Star Trek: The Original Series: No Time Like the Past

by Greg Cox

  “I wish I knew, Jim.” Worry creased the doctor’s brow. “Maybe the Orions are just more technologically adept than we knew? And they cracked our codes somehow?”

  “Maybe,” Kirk said. “And yet—”

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Nurse Ufgya interrupted. “Doctor Seven is awake. She’s asking for you . . . and Mister Spock.”

  Kirk hopped off the bed. “See to your patient, Bones. I’ll relieve Spock on the bridge.”

  After he scrounged up a clean shirt, of course.

  • • •

  “How are you feeling?” McCoy asked.

  “Uncomfortable,” Seven admitted, lying awkwardly on a primitive bio-bed. Her back stung where the thorns had pierced her skin. “I am not accustomed to resting supine in this manner.”

  McCoy gave her a puzzled look. “And how exactly do you usually sleep?”

  “That is what I need to discuss with both you and Commander Spock.” She tried to rise to a sitting position, only to experience a moment of lightheadedness. The lingering aftereffects of the neurotoxin, no doubt, along with her ongoing fatigue. A dull headache interfered with her cortical processing. “Excuse me, I require a moment.”

  McCoy elevated the head of the bed. “Is that better?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Doctor.” She glanced at the entrance to the recovery ward, waiting for Spock to arrive. A degree of anxiety attended her anticipation. She eyed with concern the diagnostic monitor positioned over the bed. She disliked seeing her vital signs so readily on display. It made her wonder what else the doctor’s examination had uncovered.

  McCoy followed her gaze. “Something bothering you?”

  “Do not think me ungrateful, Doctor, but I am troubled by what you might have discovered while treating me for my injuries . . . and by what I may have to divulge to you and Commander Spock.”

  “I’ll bet,” McCoy said, as though he was already well aware of her modifications. He gestured for his staff to give them some privacy and waited until they had the ward to themselves. “As far as that goes, your singular anatomy—and anything else you care to disclose—is fully covered by doctor-patient confidentiality.” He checked her pulse in a distinctly archaic fashion, while comparing the results to the display on the monitor. “They do still have that in your time, I assume?”

  She was familiar with the principle. “That depends on the species.”

  “Well, I’m an old-fashioned, red-blooded country doctor, so your ‘medical history’ is safe with me.”

  Spock entered the ward in time to overhear McCoy’s remark.

  “You must forgive the good doctor,” he said dryly. “He is excessively and illogically proud of his iron-based blood, but you may rely on his professional integrity.”

  McCoy huffed. “And Spock can be annoyingly tight-lipped when he wants to be. The time he went into pon farr, he almost died before admitting it.”

  “You are hardly doing your reputation for discretion any favors,” Spock observed. “That is a private matter which most Vulcans prefer to keep to themselves.”

  “I assure you,” she interrupted, hoping to head off another round of inefficient banter, “that the concept of pon farr was already known to me. But there is another medical issue that I fear I can no longer avoid sharing with you.”

  McCoy regarded her attentively. “If this is about the poison, I think I can promise you a full recovery. . . .”

  “This is another matter,” she stated. “Unrelated to the incident on Gamma Trianguli VI, except perhaps as it contributed to my failure to detect the threat in time.” She attempted, cautiously, to explain. “In my own time and place, where I belong, I do not sleep as you do. I require regular periods of regeneration in an apparatus compatible with my cybernetic implants. Without such rest cycles, my ability to function is impaired, and I am subject to the fatigue you witnessed on the planet’s surface, Doctor. This condition can and will worsen with time.”

  Indeed, she was already finding it difficult to focus. Her eyelids drooped as though weighed down by heavy gravity. Her limbs felt inert.

  “I had hoped to return to my own time before this issue became significant, but our quest has proven too time-consuming. The distances to be traversed are too great to expect that we will locate the remaining components before lack of regeneration impairs my motor functions—or worse.”

  As a drone, connected to the Collective, she had been capable of going without regeneration for approximately two hundred hours before suffering ill effects, but since becoming an individual, she had found it advisable to regenerate at least three hours a day. In an emergency, she could remain active for longer periods, much as baseline humans could sometimes do without sleep when required, but she was by now badly in need of regeneration. It was only a matter of time before her cognitive and motor functions began to break down, perhaps irreparably.

  “Dear Lord,” McCoy whispered. “Whose bright idea was it to ‘improve’ upon sleep?”

  “That is irrelevant, Doctor. The fact remains that I require your assistance to remain functioning until I can return to a time and place where I can regenerate as I am configured to do.”

  “Of course,” McCoy said. “We’ll do whatever we can to help you. Perhaps drugs or neuro-electric stimulation to induce deep sleep, maybe even suspended animation while we’re traveling between planets. And stimulants to keep you on your feet when you need to be.”

  Seven nodded, having already considered those approaches. “Such measures will surely be required, and they may help buy me the time I need.”

  “It’s going to be a tricky balancing act,” McCoy said, “but I suppose we have no choice, if what you say is true.”

  “You need not rely on my word, Doctor. A thorough study of my vital signs will confirm my growing need for rest and regeneration.”

  McCoy ran a medical scanner over her. “Hmm. I see what you mean. Your electrolyte levels are lower than I’d like, you have elevated levels of cortisol, and other stress factors associated with significant sleep deprivation.”

  “Or, in my case, lack of regeneration.”

  McCoy nodded and put away the scanner.

  “But why did you ask for Spock as well? What can he do to help you?” the doctor asked, glancing at his Vulcan colleague. “No offense, Spock.”

  “None taken, Doctor,” Spock said. “I suspect that Seven requires my scientific expertise as well as your medical prowess.”

  “That is correct,” she stated. “My difficulty is as much technological as biological. My cybernetic implants are a factor here. It is my hope that, working together, Commander Spock and I can address that aspect of my condition.”

  “An intriguing challenge,” Spock declared. A pensive look suggested that his formidable mind was already at work on the problem. “You mentioned a specialized regeneration apparatus before. Would it be possible to re-create such an apparatus aboard Enterprise?”

  She recalled, rather longingly, her alcove back on Voyager. That apparatus had been salvaged from a Borg cube destroyed by Species 8472. At this point in history, the nearest cube was likely in the Delta Quadrant.

  “That is unlikely . . . and inadvisable,” she replied. “The necessary materials and components are not readily obtainable in this era. Furthermore, even if such a project was feasible, I would hesitate to install such advanced technology aboard your ship. The potential for temporal contamination would be . . . extreme.”

  She was not exaggerating. Integrating Borg hardware and programming into Enterprise could be catastrophic in ways she could only begin to imagine. If there was even a remote chance of a Federation starship being assimilated, and perhaps attracting the attention of the Borg almost a century ahead of history, she had to find another way.

  “It may be possible, however, to modify a twenty-third-century power transfer conduit to reenergize my implants as needed. With your assistance.”

  According to Starfleet records, which Seven had reviewed back in her own time, the crew
of a later Starship Enterprise had once done the same to sustain a captured Borg drone for a time. The power system aboard Kirk’s ship was a generation more primitive, of course, but she had hopes that it could be adapted to serve the same purpose, at least for the time being.

  “My familiarity with the Enterprise’s systems is at your disposal,” Spock said. “In addition, there is another, less technological resource I can offer. Certain Vulcan meditation techniques can be used to combat mental and physical fatigue. In my experience, they can be highly effective in maintaining mental acuity despite extreme sleep deprivation.” He cast a sideways glance at McCoy. “Perhaps even more so than the good doctor’s stimulants.”

  McCoy scowled. “Well, I don’t know about that. Meditation is all very well and good, but—”

  “I said Vulcan meditation, Doctor. Not the rudimentary version practiced by most humans.”

  “The utility of Vulcan mental exercises is not in dispute,” Seven stated, having discussed the topic with Tuvok on occasion. He had shared a few basic techniques with her following their mind-meld a year ago. They had indeed helped to restore her mental equilibrium following a harrowing case of multiple-personality disorder. “A colleague of mine is well-versed in such matters . . . or will be.”

  Spock arched an eyebrow. “Fascinating. I am gratified to hear that my people’s teachings still find favor in the future.”

  She could tell that he was curious to learn more, but he knew better than to pursue that line of inquiry. The future of the Vulcan people and philosophy was best left unspoken.

  “Of course you are,” McCoy muttered.

  “If you wish, I can instruct and guide you in these techniques,” Spock volunteered.

  “That would be beneficial,” she agreed. “In conjunction with a suitable power source . . . and Doctor McCoy’s medicinal efforts.”

  “Don’t you worry,” the doctor said, putting aside his rivalry with Spock. “One way or another, we’ll get you through this.”

  She wished she shared his optimism. While all the strategies they had discussed might alleviate her symptoms and delay her inevitable decline, she was under no illusion that they were anything more than stopgap measures. She needed to return to her own time—and alcove—while she still could.

  Her eyelids began to droop again. She felt chilled despite the foil blanket and found herself trembling. Her left hand began to shake. Its exoskeleton chafed against her skin, which felt dry and raw.

  McCoy noted her distress. “First off, you need some serious rest.” He prepared a hypospray. “This is a sedative to help you sleep . . . the old-fashioned way.”

  “An admirable suggestion, Doctor, but . . . not yet.” She held up her hand to deter him. “I require the fragment I obtained on Gamma Trianguli VI. I have not yet had the opportunity to examine it closely, and I am eager to continue our quest for the remaining components . . . while I am still able.”

  Then, and only then, she might be able to rest.

  Fourteen

  Cheron was a dead world.

  The planet on the viewscreen was gray and ashen, its funereal pallor broken up only by rusty red seas and rivers. Although Cheron had once been inhabited by a thriving civilization that had, in many ways, been more technologically advanced than the Federation, no artificial lights could be seen on the night side of the planet. Nor were there any spacefaring vessels in orbit around Cheron, only a handful of dead satellites in decaying orbits.

  “Not exactly the hot spot of the galaxy,” Chekov commented from his post.

  “More like a graveyard,” Sulu agreed. “Never thought we’d come back here again.”

  Chekov shook his head. “If we have to revisit old stops, couldn’t we have swung by that Shore Leave planet instead?”

  “I am afraid that is not currently on our itinerary, Ensign,” Spock announced from the captain’s chair. He contemplated the bleak sphere on the viewer. “I would prefer to hear a report on the planet below us.”

  “Aye, sir,” Cozzone reported from the science station. A viewing scope cast a gentle blue glow on his aquiline features. “Long-range sensors indicate abandoned cities and traffic systems, devoid of activity or power sources. Urban structures crumbling and gradually being reclaimed by encroaching wastelands. Bio-scanners pick up only lower life-forms, although there are numerous humanoid remains, in various states of decay and mummification, lying unburied in the ruins of the cities.” Cozzone grimaced in distaste. “They’re all dead, sir. Everyone on the planet.”

  “As was to be expected, Ensign,” Spock said. The readings were consistent with what the Enterprise had discovered on Cheron during its first visit to the planet, approximately 1.364 years ago. The warring peoples of Cheron had destroyed themselves in senseless, fratricidal conflict at some unknown point in the last fifty thousand years, rendering their entire species extinct, save for two long-time adversaries.

  It was those individuals who concerned Spock now. He removed a microtape from the armrest of his chair and walked it over to Cozzone at the science station.

  “This tape contains the specific bio-signatures of Bele and Lokai, the Cheronian survivors who took control of the ship on a previous occasion,” he explained to Cozzone, who had joined the crew after that incident. “Both men were capable of generating unusual energies. Please calibrate the sensors to determine their present locations.”

  When last encountered, the feuding Cheronians had been left to continue their ageless conflict in the blighted ruins of their world. Given the bellicose nature of the two aliens, and their extraordinary abilities, Spock hoped to avoid engaging with them on this particular mission. Ordinarily, locating two specific individuals on an entire planet would be a daunting task, but the fact that Bele and Lokai were now the only surviving humanoids on Cheron improved the odds of success by a significant margin. “Scan also for any signs of habitation, no matter how small.”

  “Aye, sir.” Cozzone fed the microtape into the data input slot.

  Spock waited for the results of the scan. He was tempted to reclaim his usual post at the science station and perform the sensor sweep himself, but Cozzone was a qualified officer; Spock trusted him to do his job.

  “Got them, sir!” Cozzone said triumphantly. “I’m picking up two humanoid life-forms matching those signatures. They’re holed up in what appear to be armed bunkers at opposite ends of the planet. In the remote polar regions, to be exact.”

  “Figures,” Uhura commented with obvious disgust. “Even after seeing what prejudice did to their world, they’ve still managed to get as far away from each other as they possibly could. I don’t know whether to find that funny . . . or unbearably sad.”

  Spock shared her revulsion. “Blind hatred knows no logic, Lieutenant. But let us hope that Bele and Lokai remain barricaded in their bunkers for the duration of our mission here. That would surely be advantageous for all concerned.”

  “Why are we back here, Mister Spock?” she asked. “Can you tell us anything?”

  Spock considered his answer carefully. Contrary to myth, Vulcans were perfectly capable of lying when there were logical reasons to do so, but out of respect for the crew, he attempted to adhere to the truth as closely as possible.

  “An artifact uncovered by Doctor Seven on Gamma Trianguli VI indicated that an exploratory mission to Cheron was the next logical stage in her studies. Captain Kirk and I concurred with her findings and set course for the planet accordingly.”

  To be more precise, Seven had detected another stardate inscribed on the crystalline component she had located within Vaal: 5730.8, which corresponded to the Enterprise’s first and only visit to Cheron. As the previous inscription had successfully led them to the fragment hidden on Gamma Trianguli VI, albeit many years in the past, it had seemed only logical to seek out the next piece on Cheron. Spock could only hope, however, that this expedition would prove less hazardous.

  “And the Orions, sir?” Chekov asked. “Where do they fit in?”
<
br />   Spock felt he owed the crew at least a partial explanation. He was grateful that Commissioner Santiago was not on hand to interject his own intemperate views on the subject. The commissioner and his aide were presently in their quarters, occupied with their own diplomatic duties. Spock was in no hurry for them to return to the bridge.

  “Doctor Seven’s research could lead us to lost alien technology of unknown potential and application. The Orions apparently wish to claim that technology, as well as Doctor Seven’s specialized knowledge of such matters.”

  Crew members nodded, accepting Spock’s explanation at face value. This was a logical response, he realized, considering how often the Enterprise had dealt with ancient technology left behind by vanished civilizations on forgotten worlds. Billions of years of galactic history had left the quadrant seemingly littered with exotic, often dangerous relics on planets such Exo III, Camus II, Mudd’s planet, Arret, Amerind, and many others; it was hardly unprecedented for the Enterprise—and the Orions—to be in search of more of the same.

  “So what exactly are we dealing with here, Mister Spock?” Chekov asked impetuously. “More androids? Artificial intelligence? Another time portal?”

  The young Russian had no idea how close he was to the truth.

  “That, I am not at liberty to disclose, Ensign.” Spock chose to shut down any further speculation by redirecting the bridge crew to their duties. “Is there any sign of the Navaar or any other potentially hostile vessels?”

  Chekov consulted his navigations sensors. “No, sir. We appear to have the system to ourselves.”

  Cheron was located in a remote region in the southernmost part of the quadrant, near the desolate Coalsack Nebula. This sector remained largely unexplored; it was highly unlikely that any other vessel would be in the vicinity unless it was deliberately tailing the Enterprise.