String Theory, Book 3: Evolution

by Heather Jarman

  Tuvok employed all the techniques of discipline and control he had spent a lifetime perfecting so he could shut out emotional and physical suffering pouring into his mind. He succeeded in erecting impenetrable barriers. Even without complete understanding of the circumstances, he knew with certainty that the rations, water, and basic medical treatment Voyager offered would hardly suffice. Another solution would need to be devised.

  Tuvok’s attention had shifted away from the skeletal passengers when a gloved hand—obviously belonging to a member of the away team—reached around the edge of the partially ajar compartment door and tried forcing it open. None of the automated mechanisms on this ship appeared to be working, with all power diverted to life-support. Tuvok did not anticipate any in-person reports when the comm system would suffice.

  Neelix squeezed through the doorway and waddled as quickly as he could in his environmental suit through the compartment. Two Monorhans—in better shape than the ones Tuvok had encountered so far—trailed behind him.

  “Mr. Neelix,” Tuvok said. “Report.”

  “I’ve found the leaders of the ship, Mr. Vulcan. The rih-hara-tan. Apparently, when things got ugly, the Monorhans sent them to the best-protected compartment, where they were bad off, but not as bad off as most of these passengers.” Neelix gestured at the nearly dead Monorhans huddled together on all sides. “They’ve had enough to eat and drink so they’re stronger than most of the passengers. These two are Xan and Tei.” At the mention of their names, they bowed to Tuvok.

  “You have retained their ability to communicate—to join minds?” Tuvok said.

  Xan, whose clothes indicated to Tuvok that this was a male Monorhan, clicked his tongue rhythmically, then said, “We have, though many of our people are too weak to initiate the bond.”

  “If you would, Xan, help me identify how best we can serve your people,” Tuvok said.

  “It would be my honor to be in your service,” Xan said with another deep, respectful bow.

  Neelix rubbed his hands together, his eyes glowing with enthusiasm. “The other rih have strong abilities as well, Mr. Vulcan. And they are eager to do whatever they can to help their own people.”

  “Gracious and noble benefactors,” Tei began, the universal translator rendering her voice as high-pitched and feminine. “The All-Knowing Light must have guided your path to us and because of that mercy we will do whatever is required to repay our debt to you.”

  Tuvok was struck by their regal bearing, even in these miserable surroundings. A more dramatic counterpoint to the conniving rih Sem wasn’t possible. He reached out ever so slightly with his psionic abilities and found no hint of treachery. Voyager had been correct in coming to their aid. He excused himself and Neelix from the rih’s presence and took the Talaxian aside to talk privately. “How would you propose that we address their resource needs while considering our own limitations?” Tuvok asked Neelix.

  “Ensign Tariq can take the rih-hara-tan back to Voyager, where they can receive more comprehensive medical treatment,” Neelix said. “In total, there are six rih and six who are in training. None of them weigh enough to matter. Tariq can make a few supply runs while the rih are being treated. Might be able to make a dent in the needs around here that way.”

  Tuvok raised an eyebrow, communicating his doubt. A fleet of Starfleet shuttles loaded to capacity with supplies would hardly suffice. Neelix, while idealistic, had to be pragmatic enough to realize this.

  “I know, I know—they need more than we can give them,” Neelix said, pushing aside Tuvok’s concerns with a hand wave. “But I thought that we might be able to help them the way we helped the Caatati—provide them with some bare-bones technology so they take care of themselves until they can reach home.”

  Tuvok considered Neelix’s proposal. It had merit but might not be feasible given current constraints. Ensign Luiz, he knew, would be grateful to be given the chance to be useful. He glanced at Xan and Tei and decided the other option—doing nothing—offended his sensibilities more. He instructed Neelix to take his suggestion to Lieutenant Torres and, contingent on the engineer’s response, authorized him to accompany Ensign Tariq and the rih-hara-tan back to Voyager for medical treatment.

  As he walked with Neelix to meet the other rih, Tuvok resumed calculating how to distribute what few supplies they had brought. Among those who were capable of eating, he estimated that they had enough to provide each with half a ration bar—about twenty-five percent of the metabolic energy required to fuel a body for a day. The alternative would be identifying those who would most benefit from nutrition and allowing them to have larger portions. Logic favored the latter choice, yet he, an outsider, should not be making such determinations on behalf of a people not his own. He would prefer to follow the directives of the Monorhan leaders—the rih-hara-tan—allowing them to make the ultimate decisions. Neelix was correct in his view that helping the leaders would ultimately help their fellow sufferers.

  Moments later, his combadge chirped. Torres had a workable suggestion for a portable, self-powered replicator, so Tariq and Neelix would be off to Voyager within the next ten minutes. Tuvok consented to Neelix’s plan and then resumed his work, since it appeared he no longer needed to meet the remaining rih-hara-tan. At least progress had been made.

  It wasn’t appropriate for him to become personally invested in the outcome of the away mission, save in how it impacted Voyager. Maintaining objective distance was critical. But he would rest more peacefully should Neelix’s efforts prove to be successful. His combadge signaled again.

  “Torres to Tuvok.”

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ve got an idea how to get this ship moving again, but I’d like to run it past you first.”

  Tuvok heard the mischievous undercurrent in B’Elanna’s voice. She was about to propose something dangerous. Neelix and the rih would be fine without his further involvement. B’Elanna, on the other hand…“I’ll be right there.”

  Behaving like a damn fool was part of the joy of being Tom. Only a fool would blatantly ignore common sense and willingly throw himself into the most dangerous circumstances of his life without a clue of how to get out of them. But such idiocy was, in fact, Tom’s present reality.

  Suspended inside the goo-filled, egg-shaped capsule, he attempted to familiarize himself with the controls as he waited for the next spore race to begin. The term “controls” was a loose definition. Beyond a waist-high filament, there wasn’t much to understand. Tom ascertained that he was supposed to hold on to the filament. He supposed that the goo surrounding him would cushion him from any major blows or prevent the liquid’s pressure from wiping out someone with his physiology; he could even breathe through the gel, which weirded him out more than had slipping through the semi-permeable membranous exterior into the gel. And the liquid—Tom wasn’t sure exactly what he was racing through, but it sure as hell wasn’t water. Up close, it appeared to be more like an infinite number of irregularly shaped spheres of various transparent hues adhering together to act as a liquid.

  A flashing light inside the party chamber drew his attention and Tom wondered what it might be. Within seconds, he discovered the capsule began churning toward the party chamber. Back off! Back off! he said aloud, though his viscous surroundings absorbed all the sound. The capsule stopped. This thing is thought-guided, he realized. The nervous realization made him wary about letting his thoughts drift as they typically did when he was piloting. Not exactly the best time to daydream, he decided.

  As piloting went, this was the real deal. None of the usual button pushing, advanced algorithmic calculations, or endless hours of staring at monotonous starscape applied. This run was about Tom going fast. The minute he’d climbed into his racing capsule, he’d moved beyond adrenaline into a whole new level of high. It was raw and Tom loved it. He would coax this vessel into total compliance with his will.

  The capsule hovering across from him was occupied by an alien that had more in common w
ith a moss-colored feather than any living, breathing creature Tom had seen. He wasn’t sure the creature had limbs. Periodically, he needed to remember that he was playing in the pandimensional leagues—not like a bunch of shuttle jockeys hanging out at Yaga III racing for black-market moonshine or pleasure holoprograms. Out of curiosity, he flicked his index finger against the transparent gel surrounding him. The clear material spread like oozing syrup, then rebounded back into position. Must be some kind of polymer, he concluded. Or not. And this is what will keep me from being drowning beneath dozens of meters of water. Tom sighed, recalling that not even a half hour ago, he’d wanted this chance. And if he were being totally honest, he still wanted it. Simply put, the odds that he’d end up smashed against the floor resembling one of Neelix’s leola root goulashes had gone up drastically. Tom had done some stupid things in his life but this, he conceded, was near the top of the list.

  In private moments in the dark of their quarters, B’Elanna, playing counselor, had accused him on several occasions of playing a role, cultivating a screw-up, goof-off persona as a way of compensating for his childhood father issues. She knew this, she explained, because she took a similar approach to dealing with her psychological baggage. “You can’t disappoint them if they don’t expect much” had been her wise observation one night as she curled her body against him. “But I know who you really are.” During moments of self-doubt he often recalled that conversation because it buoyed his confidence. Of course, in his more cynical moods he’d reject B’Elanna’s words on the basis that intimacy tended to make B’Elanna philosophical and sentimental. He doubted, however, that B’Elanna would explain his current circumstances as role playing. She’d just call him an ass and wash her hands of him.

  :Nodes on approach: a silky voice whispered to Tom’s mind. :Prepare to launch in ten seconds:

  As the countdown got under way, Tom wrapped the filament around his hand. Off to starboard, he saw the two black-red orbs streaking toward them.

  :Launch:

  Instinct took over. The ongoing dialogue in his head between B’Elanna, his father, and all the other voices who represented his doubts, fears, and triumphs ceased. Pure intuition told him at what angle he needed to approach the node.

  Tom loved speed, the weight of the forces pressing his body against the rear of the capsule. He steadily increased acceleration until the surrounding liquid blurred into rippling lights shooting beside him like meteor showers. On approach to the spore, the membranous dome stretched and the curve flattened out. Tom accelerated, the dome flattened further. The bubbles trailing behind the spore seemed close enough that he could reach out and pop one. He flew alongside the node, matching its speed with the capsule. When he reached the proper distance, he thought, Capture node. The capsule shuddered. Tom never blinked. He held his breath for the space of an eternal second. A pseudopod-like extension shot out from in front of him, touched the edge of the node, and affixed itself with rubbery POP.

  There! The pseudopod thinned out, becoming taut as fishing line when Tom steered the capsule into the node’s wake. Like a harness on a resistant horse, Tom focused on maneuvering the capsule with the node, not against its momentum. A split-second break in concentration sent the capsule bouncing erratically side-to-side across the wake; the gel squeezed Tom’s limbs until he groaned aloud from the strain. Refusing to yield, Tom dug deep and found focus. He recaptured control and forced the capsule to steady out. His muscles unclenched. Now to make this baby go where I want it to, he thought, salivating at the challenge. He discovered by shifting his weight from side to side (even up and down, though how that was possible, Tom couldn’t fathom) that the node shifted direction slightly. Experimenting with the technique a few times yielded results. He’d licked the first challenge. The next was before him: the obstacle course. Excitement coursed through him. None of this would be worth much if he ended up losing. Tom knew he had to win or die trying. Feeling confident in his node-control abilities, he risked a side look over at his competitor. Damn it all if that silly-looking creature didn’t appear to be several kilometers ahead of him!

  He’d have to close the distance through the field of craggy, rocklike solids. How long had it been since he’d piloted a small craft through an asteroid field—maybe the Academy. How different could this be, even though it was liquid instead of space? At these speeds, with fluid gurgling around the capsule, he focused on the terrain ahead the best he could. Calculating the distance between the capsule and the spore, Tom was able to figure out how much clearance he needed to make his way around the required chunks without colliding. He blessed his extraordinary spatial abilities (yes, he’d seen the test scores) because he was capable, with a glance, of plotting an efficient course. In five…four…three…Tom swooped into action, whipping in and out of the chunks, easing his speeds around the steepest curves, revving up when he had a smooth stretch. A quick look revealed it wasn’t enough—the other capsule maintained its edge!

  The deafening shrieks of the capsule streaking through water became white noise. Tom would not be deterred. He took the capsule into an arc above a chunk the size of Voyager and then down again, up over another, down beneath another, creating an effortless motion wave. The rhythm of his heart and his breathing synchronized with the capsule’s subtle back-and-forth modulations. Instinctually, he knew how to navigate the remaining few seconds of the field. He retrieved from memory the race he’d observed from the party window. The globules with the fronds came next. Not much of a challenge with those except to avoid steering too close. Otherwise, he would take the shortest pathway at the highest speeds to assure that he gained enough on his competitor that he wouldn’t lose.

  Coming out of the field, he had caught up to the other capsule, now he needed to pull ahead. He counted at least four globule clusters. The up-and-down wave navigation had worked for him thus far so he saw no reason to change tactics now. With more room to maneuver, he gunned his speed, accelerating the capsule to a velocity that he knew, from the ache in his bones, he wouldn’t be able to maintain for much longer. In and out, back and forth: the capsule swooped between the globules, the fronds waving flaccidly. Light and shadow, red and brown blurs streamed past him, through the patches of coral tubes and out again. He held his body rigid, his muscles strained to push back against the forces threatening to smash him. Pressure built behind his eyes; sharp pinpricks of pain burst and Tom’s view suddenly became red. The logical voice in the back of his brain insisted on reminding him that theoretically, it wasn’t possible for a mere human to move this fast. Tom refused to allow logic to interfere with what needed to be done. He’d taken the lead in the race. He wouldn’t lose—not now.

  Something nagged at him, though, something about the end of the race. Trying to remain composed and in control took all of his resources so he had little brainpower to devote to figure out what it was he’d forgotten. Probably a niggling nuisance type of thing. Up over the last chunk—each one larger than the last—he increased his speed to the maximum that he dared attempt. The muscles in his arms and legs quivered in painful spasms. Tom took risks, pushing to the limit of his capacity, but he knew when to stop. A new energy surged through him when he recognized that he’d almost made it. Then, through the red fog, he saw the small opening at the bottom of the course.

  I’m coming in too fast.

  At this speed, he could make only minimal adjustments to the degree of his turn. If he had a prayer of shooting straight in, he’d have to make more than minimal adjustments. Tom forced the capsule out of straight vertical into a more horizontal approach. What had been horrific pressure before ratcheted up another notch. Mentally, Tom held steady; his arms, cemented to his sides, felt like they’d be yanked out of their sockets at any moment. His teeth chattered hard, but he maintained his focus.

  His brain registered that his competitor was gaining on him, but Tom couldn’t let that egg him on. As soon as he dove into the opening, he’d accelerate with everything he had left. Now, he
wanted to live another ten seconds. The pressure from the increased depth squeezed the node head. Into the opening—

  The pulpy blue-purple walls were unexpectedly narrow. Without warning, the walls compressed—tightening, then releasing—nearly severing the connection between the capsule and the node. The competing capsule bumped against Tom’s and nearly sent him spinning out of control. Sweat erupted on Tom’s forehead and drizzled into his eyes. The tunnel’s rhythm of compression and release continued unabated; each compression reduced Tom’s visual contact with the node. He relied on his gut to know where the node was in the tunnel ahead of him. He refused to panic.

  Almost…almost through, he thought. Between the depth, the liquid, and the compressions, pressure inside the capsule mounted to an unendurable level. Not even a scream could be ripped from his throat, if he could only hold on…

  The capsule twisted back and forth in an agitating motion. Whatever pretense Tom had made of holding on to the contents of his stomach ended. The raw intuition that made him an exceptional pilot knew the exit was close at hand. He could hold on, he knew he could! Counting down, five…four…three…Shooting out of the tunnel back into the open…

  And he was ahead!

  Three quick inhalations and the node shot across the finish line. Tom ordered the pseudopod to release, sending the capsule spinning around like a propeller. Exhaustion overtook adrenaline: Tom’s head flopped forward into his chest, then slammed back between his shoulders with such force that stars burst before his eyes. He needed to stop, but scrambled thoughts combined with pain made it difficult to regain control. The capsule shot right past the party chamber and careened straight into a minuscule hole in a barrier directly in front of him.