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Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
To Xuân and Kelly, for teaching me that faith and reason can get along after all.
And to Jerry Goldsmith, who lives on as pure music.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is a story I’ve wanted to tell since the days when writing Star Trek fiction professionally was only a remote fantasy. But I wouldn’t have been able to tell it without the help and inspiration of a lot of people. What follows is no doubt an incomplete list, and I apologize for any omissions.
Thanks first to the screenwriters who provided the primary sources for this historical exploration, including D. C. Fontana, Gene Roddenberry, Boris Sobelman, and Rik Vollaerts from the Original Series; Alan Dean Foster, Harold Livingston, Jon Povill, and Jaron Summers from Phase II/ST:TMP; and Rick Berman, Brannon Braga, Robert Doherty, Michael Piller, Phyllis Strong, and Mike Sussman for more recent insights into Vulcans and Trek history. For additional character background, I’m indebted to Allan Asherman (Who’s Who in Star Trek); Peter David (The Captain’s Daughter); Diane Duane (Enterprise Logs: “Night Whispers” and general inspiration); Julia Ecklar (The Kobayashi Maru) and the rest of L. A. Graf (various works); Josepha Sherman & Susan Shwartz (Vulcan’s Forge); and Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore (S.C.E.: Foundations).
Thanks to Robert Wise, Harold Michelson, Douglas Trumbull, John Dykstra, Jerry Goldsmith, and their colleagues for making Star Trek: The Motion Picture such an extraordinary cinematic achievement and an indelible influence on me. And thanks to Wise, David C. Fein, Michael Matessino, Daren R. Dochterman, and the erstwhile staff of Foundation Imaging for completing the film at long last. Particular thanks to Robert Fletcher and Fred Phillips, whose concepts for the diverse aliens glimpsed in the film provided the foundation for their portrayals here. And I’d like to give a nod to Paula Crist, Joshua Gallegos, David Gerrold, Marcy Lafferty, Terrance O’Connor, Momo Yashima, Billy van Zandt, and the other background players with whom I’ve populated this novel.
Much gratitude to the authors of the references which helped me get the details right, including David Kimble (ST:TMP Blueprints and cutaway poster), Shane Johnson (Mr. Scott’s Guide to the Enterprise), Geoffrey Mandel (ST Star Charts), Judith & Garfield Reeves-Stevens (The Art of ST and ST Phase II: The Lost Series), Susan Sackett (The Making of ST:TMP), the Star Fleet Printing Office (Federation Reference Series), and the editors of ST: The Magazine for their special issue on the TMP Director’s Edition. Non-Trek authors whose works provided scientific insights include Poul Anderson, Robert L. Forward, and Stephen L. Gillett.
Thanks to Ian McLean and Bernd Schneider for their helpful Web sites. I also received valuable advice from my fellow members of the TrekBBS’s Trek Tech forum, particularly Aridas Sofia, Hutt359, Alex Rosenzweig, Timo Saloniemi, and Rick Sternbach; of Ex Isle’s Exploring the Universe forum, particularly BR48, CJ Aegis, Delvo, John 3831, and Kaimia (not a real name in the bunch—what are you people hiding?!); and of Psi Phi’s Trek Books forum, particularly Dayton Ward and the aforementioned Ian McLean.
Special thanks to Dr. Elizabeth Frierson, whose keen insights into history in general and modern Middle East history in particular were highly influential in shaping my ideas herein. If the world’s leaders had listened to her, there’d be peace in the Middle East by now. Also thanks to Dr. Michael Sitko for helping me decide where the Fabrina supernova took place.
Finally, eternal gratitude to Marco Palmieri for saying yes when I pitched my dream Trek novel, and to Keith R.A. DeCandido for inviting me onto the playground.
We all create God in our own image.
—Willard Decker
PROLOGUE
YONADA WAS RISING in the western sky, and the farmers were praying to it for rain again. Natira, Governess of the Promised World Lorina, knew she had to put a stop to it— either the praying or the rising. Perhaps Yonada could be moved into a higher orbit, one where it would not be bright enough to see by daylight, and would not cross the sky four times a day. But that would not be enough. Not if the people’s minds could not be opened, as hers had been.
Impulsively, Natira ordered the hovercar to a halt and climbed out, making Tasari’s security team and the Federation team alike scramble to catch up with her. She strode through the mud, not caring that her elegant shoes and the hem of her scintillating gown would be ruined (she had plenty more, after all). She placed herself between the farmers and Yonada, striking a proud pose and speaking in her finest oratorical tones. Truly, how could a dim point of light in the sky compete with her resplendence? “The Oracle will not bring the rain,” she told the misguided souls. “It is naught but a machine—a tool, no more than your plows and rakes. Have faith in your plows and rakes, in the toil of your own sinews, and in the dedication of the People, and then your crops will thrive, and make Lorina thrive.”
The farmers looked on sullenly and timidly, save for one burly youth who rose to challenge her. “Apostate! Betrayer of the Oracle! Why should we listen to you, you Fedraysha whore?”
“Because I serve the Creators’ true purpose,” she replied with a confident smile. “The Oracle was merely a tool of the Creators, and its usefulness has ended. We must rely on ourselves, and on our Federation friends.”
The youth spoke an excremental word, then followed it up with a chunk of the actual substance, fresh from the konari that pulled his plow. It splattered across the front of Natira’s gown—and across the large wedges of her skin that the gown left artfully exposed. Natira winced, thankful that he hadn’t aimed any higher.
Tasari’s security troops were already moving, their crisp brown uniforms clashing with the farmers’ simple homespun robes. The boy tried to run, but they quickly surrounded him with stunners drawn. “Be gentle!” Natira commanded. “For he is but a misguided youth. Such men as he are the future of Lorina, and we have too few as it is.”
“But, Governess, an example must be made,” Tasari insisted. “The people must learn—”
“Yes, learn they must,” she said. “Therefore, take him and offer him guidance. Show him the Book of the People and the texts of the Federation. With education, with enlightenment, he and all Lorini can rise together from the pits of superstition into a bright new age.”
Tasari simply nodded. “Yes, Governess.”
Natira headed back toward the vehicle, eager to return home, discard her ruined gown, and be thoroughly bathed. She didn’t envy the Federation observers, whose senses of smell were more acute than a Fabrini’s. Indeed, Commissioner Soreth’s nose visibly wrinkled, though the wizened Vulcan strove to conceal his reaction. The boyish Starfleet sociologist, Lindstrom, coughed into his fist. “If only you would provide us with your modern equipment,” Natira told them wryly, “such toil and filth would be unnecessary.”
Soreth tilted a
stern eyebrow. “You are well aware, Governess, that you must make such progress for yourself. We can only advise.”
Her attendants, who had rushed forth with washing cloths, proceeded to help her out of her ruined gown. “Even though you wish us to join your great Federation, so our medicines and ancient knowledge can benefit all your peoples?”
“We wish you to be a strong culture that can add to our diversity, not be subsumed by it.”
“Well, you may rest assured, Commissioner, that the children of Fabrina will regain their ancient glory. The People will outgrow the lies of the Oracle, if I have any say at all.”
“I have seen much evidence of such growth in my time here,” Soreth replied. “It would not be logical to believe that a single… noxious incident negated such evidence.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lindstrom said, trying not to look directly at her as her attendants cleansed her skin. Humans had taboos about the oddest things, considering that it had been they who had freed the Fabrini from their worst taboos. “The old beliefs have been ingrained into your culture for over ten thousand years. You can’t expect them to fade away in a generation.”
Natira glared at the boy. (True, he was not much younger than herself, but his callow face, sun-bleached hair, and impulsive manner made it hard to see him as anything but a boy.) “The Creators may have felt that those superstitions served some purpose on Yonada, while we were confined within the false sky of a hollow world. But they intended for the People to know the truth once we reached the World of the Promise. And I am sworn to serve the truth.”
“So am I,” Lindstrom said. “In Starfleet we’re taught that it’s our first duty. But there are different kinds of truth. Whatever the origin of these beliefs, they have meaning to your people; they’re woven throughout your culture.”
“You speak like the Oracle,” Natira scoffed as she began wrapping her replacement gown about her hips. “Truth should be truth for all.”
But Lindstrom was frowning now, sniffing the air. “Do you smell that?”
Soreth cocked a brow. “It is impossible to smell anything else.”
“No, not that—something… burning….” He spun, stared intently at the groundcar for a moment, and then abruptly launched himself at Natira and Soreth in a most unseemly manner, shoving them down into the mud, negating all her attendants’ efforts and ruining the new gown before she’d even fully donned it….
And then the ground shook and searing heat washed over her and a blast of air pushed her deeper into the muck. When she had gathered her wits and sat up to look around, she saw a burning hulk where the hovercar had been. The flames were eerily quiet, and she realized there was no sound in her ears save a loud ringing—just as she realized that the driver had still been inside the car.
* * *
“So Natira lived?”
“Yes, Holiness,” Moredi answered reluctantly. After his bomb had missed its target, he’d been tempted not to return to headquarters to face Dovraku’s judgment. But had he run, he knew the Faithful would have found him, and dealt with him as surely and ruthlessly as they would deal with all their enemies, as he had been meant to deal with Natira. Instead, he faced his leader and spoke the truth, relying on his mercy. “But it was not my failure! That Fedraysha thug saved her! I curse them all! First their ‘Star-fleet’ shackles our Holy Oracle, now it shelters the bitch who betrayed Him!”
“Calm yourself,” Dovraku replied evenly. “All things have their reasons. Even the Starfleet plays its part in the Oracle’s calculations.”
“How? By what logic do the Creators allow such evil to exist?”
Dovraku strode forward, his body relaxed, his gaze dispassionate—and struck Moredi across the face with a force that knocked him to the ground and nearly rendered him unconscious. “It is not for the likes of you to question the Creators’ sublime logic,” he said without emotion. “Remember why we strike now.”
“Because of the Sign.”
“Yes. The birth of a new god, a being of transcendent logic and infinite calculation… directly above the Fedraysha heartworld, as the Oracle is above Lorina.” The prophet’s voice remained calm and clear, unsullied by mortal passion, yet it grew heavier with meaning and faith. “And attending at the birth were the very Starfleeters who sacrificed our Oracle to their Fedraysha lies.”
“But why?” Moredi dared to ask, keeping his tone pleading and not challenging. “Why would they slay one god and herald another?”
“That is something I hope to learn. But clearly there is a purpose to this. The apotheosis at Earth is a sign, a portent of the Oracle’s own rebirth. And the triad of Kirk, McCoy, and Spock will have their role to play, of that I am certain. Perhaps as the Oracle’s deliverers… or perhaps as its sacrifices.”
Dovraku reached out his hand and helped Moredi to his knees, gazing down at him beatifically. “But there is no doubt that the Oracle will soon be reborn, greater and more magnificent than ever before. Mighty V’Ger has shown us the way.”
CHAPTER ONE
Shall we give the Enterprise a proper shakedown, Mr. Scott?
—James T. Kirk
JIM KIRK WAS LOST in the Enterprise.
Not the way he’d been two weeks ago, when his unfamiliarity with the redesigned starship had forced him to ask a yeoman the way to the turboshaft, embarrassing himself in front of Will Decker. No, as soon as the V’Ger mission had ended, Kirk had launched into an intensive study of the upgraded vessel’s every feature. It was something he’d always meant to do, since it made sense for a Chief of Starfleet Operations to know these things, but somehow the business of managing the deployments, personnel, and maintenance of an entire fleet had always managed to keep him from concentrating on the particulars of a single redesign. Or, perhaps, he had subconsciously shied away from it, since it would have hurt too much to watch from afar, knowing that the Enterprise was no longer his.
Kirk had thought his crash course in the new Enterprise’s technical particulars had cured him of the romanticized reaction he’d had upon first seeing her in dry-dock, when Scotty had taken the long way around in the travel pod to show off his baby. But now, as he gazed out the large picture windows of Starbase 22’s officers’ lounge, which overlooked the base’s dock facility and the gleaming starship moored therein, he was lost in her beauty once again. The old Enterprise had always reminded Kirk of Pegasus in flight, her skin gleaming white, her dorsal connector evoking the neck of a horse with head held high, her nacelle struts angled like wings poised for a forceful down-stroke. Yet to an observer of a less poetical bent, it had been a utilitarian design, all functional straight lines and circles. Now, with her more forward-thrusting neck, her backswept pylons, her Art Deco nacelles, her subtly sleeker hull contours, and her constellation of self-illuminating lights, she was a sculpture evoking speed and energy. It was as though she’d emerged from her cocoon looking the way she’d always been meant to look.
Arguably there was little left of the original ship beyond the bare skeletal framework of the saucer and forward secondary hull. It certainly wasn’t the first ship in naval history to be so thoroughly rebuilt, and as much as possible of the original material had been recycled into the new structural members and bulkheads. Still, every propulsion and power system, every computer, every piece of equipment, every meter of piping and optical cable, every last console and chair and lighting panel had been replaced with a new, improved model. Yet none of that mattered to Kirk. After all, most of the cells in his body at the time he’d first taken command of the starship had been replaced by now (though regrettably not with improved versions), but the gestalt remained the same; the body held the same soul. And Kirk had known as soon as he’d seen her that the same was true of Enterprise. The only difference was that her soul was more visible now.
“Don’t you ever get bored?” came a cheerful voice. Kirk noted Commodore Fein’s florid reflection in the window as the base commander entered the lounge. “Just staring at yo
ur ship? I mean, it’s just… sitting there. It’s not doing anything.”
Kirk smiled. “Neither is the Mona Lisa. But people seem to like looking at her.”
“Not my type,” the big, dark-bearded commodore said with a shrug. “And I don’t see what the big mystery is about the smile. I mean, aren’t you supposed to smile when you get your picture taken?”
Kirk opened his mouth, but couldn’t find a response to that. So he just went back to looking at the Enterprise. Fein joined him for a moment, but then yawned conspicuously, earning a glare from Kirk. “Sorry. Don’t get me wrong, she is a pretty ship, no question. Even more so now that my guys are done with her.”
“No argument there. Please extend my thanks to Commander Mattesino and his teams.” Since the Enterprise had been launched prematurely, there hadn’t been much time to install creature comforts. Kirk’s impulsive decision to head “out there, thataway” on a shakedown cruise, rather than returning to Spacedock for debriefing, re-crewing, and final outfitting, had led to grumbling among the crew. So Kirk had arranged to have their personal effects delivered to Starbase 22, which had happened to be in the general direction of “thataway.” Fein and his staff had done a superb job of fixing up the ship, making it less austere and more comfortable. More importantly, they’d helped Spock and the engineering staff purge the last of the Trojan-horse code with which Romulan spies had infected the computers during the refit, and which Decker had discovered literally the night before Kirk had booted him from command. It was only after the V’Ger mission, when Scott and Dr. Chapel had had time to brief him about the incident, that Kirk had learned just how much they all owed the late Will Decker. No, not late, just… missing? Departed? Ascended? What, exactly?
Fein spoke up again, interrupting his reverie. “Are you sure you don’t want us to paint the hull, though? You just want to leave it like that?”
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