Double, Double

by Michael Jan Friedman

  "We've faced worse," the android assured him.

  "I'm sure you have," returned Straus. "And this time, you've got some good men working with you in Martinez and Ascher. But you're a good deal closer to the problem than they are, so you'll have to improvise until they arrive."

  "Understood," said Kirk.

  Straus frowned. "Good luck, Jim. I'll have the coordinates sent to your navigator."

  With that, the admiral faded.

  Kirk reached over, switched off the monitor. Regarded the others.

  "It would seem," said Spock, "that our options have been curtailed somewhat."

  "To say the least," agreed Kirk. "We're back to square one insofar as McCoy and the other two are concerned."

  Silence for a moment.

  "Might I suggest," offered Spock, "that killing them is still not the answer? It would only attract undue attention. After all, Doctor McCoy is a prominent name in the fleet. And the death of the T'nufan would certainly come to the attention of Starfleet Command. What's more, if they have discussed their suspicions with other crewmen, it would give those suspicions that much more weight."

  Kirk considered that. He didn't like the idea of having to live with a threat. But it seemed he had little choice. One death might be overlooked—three would not.

  "When we bring back the shuttle crews," he said, "there will be enough of us on board to keep an eye on them. For now, that will have to suffice."

  Spock nodded, a barely noticeable movement of his head.

  "Nurse Chapel, you will continue to watch McCoy. First Officer, get the shuttle crews back here. And send an approprite message to Governor Chewton so he doesn't confuse matters by trying to contact Starfleet—for real, this time."

  He pushed back his chair, stood.

  "That will be all, for now."

  He started for the door.

  "Sir?"

  He turned, confronted Spock.

  "Yes?"

  "Shall I contact Doctor Brown as well? To let him know of this development?"

  Kirk measured his first officer. Had there been a note of disapproval in his tone? An implication of negligence on the captain's part for having failed to cover Brown in his orders?

  Perhaps disapproval too, of the way he had misinterpreted the incident with the T'nufan? Or his inability to allay McCoy's suspicions?

  The Spock android's face showed nothing. It was as unreadable as that of a true Vulcan.

  No. He is programmed to be loyal to me—obedient. He is not capable of disapproval, Kirk thought.

  He nodded. "Of course. You don't need me to tell you that—do you?"

  "No, sir," said Spock.

  "Good. And by the way—make sure that all the human templates down there are destroyed. They would have been nice to have on hand—but with the shuttle crews withdrawn, they'd outnumber their guards."

  He smiled.

  "Besides, we'll still have plenty of templates when we return—won't we?"

  "As you say," agreed Spock.

  There was only a thin sliver of light, stabbing through the spot where the boulder didn't quite fit the opening. It fell on Christine Chapel, tracing a jagged line from her thigh to her face. She was most calm—almost serene, thought Spock, considering the circumstances.

  Or perhaps she only seemed that way.

  By Spock's reckoning, they had been pent up in the cave for nearly two Midan days—Sulu's group, the crew of the Galileo II, about half that time. Hours ago, the last of them had been taken out and duplicated.

  There had been resistance, of course. Paikert alone had been stunned three times before he realized the futility of it. In the end, the duplications had been carried out; their android twins had been manufactured without imperfection.

  It had been chilling to see his likeness staring at him across the machine's platform—another Spock where moments before there had been only a greenish lump. But he had not been given much time to admire the machine's handiwork. No sooner had the process been completed, the spinning platform brought to a halt, then he was unfettered and thrust back into the cave.

  "What do you think they're doing now?"

  Spock recognized the voice as Chekov's.

  It was Sulu who answered. "Hard to say, Pavel. Maybe beaming down some more of us so they can make more duplicates." A pause in the darkness. "I hope not too many, though. This cave's only so big, and we're crowded enough as it is."

  That elicited some chuckles from the others. But beyond that, it touched on that other fear—the one that ran deeper than their trepidation over what would happen to their fellow crewmen, and ultimately to the Enterprise herself. The fear of what would happen to them, now that their minds and bodies had served the androids' purpose.

  They had all been thinking about it. But Sulu's remark had come the closest to giving it substance.

  Spock shifted his weight. He had been leaning too long against one of the stony plates that formed the basic structure of the cave, and part of his back had begun to go numb.

  His throat still hurt where the android Kirk had squeezed his windpipe shut. He swallowed with some difficulty, cleared his throat.

  And though he could almost hear the anticipation in the musty air, the taut sense of listening, he said nothing. What could he tell them, after all, that would make the bit of difference?

  Perhaps, after he had accumulated more data, he might be able to find a chink in the androids' armor. Until that time, however, he would occupy himself by going over what data he did have. Again.

  "Damn," said someone. As the voice didn't sound familiar, Spock guessed it was one of the security people that had come down in the Galileo II. "I can't squat here anymore. I've got to do something."

  There were scraping sounds as the man lifted himself off the cave floor. He seemed to be making his way toward the entrance, negotiating the bodies in his way.

  "Sit down," said Spock. His voice made the stone surfaces in the cave ring. "That's an order from your commanding officer."

  The crewman made a derisive sound—emboldened, perhaps, by the fact that Spock couldn't see his face. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I think this situation calls for some action. I mean, what do you think they're going to do with us? Pat us on the heads and let us go?"

  "When I require your opinion," said the Vulcan, "I'll request it of you. Until such time, I'll ask that you restrain yourself."

  But the crewman wasn't done yet.

  "Restrain myself? Sir, I've been restraining myself, and look where it's gotten us. Now it's time to show these androids what we're made of."

  There were murmurs of assent from deeper within the cave.

  "What you're proposing," said Spock, his voice clear and calm, "is suicide. The androids are armed. We are not. And even if we could budge that boulder, which I concede is possible, the aperture is too small for more than one person at a time. Our guards could pick us off even as we emerged."

  "And what's the alternative?" asked the crewman. "We go like good little lambs to the slaughter?"

  Spock heard the rising edge of hysteria in the man's voice. And he understood humans well enough to know it could prove contagious.

  "We wait," said the first officer, "for an opportunity. And then we act—not before."

  "No," said the crewman. "You wait. I'm going to try that boulder."

  There were sounds again of boots scraping stone as the man approached.

  "Need I remind you," asked Spock, "that you must get past me in order to leave this cave?"

  The man seemed to hesitate. Spock could hear his breathing, quick and fierce. He braced himself in case the man rushed the exit.

  After all, he was in charge here. There would be no attempted suicides if he could help it.

  "I'm with Mister Spock," said Sulu.

  "Me too," affirmed Chekov.

  But the man still stood there, indecisive.

  Suddenly, the sound of bitter laughter filled the cavern. Its echo from stone to stone gave it a h
aunting quality.

  Spock looked across the way and saw Christine Chapel in the shaft of light. It was she who had laughed, though there was no humor in her expression. Her eyes were hard—as he had never seen them before.

  "Perhaps," she said, "that's what they want us to do. Fight among ourselves. Do their dirty work for them."

  It was as if someone had punctured the tension with a needle. There was something in the simplicity of the nurse's words—or perhaps it was her tone of voice—that had made it all seem so foolish.

  The mutinous crewman must have thought so too. He grunted something and retreated to his former place in the cave.

  Christine's eyes fell on Spock for a moment, though she could hardly have discerned more than his outline in the near-complete darkness. There was pain in them—great pain. Then her gaze lost its focus again, and that strange look of serenity returned to her.

  Guilt. Of all emotions, it was the one Spock knew best. And was it guilt that ate at Christine Chapel now? Guilt for the horror her late fiancé had unleashed? Guilt for not having stopped it somehow, back on Exo III?

  Or was it something deeper than guilt?

  It didn't matter. He could not bear to see her like this. Sometimes it was easier to shut out his own pain than that of others.

  Without a word, Spock leaned forward and put out his hand. He let it drop gently on Christine's, felt the chill there.

  She looked up, still not quite seeing him in the darkness.

  But she understood his intent, knew the discomfort that physical contact caused him. And rewarded him with a smile, however faint and sad.

  He leaned back again.

  But before his back could come to rest against the stone, the earth trembled a little and there was a thin whine Spock had heard before.

  Apparently, he wasn't the only one who recognized the sound.

  "That's the shuttlecraft," said Chekov. "It's lifting off."

  As the whine died, another rose in pitch.

  "They both are," said Wood.

  "They're going back to the ship," said another voice—a female yeoman who had been with Sulu in the Galileo II. It was said with certainty, though the shuttlecraft might have been headed anywhere.

  For a little while, no one spoke. They just turned over the implications in their minds. Spock bit down hard on his own fears and frustrations, swallowed them whole.

  Then there was another sound—close at hand. The grating of stone against stone. The loosening of the rock that blocked the way out.

  It moved aside, revealing the barren, twilit slope opposite. And three or four of the androids, though they could only be seen from midtorso down. A couple of them held phasers.

  One knelt—the duplicate of Brown, Korby's assistant. His face was expressionless as he scanned the living contents of the cave, apparently unhampered by the lack of light.

  Finally, it seemed, he found what he sought.

  "Nurse Chapel," he said. "Christine."

  The use of her given name was appalling, somehow, when shaped by that mouth. It seemed to trivialize it, separate it from meaning.

  "Yes," said the nurse. "I'm here."

  "I'd like to speak with you," said the android. "You may come out."

  Was it time, then? Were they now to be taken out individually and destroyed?

  Perhaps the faceless crewman had been right after all. Perhaps Spock had waited too long.

  Or was this the opportunity for which he'd been waiting?

  The nurse had already begun to stir, unquestioning—resigned, it seemed—when Spock intervened.

  "No," he said. And to Christine, "Stay where you are, Nurse."

  She froze, dutifully.

  Brown's gaze shifted, latched on to Spock. He stared at him momentarily, as if it took that long to determine his identity.

  "You need not be concerned," he said finally. "I have no intention of harming her."

  "So you say," retorted the Vulcan.

  Another moment, while the android weighed the situation.

  "Very well," he said. "You may accompany her, if you wish."

  It was not much of a concession, really. Two could be obliterated as easily as one. But once free of the cave, out in the open … he would at least have a chance.

  "All right," said Spock. He turned to Christine Chapel. "We will go together then."

  She regarded him, seeming to understand what he had in mind—though judging by her expression, she didn't hold out much hope.

  Without a word, she clambered up and out of the cavern.

  Spock came just after, and then the boulder was rolled back into place.

  They sat just downslope of the cave, on rocks that protruded from the hard earth. Over Brown's shoulder, the sun was setting. At a distance, forming a triangle around them, there were androids armed with phasers.

  None of the crew's duplicates were anywhere to be seen—so they had left in the shuttlecraft en masse. That left only the androids who had been here when the Columbus arrived.

  But it did not seem that Brown had lied when he said that he meant no harm—at least, for now. Certainly, his armed compatriots had had every chance to cut them down.

  And yet, what could he need from them? Not their knowledge of the Enterprise, for their duplicates already had that. Then what?

  Brown chose not to begin by telling them that.

  "I will not destroy you," he said instead. And in a strange, inward way. As if he were not addressing them at all, but rather coming to a conclusion in his own mind.

  He repeated it, this time plainly speaking to Christine. "I will not destroy you."

  Either the nurse did not believe him or she had been caught by surprise. But she did not seem relieved.

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "Just what I said," responded the android. "I will not … cannot destroy you." He paused. "Especially you, Christine. I don't think Doctor Korby would have wanted you destroyed."

  The nurse stared at Brown, silent. And then, just as silently, tears rolled down her cheeks.

  "You mean it," she said. "Don't you?"

  He nodded. "I mean it, Christine."

  The nurse drew a deep breath, shivered. A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

  "Oh, God," she said. "I thought it was the end." She glanced at Spock. "For all of us."

  The Vulcan was cynical, however, in light of the phasers that surrounded them. "If you do not intend to destroy us," he asked, "then what do you intend?"

  Brown looked at him. "I do not know. I cannot let you go free altogether—that would jeopardize the leader's plan."

  "The leader?" asked Christine.

  "Kirk," said the android. Spock thought he heard a measure of distaste in the way Brown uttered the name. But then, Brown spoke in human patterns, and the Vulcan was still unfamiliar with some of the nuances of human parlance.

  "You don't like Kirk," said the nurse. "Do you?"

  Spock felt a small flush of satisfaction.

  "That is correct," said Brown. A pause. "He has assumed the Creator's place—yet his methods are not those of the Creator. He is without …" He faltered, shrugged. "Without."

  "Compassion?" suggested Christine. "Is that the word you're looking for?" She turned to Spock. "Even when we found him on Exo III, changed as he was, Roger still had some compassion in him."

  Brown thought for a moment, nodded. "Yes," he said. "Compassion is the word."

  "You are acting, then," said Spock, "without your leader's knowledge—or sanction."

  "I must," said the android. "He would have seen you all destroyed. And then …" His voice trailed off. The wind blew down the slope, and there were changes in Brown's expression. "You know," he said, "at first I thought it was a dysfunction on my part. A flaw in my programming. Then I realized that that was impossible. I was programmed by Doctor Korby. Of all of us, only I was programmed directly by Doctor Korby. So if I see things, he must have meant for me to see them."

  Christine's fo
rehead wrinkled. She leaned forward a little. "What kind of things?" she asked, as gently as if she were speaking to a frightened child.

  Brown told them. He described the visions he had had—the murders that replayed themselves in his mind. And, with more difficulty, his reaction to them.

  Guilt, Spock noted, even before Brown was halfway finished. Taking hold in this artificial being even as it had taken hold of Christine earlier. Fascinating.

  "You knew the Creator," Brown told Christine. "You knew him even before my human template came into his service." He looked into her eyes. "What could he have meant by this—other than to stop me from killing? To make death onerous to me?"

  The nurse returned his all-too-human gaze. "It is exactly what Roger … what Doctor Korby must have had in mind. After all, death and suffering were onerous to him."

  For a moment, Brown's face went blank. When life returned to it, there were the beginnings of a smile.

  "Yes," he said. "The Creator said as much." He glanced at Spock, then came back to Christine. "So I am following Doctor Korby's wishes when I preserve you."

  "I would say so," said the nurse, "yes." She licked her lips. "But Doctor Korby wouldn't have stopped at preserving us. He would have let us go."

  The android's brow creased. "I told you—that is not possible. If you are freed, you will contact Starfleet. And expose Kirk for what he is."

  "Is that bad?" asked Christine. "You yourself said that you don't like him. That his ways are not Doctor Korby's."

  "His methods are not Doctor Korby's," said Brown. "But his goals are the same. To people the Federation with androids—with superior beings, plagued by neither sickness nor death."

  Christine looked to Spock for help. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  "You have said," he told Brown, "that you will refrain from destroying us. Yet Kirk seems to have other ideas. What will you do when he comes back?"

  Brown shrugged again. "There is time to ponder that," he said. "Kirk will not be back for quite some time. He has been called away."

  "Away?" asked the nurse. "Where?"

  "To the Romulan neutral zone," responded Brown.

  Then the summons from Starfleet Command had finally come through. The Enterprise was on its way to a confrontation with the Romulans—led by an android captain.