Empty Night

Chapter 2

A/N: Updated 10/18/2023

Captain Kirk looked suspicious, his head tilted to one side and his lips thinned. His eyes darted between me and Spock until Spock said, in a perfectly calm voice-like he hadn't just seen my soul laid bare, "All is well, Captain. You may proceed." He could have been commenting on the weather. What nice meteor showers we're having today.

"Alright," Kirk said. "Let's start with the basics. What is your name?"

"My name is Margaret Carpenter. My friends call me Peggy," I replied. Kirk looked at Spock, who must have indicated in some way that I was telling the truth because Kirk looked satisfied.

"Please lie to me, Peggy. Something everyone here would be able to recognize as a lie," Kirk said.

"Um... okay. Dr. McCoy is a horse," I said, the right side of my face pulling into a silly grin. Honestly, they didn't need Spock for this. I'm a terrible liar. I have more ticks than a Cuckoo clock.

"And now a lie that no one here would know better about, please," Kirk said. I cast about for the space of three heart-beats, trying to think of something. I didn't want to inadvertently give away too much personal information, but I did want to test out the subtleties of Spock's ability to tell if I was lying. Seconds ticked by and Kirk re-adjusted his crossed arms.

"I, uh, played guitar?" I said, wincing. "for Paul McCartney."

Kirk opened his mouth, but Spock unexpectedly preempted whatever the Captain was going to say with, "I detect that the first part of that statement was a lie, but that there was some truth to the second part of the statement." Thus, proving that Spock's abilities were much more nuanced than I had first guessed.

This was, apparently, not what either Dr. McCoy or Captain Kirk expected to hear because Dr. McCoy whapped Kirk on the shoulder and eyed me warily. It was a cross between is-this-person-crazy? and Am-I-crazy?

Looking confused, Kirk asked, "Who?"

I giggled nervously. "You know... from the Beatles?" Now Kirk was also wearing the same peculiar expression as Dr. McCoy, except Kirk's was tinged with a healthy dose of this-sounds-like-a-dangerous-situation. Dr. McCoy's eyebrows were slowly drawing together in a fierce scowl, which changed his whole demeanor.

"Ok, well I didn't really ever meet him, per se, I just gave him his coffee because he came into the Starbucks I was working in and I took his order, but because my friend Rebecca was too star-struck, I got his coffee too, and he didn't even really speak to me, except to say that he wanted extra foam, and then I was fired from my job anyway a week later because I kept breaking the coffee machines." Stars and stones, word vomit is the worst of my nervous tics. "You probably didn't need to know that."

"Paul McCartney of the Beatles died in 2019," Dr. McCoy said.

"Yeah, my dad was super bummed about it," I said. "This was a few years before that. I was only sixteen at the time."

In the silence that followed, I found myself looking at the nylon strap that bound my right wrist to the bed. Spock's fingers still pressed against my temple, following my head as I turned my face aside. I could tell this little Q&A wasn't going too well, and we weren't even past the control questions. A little hysterical giggle burbled forth again.

Dots were connecting in my head that were forming a very strange and impossible picture. I didn't want to believe it; not because I have trouble believing in seemingly impossible things (you don't apprentice to one of the most notorious reformed warlocks in the White Council and not come out the other side without a few mental scars-not to mention, Chichen Itza, but that's another story), but because if it were true it would mean I was about to get very angry. And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

"What's your birthday?" Kirk asked after a solid minute of silence.

"November 23, 2003," I said, unable to hide the quaver in my voice. Kirk ran a hand over his face and McCoy threw his hands in the air and stalked away from the bed.

Please remain calm, Spock thought in my mind. He pulled my attention inward and showed me memories of a shadowed room, filled with the flickering light of a fire. The deep tones of a string instrument resonated through the air. It was basically the mental equivalent of slapping hands over my eyes and ears. I felt my eyes go out of focus and was immediately suffused with annoyance that more or less replaced the rising hysteria.

Stars and stones, what is going on? I demanded.

I sensed your rising emotional distress and concluded that the information you will learn shortly will contribute to it. I deemed it 75% likely that Dr. McCoy would resort to sedation to calm you if I did not take preemptive measures, Spock thought.

What's going on? I pressed, resisting the calming effects of the mental room. None of this makes any sense-

Miss Carpenter, please calm yourself -

I'm tied down, dressed in the rags of my favorite dress,-

The lights of sickbay are flickering in time with your emotional distress-

tired, sick, and I am just about done with strangers-

and I don't believe I need to tell you how-

demanding questions of me and flipping out-

disastrous a failure of medical equipment could be.

like I've done something wrong when I answer them!

We were 'shouting' over each other, and I wasn't really listening to him until a jolt of tingling sensation tore through my brain and burned its way down my body, ending at my fingers and toes. It was disruptive enough that my thoughts actually scattered for a full five seconds. Not painful, though. Kind of thrilling.

Miss Carpenter, calm down or the other patients in sickbay will be at risk, Spock insisted. I shut up. I could feel myself breathing in short gasps.

Focus on the fire. The light is flickering. Listen to the music. The sound is deep.

I tried to do as Spock said, guilt replacing anger as quickly as anger had replaced rising panic. I had forgotten I was in a medical facility, or hadn't realized, or hadn't cared. I'm a danger to most technology on a good day, but strong emotions amplify the sphere of magical interference. I haven't been to a hospital since I was thirteen. Not when my nieces and nephews were born, not when my father had a stroke. I couldn't risk accidentally shutting down someone's life support.

I focused my attention to the visual and auditory projections Spock was mentally sending my way. They were, thankfully, very similar to my usual meditative tricks: that of a forge and a rhythmic striking of a hammer to molten steel.

I had trained for three years with Warden Luccio to take over production of the Warden's swords. Much of that time was spent training myself to enter a trance-like state in which I could suppress the dangerous elements of emotion, so that only the fire and my Will would shape the blade. Emotions are powerful tools to use when casting a spell. Evocation works well when fueled by strong emotion; even many of my own talismans come out best when I am feeling some sort of emotion while crafting-love, protectiveness, jealousy, anger, sadness, fear. You can catch sunlight in a white cloth, but only when you are truly happy. Warden swords are different. Wardens use these swords to execute rogue Wizards, called Warlocks, and they need to be able to cut through defensive magic spells. These swords cast judgment. There can be no emotional interference.

It didn't take me long to come close to my sword-crafting, trance-like state once I put my mind to it (badumsha). Since I wasn't going to be hammering any steel in the next few minutes, keeping up the rhythm of my mantra, I would likely slip out of it pretty quickly, but at least I wasn't leaking magical interference all over the technology surrounding me. Since Spock was monitoring my 'emotional distress' he was aware of when I finished.

Well done, Miss Carpenter, he thought. I have never known a human to so effectively control an emotional response.

What did you do to shock me? I asked.

It is a common technique used by Vulcans among young children who are first learning to establish emotional control, called irak-nahan svi-shaya, Spock thought.

I very nearly sent a barrage of questions and frustration at Spock, but considered for a brief moment that there might be a better way to go about getting answers.

Thank you, Spock, for your assistance. It won't be necessary any longer, I said, and pushed him out.

Immediately, my vision returned to the real world and I heard a quiet gasp from Spock. I could faintly sense the pressure of his mind trying to gain re-entry, but he removed his fingers from my face when he was not successful. Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy were once again at the foot of my bed, apparently finished with their little flip-out.

"Mr. Spock, we aren't finished," Kirk said.

"I apologize, Captain, but Miss Carpenter has limited my access to her thoughts," Spock said.

"Actually, we are finished," I countered, cutting off Kirk's alarmed exclamations. "For now," I added, when Kirk's look turned from concerned to outraged.

"And I'll tell you why," I continued. "I refuse to answer any more questions while tied to a bed like a living sacrifice. I'm half-naked, tired, hungry, thirsty, and missing several hours of time, if not more. I'll answer your questions, but I want to be fully clothed, sitting in a chair with a table between us, unrestrained, and I want a lawyer present."

"You're not really in a position to be making demands, Miss Carpenter," Kirk said dangerously.

"Am I under arrest?" I shot back.

"You are being detained for assault on a Starfleet officer and for stowing away on a Starfleet vessel," Kirk said.

"Then can I leave?" I asked, gambling that detention laws were still the same here as back home.

"What? No," Kirk snapped.

"You can't detain me indefinitely, Captain, so if I'm not allowed to leave, then you have to charge me with something and arrest me," I said.

"As a commanding officer of this vessel, I am authorized to use any means necessary to secure the safety of Starfleet personnel against any individual that may pose a threat," Kirk said. "And you are a threat, Miss Carpenter."

"Look, this is just a misunderstanding. I could barely remember my name, it was dark, you're a stranger, and I just reacted," I said, irritation creeping back into my voice. "Of course I struggled. I'm sorry if I was a little aggressive!" My hold over my emotions was slipping now that I had no way of maintaining my meditative tricks.

"My hands were covered in second-degree burns after holding your arms for less than ten seconds!" he said.

"That's probably the worst pickup line I've ever heard," I drawled, but no one in the room appreciated my wit. "What did I burn you with? You didn't find any weapons on me. What was it? Magic?" My heart pounded and my voice cracked. Thank the stars that Spock was no longer in my head because he would call my bluff easily.

"Do you know how insane this sounds?" I continued. "How could an unarmed, 23-year-old, human girl possibly pose a threat to anyone here? If you'd only wait for someone to take a look at the engine, you'll find a perfectly reasonable explanation for why it failed. Not only that, but did I look like I was capable of sabotaging a game of solitaire, much less an engine?"

"Regardless, how do you explain your presence on this ship, your lack of citizenship, and your intimate knowledge of twentieth-century Earth?" Kirk asked, and waited. I didn't have an answer for him, and I was at my limit of control.

"Until you can," he continued, "you will be held under suspicion of terrorist activities which means you have no rights as a citizen of Earth or the United Federation of Planets."

"So you're just going to keep me tied to this bed?" I asked, turning on a 'helpless woman' vibe and hoping it appealed to a sense of chivalry. "Is some food, clothes, and rest really too much to ask?" It was my turn to wait as Kirk seemed to have an internal struggle.

"Mr. Spock," Kirk finally said, "please take a security escort and bring Miss Carpenter to the brig. Make sure she receives food and adequate clothing. Report to me in briefing room one when you're finished."

"Aye, Captain," Spock said, and Kirk turned on his heel to walk across sickbay and exit the sliding doors.

I sighed and slumped into the raised back of the bed. Tension drained out of me for all of two seconds before Spock turned to a speaker device on the wall and flipped a switch.

"Commander Spock to security. Please send a two-man escort to sickbay, along with clothing for a female human, 1.8034 meters tall, 72.5748 kilograms," he said into the speaker. The speaker chirped a man's acknowledgement, followed by a high-pitched whine of feedback, and Spock returned to my bedside. Looking at Dr. McCoy, who had remained thunderously observant during my exchange with Captain Kirk, Spock asked, "Is Miss Carpenter medically cleared to leave sickbay?"

McCoy huffed and said, "Give me ten minutes to find out. All my instruments are broken, so we're doing this the old-fashioned way." He walked away and disappeared through a door on the opposite end of sickbay.

There wasn't much to do in the minutes that followed. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, but was reluctant to let my guard down while Spock was still standing guard over me. I opened my eyes and met his, which had been studying me.

Spock, I thought, and his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He didn't respond, but tilted his head to the side. He stepped closer and was about to place his hand on my face in the same pattern as before when Dr. McCoy returned with a black leather bag. Spock stepped away and clasped his hands behind his back.

Grumbling to himself, Dr. McCoy withdrew a stethoscope from the bag, along with a plastic case that held a needle and syringe, a tourniquet, iodine, and cotton swabs. He also withdrew a blood-pressure cuff, a rubber hammer, a small flash-light, several long cotton swabs, specimen tubes, and purple non-latex gloves. He pulled the gloves on his hands and arranged the equipment from the bag on a metal tray that stood next to the bed.

"Are you going to buy me a drink first?" I asked wryly

Dr. McCoy chuckled, the left corner of his mouth pulling up in a grin. "Darlin', you got some sass," he said. "Open up."

What followed was a pretty standard physical, as much as he could do while I was strapped to the bed. He poked and prodded me, asked me to let him know if anything hurt, swabbed my cheek, and drew some blood. I flinched away from the needle, but Dr. McCoy threatened to have Spock hold me down if I didn't let him draw blood.

It's not that I'm afraid of needles; it's just that you can do some very nasty things to a person if you have some of their blood. It's just generally a good idea to not let it leave your body-and if it does, keep close tabs on it.

Finally, he declared, "Alright, Spock, she's good to go. Just don't let her strain herself. Her blood pressure is a little low. I still have to run tests on her blood samples so let security know I'll be stopping by later for a follow-up."

"A second date, Doctor? You're too good to me," I drawled, imitating his southern accent.

Spock nodded and beckoned to the two men in red shirts standing at attention at the foot of my bed. They had arrived during the physical. One man was short and Latino. He was well-muscled, lean, and tanned a golden brown. His black, shiny hair was styled into spiky points and black tribal tattoos framed his left eyebrow. He had smiled at me, flashing his white teeth, when he arrived. Guard number two had a huge nose, brown hair, and a dark goatee that stood out starkly against his very pale face. He was much taller than Guard number one and his prominent adams apple bobbed every time he swallowed.

As Dr. McCoy packed up his "old fashioned" equipment the guards approached with a stack of cloth I hoped was my change of clothes and some super fancy space handcuffs. Slowly, so I wouldn't startle anyone, I pulled my hands and feet out of the bed restraints and sat up. Spock's eyebrow rose because he knew that no one had flipped the switch that would release the straps securing me to the bed, but the red shirts didn't know that. Guard number one handed me the stack of clothes and led me to a small bathroom I could use to change.

I quickly tossed the sad remains of my favorite summer dress on the floor and pulled on a rather ugly gray pair of pants and a shirt. The pants were too short and showed about two inches of ankle. The gray shirt was similarly too short for my long arms, and the shoulders were too tight, though the body and sleeves billowed around me. I slipped on a pair of black cloth loafers that were too big and rubbed against my heel as I walked.

I took advantage of my temporary privacy to use the toilet, splash some water on my face, and gulp down a few hand-fulls of water. There was a mirror above the small sink and a glance at my reflection had me wincing. I had dark purple bruises on the left side of my face. Someone had sucker-punched me on the nose and my eyes were raccoon'd. The remains of dried blood still clung to my upper lip, despite the rinse. I had a scab on my lower lip, and yellowing bruises on my neck.

I quickly shut the gibbering, angry rage that bubbled up upon seeing my abused features behind a mental door and left the bathroom. Guard number one hand-cuffed my hands behind my back. Guard number two led the way out of the medical facility, with Guard number one following me and Spock bringing up the rear.

The sliding doors to the medical facility gave a nasty squeal as they tried to open for us-they didn't quite make it. Dazed, tired, and wishing I could just curl up and disappear, I was led on a short walk down a blindingly white and brightly-lit corridor. We passed many other closed sliding doors, labeled with numbers prefixed with a "G-".

Along the way, we passed humans and several beings that were unlike any human or fey I had ever encountered. Judging by blue or green skin tones, strange ridges on noses and foreheads, huge eyes, and/or extra appendages, I guessed that these beings were probably not found on earth. Unless there was some kind of nuclear disaster while I-

I cut myself off before I had the chance to think things that would bust my flimsy mental door down.

Everyone we passed stepped aside and saluted Spock. Many were dressed in the red, blue, or gold uniforms I had seen before, but others were wearing varying styles of civilian clothing. We passed by so quickly that they had little chance to do more than glance at me, but I could see their eyes (when they had eyes) sweep over my face, bound hands, and escort.

The march ended in a large white room with shiny black flooring and black accents. Two control stations, sleek and curved, with red chairs, faced the opposite wall. Directly across from the entrance was a recessed chamber that was brightly lit by fluorescent lights. The large archway opened to a sparse, pod-like room with two benches on the right and left sides. The guards led me past this pod-room and down a corridor to the left, which had eight black doors evenly spaced, with four on either side.

These doors seemed to be large, heavy, and of a more simple mechanical design. They did not slide open as we approached. Guard number two unlocked the door with a simple four-digit pass code, and then hauled on the door handle to slide the heavy slab open. Guard number one un-cuffed my hands and I was thrust into a very small room with a bench barely long enough to lay down on, four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. The door closed behind me with a clang and the chunk-chunk of heavy deadbolt locks sliding into place. Spock may have said something about returning with more information, but I was in no condition to remember. I was barely keeping it together.

Focus, I told myself. Task number one: figure out a way to avoid a major technical malfunction before you kill life-support or something. Then you can freak out all you want.

Right. Ok. I needed to create a magic circle around me. The nice thing about magic circles is that they're pretty easy to construct, take very little effort, and are extremely effective at keeping magic in... or out. You can use them in all sorts of ways: trapping small faeries; summoning demons and stronger fey creatures; blocking out ambient magic when gathering power to cast a spell; and even protecting against a redcap out for blood. That last one is another one of Molly's homicide attempts, but that's another story.

If I were to surround myself in a magic circle, I could be confident that my magic would be confined to the boundaries of that circle. Once released, it would dissipate, and probably not cause the oxygen tanks to spontaneously combust. I hoped. In any case, it's better to play it safe.

Looking around the small cell, it at first seemed like there was nothing but the bench, air, and myself within the four walls. When I sat on the bench, I happened to curl my fingers around the lip and felt a latch that popped open a section of bench next to me. Lifting the lid, I found myself looking at what could only be the latrine, complete with a little toilet tissue dispenser built into the underside of the lid. I closed the compartment and decided to explore.

There were two other hidden compartments that made up the remainder of the bench. One held pillows and blankets, which I pulled out and threw on the floor for use later. The other had what looked like a few MREs, a bottle of water, and a change of clothes. Unless I wanted to break open an MRE and spread barely edible food around like some kind of savage, I had very little material to work with for creating a circle.

I took off a shoe and examined the sole. If I had any luck, they would be made of cheap rubber that would leave marks. I dug a fingernail into the spongey, black underside. It seemed promising. I put the heel of the shoe, the thickest part of the sole, to the bench and dragged it for six inches. It got a little streak of black near the end. A wave of relief so strong it was pathetic crashed over me and I nearly burst into tears. At least one thing was going the way I wanted.

I spent about half an hour dragging my shoe in a circle on the floor. The rubber was stubborn and didn't want to be worn away, and it was difficult to arrange the streaks so that there were no breaks in the circle. When I finished, I touched a finger to the edge of the circle, closed my eyes, and sent a little nudge of Will to close it. There was a sensation of my ears popping, as if the cabin pressure sharply rose, and I let out a sigh.

I half expected to break into tears, scream, rage, or do something violent, but I just sat there, leaning back against my heels and clutching a pillow in my lap. I was exhausted, but my mind was racing in circles, trying to make sense of the past few hours.

Everything could be an elaborate reuse, but I didn't think so. There were too many people involved, it was too elaborate, and I would have seen the intent to deceive when I soul gazed with Spock. I could be in a mental institution with a bunch of crazy people that thought they were on a spaceship. But that wasn't right either. It was improbable that so many people would be under the same delusion, and, again, I would have seen a mental instability in Spock when we soul gazed.

If I stopped fooling myself, I would have to admit that somehow, I woke up in space and was, apparently, in the future. I was on board one giant piece of super-advanced technology, filled with lots of other super-advanced technology. Stars and Stones... I was a walking time bomb.

How did I get here? Why was I here? And, Hell's Bells, why was I always getting abducted? This had to be the third time! And the most annoying part was, the part that infuriated me, made me absolutely boiling, balls-kicking mad, was that it was never about me. I was never abducted because of my own merits. The first time I was abducted was to coerce Harry Dresden into losing a war, the second time I was abducted, it was to blackmail Molly into handing something from the Never Never over to the Fomor.

A little absurdly, I kind of wished that I would get abducted because someone wanted to force me to enchant some kind of doomsday device, or convert me to their wicked cause, or sell my death on the internet.

Instead, I am reduced to a plot point in someone else's story.

Well, whoever those motherfuckers were, they didn't seem to be around.

No one was around.

So, having exhausted my options for the moment, I set the pillow on the floor, careful not to let it cross the border and break the circle, curled myself into a tight little ball, and fell asleep on the cold, hard, metal floor of the prison cell.