Double, Double

by Michael Jan Friedman

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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  Copyright © 1990 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

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  ISBN: 0-7434-1996-0

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

  For my son,

  Brett Davis.

  May the stars smile

  on all his Enterprises

  Double, double, toil and trouble;

  Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

  … Stars, hide your fires!

  Let not light see my black and deep desires:

  The eye wink at the hand! yet let that be,

  Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

  I dare do all that may become a man;

  Who dares do more, is none.

  —Shakespeare,

  Macbeth

  Chapter One

  BROWN HAD BEEN AWAY a long time.

  It had begun as a simple mission of exploration along the Lower Rim, in search of additional ruins. His creator had thought there might be more machines down there. "Wonders," he'd called them, "beyond those we've already seen."

  So he'd set out, alone, with what seemed like an ample supply of equipment. But even Doctor Korby could not have predicted the weakness in the cavern wall, or the cave-in. Or the futility of trying to dig himself out, before he decided to search for another way back instead. Or the long darkness after his searchlight batteries had expended all their power.

  Now, he was home. He recognized the geometric shape of the sliding door. He heard the familiar hum of the energy generators, noted the familiar light sources of the outer areas.

  Home.

  He pressed the plate next to the door. With a hiss, it opened. Brown walked into the antechamber.

  Usually, there was work going on here. Either Ruk or the other Brown or, sometimes, he himself would be assigned to this place. Repairing pieces of the old machines, or fashioning new ones. But the room was empty.

  Where was everyone?

  In the main chamber, then. With the machines. Perhaps Doctor Korby was creating somebody new. Yet another Brown? Another Andrea? Or someone else entirely?

  The inner door, like the outer, opened with a sharp rush of air.

  In the glare of the overhead lighting, the machine shone a bluish gray. It sprawled, filling half the chamber. The indicators on its control console were dark, dormant.

  And again, the room was empty.

  Brown felt a pang of disorientation—something he had not experienced even in the long months of darkness. He knew that the feeling had not been programmed into him, because he could not put a name to it. Yet it was there nonetheless.

  Most curious. But his next move was clear. He had to go on. To find Doctor Korby. To make sure everything was all right.

  The next room was the main parlor, where his creator had spent much of his time. Here, the lighting was more subtle. There were wooden tables and chairs, a small computer, rugs on the floor, tapestries on the walls. Ornamentation, in which Doctor Korby had found some sort of stimulation.

  "Doctor Korby?" called Brown, though he could see that there was no one here either.

  He had not heard his own voice in quite some time. It sounded foreign as it echoed in his ears.

  Nor did he use it again, for it only seemed to intensify the feeling of disorientation. Crossing the room, he placed his hand against the control plate.

  The door slid aside, revealing the small, stark chamber behind it. Unlike the parlor, it was devoid of ornament—used mostly for storage. And dark.

  But not so dark that Brown didn't notice the form on the ground. He reached out, found the light plate where he knew it would be.

  And saw, in the ruddy glow of the single overhead, the body of the other Brown. Half his abdomen was torn away, revealing the fused ruin of his internal systems. The damage must have been considerable, for there was no sign of function at all.

  Brown knelt by the body, giving the ruined area careful scrutiny. He ran his fingers along the ragged edges of the opening and felt his own lower torso tighten involuntarily.

  This had not been an accident, the result of an explosion in one of the machines. Only a tightly concentrated force could have had this effect.

  But he knew of no such force.

  Was there a connection between what had happened to his counterpart and the disappearance of the others?

  It was likely. Highly likely.

  The feeling of disorientation began to mount. After all, Brown had not been programmed for such an eventuality.

  Perhaps, if he had more information …

  And then he remembered. Of course—the closed-circuit monitor. He had installed it himself, though it had been Andrea's job to maintain it.

  It would have kept a record of all that transpired here. All he needed to do was play it back.

  Leaving the other Brown where he'd found him, he turned off the light. The door swished closed behind him.

  Brown sat in the chair that had been Doctor Korby's.

  He switched off the playback unit. He watched the images on the screen dissolve.

  So.

  They were gone, all of them. Ruk, who had been created by the Old Ones, who seemed indestructible. Andrea.

  Even Doctor Korby himself.

  And all because of this human—Captain Kirk. He was the one who had disabled the other Brown. He was the one who had caused the destruction of his own duplicate, who'd forced the creator to obliterate Ruk—and then destroy Andrea along with himself.

  All gone, all.

  Brown strained to comprehend it.

  If the creator was no more, and his purpose was to serve the creator … then what purpose was left? Should he tend the machines as Ruk tended them, for time immeasurable, until another creator came to give him instructions?

  No. He was not like Ruk. He could not serve another creator.

  Then what? What could he do?

  What would Doctor Korby have wanted him to do?

  Suddenly, the answer came to him. It had been recorded in his memory b
anks when he'd heard it on the playback unit.

  Can you understand that a human converted into an android can be programmed for the better? Can you imagine how life could be improved if we could do away with jealousy … greed … hate?

  They were the words of the creator himself.

  No one need ever die again. No disease, no deformities. Why, even fear can be programmed away and replaced with joy. I'm offering you a practical heaven, a new paradise. . . .

  Brown leaned back in the chair.

  This had been Doctor Korby's purpose. He was sure of it. And as he continued to scan his memory banks, he recalled something else. Doctor Korby had given him a plan to carry it out—hadn't he?

  Could he do it by himself? No. Not even the creator could have done that. He needed someone to serve him—a Ruk, or an Andrea. He needed to make more androids before he could even begin.

  But how might he create another android—even one? He did not know enough about the programming process—nor had he been given an aptitude for it.

  The other Brown came to mind, but he was beyond repair. Even if his internal organs could have been rendered workable again, his programming would have been wiped clean.

  Brown ran the monitor sequences over again in his mind, searching for an answer.

  And found one.

  The machine's high-pitched whirring became a dull hum as the focal platform slowed its spinning. Long before it came to a halt, Brown knew he had been right.

  The machine's template of the human had been preserved. Or at least, the physical data had remained intact, for the being before him was a complete and normal specimen.

  But it would be a useless specimen, Brown told himself, if the mental patterns had not also been preserved.

  He made the proper connections among the machine's circuits and adjusted the neural output control. Then he activated the appropriate receptors.

  The form on the circular pattern jerked once, its head thrown back, the tendons in its neck standing out like knotted cords.

  Then it lay still.

  Brown cut power. The machine cycled down again into quiescence. Its lights blinked in the proper sequence.

  He walked over to the platform, stood over the being locked into it. It was a few moments before its eyelids fluttered open.

  There was intelligence in those eyes. And something else—something that seemed to hold him captive for a moment.

  "Brown," said the android. "Isn't it?"

  "That's right," said Brown. "And you are …?"

  "Captain James T. Kirk, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise." He chuckled. "The improved version."

  Brown nodded, satisfied. His creation not only looked like the human he'd seen in the playback. He sounded like him—acted like him.

  "Now," said the Kirk android, "how about getting me out of here?" With his eyes alone, he indicated the lock that held him fast to the platform.

  The android's tone was mellow, almost charming. But it was a tone that demanded obedience.

  Before Brown knew what he was doing, the lock had been opened. He took a step back, giving Kirk room in which to move.

  Naked, the android glanced around the chamber.

  "You know how to shut down the machines, don't you?"

  "Of course," said Brown.

  "Then I suggest you do so. We won't be needing them for a while."

  Brown began to move toward the main power supply, stopped himself. He chided himself for falling so easily into the servitor mode.

  He was the master now. He must remember that, he told himself.

  "Something wrong?" asked Kirk.

  "I am not finished with the machines," said Brown.

  "Explain yourself," said Kirk, stretching.

  "You are only the first of the androids I plan to manufacture. It will take a large number of us to carry out Doctor Korby's plan."

  Kirk laughed. Derisively, Brown thought.

  "One of me is enough," he said. "Or did you expect to populate the galaxy with Jim Kirks—without arousing anyone's suspicion?"

  Brown had no answer for that. He had not thought out his scheme quite that far.

  "But the creator's plan …" he began.

  Kirk dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Do you think you know the creator's mind better than I do? A Kirk was to be the instrument with which he saved humanity. My program is his plan."

  He strode across the room, palmed the plate on the wall. When the door slid open, he stepped through.

  Brown hurried after him into the next chamber—one set up as a small bedroom.

  "What are you doing?" he asked the android. He had the feeling that matters were spiraling out of control. Out of his control.

  "I'm getting something to wear," said Kirk. "Starship captains don't walk around mother-naked if they don't have to."

  He rummaged through the chest of drawers until he found a set of overalls.

  "You must understand," said Brown, "that I am in charge here. I created you."

  Without looking at him, Kirk slipped on the overalls.

  "My dear Doctor Brown," he said. "You must understand that you're talking to a starship captain. While you are only a faint echo of a second-rate scientist—an analog rather than a duplicate, since the original Doctor Brown was already dead when you were made."

  Kirk smoothed out the wrinkles in the overalls against his body.

  "To put it bluntly," he continued, "I don't think there's any question who's more … qualified to lead this operation."

  Suddenly, he looked up. Brown saw a distinct hardness in his eyes.

  "Any objections?"

  Brown tried, but he couldn't think of any. He had to admit that what Kirk had said was entirely logical.

  And what did it matter who led the revolution? As long as Doctor Korby's purposes were carried out.

  Mind your own business, Mister Spock. I'm sick of your half-breed interference, do you hear?

  Kirk pushed himself away from the computer console. He made a fist with his right hand and pounded it into his left, and the sound it made echoed momentarily in the cavern.

  That was it!

  It had taken him hours—scrupulous poring over the physical plan of the Enterprise, patient introspection of the human Kirk's automatic responses to various stimuli on board. But he'd found it.

  The conditioned response to any encounter initiated by the ship's Vulcan first officer. Mind your own business, Mister Spock. . . .

  How clever. Kirk must have drilled it into himself sometime before the original Kirk android's mental patterns had been set. Perhaps even as he lay on the focal platform.

  And at some point, the android—suspecting nothing, for he had no reason to—had spoken those words when he visited the Enterprise. Of course, it had aroused suspicion in the highly perceptive Vulcan. And that was what had led to the landing party later on.

  Kirk had had no other way to get word to his ship. It had to be the response he'd planted.

  Satisfied, Kirk smiled. He would make no such mistake when he took Kirk's place on the Enterprise.

  For, surely, that was the way to accomplish Doctor Korby's imperatives. From the command chair of the Enterprise, he'd have at his disposal everything he needed to spread the seeds of a secret revolution. Power. Prestige.

  Wide-ranging transportation. Access to the Federation's communications and data nets.

  Impulsively, he called up a cross section of the starship on the screen of his console. It held a certain intrigue for him. A certain attraction.

  Control of the Enterprise was crucial. Crucial. So much so, in fact, that he had difficulty conceiving of any strategy that did not include it.

  But first, he needed a way to get off Exo III. Not only for himself, but for the replication machinery as well. That was the other key element—to find a base of operations. A planet with population and raw materials sufficient to fuel large-scale android manufacture.

  Of course, there was but one way to obtain transportation. De
pressing the intercom button, Kirk called for Brown.

  The other android appeared in the doorway within moments.

  "I have not yet finished cleaning the receptor rods," said Brown.

  "How long will it take?" asked Kirk.

  For just a fraction of a second, Brown seemed to hesitate. A flaw in his programming? Kirk filed it away for future reference.

  "Perhaps another hour," he said finally. "But there are other maintenance tasks to be performed."

  "Leave those for later," said Kirk. "When you're finished with the receptor rods, you will build a communications device. The most powerful device you can assemble."

  Brown nodded slowly. "It will be done. And you? What will you do?"

  Kirk narrowed his eyes. "I will spend my time wisely," he answered.

  Frowning, the android turned and departed.

  Kirk watched the door close behind him. Then he returned his attention to the computer screen, where the Enterprise was still displayed in cross section. He punched in a command and it swung about ninety degrees, coming finally to face him.

  For a while longer, he studied it.

  Chapter Two

  Captain's Log Supplemental, Stardate 4925.2:

  The meteor swarm we detected will enter T'nufo's atmosphere in less than an hour. When it does, it will devastate the length and breadth of P'othpar Island.

  Since there was no other way to get the inhabitants safely to the mainland in time, we have resorted to the use of the Enterprise's transporter unit. Fortunately, there are only two small villages on the island—K'neethra here on the southern tip and Az'roth on the eastern shore.

  Nonetheless, the evacuation effort has been a tedious and complicated one. The P'othparans are a quasi-religious group, who long ago isolated themselves from other T'nufans in order to rediscover certain primitive social values. This means, of course, that they have no access to telecommunications—so that we've had to locate each individual dwelling, no matter how distant from the main village, and warn each P'othparan in turn.