THINK OF THE STARS

T'Pol paid careful attention to the information, nodding at appropriate intervals, and never interrupting his chain of thought. The lieutenant's reticence concerning personal details would be an admirable quality in a Vulcan, but among humans she had discovered that such caution was frowned upon, and brought about more of their uncomfortable fidgeting. In some ways, he was as much an outsider as she.

Lieutenant Reed fell silent as his story trailed off into nothing, ending with the disappearance of the mysterious stranger in the dark coat. He didn't ask her for an opinion or beg reassurance, but waited for her to comment.

Are you certain this event even happened? Dreams can be . . . convincing.

I'm sure, Subcommander. I wouldn't be mistaken about something like this.

Perhaps not in ordinary circumstances, T'Pol thought, but kept it diplomatically to herself. The captain had warned her against alarming him unnecessarily concerning side effects and the like.

Then perhaps you should attempt to recover further memories concerning this she said instead.

And how do you suggest I do that?

She detected his skepticism—a trait particularly noticeable in Mr. Reed—but ignored the challenge inherent in it. I have always found meditation to be a useful aid. She glanced sidelong at the lieutenant, noting the ripple in his cheek that signified some internal frustration. Perhaps not, she added, under her breath.

She watched him silently a moment, noting the tight set of his mouth and jaw and the deliberate avoidance of her gaze. The rising sun cast shadows into the lines and hollows of his face, pooling in bruised rings under his eyes. He looked, for all his hours unconscious, far from rested.

I may be able to be of assistance, she said, at last. Consciously she dropped her voice to a murmur, mirroring the hush of the plaza, echoing the gravity of the offer she made. It was not something she would often venture, something the Vulcan people were uncomfortable discussing with humans, and which remained, for T'Pol, a deeply personal matter. But if she had learned one useful recommendation for integrating herself more fully with humans, it was to emulate their basic need to share'. But it requires contact.

What kind of contact? he asked suspiciously, eyeing her with that same, reserved skepticism.

If you would . . . allow me. T'Pol slowly, cautiously, reached across the space between them, fingers extended, and lifted his lax hand from his knee. He tensed, his gaze following her movements until her intentions became clear, and finally he permitted her to take his hand. What are you . . ? he began, but she hushed him with a slight shake of her head.

Trust me. It is a technique to aid concentration and focus which Vulcans have practiced since we first began to embrace pure logic. It will enable me to guide you in retrieving this lost memory.

Practiced? You mean you're not very good at it yet? he tried to joke, but it sounded somewhat peevish to T'Pol—an attempt to disguise his reservations.

I am merely an intermediate compared to many of the Vulcan High Command, but I am accomplished. You have no cause for concern.

That's easy for you to say.

T'Pol hushed him again, inclining her head in a warning, passive nod. Her eyes caught Reed's and held them, drilling, direct, a lancing intent from one to the other. His hand went utterly still in hers.

she trilled, softly. Do you remember the events that led to the incident in question?

he admitted, reluctant to give even this much of himself away.

Close your eyes, she directed. He stared at her. Ensign Sato did not appear so reluctant to comply with my guidance, T'Pol observed pointedly.

There was only the briefest moment of consideration before he obeyed, and did so silently. T'Pol congratulated herself—it was common, she had ascertained, for human males to become intimidated by the successes of the females. Their competitive spirit was rarely more apparent.

Am I supposed to be chanting or something? Maybe wave a pungent candle about? Reed prevaricated again.

Neither did Ensign Sato feel the need to make inappropriate jokes to lessen her embarrassment.

Lieutenant Reed said nothing; but he straightened his back a little, set his teeth, and waited. T'Pol did not expect an apology.

Now. Think of the scene as it was; where were you?

The park.

And had you been in the park for long?

He shook his head infinitesimally, and the palm her fingertips carefully pressed began to sweat lightly.

Had you come directly from home?

Mr. Reed's chest had stilled, breathless and expectant, his spine rigid as he sat, caught between waking and sleeping.

she commanded softly, and think of the stars. Had you come from home?

I don't . . .

But before he could profess amnesia, be it true or feigned, Mr. Reed ceased to be sitting in front of her. The plaza, and the grass, vanished. T'Pol found herself somewhere quite different.

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T'Pol looked about her at the place she had been brought to, the first instant of surprise quickly put aside. It was a house, human by design, utilitarian in style and personality. The decor was plain, serviceable, unfussed—surroundings any Vulcan would approve of, and which, if her experience stood her in good stead to draw such conclusions, were far from acceptable to most humans' way of thinking. This room was evidently a dining area; there was a table set in preparation for a meal, four places made ready. Through an open doorway to her left T'Pol's sensitive nose detected the over-rich scents of a typical human evening meal. She blinked at the unmistakable odor of cooked meat, and turned aside from the entryway to the kitchen hastily.

From behind her came the sound of a small girl's giggle, and T'Pol turned to see a blonde female child of indeterminate age come crashing through the opposing doorway—from a living area, presumably. Behind the girl, no less quickly but with greater control of his vocal cords, came a dark haired, somber-faced little boy. The serious features, recognizable for all the years of hard work stripped from them in this place, were creasing intermittently into a strangled gulp of laughter. Admirably, the boy lieutenant contained it.

Will you two be quiet! a stentorian voice bellowed from the doorway, and a man, his grim, granite face set into a thin-lipped mask, entered the room. Already a theory was forming in T'Pol's mind . . . the surroundings, the children, all pointed to the same impossible conclusion. Neither the girl nor the man gave any sign of having seen her; but she saw the boy's eyes flicker, for a moment too fleeting to grasp as anything more than coincidence, to the space she occupied in what was clearly, inconceivably, his memory. He dismissed whatever doubt had swept over him barely a second later.

Leave them be, honey, came a woman's voice from the kitchen area. They're only playing.

They're undisciplined little monsters, that's what they are, the man replied.

The boy and girl stopped, abruptly. The girl's face was only embarrassed, the giggling prudently halted; but the boy's face was downturned, paled, a certain sign of fear in any human. If she had any doubt as to the identities of this family before now—and she had few, seeing a resemblance between boy and man that undeniably confirmed it—she now knew unequivocally that this man was Mr. Reed's father. The girl was his sister. And the voice she had heard belonged to his mother.

The woman now appeared from the kitchen area, carrying a lidded platter in both hands. The scent of roasted animal carcass intensified, and T'Pol blinked again, startled. Mr. Reed certainly had a vivid memory. For it was his memory, of that she was now certain. She did not know how she had come to be here, or why, but here she was. In his mind. The realization brought with it associations she would have chosen to leave in the past; associations of Tolaris, and an experience better left forgotten.

Malcolm, honey, I left your pills in the kitchen. Would you fetch them for me? They're on the counter.

The boy obeyed silently. T'Pol could not help but raise an eyebrow. Somehow she had not expected that of Mr. Reed, even a junior version.

I told you not to encourage him, the senior Reed said cuttingly, taking his place at the table. The little girl did likewise, clambering in an ungainly manner into a chair too high for her short stature. That quack's got a lot to answer for, filling his head with the idea that he's special. All it's doing it giving him the perfect excuse to fail.

The doctor was quite explicit, Mrs. Reed said, nervously. Malcolm is definitely allergic to a number of tropical grasses and oak pollens. Not to mention dust mites. We wouldn't want to make him ill, would we? He'll be of no use to anybody like that.

At that moment, the young Malcolm returned from the kitchen, carrying a small plastic pill bottle, and set it on the table. Malcolm placed it carefully beside his knife and took his seat, with somewhat more agility than his sister. It was the quick, supple quality that would make him a fine security officer, one day.

Leave them, Malcolm, his father bit, his glare alighting first on the boy, then on the mother, then back to the boy again. You don't need those. They're nothing more than expensive chalk, everybody knows that. Take that — He indicated the bottle Malcolm had retrieved with a wave of his hand, — back into the kitchen.

Malcolm hesitated, glancing between both his parents for confirmation. T'Pol could see, better than the child could, that he would get no such agreement between the two.

But Dad . . . T'Pol turned to the voice with renewed intrigue. It was the first time the young Reed had spoken, and his voice trembled a little, as if he knew it would not be well received. I don't want one of those asthma attacks again. It was really bad.

You'll do as I tell you, his father stated flatly, inarguably. T'Pol felt her aversion to humans, something which had faded in her time on the Enterprise, begin to swell again. It was men like this that had convinced the Vulcan High Command to be cautious in their dealings with them in the first place.

The boy jumped, and climbed out of his seat again, taking the bottle with him. T'Pol was drawn to his face as he did so; paler than before, graver, eyes turned down still. She had some experience, perhaps more than any Vulcan, of human facial expressions; this one was sad, and afraid.

She followed the boy as he carried the bottle to the kitchen and pushed it back onto the counter. She expected him to return to the dining area, but he did not. Instead, he took one long, wavering look at the open back door, glanced once over his shoulder, and bolted.

T'Pol followed him.

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She watched the events in the garden with the same keen interest; the stars, the apples, the heavy fragrance, were all as he had described to her. The man came, bringing his fizzy scent of confection and carbonated beverages. The conversation, the dark, swaddled shape—it all took place as he had repeated to her. She watched, she breathed, she listened; but she could make no more of the events than Lieutenant Reed himself had been able to.

Then, seamlessly, restfully, they woke up.

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Lieutenant Reed opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the honeyed light after so much moonlit night. T'Pol remained silent.

What just happened? I . . . I seemed to have nodded off there, for a moment, he said.

That was not my intention, she replied.

And what was your intention?

T'Pol met his cool blue stare, noting the flinching, anxious quality to it, and made a swift decision. A logical decision.

Merely to encourage your own memories to return, she said. Clearly, we failed.