The Gemini Agent
Page 8
“For Vulcans the Romulan genetic connection is likely, and recent,” said Spock. “Many Vulcan scholars believe that today’s Romulan race traces its roots to a group of Vulcan separatists who fled our planet more than two millennia ago.”
Uhura almost dropped her soupspoon.
“Romulans are direct descendants of Vulcans?” she asked.
Spock nodded. “Most likely, although this has never been verified.”
“Why did these separatists leave Vulcan?”
“The reasons are complex,” said Spock. “But in essence, they left to escape the Great Awakening, our cultural movement that established the purging of emotions in favor of logic.”
Uhura lifted her shoulders.
“Wow, Romulan cousins,” she said. “That could complicate things at holiday reunions.”
Spock smiled, then looked out the window. “As you know, we fought a terrible hundred-year war with the Star Empire not so long ago, beginning in the middle of your twentieth century,” he said. “Yet despite that fact, a few radical factions on our planet consider the Vulcan-Romulan kinship link to be significant. In fact, they believe a racial reunification is not only desirable, but inevitable.”
“There are Vulcans who are Romulan sympathizers?” asked Uhura.
“They are rare,” said Spock. “But they do exist.”
Uhura’s communicator beeped. She pulled it from her waist-pouch and then looked. It was a message from Leonard McCoy.
It read: Jim needs help. Meet us at Medical ASAP.
She looked at Spock.
He nodded. “It would appear that you need to go,” he said, noting her concerned expression.
She looked at the message again. Then a second message from McCoy appeared.
This one read: Doesn’t look good.
CH.9.13
All Hands on Deck
Nverinn knew his agent would be aggressive.
She was designed to be. The AI parameters allowed her great freedom in pursuing objectives. Thus it wasn’t entirely inconceivable that in carrying out a simple decoy operation, Gemini nearly killed a kid.
But Nverinn was furious nonetheless.
“This is precisely the kind of mistake I warned about,” he said into his desk mike. He spoke in flat, unemotional tones—in Nverinn’s case, a sure sign of anger. “It could attract attention.”
“It already has,” said the agent.
“How so?”
“Starfleet Intelligence is very involved.”
Nverinn wanted to pound the desk. But he would never do that.
“Gemini,” he said, “building the database is what’s mission critical. That’s your focus, not this other stuff. The disruption activity is secondary to your primary mission. You must remember that.”
“Understood.”
Nverinn pinched the ridges above his nose.
“Let’s suspend all the other activities for now,” he said. “Focus on the cadet … What’s his name?”
“James Kirk.”
“Yes, this Kirk,” said Nverinn. “Let’s keep mining that source. Keep drilling.”
“The first infection was quite successful,” said the agent. “But it inflicted damage.”
“Debilitating damage?” asked Nverinn.
“I don’t believe so.” Subspace distortion static crackled in the transmission. “He’s quite fit, with remarkable resilience. But I fear a second round could leave him seriously impaired, if not depleted.”
“Let’s avoid that, if possible,” said Nverinn.
“Understood.”
The agent’s voice, scrambled on both ends (at its Earth origin and at its Romulus reception), was reconstructed as a cold, metallic hiss. Despite knowing the technical reasons why it sounded so, Nverinn still got a chill when he heard it.
He glanced at the transmission timer.
“We must be quick,” he said. “Upload packets now.”
The agent’s “voice” turned into a babble of uploading code. The data transmission bounced in rapid microbursts between numerous subspace band frequencies to avoid detection. In theory the microbursts would register only as random, acceptable patterns of “chatter” or spatial anomalies by Federation subspace monitoring stations. The upload also plotted constantly changing transmission routes through the Federation’s web of subspace relay beacons. But all packets ended up flowing into the transceiver array that jutted like a titanic spike from the Center’s roof.
Majal approached behind him.
“Is that Gemini?” she asked.
Nverinn spun to face her. She looked anxious. He gave her a reassuring smile.
“Yes,” he said.
“Is everything well?” she asked.
“Gemini is functioning well,” Nverinn confirmed with a nod. “As planned.”
The girl sighed. She looked at the incoming telemetry on Nverinn’s display.
“When can I scan the data?” she asked.
Nverinn smiled again. “After you’ve finished your exercises,” he said. “And had a snack.”
“I don’t want a snack,” she said. “I will finish my exercises, but there’s no reason for me to have a snack if I am not hungry,” she grumbled.
Nverinn understood. A tidal wave of sadness suddenly rolled over him. In that moment Majal reminded him so much of her sister, back before her sister was fully trained.
“You must be regular with your health and exercises,” he said. “Just like Gemini was.”
“I know,” said the girl. She turned and walked out of the lab.
“Good girl,” called Nverinn as she left.
A voice suddenly crackled in the workstation speaker. At first it was indistinct, then the words clarified. It was a recording of the voice of James T. Kirk—the first time Nverinn had heard it. Kirk spoke in English, one of the Human languages that Nverinn knew well, but the infection slurred his words. So Nverinn read the auto-transcription printing on-screen as he listened.
The transcript read: “Nobody knows tactical like me, not at the Academy. But that’s not it, that’s not why you win. You don’t win with a playbook. You win with people. Good people. Watch next week, watch my team, I promise you we [indecipherable] rock the house. I promise you that. Yeah. [pause] But in the end, so what? It’s just a war game, you know.”
Nverinn was fascinated. He tapped up the volume.
Kirk continued, now sounding less agitated: “Look, you know this, you know my father saved the lives of eight hundred Starfleet personnel … including my own … during the twelve minutes he served as captain of a starship. He did it by flying a straight line into the [inaudible] enemy’s teeth. That’s it. What tactical knowledge did that take? Here’s what it is: It’s putting your people first, and yourself last. That’s what it took. That’s what he did. And Pike wants me to top that? How the [indecipherable] do you top that?”
Nverinn had to smile. He liked this young man. He was a great subject, and they would learn a lot from him.
Then he heard Gemini’s voice—her actual voice:
“Become a great man yourself, Mr. Kirk. Make the galaxy a less … hostile place. Save lives for fifty years, not just twelve minutes.”
Hearing Gemini, the sadness washed over him again.
Dr. McCoy stood at a wall-size whiteboard in one of the Medical College’s lecture halls. He tapped a red dry-erase marker on a crude map of the Academy campus that he’d just drawn.
The others—Kirk, Uhura, and T’Laya—sat in front-row desks.
“Here,” said McCoy. “This is where we all saw you last, Jim.”
He drew a red A in the center of the residence hall quadrangle. It marked the site of Alpha Centauri, the student center with various facilities—mail room, housing services, recreation, vending—plus the on-campus pub, the Perihelion.
“Oh, I remember now,” said Kirk. “We were all doing laundry.”
Uhura gave him a look.
“Joking,” said Kirk. “I remember nothing.”
“No, I don’t,” said Kirk.
“It’s seared into my memory,” said T’Laya, sitting next to him.
Kirk shrugged. “Okay, so I’m particular about certain drinks,” he said.
T’Laya hooked her hand around Kirk’s bicep. “You harassed Uhura about her first name,” she said.
“Again?” said Kirk.
“She had to stave you off with a trident.”
Uhura laughed. When she saw Kirk’s look, she said, “Hey, she’s kidding. I told you, you were actually a gentleman.”
Kirk turned to T’Laya. She locked her charcoal gray eyes into his.
“You have smoky eyes,” he said.
T’Laya gave him a funny look. “What does that mean?”
“It means stop looking at me,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m having trouble breathing.”
She raised an eyebrow and smiled a big, suggestive smile.
McCoy cleared his throat. “Can we get back to saving Jim’s ass?” he asked.
Kirk frowned. “Bones, I thought you said I wasn’t drunk?”
“You weren’t,” McCoy insisted. “You ordered a drink but never touched it.”
The doctor turned back to the whiteboard, then marked a red B on the flower garden outside the Academy Shuttle Hangar.
“Here’s where Lieutenant Caan found you,” he said to Kirk.
Kirk nodded. The two locations were not far apart.
“Yes,” said Kirk. “That I remember.”
“So let’s start with the possibility that Jim just wigged out, walked from A to B, and collapsed for six hours,” said McCoy. “Does anybody have a problem with that?”
Kirk raised his hand and said, “I do.”
They all looked at him.
“Why?” asked McCoy.
“I saw the video recording from Cadet Chekov’s room link,” he said. “It was distorted, but it was me. Looked like me, sounded like me, said things only I would know.” He leaned his elbows on the desk, running his fingers through his hair.
“But you don’t remember ever making the recording,” said T’Laya.
“No,” said Kirk. “The only time it could have happened was during that six-hour gap.”
Kirk had already told the group about Chekov’s “haunted room” ordeal—he learned the details from the admiral’s dossier that included Lieutenant Caan’s Intelligence briefing on the incident. Kirk did have programming skills, but the cyber-attack’s complexity was light-years beyond his ability.
“Clearly, it’s a setup,” said McCoy. “Jim, what were you like on that video recording? How did you act?”
“Drugged,” said Kirk. “I mean, it was me, but I was … not right. I sounded goofy.”
“I think you’re the fall guy, Kirk,” agreed Uhura. “Maybe even the target, ultimately.”
“But why me?” asked Kirk.
McCoy and Uhura exchanged a glance.
“What?” asked Kirk, noticing.
“Come on, Jim,” said McCoy. “Take a wild guess. Why might someone want you out of commission … this week, in particular?”
Kirk looked at T’Laya. She shrugged coyly and said, “Hey, I told you so.”
Kirk scoffed.
“Come on,” he said. “Are you seriously saying that the attack on Chekov was really an attack on me … because people are jealous?”
“Makes sense,” said T’Laya. “Some cadets will do anything to get the Zeta assignment they want.”
Uhura avoided eye contact.
“And that includes turning some kid’s room into an aquarium?” said Kirk.
“Maybe it was a prank that got out of hand,” added T’Laya. “I really like this jealous cadet angle. …”
“Prank?” repeated McCoy. “You drug up a guy and then shoot video of him, then use that in a highly sophisticated cyber-crime that has all the Starfleet tech experts baffled. … That’s more than a prank.”
“It’s more like a conspiracy,” said Uhura.
“I see your point,” T’Laya said, nodding. “But what about Viktor Tikhonov?” she suggested. “He hangs out with that bunch of guys, you know … people call them the Russian Mafia. I bet a few of them have top-flight hacker skills.”
Kirk shook his head.
“No way,” said Kirk. “Viktor already knows he’s at the top of the Zeta list. Believe me. His arrogance allows for no other possibility. He doesn’t need some harebrained scheme to knock me down a notch.”
“But Chekov is Russian too, right?” said T’Laya. “Maybe he’s in on it.”
Kirk gave her a look.
“I just don’t see that,” he said. “Not Viktor.”
But what she said had him thinking: Chekov. Tikhonov. The Russians. At the very least it was another reason to visit Nimitz Hall. He knew they both lived there. But he said nothing.
McCoy folded his arms. “Jim, I’d really like to see that video. Maybe I can get a read on your condition at the time.”
“You’ll have to ask Lieutenant Caan,” said Kirk. “It’s loaded on her notepad.”
McCoy crooked up one eyebrow.
“Well, then,” he said. “I might do that. This being official business and whatnot.”
Kirk gave him a sly look.
“And hey, Bones, the lieutenant told me she respects your integrity and insight,” he said. “I tried to set her straight, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“What a pal you are,” said McCoy.
“That woman is spooky,” said Kirk.
“How did she find you in that garden?” asked Uhura suddenly.
Kirk shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “She just followed the trail of drool, I guess.”
“The spot is pretty secluded,” continued Uhura. “I mean … why would she look in there?”
McCoy gave a gruff laugh. “Hey, I was looking in dumpsters,” he said.
“Right,” Uhura agreed, nodding. “I guess we looked in some odd places too.”
McCoy turned back to the whiteboard. “I say it’s time for some old-school detective work,” he said. He drew two crossed lines through the map, splitting the campus into four quadrants, then numbered each quadrant one to four. “Pick a number, folks. Let’s split up. Ask people in your quadrant if they saw Jim on Tuesday night during that six-hour gap.”
“Split up?” said T’Laya. “What if Kirk bolts again?”
Kirk grinned. “Starfleet Intelligence will ‘find’ me with extreme prejudice.”
McCoy checked his watch. “Meet back here in two hours,” he said.
As they exited the lecture hall, the women walked ahead, and Kirk pulled up beside McCoy. “Bones,” he said quietly. “Lieutenant Spooky told me she’d be at Campus Security until eight this evening. You should stop in during your search to, uh, see that video.” He smiled and gave McCoy a clap on the shoulder. “Her first name is Samarra. But I didn’t tell you that.”
McCoy nodded. “Thanks, buddy.”
“One more thing,” Kirk murmured. “I don’t think she’s all Human, do you?”
“Jim, after the marriage I had, I’d rather date a hairless yellow Aaamazzarite than another Human woman,” said McCoy. He glanced up ahead at T’Laya, who chatted with Uhura as they stepped through the Medical College entrance. “And anyway, female aliens can be very interesting, don’t you agree?”
Kirk grinned, then said, “Yes, they definitely can be.”
Sure, Chekov was a nice kid.
Of all the cadets in Starfleet the young Russian was probably the last one you’d want to cyber-attack. Back in his homeland’s online community, with its long history of cyber-crime lords and other malicious wizardry, Chekov was a white-knight legend.
Or at least his screen name, translated from Russian as “MisterCleanUp,” was.
Chekov’s specialty was tracking down online scam artists and
crippling their operations with viral counterattacks. He did it out of a sense of justice instilled by his parents; he also found it great fun. It often meant forays into the deadly cyber-web of the Russian crime syndicates, the most ruthless and lethal on Earth. But Chekov was so good that not even the wizard-level hackers employed by Russian gangs could find him. Nobody had ever connected the dots between the cyber-kid and the flesh-boy.
With this background it wasn’t surprising that Chekov was already hunting the infectious agent that had attacked his room.
And now he had a formidable partner.
“What have you got, Salla?” asked Chekov, typing on his laptop touchscreen at the speed of light.
“This piece is a very aggressive searchbot,” replied Salla, who was also typing with blinding speed. “Wow. Whenever I get a trace, it just … melts away.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen an agent quite so agile. It must re-encode its infection many times per second.”
They sat side-by-side in a deserted corner of the cadet lunchroom. Both worked on laptop links with dual quantum cores that they’d specially modified. The computing power at that one table could run an entire city transit system.
Or bring one crashing down, if the user was so inclined.
“Amazing,” said Chekov, now shaking his head too.
“What?” asked Salla.
Chekov pointed at his screen. “All my trace code gets … eaten.”
Salla leaned over to examine his screen.
“Have you tried any of those new malware-buster tools I gave you?” she asked.
“Not yet,” said Chekov.
“Can I try a couple things?” she asked.
“Oh sure,” said Chekov, pushing back his chair a bit.
Salla reached over. As her fingers tapped the screen, she slid in closer to Chekov. Her jasminelike smell made him feel a little woozy. He fought the sudden urge to run his fingers through her soft white hair.
What is wrong with me? he thought.
“Okay, kid, I set up a string,” she said. “It’s automated and ingenious, if I do say so myself.”
Chekov took a deep breath and tried to focus.