String Theory, Book 3: Evolution

by Heather Jarman

  “Just got carried away. My apologies.” Embarrassed, he stepped back, brushing away nonexistent creases in Chakotay’s uniform.

  “Not necessary, I assure you,” Chakotay said. A long moment of uncomfortable silence elapsed. If he waited long enough, he knew Neelix’s talkativeness would get the better of him and Chakotay would learn what he wanted to know about how the crew perceived their present circumstances.

  Neelix rocked back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet, then paused. “You know, Commander…”

  “Yes?”

  “As morale officer, I hear things—things that might be useful to you.”

  Chakotay smiled. “Such as?”

  “The crew is in universal agreement that Clarice Knowles would be the best choice to take over for Tom. Unflappable, she is.”

  “Ensign Knowles is definitely that,” Chakotay said. “And what about Harry?”

  “Not quite a consensus yet, though the smart money is on Rollins. If Seven were Starfleet, she’d be the first choice.”

  Chakotay had actually been considering Ensign Vlar, but selecting Rollins definitely had its merits. He had the bridge experience Vlar lacked. “And the Doctor?”

  “Lieutenant Nakano,” Neelix said confidently. “Yuko might not have the Starfleet training, but who could doubt her after all that she went through during the guerrilla warfare in the Demilitarized Zone with the Maquis?” He waved aside what Chakotay presumed were any doubts that might be raised about Nakano’s fitness for the position. “And of course, Commander Tuvok will be first officer—”

  At the mention of Tuvok, the knot in Chakotay’s stomach suddenly cinched tight, prompting a wince. He would have to deal with Tuvok; he hoped, however, to postpone the inevitable confrontation as long as possible. He had reviewed the Doctor’s entries regarding Tuvok’s medical condition as well as examined the brief log entry Janeway had made regarding Tuvok’s reckless behavior. Intellectually, he understood that both the captain and the Doctor had concluded that Tuvok had been under the influence of forces beyond his control, literally “possessed” with some kind of alien transformative agent, and that there would be no disciplinary action imposed on him beyond a notation of the incident in his file. Telling his gut to accept Tuvok’s exoneration was another matter. While he had too much trust in Kathryn’s judgment to second-guess her decision regarding Tuvok, that didn’t mean he had to agree with it.

  Hindsight was always clearer than foresight, and one of the damnably annoying aspects of this space-time continuum was that you didn’t have the luxury of going back and changing your mistakes. In this case, hindsight proved, without dispute, that Tuvok’s choices (alien influence or not) had initiated a series of events that Voyager was not likely to recover from anytime soon. Chakotay’s innate sense of fairness required that someone, namely Tuvok, should be held accountable. Noting that Neelix was waiting expectantly for him to speak, Chakotay said, “I find it interesting that the crew would assume that Tuvok would be my first officer. Do they trust him after his little field trip to Gremadia?”

  Neelix scrutinized him, his forehead wrinkled. “No one else is as qualified. He’s the senior officer behind you,” he said matter-of-factly.

  A sudden notion to play devil’s advocate possessed him. “These are extraordinary circumstances, Neelix. Perhaps I should choose someone more unconventional, say Lieutenant Torres—or Seven of Nine?” Chakotay shrugged.

  “Pshaw,” Neelix said, shaking his head and dismissing Chakotay’s decision with a hand wave. “While I don’t see the Maquis and Starfleet people sitting on opposite sides of the mess hall any longer, there might be some raised eyebrows if two Maquis commanded this ship. And Seven?” Neelix snorted. “She has a strong will to lead, but no clue how to get people to follow her.”

  Reluctantly, Chakotay had to admit Neelix was correct on all fronts, but he wasn’t willing to let the issue go quite yet. “But what about his recent behavior? And by extension, what happened to the captain as a result.”

  Neelix threaded his fingers together, rested them on his chest, and pondered thoughtfully for a long moment. “You know, Commander,” he said gently. “I don’t think she’d hold it against Tuvok, so should you?”

  Chakotay’s gaze wandered over to the stasis chamber as he contemplated Neelix’s words. Kathryn loved Tuvok, revered him and trusted him. She would always choose to see the best side of him, and in most cases she’d apply the same standard to anyone else under her command. He took a deep breath and exhaled the same, hoping to release some internal tension, but found his burden unchanged. Forgiveness would have come eventually. It was too soon for Chakotay to say when. Meanwhile, he would put Voyager’s needs first.

  Neelix followed Chakotay’s glance across the room. “She looks so peaceful in there, doesn’t she?” he said. “Like she’s in a deep sleep, living in dreamland. I just wish she’d wake up.”

  Such a wish squeezed his chest so tightly that Chakotay lacked the voice to respond. He acknowledged Neelix’s words with a nod instead. The two of them stood together, side by side, looking at the captain. A nearly imperceptible touch on his sleeve interrupted his drifting thoughts. He heard the soft shuffle of Neelix padding across the floor; the door hissed open and closed.

  Once again, Chakotay was alone with his thoughts.

  The Nacene who once had taken the form of Phoebe Janeway settled on the second planet from the yellow star that still warmed Monorha. She, who was accustomed to manipulating every facet of her existence, quivered with outrage; she currently lacked the ability to fix her circumstances—or herself, for that matter. Janeway…White-hot energy rippled through her plasmatic tentacles. She…she…hated…no, loathed Janeway, and even that word failed to encompass the radiant heat surging through her.

  Being forced to use humanoid words to explain what she was experiencing was yet another indignity to add to the humiliation she’d already endured. Lesser creatures had feelings. Biochemical responses and physiological inadequacies defined the lives of lower life-forms, not the Nacene. Janeway had reduced her to this pathetic state! And for what purpose? So that the abominations could traverse the gateway into Exosia?

  Eighty thousand years confined in this space-time continuum, learning, growing, and absorbing knowledge had come to naught! Phoebe and her fellow outcasts had been denied their right to be reborn and return home. Her only consolation was that Vivia would now have to deal with the abominations.

  Vivia would hate them. Even more than the exiled Nacene.

  At least Phoebe wasn’t alone in her suffering. The human woman’s body lived, but her life force had been drained from her. She would die. Deservedly, thought Phoebe, taking pleasure from the feeling of vindictiveness. But the momentary triumph would not compensate for the devastating consequences she and her fellow outcasts had suffered because of those pathetic, dull creatures from Monorha who had taken their spores. Aided and abetted by Janeway. She wanted them punished, demolished into their subatomic components. Revenge would have to wait, however, until she dealt with a more immediate situation. In their last encounter, Vivia had promised that her armies would come swarming out of Exosia if the gateway were broached.

  Phoebe had no reason to doubt the veracity of Vivia’s threat.

  Thanks to Janeway, Phoebe was hardly in a state to survive such an attack. She recognized, from past experience, that her energy waves had taken on irregular, variable patterns. Consequently, she would have a difficult time sustaining any long-term transformation unless she wanted to risk taking on the transformation permanently. Aiding her fellow outcasts had depleted her far more than she had expected. Such a circumstance hadn’t happened in a millennium, but now returning to Gremadia for renewal wasn’t possible. Across thousands of lifetimes in more life-forms than those humans could fathom, she had always had the capacity to change herself or her surroundings to suit her. Her consciousness twisted restlessly, seeking a solution to her dilemma. Now, when she needed her abiliti
es more than ever, she was denied.

  She gathered her fragmented strength and focused on calling out to her fellow outcasts, bidding them to join her. One by one, they came from across the galaxy. She offered them comfort. They did not have Exosia, but they could find strength together.

  We have been divided, she called out. We can unite so that Vivia cannot stop us.

  One last time, they would join together and wage war. She would not easily accept defeat.

  Chapter 2

  Stop.

  The voice in the Doctor’s mind was as clear as if he were seated at his workstation in sickbay talking to a patient, and yet her mouth never moved.

  She glared at him as if that should be all he needed to understand her, though what he could have done to cause such offense eluded him.

  You have disrupted the strings. You must stop. Now.

  There it was again: the voice in his head. It was disconcerting, to be certain—and somewhat rude—to talk to someone’s mind without an invitation. The only sounds stimulating his auditory processors were the gradual winding down of the cloud battle behind him and the orchestral music. He was about to address the visitor when he was distracted by what was happening in the orchestra pit. That’s odd, he thought. The disruption of his song seemed to have caused the disappearance of the musician “clones”; one by one, they evaporated into nothingness. When the last Doctor-musician vanished, the instruments resumed playing the number he’d heard when he first arrived. Or some version of it. The cello section sounded like their strings had gone a half-note flat.

  She glided in front of the orchestra pit, her robes of continually shifting colors flowing out behind her like a living version of one of Michelangelo’s frescoes. Her eyes blazed, her mouth set in a tight, pinched line. You will die, insignificant creature.

  “Hold on there,” the Doctor said, holding up a hand in protest. “That’s no way to treat an old acquaintance. We’ve met before—back on Voyager. The captain introduced you as her sister Phoebe.” The Doctor kept his tone light, confident that his joie de vivre could soften even the most cantankerous entity. It also might dispel any notion she might have of decompiling him on the spot. Upon meeting the “Phoebe” Nacene, he was nearly eliminated from Voyager’s database to prevent him from exposing the Nacene’s duplicity. “But we both know that you aren’t the captain’s sister. You’re Nacene.”

  A scowl soured her face. I am not this Phoebe. The one you know as Phoebe is Outside. This is the last form I took in your dimension. Your understanding of this place is formed by the lens of your experience, you see me as you need to see me to comprehend this place. The name I was given Outside will suffice. You may call me Vivia.

  “So Vivia, this place—” The Doctor indicated his surroundings. “—isn’t Outside?”

  Vivia frowned.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” the Doctor muttered and sighed, now convinced that he was, indeed, in another dimension. “Since you don’t seem too keen on my being here, perhaps you could show me the way out? Maybe, send me back to Voyager?” He offered her a hopeful smile.

  You are an invader. You have contaminated Exosia. You escaped containment. Now you have tampered with the strings. You must be stopped. Vivia raised her arm above her head like a medieval sorceress conjuring the elements, hinting that she was prepared to strike him down.

  The Doctor shielded his face with his arms and scrunched his head into his shoulders. Cognitively, he recognized that such a gesture was futile; he found, however, that his programmed instinct for self-protection was too compelling to ignore. A moment passed, then another.

  Nothing happened.

  Lowering his arms slowly, he peered over his forearm at the redheaded creature who appeared…flummoxed. How odd. Unless…The Doctor grinned. The creature wanted to hurt him, but apparently she couldn’t. He may be a fly she wanted to swat but he had control of the situation. “It appears that you’ve reached an impasse. If you won’t send me home, at least do me the courtesy of explaining why you’re so keen on blowing my matrix into so many photonic bits. Though, at the moment, you seem unable to do that.”

  You are correct, she sneered, clearly peeved by his advantage.

  “Then we will discuss our circumstances like civilized beings,” the Doctor said. “These strings you speak of. I’ve done nothing here that…” His voice trailed off as he realized he had intervened in the battle. He’d stopped the insectoids from a attacking the Monorhan angels. Had he done something bad? “I didn’t really mean to hurt anything. The angels…” He knit his brow and shook his head solemnly as he remembered what he had witnessed. “They were being slaughtered.” He opened his palms forward, pleadingly. “I was trying to make peace. Was that wrong?”

  The abominations invaded as you did and polluted our realm. One from Outside opened the gateway between your dimension and our own. One who came from inside the container you live in.

  Janeway! The Doctor thought. His last vision of the captain, as he was pulled off Voyager, made sense now. What had the captain done? Facilitating such a process as opening a gateway between dimensions must have required—his mind sorted through the possibilities—more than the physical capacity of simple carbon-based life-forms. A horrifying thought occurred. Surely she hasn’t sacrificed herself—what about the crew? Our journey home? I’m needed on Voyager! “I apologize for whatever disturbance I’ve caused, but I insist that by whatever means you have at your disposal, I must return to my ship. I assure you that my people will do whatever is required to fix whatever we’ve set amiss—”

  At this, Vivia laughed. A laugh the Doctor could see not on her face but in his mind. And it was a mocking, brittle sound. Your kind cannot fathom the damage you have done. Opening the gateway will only allow more photonic contamination. You disrupted our efforts to contain the abominations. Then you disturbed the strings! You must be stopped!

  “You keep referring to these strings.” The Doctor threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’m sorry but I don’t understand! How can I fix or stop doing something when I don’t know what the problem is? As a fellow sentient, at least do me the courtesy of a civilized discussion.” After an irritable exhalation, he assumed his best professional mien. “Let’s start from the beginning. When did this problem start?”

  Vivia gave him what could only be described as an amused look, one that said she’d tolerate him as long as he entertained her. Either that or she was determining how to rip his holographic arms out of his sockets.

  You are a small being. You lack what is required to resolve a situation that has been evolving for—what unit of measurement is it that you creatures confined to three dimensions experience? Ah yes, time. You haven’t existed long enough to solve this problem.

  Frustration swamped all patience in his programming. He hadn’t asked to be trapped in this place, to contaminate Exosia or to throw the strings—whatever they were—off balance. This Nacene Vivia clearly had no intention of being reasonable or civilized about this situation—and he was no longer in a patient mood. “Fine,” he said calmly. “If you don’t mind, I was in the middle of something before you so rudely interrupted me.” With that pronouncement, the Doctor stepped away from Vivia, faced the orchestra pit, and launched into a rousing rendition of “La donna é mobile.” The dozens of “Doctor” musicians in the pit reappeared and responded appropriately, accompanying his aria with aplomb. Immersing himself in the passion of the music, he closed his eyes, opening his arms as he reached his favorite measure—

  STOP!

  This time, her words shook the Doctor with the force of a photon torpedo. He dropped his arms to his sides and opened his eyes. The curtains flew closed, shuttering the angels’ battle from view.

  You allowed the abominations to escape! They invaded our realm and you allowed them to escape!

  The Doctor wrinkled his forehead. Abominations? Could it be—“The insectoids?” he said aloud. “No, the Monorhan angels? No. It couldn’t be.”

&
nbsp; You have tampered with what you don’t understand!

  “Then help me understand!” the Doctor shouted, his voice ringing through the cavernous theater. “Where I come from, we talk through problems and solve them together. As we’ve both seen, you can’t compel me to comply with your demands and you certainly haven’t made a case as to why I should listen to you.”

  We will negotiate. We will…talk, since your kind uses words. Vivia’s lips twisted into a dour pucker and she dropped her arms to her sides. You are not like the other photons. You have escaped containment; they cannot. This is why I cannot compel you to behave as I wish you to. They too are self-aware, but not like you. You are cohesive. You are…an individual.

  The Doctor swallowed hard, wondering if he had heard what he thought he heard. The stunning implications of the idea thrilled him. Perhaps that explains me! he thought. “Photons are self-aware in Exosia?”

  This is why photons are dangerous to the strings. They have free will. They cannot be forced to comply, therefore they have to be stopped or the harmony of the strings is disturbed.

  “The strings. You keep saying that word,” the Doctor said, as if he were drawing out a history from a reluctant patient. “Could you be more specific?”

  Strings are the underpinning of matter and force in your space-time. Their vibrations, their excitation modes, define the particles that allow you to exist and all the forces that define your dimension. Their music is your reality. We live among the strings in Exosia. We assure the strings have balance. Vivia’s anger became earnestness, her words underlined with conviction. As her mood changed, so did the color of her robes, which were now a warm sapphire hue. Look! See the strings! She extended her arm out to the side and gestured toward the self-playing instruments in the orchestra pit.

  Strings. Stringed instruments. I see the strings as musical instruments. When I sang, I influenced how the strings vibrated—I changed their music! A blush of embarrassment colored his cheeks as he realized the extent of his faux pas. What subspace layers did I destroy by altering the string’s song—or could it have been a newborn star? Did I alter the fates of worlds? Remembering the quagmire Voyager encountered in Monorhan space, the Doctor recognized that he might have created just such a mess elsewhere in the universe because of his carelessness. No wonder Vivia wants to decompile me. The fact that I’m not reduced to photonic dust is astounding! “I had no idea what how reckless my actions were,” the Doctor said humbly. “From the bottom of my matrix, I apologize.”