Strangers from the Sky

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Strangers from the Sky Page 11

by Margaret Wander Bonanno


  Yoshi just stood, as dumbstruck by the

  mother as he had been by the son. Tatya, as if

  to get out of the glare of those eyes, drew closer.

  "May 1?" she asked, reaching one hand out toward

  T'Lera's face, stopping just short of touching with mother

  as she had with son.

  "You are a healer?" T'Lera inquired,

  understanding her intent.

  "A what? I'm a paramedic. Is that the

  same?"

  "Then you may examine me," T'Lera said with

  absolute equanimity.

  Tatya limited herself to hands-on; she

  wouldn't have believed any of her instrument readings

  anyway. But her hands betrayed her as well, because

  except for the deformity of the nose, which would have to be

  rebroken and reset

  "You're completely healed!" the human said.

  "Indeed," the Vulcan said, looking at

  her son for the first time. "My gratitude,

  Navigator."

  "Kaiidth!" Sorahl said instinctively,

  forgetting where he was.

  "We will speak the language of those in whose

  presence we arel" his motherst-mander said sharply.

  Despite Sorahl's insistence that his people had

  eliminated emotion, this certainly looked like anger.

  "Do you forget so easily?"

  A human might have made excuses. Sorahl

  simply lowered his eyes and clasped his hands meekly

  behind his back.

  "I ask forgiveness, Commander."

  "It is not I of whom you should ask

  forgiveness," T'Lera said, neither accepting nor

  rejecting his apology. "I must know what has

  transpired during my incapacity."

  STRANGERS FROM THE SKY

  She was not exactly dismissing the humans, but she

  had effectively eliminated them from her consideration.

  "Excuse usI"...allyoshi muttered, pulling

  Tatya out of the room with him. T'Lera seemed not

  to hear.

  The sun was coming up. Yawning

  hopelessly, Tatya set the coffeemaker and went

  to freshen up. Yoshi opened the port to let a soft

  breeze in, stood listening to the lap of waves, the

  burble of brewing coffee, seeing nothing.

  Suddenly it was there. Hours ahead of

  schedule, looming on their horizon against a glare

  of brilliant sunlight. The Whale.

  "I'll go," Yoshi said when Tatya returned,

  rebraiding her damp hair. "See if you can

  persuade our friends to keep quiet and away from the

  windows."

  Tatya watched him narrowly. If he was still

  unsure of his motivation, she was that much less sure.

  "I'll tell them to leave everything dockside,"

  he said off her look. "Or I'll go pick it

  up. I'll say you're not feeling well."

  "Yoshi . . ."

  "Look, what else do you want me to do? As

  soon as the rain stopped I was going to take the foil

  out alone, let them think we'd tried to run for it.

  Maybe it's better if we stay put, try

  to bluff it out. If they'd shown up this afternoon like they were

  supposed to . . ."

  It was hopeless and they both knew it.

  "We're still civilians," Yoshi said,

  suddenly determined. "We have rights. They don't

  get past the threshold without a warrant."

  "Doesn't surprise me that your dreams are

  inhabited by strange women, Jim," McCoy said

  when Kirk told him about the nightmares.

  "Personally, I wouldn't worry unless they

  stopped appearing."

  They were backstage behind the Kobayashi Maru

  STRANGERS FROM THE SKY

  simulator, Kirk programming variations on the

  basic scenario for the latest batch of cadets.

  "I'm not joking, Bones. This thing has me

  worried. You've finished the book, haven't you?

  Is there such a person as this mystery blonde?"

  McCoy pondered on it.

  "Not to my knowledge. Not that you give a man much to go on.

  Blond hair and boots, you said? Sounds like the

  beginning of a pleasant kind of fantasy, but as far as

  I know the only woman specifically described as

  having blond hair was Tatya Bilash. Maybe

  it's Tatya you're dreaming about," he suggested

  hopefully.

  "The voice is different," Kirk maintained, his

  eyes on the simulator screen. "It's

  familiar somehow. I feel as if I should know who

  she is, but every time I'm on the verge of remembering

  a name, a face, she slips away."

  "Maybe she's from another source entirely,"

  McCoy suggested. "From one of your real-life

  memories or fantasies. Dreams are tricky

  stuff, Jim. You could be subconsciously mixing

  an old memory with what you've been reading and end

  up with a third thing that's neither one nor the other. I

  wouldn't worry about it."

  "Maybe you wouldn't," Kirk said testily,

  punching in a series of codes with unnecessary vigor.

  "But I would. The woman is only part of the mystery.

  Why are these dreams so vivid, so consistent and so

  consistently wrong? Why am I embellishing what

  I read in that book to the point where I feel as if

  I've been there?"

  McCoy shrugged.

  "You're just caught up in the hoopla like everyone

  else," he suggested, anxious to dismiss it,

  wondering why it had Kirk so agitated. "It's

  everywhere. You can't turn on the vid without some

  talk-show host or discussion group picking it apart.

  Walk into a party and half the people there are describing

  it to the other half."

  "I deliberately avoided all that," Kirk

  pointed out, 98

  STRANGERS FROM THE SKY

  pondering the final flourishes on the day's test.

  There were two Tellarite cadets in Green

  Group; he particularly wanted to test the*

  response to pressure. "I wanted to read it for

  myself. No preconceived notions."

  "Even so . . ." McCoy began, but didn't

  know what to say next.

  He was back here with Kirk to monitor the

  cadets' interactions and responses to stress during

  the test for his Medical Officers' Report.

  While the Kobayashi Maru was always taped and he

  could review it at his leisure, McCoy wanted

  to watch the scenario as it happened. There was an

  immediacy that the camera always missed.

  Suddenly he found himself monitoring a response

  to stress from an entirely different quarter.

  "Why are you making such a mountain out of this?" he

  asked his oldest, dearest friend.

  "Because there's more to it than cocktail-party

  chatter," Kirk said grimly. "More than what's

  between the pages of that book. I can't put my finger

  on it, but there's something damned peculiar

  His,

  "You always give 'em three Klingons,"

  McCoy muttered, knowing the codes by heart, trying

  to distract Kirk from what sounded like an obsession in

  bloom.

  "What?" Kirk asked vaguely, watching the

  monitor, half listening.

  "I said: you always give 'em three Klingon

/>   vessels in the attack phase. Don't you think

  they compare notes with the groups that went before? You're

  getting predictable. Why not give 'em two

  Klingons for a change, or four, or one?"

  "Because if you knew anything about Klingons,

  doctor, for all the years you've logged in space,"

  Kirk said acidly, punching buttons with a

  zealot's fervor, "you'd know that they are predictable

  in their obsession with combinations of three. Hence a

  bracket of K'tingaclass battlecruisers has

  been and always will be composed of three. And who's

  getting predictable?"

  STRANGERS FROM THE SKY

  "You are," McCoy said reasonably. "Or

  maybe I meant to say cranky. Short-fused,

  irascible, burr- under-your-saddle nasty .

  . ."

  Kirk turned on him.

  "You have a point, doctor?"

  "Yes, I do. Low side of fifty's a little

  early for a midlife crisis according to today's

  demographics, Jim. You want me

  to prescribe something for the hot flashes? Or someone

  maybe?"

  "Don't you make a mountain out of it, Bones,"

  Kirk warned, returning to his console. "I get

  this way when I can't sleep at night."

  "I can prescribe something for that, too,"

  McCoy offered. "Or someone."

  Kirk broke into laughter and punched McCoy

  on the arm.

  "Damn you anyway!" He watched the cadets from

  Green Group file in and take their places on the

  mock bridge and almost pitied them. "And your

  Strangers from the Sky. Tonight that book stays in the

  drawer."

  The book stayed in its drawer for the next three

  nights. Jim Kirk continued to dream.

  "And I'll tell you something else," he told

  McCoy, pacing the confines of the doctor's offices

  in the MedArts complex. "I have whole

  conversations with them now. All of them the Vulcans,

  Tatya, Yoshi, Jason Nyere. And Sawyer.

  Last night I got into a real

  knock-down-drag-out with Sawyer. Shouted so loud

  I triggered the computer alarm. Had some time convincing

  it I wasn't under attack or having a coronary.

  I can tell you what they looked like, what they sound

  like, what they ate for breakfast . . ."

  "Jim," McCoy began, knowing it was useless.

  "You're projecting. Letting your imagination run

  wild. Listen, if you'd his

  "No, you listen!" Kirk stopped pacing, leaned

  across

  STRANGERS FROM THE SKY

  McCoy's desk at him. "Bones, I'm

  making perfect sense, aren't I? You've read the

  book from cover to cover; you know who these people are. You

  know how the incident turned out. I'm telling you I

  do too, and I haven't touched the book since the

  last time we talked. How can I possibly know

  all these things?"

  "Jim his

  "Did you know Sawyer was a crack tennis

  player?" Kirk went on, oblivious.

  "She was second-seeded at the Goddard Moonbase

  Semifinals in 2028."

  "The book does mention she played tennis. I

  think." McCoy frowned. "I don't believe it

  goes into that much detail, however."

  Kirk threw up his hands.

  "There you are! Bones, I not only know that much about

  Sawyer, but I've seen her play! In fact,

  I've played against her! Last night's sequence

  I don't even call them dreams

  anymore; they're like episodes in a serial"

  "Or chapters in a book you're writing in your

  own head," McCoy interjected, unheard.

  "We were playing singles. I'd gone looking for

  her on the courts. Something I had to tell her about the

  Vulcans, something vital. She

  challenged me and we began to play. And by God,

  Bones, seventeen years off her form she was still good.

  Beat me in straight sets and she wasn't even

  breathing hard!"

  "How old were you?" McCoy asked out of

  nowhere.

  Kirk was momentarily startled.

  "What?"

  "In the dream. How old were you? were you

  the age you are now, older, younger?"

  "If this is leading to another crack about my being out

  of shape . . ." Kirk stopped, realized something

  for the first time. "I was younger. Much younger. Maybe not

  much more than thirty. That's why it bothered me so much,

  losing to Sawyer. Here she was with a good fifteen years

  on me, without the advantage of modern

  STRANGERS FROM THE SKY

  aerobic conditioning, and she beat me. That's why

  later, when she coerced T'Lera into playing . . ."

  Kirk stopped. McCoy's blue eyes had that

  out-offocus look that meant he wasn't listening to him

  but to the voices in his own head.

  "Bones? That's not in the book, is it? About

  Sawyer playing tennis with T'Lera?"

  McCoy didn't answer him.

  "Do you think the age thing means anything?"

  McCoy blinked, came back into focus.

  "I don't know, Jim. It might. Mind if

  I ask you something?"

  Kirk shrugged.

  "Shoot."

  "tilde hen did you have your last psychoscan?"

  "Couple of months ago. Why? You know

  the drill. Regulation 73-C, Subsection A:

  'All Starfleet personnel will submit to routine

  psychological profile scan no less than

  once per solar year. Those of officer rank, or

  whom medical personnel deem under more than usual

  stress ?"

  ?"' will be subjected to scan as frequently as

  necessary upon recommendation of senior medical

  officer,"" McCoy finished for him. "Jim,

  I'm recommending."

  Kirk gave him one of those

  stopped-in-his-tracks looks.

  "You're kidding."

  "No, I'm not." McCoy returned the look

  with his best don't -- argue -- if -- you -- know

  -- what's -- good -- for -- you look. "I'll

  keep it unofficial, unless you get balky on

  me."

  "You just want me out of your hair," Kirk said,

  trying to minimize it, shrug it off. "Or at least

  out of your office. I have been monopolising your time,

  haven't I? I'm sorry, Bones, I'll his

  "Jim, don't try to charm me. I'm serious.

  You go voluntarily or I'll write you up, but

  either way you'll go. Now which is it going

  to be?"

  STRANGERS FROM THE SKY

  Kirk looked genuinely hurt.

  "I think I'm entitled to know why."

  "Why," McCoy began, cranking up, "is because

  for the past four nights, from what you tell me, you've

  been playing a major role in a historical

  melodrama instead of doing what most normal

  humans do after a hard day at the office, which is

  engage in the entertainment of their choice and then go

  to sleep. Now, that kind of activity's bound to wear

  on a man. Affect his performance, maybe even his

  command ability his

  "Bones, I'm not exactly out on the edge

  lately," Kirk protested. "People's lives aren't

  ha
nging on my ability to command anymore."

  "Maybe that's the problem, Jim," McCoy

  said. The response was a thunderous silence. "And

  since there's nothing physically wrong with you except

  for hyperadrenal activity every time you get on the

  topic his

  "What makes you so sure of that?" Kirk wanted

  to know.

  McCoy opened his left hand, where he'd

  palmed the smallest mediscanner Kirk had ever

  seen. It was silent, too, modified so that it made

  none of the whirring, humming readout noises of the standard

  models. McCoy had had it hidden in his clasped

  hands beneath the desktop, taking readings all the while

  Kirk ranted and raved.

  "Why, you sneaky, son-of-a was Kirk

  spluttered, torn between rage and laughter. "If that

  doesn't constitute a breach of privacy!"

  "Not if you come into your doctor's office seeking

  a medical consultation," McCoy said mildly.

  "Look, Jim, there's nothing I can do for you without a

  scan. I don't know if this is boredom,

  depression, anxiety, an overdose of ground

  assignments, change of life, or some new virus

  that's going around. I do know, from my vast experience with

  certain personality types, that it's evolving into a

  full-blown obsession. It's driving you crazy, and

  before I allow it to drive me crazy I'm taking

  STRANGERS FROM THE SKY

  evasive action. You will report to Psych for that

  profile with all due expediency. Now, do you

  want that in writing, Admiral, or can we try

  to be adult about it?"

  Kirk held up his hands in surrender.

  "I'll try to fit it into my schedule."

  McCoy gave him a venomous look. "All right,

  all right. First thing tomorrow."

  "Fine!" McCoy growled, pocketing the

  mediscanner and making paperwork motions. "Now

  get the hell out of here, will you? Some of us have work

  to do!"

  And the next time I recommend a book to you I'm

  going to have my head examined, he thought to Kirk's

  retreating back.

  Nowhere is it written that Vulcans do not dream.

  Nevertheless the misconception persists.

  Logic suggests that the more highly evolved the

  intellect, the greater the potential, the greater the

  need, for the seeming formless randomness of dream. It has

  been proven that those centers of the brain which in some

  species produce

  telepathic impulses are closely

  interconnected with the places where dreams are born.

  It has been suggested that disembodied intellects

 

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