Yesterday Son (12 page)

“That’s old Jan, all right. You’ve really caught him.”

The second painting was a posed grouping, showing Spock’s Vulcan harp propped against a chair, next to an open book. Mathematical equations showed on the pages. A Star Fleet uniform tunic hung over the back of the chair, with one sleeve dangling free. Gold braid of a full commander winked against the blue. McCoy studied the picture intently, nodding to himself, then looked back at Zar, who didn’t meet his eyes. He lifted the painting down carefully.

The last canvas was an abstract, with swirling shades of purple, muting into lavender, shading out to rose and light blue. A jagged slash of black jumped out of the center to drip off the side of the painting. It disturbed McCoy. “What’s this one?” he asked.

The gray eyes still avoided his. “I painted it the other night. It really doesn’t mean anything.”

The Doctor made a rude noise. “Like hell it doesn’t mean anything. I’ll bet a psychologist would have a good time with it. Wish I had more training in that
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field.” He opened the sketchbook as Zar put the pictures away, smiling a little as he recognized himself, bent over a microscope in the lab. The sketches varied from people aboard the
Enterprise
to Sarpeidon’s now-extinct animals, with some conventional pen-and-inks of fruit and a few draftsman-like studies of electronic circuitry. The Doctor found himself turning back to one of Uhura bending over her communications panel, dark head tilted characteristically as she listened to voices only she could hear. “I really like this one.”

The younger man looked over his shoulder, then, taking the book from McCoy deftly ripped the page out and handed it to him. The Doctor grinned, pleased, and pointed to the corner. “Thanks. Can you sign it for me? I’ve got a feeling that’ll be worth money some day. Jan agrees with me—says you’ve got real talent.”

Zar shook his head, mumbling, “You’re an optimist, Doctor,” but McCoy could tell he was pleased as he signed the sketch with a flourish.

Though still puzzled by the younger man’s reticence and ill-humor, the Medical Officer was relieved that his black mood seemed to be lifting. He suggested lunch, and saw a glint of humor in the gray eyes. “Have you
ever
known me to refuse food?”

The small galley was crowded when they entered. McCoy punched in his order, and took a sandwich, soup, coffee and a large piece of pie to an empty table. His companion joined him in a minute, carrying a tray loaded to its edges with a huge salad, soy protein wafers, several vegetables and two kinds of dessert. The Doctor shook his head, watching the other tackle the salad enthusiastically. “You still taking that supplement I prescribed?”

“Yes. It tastes good.”

“Well, I think you can stop soon. You’ve certainly filled out since you left Sarpeidon.”

“I know. I had to get a size larger coverall the
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other day. The old one got to be too small in the shoulders.”

“Keep eating like that, and it’ll be too small around your waist.”

Zar paused, bite halfway to his mouth, and looked slightly alarmed. “Do you really think so? I work out with Captain Kirk almost every day, and by myself a lot. The Captain says it makes him tired to watch me.” He put his fork down, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t like being fat.”

McCoy grinned. “Don’t be so literal. Go on, eat your food. I was kidding—that means making a joke. Just come up to sickbay sometime and let me put you on the scale for my records—and to satisfy my curiosity.”

The conversation had turned again to painting, and McCoy was telling his listener about the art galleries on Earth when all animation abruptly faded from Zar’
s
eyes. The Doctor followed his gaze to see the First Officer and the Chief Engineer across the mess-room.
Now we’ll find out what this is all about,
he thought, waving them over.

The two officers sat down, and McCoy and Scott exchanged a few comments, while Spock and Zar sat silently. The Doctor looked from one impassive face to the other.
Worse than ever. And Zar isn’t trying anymore.

“Have you finished your physics assignment?” The Vulcan was abrupt; his inflection that of a teacher to a backward student. McCoy could sense Zar’
s
embarrassment, though the younger man’s face didn’t change.

“Most of it, sir.”

“Very well. What are Fraunhofer lines?”

Zar sighed. “The dark absorption lines in the solar spectrum.”

“Essentially correct, but lacking in detail. What is the function of spectroscopy?”

“It was through the function of spectroscopy that ...” Zar continued, his voice precise, sounding
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like a study tape. He finished, and took a deep breath.

The catechism continued. “What is the Heisenburg Uncertainty Principle? You need not give the math.”

Generous bastard,
McCoy thought, glancing at the Vulcan.
Why is he doing this?
Sudden flash of insight:
he doesn’t know any other way to talk to the kid.
...

“... the measurement of its moment is approximately equal to Planck’s constant, ‘h.’ ‘h’ is equal to 6.26 times 10 to the minus 27th ergs per second,” Zar finished with relief.

Stop. Now.
McCoy thought. But the Vulcan continued after a second’s pause, “What laws govern photoelectric effect, and explain the phenomenon using the concepts of quantum theory.”

The younger man hesitated for a long moment. His answer this time was slower, broken by pauses as he dredged the information out of his memory.

When the three laws had been duly given, McCoy turned to the Vulcan to change the subject, but Spock ignored him. “The formula, please.”

The gray eyes flicked to the Doctor’s face, then dropped. Zar’
s
voice this time was lower, as though the muscles in his throat were constricting, and he hesitated between words, obviously groping. Finally he stumbled through.

The First Officer raised an eyebrow. “You need to review that. Very well, what is meant by the critical angle of incidence?”

Long pause. McCoy found he was gripping the handle of his spoon as he stirred his now-cold coffee. The younger man thought intently, then his face hardened and his chin came up. “I don’t know, sir.”

“The critical angle of incidence ...” began Spock, and proceeded to lecture capably for the next four or five minutes. The Doctor glanced over at Scotty, who was listening with a credible amount of polite interest for one who had heard it all before.

Finally the lecture seemed to be drawing to a close. Spock finished with a two-sentence summary of the
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topic, and stopped. Zar looked at the other two officers, paused for a beat, then slowly raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating,” he intoned.

The imitation was perfect, but there was nothing good-natured about it.
There is mimicry, and there is mockery, and this,
thought McCoy,
is definitely mockery.
It wasn’t lost on the Vulcan, who dropped his eyes, hastily picking up his fork.

The Doctor cleared his throat. “What do you think our next assignment will be Scotty?”

“Whatever it is, I hope it’ll be somethin’ wi’ a little excitement to it. I’m findin’ more thrills in my technical journals than I’m encounterin’ on this trip.”

Conversation continued desultorily between the Chief Engineer and the Medical Officer, until Scotty announced that he had duty and departed.

Spock, who was evidently finding the atmosphere uncomfortable, made another attempt. “I’ve finished reviewing your current assignment in biochemistry, Zar. Your answers were accurate, for the most part. If you have your next assignment ready I could—” Without a word, the younger man got up and left the table, heading for the food processors on the other side of the galley.

Embarrassed and concerned, McCoy attempted a light tone. “Never saw anyone with an appetite like that! He’d put
Attila
and all his Huns to shame!” Zar returned to the table with a large, meat-filled sandwich. Deliberately, he picked it up and began eating, ignoring everything around him.

When the Doctor was relating the incident to Kirk, later that day in sickbay, the Captain smiled at that point. McCoy shook his head.
“It wasn’t funny, Jim
. Zar ate it right in front of him. It was the worst insult he could give. You should have seen him—and you should have seen Spock!”

“Really bothered him?”

“Yeah. He got that look—you know the one, when he’s hurt and he won’t show it—and left. Zar just sat there until he was out of sight, then dropped the
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food, and got out of there. I don’t mind telling you I’m worried about both of them. What could’ve caused Zar to do such an about-face?”

Kirk looked uneasy. “I think I know. I told him the truth the other day—about Spock, and the atavachron, and his relationship to Zarabeth.”

The Doctor whistled softly. “That could explain it—he took it really hard?”

“Yes. This is serious. I can’t risk allowing this kind of thing to affect Spock’s efficiency. He’s too valuable an officer. I feel sorry for Zar, but—hell, I feel sorry for Spock, too. But I’ve got a starship to run. This can’t go on.”

The bosun’s whistle filled the air. “Captain Kirk, acknowledge, please,” came Lieutenant Uhura’s contralto.

He thumbed a button on the sickbay communicator. “Kirk here.”

“Captain, I have a Priority One distress call, from sector 90.4. It’s in code, sir. For your eyes only.”

“On my way.” Kirk was out the door before McCoy was out of his seat.

The bridge doors slid open, and before Kirk stepped through, Uhura placed a coded readout in his hand. Sitting down, he flipped a switch on his command chair.

“Computer.”

“This is Captain Kirk. Do you have voice-print ID?”

“Identity acknowledged.”

“Lieutenant Uhura received a Priority One distress call with accompanying message. Scan, decode and translate to a readout, then erase the translation from your memory banks after I’ve received it.”

“Working.”

He sat tensely, resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the arm of the command chair. The bridge crew cast covert glances at him, but the Captain was oblivious, mind racing. Priority One from Sector 90.4 was ominous. That sector held only one thing of any importance—the Guardian of Forever.

A strip of readout spouted under his fingers. The translation read:

PRIORITY ONE

Stardate: 6381.7

FROM: NOG 1704, Starship
Lexington,
Commodore Robert Wesley, Commanding

TO: NCC 1701, Starship
Enterprise,
Captain James T. Kirk, Commanding

CURRENT ASSIGNMENT: Patrol of sector 90.4, code name, Gateway.

PROBLEM: Have picked up blips of three vessels at extreme range of subspace scanner, have identified intruders as originating from sector RN-30.2, Romulan Neutral Zone.

TENTATIVE IDENTIFICATION: Romulan warships.

ESTIMATED TIME OF CONTACT: 10.5 hours.

EVALUATION: Military engagement probable. Request immediate assistance.

MAYDAY—DISTRESS—MAYDAY—DISTRESS—MAYDAY—

Kirk too three deep breaths, closing his eyes, ordering his thinking. Straightening, he addressed Ensign Chekov, who was watching him expectantly, “Present course, Mr. Chekov?”

“Two-nine-zero mark five, sir.”

“Change course to seven-four-six mark six.”

“Aye, sir. ...” Chekov turned to his panel, turned back after a short pause. “Course laid in, sir.”

“Helm, ahead warp factor eight, Mr. Sulu.” The almond-shaped eyes widened, and Sulu made an adjustment. The barely perceptible vibrations of the ship suddenly increased. The
Enterprise
hummed. Kirk began counting seconds in his head. He’d reached eleven when the intercom flashed. Flipping the channel open, he smiled grimly. “Yes, Mr. Scott?”

The intercom was silent for a long moment, as Chief Engineer Scott evidently wondered if his Captain had developed telepathy. Finally, he spoke, voice subdued, “Captain. I suppose you’ve a good reason for taxin’ m’ poor engines like this?”

“A very good reason, Mr. Scott.”

“Aye, sir.” The Chief Engineer must have looked
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at his stress readouts, because he said, “How long will we be runnin’ at this ungodly speed, sir?”

“About twelve hours, Mr. Scott. We’ll alternate with warp nine whenever the engines will take it.”

There was a long, reproachful silence, then a sigh. “Aye, sir.”

In spite of his anxiety, Kirk smiled. “Hold ’er together, Scotty. I’m calling a briefing in five minutes. Main briefing room. Kirk out.”

He heard the doors to the bridge, then Spock was standing beside him. The Vulcan ran a quick eye over the helm controls, and turned to him, inquiring without words.

Kirk nodded. “We’ve got a problem, Mr. Spock.” He handed the readout to the First Officer, who scanned it with a steadily ascending eyebrow. The Captain turned to Uhura. “Contact Doctor McCoy and inform him of the briefing. I’ll see you in the main briefing room in three minutes. Spock, with me.”