STAR TREK: TOS #11 - The Yesterday Saga I - Yesterday's Son

by A. C. Crispin

  “You’re wrong. After all, he—”

  “Found me.” Zar interrupted wearily, nodding. “The simple fact of my existence mattered to him. I don’t. There’s only one person Commander Spock cares deeply for, and that’s ...” He trailed off as though remembering that he was speaking aloud. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he finished, very softly, “Not me.”

  McCoy dared to put out a hand, touch the rigid shoulder. “Give it time, son. It’s even harder for him than it is for you. Parenthood is never simple—even if you come to it in the usual fashion, much less have it dropped in your lap. It’s not easy—I should know, I’ve made a pretty botched job of my attempt.”

  “You?” Zar looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “I was married ... for a while. I’ve got a daughter named Joanna. She’s about your age.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s in medical school. She took nurse’s training, then decided to specialize, and went back for her M.D. I’ve got a picture of her I’ll show you, [106] sometime. She’s pretty—takes after her mother, fortunately.”

  Zar was interested. “Is she like you ... nice, I mean?”

  McCoy chuckled. “She’s nicer than I am—a real charmer. Haven’t seen her in three years, but she’s supposed to graduate in six months, and I’ll try to be there. If you’re around then, I’ll introduce you ... no, maybe that wouldn’t be smart. ...”

  The gray eyes were puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen the effect those damned ears have on the average female’s hormones—and illogical as it is, all fathers tend to be over-protective.”

  The younger man was taken aback, then relaxed as the Doctor’s grin broadened. “Oh ...” he said, sheepishly. “You’re joking with me. ...”

  Without warning, an alarm shrieked. Zar jumped. Lieutenant Uhura’s voice could be heard throughout the ship. “Red alert. All stations, go to red alert. Battle stations, red alert.” The siren continued to whoop.

  McCoy stood up and his face hardened. “Here we go. At least the waiting is over.”

  Chapter XI

  “All stations report red alert status, Captain,” Uhura said.

  “Entering sector 90.4, sir,” Sulu’s voice was calm.

  “Decrease to sublight, helm, Lieutenant Uhura, are you picking up anything?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re being hailed by the Lexington.”

  “Put it on audio, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  A stutter of static, then a harried voice filled the bridge. Uhura made a hasty adjustment. “... lost our aft deflectors. Enemy vessels closing. Enterprise, are you there? Come in, Enterprise.”

  “Open a channel, Lieutenant. Scramble it.”

  “Aye, sir. ... Go ahead, sir.”

  Kirk kept his eyes fixed on the forward viewing screen as he spoke. “This is Captain Kirk of the Enterprise here, we are receiving you, Lexington. What is your status? Over.”

  A new voice. “Jim? This is Bob Wesley. We’ve held them off until now, but our aft deflectors are gone, and our port shield won’t take another direct hit. Over.”

  “Hold on, Bob. ... I’ve got you on my screens.”

  One large star and three smaller ones materialized and grew rapidly until the bridge crew could see the wounded vessel. The smaller Romulan ships circled her cautiously, wary of her greater firepower. Every time an opening presented itself, one of them would take advantage of their faster maneuverability to dart [108] in, fire, and pull back out before the Lexington could bring her weaponry to bear.

  “Ready forward phaser banks, Mr. Sulu.”

  “Phaser banks ready, sir.”

  “Fire a ten-second blast amidships on my order, then change course immediately to four-five-two, point zero, mark.”

  “Course four-five-two, point zero, mark, as soon as we’ve fired, aye sir. Phasers standing by.”

  Kirk scanned the instrument panel, counted seconds, then said quietly, “Fire.” The deadly beams shot out, impaling the central Romulan warship directly. A sudden, blinding explosion flooded the viewscreen, then was gone as the Enterprise changed course. As the crew waited tensely, there came a shudder, then a slight lurch.

  “A hit on the starboard deflectors, Captain, but not serious,” Sulu reported.

  “Change course to five-three-eight, mark two-four, Mr. Sulu. Let’s go after the others.”

  “Aye, sir. ... The Lexington just fired her main banks, sir.”

  Kirk was already watching the instruments, between glances at the viewing screen. The hit was a glancing one, and the Romulan was able to turn away, though she appeared to have limited maneuverability.

  “That scorched her tailfeathers some. ...” Commodore Wesley’s voice came over the channel.

  Kirk raised his voice, “Bob, I don’t see the other one. Do you scan?”

  “She used her cloaking device about a second after we fired.”

  “Prepare to pursue the one that was crippled, Mr. Sulu. Course three-two-six, mark zero-four.”

  “Aye, sir. Three-two-six, mark zero-four. ... Captain, she just faded off the screen.”

  Kirk turned to his Science Officer. “Spock, switch all your sensors to infrared. We should be able to [109] pick them up by their heat emissions, even if we can’t see them or scan them.”

  The Vulcan bent over his sensors, and straightened after tense moments. “Negative, Captain. I picked up a faint trail, but they changed course often enough to mask it. This sector is full of radiation distortions that make scanning unreliable.”

  “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.”

  [110] 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 dang
erous 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 ...”

  [111] 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 stranding you. Your knowledge of the Guardian is too valuable to risk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep working on that idea of a force field as a [112] 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. [113] “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 uneasy 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.”

  [114] 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 reali
zed he had an audience. A young woman, wearing shorts [115] 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 [116] 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.”