STAR TREK: TOS - The Janus Gate, Book Three - Past Prologue

by L. A. Graf

  The rattles and whistles on the translator channel stopped abruptly. A moment later, much to Uhura’s relief, the shadowy silhouette of the alien ship slowed to a menacing hover on the viewscreen—much too close for comfort, she thought, but at least no longer advancing. She could tell from the almost dazed [80] expressions of relief on the faces of Rhada and DePaul that there hadn’t been much room left to maneuver between the two ships. Uhura suspected that even Kirk, with his steel nerves and fierce determination, might not have been able to watch another ship so nearly collide with his own and not have ordered an attack.

  A light flashed on Uhura’s board, and she felt her own tension melt a little. “The Shechenag are hailing us in English now, Mr. Spock. They’re sending a visual signal as well.”

  “Put it on the main screen, Lieutenant.” If Spock was at all shaken by the near miss they’d just barely avoided, neither his measured voice nor his erect posture showed it. He remained standing by Giotto at the security station, although Uhura couldn’t tell if that was because he didn’t trust the security chief or because he didn’t think a race as alien as the Shechenag would know or care who occupied the captain’s chair on the Enterprise.

  “This is the language.” The visual signal from the other ship showed a knot of dark metallic bodies, each with several spidery appendages extended to plug into oddly barren panels around the small bridge of their ship. Uhura couldn’t see the torso tanks where the actual aliens were housed, and realized that they must be facing each other at the center of that mechanical huddle. Information from their ship systems and communications must be routed directly to their internal visual displays and control panels, [81] Uhura thought, but apparently they had encountered enough other species to recognize that external viewscreens existed.

  “This is the language,” she confirmed, seeing Spock nod at her to continue the conversation. “Please repeat previous communications.”

  “This is not the position.”

  Only silence followed that enigmatic statement. Uhura wondered if the Shechenag truly thought in such vague and abstract modes, or if their translating technology simply wasn’t very good at conveying their true meaning in English. She tapped in a silent query to the ship’s computer to see how much progress it had made on decoding the clattering alien speech, but the bar showing its progress had barely crawled a third of the way toward completion.

  Spock glanced at her with a lifted eyebrow and Uhura turned her hands up, silently conveying her inability to interpret the Shechenag response. The Vulcan stared at the screen for a moment, then said with just a hint of question in his voice, “The correct position is farther away from the planet.”

  “Correct position is outside the planetary system.” Despite the flat mechanical quality of the Shechenag’s translated speech, Uhura had a feeling that statement might have originally held something close to sarcasm. “Eight hours remain allotted for permanent relocation.” Several mechanical appendages rose and fell out of the clotted group of Shechenag who seemed to be jointly in command of their ship, [82] as if to emphasize the next point. “Temporary relocation to higher orbital level must be effected immediately. Maintenance of current position will result in irreparable damage.”

  Spock turned away from the viewscreen’s automatic visual pickup, so that all the Shechenag could see was the back of his dark head.

  “Lieutenant Uhura, can you degrade our audio signal without actually terminating contact? Lift your hand to your face or turn away from the viewscreen before you answer, please.”

  Uhura swung around and dropped her gaze to her controls, as if some alarm there had caught her attention. Although she was more used to clearing communication channels than deliberately obscuring them, it took her only a few seconds to broaden the frequency range on their transmission to the Shechenag until it overlapped and included one of Tlaoli’s screeching zones of subspace interference. “Done, sir.”

  “Very good. I wish to know why the Shechenag think our current orbit will cause us damage. Are we experiencing any difficulties in maintaining orbit, Mr. Rhada?”

  The pilot coughed, then kept one hand balled at her mouth, as if to stifle further outbursts. “No, sir,” she said behind that shield. “No more than the usual instability we’ve gotten from Tlaoli’s gravitational shifts. We’re down at the low end of the safe orbital range, but we should be able to maintain here indefinitely.”

  [83] Spock nodded without turning around. “Mr. Wash-burn, what about the ship’s power supplies? Any sign of problems?”

  “No, sir.” The engineer’s shoulders stiffened, as if he had to actively fight the urge to turn and face his superior officer as he reported. “Mr. Scott says our warp core and engines are fully functioning again, and he’s got a backup power supply isolated behind magnetic shielding, in case we suffer another ship-wide power drain.”

  From the science desk, astrobiologist Ann Mulhall cleared her throat. “Permission to make an observation, Commander?” she asked without turning around to look at the Vulcan.

  “Granted, Dr. Mulhall.”

  “From what I have observed of Shechenag vocal structures, they are not as straightforward as their simple grammar and lack of dependent clauses may make them appear. They actually seem to contain a great deal of deliberate ambiguity, or even tactical misrepresentation.”

  “You mean the Shechenag are lying to us?” Uhura asked behind the cover of raising her frequency monitor to her ear.

  Mulhall shook her head. “Not lying, necessarily, just not telling us a very understandable version of the truth. For instance, the irreparable damage they mention might refer to their ship rather than to ours.”

  “Or,” said Spock with slowly lifting eyebrows, “to [84] the defensive satellite network they are installing around Tlaoli?”

  “Quite possibly,” agreed the astrobiologist.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander, for that insight.” The Vulcan’s angular face was suddenly very thoughtful. “Mr. Giotto, cancel the red alert. Mr. Rhada, prepare to lay in an orbit at the high end of the stable range, at least another thousand kilometers farther out from the planet. Lieutenant Uhura, slowly fade the interference out of our channel to the Shechenag and re-establish audio contact.” The flurry of orders came so quickly that, for a moment, Uhura almost felt as if Captain Kirk were back in command of the Enterprise. The impression was deepened by Spock’s next words, spoken into the communications panel on the captain’s chair. “All senior officers report to the main briefing room. We have a battle plan to construct.”

  The knock on Sulu’s cabin door was so tentative it barely woke him, even from an uneasy and drifting sleep. He lifted his head from his pillow, wondering if he’d heard a thump from some crewman passing in the corridor outside, but after a moment the quiet knocking sounded again.

  “Come in.” Since he’d lain down in his uniform, all Sulu had to do now was swing his feet off the bed and scrub the remnants of sleep from his face. The catnap hadn’t done much to drive away the lingering jitters from his trip through the Janus Gate. Dr. McCoy had spoken soothingly about the natural adrenaline [85] rebound effects after a period of suppressing strong emotions like panic and despair, but Sulu still wondered if the alien healing chamber had done something permanent to him. He had thought about asking the older version of himself if he felt anything similar after he’d come through the Gate, but an unaccountable shyness had walked Sulu past the other man and out of sickbay without making a conscious decision to put off any direct conversation.

  The cabin door slid open, and a young gold-clad ensign edged just far enough inside that the door’s automatic sensor wouldn’t order it to shut again. “You’re needed in the main briefing room, sir.”

  The somber dark eyes would have told Sulu who he was even if the Russian accent hadn’t, but the rest of this younger Chekov’s face seemed strangely unfamiliar. It wasn’t the lack of scarring, Sulu decided, because he’d had time in the alien cavern and the shuttle to get
used to the older Chekov’s healed face. No, it was something completely different about their expressions, something even more fundamental than the shared line of their eyebrows or curve of their jaw ...

  Chekov shifted from foot to foot, reddening self-consciously beneath Sulu’s intent gaze, but all he did was ask very politely, “Sir, did you hear me?”

  “Yes. Sorry.” Sulu stamped his feet into his boots and stood, glancing over at the communications console near his room’s computer port. No message lights were flashing there. “Why didn’t Commander Spock just hail me?”

  [86] Chekov gave him a startled look, as if he couldn’t believe a senior officer was really asking him for information. “Um ... I think he didn’t want there to be any confusion, sir. About which version of us was supposed to come to the briefing, I mean.”

  “So you were summoned, too?” Sulu fell into step beside him as they exited the cabin and headed for the turbolifts. After spending hours on Basaraba with the brusque older version of Chekov, he couldn’t resist the chance to find out how different this young Russian was from the man the Gorn invasion had turned him into. “Does that mean we’re going back down to the planet?”

  “I think so, sir.” So far, Chekov seemed a lot like any other brand-new ensign fresh from the Academy—a little shy but not so reserved that he couldn’t be drawn into a friendly conversation. “I heard Mr. Sanner and Lieutenant Tomlinson get called to this meeting, too, while I was on my way to get you.”

  “But not our ... er ... other halves?”

  Chekov shot him another sidelong look as they stepped into the turbolift. “I guess not,” was all he said, but there was a more relaxed tone to his voice now, as if Sulu’s tacit admission of discomfort about having an older doppelganger aboard ship had eased a little of his own awkwardness. “Mr. Spock didn’t request Captain Kirk’s younger self, either. I had to find someone else to keep an eye on him for a while.” The Russian blew out an exasperated breath. “He refused to go to sleep as the doctor ordered. I not only [87] had to show him every public area on the ship, I had to haul him out of just about every maintenance shaft, too!”

  Chekov sounded so much like an indignant older brother that Sulu couldn’t help laughing. “Well, what did you expect? He is going to grow up to be the captain. What did you end up doing with him?”

  The young ensign flashed him a surprisingly mischievous glance. “I gave him to the captain’s yeoman. I told him she might let him see the captain’s quarters if he promised to behave himself.”

  Before Sulu could reply, the turbolift doors slid open on the corridor leading to the ship’s main briefing room. Another turbolift opened across the passage and Sulu suddenly felt as if he was gazing into a mirror. The older versions of Sulu and Chekov looked back at them steadily, although there was a twinkle in one pair of dark eyes that wasn’t matched in the other.

  “Heading for the briefing?” the older Asian man inquired as he stepped out into the hallway.

  “Uh ... yes.” Sulu had to push Chekov forward out of the opening so the turbolift doors could close. The young ensign’s face had stiffened into self-consciousness again. “Were you called in, too?” He put as much innocence as he could muster into that question, but his older self apparently knew all the tones of his own voice too well to be deceived. He gave Sulu an ironic glance as they continued down the corridor. The older and younger Russians followed behind in stony silence.

  [88] “Not specifically,” the older Sulu said. “But seeing that we have about half a century of Starfleet experience between us, we thought we qualified as senior officers.”

  The briefing room doors slid open to reveal a room already full of crewmen: Scotty, Giotto, McCoy, and Uhura in addition to Commander Spock. Lieutenant Robert Tomlinson and Zap Sanner stood quietly at the back, leaving the last empty chair at the table for an officer with a higher rank than theirs. Sulu tapped the younger Chekov on the shoulder and started around the room to join them, but was stopped by the sound of Spock’s austerely cleared throat.

  “Did you misunderstand my orders, Ensign Chekov?”

  Sulu could see the ensign stiffen into the rigid heads-up posture Starfleet cadets were taught to assume when being disciplined for an infraction of academy rules. “No, sir,” was all he said. Sulu opened his mouth to defend him, but his older self stepped forward and motioned him to silence.

  “We heard you call a senior officer’s briefing to draw up a battle plan, Mr. Spock,” said the older Sulu. “It seemed like something we might be able to help with.”

  “I am not certain Starfleet regulations permit you to take part in this planning session, Captain Sulu. You are not currently a line officer on this ship.”

  “But visiting captains have consultation privileges,” the older man reminded him. “And in my experience, no one objected if they brought their [89] executive officers along. Of course, we had a lot more actual battle planning sessions in our future than you ever had in your past.”

  The subtle hint didn’t change Spock’s expression, but Sulu saw Chief Engineer Scott rub thoughtfully at his chin. “You may as well let them be, Mr. Spock,” he suggested. “Otherwise, we’ll just be explaining the whole thing over again to them when we’re done.”

  The older Chekov stirred and spoke for the first time since emerging from the turbolifts. “If we’re going to be part of your battle plan, then we’re definitely staying.” He took a step over to the empty chair and clenched his hands upon its back, as if to claim it for his superior officer. “So, what do you want us to do?”

  A tinge of asperity crept into Spock’s voice, although his angular face never changed expression. “The situation is not quite that simple, Commander Chekov. You should be aware that if we succeed in retrieving Captain Kirk from the past and restoring the timeline that he should have created, your own existence—”

  “—will pop and disappear like a soap bubble?” The Russian exchanged ironic glances with his captain as he swung the chair around for the older Sulu to sit. “We’re aware of that, Mr. Spock.”

  “Then I presume you understand why I cannot allow you to consult with us now.” Spock lifted an eyebrow at the questioning looks the older men gave him. “Logically, neither you nor Captain Sulu may be [90] considered to be allies in any attempt we make to repair the timeline that is keeping you alive.”

  It was the shoes that reminded him. A stupid little detail that hadn’t troubled his mind in nearly nineteen years, the shoes littering the streets around the Federation embassy struck Captain James Kirk now as a poignant indictment of just how helpless they’d all been that night.

  “Damned cowards,” his father had complained at the time as he hurried his wife and sons past the embassy’s public reception area and through the mysterious door stamped STARFLEET PERSONNEL ONLY. Being only fourteen, Kirk had been forced to lever himself up on tiptoe using his brother Sam’s shoulder in order to catch a glimpse of what had most recently inspired his father’s disgust. Outside the big unbreakable front window, the embassy’s native personnel were stripping off their clothes as they ran.

  A firm hand had splayed between his shoulder blades, gentle despite the tension Kirk could feel in the press of its fingers, and he let his mother hurry him forward without objecting. Somewhere behind them, he could hear urgent voices conferring over communicator channels, but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.

  “They’re frightened,” his mother said. He knew she was trying to sound collected and brave for him and Sam, but she succeeded in only sounding fearfully close to tears. “They’ve been working in [91] conjunction with Starfleet, and now they’re afraid of what’s going to happen to them and their families.”

  “Fourteen months we’ve spent working with them,” George Kirk agreed bitterly, as usual only hearing the words spoken and not what his wife was trying to say. “Fourteen months, and the minute things go south, they’re stripping out of their uniforms and leaving us to cover their retreat.”
r />   “George, that’s not fair ...”

  A flutter of cloth blew up against Captain James Kirk’s chest now, and he snatched at it with the hand not encumbered by the gauss rifle. What a few hours ago had been a neat blue-and-silver tunic flapped spastically in the breeze, half the buttons now ripped from its placard and the grimy outline of a bare Grexxen foot stamped across its back. Kirk felt a strange whirl of vertigo as he rubbed the soft cloth between his fingers, expecting to find it half-rotted and weather-torn. It didn’t feel right to be coming across this fresh evidence of the Federation’s failure here. It had all been so long ago ... but somehow, this long-ago battle had been turned into the reality of here and now.

  Up ahead of him, George Kirk lifted a hand to signal wait before creeping up the embankment that marked the edge of the wide boulevard the Grexxen called Ith. Roads in Sogo—and elsewhere on Grex, Kirk had always assumed—were evolutionary end products of the organic, looping footpaths Kozhu and Vragax had made over the generations. They had names the way humans named pets, not arbitrary [92] appellations that could be changed with each swing of the political climate. Ith was not Ith Street, or Ith Avenue, it was only Ith and it would remain Ith until the last Grexxen passed away.

  A fate the Vragax seemed determined to hasten on this particular evening.

  Kirk joined his father on the slope of the embankment when George waved him forward, rolling to his back so he could keep watch behind them while George lifted up to scout ahead. “The fighting’s moved farther south,” Kirk whispered, taking the moment of stillness to thumb the last of his shells into the gauss rifle and toss the empty magazine away.

  George grunted wordlessly in reply.

  “That means there’s a good chance your son made it back to the embassy all right.”