Seekers: Second Nature

by David Mack

  A change in the tracks he was following jolted him from his idle musings. An entire set of footprints abruptly ceased in mid-stride. All the others continued, winding their way around a bend in the trail and vanishing into the viridescent shadows. But the clearest set of prints, the ones Tormog had been most closely tracking, simply ended in mid-step, as if the person who had been making them had evaporated without warning—or else had been lifted upward by something striking without warning from above.

  He halted and slowly tilted his head back. Above him he saw only the interlocking boughs of the jungle’s canopy, leafy fingers folded together in a dome above the forest. An emerald glow betrayed the promise of sunlight above the trees, but at this turn in the trail there was none to be seen on the ground. Having studied many arboreal predators on various worlds of the Empire, Tormog searched between the branches for any sign of webs, nests, or lurking fauna.

  An unstoppable force from his left slammed into him and knocked him off the trail into the undergrowth. He was on the ground and being punched in the face before he knew he’d been tackled by one of the Starfleeters.

  Tormog punched back, knocking his attacker off-­balance. He rolled free and drew his d’k tahg. The grip of the ceremonial dagger was a reassuring presence in his fist, and green light glinted off its double-edged blade as he rolled to his feet.

  The man with spots was already up and facing him, empty-handed but full of confidence. Tormog twisted the dagger back and forth, hoping to intimidate the taller, broader-shouldered man with a warning of what to expect if he pressed his assault.

  Spot-man feinted to one side and then led with a jabbing punch. Tormog sidestepped clear, then lunged, thrusting his d’k tahg ahead of him. The Starfleeter dodged the stab with a nimble turn, seized Tormog’s arm in a fierce lock, and twisted it behind Tormog’s back. His d’k tahg tumbled from his hand and vanished into the fronds at his feet.

  The scientist’s survival training kicked in, and he leaped up and backward, pinning his foe hard against a nearby tree and breaking the man’s grip on his wrist. Tormog fell forward, somersaulted to his feet, and spun to face his opponent.

  That was when he realized the Starfleeter had picked up his d’k tahg.

  Tormog reached for his disruptor, then remembered he had lost it in the caves. Damn.

  The next thing he felt was the bite of his own blade tearing through his shoulder. It hit him with such force that it knocked him onto his back. By the time he realized where he was and what had happened, the man with spots was kneeling on top of his chest, covering his mouth with one hand, and using the other to turn the dagger inside the wound, sending white-hot waves of pain through Tormog’s entire body.

  “Hi, there.” The Starfleeter grinned. “I’m Lieutenant Dastin. And you are?”

  “Not going to tell you anything.”

  “Yes you are. It’s not a matter of if, friend—only of when.”

  • • •

  The landing party stood in a circle around the kneeling Klingon whom Dastin had just captured. The prisoner was a smooth-headed Quch’Ha, and the relative absence of weapons found on his person, combined with the sophistication of his handheld scanning device, had led Theriault to suspect the man was most likely a ­scientist or an engineer rather than a run-of-the-mill ­soldier.

  His head was drooped, his hands were bound behind his back, and he swayed slowly as his body reacted to the truth serum Tan Bao had injected into him. The twilight-consciousness effects of the sedative would wear off soon enough, so Theriault wasted no time in lifting the ­Klingon’s head so he could look at her when she asked him questions.

  “Identify yourself.”

  “Doctor Tormog. Lieutenant, Klingon Defense Forces.”

  “What’s your professional specialty, Tormog?”

  He slurred out his answer. “Xenobiologist.”

  The drug seemed to be working. That was a relief to Theriault, because Tan Bao had cautioned her that he had no idea how effective this particular serum formula might be against a Klingon. So far, however, it appeared sufficiently effectual. “What ship do you serve on?”

  “The Voh’tahk. Seventh Fleet, out of Somraw.” His eyes fluttered shut.

  Theriault patted his cheek until he reopened his eyes, which struggled to focus on her. “What are you doing on this planet?”

  “Recon and research.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Tormog flashed a broad, toothy grin. “Pure knowledge.”

  That struck Theriault as unlikely. “Anything else?”

  “Galactic domination, of course.” He chortled and snorted softly, pleased with himself.

  “Why did you and your team help Nimur escape from the ritual?” She waited a few seconds for him to answer, but her question was met with silence. She sharpened her tone. “Why are you and your team interested in the Tomol?”

  He huffed once, as if in disgust. As he replied, a thin line of drool spilled from the corner of his mouth and stretched toward the muddy ground. “Looking for link. To the Shedai.”

  The mere mention of the Shedai sent a pang of fear through Theriault’s gut. Hundreds of millennia earlier, the Shedai had ruled over the region of space Starfleet called the Taurus Reach. The Shedai had been as powerful, both culturally and individually, as they were hostile to those who had resisted them. They had been able to transmit themselves in the form of disembodied ­consciousness—which they called “the subtle body”—across vast interstellar distances and control multiple physical bodies at the same time. There also was compelling evidence the Shedai had unwittingly uplifted the Tholian race to sentience. Though the catastrophic ending of Operation Vanguard had given Starfleet every reason to think the Shedai were now extinct, the ancient tyrants’ legacy still haunted the Taurus Reach. If there was even the slightest risk of the Shedai rising again, Theriault knew they had to be stopped, at any cost.

  The overflow of spittle from Tormog’s mouth was increasing. It was time to get down to specifics, while he could still talk. “What were your orders if you found such a link?”

  “Capture a Tomol. Put it in stasis. Take it back to Qo’noS.”

  “And you saw your chance when Nimur made a run for it at the ceremony.” The Klingon nodded, so Theriault pressed onward. “This link between the Tomol and the Shedai—it has to do with the Change, doesn’t it?” Another sloppy bobbing of Tormog’s head. “And if you had gotten her back to Qo’noS? Then what?”

  “Map her genome. Weaponize it. Crush the Federation.”

  Tan Bao chuckled. “Science at its best.”

  Theriault shushed the nurse, then resumed her questioning of the Klingon. “We know Nimur turned your team into tartare before she got away. What’s your plan now?”

  “Keep her alive. Tag her. Hail the ship.”

  “Tag her?”

  Dastin stepped up beside Theriault. “I think he means with a subspace transponder.”

  Hesh nodded. “For transport. Yes, of course. Tagging her to make certain the correct subject is beamed up is most sensible. Otherwise, even in her Changed state, sensors from orbit might not be able to distinguish her from other Tomol.”

  Theriault picked through the small pile of equipment Dastin had confiscated from Tormog. She picked up a silvery gray cylindrical device approximately twenty centimeters long and one centimeter in diameter. “Is this what you use to plant the transponder?” Tormog nodded, his movements exaggerated and clumsy. A glance at the controls left Theriault mystified as to their intended functions. “What’s the range on this thing?” She prayed he didn’t say point blank.

  “Ten qams. Red to fire. White to track.” He blinked at Theriault, then smirked. “You’re holding it backward.”

  She reversed her hold on the device. “Thanks for the tip.” She nodded at Tan Bao, who gave Tormog another hypospray injection. This one knoc
ked the Klingon unconscious; he fell face-first to the ground and lay there with his left cheek pressed into the fetid muck.

  The landing party huddled over Tormog. Dastin frowned at the Klingon. “What do we do with him? Tie him to something heavy and move on?”

  “Too many wild animals out here,” Theriault said. “We’ll have to bring him with us.”

  Tan Bao checked his satchel. “I’m running short on chemical tricks. If we want to keep him under control for much longer, we’ll have to do it without sedatives.”

  “That’s fine,” Dastin said. “I’d rather have him up and moving than across my back as dead weight.” He looked at Theriault. “So, what’s our next move?”

  “Find Nimur and make sure the Klingons don’t tag her. And, if they do, we have to find a way to jam that transponder’s signal so they can’t beam her up. The last thing we need is Nimur running amok on a starship.” That imperative received nods of agreement all around.

  Hesh remained troubled. “Assuming we find Nimur first, what then is our objective? Are we taking on the Tomol’s burden as our own? Are we prepared to condemn Nimur to die?”

  “Hell if I know. Let’s just find her, okay?” Her shipmates reacted with wary, wide-eyed stares of disbelief. She held up her hands in symbolic surrender. “Cut me some slack here. I’m making this up as I go.”

  Dastin cast a weary look down at Tormog, then mustered a cynical smile for Hesh and Tan Bao. “Now she tells us.”

  16

  All was quiet on the bridge of the Sagittarius, and for that small mercy Clark Terrell was thankful; he and his crew had so far evaded detection by the Klingon starships in orbit. There was no telling how long their good fortune might last, so Terrell spent this rare break from his routine thinking. He contemplated responses in case they were found by the Klingons, while at the same time he was trying to imagine a way to warn his landing party of what was happening; neither avenue of reflection was yielding any helpful insights.

  The door behind him sighed open, and he looked over his shoulder to see Doctor Babitz walk onto the bridge. Her eyes were fixed upon the data slate in her left hand, and she gnawed lightly on the tip of the stylus in her right hand as she approached Terrell’s command chair. As she drew near, Terrell was sure he heard the blond surgeon muttering to herself.

  “Something on your mind, Doctor?”

  Babitz stopped and did a startled double take at the captain. “Hm? Oh, the slate. Yes.” She tapped at it with the stylus, then turned it toward Terrell. “I’ve been reviewing the data the landing party sent up—the scans of the Tomol who are starting to experience the Change.”

  Terrell waited a few seconds in vain for Babitz to elaborate, and then he realized she would need a measure of verbal coaxing. “And? What have you found?”

  “Hm? Oh. Not as much as I’d have liked, to be honest. All of the Tomol exhibit unusually high degrees of cell mutation during their growth cycles.” She pointed out a line of figures on the slate. “I’ve never seen a species whose DNA has this kind of time bomb.”

  “You say their cells are mutating? Could there be an environmental factor involved?”

  “I don’t think so.” She switched to a different screen of data on the slate. “No unusual radiation on the planet’s surface. No known mutagens in the air, water, soil, flora, or fauna.” She gave the scan analysis another look. “I’d say this is a genetic predisposition. I just wish I could figure out what its trigger is. If it’s something simple, like a protein sequence, or a hormonal shift brought on by the end of adolescence, maybe we can develop a treatment of some kind.”

  Her enthusiastic speculation attracted Sorak’s reproach. The old Vulcan stood and moved to join her and Terrell. “That would be inadvisable, Doctor. Deliberate interference in the natural evolution of the Tomol would be a blatant violation of the Prime Directive.”

  “You can’t expect me to do nothing and condemn an entire species to die.”

  Terrell cut in. “We might not have a choice, Doctor. Sorak’s right. If this is the Tomol’s natural state, we have no right to tamper with it, no matter how tragic that might seem.”

  “Not even if they ask for our help?”

  Sorak’s voice was as dry as his logic. “How can they? They have no understanding of genomic medicine. That ignorance renders them unable to make an informed request for aid.”

  Babitz hardened her countenance. “Oh, really? And if this Change is not a natural part of their evolution? If it’s an externally inflicted mutation? What then?”

  The certainty in her voice snared Terrell’s attention. “Are you speaking hypothetically, Doctor? Or did you find something to suggest that might be the case?”

  She switched to the last screen of tricorder data sent up by the landing party, called up a detailed scan of the Tomol’s DNA, and isolated several long sections. “I found these anomalous enzymes embedded in their genome. They’re as alien to the Tomol as the Tomol are to Nereus Two. Long story short, Captain, I’ve seen this before. Those are genetic markers used by the Shedai.”

  Terrell froze at the mention of the sector’s former interstellar tyrants. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. Starfleet may have erased all the Operation Vanguard–related files from our memory banks, but I remember what the Meta-Genome looks like. And as far as I can tell, these sequences were spliced into the Tomol’s DNA, probably hundreds of generations ago, if not earlier. And I’ll bet you all my dessert-ration cards that those spliced sequences are what trigger the Change.” She handed the data slate and its stylus to Sorak, then crossed her arms as she faced the captain. “So, I’m going to ask you again, sir. If the Change is something that was done to the Tomol, are we still required to stand aside and do nothing while they go extinct?”

  Terrell suspected that if one asked that question of a Starfleet JAG officer, in the context of requesting authority to intervene, one would be advised to stand down and avoid the risk of aggravating an already bad situation. Consequently, he decided not to ask their permission. He ignored Sorak’s gloomy frown of disapproval and looked at Babitz with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Tell me, Doctor: Can you unravel the Shedai Meta-Genome from the Tomol’s DNA? Or maybe suppress it? And if you did, could you stop or reverse the Change?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’d damned well like to give it a try. Sir.”

  “Take your best shot. But do it fast—the Klingons won’t waste time, so neither can we.”

  “All right, I’m on it.” Babitz hurried off the bridge. Sorak remained beside the command chair. Terrell looked at the image of Nereus II on the viewscreen and rubbed his chin; then, noticing his anxiety-driven affectation, he forced his hand back to his side. “If the Shedai had any part in creating this situation, that would explain why the Klingons are here.”

  Sorak nodded. “It would also mean the landing party is in greater danger than expected.”

  Terrell cast a curious look at the Vulcan. “Do you think Hesh or Theriault would have noticed the Shedai Meta-Genome in their scans of the Tomol?”

  “Doubtful,” the Vulcan said. “With the pattern expunged from our computers and all our devices, they would have no means of automatically detecting it. If not for the doctor’s exceptional memory, we ourselves might still be unaware of the Meta-Genome’s presence.”

  Vexed by the two Klingon warships orbiting the planet between him and his landing party, Terrell thumped the side of his fist on his chair’s armrest. “We need to warn them.”

  “That would be tactically unwise, Captain.”

  “They deserve to know.”

  “It might be beneficial for them to know, but it might also prove irrelevant. It’s also my duty to remind you that any attempt to hail the landing party runs the risk of revealing our presence—and theirs—to the Klingons.”

  Ensign Taryl turned her chair from her console to int
errupt Terrell and Sorak. “Sirs? I was reviewing our last contacts with the landing party before we went radio-­silent. I think you’ll want to see what files they were accessing before we closed the channel.”

  Terrell stood and walked over to Taryl. Sorak followed him, and they hovered over the Orion woman’s shoulders to peruse the data on her screen. It was an image of a metallic sculpture whose base was covered with glyphs. The captain squinted at it. “What is that?”

  “An artifact of a culture known as the Preservers,” Taryl said. “These images were recorded last year by the crew of the Enterprise.” She switched the image to show a larger but very similar structure. Standing off to one side of the towering obelisk was Lieutenant Dastin. “Ensign Hesh recorded this shortly before we lost contact, in a cavern deep below the largest hill on the big island.”

  “Taryl, I want a full report about that object, and the one that Kirk and his crew found, and at least some kind of working hypothesis as to what in the hell is going on here.”

  “Aye, sir.” She returned to work on her console.

  Terrell returned to his chair and sat down. Sorak followed him and stood awaiting new orders. He didn’t wait long. “Work with Ensigns Taryl and Nizsk, and find a way to reach the landing party without painting a target on our back for the Klingons.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sorak lowered his voice. “But I wish to note for the log that I still object.”

  “Noted. But we’re making a stand, Sorak—so find a way to make it work.”

  • • •

  Orbs of green lightning hovered above Nimur’s open, outstretched hands. As the orbs’ brightness intensified, so did the panic that spread through the crowd in the square. The villagers were running for cover, for the jungle, anywhere they thought they could hide.

  The Wardens who surrounded her advanced in slow steps, their lances level and pointed at her, and there was nothing Kerlo could do to stop them. He grabbed hold of the nearest Warden’s arm. “Senjin! Stop! There’s been too much killing already!”