Free Yesterday Son by A. C. Crispin

chin. “I feel cold on my neck.”
    “That’s not surprising,” McCoy said absently, studying the newly revealed features. I can see his mother there, in the jaw and mouth, but mostly ... He shook his head. “Come on,” he said, gathering up the scissors. “Let’s clean up, then we’ll get something to eat.”
    The gray eyes lighted at the mention of food.
    The kitchen was filled with appetizing odors when they arrived. Kirk and Spock were there ahead of them, sitting at the large table with Doctor Vargas and the rest of the archeologists. Zar hesitated just inside the door, suddenly conscious of all the eyes focused on him. Looking at more faces that he’d ever seen in his life, he felt his heart begin to slam, even though there was nothing to fight, nothing to flee. His eyes searched desperately for familiarity, found the Captain’s face, and then Spock’s, but there was no reassurance in their expressions—only shock.
    McCoy put a hand on his shoulder, and Zar started at the touch. “Sit over here, son.” The younger man was relieved to be moving, relieved to sit down next to the Doctor, escaping the stares he didn’t understand. There was silence for a long moment, then Doctor Vargas cleared her throat.
    “I didn’t realize that family resemblances among [70] Vulcans were so marked, Mr. Spock. How are you two related?”
    The First Officer’s voice was normal, but he didn’t meet the archeologist’s eyes. “Family connections on Vulcan are complicated. The term is untranslatable.”
    There’s another lie, thought McCoy, and glanced at Zar. The younger man stared at Spock, expressionless, but the Doctor knew that he’d picked up on the evasion, if not the reason for it.
    The buzz of conversation started back up, and McCoy passed bowls of food to his protégé. Zar mentally compared the amount of food on the table with the number of people, and served himself only a small portion—he’d made do with less, many times. McCoy, noticing this, asked, “Aren’t you hungry? There’s plenty more where this came from.”
    “Enough for everyone?” The younger man looked skeptical.
    “Sure. Go ahead—have as much as you want.” McCoy passed him another bowl. Hesitantly, the young man served himself, then began to eat, slowly, handling the knife and fork efficiently, but mimicking the others at the table when it came to using the serving utensils. McCoy noticed that Zar copied Spock’s choice of food.
    When the meal was over, Doctor Vargas invited them to join the others in the recreation room, explaining that several of the archeologists played musical instruments, and they usually held an informal concert every evening.
    As they found seats, Kirk whispered to McCoy, “You did that deliberately, Bones. Cutting his hair like Spock’s, I mean.”
    The Medical Officer grinned, unrepentant. “Sure I did,” he returned, “Spock can always use a little shaking up. Did you see his face when Zar walked in? No emotions, hell.”
    “It shook me up. I wonder what the reaction will be when we get back to the Enterprise!”
    “They won’t suspect the truth, because of the age [71] difference, but ...” McCoy stopped, realizing that the concert was ready to begin.
    The archeologists performed well, especially Vargas, who played the violin. Zar was enthralled by the music, McCoy saw. When the session ended, the younger man examined the violin with rapt attention, though he didn’t venture to touch it. “How does it work?” he wanted to know.
    Vargas smiled, and caressed the shining wood. “It would take me a long time to explain it all, Zar. Longer than you’ll be here, because Mr. Spock says you’ll be leaving on the supply ship tomorrow morning, But if you read up on violins, you’ll be glad you got a chance to see this one. It’s a genuine Stradivarius— one of about a hundred that still exist outside museums. I had to get a special permit to be allowed to keep it for personal use, and it took