Zar relaxed visibly at Vargas’ matter-of-fact acceptance. “I used gut for sewing—my mother had some metal needles, but I made my own out of bone after they broke. I brought some things with me—would you like to see?”
The three officers watched for a moment as the young man and the archeologist examined the implements from the past, then Spock excused himself and left the group, heading for the camp building. He’d gone only a few steps when Zar caught him with a few swift strides and blocked his way. “I must speak with you for a moment ... sir.”
“Yes?” The Vulcan raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“I’ve been thinking about the powers of the Guardian.” The gray eyes were level. “Now that I’m here, in the present, wouldn’t it be possible for me to go back in time, also? Perhaps I could ... be there to warn her, catch her before she fell. Save her before she died. If you could tell me how ...”
Spock was shaking his head. “It isn’t possible. What is now, must be. If you were to save her back then, you could not be here now, knowing she is dead. Language is inadequate to express the concepts involved. I can show you the equation later.” Something touched his eyes for a moment. “I am truly sorry.”
Disappointment flickered across the younger man’s features for a second, then Zar nodded. The First [64] Officer looked over at Doctor Vargas, who was still examining the contents of the hide bundle. “Doctor Vargas—”
Vargas looked up. “Yes?”
“I must send a message by subspace radio. Is it possible to use the one at your camp?”
The plump little woman scrambled to her feet, brushing ashy dust off the knees of her brown coverall. “Certainly, Mr. Spock. I’ll show you where it is. As a matter of fact, perhaps you can help me with it. Our technician was injured last month in a fall while he was exploring the ruins, and had to be relocated to the nearest Star Base for treatment. We haven’t received a replacement yet, and some of the circuits on the communications equipment don’t seem to be working properly. Unfortunately, none of us is skilled enough to attempt repairs.”
“Communications equipment is not my specialty, but I will do what I can.” The Vulcan turned back to Zar. “Go with the Captain and Doctor McCoy. They will show you a place to wash and provide you with more suitable clothing.”
The younger man watched the First Officer leave, his expression wistful, before turning back to the others.
When they reached the camp building, Kirk departed in search of a spare coverall, and McCoy took his charge into the interior of the structure, noting the younger man’s wondering glance at the furnishings. He handled himself with aplomb, however, until they reached the recreation/spare room. As they entered, lights automatically came on. Zar jumped, landed crouching, knife in hand, eyes darting from side to side.
McCoy put out a reassuring hand. “Take it easy, son. The lights register body heat and turn on when we cross the doorway.”
The gray eyes were still wide. “Automatically?”
“Yeah, come outside for a second.”
They stepped back and the lights extinguished. [65] McCoy’s charge stepped in, cautiously, and gave a wordless exclamation when the lights flared back up. He spent the next minute determining just how much of his body was necessary to cause the phenomenon. (A leg was enough, but a foot wasn’t apparently.)
The Doctor watched tolerantly, amused, and when the younger man had completed his experiment, introduced him to the marvels of indoor plumbing.
The shower facility finally caused his student to balk. “But water is to drink,” he argued. “There can’t be enough to waste like this!”
“We don’t have to melt water, Zar. We can make as much as we want. There’s plenty. How did you wash before?”
“In a bucket, sometimes. When my mother was alive, she made me wash more often, but lately—” One leather-clad shoulder moved in a slight shrug.
“Then it’s about time you got a thorough scrubbing. I assure you it only hurts for a little while, and you’re going to have to get used to it. This is primitive compared to the facilities aboard the Enterprise, and you’ll be using them!” A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth at the look of apprehension on the younger man’s face, and he forced himself to say sternly, “Now hurry up. The Captain will be back any minute. Remember, water controls here, soap there, warm air over on your right.” Turning to leave, he cast a last glance at his unwilling pupil. “In. Now.” he ordered, and closed the door.
The sputtering sounds that ensued from behind the door assured him that his instructions were being followed. McCoy grinned, remembering that he should have warned Zar to hold his breath when he submerged his head.
Kirk entered the room, carrying a bundle of clothing. He cocked his head at the splashing noises. “Everything all right in there?”
“I assume so. He was a little dubious, but when I told him that everyone on a starship did it, he gave in. Where’s Spock?”
[66] “He went off to send that message. I think it’s some sort of confirmation to T’Pau. Vargas told me he’s fixing those circuits.”
“He’s probably glad of the excuse to stay away. Where’s my medical kit?”
“I brought it.” The Captain handed the black case over.
“Good.” The Doctor took out several charges for his hypo. “Got to make sure he doesn’t end up with every bug from measles to Rigellian fever. He probably has no natural immunities. Nice kid, isn’t he? Friendly as a pup. I hate to think what a couple of weeks of Vulcan dehumanization is going to accomplish. Have you seen the way he watches Spock? He’s already begun to imitate him.”
“That’s natural, isn’t it? But I wouldn’t worry too much. There’s a lot of self-reliance there, and that’ll help. He’s got a lot of catching up to do, and Vulcan discipline may be just what he needs.”
McCoy snorted. “The only thing Vulcan discipline is good for is—” He broke off as the sounds from the shower ceased.
Kirk grinned and headed for the door. “I’ll leave you to get him dressed and barbered. After all, I’m a starship Captain—not a valet.”
Zar had no sooner emerged from the shower, minus dirt and clothing, before the Medical Officer gave him several shots. “What’s that for?” he wanted to know, tensing against the hiss of the hypospray.
“So you won’t catch anything from us in the way of diseases. There, that’s the last.” McCoy ran his scanner, and a professional eye, over his patient. Although thin to the point of emaciation, the Doctor was pleased to see that the muscle tone was good. Like a horse in racing form, McCoy thought, rather than a starvation case. Good-sized shoulders—when he reaches his proper weight, he’ll mass more than Spock. How the hell did he get those scars?
The jagged rips were long-healed, but still very noticeable. One ran along the right forearm, from [67] wrist to elbow. The other began on the outside of the right thigh and continued nearly to the knee. McCoy shook his head at the thought of what the original wounds must’ve looked like.
“Where’d you get these, son?” he asked, indicating the ridged keloids.
“I was attacked by a vitha. She had cubs, and I took shelter next to her lair in a storm. I fell asleep, and she returned and was on me before I had time to feel fear at her.”
The Doctor handed the younger man the clothes Kirk had provided, and as he helped with unfamiliar fastenings, continued, “What’s a vitha? Was that one of the animals you painted?”
“No. They’re very shy, and you seldom see them. Vicious when trapped, so I didn’t hunt them, usually. Their wounds fester easily—as I discovered.” He made shapes in the air. “About this tall, with big chests, and ears that—I could draw one, better than I can tell you.”
McCoy picked up a stylus and a pad of paper, and demonstrated how to use them. The long, lean fingers with their ragged nails sketched quickly, and produced a picture of a bizarre creature that looked to the Doctor like a combination of otter and goat. He recognized it—he’d seen a skeleton in t
he book on Sarpeidon’s past, and remembered it had been fully eight feet tall when balanced on its hind legs. “If that’s what they looked like, you were smart to stay away from them.” McCoy studied the hasty sketch further. The style was unsophisticated, but there was accuracy, and a suggestion of life and movement there. “I’ll have to introduce you to Jan Sajii when we get back to the Enterprise. He’s a pretty well-known artist, in addition to his work in xenobiology. Maybe he could give you a few pointers.”
Zar nodded. “I’d like that.”
McCoy took a pair of surgical scissors out of his med-kit, and motioned him to a chair. “It’s almost [68] a shame to cut this,” he commented, hefting the black, slightly wavy mane that fell nearly to the younger man’s waist. “But current male fashion-especially aboard starships—decrees that it’s got to go.” Solemnly, he draped Zar with a sheet, and began to clip briskly. “Used to be that a surgeon spent a lot of his time being a barber. Can’t let the old-timers down.”
His client looked confused. “Pardon?”
“Archaic reference. I’ll explain later. Something you said a few minutes ago is bothering me. How could you ‘feel fear’ at the vitha? What does that mean?”
“It’s what I tried to do to ... Mr. Spock, when I thought you were going to find my cave. His mind was too strong for my fear. And three of you was too many to affect.”
“You mean you can project your own emotions as a form of defense?”
“I don’t know how I do it. If I’m frightened or angry, I can ... focus my mind on a person or animal—if the animal is a higher life form—and I can make the fear and anger I feel go into the other mind. If I try hard, I can make the fear so strong that the animal will leave. The time the vitha attacked me, I was sure I was going to die, and my fear and anger as I struggled with her were so strong that I killed her. At least, that’s what I think happened. I lost consciousness from the pain, and when I came to, she was dead—and my knife was still in its sheath. But I was never able to project that strongly again.”
“Is this something you learned from Zarabeth?”
“No. She told me that some of the members of her family could sense emotions and communicate them to others, but she couldn’t do it herself.”
“What about reading thoughts—ideas?” Zar thought for a careful moment before answering. “Sometimes, when you touch me ... I can tell what you’re thinking. Only a flash, then it’s gone. [69] Today, when I was with others for the first time, I had to block it out, because the impressions were confusing. When I was small, I learned to tell what my mother was thinking, but she, told me it wasn’t polite to do that without her permission.”
So, thought McCoy, Zar may have inherited some of the Vulcan telepathic ability—in addition to whatever this fear projection is. Have to test him when we get back to the ship. He busied himself with comb and scissors, and stepped back after a few more minutes to admire his handiwork. “Not bad. Now let’s get rid of the beard.”
A few minutes later, the younger man ran his hands over his head, then rubbed his chin. “I feel cold on my neck.”
“That’s not surprising,” McCoy said absently, studying the newly revealed features. I can see his mother there, in the jaw and mouth, but mostly ... He shook his head. “Come on,” he said, gathering up the scissors. “Let’s clean up, then we’ll get something to eat.”
The gray eyes lighted at the mention of food.
The kitchen was filled with appetizing odors when they arrived. Kirk and Spock were there ahead of them, sitting at the large table with Doctor Vargas and the rest of the archeologists. Zar hesitated just inside the door, suddenly conscious of all the eyes focused on him. Looking at more faces that he’d ever seen in his life, he felt his heart begin to slam, even though there was nothing to fight, nothing to flee. His eyes searched desperately for familiarity, found the Captain’s face, and then Spock’s, but there was no reassurance in their expressions—only shock.
McCoy put a hand on his shoulder, and Zar started at the touch. “Sit over here, son.” The younger man was relieved to be moving, relieved to sit down next to the Doctor, escaping the stares he didn’t understand. There was silence for a long moment, then Doctor Vargas cleared her throat.
“I didn’t realize that family resemblances among [70] Vulcans were so marked, Mr. Spock. How are you two related?”
The First Officer’s voice was normal, but he didn’t meet the archeologist’s eyes. “Family connections on Vulcan are complicated. The term is untranslatable.”
There’s another lie, thought McCoy, and glanced at Zar. The younger man stared at Spock, expressionless, but the Doctor knew that he’d picked up on the evasion, if not the reason for it.
The buzz of conversation started back up, and McCoy passed bowls of food to his protégé. Zar mentally compared the amount of food on the table with the number of people, and served himself only a small portion—he’d made do with less, many times. McCoy, noticing this, asked, “Aren’t you hungry? There’s plenty more where this came from.”
“Enough for everyone?” The younger man looked skeptical.
“Sure. Go ahead—have as much as you want.” McCoy passed him another bowl. Hesitantly, the young man served himself, then began to eat, slowly, handling the knife and fork efficiently, but mimicking the others at the table when it came to using the serving utensils. McCoy noticed that Zar copied Spock’s choice of food.
When the meal was over, Doctor Vargas invited them to join the others in the recreation room, explaining that several of the archeologists played musical instruments, and they usually held an informal concert every evening.
As they found seats, Kirk whispered to McCoy, “You did that deliberately, Bones. Cutting his hair like Spock’s, I mean.”
The Medical Officer grinned, unrepentant. “Sure I did,” he returned, “Spock can always use a little shaking up. Did you see his face when Zar walked in? No emotions, hell.”
“It shook me up. I wonder what the reaction will be when we get back to the Enterprise!”
“They won’t suspect the truth, because of the age [71] difference, but ...” McCoy stopped, realizing that the concert was ready to begin.
The archeologists performed well, especially Vargas, who played the violin. Zar was enthralled by the music, McCoy saw. When the session ended, the younger man examined the violin with rapt attention, though he didn’t venture to touch it. “How does it work?” he wanted to know.
Vargas smiled, and caressed the shining wood. “It would take me a long time to explain it all, Zar. Longer than you’ll be here, because Mr. Spock says you’ll be leaving on the supply ship tomorrow morning, But if you read up on violins, you’ll be glad you got a chance to see this one. It’s a genuine Stradivarius—one of about a hundred that still exist outside museums. I had to get a special permit to be allowed to keep it for personal use, and it took me years to save the money to buy it.”
Spock, who had been sitting nearby, came over and studied the instrument. “A well-preserved example, Doctor Vargas. The tone is excellent.”
“Do you play, Mr. Spock?” she asked.
“I did, at one time ... but it has been years.”
“By the way, thank you for repairing the communications device.”
“It was no trouble. It needs a complete overhaul, however,” The Vulcan turned to Zar. “I would like to talk to you for a moment.”
When they reached the library, and privacy, Spock gestured the younger man to a seat. “It will not be easy to explain your presence when we reach the Enterprise,” he began, without preamble. “Due to your ... appearance, people will regard you as Vulcan, and expect certain behavior from you. I believe that the best course is for you to study Vulcan history and customs so that you’ll know what’s expected of you. I will begin teaching you the language as soon as you feel ready to learn.”
He paused, then took out several microspools. “These will give you some basic information.”
[72] Zar cou
ldn’t think of anything to say, so he remained silent.
Spock raised an eyebrow. “You can read?”
“Yes.” Zar replied shortly, stung. “My mother was a teacher, among other things, before she was exiled. Didn’t you know that?”
The lean, saturnine face was remote. “No.”
“She knew a lot about you ...”
Spock stood up. “I see no logic in reviewing the past. When you’ve finished those tapes, I will set up a plan for your education. Good night.”
After the Vulcan left, Zar continued to sit, uncertain of his next move. It had been a long day—was it only this morning he’d awakened on the ledge above the strangers’ camp? He eyed the kitchen table, considered curling up underneath it. He would probably go unobserved—but perhaps it would not be polite. His eyes were beginning to close in spite of himself when McCoy found him.
“There you are. I came to show you where you can bunk tonight.”
He followed the Doctor to the recreation room, where a sleeping bag was spread. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do on the floor, with the rest of us. It isn’t often the archeologists have visitors, and there aren’t many extra beds. These sleeping bags aren’t too bad, though. They’ve got foam inserts, and heating controls.” McCoy demonstrated. “So you shouldn’t be too uncomfortable.”
Zar was amused. “Doctor McCoy, last night I slept on a rock and ice ledge that was not much wider than I am, with nothing but my fur cloak for covering. I’ll be fine here.”
“I see your point. Well, good night, then.” McCoy turned to leave, and on impulse, looked back. “Zar ...”
“Yes?”
“Don’t let Spock’s ... attitude bother you. That’s just the way it is, with Vulcans.”
The younger man shook his head ruefully, and [73] sighed. “I should have expected nothing else. My mother told me that he was cold and silent when she first met him, but that later, he was loving and gentle to her. He doesn’t know me yet. I must prove myself, as she did.”
STAR TREK: TOS #11 - The Yesterday Saga I - Yesterday's Son Page 6
