While Scotty’s chronometer read half past eleven, the ship’s lighting had yet to adjust to the lower nighttime level. No wonder I can’t sleep on this bucket of bolts, he thought, calling up an ancient recording of whalesong. If it doesn’t look like night, it doesn’t feel like night.
Gillian lay in front of the bay holding George and Gracie, her white jacket serving as a blanket as she slept. She’d fallen into a surly mood when she had seen the damage the strange sickness had done to the whales. When her anger had burned away and her studies continued coming up fruitless, Scotty noticed her dozing at the readouts and ordered her to sleep. She’d agreed, but refused to sleep anywhere but next to the whales.
He smiled grimly and took another reading to test the strength of the walls of the tank. Nothing had changed since he’d beamed them up that afternoon, and they’d run every imaginable test on them since that time. He didn’t think Gillian would ever stop. She’d snapped at Coletti and even Scotty himself a couple of times, raising his respect for her another couple of notches. Still their life signs continued deteriorating as the strange stripes continued multiplying across their exteriors, and neither of them would sing.
“Computer,” he said. “Play it softly, and pipe it into the bay as well. Let’s see if we can’t get them to sing with a little coaxing. Seems like we’ve tried everything else.”
Deep, resonant songs filled the cargo hold and bay. The reverberations ranged from lowest baritone to sudden soprano, mixed in with abrupt squeakings and groanings. Hey, look at me, Scotty imagined the whale singing to another. I’m big and slow and nothing can hurt me. If only that were true.
For the next two hours, Scotty researched with the computer. History flickered in front of him on the screen while the computer told him about the extinction of the humpbacks in the early twenty-first century, despite all that humanity had tried to do to save them. Their extinction hadn’t been a natural extinction, but an abrupt end thanks to pirate whalers searching for slow, easy prey. As the songs rose and fell around him and the two sick whales rested almost motionlessly in his cargo bay, Scotty taught himself everything he could learn about whale biology.
While he was learning about the two to three tons of seafood they’d have to bring on board or synthesize somehow in the next twenty-four hours, the bay door slid open with a soft hiss. Scotty straightened up from where he’d been bent over the readout. The too-bright lights in the outer hallway cast the female figure at the door into shadow, and Scotty felt his eyebrows raise.
“Uhura?” he said. He could see his old friend’s face clearly now. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Literally.”
“Thought you could use a little boost,” she said, and held out the steaming mug she’d been holding. Scotty had been too busy trying to figure out what was different about her to notice.
“You’ve done something to your hair,” he said. Never miss a thing, he thought to himself proudly as he took a mug. “I like it.”
Uhura grinned and sipped at her coffee. With her other hand she touched the soft gray layers of her new hairdo. “Thanks.”
Scotty winked and took a long, grateful sip of hot coffee. The door to the cargo bay slid halfway shut, stopped, opened, then shut all the way. Scotty pretended he hadn’t seen that.
Uhura’s expression turned grim when she turned to the ailing whales. “What have you found out?”
“A little. Humpbacks feed and mate close to the shore, which made them easy targets for whalers, and twenty-eight thousand were killed from 1905 and 1965 for their blubber. They usually migrate to polar regions for the summer and spend winters in tropical waters to mate and give birth. George and Gracie here were on their way to the tropics when we picked them up. According to the good doctor sleeping over there, Gracie is due in a month or so.” Scottie sighed. “And even though they don’t have vocal cords, they’re supposed to sing—mostly the males, but the women can carry a tune if they need to.”
“Well, speaking of singing,” said Uhura, pulling her earpiece from a pocket, “I thought I’d give that whalesong a try myself.”
“What?” Scotty said.
“Computer,” Uhura said, patting Scotty on the shoulder on her way to the readout, “transfer all communications to the cargo bay.”
“Tr-tr-transferring,” the computer responded, and after a few seconds of random lights and flashes, Uhura’s communication system lay spread out in front of her on the readout.
“Doesn’t really fill you with confidence, does it?” she said. “I’m going to analyze all recordings we have of the whalesongs, including the one you have playing now. We’ll see if we can’t make some sense out of what it is they were trying to say, all those years ago.”
Scotty shook his head, watching Uhura work. “Thanks, lass. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Uhura said in a distracted voice. She gave him a quick smile. “And drink your coffee. I made it extra strong, and black, just like you like it.”
Scotty drank every last drop.
Gillian woke at four A.M. while Scotty was busy fixing the ventilation system in the outer hallway. The vent had been kicking out hot air then cold air at random levels. He was swearing and banging on the control panel with a wrench when Gillian walked up to him.
“Sorry,” he apologized, stepping down from the chair he’d been standing on. As he did, the lights in the hall darkened noticeably, as the confused ship prepared its lighting for nighttime instead of morning. “Damn …”
“I’m keeping you from your work,” Gillian said. “I’m sorry. It’s not fair to ask you to stay.” She looked back at Uhura, bent over her communication readout. “Both of you. Please, don’t let me get in the way of your duties.”
Uhura spoke up before Scotty could say a word. “Don’t even try to get rid of us now,” she said. “We’ve got a responsibility to take care of those whales. They saved our world. We owe it to them.”
“She’s right,” Scotty said, leading her back into the room and hoping the stubborn door would slide shut behind them. It did, to his relief. He’d worry about the ventilation system and the ship’s lighting later. “Now let’s get back to work. I had a couple theories I wanted to test out for you.”
Gillian squeezed Scotty’s shoulder and gave Uhura a smile of thanks. Then she pulled on her white coat and followed Scottie to the readouts.
After an hour of work, testing water samples and scanning tissue taken from both whales, the whalesongs playing in the background, Spock walked into the cargo bay. Still wearing his white robe, looking like he’d just spent most of the day meditating, Spock simply nodded at Scotty and stood next to Gillian and the whales.
“You’re not going to jump in there and go swimming again, are you?” Gillian said.
Spock pulled his gaze away from the whales for a moment and raised an eyebrow at Gillian. “I may,” he said. “But I think I will look at the data you have gathered first.”
“I’m glad you got my communication at Federation headquarters,” Scotty said. He stepped back and motioned toward the readout. “Please. It’s all yours.”
Spock stepped up to Uhura’s transferred comm station, where Uhura was intently piecing together the digitized notes to a whalesong. Nodding to himself, he looked at her research and moved on. He inspected Scotty’s pile of scanning equipment next, then spent two minutes viewing the data from Gillian’s microscopes and tricorders. He looked up at Scotty and Gillian.
“It is the water,” he said simply.
“What about the water?” Scotty glanced up at him with bleary eyes, feeling both hints of hope and frustration. Leave it to Spock to solve in less than five minutes a problem that had been stumping the three of them for days.
“Remember the time frame from where these creatures come, Mr. Scott. Pollution was rampant, and the ozone layer was similar to what you may colorfully call Swiss cheese. The oceans were much warmer then, even in the polar regions.”
Gillian was nodding. “
I hadn’t thought of that. I’d automatically thought it was some kind of predator or parasite, something biological that we could zap with your—our—new technology. So what do we do?”
“I suggest synthesizing some of the missing elements, but in very small amounts to prevent negative effects. Once they are created, we will add them to the water here, along with the two point three tons of shrimp Mr. Scott has arranged to have extricated from the Pacific Ocean.”
“What about when they return to the ocean?” Gillian asked.
“Once they are healed, we will simply inject their bodies with the sufficient elements to keep them from becoming sick again. I suggest adding an extra layer of insulation to their epidermis to help them adjust.” Spock gave what looked like a small shrug. “I will defer, of course, to your expertise in all matters, Doctor.”
Gillian nodded. “I think we can do it. In time, they’ll gradually adapt to the change in water temperature. We just have to be careful with Gracie and her baby. She still has about a month before she’s due, and all this trauma can’t be good for either of them.”
“Aye,” Scotty said. He felt the tightness in his chest loosening. “That sounds like a plan, Mr. Spock.”
“Thank you,” Gillian said to Spock. She turned to Uhura and Scotty. “Let’s hope that solves the problem.”
“It is only logical that it will,” Spock said. “Though I have a strange … feeling … that we have missed something.”
Don’t even think it, pointy-ears, Scotty thought.
But as he watched the streaks on the whales slowly begin to fade throughout the day after Gillian and Spock’s treatment began to take hold, Scotty had to admit to himself that he’d thought the exact same thing.
He left the whales later that afternoon, promising Gillian he’d be back in a few hours. Then they would work on transporting the whales back to the ocean. While Gillian had wanted to keep the whales under close supervision for another week, she had grudgingly admitted that the strain of living in such close quarters was taking a toll on the whales. It was wearing her out as well. As Scotty shut down his readout, Uhura remained, still piecing together the whalesongs she had taken apart earlier that day.
At 1800 hours, Scotty left the cargo bay, his brain already unfolding his lengthy to-do list. For the next ten hours, the whales were forgotten as the engineer ran through the corridors of the new Enterprise, barking orders at Ensign Coletti until he was hoarse and banging his wrenches on the innards of his ship. He was having more fun than he should have been having in light of his lack of sleep and the two oversized passengers in his cargo hold.
When morning arrived—with the proper brightening of the ship’s lights, Scotty noticed with pride, having fixed the circadian timers only hours earlier—he remembered George and Gracie. He still hadn’t taken the time to sleep.
Gillian hadn’t left the whales. Peering up at Gracie, he could see that their scars had almost completely healed. “No more stripes, eh lassie?” he said, touching the transparent aluminum.
Gillian stirred from where she’d fallen asleep. “Good morning.”
“How are George and Gracie, and the baby?”
Gillian answered by passing Scotty her tricorder. “Their life signs are still falling, Scotty.”
“What?” Scott squinted at the readout, his head suddenly heavy. “I thought you and Spock had figured out the problem.”
Gillian shook her head. “Maybe they just haven’t adjusted to the twenty-third century.” She gave Scotty a quick look, and he could see the pain etched across her face. “It does take some getting used to, you know.”
Scotty nodded, thinking back to when Gillian had forced her way onto the ship, back in her time. Clever lass, he thought. Though she probably hadn’t known then what she was getting herself into.
“Their vitals have been weakening, all three of them,” Gillian said. “But there are no biological causes we can determine.” She turned to the whales, away from Scotty. “Maybe they’re just lonely in their new time.”
Scotty looked at the back of Gillian’s blond hair. He thought about Uhura’s research into the whalesongs. He’d like to take a look at what she’d learned.
“Computer,” Scotty murmured. “Play the whalesongs for us again, please. In here and inside the tank, if you would.”
As the first of the songs unfolded, the song piped into the tank muffled by water and the two sick whales, Scotty rested a hand on Gillian’s shoulder. I hope we did the right thing, he thought. Did we save them from the whalers only to lose them in an unfamiliar time to some strange, untraceable disease? Scotty rubbed his eyes, smelling his own stale smell from not having showered in the past four days, and let the song of the whales surround him.
When the ship’s lights began to dim that night, the life signs for George and Gracie had dipped to their lowest levels. Scotty, alone at his readouts as Gillian did research in her quarters, thought about the words of the woman from the twentieth century.
“Something about being lonely,” he muttered, his eyelids heavy. Next to him, the computer beeped once and asked if he’d like to replay the entire set of recorded whalesongs.
Lonely? he thought. Scotty remembered the articles he’d found about whalesongs, and how many scientists had speculated on the reasons why whales sang. The humpbacks had become extinct before a solid theory could be formulated. George and Gracie had been the only humpbacks in the twenty-third century.
Uhura had left him her research on the songs before she’d been called to the bridge to help fine-tune the new communication systems for the ship. On her way out the door, she’d said something about how it looked like the songs were used by the males to show their territory and to brag about their bravery and accomplishments.
“Typical males,” she’d said, pushing the jammed door all the way open. Scotty grimaced at both her words and the still-broken door. “All bluster and machismo. Get some sleep, Scotty.”
Scotty stared at the musical notes Uhura had transcribed from the whalesongs. He whistled in his closest approximation to the notes; then his whistling stopped suddenly. Spinning on his heel, he nearly ran across the bay to the door.
“Maybe,” he said to himself on his way into the hall, “they just wanted to know that someone was listening.”
As he gathered his instrument from the corner of his nearly empty, unused quarters, Scotty tried to contain himself. Maybe George had wanted to tell the other whales about his baby, he thought, hurrying back to the cargo bay. A proud father likes to brag about his baby. But nobody had been around to so much as tell him and Gracie congratulations.
Having listened to the recorded songs almost nonstop in the four days he’d spent working in the cargo bay next to the whales, Scotty knew he’d be able to carry a tune himself. It had been too long since he’d last played. He made it back to the bay in record time.
“Computer,” he said, already slightly out of breath. “Can you send what I’m playing into the tank with the beasties?” Without waiting for an answer, he strapped on his bagpipes and began to fill the bellows with air.
He started with something familiar, playing a slow dirge, trying to match his notes to the songs he’d heard in the recordings. For half an hour he played, until his lips grew sore, his lungs burned, and his arms ached from working the bellows.
Still George and Gracie were silent.
Rubbing his mouth, Scotty leaned against the wall. What am I forgetting? he thought, his tired mind running out of options. Then he remembered Spock’s calculations on board the Klingon vessel all those months ago. He picked up his communicator and buzzed Ensign Coletti.
“Ensign!” he shouted, checking the time. It was close to midnight. “I hope you weren’t sleeping, not with all that needs fixing on this bucket of bolts!” Scotty tried to smile, but his mouth was too sore. “I need you down here in the cargo bay. Now!”
Ensign Coletti arrived in less than two minutes, his hair sleepbent and circles under his eyes. “Si
r?” he said, glancing at the whales and Scottie’s bagpipes. “Is everything okay?”
“Aye,” Scotty said. “I’ve not lost my marbles, lad, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I need you to work with me while I play.”
“Sir?” Coletti repeated.
“Record what I’m playing and run it through the computer. Factor in sound distortion and diffusion. Then send it into the whales’ tank. Make it sound like the ocean, lad. And I’m another whale, singin’ to them. They’re not buying that recorded garbage.”
Coletti rubbed his hair and stood at the readout, hands poised over the buttons. Scotty nodded at him and began to play.
Scotty thought of the songs he’d heard in the past few days, the deep moaning notes and the sadness behind them. He imagined himself in another land, with nobody else with him. Another planet, familiar yet foreign. He worked the bellows and played songs of his own devising, a mix of Scottish hymnal and whale melody.
After another half hour, as Scotty was ready to fall over from exhaustion, George stirred. His nose dropped to the bottom of the bay until it was almost touching the floor. Letting his mouthpiece fall away, Scotty grabbed Coletti’s arm and wouldn’t let go. With aching slowness, George began to sing. The moaning rose and fell in the slow, familiar melody Scotty had memorized; then it began to change. As he listened, tears filled his eyes, making the nearly vertical whale double in his vision. When Gracie began her own song, more of a happy response to George than an organized song, Scotty had the presence of mind to contact Gillian. He let go of Coletti, who simply stared up at the whales with a huge grin on his unshaven face, and pulled out his communicator.
“Doctor,” he said breathlessly. The songs of the whales were sweeter than any lullaby he’d ever heard, and he glanced at the readouts next to him. The vitals nudged upward, the life signs already showing tiny signs of improvement. “You may want to get down here.”
He held up his communicator to catch the thundering whalesongs. After a second of stunned silence on the other end, he could hear screams of joy coming from his communicator. Gillian had heard the songs.
Strange New Worlds IV Page 8
