The Amazing Stories

by M. Shayne Bell

  “Why would the Romulans want to kill the Legarans?” Beverly Crusher asked.

  “Because Legara IV is located in a very critical area of space.” Sakkath, who had been standing there in silence, spoke up. “The planet lies midway between Cardassian space and the Romulan Neutral Zone. Legara IV is one of the primary sources for velonium, which is used in warp-core shielding. The Romulans are eager to annex Legara IV . . . but in order to do so, they would first have to drive a wedge between Legara and the Federation. The murder of their delegation at an important diplomatic function would certainly accomplish that goal.”

  Picard nodded at Sakkath's analysis. “And undo Sarek's ninety-three years of work,” he said, feeling a surge of anger at the nameless Romulan.

  “We understand,” came the toneless voice of the Legaran official. “This is not the first time enemies of the Federation have sought to harm our people. And, Captain Picard . . . we thank you for your help.”

  “Oh, you're most welcome,” Picard said. “I only regret that you experienced any discomfort.”

  The Legaran minister blinked his huge eyes. “And now . . . may we ask you to withdraw, Captain? Your clothing is not at all proper for conversation, and it is painful to us to converse with a being not properly attired for interspecies interaction.”

  Picard was taken aback, until he remembered how protocol-conscious the Legarans were. “I understand,” he said. “My apologies if my attire offended you, Minister.”

  “Under the circumstances, we are willing to overlook it, Captain,” said the being graciously.

  Picard beat a hasty retreat from the tank's viewing orifice.

  Sakkath touched his sleeve. “It is time for the memorial service to begin,” he said. “Can your crew manage without you?”

  Picard hesitated, glanced at La Forge and Data. “We're up and running again, Captain,” the chief engineer said. “I'll just stay here and monitor the tank as it heats back up.”

  “And I'll monitor the Legarans,” Crusher said. “Go, Jean-Luc. Don't keep them waiting.”

  “Very well,” Picard said, and followed Sakkath.

  They walked single file across the tongue of stone. Picard gazed out across the seemingly bottomless gulf, thinking of the Romulan, wondering what it would be like to fall . . . and fall. . . .

  When they reached the amphitheater, the crowd was small. Picard saw Perrin, Sarek's human wife, almost immediately. She was standing there, wearing Vulcan garb as was her custom, a long white robe, very plain. A white coif held her blonde hair back from her features. Picard had seen her just days ago, but he was saddened to see what a difference only a few days had made. Exhaustion and grief had deepened the lines on her face, until she appeared twenty years older than the woman he had known. Picard knew from Sarek's mind that she had truly loved and revered her husband.

  Sakkath led Picard up to Perrin. Her eyes widened when she saw the captain. “Jean-Luc!”

  Picard took her hand, bowed over it. “Please accept my condolences, Perrin. We have all lost . . . so much.”

  She regarded him for a long moment, then nodded. “Yes, we have, Jean-Luc. He would be glad that you are here. Please . . . stand with us.”

  Picard took his place on her left side, and Sakkath stood to her right.

  As the hovering sun touched the horizon, a Vulcan priest struck a huge gong. The sound reverberated out into the distance, and all conversation ceased.

  A tall, stern-looking Vulcan of middle years walked out into the center of the amphitheater, flanked by two acolytes. Picard realized this must be the current High Master. His voice rang out into the stillness. “Today we honor the memory of Sarek of Vulcan, son of Skon, grandson of Solkar. Sarek served our world capably for his entire adult life. We respect and honor him today as one who helped Vulcan forge strong ties with the Federation. The President of the Federation has asked to be allowed to speak, and I call upon her at this time.”

  The Federation President, a Tellarite female, stepped forward. “Sarek of Vulcan. What can we say about this person? He was a strong friend, an obdurate foe, and a champion of galactic peace. Today we are all the poorer for his loss. I will miss him, miss our clashes as well as our unity. Madame Sarek, in the words of your adopted people . . . today I grieve with thee.”

  The High Master nodded at the Federation President, then at Perrin. “It is time for the family members to speak.”

  Perrin took a step forward. “I am all the family that Sarek had left,” she said, her voice husky, but strong. She spoke in English, but her speech patterns had a Vulcan cadence to them. “Sarek's son chose to forsake his father and forsake Vulcan . . . because, as you can all see, Spock is not here today.”

  Picard remembered that Perrin and Spock had never gotten along. Perrin felt that Spock's political views during the Cardassian conflicts had constituted a betrayal of his father. “I am very protective of my husband, Captain,” she'd said once. “I do not apologize for it.”

  The captain took a deep breath, feeling rather light-headed. I must need another dose of tri-ox, he thought.

  Perrin fell silent, obviously struggling for control. All those years on Vulcan had taught her something, because, a moment later, she spoke again, her voice shaking but understandable. “My husband was a great man, and we will never again see his like. The galaxy has lost . . . much. I miss him, and I mourn him . . . I will always mourn him. Grieve with me, my friends, for Sarek is . . . gone.”

  She made a slight, all-inclusive gesture, then bowed her head.

  Picard blinked in confusion, realizing that he had taken a step forward so that he again stood shoulder to shoulder with Perrin. She glanced over at him, plainly surprised. The captain felt his mouth opening, heard himself speak in a voice that was not his own— in fluent Vulcan.

  The faces of the crowd registered surprise and, in Perrin's case, utter shock.

  Even though Picard did not understand or speak Vulcan, the words he was speaking resonated within him, and he knew their meaning:

  “Greetings. I am Spock, son of Sarek, grandson of Skon. My words come from the mouth of my father's and my friend, Captain Picard of the starship Enterprise. It is not possible for me to be with you today to honor my father. I am far away on a mission to promote galactic peace. My mission honors my father's memory. Sarek and I often did not agree. Everyone knows that. And yet . . . he is the reason I am where I am today.”

  Even as Picard spoke, the words coming readily to his lips, his mind flashed back to the last moments of the meld with Spock. Now he recalled the Vulcan's unspoken question and his own wordless assent: Spock's final message had been implanted on such a deep subconscious level that it had stayed buried in his mind until the proper moment.

  Even the normally stoic Vulcans reacted visibly to Picard's words, with varying degrees of surprise. Perrin was staring at Picard, shock and anger plain on her aristocratic features.

  Picard realized that the crowd was hearing him speak in Spock's voice. He wanted to be here, but knew it was impossible. So he chose the only way to speak at his father's memorial. . . .

  “I honor my father. In life, I respected him. Sarek taught me a great deal. He taught me to revere Infinite Diversity In Infinite Combinations. He taught me that peace was the best way. He taught me to be strong, to face my duty unswervingly . . . and that is what I am doing.”

  Picard took a deep breath, realizing his mouth and throat felt strange from shaping those alien words.

  “I do not know if I shall ever be able to return to Vulcan. I am working for peace, teaching the Vulcan way . . . the way of Surak. The way of Sarek.”

  Picard felt tears sting his eyes as Spock's words made him remember his own conflicts with his father. “Goodbye, my father. Your struggle is over. May you find peace where you are, and may I help bring about peace where I am. I shall miss you always, and I grieve that you and I will never look upon each other again. Farewell, Sarek.”

  Picard fell silent.


  Perrin gazed at the captain, and Picard could tell that she was angry—whether at him or at Spock, he could not say.

  Then Sakkath stepped forward. “As the Keeper of the Katra, I have climbed the steps of Mount Seleya. I have listened to the words of Sarek's wife . . . and of his son. I shall now convey Sarek's katra to the Hall of Ancient Thought, for his final leave-taking.” The ambassador's aide inclined his head slightly, first to Perrin, then to Picard.

  Then the young Vulcan turned and walked away, and the crowd of mourners parted before him as he headed out onto the narrow stone bridge.

  He knew, Picard realized. When Sakkath touched me, somehow he knew, even though I did not, that I was carrying Spock's final message to Sarek. That is why he insisted I stand with the family. . . .

  Picard took a deep breath, and then another as he watched the young Vulcan's tall form dwindle away in the gathering darkness. Fathers and sons . . . the captain thought. Did Sarek, at last, finally understand his son? Did my father at some point understand—and forgive—me?

  Jean-Luc Picard knew he would never know. And yet . . . for some reason he felt encouraged, buoyed. A cooling breeze touched his cheek, and he felt at peace.

  Night descended upon Vulcan, a night full of stars.

  Bedside Matters

  By Greg Cox

  “Dammit, I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian!”

  Beverly Crusher sighed and rolled her eyes, none too surprised by the familiar grousing of the Enterprise's Emergency Medical Hologram. This wasn't the first time the EMH had gotten on her nerves; for an artificial lifeform, the holographic doctor had a markedly abrasive personality, not to mention a highly questionable bedside manner.

  I'd just as soon not use the darn thing at all, she thought, except in the most extreme emergencies, but Starfleet Medical keeps pestering me for evaluation reports on this wonderful new technological innovation.

  Ironically, it was Crusher herself who had approved the initial funding and development of the EMH project, back during her yearlong stint as head of Starfleet Medical. It seemed like a good idea at the time, she reflected wryly.

  Right now, however, the hologram was a mass of fuming photons, characteristically indignant at the simple task for which Crusher had activated him. “I'm programmed with over five million possible treatments,” the EMH protested, his arms crossed atop his chest as he confronted Beverly in sickbay, “along with the accumulated knowledge and diagnostic capabilities of two thousand medical references, forty-seven physicians, and over three thousand humanoid cultures, and to what crucial medical challenge is the sum total of this awesome amount of expertise applied to? Soothing the digestive tract of an overfed feline!”

  “I do not wish to contradict you, Doctor,” Lt. Commander Data stated calmly, his synthetic arms holding the feline in question, “but I do not believe that I have fed Spot excessively.” The gold-skinned android had arrived in sickbay only minutes before, bearing his afflicted pet. “Nevertheless, she has been gagging repeatedly for a period of 12.637 hours, which leads me to suspect the presence of a singularly stubborn trichobezoar.”

  “In other words, a hairball!” The EMH shook his balding head in disbelief. Ignoring the concerned android and his pet, he addressed Crusher petulantly. “Don't tell me you seriously intend to waste my considerable talents on a chore unworthy of even the most inexperienced orderly.”

  Do you think I'd inflict your winning personality on a sentient patient? the ship's chief medical officer asked silently. The fact that Reginald Barclay had played a significant part in the creation of the EMH didn't do anything to increase Beverly's confidence in the program.

  “This is my sickbay,” she reminded the hologram, asserting her authority, “and you'll treat whomever or whatever I assign you to.” The tone of her voice made it clear that the discussion was over. “Mr. Data, hand over the patient.”

  With obvious care, the android passed the large orange tabby to the EMH, who grudgingly accepted his new charge. Spot, perhaps made cranky by her abdominal distress, was less than pleased by the transfer; hissing loudly, she snapped at the hologram's wrists with bared fangs, lashing out with her claws at the same time.

  For a second it looked like the EMH was going to get bit, but the hologram evaded the tabby's jaws and paws by rendering the endangered portions of his anatomy momentarily intangible, so that the irate cat's attacks passed right through him. Holding Spot at arm's length, a disdainful expression on his face, the EMH carried the squirming feline over to the nearest biobed, then held the cat down on the sterile surface of the bed while its built-in diagnostic scanners examined Spot from the inside out. The whole time, the tabby struggled to escape the hologram's grip, alternating angry hisses with outraged yowls.

  “You can keep your undoubtedly septic claws and teeth to yourself,” the EMH sternly scolded his thrashing patient. “My program is more than a match for any presentient pussycat.” He sighed and shook his head wearily. “Next they'll have me flossing the bicuspids of a Denebian slime devil!”

  To distract Data from his pet's anxiety, and to better ignore the EMH's disaffected muttering, Beverly decided to initiate a little small talk. “So, how are our distinguished passengers faring?” she asked Data.

  The Enterprise was currently transporting a shipload of alien ambassadors to a vital diplomatic conference on Penthara IV. Crusher suspected that Captain Picard had his hands full coping with the overinflated egos and fractious personalities of the quarreling delegates—a diagnosis that Data rapidly confirmed. “Our guests seem to be unusually . . . demanding,” the android stated with admirable diplomacy. “They place an extraordinary amount of importance on their own preferences, to the exclusion of the concerns of their fellow ambassadors.”

  “I can imagine,” Beverly said in a sympathetic tone. “Trying to get politicians to agree on anything, even the menu for a banquet, can be like herding cats.”

  On the biobed, a few meters away, Spot perked up her ears at Crusher's remark, only to quickly lose interest in the conversation as it became apparent that Beverly wasn't going to use the C-word again anytime soon. She tried once more to bite the EMH, with more success this time. “Ouch!” the hologram yelped, his attention painfully yanked away from the diagnostic monitor above the bed. “That smarts!”

  Good thing holograms don't need tetanus shots, Beverly thought, more amused than she probably ought to be by the EMH's stormy relationship with his patient. The sudden beep of her combadge, however, drove all thought of the EMH's predicament from her mind. “Crusher here,” she said, tapping the gold duranium badge. “What is it?”

  The voice of Captain Jean-Luc Picard came through the badge. “We have a medical emergency, Doctor. The Chelon ambassador has collapsed without warning. He is being beamed directly to sickbay.”

  “Understood,” Crusher acknowledged. “We'll be ready.”

  Or as ready as we can be, she thought grimly. The Federation had only recently made contact with the Chelonae, so Beverly knew there was not a lot of information about this particular species in the Starfleet database. Nevertheless, she had made a point of familiarizing herself with the medical profiles of all the various alien species aboard (in fact, that's just what she'd been doing before Data showed up with Spot), so she was not at all surprised when a large humanoid turtle immediately materialized upon the primary biobed.

  The golden sparkle of the transporter effect faded quickly, exposing a mottled, greenish-brown shell about the size of an adult Horta. Unfortunately, Crusher noted at once, the stricken Chelon had drawn his head and other extremities into his shell, leaving her little to examine except a dense, opaque carapace. Thank goodness I don't need to rely on my eyes alone, she thought, grateful for the state-of-the-art medical technology at her disposal.

  “Alyssa!” she called out. Nurse Ogawa came running in from the adjacent medlab, where she had been performing tests on some experimental antibiotics. Since the unconscious ambassador would clearly not fit withi
n the standard surgical support frame, Crusher was forced to rely on the overhead cluster of biofunction sensors; she also immediately activated a sterilization field around the biobed and its inaccessible occupant.

  “Don't forget, I'm more than ready to assist you,” the EMH volunteered, still contending with the uncooperative cat. Orange fur bristled all along Spot's back. “My program is fully equipped to deal with all manner of exoskeletons.”

  Beverly paid little attention to the hologram. She had more important things to concentrate on; the Chelon's vital signs were weak and fading steadily. She studied the diagnostic monitor, noting signs of severe cardiac distress. “Prepare for immediate surgery,” she instructed Ogawa.

  “Yes, Doctor,” the nurse answered, hurrying to fetch a tray of gleaming exoscalpels, autosutures, and trilaser connectors. “You know,” she commented upon her return, “in Japanese mythology, the turtle represents longevity and good luck.”

  “Let's hope that counts for something,” Crusher said, frowning. They would have to work quickly to keep the ambassador alive.

  The sickbay doors whished open, and Captain Picard marched briskly into the intensive-care ward, accompanied by another Chelon dignitary. The humanoid tortoise stood upright on his hind legs while his scaly, gray head poked out from the bony armor covering his torso. Aside from a copper medallion hanging from his squat, wattled neck, the Chelon wore no adornment; Beverly guessed that the terrapin's all-concealing shell made further garments unnecessary.

  The captain hastily introduced the new arrival. “This is Secretary Skute, the ambassador's personal assistant.”

  “Is Ambassador Nanimult still alive?” the other Chelon croaked excitedly, pushing past Beverly to invade the sterilized area around his superior. “What are you doing to him?”

  “Nothing yet,” Crusher assured him. She tried to escort the agitated envoy away from the biobed, but Skute refused to budge. “But the ambassador's heart has undergone a serious rupture. He's hemorrhaging internally, which means I have to operate immediately to save his life.”