by Greg Cox
“The fragment?” Kirk prompted her.
The tricorder pointed her toward the sculpture. As she stumbled forward, her ocular implant faltered, blurring her vision once more, but she managed to make out a fuzzy Starfleet insignia inscribed invisibly on the pedestal.
“It’s here!” she said urgently. “Beneath the statue.”
“Good.” Kirk eyed the crumbling ceiling with concern. “Let’s get it and go, before what’s left of this place comes down on our heads.”
“Understood.”
The response code was already keyed into the tricorder, but Seven’s shaky hands still struggled to operate the device, and she found herself wishing that she had another hypospray. It took her two tries before she successfully transmitted the code—and a hidden panel slid open on the pedestal.
“Open Sesame,” she said hoarsely.
The third wedge-shaped fragment was waiting. With trembling hands, she plucked the prize from its hiding place. The crystalline component was violet-colored, matching the one she had claimed on Yusub.
“Take it,” she told Kirk, as she retrieved the first two components. “We need to assemble it together, so neither of us gets left behind!”
Kirk accepted the fragment. “Yes, I think I’d just as soon avoid that!”
Working together, keeping their hands in contact with the pieces at all times, they linked the first two components together and prepared to add the third. Kirk held on tightly to the original half-circle. Seven prepared to connect the next fragment. Chips of stone and plaster pelted her head and shoulders as the ceiling began to cave in. Billowing smoke invaded her lungs. Vibrations began to tear apart the two-toned sculpture, right down the middle. Black marble tore loose from white, or maybe it was the other way around.
If nothing else, she reflected, there was little chance of them changing history, one way or another. Flames, explosions, plague, and war would likely eliminate any evidence of their visit, while the mysterious disappearance of two nameless aliens would be lost in the violent death throes of a doomed civilization.
“Here goes nothing,” Kirk said.
“Or everything,” she amended. “On the count of three.”
Kirk nodded. “One, two . . . three!”
They put the pieces together. Seven’s vision turned inside out. She sagged against Kirk as they blinked away from Cheron.
Fire and stone crashed down onto an empty chapel.
Nineteen
“Feeling better?” Kirk asked.
He found Seven back in sickbay, reclining upon an elevated bio-bed that had been converted to serve her unique requirements. Flexible tubules, extending from the exoskeleton on her left hand, interfaced with an exposed power conduit equipped with an adapter of specialized design. A cable connected the adapter to the conduit, which had been accessed via a panel in the adjacent wall. Kirk saw that Seven had also apparently been making use of the computer library access terminal on the other side of the bed. Spock was keeping her company.
“To a degree,” she stated, although her face was still drawn and pale. Like Kirk, she was no longer made up to resemble a Cheronian and had changed back into more customary attire. Even her hair was blond again. “Commander Spock has been guiding me through certain meditation techniques. They are proving of use in preserving my cortical functions and ability to concentrate.”
“I am pleased that I can be of assistance,” Spock said. “You may find that the exercises will also allow you to better regulate your autonomic bodily functions, so that they can better rest . . . if not regenerate.”
Kirk could believe it. He had known Spock to remain sharp for days at time during a crisis and to be able to refresh himself with only short periods of focused meditation. Kirk had often envied his friend’s ability to go without sleep for long periods at a time without noticeable effect.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “You had me worried a few times back on Cheron.”
After linking the three fragments together, he and Seven had found themselves in the burned-out ruins of a dead city, at the precise coordinates that they had originally attempted to beam down to. It had been impossible to tell how long ago the city had died, but weeds, vines, and gritty gray sand already had overrun the crumbling buildings and pavement. Mummified corpses, preserved by the arid environment, lay exposed to the elements, while startled lizards and insects had scurried away at the arrival of the strangers. Kirk had glanced around briefly to see if he could locate the remains of the Center for Biological Security, but one heap of weathered, carbonized rubble looked much the same as any other. For all he’d known, they weren’t even in the same city anymore, nor had he been inclined to linger and investigate further. Better to put Cheron behind them . . . for good.
“I regret that I gave you cause for concern,” Seven said. “I will require an extended period of induced hibernation soon, but I wish to brief you on our next destination before I let Doctor McCoy put me under again.”
Kirk nodded. Seven had been too exhausted to inspect their prize immediately upon their return to the Enterprise. Truth to tell, he had been pretty worn out by their experiences on Cheron, too, but now that he’d had a chance to get patched up and recover a bit, he was eager to discover what new clue Seven might have found inscribed on their latest acquisition. In theory, they only needed one more component to complete the device—and perhaps send Seven back where she belonged.
The ship had already left Cheron’s system and was warping away from the Coalsack. Beyond his natural desire to get as far as he could from the graveyard Cheron had become, Kirk thought it wiser to move on before the Navaar caught up with them again. He couldn’t imagine that the Orions had given up on capturing Seven and her priceless knowledge of the future, which was all the more reason to complete her quest as expeditiously as possible.
“Did you find anything on the third fragment?” he asked. “Another stardate?”
“Indeed,” Spock replied. “Stardate Five-nine-four-three-point-seven, to be precise, which presents a notable complication.”
Unlike his first officer, Kirk could not immediately place the date, although the first few digits put it sometime last year, by terrestrial reckoning.
“Refresh my memory.”
Spock readily obliged. “The date in question corresponds exactly to our mission to Sarpeidon, which I am certain you recall.”
“Very well,” Kirk said as the details of that harrowing visit came back to him. He immediately grasped the “complication” Spock had mentioned. “But Sarpeidon was destroyed when its sun went nova. The planet doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Not in the present,” Seven observed, “but it still exists in the past.”
“That’s true,” Kirk realized. His heart sank as he saw another temporal paradox coming on. “I see your point.”
“I remind you, Captain,” Spock said, “that the people of Sarpeidon practiced time travel on a massive scale.”
Kirk didn’t need reminding. Faced with the imminent demise of their world, the entire population of the planet had escaped into the past, taking refuge throughout their own history. He and Spock and McCoy had come damn close to getting stranded in Sarpeidon’s past as well, barely making it back to the present in time to escape the planet’s destructions.
“You think we’re dealing with the same technology here?” he asked.
“Possibly,” Spock said cautiously. “As you recall, time traveling on Sarpeidon could be as easy as stepping through a doorway. Its people possessed a mastery of temporal mechanics that far surpassed anything currently possessed by the Federation. They even employed it to exile political prisoners and dissidents to the past.” A slight, almost imperceptible hint of bitterness entered his voice. “Often unjustly.”
A pained expression briefly disturbed his Vulcan reserve. It was subtle enough that most people would not have caught it, but Kirk knew his friend, and he knew what Spock had left behind on Sarpeidon . . . five thousand years ago. This d
iscussion was doubtless stirring up poignant memories, even if Spock would never admit it.
Seven, on the other hand, remained focused on the present.
“I have been reviewing the mission logs on your previous visit to Sarpeidon,” she said, indicating the computer library terminal attached to her bed. “The process that transported me here does bear a certain superficial resemblance to what you both experienced on Sarpeidon, but there is no indication that the ‘atavachron’ was capable of transporting individuals across space as well as time, as was done to me.”
Seven had never divulged where exactly her involuntary journey had begun, but Kirk had gotten the impression that it wasn’t from anywhere nearby, cosmically speaking. Certainly, she didn’t seem to have beamed in from some future version of Yusub.
“The full capacities of the atavachron remain unknown,” Spock said, “since the technology was lost along with Sarpeidon. It is possible that it could be used to travel through space as well.”
Kirk didn’t buy it. “But if they had a way of getting off their own planet, why didn’t they use it when their sun went into its death spiral? Why retreat into their past instead?”
“Perhaps they simply preferred their own world to any other,” Spock suggested. “Despite their obvious mastery of time travel, there is no indication that they ever ventured into space. This may be attributable to the fact that Sarpeidon was the only planet orbiting its sun, which meant its people had no attainable worlds within reach. The stars were too far away to tempt them.”
“No baby steps,” Kirk realized. “No neighboring planets to explore, like the early Mars or Saturn missions. They would have had to go straight to interstellar travel to get anywhere at all. No wonder they never bothered looking up.”
Spock nodded thoughtfully. “Instead they looked backward, exploring the fourth dimension rather than the third . . . with just as much innovation and success as other species devoted to reaching the stars.”
Boldly going, Kirk thought, through time, not space.
He was intrigued by the notion of a species that developed time travel before attempting space exploration. That wasn’t exactly the usual pattern; to his knowledge, most of the major spacefaring civilizations were still just tentatively sticking their toes into the murky waters of trans-temporal exploration—or steering clear of it altogether.
“It is also possible that we are dealing with a variation on the same technology, with additional capabilities,” Seven pointed out. “Or some mechanism of an entirely different origin.”
“True enough,” Kirk said. “But all this is just speculation. Perhaps we can get some answers once we get where the planet used to be.” Kirk headed for the nearest intercom in order to instruct Sulu to set a course for Sarpeidon’s former location out along the borderlands. “In the meantime,” he told Seven, “get some sleep.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she replied. “I will attempt to comply.”
• • •
“How far to the Beta Niobe system?” Kirk asked. “What’s left of it, I mean.”
The supernova that destroyed Sarpeidon would have left behind a stellar remnant in the form of an ultra-dense neutron star. Kirk intended to maintain a safe distance from the remnant while occupying the orbit formerly held by Sarpeidon.
“We are sixteen-point-three-two-two hours from the system,” Spock reported from the science station. “We can expect to encounter various waves of expelled radiation and gases en route.”
Kirk understood. Only two years after the supernova explosion, its residue would still be expanding outward through space in all directions. “Do these shock waves pose any danger to the ship?”
“Not that I anticipate,” Spock assured him. “There may be some minor turbulence, but nothing that our deflectors cannot cope with.”
Kirk was glad to hear it. “Mister Sulu, full speed ahead.”
“Actually, Captain, I would advise a more cautious approach,” Commissioner Santiago stated. After spending several days holed up in his quarters, dealing with matters diplomatic, he had returned to the bridge to observe the ongoing mission. “It might be best to be more circumspect, given our proximity to the Klingon Neutral Zone . . . and our previous run-ins with the Orions.”
Their course from Cheron to the Beta Niobe system took them through the borderlands along the southwestern edge of Klingon Space. Across the Neutral Zone, the Klingon Empire held dominion, and they tended to react aggressively to unwanted incursions. Starfleet Intelligence was aware of imperial listening posts all along the border. It was possible the Enterprise was already on their radar.
“The Commissioner’s logic is sound,” Spock said. “Despite the urgency of our mission, we would not want to encounter another ambush.”
Kirk weighed Seven’s deteriorating physical condition against the danger of her falling into the wrong hands. Considerations of speed warred with caution. It was a thorny dilemma, but the captain made his decision.
“Mister Sulu, lower speed to warp five . . . and take the scenic route.” He didn’t want to telegraph their destination by aiming straight at the Beta Niobe system. “Mister Chekov, keep an eye out for our Klingon neighbors.”
“Absolutely, Keptin!” the young ensign said. “Although their cloaking devices make that easier said than done.”
“Acknowledged, Ensign,” Kirk said. We could be surrounded by enemy warbirds before we even knew they were there.
All the more reason to keep clear of the Neutral Zone.
Kirk glanced at Santiago. Given a choice, he’d prefer not to provoke a diplomatic incident with a high-ranking Federation official aboard. He had been looking for a chance to drop Santiago and his aide off at the nearest convenient starbase, but so far such an opportunity had not presented itself. And would Santiago even agree to leave the ship, given his intense interest in finding out what Seven knew of the future? The commissioner had not pressed the issue recently, but Kirk was certain that the older man still regarded Seven as a strategic asset of incalculable value. Maybe they needed to get a few things settled before the Enterprise reached its destination—and before Seven tracked down the fourth and final component of the time machine.
“Commissioner,” Kirk began. “Perhaps you can join me in—”
“Captain,” Uhura interrupted. “I’m receiving an emergency distress signal.” She double-checked the coordinates. Her worried tone conveyed the promise of more bad news. “From the Neutral Zone.”
Kirk did a double take. You can’t be serious?
It was the Kobyashi Maru scenario all over again. Kirk had taken the infamous “no-win” simulation three times before he’d finally beaten it by hacking into the program and changing its parameters. The episode had nearly gotten him kicked out of Starfleet before the Academy decided to give him a commendation for “original thinking” instead. But he never had expected to run into the same scenario in real life, after all these years.
“Wow,” Sulu murmured. “Déjà vu.”
Obviously, Kirk wasn’t the only person who found the situation disturbingly familiar. Any Starfleet cadet on the command track had been through the exercise in one capacity or another.
“I assure you, Helmsman,” Spock declared, “this is no simulation.”
That’s for sure, Kirk thought. “Put it on-screen.”
“Aye, sir,” Uhura said.
An alien visage appeared upon the main viewer. Bristling silver whiskers sprouted from the sagging jowls of an unfamiliar humanoid whose droopy features reminded Kirk of a mastiff . . . or maybe a walrus. Fleshy pouches shadowed the alien’s wide pink eyes. Floppy ears hung past his jowls. Stubby yellow tusks protruded from his lower lip. A disheveled orange turban sat askew atop his head. A voluminous crimson robe, embroidered with elaborate astrological symbols, clothed a stout torso. A polished bronze medallion, studded with a constellation of glittering gemstones, hung on a chain around his neck. Numerous small tentacles wriggled from his sleeves. Coiled metal springs
were stretched over the tentacles like jewelry. Soot powdered his robe and leathery, blue-gray hide. Blood and mucus dripped from a moist black snout. His eyebrows were singed.
Kirk didn’t recognize the species.
At least it wasn’t a Klingon . . . or an Orion.
“Deliver us!” the canine alien blubbered. He had a rotund, sonorous voice. “For the love of the star-spirits, let us not perish in the cold and dark!”
A smoky haze suffused the cabin behind the alien. Sparking cables dangled in the background. Alarms beeped and buzzed. Offscreen voices cursed and shouted in alarm. Kirk got the impression that there was plenty of commotion going on. Static and video tiling distorted the image.
“This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation Starship Enterprise,” he hailed the other ship. “Please identify yourself.”
“I am Papa Yela,” the alien responded. “We are the Mavela. Our vessel, the O’Spakya, is in dire jeopardy! We beseech your aid!”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Kirk promised. “What is the nature of your emergency?”
“A warp imbalance in our engines threw us violently out of subspace into the gravity well of a voracious gas giant. We barely escaped with our lives, praise the star-spirits, but the O’Spakya was badly wounded. Plasma fires are spreading through the ship. Our hull is buckling. We have lost propulsion. Life-support is ebbing.” He wrung his tentacles in agitation. “Our fate is in your hands!”
“Understood.” Kirk muted the sound in order to confer with his crew. “Assessment?”
“The Mavela are a nomadic species,” Spock supplied, “who are more or less tolerated by the Klingons as long as they pay regular tribute to the Empire. They make their living as traders and entertainers, while occasionally indulging in low-level smuggling and the odd confidence scheme, not unlike our old acquaintance Harry Mudd. They claim to have precognitive abilities, although this has never been scientifically verified. The Vulcan Science Academy currently regards that as a hyperbole.”
Chekov nodded in understanding. “Space gypsies.”