Delta Anomaly

by Rick Barba

  “He spoke this, and then the cold-blooded bastard released his nanite swarm,” he said, “to model her liver, heart, and an organ unique to Orion women called the pherol gland. And in the course of modeling them, it destroyed them.”

  Uhura pointed at the number. “What does five-six-one-eight refer to?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” said McCoy. “That same number is part of each nanite’s ID stamp.”

  Uhura turned to Dr. Park. “So what’s the surprise?” she asked.

  “This,” said the professor.

  She opened a drawer and pulled out a small holo-projection disc the size of a coaster. It was the kind of disc that people put on their desks to display favorite holo-images. You could plug a data cube full of images into the device. The 3-D images projected up from the disk and cycled every few seconds.

  “It was easy to decode the raw data—it’s just numbers, after all,” said Dr. Park. “The harder step was to find archival programs that could read the old code and project the image,” said Dr. Park. “But we found them. Then we just popped it all onto this cube.”

  She plugged a cube into the projector disk.

  “So based on the translation,” said McCoy, “this image we’re about to see is the base where, apparently, a regroup was supposed to happen.”

  Dr. Park pressed the on/off button on the back of the holo-disc.

  Up rose an old-fashioned, greenish hologram of the Transamerica Pyramid.

  “Good god,” said McCoy.

  At the very tip of its spire, a red bead of light flashed brightly.

  Kirk couldn’t take much more introspection, so he tried daydreaming about Hannah.

  It was a ninety-minute shuttle flight back to Starfleet Academy, and the first hour was spent in utter silence. The guys were spent. Marcus and Glorak fell asleep sitting up. Raynor just stared out his window. Only Braxim seemed to have any energy. He spent it reading through his notes, prepping for the post-mission debriefing session.

  Suddenly the cabin viewscreen crackled to life.

  “Team Delta to attention, please,” called Commander Stetmann.

  Glorak awoke with a piercing snort. Everyone sat up at attention.

  “I’m turning Mission Control over to Admiral Miller,” said Stetmann.

  Stetmann slid off-camera and was replaced by the large, fleshy face of Rear Admiral Ben Miller, the Academy’s chief of testing services.

  “At ease, Cadets,” said Admiral Miller. “Gentlemen, I’m here with the test administrators and the assessment team.” His eyes turned to Kirk’s side of the cabin. “Team Captain Kirk, I presume you will act as team spokesman?”

  Kirk glanced across the aisle. Everyone nodded. Then he turned to Raynor. Raynor nodded too.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Kirk.

  “Good,” said Miller. He looked down at something just below camera view. “I have your final assessment here. Given your performance, it was remarkably easy to compile.” He paused. “I don’t recall a summary assessment coming together quite this quickly before.” He looked toward Kirk. “Ever.”

  The admiral likes rubbing salt in the wound, thought Kirk. He resolved to maintain perfect composure and give nobody the pleasure of seeing him squirm.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied coolly.

  “Now, I’ve been administering Tanika Station for almost seventeen years now,” he said. “As in most of our simulations, there is no black or white, wrong or right answer. Teams can follow many courses of action and achieve varying degrees of success. Our grading methodology is very flexible.”

  Kirk thought: And here it comes.

  “But, Cadet, this is the only time we’ve seen a team take your course of action,” he continued. “First off, do you have any questions?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” said Kirk. “Was the hull breach real or simulated?”

  “Simulated,” said Admiral Miller. “We like to see how cadets react to uncertainty and the possibility of real danger.” He smiled. “Your team evacuated the station with calm, sharp attention to detail. Very impressive.”

  “Yes, we retreated well, sir,” said Kirk.

  Kirk heard group laughter offscreen. The admiral was amused as well.

  “We have a new simulation programming chief here at the Academy,” said Admiral Miller. “He’s a recent graduate, and he’s given some of our traditional scenarios a thoughtful overhaul, including Tanika Station. In this testing, we seek to assess how your group decision-making and command judgments reflect the Starfleet mission. His insight is quite keen on these issues.” The admiral punched a button on his desktop. “I’m going to read his summary of your performance because I think it speaks for the entire assessment team.”

  Kirk braced himself. He glanced over at Raynor, who looked like a prisoner at sentencing.

  “‘Tanika Station,’” read Admiral Miller, “‘is a dormant alien world, reawakening. As such it presents a unique challenge for Starfleet science personnel. Its ecosystem offers much that is familiar to cadets, yet functions in a way that is entirely unfamiliar. Team Delta correctly recognized this meta-reality. The team’s decision to refrain from standard specimen collection was the most correct and most logical response possible.’”

  Kirk turned to look at his teammates across the aisle. All three were grinning back like jackpot winners. Glorak even gave him a thumbs-up, which from a Tellarite is a sight to see.

  Then he felt a big hand on his shoulder.

  It was Raynor, next to him. He gave Kirk’s back a quick whack. Then he folded his arms, unable to suppress a goofy smile.

  Admiral Miller read on: “‘Sampling would have harmed Tanika Station’s highly intelligent inhabitants, whose complex biological systems—body tissues; organs including a distributed brain structure, appendages, and connective tissue—are formed via organic synthesis reactions that are extremely rare on planets with carbon-based life forms, but do in fact exist. Taking specimen samples would disrupt the delicate processes and, in essence, kill inhabitants.’”

  Like, say, somebody “researching” Humans by removing their organs, thought Kirk.

  Half an hour later, Kirk stepped off the Gilliam with his Delta teammates onto Landing Pad 14. It had been nearly twelve hours since they’d reported for duty that morning to Shuttle Hangar 1. Now the sun melted into the Pacific horizon, invisible behind the columns of fog advancing on the city.

  McCoy stood at the landing pad. He had a large backpack on one shoulder and held another one in his arms.

  “Hey, Bones,” called Kirk. “We passed.”

  “Of course you did!” said McCoy, raising his arm for a high five. “But I hope you’re not tired.”

  “I’m exhausted,” said Kirk.

  “Then you’ll have to rest up in the police cruiser,” said McCoy.

  “What?”

  “Follow me,” said McCoy. He tossed the backpack he held to Kirk. “I’ll brief you on the way.”

  Kirk could see the fire in McCoy’s eyes. “What’s up, Bones? On the way to where?”

  “The Doctor’s lair!” said McCoy with a wicked grin. “We’re going to nail the bastard tonight.”

  Kirk was stunned. “You know where he is?”

  “More or less,” said McCoy, jogging ahead. “C’mon, man, speed it up. The fog’s rolling in!”

  Kirk swung the backpack onto his shoulders and started jogging to keep up. “What’s in the backpack?” he called.

  “A vacuum cleaner,” said McCoy.

  Kirk started laughing. “It feels like it. This pack is heavy. What’s really in it?”

  But McCoy wasn’t kidding.

  Ten minutes later Kirk found himself in the backseat of an SFPD hovercraft. He was crammed between two people: McCoy and Cadet Uhura. Kirk was almost too tired to enjoy being in such a tight space with Uhura. Almost.

  “This is cozy,” he said to Uhura.

  She rolled her eyes. “I think you’re still feeling the effects of zero-g there, Cadet,” she sai
d.

  “Could be,” said Kirk. He glanced down at the laptop case on her lap. “Mind if I check my e-mail?”

  Uhura gave McCoy an exasperated look.

  “Jim, let’s go over the plan,” said McCoy.

  “What plan?”

  “The one we hastily devised with no real thought given to any contingencies,” replied McCoy.

  “I know that plan,” said Kirk. “I use it a lot.”

  On the jog across Shuttle Hangar 1 to the policecraft, McCoy had brought Kirk up to date on Uhura’s translations and the Transamerica Pyramid hologram. Now he opened a side pouch on the backpack that sat on his lap.

  “Jim, the Doctor may be a tough guy, or not—nobody really knows,” he said. “But we do know that his nanite swarm is lethal and almost unstoppable if it decides to come after you. So Parag and I did a little testing in his lab this afternoon.”

  McCoy pulled a standard type-two phaser pistol from the side pouch.

  “First, we have this baby,” he said. “It’s slightly modified. When you fire a wide-field spread shot in this setting, you vaporize all nanites within the primary area of effect. The problem, of course, is that any surviving bits self-replicate so quickly that the swarm can just keep coming at you.”

  Kirk pulled another phaser pistol from his backpack. “It’s preset to disruptor effect?” he asked.

  “Right,” answered McCoy. “Now, it only takes a few thousand nanites, enough to fill a grain of sand, to create a microfactory that produces more nanites. If just that many get inside you, they can start tearing apart your flesh at the cellular level and then use the molecular debris to crank out more nanites. In less than a minute you’d be consumed from the inside out.”

  “Wow,” said Kirk, his smile fading. “That sounds unpleasant.”

  “But Starfleet doesn’t recruit geniuses like Parag Chandar for nothing,” said McCoy. “Remember that a nanite is a computerized machine. It relies on a data stream for instructions and operation. Parag ran a few tests and learned that very high-frequency sound disrupts that data stream in these nasty buggers.”

  McCoy opened the backpack’s other side pouch and pulled out a small device about the size of a wallet.

  “This is an ultrasonic sound emitter,” he said. “It’s set to a specific frequency that—in the lab, anyway—seems to freeze any nanite within its wave radius. The frequency is about fifty kilohertz, too high for our ears, so you won’t hear anything when you activate it. But the sound is there.”

  “Like a dog whistle,” said Kirk.

  “Exactly,” said McCoy.

  Finally, McCoy opened the backpack’s main compartment and pulled out a flexible rubber hose.

  “The spire of the Transamerica Pyramid is an enclosed space that gets smaller the higher you go,” said McCoy. “Phaser fire might be dangerous up high in the spire. I wasn’t joking about the vacuum cleaner,” he added. “Your pack holds a portable vacuum unit used for collecting hazardous gases and microwaste at industrial or biomedical accident sites. It’s very powerful, so watch where you aim, pal.”

  Kirk stared at the hose.

  “We’re going to vacuum the guy?” he asked.

  McCoy gave him a look. “Look, Parag coated the dust bags inside the canisters with a medical polymeric matrix sealant, permeable enough to let air molecules pass through but impermeable enough to contain half-micron nanites . . . for a while, at least.” He grimaced. “We think.”

  “You think?” said Kirk.

  “Well, a plastic bag is not quite like a quantum containment chamber, which is virtually unbreakable,” said McCoy. “Parag can foresee a scenario where a smart swarm analyzes its predicament, bonds into a solid state—like, say, a metal fist—and just punches through the bag.”

  “That’s . . . almost funny,” said Kirk.

  “Yeah, hilarious,” said McCoy.

  Kirk turned to Uhura.

  “Hi,” he said.

  She just rolled her eyes.

  “So what’s with the laptop?” asked Kirk.

  Uhura slid a slim tablet computer from its sleeve. “This is our translator,” she said.

  “I thought you were the translator,” said Kirk.

  “Well, if the Doctor speaks, I record it and run a spectrographic analysis here,” said Uhura. “Then a subroutine scan unscrambles and translates anything he says almost instantaneously. This assumes he’ll use the same outdated Romulan military code, and also scramble known languages like Romulan, Xanno, and English. I have their databases in here.”

  McCoy nodded admiringly. “She put this together herself, Jim, in about two hours,” he said.

  “And you coordinated this with Detective Bogenn?” asked Kirk.

  “Yes,” said McCoy. “He was skeptical until he learned of another ‘smoke inhalation’ incident the other night. Get this: It attacked security personnel up in the pyramid’s spire.”

  “Wow, in the spire itself?” exclaimed Kirk.

  The Transamerica Pyramid loomed up ahead. On the building’s north side, the blue police cruiser lowered through the fog to Washington Street. The SFPD had the perimeter locked down, with streets barricaded two blocks in every direction. Police vehicles clustered in the intersections with lights flashing.

  “Don’t you think all this activity will scare him away?” asked Uhura, glancing around as she stepped through the cruiser’s rear hatch.

  “I hope so,” said Kirk. “’Cause I’m going into battle with a serial killer armed with a vacuum cleaner.”

  Detective Bogenn approached them from the main entrance of the building.

  “Hello, Starfleet,” he said grimly.

  The pyramid’s security control center on the thirtieth floor was an armed camp of SWAT units and regular cops hauling heavy weaponry. As they entered, Detective Bogenn, McCoy, and Kirk glanced around at all the hardware.

  “Look at these jokers,” muttered McCoy.

  Detective Bogenn led them toward an old-fashioned bank of elevators.

  “Bigger guns make them feel better,” said the detective. “Especially when they have no idea what they’re facing. But then again, neither do I.”

  A self-important-looking SWAT captain stood with his team blocking access to the elevators. They projected a studied air of military menace.

  As Detective Bogenn moved toward the nearest elevator, the SWAT captain stepped in his way. Bogenn regarded him. “Yes, Captain Detroit?” he said.

  Kirk burst out laughing. “Is that really your name?”

  “Who are these kids, Detective?” growled the captain, ignoring Kirk.

  Kirk whipped out the vacuum cleaner hose and said, “Starfleet maintenance. We’re here to clean up the mess, Captain.”

  Bogenn turned to look at Kirk.

  Kirk reached down and flicked on his vacuum unit. After a few seconds of loud whooshing, he turned it back off. Then he put a finger to the earpiece of his headset and spoke quietly.

  “Hotel Bravo, this is Go Team Alpha, vacuum unit is operational, repeat, operational,” he said. Then he smiled at the SWAT guys.

  Bogenn turned wearily back to the SWAT captain. “This is Starfleet jurisdiction, Captain,” he said. “Stand down, please.”

  Captain Detroit and his men exchanged a few looks, but then the captain took a smart step backward.

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Detective Bogenn.

  As they rode the elevator up to its topmost floor, forty-eight, Bogenn looked over at McCoy.

  “Doctor, I understand Starfleet wants me posted in the command center,” he said.

  “That’s right, Detective,” said McCoy.

  “Why?” he asked bluntly.

  Kirk spoke up. “Because it’s unsafe.”

  Bogenn turned sharply to him.

  “Cadet, I’ve been hunting this son of a bitch for eighteen years,” he said. “He’s brutally murdered eight people, and there’s a ninth, a fine woman, fighting for her life on a breathing machine right now. I just saw her
tonight. She’s dying. Only a double lung transplant could save her.”

  Kirk nodded. “I understand, Detective,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Kirk. “But with all due respect, this one’s not like anything you’ve ever seen, not at SFPD Homicide.”

  Bogenn sneered. “You wouldn’t know what I’ve seen, son.”

  Kirk nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “But this guy is so alien. . . . Well, he doesn’t think like anything you can relate to, not even in a twisted way.” Kirk pulled out his phaser and flicked off the safety. “To him, we’re like plants. We’re specimens. And he doesn’t fear us. Because his weapons are better than ours.”

  Detective Bogenn pulled back his jacket and unsnapped the holster flap over his laser pistol.

  “Well, in my book,” he said, “a killer is a killer. Period.”

  Kirk shook his head. “If you try to fight him with that weapon, you’ll be dead in forty-five seconds.”

  “Jim’s right, Detective,” said McCoy quietly.

  Bogenn glanced up at the floor readout just as it hit forty-eight and the arrival bell dinged. “Fine. At least tell me who we’re looking at,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “Who is he?” asked Bogenn. “What’s his motivation?”

  “Ah,” said Kirk. He looked at McCoy.

  “Hard to say,” said McCoy. “He may be a lone-wolf scientist, or hell, a scout for an advanced civilization. We just have no clue.”

  “A scientist?” repeated Bogenn with raised eyebrows.

  “Yeah, an evil scientist,” said Kirk.

  Detective Bogenn thought about this for a few seconds. Then he said, “I can’t believe I’m letting two goofy cadets take point on this.” He shook his head. “We’re usually tossing kids like you into overnight detox.”

  Kirk grinned. “The night is still young, Detective.”

  The Doctor was ready for them.

  The moment Kirk and McCoy stepped inside the towering spire an angry-looking cloud of churning black smoke descended on them from above. Here, on the spire’s lowest level, two thousand square feet of open space was spread around a central staircase. So it was fine for phaser fire.