Margeret Bonanno - Probe

"So they have finally let the news out," Hiran said. "Did they think they could keep it a secret forever?"

He turned to stare directly at Subcommander Feric, who stood in the doorway of his quarters, hands clasped behind his back. His newly appointed first officer shrugged.

"They kept his illness secret for years."

Hiran nodded absently, letting his gaze roam over the Galtizh's personnel roster, now displayed on his computer screen. He noted that he and Feric had now been serving together for almost four years-how was it the man had managed to remain such an enigma to him for so long?

Probably because he answered every question put to him as succinctly as that one. Gods, but it was strange to have to ferret information out of your first officer. He couldn't help but contrast the long, silent gaps in his conversations with Feric to the animated discussions he'd enjoyed with Ren. There was no doubt but that he far preferred an honest, heated, exchange of opinion.

But then, there was no doubt he had far preferred Ren.

It was still strange to look~at the roster and not see her name, listed beneath his. Still strange to be in this cabin, alone. And-back to the matter at hand-still strange to have to ferret out information from his first officer.

"The next few weeks will be interesting," Hiran offered. "Do you think we will be called back, Subcommander?"

"Anything is possible." Feric hesitated. "Particularly in times of transition. Rumors abound."

Hiran nodded. He supposed that, right now, that was as definitive an answer as he could have expected.

Even from Ren.

"So, Spock," McCoy said as the door to sickbay hissed shut behind them, "did you have another meeting of minds or did you just get wet?"

"Neither characterization accurately portrays the encounter, Doctor."

"I didn't mean- Look, Spock, just tell me what you found out. You did find out something, didn't you?"

"Of course, Doctor. George and Gracie are both quite pleased with their new surroundings, but they-"

"About the Probe, Spock! The Probe!"

"As I was about to say, Doctor, I was unable to glean anything definitive. At best, I was aware of what humans might describe as impressions."

"The same kind of `impressions' you picked up back in San Francisco that let you know Gracie was pregnant?"

"Approximately, Doctor. That impression, however, was much stronger, much more specific, in all likelihood because it regarded a natural biological function with which Gracie was familiar. The Probe and its actions, however, were totally outside their experience, as were many of our own actions in bringing them here from the twentieth century. In fact, if my interpretations are correct, the two events are not totally and clearly separate in their minds."

"You're saying they can't tell the difference between us and the Probe?"

"To some extent, yes, Doctor. We are both associated with events totally outside their normal experience."

McCoy frowned, then shrugged. "I guess I can see how they might think the Probe sent our Klingon clunker down to pick them up the way the Enterprise sends a shuttle to pick someone up. If they knew about the Enterprise and shuttles, which they don't. Do they?"

"Almost certainly not, Doctor. One of the few impressions I was able to uncover that clearly related to the Probe and not to our intercession in their lives was one of a feeling of familiarity, of other beings physically not unlike themselves. But beyond the feeling of familiarity, there was also one of comfort, or perhaps security, not just for the present but for the future."

"Meaning what? That that thing is piloted by some kind of superwhales and it told them it's going to watch out for them?"

"That seems to be how George and Gracie feel. There were also indications of something that might have been anticipation, perhaps for future contact with the Probe or some similar device."

McCoy exhaled audibly. "So it is coming back. Or sending for its big brother."

"I do not believe that anyone familiar with the events in question doubted that it would return at some future date, Doctor. My limited findings only move the probable time of that return much closer to the present."

McCoy shook his head, uneasily remembering, first, the unexplained call from Starfleet and then the abrupt summons from the captain to meet both him and Commander Sulu in the transporter room, which was

where they were heading now. "You don't suppose that's what Jim is so anxious to see us about?"

"I do not believe so, Doctor. My first act upon returning to the Enterprise was to avail myself of the latest subspace communiquds regarding the Probe's course and location. It is continuing its outward course in the direction of the First Federation and thus far shows no indication of turning back."

McCoy snorted. "So it's someone else's problem for a while. Well, I wish them luck."

Spock's eyebrow arched minutely, but he said nothing as the door to the transporter room hissed open before them and he saw Sulu and the captain materializing.

The funeral lasted two nights and a day. In that time, thousands upon thousands appeared to sign the Book of Death and pass before the wasted waxen figure in its upright sarcophagus in the Central Septum of the Hall of Columns. In that time, lacking food or sleep, Jandra performed, and almost as many marveled at her tireless brilliance as expressed their grief over the event that gave her the chance to display it.

She alternated among the three instruments best suited to elegiac music-the three-stringed bahtain, the twelve-stringed plekt, and the all-but-impossible onestringed the'el. She worked her way through the repertoires of Lerma, Talet, and Mektius without missing a note or repeating a single work.

Her person captivated her audience as much as did her music, as the passers spread her history from one to the next. Wife of subCenturion Tiam, some whispered, and twin of kerDajan the archaeologist. A twin! marveled those new to the information. And was she the elder? Told she was, they were pleased: Well, that explains it!

But wasn't there an elder sibling as well? someone asked.

It was a reasonable question, in that clearly neither Jandra nor her twin was in the military. But the silence spread up and down the line of mourners.

No, of course not!

Never!

You must have been mistaken!

And the mourners passed the dais where she played, returning their attention to the motionless figure in the upright sarcophagus, who yet held sway over them, consigning music and musician to the background where they belonged.

Jandra played. Her head buzzed, her wrists and fingers were numb; she was beyond exhaustion. Sometimes she daydreamed, remembering another lifetime when she had been a child prodigy, playing for the great musicians of many worlds.

"Be grateful," more than one had told her parents, "that there is an elder to fulfill the military obligation. For this one is destined to be a musician!"

Sometimes Jandra wept, the tears splashing from her glass-green eyes to bathe the soundboard of the the'el or the bahtain.

How touching! the passers murmured then. See how moved she is, that she weeps for him!

Not for him! Jandra thought fiercely, save for the fact that he ever existed. Rather, I weep for them-my mother, my father, my brother. .

Among the worlds of the'Federation, of course, there was little weeping done for the Praetor. Instead, there was preparation, so that, by the time the official word promised by the static-shrouded voice actually arrived,

Starfleet had already doubled its patrols along the Neutral Zone and ordered its ships to the highest state of readiness. If the chaos in the Romulan Empire was to turn to outward aggression, the Federation would be ready to defend itself.