irony, now was the time when a warrior's courage had to be tempered with wisdom; if there had been the smallest chance of effecting a rescue he would have taken it willingly, but there was no point in giving up his life for nothing.
The nearest of the wolves that had menaced Nelson was already stirring. The paws twitched, and the blue eyes sent him a glare of hatred that was almost enough to chill the soul of a Klingon.
Not this Klingon, however. With a curse of "HaDIbaH k'pekt!", Worf shot the animal again. At a guess, it would not wake soon enough to win a share of their accursed meal.
Nevertheless, he looked out across the meadow again for a minute longer, debating whether there was even the smallest chance–.
There was not.
Hayes had died a hero's death even by Klingon standards. Instead of defending himself, he had expended his last two shots on protecting the unarmed Crewman Nelson.
"Q'aplaH!" Worf struck his clenched right fist strongly against his chest and thrust it out in the salute appropriate to a departed fellow-warrior.
Then, heavy-hearted, he turned and mounted into the shuttlepod again, where his shocked and frightened comrades were urging haste to get him back to Enterprise for treatment. They would indeed have to make all speed back to the ship; it was only to be hoped that he had not already inhaled enough of the psychotropic to affect him, or that any effect it might have would be short-lived and reversible.
Truly, he thought, this place had justified the ill name it bore in legend.