Survivors - Jean Lorrah [14]
And in the meantime she would have to live as they did, among jungle primitives-the same strength-over-all, might-makes-right existence she had left New Paris to escape.
No. She was determined to reach the landing site, a desert area never visited by the natives because of high levels of natural radiation harmful to them but, at least for a few days of exposure, not to humans.
But her determination wavered as each day threw more obstacles in her path, and after six of the planet’s days had passed she found herself only half-way to her destination. What if the search vessel had already come and gone? She had lost hours to hiding from stalking animals, two days to throwing up her guts when despite routine inoculations her body reacted to the planet’s bacteria, and she could not say how much time was lost to physical weakness after that attack.
Finally, she reached the river that would lead her to the landing site. But there were native settlements along the water, and the Prime Directive said that a lithe blonde human female could not be glimpsed in her true form by the green-haired, chalk-white-skinned natives. Besides, Prime Directive or no, they were at a level of culture at which they were most likely simply to kill such a strange-looking being on sight.
So she had spent the past two days resting while the local insects tried to eat her alive, and the nights creeping past the villages, cursing her luck that the river was at flood stage, not navigable by any vessel short of the technological marvel she now stared at … and lusted after.
Who could it be but Starfleet personnel looking for survivors?
No. If Starfleet sent a rescue party, they would be disguised as natives. But far more likely than risk exposure, they would contact the Federation scientists gone native here, asking them to look for survivors.
So whose boat was that?
Yar crawled through the mud, so covered by it that if she saw anyone in the pale light of dawn she could surely “disappear” simply by holding still, another mound of mud on the river bank. Slowly, slowly, she crept nearer the side of the boat away from the cluster of native huts, and pulled herself up and over the side, beneath the sun canopy.
The controls were of the sort found in any Federation ground craft. There was a small onboard computer, which booted to a chart of the river. The landing site was clearly marked-but the few words were not in English or other familiar language. There were three menus, presumably saying the same thing. One script looked vaguely Vulcan, one some system she did not recognize at all-and one menu was in Klingonaase.
Well, the Klingons were members of the Federation now.
Recent members. This craft, or its computer program, could predate the alliance.
And the Klingons used to be allies with—
Yar suddenly had more than her own survival at stake. This was not just some free trader defying the warning beacon; it was an invasion by non-Federation personnel. Starfleet had to be warned! Now she had even more reason to reach the landing site in time-and her best hope of doing so was in this boat.
After all, the local natives had already seen it.
“Computer-” she whispered.
There was no response. Yet she recognized the voice-activator grille. What the hell?
Oh, damn-of course. Her universal translator had shorted out, right along with her communicator and all the other electronic equipment. This computer would respond only to one of the three languages displayed on its screen. The not-quite-Vulcan script must really be Romulan, and even her Vulcan pronunciation was execrable at best. Breathing a prayer to the spirit of the inventor of the universal translator, she tried to call up enough sleep-taught Klingonaase to make herself understood.
It took three tries before the computer responded with what she hoped was Klingonaase for “Working.”
“Not so-” Oh, hell, what was the word for “loud”?
And while she racked her brain for it, the computer