"May I go down with you?" Mason asked. Kirk looked at her sharply.
"No," he said. "I'm not going down with the first team. Starfleet frowns on its commanders taking unnecessary risks. You may instruct one of the party in the use of your recorder, but we will not be responsible if it is lost or damaged."
Mason nodded, somewhat relieved.
With the failure of the final sweep to locate any signs of life, Kirk met the boarding party in the transporter preparation area. The party consisted of six crewmembers, headed by the chief of security, Lieutenant Olaus. Mason's recorder followed Olaus rather like a puppy; Olaus regarded the device with amused embarrassment as Mason tuned and adjusted it for its new task.
"This is to be a quick reconnaissance," Kirk said. "Mr. Devereaux will take tricorder readings and Mr. Mason's recorder will back up our observations. You will be down for less than two minutes; after that, you will automatically be returned to ship. Any one of you can signal for immediate return. You will be preceded by a transporter test device, as usual. Mr. Shallert, release the TTD. Mr. Olaus, assemble your team in the transporter."
The TTD was beamed down first and reported that the interior of the station was environmentally normal, and that the area appeared deserted. "Temperature is twenty-nine degrees celsius, Captain," Shallert reported from the transporter controls. "Oxygen level twenty-three percent, all other gases as expected for an operating life support system."
Spock advanced to Kirk's side. "The higher temperature is quite comfortable for Vulcans, Captain."
"Yes. Mr. Shallert, beam them down."
The transporter wrapped the shapes of the party members in pulsing lines of disintegration, mapping and disassembling their bodies. Gradually, the lines shrank and the shapes were reduced to nothing. Shallert checked the stored form-memories, then pulled the sliding switch which beamed them across five hundred kilometers to the interior of Station One.
"Could the station still be operating if all the researchers are dead?" Mason asked Kirk.
"It's conceivable," he said. "But not likely."
"Then why haven't you picked up any life signs?"
"We'll know a lot more in just a few minutes," Kirk said. "Patience is a virtue. Right, Spock?"
Spock stared stoically at the transporter control displays. "Arrival signal has been sent," he said. "They are in the station."
Chapter Ten
A warm breeze pushed quietly through the empty corridor. After ten years, the station was immaculate, everything in order, as if waiting for its guests to arrive.
And arrive they did, in six beautiful columns of structured fire, lighting up the utilitarian gray walls and adding a faint electric smell to the clean, dry air.
"Fan out," Olaus ordered. The team spread rapidly up and down the corridor, Ensign Devereaux aiming his tricorder in the prescribed patterns. Mason's recorder stayed close to Olaus, humming faintly. Olaus flipped open his communicator. "Landing party to Enterprise, Olaus reporting. Station appears to be in good shape. No signs of damage. Devereaux scanning. One minute thirty until return." He closed the communicator and inserted it into his belt. "Let's move!"
The six ran in two groups of three to each end of the corridor. At one end, where Olaus stood at ready, was a door leading into a storage chamber. The door was secured but not locked. At the opposite end, the corridor branched into a T, each subsequent hallway ending in a bulkhead with an airtight hatch. Devereaux advanced quickly to the left end of the T and punched a standard code into the hatch controls. The hatch sighed and slid open. He aimed his tricorder into the space beyond—
And narrowly missed the head of a young Vulcan boy.
"Hello," Radak said in perfect Federation English.
Devereaux stared at him in astonishment. "Lieutenant!" he called out, stepping back. "Lieutenant Olaus!"
Radak held out his hands in greeting, but the transporter effect had already begun. Their time was up; again, they were transformed into pillars of fire and pulled back aboard the Enterprise, as if they had been attached by a flexible string. The transporter grouped them together as they had left, but Devereaux was hunched slightly, tricorder held out, and Olaus had been caught in mid-run. He bounded from the platform and into Mason before he could recover. As he apologized, Mason's recorder switched its allegiance and returned to its former master, still humming.
"There's a Vulcan child in the station!" Devereaux said. "He speaks English—or, at least he said hello." Spock gently removed Devereaux's tricorder from his hands and played back the science data.
"Your device shows no Vulcan, child or otherwise," Spock said. "Who else saw the child?"
"I saw someone standing beyond Devereaux," said another member of the party. "But I couldn't see him clearly."
Spock adjusted the tricorder and still came up with negative results. "Mister Devereaux, please describe this Vulcan child."
"I'm no expert, Mr. Spock, but he seemed about twelve Earth years old, dark purple eyes, wearing a green uniform of some sort. He looked a bit like you."
Spock lifted an eyebrow and glanced at Kirk. "The tricorder shows no life other than the landing party. I cannot presume Mr. Devereaux was hallucinating, Captain, because T'Prylla's son, Radak, would be about fifteen Earth years old, and has dark purple eyes, unusual for a pure Vulcan. The landing party was issued no specific descriptions of station personnel."
Mason scanned the contents of the recorder's immediate memory. "It was with the wrong guy," she said. "It should have been with Devereaux. There's nothing on visual and if anybody said anything besides the landing party, I can't hear it. I might be able to pull it out after enhancement—"
"No need," Spock said. "The tricorder picked up no sound waves except those from the landing party. Nor was there any extra infrared or microwave radiation in the corridor, as might be expected if an actual living body had presented itself to Ensign Devereaux."
"So I was seeing things?" Devereaux asked, chagrined.
"Not necessarily," Kirk said. "I'll expect your reports in fifteen minutes in my quarters annex. Mr. Spock, I'll want you and Doctor McCoy … and Mr. Veblen … there in fifteen minutes, also." He turned to Mason. "You're welcome to come, needless to say."
"I wouldn't miss it," Mason said. "A haunted station … wouldn't miss it for a lifetime supply of filters."
For the first time in nine years, Grake became aware of a separate existence. He looked down at his body and stretched out his arms, then brought his hands closer to his face. Oh, yes, there were memories … but the memories weren't his, alone. "Grake." He turned and saw T'Prylla. He extended one hand and they touched fingers with what, for Vulcans, amounted to deep passion.
"We haven't been apart," T'Prylla said, some confusion evident. "Yet we have been separated. Where are the children? And where are Anauk and T'Kosa?"
"I remember them. We were all together."
"Yet … not." They stood in the middle of the research dome, surrounded by jumbled mounds of reassembled equipment. The devices they had used to chart the birth of the protostars had been inactive for nine years, most of their parts scavenged and used to create the engineer's nightmare which filled the dome. "What is your last memory … your own memory?"
"Radak and T'Raus, together …" Grake hesitated. "Telling us we were not going to be hurt, just—"
"Adapted," T'Prylla finished. "And so we have been. How much time has passed? Why call us back?"
Grake gestured at the massed machinery. "We must destroy this—immediately!"
Radak appeared out of nothing in front of them. "Honored parents," he said. "It is necessary to return the station to normal operations."
"My son," Grake said. "What we have been doing is maut akspra. It must stop, now!" Grake held out his hand to Radak. The boy looked at his father's outstretched fingers, blinked slowly, then turned away. "Much has been accomplished," he said. "We are grateful to you. But we have guests now. Those that you summoned, ten years ago, have finally ar
rived."
"There is a ship?" T'Prylla asked.
"A large and well-armed ship," Radak said. "A group of humans appeared in the reshek corridor." The station's sections were named according to the symbols of the Vulcan alphabet, of which reshek was the third.
"Where are they?" T'Prylla asked.
"They returned before I could do more than greet them. Why were no Vulcans among them, Mother?"
T'Prylla approached her son—or the image of her son, she did not know which—and slowly reached for his shoulders with her hands. She grasped solid flesh, covered with perfectly tangible green cloth—the same children's uniform Radak had worn for a decade, but altered to fit his growing body. "There isn't much time," she said. "These are our rescuers. We sent them a distress signal. They will not leave until they have discovered what happened, and corrected the situation. Or until they have taken us all away."
Radak's eyes widened with alarm. "That would be horrible," he said. "We must stay."
"Why?" Grake asked.
"It is not for you to know, yet," Radak said.
"But they have seen you. They know we are here—"
"They have seen me, but they know nothing else. They do not know anybody else is alive on the station. We have masked everything, and we have not replied to their messages—"
"Why so devious?" Grake asked. "They are here for our good."
"Not so. The good is realized by our staying here, by continuing our work … not by leaving. We do not need to be rescued."
"Who are you?" T'Prylla asked suddenly. Radak focused his eyes on her coldly. There was no hint of affection, only a curious kind of heightened interest.
"I am your son," he said.
"Where is T'Raus?"
"She is involved in work. You must cooperate with us—"
"And the others?"
"They are well. They work with us, just as you have."
"We cannot cooperate," Grake said slowly, circling his son. The boy followed him from the corners of his eyes, his body betraying no sign of tension. "You hold us prisoner. You allow us no freedom, no true participation. You make us your slaves, and you tell us nothing. This cannot be tolerated. You are not behaving as a son should—"
"Because I have higher duties now," Radak said. "You do not choose to cooperate?"
"No," T'Prylla said. There was no use lying. They could hide nothing from this form of Radak, whatever he was.
"Then we have no choice but to adapt you again. There is no harm—"
Grake's arm shot out for his son's shoulder, fingers and thumb configured to pinch a sensitive nerve and render the boy unconscious. But Radak vanished even as the fingers closed. His voice whispered in the air around them. "I am sorry, my parents."
T'Prylla watched in horror as Grake's face grew rigid, then softened. All resistance vanished in her husband's features. Then her own will seemed to melt, and she was returned to the undifferentiated state in which they had both spent the past nine years. Deep inside, however—below all the carefully nurtured, civilized levels, in the regions of her personality that emulated the violent Vulcan figures of the past—T'Prylla hated, and fought, and screamed with rage …
"Mr. Veblen, I have to say I don't place much trust in your stochastic algorithm. Still, since nothing else seems to make much sense, what do the new versions tell us?" Kirk sat in his favorite chair, a worn manually-operated Delkin he had purchased while on shore leave some years before. On the cabin's more modern conference chairs sat Spock, Veblen, McCoy, Ensign Devereaux, Lieutenant Olaus and Mason, who carried a simple voice recorder.
"Sir," Veblen began, swallowing. "The computers suggest the algorithms are not appropriate at this point. We are close to having information we can use to find out what really happened—"
"Oh? How close are we?" Kirk turned to Spock. "Are the enhancements any help?"
"Whatever Ensign Devereaux saw in the station corridor, it does not register on the tricorder. And Mister Mason's opinion to the contrary, we are fortunate the tricorder was present, and not her own press equipment; the tricorder is far more diversified and sensitive."
"Mr. Devereaux?"
"The picture of the boy—he was only three years old at the time the record was made. I can't be positive. But it does resemble the older boy I saw in the station."
"Spock, any chance there would be other Vulcan children on the station by now?"
"Not of that age, Captain."
"Of course. So how does Radak become so disembodied that he doesn't show up on a tricorder?"
"There is only one way to find out, Captain. We must send down another landing party."
"Spock, I've been known to take risks, but I'm not sure that's one I want to take right now—"
Uhura's voice broke in over the com. "Captain, a signal from Station One has just come in."
Kirk sat up. "Relay, Lieutenant."
"With visual, Captain."
Kirk reached over and activated his cabin screen. The image was hazy at first, but quickly sharpened. Kirk recognized Grake immediately; the Vulcan looked tired, but sounded as enthusiastic as possible for a Vulcan. "This is researcher Grake on Black Box Nebula Station One. I wish to speak to the captain of the Federation starship Enterprise."
"I'm Captain James T. Kirk. We're relieved to see you alive and well, Grake. We've had some alarming moments in your station."
"Yes, my son informed me. I apologize for the confusion. We have been rather isolated here, and all of our communications equipment has been deactivated to transfer power to other projects. We are all indeed well, Captain—with the exception, unfortunately, of our colleagues in suspended animation."
"Tell him we have to come down soon," McCoy said.
"Request permission to enter your station and carry out our orders," Kirk said. "We are acting on your distress call, Grake."
"Yes, of course. It has been a very long time, Captain, even for Vulcans. Much has changed … and some of the changes may be startling. May I suggest that only essential personnel be sent down first?"
"Of course. Spock, myself and Dr. McCoy will be in the second landing party."
"Yes, how marvelous. T'Prylla and I will be very pleased to see Spock again. And of course, all of you have been long awaited."
Kirk glanced at Spock, who was out of range of the console cameras. His first officer's expression was troubled, verging on a frown. "Please give us proper coordinates, Grake," Kirk said, "so we won't interfere with any of your … ah … projects."
Grake read them transporter coordinates and repeated his gladness at seeing them, then signed off. "Spock?" Kirk asked when the screen had gone dark. "Something wrong?"
"I cannot be sure, Captain. I knew Grake only briefly, and that more than twenty years ago."
"And?"
"I must inspect the situation more closely before I voice any hypothesis," Spock said. His look said, in a way that Kirk was quite capable of interpreting, that a Vulcan could maintain a record for accurate observations only if not pressed at a premature moment.
"Very well. Thank you, Ensign, Mr. Olaus. Rowena, you'll be allowed on the planetoid as soon as we decide it is safe. The second party will transport as soon as Dr. McCoy has assembled his equipment."
"I'll be ready in ten minutes, Captain," McCoy said. "I'll want Nurse Chapel with me."
"Fine." When he was alone in his quarters, Kirk played back the message and searched Grake's face closely, trying to find what Spock had found … something so vague and uncertain the Vulcan couldn't yet express it. Kirk sensed something, too …
Something very disturbing.
Chapter Eleven
McCoy was in a fever of activity. He ordered the nurses about sharply, efficiently, his southern drawl becoming so pronounced that occasionally he had to repeat his orders to be understood, which exasperated him no end. The TEREC analyzer—a box about a foot on each side—waited on its floating pallet as other medical supplies were added, including the TEREC remote probe, a di
agnostics tricorder and McCoy's "little black bag," a customized general practice unit now equipped for the Vulcan inhabitants of Station One. Mason watched and recorded and did her best to stay out of his way, not that McCoy would have said a harsh word to her. Already, she felt a very father-daughter relationship blossoming between them, though few words had been said. She wondered if it was her gamine personality that attracted McCoy, but suspected it was her small-planet-girl handicap.
The pallet, full to overflowing, was rushed by a harried ensign to the elevator. McCoy followed, Chapel in tow, as both donned pocket-studded medical field jackets. "He handles that pallet like it was a mule," McCoy undertoned, passing Mason. Mason grinned and fell in behind.
In the transporter room, Kirk and Spock were strapping on their security belts and phasers as McCoy and Chapel entered and positioned the pallet over its disk on the platform.
Shallert stood ready at the controls. When Kirk and Spock were in position, they were joined by Chekov, who doubled as part of Olaus's security team. Shallert switched on the transporter. McCoy muttered something beneath his breath until his eye caught Mason's, and he flashed a brave and utterly false smile.
"Let's go, Mr. Shallert," Kirk said. Shallert initiated beaming.
While in the transporter beam, there is no sensation of time or event. At the most, one feels a slight tickle at the base of the neck (Dr. McCoy cannot explain this, but the sensation is experienced at least once by anyone who has ever been transported.) Rumors of spiritual experiences, of the feeling that one has died and returned to life, or seen what lies beyond death—or even more pervasive rumors of those who have the talent to see the future while being transported—have never been substantiated. And yet …
Spock, the least likely to put any credence into such rumors, feels a touch, the merest feathery whisper of inquiry, as if the scattered particles that will reassemble as himself are being individually examined …