HE WOKE SLOWLY, as if emerging from a great depth.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. Then he moved—and the pain came flooding back to him. Unspeakable pain. He heard himself cry out, shut his eyes against it.
And in that welcome darkness, awareness came flooding back as well.
The brawl. His capture. The Rythrian. The days—how many?—of imprisonment. The gradual incision of his retraining ropes into the flesh of his arms and legs.
After what seemed like a long time, the pain began to subside. He was back in control.
He opened his eyes, saw a familiar face looming over him. But he managed not to shrink from it, because that would only have stirred the pain of his bonds again. Instead, he took a slow breath, let it out.
It helped steady him, helped clear away some of the cobwebs. Not all, but some.
"Sorry to wake you," said Scarface. "But you and me've ot some travelin' to do."
Kirk peered at him. His eyes were taking a bit too long to focus. The result of his worsening hunger?
"Where are we going?" he asked.
The big man shrugged, turned his head, and spat.
"I thought you wanted to get out of here."
Kirk tried to think. Was it possible the Rythrian had fallen for his ploy? Finally?
He regarded Scarface, looked into his eyes. Saw the anticipation there, the malicious pleasure he couldn't quite conceal.
No. In the end, the Rythrian had decided it was too big a risk. Or maybe that there had never been a dilithium source in the first place. And he'd given the order to have Kirk disposed of.
"I do want to get out of here," said the captain. "But not the way you have in mind."
Scarface grunted. "Smart, aren't you? Too smart for your own damned good."
"And what about you?" asked Kirk. "Are you smart enough to see an opportunity when it stares you in the face?"
The big man shook his head, amused. "So now you want to talk to me. Before, I wasn't good enough."
He smiled, inserting his thick fingers into the space between Kirk's biceps and the rope that bound it.
"I guess I'm not smart at all," he said. "Because the only thing I see staring me in the face is you."
Then he twisted the rope.
It was so bad Kirk thought he might black out. But he did his best not to let it show.
"You know," rasped Scarface, "usually, this is just a job. In your case, though, I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."
Another twist—red, writhing agony. Suddenly, there was sweat on the captain's brow, in his eyes. It stung, and he tried to blink it away.
"I guess," he got out, "that's why you're number two here … instead of number one somewhere else. I'm offering you enough credits to … set you up in your own business. No more … kowtowing to the Rythrian. No more …"
The big man twisted again, and this time it was too much for him. He bellowed as the blood trickled down his arms.
Apparently satisfied, Scarface pulled his fingers free. Left limp by the abrupt absence of pain, Kirk allowed his head to loll forward.
"Now shut up," said the big man. "Just keep that silver tongue in your mouth—and it'll all be over before you know it."
Before the captain knew what was happening, Scarface had come around behind him and lifted him up, chair and all. With each jostling step toward the door, Kirk's agony reawakened. Waves of nausea washed over him.
He cursed between clenched teeth. This can't be happening, he told himself. I knew I'd buy it someday, but I thought it'd be for a reason. A cause. Not because I've been mistaken for some small-time con man.
At the threshold, he tried to twist his foot around to lodge it against the door jamb. But the big man must have seen it, because the captain's boot only grazed the wood.
"You're just full of tricks," said Scarface. "But they don't get you very far, do they?" He laughed.
Outside, it was night again, half-choked with fog. There was an old-style truck backed up almost to the door, and Kirk could see through its open gates that it didn't have a stick of cargo in it.
He got a glimpse of low, dark buildings—some kind of warehouse district, as he'd guessed earlier—before the big man shoved him inside. A moment later, the gates slammed closed, and he was plunged into inky blackness.
Kirk heard the engine start up, felt the lurch as the vehicle began to move. The sweat was cold as it dried on his brow.
A way out. There has to be a way out.
Creaking noises. A surge of power as the truck gathered speed. The crunching sound of shifting gears.
Has to be.
Suddenly, the floor listed, and for a moment Kirk felt himself balanced on two chair legs. Then, just as he thought he would tip over, the chair righted itself. The impact of its landing sent a jolt straight up his spine, dragged his ropes through the furrows of his wounds.
He'd hardly unclenched his teeth when it happened again. The same moment of precariousness, the same jarring shock as the chair hit the floor foursquare. The same network of fire consuming him.
But the rocking had produced another result as well. For he was aware of a looseness now around his ankle, a leeway of an inch or so. He tested it, to work free of his bonds even more.
Nothing. After a while, his foot cramped and he had to stop.
Easy. Just be patient.
He waited for the listing to occur again, waited long moments. It seemed that the truck had found an even stretch of road, however. The ride was almost gentle now.
All right—then I'll do my own rocking, he resolved. And despite the terrific pain it cost him, he began to swing his weight from side to side.
At first, he could barely get the chair to move. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, it tilted a little and slammed down again. Tilted and slammed down. The base of his spine took a beating, but he kept at it.
He thought he felt the ropes beginning to loosen around his other ankle, but he didn't dare stop to gauge his progress. If he did, he feared, he wouldn't have the gumption to start over again. His ropes sliced his already lacerated flesh, sending blood running down his arms in rivulets.
And then he swung just a little too hard. He knew it even before he had reached the point of no return—but it was too late to do anything about it. The chair teetered on its two legs, swung around a little, and came crashing down sideways against the floor.
Kirk whimpered with the pain, tried to bite it back, and couldn't. Tears came to his eyes.
"Damn," he said out loud, seething with frustration.
The sound of his own voice steadied him. Once again, he tried to assess his situation.
There was a throbbing in his temple, and a wetness where it pressed into the floorboards. Apparently, he'd struck his head in his fall—and hadn't even felt it at the time.
Good thinking, Kirk, he told himself. You broke your fall with the part that was most expendable.
But when he attempted to move his feet, he found that he had accomplished something after all. Not only had the ropes around his ankles taken on some slack—the ropes above them had loosened too, all the way up to his knees. He could move each of his feet three or four inches away from their respective chair legs.
Now—how to take advantage of this? I guess rocking is out of the question now, he mused, It almost made him want to laugh.
Perhaps if he could use one foot to scrape the bonds off the other …
The captain had begun to try when the truck started jostling again—worse than before, much worse. The vibration of rough passage pounded through the floor into the bones of his head.
It meant that they had turned off the main road—that the longest part of their journey had been completed. And more than likely, judging from the intensity of each jerk, they were coming close to whatever secluded area Scarface had selected as Kirk's last resting place.
He resumed scraping, this time with a little more urgency. Nor did the lack of light help matters any, forcing him to work by sense of touch alone.
Despite his best efforts, it was some time before he managed to push a restraining loop over his heel and down the length of his foot. But once he had done it, it made the freeing of his other foot that much easier.
Then he put his newfound mobility to good use. First, he turned himself around so that he lay with his back parallel to one of the truck's long walls—though still on his side. Next, he forced himself toward the back of the cargo compartment.
It didn't even hurt that much. Since he'd toppled over, the circulation had gradually cut off in his arms—so that the pain he would normally have felt was reduced to a distant heat.
In fact, awkward as it was scuttling around like a damaged crab, he took pleasure in it. After sitting bound for so long, it was good to move at all.
When he reached the twin gates, he swung nearly a hundred and eighty degrees around again. And with all the force he could muster, he kicked at the doors.
They shuddered, but they held. He kicked again, and this time, he thought, it seemed as if he might have dislodged the rusted casings of the deadbolt that held them closed.
On the other hand, those casings might not have been as rusted as they seemed when Scarface thrust him in here.
He went on kicking, hoping that the big man couldn't hear the racket from up front. And finally, with an earsplitting shriek, one of the gates opened partway.
It was enough to show Kirk a slice of fog-enshrouded jungle—but not much more. He braced himself for another round of battering.
But it was too late—for that, and for anything else. With a hiss of air brakes, the truck ground to a halt.
No! I was so close, almost there …
Gears shifted, and the truck rolled backward for a moment. Then it stopped again and the engine shut off.
Kirk's heart was beating against his ribs like a caged animal. He heard the door of the cab crank open, heard the splotch of footfalls against soft, wet earth.
Through the slot between the gates, he could make out a clearing—no, not just a clearing. It was a bog of some sort. And its purpose was painfully clear.
He means to dump me in it.
No remains, no evidence. No loose ends to worry about afterward.
There was a metallic taste in his mouth, the taste of fear. Of hope gone sour.
He rebuked himself. Get a grip, damn it. You're still alive, aren't you? There's still a chance. There's always a chance. . . .
Kirk forced himself to stay calm while Scarface made his way around the truck. A few seconds later, the deadbolt slid aside. As the gate he'd been pounding on began to swing aside, he drew his feet back.
When he saw his captor's face, he lashed out.
But the big man saw it coming just in time. And he leaned back far enough so that Kirk's boots only grazed his jaw.
Cursing, he leaped up into the cargo compartment. With hardly any effort at all, it seemed, he picked up the captain and swung him into the wall.
Kirk hit hard, and then again when he slid to the floor. But the chair took the brunt of the punishment, with a cracked leg to show for it.
And then, with a sudden, clean-edged clarity, he knew exactly what he had to do.
"You're a pain in the butt," said the big man. "And now I'm going to make you a dead pain in the butt."
"Wait!" Kirk wheezed as Scarface bent to lift him up again. "I'll tell you where the dilithium came from!"
The big man hesitated, sneered.
"No, really—I'll tell," croaked the captain, as if his encounter with the wall had damaged his breathing apparatus. He swallowed. "Only please—let me live, all right?"
Scarface's tiny eyes narrowed even more.
"You want to tell?" he barked. "Then go ahead. Tell."
"It's on Buzmuzbuduh," mumbled Kirk.
The big man leaned closer. "What was that? Speak up, damn it."
The captain nodded eagerly, coughed. Started to speak but coughed again.
Perhaps without realizing it, Scarface loomed closer still. Kirk estimated that it was close enough.
And without further ado, he spat square in the big man's face.
"You're a fool," he shouted as Scarface recoiled. "Your boss knows it, I know it, and now you know—"
He never finished. In a paroxysm of rage, the big man hurled him the length of the cargo compartment. For a moment, things spun around too fast to follow.
Then the wall came up and smashed him. He felt a terrible, sharp pain in his knee, followed by the sweetest sense of release he could ever have imagined. When he got his bearings, he realized that the chair had smashed into half a dozen pieces, and his bonds were lying loose all about him.
His only problem now was the behemoth slowly advancing on him, his scarred face twisted into a savage grin, his huge fists clenching and unclenching.
Kirk scrambled to his feet as best he could, his legs cramped and stiff from disuse. But before he stood up all the way, he took hold of a long sliver of wood—once part of the chair, now a weapon he might use to some advantage.
The big man didn't seem much impressed. He kept coming—even when Kirk raised the splinter as if to throw it. Another couple of seconds and Scarface would be right on top of him.
Rather than wait, he decided to take the initiative. Pushing off the rear wall, he charged the man.
Apparently, Scarface hadn't expected that. Nor did he expect the captain to leap suddenly and plant his heels in the big man's chest.
As Kirk landed, he saw Scarface reel backward, stumble—and pitch headlong out the rear of the truck. There was a scream and a loud, flat plosh.
Gathering his feet beneath him, the captain made his way down the length of the cargo compartment—his sliver of wood at the ready. But as he reached the gates, he saw a dark shape struggling against the greater darkness of the bog.
"Damn you!" rasped Scarface. He was half on his side, half on his back, with only his head, an arm, and part of his torso free of the muck. And it seemed that he'd landed in a deeper part of the bog, because he was still sinking—though ever so slowly.
"Watch your language," said Kirk. "You're talking to the only one who can save your worthless life now."
The big man writhed and grunted in an effort to move toward the truck. The muscles in his neck stood out like cords, but he accomplished nothing. If anything, his efforts caused him to sink a little faster.
"Get me out of here," he roared, his voice rising in pitch. "I can't move."
"Sure," said Kirk. "After all you've done for me, I'd be an ingrate not to help you out."
Fury and fear washed over the man's face in successive waves. "I wasn't going to kill you," he said. "I was only supposed to scare you—so you'd talk."
"Right," said the captain. "Whatever you say." He looked around, noticed the coil of rope hanging on the wall of the cargo compartment—the same kind of rope he'd been bound with. He slipped his weapon into his belt, then got the coil and brought it out where Scarface could see it.
"I suppose," he continued, "you want me to throw this out to you—or at least one end of it."
The big man slipped down a couple of inches—all at once. Wide-eyed and whimpering, he started to struggle again. But the bog held him fast.
"Throw it," he pleaded. "Please—"
"First," said Kirk, "tell me what you did with my friends."
"Nothing," croaked the big man. "We didn't even take them—I swear it."
"I don't believe you," said Kirk.
"It's the truth, damn it. The order was to bring you in, and you alone. Your friends weren't worth anything to us."
"Then they were alive when you left the Shooting Star?"
"I … I don't know," said Scarface. "Maybe. I told you—I wasn't interested in them."
Kirk nodded, satisfied. Kneeling, he ran one end of the rope through a slot in the truck's bumper assembly, tied it off. Next, he freed up a length of it—enough to reach the big man with the coiled end.
Then he paused.
"Throw it," grated Scarface. "What are you waiting for?"
The captain shrugged. "Something just occurred to me. I mean, here I am, saving your hide. But just as soon as I pull you out, you're going to come after me—just like before."
"No!" rasped the big man. "I won't. I won't do that."
Kirk regarded him. "Now, why is it I don't have much faith in your promises?" He sighed.
"You've got to believe me," said Scarface. "From now on, I won't touch you. No matter what the Rythrian says."
"You're sure about that?"
"Yes, damn—yes, I'm sure. Just get me out of here."
The muck had gradually crept up around Scarface. It very nearly reached his cheek now.
If Kirk waited much longer, it would be almost impossible to pull him out. So, against his better judgment, he tossed out the rope.
The coil fell just beyond the big man, the length just inches away from his free hand. He grabbed it, wound it a couple of times around his forearm.
Kirk didn't envy him the task of hanging on while the truck hauled him out. But then, he hadn't a whole lot of sympathy for him either.
Still painfully stiff, he jumped down from the cargo compartment with some difficulty. Then he found his way to the cab and swung the door open. With even more difficulty, he got in.
He took a deep breath, surveyed the controls before him. They looked simple enough—that is, if one know which was which.
"Let's see," he muttered to himself. One wrong move and he'd back the truck into the bog—or accelerate so quickly he'd tear the big man's arm off. "There's got to be some sort of ignition, right? That's how these old internal-combustion engines were supposed to work."
His knee brushed against something loose and it jangled. He peered around the steering column and saw the dangling set of keys, one of them already inserted into the mechanism.
The captain held his breath, turned it, and hoped for the best. A moment later, the engine rumbled to life.
So far, so good.
Now—for the proverbial gas pedal. He looked down, saw not one pedal but two. Depressing the one on the left didn't seem to have any effect, so he deduced that that one was the brake. Or weren't they using foot brakes anymore when this truck was manufactured?
He frowned, pressed down on the other pedal. Gently. And the engine responded, whining with pent-up power.
The steering was pretty easy to figure out, considering the wheel was right in front of him. But how to put it into gear?
Kirk looked around at the various gauges. None of them seemed helpful. Then he saw the handgrip and the markings that ran below it.
Planting his foot on what he assumed to be the brake, he moved the handgrip from marking to marking, feeling the shift in the engine's pull with each adjustment. Outside, he heard Scarface's bellowing—even more frantic than before.
"What the hell," he said, and moved the handgrip back to the position where the truck seemed to be straining forward the hardest. Gradually, he lifted his foot off the brake.
The truck rolled forward, but only a little. After it was obvious that it wasn't going to go any farther without some help, Kirk pushed down on the gas pedal.
The engine rumbled. The truck lumbered forward.
There was more bellowing from back in the bog, but this time it was a sound of pain. Intense pain.
When Kirk poked his head out the open window, however, he saw that Scarface was still hanging on. So he kept the pressure on the gas pedal.
In a matter of moments, the truck started to drag him out. Soon, his other arm came free, and he was able to clutch the rope in both hands, and as a result his cries diminished.
The captain allowed the vehicle to tow Scarface a couple of yards to the edge of the bog. Then he took his foot off the gas and slipped back into a neutral gear.
Descending gingerly from the cab, he came around to the rear bumper. And as the big man watched, he began to untie the rope from it.
"What're you doing?" he rasped. "I'm not out yet."
"No," said Kirk. "But I feel safer with you where you are—so this is as far as I'm going to take you. You'll have to do the rest of the work yourself."
"What d'you mean? I'll never get myself out of here."
As the captain finished freeing up the rope, he shrugged. "Maybe not. But you won't sink very far either. And the Rythrian will eventually send someone to look for you."
"What about the nightwings? They'll suck me dry."
Kirk chuckled, tossing his end of the rope into the swamp with the rest of it.
"Good try," he said. "But we both know that nightwings don't frequent the lowlands."
"That wasn't the deal," argued Scarface, changing tacks. "You said you'd get me out of here."
Kirk managed a smile. "You know me—a born liar." And without another word, he headed for the cab again.
"Damn it, you can't leave me here! Hey—I'm talking to you! What in …"
The captain blocked out the rest of it as he raised himself back into the driver's seat. Pulling the door closed, he began the search for the headlight control.
After a few trials—and errors—he located the right dial. Turning it up two clicks to maximum intensity, he saw the jungle stabbed by twin blue beams.
He could tell now that there was a path ahead of him among the trees. It was just wide enough for the truck to make it through.
Throwing the engine into gear, he trundled forward. Branches slapped against the windshield, slithered away on either side. Fog wafted in and out of the jungle, sometimes making it difficult to see.
After a couple of minutes, however, the trees receded and the path widened, and the fog seemed to thin out. Soon after, he came across a black strip of highway.
Leaning forward, he looked down the road in either direction. To the left, there was a glow in the distance. Or at least he thought there was.
That would either be the town itself—or the spaceport, which wasn't far from it. Pushing down on the gas and hauling on the steering wheel, he turned left out onto the blacktop.
For the first time in days, he felt he was in control again. The pain of his wounds was returning with his circulation, he was hungry and he was tired—but none of that mattered. In a little while, he would be reunited with his ship and his crew. And he'd find out what had happened to Bones and Scotty.
Once again, he saw McCoy tossed over the heads of the crowd. He blinked away the vision, made an effort to concentrate on the ribbon of road.
Of course they'd made it back. Scarface wouldn't have lied about taking them captive—not in the position he was in at the time.
Kirk's eyes were drawn to the sideview mirror, where he saw himself scowling. He had a long, dark bruise on his jaw where Scarface had struck him—was it days ago now? And he looked haggard—hollow-cheeked and pale. But most of all, he looked worried.
Relax, he told himself. They're all right, probably in better shape than you are.
But if the big man had lied, there would be hell to pay. Kirk would make him wish he'd died a slow death in that bog.
As he negotiated a lazy turn, the glow up ahead appeared to grow more distinct. When the turn finally resolved itself into a straightaway, he stepped down harder on the gas.
The truck sped up, the jungle unraveling more quickly on either side of him. And the glow waxed brighter.
Then the night was shattered by a distant boom and a dagger of light seemed to rip open the belly of the sky.
It was the firetrail of an old cargo hauler, tracing the ship's struggle as it fought to free itself from gravity. A moment later, the acceleration system cut in and the hauler won the battle, ascending rapidly in a parti-colored blast of energy.
Just before it rose out of sight, Kirk heard his own engine sputter furiously. Before he had any idea what was wrong, the thing shut itself off, turning the entire control console into a confusion of red-flashing lights. Finally, with a near-human sigh, the truck rolled to a halt.
The lights continued to blink annoyingly.
Kirk cursed and struck the console with the heel of his hand.
"What in blazes…?" he muttered, peering at the gauges. It took a while before he found one that could tell him what had happened.
He'd simply run out of fuel.
The road was even lonelier on foot. Kirk hadn't been at all unhappy about the dearth of other vehicles when he'd been trying to get the hang of piloting his own. Now, however, he wished for the sight of a single truck headed in the right direction.
Of course, in the back of his mind, he knew too that such a vehicle might have been driven by the Rythrian's men, fresh from picking up Scarface and hot on his trail. But it was unlikely that they'd have gone searching for him so soon.
Time passed, marked only by the click of his heels on the edge of the highway. Fog curled in over the road, curled out again. There were sounds that originated in the jungle, small-bird and insect sounds. But for the most part, it was quiet.
Gradually, it became apparent that the glow was indeed coming from the town rather than the spaceport—or at least, most of it was. The port seemed to have an illumination of its own—much dimmer than that of Tranktown, but an illumination nonetheless. And as Kirk approached both of them, and got near enough to see them as separate entities, he noted that the spaceport was closer.
Just as well, he told himself. If I set foot in town, I'd be taking unnecesssary chances. And it'll be just as easy to contact the ship from the portmaster's office.
He chuckled softly, alone in the jungle-infused night.
It should be easier to convince him of my identity than it was to convince Scarface.
At least, I hope so.
Once more the night was torn apart, as a cruise liner lifted into the heavens. But as it was a more advanced model than the cargo hauler, it made for a significantly less spectacular light show. And it was gone a lot sooner.
What's more, it had seemed to shoot straight up—which told the captain that he was a lot closer to the port than he'd believed. With all this fog in the air, it was difficult to judge distances.
He kept on as the road wound this way and that, seeming to grow more indecisive as it approached its destination. Finally, a vehicle passed him—but it was headed back out the way he had come, and the driver didn't seem to see him anyway. Nor did he do anything to attract the man's attention.
He didn't need any dubious help now. He was almost there. And he had fallen into a kind of rhythm, a mechanical step that seemed as autonomic as his breathing. As tired as he was, as much as he hurt and hungered, he knew he would make it.
Sure enough, it wasn't long before he could see the hulking shapes of the spacecraft, the angry glare of red beacons on top of the communications towers, the softer play of light on the landing fields.
He couldn't have been more than a hundred yards from the main gate when he felt the squish of something soft and yielding beneath his foot.
As he looked down to see what it was, fleshy tentacles coiled themselves around his calf. He could feel the sharp pain of the stingers even through the synthetic leather of his boot.
Damn…
He fell to one knee as the tentacles released him. Watched helplessly, nerve endings deadening, as the creature slunk off clumsily into the undergrowth.
Nor was the irony lost on him. To have come so far …
He fought to get up, to make it those last few yards. He tried to shout for help.
But the poison was working too quickly. He pitched forward against the blacktop. And in another couple of moments, he lost consciousness altogether.