String Theory, Book 3: Evolution

by Heather Jarman

When he was several steps away, she said, “Just get it over with. Crisis of the hour. Unreasonable request. Bad news. Take your pick.”

  Chakotay’s eyebrows shot up.

  “If you were expecting a repeat of senior staff, I hate to disappoint you but I’m fresh out of theatrics,” she said, and tossed her soiled rag in the general direction of the recycler.

  “We need to mount a rescue mission,” Chakotay said.

  “I’m not lucky enough that it’s for the Homeward Bound?”

  “Sorry. We’ve encountered three stranded Monorhan ships. Five thousand refugees. No engines, just life-support. We’re going to lend them a hand.”

  It took her a minute to wrap her brain around what Chakotay had said. When his words did sink in, she discovered her resolve to passively agree to whatever he requested had altered somewhat. Instead of rage, however, she felt overwhelmed by the futility of her life. “Haven’t we reached the point where we’ve given enough yet?” B’Elanna sat back on her heels. “At what point do we say to the universe, ‘We accept that we are your slaves and will be fated to this Gre’thor-like existence if we ever attempt to look out for our own interests’?” She blew a mouthful of air and shook her head.

  “Pretty fatalistic approach, even for a half-Klingon.”

  “From where I sit, we’ll bleed ourselves dry before this is over and for what, a species that may not have the capacity to heal its lingering radiation sicknesses before it becomes extinct?”

  “Should we be less compassionate?”

  B’Elanna snorted. “Now, that’s Kathryn Janeway talking.”

  “That’s a compassionate, caring individual speaking.”

  “Am I dealing with Commander Chakotay speaking on behalf of Captain Janeway or am I dealing with Captain Chakotay?”

  “Are you questioning my authority?” Chakotay said, visibly bristling.

  Struck a nerve, did I? B’Elanna slowly climbed to her feet, crossed her arms across her chest, and calmly said, “No. I need to know who’s asking me to put my staff’s lives on the line.”

  “An order from a superior officer is an order, Lieutenant,” Chakotay said.

  She shrugged. “Fine. What do you need: supplies or personnel?”

  “I need an engineer to go on the away mission to the stranded Monorhan space vessels. Tuvok will be in command. Nakano’s picking out a medic.”

  Her decision took only a second. “I’ll go,” B’Elanna said softly.

  “I’m not certain that’s wise under the circumstances,” Chakotay said, narrowing his eyes to study her. His doubts about B’Elanna’s state of mind were clear from the hardened expression on his face.

  “Under the circumstances, I’m the best person for the mission.” B’Elanna unbuckled the tool belt strapped around her waist and tossed it casually into a storage bin beneath a workstation. “If we’re going to get out of this mess once and for all, our best chance is to get the job done right the first time.” She shouted a series of orders to Joe Carey, who poked his head out from behind the warp core long enough to nod in acknowledgment before she returned her attention to Chakotay. “Besides, if someone is going to die in this round, I’d rather have it be me than someone who actually has something left to lose.”

  “I travel alone,” the Doctor calmly said to Mestof’s assassin. “I was separated from the general at Baron Var’s estate. I’ve traveled two days to rejoin her.”

  An angry hiss sounded through his teeth. The knife sliced a stinging line across his flesh. “I don’t believe you.”

  I may actually die here. “You killed the peasant who guided me here.” The Doctor’s mind raced. He had to disarm his attacker. Tension poured off the soldier; the Doctor sensed his fear. “Tie me up, take me back to your camp as your prisoner, interrogate me.”

  The soldier hesitated.

  “Check the insignia on my sleeve,” the Doctor said, praying that Nual knew what he was talking about when he identified him as a high-ranking official.

  The knife bobbled only a little as the soldier pulled up the tunic sleeve. He gasped. “The adjunct to the general!”

  The Doctor felt a shift in the air behind him as the soldier toppled backward, surprised. Now!

  With lightning reflexes, the Doctor spun around and pinned the soldier’s arms to the ground, squeezing his wrist and forcing him to drop the knife. He kicked the weapon into the water with his shoe. The soldier kicked one of the Doctor’s legs out from beneath him, throwing him off balance, but the Doctor grabbed on to the soldier with both hands and pulled him down at the same time. They rolled around on the shore, dangerously near the dropoff to the water. A blow to the Doctor’s mouth, to his eye.

  Don’t make me kill you! The Doctor gouged at the soldier’s face, then ground his teeth into the hand that smashed into his nose. The soldier squealed, his grip slackened. Survival instinct drove him but it warred with his Hippocratic oath. The Doctor pushed the soldier down onto the ground, sitting on the man’s waist, and wrapped both of his hands around the soldier’s neck and compressed his trachea just enough to deny him air and make him disoriented. Somewhere near the base of the ears, there were nerve bundles that would collapse the man if they were compressed hard enough. Taking a risk, the Doctor released his grip on the soldier’s throat.

  The Doctor pressed his thumbs against pressure points beneath the man’s ears, instinctually knowing that doing so would cause pain—violent waves of it. The man’s eyes bulged; a burst blood vessel stained his iris. Unwavering, the Doctor continued compressing the points—even when the hoarse screams began—until the soldier blacked out. The Doctor paused, becalmed himself, closed his eyes and tried to wipe the memories from his mind. He opened his eyes and stared at the soldier for a long moment, wondering who he was and why he had attacked with such viciousness.

  He wanted you dead, came the reoccurring thought as the Doctor counted the assassin’s shallow breaths. He will kill you if he has the chance.

  The Doctor dropped his branch, stumbled to the nearest tree and braced against it for support, his insides convulsing. Bent from the waist, he retched up his stomach contents until he dry-heaved bile. He wiped the vomit from his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned back to the unconscious soldier. Rifling through his pockets, the Doctor removed any item that could possibly be used as a weapon or might be as of use to him. He found, in the soldier’s rucksack, a coil of rope that would be useful in binding the would-be killer’s feet and hands. Once that task was accomplished, the Doctor started back through the forest toward Nual’s corpse. He would drag his friend as far as the outcropping, strip him of his valuables and personal goods, and leave them at the base of the bluff, in case Din should come looking for his father come morning. Knowing Din’s passion and youthful impulsiveness, the Doctor wouldn’t give him a choice whether to follow him to the general’s camp. He would disappear across the water and not look back.

  The slow, methodical trek across the reservoir’s eastern edge took him well past the hour when the moon had begun its nightly descent. Rumbling artillery and explosions continued as he rowed. The Doctor found the regular, rhythmic beat of the oars in the water soothing. Focusing on the physicality of the task allowed him to avoid mulling over the pointlessness of Nual’s death. Guilt for robbing Din of a father would come later. For now, he would row. He reached the opposite shore in the hours before dawn. He walked, following the sounds of battle, as long as he had strength before he stumbled, his legs giving way beneath him. He picked himself up and continued walking a bit farther. At the base of a slope, he crawled under a hollow created by a berm and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  The Doctor pulled his cloak tighter around him, ignoring the persistent tapping on his shoulder. He rolled away, turning his back on whatever was pestering him, and faced toward the matted grass, now warmed by his body.

  The tapping became shaking and continued unabated. A loud whisper joined the assault on his rest. “Adjunct Ced! Wake up! Wake up! The lin
es are shifting. You’re going to be cut off if we don’t leave soon.”

  Wait. Through the befuddlement of sleep, the Doctor heard a name. A name that had the vague ring of familiarity to it. He mumbled something incoherent, requesting that he be left alone. The speaker kept repeating the name, his tone tinged with urgency. And then the name connected with knowledge, a puzzle piece connecting with its mate. Kes had told him the story of the great female general and her most loyal adjunct, an aging Ocampa named Ced. The Doctor’s eyes flickered open.

  Crouched down beside him was an Ocampa wearing a lily crest that matched the one on his own armor. She ceased shaking him as soon as the Doctor’s eyes opened. A dark shape, silhouetted against the daylight sky, filled his view. Mist crawled over the grasses, coiling into sleepy curlicues and clouds.

  “Beg your pardon. Mestof’s troops will be here soon, Adjunct. We need to be on the move,” she said, lips quivering. “The general thought you were dead.”

  The Doctor nodded. “So did I.” He rolled over onto his belly, pushed himself up on all fours, and arched his back in a feral stretch. “I don’t—I can’t recall your name.”

  “Iga. My name is Iga, sir,” she said. “Beyond this rise, we can walk upright. We should stay down until we reach the forest edge. Mestof has spies everywhere. They say even the avians and animals will share their secrets with him.”

  “Lead the way, then.”

  Mimicking the zigzagging, back-and-forth gait of a water bug, Iga darted all along the length of the hillside, using the knee-high, thick-bladed grass for cover. The Doctor followed close behind her, trying to avoid half-buried rocks and insects swarming into their nests.

  The Doctor contemplated whether he should start thinking about defining himself in Ocampan terms. After all, he now had an identity, at least who he was on Ocampa in this era. Ced, son of Pran, adjunct to General Lia, leader of the unified forces of the free republics. He knew Ced was at least eight years old at a time when the Ocampa typically lived into their teens. The Doctor also knew why he’d been in the baron’s fortress. Kes had told him the legendary tale of Lia’s and Ced’s visit to Baron Var to ask him to join the alliance against Mestof.

  What a strange state to be in, to live in a body not one’s own. The Doctor, as he followed Iga, analyzed his memories and responses; he failed to find evidence of Ced’s life force lingering in this body. The life that was Ced must have ended when the fortress collapsed. Vivia had sent the Doctor into Ced’s body and the Doctor’s sentience reanimated the Ocampan.

  When they reached tree cover, they began walking. The Doctor followed Iga, who moved swiftly but soundlessly through the woods, reminding him very much of Nual. Observing the Ocampa’s natural, instinctual interaction with their environment added to the Doctor’s growing conviction that the destruction of the planet’s surface had stunted Ocampan evolution. He could only imagine what traits and abilities might have emerged had they not been forced underground.

  Periodically, Iga looked back to see if he kept up. The Doctor’s sleep had been restful, however, so he discovered renewed vigor as he tramped through the brush. Glancing above him he discovered that the previous night’s transparency had been blanketed in gray-black. A momentary thrill brought by the hope that a storm might be coming gave way to the realization that weapons smoke coated the sky. He’d become oblivious of the incessant detonations, rattles, booms, and tat-tat-tats disturbing the morning calm. Or was it noon? He couldn’t tell. Iga guided him about a half a kilometer farther, crisscrossing to avoid briars and the prickly shrubs in the undergrowth. The battlefield sounds magnified with each meter covered. A brief bout of panic seized him: What would he do when he reached the fighting? He was a doctor, not a soldier. He had neither the skill nor the stomach to be a killer.

  And then, without warning, he realized they had arrived. A thick curtain of smoke rising from below them dramatically decreased their visual range. Iga slowed her steps. Her alert, intelligent eyes rapidly shifted back and forth as she scouted out the ghostly terrain. The tree line came to an abrupt end a short distance ahead, giving way to a clearing of unknowable size. Beyond that, the Doctor discerned what appeared to be a sheer dropoff.

  “The smoke has assured that we cannot be certain who controls the field,” Iga whispered. “If we approach through that copse of brush over there, we might be able to observe the fighting from the overlook.” They moved deliberately, realizing that an enemy could emerge without warning. They dropped down onto their bellies. The Doctor peered through the haze and discovered that they overlooked a natural basin—perhaps a dried-up lakebed. Soldiers swarmed over the terrain like Denebian dung flies. He couldn’t tell which side held the advantage; the glowing barrels of the fire lances flashed through the smoke but none could be linked to a specific army. Sky bombers, soldiers who wore mechanized wings and carried acid grenades, swooped off the rims of the basin. The wing markings were unmistakable—each was adorned by the four quartered crest of Mestof. The Doctor had to concede that Mestof’s side had an advantage if they controlled the air.

  Iga handed the Doctor a pair of distance lenses she’d been using. “Can you see her? I’ve tried, but I can’t locate her in all the confusion down there.”

  By “her,” the Doctor assumed Iga meant General Lia. He surveyed the field, adjusting the lenses to give him a panoramic view.

  Suddenly, a jolt, all too similar to an electric shock, ripped through the Doctor’s body. He grunted, clutched the lenses to his chest, and rolled over on his back. His mind blanked and he knew only pain. Once the effect subsided, he realized: Nacene were nearby. Suspiria had used a technique similar to the one he’d just experienced when she came aboard Voyager. The Doctor had treated those who had tangled with her, so he knew, firsthand, the effectiveness of Nacene warfare.

  The pain gradually faded, replaced by an uncomfortable tingling sensation that he intuitively understood indicated Nacene presence. He’d felt similarly around Vivia but he’d been a mere hologram then, not a flesh-and-bone individual. He would find the Light here—he knew he would. Eagerly, he searched the battlefield.

  The Nacene gift for transformation made it nearly impossible for him to determine which of the dark figures swarming in the smoke might be an extradimensional alien. But he believed that he’d be able to identify the signs of their involvement if he saw them. So far, nothing struck him as out of the ordinary as he watched the Ocampan version of war play out below. He’d experienced war games with Mr. Kim and Mr. Paris on the holodecks, not to mention during the Hirogen takeover. Save different weaponry and attire, the fundamental goals of this real-life scenario varied little from what he’d role-played.

  Rolling back onto his stomach, he focused every molecule of his matrix on the battlefield. Oh, how useful his holographic gifts would be at a time like this! He could drop from the heights and walk the field, impervious to threat. Being organic was horribly inefficient. Mentally, he sectioned up the battlefield using a grid. He moved the lenses from sector to sector, evaluating every soldier—every weapon—he could see; nothing out of the ordinary struck him. A commotion drew his attention back to an area he’d just examined. Soldiers under the banners of both sides scattered, running as if their lives depended on it. Not that the Doctor blamed them once he saw glowing orange magma oozing out of a rift.

  Molten fingers crept over the ground, ensnaring all those who failed to outrun it. Burbling out of the earth caldron, the ribbons of fiery rock fanned out, nipping the heels of a platoon of Lia’s soldiers whose terrified shrieks rose above the mechanized noise. A web of radiant filaments fanned over the ground, veins carrying fire and destruction. Odd, the Doctor thought. The longer he watched, the less arbitrary the flow appeared to be. Some under the four-quarter banner had fallen, but comparatively few when examining the whole. The elements had been called up to fight on Mestof’s behalf.

  Another, slighter electrical shock bored through him. He winced, fused his lips together, refusing to a
llow a sound to escape his lips. He would not expose their hiding place and thereby be the cause of yet another senseless death. The pain passed. He resumed his search. Scanning the immediate vicinity and the battlefield, he discovered nothing that hinted of a hidden alien presence. Damn!

  Then the light came.

  At first, the Doctor thought the sun had finally broken through the veiling smoke. When he saw the beams radiating from out of the murk below him, he knew he was witnessing something extraordinary. The hair on his neck prickled: whether he felt fear or amazement was unclear. Awestruck, he trembled. Iga, beside him, cried out, repeatedly jabbing her finger at the air, “Look!”

  An orb, like a small moon, rose above the soldiers’ heads and suspended in midair. Brighter than midday, the white light shining from the orb overcame the gloom and illuminated everything it touched. Tree canopies glowed as if they were aflame. Mestof’s soldiers dropped to their knees, burying their faces in their hands.

  The Doctor could neither look away nor bear to look on the light; its searing purity pierced him to the core. The light knew him, he felt certain, and could expose his innermost secrets. Whether he should stand and flay himself before the light or whether he should hurl himself off the precipice in despair, he didn’t know. He knew pain, though. The flashes of pain he’d had before had nothing on the agony he felt now. It was as if the light was a laser carving away his flesh layer by layer, leaving him decimated. No doubt about it, the Nacene were here—perhaps many of them—and they were angry about the wielder of the orb.

  “Make them stop!” he shouted, rolling back and forth along the ridge, begging for relief.

  If Iga had thought his behavior strange, the Doctor couldn’t know. She had curled into a fetal position and had covered her ears with her hands.

  In the midst of the pain, the Doctor looked down on the field and saw, at the epicenter of the light, an Ocampan woman, red-blond hair flowing out behind her. Her eyes closed, arms outstretched as if in a trance, the Doctor believed he could see her mouth moving. He knew she spoke an incantation that guided the orb. He stared at her, and for a horrified moment, wondered if General Lia was Nacene.