"It will only take a minute," Jilla was saying as the door to her quarters opened. She stopped speaking at the sight of Ruth, curled tightly on her bed, the violet eyes staring at the wall.
At the sound of the closing door, Ruth moved, blinked, then was off the bed and crossing to the replicator before Jilla could say another word. "You're home early," she rasped hoarsely.
Jilla blinked and felt suddenly cold. It would have been easy to see that Ruth was upset even if her tia weren't radiating distress. "Mr. Scott said I worked an hour overtime," she replied.
"For you, that's early." Ruth recrossed the room and handed Jilla a cup full of steaming liquid. "Here."
Jilla grimaced, but murmured "thank you." Ruth was systematically and unconsciously making sure that Jilla became as addicted to coffee as she herself was. "What's wrong?"
"Hi, Roy," was Ruth's answer. "Want some coffee?"
Sulu glanced at Jilla, then at Ruth. "Uh, hi, Spike. No, I don't."
"You sick?" Ruth returned with false good humor.
"Very funny," Sulu rejoined.
Jilla sighed at the nicknames. She would never quite understand the Terran need to shorten, lengthen or change given names for affection's sake. She had been assured that 'Roy' and 'Spike' were, indeed, affectionate; holdovers from pre-Academy days when they had both taken part in the dangerous sport of needle racing. "What's wrong?" she repeated to Ruth.
"Nothing's wrong," Ruth replied. "You sure about the coffee?" she said to Sulu.
"Ruth…" Jilla began again.
"Nothing's wrong. Why don't you two go away and leave me alone?"
"We just got here," Sulu pointed out.
"Yeah, well then I'll leave…"
"Ruth!" Jilla shouted.
"Damn it, I do not have to tell you everything!" Ruth shouted back. "I'm all right, I just…"
"You are not!" Jilla insisted.
"Majiir…"
Sulu moved quickly to the door. If Ruth and Jilla were going to have one of their 'discussions,' he'd just as soon be out of the line of fire. "I'll wait for you, hon," he said, and made a swift exit.
"Go ahead, chase away the man you love," Ruth said.
"He said he would wait, and…"
"Yeah, but for how much longer? It's already been six months." Jilla gasped, shining a bright silver with her shock. Ruth made a face, then sighed. "I'm sorry, Jilla. I didn't mean that. It's just… can't you leave me alone?"
"You are hurting," Jilla returned, her voice laden with emotion. "I want to help."
"Well, you can't."
"Can you not at least tell me what's wrong? Please?"
"Ensign Brace died."
"Sulu told… oh." With sudden clarity, Ruth's icy tia made sense. She had been in sickbay, she had been unable to stop the death.
"Yeah, 'oh,'" Ruth grimaced. "Now will you go away?"
Jilla was silent for a moment, then she said, "Ruth, I'm sorry."
"Aren't you satisfied?" Ruth snapped. "You got the truth out of me, what more do you want?"
"You are too private for your own good!" Jilla blazed at her. "I am no more curious than you are, but it is not possible for me to avoid your emotions! Why is it fine for you to intrude on my privacy, but it is an affront to the gods when I express concern about you?!"
Ruth winced. Even after rooming with the Indiian for six months, she still wasn't used to the abrupt changes from calm, rational, logical Mrs. Majiir to a raving silver maniac. Fortunately, the change back was usually just as swift.
And wasn't that a good way to avoid thinking about what she actually said? came a relentlessly cheerful voice in her head.
Ruth sighed. "I'm sorry, Jilla," she said. "I don't mean to be… it's just that I'm not used to mandatory spilling of my guts. I'm Antari, you know."
"And Human," Jilla snapped. "You keep nagging Spock about his dual heritage. Humans show when they are hurt."
"Touché, already!" Ruth took a deep breath. "I'll try to do better, really I will. But I'd really like to be alone, okay?"
Jilla took a calming breath. "Very well." She quickly changed from her coveralls to a floor-length, sleeveless gown of deep blue and began taking the clips out of her hair.
"That doesn't help, you know," Ruth commented after a few minutes.
"I beg your…"
"Yeah. I meant the traditional-married-Indian-style gown."
Jilla blinked. "I am…"
"I know, and so does Sulu. You don't have to stick it to him like that." The Indiian blinked, obviously not understanding. Ruth grinned nastily. "Not that he wouldn't like to stick it to you." Jilla continued to stare blankly at her, and she sighed. "Never mind, I know, you never do. Go on, you're keeping him waiting."
"Is Ruth all right?" Sulu asked concernedly.
"No," Jilla replied softly. "She needs to recover from Ensign Brace's death."
"Why should… oh. She was in Sickbay?"
Jilla nodded. Sulu stared helplessly at the deck for a minute. Then he raised his head, and his eyes were thoughtful. "Crawford's game?" he suggested.
"I do not think she would approve," Jilla returned, "or that the technique would work on her."
"She'd have to let it, like she does with Rigellian," Sulu clarified. "Can you talk her into it?"
"I?" Jilla questioned.
"Yeah. You got her to talk, didn't you?" He pursed his lips, thinking. "Maybe we can get Jon to let her do something nasty to Spock."
"I hardly think such a thing would be appropriate," Jilla said reprovingly.
"Yeah, you're right," Sulu agreed easily, "although something 'nasty' might be just the thing…" He saw her confused look, and smiled at her. "Never mind, Terran euphemism." Jilla still looked puzzled, so he tried to explain further. "Terrans often equate something really sexy with nasty," he said, then shrugged. "Anyway, if we could come up with something to distract Ruth in some way that would make her think she was being uncomplimentary…"
"I will never understand Humans," Jilla murmured.
Sulu grinned. "That's okay, hon. I understand enough for the both of us. Let's go talk to Jon."
As they headed for the turbolift, Jilla asked curiously, "Does my civilian clothing disturb you?"
Sulu blinked and unconsciously gave her a swift once-over. "No," he said warmly. "It flatters your figure. I think it – and you - are beautiful." She blushed and he smiled. "Why do you ask?"
"Ruth thought it might," she returned shyly.
"Because you're married?" he asked, and a touch of annoyance came into his voice. "I already know that."
"That is what I said," Jilla replied.
Sulu shrugged, keeping the sigh to himself.
Crawford was agreeable, so after dinner, Sulu and Jilla went to drag Ruth out of her cabin.
"Do I have to?" she whined at Jilla, who pointed out, "I am not your mother, and yes, you have to."
"Yes, mother. Roy, this was your idea!" Ruth shot accusingly.
"Come on, it's fun!" Sulu assured and buzzed Crawford's quarters. The 'come' from inside sounded with his continued, "Ask Jilla."
"Jilla?!" Ruth replied incredulously.
"Her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth Regina the First," Crawford's voice intoned elegantly. Jilla began to blush.
Crawford's rooms were dark except for the flickering of several candles of various sizes set around the cabin. He was tending carefully to his equipment and Sulu went to a rack of books, thumbing through one on the history of 18th Century France. Ruth glanced nervously at the small flames, then took a deep breath, telling herself she was going to ignore her irrational fear of fire.
"Elizabeth who?" she asked, to cover her reaction. "When?"
"Last night," Crawford replied with a meaningful smile at Jilla. "She was one of the greatest rulers of Terra's England. A virgin queen – or at least she never married. There's some debate about how strict she really was regarding the literal designation."
"Ohh," Ruth murmured, nodding sagely. "That explains it."
Jilla's blush deepened and Sulu chuckled. Crawford had told him all about Good Queen Bess' rather vivid dream concerning Sir Francis.
"As I understand it," Jilla defended herself, "there is nothing wrong with this kind of fantasy. One's thoughts cannot be cause for condemnation."
"They can if one is a tele…" Ruth began, but shut her mouth as Sulu shot her a 'not-one-more-word' glare. Ruth hid a grin and turned her attention to Crawford. "So who am I going to be, Jon?" she asked brightly.
"Who do you want to be?" he returned. "Anyone's possible, either historical or fictional, providing I've read the fiction." He gave Ruth a gracious smile.
"Someone sneaky," Sulu suggested. "Maybe Richelieu, or Milady…" He paused, considering. "No, that's not right." He turned to Crawford. "Who's sneaky and Ruth-like?"
Crawford hesitated, then smiled again. "Simon Templar."
"Simon?" Ruth asked. "Was he Jewish?"
Crawford's lips curled in a scowl, but he quickly recovered. "I don't believe so, no. He was English, a character from early Twentieth Century espionage fiction. He was sort of a Robin Hood-type figure, a thief. His main adversary was a dull-witted police inspector who was forever certain Simon had committed every crime in the whole country. Simon was forever catching the real criminals, doing the inspector's work for him while taunting the man at every opportunity. He was witty and sophisticated, good-looking, suave…"
"We get the idea, Jon," Sulu grinned. "Sound's like a perfect fit."
"I think I like it," Ruth rejoined.
"All right," Crawford said, and turned to retrieve a program disk from the pile on his desk. Ruth glanced at Sulu, then at Jilla.
"Wait, I'm still not sure I want…"
"How about a dull-witted captain for a target?" Crawford said, not looking up. "Or a supremely over-confident First Officer?"
"Jonathon, such statements…" Jilla began with a frown.
"Yes, your Majesty," Crawford cut her off with a sneer.
"It's only fantasy, hon," Sulu soothed. Ruth again glanced at them.
"Fantasy, huh?" she mused. Then she nodded, her eyes glinting mischievously. "I'll do it."
Simon Templar, alias The Saint, checked carefully to see that his knives, dubbed Anna and Belle were in their arm sheaths, then stepped confidently out into the corridor. He wondered briefly why he was on board a starship – but of course. A starship was the last place Teal would look, so it was the obvious place to begin.He stepped jauntily into the turbolift and addressed it casually; "Deck five… as the actress said to the bishop."
As it began to move, Ruth smiled through Simon Templar's dapper calm. Sulu, Jilla and Jon were right, this was fun. And senior officer's country was the perfect place for her/him to try out her/his cat-burgling skills. She was certain Simon Templar would never be caught – he wouldn't be able to stand the embarrassment – so she wasn't worried about being found. She didn't stop to wonder why s/he was conducting an inspection of the Captain and First Officer's quarters. It was all part of the fantasy.
She chuckled wickedly to herself and crept stealthily through the turbolift door.
Kirk was waiting in his office for McCoy to arrive. The morning's briefing should have started ten minutes ago. McCoy was late and Kirk was impatient. Spock, of course, retained his usual composure as he responded to a question Kirk had asked to keep from fuming.
"Repeated scans have revealed nothing inimical, Captain," he said. "If there is an adverse effect from Majel, it is one beyond our experience and current ability to detect. Dr. McCoy's autopsy reports reveal the cause of death as heart failure due to extreme emotional distress. The nerve synapses show definite signs of over-stimulation."
"Fear," Kirk said grimly.
"Precisely."
On Spock's succinct word, the door opened and a more-haggard-than-usual McCoy walked into the office.
"Bones, where have you been!" Kirk snapped.
"Sorry, Jim, I overslept," McCoy muttered. "I've been havin' trouble with nightmares."
Spock raised an eyebrow. "Frightening ones, Doctor?" he asked.
"Well, it's none of your business, but yes," McCoy scowled. "More disturbing than actually frightening." He shook his head. "I've got the reports on the physicals, Captain. Everyone who was on Majel checks out as perfect as they ever do."
"I want answers, Bones," Jim stated.
"Well, I don't have 'em!" McCoy snapped.
Jim set his jaw determinedly. "The autopsies showed heart failure, fear. Why?"
"I told you, Jim, I don't know. There's no medical reason for it unless someone is deliberately scarin' people to death."
"Someone, Doctor?" Spock inquired. "Or something?"
"Whatever, Spock," McCoy grumbled. "You're the Science Officer, you find it."
"Bones, there has to be an answer, " Jim insisted. "People don't just drop dead, not healthy, psychologically fit people."
"Psychologically fit," Spock mused. "Were they?" He turned to McCoy. "Doctor, did your examinations include psychological tests?"
"Of course they did," McCoy growled. "I know my job."
Spock faced Kirk. "Captain, if memory serves…"
"Yours always does," McCoy muttered. Spock ignored him.
"… both Lieutenant Collins and Ensign Brace were participating in Lieutenant Crawford's experiments," he finished.
"I was assured that was safe," Kirk cut in.
"Quite safe, Captain," Spock confirmed. "I tested the equipment myself. However, it is possible that the combination of the mental disorientation involved and some as yet unidentified, separately harmless phenomenon on Majel might result in the tragedy facing us."
"How do we check that out?" McCoy asked skeptically.
"By comparing complete psychological readouts for those participants who were on Majel with those who were not. If it is a malfunction of Lieutenant Crawford's erasing procedures, a pattern of discrepancy should emerge."
The intercom signaled and Spock fell silent. Kirk reached over and answered it. "Kirk here."
"Captain, we have another death," Christine Chapel's voice said softly. "Ensign Slone from Engineering. She was found in her bed when she didn't report for duty."
"Damn!" Kirk murmured. McCoy leaned over the desk.
"McCoy here, Chapel. Prepare for an autopsy."
"Yes, Doctor."
He straightened up. "Well, Spock, what does that do to your theory?"
Spock's eyes were hooded in thought. "Destroys it, Doctor," he returned. "Ensign Slone was neither on Majel nor a participant in Crawford's project."
Ruth again pressed the buzzer for Jon Crawford's door. It was some time before she got an answer. Exasperating, inefficient, touchy man! She'd been waiting all day for his overdue report. With anyone else, a simple call to remind them would suffice, but not Jonathon Crawford. Jonathon, indeed! Such an annoying man should not share the same first name as my father! Maybe that's why I don't like him. No, that's a feeble excuse. There isn't any real reason not to like him. I just don't. He rubs me he wrong way. I shouldn't let him bother me even when his reports are late. He's in Humanities, and people in Humanities are notorious for believing their work has nothing to do with the running of a Science Department. It serves a higher purpose.
"Like getting the Assistant Science Officer in trouble," she muttered, and hit the signal repeatedly. "Crawford, are you in there?!" she shouted.
The door snapped open and Crawford stood before her, glaring balefully. "I thought I told you your goddamned report wasn't ready!" he snapped with the door.
Ruth smiled, all teeth, and pushed her way past him into the room. When he turned to her she crossed her arms and stated firmly, "The rules are like this, Jon. Mr. Spock wants your report. It's my job to give him what he wants when he wants it. When he doesn't get what he wants, he, logically, takes it out on me. I, in turn, take it out on the person responsible for my discomfort." She paused for effect. "You." Another pause. "You can take it out on whoever you please, but I want that report."
"It isn't ready," Crawford repeated stubbornly. "You'll get it when it is."
"So what have you been doing besides giving people pleasant dreams?"
"My work on this psycho-history project is important, Valley," he exploded, "far more important than your anal-retentive demands, and your precious Mr. Spock knows it!" His face was red with indignation. "If he's yelling at you, it's at you!" He pushed past her, going to his equipment, muttering under his breath.
Ruth inhaled deeply. "Listen, Jon, it's my job," she said conciliatorily. "If Mr. Spock will understand why your report is late, all right. It's just that I've covered for you before, and it's not something I like doing."
"There are priorities," Crawford returned, his voice a sulking mumble. "It's not like I ask for very much."
"I know that, Jon," Ruth said. She made her tone soft, and could see Crawford's emotional state calming. "When can I expect the report?"
"I don't know."
She sighed. "Jon…"
He turned abruptly, his manner changing just as suddenly. "You're tense," he said. "Spock works you too hard." Ruth knew he was trying to make his voice sound caring and sincere, but she couldn't help thinking it was more oily than anything else. "You should relax. Sulu 's always saying you like to have fun. Would you like to arrange for some more – " he paused and a smile that was intended to be friendly crossed his features. "- historical therapy? Maybe tonight? You did have fun, didn't you Ruth?"
"Yeah, Jon, it was fun," she smiled, and thought, Why not? If placating him will get the work done… "Okay, I don't have any plans for tonight. After dinner? If," she continued, "you'll have the report for me."
"It will be done, Ruth, I promise," he replied. Did his smile turn the slightest bit calculating? "After dinner, then. Tonight."
McCoy woke shaking and more exhausted than when he fell asleep. The autopsy and analysis had taken all day and most of the evening. He and M'Benga and Sanchez had gone over every cell in Slone's body with painstaking thoroughness - and had found nothing. There wasn't a damned thing to explain why a sound, healthy twenty-four year old should go into cardiac arrest in her sleep. And to top that off, he'd had the same nightmare.
He got up, going to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, bloodshot blue eyes staring back at him. Blood. Jack the Ripper. The man had been a doctor, or so the theory went, but that was the only resemblance as far as he could see. Except for a tiny bit of resentment towards women, a nasty voice in his head remarked. Nonsense, he growled at it.
Or was it?
You started havin' these dreams the night Brace died.
What about Collins?
He was male, his death could be unconnected…
Stop it, McCoy!
You've got the means. There're all sorts of chemicals that can induce fear-like reactions in the cardiovascular system. Some leave no trace once the synapses are stimulated beyond their ability to respond. And you can't know that what you're doin' in these dreams isn't happenin' for real.
The images were vivid, while he was dreaming and behind his eyes even after he woke up. He was Jack the Ripper – Leonard McCoy, Chief Medical Officer of the starship Enterprise. He roamed London's East End – but prowled the corridors of the ship, too. He found and followed the drunken prostitutes – yet stood over the sleeping Christine Chapel at the same time. It was as if his vision, his very experiences were doubled, overlapping. And the emotions that coursed through him were both intoxicating and depraved – power, entitlement, righteousness, and horror, fear and disgust.
Is it possible? Good Lord, am I doing this? How can I be sure? And if I am…
No. The very idea is ludicrous.
Suddenly, McCoy felt himself becoming irresistibly drowsy. He stumbled back to his bed and fell instantly asleep.
A hush fell over the crowd as Gloriana summoned Drake to kneel before her. With a bold gleam in his eyes, he approached the great chair in which was now seated his Prince."Master Drake," she said, her voice strong and clear – and perhaps teasing? "The King of Spain has asked for your head, and we have a weapon here with which to remove it."
The crowd gasped, and Drake himself felt a moment of unease. Elizabeth drew a sword from one of her gentlemen. "We shall ask Monsieur de Marchaumont to be our witness."
Drake's eyes flashed to the French ambassador. The man was flushing. As he realized the Queen's intentions, it took a great deal of effort to hold in the mirth. He spoke his oath of fealty and service in tones assured and proud; Elizabeth accepted with words kind and – Drake thought – tender. She lifted the blade and performed the dubbing, then announced, "Arise, Sir Francis, and honor your sovereign." She held out one white, bejeweled hand and he took it and gently pressed his lips to it.
"Your Majesty," he murmured. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, no one else existed.
As no one else existed hours later when they stood in his cabin alone but for one attendant with discreetly lowered eyes.
"Sweet dragon," Elizabeth said.
"My queen," he returned softly. He took both of her long, slender hands, kissing each in turn. Her hands clenched his, bringing them up to her lips. She kissed the strong, calloused fingers, her clear grey eyes burning into his. Slowly, as their lips moved ever closer, their hands slid down to shoulders, to waists. Drake clasped the fair body to his chest and before his mouth touched hers, he murmured, "I honor my sovereign, Bess, and my lady."
"Sulu."
At Crawford's voice, the taste of Elizabeth's mouth faded and Sulu smiled and opened his eyes. Ruth's face came into view, her violet eyes twinkling at him.
"I didn't know the royalty of England were Indiian," she teased.
Sulu scowled. "Jon, this is supposed to be private," he complained.
"You didn't mind when I let you watch Jilla giving Drake the charter for his voyage," Crawford returned smoothly.
"That was different," Sulu pointed out. "I watched your recording, not her."
"You didn't exactly give away anything here, Roy," Ruth put in.
"It's the principle of it."
"Still worried about revealing secrets, huh?"
"Not nice, Spike."
"Sulu, if you please," Crawford broke in brusquely.
Sulu glanced at him. "What's the hurry?" he asked.
"I have another subject." Jon replied with a sarcastic snarl.
"Will you make a copy of the recording for…"
"Yes, yes, now if you don't mind?"
Sulu and Ruth exchanged curious glances, then Sulu got up from the lounger. "Thanks, Jon," he said. Crawford only grunted. "See you later, Spike," Sulu added. At the door, he stopped and looked back at Crawford, then shrugged. "Sweet dreams," he said, and left the room.
Ruth watched him leave, then sighed. "Jon, I only came to tell you that I can't stay."
Crawford turned to face her, his expression both astonished and crestfallen. "You can't… but why?!"
"I'm on second shift call."
"But not on duty?"
"Well, no, not technically, but if I'm needed…" she shrugged. "I sort of have to stay in my quarters."
Crawford let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, that's no problem. I can still set the implant. I won't be able to record it for you, but you can still play."
"Jon, I have to be able to…"
"There'll be nothing different than if you had a very vivid, lucid dream, Ruth. If you need to wake up, you'll only remember being Joan."
Ruth blinked. "Joan who?"
Crawford smiled. "Joan d'Arc. That's who I picked for you to play. She was a fifteenth century French warrior. She followed divine voices and led her command to victory over the invading English."
"Sort of like a priestess with weapons?" Ruth asked brightly.
Crawford chuckled. "If you wish."
Ruth hesitated. "And you're sure I'll be able to…"
"If Mr. Spock calls for you, you'll be ready," he assured. After only a moment's more hesitation, Ruth agreed.
"Goodnight, Jilla," Ruth said as she stepped into their cabin. Jilla looked up from the technical journal she was reading.
"Goodnight?" she questioned. "It is only…"
"I'm off to play Joan d'Arc, so goodnight," Ruth returned.
"Joan de who and I take it you wish privacy?"
"Joan d'Arc, a French swashbuckler. Yes. Scram."
Jilla sighed, collected the journal tape and rose. "Goodnight, Ruth," she said on her way out.
"By the way, Elizabeth, Drake just got knighted. Go congratulate him!" Ruth called as the door closed.
There was no correlation, yet there had to be. Three deaths in as many days, identical pathologies, there must be a connection. Yet Lieutenant John Collins, Ensign Jerrine Brace, and Ensign Marcia Slone had nothing in common that could account for it.
Spock sighed, clearing his mind and beginning again. He had run seventeen cross-checks, all with the same results. All three had different blood types. Collins was from Terra, of Irish descent, Brace of African heritage from Centauri, Slone from Terra's Semitic races, born on Rigel 9. Two were in Engineering, one in Sciences; two female, one male. There was no indication of similar illness patterns, no common family histories, no identifiable psychological parallelism. They had not participated in any joint activities within the past standard month. They had not all been in close contact with any combination of things, or persons or environments save the ship and crew itself. There were no shared sexual partners, nor did their partners share a common partner. Yet there had to be something. Spock could only reason that the data given to the computer was insufficient to discover the connection between them. More data was therefore required, and therefore a thorough data search was necessary. For that, he would need his assistant.
He rose and crossed his office to the com, signaling Ruth Valley's quarters. There was no response. He tried again, with the same result. He opened the com to shipwide and asked Miss Valley to report to the Science Office. Five minutes passed with no reply. He considered. Either she was engaged in some intimate activity that could not be easily interrupted at that particular moment, or she was in the recreation chamber and unaware of his call. He frowned at the thought, but could easily imagine her explanation: "Yeah, Boss, I know I'm on call, but I figured I wouldn't be needed in the first hour. Guess you really can't get along without me" followed by an overly dramatic sigh – or leer, depending on her mood.
He gave the first alternative another ten minutes of credence, then called her quarters again. There was still no answer, so he left his office and headed for Deck Eight and the recreation chamber.
Crossing the main recreation area, he noticed Jilla Majiir sitting in front of a tape scanner. If Ruth were in the recreation chamber, her roommate would know. He stopped in front of her.
"Good evening, Mrs. Majiir."
She glanced up a warm smile briefly touching her lips. "Good evening, Commander."
"Can you tell me where Miss Valley is?" he asked.
"She is in our quarters."
He raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? She does not respond to the com signal."
"No," Jilla returned. "She is playing Joan d'Arc."
"I beg your pardon?"
Jilla blinked. "She is involved with experiencing the life of Joan d'Arc in her dreams," she elaborated.
Spock studied the Indiian for a moment. Jilla was not given to frivolity or private jokes. "Explain," he said.
Jilla looked puzzled. "She is asleep, dreaming, living the life of Joan d'Arc in her dreams."
"I was not aware her telepathic talents included that ability," he mused.
"They do not," Jilla rejoined. "She is using the implant."
A warning suddenly began to tingle in the back of Spock's mind. "Your explanation makes no sense," he stated.
"Lieutenant Crawford's mechanism," Jilla clarified.
"Is Miss Valley participating in the psycho-historical experiments?"
Jilla was becoming quite flustered. "No, Commander, she's playing. It is a game, a diversion. Fantasy."
"Ensign, how can she 'play' an historical figure?" Spock demanded, the warning growing stronger.
"Lieutenant Crawford's implants," Jilla repeated. "He has been allowing the crew such recreation since we began orbiting Majel. He implants the necessary data for the dream, and erases it when it is completed. Surely you are aware of the procedure?"
Dread, more than mere warning filled Spock's thoughts. Joan of Arc and Ruth. There was something there, something terrifying – Terror. Dying in one's sleep from fear. Joan of Arc. "How long has Miss Valley been asleep?" he asked sharply.
Jilla blinked again. "About an hour. Commander," she continued anxiously, "Has Lieutenant Crawford been exceeding his authorization?"
Spock was grim. "Yes, Mrs. Majiir, he has."
"We were unaware of it, I assure you…"
"We?"
The Indiian swallowed, her face going pale. "Ruth and I – and Mr. Sulu and…"
"Who?" Spock broke in.
"I beg your…"
"Who, rilain?!" His tone was urgent and he knew the usage of the Vulcan endearment would convey it to her. It meant 'little one' and was a very private term of very personal affection. She flushed, her eyes lowering and she kept her voice soft.
"Elizabeth the First of Terra's England, and - " She paused, her shimmer brightening. " – Sir Francis Drake."
Spock quickly went over his knowledge of that historical period. He could recall nothing inherently dangerous to either Jilla or Mr. Sulu. But Joan of Arc and Ruth were another matter entirely. "Thank you, Ensign," he told Jilla. "I think you will be safe but I would strongly urge you not to 'play' again."
"Spock, is Ruth in danger?" Jilla asked worriedly.
"Perhaps. I will see to it." He hurried from the rec room, heading for Deck Four. His sense of panicked foreboding was growing, the warning in his mind now a burning. Burning. Joan of Arc died in the year 1431, burned at the stake as a heretic and witch. And Ruth Valley has a pathological fear of fire.
The flames roared up around her and she couldn't stop the screaming. She didn't know if she struggled against her bonds. All she knew was fire and terror and the knowledge of death; hopeless, inexorable, horrible, burning death…
Valley!
Something touched the back of her terror. A sound, a voice… strange tongue, strange words…
Hear me!
A male voice, strong and calm and powerful. Michael?! Sainte Michael, m'aident!
Ruth, wake up!
Hands grasped her and she screamed again as the Voice receded, the flames swirling over her. Her skin crackled, peeling as she was pulled away – but not from the fire. Fear and death seared in her senses and screams were torn from her in terror… burning anguish, panicked agony, fire, death………Fire. She was going to burn. The words kept swirling in her mind, faster, more terrifying. They called up horrors too great to deal with, a fear that eclipsed everything, even the Voices. She was right, she knew it. She was no heretic! God spoke to her through the Archangel Michael and the martyrs Catherine and Margaret. She was responsible to Them and Him, she had to be. Had They and He not led her to victory and triumph? Fire, burning, searing heat and flames, the sound of cracking bones, the smell of charred flesh – God, help me!
A rushing noise filled her ears as hissing coolness fell on her burning hair and skin…. Water. Torrents of water, drenching her, drowning the flames. The Voice returned.
Miss Valley! Ruth, you must wake up!
Valley? Ruth?
Spock.
Ruth opened her eyes to see Spock standing before her, holding her arms, his face and arms and the front of his body as soaked as she herself was. She blinked, then realized she was in the shower – and awake. She threw hysterically grateful arms around Spock's neck and clung to him, sobbing with relief.
It was several minutes before she collected herself enough to pull away. Her smile was sheepish as she looked up into his searching gaze. "I'm all wet," she offered.
"Yes, Miss Valley," Spock replied. "However, you are also no longer burning."
"How did you…?
"Mrs. Majiir told me you had mentioned Joan of Arc. May I assume you did not know she died by fire?"
She shrugged, her face coloring. "Assume away."
"It was most irresponsible of you to allow this experience without sufficient understanding of the role you were taking."
"Sorry, Boss," she said contritely. He continued to stare at her. "Something else?"
"Yes."
"Your wish is, Boss."
"Turn off the water."
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"You are welcome, Miss Valley."