Section 3: Nearly Forgot My Broken Heart
Chapter 1: Credo
In the transporter room, Simbollah is on night duty again and smiles (whether in delight or relief she can't be sure) when she sees McCoy and Anon beaming aboard together this time. McCoy nods distractedly at her; Anon smiles back, says, "Hey, Simbollah."
As they exit the transporter room, Anon stumbles slightly, and McCoy catches her around her waist. She leans her head against his chest and tips her face up to him. "Thanks, love, but I'm okay," she whispers, "and I'm sorry. I was just trying …" Her voice dissipates altogether.
McCoy smiles, indulgent but preoccupied, and lets his arm slide back until they are holding hands again. He walks with her in silence, reflecting on the accuracy of his earlier words and the inadequacy of his heart. When they are in each other's heads, he knows, as no man has ever known, that he has her complete devotion. So much of the rest of their time together, he blunders around, trying to comprehend her complicated inner life, and longing for a normal physical life.
His mother leaned against him for support; her hand touched his face; he stroked her hair; those physical contacts comforted both of them; Anon never touches him ungloved, she so fears revealing their thoughts to those around them.
But in his heart he knows that the real reason she avoids it is that he is the one who hates exposing their most private selves to the "squatters." She would be fine with it but doesn't want him to be in distress. This morning he experienced it differently, but now he suspects it was only because it was his sister who was connected. He pulled away as soon as others in the complex were joined.
However it may play out in their futures, for now the sensitivity forces their relationship into separate boxes, clumsy, isolating, unconnected. And even when they aren't touching, she boxes herself off; he can't argue with that, either. He loves experiencing her passion, her intensity, her ecstasy, but lordy, her dread, her fear, her despair – they all but destroy him when he is on the receiving end of those emotions. And she knows that, too, and won't even share them verbally.
Lost in his musings, McCoy is caught all unawares when Anon says, "Don't worry about me. I'll be all right." They have walked all the way to and into her quarters.
"I'm sure you will," McCoy replies, "but let me get you to your bunk, anyway. We've come this far."
Anon nods an okay, sits herself on the edge of her berth, and promptly falls over, unconscious. She sure does know her sleep cycle, and McCoy throws out an arm to prevent her pitching onto the floor, then eases her to a lying position. He pulls off her shoes, then reaches to remove her uniform, but pauses. God, she is dirty.
He pulls off her shirt, detaches her gloves. He eases her trousers down; this action sets her knees to bleeding, which surprises him and catches his eye. He watches as the blood vessels pinch off the flow – he is still not used to blood that doesn't clot, but the system mostly seems to work well enough.
Satisfied the bleeding has stopped, he examines her knees, then checks her trouser legs. Both knees are scraped, and each pantleg looks torn; what the hell was she doing with the kids this afternoon when she was out of his head? A lot of roughhousing, that's for sure.
He takes a damp cleaning wipe from her bathroom, gently daubing her knees and attempting to clean her hairline. The former works; the latter does not.
McCoy decides to strip off her undies and socks and takes all her clothing to the AC. He shoves them in and starts the cycle. He scans the cabinets and hesitates. Nobody sleeps nude on the ship, in case of an emergency, but not only does he not know where she keeps her nightclothes, he doesn't even know what they look like. Perhaps she brought them during their one shore leave together – ah, that was bliss – but she never wore them.
One night in Earth orbit sleeping in the nude will be okay. Nothing bad will happen. He returns to her berth and pulls the blanket over her, then stands upright and addresses the messaging system.
"Computer, record a message from Chief Medical Officer McCoy to Ensign Anon."
"Ready."
"Good morning, Darlin,' hope you slept well and vanquished all those demons. You can slap me if you think I was ungallant, but I put all your clothes in the AC – they were truly disgusting. Cycle will be done by the time you hear this. I would have gotten you into your jammies, but I don't know where you keep them, and I didn't want to go poking around. I'm not that nervy. Hey, and you barked your knees pretty good. You have to watch yourself with those kids. They can be wild, but I'm sure y'all had fun. I'll transfer some wet shower credits of mine to you. I'm thinking you'll need water to clean off the dough without tearing out most of your hair. With the graduation and new crew activities, I probably won't see you tomorrow, but I'll be thinking about you. I love you madly. End message."
McCoy enters his quarters, kicks off his shoes, and pads to the cabinet where he pours himself two fingers of his freshly acquired Jameson's in Julie's Care package.
As he settles into his armchair, he ponders the obligation he has tomorrow that he did not mention in his message to Anon: the memorial service for lost crew over the past year. It's a small ceremony – senior officers of the starships, and parents, spouses, and/or children of the deceased. Spock will be giving the eulogy for Andersen. Thank the lord siblings do not attend. If Anon were allowed to be there, he can't imagine she would be able to get through it without another howl of anguish transmitted throughout the galaxy.
He shudders, swirls his whiskey and sips; it warms him and he reflexively relaxes. He cannot be sure how long he dozed in the POP, but he knows it will take some time to fall back asleep, and the whiskey will help with that. The LED of the message system is blinking, so with a sigh he commands, "Computer. Play messages."
"Working. Message from Sick Bay, yesterday, time 1600 hours. 'Dr. McCoy, it's Rollins on duty. Just wanted you to know the day's medical events were minor except for a burst appendix. Surgery successful, full report recorded whenever you want it.' End message.
"Message from Ma, yesterday, time 2340. 'Lenny, don't believe anything she tells you. She said she wouldn't say anything to you but I know she's lying. It didn't happen like she says. I didn't mean anything to happen like that. You know I wouldn't, Lenny. Please call me and I'll explain everything.'
"End message. End of messages."
McCoy's body discarded its relaxed posture at the first sound of his mother's voice. Now he forces himself to lean back in his chair, but no force is required to down the remaining Jameson's in a single swallow. "Replay message," he commands. It hasn't changed.
What the hell. There was some interaction between Soli and Ma while he was asleep, and it didn't end well. No wonder Soli didn't want to let him in on it.
Who initiated the contact? That's an easy one. Soli must have gone to his mother's. What on earth possessed her? Anon is much too passive to have been confrontative, but clearly that's how his mother took it, and then she ran with it. Ran right into a brick wall with it.
He rises and pours another finger of the whiskey, and mindlessly swirls it around and around as he settles back in the chair. Damned if he's going to return Ma's call tonight. Let her stew. Soli hadn't gotten herself worked up out of nowhere, as he had accused her; she was trying to fix things in her well-meaning but artless way, and Ma had rebuffed her, at the very least. Of that he is certain.
McCoy sets the tumbler on the counter and dresses for sleep. He finally slams his drink back, performs his ablutions, and crawls into bed. In addition to all his professional duties tomorrow, he is going to have to find some time to see his mother once more before he ships out, goddammit. He'll coordinate with Julie if possible, but she undoubtedly will be going back to work herself. He sinks into slumber.
Anon sits up abruptly, as she always does upon awakening, and she looks around and about briefly. In her bed, under the covers. No jammies. Not even any undies. In the pitch-black, the red LED is glowing on the AC; a wash load has completed. The yellow "message waiting" light is blinking. She snaps her fingers, producing a low, ambient light.
She slides to the floor, stretches, and rubs her hair; she pulls her fingers away, scratches her scalp, looks at her fingers. "Ugh. What a mess."
She finally responds to the blinking of her message console, commanding, "Computer. Play messages."
"Working. Message from Chief Medical Officer McCoy, today, time 0043. 'Good morning, Darlin,' hope you slept well …'"
As McCoy's deep, soothing drawl fills the air, Anon skips to the console and caresses the speaker. At the word "demons," her smile flees. She repeats an unfamiliar word. "Ungallant?" By the time she hears his comments about her scraped knees, her caress of the speaker has turned into a clutch, and her other hand is clenched, pounding her thigh.
When the message concludes, however, she says merely, "Computer. Save message. Sweet, sweet man. Slept fine, my love, but demons not vanquished."
Taking McCoy's advice, and his credits, to use water on her hair, she starts the shower running, enters, and doesn't emerge for more than eight minutes. The crusted dough took a good deal of coaxing to dissolve and run off. She doesn't use the dry function, preferring to use a pillowcase (lacking any towels – as an ensign she has never had water shower credits of her own) to rub herself down, then she battles her hair to run a comb through the tangles.
Anon finally goes to the AC, where the red LED is still glowing, and pulls out the clothing. The trousers are immediately set aside, and, after an examination, so are the gloves. "Mending," she grouses. "My least favorite. I need a playlist for that, I really do."
She opens one of the cabinets and retrieves her pajamas, slipping into them, then opens another cabinet and pulls out a pair of gloves – short-length, not built into a bra – and dons them. She paces restlessly, pauses, and says again, louder, "Demons not vanquished."
Anon plops down on her berth, and rocks back and forth, head in her hands. She cries out, "Janay, how do I ever talk to anybody about important stuff! What am I to do? What am I to do?" She scoots back and draws in her knees. Just as she is about to assume her fetal position for meditation, there is a bright flash of light, and she leaps to her feet.
In front of her is a pale blob. A person. Shaggy black hair. Sprawled on the floor. She approaches, sniffing the air, cautiously at first, then in a rush. She reaches out, touches the body, then pulls back her hands. Her voice is strangled. "I think my sleep pattern has changed. I must be dreaming."
Janay's voice, but hoarse, whispery. "I don't know, Rock Head. Are you naked and unable to move?"
Anon appraises herself. "What? No. Definitely not."
The same weak voice. "Then it's not your dream. It's mine."
Anon springs backward, snatching the blanket and pillow from her berth. "Oh, my sister. You must be so uncomfortable. I'm slow and stupid. Here you go." And she tucks the blanket around the flaccid limbs of the beloved woman before her, supports the lolling head before slipping the pillow underneath.
"Computer. Medical emergency. Call Chief Medical Officer McCoy in his quarters. Auditory …"
The computer's indifferent voice interrupts Anon. "Medical emergencies are directed to Sickbay only. Please correct and clarify."
"Geezum's sake!" Anon comes so very close to uselessly swearing at her computer, then Andersen redirects as only Janay ever could.
"Geezum's sake? That's a new one, Rock Head. Where did that come from? I love it. It's so you."
Anon falls to her knees and embraces her helpless sister. "Computer. Cancel medical emergency. Call Chief Medical Officer McCoy in his quarters. Auditory signal until he answers."
"Calling."
McCoy slowly rouses from deep sleep, aware of and then annoyed by the incessant chime of the call system. At last he can answer, more or less. Mainly less.
"What."
Anon's voice bursts into his consciousness. "Leonard. You have to come right away. To my quarters. Come to my quarters. Please. Please come. Bring. Bring your … your tricorder. Please. Right away."
She has his attention, and he finally responds, groggy but alert. "Soli, what's wrong? Are you all right? What's going on?"
Even through the speaker Anon's voice has an edge he cannot interpret. "I'm fine, Leonard. But it's an emergency. It is. It really is. Please, you have to come. With your, with your tricorder. It's important. An emergency. Please." And with that she cuts off the call.
What the goddam hell. He fell asleep to one insane message and now wakes up to another. McCoy pushes himself upright and snaps his fingers to produce the low light level. "Computer. Time?"
"Time is 0312 hours."
Perfect. He's wide awake, though his head is still dulled by the Jameson's, and he is not ready to move. Oh, I'm fine, just fine, Leonard, but it's an emergency. Sure it is. Now he's just getting pissed off. Comes a point where, if you have enough crazy people in your life, it's you, not them. He puts his head in his hands and massages his temples. Better.
So. Anon is fine. She said so. He will get dressed at his own pace and get to her quarters when he jolly well feels like it. He already feels guilty. Where did he put his pants? He hates when he has to ask that.
Anon has turned her attention back to Andersen and fluffs the pillow. "Is that better? How did this happen? Are you thirsty? Oh, my sister, my sister." Anon kisses her own gloved fingertips and touches them to Andersen's lips.
Even Anon's sharp ears can scarcely make out Andersen's words. "Yah. I don't … I don't think I can swallow. I'd drool over your pillow. Even in a dream, that's just too disgusting."
Anon dashes to the counter, grabs one of the freshly washed gloves. "It's okay, Janay. I'll just wet your lips, maybe your tongue, and it will feel better, even without swallowing." She dampens the glove under the faucet, wrings out the excess and applies it to Andersen's mouth.
Andersen flicks her tongue – a voluntary movement at last. "Feels good. Look at you taking care of me, instead of the other way around. I mean, when I dream I'm naked and helpless, someone usually covers me up, but this is the first time anyone slipped a pillow under my head, too. So sweet."
Anon presses the wet glove to Andersen's mouth again. This time there is no tongue movement, and the water dribbles down Andersen's cheek. Anon catches it with her fingertip and applies it to her sister's lips.
Andersen's eyes close, for more than a moment, then reopen. "Water is so blah. How about some dream ice cream from the dream mess hall? Or some dream sherry from my dream cabinet. I don't like this anymore. Change the scene. I should be flying. Or wandering around looking for a classroom I can't find. Why am I still here on the floor of your quarters?"
Anon murmurs, "Shh, shh, shh. You're fine. I'll take care of you."
Andersen's whispery voice grows stronger, her vocal cords start to vibrate in response to her tension. "No. I'm not fine, Sis. I don't understand. What's wrong with me? I have to wake up. I have got to wake up now. Um, Soli, there's someone weird behind you."
Anon's reflexes take over. "Computer. Start recording." In one smooth motion, she steps over the prostrate body of her sister, snatches the heaviest sculpture from the countertop, jumps back over Andersen into a defensive crouch, and raises the sculpture.
Another flash of light, and the sculpture is no longer in her hand. She snaps her fingers twice, and the room is fully lit. Andersen emits an anguished cry; Anon calls, "Dim lights," which restores the semi-darkness in which Andersen had arrived. Still keeping her center of gravity low, Anon advances on the figure slung casually on her bunk. She stops and straightens.
"What is Young Frankenstein doing in my quarters?"
In the transporter room, Simbollah listens as a disembodied voice on the console intones, "Engineering All Call. Energy pulse detected; unknown source. Run diagnostics on all systems. Locate focus of energy. Report all findings to Engineering. Commander Scott has been notified and is on his way."
Simbollah runs through the relatively simple systems check for the segregated transporter room, then expands her search methodically. She calls up the readings that triggered the All Call and runs an analysis. Very weird. The readings are akin to those produced when warp drive is engaged, but without the stretching of time or space; they are instantaneous and highly localized.
Localized where? She triangulates and calculates. Crew quarters. Which room? Simbollah freezes, but only for a moment, then her fingers fly as she sends her data. She is shaking by the time she is finished; she stands abruptly, turns towards the door. No. She cannot abandon her post. She slams her hands on the console, repeatedly, until the pain captures her attention, then she sits and reruns all her analyses.
When she confirms the results, Simbollah expands her search criteria, fine-tuning the diagnostics to focus on the wave length in question. With a cry, she yanks her hands from the instruments as though they are on fire when readings indicate the energy has returned, not a one-and-done pulse this time, but unmistakably the same characteristics. It is a low but steady state now, almost precisely the same location – shit – as the first time. Again, she passes along her findings. She sets one of her displays to monitor the power and duration. Yes, it's still there.
Simbollah's breath is ragged and rapid; her hands tremble violently. More analysis, keep your mind focused, what else, what else.
Prior occurrences. Maybe the pulse was an anomaly or a malfunction or an error, depending on its origin. At this low level the energy would not have been detected under normal conditions, like trying to detect a single LED in the face of the light of the sun. As she continues to refine her settings and searches back, slowly, painstakingly, her breathing smooths and the shaking diminishes. She is focused. Second only to music, this is what she loves best.
There it is. Yesterday. Oh! Twice yesterday! Not as brief as the pulse a few minutes ago, nor as powerful; not as long as the present time but measurably stronger. In the medical storage wing both times, not crew quarters.
Moving back in time, she encounters the energy pulse once more, several months ago, similar in power and duration to yesterday's events. Also in crew quarters, but not the same room. Whose? And does anything shipboard correlate to the three dates this has happened?
Simbollah checks the monitor. As she watches the energy pulse ceases, and she saves the exact time and calculates the duration. She resets the monitor to look for the pulse elsewhere on the Enterprise and returns to going backward in time.
"Do you like the look?" The figure on her bed poses seductively. Anon keeps her eyes open but sniffs the air.
"I considered dressing as Willy Wonka, candy manufacturing mogul," and the figure suddenly is dressed in the colorful garb of the older 2D movie version, "but I know you much prefer 'Young Frankenstein' to all other Gene Wilder roles, and anyway, it really comes closer to what I did for you." Just as abruptly the creature is back in the lab coat costume.
"What are you?" Anon has moved just enough to be directly between the creature and Andersen, blocking the latter's view. "You're not a life form – I can't smell anything. You are a projection, yes? Sight, sound, nothing more. Where did you come from and why are you here? And seriously, Gene Wilder? Get real or get out."
The creature laughs, a high-pitched giggle reminiscent of Leo Bloom's hysteria during the final scenes of "The Producers."
"Do you want me to take my creation with me as well? I have heroically risked the opprobrium of my fellows, the exile from my home, just to gift you with your dear friend and sister. Raised from the dead, thanks to me, and me alone." The creature's facial contortions are not in the least reminiscent of Gene Wilder's emotive expressions. Somewhere between a leer and disgust. Nothing readable.
Andersen pleads. "Make it stop, Soli. I need a good night's sleep, not a nightmare. We have a major field science expedition tomorrow. You're the one taking care of me – make it stop." Her voice has more volume than a whisper now but is still hoarse and strangled.
Anon steps back, sets herself down cross-legged, and pulls Andersen into her lap. "Leave her alone," she snaps at the Frankenstein parody. "You have no business here."
The Frankenstein giggles again. "My business is whatever I choose it to be. I have been watching you since I first became aware you were worth watching. I know your entire mortal life, and it is most entertaining."
Anon holds Andersen tighter and closer. "Jerk face! You've been spying on me? I hate spying, which you would know if you've been watching me. Explain yourself, whatever you are!"
The creature now attempts some high-class British melodrama. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am H, from the Continuum, immortal, omnipotent, ubiquitous."
Anon's face registers confusion. "You're who from where? Say something that makes sense."
H collapses into giggles, unable to maintain his dramatic character. "Yes, Soli Anon, you're right. I have been spying on you. There are precious few mortals with their useless little lives that any of us in the Continuum can be bothered with, but you drew my interest, and I have studied your entire life span. I have spied on you sufficient to memorize your story and to spin it into an epic, a saga that my Continuum fellows simply adore. You are a round peg in a universe that contains square and hexagonal and star-shaped holes only, so each and every time you are picked up, you don't fit and are discarded. It's most intriguing, even for immortals."
Andersen rallies to her sister's defense. "You have no cause to be cruel. Piss off, Continuous Ache."
H manages a look of wounded dignity. "That's the 'Continuum' not continuous. And it's 'H' not ache."
Anon strokes Andersen's hair soothingly, but her sister is not finished. "Continuous Ache, pain in the ass, all the same to me. Soli is beloved, she matters to lots of people."
The creature titters again. "Now we come to the heart of the matter. She matters to many people, oh yes, she does. But only because of you, Janay Andersen. Without you, she would have lived out her days, friendless and alone, on Bolarus 9. You both know this to be true, although, yes, it is cruel."
Andersen lifts her eyes to Anon. "This is turning into the worst dream ever. I'm past wanting to wake up." Anon's expression offers no comfort, although she continues to shush softly, and rocks back and forth.
H hops down to the floor, and strikes a heroic pose, lunge position, fist raised. "The situation is unique, and beyond your comprehension. Two mortals, in the same generation, of interest to the Continuum. Astounding. So compelling, that when one of them dies, it simply must be brought back."
H enjoys the shock its words produce, then it goes on. "Bringing a dead human back to life is a simple matter. Grab some stem cells, in this case right from Med storage, grow a body, restore the volume of stem cells so no one notices any loss of mass, grab a brain imprint, stuff it in the new body's brain, and voila: a recreated human, ready for action.
"Even a child in the Continuum – not that there are any – could recreate a mortal whose stem cells are readily available. But you should know, little ones, that my primary gift, unmatched by anyone else, is story-telling. My peers hang on my every word.
"So, my concern was stealth within the Continuum. We all agreed that Janay Andersen. being special, should be returned to the galaxy at some point to live out a normal lifespan, normal for a mortal. The debate was about when and where we should do so. I don't mind telling you, the subject of recreating Janay Andersen was talked to death, you should pardon the expression. No offense."
H was met with a stony silence. "Excuse me? I have spent enough time in the company of Terrans to know that the correct response to 'No offense' is 'None taken.'"
Andersen is in no condition to respond, so Anon does, the type of confrontation she had always avoided in her life.
"Offense is taken. Jerk face."
H waves its hand airily. "I've watched this exchange 7,810 times, and you always say that. Ah, well. To continue – no pun intended – the great difficulty I had was keeping my project secret. I had to be so very sneaky! But I succeeded! And every trick I know about distraction, diversion, and dissembling I learned from you, Soli Anon.
"So here we all are. You won't be pleased with the fitness level of your body, Janay Andersen. Really, I grew it in record time, stealthily, cleverly – nay, brilliantly! Oh, and your memories were only just implanted, so they may be shaky for a while. In fact, that's why I forgive your difficulty with my name and place of origin."
H looks directly at Andersen, then at Anon. "You better get rolling, Soli Anon. Explain to your sister all that has happened. Your lover will be here shortly to interrupt the proceedings." H resumes lounging on the bunk.
Anon has been staring at H during this speech, looks down tenderly at Andersen, who croaks, "I died? I've been brought back to life? No. I can't even. You have a lover? McCoy, of course. The Boyfriend who loved you even with no touching." Tears well from her eyes and fall down her cheeks. Anon wipes them with her damp glove.
"Everything is true that Doctor Professor Baron von Frankenstein said. You're not having a dream. You died on the expedition to Reynos 3. Months ago. I almost died from heartbreak. Leonard fixed me. We became lovers – and you were right, I do love sex."
Andersen reflexively mumbles, "I'm always right."
Anon smiles briefly, then continues, "But I struggle every day – every day – trying to hold onto my friends, and I haven't made any new ones, Janay. I can't.
"It's Academy graduation day tomorrow, so we had shore leave for the last few days. Your family adopted me day before yesterday. We really are sisters, now. Then I met Leonard's mother. She hates me. You would have known what to do but I didn't. I tried to fix it by swearing my eternal loyalty, love, and devotion to her, but she still scorned me."
Andersen's tears have stopped during the soliloquy; her shock turned to bewilderment turned to mischief. She couldn't help herself.
"You made a pledge to her? Like the Munchkin did to Stuart of Gorgon?"
Anon's eyebrows arch high, and a long moment passes before she responds. "You mean the hobbit who vowed loyalty to the Steward of Gondor?"
Andersen blinks, her tongue flicks out and in again. "Yah, that sounds right. Anyway, how'd that work out for Mittens?"
Once more Anon has to decipher. "You mean Pippin?"
Andersen screeches, "I have an Abby Normal brain! What did you do to me, Tooth Ache!"
Anon kisses her gloved fingertips, touches Andersen's forehead. "Shh, shh, you weren't so far off, Block Head. Munchkins and hobbits are both little people. Stuart and Steward, very similar words. Gorgons were horrible scary monsters, and there were lots of scary monsters stomping around in Gondor. And we both loved the cartoon that had Mittens. You'll be fine – I promise we'll watch all of the movies together, and you'll remember everything. Everything."
"Yah, everything." Tears are freely flowing down Andersen's cheeks again, and Anon hugs her hard, rocking, head bowed. "Hey, you, Tooth Ache. What's so great about a body that can't move and a brain that's discombobulated? Why did you bring me back to an eff'ed up mess like a blob of … of …"
"Bread dough," Anon finishes, helpfully.
"Yah, bread dough." Andersen raises her eyes to Anon. "Thanks. I think." She looks back at H. "Damn you to hell."
H props itself on an elbow, examines its fingernails, makes the women wait for an answer.
"I can afford to be magnanimous towards you, Janay Andersen, considering the enormity of what you have experienced, the great stress you are under at the moment. And you being a mere mortal.
"I brought you back to this 'effed-up mess' for two reasons. The first and most important is that Soli Anon needs you in order for her to function. It is no coincidence that you were returned after her debacle with her future mother-in-law. I admit to vanity as the Continuum's most celebrated storyteller. I need Soli Anon to be functional in order for me to weave all the elements – struggle, climax, denouement – of my most celebrated story. It's one thing to follow the life of a perpetually-discarded round peg that keeps struggling to find a round hole for herself. It's quite another thing for that round peg to allow herself to roll under the furniture with the dust bunnies and disappear. Which she was doing. So, reason one.
"The second reason is that the universe needs you in your usual kind and generous persona. You are of great interest to those who study such things as goodness, mercy, and light, the arc of the purpose of existence. It was unacceptable to them that you should be gone so soon. As a mortal, your life will be brief enough. You were going to be brought back at some time, in some form. I merely made the personal decision for it to be now, as you are.
"Your fitness level is of no importance. I do pity you, poor mortal Janay Andersen. Though the truth may be cruel, I actually am not. But it will all work out, I assure you. Oh, and some of the newness of your body will please you. Try out the neural communication – fresh brain, no more headaches. McCoy's here – gotta go. But don't worry. I'll be Bach. You be Beethoven."
H winks out. The door chime sounds. From the intercom comes a familiar if grumpy voice, "Soli, it's me. Can I come in?"
Simbollah jumps when the chirp of the communicator interrupts her intense absorption but recovers quickly. "Simbollah here."
"Scott here." Simbollah jumps again. The Chief of Engineering is calling her? Whoa.
"I've just arrived in Engineering and was directed to your data. Mounds and heaps of data, Lassie. I've got other people confirming, and so far, it's bang on. Tell me, Lassie, what're your conclusions?"
Simbollah breaks out in a cold sweat. She hasn't had a one-on-one with Commander Scott since her newbie reception three years ago. She can play her flute solo for hundreds of people without a second thought, but this private communication with her commander freezes her.
"Ensign, are you there?"
She has to say something. "Aye, sir. I'm here."
"Well?"
Dammit, she has to say something more. What was the question? Oh, yes.
"My conclusions, sir. The energy pulse that caught our attention was localized in rookie Crew Quarters. The wavelength/frequency combination is unknown in nature."
That sounds stupid. Do better, Simbollah. Nature don't enter into it. "A lower level of the energy pulse became apparent shortly after the first one ceased. Same location. I expanded my parameters and found that this exact lower level of the energy, previously unexamined due to normal background activity, has been detected on three prior occasions. In addition, extremely low levels have been, well, constant, for the last year. Mostly corresponding to … well, I'm reluctant to draw a conclusion, sir."
Scott prefers wild speculation to cautious mush. "Draw away, Lassie. What do you think?"
Simbollah draws a deep breath. In or out. All in. "This energy variety is extant when Ensign Anon is in the vicinity. Not exclusively – I have detected it when she is nowhere near it. But 97% of the time, if this energy is detectable, Ensign Anon is nearby. And I just … Sir, I just recorded a diminished level, but it's still there. I mean, it was for a while, and then it wasn't. And now it's back again. For now. Right in her quarters. That's my data. I've transmitted it to Engineering."
"Thank you, Ensign. Fine work. Scott out."
Cold sweat, hot sweat, and Simbollah is positively drenched in sweat. Her superior officer didn't dismiss her, but neither did he indicate she must stay on duty past her scheduled time. She will start counting the minutes until she can sign out and get to her friend's quarters and make sure Anon is all right.
The door slides open. McCoy steps through the entrance and stops. Anon is embracing an impossibility. He draws a sharp breath.
"Soli. Get away from that."
"Leonard. It's Janay. She's back." She sings, per Beethoven, "Freude, schöner Götterfunken!" She then reverts to speech, "I don't understand how but she's here."
McCoy's mouth is dry. He can scarcely speak. "No, Soli, dear. I don't know what that is, but it isn't Janay. You know it isn't. It's impossible. Please. Move away from it. Carefully. Come by to me."
Tears are flowing once more from Andersen's eyes, and Anon bends over her, pulling her close. "Leonard, she's helpless. Please, please, come examine her. She wouldn't hurt anyone. She can't hurt anyone. She's too weak to even move."
Andersen speaks in her cracking whisper. "I'm not that helpless, Rock Head. If you stuck my hand in front of my face, I'm pretty sure I could pick my nose."
Anon chokes, sobbing and laughing simultaneously. "See what I mean, Leonard? Who else would say that? It's Janay. I know. I know! Scan her. Look at her DNA. I'm sure. I can smell her!"
"Watch it, sis. Don't be rude." The voice is hoarse but recognizable.
McCoy is a believer in cold, raw data, but damn, who else but Janay would, under extreme duress, crack wise like this. Really. It's the kind of thing that she'd say that used to put him off, until he fell in love with Soli and accepted her friend freely and fully. Nevertheless, this is impossible.
"Soli, dear heart," he cajoles. "Tomorrow I have to participate in the ceremony that honors lost crew. Her parents will be there to accept the tribute. I've confirmed every way possible that Janay is gone. Listen to me. You know I'm right. Please, move away from it."
Janay's strangled cry pierces the air. "Don't leave me, Soli. I'm so scared." She hears Anon's voice in her head. I'm here, I won't leave you. I'll take care of you. Andersen feels none of the buzz she used to experience when Anon was in her head. H predicted this. Clear and connected and comforted.
Anon redirects to McCoy. "Scan her with your tricorder. You'll see she's human; later you can get a tissue sample and check her DNA in great detail."
This is futile, McCoy realizes. He edges towards the communication console. It will take but a moment to call security.
Wham. A flash of light, and H reappears. This time it's the Waco Kid, all in black. It tips its cowboy hat forward and blows on its fingertips. H really has seen every movie Anon loves, every time and more.
It addresses Anon. "I told you I'd be back."
"No," snaps Anon. "You told me you'd be Bach. I did my part – I was Beethoven. Even though I hate the stupid Terminator movies. Get it right. Geezum's sakes. But I do love 'Blazing Saddles, so I guess it's okay."
McCoy no longer feels wide awake, or much of anything for that matter. He is definitely in the middle of a bizarre dream. So, what the hell. He'll go with it.
He aims his tricorder, first at the curly-haired thing in the black cowboy outfit, then at the thing identified as Janay. The former registers not at all, the latter registers as Terran, as Janay Andersen.
H speaks up. "Security is already on the way, Dr. McCoy. Engineering can measure my presence, after a fashion, even if you cannot. I'll pop off again in a moment, but right now – now –you need to support your mate and my protagonist. That there on the floor is Janay Andersen. Her fitness level is too low even to measure, her brain will not be fully functional for several of your days, and she is succumbing to shock. Treat her, hydrate her, feed her, and ship her to her family. She will be able to help Soli Anon in ways you cannot, and my most beloved story can continue on its fabulous arc. Don't expect to see me again." And H winks out.
After the tricorder had told him of Andersen's condition, McCoy heard nothing of H's speech. He disbelieves Anon, but he trusts his instrument. He bounds to the communication console and slams the call button. "McCoy to Sickbay. Send the emergency med team with a gurney to this location. Bring warming blankets and a full med kit. Stat."
He pulls out the deepest of the drawers, dumps its contents on the floor, overturns it and lifts Andersen's feet upon it. Blood to the head may keep her from passing out until the med team arrives. He has no meds with him. He ponders the personnel available for his emergency med team. Customarily he has a skeleton staff during the Academy graduation shore leave, thus he has by default assigned himself to the team. It scarcely registers that H is gone and that Anon is bent over Andersen, singing and cooing. He stands, holding Andersen's feet on the high surface, and waits for his team.
Action, not words. That is the defining characteristic of the yellow shirts. Security bursts through the door, no code needed, no permission required nor requested. They fan out, but all they see is McCoy, standing, Anon sitting cross-legged, and a long, pale female, with her head in Anon's lap and her bare legs upon an upturned drawer. No obvious threats. Still, they take their defensive positions and await orders.
Commander Victorino fills the doorway, despite his small stature. Nothing is visibly amiss, but he orders his team, "Scan for the energy signature downloaded from Engineering." Each of them attempts to do so, but no one seems able to settle on a location.
Victorino scowls at Anon. "Ensign Anon. Damn sick of problems you're a part of."
Anon ignores him, except to say, "Computer, stop recording," and he fixes his gaze on McCoy. "Got any answers, Doctor? I didn't hear about a medical emergency …" His eyes are unfocused for a moment, then zero in again on McCoy. "Now I hear it. Anything to do with the energy pulse?"
There is no love lost between the Chief Medical Officer and the Chief Security Officer, but never have their missions been so at odds. McCoy aims a scowl of his own at Victorino. The security officer blanches at being on the receiving end of a McCoy power glower.
McCoy snaps, "What energy pulse? When my med team arrives, I expect your people to stay out of their way." McCoy pulls himself up to his full stature, a good thirteen centimeters taller than Victorino, then gives it up as a bad move. Physical intimidation is neither his style nor his strength.
Victorino senses McCoy's deference, and presses his advantage. He points to Andersen's motionless figure. "Since when is an intoxicated crew member on shore leave an emergency requiring the services of the Chief Medical Officer?"
"Since when is a medical emergency the business of the Chief Security Officer?" McCoy retorts.
Anon finally lifts her head to take in the scene, revealing Andersen's face, and a yellow shirt gasps, "That's Janay. I mean Lieutenant Andersen!"
"No, it is not!" Victorino aims his phaser at Andersen, and the rest of the security team follows suit. Andersen whimpers, and Anon gathers her closer, covering Andersen's eyes with her gloved hand.
McCoy looks around the room. This is where he came in, except that now there are weapons drawn. He forces his emotions and his face into a semblance of calm before he speaks.
"Victorino, tell your team to stand down. Please. I can't explain what has happened, but this woman is in physical distress and is no danger to anyone."
Victorino responds firmly, "I believe you are uninformed, Doctor. An alien life form fits the bill of what we are looking for, and that's just what we're looking at. We're taking the creature to the brig. Please step aside. You, too, Ensign."
"No." Anon is quiet but unyielding. She bends over Andersen again.
McCoy can stand firm against a fellow senior officer, but Anon has no such power. He tries coaxing her rather than giving orders.
"Ensign. Soli. You need to move away from her. I won't allow anything to happen to her, I promise."
Anon looks at him, her face twisted in agony. "All right, Leonard. Doctor. All right. But first I'm putting some clothes on her. She is modest. She has pride. She wouldn't want to be carted away like this."
With that, Anon pulls off her nightshirt, and, skillfully keeping the blanket over the defenseless woman's chest, forces Andersen's limp arms into the sleeves, then pulls it closed across the front. She then strips off her pajama bottoms and similarly maneuvers Andersen's legs and hips into them.
"I know they're too short for you, but they'll keep you covered up till you get something that fits."
Andersen's hoarse voice can barely be heard. "Soli, honey. I appreciate your respecting my privacy. I love you for it. And I know you're totally not modest, your upbringing and all. But I think some of the other people in this room might be uncomfortable with your being naked, even if you're not."
Anon freezes and looks around wildly. Without lowering their phasers, the yellow shirts are looking away, except for Victorino, who could well erupt into flames, so red is his face. McCoy stays in place, shaking his head.
"Geezum's sakes!" Anon wails. "See, this is why everybody loves you, Janay. You always think about other people's feelings. It never even crossed my mind. I'm sorry, so sorry." She tucks the blanket around her friend again to keep her warm, and scurries across her room to grab and don her torn clothes from yesterday just as the medical team arrives.
Before Victorino can say a word, McCoy takes over.
"Bring the heat blanket over. On three, roll her onto it. One, two …" In seconds, Andersen is wrapped in the warming blanket, lifted onto the gurney, and strapped in. A hypo-spray brings life back into her eyes, although nothing can improve her pallor yet. "Get her to Sickbay. Treat her for shock. Biopsy her and run the samples through the data base. All the data bases."
As McCoy and the team roll Andersen out of the room, Victorino does the only thing he can. He turns to Anon and snarls, "You disobeyed my direct order. You're confined to quarters." He and the yellow shirts leave; after the door closes he adds, "Martinez, Ali – posts at the door." Victorino codes the door locked, and the two assigned to guard duty stand at attention in the corridor outside the room.
Victorino has one last command. "Team, this is an order. None of what happened here is to be discussed, not with the rest of the crew nor with each other. Remain alert for any similar events, and call for back-up immediately if you see anyone or anything. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Crystal."
Victorino and the rest of the security team jog down the corridor after the med team, phasers still unholstered, though no longer aimed at Andersen.
Soli, don't leave me. Talk to me. Spy on me, I don't care. Just stay with me.
Of course, Janay, my dear sister. Hey, let me tell you about our amazing nephew. Little Niels has gotten so big. And he's talking! Yes! You won't believe what happened with him and me during shore leave …