Star Trek-TOS-027-Mindshadow

by Kevin Underwood

  "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