Delta Anomaly

by Rick Barba

  “Whatever,” said McCoy.

  Kirk’s communicator beeped. He flipped it open: an incoming text. As he read it, he frowned.

  “It’s Glorak,” he said. “There’s something going down across campus.”

  “What is it?” asked McCoy.

  “‘Emergency vehicles incoming,’ he says.”

  “For who?”

  Kirk shrugged. “He didn’t say.”

  Several fire department hovercrafts, halo-lights flashing, had already settled on the central quad by the time Kirk and McCoy arrived. The focus was the Institute of Xenology building. It was sealed off, and a crowd had gathered on its front lawn.

  Kirk approached a tall Betelgeusian cadet and asked, “What’s up, Beeker?”

  The cadet shrugged his avian shoulders and opened his speaking mouth. “Fire, I guess,” he said with a tongue snap. “Not really sure yet.”

  Kirk spotted Admiral Tullsey’s adjutant, Lieutenant Commander Renfield, standing just inside the yellow barrier tape. As he started toward her, an SFPD police cruiser glided in for a landing nearby.

  The adjutant spotted Kirk and waved him over. “She’s okay, Cadet,” she called as Kirk approached.

  “Who’s okay?” asked Kirk.

  “Your friend,” replied Renfield.

  “My friend?”

  “Cadet Uhura.”

  “What!?” exclaimed Kirk. “Where is she?”

  Lieutenant Commander Renfield lifted up the yellow tape and Kirk ducked under.

  “ICU at the medical college,” she said.

  “What happened?” asked Kirk.

  “Reports are sketchy,” said Renfield, arching one of her scary eyebrows. “Apparently there was a fire in the xenolinguistics lab. A particulate detector set off the building alarm.”

  “Uhura was working on those 911 recordings, no doubt,” said Kirk.

  “No doubt,” said Renfield. “Two students evacuating the library heard her coughing. They found her in a research pod filled with smoke. Thank god they managed to drag her out. All three suffered serious smoke inhalation, it seems.”

  Kirk nodded. “I take it they put out the fire,” he said, gesturing toward the firefighters.

  “Well,” said Renfield, “that’s just the thing.”

  Kirk frowned. “What?”

  “The emergency responders found no fire,” she said. She gave Kirk a look. “In fact, they found no smoke whatsoever.”

  Kirk was confused. “You said they suffered smoke inhalation,” he said.

  Lieutenant Commander Renfield shrugged. Then she said, “Well, we did find a black residue on all three of them. So I suppose that—”

  Kirk immediately spun around to look for McCoy. “Bones!” he yelled. “Bones!”

  McCoy pushed through the crowd to join them. Kirk gave him a quick summary of the situation.

  “Did you see this residue, Lieutenant Commander?” asked McCoy.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “It was black and chalky, correct?” said McCoy.

  “Yes, it was.”

  McCoy’s emergency pager suddenly went off. He checked its message, then looked at Kirk. “It’s Dr. Griffin,” said McCoy. “He wants me to report to ICU immediately.”

  “Good god, Bones,” said Kirk.

  “I know, Jim,” said McCoy.

  “You gotta get that stuff out of her,” said Kirk urgently. “Before it . . .”

  “I know, Jim,” repeated McCoy.

  They both ducked back under the yellow tape and began to sprint toward the hospital wing of the medical college.

  CH.8.12

  City Lights

  Spock stood in the ICU waiting room, hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t pace or fidget, despite his unsettled emotions. This was due to the calming techniques he’d learned as a boy from his mother. Ironic that a Human woman so often guided by deep feeling could teach a Vulcan male to find such peaceful, meditative corridors in his consciousness.

  One of his older colleagues on the science faculty, Dr. John Telemark, stepped up beside him.

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine, Commander,” he said.

  Spock nodded. “Yes, the medical team took both male cadets off their ventilators almost immediately. I was told they’re alert and doing well.”

  “Good news!” said Telemark. “And the girl?”

  “Stable but still unconscious, according to the last report,” replied Spock, quickly glancing toward the double doors leading into the care unit where Uhura was.

  Telemark gestured in the opposite direction, down the corridor to the hospital’s main lobby.

  “Quite a few cadets keeping vigil out there,” he said.

  Spock allowed himself a thin smile. “The cadet corps has an intriguing social psychology,” he said.

  “How so, Spock?” asked the older professor.

  “Cadets spend an inordinate amount of time devising ways to humiliate one another,” he said. “It is a most peculiar practice. And yet when one of their own is imperiled, they become as protective as a Hyborian mite colony.”

  Telemark smiled. “Well, as a distinguished recent gradu-ate, I guess you’d know,” he said.

  “Cadet training was an interesting time,” said Spock.

  Dr. Telemark glanced toward the lobby again. “That Delta team captain is out there, I forget his name. They say he’s an impulsive fellow. I don’t expect he’ll fare well in Tanika Station next week.”

  Spock bowed respectfully, but said, “I’m learning that Human decision-making is often a curious process. In certain subjects, decisions that may seem illogical at first often turn out to be tactically sound.” He frowned. “The Human brain seems to be a mystery to itself. It makes what appear to be snap judgments and rash choices that, as it turns out, have in fact been sufficiently processed subconsciously.” He looked at his colleague. “I believe you call it intuition.”

  Telemark smiled again. “I call it flying by the seat of your pants,” he said.

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “An interesting metaphor, Doctor,” he said.

  “Well, that young cadet from Iowa thinks he’s ready for your Kobayashi Maru scenario.” Telemark chuckled. “But frankly, I don’t think he’ll get past Tanika Station on Monday.”

  As Spock began to reply, Dr. Griffin burst through the ICU doors and approached with his shock of white hair and a crooked smile.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” he said.

  “How are they, Doctor?” asked Spock quickly.

  “Hard to say definitively,” said Dr. Griffin. “They certainly seem well enough. Cadet Uhura suffered the worst inhalation trauma, but there’s no thermal damage to her airway passages. Most of the problem seems to be the metabolic acidosis, and a bit too much tissue-level oxygen debt.”

  Spock and Telemark looked at each other.

  Dr. Griffin smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “Ah, her blood’s a little out of whack. But we’re fixing it. In any case, she’s resting comfortably on a ventilator and her vitals look good.”

  Spock felt his face release tension.

  “So she’s out of the woods, Charlie?” asked Telemark.

  “I think so,” replied Griffin. “But I’ve got a young doctor in there who thinks the carbon residue on Cadet Uhura is somehow active.”

  Spock’s eyebrow arched again. “Active?” he asked.

  Griffin bobbed his great white head. “Yes.”

  “In what way, Doctor?” asked Spock.

  “Not sure, Commander, but he’s taking soot samples from her nose and mouth right now,” replied Griffin. “He’s also planning a bronchoscopy to examine her airways and to suction debris. Dr. McCoy seems to believe that this smoke is . . . well, more than smoke, I guess.”

  Spock considered that. “It is indeed curious that no residual smoke was found in the lab.”

  “Well, gentlemen, I have a police report to make,” said Dr. Griffin. He nodded toward a grizzled-looking man in a rumpled coat approaching from the lobby.
“Hello, Detective Bogenn,” he called. “Let’s meet in my office, shall we?”

  As Dr. Griffin and the detective walked off, Spock’s eyebrows furrowed.

  “Active smoke residue,” he said. “Curious.”

  Dr. Telemark sat down in a lounge chair and sighed.

  “Well, Spock, perhaps we should go over the holodeck calibrations again for next Monday’s simulation,” he said. “We want Tanika Station’s mysteries to remain impene-trable for our cadets.”

  Spock sat down next to him.

  “Since I expect to be here quite a while, Doctor,” he said, “I believe that’s an excellent plan.”

  Dr. McCoy barely had time to order a bronchoscope unit to ICU before observing an event that he fully expected to see. The critical care nurse assisting him with Cadet Uhura suddenly backed away from the bed.

  “Uh, Doctor?” he said.

  McCoy turned to see what appeared to be a smoking body.

  “Yep, there it goes,” he said.

  “Is she . . . burning?” asked the nurse, looking panicked.

  “No,” said McCoy. “Relax, Harmon.” He pointed at the bedside console. “Do you have the observation cameras rolling?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Nurse Harmon.

  McCoy watched intently as the hazy smoke slowly rose from Uhura’s body and gathered into a black, doughnut-shaped cloud. It hovered a few moments directly above her, then suddenly shot to the ceiling and disappeared.

  It left no trace behind.

  “She’s clean now,” said McCoy. He grabbed a tricorder scanner on the nearby stand. “But we need an organ scan, stat. If her organs are intact, I expect she’ll wake up soon, so let’s remove that tracheal tube too. And Harmon?”

  “Yes, Doctor?” said the nurse, still staring at the ceiling.

  “Call pulmonary and cancel that bronchoscope,” he said.

  The next two days proceeded in a relatively uneventful fashion at Starfleet Academy. Students went about their business by day, and schemed, commando-raided, partied, and coupled up by night. Meanwhile, the Academy’s medical and scientific staff were comparing notes and conducting more studies on the mysterious black substance.

  As Kirk tried desperately to prepare for the upcoming Science mission final, nagging questions kept popping into his head:

  How does the Doctor control the swarm?

  Why did the swarm target Uhura? Why did it spare her? What are its operating protocols?

  Did I lead it to her somehow? Did it follow me to campus?

  How does the killer know my name?

  It sometimes seemed as if he’d imagined the encounter at the Palace of Fine Arts; it was so surreal. When he’d run into Detective Bogenn that night in the hospital lobby and finally reported the incident, Kirk got the impression that the detective was skeptical. But then he whipped out his communicator and there it was—“James T. Kirk”—in all its creepy, voice-filtered eeriness. Uhura wouldn’t have to translate that.

  So Kirk spent two days trying to put the Doctor and the swarm out of his mind in order to focus on Tanika Station. He studied his Starfleet science directives for hours. He met with his Delta teammates each day to review Science mission protocols, brainstorm possible scenarios, and then game-plan and role-play a response to each one.

  Unfortunately, one other thing made full concentration difficult as well.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about the stunning girl from Brewsky’s.

  So when Thursday evening finally came, Kirk found himself jogging down Union Street and bursting into occasional adrenaline-fueled sprints. Meeting girls rarely made Kirk feel jittery, but Hannah was unlike any he’d ever met. He kept retracking their first conversation. She made him think. He liked that.

  When he arrived at Brewsky’s, a line of five had formed at the order counter. Hannah gave him a quick glance and took orders with a sly smile. Kirk eavesdropped on her banter with the customers in front of him. She was good with people.

  “What can I get you?” she asked him.

  He slapped down his payment chip. “Triple espresso,” he said.

  She just looked at him.

  “Please,” he added.

  After paying, Kirk moved to his usual corner table and set up his e-pad. That morning, Thursday, all of the participants in next Monday’s Science mission final had received a single page of instructions on what to expect. Kirk had read it carefully several times, each time amazed at how little they would know going in. He scrolled through it one more time, looking for subtle hints or hidden clues between the lines.

  “Cadet?” called out Hannah loudly from the counter. “Is there a ‘Cadet’ here?”

  Kirk looked up. She was gazing around the room.

  “Your espresso is ready, Cadet,” she called sweetly.

  Kirk grinned. He went up to the counter.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t hear my name. I was too engrossed in my studies of fascism.”

  “It’s a good major,” she said.

  Kirk picked up the espresso cup. “Yes, plenty of job opportunities.”

  Another girl behind Hannah was tying on an apron. She said, “Have a good night, girl.”

  “Thanks, Jen,” said Hannah. She started untying her own apron.

  Kirk frowned. “You’re off?” he said, glancing at his watch. “It’s only seven.”

  “Yes, I’m off,” she said.

  “You said you’d be working tonight,” said Kirk.

  “I did work,” she replied. “Now I’m off.”

  “Oh,” he said, disappointed.

  Hannah turned to the new girl. “Can I get a short mocha?” she asked. “No whipped cream. For here.” She pointed over at Kirk’s table.

  Kirk slowly brightened. “Ah,” he said.

  Jen, the other girl, smiled. “Who’s that?” she asked, nodding at Kirk.

  “That’s Jim,” said Hannah. “He’s a Starfleet cadet. Jim, this is Jen. She’s a poet. I’m sure you guys have a lot in common.”

  Jen waved. “Hi, Jim,” she said.

  Kirk waved back.

  Jen looked him up and down. “Cute,” she told Hannah.

  “You think so?” replied Hannah, feigning surprise.

  She ducked under the counter and sauntered over to Kirk’s table. Almost glassy-eyed, Kirk followed. As he sat down he flipped his e-pad shut.

  “Hey, don’t let me interrupt your studies,” she said.

  Kirk just laughed.

  Some things Kirk learned about Hannah:

  She was born and raised in Fresno.

  Her father was a botanist. Her mother? A botanist.

  She loved plants.

  She hiked in the Marin Hills north of the city every weekend.

  She broke up with her cadet boyfriend in part because of his addiction to holodeck games.

  Another reason: He was a self-centered jerk.

  The best reason: He didn’t like the movie Casablanca.

  She loved San Francisco bookstores.

  And although she was fond of flowering plants, she had a special affinity for mosses and liverworts.

  Some things Hannah learned about Kirk:

  He hated Iowa.

  He loved Iowa.

  He had a police record in Iowa.

  He missed Iowa.

  He never wanted to go back to Iowa. At least he vowed never to return until his stepfather, Frank, left the state.

  He was born in Medical Shuttle 37.

  He loved his mother.

  He loved everything he knew about his father.

  His father had saved the lives of more than eight hundred people—including Jim’s—while giving his own life to do so, and Jim wanted to do at least that much good during his own career.

  And he liked to go fast.

  They’d been talking for more than an hour when Hannah suddenly said, “Let’s walk.”

  “Sure.” Kirk grabbed his jacket.

  “Nights like this are rare,” she said.

&nbs
p; Kirk glanced at her. “True,” he said.

  Hannah was wrapping a green silk scarf around her neck. She grabbed her jacket too and said, “We just don’t get much summer here in summer.”

  “No kidding,” he said. He glanced out the window. It was the second clear, fogless night this week.

  They stashed their bags behind the counter with Jen and headed out onto Union Street.

  “Where to?” asked Kirk.

  “How about a cable-car ride?” she replied.

  “Let’s do it,” said Kirk.

  It was a short stroll up to Hyde Street where they hopped aboard a car on the Powell-Hyde line. They rode it downhill to the turntable on Market Street, where cars were spun for the return trip. There they transferred to the Powell-Mason line that ran back north over both Nob Hill and Russian Hill toward the wharf. As the car clanked out of the turntable and rolled uphill on Powell, Hannah suddenly grabbed Kirk’s hand.

  “Look,” she said, “I appreciate tonight. I think it’s great that you like me.”

  Amused, Kirk looked at her. “Gosh, and here I thought I was so subtle,” he said.

  Hannah waved her hand. “My point is,” she said, “I appreciate your interest in my life. But don’t avoid talking about the Academy. I know it’s important to you, and I will try not to judge. Okay?”

  Kirk shrugged. “I don’t want to bore you,” he said. “Or say something militaristic that makes you jump off the cable car.”

  Hannah laughed. “Hey, I know it’s intense at the Academy,” she said. “I get that. It’s all-consuming. And it should be. I mean, space isn’t grad school; it’s life and death. The Romulans are coming. I get how you have to pour yourself into it . . . or else you don’t make the grade.”

  “Ah, let me guess,” he said. “That cadet you dated, all he talked about was the Academy. And himself.”

  Hannah looked down, and Kirk knew he had hit a nerve.

  “I’m not that guy,” said Kirk. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  They both held tight to the grip poles as the car lurched around a turn on Jackson.

  “Of course, I do have a pretty high opinion of myself,” said Kirk. “And I need someone like you to help keep that in check.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re doing a good job.”