Strange New Worlds X

by Dean Wesley Smith

  A quick swipe across the reader produced a beep and a green light. “What would you like?”

  “What do you suggest?” T’Pol asked her talkative companion.

  “What? Besides everything? Two of everything?” The woman pointed to one of the displayed data fiche covers. “The comp, Hindsight and Foresight. It has the best from, like the past six albums, and, what, sixteen new tracks? All great.”

  The merchandise girl picked one from a crate behind her and waited for T’Pol’s nod before swiping it across the reader. “Anything else?”

  “T-shirt?”

  “Excuse me?”

  They both pointed to the back wall, where various articles of clothing were pinned up. Each displayed a different vibrant design and the logo of the band.

  “No. I do not believe so.” T’Pol could not think of any occasion she would have to wear such things.

  “Anything for you, Kittie?” the young woman asked.

  “Already have it all, Pet.”

  The overwhelming odor almost made T’Pol’s eyes water before the man arrived.

  “Time, Pet.”

  “Give me a minute or two.”

  “Hi, Marco,” Kittie said.

  “Hey Kittie,” the man said over his shoulder as he was weaving his way back through the tables to the stage. The kinetic guitarist had been standing right next to T’Pol. He had changed his attire, but not bathed. His hair was severely confined again, pulled into another topknot.

  “Great show,” Kittie called after him.

  “Positivity!” he yelled back.

  It was a relief to step out into the warm San Francisco evening.

  “Coming backstage?” Kittie was still walking beside her.

  The road back to the Consulate ran beside the club. There was already a small crowd at the rear of the building.

  It was common on Vulcan to speak to the artist, to express one’s appreciation for the well-crafted piece, to ask for explanation of artistic choices. Expound on theory. She would like to commend them for their musicality.

  “Has Eskey left already?” Kittie asked.

  “Haven’t seen him.”

  “Must be pretty pooped after that show.”

  “Great, wasn’t it?”

  “I can’t believe they played Floating on Ardana .”

  “They were on fire.”

  “Their vans are still here.” Kittie indicated a black hovervan pulled up to the building, and a smaller red one parked in the parking lot behind the venue.

  “Could have gone with someone else.”

  The black hovervan was dirty. Along the sides and across the back doors words had been written in the dust. T’Pol could make out “Shine on crazy diamonds,” “Get the jazz on,” “Wash me,” “Cytherea or bust.”

  Behind the van came a tinkling water sound. A man apparently was relieving himself.

  She should return to the Consulate. T’Pol spun around to leave as the drummer came out the stage door.

  “Close encounter of the musical kind,” he said. She had almost bumped into him. “You’re a bit of a rarity. Come a long way?”

  “The Vulcan Consulate is just up the road.”

  A line of dark stubble along the edge of his face and chin accented his sharp smile. His eyes were pale blue. There was a small cut on his forehead, most likely from his own flying debris. He appeared, though T’Pol cautioned herself that she was still an in-experienced judge, to be quite a bit younger than the other band members.

  “Saw you in the lobby before the show. Setting up Pet’s table. Figured you were here for The Hit.”

  “It is an amazing song. I was on a ship,” T’Pol began. “In space. Deep space. The moment when I heard you.” She was having difficulty explaining it.

  Tyg’s smile told her she didn’t need to explain it.

  “The song is always the same, always different, it depends on the moment. Travel by thought will take you strange places. You get to go, we get to dream. We go in our music. Someday humans will really be out in space. Someday soon.”

  T’Pol did not know what to say. They had captured space, yet they had never been.

  Tyg guided her to the parking lot guard rail. It was unclean, but they rested against it slightly.

  “They were in danger of being filed away with just that. Well, actually that had already happened. And a Spinal Tap of drummers didn’t help. But I had to say, ‘No, not yet. Listen to this, and there’s still more.’ We honestly suck at doing anything else.”

  “Eskey programmed his targeting computer to rhyme words for lyrics,” Kittie put in.

  “Already categorized,” Marco walked by with a box of equipment, “already filed.”

  Others who had gathered at the stage door approached Tyg with their fiche covers, visual hardcopy, T-shirts and other items. He marked them up, with a pleasant word for every person.

  Trapped against the building Piqué was also surrounded by people offering up items to sign.

  “Want me to sign that?” Tyg indicated the fiche she held.

  Tyg defaced the fiche cover. What he had written, or scrawled, did not resemble any Earth writing symbols. From her own name, T’Pol thought a “T” should be recognizable.

  “Thank you,” she said, to be polite.

  “There’s a nice roof pool where we’re staying. Killah has to have his swim. I’d really like to chat some more. Want to come back to the hotel?” Turned toward her, his knee pressed against her thigh.

  “I should be going.” She stood up.

  Piqué intercepted her. He was amazingly tall, the tallest human T’Pol had yet encountered. His thin frame accentuated the height. How had he folded himself behind the keyboard? His craggy face was well-lined with age, curly hair streaked with gray. He wore dark clothing with a familiar Vulcan cut.

  He raised his hand in the Vulcan greeting. “Dif-tor heh smusma.” He was the first human whose Vulcan she could understand. He held one of the gift packages. “Cookie? Totally vegan.”

  The Consulate Information Packet had indicated that vegan foods were acceptable for a Vulcan to eat. But T’Pol declined, not having the proper utensils to eat with.

  The woman with impractical footwear helped Marco guide the long keyboard case to the black van. Marco returned inside.

  “Tiara,” Tyg called to the woman and mimed drinking. She frowned and shook her head.

  She smiled pleasantly at T’Pol. “You’ve come a long way.”

  “The Vulcan Consulate is just up the road.”

  “Oh.”

  Here was another human T’Pol found unclassifiable. There was an overall Oriental look, an Earth race T’Pol could already recognize from the large demographic in the San Francisco area, but with Caucasian features, too. T’Pol was not aware of any race or species capable of and engaged in so much cross-breeding as humans. Almost every other species she had encountered disliked the differences they had to deal with in others.

  “I’m gonna be jonesing for jazz with you guys gone,” Kittie said.

  “To the moon, Kittie. To the moon!” Tyg replied.

  “I can’t afford it.”

  “Apply for a grant. With the generous support of the Lunatic governing council.”

  “Luna,” Tiara corrected quietly.

  “Lunatics love us,” Tyg said.

  Kittie laughed.

  Crates of merchandise went into van. The dark girl, Pet, wandered outside. Humans certainly did come in all colors and sizes.

  “Tell him to hurry his ass up.” Tyg’s sharp comment sent the girl back inside.

  “My daughter,” Tyg turned back to T’Pol. “Or close enough to call me Dad.”

  “She calls you Da,” Marco corrected on his way past yet again.

  “We were the only two who crawled out of the bomb shelter. She was about nine months old. She did most of the crawling.” Tyg rapped on his knee, which produced a hollow plastic sound. It took T’Pol a moment to realize Earth still repaired injuries with artif
icial limbs. Possibly Tyg was insensitive to its location at times.

  “I read Vulcans were looking for a second counselor location,” Piqué said.

  Tyg broke in. “Can I put in a vote for Canberra? Vulcans would love it there. Not love love, I mean, emotionally, but they would find it very suitable.”

  “I will mention it to the attaché,” T’Pol said.

  “Fifty light years ahead of our time,” Marco sang as he deposited another box. “Marco does not have Killah’s sexy voice and cannot do the sexy voice.”

  “Please have this,” Tiara held out a bottle. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Marco is very hungry,” he agreed. “Marco must finish loading the van first.”

  Tiara sighed.

  “Not only do we drive VA administrators mad, we go through tour managers like water,” Tyg said.

  “It has all kinds of long words in it, like potassium and magnesium.” Marco returned to the building.

  “There is a method to his madness. He has a system. The van has to be loaded up a certain way. Just don’t get in his way.”

  T’Pol was suddenly aware of a stillness in the crowd. Conversations had faded out and people were turning toward the stage door. There was a man standing just beyond the spill of light from the door. He was dressed all in black, and his shape seemed to merge with the case strapped over his shoulder.

  “Hey, Eskey,” someone said.

  He was quite small for a human, not much taller than herself. He was slight, as well. The instrument case seemed almost too much for him. What sophisticated equipment had they used to make him appear so much larger and more impressive on stage?

  “Take the axe, man.” Marco had barreled past T’Pol, but halted, hovering over Eskey Inglesei.

  Inglesei seemed reluctant to let the case go. Marco took it firmly in his large hands, carried it with some reverence to the hovervan. The crowd parted to let him pass, then closed up again. Inglesei was surrounded, at a respectful distance, by the people who had waited at the stage door. T’Pol thought the elderly man looked frightened. The crowd was between him and the van.

  Kittie spoke effusively, “You were great. As usual.”

  Everyone seemed to be expecting something from him. T’Pol did not think this frail person should be so strained.

  Inglesei’s hand was extended towards her. He had defaced all the fiche covers of the semi-circle of people around him, and T’Pol was next. As it already had Tyg and Piqué’s markings on it she gave it to him. He added his squiggle.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He let her take it from his hand, not meeting her eyes.

  “Did you like the show?” He didn’t really wanted to know. He did not seem interested in her reply.

  “We have to get the oldies to bed,” Tyg stepped in. “Butter the cat,” he pointed Pet to the van. “And drive like you’re as old as them combined.”

  “Kol-Ut-Shan,” Piqué said.

  “Your accent is very good,” T’Pol commended him. He smiled, and all the creases of his face form into a smile with a smile in his eyes.

  Of the infinite possibilities infinite combinations afforded, these four had come together. The universe was an amazing place, full of wonders.

  Pet escorted Inglesei to the red van. Piqué had folded himself into the front passenger seat. Once he was settled in the back seat, the interior light illuminated Eskey’s wispy hair, his instrument case strapped in beside him. Piqué offered up the box of cookies, but Eskey declined.

  T’Pol felt caught when Eskey looked back at her looking after him. She realized she was staring. Neither seemed able to look away. After a moment the light inside the vehicle went out. She had been caught off-guard, again.

  Tyg stood beside her. “Your arrival meant a lot to those in the trenches at the time.”

  At first T’Pol did not understand him. Then she was going to say that she had not been part of the original scout party.

  “New generations on Earth are born and raised to believe all things are possible. Which is nice and I’m not knocking the kids. But to live at the bottom, and then be given hope, that makes the future special. Every day. Nothing like being down, to know you’re going up.”

  Vulcan High Command had made new contact with a space faring species. It took some time to determine that the species merited continued contact. General intercourse, trade, diplomatic, cultural exchanges, began. The humans, as the species were called, from planet Earth, put together a package showcasing their scientific and cultural achievements. T’Pol, as an agent of Vulcan High Command, had received the package. She hadn’t had time until in transit aboard a Betazed star cruiser to review it. The humans’ achievements were moderately impressive. Their advances periodically suffered setbacks due to emotional illogical reasoning.

  The cultural package contained examples of art, sculpture, dance, and music selections. The Best of 2088 began playing. A voice that was described in the accompanying report as a mordant tenor sang a song of space and time and beauty. She had been caught off-guard. Never had any alien aesthetic affected her so.

  “Thank you for coming. To our little planet, and our show.”

  Marco was sitting on the rail, beside Tiara. He was finally drinking the beverage she had been holding for him.

  “Anti-oxidants.”

  “You should take a picture of Marco now,” T’Pol said to Kittie.

  “Why?” Marco and Kittie asked at the same time.

  “Because he is not moving,” she answered.

  Kittie got a clear image of Marco, sitting still, but laughing.

  Marco surged up and came rapidly at T’Pol. Dropping the beverage container, he reached for her fiche. She allowed him to take it. He signed it, going diagonally across the cover, over the signatures of the others. Tiara positioned herself by his side and caught the stylus and cover when he lost his grip.

  “Time for bed for you,” she said.

  “Difficult to get Marco to sleep.”

  “Can we give you a lift?” Tyg asked.

  “I do not need one. The …”

  “… Consulate is just up the road.” The three spoke in unison. The humans laughed. T’Pol didn’t understand what was humorous, exactly.

  “Very nice meeting you,” Tiara said, getting into the driver’s seat. T’Pol was mildly alarmed that she would drive in such unstable footwear.

  “Ta,” Tyg said. He guided Marco into the van.

  “Marco is not allowed to drive.”

  The dark van vroomed off.

  T’Pol was glad that she had come. To the performance and Earth.

  You Are Not in Space

  Edgar Governo

  Edgar Governo is an aspiring writer living in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. By showing him a future he could believe in, the Star Trek universe has had a profound impact on him from a very early age, and he is grateful for the opportunity to finally contribute something to it. When not writing or researching, he enjoys engaging in witty repartée, spending copious amounts of time online, and thinking more about popular culture and fictional history than he usually cares to admit. This is his first professional fiction sale.

  H oshi Sato slammed her hands against her console and swore to herself in Russian, a language known for its curses—but more importantly, one she knew none of the bridge crew could speak. The crew turned to her and stared, and it occurred to her as she took in all of their startled expressions that her outburst probably needed no translation.

  A verdant planet, much like Earth, filled most of the bridge’s viewscreen, and Hoshi had started out thinking of it as a beautiful sight—one of many they had encountered in their travels. At this point, however, that planet only seemed to taunt her with its constant presence, and her sense of the crew’s expectations combined with that silent challenge only served to heighten her frustrations.

  Captain Archer stood up from his chair and walked over to her. His face held a note of compassion as he leaned in towards her a
nd said, “My ready room, please, Hoshi.”

  Once they were in the ready room and the door had closed, Archer looked at her and asked, “What was that?”

  Hoshi looked at the various sketches on the wall before turning back to him and answering, “I think you know, sir.”

  Archer sighed a bit at that before sitting down at his desk. “Hoshi … everyone knows this is going to take a while.”

  “It shouldn’t, Captain,” she replied. “I feel like I’m wasting everyone’s time.”

  “Five days is not too much time to spend trying to contact an entirely new civilization, especially one that is already trying to contact us.”

  To her rational mind, Hoshi knew this made perfect sense. With no frame of reference at all to draw upon, it was no surprise that there would come a time when a new world’s communications would not be immediately decipherable to her. Still, there was normally some sort of breakthrough within the first day or so, and this world’s words were gibberish to her after nearly a week of effort.

  Hoshi tried to change the subject. “How are the other scans of the system going?”

  Archer glanced at a screen and called up a summary of Enterprise’s science reports. “They’re fine. T’Pol tells me our sensors have gathered up a treasure trove of information. We’ve already looked at all eight planets in the system, along with the three moons around the planet where … these people are located.” Hoshi winced at the moment of awkwardness—the captain couldn’t even refer to this planet’s inhabitants by name, for she had no name to offer him. “They’re still communicating the same short message directly to us, along with all of the other transmissions we’ve been able to pick up.”

  Hoshi winced at that, too. She needed no reminder of their communications, as the sounds of that message were still echoing in her head. The key to understanding it seemed just beyond her reach, but she had to find a way to let Archer know that the wait would pay off.

  “It won’t be much longer,” said Hoshi, endeavouring to bolster the captain’s confidence in her. “I’ve never heard a language I couldn’t learn.” She neglected to add that it had never taken her this long to get at least the basics of a language figured out.