The Adept
© 2013–2015 by author (username LadyT'Anna). Star Trek and all related marks, logos, and characters are solely owned by CBS Studios Inc. The creation of The Adept was not endorsed by, sponsored by, or affiliated with CBS, Paramount Pictures, or any other Star Trek franchisee. The Adept is a noncommercial work that is presented at no cost to the reader. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
The Adept is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. T'Anna, Baldwin, Lutton, Anniston, Bland, the two board members, Roxat, Tamas, Zeta Lindana, and the Klingons on Opalescia Tau are the author's creations, as is Opalescia Tau itself.
The events chronicled in The Adept begin three days after the conclusion of "Turnabout Intruder."
The boatswain's whistle sounded. "Transporter room to Mr. Spock."
The ensuing silence puzzled Kirk. Not only was Spock seated less than ten feet away, he also had the keen hearing that was a signature Vulcan trait. Why wasn't he acknowledging Kyle's hail?
Kirk turned in his command chair for a closer look, only to discover that his colleague's fingers were steepled in his homeworld's traditional gesture of contemplation. This too was uncharacteristic. Spock was hardly ever tense at all, let alone so tense that he felt the need to meditate while on the bridge. And when Spock was tense, Kirk was tense, because havoc was the usual consequence when the science officer's customary calm was shattered. Certainly he bore watching, albeit from a discreet and safe distance.
Kirk turned to face forward again and looked thoughtfully at the other inhabitants of the starship's circular bridge. Uhura had her fingers poised on the jewel-like buttons of the communications console, while Sulu and Chekov were dividing their attention between the main viewscreen and the helm and navigation controls. Everything seemed normal, but Kirk feared it wasn't.
"Transporter room to Mr. Spock. Please acknowledge."
"Spock here."
Kirk exhaled.
"An unexpected guest has just beamed aboard, sir. Apparently the lady is a dignitary."
"Please elaborate, Mr. Kyle."
Why is Kyle hailing Spock rather than me about an official guest? And how did this guest arrive in the first place? We weren't expecting anyone. Frowning,Kirk hurried to the science station.
"She identifies herself as the Terran envoy to Vulcan, sir."
At least that explained the hail.
"She also seems to be having difficulties. Can you assist?"
Spock arched an eyebrow at Kirk, who nodded. The request made sense. If the envoy's first language was Vulcan, she would be well served by the presence of a native speaker, and if she preferred to converse in English, she would find Spock's version of it formal but more than serviceable. Further, his service rank was high enough in Starfleet—and his family important enough on Vulcan—to justify his suitability as a representative of the Enterprise.
"Affirmative, Mr. Kyle. Please state the nature of her difficulties."
"She appears to be disoriented and confused, sir."
"Transporter Chief, let me remind you that most people who beam aboard this vessel have a reasonable expectation of doing so."
Kirk bit his lip to hide a smile; Sulu and Chekov were grinning openly. Spock seems to be all right. Perhaps I worry about him too much. The morning—barring an ion storm of the throwing-everyone-about variety—had been unusually quiet, and even his imperturbable first officer had the right to be perturbed on occasion.
"Our guest may also be experiencing medical distress, sir, although I cannot confirm that fact," Kyle noted. "As a precaution, I've asked Dr. McCoy to join you."
"Acknowledged, Mr. Kyle. Spock out."
"Mr. Spock, I'll check on you in ten minutes."
"Acknowledged." Spock rose and left the bridge.
So much for a quiet morning. Our guest had better brace herself.
Spock reached the semicircular transporter room quickly and was relieved to find that McCoy had preceded him there. Kyle's decision to enlist his aid had been quite correct: the woman's face was as pale as parchment, her breathing was labored, and she appeared—in Spock's estimation, at least—to be fevered. At least someone had thought to provide her with a chair. She sat looking up at McCoy in bewilderment, her hands folded in her lap. She had apparently meant to undertake a journey of some days' if not weeks' duration, as evidenced by the presence beside her of two capacious blue-and-gold tapestry bags and one smaller bag in the same pattern, all fastened together expertly.
Spock regarded their unexpected guest more closely. Her appearance gave every indication that she was not only an envoy to Vulcan, but also of Vulcan extraction. He used this phrase advisedly. It was clear to him that neither one of the woman's parents was fully Vulcan, for his homeworld's phenotypical imprint upon her was subtle rather than strong. Although their skin tone was identical—cream tinged with light green—the lines of her ears did not form a perpendicular point as his did, but merely offered a suggestion of one. In addition, her features were neither sharp nor square; instead, they were classically elegant and fine-boned in a way that reminded him of Slavic ballerinas from twentieth-century Earth. She could easily have been an Anna Pavlova or a Tamara Karsavina, albeit with a thinner and more oval-shaped face. Tidily upswept hair as black and gleaming as his own added to the balletic impression; unlike him, she had eschewed their homeworld's common practice of cutting it squarely across the forehead and short everywhere else. Further observation told Spock that the two of them were very much of an age—both in the Vulcan equivalent of their late thirties—and that she was both shorter and slighter than he. Fascinating. Here is a woman of unconventional beauty. Does she possess human blood as well as Vulcan? Is it possible that—
Spock recalled himself to the present with an effort. Nonessential questions would have to wait until their visitor had been medically examined and stabilized. In the meantime, it was best that he not inconvenience either doctor or patient. He therefore stood guard at a respectful distance, clasping his hands behind his back as was his wont.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" McCoy asked.
"No, I . . . please, what happened? Where am I?" Her English was Terran, her voice low and melodic.
Admirable, Spock thought. Even as she experienced acute physical distress and almost certainly perceived herself to be in danger, she nonetheless remained perfectly polite. Further, her voice was quite low, so low as to be arresting, even beautiful. As were her eyes, her hands—but this was neither the time nor the place for illogical digressions.
"You're aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise, ma'am. I'm Dr. Leonard McCoy, the chief surgeon. This is Mr. Spock, our first officer. Let's get you to Sickbay. We'll fix you up."
"Thank you, Doctor. And please forgive me, gentlemen; I seem to have beamed aboard . . . your vessel without . . . asking your permission to do so."
Spock looked quizzically from the woman to McCoy. The doctor shrugged.
"I was beamed here just now from Terra—that is, from Earth," their visitor explained. "I was last in line to board . . . a shuttlecraft. I was waiting on the walkway outside it with my belongings. I sensed a man approaching me . . . rather too closely . . . from behind. I felt an electric shock and a bolt of heat. The charge must have activated my communicator also and . . . input random coordinates, because I found myself here after that. I only wish . . . that I had seen the face . . . of my assailant . . . I should very much like . . . to have identified him." She made an enormous effort to steady her breathing. "I greatly fear that no one could do so . . . as I was last in line."
Spock found this recital remarkable for two reasons. First, their guest appeared to have arrived by means of a sub-quantum transporter; apparently Emory Erickson—or someone under his tutelage—had developed the technology after all, albeit without regard for medical considerations. Consequently, their visitor had not required a starship or even a shuttlecraft to traverse vast distances across galaxies; instead, she had arrived instantaneously. In addition, her account had been repetitive but cogent; her composure was more than admirable under the present circumstances. If Spock required additional proof of her Vulcan ancestry, here was that proof.
"Please forgive me, gentlemen." She smiled faintly. "It would seem that I have the advantage . . . of you both. I am called T'Anna, envoy to Vulcan, homeworld Vulcan."
"Greetings, Envoy," said Spock. Homeworld Vulcan, lineage also Vulcan, parents human? "As you may have surmised, we are compatriots; my homeworld is also Vulcan."
The envoy inclined her head in acknowledgment.
"It's our pleasure to have you aboard, ma'am," McCoy assured her. "What's that in your hand?"
That was a large vellum document bearing two intricate diplomatic seals. One of them was so familiar to Spock that he would have recognized it by touch with his eyes closed.
"This document contains my diplomatic identification and correspondence. You have my permission . . . to examine and verify . . . the identification codes as protocol requires. Be advised that part of the dossier is sealed, also as per protocol, and that only I . . . am permitted . . . to break that seal."
"Acknowledged, Envoy. May I?"
"Certainly, Mr. Spock."
Spock took the document from her and handed it to Kyle. "Please confirm the accuracy of the identification codes in this documentation via our standard verification procedure, Lieutenant."
There was good and sufficient reason to initiate this process in the transporter room. Visitors to a Federation starship could gain access to sensitive information quite easily, and they could make use of that information for good or ill. It was therefore imperative that their credentials be verified posthaste. If the envoy was not who she claimed to be, Kyle could beam her back to her point of origin immediately. Likewise, if her dossier was legitimate, she could be welcomed aboard just as quickly.
Spock looked on as the transporter chief activated the scanner keyboard. Kyle's fingers flew nimbly over the keys, but even accounting for the transporter chief's impressive typing speed, the process would require several minutes to complete. Seeing Kyle thus occupied, Spock was free to return his attention to the envoy who had arrived under such mysterious circumstances. At present, she was being scanned.
"Let's find out what we're dealing with and get you to Sickbay," McCoy said as his tricorder hummed. "Short-term neurologic and respiratory disturbances due to medium-voltage electric shock. Moderate to severe dehydration. Fever and biochemical imbalances consistent with—" He snapped his mouth shut.
You did not complete that thought, Doctor. And I believe I know why.
"Sorry, Kyle. Need the microphone," McCoy said. The transporter chief paused in his typing just long enough to hand it over. "Thanks."
"You're very welcome, sir." Kyle's fingers lightly executed another arpeggio of keystrokes.
McCoy transmitted: "Transporter room to Sickbay. Trans—"
"Sickbay," Nurse Chapel replied.
Spock closed his eyes briefly.
"Bring the respirator and an oxygen tank to the transporter room on the double," said McCoy. "Patient is presenting with respiratory distress, dizziness, fever, dehydration, biochemical imbalances. Tell you what, better bring the whole medikit while you're at it."
"Will do, Doctor."
"Bring the gurney too. We can't have her falling and getting a concussion on top of everything else."
"On my way."
The envoy straightened in her chair. "There is no need for a gurney," she protested mildly. "I believe I am . . . somewhat recovered." But her ragged breathing belied her assertion.
"Just like Spock," McCoy murmured to himself. "I think I'm in trouble."
"Pardon?"
"It is of no consequence, Envoy," Spock interposed. "Do not trouble yourself. The doctor and I often . . . disagree."
At which she smiled.
You intrigue me, Spock thought.
"Ma'am, are you able to stand up without holding on to something?"
"Slowly but surely, Doctor," she replied.
Spock lifted an eyebrow.
"It's a joke, Mr. Spock," explained McCoy. "Well, an idiom, really. Slowly but surely, like a turtle getting ahead of a rabbit in a race—oh, never mind!" And to the envoy: "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but we will need to put you in the gurney. No, it's no trouble," he said as she began another protest. "We'd better not try to walk you down. We wouldn't want you to fall." He turned back to Spock, saying in an undertone, "My patient, Spock. Your guest."
"Acknowledged."
Kyle concluded the elaborate verification sequence, looked up at Spock, and proffered the dossier. "All identification codes have been confirmed valid, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Kyle." Spock took the document from the transporter chief's hands and returned it to the envoy. She thanked him quietly, placed the dossier in the smallest of her blue-and-gold bags, and plaited her hands in her lap.
Nurse Chapel arrived with the gurney. McCoy looked a question at Spock, who took the envoy's arm, flashed the doctor a glance, and nodded at him to follow suit. McCoy took her other arm, and both men helped her rise from the chair and settle herself in the gurney.
"Gentlemen," she protested a third time, with an air of mild embarrassment and milder reproof, "surely your solicitude is . . . excessive . . ." But her labored breathing belied her assertion once again.
Spock searched her face, concerned. She returned his gaze long and steadily as Nurse Chapel secured her in the gurney, connected the oxygen tank to the portable respirator, and applied the mask.
"Sir," Kyle said quietly.
Spock raised an eyebrow. In response, Kyle handed him the envoy's luggage.
"Thank you, Transporter Chief. Your efficiency today has been admirable, for which you are to be commended."
"Thank you very much indeed, sir."
Spock acknowledged Kyle with a nod and left the transporter room, frowning. First the hail and now the luggage. Something is not right with me.
He knew precisely what it was. He had known for some hours.
In Sickbay, Spock and McCoy lifted T'Anna onto the examination table, Nurse Chapel having been dismissed after completing the transport.
"First things first, ma'am—you're dehydrated. Let's get you something to drink." McCoy made for the water dispenser.
"Doctor," the envoy said, "I fear that—"
But he was halfway across the room. At the water dispenser, he pushed the button—to no avail, Spock realized immediately, because no water was flowing. He heard McCoy grumbling, "What do you mean, empty? I'm a doctor, not a divining rod!"
At which T'Anna smiled.
You intrigue me, Spock thought again.
McCoy departed, presently returning with a cup of water for T'Anna. She closed her eyes, breathing raggedly as her face paled and perspiration beaded on her forehead. Quickly, the doctor opened a storage cabinet, retrieved a basin, and set it within reach. But she turned away from it, swallowing visibly. Several shaking breaths restored some of the color to her face.
"Please forgive my weakness, gentlemen," she said presently. "When I am under extreme physical stress, as I have been today, I tend to become rather . . . indisposed."
"There is nothing to forgive, Envoy," Spock replied. "Do not trouble yourself."
"Thank you, Mr. Spock. You are very kind."
"Think nothing of it, Envoy. Please."
"I think very highly of kindness," she said softly, "and I thank you for yours."
Spock nodded. He couldn't find his voice.
McCoy turned to the instrument shelf and frowned. "Blast it, where are those rehydration hypos? I had three of them! We'll need them all, and it looks like that young fool Harrison's been going walkabout with them again. He ought to know better—he's worked here long enough! Excuse me a minute, ma'am. Sorry about this." He crossed to the extreme end of the large room. Spock, standing beside the envoy as she lay on the examination table, heard the doctor rummaging through storage drawers and muttering to himself. "First leaving the biopsy lab for no good reason and now this! Where in blazes did he put those hypos?"
"Mr. Spock," said T'Anna quietly.
He turned toward her, arching an eyebrow.
"Would you think it forward of me if I asked you to sit down?" She gestured to an adjacent chair.
"Not in the least, Envoy." He complied.
"Thank you, Mr. Spock."
He looked up at her. The relief in her eyes informed him that her request had signaled not an arbitrary preference, but an instinctive response to a perceived threat. Who or what is it that she fears?
"Please forgive me, Mr. Spock."
"Once more, Envoy, there is nothing to forgive."
McCoy returned with all three hypos. He crossed to T'Anna and administered them efficiently. The envoy's color improved almost at once. One tricorder pass later, McCoy said, "Ma'am, you'll be glad to know the effects of the electric shock are wearing off nicely. And your other tests showed clear—except for one anomalous result."
T'Anna waited.
"Excuse me just a second, ma'am. Mr. Spock, would you mind stepping out for five minutes or so?"
"Not at all, Doctor. I shall return in precisely five minutes." Spock rose, nodded to them, and departed. He paced the long corridor that led away from Sickbay in order to maintain a courteous distance from the proceedings, even as he realized that McCoy's attempt at delicacy had backfired. For the doctor's request, when taken in conjunction with T'Anna's tricorder readings, left no doubt in Spock's mind that the envoy was experiencing pon farr symptoms, just as he himself was.
He returned to find McCoy and the envoy concluding their conference. He reseated himself unobtrusively at T'Anna's side. "That's about all I can suggest for now, ma'am," McCoy was telling her. "I wish M'Benga were here—he's on extended leave right now. He was trained on Vulcan, and he could tell you more than I can. But I'm sure he'd agree with me that you're going to need a lot of rest—both physically and mentally. You're more than welcome to use our meditation room if you care to."
Spock lifted a guileless eyebrow at McCoy, who promptly rounded on him. "Mr. Spock, if you so much as mention to Jim what I said about the meditation room, I'll deny it flat out and call you a liar besides. I wouldn't want him to think I was turning into a Vulcan."
"I hardly believe our captain would entertain that notion, Doctor, flattering though it may be."
"Flattering, my eye," McCoy muttered under his breath.
Spock gave T'Anna a surreptitious glance. Her eyes were twinkling.
"Ma'am, you're on the mend, but Starfleet Medical would have my head on a platter if I didn't at least broach the possibility of your staying in Sickbay overnight for observation before we help you get where you're going."
"I appreciate your concern, Doctor. However, I cannot ask Starfleet Medical to allocate its resources inefficiently on my behalf. I should like to depart Sickbay at the earliest possible moment so as not to inconvenience you further." The envoy turned her head slightly so that her gaze took in both men. "As of today, I am on leave for six weeks; my destination was to be Opalescia Tau before I was intercepted."
"We need to report that incident, ma'am," McCoy pointed out. "Are you feeling well enough to tell us what happened—for the record, I mean?"
"Of course, Doctor, although I fear I can tell you very little beyond what I reported some moments ago."
McCoy fetched the PADD for the medical log from yet another storage drawer. The envoy recounted her memory of the sub-quantum transporter assault as best she could, although as she had predicted, the details she could offer were negligible. "Gentlemen, this incident has potential security considerations; I trust I may rely on your discretion," she concluded.
"Surely, ma'am," replied McCoy.
You may trust me with your life, Spock thought. And then: Curious. My instinctive desire to protect this envoy from harm far exceeds my professional obligation to do so. I wonder why. Aloud he said, "You may do so, Envoy."
T'Anna inclined her head in acknowledgment.
"Envoy, the Enterprise is bound for Opalescia Tau, just as you were prior to being intercepted. No diversion in course would be required to transport you there." Spock made a quick decision: "You are welcome aboard this starship on my authority as first officer, pending the approval of my captain, with whom I shall confer at the earliest opportunity. Be advised that under the circumstances, I do not foresee his declining my request."
"Thank you, Mr. Spock. That solution seems not only logical, but also kind. I am very much in your debt."
"You have incurred no debt, Envoy. It is my pleasure to welcome you aboard as both a Federation representative and a fellow Vulcan."
McCoy said, "Ma'am, are you sure I can't persuade you to stay in Sickbay overnight, just as a precaution?"
"Doctor, I greatly appreciate your concern, but I am very much recovered, truly. I see no need to trouble you further at present."
Spock thought it best not to subject the envoy to Dr. McCoy's excessively high decibel levels and sustained excitability for longer than was strictly necessary. Undoubtedly she would rest more easily outside Sickbay. Moreover, she was free to hail either one of them should she encounter additional difficulties. He looked at McCoy and arched an eyebrow. The doctor nodded.
Spock walked to the intercom. "Sickbay to Quartermaster, Spock here."
"Quartermaster here."
"Quartermaster, please estimate the time required to prepare a suite in escorted guest quarters."
At one time, official guests had been permitted to move about Federation starships at will, albeit with restricted access to sensitive locations such as the engine room or bridge. But after numerous dignitaries were attacked—and occasionally even murdered—while aboard ship, Starfleet's formerly lackadaisical attitude had undergone a sea change. Official guests now joined senior officers in possessing key codes to their doors. In addition, they could not leave the guest area unescorted. Finally, as had happened some moments ago, identity checks were performed immediately after the dignitary in question was beamed aboard.
"Estimated time to readiness seven minutes, sir."
"Very well, Quartermaster; commence preparations. You and your subordinates are permitted to escort the Terran envoy to Vulcan to necessary destinations on my authority."
"Acknowledged."
"Thank you, Quartermaster. Spock out." He retrieved T'Anna's luggage.
"Are you sure you can walk, ma'am?" McCoy asked.
"I am certain, Doctor. Thank you. The hyposprays you administered have proved most efficacious." And indeed, her face had acquired some color in the intervening minutes.
McCoy glanced at Spock, who nodded. Both men helped her up.
"Ma'am, you're free to go," said McCoy. "But for heaven's sake, hail if you get dehydrated again. We'll fix you up. It's no trouble. And one more thing: Come back in a week even if you don't have any more problems. Better safe than sorry."
"Certainly, Doctor."
"May I accompany you to your quarters, Envoy?" asked Spock, offering her his arm.
She took it. "I should be honored, Mr. Spock. Thank you." And to McCoy: "Thank you again for your assistance, Doctor. I wish you a very pleasant day."
"Same to you, ma'am."
Spock nodded to McCoy and escorted the envoy out of Sickbay. Once they were well out of the doctor's hearing, T'Anna switched to Vulcan. "I see that the chief surgeon of the Enterprise displays both excitability and heedlessness, while you exhibit neither trait. Am I correct in surmising that much of the disagreement between you stems from those intrinsic differences in temperament?"
"Indeed, Envoy."
She had taken McCoy's measure very quickly. Spock wondered whether she had also taken his own.