Possession - J.M. Dillard [4]
He moved away from the console, going now to the observation port where he could view his subjects as they lay passively behind multiple Vulcan forcefields.
Such innocent-looking things they were, these elliptical containers small enough to be held in the palm. They always reminded Skel of a beautiful creature he had once seen while visiting a Terran beach—an oyster, for though they were onyx in color, there was a prismatic, mother-of-pearl sheen to them, glints of metallic blue, green, and rose that shifted constantly like a tide. Even after a lifetime of studying them, Skel found it hard to believe such simple, elegant objects held such a terrible force; in truth, these two small objects contained a peculiarly vicious disease, a murderous madness that had infected the cities of Vulcan eighty years before. The disease had been cured, but its legacy remained. Survivors, like Skel and his father, had been forced to continue with their lives despite the horrible consequences of the disease. Many of them, like Skel’s father, never fully recovered. Many, like Skel, were still recovering.
Part of Skel’s therapy had been to assume the work of his predecessor twenty-five years ago. And in spite of well-supported research and some of the finest minds of the Vulcan Science Academy, little had been learned of these objects—objects that generated their own impenetrable forcefields without any perceivable power source or mechanism. Though, lately, Skel believed he might have unlocked one secret of the fields. It was a discovery he wanted to share with other Federation scientists. Together, they might harness this advanced technology to serve the Federation as a defensive protection against more aggressive species such as the Romulans.
It had been driving him for years, the need to derive something, anything, positive from these terrible alien artifacts. He blinked wearily as he stared at the beautiful, deadly containers. He would have years to study them yet, learn of their origins, determine who their creators were. Years. But not if he did not sleep.
He signaled the sensors to dampen the lights, watching the glow his subjects radiated on their own. As he did, he heard the warning clearly, unmistakably in his mind:
RUN! RUN, MY CHILD, RUN! NOW! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!
Wearily, he shut his eyes. Would the memory of T’Reth’s voice finally drive him mad?
Mother, please! You are gone, your katra scattered to the winds. Do not torture my sleep, my waking hours. There is no logic to your warning. There is no danger here. There is only your son, an aging scientist worrying about his own deadlines and the inexorable march of time.
The frantic voice faded to a whisper and was gone. Skel was turning to leave the lab and return to his bed when his sensitive hearing detected the slightest of sounds—a faint rustle of cloth.
Freezing in place, he fought the urge to flee as his heart rate accelerated and his body prepared for conflict. Who would be here, in his laboratory, at this hour—hiding? There was nothing of value here. Nothing but …
His eyes moved back to the alien containers. Certainly, no one would be so foolish as to attempt to—
The thought was interrupted by sound and sensation: the sound of a light footstep, so swift that Skel had no time to turn and face its perpetrator, and the sensation of something hard, cold, and metal being shoved against his lumbar spine.
A weapon, he knew immediately, though his experience with weapons was limited. From the feel of its muzzle against his back, he judged it to be a phaser; from the diminutive height of the individual wielding it, he judged his visitor to be of Ferengi origin.
“Master Scientist Skel,” came a faintly high-pitched, nasal voice which confirmed the Vulcan’s hypothesis, “this is an honor. Your assistance would be most appreciated.”
“Who are you?” Skel asked, studying the distance between