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“Wake up, sleepy.”
C’Mal sat down on the side of the bed, looking at Sovak T’Lon, her former commanding officer. She brushed Sovak’s long orange hair out of her face with the splayed digits of her paw.
“I think you’d sleep all day if I let you.”
Sovak wasn’t talking this morning, and she looked exhausted. C’Mal hoisted her friend out of bed and began the usual routine: cleaning her up, bathroom time, dressing her. Then, wheeling her in for breakfast. Sovak’s mobile chair responded using the same principle as the universal translator, but C’Mal found it faster just to push her from room to room.
She made Sovak a grain bowl for breakfast, and watched as Sovak struggled to manipulate the spoon into the bowl, then up to her mouth. Simple things were getting harder and harder to accomplish as Sovak became weaker and weaker. As the months past, Sovak became less interested in moving and less able to help herself.
It had been almost a year since the accident.
The Ferasain sometimes tried to remember the vital, manic energy that used to be typical of Sovak back in the old days, when they served together aboard the U.S.S. Churchill. Funny, she thought, how memories can be crowded aside by everyday reality.
C’Mal absently rubbed her arms and back. Everything ached from lifting and manipulating Sovak.
“I hope they get Basil fixed soon,” she said, arching her entire body and stretching. “Let me tell you, felinid backs were not meant for lifting.”
Basil was the assistance robot that usually did the lifting and daily physical therapy. It allowed C’Mal to get out of the house to shop and so on when she needed to. But apparently lifting and moving Sovak was as rough on Basil as it was on C’Mal—the bot had been in the repair shop for weeks.
“Sovak, today is therapy day,” C’Mal noted. She opened the door and windows of her apartment to warm the place up, to accommodate the Ferasain physical therapist. Every night she closed the place back up and ran a cooling unit to seal out the wet tropical heat of Tamta Province in order to make Sovak comfortable as she slept. C'Mal, of course, found the heat and moisture invigorating, but anymore it left the Vulcan gasping and florid.
When she returned to the table, she saw that tears were running down Sovak’s cheeks.
In the early days, when they had so much hope for Sovak’s treatments and recovery, Sovak would collapse and cry like a child, desperate for progress but unable to push forward. Now that hope had waned and reality had set in, all that were left were silent tears tracing her face.
Sovak’s second-in-command aboard the Churchill, Danise Simonson, had once proclaimed that she had never seen a Vulcan or Romulan cry as much as Sovak T’Lon. When recounting to C'Mal the scene of bawling that had accompanied Sovak’s Pon Farr-like breakdown on one mission, Simonson commented dryly that Sovak T’Lon was the Lucy Ricardo of Vulcans. C’Mal, an aficionado of old Earth culture, had laughed her ass off at this.
“Hey,” C’Mal said. “Why you crying, girl?”
“No therapy today, please,” Sovak begged. “I just can’t do it.”
After some back and forth, C’Mal gave in and told Sovak they would go to the park together.
The elevated paths near their building, which itself was integrated into a group of giant trees, let C’Mal wheel Sovak along the periphery of the city, overlooking a steep embankment that graduated into a forrest, with a mountain range beyond. She parked Sovak in some shade and crouched behind her chair, placing her chin on Sovak’s shoulder.
“I don’t think I’m getting better,” said Sovak out of the blue.
This had been obvious for some months. C’Mal felt crestfallen that Sovak would say this now, after all this time. Had she maintained hope for so long?
C’Mal pulled Sovak’s unruly hair behind her pointed ears and kissed her on the forehead.
“You can take me back to Earth,” whispered Sovak.
“Why would I do that?”
After a very long silence, again tears traced silent tracks across Sovak’s face.
“Why do you do it?” Sovak finally asked.
“I vowed to protect you,” said C’Mal simply.
“But this is no life for you. Do you understand me? I release you from any obligation you think you owe me. I’m not your captain anymore. I can barely feed myself. Can’t dress myself. Can’t do anything.”
C’Mal stood, rounded Sovak’s chair, and knelt before her.
“We’re on a journey together, you and me,” C’Mal said. “You know that I love you. I’ve told you so many times. I…I will never leave you. I’ve told you that. I will never leave you.”
At that moment, a small Ferasain boy came bounding up and noticed Sovak T’Lon.
“Are you Vulcan or Romulan?” he demanded loudly.
Sovak wiped her eyes and looked at him, amused by his curious face.
“Some of both,” she said.
“Why are you in that chair?” he persisted.
C’Mal, annoyed with the child, responded, “She was trying to save the lives of some people and got in an accident.”
The child's eyes widened a bit before he concluded with, “I like your ears.” Then he pivoted and disappeared down the path.
“I like your ears too,” C’Mal said to Sovak.
She was thankful that at least she could still produce a smile on Sovak’s face.
————————
A couple of weeks later, C’Mal was in the middle of shopping for new shoes, a rare and somewhat luxurious excursion for her, when she received a call from the newly repaired robot Basil.
“What is it, Basil?”
He said, “Sovak has indicated obliquely that she intends to end her own life. Should I call the medical emergency line?”
“Oh, keep her safe, Basil! I’m coming home right now. Don’t let her out of your sight.”
“Are you certain I should not call the medical emergency line?”
“Don’t call, Basil, just keep her safe.”
That evening, C'Mal tried to cook Sovak some plomeek soup, the traditional Vulcan soup you make for someone who is “under the weather.” It turned out a bit too spicy and too watery. One day she would get it right.
She placed the bowl before Sovak, who tried for half a minute to spoon herself a taste, then placed the spoon on the table and dropped her head in despair.
“I can’t do it,” said Sovak, barely audibly.
“You want me to add some rice to thicken it up?” asked C’Mal.
Sovak didn’t answer.
C’Mal spooned some from the bowl, held the spoon before Sovak, and said, “Open up.”
Sovak knocked the spoon away violently. Again the tears came.
“I know it’s difficult,” said C’Mal.
“Why do you do this?” Sovak demanded, her voice quiet and raspy. “Why?”
“I told you why,” C’Mal replied. Emotionally exhausted, she sat down opposite Sovak and lay her head on the table. Her mane of tawny hair spread out around her on the surface.
Half an hour later, C’Mal’s comm link chimed.
“Kriat t’bilya m’ka Danise Simonson,” the computer said in the common language of Ferasa.
C’Mal’s head popped up and she opened her saffron eyes. Her pupils tightened to slender lines.
“On screen,” she said.
Danise Simonson, a human from Earth, had served as Sovak T’Lon’s executive officer on the Churchill up until the time it was scrapped, just following the incident. She had remained in Starfleet while the other two had left to concentrate on Sovak’s rehabilitation. C’Mal jumped up and turned Sovak’s chair so she could better see the screen.
“Look who it is, Sovak,” she said encouragingly.
“Hey, Captain,” said Simonson, smiling at Sovak through the display. “It’s good to see you.”
“Did she put you up to this?” asked Sovak.
Simonson smiled. “C’Mal and I have been talking for a while now, trying to figure out a way to help you. Captain, have you considered calling upon the Guardian?”
Sovak’s anger flared. “Why are you even talking about this on an open line? You could be court marshaled.”
C’Mal turned to Sovak, explaining, “We can go through the Guardian together, you and me, and make sure you get off that ship and avoid the accident entirely. Hell, we can go back further in time and prevent the Kali from being attacked and disabled in the first place. We can save hundreds. We can—”
“I won’t abuse the trust that the Guardian of Forever placed in me like that,” countered Sovak.
C’Mal sighed, then almost imperceptibly signaled the Earth woman.
Simonson nodded, then said gravely, “Sovak, there is another way.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Sovak. She wheeled her chair closer to the display.
Simonson replied, “Something I uncovered as head of the science department on the Rosa Parks. I learned of a Ferengi scientist who deals in, shall we say, new beginnings.”
“Oh, Lord,” exclaimed Sovak skeptically.
“It’s legit,” said Simonson. “Well, as legit as these things can be. The Ferengi, whose name is Qwaas, built a device called the Metaport. It’s like a transporter that intersects with parallel universes. It re-sequences your body based on a donor from another universe. In effect, it rematerializes your body on the pattern of the donor. That donor, for all intents and purposes, is simply another version of you, but a 'you' unaffected by the accident.”
“That’s not possible,” argued Sovak. “You’d need the exact same setup in the other universe to make such a thing work.”
“I’ve seen the result,” countered Simonson. “A living being with field resonance exposure indicating the tiniest difference in quantum field potential. Literally, someone from another universe.”
“It’s…illegal,” said Sovak.
“Yes,” acknowledged C’Mal. “And you’d be on the hook for some ‘payment in kind’ to the Ferengi. Some dangerous mission he has in mind. We don’t have the latinum to pay him in cash.”
“How would I even get there?” asked Sovak.
“Captain,” began Simonson, “we’re with you in this all the way. The three of us, together. I have one month of vacation saved up, and I have a crapload of credits set aside to rent us a fast shuttle.”
Sovak looked at C’Mal, who simply nodded and smiled.
From the display, Simonson said, “Then it’s decided. I’ll see you in a few days.”
C’Mal immediately opened a cold bottle of fizzy soda and poured it into two glasses.
“To new beginnings,” the Ferasain said, her eyes glowing in the evening light.
“And to rekindled faith,” added Sovak.
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The five day trip to Ferengi space went quickly for the three old friends.
Simonson entertained them with stories about the crew and the missions of her current posting, U.S.S. Rosa Parks. The Parks was an older cruiser assigned to patrol the vicinity of Starbase 514.
Simonson’s boss on the Parks, the chief science officer, an Andorian, was, she said, the laziest man she had ever met. He had an eidetic memory and could read faster than the screen could display. And yet…he never seemed to do any work. He took credit for all her accomplishments, and foisted the blame on her for all his mistakes.
One day she met another Andorian who knew her boss as a child and went to school with him. This other Andorian recounted, “He would glance at my homework, then copy all the answers down onto his. He cheated on every test we ever took. He could simply have glanced at the lesson and aced his work, but he had to cheat.”
“That explains so much,” Simonson had replied.
People never change.
One particular night, Simonson retrieved an acoustic guitar from her baggage, spent an unreasonable amount of time tuning it, then broke into song. The others had never heard her sing before.
She sang several songs, smiling at them warmly as she sang, glowing even.
She closed with, “When My Blue Moon Turns To Gold Again,” then wished Sovak T’Lon goodnight and watched the Ferasain wheel her into the back and lift her into a bunk. Simonson had thought about turning down the gravity plating, but wasn’t sure that would necessarily help Sovak move around, since she now lacked coordination.
C’Mal closed the door to the passenger section and sat next to Simonson. She placed some reading glasses on her face and checked the shuttle’s navigation console.
“I like to watch you take care of the Captain,” Simonson commented. “You’re so gentle and patient. You have great strength inside you. I mean, a kind of strong patience and caring. Love, I guess. I’m…envious.”
C’Mal smiled sedately.
“Staying on Ferasa is killing her,” said C’Mal. “Or killing her soul, rather. If this doesn’t work, I’m taking her with me into space. I’ll use my savings. We’ll travel until…until the end.”
Simonson thought about this. “She’s only 41, practically a teenager for a Vulcan. If this Ferengi cure works out, she’ll probably outlive us both. She’ll have another hundred and sixty years left. How—how long do Caitains live?”
“Sixty plus years, tops,” said C’Mal. “Actual Ferasains from the homeworld live longer, but I’m pure Caitian. In a few years the road ahead will be shorter than the road behind. Well, that’s life.”
Simonson nodded in agreement. “That’s life.”
————————
The Nisrig star system had several large irregularly-shaped planets which orbited in a complex dance around the central pair of stars. Since the planets were without atmosphere and composed of boring elements, the system was deserted and unmonitored. It was here that the Ferengi scientist Qwaas had set up his laboratory, far from prying scans.
Facing the pockmarked, grey-brown surface of one of the planetoids, Simonson opened a channel and said, “We’re here to see the Wizard.”
“The Wonderful Wizard of Oz?” came the reply. “Then transfer your key-credits.”
Simonson transferred 10,000 credits, then waited an uncomfortably long amount of time.
“Do you think we were just taken?” asked C’Mal.
“Screw it,” said Simonson.
She forward throttled the shuttle and it pierced the convincing projection of a rocky surface, entered an immense circular chamber, then set down.
Looking out the window, they saw a Ferengi wearing a loose flower-patterned shirt, white shorts, and a latinum necklace. They emerged from the shuttle and noticed they were surrounded by automated phaser cannon turrets.
“Those are for protection,” Qwaas stated. “I live alone here.”
They then followed him through a maze of stunted, dusty corridors.
“This used to be, many years ago, home to a massive weapons project. They were trying to create entangled gravity waves. For use as a weapon, of course. All they ended up doing was wasting a planet-sized pile of gold-pressed latinum. This whole planet is composed of dense nickel-iron crystal. Makes for good shielding.”
He led them into a circular chamber, surrounded by daisy-chained field generators. In the center was a platform, looking something like a transporter device.
“Here it is,” he said. “The Metaport.”
The Ferengi grabbed a seat, placed it before the Vulcan’s mobile chair, then sat down, facing her.
“Do you understand the deal? I make you…ah…’ambulatory’ again, and you repay me in kind.”
“In kind?” Sovak repeated.
“I need a captain, and an engineer, and a tactical officer for a very delicate mission. That’s all I can tell you for now.”
“That’s pretty vague,” complained Simonson.
“It’s a deal,” said C'Mal.
“I have to hear that from Sovak T’Lon,” objected Qwaas. “A Vulcan’s word is good as gold-pressed latinum. I don’t trust cats or monkeys,” he looked pointedly at C’Mal and Simonson, “but I trust Vulcans.”
T’Lon considered the Feregi, peering into his eyes. He returned her gaze unflinchingly, and with a lively curiosity.
“I’m not crazy about the Ferengi,” she said honestly.
“That makes two of us,” he admitted. “Why do you think I live alone?”
She held out her hand; he grabbed it firmly.
“We have a deal,” he said.
————————
Soon the machine was in the final process of spinning up. T’Lon asked Qwaas how it worked and what she needed to do.
“The Metaport does its best to align this reality with other realities that, well, that have what it is you are looking for. Your counterpart, from that other reality, will be with you in the Metaport field. In that moment, you will know her, and she will know you. You both must agree to the swap. At that point, I and what I must assume is yet another version of me will materialize you and her using each other’s pattern. The memory paradigms remains the same, but the bodies exchange.”
“Nobody mentioned that part,” exclaimed T’Lon angrily. “Then it won’t work.” She looked at C’Mal and Simonson. “It won’t work! Who would want this body? And how could I live with myself knowing that I cursed someone else with this horrid debilitation?”
“Can I tell you something?” Qwaas interrupted. “There has always been someone on the other side willing to go through with this. Is it right? Is it ethical? I don’t know, and I don’t care. But what I do know is that someone will be willing to give up their body for yours. But it’s not my decision…the decision will be yours. And also…,” the Ferengi gestured to the Metaport platform, “…hers, the other you.”
They pressed forward.
When the device activated, Sovak T’Lon indeed met another self on the platform. Strangely, they were sharing the same space.
“Why?” she asked, and received an answer. She nodded to Qwaas, who finalized the procedure.
It was not unlike beaming in from some very distant point of origin. She watched her body materialize. Her consciousness gradually bound to new proprioceptive sensations. The mobile chair was gone. She stepped from the platform as both C’Mal and Simonson watched her, agog.
Sovak T’Lon closed her eyes, as if to look inside herself. She opened them and approached her friends.
“No telepathy,” she said. “The Vulcans of that universe have no telepathy whatsoever.”
“Your hair has returned to black, the orange is gone,” noted Simonson.
“Did you learn…why she did it? Why she wanted to switch bodies?” asked C’Mal.
“Her parents…my parents, I suppose…are high-ranking Tal Shiar in the Romulan Empire. They were ashamed to have a daughter raised on Vulcan, a permanent reminder of their failure there earlier in life. They sought to have me killed, and were sure to succeed. There was only one thing she wanted…”
T’Lon placed a hand on her tummy.
“…For her baby to live.”
Sovak T’Lon walked nearer to C’Mal. Her Vulcan eyes radiated a fresh calmness and purpose.
“The baby is a boy. A genetic hybrid. Part Ferasain. She wanted him to be named M’Vek.”
C’Mal had mouthed the name simultaneously.
The Vulcan and Ferasain held each other tightly and kissed. Simonson wiped her eyes.
“I hate to interrupt this interspecies orgy of sentimentality,” Qwaas said, “but there is still the matter of payment to be rendered.”
Simonson held up a hand and cautioned Qwaas.
“There is a cost,” she said, “to not appreciating a beautiful moment.”
“That,” he nodded, impressed, “could almost be a Rule of Acquisition.”