String Theory, Book 3: Evolution

by Heather Jarman

  The best he could tell, a projectile had entered the back of Nual’s head, passed through his brain and a primary circulatory junction located between the throat and brain and lodged there, thus the hemorrhaging from the mouth. Without any medical accoutrements, the Doctor had no chance of saving him. There was a slim possibility that he might be able to tamp off the bleeding long enough to let Din see his father before his death. The Doctor had that hope in mind when he squeezed backside first into a rotted-out hollow in the trunk of a gargantuan pine, clutching Nual in front of him like a shield. He shoved his fingers into Nual’s mouth, feeling his way past the man’s teeth back into his throat, where he found the spurting vessels. He pressed hard against the wound and the bleeding momentarily stopped. Waiting for the attack to subside would be torturous—he didn’t know how he could do it, sitting there, helplessly anticipating his own death as well as that of his patient. Several breaths later, the assault ceased.

  The Doctor paused, listening for any sign of his attacker; initially, he heard nothing save gurgling in Nual’s throat. The death rattle, as it was commonly known. The wounded man’s respirations became more shallow and irregular—then a gasp. The Doctor remained still, feeling Nual’s life drain away within the circle of his arms; he focused on controlling the anxiety surging through him but found it increasingly difficult to think clearly. To even consider the possibility appalled him, but if Nual couldn’t die more quietly, he might have to hasten the process. He cursed his circumstances. Unshed tears pooled in his eyes—from anger, from fear, from the crippling helplessness that kept him from treating Nual.

  A single crackle in the underbrush caused him to sit up sharply, all his senses on alert.

  Whether Din approached or his assailant, he couldn’t guess. The Doctor would be killed if he was caught here. If he perished, many more—including Voyager—would follow. He made the painful choice, removing his thumb from the back of Nual’s throat. The geyser of blood resumed. Gingerly, he resituated himself so that Nual was hidden inside the trunk. He made a quick check to see if Nual carried any weapons he wasn’t aware of: the Ocampan had been unarmed, so he would be unarmed.

  The Doctor moved quickly from shadow to shadow, looking for places to hide. He almost tripped over a fallen branch that, if wielded with force, might be an effective weapon. Yanking it out of his way, he tucked it up beneath his arm and continued his escape. Behind him, the whoosh-whoosh of shaking brush picked up tempo. No sign of civilization or assistance caught the Doctor’s attention. Theoretically, he could run along the reservoir’s eastern boundary for several kilometers before he’d connect with the general’s troops, assuming that he survived the journey without being shot or his legs giving out beneath him. He didn’t believe he had a choice—

  His foot came down with a splash, his boot sinking up to his ankle in slimy murk before he had the sense to take two large steps backward into the forest. A deep whiff of brackish air and he knew he’d reached a swampy area. Reeds and clumps of grass extended as far as he could see. He headed away from the shoreline, but discovered the ground to be increasingly boggy with each subsequent step. The only thing he had in his favor was the inability of his assailant to track him in the dark: it wasn’t like his footsteps were visible. With neither the time nor the familiarity with the landscape to traverse the area with any speed, his assailant had run him into a dead end.

  Unless…

  The Doctor turned abruptly toward the reservoir, taking large steps until he reached the water. He inhaled deeply, sat down, and pushed himself into the water as soundlessly as he could. Repressing the urge to stop moving as the cold water soaked his clothing, he persisted until he was in the reservoir up to his neck. The deep water made it easy to move about without splashing. Meter by meter, he stroked over toward the reeds. The crashing from the forest continued unabated. Any minute now, his pursuer would be upon him. He gently parted the reeds and swam, ever so carefully, until he was surrounded on all sides. Lowering his foot, he felt around the bottom until he found a rock to shift his weight onto. He then lowered the other foot so he could stand and watch without having to tread water.

  While he was certain that he’d temporarily eluded certain death, he wasn’t sure how long he would remain undetected. He doubted he had the capacity to remain in the chilly water indefinitely—he had maybe six hours, seven at the longest—before hypothermia set in. Making his captor give up searching for him was the challenge. The Doctor had limited resources to create a diversion or to hide himself. A thought occurred. He saw a reed that had recently become uprooted floating in the water nearby. Under the water, he broke off the bottom and the top. A quick glance revealed that, as he hoped, it was hollow. Crouching down so he was submerged under the water, save his chin and above, he placed the base of the reed to his lips and tilted his head backward. The reed stood erect above the water while his head remained under the water. He sucked in deep breaths through the reed stem, in and out, in and out, trying to ignore the mud and other detritus coming into his mouth. Perhaps he’s given up, the Doctor thought hopefully.

  The loud splash from several meters away told him differently. A silhouette darkened the water as a few sloshing steps came closer.

  The Doctor stood still as stone. He allowed his rib cage to expand mere centimeters with each inhalation for fear of disturbing the water. One and two and three air in; one, two three, air out…he counted. Aching fingers clutched the reed, the cold water stiffening the muscles; his splinter-filled lip swelled. Each breath dried inside of his mouth. Salivary glands squirted into his throat but he couldn’t swish the liquid around for fear of disturbing the reed. A current change in the water nearby alerted him. Only his desperation to remain alive gave him the strength to endure.

  The slenderest beams of moonlight illuminated the masculine features of the person stalking him. The Doctor saw the outline of the four-quadrant crest on the shield: a notched sword, a bleeding sun, an openmouthed feline with vicious canine teeth, and a soldier figure, one foot placed on the back of a victim. The pursuer could only be one of Mestof’s men—it was the only conclusion that made sense. He twisted to the side, the relief of his face etched against the paler black-blue of the sky above the water. With a swish, he turned away and vanished from view.

  The splashing sounds became fainter as the assailant went away from his location. He must have decided to give up. The Doctor permitted himself a luxurious swallow before resuming his disciplined routine. He counted, allowing several minutes to elapse before determining that he was in the clear. Exercising the same caution he had thus far, he swam out into open water and then to the shore. Scooting backward, he leaned against a tree trunk, coughing until the dirt cleared out of his throat. He bent over to remove his boots, intent on emptying the water out of them.

  Mestof’s assassin had a knife blade at his throat. “Tell me where the rest of the witch’s troops are and I’ll allow you a few more minutes of life.”

  Chapter 5

  Q had explained that Q University wasn’t so much a university in the way that Harry understood the term (after all, the Q were omnipotent). Rather, it was an organization that provided opportunities for the Q to exercise and refine their “Q-ness” under the auspices of the most esteemed Q in the Continuum, “including myself,” he’d added. The Q who matriculated at Q U acquired enhanced status within the Continuum. Q had informed Tom and Harry that anyone who had any desire for power and glory with the Continuum had to endure examination at Q U, even though it meant surviving their studies with curtailed Q powers. “Part of the challenge,” Q had explained. After such a description, Harry hadn’t been sure what to expect from an institution of higher learning geared toward all-powerful beings. His imagination ran wild with the possibilities.

  The reality was, well, pedestrian.

  But it was, right up to the flying buttresses on the library, exactly what Harry would want in a university.

  Q University reminded Harry Kim a good deal of
the crumbling, ivy-covered institutions he’d grown up dreaming of attending. Oxford. Princeton. Deneva. The Institute at Ursa Prime. Cleveland University. Students of all heights, widths, skin tones (and a few without skin), dressed in their black robes, flooded the walkways, eagerly engaged in deep philosophical conversations as they moved across the quad between classes. The clock-tower bell tolled sonorously, marking the hour’s arrival. The three of them passed by oaks with trunks the size of Voyager’s nacelles, beneath graceful leafy branches curving over the cobblestone paths and through archways. Even the ugly gargoyles—staring down from their perches atop detached Ionic columns—made Harry smile.

  Then he reminded himself what Q had said about reality being relative to personal perception, and he decided that his brain was translating Q University into his academic dream world. If he started looking in the professors’ directory, he guessed he’d probably find Aristotle, Euclid, Michelangelo, da Vinci, Newton, Mozart, and Cochrane too—all teachers he’d jump at the chance to study with. Too bad it wasn’t real. At least, not real the way Harry wanted real. It was like finding out that the dessert you’d been craving for days was, in actuality, a ration bar dressed up to look like dessert. He sighed and continued trudging dutifully after Tom and Q.

  All three of them had slipped black student robes over their blazers and khakis, so no one gave them a second look as they raced past clusters of students arguing, eating, and discussing. What does a pandimensional student body look like, he thought, trying not to be too obvious about his curiosity. His eyes widened as he thought he saw…Whoa. Is that anatomically possible? Finding it difficult not to stare, his steps stuttered to a halt.

  Q hooked an arm around Harry’s neck and dragged him, stumbling, forward. “Eyes on the prize, my boy, eyes on the prize.”

  Gagging, Harry extracted his throat from the crook of Q’s elbow and took a place walking on Q’s left. Tom was on the right.

  “We’ll start in his suite. The Keeper of the Light might have left behind some indication of where he’s gone to,” Q said, making an abrupt turn down a pathway that veered out of the main areas and branched off in the direction of several shabby two-story buildings constructed of decomposing rust-colored brick. As they approached the central building, Harry noticed a couch with stained flowered upholstery sitting on the lawn, springs and stuffing popping out of a cushion. An upward glance revealed red lace lingerie hanging from a tree branch. Harry sniffed: a distinct fermented aroma drifted from an open second-floor window. He exchanged puzzled looks with Tom, who shrugged. Harry was trying to decide whether it was related to booze or bodily eliminations when an explosive POP rattled the glass, followed by a shower of shards and drifting smoke. Arms over his head protectively, Harry glanced up from his crouch at Tom, who appeared to have a disturbing degree of ease amid the refuse of debauchery.

  A frieze embossed with Q HALL was mounted above the porch. Harry kicked aside several empty bottles and wrappers as he climbed up the stairs. On the porch swing, a figure buried beneath a moth-eaten blanket stirred, then resumed snoring.

  Q guided them through a nondescript lobby, up a flight of rickety stairs, and down a hallway past several doors, one of which was barely hanging on to its hinges. When they reached the door at the end of the hallway, Q didn’t bother to knock. He threw open the door and stormed into the suite, his robes fluttering out behind him. “Where is he?” he shouted.

  Harry’s first thought upon entering the Keeper of the Light’s suite was that he wished he were eligible to attend a pan-dimensional university, because these quarters made his Academy dorm look like the backwaters of Farius Prime. Fur-covered chaises sat atop aquarium foundations. Music floated in via unseen speakers, and the sound quality made his audiophile’s heart weep for joy. Sculptures carved from iridescent stone—might it be extinct pink marble from Teanak III?—were set amid striped lilies, and orchids cascaded out of floor-to-ceiling cylindrical planters. To Harry, whose soul was drawn to all things beautiful and artful, this place had been decorated with an eye to quality, not opulence; with a sense of carefully composed line and color as opposed to finery for the sake of showing off.

  Tom appeared to be absorbed in examining a floor-to-ceiling viewscreen displaying a menu of entertainment choices ranging from a roleplay channel to an intergalactic gaming net. With a room like this, why bother going to class?

  After a moment, Harry realized that a slight figure clad in black student’s robes stood beside a desk, bent over a computer station, fingers tapping furiously. Apparent anachronisms in worlds as complex as the Continuum barely registered now, but Harry was wondering what a computer could possibly offer a Q.

  Q bellowed a second time, prompting the student to turn a placid gaze on the trio. “Do you ever knock, Q?” Her hood fell away, revealing a pair of wide violet eyes framed by short straw-colored hair, punctuated by a lock of bright blue that draped down the middle of her nose. Full, rose-colored lips turned up in what could only be described as a sarcastic half-smile.

  Involuntarily, Harry grinned. Like an idiot, he recognized, but a grin nonetheless. Okay, she probably wasn’t real the way he wanted to experience real, but this was an illusion he could adjust to.

  Noting Harry’s appreciation, the blonde sent him a sideways glance and then surveyed him from head to toe with a frank gaze that made Harry wonder if she could see through him.

  He smiled winningly, further inviting her attentions.

  She dismissed him with a sniff.

  Shaking his head in an I-told-you-so way, Tom winced.

  The blonde placed her fist on a cocked hip. “The Keeper’s not here. I informed you of that fact when you contacted me yesterday.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve hidden him from the Continuum,” Q said, systematically lifting the chaise’s fur-covered cushions and checking beneath.

  “Like he’d hide in there after you found him last time,” she said derisively. “He’s too clever to repeat himself.”

  Harry moved past wondering how the Keeper of the Light would hide himself in a couch cushion and returned to appreciating to the petite blonde. Once you got past the don’t-touch-me vibe, she had a wide-eyed wholesome look to her that reminded Harry of spring-break trips to the Mars caverns with his parrises squares team and barbecues on his parents’ backyard deck with the neighbors’ children. “You’re Q too?” Harry asked the female Q, making sure that he closed his mouth after he spoke. Gaping—and subsequently drooling—would be a turnoff.

  “No. I’m q,” she said, emitting a burdened sigh. “Can’t you hear the lowercase?” She shrugged her robe off her shoulders, tossed it on the chaise, and then smoothed and straightened her bright pink tank top.

  Harry wasn’t close enough to discern the tattooed pattern that covered most of her left shoulder and upper arm, but it had a decidedly geometric flavor. He could picture himself lounging beside her, tracing those lines as far as they might go, over her shoulder, down her back…

  Tom cleared his throat.

  Harry chose to ignore him. Tom wasn’t going to ruin his daydream. He knew how to look and not touch.

  “Look wherever you want, Q. You aren’t going to find him here. I haven’t seen him for a few days now.” When q flopped stomach-first onto the couch, her black skirt rode up around her thighs, revealing a pair of shapely, tanned legs. Manicured fingernails, painted chartreuse, combed through her hair, ruffling the short locks on the back of her neck.

  The blood rushed from Harry’s head. He placed a hand on an end table to stop him from toppling over.

  Cupping a hand over his mouth, Tom leaned down and whispered, sotto voce, “Don’t do it, Harry.”

  “What?” Harry said, eyes never leaving q. She really is something. Had that perky cute beach-girl exterior with a definite undercurrent of devil-may-care Q-ness that intrigued the hell out of him.

  “Fall for a Q. Your track record with alien women isn’t the greatest.”

  “I hard
ly think that’s fair,” Harry said. “Besides, who says I’m falling for her?” He resented Tom’s assumption that he was a naïve schoolboy who needed protection.

  “The giddy expression on your face.” Tom chuckled softly. “Never gamble, Harry, unless you’re prepared to lose.”

  As Q continued poking about, generally wreaking havoc, q watched, her face etched with annoyance. “He’s not stupid. The Nacene sent their representatives poking around the Continuum boundaries a week ago and he wasn’t about to risk letting his blobby half-relatives sniff him out.”

  “Which blobs were they? Do you recall?” Q asked.

  “One of them took a form like them—humanoid,” she said, nodding in Harry’s general direction. q rolled onto her back with a sigh, reaching her arms above her head in a decidedly feline stretch. “Why do you keep bringing these carbon-based bipedals around, Q? I mean, aren’t their kind supposed to stay in the suburbs? They can’t have had their shots.”

  “Living dangerously can be exhilarating, my dear,” Q said. “Haven’t you learned yet what a fun college town the Milky Way can be? You need to get out more often.” He threw open a closet, revealing stacks of magazines, sports accountrements, assorted gadgets and gizmos that Harry could tell must be light-years ahead of Federation technology but of course he wouldn’t have the opportunity to examine. Q spun around and stood behind the chaise. “All right. He’s not here.”

  Tilting her head, she glanced up at Q. “What gave it away?”

  “Where is he?”

  q hesitated.

  “Tell me or I’ll report your extracurricular neuro-chemistry projects to the Student Oversight Board.”

  She glowered at Q. “Talk to the Oversight Board and I’ll tell the Continuum you lost the Keeper of the Light!”