String Theory, Book 3: Evolution

by Heather Jarman

  If that wasn’t a justification for fudging the rules, he didn’t know what was.

  When one set of footprints came close enough for him to believe that the individual might be in earshot, the Doctor took a calculated risk and exposed his presence.

  “Ho, there!” he called out as loudly as he could. “I need help!”

  The footsteps halted and turned back toward him. A pair of stained animal-skin boots, peeling apart around the seams, blocked out what little light he had.

  “Hello,” the Doctor said, trying to sound friendly. “You think you might be able to help get me out from under all this rock?”

  The boots walked closer to him until the muddy toes nearly touched the Doctor’s face. “Over here, Nual!” a decidedly male voice said. “Someone managed to stay alive when the ceiling collapsed!”

  “Can you tell what side he’s on?” the one called Nual, the owner of a gruff, older voice, said. The Doctor heard him shuffling over in his direction.

  The owner of the boots paused, clearly seeing something the Doctor couldn’t. “From the crest on his fire lance, he looks like he owes allegiance to the witch. He’s probably one of her Shadows.”

  The Doctor didn’t like the way the owner of the boots spat out the word “witch.” He was a doctor, a man of science, not a superstitious simpleton.

  Nual snorted. “I’d hardly call the general a witch. A mighty powerful warrior-seer, but there’s nothing dark about her successes. She might reward us if we help her man.”

  “I assure you there’s nothing magical about me,” the Doctor said cheerily. “I’m harmless. Especially since I appear to be manacled to this chair.”

  The steps shuffled closer to him. “Get him out, Din.”

  Piece by piece, the Doctor felt the weight on his lower back and legs decrease until he could shift his legs around and dislodge what little remained. One of the men who was unburying him applied gentle pressure to his chair, indicating that he was preparing to right it. The Doctor situated his body so that moving the chair wouldn’t rip the skin from his arms. As the chair tipped back, he scrambled to his knees, then scooted backward until he sat flush against the chair back.

  The taller of the two men removed a vicious-looking hunting knife from the leather belt slung over his hips. “Make your hands into fists,” he said.

  The Doctor’s heart thudded a bit faster: the man had a very large knife. He swallowed hard, considered his options, and realized he had none. But the Doctor sensed no malice in his voice, so he complied, fingers crossed that he wasn’t about to be gutted like a trout.

  Stepping behind the chair, the tall man slipped the blade between the Doctor’s wrist and the manacle, sawing back and forth with a high-pitched zzZZ-zzZZ until the metal band had been weakened enough to snap in half. He repeated the same action on the Doctor’s other manacle.

  The Doctor, once again, breathed freely. Grateful to be unencumbered, he stretched out his arms, linking his fingers together in front of him, and pushed his hands out, stretching cramped muscles. He’d never before known that such a simple behavior could have such pleasurable results; he flexed again. Cocking his head, he looked up at his rescuers. “I can’t thank you enough,” he said, really seeing the pair for the first time.

  While Nual and Din had been removing debris, the Doctor had formed a picture of them in his mind—soldiers of some sort, clearly on the opposite side from him judging from their comments when they found him. His conclusions had been wrong. The two individuals standing before him obviously weren’t soldiers, or if they were, they had to be the rattiest, dirtiest recruits he’d ever seen.

  Coarse, rough-hewn, long-sleeved tunics, soiled with dirt and sweat, hung off their shoulders like carelessly cut bed sheets. Breeches, sewn from animal skin, still reeked of tanning oil and rotted carcass. The Doctor shuddered to see the dark brownish splotches at the seams, imagining that it was likely caked-on blood that he hoped came from last night’s dinner and not a murder. Gauzy lengths of black fabric, similar to long scarves, covered their heads, wrapping across their foreheads, around their cheeks, and over their mouths before the ends vanished into their tunics. The Doctor found their clothing so distasteful that he initially missed what should have been their most distinguishing feature, especially to a trained medical professional.

  Around their wrists and on whatever exposed skin the Doctor saw were red-brown warty lesions, some as large as his hand; they appeared to be a hybrid of psoriasis and a mole. Viscous fluid—perhaps pus or discharge from a fungus growing on the skin—formed a scabrous crust over the wounds’ most raw areas. The borders of the lesions were red and enflamed. Dried epidermal patches scaled off like flecks of mica off a rock. He knew without any diagnosis or further triage that the lesions were malignant—likely related to radiation poisoning—and this pair had only a short time to live. Compassion for his rescuers was tempered only by the realization that he, too, had flesh that could be exposed to whatever contaminant had caused their cancers. Gone were the days when he could stroll in and out of any environment he chose. He quickly looked at his hands—discovered them gloved—felt his head and realized that he, too, wore some kind of head scarf, as well as a cloak. Relief filled him as he didn’t see any visible evidence of the same ailments that plagued his rescuers. As soon as he could, he would need to give himself a thorough examination.

  The taller of the two, whose face was barely distinguishable under a grimy layer of soot and grease, touched his palm to his chest and said, “Hail, adjunct, I am called Nual.” He swung his elbow out to the side, indicating the shorter, and obviously younger, man. “And this is Din, my son.”

  The Doctor, having no idea how to introduce himself, fell back on the first logical excuse he could think of. “When the ceiling collapsed, I hit my head. I believe I’ve lost my memory. I don’t know who I am, save that I serve the general.” Whoever the general is, the Doctor thought, wondering exactly how steep his growth curve would need to be if he had any prayer of surviving. He hoped that their concerns about the general being a “witch” weren’t enough to warrant killing him on the spot.

  Nual and Din exchanged knowing glances, apparently satisfied with his answer.

  “I see you have been wounded. Do you need aid or may we finish our work here?” Nual said, gesturing to the wreckage. “We may be able to help you rejoin your regiment when we’re done.” The unspoken caveat being we’ll help you rejoin your regiment—for a price.

  Though he had no idea what he could offer these men, the Doctor assured them he was fine, expressed appreciation for their help and told them he would do whatever he could for them. He also felt relief that attention would be turned away from him. Before too much more time passed, he needed to come up with a plausible backstory or he doubted that either Nual or Din would help him find his way out. The true story—that he was a holographic sentient, kidnapped from a starship—strained credulity, even to the Doctor’s way of thinking. His plan would have to be well formulated, though, and he wasn’t terribly confident that it would be.

  One of the annoying aspects of his new hybrid self was that he simply didn’t process information as quickly as he was accustomed to. Neurons lacked the instantaneous processing his holomatrix did, because so many of their resources were dedicated to dealing with other stimuli. Like being tired, he thought, as well as being hungry, injured, and aching all over after a building fell on me. He discovered a newfound respect for humanoids, who accomplished a great deal considering how much they had to cope with, moment to moment. What he really needed was to sit down and think. He discovered a stone block, smooth side up, that appeared to be stable enough to sit on, a few steps away from where he’d been found.

  As he walked, he happened to notice his reflection in water pooled on the floor and was taken aback by his appearance. No wonder he asked about my wounds, the Doctor thought, seeing for the first time his bloodstained sleeves and head scarf. I must have taken quite a blow—he noted the bruises m
ottling his face and touched them tentatively—or series of blows. Peeling away his scarf, he squatted down beside the water to get a closer look at his new form. The Doctor didn’t care for the barrel-chested body or the balding head, fringed with a ruffle of thinning gray-brown hair. The curved beak nose wasn’t too attractive either, especially with pocked jowls and nonexistent cheekbones. He turned his head to get a better look at his profile—

  He blinked, swallowed hard, blinked again. His hands went to his ears; he ran his fingers over the contours and knew instantly that the reflection didn’t lie. How is this possible? It was all too fantastic to be believed. He searched for more evidence in the rubble surrounding him, glanced over mud-soaked tapestries and collapsed columns.

  He studied his own clothing: a bronze breastplate embossed with the crest of a lilylike flower over a suede black jerkin stitched with a fine needle. The insignia Din referred to were a series of gold bars pinned on the jerkin’s upper arm. Not far from him, he saw a corpse whose tunic sleeve bore the crest of a cluster of wheat shafts bound together by an openmouthed creature, fangs exposed, that looked like a cross between a snake and a centipede. He’d seen these images before, but where?

  And then he knew. The insignia confirmed it.

  The Doctor blamed the fusion of his holographic and physical natures for slowing his cognitive abilities. Otherwise, he might have quickly identified his current circumstances. Armed with his new understanding, he studied the room, examining architecture and artwork; he analyzed what climatological data he could discern from inside a building. As he organized and catalogued facts, they complied perfectly with the knowledge Kes had shared with him during her years on Voyager.

  Vivia had sent him to Ocampa.

  One by one, the outcasts answered her call to come together one last time for the final battle. Some of them were in worse condition than she was, but none were stronger. All of them looked to her for guidance. Perhaps lingering too long in a human form had tainted her perspective, but she perceived them as being tired. How long they had labored, seeking the solutions that would liberate the captives that dwelt in Exosia? The conviction that they would return triumphantly, that even detractors like Vivia would accept them as saviors, had sustained her since the Great Battle. Now the best they could hope for was to survive Vivia’s wrath. How odd that she hadn’t yet made an appearance. What could possibly be preventing her from launching her promised attack? Phoebe could not devote too much of her precious energy to attempting to predict Vivia’s behavior. No, her fellow Exiles needed her—pleaded with her for wisdom.

  In choruses, they communicated with her. “What now?” “The Key is lost. Gremadia is gone. How can we be renewed? Will our lives drain away?” Their desperation filled her. Janeway had forced this destiny upon them. She had robbed them of what was rightfully theirs! Without a key, they could never return to Exosia. If only that primitive simpleton of a Monorhan Kaytok had a concept of what havoc he had wrought. If only they had a key…if only…

  A key.

  Surrounded by her fellow exiles, Phoebe felt buoyed by their strength. Her ability to make connections and assess her environment steadily improved. Perhaps circumstances weren’t as dire as she’d believed. Vivia’s failure to act immediately had provided them with an opportunity that they hadn’t believed possible—the chance to seize the momentum, to choose the time and place of their war. She saw the options afforded her here in this place where they had once fought against those in Exosia. Long ago, the Light had used what resources he had available to him to create the Key; she would have to do the same.

  A key…. If we join together…yes, it is possible. Revenge is also possible and I can fuse my purposes into one…. We may yet return to release those enslaved to the strings.

  The realization thrilled her. She told them all: Yes, we can create a key. Her fellow Exiles shared their satisfaction with her plan. Yes, sacrifices would be required. But only small lives, and she would not allow small lives to hinder her destiny any longer.

  Chapter 4

  Seven watched B’Elanna leave, along with the rest of the senior staff. After issuing padds with the duty rosters to the department heads, Chakotay dismissed them without comment. The customary chatter that typically accompanied the end of meetings was nonexistent. None of the officers even looked at each other as they left for their respective departments until only Chakotay and Tuvok remained behind with Seven. She studied Chakotay, anticipating that the tension between him and Tuvok would return now that the staff had departed. Interpersonal relationships were too complex for Seven’s liking. She eagerly anticipated her return to the astrometrics lab, where her colleagues, the computers, neither threatened to punch her nor seethed beneath the weight of unexpressed feelings.

  “Commander Tuvok, you will accompany Seven of Nine to astrometrics for the time being,” Chakotay said. “Assist her in prioritizing analyses and distributing the data to the proper parties. You will also be in charge of any weapons reconfiguration that needs to be done to protect Voyager against possible Nacene attack.”

  “Ensign Knowles will need a real-time datalink between helm control and astrometrics,” Tuvok said.

  “Seven will work with Lieutenant Rollins to facilitate such a link.”

  Seven nodded, acknowledging the assignment. “I will go to work on it immediately.” Linking her hands behind her back, she turned toward the door and took two steps before Tuvok asked her to wait.

  “If we reach the rift without a plan as to how we will search for and retrieve the Doctor, our efforts will be futile,” Tuvok said.

  “I recommend that we move ahead on testing the multispatial-probe design,” Seven said. “I believe it is our best hope for finding the Doctor.”

  “Once you have a strategy, I’ll notify engineering,” Chakotay said.

  Imagining B’Elanna’s reaction, Seven said, “Lieutenant Torres may not be a cooperative contributor toward such an assignment.”

  “Lieutenant Torres will work through her emotional turmoil in her own way,” Tuvok said. “I believe her desire to see this task done quickly and correctly will outweigh any reticence she may have.”

  A thought occurred to Seven, a way she might be able to rid herself of the disquieting feeling she’d had since B’Elanna departed. “Let me discuss the matter with Lieutenant Torres.”

  For the first time since convening senior staff, a hint of a smile curled Chakotay’s lips. “As you wish. I’ll be on the bridge if you need me.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Seven said, then turned to Tuvok. “It appears we will be working together.”

  “Indeed,” Tuvok said.

  They exited the room behind Chakotay, walking to the turbolift with a bare minimum of transactional communication passing between them. Once a plan had been settled on, neither of them spoke. Seven welcomed the quiet after the emotional upheaval of the staff meeting. The silence continued until their arrival at astrometrics. Tuvok stood by while Seven received Ensign Brooks’s report and dismissed him. Tuvok maintained an unobtrusive position off her elbow while she resumed her customary position at the control panel, studying the datastream pouring into the computer for analysis. The subspace shifts had become more pronounced in the short time she’d been away from astrometrics. In the millions of lifetimes of knowledge she’d acquired during her Borg existence, Seven had no recollection of a phenomenon such as the one she observed in this sector occurring. Engineering should see if these quantum variables will impact the engines. She dismissed her first impulse: No, helm control first. But do the changes have more than statistical significance? Her fingers flew over the panel, inputting a new algorithm. The computer spewed more data, but none that illuminated her thinking. Her body vibrating with tension, she shifted her weight back and forth between her feet several times trying to alleviate her discomfort.

  “One of your first lessons in command,” Tuvok said, “when facing a plethora of variables, is identifying what items are most critical to
the functionality of your crew and ship.”

  Seven cocked her head and examined Tuvok, impressed that he discerned her state of mind without her expressing it. They stood side by side as Tuvok talked her through the best way to prioritize the data and distribute it accordingly. His voice rarely deviated beyond a careful three-or-four-note range that Seven found curiously reassuring. The tension wiring her shoulders released and her thoughts flowed freely once again. By the time they were finished updating, Ensign Knowles had her datalink and Seven could start formulating ideas on how they might find the Doctor as well as the missing shuttle.

  “I will begin the weapons modifications,” Tuvok said, and took a seat at a vacant workstation behind her.

  “Of course.” Seven quickly became immersed in her work. Devising a means to recognize specific photonic signatures wasn’t difficult. She first located traces of the Doctor’s organizational patterns in the ship’s computers, and then filled in the patterns with the most rudimentary elements that composed his identity. For example, the visual parameters of his holomatrix—his appearance—was an easy place to start. Anything that remotely complied with those definitions could be detected by properly calibrated sensors. Identifying the Doctor was simple by comparison with what would be required to extract him from the rift. Seven perceived removing the Doctor as a problem that required a technical solution—an engineering solution. But before she approached B’Elanna, she wanted to make one last attempt to find Tom and Harry. Seven knew that B’Elanna believed that by returning to the rift Chakotay had given up on Tom and Harry. Seven wanted to show B’Elanna that this belief was in fact not true.

  In the day since Tom and Harry disappeared, she had focused her efforts on calibrating the sensors and devising new data-collection methods that would allow them to find the missing shuttle out in regular space. Seven had finally developed the necessary calculations to help the sensors compensate for the irregularities and interference of Monorhan space. She was confident that the readings they’d recently taken would be more accurate than any they’d had so far. Thus far, it had been easy to blame their inability to contact/find Tom and Harry on the regional oddities that seemed to thwart them at every turn. There were no such excuses any longer. Seven studied the latest readings hoping that she’d have good news for B’Elanna.