STAR TREK: TOS - Enterprise, The First Adventure

by Vonda N. McIntyre

  “What kind of effects?” Sulu said, startled. This was something else no other doctor had ever mentioned. “And how long is a few years?”

  “Heart problems, mostly. So you should be sure not to let more than three years pass between physicals after age seventy or so.”

  “I’ll try to remember that, Dr. McCoy,” Sulu said, thinking, A few years?

  Half a century seemed an immeasurably long time.

  For Commander Spock, a few minutes began to seem like an immeasurably long time. He had reached sick bay at precisely the time designated for his medical examination. The ship’s new chief medical officer showed a fine disregard for punctuality. He had not yet finished with Mr. Sulu, though Sulu had been due back on the bridge five minutes ago.

  [109] “If you would reschedule my appointment, Dr. McCoy,” Spock said without preliminaries, “I will return at some more convenient time.”

  “What? Oh, Commander Spock—no, don’t be silly.” He tossed Spock a medical examination coverall, a jumpsuit opaque to the eye but transparent to diagnostic sensors. He gestured to one of the cubicles. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He closed the privacy curtain.

  Spock changed into the coverall. If the cubicle had contained a comm unit, Spock could have worked while he waited. However, it did not.

  Giving a physical exam to someone with the control of biological processes, the awareness of the body, that Vulcans possessed was a mere exercise. But Starfleet insisted that ships’ doctors perform a baseline exam on all personnel. The exam had little to do with Spock and much to do with giving the doctor some familiarity with the beings he might be called upon to treat. However much practice the doctor might need, the entire process wasted Spock’s time. The doctor’s tardiness added to the waste.

  Finally, Dr. McCoy strolled into Spock’s cubicle. “Commander Spock, welcome to sick bay. I do believe you’re the first person to take their physical on time.”

  “It is not on time,” Spock said. “It is now eleven minutes beyond ‘on time.’ ”

  “I meant—never mind, let’s get started.”

  Spock lay on the diagnostic table. The sensors blended into a harmony of sound and light, creating the precise pattern the Vulcan expected.

  “As you can see, doctor, my health—”

  “Stay right there,” McCoy said sharply. “Why, Mr. Spock, I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered a set of readings quite like yours.”

  “They are all within the range of Vulcan norm.”

  “Just barely, some of them.” He regarded the sensors. “I would have thought a few of your human characteristics might come out in the mix.”

  “The Vulcan genome is dominant,” Spock said.

  “Superior genes, hmm? Do I detect a touch of Vulcan chauvinism?” McCoy said. He smiled when he said it. Spock knew that humans sometimes smiled when they [110] insulted other people, and sometimes smiled when they said insulting things that they did not mean to be perceived as insults. Unfortunately, distinguishing between the two possible meanings could be difficult in the extreme.

  “Not at all,” Spock said. “It is a matter of experimental fact. Were we speaking Vulcan, the words ‘dominant’ and ‘recessive’ would imply neither superiority nor inferiority. One might perceive human chauvinism in your attitude that the traits of your species should prevail, despite laboratory evidence that they do not. Are you quite finished, doctor?”

  “No, not by a long shot, don’t move. I haven’t had much chance to practice on Vulcans.” He grinned. “Aren’t you interested in contributing to my education?”

  “I have fulfilled my obligation to regulations by submitting to this examination. I see no use in remaining while you satisfy trivial inquisitiveness.”

  “You haven’t fulfilled your obligations till I say the exam is over. You’ll be happy to know your physical health is excellent.”

  “I was already aware of that fact.”

  “What about your psychological health? Your emotional state? Are you having any difficulties you want to discuss?”

  “Vulcans have no emotional state.”

  “Even equanimity is an emotional state!” McCoy said. “Besides, your physical characteristics may be mostly determined by your genes, but your psychological ones sure aren’t. Your background has exposed you to complex cultural interactions, conflicting philosophies—”

  “We are all products of our environments,” Spock said. “Otherwise we would not be sentient beings, capable of growth. However, we are not unconscious products: we may choose and control our influences. I am not in conflict with my background: Vulcan philosophy permits me to conduct my life without emotionalism.”

  “There’s a lot to be said for emotionalism.”

  “Indeed? In my observation, it brings only unhappiness.”

  “Oh, really? For example?”

  “For example, Captain Kirk.”

  “What makes you think Jim Kirk is unhappy?”

  “He made his feelings known when his choice of first officer was overruled.”

  [111] “In your favor.”

  “That fact has nothing to do with our discussion.”

  “No? You have no feelings of pride in being promoted?”

  “Pride? Pride is unknown to me.”

  “And I suppose you’re going to claim you wouldn’t have minded if Mitch had been promoted over you.”

  “Not in the least. Commander Mitchell has a reputation as a competent officer. It is not my emotional state that should concern you. It is Captain Kirk’s.”

  “Meanwhile, you have no feelings, no desires—”

  “Vulcans do not possess desires, Dr. McCoy. However, if I had human feelings, they would be ... none of your business.”

  “Everything affecting the ship is my business. For instance, you served under Christopher Pike for a long time. You have no reaction to seeing him replaced?”

  If Spock had felt regret at Pike’s departure, he had suppressed the reaction. He saw no reason to confess his lapse to a stranger.

  “You feel no disappointment?” McCoy asked. “No hint of human reaction amidst the Vulcan equanimity?”

  Spock tired of the sparring. “Do you believe, Dr. McCoy, that no one before you has noted the inherent contradictions in the circumstances of my existence?”

  “What are you talking about, commander?”

  “Though I had no obligation to explain my choice of a philosophy to you, I have done so. Yet you refuse to accept this choice; indeed, you dispute my right to make it. I have not intruded upon you with suggestions as to how you could become more rational—though I could make such suggestions.”

  “Why, Mr. Spock, I do believe you’re angry.”

  “No, doctor, I am not angry. But I see no point to wasting my time with fruitless discussions.”

  “All right, Mr. Spock, if that’s the way you feel about it.”

  “That is what I think about it,” Spock said. “There is a difference, though you choose not to perceive it.”

  McCoy picked up a hypo. “I’ll let you take your thoughts right out of here—as soon as I get a blood sample.”

  “A blood sample is superfluous. The sensors have recorded all the factors of a baseline exam.”

  [112] “I know, but I want to do a few extra tests—”

  Spock rose. Once in a long while the emotions he worked so hard to repress struggled to expose his less than absolute control, but he crushed them mercilessly. McCoy would never know the depths to which his offhand comment wounded the Vulcan.

  “Human or Vulcan, I am not your experimental animal.”

  “Wait, Spock, for heaven’s sake! I didn’t mean—”

  Spock strode from sick bay, still in the coverall. He preferred returning to his cabin to dress. He could think of no logical reason why he should be forced to endure the doctor’s needling, literal or figurative, and all too human.

  But then, outside sick bay, Spock paused. He forced his emotions back under control, cr
ushing the anger Dr. McCoy had made him feel. The humiliation he experienced in response to succumbing to the anger in the first place he dismissed as self-indulgence.

  He considered the doctor’s demand, then turned and strode back into sick bay without hesitation.

  Dr. McCoy had busied himself with some files. He looked up.

  “Yes, Mr. Spock?” he said stiffly. “What is it now?”

  “If you believe it is your duty to take a blood sample, it is my duty to comply with your request,” Spock said.

  Dr. McCoy’s expression remained hard. “It is, is it? Thank you for your condescension, Commander Spock. I’ll make an appointment for you, for some other time. As you can see, I’m busy.”

  Spock regarded him, one eyebrow upswept, any question left unasked.

  “Very well, doctor,” Spock said, his tone even. “At your convenience.” He departed.

  McCoy watched the science officer leaving sick bay. The Vulcan showed no evidence of his previous brief loss of temper, no physical indication that McCoy’s dismissal had irritated him. He walked as he always walked, with a controlled stride, his boot heels silent on the deck.

  McCoy scowled at the unread file.

  Damn your Irish temper, he said to himself. That wasn’t an acknowledgment of your authority, it was a peace overture. Which you threw back in his face.

  [113] For a moment, McCoy thought to go after Spock. But he decided he had better let himself cool down for a while instead. Commander Spock’s accusations of unnecessary medical testing had stung McCoy, perhaps because they were not entirely untrue. Mostly, but not entirely. Unique individuals need unique medical care, and preparing himself for emergencies was McCoy’s primary motivation. Even if he did not expect emergencies on this trip.

  But he could not deny that the researcher in him itched to take a close look at the cellular structure of a being half-human and half-Vulcan.

  McCoy grinned. Commander Spock, he thought, you’re just lucky I didn’t demand a tissue biopsy. Wonder how you’d’ve reacted to that?

  McCoy prepared for his next appointment. When the opportunity presented itself, he would make peace with Commander Spock. The doctor had no doubt that he could jolly the Vulcan into a better mood as readily as he had provoked the uncharacteristic offended outburst.

  Appeal to his human side, McCoy thought. That will do it.

  Lindy rested her elbows on the railings of the companion-way and slid from the catwalk to the shuttle deck.

  “Lindy, you’re going to break an ankle doing that.” Marcellin, the mime, rose from the deck chair near Athene’s corral. Even when he wore no makeup and allowed himself to speak, he moved as if he were on stage. Lindy loved to watch him.

  “No, I’m not, but you’re sweet to worry. How is she?”

  “Restless, of course. I don’t suppose they’ve got a racetrack on this bucket, do they?”

  “No, I’m afraid they don’t.”

  “They ought to. It’s big enough.”

  “Thanks for watching her. I’ll see you at rehearsal.”

  “Right.”

  She watched him stroll away, admiring his graceful walk and his slender dark body.

  Athene snorted and stretched her head over the top rail of the corral, looking for a treat. Lindy gave her a protein pellet and rubbed behind her ears, beneath her jaw, across her wide forehead.

  [114] “You think those goodies will always be there, don’t you? What would you do if I lost my touch, huh?” She magicked another tidbit. Athene ruffled her wings and pranced in place. She needed to stretch her legs and her wings. The shuttle deck was big enough, but Athene could not run on the metal decking. She might slip or damage her hooves or her legs.

  “I know it’s hard to stand still for so long, but be patient and maybe something will work out, all right?” Athene tried to stick her nose in one of her pockets. “No, you don’t need anything else to eat.”

  While she mucked out Athene’s corral, she daydreamed about the future of the company. She had ambitions. She envisioned buying a star cruiser and performing all over the Federation. She imagined a cultural exchange with the Klingon Empire that would create goodwill not only between the people but between the governments.

  First she would have to pull off this commission. She worried that a cultural relic from earth might not play before offworld audiences. But the acts were entertaining. Some people looked upon them as being three hundred years out of date. She preferred to think of them as having, some of them, a thousand years of history.

  She wished she had more information on vaudeville. Scraps and dreams formed the basis of the company. Laser and tape records of real vaudeville did not exist, film was rare, stored information sparse, books few and far between. She visited the library of every town they stopped in, looking for information never committed to computer memory. She had found moldy old books, pamphlets, playbills, scarred microfilm of newspaper announcements that no one had looked at for centuries. After she took over from her daddy, she made some changes. He had not always got it right.

  Lindy sometimes added anachronistic acts, like the hunt performance, but she knew when she was doing it. She would even admit it, if pressed.

  Sometimes, she thought, you have to sacrifice a little authenticity to entertainment. If real vaudeville had been able to get a hunt performance, they’d’ve presented it, too.

  [115] When she had finished, she gave the equiraptor a good currying. The brush slid easily over Athene’s glossy coat. Lindy used her bare hands to groom her wings. Like many genetically engineered creatures, even those developed by selective breeding before the invention of gene splicing, Athene needed human help for some abilities that an evolved creature would have developed. Corn plants had not been able to propagate independently for millennia; Athene could do a certain amount of rough grooming with her sharp front teeth, but she had no beak or talons. Lindy’s hands did a better job of ruffling the feathers, working in the natural oil, and smoothing them again.

  Last she cleaned Athene’s hooves. She could smell the faint musty odor of an incipient case of a fungal hoof infection. She swore under her breath.

  She stood up and patted Athene’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll do something about the deck. I don’t know what. But something.”

  Athene nuzzled her side, trying to discover which secret pocket she carried the carrots in this time.

  Lindy gave up putting off the work she was supposed to be doing. She spent the next hour roughing out a design for the tour’s poster.

  The doors of the turbo-lift made a fluttery noise as they tried to close against an obstruction.

  Uhura glanced up. A young crew member—Uhura had seen her once or twice—stepped forward timorously, as if all that forced her onto the bridge was the knowledge that computer would chastise her if she stayed where she was.

  Uhura thought, as she had before, that the young woman would be awfully pretty if she did not always look so terrified—and if she did not cut her hair so short and ragged. It would look quite nice if she let it grow or shaved it completely, but this unkempt in-betweenness did nothing for her.

  Suddenly, as if starlight dispersed her fears, the crew member stared in wonder at the viewscreen. The small ports and screens in crew quarters gave only a hint of the powerful beauty of space at warp speed. Seeing it on the viewscreen [116] astonished and transfixed the young crew member. Her gaze made Uhura see anew the steady glow of stars in all the colors of the universe.

  Uhura crossed the bridge. “Are you lost?”

  The crew member jumped. The pretty little moonstruck girl vanished and the terrified young woman reappeared.

  “I don’t bite.” Uhura smiled at her. “Are you lost?”

  “I’m ... I’m the yeoman. I’m supposed to meet the captain ... ?”

  “Welcome to the bridge, I’m Lieutenant Uhura.” She waited for the yeoman to introduce herself.

  The yeoman looked down. The mug’s lid rattled—the ch
ild’s hand was shaking!

  “I mean—I’m not really a yeoman yet, but they said ...” Her voice trailed off.

  “What’s your name?” Uhura asked gently.

  “Janice Rand.”

  “Come with me, Janice, I’ll introduce you.”

  “I don’t want to bother anybody—”

  “It’s no bother. They’ll be glad of the chance to stop having to look busy.” Uhura gestured to the mug. “Would you like to put that down?”

  “It’s ... it’s the captain’s.”

  “He’ll be back in a minute. His place is down here.”

  Uhura put the mug on the arm of the captain’s seat and took Janice’s hand. The hard calluses on the child’s palms startled her. She led the yeoman first to Mr. Spock.

  “Mr. Spock, this is Captain Kirk’s yeoman, Janice Rand. Janice, this is Commander Spock. He’s the science officer and second in command of the Enterprise.”

  Janice held back as if Spock terrified her even more than everything else did.

  “How do you do, yeoman.” He returned to his work.

  Uhura led Janice to the lower level of the bridge. “Mr. Spock is very private,” Uhura whispered. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “Is it true ... is it true he can read minds?”

  “Yes, in a way,” Uhura said softly, then, at Janice’s reaction, hurriedly added, “but he has to be touching you, and it’s hard, and I don’t think he likes to do it. He surely wouldn’t without your permission. He only did it that one [117] time because it was a matter of life and death.” Captain Pike had omitted the incident from the official report and from the captain’s log because of Mr. Spock’s reticence. But everyone who had been on board at the time knew what had happened and what he could do.

  Uhura did not think she had eased Janice’s fear.

  Hikaru Sulu, the helm officer, and Marietta Cheung, the navigator, made Janice more comfortable. They showed her the displays on their complicated consoles, and they were nearer her age—but how old was she? Uhura wondered. She did not look even eighteen.