Strange New Worlds 8

by Dean Wesley Smith

  Glancing at the G-3’s monitor, Seven could see circles of probability, graphic representations of the computer’s statistical analysis, radiating like the proverbial ripples in a lake after a stone has been tossed into it. Tomorrow’s events were a turning point in the planet’s history. They were…Seven hesitated to consider them “necessary,” but they were decidedly “important.”

  Seven thought of the people who would die or whose lives would be changed the next day as characters in a story that they were unaware was even being told. He wanted to tell the people of his adopted city that he was still looking out for them, even though it might not seem like it. He really would do everything he could for them: he was their supervisor. Not that that thought alone would help them or their families.

  Seven looked out the window again and down to the teeming population. Earth was his protectorate; his life was devoted to looking after it. The Eugenics Wars weren’t even a decade in the past. There would be more wars to come. And diseases. And natural disasters. It would be a long time before Earth made contact with intelligent life from other worlds.

  Seven’s director at the Aegis had told him a few things about Earth’s future when he had been permanently reassigned here, replacing Supervisors 201 and 347. He knew that, eventually, Earth and Vulcan would form an alliance. He also knew that there would be a devastating nuclear war, though he had been told that it would occur after his tour of duty. (Seven’s job was just to make sure humanity survived long enough to be able to pull itself together after that happened. He did not relish the task of the supervisor who had to let that happen—or, rather, ensure it happened.) And he had been told to watch several people especially.

  How the directors knew these things, Seven did not know. He himself was, after all, merely human. Perhaps the directors could see into the future. Or were from the future. Or perhaps they and their computers were just better at predicting.

  Shaun Geoffrey Christopher was one of Seven’s cases. He was a scientist and astronaut. Why Seven was supposed to protect him above, for example, the three Russian and seven American astronauts who had died since his arrival in 1968, he did not know. Though, as he followed Christopher’s career, Seven suspected that the young man would soon be traveling farther than Earth’s orbit.

  Christopher was currently in Boston attending a conference on microgravity materials science. He was scheduled to return to Los Angeles the next day and continue on to Edwards Air Force Base, where he was stationed.

  The G-3 had already located his hotel and room number. But Seven couldn’t just kidnap Christopher tonight and hold him for a day. Seven’s mandate was to do things as clandestinely as possible, leaving as little effect on individuals as possible. No, the best solution was to transport in and then just put Christopher to sleep for a while. All he had to do was make the astronaut miss his flight.

  Seven lay down on one of the low, sloping couches he favored and began to plan his next day’s actions. Christopher would have to be at the airport one hour before his 7:49 a.m. flight. Subtract another hour to travel to the airport, and that meant he would probably be leaving his room between 5:30 and 6:00. Seven estimated that he would have to visit Christopher’s room at around 5:00. He would set his servo’s immobilizer at maximum, and Christopher would be knocked out for a couple of hours. He would “oversleep” right through his plane’s takeoff. Checkout wasn’t until 11 a.m.; no one would miss him, nor come looking for him, until it was too late…and Christopher would be safe.

  The G-3 beeped and said, “Information update.”

  “Report,” said Seven.

  “Probability of events now set at ninety-seven percent.”

  The blue fog of his transporter thinned, and Seven appeared on the fourteenth floor of the hotel. He looked both ways. There was no one else in the hallway. Why would there be, at this time of the morning? Though his transporter always placed him in as large an empty space as was practical, Seven never knew exactly where the device would deliver him. It was like the thing had a mind of its own. He was pleased to find himself only a few steps from room 1405.

  Seven removed his silver, pen-shaped servo and activated it, releasing two tiny antennae from its sides. Carefully bringing the device down to the door’s lock, he twisted the servo’s lower half. The door popped open, and Seven quickly slid in, closing it behind him.

  Seven had been bred for, among other things, excellent eyesight; his eyes instantly adapted to the darkened room.

  The bed was a mess and there were towels on the bathroom floor. The closet doors were wide open, but there were no clothes hanging inside. There were no suitcases or garment bags anywhere.

  Christopher had already left.

  Shaun looked at his watch. The lady at his hotel’s front desk had been right. With the “Big Dig”—the mammoth turnpike extension that Boston was working on—the traffic was worse than ever. He was glad he had taken her advice and left a full three and a half hours before his flight. As it was, he had just arrived “on time”: one hour before his flight.

  He put his laptop computer on the X-ray machine’s conveyor belt and slowly stepped through the metal detector. This time the metals on his uniform didn’t set off a round of alarms—which they sometimes did, depending on the airport.

  He picked up his computer and headed for a stand selling giant pretzels.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Christopher, isn’t it?”

  Shaun turned. The speaker was an older man. About his father’s age, Shaun guessed, and with the same broad shoulders and tall, straight stance. He wore a simple, dark suit. Shaun didn’t think he knew him. Was he someone from the conference? He met so many people at those things.

  “Look,” said Shaun, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got—”

  The man pulled a photo ID out of his jacket pocket: Colonel Gary Seven, NASA. “It’s about your next mission.”

  “Mission?” Shaun knew he was on the fast track for the Mars mission. Maybe even the Saturn project—unless Roykirk and his buddies convinced Congress that robot missions were the way to go for the in-system planets as well.

  “Come with me. It’s not far, and it won’t take long.”

  Shaun looked at his watch. What the heck? He was always happy to make time for NASA, and he was better off without the pretzel’s calories anyway. Seven led him around the corner, and they were soon facing a door with the stylized image of a mother and baby embossed on it.

  “The child-care station?” asked Shaun.

  “It will have to do. I don’t think we want to have this conversation surrounded by software marketers in the Ambassadors Club.”

  Shaun nodded. There was a number pad next to the doorknob. He looked at Seven expectantly.

  “Hmm,” said Seven, pointing over Shaun’s shoulder and through the plate-glass window behind him to the tarmac. “Is that an SR-71?”

  Shaun spun around. “A Blackbird! Where?” He hadn’t seen an SR-71 in a long time. Hadn’t they retired them all a few years back? Their black, sleek frames were the coolest-looking planes ever.

  “Just to the right there.”

  Shaun craned his neck. “I don’t see—”

  There was a click and the sound of a door opening. Shaun turned to see Seven holding the door open for him.

  “Must be here for an air show or something,” Seven said, gesturing for Shaun to enter.

  The room was cramped. There was a sink, a fold-down diaper-changing table set into the wall, two chairs and a table for adults to sit at, and a knee-high plastic castle. Shaun and his wife, Debbie, had one of those castles at home for their three-year-old daughter.

  Shaun slid into a chair, and Seven closed the door. “Can I see your ID again?” asked Shaun. He wondered why the colonel wasn’t in uniform.

  “Certainly,” said Seven, reaching into his pocket and handing Shaun the plastic card.

  The image was certainly Seven’s, and the NASA hologram logo looked authentic. Shaun turned the card over. The magnetic stripe o
n the back even showed signs of wear. Fakes were usually pristine.

  “Fine,” said Shaun, returning the ID.

  Seven pulled out a silver pen and said, “I’ll just need to take a few notes.” He flipped the pen with his fingers, and Shaun felt very happy and relaxed. Yes, he could use some sleep….

  Shaun slowly became aware of the pain in his right side. It was a dull pain, but it grew, and that was what finally woke him. Discomfort aside, he felt remarkably well-rested and refreshed. He opened his eyes and stretched.

  He was alone in the child-care station. The pain in his side turned out to be one of the plastic castle’s towers. Shaun had slid off his chair and was now propped up against the thing. He was alone.

  Shaun remembered…what? Colonel Gary Seven of NASA, something about a mission, and coming into this little room.

  Shaun climbed back up onto his chair. No, there was something else. Seven had taken out his pen to take notes….

  Shaun shook his head. That was all; he didn’t remember anything after that. Where had Seven gone? Shaun hoped he hadn’t left to find medical help. He sure didn’t need an unexplainable blackout on his record. That was the sort of thing that could ground him for the rest of his career.

  Sean’s laptop was still on the table. At least Seven wasn’t a thief.

  “Well,” muttered Shaun, “there’s no point just sitting here.” He grabbed his computer, opened the door, and stepped outside. The waiting area was a lot brighter than he remembered it being when he had arrived. As he walked, he noticed that sunlight was now pouring in through the huge observation windows. Shaun checked his watch. It was almost 9:30. He’d been asleep for two hours. He’d missed his flight!

  Shaun sighed, thinking that he’d better go over to the gate and see if he could get on the next plane out. Then he’d call Colonel Barquero back at Edwards….

  Shaun noticed a large crowd standing facing a TV monitor tuned to CNN. It was showing the World Trade Center in New York City. Smoke was coming out of one of the towers. Shaun heard something about a plane crash. Whoa. Some accident. He recalled that in the 1940s a plane had once crashed into the Empire State Building. A dozen or so people had died.

  His cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his jacket and flipped it open. The screen read HOME. It would be 6:30 back home in Mojave. Debbie and the kids were up early, as usual.

  “Hi,” said Shaun.

  “Oh my God! Shaun! Where are you?! What’s going on?!” Shaun could hear panic in Debbie’s voice and was shocked. Debbie never panicked.

  “Huh? No, I’m still at Logan. I was…” On the monitor, Shaun noticed that the lower part of the screen had an overlay reading RE-BROADCAST. Then he saw another plane crash into the second tower.

  Unbidden, his mind flew into action. One crash was an accident, but two—especially in clear weather (the television screen displayed that New York’s sky was a particularly bright blue)—was some sort of an attack. Hijackers! It was like something right out of a Tom Clancy novel. Had he been presented the scenario as a training exercise back at the Academy in Colorado, he would have laughed because it seemed so improbable.

  As if far in the distance, he heard Debbie yelling. “Shaun! Shaun!”

  He shook his head to bring himself back to his wife. “Yeah, Deb. I’m here.”

  “We just turned on the TV…. So, you’re not on a plane?!” She sounded like she was going to cry.

  “Right. I’m not even at my gate.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Now she was laughing and crying.

  He probably wasn’t going to be getting on a plane anytime soon, either. If he was in charge of the FAA, he’d probably ground all nonmilitary aircraft and scramble some F-117As with instructions to shoot down anything not squawking the proper ID codes.

  “Yeah,” said Shaun. CNN was showing the second crash again. “Yeah, I, uh, missed my flight. I…” He looked around. Crowds in other parts of the airport stood still, all eyes trained on TV screens. Families held each other. A few people were crying. Many were on cell phones. Shaun turned slowly, scanning the crowds.

  Where the heck was Colonel Seven? Not a single dark suit to be seen. What had that been about? Did he really have a mission for Shaun?

  Debbie gave a deep sigh. “I’m glad.”

  Shaun nodded. “Don’t worry, Deb,” he said. “I’m still here.” He took a deep breath. “I’m still here.”

  Demon

  Kevin Andrew Hosey

  Opening his eyes, James T. Kirk glanced around the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise—and wondered what the hell he was doing there.

  “Captain…”

  Swiveling in his command chair, Kirk faced his first officer. “Mister…Spock?”

  “Based on the original position of the Klingon vessel and its estimated speed, we will be within range in five-point-seven minutes.”

  And then he remembered. A Tellarite merchant ship reported seeing a Klingon vessel deep within Federation territory, and Enterprise was en route to investigate. Based on the description, it sounded like a D-7 dreadnought-class battle cruiser.

  The Tellarites also reported that the vessel was traveling at impulse speed only, not warp. Kirk had found that odd. Not only that; they weren’t using a cloaking device either.

  Even stranger, Spock had been scanning for the vessel for the past hour with no sign of it. The logical answer was that it had altered course. If so, it could be anywhere. As a precaution, Lieutenant Uhura was monitoring communications in surrounding sectors in case the cruiser was spotted by another vessel.

  “Thank you, Spock.” Feeling tired, Kirk rubbed his eyes. His temporary loss of memory a moment ago worried him. They were about to confront a potentially dangerous adversary, and he knew he must stay alert.

  His current physical condition didn’t help either. He had a constant throbbing in his temple. A hangover. One hell of a hangover, actually.

  And it was all Mark Offutt’s fault.

  Kirk had run into Mark—an old friend from the Academy, now first officer of the Kennedy—the night before at a small cantina on the promenade of Starbase 9. Enterprise had docked at the base three days earlier for much-needed repairs and supplies.

  It didn’t take long for the two of them to catch up on old times. The next thing he knew, Kirk was drunk. Not something he liked to be, since a captain has to set a good example. But the alcohol seemed to hit him out of nowhere, like a phaser on stun. What the hell were we drinking, anyway? wondered Kirk. Something…green. The last thing he remembered was Mark checking him into a starbase hotel to sleep it off.

  This morning Kirk woke with the worst hangover he’d ever had. So he returned to Enterprise and went directly to sickbay. There Doctor McCoy injected him with something he called Scotty’s “private stock,” a remedy the chief engineer, Montgomery Scott, made use of after virtually every shore leave.

  Then he received word from Starfleet Command regarding the Klingon vessel. All major repairs had been completed, so Enterprise left in record time.

  “ETA is two-point-three minutes, Captain.” Spock’s voice snapped Kirk back to the present.

  “Take us out of warp, Mister Sulu,” ordered Kirk. “Go to half impulse.” Then he nodded at Uhura. “Yellow alert.”

  As Enterprise dropped out of warp, the streaking stars snapped back into place like rubber bands—and the viewscreen suddenly filled with the sight of a Klingon battle cruiser dead ahead.

  “Sulu!” Kirk yelled.

  Sulu’s fingers flashed across his console and the Enterprise veered starboard just in time to avoid slamming head-on into the cruiser.

  “Red alert!” Kirk ordered. “Shields up! Sulu, bring us about and put us right in front of them.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Mister Chekov.” Kirk turned to his young, brown-haired navigator. “Have they armed weapons?”

  “I…can’t tell, sir,” Chekov replied as he made adjustments on his console. “I’m…not picking them up on sensors.�
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  “He is correct, Captain,” Spock confirmed. “Sensors are not reading the Klingon vessel. We can see it, but the sensors cannot.”

  “Captain,” Sulu interrupted. “We’re directly in the path of the vessel. It’s moving at full impulse and shows no sign of slowing.”

  “Reverse engines. Match speed and maintain distance.” Kirk turned back to his first officer. “Spock, why aren’t we able to scan that ship? Sensor malfunction?”

  “Negative, Captain.” Spock turned to face the cruiser on the screen. “It appears that something on the Klingon vessel may be preventing us from scanning it.”

  Kirk rolled that around in his head. “As far as we know, the Klingons don’t have anything that’ll prevent scanning while the ship is uncloaked, correct?”

  “As far as we know. That doesn’t mean they do not have such technology.”

  That’s all we need, thought Kirk. Technology like that could shift the balance of power between the Federation and the Klingon Empire dramatically.

  “Uhura, open a channel. Let’s find out what’s going on here.”

  “Channel open, sir.”

  “Klingon vessel.” Kirk spoke toward the screen. “This is Captain James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise. You have entered Federation territory. Please state your intentions immediately.”

  The bridge fell silent as every ear tuned to the hidden com speakers. But there was no reply.

  “Klingon vessel, I repeat, state your—”

  “Captain,” Chekov cried out, “I read three Klingon vessels dropping out of warp dead ahead!”

  Onscreen, three bursts of light flashed behind the Klingon ship, heralding the arrival of three more dreadnought cruisers. Before anyone could react, the ships overtook the first cruiser, then soared past the Enterprise, so close that Kirk could read the Klingon characters imprinted on each ship.

  “Klingon cruisers are coming about, Captain,” warned Spock.