STAR TREK: Strange New Worlds II

by Dean Wesley Smith (Editor)

  Uhura was patient. “We’d probably find him, but not certainly. You know that, Doctor Taylor.” Her voice moved from the frustration of a busy officer to the sympathetic warmth of a friend. “I’m sorry, Gillian. We’ll look as long as we can. But if you haven’t found him in another six hours, I’m going to have to make a final call—and the Genesis Project can’t wait.”

  [82] “And when Doctor Marcus sets off the second device? What about Harpo then?”

  “I don’t know. Doctor Marcus has modified the design and altered the procedure. But no one has ever stayed on planet when the device goes off.”

  “And no one wants to. As I recall, with the original version, you’d end up very dead—or, shall we say, severely edited?”

  Gillian sighed and ran her fingers through graying blond curls. “Sorry, Uhura. I know there’s only so much you can do. I have six hours?”

  “Six, if you’re lucky.”

  “Understood. I’ll have all the nonessential personnel beam up from the Madrigal now. I’ll stay and keep looking up to the last minute.” There was silence on the other end of the link. Gillian gave a wry smile. “Uhura, really, I’ll come up on time. I promise.”

  There was a low chuckle, and the voice of the commanding officer of the Hermes said, “I’ll hold you to it. Six hours ... Captain Uhura out.”

  Then the communication room of the drift-station was filled with nothing but the sound of Frank Zappa singing about “St. Alfonzo’s Pancake Breakfast.”

  Six hours later there was still no sign of her teammate, Harpo.

  “What do you mean you can’t find him? You have sensors. Scan for his lifesigns, then beam him up to the aquatic deck. Fast. I have to release the second round of energy, or this attempt is going to be for nothing.”

  Carol Marcus paced the floor at the head of the Hermes’s briefing room. Now in her early seventies, her lean body had [83] grown almost Vulcanoid in its elegance. The trials and losses of her life had stripped away all that was frivolous, condensed her personality to a burning core of intellectual passion. She seemed lit from within, consumed by her desire to set Genesis in motion again. “We can’t wait. If you don’t find him, I have to set the device off anyway.”

  “It could kill him.” Gillian was furious. She rammed her fists deep in the pants pockets she refused to give up to “modern” fashion.

  “This is not the same device as the original Genesis.”

  “It may not be the same,” Gillian grumbled, “but I don’t see you down there on Pacifica, do I?”

  “Ladies, this isn’t getting us anywhere.” Uhura leaned back in the big chair at the head of the table. She studied the two scientists: both strong, both determined, both, in their own ways, desperate. “Doctor Marcus, you need the Genesis Project to proceed. Doctor Taylor, you need to recover your teammate. So, in the immortal words of Mister Spock, cooperation is only logical.”

  Gillian Taylor frowned and flicked a glance over at Carol Marcus. The other woman’s blue eyes met hers, wary amusement lurking in the cool depths.

  A sudden spark of shared laughter passed between them.

  Marcus smiled for the first time that day. “I suppose we might do that. Only as a last-ditch option, of course.”

  “Of course,” Gillian agreed, soberly. “We wouldn’t want to do it for anything less. People might talk.”

  Resigned understanding passed between the two women. They were, in their own way, celebrities. Each had a colorful past. Each had prestige within her field. And, always, each was associated with the memory of the late James T. Kirk.

  [84] People would always talk. And when two of Kirk’s women were in the same vicinity, working on the same project, they’d talk even more. Nothing would change that.

  Uhura seemed to understand. But then, as one of Kirk’s old bridge crew, she would. She smoothed her uniform jacket and suppressed a mischievous grin. “Let them talk, if they have nothing better to keep them busy. We have work to do. Now, Doctor Taylor, if you could present your information?”

  Gillian nodded, routing her data to the big display terminal at the back of the room.

  Pacifica rotated in the screen, against a black backdrop of empty space. The world was water vast expanses of sterile, saline water, peppered with islands, with only one continent at the northern pole. At the edge of the continent there was a dim red blob.

  Gillian cocked her head at the image. “That red area is where we last had a reading on Harpo. Unfortunately he disappeared soon after the first Genesis Device was set off. Once he realized we were out of touch, he’d have stayed put, though. If he’s still alive, he’s probably still somewhere in that vicinity.”

  “Can’t the Hermes do a high-intensity sensor scan and find him?” Marcus asked.

  “Not with the storms, and the other effects of the Genesis blast,” Uhura answered. “There are the containing force fields to worry about, the ionizing effect of the storms, and atmospheric and oceanic turbulence. And that first energy release you made may not have gotten real life started on Pacifica, but it has created a soup of amino acids. Trying to read through that is like—”

  [85] “Trying to read through a pot of gumbo.” Marcus grimaced. “I always did say I could cook.”

  “Don’t feel too bad,” Uhura said. “Your Genesis effect isn’t the only trouble. We’ve been picking up some other interference in that locale too—something we can’t quite pin down and can’t factor out. But we can’t do a reliable scan in the area.”

  “Other interference? What sort?” Marcus’s voice was sharp, her expression suddenly avid.

  “We’re not sure,” Uhura said. “It could be nothing. A few odd sensor echoes that could just be side effects of Genesis.”

  “Disrupted energy readings could mean trouble for Genesis,” Marcus snapped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s in the report we sent up, Doctor. I suspect you’ve been too busy trying to get clearance to set off the second device to review our data,” Uhura said dryly.

  Marcus scowled, then sighed, “Understood, Captain. I apologize. But this could be serious.”

  “And Harpo isn’t?” Gillian muttered.

  Doctor Marcus just looked at Gillian, then frowned at the screen. “Have you got any pre-Genesis readings on that area?”

  Gillian reduced the first image, and pulled up a 3-D map of the ocean bed. The ground dropped away from the shore in stages, rose up in a bank surrounding the continental shelf, then dropped fast and steep into a rift nearly a mile deep. “This is it. It’s a wilderness. There are miles of nooks and crannies. Harpo could be anywhere in that.”

  “He has to come up to breathe. We could get a probe down to monitor the surface; he’d have to come up for air eventually. And we might learn something about Captain [86] Uhura’s ‘unknown interference’ in the process.” Marcus drummed her ringers on the surface of the table, mind racing to find a solution to their problem.

  Gillian shook her head. “Sorry. Good idea, but no cigar. He’s rigged with an aqualung oxygen filter. He can stay down till hell freezes over. And we’ve had probes out for a week and haven’t learned more than this.”

  Marcus stood. “Then there’s only one thing I can think of to do, now.”

  “Ignore the interference, set off the Genesis Device, and let Harpo take his chances?” Gillian snapped.

  “No, Doctor Taylor,” Dr. Marcus returned. “I suggest we go down in one of the Hermes’s amphibian shuttles, and do an on-site search.”

  “We?”

  “This is my project, Doctor Taylor. Anything that disrupts it is my concern.”

  Captain Uhura tipped her head, observing Marcus. “Very well, Doctor Marcus. A two-person team to go down in the Nautilus. Doctor Taylor will be in command.”

  “Doctor Taylor?” Marcus’s voice was sharp.

  Uhura nodded. “Genesis may be your baby, Doctor Marcus. But Doctor Taylor is the oceanographer, and she has the deep-water experience.”

  D
r. Marcus weighed the order and nodded. “Very well.” She turned to Gillian. “I’ll be at the shuttlebay in ten minutes. I hope you’ll be ready by then.”

  When Gillian nodded, Marcus left.

  Gillian looked at Uhura. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

  “No?”

  “No. She’s ...” Gillian frowned. “If I’d had my way, I [87] wouldn’t have worked this project with her. Not after I heard who she was. Less after I met her.”

  “Why? She’s a forceful woman, I’ll admit that. More so than she once was. But she’s a good scientist.”

  “It’s—She makes me feel sloppy, and young, and incompetent. And it’s always hard being around another of Jim’s old flames. Between what people expect us to be, and how we react to that, simple conversation turns into an effort.” Gillian groped helplessly, trying to define a feeling that had haunted her for years. “He’s a legend ... and thanks to him, all of us are just the legend’s women. Afterthoughts. Sidekicks. Everyone defines us in terms of who we were to James T. Kirk, and even our professional status is altered by the connection. People expect more of us, and less.” She gave a bitter snort. “Even we do it. It’s not so bad normally, but when you get more than one of Jim’s ... flames ... in one place together, between the outsiders peering in at us, and us peering at each other, it can be like waltzing with shadows. In the end you’re not sure who you really are, and who’s just the image cast by the light of history—and James Kirk.”

  Uhura laughed. “You are two of the most able women in the universe. The captain seldom settled for less. That’s why I requested assignment to Genesis when I heard she needed a ship as a base. And it’s why I suggested you and your team when I heard she needed an oceanographic unit. Working with the captain’s former associates is always a pleasure.”

  Gillian was amazed. “You elected to work with Marcus, and then added me to the deal? No, no, no—don’t tell me that Jim’s women are forming an Old Girls Network.”

  [88] Uhura raised an eyebrow and quirked a grin across the table. “Old? Girls? Neither, thank you. More like family, if you ask me. Or friends. Or at least women with top-notch references: the captain tended to pick quality, more often than not, and those of you I’ve met, I’ve liked. Why not work together?”

  “Because people talk. Because it’s lonely being stared at. Because sometimes I wonder if that’s all I am: Jim Kirk’s broad from the past. A curiosity. Enough people think so ...”

  “You shouldn’t worry about how people define you—who you are and what you do are more than sufficient.”

  Gillian smoothed back her unruly curls. “Maybe. Maybe not When I’m not reminded, it’s simple enough. Maybe I just feel it more because Carol Marcus reminds me that so much of my own definition is back there in the past. I have my career, I have the whales—and the connection with Jim. And all the rest is, as they say, history.”

  Uhura tsked, and stood, elegant and queenly in her uniform, wearing her rank with dignity and confidence. “No. I don’t accept that. The same could be said of me, in many ways. Even without the romance, I’m still seen as one of Kirk’s women. And my career has been my life. And the rest is, as you said, history. But it doesn’t make it any harder to work around you, or Doctor Marcus. And I refuse to believe I’m nothing more than a ... what? A supporting character in James T. Kirk’s biography?” She snorted. “No, thank you. I prefer to be the hero of my own life.”

  “But you can afford that kind of confidence. You belong here, and now,” Gillian said. “So does she.”

  “And so do you,” Uhura said, firmly. “So you’re just [89] going to have to deal with it. Like the rest of us. Now, get that shuttle checked and ready. Doctor Marcus isn’t going to want to wait one second longer than she has to.”

  “Strap in tight, ladies.” Uhura’s voice was drowned out as static swept the comlink. Then it surged back in. “If our observations are correct, the weather’s fairly violent. It won’t be easy sailing.”

  Marcus and Taylor both started to answer—then Marcus nodded, and yielded to Gillian. “Your ship.”

  Gillian addressed the tiny viewscreen on the upper console. “Thanks, Uhura.”

  “My blessings then. We’ll be watching. If you’re out of touch for more than half a day I’ll send down search and rescue teams.”

  “We’ll try not to make you go to the trouble, though, if you don’t mind.”

  “And here I was counting on this to keep my people on their toes. Oh, well.” Uhura shook her head. “Maybe another time. Is that all for now?”

  “I think so. Wish us well.”

  “Always. Uhura out.”

  Gillian and Dr. Marcus had only enough time to exchange nervous glances, then the shuttle entered Pacifica’s atmosphere and immediately slewed off-course. The storm snatched at them and spun them away.

  Gillian swore and braced herself, forcing the steering control up. “Computer, activate stabilization programs ... adapt for extreme turbulence.”

  “Complying.”

  The shuttle bucked again, tossing the two women against [90] their safety harnesses. Then the programming cut in and the shuttle stabilized and returned to course.

  “Better.” She looked down at the navigation readings. “The area we’re interested in is due north, Doctor Marcus. We should be at the edge of the search area in five minutes.”

  Marcus leaned back in her seat. “Good enough. What now?”

  “Do a sensor sweep for organics. Pick up what you can, anyway. And I’m dropping a sea probe. I’ll start broadcasting from that to let Harpo know we’re here, if he can hear us.” The shuttle shook again, and Gillian was forced to scramble, her attention on the controls. She scowled. “What do those Genesis things do to the planet, anyway? This weather is like a typhoon.”

  Marcus’s hands moved over the control panels as she took sensor readings. “Do you have time for a course in advanced quantum mechanics, some chaos theory, and a lot of particle physics? Topped off with stable systems of turbulence, organic chemistry, and computer programming?”

  “No. Thanks anyway.” Gillian scowled. “Those sciences and I never did get along.”

  Marcus’s eyes flicked across the cabin, then back to the controls. “A pity. It’s been hard finding enough people to support Genesis.”

  “Genesis doesn’t seem to be lacking support,” Gillian said, dryly. “That’s one thing that hasn’t changed in four hundred years. Physics is sexy—oceans are just a lot of water. The Madrigal and its team wouldn’t be here, if we weren’t needed for your project.”

  “Genesis is new life.” Marcus said it as though that made everything all right.

  [91] “It’s a big galaxy, Doctor. It’s already full of life. Can’t we give a bit more attention to what’s already there?” Gillian voiced the complaint of the undersupported scientists of history.

  Marcus didn’t comment.

  Gillian dropped a sea probe, then selected a piece of organ music by a Tellarite composer named Fronch. It was nearly two hundred years old—and had been written nearly two hundred years after Gillian had been born. She queued up a prerecorded hail which the computer had translated into the whoops and wails of humpback song. Then she programmed in the Fronch, letting the music play in the shuttle as it was broadcast into the dark, heaving seas. The opening passage swept out, proud and regal. It was music that would have reduced even Bach to tears of awe. The amphishuttle’s walls vibrated with it.

  After that Gillian concentrated on her flying. The skies were black and sullen. Lightning crackled and spidered around them. Below, lit by the shuttle’s floodlights, she could see the waves, high and white. She guided the shuttle lower, watching the course readings, looking for a good place and moment to come down to the ocean’s surface, then submerge.

  “Why music?” Marcus asked. “I’ve wondered ever since I heard you played music to communicate with your whale. It seems—inefficient?”

  “Whales sing. And we’ve never found a
true language that humans and whales can share. We still depend on telepaths and the universal translator to communicate. But we do share music, song. It’s our one great common link. And Harpo?” Gillian’s mouth twitched as her heart wobbled between remembered laughter and worry. She began the [92] shuttle descent, concentrating on controlling the little craft, letting the words take care of themselves. “He was singing even when he was in Gracie’s womb. So it got to be a thing with us—we’d pipe him music; he’d sing back to let us know he heard us and was still fine. It became almost a secret language—even more of a language once he was old enough to understand that the ideas that the translator passed on with the music were interpretations of the lyrics. He’d sing whole conversations using shared melodies. Or tell jokes with bars of music.”

  “With David it used to be surprise programs on the computer. Intentional viruses, he called them. Little messages that would pop up in the middle of the day, just to say, ‘Hi, Mom.’ ” Marcus was silent for a moment, as she took another reading. “Two weeks after he died, I got one. He’d put it in as a time bomb ... it was triggered when I went over some of his old records. It said, ‘Just so you know—I love you. Always. David.’ I cried for an hour.” She leaned back in her seat. Her thin face seemed almost luminous in the dim light of the cabin. “Kids. Don’t they just kill you?”

  Gillian thought of Harpo as a baby, leaping after Gracie in the open waters of San Francisco Bay ... and belly flopping. She wondered if he was dead, as Marcus’s David was dead. “Yeah. Like a knife in your heart.”

  Marcus twitched, and Gillian remembered too late how David had died.