by Greg Bear
He was deeply romantic, even chivalrous, constantly feeling the urge to protect the "fair sex"; yet one couldn't treat female co-workers with such deference. The solution? Be brusque. And when his passionate respect for all living things became too painful to bear, he even hid from himself. In centuries past, he knew, he probably would have become an alcoholic; the stresses and strains would have produced an unbearable hormonal mix, and he would have turned to drink. Now, by tightly controlling his diet, taking adjustment drugs and engaging in various meditative therapies, he managed to keep the most destructive parts of himself under control.
He ragged Spock so unmercifully because he found himself dismayingly similar to the Vulcan.
McCoy's colleagues and friends—and one was very seldom not the other—soon came to accept the contradictions, and intuit the reasons behind them. They did not tender advice; it would have been useless. And, as Kirk well knew, however distressing McCoy's characteristics were to himself, they resulted in a damned fine doctor. What McCoy lacked in heady brilliance, he more than made up for in insight and compassion.
Even Spock respected the doctor's courtly bedside manner, since it was so effective, and not just on his human patients. Spock well remembered the healing of the silicon-based Horta, years before, accomplished by tenderness and the application of methods better suited to the building trades than formal medicine.
Now, McCoy faced a dilemma which put more than usual strain upon him. He had thirty patients which he had the technical means to save from living death, and yet he was being prevented from doing so. To circumvent those barriers, he had already hinted to Kirk, one of his finest friends, that they would have to bend or break the law. ("Shatter" would probably describe it best.) For Kirk to do so could mean the end of his career. And of course, it could mean the end of McCoy's career as well.
While McCoy focused on this problem, he could not avoid the other problems they were facing: the erratic functioning of the transporter, the peculiar situation on Station One, and the presence of a civilian journalist ready and waiting to record it all for public posterity.
McCoy sat in the shadowy darkness of his quarters, making notes on a piece of paper with an antique fountain pen beneath the concentrated beam of a small lamp. "With the transporter decommissioned until further testing, all the patients on Station One will have to be ferried to the Enterprise by shuttle. The shuttle is being outfitted for this job right now, but I'm not happy with the arrangements. Moving people in cold storage is risky business. The usual vibrations associated with travel in a small vehicle could be hazardous to those in deep cold. Even with special field suspension on each hibernaculum, there's risk. And rigging the shuttle with the special equipment means we can only carry two hibernacula at a time. Spock says the conditions in the nebula cloud are not ideal for small craft; the shuttle can't produce as strong a shield against radiation as the Enterprise …"
He rubbed his face with both hands and decided to put off his worries about the transfer. "How to get around the monitors …" He began his list of choices, none of which he was sure would work. "I've been considering some crazy scheme to rig a false message from the Federation, conveying new rule changes … a new definition of death. To that end, I've had a hard copy made of all the medical references in the monitors. But I'm certain Jim would veto any such scheme. And if Veblen found out about it … not good form to antagonize shipmates. Similar objections to finding a way to temporarily deactivate the medical monitoring functions. But now Spock—"
He lifted his fountain pen and stared off at a hologram of the salt marshes of Chincoteague Island. "Good old Spock," he resumed. "Spock has been laying hints all around about a way to get even deeper into the monitors, legitimately. The command monitors contain the experience-memories of six command-rank Starfleet officers. And in the medical monitors, there are six more—all ship's doctors …"
What was Spock's motivation in passing clues to McCoy? The doctor knew the answer immediately. As a Vulcan, Spock was primarily obedient to his duty, then to his commander, then to the mission. Spock's motivation was to eliminate a dilemma which could wreck not only their mission, but his commanding officer as well. Vulcan duty required no great respect for laws, especially human laws, that were self-defeating.
Trust a Vulcan to find a legitimate way to get around human inadequacies.
McCoy smiled. If all else failed, Spock would arrange for him to have a direct dialogue with the experience-memories in the medical monitors. There were no guarantees …
"But it's smarter to avoid taking the bull by the horns, when you can lead him around by the tail."
He put the paper away in his loose-leaf diary and screwed the pen back into its cap. Before he could proceed with Spock's help, he had to make sure they had the means to shuttle the hibernacula in the first place. He had long since learned to tackle problems in order of increasing difficulty; that way, if any problem was insoluble, no time was wasted on the next, tougher step.
Chekov jack-knifed abruptly in his bed and stared around the cabin, wide-eyed as if from some nightmare. Then, slowly, his eyes narrowed and he sank back onto the pillow. "Time," he requested.
"1207 hours," the console replied. In twenty minutes, he would be returning to the planetoid on the shuttle. He had slept very poorly, trying to resist the growing insanity—or so he interpreted the feelings of loss of will and unmotivated activity. He had tried to resist going to the console and doing what the new Voice requested, and had so far succeeded. But now it was too insistent. He knew he would stand up—
—He stood.
And go to the console.
—He went to the console.
He would call up a chart with the interior of the Enterprise laid out in graphic detail.
—He typed on the keyboard, trying to make mistakes and failing.
He would ask questions of the library computer—questions pertaining to specific details of the ship's engines, the matter-antimatter drives, with which he was not familiar.
—He typed more instructions. He made a hard copy of all the information he had called up. He inserted the copy card into his pouch. Then he went to the lavatory and made himself look presentable, ready for duty, though he could not eliminate the shadows around his eyes.
Thank you, said the Voice.
You are not in the least welcome, Chekov replied.
Chekov smiled and held out his arm, ushering Mason into the interior of the shuttle. Kirk and Spock were already inside, along with Chapel and McCoy. McCoy was carefully inspecting all the equipment newly installed to ferry the hibernacula. Chapel checked off items on her notepad as McCoy ran through all the crucial points. He stood up, pushing on his knees with his hands, and nodded to Kirk. "They're as good as they'll ever be," he said. "Who's going planetside with us?"
"Spock and presumably Rowena," Kirk said.
"I'd like to stay down there and file my reports from the station," Mason said.
"We'll need as much room as we can get on the return trip," McCoy said. "I'd like to bring up two hibernacula each trip."
Kirk looked around the group, then nodded. "Prepare for shuttle launch," he said. They took their seats—which had been rearranged around the area the hibernacula would occupy—and strapped themselves in. Mason turned around to watch the shuttle cargo doors being sealed, then attached the recorder to an equipment grip overhead, making sure the visual scanner could see out her port. Chekov, seated next to her, observed closely but said nothing.
Outside the shuttle walls, the roar of air being evacuated from the shuttle hangar gradually reduced to a whisper, then a faint hiss. The deep grumble of the hangar doors opening was communicated to the shuttle through its landing supports, and ceased abruptly as the shuttle lifted off.
They exited the hangar on a reverse tractor beam, then switched on the impulse engines and descended to the planetoid.
T'Raus and T'Prylla dematerialized and crossed the space between the station and the Eye-to-Sta
rs. It felt a bit like flying; unlike the transporter beam, their particular form of travel involved sensation and memory. T'Prylla enjoyed the journey much less than T'Raus; she could never quite be sure where they were going, or what would happen when they arrived.
The Voice she had heard so often inside her head—associated with the outburst of Ybakra from the triple stars—was familiar enough for her to give it a name: Pau, or in Federation English, "Corona." Corona never explained; all she had learned in the past nine years, she had deduced. She suspected her children were more privy to Corona's secrets.
They stood on the airless surface of the planetoid without suits, surrounded by a faint green envelope. T'Raus stretched out her hand and touched a meteoroid-scarred rock. Overhead, the constant purple glow of the nebula—very bright on the night side of the planetoid—seemed to bubble and distort. Gradually the distortion became perfectly round, and the Eye-to-Stars opened like a great black disk. T'Raus smiled and clapped her hands once. T'Prylla held out the astronomy tricorder, as she was willed to do, and let it record what the Eye-to-Stars saw.
When they were done—when the curiosity of Corona had been satisfied—T'Raus took the tricorder and played its information back. "This is very fine," she said. "Soon the work will be done." Then she frowned. "We cannot return to the precise position from which we left. There are more visitors. It is very orniaga."
T'Prylla had to think hard to remember what the Vulcan word T'Raus had used meant. It meant "irritated." She hadn't heard the word for decades; it was virtually never used in polite Vulcan conversation. She said nothing; she had no power to say anything. Her opinion was not wanted; only her scientific abilities, and her labor.
Her arm itched abominably, and she could not even scratch it …
Chapter Fifteen
The shuttle landed at the cargo lock of the storage dome, its landing fields disturbing years of micrometeoroid dust and ejecting it in straight rays from the pad. A boarding tube automatically stretched from the lock to the shuttle's rear cargo doors and connected with a sigh of equalizing pressures. Mason's ears popped. She reached up to release the recorder.
As the Enterprise party left the storage dome, Chekov broke away from the main group and encountered T'Raus in a side corridor near the research dome. Part of Chekov stared curiously at the closed hatches. No one had yet seen the station's rebuilt science areas. T'Raus held out her hand, and he gave her the hard copy of the Enterprise charts and specifications. She nodded, and without a word exchanged, he hurried to catch up with his shipmates before his absence was noticed.
The group passed by Wah Ching and Pauli, standing the current watch. Chekov relieved them and told them to return to the shuttle and wait for the rest of the group to join them. "Nothing to report?" he asked, wondering if they, too, were being controlled. The burst of hidden anguish he felt was so intense that tears came to his eyes.
"Nothing unusual," said Pauli. "It's a bit chilly down here, society-wise, but I suppose that's not unusual." He grinned. The understood words were, "for Vulcans." Chekov watched them return to the storage dome.
McCoy and Spock went to the hibernaculum chamber, escorted by Anauk and T'Kosa. They turned on their environment fields and entered the chamber lock. The lock doors closed behind them, and they stood in the cold and silence. Outside, T'Kosa and Anauk waited to take them to the medical center for the scheduled meeting with Grake and T'Prylla.
Spock scanned the hibernacula with his science tricorder while McCoy took final measurements. The doctor bent down beside the hibernaculum closest to the inner chamber lock door and examined the connections on the power supply cables. "We'll have to move them quickly," he said. "The pallets can keep them cold for about five minutes. Then we'll hook them to the shuttle power supply."
Spock motioned for McCoy to examine the display on the science tricorder. "Your suspicions are correct," Spock said. "There is no further damage, but they have been tampered with."
"Why? What would the others gain?"
"As you suspected, the sleepers seem to have been utilized for information storage."
"That seems highly irregular, Spock. Besides, they're too cold for their brains to have any chemical activity."
"At their current temperature, their brains would have superconducting properties. No chemical activity would be needed; they could store enormous amounts of information without benefit of normal memory operations."
"If that's the case, thawing them would destroy the information … erase it."
Spock nodded.
"So what do you think the others will say?"
"If we are finished here, we can only go to the medical center and find out."
"Spock, you've been tight-lipped since before we arrived. You behave like a cat who knows where a whole cageful of canaries is hidden. Sometimes I get the willies just looking at you."
"I would assume that is a normal state of affairs, Doctor."
McCoy handed the tricorder back to him and shook his head. "Jim thinks we're conspiring on something. Maybe we are. If so, don't you think co-conspirators should share all their secrets?"
"Perhaps later," Spock said. McCoy knew better than to press him any further. They exited the cold lock and accompanied T'Kosa and Anauk to the meeting.
"We cannot allow removal of the sleepers," Grake said. He stood before the Enterprise visitors in the station medical center, hands gripping the edge of a stripped-down diagnostics table. "There is too much risk." T'Prylla, the children, T'Kosa and Anauk regarded the visitors with a calm isolation which, to Kirk, seemed like contempt.
"I've evaluated the risk," McCoy said. "There is some, but it's minimal." Kirk glanced at Spock to gauge his reaction to this turn of events. Spock stared intently at Grake, who refused to meet the first officer's eyes.
"While we respect Dr. McCoy's expertise, we have learned much about Ybakra radiation in the past ten years. We are constantly bathed in it, but at a level which cannot cause any more damage to the sleepers. The Ybakra is considerably reduced by proximity to our planetoid. In the shuttle, however, that protection is taken away. More damage may result."
McCoy stood and pointed a finger at Grake. "Your sleepers are as good as dead now. What can you do for them here?"
"We can protect them until a way is found to transport them to the Enterprise safely. Or until we devise a means of treating them ourselves."
"The Enterprise can't stay here indefinitely," Kirk said. "Frankly, I'm puzzled by the level of resistance we've met here. We are your rescuers, not your enemies." His voice was level, ominously so. "I stand by Dr. McCoy's decision to move the sleepers to the sickbay of the Enterprise."
T'Kosa stepped close to Grake. "I believe it is time we convince our visitors of how well we have done here, without their help."
Grake nodded. "There have been many delays, Captain, but now would seem to be a very appropriate time to show you the research dome."
"We're avoiding the issue," McCoy said, exasperated. "Jim, we're wasting time if we don't move the sleepers and begin reconstruction now!"
Kirk felt at a loss what to do. It was obvious that Spock still did not wish to reveal the existence of Ybakra shields, but mention of the technique now would save a great deal of trouble and argument. (Or would it? Would they find another excuse? And why didn't they know about Ybakra shields themselves? Their research on Ybakra had been comprehensive …) He disliked making decisions which would further antagonize McCoy, but he couldn't think of a way around it. "I think there's time enough to take a brief tour before we make our decision." He hoped McCoy could sense what was going on. The doctor looked even more exasperated, but did not protest further.
"Good," Grake said. "As I said before, I believe we have many surprises in store for you …"
* * *
Veblen finished checking the form-memory and experience-memory units of the transporter and shook his head. Scott waited anxiously a step behind him.
"I have to agree," Veblen sa
id. "There's nothing wrong with the circuitry."
"Then it must be outside interference. Perhaps the radiation …?"
"Ybakra operates in a different layer of fraction space than the transient memories," Veblen said, frowning. He took a data pack from his belt and hefted it, thinking. He had neglected to feed the new information from the station's researches on Ybakra radiation into the stochastic algorithm. "I don't think it would have any effect. However …"
"I'm at my wit's end," Scott said. "I've checked every aspect of transporter functioning, from power supplies to the memory coordinators. There is nothing wrong with the transporters." He put on a look of defiance. "It is not my machinery that's at fault! And I've never heard of a delay in transporter assembly."
"It's a puzzle," Veblen admitted. "I'll back your report as much as my expertise allows."
"Thank you," Scott said, relieved. Veblen left the transporter room and took the turbolift to the computer command center. He plugged the new information into the algorithm—which had been placed on temporary hold—and then asked for a specific level of inquiry. Is there any chance, he typed on the console, that personnel aboard the station have learned to manipulate Ybakra, and are using that knowledge to cause anomalous events aboard the Enterprise? He restarted the algorithm and leaned back in his chair, biting a fingernail and waiting for any coherent result.
Mason tugged the recorder closer to her and walked behind Radak. She felt completely out of place, and yet she had a strong sensation of something very important about to happen. Grake led the way to the research chambers, followed by T'Prylla and Spock. The others squeezed through the open hatchway after them, and all stood in a loose grouping to one side of the station's largest dome.
It was easy to see now where all the equipment in storage had been put to use. The dome was crowded with every conceivable combination of hardware, electronics and computers jury-rigged together in large piles, without much apparent regard for placement or visual order. To Mason, it looked like a child's playroom—a Vulcan child's playroom, perhaps, the child having been given anything he wished for. She glanced at Radak and T'Raus and met the girl's eyes. For a moment they stared directly at each other. Mason shuddered—and not just because the girl was Vulcan. She thought she was getting used to being around Vulcans. For all his quirks and strange appearance, Spock was certainly no ogre. But T'Raus …