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

by Greg Cox

  Could it be that simple?

  She cautiously approached the platform. A quick visual survey of the chamber failed to discover any scattered corpses, but she remained wary of booby traps. Seven watched her step, not wanting to repeat Neelix’s mistake, and avoided touching anything if she could avoid it. Unfortunately, her arms were not long enough to reach the central pedestal without mounting the surrounding steps, so she had no choice but to take another leap of faith. Holding her breath in a manner unbefitting a Borg, she gingerly set foot on the lower level. If there was a booby trap in wait, she would likely discover it soon.

  To her relief, however, no chroniton burst assailed her, nor was she inexplicably transported to yet another era or world. Hope spread within her, like an expanding wave front, as she climbed the steps until the top of the upper tier rested before her like a transporter control console. Removing the three captured fragments from her pack, she placed them, one by one, within the recessed area so that they matched the design seen throughout the complex. The segments fit together perfectly, filling the circular depression as though they belonged there, until only one last piece remained to complete the design. She braced herself for—what?—as it clicked into place.

  She expected to be transported elsewhere, perhaps back to Sarpeidon’s empty orbit, perhaps back to the Delta Quadrant, but instead a figure materialized atop the pedestal like someone arriving on a transporter pad. Seven backed away prudently, stepping down from the platform. She regarded the figure intently.

  He was humanoid in appearance, with dark skin and a fringe of silver hair around a bald pate. A lean face had been lined by care and time. A violet robe with crimson trim was draped over his slender frame, which was slightly stooped with age. Seven could not immediately place his species or planet of origin. He could have been Terran or Sarpeid or any of a number of indistinguishable humanoid races. Deep blue eyes regarded her thoughtfully.

  “Greetings, pilgrim,” he addressed her. “You have come a long way.”

  “That is an understatement,” she said with a flash of irritation. Now that her quest appeared to be nearing its end, she resented being made to follow such a circuitous route for no clear purpose. She hoped the answers would prove satisfactory. “Who are you?”

  “Nehwa of Sarpeidon,” he identified himself. “Or rather a replica of same.”

  She made a reasonable supposition. “You are a hologram?”

  “That is correct. You are familiar with such entities?”

  “Quite.” She recalled that Kirk and his companions had encountered a librarian with multiple replicas during their first visit to Sarpeidon. “And where is the original Nehwa?”

  “Long dead, many ages and light-years from here. I suspect you discovered my tomb in that distant region of the galaxy.”

  She nodded, putting the pieces together. “Those were your remains in the sarcophagus.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed, “assuming certain postmortem arrangements were carried out as instructed by another replica.” He spoke calmly of the death of his original, apparently untroubled by the notion. “And I may ask your name, pilgrim?”

  “My designation is Seven of Nine.” She clasped her hands behind her back, in part to keep them from shaking. “I desire answers.”

  He nodded. “If you have found your way here, you deserve nothing less. What would you ask of me?”

  “The clues you planted throughout space-time, leading me to this moment,” she began. “Explain.”

  “My story began many millennia from now, when, as a scientist, I made the breakthrough that led to the creation of my first great invention: the atavachron. Young and naïve, I was inordinately proud of my accomplishment, which promised to open a new frontier in temporal exploration, but I was swiftly disillusioned by the speed with which my discovery was abused to banish political prisoners, dissidents, and those whose families had merely fallen out of favor to eternal exile in the past. My work—my genius—had become an instrument of oppression.”

  The replica seemed to share his original’s sense of remorse. Regret tinged his artificial voice. Guilt shadowed his gaunt features, giving them a melancholy cast.

  “And yet the atavachron ultimately proved your people’s salvation,” Seven pointed out, “allowing them to escape the supernova that destroyed your world.”

  “That is a great consolation,” he admitted, his somber tone lifting to a degree. “Nonetheless, I had learned a bitter lesson. Although I continued my research, unable to curb my restless curiosity, I hid the fruits of my work from those who would put them to dubious purposes, so that when I devised my ultimate creation—a mechanism that could transport living beings across vast gulfs of time and space—I kept this a closely guarded secret, known only to myself.”

  “And your replicas,” she assumed.

  “Indeed. And yet, as my life drew to a close, I found myself faced with a thorny dilemma: What was to become of this device that I had created? To whom could I entrust this legacy and responsibility? For years I traversed the known and unknown universe, journeying backward and forward through time, in search of a species or civilization that I could trust to use the device wisely. But everywhere I went I was reminded that folly and corruption were as inevitable as hope and progress, or so it seemed to me. Nowhere could I find a worthy custodian of my legacy . . . and yet I could not bring myself to destroy my life’s work.

  “So I chose to scatter the pieces throughout space-time in the hopes that someday an individual of sufficient intelligence and resourcefulness would reassemble the device. And have the wisdom to know what to do with it.”

  Seven grasped his intent. “This was a test. A puzzle to be unraveled in order to claim the device.”

  “A quest, to be precise, full of challenges and riddles to overcome.”

  Spoken like a wizard, she thought, realizing that Nehwa was surely the enigmatic traveler of whom the legends of the Delta Quadrant told. “I prefer a less fanciful description.”

  “A test, then . . . and lessons.”

  She failed to comprehend his meaning. “Lessons?”

  “Think about what you have witnessed and experienced on your journey. Do you truly suppose that the stations of your pilgrimage were chosen at random?”

  Understanding dawned, despite her fatigue.

  “Gamma Trianguli VI, Cheron, even Sarpeidon . . . they were all warnings. Cautionary examples.”

  He nodded gravely. “Of the dangers of technology abused . . . and the potential darkness lurking in every sapient species. You have seen minds enslaved to serve a machine, an advanced civilization destroyed by racial conflict, and a world that turned its own history into a prison and a punishment. And all found within the voyages of a single bold explorer. . . .”

  “Kirk,” she realized. “Why Kirk? He is not of Sarpeidon. Why build your puzzle around him?”

  The hologram shrugged. “Every code needs a key. Every map needs a legend. And what more suitable starting point than the last traveler to set foot on Sarpeidon . . . and a historic figure whose fabled exploits poignantly illustrate both the dangers and rewards of voyaging through time.”

  Seven thought of Kirk, buried alive millennia before his birth. Even before the (literally) untimely fate that had just befallen him, Kirk had demonstrated a profound appreciation of the Temporal Prime Directive, despite his reputation to the contrary. Nehwa was not wrong in thinking that Kirk embodied both the perils and promise of time travel. By traversing time, he had saved planets and endangered history, often at the same time.

  “But Kirk is not here,” she stated. “I am. What now?”

  “That is for you to decide. You may claim the device, use it as you will, or you may make what is possibly the wiser choice.”

  By now, his meaning was clear.

  “You want me to destroy the device.”

  He nodded. “Destroy it in the past . . . so that it will never exist in the future. As I said, I could not bring myself to destroy my li
fe’s work, nor even program my replicas to carry out the task. They . . . we . . . I . . . were too close to the dilemma to see it clearly. Our work was too much a part of us. But perhaps a stranger, capable of completing our quest, would have the strength and understanding to make the right choice. . . .”

  “I see,” Seven said.

  She contemplated her options. She could, as planned, use the completed device to return to the Delta Quadrant to rescue Captain Janeway and the rest of the away team. Beyond that, she could conceivably adapt the future version of the device, the one inside Kirk’s monument, to transport Voyager back to Earth many years ahead of schedule, delivering Nehwa’s revolutionary space-time technology to Starfleet.

  But what then? Would some twenty-fourth-century equivalent of Commissioner Santiago insist on harnessing the device for the good of the Federation? Seven thought back on her debates with Santiago regarding the Temporal Prime Directive and wondered how she could possibly guarantee that Nehwa’s technology would not prove a threat to the time line and galactic peace. Her own trip through time had already resulted in chaos, bloodshed, deceit, death, and the premature loss of James T. Kirk. What could be the consequences of introducing the device to her own time?

  “Choose wisely,” the hologram advised her.

  Destroying the device would trap her in the past—or would it? Her memory, which remained functional despite everything, played back Nehwa’s words to her. She noted the precise phrasing of his suggestion:

  “Destroy it in the past . . . so that it will never exist in the future.”

  But if it never exists in the future . . .

  Her legs buckled as her long ordeal caught up with her. The last dose of stimulant was already wearing off, leaving her almost too weak to take any action at all. The Borg in her was in desperate need of regeneration. Her implants were shutting down, beyond the ability of her nanoprobes to restore them. Her vision blurred even more severely than before. Random muscles twitched. Involuntary neural surges caused her assimilation tubules to extend and retract spasmodically, poking holes in the glove of her environment suit. Alternating waves of hot and cold left her shaking and sweating simultaneously. Her head felt as though there was a warp core breach inside it. Darkness began to infringe on the periphery of her vision. She was becoming inoperative.

  “What is it?” the hologram asked in alarm. “What’s wrong with you?”

  It required considerable effort to reply. “I am out of time.”

  The irony was not lost on her.

  “No!” the hologram protested. “You can’t die yet. You have to choose!”

  She did so.

  Drawing her phaser, she set it on disrupt and opened fire on the pedestal. The device flared red before dissolving into nothingness. In an instant, its future went away.

  And so did Seven.

  Thirty-five

  The control booth inside Kirk’s monument was precisely as Seven remembered it—with a single notable exception. Glancing down at the floor of the booth, she saw only a flat circular depression where the device had once been, or would have been had she not just destroyed it in the past, so that it had never sent her back in time in the first place. . . .

  The paradox was enough to make her head swim, even though she was no longer on the verge of passing out. Her extreme exhaustion had vanished along with the twenty-third-century space suit she had been wearing only seconds before, thousands of years ago. Aside from her memories, no evidence remained of her extended “quest” through space-time. No doubt that was as Nehwa intended.

  Her chronometric node, which was no longer in desperate need of regeneration, confirmed that only a heartbeat had passed since she had first set foot in the booth. She heard Captain Janeway moaning in pain in the adjacent burial chamber and realized that she could grapple with any slippery temporal conundrums later. More pressing matters, in the here and now, demanded her attention. The control panel allowed her to deactivate the force field.

  She tapped her combadge.

  “Seven of Nine to Voyager. I require immediate assistance.”

  “Chakotay here,” he responded. “What’s your situation?”

  It was unexpectedly reassuring to hear his voice again. “The captain and the rest of the away team have been seriously injured. They need to be beamed directly to sickbay.”

  He did not waste time pressing her for details, although she heard a new edge to his voice. “We’re on it. Stand by.”

  He responded with admirable efficiency. Mere moments passed before a transporter beam locked onto her and beamed her away from the planetoid. A keen sense of anticipation washed over Seven as she dematerialized.

  She could not return to Voyager soon enough.

  • • •

  Hours later:

  Seven could not help comparing Voyager’s spacious, state-of-the-art sickbay to the more rustic version she had occupied aboard the Enterprise. Doctor McCoy had been most hospitable, but she had always felt distinctly out of place in that primitive, frontier environment. By contrast, the familiar sights greeting her as she entered sickbay proved more tonic than any hypospray.

  In short, she was glad to be home.

  “Seven?” Janeway called to her. “Come on over. I can use the company.”

  The captain was resting, somewhat impatiently, in the primary biobed. A detachable decontamination unit was clamped over the patient, covering her torso, while an insulated blanket kept her warm. The bed itself occupied its own separate chamber, apart from the larger recovery ward, where Tuvok and Neelix were sleeping in side-by-side standard biobeds. At least they appeared to be sleeping; Seven would not have been surprised to discover that Tuvok was merely feigning sleep to avoid being a captive audience for the often chatty Talaxian. She thought briefly of Spock and McCoy and how they seemed to amuse and irritate each other in equal parts. Did Neelix and Tuvok enjoy a similar dynamic? She resolved to make a closer examination of their byplay for purposes of comparison.

  Later.

  “Captain.” She approached Janeway’s bed, which was tilted upward at a forty-five-degree angle to better facilitate conversation. Seven was relieved to note that the captain already appeared much recovered. Not only was she conscious and alert, but the radiation burns on her face and hands were fading thanks to the Doctor’s assiduous treatment. A nearby monitor displayed Janeway’s vital signs, which were improving significantly. “You seem to have survived.”

  “Tell that to the Doctor,” Janeway said. “He insisted on yet another decontamination session to make sure my cells are completely free of chroniton radiation.” She squirmed restlessly beneath the bulky apparatus. “Damn thing tickles.”

  “It is a reasonable precaution,” Seven said, inspecting the readouts on the unit’s display monitors. Only trace amounts of chronitons, well below toxic levels, remained to be neutralized. “A full recovery is indicated.”

  “Thanks to you,” Janeway said. “From what I hear, it was your quick thinking and prompt actions that got us out of that deathtrap in time for the Doctor to work his magic.” She smiled warmly at Seven. “Good work.”

  Seven shifted uncomfortably. “My response may not have been as rapid as it appeared.”

  Janeway picked up on the tension in Seven’s voice. Her eyes narrowed.

  “What do you mean by that? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Perhaps, but it is not for other ears.”

  Seven walked over to a control panel by the entrance to the ward, which was equipped with a force field that could be employed to quarantine the chamber or confine an unruly patient. She activated the barrier to guarantee their privacy and set it to block even sonic wavelengths so that they would not be overheard. This was not a conversation she wished to share with others.

  “Okay, now you’ve got me really intrigued,” Janeway said, “and a little worried.” She took charge of the conversation. “Spill.”

  “Very well.”

  Seven had seriou
sly debated whether she should speak of her extended detour through the twenty-third century at all, but she had ultimately decided that she was obliged to give Captain Janeway, at least, a full account of what had transpired in the past. It was a matter of duty, as well as the most efficient way to forestall any further investigation of the monument on the planetoid. The captain’s curiosity would surely require some explanation for the edifice’s puzzling existence before Voyager could continue its long trek back to the Alpha Quadrant, and the truth struck Seven as more convincing than any flimsy fabrication.

  Or perhaps she simply needed to talk about it to someone she trusted.

  “It involves time travel,” she began.

  Janeway listened intently, only occasionally interrupting to clarify a point, while Seven recounted the entire experience, ending with her return to the present. Janeway took a few moments before responding, as though she required a short interval to process all that Seven had just informed her. She expelled a deep breath.

  “So let me get this straight. Because you destroyed the device in the past it no longer existed in the present, so you were never sent back to the past, where you destroyed the device?” Janeway groaned and rolled her eyes. “My head hurts already. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate time travel?”

  “Frequently.” Seven considered the matter, having received a thorough briefing on the wide varieties of temporal phenomena during her stint aboard the Relativity. “This appears to be a variation on a Pogo Paradox: a self-contained time loop that circles back on itself so that its end is its beginning. That I still retain my memories of the experience can perhaps be attributed to the distinctive peculiarities of the Sarpeids’ singular mode of time travel.”

  Mister Spock, she recalled, had undergone an unusual psychological regression while using the atavachron, which suggested that the process had a cerebral component. She had not regressed while using Nehwa’s later device, but the events were clearly imprinted in her memory.