They made two detours: one to med bay to fetch Dr. McCoy, and one to Jim's quarters for the box. As soon as McCoy saw it he rolled his eyes and gave them both an irritated look, but otherwise said nothing. Within a few minutes they were in the biotechnology laboratory with the box sitting on a lab bench in front of Professor Kevin Riley.
The professor was a tall, lean man, with black skin and thick strands of wiry, black hair held back in a simple queue that just reached his shoulders. Despite being the same age as the captain, he was considered one of the foremost researchers in his field, and of all of them he had the most experience studying Praxidi technology.
"Are you sure about this?" Dr. Riley's eyes searched the captain's face, maybe for some kind of tell.
For a moment, Jim stared at the box, and Spock thought he was going to say no. Then he gave his head a shake and his eyes met Dr. Riley's. "Yes."
Dr. Riley seemed unconvinced. He asked McCoy, "Is there any reason we shouldn't as far as you can see?" and extended the question to Spock with a glance.
McCoy was much calmer than Spock had expected him to be. It was possible Jim had spoken to him at some point between when he'd received the gift to now; it would certainly explain the glaring absence of any strong objections from him. "Well, I still think he should throw the damned thing away and not return any calls from these guys ever again." His tone was sharp, though not outright hostile. "But physically, he's as healthy as he's ever been, and he'd be here, where I can keep a close eye on him and intervene when I need to, with you all to back me up. That's a big improvement over last time, let me tell you."
Thanks flickered in Jim's eyes, brief but intense, and McCoy grunted and folded his arms. They all looked at Spock, now.
Spock thought over the box's contents and their potential for success or disaster. "Although it is uncertain that the device can decode the signal, the possibility is worth investigating. At the very least, the captain may be able to tell us if the Praxidi are already en route, and if so, how soon we can expect them." When he looked at the captain, he saw that same thanks directed at him.
Dr. Riley ran a hand over his hair in what Spock knew was a nervous gesture. "Alright. At least it's not an entire ship this time." With a last look at all of them, he let out a heavy breath and opened the box.
Inside was a a neck piece, the sort meant to lie flat along the body, made of woven metal links the same copper and blue-black colors as the box itself. It was reversed from the usual style: the front was a simple band no more than an inch wide which would lie along the ridge of the clavicle, while the back was an oval that rose along the neck like a narrow shirt collar and dropped a good four inches to cover a portion of the spinal ridge. The only irregularities in the complex pattern formed by the different colors were two flat, black disks the size of a thumbnail, one on each side of the band in line with the shoulder.
"I'm guessing one of these is for power," Dr. Riley said, peering at them. "Not sure what the other would do."
"Probably for syncing up to a ship's communications array. It's not going to be able to broadcast and receive on its own."
"Right," Kevin said. He gestured at one of the exam tables. "Have a seat, then."
Jim sat on the table, slipping out of his tunic and undershirt as he did so. McCoy took them, commenting, "You know if you put it on over these, it'll be easier to take it off."
"You mean it'll be easier for you to take it off when you want to?"
"When I need to."
Spock moved to assist the professor with the neck piece. After some consideration, they determined how to unhook it (the seam was at the front and difficult to see), then carefully laid it in place. As with the suits they'd handled previously, the metal wasn't cold, and Jim took deep and even breaths as Dr. Riley smoothed it down and McCoy scanned him with a tricorder. When he was satisfied, Dr. Riley straightened and moved to Jim's left.
"Alright. Ready?"
"Yeah."
He reached over and tapped one of the small black disks. When nothing happened, he tried the other. Spock thought he heard the barest flicker of sound, like tiny pieces of metal in motion, and the captain's jaw clenched. McCoy's tricorder chirped.
"You okay?" His brows gathered dangerously as he looked up from the readings.
"Yeah." Jim made a visible effort to relax, then reached for his undershirt. "Okay. It's hooked up."
Spock watched McCoy, who was scowling at his tablet. His expression eased and he admitted, "His vitals are fine."
Jim slipped back into his undershirt; as he moved, it was apparent the entire neck piece was anchored and in no danger of shifting or coming loose. McCoy offloaded his tricorder's results to Dr. Riley's wall display, and a graphic showing the device's filament placement drew in. There were over two hundred anchor points, including a dozen in the front that went in at the shoulders.
"Well. No danger of me just deciding to yank it off," McCoy muttered. Jim, who had stood from the table and was now behind McCoy, rolled his eyes. Spock joined Dr. Riley in examining the display more closely.
"These look even thinner than the last set. I wonder if the material's the same." Dr. Riley looked back over his shoulder at Jim. "I don't suppose you could get another one of these from them? Maybe, tell them you lost this one, something like that?"
Jim gave Dr. Riley an exasperated look, and the professor held up a hand to ward off any rebukes. "Sorry, just checking."
Spock left off his examination of the device's connections. "I would recommend we attempt to decode the signal from here, where Drs. Riley and McCoy will have access to any necessary equipment."
Jim nodded in agreement. "Kirk to Lieutenant Uhura."
"Uhura here, sir."
"You're going to see a new connection on the communications network in a second. I need you to patch it into the subspace array with my access level."
"Yes sir."
Jim's eyes focused on some distant point. "Okay. It's syncing up with the array." He squinted. "I think it's running a diagnostic."
McCoy grunted and went back to his tablet. "Well, at least it's thorough."
Dr. Riley took the opportunity to resume studying McCoy's readings, and the two began to discuss them. Spock moved to stand next to the captain.
"It is not otherwise uncomfortable?" he asked. Jim shook his head.
"No, aside from having to keep track of what it's doing, it's like it's not even there." Jim winced at something. "Okay, that was a little loud. Need to change that setting."
"Are you experiencing the device's output as sound?"
"Ah, no, it's all," Jim tapped at one temple, "but it-felt loud."
Spock wondered how much like his telepathy the device was, and made a mental note to examine the filament anchors more closely during his next shift. McCoy and Riley's low-voiced conversation was the only sound for another few minutes until Jim said, "There. Kirk to Uhura."
"Yes, Captain."
"Patch in the distress signal."
"Patching it in now, sir."
Jim took a deep breath and let it out. "Here we go," he said, briefly meeting Spock's eyes before his gaze shifted out across the room and his features stilled.
Jim listened for the distress signal in the way he remembered listening to the Pilot of the Shadow Upon the Sand. There was a technique to it that he didn't know very well; he'd only ever heard one Pilot, after all, and that one had reached out to him first. For a moment there was nothing on the channel but himself, and he thought they'd been wrong and the device wasn't going to work, either due to his own lack of practice or a simple incompatibility somewhere along the line.
Then a tidal wave of information and emotion and thought slammed into him and swallowed him whole.
Vertigo overwhelmed him, and he staggered back into something hard. The impact seemed to jar him out of his own body, and Spock said his name from what felt like a million miles away.
Do you see?
The cry echoed around him. The distress signal was different than the connection with the Pilot had been, more powerful and direct and far less concerned with whether or not he could handle it. It was dragging him under and drowning him in fear and rage and hopelessness and pain, excruciating pain that went on and on-
Something grabbed hold of him, now two somethings, now several, and they hauled him out of the suffocating nightmare to the surface. The current was still strong, but with their help he found he could at least keep his head above the turbulent waters. Their concern was like delicate fingers on his face, and he realized they were all Praxidi Pilots.
He assured them he was alright, thanks to them, and wondered how they'd heard him and where they were, but his questions were lost in the maelstrom raging around them. They kept a tight grip on him, because this was not a signal designed for use with something so simple as the neck piece; it was almost difficult to handle with the ships, though a dozen of them (a dozen, could there be that many of them so close?) distributing the load made it manageable.
They drifted in the wild ocean like a loose flotilla of survivors. All around them the voice cried out.
Do you see?
The device twinged in some way that made him wince, and the tone of the signal changed; it was pleading now. Imagery washed over them, and they stared in horror and shock at the sights. A prison loomed in their minds-no, nothing that simple; there were instruments and computers and machinery and containers and chemical and samples. A laboratory, and the distress call was the voice of the experimental subjects, crying out for help. The researchers were relentless; they didn't seem to even notice the subjects' cries, didn't evidence a single bit of remorse for their suffering. All they cared about was the knowledge they sought, some long-buried secret, and the subjects were the key to finding it. They did horrible things, and the subjects were powerless to stop it.
Do you see?
The Pilots cried out, furious, and his voice was among them. They told them that they could see and hear it all.
Help us. The subjects had spent hundreds of years devising and securing a way to contact someone, anyone, outside, and finally, someone had heard them. They were all going to die if the Pilots didn't do something.
They told them they would help, that they would find a way. The subjects' insistence intensified, and the Pilots struggled to keep their connection intact as it dragged them all down.
Help us.
The Pilots promised to to bring help. The voices of every Pilot from the beginning of the First Unconverted until now echoed within that promise like a choir.
He could feel himself being torn away from the Pilots' connection. The choir became a roaring surf that became thunder, and that became his own heartbeat in his ears.
Help us. Help us. Hel-
