by Greg Cox
“How are you holding up?” the doctor asked. He seemed a decent sort, with a distinct hint of Georgia in his Southern drawl. Shaun found him easier to deal with than that alien iceman, Spock. If nothing else, McCoy had a much better bedside manner.
“Besides going stir-crazy?” Shaun gazed at the sliding door cutting him off from the rest of the ship. He had tried to open it, but apparently, it had been programmed not to release him. Ditto for the guards posted outside. “C’mon, Doc. You can’t keep me cooped up here forever.”
“I know,” McCoy said. “But bear with us. Like I explained before, we need to limit your exposure to our time if we ever want to return you to your own place in history. We learned that lesson with your father.”
“How’s that going, anyway? Am I going home any-time soon?”
The doctor’s pained expression warned Shaun not to expect good news. “To be honest, that’s sort of on the back burner at the moment. I’m afraid we’re in the middle of an urgent mission right now, and that’s caused an unavoidable delay in dealing with your situation.”
“What sort of mission?”
“You know I can’t tell you that, for your own good, as well as history’s.”
“But it’s serious, right? An emergency?”
He had not missed the yellow alert lights flashing inside sickbay or the obvious tension in McCoy and Nurse Chapel. Even Spock seemed slightly on edge in his own spooky Vulcan way. Shaun could tell something was up. The Enterprise felt like Area 51 right after the DY-100 was hijacked.
“Yes,” McCoy admitted. “But as soon as this matter is settled, one way or another, you’ll be our top priority.” He tapped Shaun’s chest. “Trust me, we want to get our captain back where he belongs.”
Shaun believed him. “And you really think he’s back in my time, in my body?”
“That’s the theory, believe it or not. And if Spock thinks there’s something to it, then I wouldn’t want to bet against him.” McCoy heaved a sigh. “He’s annoying that way.”
Not for the first time, Shaun tried to imagine this James T. Kirk character back aboard the Lewis & Clark with Fontana, O’Herlihy, and Zoe. Everybody seemed to think Kirk was a stand-up guy and a first-rate captain, but Shaun still didn’t like the idea of somebody else taking over his mission and his body. Nobody would tell him what history recorded about the Saturn mission. Shaun hoped that wasn’t a bad sign.
Take care of my ship, Kirk. Whoever you are.
He plopped down into a seat by his bed. He was still getting used to gravity again, but at least Kirk’s body had not been debilitated by months of weightlessness. The Enterprise’s “artificial gravity” had just caught him by surprise before.
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime, Doc?”
He had always been an active guy. Just sitting around doing nothing was driving him nuts. His fingers drummed impatiently on the arm of the chair. His feet tapped against the floor.
“I’ll see what I can do about the library viewer,” McCoy said, calling his attention to a portable TV screen by the bed. The monitor was attached to a movable arm. “We can’t give you full access to the ship’s library, for obvious reasons, but we should be able to set up a filter program that will allow you to call up a wide variety of recreational reading and programs.”
Shaun got the idea. “But nothing after 2020, right?”
“That’s the idea,” McCoy confirmed. “Of course, somebody else is going to have to program the filter. I’m just a simple country doctor, not a computer whiz.”
Shaun wasn’t sure he bought that. He guessed that everybody in this era knew more about computers than Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and Sumi Lee put together.
“So, I’m stuck watching reruns for the duration?” Suspended animation on a sleeper ship sounded better. He shook his head. “Can’t you even tell me if Buck Bokai beat DiMaggio’s record?”
“‘Fraid not,” McCoy said. “I don’t even know what that means.” He shrugged. “Look at this as a chance to catch up with your reading.”
“Now you sound like my ex-wife,” Shaun said. Debbie had always urged him to read more. “You married, Doc?”
“Not anymore,” McCoy said dourly.
Shaun recognized the tone. “Guess some things never change, no matter what century it is. Sounds like we have that much in common.”
His fingers beat out an impatient rhythm.
“You keep doing that,” McCoy noted with a touch of professional interest. “A nervous tic?”
Shaun glanced down at his hand. He stopped tapping his fingers.
“Not that I’m aware of.” He had barely noticed he was doing it. “And I’m pretty sure the space shrinks back at NASA would have called me on it before.”
You didn’t get placed in command of a seven-month mission to the other end of the solar system without a thorough psychiatric evaluation—or ten. Frankly, he didn’t need to talk about his feelings and childhood issues ever again.
“So, this is something new?” McCoy asked.
Shaun felt as if he was back on the couch. What was it about doctors that made them think everybody was on the verge of going space-happy? Not that he wasn’t entitled to a nervous breakdown right now, considering. He thought he was holding up pretty well given that he wasn’t even himself anymore.
“I’ve just got this stubborn drumbeat stuck in my head,” he tried to explain. “Like a catchy melody you can’t shake, you know?”
At least the Enterprise didn’t seem to be afflicted with Muzak. That was something, although he had to wonder what constituted easy listening in the twenty-third century. Lady Gaga was probably considered classical music these days.
“And how long has that been going on?” McCoy asked.
Shaun thought about it. His eyes widened. “Ever since that probe zapped me here,” he realized. “Now that I think of it.”
Glancing down, he saw that he had automatically starting drumming his fingers again. He fought to keep his feet from joining in.
“What the—?” He gazed anxiously at McCoy. “What does this mean, Doc?”
McCoy frowned. “The hell if I know.”
An intercom whistled. “Dr. McCoy,” a female voice paged. “Please report to the landing deck. The first wave of evacuees has arrived. Some of them require medical attention.”
“Evacuees?” Shaun echoed. That didn’t sound good.
“Not your problem.” McCoy pressed the speaker button on a wall-mounted intercom unit. “McCoy here. On my way.” He headed for the exit, then paused to look back at Shaun. “You going to be okay here?”
“Sure,” Shaun lied. Aside from being trapped in the future with an alien beat stuck in somebody else’s head, he had nothing to complain about. “Go ahead. Do your job.” He relocated to his bed and stretched out on it, staring at the ceiling. “I’m not going anywhere.”
McCoy looked uncomfortable abandoning him. “I’ll have Chapel look into that viewer,” he promised.
The door slid open before him. Shaun caught a glimpse of a larger medical facility before the door whooshed shut again, closing him in. His spirits sank at the prospect of being cooped up with nothing but his thoughts for company. An overwhelming wave of homesickness, for his own time and place, washed over him. He wondered if he would ever see his friends and family again. In theory, his dad, his kids, and his crew had all been dead for centuries. He choked back a sob. A beautiful face surfaced from his memory.
Fontana, he thought. Alice.
He wished he could have said something to her before he disappeared.
Twenty
2020
“Feel like a bite?”
O’Herlihy ascended into the flight deck bearing a meal on a tray. Magnetic utensils clung to the reusable metal tray, which also held slots for various disposable foil and plastic containers. Fontana caught a whiff of rehydrated macaroni and cheese, along with freshly nuked apple cobbler. O’Herlihy had brought ketchup and Tabasco sauce, too. Life in space d
eadened the taste buds for some reason, so most astronauts tended to pile on the condiments and seasonings to compensate. The sticky food stayed in place in zero g.
“Not really,” she said. Dejected and not particularly hungry, she sat in the cockpit while reviewing the preflight checklist for their trip home, which was now scheduled for 0700 tomorrow. She was not looking forward to being the sole pilot for the next three months, let alone explaining to Houston why that was the case. She was still trying to figure out how to break the news to Mission Control that she had confined the ship’s commander to the airlock on suspicion of being possessed by an alien probe.
They’re going to think I’ve gone crazy, not Shaun.
“Eat something anyway,” the doctor urged her. He sat down beside her, occupying her usual seat at the helm. “You need to keep your strength up. You’ve had a rough day.”
“That’s putting it mildly.” The aroma from the food did little to restore her appetite; her stomach felt tied up in knots. Second thoughts tormented her. She fiddled anxiously with Shaun’s father’s dog tags. “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you? We had to lock him up, right?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” he said wearily, sounding appropriately saturnine. “This entire trip has been one shock after another. I feel like I’m at the end of my rope.”
Fontana knew the feeling. This wasn’t the carefully planned mission she had signed on for.
“He didn’t even know his own kid’s birthday!” she blurted, unsure whom exactly she was trying to convince. “On top of everything else, like forgetting my dog and the fire on the Mir and what we meant to each other . . .”
It felt odd speaking openly of her history with Shaun, but frankly, that was the least of her worries. A little scandal and gossip was nothing compared with what had happened to Shaun, whatever that was. She just wanted the old Shaun back.
“I can’t explain any of that,” O’Herlihy admitted, “unless the jolt from the probe really did wipe his memory clean. Electroshock is well known to induce various degrees of memory loss.”
“No, it’s more than that,” she insisted. “I know Shaun, better than anyone on this ship, and that’s not him. I can feel it in my gut, even though I know that doesn’t sound very scientific.”
“I fear we left conventional science and logic behind a long time ago,” he said. “Perhaps when Saturn’s rings started unraveling and then snapped back into place.” He pushed the tray at her. “Really, Alice. You need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.” She appreciated his concern, but food was the last thing on her mind right now. If anything, she felt sick to her stomach. She waved the tray away. “Maybe later, okay?”
“At least have some hot tea,” he pressed. “To soothe your nerves.”
“Fat chance.” She found his solicitous attitude both amusing and annoying. “Stop clucking at me, Doc. You’re in danger of becoming a cliché.”
“Just drink the damn tea,” he said patiently. “Doctor’s orders.”
She knew a losing battle when she saw one. “Yes, Mother.” She accepted the sealed, microwave-safe bottle, which was warm to the touch. Conventional teacups were useless in space; you couldn’t pour without gravity. She sipped the hot beverage through a straw. “Happy now?”
“Yes, thank you.” He hooked the tray to the control panel in front of him. “For later, if you feel like it.”
“We’ll see.”
She finished off the spicy tea, not quite recognizing the flavor. It had a peculiar aftertaste that she chalked up to the effects of zero gravity on her taste buds. Despite the doc’s prediction, the tea did little to ease her anguished spirit. She couldn’t stop thinking about Shaun and what might have become of him.
“Do you think they’ll be able to fix him?” she asked. “Back on Earth?”
“I wish I knew. If you want, I can examine him again, once we’re under way. But I’m not exactly equipped to perform brain scans out here. That may have to wait until we’re back home.”
Three months from now . . .
“I understand,” she said glumly.
Fontana knew she had to face the possibility that the real Shaun, the one she’d loved, was gone forever, replaced by whatever impostor was wearing his face and body. She recalled kissing him in the airlock right before he jetted out to try to capture the probe. That was probably the last time she had seen the real Shaun.
At least I got to kiss him good-bye.
It was all too much. An overwhelming sense of exhaustion caught up with her, and she swayed unsteadily in her seat. Despite the lack of gravity, her limbs felt as if they were growing heavier by the moment. Her arms drifted limply at her sides. Bottled-up emotions bubbled up inside her, spilling out into the cockpit.
“Oh, Marcus! I’m not sure I can handle this. What if he’s really gone for good?”
“Don’t worry,” he said in a comforting tone. Capturing her hand, he patted it gently. “It’s all right. It will all be over soon.”
Huh? What did he mean by that?
“Maarcusss . . . ?” She slurred his name, suddenly finding it hard to speak. Her tongue felt as if it was wrapped in foil, like one of the snacks on the meal tray. The tea bottle slipped free of her fingers. She felt groggy and light-headed. A jolt of panic briefly dispelled the fog enveloping her mind. She watched the loose bottle drift away.
The tea, she realized in shock. It was doped.
O’Herlihy had drugged her.
She tried to ask him why, but all she could manage was a single mumbled syllable. “Whyyy . . .”
“I’m sorry, Alice. I truly am.” His mournful face blurred before her eyes. He plucked the tainted bottle from the air and returned it to the tray. His deep, sepulchral voice seemed to be coming from light-years away. “I’m proud to have served beside you and Shaun. You have to believe me.”
The flight deck seemed to be spinning around her. Creeping shadows, as black as space, encroached on her field of vision. Her eyelids drooped.
“It’s better this way,” he said. “You won’t feel a thing.”
The darkness swallowed her up.
Twenty-one
2270
“Skagway approaching the inner rings, sir.”
Chekov once again manned his post on the bridge. Unfortunately, the situation had only worsened since his earlier attempts to defend the colony. As the errant moon neared the fringe of the rings, it came under assault from multiple vectors. There was no clear line of demarcation between the gap and the inner rings, so Skagway was already crossing into the path of orbiting debris. The potential for collisions increased, even as the barrage from the outer rings accelerated. Ice and dilithium crystals of varying sizes battered the lunar colony and the surrounding terrain. On the viewer, geysers of pulverized rock and ice erupted from the moon whenever a sizable meteor struck home. The dome’s fading shields flickered ominously.
“I can see that, Ensign,” Spock replied from the captain’s chair. He spoke a bit more sharply than he intended; he had not slept in days, and fatigue was taking its toll on his Vulcan reserve. He frowned at the screen. The crisis had escalated even faster than he had calculated. The evacuation was not yet complete. “Maintain defensive fire.”
Targeted widespread phaser salvos broke apart the boulder-sized ice balls into smaller particles that continued to slam into the moon and the vulnerable colony. Despite the crew’s best efforts, an ever-increasing number of meteors made it past the phasers to hit the moon. The dome shuddered visibly under the assault. Hairline cracks began to show on its surface. Spock assumed that repair crews were frantically attempting to shore up the failing dome from the inside.
Nor was Skagway alone under siege. Although the Enterprise was cruising above the rings, it was still being buffeted by random debris escaping their orbits. The bridge rocked beneath Spock. Repeated impacts tested their deflectors. A blow to the port side of the saucer jarred him, almost throwing him from his seat. Over by the turbolift entrance
, a yeoman stumbled against a rail. Her data slate clattered onto the floor.
“Shields at seventy-two percent,” Chekov reported.
That was less than ideal, Spock noted, but his primary concern remained the colony, which was in a far more precarious situation than the Enterprise. He calculated that the dome had at most ninety minutes before it was breached beyond repair. While there were limited emergency shelters beneath the moon’s surface, he suspected that few colonists, if any, would still be alive by the time Skagway made it through the inner rings to spiral into the turbulent atmosphere and crushing pressure of Klondike VI. In any event, the moon itself would soon be lost in the gas giant’s swirling depths.
“Evacuation status?” he asked.
“Still under way,” Qat Zaldana reported from the science station. She had volunteered to act as their liaison with the colony during the evacuation efforts. “Four hundred seventy-eight colonists are aboard, but there are still thirty-two more en route and waiting down on Skagway.” She looked away from her monitors. “We’re going as fast as we can, but this is a huge job. And that storm out there isn’t making it any easier.”
Spock appreciated the challenges involved. Shuttles had been employed around the clock to ferry the evacuees from Skagway to the Enterprise, but each shuttle could carry only twenty passengers at most. Tearful farewells at the spaceport had slowed the process, too, or so he was informed. Under the circumstances, however, he could hardly begrudge the colonists their emotions. He could only imagine what it would be like to lose one’s home and family to a cosmic disaster. Not even a Vulcan could be unmoved by such a catastrophe.
“If only we could just beam those people aboard,” Qat Zaldana lamented. “We’d be done by now.”
“That would require lowering the colony’s shields, as well as our own,” Spock reminded her, “which is hardly advisable under the circumstances. Even leaving the shuttlebay doors unshielded during landings and departures constitutes a significant risk.”