Forwarded by the ASC-VSO Posted: 4 Jan 2004 08:21:54 -0800 In: alt.startrek.creative From: watergal@mindspring.com (Lyra) Title: Brueghel's Icarus Author: Lyrastar Series: TOS Codes: S/m, K/S themes Rating: NC-17 Parts: 1/4 Contact: lyrastarwatcher at yahoo dot com Disclaimer: The characters and all things pertaining to Star Trek are the property of Paramount Viacom. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made. I needed the fine tools for my work; they would have been returned in the morning. Archive: Pon Farr Online Fest; ASC*; my page www.geocities.com/lyrastarwatcher Others please ask first. Summary: A Vulcan alone in Earth's past. Or almost. Challenge: No familiar characters [well, one], no futuristic settings (okay), just everyday 2002 (or almost) [close enough]. Then one character reveals that he is a Vulcan going into pon farr. How does the normal earthling react? How is the problem solved? Author's Notes: Written for the Pon Farr Online Fest at http://www.geocities.com/ponfest/ and based on the challenge to set pon farr on modern day (or almost) earth. There is a good bit of historical background in here on the Navajo, or Dine, people of the Southwestern USA. This includes their legend of Twin Heroes, the children of the Sun. They are of the Holy People, and may be called upon to intercede between god and man. They are the aggressive, impulsive Monster-Slayer and the reserved, cautious Child-of-the-Water. Other than taking a few artistic liberties with the healing ritual of sandpainting, I have made a concerted effort to be sociologically accurate. Any aspects of Navajo culture or history depicted herein are based on published references, which I may have, unfortunately, misconstrued. Please forgive if I have stepped on any toes. Betas: Many thanks to SAMK for the crash course on Navajo culture, and to jm for making me fix it up until she said it could be posted. BRUEGHEL'S ICARUS The sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green water And the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on. W.H. Auden Musee des Beaux Arts ******* Captain Ploughman knew that flying would be the culmination of his life. It would never get any better than this. Flying was better than sex. Better than liquor. Better than when Anna said she would marry him. Even better than holding his baby girl for the first time. These things gave him happiness on earth; flying released him completely from all earthly cares. Cruising though the cloudless skies of the vast New Mexico desert, he felt the freedom sing through his body. The air buoyed him up by the wings; the strong summer sun beat through the windshield, warming his soul. There was only the little voice somewhere in the back of his brain to remind him of his mission. The fledgling National Intelligence Authority was antsy. Someone had heard a rumor of an Indian uprising planned for this Independence Day and so the XF-12 had been sent out for aerial surveillance. Soon he would go in for photographic runs as ordered. Too soon he would have to return to Roswell Army Airbase and the confines of the world below. As for right now, he was free at 12,000 feet. He reveled in every precious moment of it. His reverie was interrupted by the voice of his copilot. "Hey, Stu. What's that? Bearing 124." Ploughman looked down. There was a small cloud of smoky dust billowing up from the desert beneath them. "Sandstorm, I guess," he said idly. "Sandstorm?" the copilot echoed doubtfully. "It's awfully localized." "Well, what else could it be?" Ploughman answered irritably. "There's nothing down there but snakes and cacti. We're still miles from the border. Even the redskins aren't crazy enough to live out here in this wasteland." "That's what I mean. There isn't supposed to be anything down there. Don't you think we ought to go in and take a look?" Ploughman snapped, "Negative. Our assignment is to recon the reservation only. If a couple of wandering injuns want to arm-wrestle a snake to death in the middle of this godforsaken wasteland, I wish them the joy of it. We have our orders." And Captain Ploughman sailed off into the distance. Below, the mid-summer sun mercilessly baked the arid desert floor. The small cloud of dust slowly settled around the broken wreckage of the Starfleet shuttle Newton. The sole inhabitant lay prostrate on the deck. A pool of dark green blood pooled ominously around his head. The autodistress beacon still pulsed its signal impotently. It mattered little. Even if it could escape the atmosphere at adequate intensity, there was nothing in this place or time sophisticated enough to recognize it. Up on a cliff a lone figure observed the crash with timeless wonder. Kicking his horse in the flanks, he began to pick his way down the steep trail to investigate. **** Three months later found Spock standing atop a barren crag scanning the airwaves with his tricorder. A small woven basket of squash and corn hung by his side. His incompletely healed legs and pelvis still throbbed at the insult of being forced back to use so soon. He paid them no heed. Instead, the tricorder held his full attention. According to the radio waves, today on a dry lake bed not far from here, the X-1 rocket plane had broken the sound barrier to make history for this planet. For the first time since emerging from the healing trance, Spock had a tangible goal in sight. He sat down on the warm rock to replay the information. He carefully considered the possibilities. While earth technology was nowhere near what would be needed for Cochrane warp drive, Vulcan was already making periodic observations of the planet. If he could modify the subspace beacon to a signal recognizable by current Vulcan sensors and place it outside the scatter of earth's atmosphere, it would eventually be found by a Vulcan scout. From Vulcan, modifying a craft for time-travel should be eminently feasible. Adapting an X-1 rocket engine to reach beyond earth's atmosphere would be ridiculously easy. Arranging to have his beacon deployed from it would be far more difficult. Impossible missions such as that had always been Jim's forte. Jim. With the passing thought, a sharp pain fell heavy within his breast. It caught him unawares and shocked him with its acuity. The sheer enormity of the sense of absence of the man pushed all other thoughts momently aside. Confused by his own weakness, he swallowed and firmly banished such illogical thoughts to the hinterlands of his mind. Hearing the click of hoofsteps on the trail below, he summoned himself back to the concrete. He secured the tricorder within his basket and prepared to descend the rocks. To his surprise the sun had already sunk below the horizon. In its place the barest sliver of an almost new moon now hung, prepared to follow closely behind. And once again, his stars were beginning to emerge. Stiffly, Spock arose from the crag and eased back down the rocky path to the small vegetable garden that lay in its protection. A small dribble of water leaked from a natural reservoir and exited low on the side of the rock face. Spock crossed the garden and stepped over the coarse gravel border to where the path to the homestead began. The free strands of his shoulder-length hair blew casually around his ears. Framed in ebony, his wan face glowed eerily in the twilight. At the head of the path, Chiz Yazzie sat erect on a solid gray mare. His unblemished black hair, carefully knotted at his nape, seemed to belie the long years that told in his lined face. A pale yellow thong wrapped tightly around the bun of hair. The two ends hung down the length of his back to end in heavy silver beads. The horse snorted softly in greeting as Spock approached. Casually Spock stroked her velveteen nose. "Welcome back. You were successful?" Spock asked. He gave a tacit nod to the several jackrabbits and prairie dogs strapped to the mare's back. Chiz Yazzie patted his bulging medicine bundle. "Of course. Those that live in harmony with the land will receive its bounty in full measure. And I see that you too have been successful during my absence. A Navajo would not have walked for six months or longer, much less climbed mesas. Your people heal at a remarkable rate." "Yes. When they are in the hands of a remarkable healer," said Spock with a slight declination of his head. Even as he stood, Spock calculated the odds of his own survival from the crash to this date at less than 18,275:1 He had no logical explanation for his own continued existence. Vulcan physiology could withstand much, but even it had its limits. The flight had been fairly routine. He had taken the Newton from the Enterprise to Earth to attend negotiations between the Federation and Romulus. The political climate was tense and, as a security precaution, attendees had been asked to vent all plasma from warp engines before entering spacedock. He had dropped into a leisurely orbit to collect some data while the engines vented. Too late he had seen the stray pocket of kemacite. Before he had time to respond, the warp field plasma had reached the pocket and reacted violently. Instantly he was caterwauling down through the space/time continuum to crash-land in the wild New Mexico desert of 1947. Against all odds, Chiz Yazzie had entered the still smoking shipwreck, fought his way through the twisted maze of unknown technology and found Spock's broken body. Against all odds, Chiz Yazzie had pulled the foundling to safety, hoisted him onto his horse and carried him away across the desert. He had borne Spock through a hidden crack in the small mesa and into his own hogan. Against all odds, the old Navajo had kept him in sanctuary there through all the days and weeks of helicopters and trucks and searchers and investigators and press agents. Against all odds, he had nursed the alien back to health. Not unlike another healer Spock had known, the Navajo medicine man had cast aside all thoughts but that of a patient in need. He had called upon all the knowledge he possessed, all the wisdom that had been passed down from those who had gone before, and all he knew of the ways of the world and the life force which ran through it. He had somehow sustained Spock not only though the initial coma, but during the weeks-long healing trance wherein his body used nutrition at an accelerated rate. There were Starfleet physicians who could not have done as well. Against all odds, Chiz Yazzie had become both savior and friend. A plaintive howl was heard in the distance. "Come," Chiz Yazzie said. "Even healthy braves do not tackle coyotes by choice." He turned the horse and set off down the trail to the homestead. Spock limped painfully behind. By the light of the cooking fire Chiz Yazzie expertly skinned the spoils of the hunt. He skewered one prairie dog with a spit. The rest he packed out and over a hillock to where the smokehouse stood a short distance away. Spock pan fried the garden vegetables along with a modicum of corn meal. He sat and pushed the food around with a spoon. Chiz Yazzie returned and pulled the skewer off of the fire. As always, he offered Spock the first serving. As always, Spock declined. Chiz Yazzie squatted down on his rock near the fire and tore into a leg joint with gusto. An unexpected wave of bilious nausea hit Spock in the throat. He choked it down and swallowed hard. He must still be more ill than he had believed. Spock said, "It is illogical for a healer such as yourself to so casually kill and feed upon other animals." The words sounded far harsher than he had intended. Even as he heard them exit his mouth, he was dismayed at his display of impropriety towards his host. Chiz Yazzie seemed not to notice. "And I am surprised that such a man as you would force a distinction between plant and animal life. The Dine know that all life is precious; none is to be taken casually. We are all of this world, and we compose the harmonic life force of it. The Dine know that if one takes and uses only wisely, then the balance will remain forever. "Or, at least we used to know this. Now--" He shook his head and looked sadly off to the east where the blacktop highway lay beyond view. The great scar the White man had cut through the heart of the desert. The cut that bled the very life out of the nation he had known and loved. "Now my people abandon the ways of our grandfathers for the ways of the White Man. They turn their backs to the old ways, on what is sacred to me. The young ones do not care to learn the Songs. So few can call upon the Holy Ones now. "We are all Dine, but I no longer see anything of myself in our youth. My family are all dead. I cannot part from the Dine, but I fear that they grow too far apart from me. The delicate balance, the hozho is in peril as the White Man's world infuses our people. Perhaps I no longer know for certain what the Dine believe." Spock stood suddenly and scraped his plate into the horse's trough. She snorted appreciatively. Chiz Yazzie gave him wry glance. Chiz Yazzie said, "That was not my meaning. The Dine idea is to grow and seek sustenance through all that may be around us, to give back in accord, and to be thankful. One will not last long by choosing not to eat of any life at all." "I am not hungry," Spock said simply. Spock returned to the fire and sitting back down, steepled his fingers. "Chiz Yazzie, there is something I must discuss with you. I must attempt to get back to my nation." "They will not come for you?" "The more time that elapses from the point of my departure, the more improbable the arrival of my people becomes," said Spock. "You came from a great distance. Surely it will take time for them to follow you here." Yes. 327.42 years, thought Spock ruefully. "My people do not travel as yours do. There is an inverse relationship between the amount of time elapsed since you found me and the likelihood of their arrival. I would now estimate the odds of my rescue at less than 5732:1. It would seem that I must go to them." Chiz Yazzie stared into the fire for a long moment. "You are not fit to travel. You are welcome to make your home with me for as long as you wish." Another wave pushed at Spock's throat. It may have been nausea; he wasn't sure. "And I thank you for your hospitality. But I must leave tomorrow," said Spock. "Where will you go?" "Beyond the Western Mountain--Murdoc, California. And you are correct. I am not fit. I will require your...assistance." "If you wish, I will take you to the highway in the morning. You should be able to get a ride from a White Man. You may not look much like him, but as long as you don't look like us, they will take you." Chiz Yazzie looked him over. "But, you may want to cut your hair." There was little humor in his voice. "Then, again, I thank you." He stood and looked up almost wistfully at the stars shining bright through the clear night sky. His poorly healed hips protested at the chill in the October night air. Nonetheless he moved awkwardly away from the fire and laboriously clambered back up to the rocky pinnacle. For now, it was as close as he could get. Even later when he limped back to the hogan, sleep was hard won. And harder still to maintain. For the first time since he had landed on Earth, he did not dream of the space. ~end part 1 of 4 -- Stephen Ratliff ASC Stories Only Forwarding In the Pattern Buffer at: http//trekiverse.crosswinds.net/feed/ Yahoo! Groups Links To visit your group on the web, go to:http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCL/ To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:ASCL-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service. From ???@??? Mon Jan 05 01:42:01 2004 Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n16.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.71]) by cockatoo (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1aDopr793NZFkl0 for ; Sun, 4 Jan 2004 22:40:17 -0800 (PST) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1977044-12813-1073284815-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.