by Star Trek
That wasn’t exactly true.
Yes, the remains were in the way.
But the last thing he remembered…was impossible.
He had explored as many aspects of humanity as his program allowed, interacting with the crew, creating a holographic family, engaging in physical intimacy with Danara Pel, fantasizing about physical intimacy with…
Had this been a fantasy?
Or, perhaps…a vision?
Impossible. Holograms didn’t have visions.
Nonetheless, the last thing the Doctor clearly remembered was the sight of Captain Janeway, suspended in midair and surrounded by a blinding white light.
One minute he had been in sickbay, and the next before the captain.
No.
Drawn toward the captain.
Which meant…now…he was…
Where?
Suspended in the absence of light, he could find no immediate answer.
Tom’s eyes fluttered open. He was disoriented by the sensations that floated into his groggy consciousness.
His head rested on a pillow, soft, but…stale. It reeked of something…a foul smell he found hard to place.
Is that cigar smoke?
Tom was, of course, not a smoker. But from time to time his holodeck programs included characters who smoked cigars, cigarettes, or pipes. Only when the holodeck safeties were off had he ever smelled the sickening fumes, and had never understood the attraction or felt the slightest inclination to try them himself.
Bright multicolored lights flashed in rhythmic patterns on the ceiling. Rising, he found the source of the illumination. A large window on the room’s far side exposed a dark sky filled with signs resting atop dozens of large, ornate buildings. The signs flashed and burned in vivid hues, many of which included the words “Casino” and “All You Can Eat Buffet.”
The only furnishings in the dingy room were two beds, the one where he had been and a second, where Harry lay snoring softly. They were separated by a small wooden table, atop which sat a truly ugly lamp in the shape of a smiling circus clown riding a bucking elephant.
A low dresser sat opposite the beds with a strange box adorned with push buttons and a crude handset.
Is that a telephone? he wondered in dismay. It was an ancient communications device, one which had long ago gone the way of the combustion engine and fossil fuels.
Where are we?
The last thing he remembered was the shuttle. He and Harry, doing the first test flight of the tetryon transporter.
Whatever this place was, it had to be a simulation of some kind. It looked and felt like a motel room, one he might have found appealing in his younger, wilder days. But where was the shuttle? And how could Harry sleep at a time like this?
“Harry,” he called, crossing to the ensign and shaking him roughly. “Wake up.”
“Huh…what?” Harry jumped, startled.
“We have a problem,” Tom said.
Shaking the sleep from his eyes, Harry sat up and glanced curiously around the room.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“That’s the problem,” Tom replied.
There was a loud knocking at the door.
Both of them jumped, but were reluctant to answer immediately.
The knock was repeated…louder.
Nodding to Harry, Tom crossed to the door and as casually as he could asked, “Who is it?”
“Room service,” a male voice replied, with the oddest combination of condescension and glee it was possible to project in two words and three syllables.
Tom couldn’t place the voice immediately, but casting a questioning glance at Harry, could see in his alarmed eyes that Harry recognized it.
“Oh, no,” Harry said.
“What?” Tom asked.
“Don’t open it,” Harry replied.
CONTINUED IN
STRING THEORY, BOOK 3:
EVOLUTION
Glossary of Monorhan Terms
ati-harat: artisan in service to the rih-hara-tan
hara: group or pack
harat: male leader of a hara
haras: female leader of a hara
haran: male or female member of a hara
kuntafed: wild Monorhan animal
linuh-harat: seer/prophet, advisor to the rih-hara-tan
Protin: Monorha’s primary star
rih-hara-tan: leader of an entire Monorhan tribe who can establish the same psionic link with all tribe members that a harat or haras can with his/her hara
shalla: head of a secular committee of Monorhans, established by the Interim Emergency Council
Shi-harat: personal bodyguard to the rih-hara-tan
The Blue Eye: Monorha’s second star
wantain: snow
Acknowledgments
Who’s to blame?
Well, it’s usually safe to start with the parents. Mine were horribly supportive and encouraging of everything I wanted to do, particularly my artistic endeavors, so I’m sure a lot of this is their fault. My father, Fred, was the first to consciously and thoughtfully critique my work, which always made me feel like he took it seriously. Since his death, everything I’ve done, including retaining his name for professional purposes, is a tribute to his love and fierce spirit. My mother, Patricia, has always been my biggest fan and assures me to this day she’s not the least bit biased.
My older brother introduced me to Star Trek, so he had a hand in it. Since TOS was the only show we could agree on to watch on a regular basis, those nights in front of the TV gave me my earliest appreciation of storytelling on an epic scale. Thanks, Matt.
My younger brother, Paul, teaches me more than I can say about dedication and discipline. Our father lives on in him, which is a daily inspiration.
I then had the misfortune to marry into a family of intelligent, generous, and insanely supportive people. Special thanks to Vivian, my blessed other mother; Donna, for the grammar and content notes and constantly making me feel like not just an in-law but a true sister; Chris and Derek, for not complaining while we spent those hours on the phone; Debra, Bill, Michael, and Justin, for being genuinely thrilled when I told them about this project; and Ollie Jane, for giving me back what I’d lost eleven years ago, a living grandmother.
Then there’s the extended family and friends who might not know how much a comment here or a suggestion there, or just a willingness to share the ups and downs of this life, has meant to me: Beth, Candy, Allan, Christiana, Carolina Joy, Sean, Katey, Maggie, Jack, Fred, Marianne, Freddie, Erin, Greg, Ralph, David, Katie, Tony, John Mitchell, Adrian, Julie, and most recently, Katherine. A special heapin’ helping of blame goes to Sam, who knows I wouldn’t be alive without her love of so many years.
Of course I can’t leave out Maura, who has never failed to take me seriously and in whose debt I plan to be for as many years as she’ll have me as a client.
And Jessica, who first invited me to turn my pitches into prose.
Oh, and let’s not forget Jeri Taylor, who actually poured copious amount of fuel on a small fire when she invited me to Paramount to pitch for her when Voyager was still in production; her cohort in crime, Bryan Fuller, who kept asking me to come back with more stories; and, finally, Mike Taylor. Sometimes negative feedback is more empowering than positive feedback. I learned that lesson at his hands, and what had been one of dozens of stories I’d created for Voyager over the years became a mission, then a teleplay, and finally the core story of this book.
Jeff was way too accommodating to a first-time writer to go without mention. Now I just have to wonder, why was he listening to me? He gets the shame of changing what he had done so I wouldn’t have to. Does he now begin to see how wicked I truly am?
Heather bears the lion’s share of responsibility. She answered an email and I found a soul sister I’d never imagined could exist in this world. She knows what she’s done and that I couldn’t have written a word of this without her constant love, support, comments, suggestions, and beli
ef. I honestly don’t know sometimes how I got through a day before we were writing partners. An extra-special heart-stopping thanks for the moment she said, “I’m thinking we could incorporate Siren Song into this project. What do you think?” Somewhere inside, she knew better than I did how much I wanted this story in the world.
I notice Marco there, trying to fade into the woodwork as if all he did was his job, but oh, no…he’s not getting off that easy. He had no good reason to believe in me or hand me such a glorious project my first time at bat. I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to figure out how to repay that faith and to live up to his high regard. It means the world to me.
But always, at the end, it’s the husband’s fault, isn’t it? Deciding who to dedicate my first book to wasn’t hard. He’s listened to every word I’ve ever written. But more than that, he’s walked this road with me, constantly by my side, and his love has given me strength and courage I didn’t know existed. There are no words for my gratitude to him or the daily wonder that is our life together.
So, if you enjoy any of what you are about to read or have just read, you know whom to call.
About the Author
Here’s what happened.
Kirsten never wanted to be a writer. Nothing against writers, you understand. She’s a voracious reader, as the many groaning bookcases in her house will attest, along with the nice folks at Brentano’s, Barnes & Noble, Waldenbooks, and Amazon.com.
But writing is hard.
The problem was she loved to tell stories. She’d been doing it as long as she could remember, and by the time she was in her teens she had figured out that telling stories onstage was her favorite thing in the world to do. So she pursued her dreams of acting all the way to Los Angeles and was having a marvelous and reasonably successful time.
Then, one night, she was bored. Her husband had the audacity to get cast in a play while she was between productions, and this left her in an unusual spot: home…alone…for hours and hours…with nothing to do.
Roughly the same time this realization hit, Star Trek Voyager premiered on UPN. After a couple of episodes she found herself imagining story ideas. So she completed a story in her head and one day over lunch told her husband about it. His response…
“Sounds great, but what are you going to do…write it?”
Umm.
Yeah.
Ten years and lots of writing later, she has teleplays, screenplays (currently not produced but stay tuned), the beginnings of two original novels, and, finally, her professional science fiction debut: Fusion and a contribution to the upcoming Voyager anthology Distant Shores.
A word to the wise: Don’t ever tell a storyteller what they can or can’t do.