Archer was about to argue when Hoshi took a step closer.
“That might explain the rigid thought and cultural structure of the Fazi,” Hoshi said, more to herself than anyone else.
T’Pol nodded. “It would be a logical development of a culture in close planetary contact with a telepathic race.”
“Huh?” Trip said.
“I think this does need some explanation,” Archer said.
Hoshi turned to him, her face animated. “The theories on telepathy hold that without control, it will drive someone mad. So in order to use telepathy as a communication device, the minds involved must be completely restrained, structured and guarded.”
“Precisely,” T’Pol said. “Vulcans have developed limited telepathic ability in certain circumstances, partially due to our control of our emotions.”
Archer gave her a sideways glance. He’d heard rumors that Vulcans had telepathic abilities, but the abilities were considered so personal, so private, that humans had been cautioned not to talk with Vulcans about it.
He was amazed that T’Pol had brought this up on her own. She was probably doing so because he had goaded her on her own assumptions.
“Let me see if I’m clear on this,” Archer said. “The alien we stunned was only trying to talk to Edwards and the other two crewmen?”
“It would be logical, considering the circumstances and what we observed on the surface,” T’Pol said.
“And by trying to talk to our men,” Trip said, “the alien did something to their brains?”
“If what we postulate about the telepathic communication is true,” T’Pol said, “then the logical conclusion is that the human mind is not structured enough to handle telepathic thought.”
“And your brain is structured enough?” Trip asked, clearly getting angry.
“Yes,” T’Pol said.
That was enough. Archer didn’t want to hear the bickering at the moment. “We’re still operating on assumption here. There’s no way to prove that was a benign telepathic communication. For all we know, it could have been a telepathic attack—or something else equally invisible, such as a sound that caused damage while being outside the register of the human ear or, as T’Pol has already reminded us, a smell.”
T’Pol raised a single eyebrow.
“I still consider your theory a hunch, T’Pol,” Archer said.
She stiffened and he realized he had offended her. He didn’t care.
“I’m not willing to risk your mind. I don’t want you to try to talk to this alien, no matter how structured your thoughts are. There has to be another way and I want you people to find it. Understand?”
Hoshi and Trip nodded. T’Pol inclined her head again.
“Now would be a good time,” Archer said, glaring at them.
Hoshi returned to her station. Trip grinned and headed to the lift. Archer hadn’t moved. T’Pol was watching him, still leaning away slightly.
“T’Pol,” Archer said, “I want you to inform Dr. Phlox of your theory. See if he believes it will help with the affected crewmen.”
“I will do so at once.” She walked around him and headed for the lift. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but she seemed to be moving faster than usual.
He needed to leave as well, get cleaned up, and then come back to the bridge. He felt as if they were close to solving this, even though he didn’t completely buy T’Pol’s telepathy explanation. The problem with logic was that it always sounded so appealing and wasn’t always right.
Still, it seemed as plausible if not more plausible than the attack theory.
Archer turned and stared at the big screen. The Fazi planet slid by. From orbit it seemed like such a normal, peaceful world. But it was far from that. And for the first time, Archer understood how easy the Vulcans had it when they came to Earth.
TWENTY-ONE
IT FELT ODD TO RETURN TO THE GAME. CUTLER’S HEART was still pounding double-time, and she’d had nothing to do during the alert. In fact, she had just gone back to her quarters when Mayweather had contacted her.
“Now I’m hungry,” he said. “Can we play while I have dinner?”
“If the others agree,” she had said. Apparently they had, because she had set up the table for the second time that night. Anderson, Novakovich, and Mayweather had their padds ready.
Mayweather was eating some sort of sandwich he’d concocted out of the leftovers that the crew was allowed to dig in. It was huge and dripping with various multicolored juices. She recognized pickles, a white cheese, and some kind of tomato, but nothing else looked familiar. She hoped the thick brown slab in the middle was meat, but she couldn’t tell from this distance.
To his credit, Mayweather turned and took bites off the sandwich away from the playing table. Anderson, who had taken a cookie while Mayweather was making his sandwich, was chomping away merrily, getting crumbs all over the towel.
“Okay,” Anderson said around the cookie, spraying even more crumbs as he spoke, “we left me hanging, literally, when the alert went off.”
In spite of herself, Cutler smiled. “We left Dr. Mean hanging from his fingers under a Martian sky bridge.”
Slowly, other members of the crew were trickling in. They were going back to their meals and conversations, with little discussion about the alien. Cutler was surprised at how this crew seemed to take such things in stride already.
“Can these guys help me?” Anderson asked.
“We went through that already,” Cutler said.
Anderson’s eyes twinkled. “Just seeing if you remembered that.”
“The game master knows all, sees all,” Cutler said.
“I sure hope not,” Novakovich said, and winked. He was obviously beginning to feel better.
“Can I climb back up?” Anderson asked.
“That’s a strength maneuver,” Mayweather said.
“Better strength than brains,” Anderson said. “Mean isn’t very strong, but he is extremely dumb.”
Cutler had designed this trap to be difficult. She had a minus two around it in her notes. “You have to roll to see how hard this is to escape from. If it takes more than four red to escape, you will fall.”
“Come on, babies,” Anderson said to the bolts. “Let’s hide that red.”
“You know, talking to bolts just seems weird,” Novakovich said to Mayweather.
“People talk to dice,” Mayweather said.
“Yeah, but that’s tradition. Bolts—”
Anderson rolled. Red after red bolt appeared on the white towel.
“Seven,” Cutler said. “You have fallen to your death.”
Anderson stood. “My death! You said nothing about my death. You just said I was going to fall!”
“Would you have done something differently if you knew you were going to fall to your death?” Cutler asked.
“I don’t know,” Anderson said. “I just think you have it out for me. I’ve died twice.”
“Now, how often do you hear that sentence?” Mayweather whispered to Novakovich.
“You guys go ahead and laugh,” Anderson said. “Wait until you die. It’s not fun.”
“Depends on your point of view,” Novakovich said and grinned.
Anderson shook his head. “Am I out of the game now?”
“Of course not,” Cutler said. “You can roll a new character.”
“Will he be hanging off the sky bridge too?” Anderson asked, hands on his hips.
“No, actually,” Cutler said. “He’ll have to go back to the beginning.”
“I’ll be running behind these guys trying to catch up?”
“Maybe we’ll wait for you,” Mayweather said.
Cutler suppressed a smile. If they even tried that, she’d sic the Martian flying lizards on them.
“Would you?” Anderson asked, sounding like a little kid.
“If you give us half the profits,” Novakovich said.
“Who says there are profits in this game?”
Anderson asked.
“Well, what do we get when we find the treasure?” Novakovich asked.
“A complete Universal Translator,” Mayweather said. “I’m sure we can sell it to someone.”
“That’s a long way away,” Cutler said. “You’re only looking for a piece of it now.”
“You could quit,” Novakovich said, “but that’s no fun.”
Anderson frowned. “All right,” he said, sitting down. “I’ll roll a new character.”
“Technically,” Cutler said, “your turn’s over.”
“Oh, let him roll,” Mayweather said as he turned away from the table. He picked up his sandwich and something lime green slipped from it to the floor.
As he bent down to retrieve it, Cutler handed Anderson the cup of bolts. Anderson rolled his new character, whom he called Horseman. Horseman had an eight strength, an intelligence of three, charisma of one, dexterity of six, and luck of three.
“They’re getting dumber and stronger,” Novakovich said.
“I could have used the strength the last time,” Anderson mumbled.
“You could have used the smarts the last time,” Mayweather said. “I’m sure there was some other way off that bridge.”
There was, but Cutler wasn’t going to tell them what it was. The other two might face the same problem later.
“I need another cookie,” Anderson said, and got up. “Anybody want anything?”
The other two shook their heads.
“I guess one of you gets to take a turn,” Cutler said. “What do you want to do?”
Mayweather wiped pale pink goo off his mouth, finished chewing, and said, “I don’t want to get on that bridge. Let’s go back down a number of floors to the other sky bridges.”
“Sounds good to me,” Novakovich said.
She rolled the bolts and came up with five. “You made it safely down the stairs and to the sky bridges. You have two choices. Go either to the left or right. The right leads to a building that seems shorter and only has one other sky bridge headed out of it toward the center of the city. To the left there is another tall building, with a number of choices, but none leading to the center of the city.”
“Left,” they said in unison. And after a quick roll they made it safely across.
Anderson came back with five cookies. He gave one to everyone and kept two for himself.
“It’s your turn,” Cutler said to him as she set her cookie on the table behind her. She didn’t eat chocolate-chip, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. It was a nice gesture. “You’re back at the beginning. Does your character want to cross that canal?”
Anderson thought about it for a moment. “You mean I could take a different route?”
“Sure,” Cutler said.
“Would I be able to rejoin the team?”
She shrugged.
“I’m crossing the canal,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. “Do you want to take the boat or try to cross the bridge?”
“Cross the bridge,” he said.
“All right,” she said. “Now remember there’s a hole a third of the way in—”
“Like I’m about to forget,” Anderson said. “A man doesn’t forget where he faced death the first time.”
He said that jokingly, but Cutler shivered. She thought about that moment on the planet when Edwards started screaming, the way she felt leaning out of the shuttlepod, the wind in her face, and Edwards below, still screaming, the alien approaching him.
Her gaze met Mayweather’s. He gave her a shaky smile. Apparently he’d been thinking the same thing.
Anderson and Novakovich were staring at her. She realized it was her turn to do something.
Cutler glanced at her notes. “The plank is still there, covering the hole.”
“Good,” Anderson said. “Then I’ll cross it.”
Cutler handed him the cup of bolts. “Same roll as before. Anything more than two red bolts and Horseman makes it.”
Anderson nodded and shook the cup, causing a few nearby diners to glance their way. Then he tipped the cup upside down on the towel.
One red bolt.
Mayweather and Novakovich burst into laughter.
“Oh, not again,” Anderson said.
“Horseman,” Cutler said carefully so that she wouldn’t laugh too, “has fallen off the plank—”
“And into the water below. Gee whiz. How did I know that?” Anderson asked.
“Sploush!” Mayweather said, and laughed harder.
“And now I suppose there are Martian sea creatures after me again,” Anderson said.
“We need to see if he survived the fall,” Cutler said.
“Doom survived the fall,” Anderson said. “If he survived the fall, then Horseman could survive it. He’s the strongest character I have had so far.”
He said those last two words with painful emphasis.
“I suppose you’re right,” Cutler said, without checking. “He survived.”
“And I’m swimming for shore,” Anderson said. “Let’s cut to the chase here. I want to know if my pal Horseman survives.”
Cutler scooped up the bolts and placed them in the cup. “Seven or better and you get to try this bridge again.”
“I’m beginning to hate bridges,” Anderson mumbled as he shook the cup. The bolts rattled inside. After an inordinately long time, he upended the cup.
Three red bolts.
“A mutated Martian canal trout over fifty feel long—”
“Has bitten Horseman in half,” Anderson said. “I know, I know. Horseman is dead.”
“And there isn’t even anyone around to mourn him,” Novakovich said.
“Rub it in,” Anderson said. “Wait until Rust dies. See if we mourn him.”
“You gonna keep playing?” Novakovich asked.
“Of course I’m going to keep playing,” Anderson said. “You don’t think a measly little game can defeat me, do you? No matter how many times it kills me.”
“Well, I’m not going to keep going.” Mayweather actually yawned. “Laughter must be good for the soul. I’m tired for the first time in days.”
“Me, too,” Cutler said.
“Hey! You can’t leave me here, twice dead.”
“ ’Fraid we’re going to have to,” Cutler said. “I’m taking my bolts and going to bed.”
“I’m not even going to touch that line,” Novakovich said as he stood up.
“Can we play tomorrow, then?” Anderson asked. “After our shifts?”
“For someone who nearly quit, you seem awfully anxious to keep playing,” Mayweather said.
“I’m determined now,” Anderson said. “You guys have never seen me determined.”
“Oh, man. I’m scared,” Novakovich said, and winked again.
“I’ll have a great new character by then,” Anderson said.
“I’d teach him how to swim faster,” Mayweather said.
With that, they left the now empty mess, all but Anderson laughing.
TWENTY-TWO
ARCHER HAD HOPES THAT A SOLUTION MIGHT BE ON the way when Dr. Phlox called him and asked him to come to sickbay. Archer left immediately.
The smell still hovered in the corridor near sickbay, although it wasn’t as strong as it was. Archer was amazed he could notice the difference; it meant that the long shower he had taken, using the industrial-strength soap he’d found in the mess, actually worked.
The floor was no longer covered with the creature’s slime, and there was no evidence of the events that had taken place that afternoon. However, to Archer, they felt as recent as a few moments ago.
He walked into sickbay. Beeping and the soft sounds of equipment filled the room. Dr. Phlox stood between two biobeds, staring at the readings above them, his reddish hair tangled as if he’d been scratching the back of his head in frustration.
The three crewmen were all restrained to beds, and all seemed to be sleeping. The alien had been moved to the brig, where Reed was keepi
ng it under guard. Phlox was supposed to report there often to make sure the alien remained unconscious.
“Any change?” Archer asked.
“None that I can tell,” Dr. Phlox said.
T’Pol and Hoshi walked into the sickbay together. T’Pol’s nostrils flared again, and Hoshi put a hand to her nose, before letting it fall. Apparently the smell hadn’t gone down as much as Archer thought it had.
“But,” Phlox continued, “I’m keeping them drugged to give their minds and bodies time to rest. For the moment I feel it is the best thing I can do for them.”
“A logical treatment,” T’Pol said.
But logic wasn’t what Phlox was searching for. He wanted answers, as Archer did. Archer recognized the frustration in the doctor’s eyes. Archer felt it himself.
“This is what I wanted to show you.” Phlox brought up an image of a scanning readout on the screen over the diagnostic bed. Archer, T’Pol, and Hoshi gathered around it. “This was a continuous scan I was running on Edwards when the alien woke up.”
Phlox traced a line that suddenly jumped off the chart, cutting through all the other readings that had stayed on the same basic lines. Whatever it was, it didn’t look good.
“What does that mean?” Archer asked.
“I believe it’s a spike in psionic energy,” Dr. Phlox said. “I monitor everything I can think of with most patients I believe have brain damage.”
“Psionic energy?” T’Pol asked. “I didn’t realize humans had the capability to monitor such things.”
Phlox gave her an amused look. “They may not. Subcommander. But as you should note, I’m not human.”
“You’re working on their equipment.”
“Which I sometimes modify for my own use.”
T’Pol clasped her hands behind her back and stepped closer to the console, studying the lines on the screen. Hoshi was frowning.
Archer continued to watch them. He had a lot of questions, but he suspected he’d get his answers if he was just patient.
“Doctor,” T’Pol said, “are you able to isolate the wave pattern of the energy from your monitors?”
“I should be able to.” Phlox’s fingers moved over the board in front of the monitor. Archer watched and said nothing, letting him work with T’Pol standing beside him. Behind him one of the men groaned in his sleep. Hoshi turned around, but no one else did.
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