by Peter David
“Are you joking, Robin? I’ve stuck my head into the noose so many times, I have rope burns on my throat.”
She smiled at that despite the seriousness of the situation.
“I just wanted to warn you what we’re likely up for, and up against. What I’m trying to say is that, if you thought you’re going to be safe here, you may be disappointed.”
“Maybe. But I have nothing to go back to on New Thallon. I only really cared about three things there. One of them is dead, and the other two are on this ship. The only other place in my life where I’ve ever been happy was on the Excalibur. So if it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d…” Her voice caught for a moment. She cleared her throat and continued, “I’d like to come home.”
“I believe,” he said solemnly, “that that can be arranged.” He shifted his attention to Kalinda. “What about you, Kally?”
“What about me?”
Robin was pleased that Kalinda was responding. Maybe getting her off New Thallon was the best thing that could have happened to her.
“Do you wish to join Robin on the Excalibur? We have plenty of room for you.”
“I could do that…”
“Or,” Xyon suddenly said, “she could stay here with me.” He had been addressing Calhoun, but now he turned to Kalinda and rested his hand on hers. “You could stay here with me,” he said again.
Robin smiled to herself at that. Xyon’s dedication to Kalinda had been nothing short of monumental. He had encountered her back when she literally had no idea who she was…eventually fell in love with her…then was dragged into the nightmarish circumstances surrounding Kalinda’s engagement and short-lived marriage. In all that time, in all those situations—including when he had been unjustly tortured by Si Cwan himself for a crime that Xyon had no hand in—his love for Kalinda had remained unwavering. Now Si Cwan was gone, Kalinda’s short-lived husband was gone, and it seemed the only thing standing between the two of them was the fragility of Kalinda’s own sanity and awareness of the world around her.
Fortunately for Xyon’s sanity, Kalinda seemed more than competent on that score. She put her own hand atop his and said softly, “I would like that, yes. To stay here with you. I would like that very much.”
It was one of the sweetest things Robin Lefler had ever seen. Xyon typically wore a bored, even cynical expression, but now that dour appearance seemed to light up in the face of Kalinda’s gentle acceptance of his suggestion. Robin couldn’t help thinking that Xyon might be taking on more of a challenge than he understood. The only thing predictable about Kalinda was her unpredictability. As calm and loving as her behavior seemed now, that did nothing to guarantee that she was going to remain that way.
Don’t think like that. Perhaps it’s all going to work out for them. Not every relationship has to end tragically. Not everything is like you and Cwan…
The stray thought, unwanted and unasked for, caused her eyes to sting. She blinked away the surge of wetness, bringing her forearm across her face to wipe away any tears. If Calhoun noticed—and she had every reason to assume he did, because the man missed nothing—he was at least generous enough not to comment upon it.
Cwansi touched her cheek, right where a tear had been that she had just wiped off. She knew it was purely coincidence. A child so young could not possibly respond to its mother’s emotions in so direct a way. Yet she took solace from it, and even liked to entertain the notion that perhaps Kalinda could be believed, and the ghost of Si Cwan was hovering nearby, guiding his son’s hand and providing comfort to his widow even from beyond the vale.
Starship Excalibur
S/he was out of danger. S/he was going to live. And yet Rulan 12 was still not coming out of hir coma, and Selar was running out of excuses.
Calhoun had praised her upon learning her prognosis that Rulan was not going to succumb. That, indeed, s/he was clearly healing. She was more than willing to accept the accolades for the achievement, but kept to herself the one detail that only she knew: Rulan’s body would have healed itself even if she hadn’t done a damn thing. Of that she was totally convinced.
Yet s/he wasn’t coming out of hir coma, and she had no idea why.
And the captain was becoming increasingly frustrated with her apparent ignorance. Not that he blamed her for not being able to provide her answers. Calhoun fully respected her professionalism and knowledge, and was aware that she was no happier than he that she was unable to bring Rulan to consciousness, nor explain why s/he was still unresponsive. He was, however, reaching his limits regarding the patient’s presence. “If you have done everything you can for hir,” Calhoun had said to her, “then it's about time that we turned hir over to someone who might be able to do more?”
As much as she had hated to admit to it, Calhoun’s argument was insufferably logical. If she truly had brought hir recovery along as far as she could, then there was no point to continuing hir stay in sickbay.
She had implored the captain to give her a final twenty-four hours with the patient before alerting Starfleet. Actually, “implore” might have been too strong a word, for she would never have been that demonstrative. But Calhoun had doubtless perceived the undercurrent of urgency in her “suggestion” that Rulan remain with them a time longer. He had scrutinized her when she had said it, those deep purple eyes examining her in such a way that she felt them peeling back her thoughts like the layers of an onion. She had never felt as uncomfortable as she did when Calhoun studied her as if he were capable of plucking the truth from her mind. “Twenty-four hours,” he had finally said, “but no more.”
Now, with three hours and thirty-seven minutes gone of that remaining time, Selar sat in the quarantine area that had become like a second home to her. Technically there was no reason to keep hir there anymore, since all traces of radiation poisoning were gone from hir body. Nevertheless she continued to keep hir there, and none of the medtechs who worked with her had the nerve to ask her why.
The problem was that she knew she had not explored all avenues open to her. There was still one option, but she had no desire to pursue it.
Doctor Selar hated the process of the Vulcan mind meld. She simply hated it. She was perfectly capable of accomplishing it when the situation demanded it, and had done so in the past. Nevertheless, the process continued to hold extremely negative associations for her because of the traumatic experience she had years earlier. It had been her first night with her chosen mate and, deep in the throes of passion, their minds had merged as was typical for such encounters. There had been no barriers between them, physical or mental. It was at that point that her husband had suffered a massive heart attack and had died while their minds were still intertwined.
It had been as if she died along with him.
I wish I had.
It was the first time that she could recall thinking such a thing, and inwardly she recoiled at the thought. She was alive and he was dead, and it was illogical to wish that she had followed him into the abyss. Nothing would have been served by it. She would have had no opportunities to help others. Xy would never have been born…
And would that not have been a good thing? A preferable thing? To live as he is, racing through his existence in defiance of any sort of biological logic: What sort of life is that? Perhaps better that he had never lived at all…
With a force of will she shut down that line of thinking. Nothing was being accomplished, and frankly it was too painful for her.
She had forgotten the last time she had slept or had eaten. That was unusual for any Vulcan, much less Selar, since her kind had an awareness of the passage of time and of their own bodies in relation to it that other races felt bordered on the supernatural. She was starting to feel as if her mind were floating free of her head, going off and engaging in other pursuits without feeling the need to drag her body along.
You are not going to be of use to anyone this way. You should return to your quarters, lie down, get some sleep. It is illogical for you to continue in
this manner.
But if you do that…if you go to sleep…it is entirely possible, given your current level of exhaustion, that you will not awaken for many hours. You have less than twenty-four hours remaining to solve the mystery of Rulan, and that may not happen if you are wasting time in slumber.
But if you do not sleep, then how much good can you do, realistically? You will encounter the law of diminishing returns, because you will be too fatigued to accomplish anything of any worth.
You are running out of time. You must overcome your antipathy and probe hir mind. It is the only chance you may have to discern where s/he was before we found hir, and perhaps understand what it is that made hir this way.
With her resolve came action. Selar rose from her chair and advanced, slowly but steadily, toward Rulan. She paused at the last moment, her fingers hovering just above Rulan’s head, and then with determination she touched hir temples. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Our minds are merging,” she whispered, “merging…”
Her thoughts slid into hirs. She gazed into the abyss…
…and the abyss gazes back.
It is not remotely what she is expecting, for the abyss is doing more than gazing back; it is advancing upon her. And something is emerging from it, but it is not frightening, not at all, it seems quite pleasant, and patient, and even loving. It has an ethereal look to it, a translucent quality, the skin is so pale that she can practically see its musculature underneath. No, not practically. She can see its lungs expanding, or what passes for lungs, and its heart is not in the right place, which is a ridiculous thing for her to think because the heart is obviously wherever it needs to be; to some, her heart is not in the right place, either, and the creature is smiling at her, or grimacing, it is so hard to be certain. It is surrounded by a blue glow, some sort of aura, that seems to be in a constant state of flux.
Greetings, Doctor, it says to her, we have been waiting for you for some time. We thought you would resort to this much sooner than now. We had not reckoned with your reluctance to employ the mental techniques so common to your kind.
Who are you? What are you? She does not speak it aloud, even though her impulse is to do so, because she is limited in her thoughts, so limited, she had not realized quite how limited she was until she confronted this being, this creature, this whatever-it-is…
Do you not know who I am?
No. I have no idea. You act as if I should recognize you.
You should, for you have desired me ever so long. My dear Doctor: I am hope.
Hope?
I am the key to your salvation. To your son’s salvation. I am the miracle that you have been praying for.
I do not pray. It is a passive and unscientific pursuit to express desires to an unseen presence that wishes will be fulfilled. I depend upon my own resourcefulness, thank you.
And how has your resourcefulness served your son thus far?
It is a cutting question, but not asked unkindly. She knows the answer, and worse, she knows that this being, this creature, this thing, also knows the answer.
Who are you and what are you? You have not told me.
Nor will we yet, except in a way that will be relevant to your immediate needs and to ours as well. Rulan was acting on our behalf.
On yours? In what capacity?
That is our concern, not yours. What you must concern yourself with is returning hir to us.
Returning hir…?
Yes. You must bring hir to a world on the outer rim. Hir and one other. Your star charts designate it as AF1963. An unremarkable world, insofar as your kind is concerned. Only there will your questions be answered.
This is absurd—
Life is absurd, my child. The monumental number of things that must happen to bring any single creature into existence can only be termed absurd. Against that consideration, is what I am suggesting any less absurd than the fact that your magnificent son will live a tragically short time…unless you do something about it? The means to save him lies before you, Selar. S/he is the key, and my brethren and I are the only ones who can unlock it for you.
And I am supposed to go to Captain Calhoun and ask him to divert the ship to the outer rim?
No. You must make the voyage on your own.
That is ridiculous. How am I supposed to find a vessel to take me all that distance?
You will find a way. If you value your son’s life, you will find a way.
Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?
Telling you what will happen is no threat. It is simply a promise of what is to come.
She pauses. She considers what he is saying. She knows she should reject it. She should walk—run—to the captain and tell him what is happening. Tell him about the vision. The things this being is saying…it is illogical to listen to any of it. To believe it. He could be saying what he thinks she wants to hear in order to achieve his own ends.
This is a trap.
This is absurd.
But…
But her son is dying. His life is flashing before her eyes, and she has explored every other reasonable, practical, logical avenue. It may well be that the staggeringly illogical is the only thing left to her.
It makes no sense to embark on some mad adventure in the hopes of saving Xy. But the alternative is to stand by and do nothing. What sort of healer would that make her? What sort of mother?
The biology of the Hermat stretched out on the table before her has defied analysis. She has extracted cells from hir body, attempted to study the replication, and the cells shriveled and died the moment they were separated from the host body. She has tried and failed, and her son cannot live with her failure, cannot live, cannot live…
You know what you must do. You know.
Something clicks into place in her mind, like a switch being flipped. Considerations of right and wrong become secondary to logistics. Her worldview seems to shrink down until it is a narrow tunnel, with a desolate world on the outer rim at the other end.
You know.
Not everything. You said I must bring Rulan and one other. What one other? Xy?
No. The infant Cwan. The child whom you delivered into the world with your hands, you must now deliver to us.
How am I supposed to do that?
Events are transpiring to give you the opportunity. The rest is up to you.
But what if—
There is only one question remaining for you to ask, and it is not to be asked of us, but of yourself. And that question is simply this: How much do you love your son?
I…
How much?
She is trembling, out of control, and she—
“Doctor!”
Selar started awake so violently that she slammed her head against the back of the quarantine partition, which shuddered from the impact. The world swam around her for a moment and then she pulled herself together with her customary discipline and looked around. She was surprised to see that she was on the opposite side of the quarantine room, seated in her chair. She was nowhere near Rulan, which was damned strange considering she had thought she was standing over him, in the middle of a mind meld.
“Doctor Selar, are you okay?” It was a medtech, a middle-aged man named Janssen, looking down at her with concern.
“Why would you think I was not?” she said. She rubbed the back of her head. There was a slight ache from when she had struck it.
“Well…you had fallen asleep, which you hadn’t done before. And then you were shaking your head back and forth…and then suddenly you started nodding your head. It was all kind of strange and—”
“And it seems to me,” she said stiffly, “that you must have far too little to do around here if you have enough time to stand around and do nothing but watch me sleep for an extended period.”
“I was just—”
“Go on about your business. I require neither your observation nor your ministrations.”
He paused, looking as if he wanted to argue the point some more. But he j
ust shrugged and said, “Yes, Doctor.” Janssen walked away, leaving Selar studying the motionless body of Rulan.
Slowly she rose from her seat, approaching Rulan tentatively, as if concerned that s/he would explode if Selar made any sudden movement. She raised her hand, brought it over Rulan’s head, her fingers hovering inches from hir forehead.
You know what you must do.
She lowered her hand and closed her eyes. She took a deep, cleansing breath, let it out slowly, and when she opened her eyes once more, a universe that had seemed chaotic and random and brutally unfair now appeared to make sense once more.
No mind meld was necessary.
No doubt was necessary.
Only three things were necessary: Rulan, whom she had; a vessel, which she did not have; and the infant Cwan, whom she did not have.
Once she had all three, she would do what needed to be done. There was no question. Something deep within her mind endeavored to sound an alarm, but it was quickly and efficiently batted aside.
She would save the life of her son no matter what.
No mother could do any less.
Starfleet Headquarters
Edward Jellico rubbed the bridge of his nose and tried to fight down the beginnings of something that had become all too familiar when dealing with Mackenzie Calhoun: a pounding headache behind the eyeballs.
“You’re killing me, Mac. You really are. You’re taking years off my life.”
“Come on, Ed,” said Calhoun over the viewscreen.
“It’s true. I can feel them withering away every time something new comes up with you.”
“Yes but, to be fair, they probably weren’t going to be terribly productive years. I’m likely doing you a favor.”
Jellico would have started thudding his head against the walls of his office if he hadn’t thought it would have been woefully inappropriate for a Starfleet Admiral to do so. Deciding to approach this budding debacle from a different direction, he said, “Where is she now?”
“She’s just been brought aboard.”
“Who brought her?”
“I’d rather not say.”