Yesterday's Son

by A. C. Crispin

  "Not at this time. I'll key for it in a few minutes. Provide copies upon request to Department Heads, Mr. Spock, and Chief Engineer Scott. Also duplicates to the maintenance authorities. Kirk out." He turned to Spock, who was standing beside him. "I thought I'd assign Zar to bunk in with some of the unmarried security men."

  The Vulcan nodded. "That will be satisfactory."

  McCoy joined them, directing their attention to Zar, who had drifted over to the door of the transporter room and was experimenting with how close he had to stand to make it whoosh open. Grinning, the Doctor shook his head. "More curiosity in that one than a kitten. . . . I'm going to run some tests on him today, blood pressure, heart, that sort of thing. He needs some nutritional supplements, and for that I'll need basal metabolism and some other readings. I can also test his intelligence—unless you'd rather do that, Spock."

  The First Officer looked thoughtful. "I will need test scores in more specific areas, in order to assign curriculum levels. However, I believe basic intelligence and psychological testing is also in order. Such tests lack true scientific validity, but they provide the best indicators yet developed."

  McCoy was exasperated. "Does that mean yes, or no?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank you. I'll need your help for one test I had in mind."

  Spock's eyebrow climbed to his hairline. "My help? Is that an admission of inadequacy, Doctor?"

  "Hardly, you—" McCoy sputtered, then controlled himself with an effort. "I want to test his psi index. I think he's telepathic—and something else I've never encountered before. I'll need data from a trained telepath before I can make any guesses."

  The Vulcan looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, I recall that I was subject to some type of mental attack just prior to his appearance. . . ."

  "He told me he was responsible for that. Called it 'feeling fear.' I'll let you know when I need you."

  The Captain beckoned to Zar, who joined them. "I've assigned you quarters with some men from the security force. Spock will take you there. Then you can get something to eat—no, wait a minute. Bones may want you to have an empty stomach. . . ."

  The Doctor nodded, and Kirk continued, "He's going to give you a physical. A necessary evil … don't let it spoil that famous appetite. If you feel like a workout tonight, I'll see you in the gym at 1800 hours."

  "Thank you, Captain."

  The intelligence and psychological tests came first, then the thorough physical. By the time McCoy finished, Zar had worked up an immense appetite, and the Doctor was getting tired of explaining the reasons behind each test. Finally only the psi examination remained, and the Medical Officer signaled Spock to come to sickbay.

  He turned to his patient, who was lying on the diagnostic table, his expression one of long-suffering restraint. "Buck up, Zar. Only one more test to go."

  "Can I get something to eat now?" The younger man's tone implied that he was on the verge of fainting from hunger.

  "Not yet. Spock's on his way down, and I want to try that mental projection trick of yours. You know, what you did with the animals, and us, to protect yourself."

  "I may not have the strength," came the gloomy reply.

  "Hello, Doctor!" The feminine voice came from the door of the examining room, and McCoy turned to see Christine Chapel, his Chief Nurse, and a physician in her own right.

  "Good to see you, Chris." McCoy smiled. "You look rested."

  "I had a terrific leave—bet I gained ten pounds. I'll have to—" Chapel caught sight of the man stretched on the examining table, and her blue eyes widened in shock as she took in the strangely familiar features. The Doctor waved a hand at his patient, who was gazing back at Chapel with undisguised pleasure. "Nurse Chapel, this is Zar. Zar, meet Nurse Chapel."

  Chapel recovered her composure and smiled at the young man, who sat up and saluted her carefully as he'd read in the tapes. "Peace and long life, Nurse Chapel."

  Her fingers moved to answer his salute, and she said warmly, "Live long and prosper, Zar."

  McCoy caught Chapel's inquiring glance, and the raise of her eyebrow, but didn't enlighten her further—frankly because he couldn't think how to answer the unvoiced question. Instead he said, "Now that you're here, Nurse, you could help me. I'm testing Zar. I'll tell you what to do in a moment. Please sit over there."

  The gray eyes followed the woman's every movement. The Doctor lowered his voice. "Zar—you're hungry, aren't you?"

  "You know that already."

  "Good. I want you to project what you're feeling at Nurse Chapel." The younger man looked back at the woman again, as the Medical Officer, on impulse, flicked the diagnostic field back on. He noted the dilation of the pupils, the jump in respiration and blood pressure, and poked his patient sternly. "Not that kind of hunger, son. I mean the kind in your stomach."

  Zar looked confused, then his eyes narrowed in concentration. A few seconds went by, then Chapel looked up. "Doctor—I can't explain this, but suddenly I'm so hungry … starving … and I just ate!" She looked across the room and realization dawned. "Is he doing that?" Her eyes were suddenly filled with clinical fascination. "Mental projection of strong emotions? That certainly isn't a Vulcan talent."

  They all turned as they heard the outer door to sickbay, and Spock entered the room. Chapel's gaze swept appraisingly from one alien face to another, but her expression remained carefully indifferent.

  The Vulcan hesitated, then asked, "Have you met Zar, Miss Chapel?"

  "Yes, Mr. Spock." The tone was noncommittal.

  The First Officer evidently decided that at least a partial explanation was preferable to wild speculation, and he gestured stiffly in the younger man's direction. "He is a … member of my family, who will be staying aboard the Enterprise for an undetermined amount of time."

  Chapel nodded, then turned to McCoy. "Will you need me anymore, Doctor? I have an experiment going in the other lab that needs checking."

  At the Chief Surgeon's shake of the head and thank you, she smiled again at Zar, who remembered just in time to keep from returning it, and left.

  Zar's gaze followed her admiringly. "She's nice … and very beautiful."

  For the next thirty minutes, Spock and McCoy tested Zar's emotional projections. They discovered that he could make both of them feel hunger, and when McCoy pinched a nerve in his arm, they could both feel the pain. With the Doctor supplying the emotional currents, they found that Zar could pick up and identify his output, even when the Medical Officer left sickbay. The younger man's ability reached for a considerable physical distance—although he complained that background emotional "noise" from the crew interfered.

  "Since I've been with people, the feelings have become easier to pick up," he commented. "Now I have to block them out, or they make it hard to concentrate. It's the same with thoughts, only they're not as strong."

  Spock's expression thawed a bit as he nodded comprehendingly. "On Vulcan, much of our early training is designed to strengthen our personal barriers—our mental shields—to prevent the constant intrusion. You seem to have developed a natural shield, and practice in the vedra-prah mental disciplines will help. I believe that with training you can develop the mind-linking and melding abilities. My background in telepathic teaching techniques is lacking, but I will do what I can."

  As soon as the testing was completed. McCoy told Zar he could eat, supplementing the food with a high-calorie nutritional drink. Leaving him to his meal, the officers examined the test results in the Doctor's office.

  "As I said before, he's in remarkably good shape, considering the life he's led. Incredible stamina—he could outlast any of us. I had him on that treadmill for twenty minutes and he wasn't beginning to work up a sweat, much less breathe hard. We already know he's strong, whether from the higher gravity and the environment, or Vulcan ancestry, it's anyone's guess. Good thing he's good-natured." McCoy ran his eyes down the test readout, rubbed thoughtfully at his chin.

  "Vulcan genes must be domina
nt as hell. Internal makeup not too different from yours—hope I never have to operate on him. Hearing—exceptional. He's got the Vulcan inner eyelid, but his eyesight is barely outside the Human range. Blood type—" the Doctor grimaced. "Well, I hope he never needs a transfusion, because we'd never match it. Incredible mix—even the color, sort of a greenish gray. Don't ever let him give you a transfusion or platelets, although your plasmas are compatible, as far as that goes. His teeth are beautiful. Shows you what you get from a diet with virtually no sugars."

  Spock leaned forward. "And the other tests?"

  "Psychologically, he's pretty well-adjusted, considering he's lived alone for seven years. Naive and socially immature, lacking in communication skills—what else could you expect? But quite a realist—matter of fact, his stability index is higher than yours."

  A raised eyebrow was the only comment.

  "As for intelligence, I ran him through the basic Reismann profile they give the kids when they enter school … here are the results."

  The Vulcan studied the readout for a few minutes, then handed it back to the Doctor with a curt nod.

  "Is that all you have to say?" McCoy snapped, temper visibly fraying. "You know damn well this intelligence rating is remarkable—you could hardly hope for more!" The Doctor leaned across his desk, after a glance at the open door, lowering his voice to an angry hiss.

  "I've been watching what's happening, and I don't like it. I know it's none of my business, but if you break that kid's spirit with your tight-jawed Vulcan logic, I'll—"

  Spock stood up, raising a hand to stem the Doctor's tirade. "Thank you for conducting the tests, Doctor McCoy," he said remotely, formally.

  McCoy heard the Vulcan through the open door as he sat, clenched fists resting helplessly on the test results. "I'll show you where you will be staying. Follow me."

  Zar's voice, eager, hesitant. "Were my tests … all right?"

  "They indicated that if you apply yourself, you should reach satisfactory levels within a reasonable time. I'll show you where the library is, so that you can begin today. I've marked out the curriculum for you."

  "Yes sir."

  During his life alone on Sarpeidon, when blizzards had forced him to inactivity for weeks, Zar had formulated his own concept of paradise. There would be plenty to eat—as much as one wanted, anytime!—it would be warm and safe, there would be many books to read, and, most of all, there would be people to talk to. Seven weeks of "paradise" forced him to a reappraisal of his definition.

  Most of the time he was too busy to wonder whether he was happy or not. The days went by in a blur—lessons, working out in the gym with Kirk, coaching from Spock in telepathic controls and abilities, and, in his free time, exploring the Enterprise. Zar had fallen in love with the starship, and Kirk, recognizing a kindred emotion, let him indulge his passion. He was soon a familiar figure to the crew of each section, who responded to his interest by informally adopting him.

  "I hope after we transfer these bees we'll be finished with milk runs for a while." Lieutenant Sulu commented to Zar after a week out.

  "You mean honey runs, don't you, Sulu?" Uhura suggested, turning away from her communications panel. Sulu groaned.

  The helmsman had been teaching his young friend basic battle tactics, using the computer-recorded log of the Enterprise. He keyed another sequence onto the navigation screen. "After we fired our main phaser banks, the outermost enemy ship took out our starboard deflectors. That left the Captain in a real mess, because the Hood was on our starboard side, and her maneuvering power was limited to auxiliary impulse. She couldn't defend us from the starboard side, and a direct hit would've crippled the ship."

  The gray eyes studied the screen, and Zar nodded. "What did the Captain do?"

  "He slapped a tractor beam on the Hood from the starboard side. That made the Hood's deflector screens, which were still up, spread out so that we had limited deflection ability. Then we got the two remaining enemy ships when they came in for the kill. You see, they figured the Enterprise was going to try and run, towing the Hood. Instead, when they came within range, we took out the one on the port side with our photon torpedoes, and the Hood grazed the other with her phasers. That made it two to one, and the other ship took off. We lost her because the Hood had blown a seal and was losing pressure on two decks. We had to beam most of her personnel over to this ship, while the techs patched her up. Made for crowded living for about a week."

  The bridge intercom came to life. "Lieutenant Sulu," Spock's voice said.

  "Sulu here, sir."

  "Is Zar on the bridge?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Instruct him to join me in the library, I require his presence immediately. Spock out."

  The helmsman turned to pass on the message, but the bridge doors had already snapped shut.

  Sulu shook his head and looked at Uhura. "I sure don't envy him. Having our First Officer as an instructor in one subject is enough to drive you crazy. I know, I took a course in quantum physics he gave once. Picture having him personally supervising your entire education. . . ."

  Uhura looked thoughtful. "He's pretty hard on him, but maybe that's the way Vulcans develop that stoic nature."

  "Not according to what I've read. Most Vulcan families are extremely disciplined, but also very close-knit. Spock is more impersonal with Zar than with anybody else."

  "I noticed something that may account for it. Have you ever looked at Zar's eyes?" Uhura leaned forward a little, lowering her voice.

  "No—other men's eyes don't do anything for me, I'm afraid." Sulu grinned.

  "They're gray. I never heard of a Vulcan with eyes that light before. I asked him once what exactly was his relationship to Spock."

  "What did he say?"

  "He got that remote look, and said that Vulcan family connections are extremely complex, and that he couldn't translate the exact term for it."

  "He's probably right about that." Sulu looked thoughtful. "They must be fairly closely related, though, for such a marked resemblance. If I didn't know Spock has no brothers, I'd wonder."

  "There's something funny about the whole thing, light eyes and all. I'll bet that Zar is part Human, and that Spock is hard on him because of it."

  "If you're right, then that's an illogical attitude for our First Officer to have, considering that …"

  The helmsman broke off abruptly and turned back to his console, as the bridge doors opened and the Captain entered. "Report, Mr. Sulu?"

  "All systems normal, sir. Proceeding on course, warp factor four."

  Zar was aware of the speculation that surrounded his relationship to the Vulcan, of course. It was impossible for him not to know. His innate telepathic ability, nourished by the ancient mind-linking techniques, grew until he could communicate freely with the First Officer. Freely, that is, to the extent that he could draw upon the logical, fact-containing areas of that brilliant mind. His knowledge of the Vulcan language increased geometrically with each teaching session. He could tap the first level, refreshing in its chill precision, its relentless clarity, as beautiful and uncluttered as pure mathematics. The first level, nearly devoid of personality, of everything that the younger man craved with a longing that went unacknowledged, almost unsensed. The first level—and guarding it, like a barrier, the mind-shield;

  Somehow that intangible wall became his enemy. It hovered at the back of each contact, reminding the younger man that he knew almost nothing about the remote stranger who was so different in flesh than he'd been in dreams. The mind-shield stood between them, barring any closeness, any sharing, and his hate for it, irrational as he knew it to be, grew with each session.

  Spock sensed the growing tension in the younger man's mind, but ignored it—almost to his undoing. They were linked, fingers to temples, solid blocks of knowledge-impressions flowing from one mind to the other, when he felt Zar's communication fade, realized the younger man had dropped his shield. Hastily Spock pulled back, clamping his own barrier t
ighter, refusing the implied offer to meld, rejecting any deeper contact. Before he could break away, he felt it come, a solid wave of confused emotion that battered at his shield. Zar's communication, a barrage as incoherent and nonverbal as it was raw and powerful, shook the Vulcan, hurt him on a level that was emotional as well as mental. For a moment they were one, and there was pain, only pain.

  Spock shook his head violently, fighting the pressure of Zar's fingers even as they slackened. He stumbled back a pace, and stood swaying a little, to face the other. Their quick breathing was the only sound in the room.

  The younger man's face was ashen. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize—I was only trying to—" he gestured helplessly.

  The Vulcan could feel the memory of the pain rasping his throat as he spoke. "On Vulcan, what you attempted just now is regarded as a heinous crime. Forcing a meld is an unforgivable invasion of the spirit."

  Zar nodded impassively, but Spock could feel his remorse—hear it in his voice. "I know that, now. I acted on impulse … it was wrong. I'm sorry."

  The pain was fading, leaving behind only a physical shadow—a headache. Spock could feel the pressure behind his eyes, pounding, and his voice was harsher than he'd intended. "See that you remember. If you do not, I can't continue training you."

  The gray eyes narrowed. "I suppose you could call it training, as if I were an animal. But I think it's closer to the programming you do to the computers." His expression changed, and he half-extended his hand. "I can't touch you. Why?"

  Anger welled, born of the pain, and the Vulcan remembered all the times he'd been asked that question, different words, but holding the same meaning. Why, he asked them all, Leila, Amanda, McCoy, and now this gray-eyed quasi-reflection … why do you ask of me the thing I cannot give? I am what I am. . . .

  Even so, something within him wanted to answer that anguished query, but the ingrained reserve of years held. Quickly, before that something forced a response, he turned on his heel and left the room.