by Greg Cox
“Thank you, Ensign.” Spock took this report as a positive development although he could not help wondering where the Navaar was at this moment. He activated the intercom built into the armrest of the chair. “Spock to transporter room. You are all clear, Captain.”
• • •
“Acknowledged,” Kirk replied, pressing the speaker button on the intercom. “We’re preparing to beam down . . . to whenever. Kirk out.”
He stepped away from the transporter console, which, in the interests of secrecy, had been cleared except for Seven, Scotty, and McCoy. He presented a striking appearance, with makeup applied to paint his face white on the left side and black on the right. Instead of his customary Starfleet uniform, he wore a fabricated gray tunic and trousers. Matching gloves eliminated the need to tint his hands as well. A metallic silver chain circled his neck.
He eyed Seven skeptically. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“Yes, Captain,” she replied. “I appreciate your concern, but I believe I am fully capable of taking part in this expedition.”
Seven had spent most of the journey to Cheron in an artificially induced state of deep, delta-wave sleep, while a power conduit adapter, devised by her and Spock, had allowed her to recharge her implants by plugging her hand’s assimilation tubules directly into the adapter. Neither provided a fully satisfactory substitute for a normal regeneration cycle, but they would have to suffice. At least her hand was no longer shaking . . . at present.
“All right,” Kirk said. “What do you say, Bones?”
The doctor was on hand to keep an eye on his patient. He scanned Seven with his medical tricorder. “Well, her electrolyte levels are still pretty low, but I suppose she’s cleared for duty.” He handed her a hypospray pre-loaded with a powerful stimulant. “To be used as needed,” he instructed. “Just try to avoid getting poisoned this time.”
“I will do my best,” she assured him.
Kirk stepped back to inspect her. “I must say, ‘Doctor Seven,’ you make an attractive Cheronian.”
Like the captain, Seven was disguised to resemble the largely extinct denizens of the planet below. She wore identical makeup and gray attire, although her hair had been tinted a light brown, since it was apparently unknown whether blondes had been a rarity on Cheron or not. The bisected pigmentation of the planet’s inhabitants was unique in her experience; the Borg had never assimilated a species with such improbable coloring.
“I will take that as a compliment,” she remarked dryly. “I can only hope the effort to camouflage ourselves proves worthwhile.”
“It ought to,” he said, “if you really think we’re going to beam down into sometime in Cheron’s past.”
“That is my hypothesis,” she confirmed. Beaming down to Gamma Trianguli VI with the first fragment had indeed diverted her to the planet’s past, where she’d located the second component—and a clue pointing to the third. It seemed reasonable to suppose that beaming down to Cheron with the first two fragments might well result in another trip through time. “It only remains to test it.”
“I still don’t understand,” McCoy complained. “Why bother hijacking the transporter beam to send you into the past? Wouldn’t the hidden puzzle piece still be waiting in the present as well?”
“Not necessarily, Doctor,” she reminded him. “Time, wars, natural disasters, climate change, and other variables might conspire to damage, destroy, or relocate the artifact. If the intent is to guide us to a prize hidden in deep time, it makes sense to provide a route to the designated location in space and time.”
“I can see that,” Kirk said. “Come to think of it, research teams from the Enterprise looked Vaal over pretty thoroughly after we deactivated him last year. I don’t recall us stumbling onto a hidden alien artifact at the time.”
“Perhaps because I had already removed it in the past,” Seven said, “long before your first visit to Gamma Trianguli VI. That would also serve to explain why you never detected a Starfleet distress signal emanating from the planet.”
“Because you took care of that days ago, ages in the past, millennia before you first arrived in our time, but after you beamed down from the Enterprise . . . depending on how you look at it.” McCoy groaned and rolled his eyes. “Maybe this makes sense to you two, but time paradoxes just give me a headache.”
Seven recalled Captain Janeway expressing similar sentiments. “Trust me, Doctor, you are not alone in that respect.”
The components Seven had already acquired rested atop the transporter control console. Currently inert, they had been detached from each other so that she and Kirk could each have a fragment in their possession during transport. Seven had reservations about this strategy.
“I remain unconvinced,” she said, not for the first time, “that splitting the recovered half of the device is advisable. Perhaps it would be better if I carried both components, linked together as one, and conducted this expedition on my own.”
“Not a chance,” Kirk said firmly, his mind made up. “By your own admission, you ran into trouble on your solo mission before and almost didn’t succeed in reaching the fragment. You have better odds of success if you bring someone along to watch your back.” He walked across the room to claim one of the fragments and placed it in a fabricated gray carryall. “More importantly, I don’t like being left in the dark. I’m going with you this time . . . if I can.”
She continued to argue her case. “But what if the fragments must be linked to initiate the next transport?”
“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. “But first we’re going to try this my way.”
His stubbornness reminded her of Janeway as well. Perhaps it was a distinguishing characteristic of starship captains, who ultimately had to rely on their own decisions and judgments. Seven found this vexing, but she conceded that it was probably inevitable. She had learned from experience that there was often little point in attempting to dissuade a captain once he or she had settled on a course of action.
“Very well.” She claimed the remaining fragment and secured it in her backpack. “Let us proceed.”
Scotty programmed the chosen landing coordinates into the transporter console. In the absence of any other data, they had targeted an area near the planet’s equator, as distant as possible from both Cheronian survivors. A location in the western hemisphere allowed for sufficient daylight in which to carry out the search. Beyond that, the landing party would have to hope that the captured fragments would steer them in the right direction—as they had on Gamma Trianguli VI.
“Ready when you are,” the engineer announced.
Kirk and Seven took their places on the transporter platform, each of them carrying a bundle containing a fragment. Seven noted again how light the enclosed fragment felt. Neither she nor Spock had yet succeeded in deciphering its composition. It was fashioned from a substance unknown to even the Borg.
McCoy placed his hand on the lever. “Be careful, both of you. Cheron’s ugly past is no paradise, and race hatred can be a lot more dangerous than poison thorns.”
“Consider us warned, Doctor,” Kirk said. A confident air belied the possible dangers ahead. “With any luck, we’ll be back in no time at all . . . literally.”
He nodded at Scotty.
“Energize.”
Fifteen
Along with Kirk, Seven beamed down into a city in flames.
They found themselves on an upper floor of what appeared to be a large building or complex in the heart of an embattled metropolis. Anxious Cheronians, all of the dominant black-right race, hurried briskly through the corridors, while others huddled together in front of a large transparent window overlooking the apocalyptic spectacle outside. A sizable urban population center composed of towering skyscrapers and spacious plazas had become one of Cheron’s last battlefields. Smoke and flames billowed from torched structures and abandoned vehicles. Periodic explosions rocked the war-torn streets and causeways, which were littered
with fallen bodies. Stealth aircraft, evident only from the discharge of their weapons, strafed outlying districts in an apparent attempt to suppress a violent insurrection. Rioters clashed with civil authorities just outside the besieged complex. Personal force fields flashed crimson as the opposing forces engaged in vicious hand-to-hand combat. The unmistakable din of warfare penetrated the walls and windows of the building, alarming its inhabitants, which now included two visitors from the future. Understandably distracted by the tumult outside, no one appeared to notice the strangers’ arrival.
“Please remain calm!” a public-address system announced. “The authorities are bringing the disturbance under control. Please remain indoors until the situation is resolved.”
This struck Seven as an overly optimistic assessment of the situation. The assembled Cheronians appeared unconvinced as well. Angry curses punctuated frightened sobs and whimpers.
“I knew it!” a furious Cheronian exclaimed. Anger flushed the white side of her face. “I knew those half-white savages would burn everything down one day. We should have exterminated their entire miserable breed years ago. We were fools to even try to civilize them!”
“But why are they doing this?” a distraught companion asked. “Why couldn’t they just stay in their own districts and tend to their own problems? Why all this destruction and bloodshed? What do they hope to accomplish by rioting?”
“Because that’s all they know, all they’re capable of,” the first woman spat. “It’s written all over their ugly half-white faces!”
Seven found both the strife outside and the attitudes within distasteful, but it was consistent with what she had read of Cheron’s self-destructive racial divisions. Due to the danger posed by the planet’s two remaining inhabitants, whose lifespans were believed to extend for millennia, Cheron remained largely off-limits even in the twenty-fourth century, but as with Gamma Trianguli VI, theories abounded about the planet and its tragic history, as well as about the root causes of the animosity that eventually destroyed their starkly divided society.
A plausible theory held that the Cheronians’ distinctive duotone pigmentation was the result of millions of years of selective breeding driven by ancient religious and/or cultural dictates and reinforced by an inviolable taboo against interbreeding that eventually led to the sharp distinction between the black-rights and the white-rights. Indeed, some xeno-biologists speculated that the two “races” had actually evolved into separate species that had diverged at some unknown point in the planet’s prehistory. In any event, it was clear that uncounted generations of prejudice, exploitation, retaliation, and hostility had long ago dissolved whatever common ground might have once united the two peoples.
Seven frowned. Segregation was an inefficient use of biological and cultural diversity. The Borg favored assimilation, albeit of a forced variety. That seemed almost preferable to perpetual conflict over irrelevant variations in skin pigmentation.
“Please remain calm!” the PA system repeated. “Everything is under control.”
“Not from where I’m standing,” Kirk said in a low voice. “We seem to have beamed into a full-scale race war.”
Outside, in a courtyard in front of the building, gray-suited guards formed a defensive line just inside the complex’s outer walls. An explosion blew a reinforced steel gate off its hinges, and a flood of white-right rioters stormed the courtyard. Crackling force fields strobed as the fields smashed against each other. Neither side was armed in the conventional sense, Seven observed; instead, the combatants pitted their own bodily energies against their opponents—in a battle of wills as much as physical prowess. For the moment, the wall of guards appeared to be holding, but Seven doubted that they could long withstand the forces arrayed against them. Even as she watched, more rioters were pouring into the courtyard, shouting loudly. A muffled chant reached her ears:
“NO MORE CHAINS! NO MORE POISON!”
Seven wondered at its meaning. Poison?
“I can’t believe this,” a trembling Cheronian said nearby. “They’re coming for us. They’re going to kill us all!”
“Believe it!” her companion snarled. “They’re nothing but filthy, bloodthirsty animals. Killing is in their blood.” He turned to Kirk to confirm his bias. “Am I right, brother?”
“Absolutely,” Kirk said, playing along. “They can’t be trusted. Any of them.” He took Seven by the arm and started to guide her away from the worried bystanders. “Excuse me, we’re needed elsewhere.”
The outraged Cheronian wasn’t done venting his ire. “Just let me wring a few half-white throats before they get me! That’s all I ask!”
“You and me both,” Kirk said, mimicking the mood of the crowd. “That’s the spirit. Make the savages pay!”
Seven felt obliged to express similar sentiments in order to blend in. “They are too imperfect to be allowed to continue.”
The outspoken Cheronian gave Seven a baffled look, and Kirk quickened their pace. “Perhaps you should leave the invective to me from now on,” he whispered, before raising his voice again. “Half-white scum!”
Seven was relieved to put the emotional crowd behind them. “I dislike assuming the guise of a racist,” she admitted.
“Tell me about it,” he agreed.
Prior to beaming down, it had been decided that adopting the coloration of the planet’s ruling class would permit them greater freedom and mobility. Seven wondered now if that had been a mistake.
“DEATH TO THE OPPRESSORS!” the mob shouted outside, taking up a new chant. “BLOOD AND JUSTICE!”
“The situation here is unstable,” she concluded. “I suggest we carry out our mission with all due haste.”
Kirk nodded. “Lead the way.”
She discreetly removed a tricorder from her pack and began to scan for a certain Starfleet distress signal. The energies emitted by the clashing combatants outside provided unwanted interference, forcing her to compensate accordingly. Kirk kept watch as she adjusted the sensor controls. This took longer than she would have preferred, but it yielded the desired result.
“I have located the signal,” she informed Kirk. “It is coming from several levels below us, possibly an underground bunker or sub-basement.”
“Sounds like a safe place to hide the next fragment,” Kirk said. “Relatively speaking. Let’s get a move on.”
Seven and Kirk followed the signal through a maze of corridors and stairwells, past open doors and archways that revealed a variety of laboratories and offices, most of which appeared to have been abandoned by fearful workers. Visual evidence suggested that the building was some manner of biological research facility, possibly government-sponsored. Large flags and posters frequently adorned the walls, no doubt for propaganda purposes. She noticed that the inspirational figures depicted on the posters—leaders, scientists, soldiers, teachers—were invariably black on the right side. Cheronians of the right-white variety appeared only on “Wanted” posters.
Of course, she thought.
Panic and disarray spread through the complex. Agitated Cheronians rushed past them, often clutching research materials or personal possessions. Sobbing citizens huddled in corners. Others desperately tried to contact friends and loved ones through handheld communication devices. Explosions without continued to shake the building. Seven counted on the confusion to cover their own covert activities.
This proved insufficient.
“You there!” a harsh voice rang out. “What are you doing here?”
A squad of stern-looking Cheronians confronted them. Seven assumed they were guards or security forces of some variety, although they sported the same unisex gray attire that every other Cheronian seemed to wear. She noted that the aliens each wore a metal necklace of varied design. Perhaps to indicate rank or assigned function?
“Excuse me,” Kirk said, adopting an amiable tone. “Is there a problem?”
“This is a secure area,” the leader of the guards declared. “Identify your names and purpos
e here.”
Seven let Kirk talk to the guards. He seemed to have a talent for improvisation.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “We must have gotten lost. We’re just looking for someplace safe.” He feigned fear and confusion. “Have you seen what it’s like out there? We didn’t know where to go, what to do . . .”
The guards were unmoved. They surrounded Seven and Kirk, crowding them in a manner clearly designed to intimidate. They appeared unarmed, but Seven suspected that was deceptive. From what she had seen and read, Cheronians relied on their own psychic and/or biological energies for self-defense. She regretted that she lacked the personal force field of a true Cheronian.
“Let me see your authorization,” the head guard demanded.
Seven had no idea what sort of documents or tokens the guard wanted. She doubted Kirk did either.
“Look,” the captain pleaded. “We barely escaped with our lives, let alone our authorizations. We’re just looking for shelter, that’s all.” He tried to slip past the guards. “We can move on if you like.”
The guards blocked his attempted departure. Their stony expressions did not melt. Seven began to doubt that Kirk would be able to talk them out of this situation. Her phaser was tucked beneath the waistband of her gray trousers. She casually moved her hand toward it in what she hoped was an unobtrusive fashion. It might be that a more efficient response was required.
The head guard regarded them suspiciously. “How do I know you’re not a spy or a saboteur?”
“Are you blind?” Kirk replied with mock indignation. “Look at me! Do I look like a bloodthirsty half-white?”
“Maybe not, but you could be some bleeding-heart, liberal sympathizer.” The guard nodded at their respective bundles. “Let me see what’s in your packs.”
Seven decided that the time for dissembling was over. She had no intention of turning the precious fragments over to the guards. Moving swiftly, she drew her phaser, which was set on stun.
“I cannot allow that,” she stated firmly.