The Cry of the Onlies

by Judy Klass

  Spock, in a rather un-Vulcan gesture, pushed the blue torbak salad aimlessly about on his plate. Perfectly vile-looking vegetable, to McCoy's way of thinking.

  Finally, Spock spoke. "I used the Vulcan mind-meld to help the captain forget. It was necessary that he put the experience behind him. So that he could command more efficiently."

  McCoy was touched. The mind-meld, he knew, involved a degree of mental intimacy, a loss of privacy which Vulcans found most distasteful, and avoided whenever possible. "I guess I was a bit rough on you that night, Spock. Said some things I shouldn't have. What … made you do that for Jim?"

  The Vulcan remained impassive.

  "Well, anyhow," the doctor said, "since you say he doesn't know about it, I won't give you away. Things could get complicated, though, when Flint comes on board. He may want to talk about Rayna, about the whole episode."

  Spock nodded. "A possibility I have considered, Doctor. However, it seems more likely that Mr. Flint will wish to avoid all discussion of the past, and concentrate on penetrating the cloaking device he designed. Let us handle each contingency as it arises. But I believe, for now, it is best to leave things as they are."

  Flint lay before a crackling hearth of sweet-smelling wood and rosy fire. His fingers dug into the deep harsh wool of his fine exotic rug. He idly traced the pattern of a vine stem as it snaked around another, with his fingers. His thick eyebrows, his sad stern features were immobile.

  Flint, the man who had been Methuselah, Solomon, Alexander, Merlin, Brahms, Leonardo … Flint, with no project at hand, no diversion, could at last feel his rugged old leathery body aging. It was a strange thing to feel.

  Of course, he had aged up to a point, millennia earlier. He had started his life in 3000 B.C., in Mesopotamia. He was Akarin then, a mercenary soldier, a bully, and a drunken fool. He grew from boyhood as Akarin, and was pierced to the heart in battle. When he did not die, he became aware of the strange gift that he possessed, the gift of rapid tissue regeneration. Veritable immortality. His aging process slowed, and halted when he entered a virile early middle-age. It was then that he had to undertake the business of his life; traveling from place to place, hiding his true nature by moving on before others could remark it. His dazzling wealth—his private planet had been bought with a modest fraction of it—and his equally dazzling store of information and wisdom had come with centuries of acquisition. Yet wisdom and wealth could not assuage the most unlikely characteristic of immortality: an ennui that could paralyze him, make it all seem worthless.

  A hundred different professions. Languages. He would learn new ones to amuse himself. Years of travel and carousing would give way to centuries of longing for security, for one precious, lasting love. And in those centuries came girl after precious radiant girl, clutched to him until she withered, turned to dust. Cynical years of carousing and numbness would then follow, a resolve to never love and mourn again. And then … he would trip again, be pricked again by a loveliness so startling, a girl he cherished so deeply that he knew they could never be sundered … until the woman withered, turned to dust.

  Twice he had tried to follow them by taking his own life. He hanged himself in Cadiz in 712. The rope was cut by his interfering, swart, stupid landlady. His unconscious form was lowered, and soon he breathed life again; dead tissue gave way to living.

  In 1419 he lost Chloe in a village in Bordeaux. He was playing the part of a wealthy baron at the time, had a house well-run with serfs, servants, and courtiers. He shut them all out after Chloe's burial, pictured her honey hair, heard her voice calling him, took a knife from the wall and cut and slashed his chest, goring and carving several vital organs. Unconsciousness engulfed him. He did not truly expect to die. But it amused him to lie in bed during the weeks that followed, feeling his body renew itself, a film of new flesh forming over the healing organs, the sting of pain distracting him from a deeper wound, his recent loss, and masking the dull, aching, ever-present lack of some sweet constant in his life. Scars remained, after his body healed, for several decades. Then they, too, melted away.

  But this flesh-carving proved to be frivolous; a servant had spied on his convalescence, and spread stories of witchcraft and forces of the occult at work in his manor. It forced Flint to flee, to Italy this time …

  All the dates and wars, brides, achievements, places … sound and fury, signifying nothing. Incidents that stood out in his mind, centuries that sped up to a blur, undistinguished, unremembered. What soured Flint on so many women and so many bosom friends was an inescapable feeling of contempt. An impatience with their blearing eyes, wandering minds, creasing faces, trembling hands growing ever feebler … And a feeling of rage, almost jealousy, that their short spans made their lives sweeter, seemed to give them meaning. They could choose some quaint little toy village in which to live out their days, and have it be their world. They would never return to see it portioned into pastures for the rich, burned, sacked, or paved, or renamed, its monuments and houses of worship razed and replaced, or its industries mechanized, or the streets giving way to malls and lots, or the air jets of a city in the sky… Flint had watched the human circus on parade going by, had at times contributed to it, or manipulated it, until at last, disgusted, he retreated into solitude. Yet his friends, his loves, the rest of humanity knew only the bliss of mortal ignorance.

  And I am mortal now. Flint rotated his ankle experimentally. It twinged sharply. Something wondrous and new; even the ankle seemed surprised. Arthritis had been appearing for a month, steadily insinuating its way into his muscle joints and limbs. "The thrill of deterioration!" Flint said, and laughed. "We see now the meaning it adds." He had talked to himself when alone, as to one trusted companion, since before he left the Valley of the Euphrates and Southwest Asia and embarked on all his travels. When he fell in love, or had a family, he tended to lose the habit. Since the death of Rayna, he had begun talking to himself once again.

  Rayna … sweet mortal twinge for the two of them, meant to have been immortal. Rayna, his Pygmalion's creation, the culmination, synthesis, orchestration of his love and all his most cherished dreams. Dreams nurtured, with her near him, for a handful of decades. Rayna, his child, student, protected one, his mother, sister, lover, friend, female companion for all time … but the story had never been completed. She had never found maturity, or her capacity to be completely human and love as a woman, until too soon, too late, too suddenly.

  Did he hate the impudent young captain whom he had used as a puppet, his pawn, his initiator? There was no hatred in him, not even a bitterness left. Flint had acted as foolishly as Kirk, after all, for all his age—and now he was as mortal.

  Rayna's death, Dr. McCoy's discovery that Flint, away from the elements and atmosphere of Earth, was slowly dying, and the departure of the men of the Enterprise, had left Flint with a curious sense of peace. Perhaps the peace he would have felt had Rayna lived and learned to love him—perhaps sadder. But a peace that gave him focus and set him working again, with a deadline at last. No longer did he merely dabble in long-neglected music, painting, and experiments. He set aside time each day for each. Yet, he rushed nothing. Every moment, active or idle, was sweeter, and he savored it. Such pleasure, in lying alone before a magnificent smoky blaze that stung his eyes with water. Man's greatest achievement, capturing fire, came long before my time. We are foolish to think we have outgrown it.

  A metal whirr filled the room. The loyal machine hung in the air by the old-fashioned door of Flint's study. It moved toward him, gliding through space, the firelight shining off its curves and angles with a steely glint. He absently admired the new, modified robot servant, designed to meet his current needs. He had added the voice component to it for the mild diversion of having someone else to talk to now and then. Its new metal arms hung limp for the moment. It stopped in the air near Flint, and hovered, suspended by its antigravity unit.

  "Yes, M-7, what is it?" Flint asked.

  "Signor," the robot whirred, "the
dilithium splinters have been prepared, as you requested, for the cloaking experiment."

  "Very good, M-7," Flint answered, easing to his feet before the robot could offer to assist him. "Let's get some work accomplished before the Earthmen arrive and want results."

  The device he had designed had been stolen and misused, and he wished to participate in its recovery. So he would sacrifice his privacy, would mingle with ordinary people again. The thing he had said he would never do. He had finally consented to Federation requests that he join in the search for the Sparrow. He viewed the future with reservations, especially about the starship he would be boarding—but also with a touch of excitement. Could it be that he still missed the society of others?

  He moved gingerly through the door, bemused by the pain in his right leg. The robot lingered, to spray the fire in the hearth with a water mist. The flames hissed and died. M-7 followed Flint to the laboratory.

  Chapter Eighteen

  KIRK HAD ORDERED his officers to turn out in full-dress uniform when Flint was received aboard the Enterprise. A tape of "Variations for a String Quartet in Dm" recently composed by Flint was playing in the transporter room and throughout the ship as he was welcomed aboard and courtesies were exchanged. Starfleet and the Federation of Planets recognized this exceptional man for who he was, and who he had been, and had decorated him many times over in recent years for his services to humanity, though he had refused to attend the ceremonies. Now that he had been lured off his private planet to help search for the Sparrow, Starfleet Command had urged Kirk to fete him, shower him with honors.

  Kirk knew the measure of the greatness of the man, and agreed he should be honored. He would do all that was appropriate. But what was this feeling of repugnance then, when Flint's form shimmered into existence on the transporter pad, and his robot servant materialized, floating behind him? Why did Kirk distrust them both, want to challenge Flint, accuse him … of what?

  Still, knowing what his job required, Kirk managed to force a smile, stepped forward, and bowed. "Mr. Flint, our ship is graced by your presence. It is regrettable that we meet again under such trying circumstances. We will do everything possible to accommodate you."

  Flint stepped off the transporter pad and moved toward Kirk, studying his face, surprised by such a genial greeting, wondering if it was meant as irony. "I hope my efforts will be of assistance in tracking the missing ship," he said at last.

  "Starfleet has every confidence in you," Kirk said, still with forced amiability. He suppressed an irrational impulse to pull back and punch his august guest right in the jaw. What's wrong with me? I must be becoming unhinged.

  McCoy stood to the side, at attention, his mouth in a sardonic smile as he watched the exchange. Spock observed it with his brows furrowed in a frown of concentration.

  "You remember, of course," Kirk continued, "these two gentlemen, Dr. McCoy and First Officer Spock."

  They bowed in Flint's direction.

  Flint nodded toward them. Is Kirk trying to shame me with his nonchalance, his forgiving behavior? Or did my Rayna mean so little to such a busy young man with so many romantic intrigues behind him? "I am anxious, Captain, to begin work on penetrating my cloaking device. If you would be good enough to show me to my quarters and the laboratory facilities at my disposal …"

  "Certainly, sir. Mr. Spock will conduct you to them."

  "If you will follow me, Mr. Flint …" Spock said, anxious to end this interview, moving toward the door.

  Flint paused. "There is some equipment I need, still on the planet. M-7 will see to its transport." The robot moved to the transporter consul beside Mr. Scott, who looked dramatically formal in his kilt-styled dress uniform. M-7 inched him out of the way and began punching in coordinates and pulling levers with its long mechanical arms.

  It didn't have arms! Kirk thought, glad of a certainty about the past. This must be a new model. "Once you're settled in, Mr. Flint, I'll send technicians to assist you in your work." He was glad to at last see the doors whoosh shut on Spock and Flint, and gave a violent shudder of relief.

  Spock watched Flint come on board with what a human would have called a feeling of pain. Obviously, he told himself, he could not have foreseen this. The odds against the ship-obsessed career officer Kirk, and Flint, the avowed recluse, being brought together again on a mission were quite astronomical. Logically, it would have been foolhardy to even consider the possibility. As if he had been attacked, questioned, pressed for it, Spock made the calculation in his head. Odds of easily 6,248.3 to one.

  He could hear, in his mind, the voice of McCoy, mocking him. "For all your roots and percentages, Spock, you sure don't know much about life. Life is capricious, and it doesn't perform according to your tabulations." As usual, Jim had beaten the odds. But this time, the situation in which he'd done it was a disaster.

  Entering Kirk's mind that way had not been a regulation move, but this did not concern Spock. He would gladly face court-martial, or give up his life if it meant helping his captain. But had he helped him? If he was hurt in the days ahead, the fault would belong to no one but Spock, and his miscalculation.

  He led Flint to a small laboratory adjoining engineering, in which Flint could conduct his experiments. Spock explained some of the intricacies of the current computer system, and Flint inserted a tape of information into its consul. Soon he was viewing blueprints and graphs on the room's main screen. The Vulcan stood by him, watching. Occasionally, not looking up, Flint fired questions at him.

  "Mr. Spock, I am looking for a flaw in my device. I do not expect to find one, but I am looking. You say the children's ship exposed itself at intervals, then disappeared again. Were the intervals at all regular?"

  Spock had no clues to offer. "No, sir. Our helmsmen tried to calculate this, to plot it on a graph in time and space. Their findings show that there is no discernible pattern to the Sparrow's appearances. How often they occur, the light-year interims between them, the speed of the craft, all seem to be erratic, entirely random. This leads us to believe that the children occasionally switch off the device, or do not take the proper steps to maintain it. In the same way, they have occasionally used ship-to-ship radio—perhaps to taunt us."

  Flint nodded.

  "Of course," Spock went on, "these calculations were done before the Sparrow's incursion into Klingon space. Their warp drive seems to be gone, now, and Starfleet has assured us that the other ship systems will soon be going critical as well."

  "Did they?" Flint said. "Unfortunately, Starfleet Command really knows nothing of my device. In a ship altered for the use of my cloaking device, the device will be self-protecting. It will maintain itself at all costs and, in a crisis, divert power from other failing systems for its own needs. It considers itself more important than warp drive, phaser power, even life support. It was designed to provide last minute camouflage in a danger zone, a combat situation. Only when the sentient beings aboard are lethally threatened by heat and oxygen loss will it give another system priority over itself."

  Spock considered the complications this presented. "A system as hardy and enduring as yourself, sir," he said. In the past, he and his captain had encountered other such obsessive geniuses who tended to design their computers and machines in their own image.

  "As hardy and enduring as I once was, Mr. Spock, before I chose to wander into space, away from Earth. I have proved vulnerable—so must my device."

  He returned to his charts and calculations, tested a thousand times before for accuracy, hopefully probed now for a sign of weakness.

  Spock watched him but did not speak again. Flint soon began to mutter to himself; Spock's excellent ears were able to pick up remarks about personal folly, how a defensive weapon had become the cause for galactic confrontation, he never should have designed it … Spock realized Flint was simply talking to himself. Perhaps he had forgotten Spock's presence entirely.

  The murmurings died away, as Flint seemed to have hit upon something. He was ask
ing the computer for readings of various substances, their chemical makeup, and the feasibility of reducing them to powder.

  After two hours had rolled by, Spock ventured to remark on this—his curiosity was tugging at him.

  "Mr. Flint, if I may venture an observation, the methods you are using, the experiments you are conducting, have little to do with cloaking device technology, as I understand it."

  Flint nodded. "Quite correct, Mr. Spock. And that is because the cloaking system I developed was a major break from the usual methods of cloaking a vessel, hiding it from sensors. Earlier, more primitive devices sought only to mask a ship. Mine confuses sensors so that they pick up unclear or completely false readings. They will report that the ship is in several places at once. Or they report it to be an asteroid, or a pocket of asteroid rubble. Or they read it as an ion storm, a quite effective illusion in this quadrant. Or they sometimes read it as the empty void of space. The device causes the illusions to alternate and provide the ship chameleonlike camouflage which complements the ship's surroundings. For example, it will read as an ion storm in an area where real storms frequently occur. The illusion of the void of space is the easiest to penetrate once the ship is generally located. But it will never maintain that illusion for too long."

  Spock nodded, impressed. He had not understood before precisely what was meant when Starfleet's secret tapes stated that the Flint device "misinformed" sensors. "A most clever method to use, sir."

  Flint smiled. "Too clever, I'm afraid. I tried to invent a cloaking device that could not be penetrated. I may have outwitted myself in the process."

  "Then you see no hope?"

  "Not of getting clear sensor readings of the Sparrow, no. You see, even if we penetrate several of the illusions, the device will have many more still in store, and it could, if necessary, project an illusion far away from us, as a decoy, to distract us … What I am pursuing now is the idea of throwing some substance at the ship which will stick to it, make its outline discernible. The substance must adhere to the hull of the ship, must be producible in mass quantities, and, as it coats the Sparrow, be beyond the cloaking device's ability to hide it."