I wanted to step in here and say thanks to everybody reading, be it this or Parallax', which is underway at the moment as well. I don't know that I could ever push myself so hard to write regularly and to the best of my ability without the reviews and support. Thanks!

DO VULCANS DREAM OF LOGICAL SHEEP?

Thin rays of colorless sun pierced the dispersing clouds, viscous membranes containing purplish, bloated leftovers of the rain. The light caught in the pools left around the central plaza, and the fresh, new-washed scent of watered vegetation rose from the ground amid the cultivated trees and lawns. The storm broke as the day did, light chasing back cloud and shadow.

Reed had waked in the earliest threads of dawn, his head feeling dense and swollen, and his ears ringing with the drill of phantom raindrops. It was little surprise to him that he woke back in his assigned quarters, in the bunk he had not previously had occasion to use, and alone. Vulcans were not known for their sentimentality, and the captain, he presumed, had been called away to finalize details of this . . . favor. He found the dimness and quiet in the room to be almost sacred; a revelation on waking, discovering that what had felt so real had not been anything more than a manifestation of his own mind.

But it hadn't felt like that. No, it hadn't.

He went out into the early morning sunshine, cold light that would warm as the institute awoke, and sat on the brightest area of grass, scorning the straight-backed benches the Vulcans had thought to inflict on the place. His headache was no better, but the clearing sky and empty plaza had not been intended to kill his headache. It was his own wandering memories, suddenly stirred like disturbed attic dust, that he wanted to kill. Burying them, each one, had been no easy task the first time . . . and he knew that, if he had taken such effort back then to forget them, then they were better left forgotten.

The allergies weren't his fault, something Reed knew now . . . but back then . . . back then, when his father scoffed and proclaimed the doctor a soft-soaping scare-mongering quack, the impressionable six-year-old Malcolm had believed him. All the doctor was doing, according to the Gospel of Stuart Reed, was encouraging a healthy boy to make medical excuses for failure.

His mother had nevertheless made an effort to secure the pills and the carefully monitored diet her son needed, and the incident had almost been buried with the rest . . . until now.

There is perfectly adequate seating provided in the plaza, Lieutenant, came a sultry, straitlaced voice behind him. He turned to see T'Pol, her downturned head framed with a halo of soft white sun-haze. The light was misty around them this early in the day.

I just felt the urge to sit on the grass, Subcommander, he replied, faintly amused at her inability to understand the whim.

As I see. And you find that sullying your clothing with earth and grass stains more restful than remaining clean and maintaining good posture on ergonomically-designed furnishing?

Reed smiled, whimsically. Care to join me? It's a splendid morning.

I fail to see the logic behind sitting where it would better suit a dog to sit.

You don't know what you're missing till you try it. Reed's voice stalled, his attention leaving the brightly arrayed sight of T'Pol and wandering away into the trees nearby. It's a throwback to childhood for us humans, I guess.

T'Pol regarded him crisply a moment, the considerations passing over her flawlessly set face like the shadows of the drifting clouds. He saw her chest heave, as if drawing breath on a decision reached, and then, primly, she sat cross-legged on the grass with him.

The dew does present a problem, she declared, settling herself so as little of her body as possible was in direct contact with the ground, but it is an acceptable detraction.

Glad to hear it.

Birdsong filled the silence with musical chatter as T'Pol manoeuvred her way into a position in which she felt comfortable. Then she spoke again. The captain has asked me to . . . keep an eye on you, for the duration of this mission. He felt that until the risk of side effects could be settled you should not be left alone longer than need be.

Well, that's very kind of him, I'm sure, Reed replied, but why did he choose you? Forgive me but you hardly strike me as the baby-sitting type.

He feared you may become irrational or else succumb to a very sudden change of some kind, T'Pol obliged. He rightly concluded that an unemotional chaperone would be the wisest choice.

Reed twitched. Well, don't spare my feelings, T'Pol, tell me what you really think. It's nice to know the captain has total confidence in these little . . . whatever they are.



Nanobots. Of course. The silence returned, and what had been a pleasant and seeping hush in his own company was now stilted and self-conscious in T'Pol's.

Is the captain collecting those star charts? he asked, for the sake of keeping the flow of words alive than for the question itself.

I believe the agreement is that the charts be provided upon delivery of the data. She seemed uncomfortable relaying this information, and she was right to be.

I'll bet the captain loved that, Reed muttered. Can't say I'm too thrilled myself.

They considered it a necessary precaution.

Oh. And do you?

T'Pol gave him a frosty look, softened only minimally by the pale gold of the misty sunrise. I have greater experience in dealing with humans. I therefore can rely on that experience rather than to strict security measures.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

T'Pol ignored the dig. If it is any consolation, I consider their choice of crewmember to be the correct one, she said, a little more softly.

Reed returned her glance with surprise. Then I suppose I can assume this procedure's fairly safe. Or else they would have used somebody more expendable. He was only half joking.

T'Pol maintained her direct, cool stare, and said nothing. The silence behind the birdsong seeped back in.

he ventured, at last.

Yes, Mr. Reed?

Do Vulcans dream?

The mobile Vulcan eyebrows inclined themselves upwards, almost imperceptibly. Dreaming is a necessary brain function in which the events of the day are reviewed and catalogued, she replied. Of course we dream. But we Vulcans do not place the same importance on the nature of those dreams as humans do.

Reed nodded, a little disappointed with the answer, hardly knowing what else he had expected. But do you . . . do you ever come across repressed memories in a dream? Something you'd entirely forgotten about?

T'Pol tilted her head, considering his poorly veiled eagerness uncomfortably hard. Why do you ask, Lieutenant? Is there a specific incident you have in mind?'

Her effortless deductions cut him to the quick. There was no being subtle with a Vulcan. She had understood, perhaps better than a human could ever hope to, that it was no idle speculation.

In the lab, I . . . when I was under the anaesthetic I had a dream. Only it felt more like those holograms Commander Tucker's always talking about. He waited for her to forward any questions she might have, but when she met him with silence, he continued regardless. I knew I was dreaming, and it was sort of familiar, but . . . well, I lived out a repressed memory from when I was six years old.

T'Pol nodded, her concession to gentle encouragement. What was this memory? Does it have any bearing on our current mission?

Once again, she's there before me, he thought . . . but did not say. I have no idea. I mean, it's funny I should be getting these memories back now, but I can't see the connection.

Perhaps if you relate the incident in question I could be of more assistance.

Reed laughed weakly, a half-vocalized breath that was closer to a sigh. I knew that was coming. All right. But you have to promise it won't go any further. It's nobody's business but mine.

You have my assurance that it will remain between us, she replied.

He took a deep breath, and told her.