Star Trek: The Original Series: No Time Like the Past

by Greg Cox

  Edith . . .

  “Jim,” McCoy said, “you’re not seriously considering this cockamamie quest?”

  Kirk remembered a confused and disoriented doctor jumping through another abandoned time portal—with disastrous results. He made up his mind.

  “I don’t see where we have much choice, Bones.” He looked squarely into Seven’s striking pale blue eyes. “Do you really think you can lead us to the other fragments?”

  She examined the wedged-shaped component. “If I am correct, and we are following a trail laid out for us in the future or the past, then I am hopeful that another clue can be found. Allow me time to find the key to this puzzle.”

  “Time is exactly what’s at stake,” Kirk reminded her. “Get to it.”

  “Hold on a second,” McCoy said. “How are you going to explain this . . . and her . . . to the rest of the crew?”

  Good question, Kirk thought. He disliked the idea of leaving his officers in the dark, but he couldn’t risk contaminating the present more than it already had been. He had learned his lesson since giving Captain John Christopher a tour of the Enterprise back in the twentieth century.

  Spock came to the rescue. “Might I suggest, Captain, that the Enterprise has been directed to assist ‘Doctor Annika Seven,’ a distinguished Federation scientist, on an important archaeological mission that has been deemed of value by Starfleet.”

  “That could work,” Kirk said. The Enterprise’s overall mission had always been broad enough to accommodate a wide range of objectives, from the diplomatic to the purely scientific. A deep-space archaeological expedition certainly fell under their purview. “A creative solution, Mister Spock.”

  “And so devious,” McCoy added, unable to resist a chance to needle Spock. “Who knew you were so talented at fabrication? What would the folks back on Vulcan think?”

  “Perhaps that I have spent too much time associating with humans,” Spock replied. “I fear humanity’s well-earned skill at mendacity may have rubbed off on me.”

  “To our advantage in this instance,” Kirk said. “Your suggestion strikes me as a plausible cover story for our mission.” He ran the idea by their guest. “What do you think, ‘Doctor Seven’? Does that work for you?”

  A hint of a frown marred her features. “I do not relish the prospect of ‘flying under false colors,’ as the saying goes, but I recognize the necessity of avoiding undue attention to our true objective.” Her hand, with its odd cybernetic webbing, indicated the eye-catching metallic implants on her face. “Do you believe that your crew will accept me in this role? I do not entirely blend in with humans of your era.”

  “That’s for sure,” McCoy said.

  Once again, Spock had the answer.

  “Your unique prosthetics bear a superficial resemblance to the traditional cosmetic body art of the Phiema, a rather obscure culture in the Asogola system. The Phiema are rarely encountered outside their remote homeworld, so few people will see through your story if you claim to have been raised among them as a child.”

  “I’ve got to admit, I’ve never heard of them,” McCoy said.

  “This does not surprise me, Doctor.”

  Seven ignored their banter. “That seems a workable alias. I can adapt.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Kirk said. Welcome to the Enterprise, Doctor Seven.” He took it for granted that “Annika Seven” was not her real name. “I’ll see to it that you’re assigned guest quarters on the ship and perhaps a change of wardrobe.” He rose from his seat and swept a stern gaze over all present, including Santiago. The commissioner maintained a brooding silence, clearly biding his time. “None of this leaves this room. Are all clear on that?”

  “Clear as dilithium,” Santiago said. “But don’t think you can put off our talk much longer.”

  “I look forward to it,” Kirk lied. “In the meantime, let’s go find a time machine.”

  Six

  “This is unconscionable!” Santiago ranted. He paced back and forth in his VIP stateroom aboard the Enterprise, getting more worked up by the moment. “Kirk is completely missing the big picture here!”

  “So it appears,” his aide agreed.

  Cyril Hague, administrative assistant, second grade, was seated at a desk in the stateroom’s work area. Microtapes containing the latest briefings and reports on Yusub and other diplomatic issues throughout the Federation were stacked neatly in front of the library computer terminal that was provided to the Enterprise’s high-ranking passengers. The stateroom was noticeably larger than the private guest quarters Hague had been assigned elsewhere on Deck D, but Hague didn’t mind. At the moment, he was exactly where he wanted to be.

  “Do you realize what an opportunity this is?” Santiago continued. “The knowledge in that young woman’s head could leapfrog our technology generations ahead of the Klingons, the Romulans . . .”

  “And the Orions, sir?”

  “Don’t get me started on the damned Orions!” Santiago raged. “Butchers and barbarians, that’s what they are.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion. “When I think about what they did to Denise and my beautiful nieces . . .”

  “Please, sir. You can’t keep dwelling on that.”

  “I know, I know.” Santiago took a deep breath, reining in his emotions. “But this isn’t just about protecting the Federation from the Orions and other hostiles. We could be talking about life-changing breakthroughs in science, medicine, even exploration. That woman is a strategic asset of unparalleled importance . . . and Kirk just wants to help her get home!”

  Hague made a note on a data slate. “The captain’s weakness for the fairer sex is well known. Perhaps he’s simply being chivalrous.”

  “Chivalry be damned!” Santiago swore. “He’s talking about throwing away a Rosetta stone to tomorrow . . . to protect a future that hasn’t even happened yet. Hell, for all we know, this ‘Annika Seven’ has already changed history irreparably. The genie is out of the bottle, so we might as well get some miracles out of her.”

  Hague chuckled at the simile. “Nicely put, sir.”

  “If only I can get Kirk to understand,” Santiago said. “Even if we have to return her to her own era eventually, for the sake of the time line, we ought to learn what we can from her while we have the chance.” He stared out a port at the starry void outside the saucer. The Enterprise was warping away from the Yusub system with no clear destination as of yet. “The universe is a dangerous place, Cyril. Who knows what terrible menaces are waiting for us out there . . . or may already be heading our way?”

  Hague egged him on, quite deliberately. “One shudders to think, sir.”

  “I do shudder, Cyril, because I fear for the safety of the Federation we both serve.” He pounded his fist into his palm. “That woman has to warn us what’s coming. She has to!”

  “Please, sir! You’re becoming overwrought.” Hague rose from his desk. “You need to rest.”

  “Always looking out for me, aren’t you?” Santiago cast a weary smile at his aide. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it, Cyril. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” His shoulders slumped in exhaustion. “These last few years . . .”

  “It’s an honor, sir. I mean that.”

  “Thank you,” the commissioner said. “For the record, by the way, you don’t know about any of this. Kirk practically swore us all to secrecy.”

  For what little good that did, Hague thought. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Good,” Santiago said. “I know I can count on your discretion . . . and loyalty.”

  “Always,” Hague lied. “Now then, you really should try to get some rest.” He crossed the stateroom to the food processor unit in the foyer. “Let me fix you your favorite nightcap.”

  He inserted a menu card into the appropriate slot. Seconds later, a dark burgundy beverage appeared in the dispenser bin. Hague took the drink, which came in an old-fashioned martini glass, and handed it to Santiago.

  “One Centauri Stinger,” the aide sai
d. “To help you sleep.”

  Santiago accepted the drink gratefully. Hague knew the commissioner had developed a taste for the potent cocktail while serving as a cultural attaché on Rigel years ago. It was his only vice, aside from trusting the wrong people.

  “Just what the doctor ordered.” Santiago downed the drink in one gulp. He handed the empty glass back to Hague. “Have I ever mentioned that the Federation doesn’t pay you enough?”

  “Frequently, sir.”

  Hague glanced at the bottom of the glass. There was no residue of the powerful soporific he had discreetly added to the commissioner’s cocktail. Granted, fatigue and the Stinger would have probably been enough to put Santiago out for the night, but why take chances? Hague had important business to get to—and he didn’t want to be interrupted.

  He steered Santiago toward the adjacent sleeping area. The commissioner yawned as the drug began to take effect. “You should turn in, too,” Santiago said sleepily. “Head back to your quarters and get some rest.”

  “Soon,” Hague promised. “If you don’t mind, I’d like stay a bit longer and finish up some reports. You know how the bureaucracy is. There’s no end to the paperwork . . .”

  “Don’t work too hard,” Santiago said, already nodding off. Another yawn threatened to swallow his instructions. “That’s an order.”

  “Understood.”

  A retractable partition separated the bedroom from the work area. Hague waited until he was sure Santiago was out cold before drawing shut the partition and sneaking over to the personal communication station at the opposite end of the work area. He sat down at the station and keyed in Santiago’s classified prefix code, which the gullible commissioner had long ago trusted him with. He then established a secure link along a certain frequency. Full diplomatic protocols and encryption would ensure that this transmission remained confidential. Not even Santiago would know about it.

  “Contacting Navaar,” he whispered. “Top priority. Please respond.”

  The cloaked ship was not far away. Within moments, a woman’s face appeared on the station’s video screen. Lustrous purple hair tumbled past her bare green shoulders, which were the color of Vulcan blood. Shrewd jade eyes matched her elfin features. Plump emerald lips looked as inviting as ripe avocadoes. A scar on her cheek was a souvenir of battle.

  “What is it?” K’Mara asked. The Orion woman did not waste time on pleasantries. “Why have you broken silence?”

  “I have news,” Hague said. “Valuable news.”

  K’Mara looked intrigued, but also concerned. “This transmission is secure?”

  “As an old-fashioned diplomatic pouch,” Hague assured her. He had used the same ruse to alert her Orion compatriots to the top-secret location of the conclave on Yusub. “We can talk freely.”

  She nodded. “Speak.”

  “It’s about the future,” he began.

  • • •

  K’Mara stalked through the corridors of the Navaar, a knife on one hip and a disruptor pistol on the other. Her boots smacked briskly against the deck of the Marauder-class vessel. Sturdy black trousers and a matching halter top displayed less flesh than the typical Orion female, who flaunted her body to wield power over helpless males, but K’Mara had never been typical. Born without the higher level of pheromones her sisters used to enslave men, she had overcome this supposed handicap to become second-in-command of the Navaar. She had no regrets. Truth to tell, she preferred the life (and attire) of a pirate.

  Electrum bangles graced her ears, neck, and wrists. A ruby stud in her navel matched the one at the end of her tongue. Her lithe form still drew appreciative leers from her crewmates, but she ignored their attentions. She had more important matters on her mind. Reaching the door to the captain’s private chambers, she leaned on the buzzer.

  “It’s me!” she shouted through door. “You need to hear this.”

  “Enter,” a gruff voice responded.

  The captain’s luxurious chambers were decked out with the spoils of previous raids. Rich tapestries, pillaged from dozens of unlucky ships and worlds, were draped over the bulkheads. A priceless Gabronese rug carpeted the deck. A plucked lizard-hawk roasted on a spit above a brazier of red-hot coals. The mouthwatering aroma almost distracted K’Mara from her mission.

  Almost.

  “Well?” Habroz demanded. “What couldn’t wait for me to finish my dinner?”

  The hulking pirate captain rose from his couch. Metal spikes jutted up from beneath his shaved green scalp, so that his bumpy cranium resembled the head of a mace. A black leather vest and trousers, similar to K’Mara’s own attire, exposed his muscular chest, which was liberally adorned with ritualistic scarring. A latinum earring dangled from his one remaining ear; he had lost the other one in a raid on a Tholian mining colony. Yellow teeth were filed to a point beneath a drooping black mustache. A disruptor pistol was thrust into his belt, balanced out by a serrated hatchet on his other hip. Heavy boots left deep impressions in the carpet. His prosthetic right hand glinted metallically. Servomotors hummed as he cracked his knuckles.

  “I’ve received word from our sleeper agent aboard the Enterprise,” K’Mara said. “He thought it worth breaking silence to inform us.”

  The Orion Syndicate had planted Hague in the Federation’s diplomatic corps some time ago. Over the years, he had leaked much useful intel but never anything on the scale of what he had just divulged.

  Habroz scowled. “Don’t tell me those Federation meddlers still hope to turn the Yusubi against us? I thought we had put that ridiculous notion to the torch already.”

  K’Mara shook her head. “This is bigger than any of that. Remember that human female who showed up out of nowhere to interfere with our assault?”

  “The tall female with the golden hair and impressive figure?” He nodded at the memory; the troublesome intruder had obviously made an impression on him. “What of her? I assumed she was another do-gooder from the Enterprise.”

  “Hardly,” K’Mara said. “Turns out she’s from the future.”

  Habroz’s jaw dropped. It wasn’t often the ruthless pirate was caught unawares, so K’Mara savored the moment while she could. She quickly filled him in on Hague’s startling news, the implications of which were not lost on her. Whole new galaxies of profit were suddenly within reach.

  “You realize what this means?” she asked.

  “Easy credits,” he grunted. “The Klingons will pay well for this intelligence.”

  She was appalled by his shortsightedness. Typical male stupidity.

  “Forget mere intel,” she said, leading him along. “Think of how much they would pay for this ‘Annika Seven’ herself. Imagine all the secrets locked up in that pretty blond head of hers.” K’Mara’s own imagination was racing at warp speed. “That human female is the most valuable prize in the quadrant!”

  Understanding dawned in his bloodshot green eyes. “You think we should capture her.”

  Took you long enough, K’Mara thought impatiently. She often considered seizing command of the Navaar herself, but she was uncertain whether the crew would accept her as a captain. She was already defying Orion tradition by assuming the role of raider instead of seductress; she didn’t want to carry this tricky dance too far, too fast. It was one thing for an Orion male to fight and die in the service of a beloved mistress. It was another thing altogether for the males to see a clothed female in the captain’s chair. Better to let Habroz issue the orders . . . for now.

  “The fates have dropped this bounty in our laps,” she declared. “We would be fools not to seize it.”

  Habroz nodded. “Let it not be said that the captain of the Navaar is a fool.”

  “Never!” she said, flattering his ego. “Not while I live.”

  She smiled in anticipation of the rich profits ahead.

  Capturing Seven had just become their top priority.

  Seven

  “You have something for us, Seven?” Kirk asked.

  “Ye
s, Captain,” she replied.

  All those knowledgeable of her true circumstances had reconvened in the briefing room, which was notably more primitive and utilitarian than the comparable facilities back on Voyager. Seven deemed the setting sufficient, however. Sealed doors and sturdy bulkheads guaranteed their privacy.

  To better blend in aboard the Enterprise, she had donned twenty-third-century civilian garb over her usual dermaplastic attire. A pressed blue suit, tailored to her measurements, seemed appropriate to her role as a visiting scientist. Her Voyager combadge was discreetly concealed beneath the lapel of her jacket. She had felt oddly naked without it.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered sharing some of your unique insights into the future,” Commissioner Santiago said. “For the sake of the people of this era?”

  By virtue of his rank, Santiago had claimed a place in this conference, but Seven privately wished that he could have been excluded. His persistent demands and confrontational tone were troubling, as were the thorny ethical questions they provoked. She exerted effort to conceal her discomfort.

  “My position is unchanged, Commissioner.”

  Declining to take his seat at the table, he strode across the room to confront her. Probing eyes scrutinized her, as though attempting to peer past her veil of secrecy. Seven was grateful that most humans lacked telepathic gifts.

  “You know something,” he accused her. “I can tell. You’re hiding something that we ought to know.”

  Seven winced internally. Guilt surged through her system like an EPS overload. Despite her apparent confidence in her convictions, she was acutely conscious of the date. By Terran reckoning, it was 2270. In less than a century, Starfleet would have its first recorded encounter with the Borg, leading to years of hard-fought battles and attempted invasions. Seven would be part of the Collective by then, taking part in the unwilling assimilation of thousands of unfortunate planets, species, and individuals. The conflict between the Federation and the Borg would extinguish billions of lives and cost many others their individuality. Guilt over her actions as a drone had long haunted Seven’s human conscience. Could she atone for those crimes by warning the Federation in advance of the dire threat posed by the Borg . . . and perhaps even share some of the weapons and technologies that Starfleet had developed to combat the Collective?