The Gemini Agent

by Rick Barba

  The Presidio, originally established as a Spanish garrison in 1776, eventually became a large United States Army headquarters in 1847. The Army Corps of Engineers installed an elaborate underground maintenance system to connect the base in case of siege. Three hundred years later, the culverts still existed. They survived the Great Earthquakes of 1906 and 2182.

  “I’m curious, Mr. Kirk,” said Lieutenant Caan. “How did you get through so fast? Two of our agents got lost for nearly an hour.”

  Kirk frowned.

  “I just followed the glowing green line,” he said.

  Samarra looked confused. “You saw a line?”

  McCoy raised a finger.

  “See? That’s what I mean,” he said to Lieutenant Caan. “It’s almost as if this infection did something to his brain—rewired it or laid new neural pathways.” He turned to Kirk. “Somehow, it gave you information and guidance—apparently even visual guidance.”

  Kirk’s memory stirred. “It talked to me too,” he said.

  “Really?” McCoy was intrigued.

  “Yeah, there were voices,” said Kirk. “Telling me where to go.”

  “Interesting,” said McCoy.

  Kirk grinned wryly at McCoy. “So I’m crazy, too, right?”

  “Maybe. But maybe not.”

  McCoy quickly adjusted some settings on his medical tricorder and then started waving it around Kirk’s head again.

  “What are you doing now, Bones?” asked Kirk.

  “Scanning your Heschl’s Gyrus,” said McCoy.

  “Good,” said Kirk. “It’s been itching lately.”

  McCoy ignored the joke, concentrating on the scan. As he did, Samarra’s communicator beeped.

  “This is Lieutenant Caan,” she answered. She listened for a few seconds, then said: “I’m on my way.”

  “We’ll miss you,” said Kirk, turning to her as she hung up. “Well, he will for sure,” he added, pointing to McCoy.

  “Don’t move, please,” said McCoy through gritted teeth.

  Lieutenant Caan looked at McCoy. “They want my report,” she said wryly.

  McCoy smiled up at her.

  “Give ’em hell, sugar,” he said.

  “Oh, I will,” she said. She put her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Good luck, Leonard.” Then she looked at Kirk. “Stay put, Mr. Kirk.”

  Kirk gave her a wave.

  “Stop moving!” repeated McCoy.

  As Samarra ducked out through the bed curtain, Kirk eyed McCoy sideways.

  “Bones, talk to me,” he said.

  “Heschl’s Gyrus is a ridge on the temporal lobe of your brain that processes auditory stimuli,” said McCoy. “It lets you hear things.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Kirk grinned.

  McCoy examined readouts on the tricorder. He didn’t speak for a second. Then he said, “I like her.”

  Kirk’s grin broadened. “She likes you, too,” he said.

  Now McCoy scowled. “And if you say anything more, the whole thing will be jinxed.”

  He held up his tricorder.

  “These readings, Jim,” he said. “They may explain those voices you’re hearing.”

  “I’m all ears,” said Kirk.

  McCoy gave him a sour smile. “Schizophrenics ‘hear’ voices in their heads because of a neurological quirk,” he said. “To put it simply, one part of the schizophrenic’s brain—the part that generates speech—literally ‘talks’ to the part that hears speech, the transverse temporal ridge, also called Heschl’s Gyrus. Now, we all have interior conversations with ourselves, to some extent. But because of abnormalities in a schizophrenic temporal lobe, the schizoid hearer can’t fully distinguish internal from external stimuli. So his brain processes the inner voices as real sound.”

  “Bones, if you’re trying to tell me I’m crazy …” Kirk shook his head. “I readily admit that I am.”

  “The brain scans I did immediately after Samarra stunned you show an amazing amount of metabolic activity in that gyrus of your brain,” said McCoy. “The same goes for your visual cortex, the brain area that receives information from the lateral geniculate body of the thalamus.”

  Kirk rolled his eyes.

  “Speak English to me, man,” he said.

  “This infection is making you see and hear things, Jim,” said McCoy. “But not random things that your brain just generates, like a schizophrenic episode. The information you’re processing—the stuff you’re seeing and hearing—seems to have a specific purpose. A guiding purpose. For example: It probably tricked your vision into seeing a preset path, a glowing line through a maze of culverts.” He shook his head. “Incredible! It’s almost like somebody uploaded neurological code into your head.”

  “Like brain software?” said Kirk.

  “Exactly.”

  Kirk shook his head. “Wow.”

  McCoy gave him a sharp look. “Jim, this thing can’t be a mere infection. It’s either a sentient, intelligent entity itself, or it’s an ingenious tool being directed by someone else.”

  Kirk couldn’t help it. He started feeling around the curve of his skull.

  “Is it alive, do you think?” he asked.

  “Not exactly, but we’ll know more when we get the lab results,” said McCoy. “I do expect a totally organic, carbon-based molecular structure.”

  “Why?” asked Kirk.

  “Because it dissipates so quickly,” said McCoy. “It must be encoded with a self-destruct mechanism, allowing it to simply break down into component molecules that just absorb right into the host’s system. It leaves no trace of its existence other than the residual metabolic reactions of your brain and immune system.”

  A buzzer sounded on the station console. McCoy tapped a button. As he did so, Kirk noticed the time on the display screen: 0842.

  “Twelve hours,” muttered Kirk. “That’s nuts.” Suddenly his eyes lit up: It’s Friday!

  He spun to McCoy. “Is the Zeta list up?”

  When McCoy hesitated, Kirk held up his hands.

  “Bones, I know I’m grounded,” he said. “I do remember that. So what’s your assignment?”

  McCoy sighed. “Farragut,” he said.

  “Chief medical officer?” asked Kirk.

  “Yeah.”

  Kirk whooped and whacked McCoy on the arm. “Not bad for a Mississippi bootlegger!” His head seemed lighter. “What about the girls?”

  McCoy leveled a cheerless look at Kirk.

  “Farragut,” he said again.

  Kirk howled. “Son of a buck, that’s sweet. Is Uhura on the bridge?”

  “What do you think?” asked McCoy.

  “I think, hell yes, she’s on the bridge,” said Kirk. He suddenly felt great. “And T’Laya? Let me guess. Upper engineering deck. She’s running the computer bay.”

  “That is correct,” said McCoy.

  “Who’s the chief engineer?” asked Kirk.

  “Olsen,” said McCoy.

  Kirk nodded and grinned. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll have fun monitoring you guys from mission control. And, Bones, they’d better put me on the mission comm-desk or I’ll have to—”

  “Jim,” interrupted McCoy.

  “What?”

  “Hold still and listen.” McCoy slid the IV needle from Kirk’s right arm, then taped a wad of gauze over the spot. “I’ve got good news … and bad news.”

  Kirk nodded. “I’m ready, man.”

  “It’s pretty clear, even to the geniuses at Starfleet Intelligence, that you didn’t sabotage Cadet Chekov’s room,” said McCoy. “And a cursory review of your alleged Honor Code violations—lying, cheating—well, they all seem dubious at best. You saw them. Whoever drummed those up did a pretty sloppy job.”

  Kirk nodded. “They seem like a smokescreen. But for what, I have no idea.”

  “The lieutenant agrees with that assessment,” said McCoy. He started peeling biosensor patches from Kirk’s left arm. “The charges weren’t meant to stick. Some are dow
nright ludicrous … to anyone who knows you, anyway. So Samarra had a little chat with the commandant, and to make a long story short, you’ve been assigned to the USS Farragut along with the rest of us.”

  Kirk grinned. He couldn’t speak.

  “However,” said McCoy. “We have no definitive medical explanation yet for your episodes. So you’ll be under strict observation by Lieutenant Caan during the entire exercise.”

  Kirk shrugged. “That’s not so bad,” he said.

  “Well, that’s not really the bad news,” said McCoy. “Given the ongoing uncertainty of your condition, the commandant couldn’t assign you a captaincy, obviously. So your post is first officer, exercise rank of lieutenant commander. Your station is Security.”

  “Security,” said Kirk, nodding as he processed the news. “Okay.”

  The first officer, also known as executive officer, or XO, was second-in-command on a typical starship. The XO was typically responsible for logistics and maintenance, freeing the captain to concentrate on tactical planning and execution. The XO also had a station assignment, which could vary. Some first officers doubled as the ship’s science officer. In Kirk’s case, he would oversee the ship’s onboard security and any tactical away-team operations.

  Kirk rubbed his arm. “Well, at least I’m aboard, I guess,” he said. “It could be worse.”

  “That’s true, it could be worse,” said McCoy. “For example, the Farragut’s captain could be Viktor Tikhonov.”

  Kirk just stared at McCoy.

  After a few seconds, he said: “No way.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said McCoy. “And there’s your bad news.”

  Kirk groaned and then lay back again.

  “However,” added McCoy, “here’s some more good news. I’m releasing you to your room for twenty-four hours of prescribed rest.”

  Kirk sat back up. “Thanks, Bones,” he said.

  “Sure,” said McCoy with a funny-looking grin. “But you’re not out of the woods, friend. I’ll be checking on you and running scans periodically. And I’ve assigned you a personal attendant.”

  He yanked open the bed curtain. Curled up and dozing on a chair sat T’Laya.

  Kirk fought the urge to leap out of bed.

  “She’s been here since the moment we brought you in,” McCoy told him. “She didn’t want to leave your side.”

  McCoy gently poked T’Laya’s shoulder and she woke.

  Then she smiled at Kirk.

  “Hey, Lieutenant Commander,” she said. “Let’s party.”

  CH.12.13

  Zeta Launch

  Kirk was awakened by a bright slash of sunlight across his face. Squinting in annoyance, he rolled over to see a shapely silhouette at the window, surrounded by a halo of morning sunburst.

  “Up, Cadet,” called T’Laya.

  Kirk groaned. “Isn’t it Saturday?”

  “There is no weekend in Starfleet,” she replied. “Especially Zeta weekend.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Kirk, slinging his legs out of the bed.

  “Come on, get up,” said T’Laya. “Your first Farragut bridge team meeting is at 0900.” She stepped out of the glare. She was wearing his XXL Iowa Hawkeye T-shirt as a nightshirt. “Let’s get dressed, then grab some breakfast.”

  Kirk staggered to his feet and then wrapped her up in a hug.

  “Not hungry,” he said.

  “Dr. McCoy says you need to eat to build your strength.” She rested her hands on his hips.

  “All I need is a snack,” he said, grinning.

  “Not now,” she insisted, gently pushing him away. “Don’t you want to make a good first impression on your commanding officer, Captain Tikhonov?”

  Kirk grimaced.

  “Okay, that hurt,” he said.

  “Remember what you told me, Mr. Kirk,” said T’Laya as she gathered up her things. “‘You don’t win with a playbook. You win with people.’”

  “When did I tell you that?” he asked.

  T’Laya’s eyes jittered on recall for a second. Then she blinked.

  “Oh, that first night we met,” she said. “At the Perihelion. You went on and on about teamwork. Team this, team that.”

  “Huh,” said Kirk, trying to remember and unable to. “That was the lost night, I guess.”

  “Come on, get dressed,” said T’Laya, suddenly changing the subject. “I want some French toast.”

  And thus began the cyclonic fury of term-end week.

  First-year cadets either caught the cyclone’s wind and soared, or curled up low to ride out the storm. The schedule was rigged to minimize introspection, sleep, catch-up, or second-guessing. You were either prepared and fit for duty, or you weren’t.

  Kirk’s final exams were in Tactical Analysis, Fleet Dynamics, Bridge Operations and Protocol, and Fleet Command and Control Methods. Although his pre-Academy aptitude tests were off the charts—Captain Pike had once called him “the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest”—he was still learning how to modulate the intensity level expected of Starfleet officer candidates without burning out.

  Fortunately, Kirk had the perfect role model that week.

  T’Laya was an incredibly focused worker. But she knew how to counter stress too. They studied together for hours and attended the Farragut crew orientation and simulator training sessions, yet still found time to hunt down cheap native-style Cantonese takeout in Chinatown. T’Laya’s inherited Vulcan physical strength made other activities interesting too.

  McCoy checked in less and less frequently as the week wore on. He felt confident that he was in good hands with T’Laya. Plus, Kirk had no more episodes, and he seemed to feel stronger each day.

  As for Captain Viktor Tikhonov: Kirk studiously maintained a low profile at Farragut bridge officer meetings and in the simulators. It wasn’t easy: Other cadets were well aware of the rivalry, and Tikhonov wasn’t shy about asserting his superior position. But Kirk focused on his station duties and took Viktor’s orders with good humor.

  It helped knowing he had T’Laya to look forward to each evening.

  Whenever Kirk fulfilled the first officer’s standard role of offering advice to the captain, he kept the discussion private, and he stuck to personnel issues. Kirk knew many of the Farragut cadets better than Tikhonov, and quietly recommended ways to better manage and mesh their personalities.

  To Tikhonov’s credit, he seemed to welcome Kirk’s input on such matters. But the Russian was uncompromising on tactical matters. In fleet maneuver scenarios on the simulated bridge, Viktor barked orders that he expected his bridge officers to simply follow without discussion or input.

  Kirk found this particularly frustrating: The Russian’s dogged relentlessness was his strength in smaller tactical scenarios. But in larger-scale fleet action, Tikhonov’s reluctance to disengage from an exchange and try a fresh approach sometimes hurt him. In their earlier simulator battles, Kirk’s victories over Tikhonov were often the result of taking creative, flexible, and unexpected courses of action.

  For seven straight days, the wicked pace continued: exam, training, exam, training. But at the end Kirk felt curiously energized and ready to go. A brief exchange with T’Laya over a midnight glass of wine in his room also put his mind at ease.

  It was the eve of Zeta launch. They’d just learned that day that the exercise was officially dubbed Operation Titan Storm.

  As they clinked together their glasses, Kirk said, “To Captain Tikhonov.”

  “May he reign forever,” said T’Laya.

  They drank. Then T’Laya stood, carrying her goblet to the window.

  “Lights,” she said loudly.

  “Lights off,” replied the room computer. The room lights slowly dimmed to black.

  “I have to leave soon, but first I want to see the stars,” she said.

  Kirk joined her at the window. He pointed toward two bright points of light, high in the northern sky.

  “I happen to know now that Castor and Pollux are
the twin stars of Gemini,” he said. “I didn’t know that a week ago. I know a lot more too, but it would make your head explode.”

  T’Laya set her wine goblet on the sill.

  “Oh, I know my constellations,” she said.

  “Let’s see, which way is Saturn?” asked Kirk, putting down his goblet too.

  “There,” said T’Laya, pointing.

  “Wow, you do know your sky,” said Kirk, impressed. He followed her gaze. “Hard to believe we’ll be there in, like, nine hours.”

  T’Laya suddenly faced him, grabbed his shirt collar with both hands, and pressed her lips onto his. He widened his eyes in delight, and he was about to ease into the kiss when she broke off and stared hard at him. Her eyes were just inches from his.

  “Listen to me,” she said.

  He smiled at her intensity. “Okay,” he said.

  “Whatever happens tomorrow will be good for you,” she said. “Win or lose.”

  “I prefer win,” he said.

  “I know you don’t believe in no-win scenarios,” she said.

  “When did I tell you that?” asked Kirk.

  “You tell everybody that,” she said.

  “That’s true.”

  “The thing is, I agree,” said T’Laya. “As long as you do the right thing, as you see it in your heart, then you win.” She still gripped his collar. “The ones who care for you—the ones who count—they will always know. That’s the ultimate power in the galaxy.”

  Kirk nodded in admiration.

  “Hey, I like that,” he said. “I like it a lot.” He grinned. “Of course I’m with you, so my judgment is impaired.”

  T’Laya quickly lowered her eyes. Then she closed them as tears began to flow.

  “Man, you Vulcans can be really weepy sometimes,” said Kirk.

  T’Laya’s tearful snort got them both laughing.

  “My nose is running like a spigot,” she said.

  “Here, use my sleeve.”

  She snorted again, and they both started laughing hysterically. Kirk suddenly playfully pulled her to the nearby bed and settled next to her. T’Laya buried her face in a pillow. Kirk thought she was still laughing but quickly realized that she was sobbing uncontrollably. Kirk stroked her back, unsure what to say.