Killing Time, page 16
Across the bed, S'Parva shrugged. "You forget that Katellans aren't Vulcans," she reminded him. "Telepathy is the main form of communication on Katella—and not at all unpleasant."
Richardson swallowed. That's what I'm afraid of! he said to himself. But he managed a smile. "Is there anything we have to do first?" he asked. "Take out the garbage, walk the cat … get married?"
Laughing, S'Parva shook her head. "All you have to do is let me come into your mind," she replied. "The rest'll be easy." She propped herself up on one elbow, meeting the ensign's expectant gaze. "And presuming there is something out of sync, it shouldn't make any difference to the higher consciousness. I'll be … acting as a guide mainly," she continued, "helping you follow any images you receive." She looked over her head. "And all of it will be automatically recorded on the vid-scanner for analysis."
Richardson frowned thoughtfully. "So … theoretically, the mind will just slip back into its natural … universe." He wanted to laugh, to cry, to do anything at all to break the sudden tension. "I could," he ventured, "find myself sweeping the men's room at the bus station!"
The Katellan winked. "Or working as an Orion slave trader," she suggested as an alternative.
The human sighed deeply, grateful that S'Parva had taken the time to explain the current theories to him. But the idea of an entirely different universe … He shuddered. "Okay," he conceded at last. "In the name of science, let's get on with it." In the name of science. He made a mental note to strangle his roommate at the next possible opportunity.
After a moment, S'Parva nodded toward the technician who was waiting just outside the privacy divider. The young lieutenant disappeared, and the lights dimmed to night normal.
In the darkness, Richardson breathed deeply, feeling the Katellan's soft-furred hand slide into his own, fingers entwining reassuringly. He was peripherally aware of the hum of medical monitoring equipment, and of the gentle surge of psychic warmth which he felt from his partner. He smiled to himself … and reality slowly spun out of focus as their minds joined.
Curved corridors swam into being. Familiar … yet different. He chose a well-lighted one, walked down it slowly, stopping in front of a well-known door and glancing up to see the nameplate.
LIEUTENANT JEREMY J. RICHARDSON
Part of him blinked disbelievingly. Lieutenant?
Go into the room, Jerry, S'Parva's distant voice urged.
He stared at the door, wondering what he would find on the other side. Himself?
Go ahead, S'Parva whispered. It can't hurt you. . . .
He took a deep breath, heard it in stereo. For an instant, he felt something walk through him, pass through his soul. He wondered fleetingly if it was Lieutenant Richardson. He shivered, feeling out of place. A phantom hand reached out, touched the door, verified solidity and reality.
But before he could enter the room, footsteps sounded gently on the deck behind him. He turned, startled, and felt himself slip deeper into the illusion which was far more "real" than anything he'd encountered in days.
"Morning, Captain," he said before his conscious mind which was still somewhere in an alternate reality could stop him. "The night crew had a little poker party up on the bridge, so just ignore the stale beer and peanuts in your chair."
Hazel eyes sparkled warmly, and a man in a gold command tunic winked. "Sure, Jerry," the captain agreed with a grin. "But I'll have to tell Lieutenant Masters that you won't be able to keep that date I set up for you—since you'll be too busy down in the brig."
Richardson laughed, yawning. "Night, sir," he said. "Or good morning."
The captain continued on down the corridor as Richardson slipped through the double doors without a second thought. Inside, he tugged off the shirt, sat on the edge of the bed, and removed the black boots.
It was comfortable, he thought, not knowing precisely what he was comparing "it" to.
But he leaned back on the bed and closed tired brown eyes.
He would stay.
"Jerry?"
Cold water splashed on his face.
"Jerry, open your eyes! For chrissake, open your eyes!"
He rolled away, disappointed. The room changed. The bed was no longer soft. "Go 'way," he muttered miserably.
Someone pulled him into a sitting position, hands rubbed briskly across his neck and shoulders. A feminine voice coaxed him back to reality.
It hurt.
Lieutenant … bridge posting … best ship in the Fleet.
"Go 'way!" Anger now. Resentment.
"Jerry, I'm coming into your mind again," S'Parva's voice informed him in a tone which left no room for argument. "I'm going to pull you back." But she was in a tunnel somewhere.
No … "No …"
Something slid warmly into his mind, caressing him, holding him, comforting him in soft brown arms. He moved toward it, sensing protection. For a moment, he tasted the flavor of peace. Home …
But as quickly as the feeling of solace came, it was pulled away, ripped from him—gently, if possible. He moaned aloud.
Stop fighting me, Jerry, a tender voice whispered. You can't stay … at least not now. Your body can't exist without your mind … not on two different planes. You have to come back.
He felt himself breathe, wondered why it felt unnatural. Home …?
Yes, S'Parva said gently. But you can't stay. We need you here, Jerry. Follow me back into the light. . . .
He sighed to himself, and slipped away from the man on the bed. Like levitation, he thought consciously. Or astral travel … Lieutenant Richardson would have to wait … for a while.
His eyes opened, back on the ShiKahr.
"Jim," he murmured. "Captain Kirk!"
The command chair rose around his slim frame, surrounding him with an ever-increasing feeling of responsibility and weariness. An eyebrow rose. Illogical consideration. But Time pressed forward. Time … hot and red and lethal. Time …
"Status report, Mister Sulu?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary at the moment, Captain," the helmsman responded. "Sensors were picking up a blip of some sort earlier," he added, "but it faded almost as quickly as it appeared." He glanced toward Chekov.
"Just the normal instrument fluctuations now, Captain," Chekov provided. "Apparently, the blip was just an … unusual sensor malfunction. We're checking into the matter, but no miscalibration of sensors currently detected."
Spock nodded to himself. "Spatial scan?"
"Normal," Chekov replied; but an expression of confusion slowly grew on his features as he eyed the viewscreen. "Surely the Romulans would not violate the Neutral Zone with the ShiKahr in the vicinity; their instruments are undoubtedly capable of detecting us, sir."
Spock leaned forward, studying the familiar star pattern. "The Romulans have never been noted for their integrity nor their predictability, Mister Chekov," he pointed out. "And their cloaking device would aid greatly in getting a small vessel well inside Alliance territory before their presence could be detected." He glanced at Uhura. "We still have to wait until the blip is identified," he decided aloud. "Contact the T'Ruda, and have their commander hold his present location until further notice."
"Aye, Captain," Uhura responded.
With a dubious look, Spock rose from the chair, going to the science station. "As a precautionary measure, Mister Chekov, run a full security check on all ship's sensor equipment. If that generates negative findings, begin an immediate sonar scan to detect anything large enough to be a vessel within five light-years."
The first officer stared mutely at the captain. "Sonar scan, sir?" he repeated incredulously. "That'll take days!"
"Not if you begin at once, Commander," the Vulcan countered. "And the time will be considerably shortened if you enlist the aid of off-duty personnel in Auxiliary Control. The complete scan should require no more than forty-eight hours." But internally, he grimaced. Two days …
The Vulcan turned from the bridge, heading toward the lift doors; but before he could reach them, the communication panel buzzed noisily.
"Uhura?" McCoy's voice said. "Is Spock up there?"
"This is Spock," the Vulcan replied, stepping over to the speaker.
"Spock, I need to see you down in Sickbay right away. Ensign Richardson and Yeoman S'Parva just handed me the results of a private research project, and I think you might be interested in them. Also," the doctor added, "this concerns Ensign Kirk. Unfortunately, the quartermaster hasn't been able to find him. He's not in his quarters, not listed on any duty shift, and the computer indicates that he hasn't used his identification chip for meals since the Canusian incident."
The Vulcan felt himself go cold inside, only then consciously realizing that he hadn't seen Kirk in over a day. Odd … he hadn't sensed anything wrong. But with that thought came another. He hadn't sensed anything. An eyebrow rose, and a cold phantom which he recognized as himself took a step closer.
"I shall attempt to locate Ensign Kirk myself, Doctor," he said at last. "If my search is successful, I will meet you in your office later this evening."
"Well … don't take too long, Spock," the doctor replied after a momentary hesitation. "If you can't find him within a couple of hours, get down here anyway."
Irritation crept closer, threatened to mutate into anger. "Of course, Captain McCoy," he replied, and headed for the lift once again, unaware of the astonished stares which followed him.
Chapter Fourteen
AS SHIP'S NIGHT fell, the Vulcan walked down the long corridor which would lead to the ship's botanical gardens; but as he reached the double doors, he stopped. A sudden wave of dizziness and disorientation swept over him, and blood sang in his ears. He took a deep breath. Something had drawn him here, he realized disjointedly. Something … human. After a momentary battle, the dizziness passed; and, forcing his hand to move, he depressed the button which would open the doors.
Ship's night was everywhere, and the pseudo-sunset colors on the garden's dome gave an ethereal glow to the odd variety of plants, trees and flowering vines which climbed the walls, completing the illusion of a small forest. He entered into silence, but a quick survey of his surroundings left him illogically disappointed. The room appeared empty.
He turned to leave, recalling McCoy's insistence, but stopped when his ears detected a faint sound of movement no more than a few yards away. His eyes traveled back to the doors, warring between Time and duty; but slowly his gaze returned to the central portion of the gardens. He'd heard of other starships becoming inhabited by certain animals which sentimental human crewmen smuggled aboard during planetfall, and he couldn't help wondering if some rodent or cat had taken up residence on board the ShiKahr.
Choosing a path which would lead to the source of the noise, he made his way past to dense foliage until he reached the garden's center. Six large trees grew in a circle, their branches cascading to the ground like dark veils of mourning. In contrast to the eerie sight, the scent of fresh earth and flowers came to the Vulcan's nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, wondering how long it had been since he'd experienced the inner peace which had once been a natural state of being.
Shoving the melancholy thought to the back of his mind, he simply stood there, pointedly ignoring Time and galaxies as the lighting grew progressively dimmer. At last, only a luminescent purple haze remained. For a moment, the colors took his mind back to Vulcan—to childhood days when the red sun had slid beneath a distant horizon, and golden sands had begun to cool beneath his bare feet.
Vulcan! He turned from the image. Starfleet had indeed been the only solution; and except for unbidden moments of retrospection, he had—he thought—succeeded in divorcing himself from the past altogether. But here, with only the plants to share private memories, perhaps it was safe to think of what he'd left behind. He realized that his nerves had been something less than perfect recently … and a few more minutes could not matter so very much.
In many ways, Spock accepted that he was no longer Vulcan at all; that culture and heritage had been stripped from him too many years before—when the marriage to T'Pring had terminated in disastrous mental disharmony.
He felt the sting of embarrassment return to darken his face, despite the fact that it was now years later. But his mother's human blood had been too strong, and the emotional traits which had been bequeathed to him in her genes had condemned him to spend the remainder of his life as a drifter … an outcast. Amanda could not be blamed for that, he realized logically … yet even Sarek had seemed pleased to see him go.
And, at the very least, he was free of T'Pring—an unfaithful creature who had held nothing but contempt for his mixed blood and distasteful human emotions.
T'kona … Go from this place alone. That's what T'Pau had ordered when T'Pring demanded formal severance of the bond. Leave Vulcan. Do not come back. T'kona, Spock …
Less than Vulcan … other than human. No choice but to obey T'Pau's command.
And Vulcan was gone.
He was drawn from his disturbing melancholy, however, as he heard the sound again—a distinct rustling of leaves less than twenty feet away. With an arched brow, he moved closer to the circle of trees, parted their branches quietly, and peered into cool lavender darkness. It took a moment for even his keen eyes to adjust, but he was soon able to discern the lone figure on the ground. At first, the logical portion of his mind asked if someone had been injured, or had fainted from the humid heat of the gardens. It was only when he looked closer that he remembered why he had come here to begin with: Kirk.
Quietly, carefully, he edged closer, kneeling by the man on the ground.
Dressed in civilian clothing, the human had drawn himself into a fetal position, and was clutching his chest tightly in sleep. Apparently, the Vulcan surmised, Kirk had fallen asleep in the afternnon "sun" of the gardens. But even in repose, the ensign appeared tired and troubled, almost to the point of mental and physical exhaustion.
Telling himself it was purely professional concern, knowing otherwise, Spock studied the sleeping man openly, not surprised to see several scars and bruises. But in those minor injuries—apparently a combination of Donner's rowdiness and the Canusian incident—Spock observed much more. For an instant, he was in Sickbay, standing over this human as he'd done a hundred times before. Kirk had been injured during planetfall (again); McCoy was working frantically to save his life (again); and Spock knew he must be there when his companion awakened (if indeed he ever did).
Wrenching himself free of the memory which wasn't a memory at all, the Vulcan leaned back to sit on the ground. But as he sat there, alone despite the human's presence, a sudden simplicity of vision presented itself. A few moments before, he had accepted that he was no longer Vulcan; and the concept that ancient doctrine and taboos would prevent his helping the young ensign severed whatever strand had tied him to his own heritage. With the cool rapport of a meld, he could stop the human's nightmares, erase the lingering mental anguish from the Talos Device … fill emptiness with purpose.
And perhaps there would be other answers as well. The mind knew no limits. And any universe—no matter how small or large—could dwell inside one thought.
T'lema … he who walks in dreams.
No … Kirk was no stranger to his mind.
Dizziness swayed the Vulcan's hand. Logic fought … and lost. Before permitting himself the luxury of altering his decision, he initiated the mind meld.
Kirk tensed instinctively in his sleep, from the mental thread which gently entered his mind. But as he became aware of his true surroundings, his eyes snapped open, a gasp of surprise slipping past his control when he saw the Vulcan commander leaning over him.
For a moment, Spock did not move. And as their eyes met in near-darkness, the Vulcan thought he detected the same sense of recognition in Kirk that he had experienced within himself. For the briefest of instants, reality had altered.
Not moving, Kirk took a deep breath. "What are you doing?" he asked pointedly, tone neither accusing nor encouraging.
The Vulcan began breathing again, and hesitantly withdrew the initial strand of the fragile link. He did not have a logical answer; yet his suspicions were confirmed. He did know Kirk … or would know him in some alien future. In the mind, the Time-mistress had no authority, the Reality Keeper was lost. And Kirk's reaction alone proved something. Logically, Ensign Kirk would have responded with outrage, the Vulcan thought. But the utterly calm human exterior left him confused.
"I … sensed that you were troubled by … dreams," he stated, schooling his voice to its calmest level. "Please forgive me," he added, annoyed by words which became more clipped and difficult as he continued. "I did not intend to … intrude."
Surprisingly, the enigmatic human only stretched out on the ground. "Since I'm already considered to be crazy by the majority of people on this ship," he began, "maybe it won't be too difficult to say what I'm thinking for a change." He smiled wistfully, wondering where his anger had disappeared to. "Then you can haul me down to Sickbay and have me fitted for one of those jackets that tie in the back."
A curious brow arched. It was the first time Spock could recall the ensign displaying any sense of humor at all. "Please explain."
Kirk didn't move from his reclining position as he began nervously twisting the gold ring on his left hand. His eyes settled on the ceiling, on the purples and muted blacks and the foggy humidity which was shedding dew-tears on the mossy ground.
"Right now," he began, "I feel just about as phoney as that sunset." Somehow, it was easier to share his thoughts with the Vulcan than he'd expected. Briefly, he wondered how far the meld had gone while he was asleep, but … no. It was something else which had thrown their lives together. "I don't know myself anymore," he added matter-of-factly, "but I do know you." He turned, studying the angular face of his commanding officer.
The Vulcan's expression softened as he held himself open to Kirk's visual inspection. "Would you consider me a madman if I informed you that I reflect your thoughts?" he asked.
