Architects of Infinity

by Kirsten Beyer

  “If the lieutenant intended to terminate the pregnancy, that would complicate her situation considerably,” the Doctor said.

  “The frustrating reality of our situation, gentlemen, is that our patient did not officially make that determination before she began to bleed into her brain. There is no ethical dilemma present. We have no choice but to do everything in our power to save both her and the embryo. After embryonic transport, her pregnancy is effectively terminated. Any concerns she had that its development would be affected by her illness will no longer exist. She could waive her rights to custody in favor of the father, or to the Federation until an individual willing to raise the child can be found. She would still have to give permission for us to use the embryonic stem cells, however.”

  “She’s not going to regain consciousness in time to do that, Doctor Sal,” the Doctor said. “Right now, only ten percent of the embryonic cells remain undifferentiated. That number is going to fall to zero within the next thirty-six hours at most. I’m afraid no matter what happens to the embryo, you are not going to be able to pursue your stem-cell therapy.”

  “Eighty-five beats per minute,” Sharak advised.

  Sal stepped away from her neural monitor and double-checked the readiness of the gestational incubator. “Make the call, Doctor,” she said. “I advise initiating transport immediately.”

  After a delay of two point six seconds, during which his ethical programming reconciled the dilemma before him, the Doctor said, “Agreed. Computer, initiate embryonic transport to gestational incubator.” This order added a visual feed of the incubator to the statistical display running alongside the image of Conlon’s neural cells visible through the microsurgery monitor.

  In a swirl of what looked like stardust, an object the size of a sesame seed appeared in the incubator. It floated in synthetic amniotic fluid that had been created from samples of Conlon’s own, and the tubes that would provide its nourishment and elimination of waste attached themselves immediately to the portion of the gestational sac that had once been connected to Conlon’s uterus.

  “Transport complete,” Sharak said. “Embryonic heartbeat rising. Ninety beats per minute.”

  “Come on, little one,” Sal said softly.

  “Ninety-three.”

  “Lieutenant Conlon’s blood pressure is falling,” the Doctor advised.

  “Prepping immunogen hypo,” Sal said. “It will restore her hormonal balance shortly and minimize the uterine bleeding for now.”

  “One hundred beats per minute,” Sharak said, the relief clear in his voice.

  “Well done,” Sal said.

  The Doctor was not at all certain this turn of events was going to please Conlon when she learned of it. He suspected the opposite was true. But he also knew that they’d had no choice in the matter, and in time, she would come to accept that. What he did not understand was Sal’s equanimity. She was the only one of the three doctors present who had firsthand experience treating complicated DNA damage repair syndromes, and she had insisted from day one that the embryonic stem cells were the best available treatment option. She had just lost them and did not seem fazed in the least.

  He admired her professionalism as he returned his complete focus to the surgery he was performing.

  VESTA

  Admiral Janeway’s personal aide, Lieutenant Decan, approached her desk briskly. The tall, officious man who had been in Janeway’s service off and on for the last five years was, among many other things, a gifted telepath and chose this moment to once again put that special talent to use.

  “Captain Chakotay wishes to speak with you.”

  Janeway checked her comm queue but saw no incoming requests. She then looked automatically toward the door to her combined office and personal quarters despite the fact that no one had requested access in the last few moments.

  “It’s not nice to read people’s thoughts without their permission,” Janeway said.

  “I would never presume,” Decan assured her. “The captain’s transport to Vesta four minutes ago was reported in the logs. I simply noted the fact and intuited his most likely destination.”

  “And then you double-checked telepathically.”

  “That didn’t require reading his thoughts, merely confirming his location and direction of movement.”

  “Decan, you are an outstanding aide. I would be truly lost without you.”

  There was a brief pause until Decan said, “I hope you do not expect me to disagree with that assessment.”

  “Anticipating my needs is helpful. Using telepathy to do it is creepy.”

  Decan’s face betrayed nothing. He was Vulcan. Her desk could have been on fire and his face would have worn the same placid expression.

  “Would you prefer that in the future I become slightly less helpful?”

  “I really would.”

  “Your wish is, as ever, my command, Admiral.”

  The door’s chime sounded softly.

  “Enter,” Janeway said, rising, then added to Decan, “Dismissed. And by that I mean: well out of range.”

  “That would require me to board a shuttle and set course several million kilometers from our present position.”

  “You did say when you accepted this post with the fleet that you had always longed to travel.”

  Decan didn’t smile, but it was nonetheless clear that he appreciated her dry wit.

  “Or you could simply wait until I summon you to report back here.”

  Decan turned to Chakotay and considered him silently for a moment.

  “Admiral, Lieutenant,” Chakotay greeted them.

  “Perhaps the mess hall,” Decan said. “Can I bring you anything? Coffee?”

  “No,” Janeway replied.

  Decan nodded discreetly and departed.

  When the door closed behind him, Janeway turned her full attention to Chakotay. Normally, his presence was enough to set her at ease. But there was an anxious tension in him—lips set tight, shoulders squared—and if she wasn’t mistaken, he was holding something behind his back.

  A gift? She wondered silently.

  For a brief moment their roles were reversed in her memory. She had stood before him, on the occasion of his birthday several years prior, ready to present him with a gift whose design she had labored over intently only to subsequently discover that it did not mean at all what she thought it meant. Chakotay had believed she was proposing altering the dynamic of their relationship, taking it to a more intimate level. She had merely intended to memorialize the significance of their friendship. Looking back, it seemed to Kathryn that that moment and the conversation that followed had really been the first steps on their road toward the deeply fulfilling, if occasionally fraught, relationship they now enjoyed.

  Not that she would have had it any other way.

  A light smile played over her lips. She was being ridiculous and she knew it. They had only been back in each other’s lives for a year and there were almost two more in front of them where they would both be devoted to the fleet’s service. The idea of formalizing their relationship in any way hadn’t come up often and usually only in passing, playful exchanges. But she couldn’t deny the anticipatory trepidation she read in his countenance.

  “Good morning, Kathryn,” he greeted her, moving in to kiss her lightly on the cheek before taking her hand and leading her to sit in the nearest chair.

  “What’s all this?” she asked.

  “I come bearing gifts,” he replied, “and a proposal.”

  Janeway rose instantly and involuntarily to her feet. Rather than wounding Chakotay, her reflexive resistance seemed to amuse him.

  “What sort of proposal?” she asked calmly, despite the fact that her heart suddenly felt as if she had just completed a wind sprint.

  Chakotay brought the hand he had been hiding behind his back forward. In its palm rested a small black box.

  “Trust me,” he suggested in a tone with which she was all too familiar. It invariably promised
good things.

  She tore her eyes away from the box and lifted them to his. He was enjoying the hell out of this at her expense. It was equal parts infuriating and tantalizing. Despite the fact that her gut reaction was going to require some deeper thought at a later date, she decided to play along.

  Taking the box and wondering silently for a moment at its weight, she gently opened the lid.

  Her face fell into confused lines.

  Inside the box was an odd-shaped black rock.

  “You shouldn’t have,” she said dryly. “Really.”

  Chakotay forced his face into serious lines, though his eyes were still smiling. “Don’t tell me you already have one.”

  “I don’t think so. What is it?”

  “We don’t actually have a name for it yet,” he replied. “Well, most of it is an osmium isotope but buried inside are a few atoms of a brand-new element.”

  The scientist Janeway had been long before she chose to pursue a career in command was almost moved to tears as she released a slight gasp.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “A single planet orbiting a binary star configuration approximately two light-years from our present position. For the moment we have designated it DK-1116.”

  Janeway palmed the small stone and tossed it gently up and down. “Super-heavy?”

  “And surprisingly stable.”

  “How much of it is there?”

  “We don’t know yet. Thus far we have detected more than ten sites containing the element.”

  “In natural formations?”

  “Seven doesn’t know.”

  Janeway again met Chakotay’s eyes. “You want to take Voyager and go find out,” she guessed.

  “No. I want you to order the entire fleet to set course and make orbit for the next two weeks.”

  The admiral shook her head in surprise. “We don’t need all four ships to analyze this. All you need is Seven and a high-powered portable microspectrometer.”

  “Would you believe me if I told you that this element is by far the least interesting attribute of DK-1116?”

  The admiral moved back to the seat she had inhabited briefly and made herself comfortable. “I’m listening.”

  Chakotay settled himself in the chair across from her. “The planet is too close to the binaries to sustain life. But several thousand years ago, if our scans are to be believed, someone established almost four dozen biodomes on the surface. Most of them contain water, breathable nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere, a variety of plants, but no other living things. No bugs, no small animals, no higher life-forms and no trace of who they were, where they came from, or where they went apart from several odd, sculptural constructs containing this element.”

  Janeway turned these facts over in her mind a few times before she said, “Two light-years in what direction?”

  “Deeper into former Borg space,” he confirmed, answering her unspoken question. The Borg tended to pillage any world they came across in the Delta Quadrant that had plentiful, useful resources. It was hard to believe they hadn’t gotten around to this one, although technically possible.

  “So you want multiple teams to take this on? Maybe Vesta should take the lead.”

  Chakotay shook his head. “I’m suggesting more than a few days of research. This is exactly the kind of mission the entire fleet needs right now—a combination of scientific exploration and several days of shore leave.”

  “Chakotay, we’ve got less than two years and lots of Delta Quadrant yet to see,” she reminded him.

  “I know. I also know that the crews of Voyager, Galen, and Demeter, who have been at this nonstop since the fleet launched, are overdue for a little R&R. And I doubt Captain Farkas would scoff at the idea of treating Vesta’s crew to a short working break. Many of them were part of Quirinal’s original complement.”

  He had a point.

  “Our efficiency evaluations are dismal. We’ve seen more than our fair share of battle out here in the last year, whether it was testy aliens or multiverse-altering anomalies. Everywhere we turn, we seem to be picking fights. We know how to handle that, but over time, it takes its toll. Every once in a while, we need to allow our people to focus on more inspirational endeavors, the good, old-fashioned mysteries that made most of us decide to join Starfleet in the first place.”

  Janeway couldn’t argue with this, or the fact that the timing was near perfect for Chakotay’s proposal. That was, of course, assuming the Krenim didn’t have any immediate plans to alter everyone’s priorities.

  “You’re worried about the Krenim?” Chakotay asked.

  She nodded. “I’ve already had a lengthy discussion with the Department of Temporal Investigations’ director about the many ways in which our mission just got a lot harder now that we’re back on the Krenim’s sensors.”

  “Did she have any suggestions?”

  “Keep our heads down and our scanners at full power, at least until her analysts have a chance to thoroughly digest my reports.”

  Chakotay shrugged. “Doesn’t this sound exactly like what the director ordered?”

  “Maybe,” Janeway agreed. “I want you to prepare a full briefing for the senior staffs of all fleet vessels. I’m going to let everyone weigh in on this before I make a final determination.”

  “Okay,” Chakotay said, clearly a little disappointed. “But can I assume you’re leaning toward saying yes?”

  “Honestly, you had me at ‘no bugs.’ ”

  GALEN

  Doctor El’nor Sal, Vesta’s chief medical officer, knew herself to be in remarkable shape for a human female of her age. The height she had inherited from her mother. A tendency toward lean, long muscles had been a gift from her father. Her longevity could have come from either. Her parents had both been well into their twelfth decade of life when they died. When in motion she still enjoyed a sense of vigor and strength. Her mind was as sharp as it had ever been, as was her tongue. The only thing suffering these days was her patience. She chalked that up to her new regimen of sleeping only three to four hours per night. Like her fellow physicians intent on curing Lieutenant Nancy Conlon, she understood that time was of the essence. Unlike her compatriots, she knew intimately how long and dark the road ahead of all of them really was.

  Thirty years prior, Sal had been the CMO of the U.S.S. Thetis. Then, as now, Regina Farkas had been her captain. They’d lost twenty-three of their crew to a similar syndrome caused by a rare insect bite. The culprit would eventually come to be known as Vega Nine.

  The cause of Conlon’s illness remained stubbornly obscured, and clearly it was moving more quickly than its deadly cousin. Sal had hoped that she’d have considerably more time before damage to Conlon’s DNA started to manifest itself in frightening and potent ways.

  She should have known better. Systemic damage like this left no room for hope. That nicety—along with sleep, exercise, and healthy interpersonal relationships—was forced by the wayside in battles like this one, replaced by singular focus and determination. The only way to beat this was to locate it and correct it. Somewhere in the three billion base pairs that made up Nancy Conlon’s genetic code was a transcription error that had rendered her DNA incapable of repairing itself. Sal was nowhere near finding it, nor was she certain that she would have the opportunity to do so. But she’d be damned if she didn’t at least lose a little sleep trying.

  Sal’s dark gray eyes were glued to the screen displaying Conlon’s vitals. The surgery to repair the weakness in the wall of the anterior cerebral artery and reinforce similar degradations of the middle cerebral artery had taken Sharak and the Doctor almost nine hours to complete. Sharak had departed for his ship immediately following the procedure for some well-earned rest. The Doctor had excused himself for the holodeck. He had a new premise he was testing, one that might stabilize their patient indefinitely while they searched for a cure. He had indicated it was too soon to share the specifics. Sal wished him well. Any port in this storm would be welcome. />
  Conlon would remain in an induced comatose state for the next week at least as her intracranial pressure was carefully monitored. That she had survived the sudden arterial hemorrhage at all was a miracle, and testament to the brilliance of the men who had designed the Galen. Conlon had been monitored constantly by a uniquely modified medical computer no matter where she was on board the experimental ship. A sister to the standard processor that was the heart of all starships, this system had been created to report a patient’s vital signs continuously. It had detected her loss of consciousness on the holodeck and immediately transported her to sickbay, where she was quickly stabilized and diagnosed. Had Conlon been sleeping peacefully in her quarters aboard Voyager when the artery ruptured, she would never have awakened and Sal would only have understood the cause of death following autopsy.

  “Doctor Sal?”

  Turning, Sal saw the haggard face of Lieutenant Harry Kim, the father of Conlon’s child.

  “What the hell happened?” Kim demanded without preamble. “I was only gone for two days. Counselor Cambridge said Nancy almost died.”

  “Pull up a chair, Harry,” Sal replied.

  As Kim did so, Sal sipped from a mug of raktajino that had gone cold an hour ago. It was disgusting. She hardly noticed.

  Once Kim had settled himself across from her with his elbows planted on the tops of his thighs and his hands clasped tightly before him, Sal began. “Weakness in the wall of one of the arteries of Lieutenant Conlon’s brain caused a rupture. Within seconds, this medical marvel we’re sitting in initiated an emergency site-to-site transport and the Doctor began treatment. We were able to stabilize her and perform surgery to repair the damage. We’re going to keep her unconscious for the next several days while the swelling goes down. In the event any other nearby arteries are affected, we’ll catch them before they can cause any more trouble.”

  “And this was caused by the problem with her DNA?” Kim asked.

  Sal nodded.

  Kim dropped his face into his hands and shook his head slowly back and forth. When he lifted it again, his eyes were glistening. “I thought you said we had months, maybe longer, before her body would start breaking down.”