STAR TREK: Strange New Worlds II

by Dean Wesley Smith (Editor)

  Bicek pauses in her narrative, glancing out the window at the riot of seething scarlet hues produced by sunset. She tugs at her uniform’s collar, shivering. And yet, if all reports are to be believed, the ancient Vulcan sun is closer in its sequencing history to this planet than to the younger yellows in other solar systems. Perhaps Bicek has a streak of wild, superstitious Romulan blood in her veins: Vulcans often do. Thus making them all the more dangerous, Anchet reminds lherself.

  “As I reviewed my reports of the past few months,” Bicek says, “I saw a trend develop. I noticed our carnacite-conversion output dropping at a greater percentage than it ought to, [252] given the enormous quantities available on the surface. As you know, once filtered from its gaseous constituent, the mineral is useful as simple filler material for Dominion construction projects. I assess it to be as important as any other commodity produced by our efforts.”

  This is the way of all Vulcans, to present even the simplest train of thought as a progression of logical arguments. A refreshing quality, actually. Dominion slaves are rarely so acute in their mental abilities.

  “I mentioned this drop in conversion output to Havok first, of course,” Bicek says, “though I wondered why no one had reported it before. He did not appear especially distressed by my news. Or surprised. I have noted that the Vorta species is not especially ... rational ... in its approach to most matters. ...”

  Anchet grandly inclines lher head. An obvious point.

  “And so, for the reasons I have stated,” Bicek says, “I decided to take it upon myself to report my observation to Oblette, a few days later. And it appears my news may well have resulted in Havok’s execution, as it was Oblette who called you here to investigate. ...”

  The Vulcan sails on delicate waters. Anchet grows still, waits. The sun sets and the room suddenly snaps to darkness. Lhe does not move to turn on a lamp, for like all Marmosan third-sexers lhe does not like bright lights, lher weak eyes preferring moody spills and shadows. It is only a conceit, of course, for the Marmosan persona. But perhaps the darkness will help Bicek stumble through this next part of her story, for now Anchet can sense the rapid pulse of her heart and a faint stink of nervous sweat.

  “Lheric,” the Vulcan softly says, “I agree Havok may [253] have had some knowledge of this sabotage and assisted in its cover-up, but I also have strong reason to believe Oblette himself is responsible for the apparent decrease in our converted carnacite output.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Bicek says, her voice regaining strength and resolve, “of the manifest entries in our data banks. I discovered the deception in a roundabout way. I sometimes assist our computer specialists with their data-bank entries for our shipment manifests, when they are running behind schedule, and as such I have knowledge of our operating system—”

  “Though you have been given no passwords.”

  “I have been given none,” Bicek says, “but I do produce efficiency reports on the operators, and in the course of my work—which I’m pained to admit is severely backlogged—I recently noticed that on a certain day, two months ago, an operator logged approximately three hundred more paddstrokes than he would normally perform in the course of a given workday. The difference was extreme enough that I reported the variance to the system supervisor, Bartcha, who is a Cardassian and somewhat excitable. Bartcha grew annoyed at my report, and immediately drew up the operator’s log history on his monitor. And so it happened that I saw, as I stood there and peered over Bartcha’s shoulder—for I was curious about the variance myself—that for several minutes the operator in question had actually logged out of the data-entry system and logged in somewhere else, which accounted for the extra paddstrokes. But we could not ascertain where the operator had gone in the Flower’s system during that time.”

  “And so,” Anchet says, “excitable Bartcha called the [254] operator to his presence and drubbed him thoroughly, at which point the name Oblette was mentioned—”

  “No, lheric,” Bicek breaks in, and Anchet is so intrigued by the story lhe scarcely notices or cares about the interruption, “for we discovered soon afterward that the operator had met with an unfortunate accident out on the planet’s surface, and was dead.”

  Anchet rises and walks slowly about the large chamber, moving from lamp to lamp and switching them on in turn. Lhe gestures for Bicek to rise and follow, and they eventually settle back down on either end of an overstuffed blue sofa in the center of the room. Anchet curls up lher sandal-clad, three-toed feet on the couch. Bicek perches uncomfortably on the opposite end, her posture ramrod stiff.

  Anchet can see the writing on the wall, decides to help the Vulcan along. “You may skip,” lhe says in a sarcastic tone, “the dull next section of your testimony, wherein Bartcha ordered you to forget the whole matter and you pretended to comply, but instead committed an act of treason by obtaining a forbidden password and delving into security systems you should not have seen. I assume your trail led you into the Flower’s most sensitive security area, where you discovered that large amounts of converted carnacite had been systematically stripped from the manifests and diverted elsewhere, and you eventually found the culprit to be none other than Oblette himself.”

  “It did take some effort to decrypt the scramble Oblette used to cover his tracks,” Bicek says. “However, your assessment is not entirely accurate. I did not use stolen passwords to piece together the true story, though I admit I did offer Havok a few pieces of key advice during our investigation.”

  [255] Anchet drops lher startled feet to the stone floor with a slap. “Havok?”

  “I went to him about it immediately. I am not certain why.” Bicek looks troubled, uncertain. “I am one-quarter Romulan; there is always that. Let us say I had an intuition about the situation. Though I felt certain Havok was involved in the matter, for some reason, perhaps his lack of fear when I first mentioned the shortages, I did not think he was responsible. I knew him well. I always appreciated his company. He was not a fool.”

  Anchet smirks. “More the fool I, then, eh, Vulcan Bicek?” Bicek stares rigidly across the room, pretending to study a wild abstract painting hung on an inner wall, depicting the whirling tripod configuration of a Marmosan sexual joining. “Well, no matter,” lhe chuckles, “my ego has no real stake in this matter; I am only interested in the truth. Did you discover where the stolen carnacite was diverted, and why?”

  The Vulcan solemnly shakes her head. “I did not. Havok would not say.”

  “And so,” Anchet says, “on the one hand we have Oblette blowing the whistle on Havok, and on the other Havok blowing the whistle on Oblette, but in the latter case I can see no point to Havok’s actions. He certainly did not reveal any of this to me during his testimony. As far as I can tell, you are the only living person who knows the full truth about Oblette’s guilt. Why would Havok share this knowledge with you and no one else?”

  Bicek tilts her head thoughtfully. “I believe Havok knew I would speak, lheric. He trusted me to act, if I may say so, as an objective witness. Events moved quickly once you arrived on this planet. I did so at the earliest opportunity.”

  [256] “Fine.” Anchet rises and strides toward the door leading to the amphitheater. “Let us examine the electronic evidence, which I hope is readily available?”

  Bicek nods, following.

  “And then let us take a stroll in the moonlight, Vulcan Bicek.”

  Anchet pauses in the threshold as lhe thrusts the door open, smiling sardonically at the frown on Bicek’s long-drawn face.

  “Irony,” Anchet says, “is an illogical habit of mine. Shall we go?”

  Bleak Prime has no moons.

  Anchet decides to drive a crawler-pod down to the site where Havok died, rather than bother with the charade of putting on a surface suit. They have reviewed the computer system’s evidence of Oblette’s guilt, and Mariole has pronounced it sufficiently damning to merit further investigation.

  “Where are we going?” Bice
k asks.

  Anchet thrusts the pod into gear and they crawl out of the Flower’s surface-vehicle bay onto the rocky landscape. “I too am sometimes driven by inexplicable intuitions, Bicek,” lhe says, “and I find myself driven by one right now.”

  But the Witness explains nothing more. Not without more evidence.

  Anchet glances back as the vehicle-bay’s doors grind closed, and sees a gaggle of pale Vorta faces peering at their departing craft. They stand in a tight knot behind the glass-partitioned viewing window on the far, inner bay wall. Oblette is among them, talking quickly to the others. He [257] looks frightened, and well he should be. The bay doors close, and Anchet is relieved of the painful sight of his stupid solid face.

  “It is odd,” lhe says casually, “the behavior of the Vortas stationed here. The species is normally devoted to the Founders.” Lhe is curious to hear Bicek’s thoughts on this subject.

  “Perhaps being stationed on this distant planet for so long has affected their good judgment,” Bicek says.

  Anchet shrugs, shakes lher head. “That does not satisfy me. It does not explain how a genetic imbalance has occurred here.”

  Bicek nods. “I have watched it happening these past months with some interest. Perhaps you should obtain DNA samples and investigate further.” The Vulcan eyes Anchet carefully as she speaks. Has she penetrated the changeling’s disguise?

  “As an Objective Witness,” Anchet says stiffly, “I am more concerned with criminal action and its consequences. Still, it seems out of character for the creatures.”

  “Motivation for criminal actions often remains a mystery,” Bicek says, “no matter how deeply one delves into the psyche or the seed of the miscreant.”

  “Yes,” the changeling says sadly, “I know.”

  She is not thinking about Havok.

  During the slow pod-crawl down the ravine floor, due to the treacherous terrain and an occasional surface tremor, they do not speak. The changeling sets the pod on autopilot, punching in the coordinates for the cul-de-sac, and then finds time to dream. She of course keeps the shape of Anchet [258] morphed about her, but deep inside the changeling can dance.

  She skims restlessly around the Great Link, looking for someone. And all around her the Others rush about and look too, a million strong, their amorphous arms waving and probing beneath the planet’s liquid surface. All is meet and merge, a complex play of Self and Other that the solids will never comprehend. She feels an emptiness, the pain of a missing piece in the Great Link, and grabs at the nearest passing Other to lock essence and merge, touch and question. “Who are you looking for?” she asks the Other. “Who are you looking for?” the Other shoots back. “Who?” “Who?” Echo upon echo, all urgent, some growing frantic. She releases the Other, morphs herself into a spinning vortex, and prepares to spread out thin, as loosely knit as possible and still hold shape, to touch as many Others as she can. Then she hears the name of the lost one they seek, resounding toward her across the Link, the hated name bouncing from voice to wailing voice. “Odo, Odo, Odo, Odo, Odo ...” The name pierces her spinning self and arrows through her, much as she speared the Vorta Havok, a vile thread upon which they all hang, like gaudy beads strung across the chest of a foul whore for all the universe to see and despise. And all because of Odo: Judas changeling, monster, abomination, fool. Loved one. Self. Where are you? Why have you betrayed us?

  A voice draws her out of her dream. Ah, the Vulcan.

  She clears her throat, a more complicated process than Bicek can guess, as most of her insides heave with golden nectar, her ambrosial real self. She hardens entirely into Anchet. Sight returns as eyes solidify into sentient jelly. [259] Forming brain registers the recently spoken words hanging in the air. Congested voice thanks Bicek for mentioning they have arrived at their destination. But one part of herself will not toughen at her honeyed core, and there she mourns and rages, for she will never, never understand why Odo is Odo, and it whips her into a passion fit to burst. It is worse than the betrayal of the Vortas, and far more terrible.

  Even solids are better than Odo, she thinks, yet I am Odo, too. For inside the Great Link or out, we are all One. So, then, who am I?

  The self-devouring logic is inescapable, and cuts deep.

  Anchet directs a claw-arm outside the pod to scoop up a sample of the carnacite dust that layers the cul-de-sac’s floor. Sensors immediately begin to scan the collected material. The beings wait in silence. Bicek shifts uneasily in her chair, no doubt sensing her companion’s dark mood. Odd, Anchet thinks, that Vulcans, so dedicated to logic and the application of mathematical analysis, should also be so sensitive to shifts of feeling and heart. But has it not been said by some clever solid that mathematics is the only religion that can prove itself to be a religion? So, perhaps not so strange. Life is a complex process.

  The results flash up on Anchet’s monitor. Bicek cranes her neck to see.

  “Is it carnacite?” she asks.

  Anchet shakes lher head. “Not entirely. It is a dried dilution of the isogenic enzyme compound known as ketracel-white, mixed with an equal part of converted carnacite.”

  Bicek looks confused. “What does this mean?”

  “It means, good Vulcan,” Anchet says, “that the Vortas on [260] this planet have been planning to use their stolen, converted carnacite to dilute Dominion supplies of ketracel-white, used to control the Jem’Hadar warriors, who are genetically addicted to ketracel-white and die without regular ingestion of the isogenic enzyme their bodies crave. It is treason beyond anything I could imagine.”

  “And this,” Bicek says, nodding out toward the cul-de-sac floor where the crawler-pod sits and the pierced body of Havok still lies, “is a supply area for their efforts, because they could not store the illicit compound inside the Flower, where they might be discovered.”

  “And Havok took me here to die,” Anchet says heavily, “to rub my nose in the truth. I do not understand why he did not simply tell me all this from the beginning. It might—I do not say would—but might have saved his worthless life.”

  A pause. Anchet waits for Bicek to speak. Lhe wants to hear the answer, and also lhe does not. Deep inside her persona, the changeling writhes and gnashes at her hated shell, too subtle to ignore the irony of this situation and too raw to accept it The truth from a Vulcan, a slave! The truth about the treachery of the Vortas, And, perhaps, the treachery of Another.

  “I believe I know the cause,” Bicek says with slow deliberation, “for as I said, I knew Havok well.”

  “Then tell me how a traitor can betray both sides at once,” Anchet harshly says, “unless he is utterly mad!”

  “Because he loves all things as one,” Bicek says quietly, “because he sees all sides are the same, and so perhaps in that sense he is mad. It is said that those who see most clearly are holy fools and mad people. A curious paradox, is it not?”

  [261] The changeling stares at Bicek in alarm and horror, in tenderness and despair.

  Odo has done the same, living with solids and even loving them! Our lost lamb. Yet he is still loved, and we know he loves us, too.

  She feels her golden heart welling up. Soon it will burst through the mask of Anchet and flood the universe. She opens her mouth to let it out. To scream. Cry. Love.

  But something enormous and heavy suddenly crashes into the top of the crawler-pod, the impact throwing them both to the floor. The changeling morphs out of Anchet and flattens herself in protection as the pod’s ceiling caves in upon them. Bicek cries out once, then dies. Toxic gas from Bleak’s atmosphere chokes her, ravaging her skin and stopping her heart within seconds. Then another sharp-edged slab of obsidian stone drives down into the pod from above, obliterating the small vehicle completely and scattering the Vulcan into mists of copper-toned blood.

  The changeling escapes the ruin and lurks close by in the pink dust, fluid and golden in her true form, sensing the destruction. She slithers behind Havok’s body as showers of pod and Bicek fall onto the cu
l-de-sac. She carefully lifts a thin rim of her amorphous body up over the contour of the dead Vorta’s chest, scanning the nearby region with her delicate sensory array—her lovely body so naturally designed for touching and dancing in the good Great Link, not for fighting solids in the howling depths of space. But the Vortas, for she senses them now standing in a line stretched across the top of the obsidian cliffs, continue to use their combined telekinetic powers to dash slab after broken slab down into the ravine, to destroy her.

  [262] Rage. She morphs herself into a living spear, the greatest spear the universe has ever seen, then coils, launches, and skewers the Vortas as easily as plump fruit. Oblette is the last to go. He sees the others die first, and dies screaming for the mercy he so sorely lacks. Then she morphs herself thin as a pin, curls up into a tiny ball, and throbs, aching and alone, in a hard stone corner of Bleak Prime. She feels no triumph at all.

  A long time passed before she returned to the Great Link.

  She might have returned in a few days, but first by many surreptitious means she traveled to the planet Vulcan, Bicek’s homeworld. A dangerous journey, for every sixteen solid hours she had to return to her natural viscous form, trusting her Jem’Hadar pilot to protect her as she lay in golden state and dreamt of home. But luck and the canny skill of her pilot guided them, and eventually they landed on Vulcan unchallenged, as if expected.

  She stepped out of her shuttle and morphed into the person of Bicek, asking to speak to the high priestess who ruled the planet. Without delay she was led into the presence of the Vulcans’ spiritual leader, a tall, forbidding old creature who handily put the persona of Anchet Mariole to shame. There on a high plateau surrounded by writhing mists and pinnacles of ochre stone, the changeling handed a small bag to the high priestess, and told her these were the ashes of all that remained of Bicek, and should rightly be scattered into the winds of her childhood home. The priestess accepted the bag without the obvious comment, that it was odd Bicek herself should deliver her own ashes. The changeling had little doubt the shrewd-eyed madwoman knew exactly who she [263] was. But the Vulcans allowed her and her pilot to leave the planet without incident, and the changeling sensed there was some mad logic to it all, an essence of truth beyond rational thought.