Strangers From the Sky (26 page)

T’Lera, Vulcan and commander lost to both her planet and her command, student of life’s ironies, considered all that had befallen them and wondered to which of a multiplicity of ironies her son referred.

“Indeed?”

“We have landed our ship in a vast body of water, thence been transported over water to a human-built structure, anchored, I am told, not on Earth but on a coral reef.” Sorahl spoke these things with a quiet wonderment at this world’s diversity. “From there we have been transported in a small water-borne vessel to within a larger one.”

T’Lera said nothing while he finished his thought.

“Mother, we have, quite literally, not yet set foot on Earth!”

I
N THE WINDOWSEAT
of a third-floor bedroom of an old frame house in Boston, overlooking a small rain-swept garden where an oak tree and a gingko vied in sprinkling bronze and saffron leaves respectively upon a patch of soggy lawn, Spock considered a worst-case scenario.

Logically, no natural phenomenon with which he was familiar could have caused him to be here; therefore his transport through time and space had been wrought by some manner of intelligence. Without knowing the nature of that intelligence or the reason for its action, Spock’s options were limited, his outlook unpromising.

Assuming his companions had not been similarly transported, they would have conducted a Phase One search for him on the surface of M-155, then returned to
Enterprise
before the planet disappeared again. Having no possible way of knowing where further to look for him, they would eventually abandon the search for Spock and move on. As, logically, they should.

If his companions
had
been similarly transported, it was as likely that they were on Earth as that they were not. If they were not, there was nothing to be gained by contemplating where they might be. An intelligence capable of manipulating time and space, yet so capricious as to transport other intelligent beings into the void of space or onto a planet of molten gases was beyond any logic Spock understood. Logic dictated that cruelty, and what humans called evil, were the offspring of ignorance and fear. Superior intellect, having transcended ignorance and fear, could only breed superior morality, or so Spock believed. He had not lived long among humans.

If his companions
were
on Earth, it was improbable that, sequestered as he must remain, they would be able to find him. He must therefore, against all odds, attempt to locate them.

Jeremy Grayson proved instrumental in this.

“Delicate question,” the professor said one evening after they’d cleared the supper dishes and set up the chessboard. “How precarious is your financial situation? A temporary problem of liquidity, or are you plain broke?”

“I beg your pardon?” Spock had been pleased to learn that his ancestor held a grand-master rating; it eliminated the need for handicapping.

“Considering the condition in which you turned up on my doorstep, I’m assuming you have no money,” Grayson said bluntly, toying with a rook. “If there’s anything you need, don’t be coy about it.”

What could he possibly require beyond the largess the professor had already provided? Spock wondered. He had food and shelter, his pick of closets full of clothing left by previous boarders, a room of his own, access to Grayson’s private library, which literally filled the house to bursting. Grayson never questioned his keeping his head covered at all times, never invaded his privacy or questioned his need to be alone more than in company. If he must remain here indefinitely, surely there were worse prisons.

But as to anything he might need…

“There is one thing, Professor. Before I came here, I was involved in a—project of a sort, with some colleagues. For reasons which I cannot explain, we—lost contact with each other…” He did not know how to continue.

“And?” Grayson moved his queen, sat back in his chair. “Check, by the way. You mentioned you were a scientist. Dare I ask what the project was about?”

“I regret I cannot tell you that, Professor.” Spock rescued his king with a tricky knight-led counteroffensive. “Check.”

“No problem.” Grayson found himself seriously threatened for the first time in the game. “Didn’t think you could. But you lost contact with the others, and?”

“I have reason to believe they may be in some danger,” Spock explained carefully. “And since they will have no way of knowing where I am, I must communicate with them without attracting undue attention from—certain quarters.”

“That should be easy.” Grayson fiddled with his queen, a mischievous gleam in his clear blue eyes. “We can run an ad in the Personals.” He moved. “Check and mate, Ben. Game for another?”

Spock reset the board.

Somewhere between the recipes and advice to the lovelorn, between agricultural reports and columns on pet care, the following evening’s “newspapers”—broadcast to the home screen by a global media service for those who’d rather read their news than hear it—carried this terse notice:

Kirk, James T.:

Awaiting your command.

Spock c/o Grayson/Boston.

“It’ll run indefinitely on both the local and the global wire services until I tell them to pull it,” Grayson said, wondering who this Kirk might be to inspire such loyalty from the likes of Spock.

“Doubtless the cost may prove prohibitive…” Spock knew something of the human obsession with profit.

“Not a dime,” Grayson assured him. “Put your mind to rest on that score, Ben. I’m still owed a few favors out there.”

All that remained for Spock to do was a thing most Vulcans excelled in: he waited.

At no time did he venture beyond the confines of the professor’s house or garden. He made himself useful, doing whatever manner of housekeeping and repairs had been long neglected by a damaged old man. Despite Grayson’s insistence that he need do nothing more than indulge him in a nightly game of chess, Spock cleaned the house from attic to cellar, raked leaves, climbed the precariously slanted gambrel roof to patch its leaks, completed the task of cataloging his thousands of books which the professor had begun years ago but left unfinished following the death of his wife. In all his activities, Spock was silent, unobtrusive, and for the most part lost in thought.

Others came and went through the professor’s life—a daughter who Spock knew would be his great-aunt—and any number of friends and associates of every stripe who called or visited, often filling the parlor with stories and debate long into the night. Though it would have gratified his curiosity to attend these gatherings, Spock refrained, remaining in his room whenever Grayson had so much as a single other visitor, his sharp ears enabling him to partake of the conversation vicariously. He dared not do otherwise; there was too much at stake.

As he performed his household chores, Spock formulated a plan. With the professor’s permission, he would remain with Grayson for one Earth year. If his companions did not find him in that amount of time, he would seek a more permanent place of concealment. Earth had deserts where no human could live. Spock was a desert creature born and bred; he would survive.

He did not permit himself to dwell upon the arduousness, the solitude of such a way of life. He would do what he must. At worst his self-imposed exile would last for an additional nineteen years, until the first arrival of Vulcans within the Earth system. Would it constitute a violation of the Prime Directive to reveal himself to his own kind and explain what had transpired? Even if it were not, and he were permitted to return to Vulcan with those rescued by the Earth ship
Amity
, what dispostion would be made of him on a planet where he had not yet been born?

The convolutions of such logic might drive a human mad. Spock had not the luxury of madness. He would do what he must; he had no choice.

Alone in what passed for a fleabag hotel somewhere on the west coast of the Americas, Jim Kirk wrote until his hand cramped:

“Captain’s Log: No Stardate. Stardates will not exist for another forty-two years. If what we are attempting to do fails, they won’t exist at all—at least on Earth.

“My people are all in place, awaiting further orders. Those with communicators have kept in constant contact with me. Lee Kelso has left me a commphone extension where he can sometimes be reached; the system is not ideal but is the best that can be managed. Kelso insists he will find a way to hook our communicators into a computer frequency even with this century’s primitive technology; I have known Lee Kelso for years and believe he can do almost anything, but I am dubious about this.

“Dr. Dehner reports she has settled in comfortably in her new identity as Dr. Bellero, and has even set up a clinic to treat private patients. Despite her initial concerns, her arrival in Tezqan has not aroused suspicion. In many respects this century is infinitely easier to work in than our own.

“Mitchell has fitted in well at Gdansk, gaining access in ways I don’t want to know about to AeroNav files on shipping routes and code-classified activities. He spends his evenings in waterfront bars telling dirty jokes in Polish and asking merchanters what they think about flying saucers. He has reluctantly agreed to limit his social activities to this much; we don’t any of us dare tempt fate in ways that might alter history.

“Gary informs me that the area where the Vulcans were found is under the jurisdiction of AeroNav Command out of Norfolk Island, and has narrowed the number of ships possibly involved in retrieving them to three. Once he learns which of the three is the correct ship—and I have no doubt Gary will accomplish this by whatever sub-rosa means—we will need Kelso’s skills as a computer hacker more than ever.

“As for Spock—I dare not allow myself to think about Spock. Our mad friend Parneb seems to think he still exists somehow; I can only attribute this to wishful thinking on Parneb’s part, since Spock’s nonexistence would be his fault. Nevertheless, something in me refuses to admit the Vulcan is dead or, worse, cannot exist in this version of history. How I would value his logic to help us now!

“Assuming AeroNav procedures to be not unlike that of the United Earth Space Probe Agency that will be its offspring, and which in turn will be the forerunner of the Starfleet in which we serve, the people in charge will be concerned with keeping the Vulcans safe and as far removed from the general public as possible. The only question is: Where?”

“Antarctica?” Jason Nyere repeated. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard it. “Commodore—”

“You have a problem with that, Captain?” the stolid face on the comm screen inquired. It was a paper-pusher’s face, a bland, impersonal, just-following-orders face, and it was frowning disapproval at him. Jason Nyere seldom gave Command trouble; it didn’t expect it from him now.

“You bet I do, sir! I have a problem with this entire scenario. If you people would take into consideration—”

“That’s too bad, Captain. Are you requesting we relieve you?”

Nyere felt the blood pounding in his temples with the effort to stay calm. “Absolutely not, sir. I’m simply requesting—”

“Very well. Then I suggest you get under way at once. You will proceed beneath the pack ice to the old Byrd Research Complex. Once you’ve got your—detainees—secured, you will be joined by several wingboats. They’ll be bringing some people in, and your crew—except for you and your first—out.”

So that was the way of it! Jason thought. Take away my crew so I can’t budge my ship until whatever little top-secret charade has been acted out to everyone else’s satisfaction. Nyere leaned into the screen, trying to read his superior’s mind.

“What ‘people,’ Commodore?”

“Not at liberty to tell you that yet, Captain. You’re due at Byrd by 0800 Thursday. You will not break radio silence until then.”

“Sir!” Jason cut across his attempt to terminate. “Commodore, goddammit, either I’m told the next move or by God I don’t play! I want to know how many ‘people’ and from where—military, civilian, intelligence, who? None of you has had the courtesy to so much as speak directly to the individuals I am detaining here—with their complete consent and cooperation, Commodore; I’ll remind you of that—”

“I have your report here, Nyere. Don’t get snappish with me!”

“And another thing, sir!” Jason’s slow, even temper was fired now. “Has it occurred to anyone in charge that these are citizens of another world, and that their government might not take kindly to the manner in which they are being treated—”

“That will be all, Captain!” The commodore’s voice was shaky, as if he’d been sitting up all night with an itchy trigger finger contemplating exactly that. “You will radio Norfolk from Byrd upon your arrival. Out!”

Jason looked an apology at T’Lera, who had been listening out of range of the screen as Nyere felt she had a right to do, regulations or Melody Sawyer’s temper tantrums notwithstanding.

“I’m sorry!” he said quietly. “But you see what I’m up against.”

“I quite understand, Captain.” T’Lera considered how her superior—the deskbound, planet-bound Prefect T’Saaf—would respond, for all her training in logic and diversity, to a like situation. “This place where you are to detain us…”

Now that the screen was off, Nyere could dab the sweat off his face.

“Byrd is a polar research center, built and then abandoned in the Nineties, in possibly the coldest, remotest place on God’s green Earth. The people who pay my salary would have me put you, literally, on ice.”

“Captain?”

Jason chuckled quietly. He’d visited the Vulcan commander daily in her quarters in the six days Command had kept them waiting for a reply, had seen to it that she had ready access to him at all times provided she let him know in advance so he could clear the corridors. He found her remarkably easy to talk to despite the constant need to clarify the idiom, had stressed this ease of communication most emphatically in trying to get Command to stop hiding behind its cloud of jingoistic paranoia and confront the reality of Vulcans.

Vulcans, Jason mused. Pity their name for themselves transliterated so closely to the name of one of Earth’s less popular ancient gods—crippled iron forger, hurler of lightning bolts. Surely that sort of subliminal silliness wasn’t what was affecting the people who made the decisions for this planet?

I’m a ship’s captain, not a shrink, Jason Nyere reminded himself. I haven’t the foggiest idea what goes on in those people’s heads. But I read this lady with the fancy ears loud and clear. She charts a straight course, and she’s yare. Nyere found himself chuckling again. If nothing else, these mood swings had him marked for an early grave.

“One thing I am going to see to,” he assured T’Lera, “is that whoever gets off those wingboats does not bunk on my ship. Let them keep each other warm inside Byrd; the main structure’s little more than a glorified quonset hut, and I wouldn’t vouch for the plumbing. The more uncomfortable they feel, the sooner they’ll give up and go home. Then it will be my privilege to show you and your son my ship’s true hospitality, instead of keeping you under wraps like criminals. Who knows, maybe I can strong-arm Melody into giving you tennis lessons!”