Yesterday Son (15 page)

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 realized he had an audience. A young woman, wearing shorts
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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
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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.”

Pleased by the compliment, Zar nearly forgot himself and smiled openly at her. He repressed the grin just in time. “You’ve seen my paintings?”

“Oh, yes.” Her smile faded, slowly, and then the green eyes lost their expectant air. “You don’t have the slightest idea of what I’ve been talking about, do you?”

“No.”

“I’m ashamed of myself—baiting you was an unworthy impulse. Don’t worry, I’ll never let on.” She cocked her head, smiling differently this time. “Let’s forget it. Would you ... what’s wrong?” He had put a hand to his head, and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know ... my head hurt.” He shook himself, and the lines of pain faded. “It’s better, now.”

“You looked terrible for a second. You’d better check with Doctor McCoy.”

“Maybe I will, later. Right now, I have to clean up.”

“But I interrupted you. Go ahead with what you were doing.”

“No, I was finished.” He tried to think of some way to prolong the conversation, but his imagination failed him. He realized that he was simply standing there, looking at her, and abruptly turned away.

McNair stood where she was, watching the tall, slender figure. He had nearly reached the entrance when he staggered, then fell.

Pain!
It slammed him behind his eyes, and he doubled over, retching. Dimly, Zar felt his shoulder slide across the doorframe, felt his knees buckling, and the coolness of the metal wall on his half-bare body.
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Blackness swirling with red boiled up, dimming his vision, and then there was nothing. ...

By the time she reached him, McNair was sure he was dying. Every muscle contracted, head thrown back, he was gasping, huge, hurting lungfuls of air. The wheezing rasp of those breaths was painful to hear. As she dropped to her knees, avoiding the out-flung arms, the gasps stopped. Knowing it was hopeless, she took his face between her hands, ready to pull him away from the bulkhead so she could get a clear airway and begin artificial resuscitation.

Suddenly, quite naturally, he began breathing again. McNair’s mouth dropped open in genuine astonishment, and she sat back on her heels, fingers checking his wrist for a pulse.
Extremely fast
...
but maybe that’s normal for him. Skin temperature hot, but that could be normal, also. He’s sweating
...
but the exercise could account for that.
... Baffled, she shook her head.

Black lashes lifted, and he looked at her, then seemed to realize he was sprawled, half-prone against the wall. “What?” He tried to get up. McNair put a hand on his chest, emphatically.

“Don’t. You’d better stay still.”

“What happened?”

“You passed out. I never saw anything like it. I thought you were a goner. I’d have sworn you were agonal.” At his look, she explained, “When people or animals die—especially violently—they spasm and breathe the way you were, just now.”

“You’re sure?”

“I lived through a Romulan assault when I was twelve. Most of the other colonists didn’t. I’m sure.”

He moved cautiously, not attempting to get up. The pain was only a memory now, gone as though it had never been. He felt slightly tired, and very hungry.

“How do you feel?” She was watching him closely.

“Fine.” He didn’t meet her eyes. Suddenly he was
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conscious of the pressure of her hand, and the cool pleasurable sensation of her fingers on his skin. Through the contact, he felt her concern for him, and something else ... dimly, in the background of her mind, she was enjoying touching him. The realization confused and elated him. He wanted to stay there, not moving, content to wait for—what? The thought shook him, and before he realized what he was doing, he rolled over and got to his feet, looking down at her. “I’m fine now.”

McNair shook her head. “You sure didn’t look fine a minute ago, but if you say so ...” She put out a hand to steady herself as she got her feet under her, and felt him catch it, pull her up with a strength that surprised her until she remembered his ancestry, and the fact that Sarpeidon was a higher than Earth-gee planet.

“Has that ever happened to you before? Blackouts, or unconsciousness?”

“No ...” He was hesitant, finally shook his head. “No. I don’t know what caused it ... I don’t remember ...” He looked at her, and she dropped her eyes. He sensed that she was trying to keep something from him.

“What are you thinking of?”

“Nothing. You better see McCoy as soon as possible. Ask him about it.”

The gray eyes were intent, and the inhuman calm of his face was a mask. “You’re thinking about brain damage, aren’t you? Epilepsy—things like that ... right?”

Reluctantly, she nodded.

“I suppose it’s possible.” She watched him repress a shiver. “There’s something ...” He shook his head. “I can’t remember.”

After he showered, they went up to the mess room to eat, and she told him about her home planet, and her training at Star Fleet Academy. He listened intently, absorbed. McNair finished her account with a description of the survival test each cadet had to
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undergo during senior year. “It’s brutal. They pick some godforsaken planet that’s barely habitable, and they dump you there bareass, no food, no weapons, and they expect you to
survive.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So?”

She glared at him for a moment, then realized he wasn’t being smug. “So I survived,” she said. “I had one narrow squeak, in the month I was there. Fell off a ledge and twisted my ankle—but I was lucky, I could’ve broken my neck ... what’s wrong?”

He stared at her, horror darkening his eyes. “I remember, now.” She could barely hear him. “Seven years ... I’d forgotten what death feels like. I’ve got to see the Captain.”

Before Teresa McNair could voice any of the questions in her mind, he was gone.

Spock straightened up from his sensors, frowning slightly. He jiggled a switch, punched buttons, recalibrated for possible—though unlikely—atmospheric disturbance. The reading didn’t change. He flicked the intercom switch. In a moment, the Captain’s voice responded, a little fuzzily, “Kirk here.”

“My apologies for waking you, Captain, but there is something on my sensors you should see.”

“On my way,” came the now wide-awake response.

The Captain reached the bridge, found Spock sitting in the command chair, chin on hand.

“What’s going on?”

“I have been monitoring the planet’s surface, and the emanations from the ruins.”

“There’s been a change of some kind?”

For answer, the First Officer moved to the sensors, and pressed buttons. He lowered his voice. “When I first began monitoring, the surface readings showed this.” A set of figures flashed onto the screen. Spock pressed another button. “Then, exactly six point four minutes ago, the readings dropped, and have
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remained constant again, but on a slightly lower level.” He showed another set of figures.

“As though the emanations from the Guardian have been slightly ... damped ...” Kirk murmured, studying the figures.

“Exactly.”

“What could cause that effect?”

“A number of things. It could be the result of a natural change in the time emanations from the ruins. Or, it could be the result of a containing energy field of some kind.”

“Force field?” Kirk wondered.

“Possible. However, I should be able to pick up the presence of a force field, and my sensors show nothing. In fact, there is a curious lack of positive readings from the entire area of the Guardian.”

“What about life-form readings—the landing party?”

“I recalibrated for the time disturbances ... I haven’t been monitoring the landing party.”

The Captain swung around. “Lieutenant Uhura, what’s the latest from the landing party?”

“They reported that the communications system on the planet was out of commission completely and that they would be using belt communicators. That was almost two and a half hours ago. About an hour ago they signaled that they were beaming up the collection of artifacts, which they did. They’re due to check back in again momentarily, sir.” She broke off, fingers dancing across her board. “There’s something coming in now, Captain.”

Kirk and Spock moved to stand beside her, as she listened intently. Finally, she looked up at them, dark eyes serious. “Captain, it’s a message from Admiral Komack. Star Base One has just reported that ten Romulan vessels breached the Neutral Zone, heading in the direction of this sector. Their ETA is fourteen hours. He’s dispatched five starships and a dreadnought—at maximum warp, they should arrive in fourteen and a half hours. Maybe less.”

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“Thank you, Lieutenant. Contact the landing party. Tell them to stand by to beam up. Inform Lieutenant Harris that if Doctor Vargas gives him any problems, he has my permission to bring her forcibly. I can’t have anyone left on that surface.”

“Aye, sir.” She turned back to her communications console.

“Spock, keep monitoring those emanations. Let me know if there’s any further change in those readings.” The Captain lowered his voice. “If there’s even a chance that Romulans might reach the Guardian, we’ve got to prevent it. Even if that means destroying Gateway.”

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “Captain, the scientific loss would be—”

“Irreparable. I know. But I may have no choice.” Kirk turned back to the communications console. “Lieutenant, do you have that channel to the landing party yet?”

Uhura shook her head, adjusted the receptor in her ear, tried again. And again. Finally she looked back at Kirk, who was watching her tensely. “I’m sorry, sir. They don’t answer. None of them answer.”

Over Spock’s protests, Kirk led the rescue party himself. When they arrived at the coordinates of the first landing party, they found the area deserted. The rescue party huddled together, feeling the bite of the wind, while McCoy scanned the surroundings.

“No life-form readings—wait—very faint. This way.” They began to run.

What was left of the landing party, as well as the archeologists, was strewn outside the wrecked camp building. Kirk clamped his teeth on his lip, and closed his eyes. A moment later, in control again, he joined McCoy, who was stooped over a prone figure.