by Dayton Ward
“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.” He shrugged. “Besides, he was smart to keep it to just him and Spock. There’s no need for me or any of the rest of us to go stomping around three hundred years in the past. Of course, he’d have been smarter not to go at all, but I guess he didn’t count on Miss Lincoln coming to get him.”
Chapel shifted in her seat so that she could rest her elbows on the table. “So, why did she come to get them? I don’t understand that.”
“She and Seven are shorthanded. It’s just the two of them back there against the whole world, and I guess she needed some extra help. It makes sense for Spock to go. He knows everything so far as the Iramahl and their technology, and he’s smart enough to avoid doing anything stupid that might change history.” McCoy sighed. “Jim went because he’s Jim, and he’s not about to let Spock or anybody else go on a dangerous mission if he’s not out in front or right there beside them.”
It was a trait that had defined Jim Kirk as a leader throughout his career and made him the bane of policymakers and other bureaucrats within Starfleet’s upper echelons. When Kirk had commanded the Enterprise, more than one admiral had taken him to task for his habit of taking the lead during landing parties and other dangerous situations, and he had fought them all on this point. He had always placed the safety and well-being of his ship and crew above all other considerations no matter the personal cost. His refusal to sidestep personal risk when forced to subject those under his command to danger had produced the sort of loyalty that was a rarity for any kind of leader. Such devotion was an invaluable asset in an age where starships and their crews could be out of touch with command and out of reach of support or assistance for months or even years at a time. In short, Starfleet needed more leaders like James Kirk, not fewer, even if those in charge had to endure his occasional unorthodox or just plain insane stunts.
Like now, for instance.
Blowing out his breath, McCoy leaned back in his chair and lifted his feet to rest them atop the table. “If there’s a way to find those people, then you and I both know Jim and Spock working together is the best shot we’ve got.” He gestured to the computer display. “Besides, we’ve got enough to keep us busy.”
Chapel indicated the terminal she had been using to assist him with the research. “I’ve never seen anything like this, not even as a theory in a journal.”
“We’ve seen different examples of genetic engineering,” McCoy replied. “Some that went right, and some that went horribly wrong. You can argue that the people on Sycorax had a handle on what to do and what to avoid, but remember that other planet we found way back when, where they were messing around with trying to prolong human life spans and ended up killing the entire adult population?”
Nodding, Chapel replied, “I remember you almost died from whatever it was they turned loose on that planet.”
“Yeah, well, that happened a few times. And how about what the Klingons did to themselves a hundred years ago?” McCoy sighed. “And don’t even get me started on the craziness we stirred up ourselves.”
“You mean the Eugenics Wars.” Chapel’s expression turned somber. “There’s still a course about eugenics at the Academy. It’s provoked some pretty interesting debates over the years.”
McCoy snorted. “It made a few of my guest lectures pretty interesting.” Lifting his feet from the table, he straightened in his chair and leaned across the table. “Do you know what all of those examples have in common? Those, and pretty much every other one I can come up with off the top of my head? Every single one of them was born from a desire to improve the status quo. Life prolongation. Cure birth defects or other abnormalities. Make people stronger and healthier. However misguided many of those attempts might have been, they started out with the best of intentions. That was always a big part of those debates.”
“It sure was.”
McCoy pointed an accusatory finger at his computer terminal. “But this is nothing like any of those other examples. This was a deliberate effort to impede the Iramahl, to make them something less than they once were. That’s appalling. There’s no other word for it. I can’t even begin to fathom the mindset of someone who could imagine something like this, let alone find a way to make it a reality and to justify it in the name of . . . well . . . whatever the hell reason the Ptaen came up with back then.” The lengths to which the Ptaen had gone in order to maintain their grip on the Iramahl people had to rank the oppressor race among the worst conquerors the galaxy had ever known, as far as McCoy was concerned.
Chapel said, “But can we cure it? That’s the big question.” Once more, she looked to her terminal. “Or, barring that, at least find a way to mitigate it.”
“If Jepolin and Opirsa are right,” McCoy said, “it’s certainly possible. On the other hand, the people who supposedly did it took years to do it, and they went missing four hundred years ago. Meanwhile, you and I have been working for about a day, starting from scratch, and I’m just not that smart. You have to think other Iramahl scientists—or anybody else, for that matter—had to be working on it too. How is it nobody else has found the answer?” Could the injustice perpetrated against the Iramahl over uncounted generations truly be reversed? Were he and Chapel the ones to do it? At the moment, it just did not seem likely.
“Number one, you’re plenty smart,” said Chapel, and he noted the admonishment in her tone. “Self-deprecation doesn’t suit you. We’ll figure this out. I’ve been running tests and comparisons for hours against the medical banks, and so far, I’ve got nothing, but I’m nowhere near giving up. It’s just going to take some time. That’s all.”
“Fine. How’s your schedule for the next couple of centuries?”
Shrugging, Chapel said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The door to the lab opened, and Commander Tonia Barrows entered the room. Like McCoy and Chapel, she was still dressed in her Starfleet uniform despite McCoy knowing she had been off duty for at least two hours. She caught sight of them and offered a warm smile of greeting.
“I figured I’d find you two here.” Looking to Chapel, she said, “Good to see you, Christine.”
“Same here, Tonia. How’s life upstairs?”
Barrows made a show of rolling her eyes. “Are you kidding? The Iramahl are the most exciting thing to happen around here in ages.” She snapped her fingers. “And just like that? Back to business as usual, which means I’m bored. How are things down here?”
Gesturing to his computer, McCoy said, “We’re just trying to do the impossible. You know, the usual. What brings you down to the basement?”
“Dinner. I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
“I think that’s my cue,” said Chapel, starting to rise from her chair.
“Don’t be silly.” Barrows nodded toward the door. “Join us. You both look like you could use the break. Come on. I’m buying.”
Chapel smiled. “You sold me. Let’s go.”
Her computer terminal chose that moment to beep for attention, making McCoy scowl at it. “What does that thing want now?”
Leaning over the table and swiveling the terminal to face her, Chapel studied whatever information was on it, and McCoy saw her eyes widen. “I’ll be damned.” She turned the screen in his direction. “Look at this.”
On the screen was a computer-generated representation of an Iramahl DNA strand, labeled with various notations Chapel had applied as a part of her own research. McCoy recognized most of the notes, but there were a few new ones, including a new message flashing at the bottom of the screen.
“You’ve found something.” He smiled. “I think you found something, Doctor.”
“It’s a lot of guesswork,” said Chapel. “I compared their DNA against samples from other genetically engineered species in the medical data banks. Nothing’s a one-to-one match, of course, but there are a few similarities at the building-block level we might be able to do
something with.”
McCoy had seen those comparisons for himself, but he had not reached that conclusion. What had he missed?
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Chapel. “I know that look. You didn’t miss anything. Neither one of us just thought to look at it from this particular angle. Take a look again.”
Staring at the computer model, McCoy almost overlooked it one more time, but when he caught the obscure connection, he could not help the grin that threatened to break his face. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Now Chapel was smiling.
“Somebody want to clue in the rest of the audience?” asked Barrows, crossing her arms.
“Klingon DNA,” said Chapel. “Specifically, one of the nucleotides in their DNA that was affected by the Augment virus a century ago and caused—among other things—the cranial ridges in so many Klingons to dissolve.”
Barrows frowned. “And you think this might be able to help the Iramahl somehow?”
Chapel sighed. “It’s still a theory, but it’s more than what we had an hour ago.”
Unable to suppress a chuckle, McCoy said, “Wow. Jim’s going to love this. Nogura’s going to love this, and the Klingons are really going to love this.” He had heard the new rumblings about the Ptaen Consortium perhaps allying themselves with the Empire, if for no other reason than to get the Federation to reconsider its pledge to assist the Iramahl. “I want to be in the room when they get the news.”
Shifting her gaze between the two doctors, Barrows said, “I think I know what this means.”
McCoy nodded, feeling the first hint of excitement since beginning this task. “Yep. We’re eating in.”
Twenty-Five
Brooklyn Navy Yard—Brooklyn, New York
August 15, 1985
Standing next to the worktable they had positioned alongside the Iramahl vessel, Spock watched as Mestral, dressed in a pair of dark blue coveralls, emerged from the vessel’s open hatch.
“The new components appear to be serviceable, following our modifications,” Mestral said as he descended the short ladder standing beside the hatch. “Though I suspect their usefulness will be limited.”
Spock replied, “I believe you are correct, but what you have provided should be sufficient.” He had been maintaining a constant scan of the ship’s active systems with his tricorder, after Mestral had substituted the damaged or deteriorated pieces of computer hardware with replacements they had configured with the help of the Beta 5.
“It is unfortunate you did not accompany us to obtain the new components,” said Mestral. Moving away from the ladder, he brushed dust from the sleeves and knees of his coveralls, which Roberta Lincoln had provided for both Vulcans while they worked on the alien ship. “You would be intrigued by the wealth of information and artifacts the people of this era have collected that pertains to extraterrestrial beings and their technology.”
Nodding, Spock replied, “So Miss Lincoln said, though her suggestion that Admiral Kirk and I remain behind was a prudent one.”
Given the uncertainty of being able to find the Iramahl refugees—assuming they were even still alive—and concerned that the Ptaen might somehow determine the wrecked ship’s location, Lincoln had advised Kirk and Spock to stay at the warehouse. At least here they would be able to protect the alien vessel as well as reduce the likelihood of them doing something that might alter or otherwise interfere with the historical events. Meanwhile, Lincoln and Mestral had set off via Gary Seven’s transporter to what Lincoln had described as one of the United States government’s numerous sites around the country that contained information about various encounters with extraterrestrials as well as examples of their technology.
“It was a logical decision,” said Mestral. “Still, it was a fascinating repository. The instances of other civilizations visiting Earth, particularly during his era, is quite interesting.”
“Perhaps. Then again, Vulcans and humans, along with a good number of other spacefaring civilizations, have long used covert observation and even limited interaction to study primitive cultures while assessing their potential as friends or adversaries. Indeed, it is common practice for Federation science teams.”
Mestral nodded. “It was the same for our people in this time period, as well.” He paused, and Spock noted the softening of his features. “Odd, that I should so casually discuss time periods in the plural, as though I have always accepted time travel as a valid premise. It was not until my encounter with Miss Lincoln and the Certoss agents, and my subsequent visit to your starship, that I realized the total fallacy of the Vulcan Science Directorate’s stance on time travel.”
“There was a time when I believed as the directorate did,” replied Spock, setting his tricorder on the table and moving to the desktop computer provided by Roberta Lincoln. “Even after they began to modify their stance in the twenty-second century, there still were professors and instructors who held to the outdated views. I encountered more than one such individual during my primary education period.”
“And now,” said Mestral as he moved to stand next to Spock, “at least if what Miss Lincoln has told me is true, you have encountered this phenomenon more than any other Vulcan.”
Spock had never before considered that possibility, but he could recall no information that might refute such a claim. Instead, he said, “It was not something I set out to do. If there is anything that has been a constant during my time in Starfleet, it is that the unknown has a tendency to reveal itself in numerous, often unanticipated ways. This was true with respect to our encounters with various temporal phenomena.” He paused in the midst of reaching for the computer. “Of course, it’s been my observation that the likelihood of such odd encounters tends to increase when one is in the company of Admiral Kirk.”
“Interesting,” replied Mestral. “I shall note that for future reference.”
Using the interface cable Miss Lincoln had produced from wherever she or Gary Seven procured such things, Spock connected his tricorder to an input port on the side of the computer. While the desktop model looked contemporary on the outside, he had learned the shell contained a sophisticated mechanism that was a stand-alone unit in its own right, but which also could interface with the Beta 5 back in Seven’s Manhattan office. This allowed Spock to access and analyze the scan data stored within the tricorder at a rate that was on par with the Enterprise’s main computer.
Satisfied with the connection as data began to scroll on the computer’s orange-hued display screen, Spock said, “It will take a few moments.”
Mestral nodded. “Very well.” When he said nothing else, Spock sensed a tension emanating from the younger Vulcan.
“Is there something else?”
Turning away from Spock, Mestral looked about the room as though verifying that they were alone. “There is a . . . personal matter . . . I wish to discuss, if you would agree to such a conversation.”
“By all means,” Spock replied.
His facial features taking on an almost human expression of embarrassment—understandable given his prolonged stay here on Earth—Mestral said, “As you know, I have been here for . . . some time. Twenty-seven years, ten months, and eleven days, as time is measured on Earth. During most of that time, I have been without . . . Vulcan companionship.”
Spock understood where this was going. Out of respect for Mestral, he also took a moment to confirm they were alone in the work bay before replying, “You speak of the pon farr.” The time of mating, which affected Vulcans throughout their adult life span, had caused problems for Spock more than once.
His embarrassment evident, Mestral nodded. “That is correct. I have endured the blood fever four times, and on each of those occasions, I was able to employ meditation to mitigate the symptoms. However, the difficulty of doing so has increased with each occurrence. Though I do not expect to be faced with the problem for some
time, I would ask if there are . . . other techniques I might employ in order to properly handle the condition when it returns.”
“Perhaps your relationship with Mister Seven and Miss Lincoln might allow them to transport you to Vulcan,” Spock suggested. “Even if such a visit is only . . . temporary.”
Mestral shook his head. “I wish to remain on Earth. I have considered the possibility of a human female to assist in such matters, but that presents an unwarranted risk of my being exposed as an extraterrestrial.”
“There may be some additional meditative techniques I can teach you,” Spock offered. “They have proven successful for me on more than one opportunity.” It was an interesting dilemma, he decided, viewing Mestral’s situation strictly from the viewpoint of considering the biological and psychological factors that contributed to the pon farr condition. Though meditation had been of assistance to him, it was not a foolproof method. In truth, there was but one course of action that guaranteed a successful navigation of this chaotic, even violent time. It intrigued Spock that Mestral had chosen this life of solitary exile without apparent regard for the personal difficulties he had to know he would encounter.
Before Spock could say anything further, a door opened behind them, and he saw Admiral Kirk emerging from the office at the room’s far end. Kirk was dressed in contemporary civilian attire, consisting of blue denim trousers with brown boots and a dark red button-down shirt with open collar that he wore loosely rather than tucked into his trousers.
“It’ll be dark soon,” Kirk said by way of greeting. “You two have been at this all day.” He nodded to the Iramahl ship. “How’s it going?”
Spock replied, “We have made some progress, Admiral, thanks to the efforts of Miss Lincoln and Mestral.”
“I heard,” replied Kirk. Looking to Mestral, he asked, “Where did you two find the parts you needed?”
“The computer interface module was salvaged from an automated drone retrieved by the air force in 1965, Admiral,” said Mestral. “The craft crash-landed in a rural region of the southern United States.” He indicated a file folder resting on the table. “We copied the relevant information from the archive facility when we appropriated the component.”