by Rick Barba
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. SIMON SPOTLIGHT An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com © 2011 Paramount Pictures Corporation. ® & © 2011 CBS Studios, Inc. STAR TREK and related marks are trademarks of CBS Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. SIMON SPOTLIGHT and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Manufactured in the United States of America 0511 FFG First Edition 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4424-1961-2 (hc) ISBN 978-1-4424-1342-9 (pbk) ISBN 978-1-4424-1426-6 (eBook) Library of Congress Control Number: 2011926957
Contents
CH.1.13 Gemini Away
CH.2.13 Wunderkinder
CH.3.13 The Ambassador’s Daughter
CH.4.13 The Guarantee
CH.5.13 First Infection
CH.6.13 Second Infection
CH.7.13 Room Service
CH.8.13 Code of Conduct
CH.9.13 All Hands on Deck
CH.10.13 Dark Angel
CH.11.13 Heschl’s Gyrus
CH.12.13 Zeta Launch
CH.13.13 Gemini Rising
CH.1.13
Gemini Away
The war is coming, thought Nverinn wearily.
As always, it would be fought by the young.
The old would plan and start the war, of course. But the young would fight it. The old would make the stirring speeches and rattle the swords, but the young would do the dying, sucked through breached hulls into the void of space.
Nverinn tr’Rehu could not fathom how anyone could doubt these facts: war coming likely within a decade, and thus the imperative of aiming the attention of the Star Empire’s laser on the young. Both sides would send their ranks into hell’s mouth. The best of those warriors, the ones who would turn the tide—whether Romulan or Federation—well, right now the males could barely grow facial hair, and the females were only recently capable of bearing offspring.
In ten years these young would be in the front ranks.
Everything would depend on them.
His desk workscreen beeped. Nverinn, deep in thought, stared down at the call icon that popped up on-screen. He considered ignoring it, but after a few seconds he reconsidered and tapped the screen.
“Yes?” he asked.
“I have the senator for you,” said a voice through the desk speaker.
Nverinn tapped the screen again and a window opened.
“Hello, Nverinn,” said the face that appeared. Her mane of graying hair was still a remarkable thing. Most Romulans, like Nverinn, had dark black hair. Tashal had been gifted with a head of beautiful warm brown hair that she was secretly very vain about. It framed her face like a luminous aura.
“Tashal,” said Nverinn. “How are you, friend?”
Tashal smiled, though her eyes did not. “Not well,” she said.
Nverinn nodded and then said, “You have bad news for me, I expect.”
“Well, not entirely,” said Tashal.
The Romulan Senate, the military High Command, and the Tal Shiar intelligence agency—the three-headed imperial leviathan—had been revisiting Romulan force tactics for years, preparing for what everyone knew was an inevitable reengagement with United Earth and the Federation. There was so much talk of the humiliation at Cheron nearly a century ago spawning new tactics and technology. But so very little talk of the young warriors who would fight the next war.
Nverinn was just a scientist, but he had longtime allies in all three branches of leadership. Senator Tashal was one of them. He’d known her for more than fifty years. They’d once been lovers, but that seemed like two lifetimes ago.
“I managed to get approvals for your project,” said Tashal.
At this, Nverinn sat bolt upright. This was entirely unexpected.
“What!” he exclaimed.
Tashal’s eyes widened.
“Yes,” she said. “But there is one disturbing condition, courtesy of our friends in Tal Shiar.” After an extended pause, she added, “You’re not going to like it.”
“Tell me,” said Nverinn. As he spoke, he tapped at his workscreen, opening up several more windows. Soon he had half a dozen data apps arrayed across the desktop. “I can activate Gemini on a moment’s notice. Literally, at the tap of a button.”
“I know,” said Tashal.
“Gemini is already in place, with a full cover story. We’re absolutely ready to go,” Nverinn continued eagerly.
“I know that, too.”
“Then what is it?”
“The condition is this,” said Tashal. “One test agent may be activated.”
“Vorta Vor!” exclaimed Nverinn eagerly. “I have only one agent ready to release!”
But the senator sighed. “Please allow me to finish,” she said. “That is not the condition I was referring to.”
Nverinn stopped dragging open data windows and looked into Tashal’s eyes. They’d once been dazzling, bright as supergiant stars. But years of wearing a political mask, of infighting and intrigue and war planning, had left them darkened and wary and—when her guard was down, like now—openly sad.
“Once the agent has run its course,” said Tashal, “it must be wiped clean.”
Nverinn was shocked into silence.
The senator nodded for emphasis. “Terminated,” she said grimly.
Nverinn slumped in his chair. He gripped the armrests and his own eyes began to well up.
“It must be done for the Empire,” said Tashal quickly, and then she tapped the monitor, ending the conversation and disappearing from the screen.
This confirmed what Nverinn already knew: Tal Shiar was monitoring this conversation.
“Yes,” he said. “For the Empire.”
CH.2.13
Wunderkinder
Nyota Uhura was in heaven.
Or the geekish xenolinguistic equivalent of heaven, anyway.
The young cadet stood in the entry portal of one of the most locked-down locations in all of Federation space. Arrayed before her was a cluster of workstation pods that harbored a treasure trove of Starfleet’s highest security voice data on the Romulan Star Empire.
And here was Uhura. At age twenty, she was just a first-year cadet, yet already one of Starfleet’s most accomplished experts in all three Romulan dialects.
Adding to the exceptional quality of this moment was the close proximity of her escort.
“Welcome back, Commander Spock,” said the datamaster at the check-in desk, an older gentleman named Dirk Galloway. He sported an English accent. “Always a ripping pleasure to see you, sir.”
Spock smiled slightly and leaned forward in a bow.
“Professor Galloway,” he said crisply, “this is Cadet Uhura. We spoke of her.”
“Ah, the wonder child,” said Galloway, rising from his chair and extending his hand.
Uhura’s eyebrows rose, and she felt a wave of heat flow up to her face.
“Good to meet you, sir,” she said, shaking his hand.
“My, and lovely, too,” said Galloway. “Spock, you said she was brilliant, but you didn’t say she was lovely. Or maybe you did. Did you?” He grinned mischievously.
Spock was slightly rattled for a fleeting moment. But he recovered quickly.
“Well, Professor,” he said after a second, “I believe it is against Starfleet regulations for superior officers to notice such th
ings.”
Galloway nodded sagely.
“Ah yes, protocol,” he said. “We’ll just stick to brilliant, then.”
Chuckling, the datamaster led Spock and Uhura across the room to a touch-screen workdesk. The entire wall in front of it was a tinted window that overlooked the central plaza of the sciences complex.
“Here, Cadet,” he said. “Please use this wireless headset for security purposes.” He nodded at several people working at nearby desks, including a beautiful Vulcan female cadet at an adjoining station. He added, “It also provides a more pristine quality of sound.”
Spock watched as Uhura picked up the feather-light headset from its desk cradle.
“I will be sending you select recorded samples,” said Spock. “You can translate orally, but please type a transcription into each sound file’s data box as well.” He pointed at a message box on-screen. “As I explained before, these are actual combat recordings, Cadet Uhura, taken from Romulan pilots and ship’s personnel in the heat of battle.”
“Understood,” said Uhura.
“Some of what you hear may be disturbing,” cautioned Spock. “It is likely you will hear Romulans suffering injuries, perhaps even fatal ones.”
Uhura nodded. “Understood, Commander Spock,” she said.
Spock looked her directly in the eyes. She could see his concern for her.
“We have had these recordings for nearly a century, but this is a new analytical approach to Romulan tactical chatter,” said Spock. “We aim to get a sense of their warrior ethos, their persona in battle.” His look was penetrating; she held it steadily. “We want a sense of their culture and of their individual natures. In essence, Cadet, we want a deeper understanding of what Romulans are as a species, how they function, how they process information under fire. We want to learn more about who they are.”
Galloway grunted. “Yes,” he said darkly. “So that we can kill the bastards faster and better when they come at us again.”
Spock noted Uhura’s reaction and then said, “Professor Galloway’s family was nearly wiped out in the Romulan attack on London in 2159.”
“I’m sorry,” said Uhura.
“Ninety-six years ago, I know,” said Galloway. “I wasn’t born yet, believe it or not. Nor were your own grand-parents, I daresay.” He shook his head. “But any so-called sentient species that employs the incineration of civilian population centers as a method of war is, well … I’ll stop now before I say something that makes me sound uncharitable.”
Uhura just listened.
“Which, of course, I am,” added Galloway with a wink as he attempted to lighten the moment.
Uhura didn’t want to point out what she saw as the obvious irony: that humans had perpetrated some of the most indiscriminate civilian attacks in the history of warfare. But she could see the pain on the professor’s face and hear it in his voice, and she felt compelled to say something.
“Professor,” said Uhura, suddenly touching his hand. “I grew up in an Africa not so far removed from wars of genocide and ethnic cleansing. I have older relatives who’ve passed on unspeakable tales that cannot be forgotten, nor should they.” Now she squeezed his hand. “So I think I understand.”
“My, my,” said Galloway, glancing at Spock. “She is remarkable, isn’t she?”
Spock tilted his head.
“If we can better understand the Romulan mindset, Professor Galloway, it is true, we may find tactical or psychological advantages to exploit in the next war,” he said. “But a better discovery might be a way to avoid the next war, would it not?” He looked at Uhura. “Because the next war could very well conclude with some form of mutual, assured destruction … the Federation locked in a death spiral with the Star Empire.”
Uhura’s eyes gleamed as she listened. She’d always sensed something amazing at Spock’s core—tendrils of Vulcan logic entwined with a distinctly Human sensibility, all wound into an unpredictable and fascinating tangle. She’d seen him inch close to the edge of emotion on a few occasions during classroom discussion. It was definitely in there: the edge of emotion. It made him far more interesting than anyone she’d ever met.
But underneath it all Spock had something even more interesting to Uhura. He was what her father, Njuktu, would have simply called “a good man.” What Njuktu meant by that compliment was not simple, and it was his highest praise. It was something Uhura always looked for in people: fundamental decency, and the courage to stand by it. Spock had them both.
“True,” said Galloway with a begrudging nod, bringing Uhura back from her musings. “Another war like the last could set back galactic civilization a thousand years, I suppose.”
“And that would open a power vacuum that could be filled by something far more unpleasant and far less civilized than the Romulans,” said Spock with impeccable logic. “At least, based on our limited knowledge of Romulan culture.” His eyes widened a bit. “And to improve that end, we have Cadet Uhura.”
Uhura suddenly felt more necessary than ever before in her life.
“Yes, then follow me, Commander,” said Galloway, giving the Vulcan’s shoulder a brisk collegial pat. “Let’s not waste this cadet’s time! I’ll show you to the secure pod.” He winked at Uhura, adding, “I do hate to take him from you, but Mr. Spock needs hands-on access to those transmission databanks.”
“I’ll survive,” said Uhura with a grin.
“Are you quite sure?”
Uhura and Spock both spoke at the same time: “Quite.”
This elicited a chortling laugh from Galloway that quickly evolved into a cough as he led Spock away.
Uhura slipped the headset over her ears, adjusted the mouthpiece mike, and moved her fingers into position over the touch-screen keyboard. As she waited for Spock to get situated, she gazed out the tinted window.
That’s when she spotted the barefoot running boy again.
Who is that? she wondered.
The barefoot running boy, as few at the Academy yet knew, was Pavel Andreievich Chekov. Like Uhura, he was a wonder child. Except he was closer to being an actual child than your average cadet. At fourteen, Chekov was the youngest in the first-year class by more than five years. Most freshmen cadets were at least twenty-two.
Chekov was running because he planned to be the youngest cadet in history to win the annual Starfleet Academy Marathon. The previous youngest winner was eighteen.
And he was running barefoot because he was smarter than most cadets.
Chekov checked his run timer.
“Ay, Pavel,” he muttered. “No good.”
Today was Tuesday, his heavy mileage day; he’d been doing interval training over Golden Gate Park trails for almost two hours. As he cut across the residential quadrangle toward Nimitz Hall, his dormitory, he passed an outdoor basketball court where a few upperclassmen were playing a brutally competitive facsimile of the game.
“Hey, kid,” called one of the players, a huge muscle pile from Alabama whose head sat like a cinder block on his shoulders.
Chekov slowed to a jog and nodded warily. He was used to older students asking him for help with their advanced theoretical physics. But Chekov suspected this fellow couldn’t get within two lifetimes of a physics class.
“Listen, man, I canceled my Chronicle subscription,” said Alabama as Chekov approached. “Why is it still coming?”
Now Chekov stopped, looking confused. “Excuse me?” he said.
“Why is the Chronicle still coming to my room?”
Chekov shrugged. “I honestly don’t know,” he said.
Some of the other players chuckled.
“Aren’t you the paperboy?” asked Alabama.
Now Chekov smiled brightly. He whacked the big fellow in the arm. “That’s a good one!” he said.
The other players laughed.
“I want that subscription halted, boy,” said Alabama with a sharp-toothed smile.
“Consider it done,” said Chekov. He turned and then jogged back to
his dorm.
A lifetime of fending off bigger, older bullies had given Chekov some skills in doing so. He was born good-natured, and that helped. He had supportive, loving parents back in Russia, just outside Saint Petersburg, where he grew up an only child. He began showing gifted qualities and a stunning proficiency in mathematics at age four. As a result, Pavel spent the next decade of his life as the youngest, smallest, and smartest kid in a series of increasingly elite Russian and then international schools.
Now he was the second-youngest freshman cadet in Starfleet Academy history.
As Chekov passed two female cadets in the hall leading to his room, one reached over and tousled his hair. All the girls treated him that way—It was like having dozens of big sisters. Some were even fiercely protective of him.
When he reached his room, another upperclassman, a cadet named Fackler, leaned against the wall next to the door. He was one of Chekov’s regular customers for math tutoring.
Fackler gave him a look. “What are you doing here, Pavel?” he asked.
Chekov smiled. “I live here,” he said good-naturedly.
“Ah. Then where are your boots, kid?”
“Boots?”
Fackler looked annoyed. “Gravity boots?”
“I don’t have gravity boots,” said Chekov, frowning.
“Okay, well.” Fackler clapped him on the shoulder and then walked down the hall. “Good luck, then.”
Chekov waved his keycard over the scanner lock and the door whooshed open. His room was empty. Or rather, his floor was empty.
He stepped inside. Then he looked up. His furniture was inverted on the ceiling—arranged in exactly the same configuration as it had been on his floor when he left two hours earlier.
“Ay,” said Cadet Chekov.
He ran a hand through his hair. Then he sat on the bare floor and started massaging his bare feet.
Dead week, he thought.
It was going to be just like they said it would.
Yes. Dead week.
Usually set in the final week of May, dead week was originally designed to be a quiet study period before the Academy’s term-end examinations. But it had evolved into a week notorious for what the Cadet Handbook termed “stress-reduction activities.”