no longer carried the perfume of wildflowers, but
the
stench of things burned that were not meant to burn--
huts,
trellised vines, clothing, hair, and flesh
....
She glared at him, her golden face pale, her
violet
eyes rimmed with red, and Kirk thought she
trembled;
whether with rage or grief, he could not tell.
"Natahia, I wish to express my sorrow at
what has
happened."
Her words were spoken with icy politeness, and
Kirk knew at once that he had lost
her. "We regret that
your people were also harmed, Captain."
"Representative, you must know how impossible it
was for the pirates to have penetrated the shield--"
"It is obvious that you felt so, else you would not
have sent your people down."
"Up to now, the technology has not existed for such
an attack to be possible. Star Fleet is
investigating. In
the meantime, the Enterprise will stay in orbit around
your planet and attempt to capture one of the
pirates
for questioning. They can't remain cloaked forever
and when they lower their shields, we will catch
them."
"No, Captain. There is nothing to be gained by
further intervention from the Federation. There is no
point in your people dying as well."
"If we can capture one of the pirates, we can
find
their base. We can find out who's attacking you, and
why. Don't you want that, Natahia?"
"You will use your devices to try to capture one
of
them. Who can say that you will be successful?
Can
you be sure that more of your people will not die?
"We are a people of strong beliefs, Captain.
Technology
almost destroyed our race; we have chosen a
simpler life. In spite of your weapons and
devices, you
have not saved a single life, and you and the pirates
are
engaged in a battle of wits to see what new
mechanisms
of war you can develop. Who is to say who is
the more civilized?
"It was our decision that brought you here, Captain
Kirk, and on behalf of the growers, I thank you
for
your services. We are sorry it resulted in the
loss of
life. We cannot let you stay and further risk
yourselves.
Your technology has failed us. It is time for
us
to return to the old beliefs. We will protect
ourselves
as best we can without depending on the
devices of
others."
"And if all of your people are killed and your planet
becomes unfit to support life?" Desperation
made Kirk blunt.
She looked at him sharply. "it seems that the
same
might happen if your ship remains. It is the will
of the
growers... it will be as I have said. I will no longer
communicate with you on this device."
5O
MINDSHADOW
The sad, proud image shimmered for a moment
before the screen went black.
Kirk watched for a moment before he called the
bridge. Scott answered.
"Scotty, what the devil are you doing there?"
"Well, sir, seein" as how I'm the senior
command
officer on duty, I--"
"Why aren't you resting in your quarters?"
He could almost hear the indignant look Scott
gave
him over the intercom. "Captain--sir--
I'm feelin' just
fine, thank you. I've been by sick bay and
they've put
some skin on my hands so they're good as new.
Dr.
McCoy has certified me fit for duty.
Sir."
"All right, Scotty," Kirk relented
gently. "Let me
talk to Chekhov."
"He's not here, sir."
"Not there... to was Kirk's voice rose half
an octave.
"I told him not to leave his station."
"He went off shift hours ago, sir. But
Ensign O'Connor
took his place, Captain. Mr. Chekhov
explained to
her that she mustn't leave her station. She knows what
to do, sir."
"Yes, of course," Kirk said quickly. "Just be
sure
that when she goes off duty, she's replaced
instantly. I
don't want that station uncovered for even
a second."
"Understood, sir. And believe me," a
strange, dangerous
undercurrent crept into Scott's tone, "I
want to
get my hands on those pirates as much as you do.
We'll get one, Captain, if it's the last
thing I do. Scott out."
Kirk sat down at his desk and laid his head
on his
arms; he wondered what the first officer's reaction
would be to his decision to stay.
"Captain, you are failing to respect the decision
of
the growers. Are you forgetting the right of a culture
to
self-determination ?"
Yes, he thought, he was failing to respect the
growers' decision. He couldn't bring himself
to respect
the decision to commit cultural suicide. Once
the
Aritanians no longer existed as a race, their
right to
self-determination would be a moot question.
If anyone
was guilty of interference, it was the pirates, not
he, and he would not let them destroy that beautiful
planet, will of the growers be damned.
Kirk lifted his head. Sleep would not come of its
own accord again tonight, and he needed it before he
lost his wits completely. He was beginning to lose
all
sense of time, and could not afford to slip up with
another crew member.
Nor could he afford to let the pirates win again.
He rose and went to find McCoy.
Uhura looked furtively about her; the lights
in sick
bay were dimmed to simulate night, and the patients
in
the main ward all appeared to be sleeping. There was
a
light on in the lab, but no one came out to see
who had
entered. She walked stealthily toward the intensive
care ward.
The door slid open to reveal Commander Spock,
awake and propped up in a half-sitting
position on his
bed. Apparently he was not in sync with sick
bay's
circadian rhythm. Uhura pulled back,
startled and a
little embarrassed that he should be awake now to see
her; she had wanted this to be an anonymous
visit. But
it was too late; his unsettled eyes had
focused on her
and then on the instrument in her arms. She smiled
apologetically and held it out to him.
"Forgive me for taking the liberty, sir," she
whispered,
thought you might like to have this."
He took the harp from her with his right hand and
propped it against his stomach. He looked up from the
52 MINDSHADOW
instrument and the unsettled look had been replaced
by one of gratefulness.
Haltingly, he said, "There is no need
to apologize,
Lieutenant. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."
Slowly, softly, so as not to disturb the others, he
sounded each string with the fingers of his right hand.
He was merely testing to see if the harp was still in
tune, but to the two of them it was beautiful music.
McCoy's eyes closed. On the computer
screen before
him was a list of articles that pertained
to left-hemisphere
brain damage in humans, and in Vulcans;
but nowhere had he been able to find any medical
studies done on Vulcan-human hybrids.
Given the
rarity of romantic relations between the two races,
it
was not surprising that no one had been able
to collect
a large enough sample for a study. You could
probably
count the number of Vulcan-human hybrids in
the
universe on your fingers, and of those there was
probably only one suffering from brain damage.
His eyes snapped open with the happy realization
that he'd almost fallen asleep. No doubt the
aridity of
the reading matter had been responsible; at times,
an
article from one of the medical journals worked
better
than a pill. It was time to take advantage of the
soporific effects of the reading matter; he
hated taking
a pill, although insomnia had sorely tempted
him to do
so. Too many people in his profession found it too
easy
to prescribe for themselves plus and keep on
prescribing.
He stood up and was just about to turn off the
reading lamp when the door buzzed--Jim, no
doubt,
desperate at the prospect of another
near-sleepless
night. "Looking for a good night's sleep, eh?"
McCoy
said as the door opened.
"Maybe," said the girl... or was she a
woman? Her
small frame was at first glance misleading as to her
age; she was scarcely five feet tall.
"Dr. McCoy? Emma Saenz." She
extended a warm
delicate hand to him. Somewhat taken aback, he
took
it. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"Yes?" he asked. Her voice was startling
too, bold
and arresting, not at all congruous with her physical
appearance. It was a far better indicator of her
age
than her stature.
"Star Fleet sent me," she said, as though it
completely
explained her appearance at his door at this late
hour.
"That is obvious," said McCoy, looking at
her blue
medical uniform. She had to be newly assigned
personnel,
but he'd received no notification and the name
was completely unfamiliar. Although he had
to admit
that she certainly filled out the uniform well; he
wondered
how he'd ever mistaken her for a young girl.
She cleared her throat, and he looked up with such
guilty expression that the luminous black eyes
danced.
She tried again. "Doctor Emma Saenz, the
neuropsychologist?
You sent in a request." The eyes narrowed
slightly. "They did inform you I was coming,
didn't
they?"
"Can't say that they did."
She sighed. "Typical."
"Actually," McCoy said gently, certain that
personnel
had made a mistake, "I requested a
Vulcan neurologist."
"Yes?" Her eyes widened, making her look like
a
child again.
"Well, uh . . . how shall I put this
tactfully? I'm
afraid your ears are all wrong for the job."
She laughed so delightfully that McCoy laughed
with her, a little uneasily. "Dr. McCoy,
what was your
MINDSHADOW
request for? A neurologist for
Vulcans or a neurologist
who is a Vulcan?"
"The first, of course," he said, feeling very
foolish
as he realized what she was going to tell him. "I
guess
I just assumed they'd be one and the same."
"I see. Well, I am a Vulcan
neurologist of the first
sort, even if my ears are wrong."
"I guess you got me on that one. Is there
anything I
can do to make it up to you? Help you find your,
quarters or show you to sick bay?"
"No thanks. I'm sorry, I didn't
realize what schedule
you were operating on here; I can see it's late for
you, so I'll take a look at the patient tomorrow.
But
you could tell me where I could find a drink."
"You can get beer or wine in the rec lounge."
She wrinkled her nose. "Nothing better?"
He thought for a moment. "Do you drink bourbon?"
McCoy sat with Emma Saenz in the rec
lounge and
poured shots for the two of them. He knew that he
would regret the loss of sleep the next day, but
there
was something so intriguing about this woman that he
resigned himself to enjoy the situation and catch up
on
his sleep another time.
The universe was in some ways infinitely vast but
at
times could seem amazingly small. McCoy had
just
discovered that Emma had attended the same medical
school as his daughter.
"I was in the class two years ahead of
Joanna. I
can't really say that I knew her very well, but I
did
meet her. Of course," she said with exaggerated
seriousness,
"I was much older than she."
"Very tactful." McCoy smiled and refilled
Emma's
glass. "And are you still much older than Jo?"
Emma grinned and took a sip. "I
guess that's the
way it works. What did she specialize in?"
"Same thing I did--general surgery."
"You must have had a great influence on her."
"Not as much as I would have liked to." McCoy
looked down at his glass, his pride tinged with
guilt.
"Her mother and I were divorced when she was still
quite young. Then I went into the service and I was
unable to share custody. Oh, we visited from time
to
time, but these days we're both so busy we don't
get
much of a chance to see each other. Last time was
three years ago."
"Even so, you were obviously a very important part
of her life. You must be very proud."
"I
am."
"And you never remarried?" Her voice seemed
more concerned than prying.
McCoy drained his glass. "I've heard that
there are
some people who have successfully mixed Star Fleet
careers with marriage, but I'll be damned if I
know
how they do it."
"I know what you mean," Emma said darkly.
"Not to try to change a depressing subject, but,
would you like to know anything about your patient?"
Emma brightened. "Yes. I've never worked with
a Vulcan-human hybrid before. I find the
opportunity
to study the lateralization of Spock's brain
fascinating."
"Funny you should put it that way," McCoy
muttered
under his breath, but continued before she could
ask him to repeat what he had said. "After the
accident
on the planet surface, there was obvious severe
trauma to the left hemisphere of the brain. I
treated it
immediately with alpha-dextran, but the patient still
showed signs of severe aphasia and retrograde
amnesia.
MINDSHADOW
Earlier this evening, I got a report that the
patient
spoke clearly--a couple of sentences
with his usual
choice of vocabulary. The aphasia seems
to be improving,
but the improvement seems to come and go. I
questioned him and he spoke very little. I'm not sure
what that indicates."
Emma seemed encouraged. "Actually, that's a
fairly good sign that the aphasia will improve
rapidly.
And the amnesia?"
"No improvement."
"Any other sign of functional impairment?"
"I've done some brain scans, but it's very
difficult
to know if the scanner is properly calibrated for
him;
I'm not even certain what the readings are telling
me.
He may have some impairment of mathematical
ability."
The slight constant smile that Emma had worn
throughout the evening swiftly metamorphosed into a
frown. "I've never really trusted those things. Of
course, I realize that having the proper
equipment is
extremely valuable in testing for damage to brain
function, but I don't like depending on them
entirely
for my diagnosis. God knows they're not
infallible.
The slightest loss of calibration can cause an
incorrect
reading."
"Amen," McCoy agreed fervently. "It's
happened
to me more than once. I need them, I admit, but
I don't
trust "em. And with Spock--"
"I can help you calibrate it for Spock, and
I've
brought a Vulcan scanner that can help us map his
brain function. But to be perfectly honest with you,
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