Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [124]
This is, of course, provided that I am able to locate her once again.
The communications directory has been quite unhelpful in the matter. Either she does not live in the capital city, or her communication information is intentionally not listed. One option is just as possible as the other.
We spoke quietly that first night until the library closed, her telling me all about the city, what she knew of the Sky Ship, anything I could think of to ask. When we had to leave the library, she asked if I would walk her to the transit station. “While the city has its advantages over the suburbs,” she said, “guaranteed safety isn’t one of them.”
Mareeza certainly kept me on my toes that evening while we walked. I tried to think of every answer to her litany of questions that a person in the position I claimed-a simple doctor trying to relocate to the city from a lifelong practice in the suburbs-would give. It would appear that I was successful. If she thought I was deceiving her, she gave no indication. She may very well be just the inroad I require to begin restoring this world to its former path of cultural development.
D
OCTOR’S
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ERSONAL
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OG
- Stardate 53501.3006889368
Day 21 on Tahal-Meeroj
Well, it’s been an eventful day.
I began my attempt to mitigate the damage, but it didn’t turn out quite the way I’d intended. Using the skills given me by Mr. Tuvok’s programming adjustment before my departure, I was able to construct the identity for myself that I’d given Mareeza Tabreez. Interestingly enough, this would have led to my first job interview, but it would seem that fate, destiny-whatever it is that organics call what they believe-intervened.
I was on my way to the hospital for the interview when I came across a mugging in progress in a darkened alley. Someone was curled in a fetal position on the ground, and his two assailants were picking over his clothing like jackals.
The newspapers would have me believe there is no crime here. Hah!
I am fully aware that my actions constituted interference, however, my core ethical programming could not allow me to continue to watch the person be beaten. I called up the various martial arts subroutines that Mr. Paris had thought amusing for my forays into his Captain Proton holonovels, yelled for the authorities, and ventured forth. The attackers were both male, and looked to be about twenty years old, although without real-world experience with Tahal-Isut aging, it was difficult to determine that with any precision. One was muscular, with short, dark hair and eyes. The other was blond and thin, more sinewy muscle than bulk-and a knife covered in their victim’s blood in his left hand.
Since the victim had already been wounded, there was no time to lose. With a swift side kick, I knocked the knife from the blond’s hand. Did I expect that to work? Hardly. However, while the blond went scurrying for his weapon under a nearby waste bin, his colleague brought a fist up to punch me in the jaw.
Now, under normal conditions, I would have simply adjusted my holomatrix to allow the punch to pass through me without harm to either of us, but I couldn’t do that. It would have given me away.
It was, however, a simple matter to increase the density of my outermost forcefield, making the punch land on something vaguely resembling duranium, breaking several bones in the dark-haired man’s hand in the process. After that, a simple Vulcan neck pinch put them both on the ground, unconscious.
I made certain to note for the future that that trick worked on this species.
I had been, however, too focused on the combat to notice the extent of the damage they’d inflicted upon my first patient on this world. The blood on the knife had come from a puncture wound in the man’s lower left side.
Fortunately for him, I’d been brushing up on