"I could have at least waited longer--at least a
few
more hours, before I started risking my people--"
"Please explain to me how you could have
anticipated
the impossible? Because it was impossible for
any ships to be down there. Scotty told you
that--hell,
even Spock told you that. How could you have
known?"
"I don't know," Kirk said darkly, but his
eyes did
not surrender their guilt. "Let's change the
subject.
MINDSHADOW
I'm supposed to ask about Ensign Lanz for
Scotty.
How is she?"
The change in McCoy's expression was so quick
and subtle that anyone else might have missed its
meaning, but Kirk had seen the look on the
doctor's
face enough times to know what McCoy was going to
say.
"I'm sorry, Jim. She was one of the two who
didn't
make it."
Scott did not respond to the buzzer, but the
door
was unlocked. It was pitch-black inside the
engineer's
quarters.
"Scotty?"
Kirk heard someone move heavily.
"Captain?" Scott's voice was thick. "I
musta fallen
asleep. They gave me a hypo for the pain . .
." Kirk
heard the Scot struggle to a sitting position on
the bed.
"Ye've come about Ensign Lanz, haven't ye,
sir?"
"Yes," Kirk said softly.
There was a silence. "Is she dead, Captain?"
Kirk was grateful for the darkness. "Yes. I'm
sorry,
Scotty."
For a moment the only sound was Scott's labored
breathing. When at last he spoke, his voice was
rich
with sorrow. "She was a damn good engineer. She was
barely twenty-five years old." He
made a choking noise. "If I get my hands on
one of those pirates...
sir, I swear I'll kill "em! I'll
kill 'em!"
"It won't change things," Kirk said in a low
voice.
"Why would anyone want to hurt her? How can
such people exist?"
"I don't know," Kirk said, "but we're going
to stop
them."
He left Scott alone in the darkness.
A slight smell of scorched skin clung to the
bulkheads
in the corridors outside sick bay and refused
to
be deodorized completely by the ship's air
filtration
system. Many of the personnel who had had occasion
to walk through the corridors by sick bay had
complained
about the nauseating odor, but thanks to the
concentrated efforts of the maintenance crew, it was
now almost completely gone--almost--but its
lingering
trace was still enough to disconcert anyone visiting
sick bay.
Anyone, that is, except X. Nyota
Uhura. A person
of strong will, once she set her mind to do something it
was as good as accomplished. She squared her
shoulders
as she entered sick bay, and although the smell
grew stronger, she had already predetermined that it
would not bother her in the slightest.
The sight of the wounded, however, was another
matter altogether. It was the first time she had actually
seen the cruel burns inflicted by the pirates"
phasers, and she lowered her eyes so that her revulsion
would
not be seen.
But Leonard McCoy must have seen it, for he
pounced on her with an exaggerated cheerfulness she
was certain could not be genuine. McCoy looked
worse than Uhura had ever seen him, and she was
tempted to tell him he belonged in one of the beds
himself.
"Well, Miss Uhura," he called in his
best Southern
gentleman's drawl, "have you come to cast a ray of
sunshine in our den of gloom?"
"How did you know, Doctor?" she replied
sweetly.
"Who's the lucky devil you've come to visit?
Me, I
hope."
"Well, I was coming to see one of the patients, but
you look like you could use a visitor far worse."
MINDSHADOW
"Someone noticed," McCoy beamed wryly.
"Someone cares."
"Actually, I've come to say hello to everyone,
and
to one person in particular. That man over there."
Mohamed Jahma grinned as widely as the
injury to
the side of his face and neck would permit; the dark
olive skin was speckled shiny pink and red under a
thick coat of clear, glossy sealant.
Uhura sat on ,the
side where his burns were less visible.
"Some people get all the breaks," McCoy pouted.
He went back to his rounds.
"Kefhalik? How are you?" Uhura asked in
Arabic.
She and Mohammed were just friends, but their relationship
was marked by a light, teasing humor with more than a
hint of flirtation. She was unsure if Mohamed
meant
for it to evolve into something more serious, but she
enjoyed his friendship too much to worry about it.
They shared the same continent as their birthplace--
Mohammed
was North African--and they were beginning to
share their respective languages with each other.
Uhura had always felt slightly embarrassed that
she
had never learned Arabic, the second most
important
language in the United States of Africa,
and Moh had
never bothered to learn Swahili, since Arabic
was
widely spoken in the north.
"Not too bad, beautiful," he responded in
Swahili,
then switched to English. "Better than most.
I'm just
waiting my turn for a little cosmetic touch-up and
I'll
be good as new. I'm afraid we've really
overworked
these doctors."
"When will you be getting out?"
"Tomorrow, if I stay on good behavior."
"That should be just about impossible for you." She
turned her head for a moment to survey the main
ward, and some acquaintances who were not too weak
or sedated smiled in her direction; she waved
back.
"It's terrible," she said in a low voice. "I
must know
half the people in this room."
"There's two more in intensive care--really
critical
cases."
"Worse than this?" Uhura was aghast; she could
not imagine wounds more terrible than the ones she saw
now.
"I wish my injury was the worst one."
Mohamed's
expression darkened. "We lost two from engineering
--Giorgo
Mikahlis and Rachel Lanz."
"Oh, Moh, not Rachel. She was so young ....
his
They were silent for a moment until Moh nodded
toward intensive ca
re. "They say Commander
Spock's still in there, too."
"How is he? The captain doesn't say
anything about
it."
"No one says much here either. M'Benga and
McCoy
go in there all the time, and they always look
pretty grim when they come out. It doesn't sound
too
good
"I wonder if he's able to have visitors."
"I doubt it. I haven't seen anyone go in there
except
the doctors and the captain."
"Well, I'm going to ask Dr. McCoy about
it. After
all, even Mr. Spock needs cheering up when
he's
sick." She paused. "But first, since I came
to see you,
tell me what I can do for you. Within reason, of
course."
Mohamed smiled again. "Sing me a song. I've
been
dreaming about your singing the whole time I've been
in sick bay."
"Moh, I can't sing here--it'll disturb the
others."
"Doctor," Mohamed called, "can Uhura sing
us a
song?"
McCoy, two beds down, looked up from the
knee he
MINDSHADOW
was patching together with skin synthetic. "As long as
she sings loud enough for the rest of us to hear it. A
song is exactly what these people need. Not to mention
the medical staff. What's good for growing flowers
has got to be good for mending people, in my medical
opinion."
"At least he didn't call us his vegetable
garden,"
said Moh.
Uhura grimaced. "Any special
requests?"
"Something African, of course."
Uhura thought for a moment, then began to sing a
lullaby she'd learned as a child.
Christine Chapel was checking on Spock when
Uhura began to sing. Spock's broken bones were
mending rapidly, but otherwise, his condition
remained
essentially unchanged; he had not spoken a
word since he first talked to the captain. Christine
leaned over to check the monitor, then paused
to gaze
down at his face, which still bore the mottled dark
green marks on the left side.
Impulsively, she reached
a hand toward his face and let it hover above the
bruises as though she longed to smooth them away
with a touch.
His eyes snapped open so quickly that she gasped as
she pulled her hand away, embarrassed.
"Hello, Mr.
Spock," she said, recovering quickly. "How are
you
feeling?"
It was a rhetorical question. Even if a patient
could
not respond, Chapel knew it was good therapy to
assume he understood and to speak to him accordingly. She
did not expect a reply.
"Uhura," he said clearly.
She hesitated for an instant, at first thinking that
he
had mistaken her for the communications officer. The
door to intensive care was shut, but it was not
soundproofed so that a doctor outside could hear the
monitor panel signal a patient in trouble;
Christine
could faintly hear Uhura's voice floating in
the strains
of an ancient melody.
"Why yes," she said, "that is Uhura singing.
She's
out in the main ward. Would you like her to come in
here?"
Spock blinked once.
"I'll get her." Chapel fought to contain her
excitement.
Unlike the main ward, intensive care was quiet
and
dark. Of the three crew members who lay
inside, two
had been badly burned and were molded together with
so much skin synthetic that Uhura did not
recognize
them. The third, Spock, was the only one
conscious.
Externally, his wounds were not nearly as terrible as
his roommates', but there was a look of such searching
loss in his dark eyes that Uhura thought they must
belong to someone else, not to the Spock she knew.
"Hello, sir," she said, uncertain whether he
understood her. "We've all missed you on the
bridge."
"Where my heart is," Spock said suddenly.
Chapel seemed embarrassed for him at the
maudlin
sentiment. "Of course you want to get back to the
bridge, Mr. Spock--"
Uhura almost giggled. "No, Christine... I
understand.
He's asking for a song."
""Beyond Antares," "said Spock.
"Oh," Chapel said stiffly. "Of course."
"It's a song we used to do together. Would you like
me to sing it for you, Mr. Spock?"
Spock blinked once.
"That means "yes," "said Christine.
Spock's eyes closed as Uhura began the
haunting
tune; McCoy heard it out in the main ward and
came
inside to enjoy. "It's a lovely song,
Uhura."
MINDSHADOW
"Thank you. Spock and I used to play it together;
he played the harp and I sang. Right, Spock?"
The Vulcan did not answer; he appeared to be
sleeping.
"We have him on medication," McCoy said. "Of
course, you could soothe anyone to sleep with that
beautiful voice of yours his
"I appreciate the compliment, Doctor, but I
don't
understand why Spock could say some of the song
lyrics, but had to blink instead of saying
"yes.""
"The left side of his brain, which controls
speech,
was damaged. It's the right side that
controls memory
of music, poetry, and so on."
"Yes, Doctor," Chapel said, "but he also
asked for
Uhura by name when he heard her singing out in the
main ward. His speech was very clear, not at all
garbled, the way it was before."
McCoy sighed. "Well, thank God for
small improvements.
Maybe the alpha-dextran's beginning to take
effect ."
"Will he get his speech back?" Uhura asked.
"We hope so, Uhura." Even in the dim
light, McCoy
looked painfully haggard. "Just keep singing
those pretty songs for him. It'll encourage
him."
Uhura smiled. "I think I just thought of something
even better."
Kirk lay on his bunk in the semidarkness. The
reading lamp in the outer office was still lit, but
he'd
been unable to read and now, fidgeting
uncomfortably
on his bed, was unable to sleep. The one thing
he had
been able to do with any success was think, and his
thoughts now were anything but re/l: Ensign Lanz
and seven others.. Spock.. the charred fields
on
the planet below ....
And the ships, the ships below the protective shield
where they could not possibly be. Kirk's mind
rolled
over the only two possible explanations for
the
millionth
time that night and rejected both of them. Not
even the Vulcans or the Romulans, for all of
their
superlative skill and inventiveness in the field
of electromagnetic
physics, had yet developed Scotty's
theorized
shield neutralizer; and if they had, Star
Fleet
Intelligence would know about it, just as they would
know of any design improvements in the cloaking
device.
Kirk sighed and threw an arm across his open
eyes.
Try as he might, he could not shake the conviction
that
Spock knew something, something locked away within
his damaged memory, that could explain the appearance
of the ships. Of course, Spock's urgent but
forgotten message could easily be explained: the
tricorder
had shown the uritanium and dilithium deposits
in the mountains, and Spock had realized that
Aritani
was politically valuable real estate.
Kirk could not make himself believe that was all
there was to it.
He had just gotten up to do some unproductive
pacing when the intercom whistled. X. Krelidze
peered, fair-haired and moon-faced, on the
screen.
"Communication from Admiral Komack in
response
to your message, sir." Her watery blue eyes
widened slightly. "In code."
"Relay it here, Lieutenant."
Coded. It meant that Star Fleet suspected that
more
than a group of renegades were involved in
the attacks
on Aritani. Kirk wondered if he should kick
himself for
not coding his own message.
The content of Komack's response, however, was
less than enlightening:
MINDSHADOW
Intelligence reports no information available on
shield neutralizer. Romulans using
improved
cloaking device, but fuel uptake
relatively unchanged.
Enterprise hereby ordered to remain in area and
offer Aritani all possible protection.
Situation currently
under intelligence investigation. You will
be updated as facts are uncovered.
James H. Komack, Admiral.
Kirk's expression hardened as he read the
decoded
message. All possible protection--in other
words,
next to none! He signaled Krelidze on the
bridge.
"Get me the Aritanian representative."
Natahia's face, once stern and regal, was
now forbidding
and cold with anger. Kirk recognized the
scene behind her: what had been her fields, her
warm
quiet home, was now a gaping black wound in the
midst of Aritani's colorful splendor. The
cool breezes
Star Trek-TOS-027-Mindshadow Page 5
