Yesterday's Son

by A. C. Crispin

  "Very well. Let's get back to the Lexington."

  As soon as Kirk assured himself that conditions aboard the other Federation vessel were stable, and repairs were already underway, he ordered the Enterprise back to yellow alert status. As the atmosphere on the bridge relaxed noticeably, the Captain beckoned his First Officer over. When the Vulcan was standing beside him, he asked quietly, "Your opinion, Spock?"

  "A feint, sir. A diversionary tactic to accomplish something quite different than an attack on one of our starships. Otherwise, the Lexington should have been damaged far worse than she is. Romulans may be many things, but they are not cowards. They should not have run, even though we had them outclassed. Their warrior ethic would demand blood for blood."

  "I agree. Now we have to figure out why they were prepared to either sacrifice themselves, or go against their own indoctrination in order to keep us busy. . . . The first thing I'm going to do, however, is get those archeologists off Gateway."

  "A logical move, Captain. It has just occurred to me that before we arrived, the Romulans may have launched a shuttle. The Lexington might not have noticed it, since she was under attack from all sides. If they did launch one, I should be able to pick up life-form readings. . . ."

  "Get on it." The Vulcan turned away, and Kirk addressed his Chief Communications Officer. "Lieutenant Uhura, contact Doctor Vargas on the planet's surface."

  "Aye, sir."

  The senior archeologist's face filled the viewscreen after a short pause. The image wavered and rippled erratically. "Captain Kirk?"

  "Yes, Doctor. We've requested additional support from Star Fleet. Meanwhile, I want you and your staff to prepare to beam aboard. There's a possibility that the Romulans may have other ships in the system. How soon can you be ready?"

  "I'll send my people aboard within two hours. However, I insist on staying here."

  "Out of the question, Doctor. It's too dangerous."

  "Kirk, we have records and artifacts that are invaluable. They must be preserved, at all costs. I'm not prepared to take the chance that they—or anything else on this planet—will fall into enemy hands."

  "I'll beam down a security squad to help you pack up the artifacts, and you can transmit the records. Then Gateway will be maintained by my security forces until it's safe for you to beam back down."

  "No. It's too dangerous to allow unauthorized personnel access to … the ruins. They could … damage them."

  A yammer of static, and the image blanked, then came back on. Kirk straightened. "Doctor Vargas, I will take full precautions to see that my security guards do no … damage. I assume all responsibility. I'll beam down a team immediately to assist you in your packing—they'll have instructions to see that every one of you is transported aboard the ship with the records. Do you understand?" His voice was hard.

  "My communications equipment is malfunctioning, Captain … I couldn't hear you … I'll watch for your security team …" The image bobbed and dipped, then steadied. "When all the equipment is packed, I'll contact you so you can beam up my staff and your guards."

  "And you, Doctor. That's an order."

  "I'm sorry, Captain. I can't hear you … my transmission is fading …"

  Uhura turned away from her panel, as the image on the screen faded out. "She cut power, sir."

  Kirk resisted the urge to slam his fist against the arm of the command chair. "The hell she couldn't hear me—I can't allow her to—" he controlled himself with an effort. "Uhura, was her equipment really malfunctioning?"

  "Yes, sir. But she didn't lose the transmission—she cut it off."

  "That's what I figured. Of all the stubborn—" He shook his head wearily. "I'd feel the same way, I guess. Still, I can't allow—"

  Spock moved over to stand beside him, dropped his voice. "Captain, I must speak with you."

  They faced each other in the deserted briefing room. The Vulcan lowered his lanky frame into a chair, stared at his hands for a moment. "Captain, when I worked on the equipment at the archeologists' camp, I realized it was badly in need of a complete overhaul. Their entire communications system is unreliable, and it is dangerous to depend on belt communicators. The time emanations from the Guardian, and the radiation pockets from the black stars in this sector make both communications and sensor readings subject to distortion. I recommend that, in the absence of reliable life-form readings, we evacuate the archeologists and post a security team—to be commanded by me. It may also be possible for me to rig a force field around the Guardian, which will provide additional protection."

  Kirk nodded. "I agree with you on all points—except one. I'm not sending you down to Gateway with the security team. I need you here, to monitor the Guardian's emanations. With unreliable communications, I can't afford to take the chance of standing you. Your knowledge of the Guardian is too valuable to risk."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Keep working on that idea of a force field as a final protection for the time portal. Let's hope it doesn't come to that, though."

  With the red alert over, Zar went back to the quad he shared with Steinberg and Cordova. He found them checking the charges in their phasers and clipping communicators to their belts. They were dressed in heavy-duty uniforms.

  "Glad you came back, old man," Steinberg said, holding out a hand. "Juan and I wanted to say goodbye before we left."

  Puzzled, Zar shook hands with both of them. "Where are you going, Dave?"

  "Planetside. And a more barren, nasty ball of rock I've never seen. Not even any gorgeous women. Just a bunch of elderly archeologists to nursemaid. Oh well, orders is orders."

  "Archeologists?"

  "Yeah, some Doctor named Vargas is running the place. They're being evacuated, and we're going to stand guard over some old ruins. Why the Romulans could possibly want to invade this sector is beyond me … nothing but some burned-out suns, and an even more burned-out planet."

  Juan Cordova grinned. "Just keep the old homestead clean while we're gone. When we get back, I'll give you the next lesson in 'Cordova's Course in Corruption.' Maybe booze and gambling didn't work out so well, but wait till next time! Women. . . ." Cordova jabbed Steinberg in the ribs with his elbow. "Look at that, Dave, he's blushing!"

  Zar glared in mingled annoyance and amusement. "Juan, I've been looking for someone to practice that shoulder pinch on. Seems to me I just heard somebody volunteer …" He moved purposefully toward Cordova, who ducked behind Steinberg, laughing.

  "Come on, Dave. We'd better get out of here before he really gets sore. . . ." The two security men picked up their kits and headed for the door. From the corridor, Cordova gave Zar a thumbs-up sign. "See you later—stay away from strange men and dogs!"

  One black eyebrow climbed. "Dogs? There aren't any dogs aboard the Enterprise …"

  Steinberg shook his head. "He meant, 'take care of yourself.' We'll drop you a postcard from gorgeous Gateway. . . ."

  "Dave, Juan!" Conscious of a strange reluctance to let them out of sight, Zar headed for the corridor and shouted after them, "What's a postcard?"

  "We'll tell you when we get back—" The turbo-lift doors closed on them.

  Suddenly the quad seemed much larger, and the silence was oppressive. Zar wandered into his cubicle, picked up his sketchbook, but couldn't concentrate on drawing. He realized that he was doodling, idle lines that formed—that formed a face. He stared, arrested by the familiar features in the rough sketch. Wiry hair, wrinkles, laugh lines … Doctor Vargas. . . .

  He flung the sketchbook down, paced uneasily around the tiny room, then picked up the tape on Sarpeidon's history—the one that showed his cave paintings—and fed it into the viewer. He turned pages, scanning the words and illustrations absently, mentally replaying the conversation with Dave. Suddenly the lean fingers closed convulsively on the speed-control button, and Zar stared fixedly at the picture on the screen. It can't be … his gaze traveled involuntarily to the painting on the easel, and he flicked the viewer's "off" button with an u
neasy frown.

  Two mysteries. . . . The security man's words echoed in his mind again, and against his will the logical approach Spock had taught him set up the situation as an equation—and he didn't like the obvious solution. Finally, he went to the library computer console and keyed in a question. It clicked for a moment, then a light flickered on the console's screen. "No information in that area."

  Unable to relax, he prowled the corridors of the ship. The Enterprise seemed oppressive, her corridors nearly deserted. Several times he turned suddenly, thinking someone was behind him, only to find himself alone. There was a sensation at the back of his neck that he recognized. He'd felt that prickling before, tracking prey, only to find that he, in turn, was being stalked.

  He resisted the urge to drop in on McCoy, knowing the Doctor was busy. Briefly he considered going to the mess for a snack, but realized the churning in his stomach had nothing to do with real hunger. Blaming his increasing discomfort on loneliness, he attempted to dismiss it. After all, loneliness was something he'd learned to live with long ago; something that was always there, like the sun and the rocks and hunger. Funny now, but he'd thought in those days that people were the cure—people to be with, talk to … Instead, they only seemed to compound the problem. Not logical, but nevertheless true.

  His thoughts turned to Spock, and he wondered what the Vulcan was doing, remembered the scene in the mess hall. Anger was gone, leaving only the futility—and shame. How naive he'd been! Something tightened in his abdomen, and he shivered, feeling queasy.

  Unconsciously, his steps had taken him to the gym. It was deserted—few crew members off-duty because of the alert. He pulled off his shirt, bent to remove his boots. A workout would relax him.

  Calisthenics, then a half-hour running on the treadmill, followed by a session with the weights. Hard physical activity was a known thing, thus comforting. Before, his life had depended on his strength, his reflexes, his stamina. Zar regarded his body as an instrument of survival, and took a dispassionate pleasure in its abilities.

  He was handstanding on the rings, suspended nearly three meters above the deck, when he realized he had an audience. A young woman, wearing shorts and gym shirt, stood looking up at him. Her frank, green-eyed gaze, even viewed from upside down, disconcerted him. His formerly smooth, economical movement became abrupt, awkward, and he nearly fell, managing at the last moment to get his feet under him, landing with an undignified thump.

  "Are you all right?" she asked him.

  He nodded, unable to think of anything to say.

  Since coming aboard the Enterprise, he'd had little contact with any women except Lieutenant Uhura and Nurse Chapel. Uhura was his friend—as much as Scotty or Sulu. His relationship with Chapel was different—enigmatic. From her he sensed feelings he dimly remembered from Zarabeth, especially since the day Christine performed a chromosome analysis on him, afterward cautioning him to say nothing about it. His questions on the whys and wherefores proved futile. Chapel refused to discuss the subject.

  His visitor hesitated, then smiled. "Didn't mean to startle you. I've been waiting for a chance to talk." Her voice was clear, pleasant. "I'm Teresa McNair."

  "How do you do?" The formal words sounded inane, but they were the only ones he could think of. He was acutely conscious that she was young, and her head barely topped his shoulder. He "reached out" hesitantly, touched her emotions, and encountered expectation, mixed with a measuring appraisal of himself. For some reason, she expected me to recognize her name. . . . Why? "Why did you want to talk to me?" he asked.

  "I feel a kind of proprietary interest, you might say." She saw his look of bafflement, and continued, "My secondary field is alien anthropology." Still that sense of some secret knowledge she expected him to respond to. . . .

  "What's your primary field?" He was interested.

  She lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "On duty, or off?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Her amusement lapped out in a wave, warming him, although he didn't understand the reason for it. "You sound just like him. Never mind. I'm the most junior electronics tech on Chief Engineer Scott's staff. That means I get all the dirty work, and none of the glory." She cocked her head, studying his face, and suddenly he was aware of his sweat-damp hair, his bare feet. "It's hard to believe," she mused, almost to herself. "You're quite an artist, you know."

  Pleased by the compliment, Zar nearly forgot himself and smiled openly at her. He repressed the grin just in time. "You've seen my paintings?"

  "Oh, yes." Her smile faded, slowly, and then the green eyes lost their expectant air. "You don't have the slightest idea of what I've been talking about, do you?"

  "No."

  "I'm ashamed of myself—baiting you was an unworthy impulse. Don't worry, I'll never let on." She cocked her head, smiling differently this time. "Let's forget it. Would you … what's wrong?" He had put a hand to his head, and his eyes narrowed.

  "I don't know … my head hurt." He shook himself, and the lines of pain faded. "It's better, now."

  "You looked terrible for a second. You'd better check with Doctor McCoy."

  "Maybe I will, later. Right now, I have to clean up."

  "But I interrupted you. Go ahead with what you were doing."

  "No, I was finished." He tried to think of some way to prolong the conversation, but his imagination failed him. He realized that he was simply standing there, looking at her, and abruptly turned away.

  McNair stood where she was, watching the tall, slender figure. He had nearly reached the entrance when he staggered, then fell.

  Pain! It slammed him behind his eyes, and he doubled over, retching. Dimly, Zar felt his shoulder slide across the doorframe, felt his knees buckling, and the coolness of the metal wall on his half-bare body. Blackness swirling with red boiled up, dimming his vision, and then there was nothing. . . .

  By the time she reached him, McNair was sure he was dying. Every muscle contracted, head thrown back, he was gasping, huge, hurting lungfuls of air. The wheezing rasp of those breaths was painful to hear. As she dropped to her knees, avoiding the outflung arms, the gasps stopped. Knowing it was hopeless, she took his face between her hands, ready to pull him away from the bulkhead so she could get a clear airway and begin artificial resuscitation.

  Suddenly, quite naturally, he began breathing again. McNair's mouth dropped open in genuine astonishment, and she sat back on her heels, fingers checking his wrist for a pulse. Extremely fast … but maybe that's normal for him. Skin temperature hot, but that could be normal, also. He's sweating … but the exercise could account for that. . . . Baffled, she shook her head.

  Black lashes lifted, and he looked at her, then seemed to realize he was sprawled, half-prone against the wall. "What?" He tried to get up. McNair put a hand on his chest, emphatically.

  "Don't. You'd better stay still."

  "What happened?"

  "You passed out. I never saw anything like it. I thought you were a goner. I'd have sworn you were agonal." At his look, she explained, "When people or animals die—especially violently—they spasm and breathe the way you were, just now."

  "You're sure?"

  "I lived through a Romulan assault when I was twelve. Most of the other colonists didn't. I'm sure."

  He moved cautiously, not attempting to get up. The pain was only a memory now, gone as though it had never been. He felt slightly tired, and very hungry.

  "How do you feel?" She was watching him closely.

  "Fine." He didn't meet her eyes. Suddenly he was conscious of the pressure of her hand, and the cool pleasurable sensation of her fingers on his skin. Through the contact, he felt her concern for him, and something else … dimly, in the background of her mind, she was enjoying touching him. The realization confused and elated him. He wanted to stay there, not moving, content to wait for—what? The thought shook him, and before he realized what he was doing, he rolled over and got to his feet, looking down at her. "I'm fine now."

  McNai
r shook her head. "You sure didn't look fine a minute ago, but if you say so …" She put out a hand to steady herself as she got her feet under her, and felt him catch it, pull her up with a strength that surprised her until she remembered his ancestry, and the fact that Sarpeidon was a higher than Earth-gee planet.

  "Has that ever happened to you before? Blackouts, or unconsciousness?"

  "No …" He was hesitant, finally shook his head. "No. I don't know what caused it … I don't remember …" He looked at her, and she dropped her eyes. He sensed that she was trying to keep something from him.

  "What are you thinking of?"

  "Nothing. You better see McCoy as soon as possible. Ask him about it."

  The gray eyes were intent, and the inhuman calm of his face was a mask. "You're thinking about brain damage, aren't you? Epilepsy—things like that … right?"

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  "I suppose it's possible." She watched him repress a shiver. "There's something …" He shook his head. "I can't remember."

  After he showered, they went up to the mess room to eat, and she told him about her home planet, and her training at Star Fleet Academy. He listened intently, absorbed. McNair finished her account with a description of the survival test each cadet had to undergo during senior year. "It's brutal. They pick some godforsaken planet that's barely habitable, and they dump you there bareass, no food, no weapons, and they expect you to survive."

  He raised an eyebrow. "So?"

  She glared at him for a moment, then realized he wasn't being smug. "So I survived," she said. "I had one narrow squeak, in the month I was there. Fell off a ledge and twisted my ankle—but I was lucky, I could've broken my neck … what's wrong?"

  He stared at her, horror darkening his eyes. "I remember, now." She could barely hear him. "Seven years … I'd forgotten what death feels like. I've got to see the Captain."

  Before Teresa McNair could voice any of the questions in her mind, he was gone.