Strange New Worlds VIII

by Dean Wesley Smith

  “Not exactly, Doctor,” Spock corrected. “By my calculations the transporter beam is traveling at warp factor five point eight—”

  Kirk looked up from the display. “If we went maximum warp, we could get there before it does.”

  Spock nodded agreement. “Precisely.”

  Kirk opened his communicator. “Enterprise, three to beam up.”

  When they got to the bridge, Uhura was waiting for them. “Mister Spock, the information you requested has arrived by subspace communication.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Spock went to his station and downloaded the chart from the relay station. Within moments it was on the viewscreen. “This is the chart from the station.” Spock punched another button. A star chart was imposed over the relay map. “This shows its course.”

  “The last station is in an uncharted region of the quadrant,” Kirk murmured.

  “But the next one is not. We can arrive there in fourteen hours if we push the engines.”

  “And that won’t give us any more time than the last station. Helm, lay in a course, maximum warp.” Spock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He turned and analyzed the data from Vulcan.

  * * *

  It took them ten hours to reach the next relay station. As with the last one they had visited, it was on a secluded, barren planet, devoid of life. As soon as the trio beamed down, they realized something was very wrong. The equipment was damaged. Part of the chamber had collapsed, smashing into the network of panels. Kirk and McCoy stood dumbfounded. Spock started scanning the remains with his tricorder.

  McCoy was the first to break the trance. “Spock, tell me we can do something about this. Tell me we can save Scotty.”

  Spock scanned the readout on his tricorder before answering. “There are several incoming molecular-transport receiver relays feeding into the final transporter transmitter—”

  “Dammit, Spock!” growled McCoy. “Speak English!”

  “I thought I was, Doctor,” replied Spock. “This relay station is like an old Earth railroad station. There are multiple tracks leading here, and one track leaving. The track Mister Scott is on is damaged. Since there is no way to switch him to another track, we will have to replace the damaged track with undamaged track; otherwise Mister Scott’s signature will derail, and he will be lost forever.”

  “Can we do it?” asked Kirk

  Spock nodded. “There is a ninety-eight point three percent probability of success.”

  Kirk breathed a sigh of relief.

  “However—”

  “Spock!” moaned McCoy. “We don’t want to hear any ‘however’s!”

  “We will not be able to route Mister Scott’s signal to the transporter pad.”

  The growing hope drained away like sand from an hourglass.

  “Why not?” Kirk asked.

  “The transporter emitters are destroyed.” Spock said bluntly. “But I have learned enough from the data I received to decipher the rest of the controls to send him on to the final station. However—”

  “Stop with the ‘however’s, Spock!” shouted McCoy.

  “—I will need time to make repairs,” continued Spock.

  “How much time?” Kirk asked.

  “Unknown. Being able to read their hieroglyphs will help, and I have the readings from Mister Scott’s repairs to the spacecraft to aid me.”

  “How soon until Scotty gets here?” McCoy asked.

  “Three hours, thirty-one minutes, forty-two seconds.”

  Kirk nodded with grim determination. “Let’s get to it.”

  The three worked with clocklike precision, removing components from one panel and placing them in another. It was hard, dusty work in tight areas, but because they knew that a dear friend’s life was at stake, there were no complaints.

  Three hours, fourteen minutes later, the work was done. The room was filled with a soft hum.

  “All circuits are functioning,” Spock commented. “Mister Scott should arrive in seventeen minutes.”

  Kirk nodded and sat down next to McCoy. “Tell me what else you learned about the creators of this mess.”

  Spock gathered his thoughts for a moment. “It was recorded that there was a race called the Carthians. They were an imperial society that ruled by constant conquest. However, their boundaries grew too large for their troops to hold, so they started recruiting outside their region.”

  “You mean they started shanghaiing people to do their grunt-work,” McCoy sneered.

  “However you want to say it, they started adding to their ranks with alien races, people who didn’t hold the Carthians’ beliefs in conquest.”

  “This sounds familiar,” Kirk said. “I think the Roman Empire tried to do the same thing.”

  “With the same results,” agreed Spock. “The Carthians were overthrown in an uprising. Their empire fell into chaos. Nothing is known of their fate.” The pitch of the hum suddenly changed. Spock turned to the displays.

  “The sensors have picked up the incoming transport,” Spock said. “Power is starting to build.”

  Kirk stood up. “Spock, correct me if I’m wrong, but wouldn’t it stand to reason that the next station, the last station, is on the Carthians’ homeworld?”

  “That region is uncharted, but I can only assume you are correct.”

  Whatever Kirk was going to say next was forgotten as equipment that had been dormant for hundreds of years commenced its sequencing.

  “The transport is coming in,” shouted Spock over the din. “The signature is stacking in memory.” The hum increased an octave. “The transmitter is resequencing the data.” The whine reached a deafening pitch, and then died.

  “What happened?” asked McCoy. “Is everything all right?”

  Spock placed his tricorder at his side. “Everything is fine, Doctor. Mister Scott is on the last leg of his journey.”

  Kirk flipped open his communicator and nodded. “No matter what awaits him, let’s make sure we’re there for him. Three to beam up.”

  * * *

  The final transporter station was titanic. Hundreds of transporter receiver relays were arranged in an amphitheater facing skyward. When functioning, it had been a monument to the technological advancement of an empire. When the rebellion came, it was a symbol of slavery to be destroyed. Now, four hundred years later, it was an empty, crumbling ruin.

  Rivulets of sweat dripped down the despaired group’s faces. Kirk gritted his teeth as he leaned against a wall in fatigue. “All of them. All of them are smashed. All of them are ruined, useless.” Kirk looked to Spock for some sort of hope. “Spock, is there any way to repair just one of them?”

  Spock was logically blunt. “Not in the time remaining.”

  Kirk hung his head in defeat. “Then we lost. Scotty lost. After everything we’ve done, we failed.”

  “Dammit, Jim!” McCoy blasted. “We can’t give up now! Scotty’s life depends on us.”

  “You don’t think I know that,” Kirk spat. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it! But right now I don’t see any options.”

  McCoy’s eyes blazed, but he said nothing. In a moment he turned away in frustration.

  “Captain, I have a hypothesis,” Spock offered. “There may be a way.”

  Kirk spun around. “What is it?” he demanded.

  “With the data I have gathered we might be able to integrate the spacecraft’s modules to our own equipment.”

  “I thought you said it couldn’t be done.”

  “Circumstances have changed. I believe I can gather the signal with the navigational deflector and redirect it through the Carthian vessel’s circuits and into our systems.”

  Kirk straightened with hope. “Is there time?”

  “Since we have no other options, time is irrelevant.”

  “You and your damn logic will be the death of us all, Spock,” McCoy shouted. “If there’s something we can do, then let’s not waste what little time we have.”

  “I do not intend to wast
e time, Doctor,” Spock calmly replied. “I am already making the necessary calculations.”

  McCoy’s expression changed from anger to expectation. “Then, what are we waiting for? Let’s get back to the Enterprise and start hooking the relay transporter thing to the integration module thing.”

  Spock raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Doctor, perhaps you should leave the process to me.”

  With the glimmer of hope Spock had given him, and the antics of McCoy, Kirk had to smile.

  * * *

  Kirk strode onto the bridge and sat in his chair as if it were a pincushion.

  “Time remaining, Mister Sulu,” he asked.

  Sulu checked the chronometer. “Sixteen minutes, sir.”

  “Mister Chekov, plot a course to the coordinates directed by Mister Spock.”

  Chekov nodded. “Course already laid in, sir.”

  “Mister Sulu, take us in and hold her steady,” Kirk ordered. “We need to be in exact alignment with the transporter stream.”

  Sulu nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  Kirk softly hammered the arm of his chair solemnly. “It’s all up to Spock now.”

  * * *

  The transporter engineer watched Spock’s adjustments with a helpful eye. Adapting the circuitry of the Carthians’ equipment to the Federation transporter modules was taxing, even for Spock’s wealth of patience.

  Each connection required redundant components, multiple terminations, and countless shunts and conductors. Any small error or defect could result in failure. Failure was not an option.

  After hours of tedious work, Spock and the engineer stood before the transporter control panel. Preliminary checks proved satisfactory, but there would be no time for a full diagnostic. Time was up.

  The transporter room doors opened as Doctor McCoy entered with his medical kit.

  “If everything goes as it should, Doctor McCoy, your services will not be needed,” Spock commented.

  “If everything went as it should have, we wouldn’t be here right now,” he replied dryly.

  Spock raised his eyebrow and nodded. “You are correct, Doctor.”

  McCoy gave a smug grin. “Of course.”

  Spock hit the communications switch. “Captain, the transporter beam should arrive in three-point-two minutes.”

  Kirk’s impatience flooded back over the speakers. “Think you could have cut it any closer, Spock?”

  The remaining minutes ticked away like hours. Then indicators started lighting up. Spock opened the com channel to the bridge to allow Kirk, and the rest of the bridge crew, to hear what was happening.

  “The transporter beam is approaching,” Spock droned. “Compensating for deflector angle—”

  Whatever else Spock was saying was lost in the whine of electronic components screaming in overload. Sparks shot out from board after board as they failed under the strain. Then, as it had started, the whine diminished, only to be replaced with warning buzzers. Spock and the transporter engineer worked frantically.

  “Spock!” Kirk’s voice shouted over the din. “What’s happening?”

  Spock’s hands flew over the console as he tried to coax a little more life from the unit. “The molecular sequencers are failing!” he shouted back. “Switching to backup!”

  The image of Scotty faintly appeared on the transporter pad, and then faded.

  McCoy watched in horror, and then turned to Spock. “Spock, he’s dying! Do something!”

  As if responding to McCoy’s demands, Spock shoved the slide switches forward. Then, as if a miracle had happened, Scotty materialized on the pad.

  Scotty straightened up and looked around him in bewilderment and then frustration. “Mister Spock, ye dinna have to pull me away from the hangar. I had everything under control.”

  McCoy tried to run his medical scanner over Scotty, but he shoved it away. “Doctor McCoy, I’m perfectly fine. Now, I have critical work to do, so send me back.”

  McCoy glanced at Spock in disbelief. Spock returned the gaze with an upturned eyebrow. McCoy threw up his hands. “Do it, Spock, but send him back the way he came!” McCoy turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, only to be replaced by Captain Kirk.

  “Scotty!” Kirk grabbed Scotty’s arms and shook him. “You had us scared to death!”

  Scotty looked from Kirk to Spock and then to the transporter engineer, “Laddie, can ye tell me why they’ve all gone daft?”

  Kirk started to laugh. In a moment the transporter engineer hid his face as he followed suit.

  “What?” Scotty asked. “What’s so funny?”

  * * *

  Captain’s Log, supplemental. The Carthians’ spacecraft has been turned over to Starfleet for further study. We have resumed our mission, seeking out new life, new civilizations, hopefully not in the manner we just encountered. Kirk out.

  Assignment: One

  Kevin Lauderdale

  The swirling blue smoke opened like a miniature wormhole, and Gary Seven stepped out of it into his office.

  “Report,” Seven demanded, as the door to his teleportation chamber—a steel-reinforced safe—closed behind him and shelves of vintage 1960s barware slid in to conceal it. He had maintained many bases of operations over the years, but he always came back to this, his first one. He had not changed the office’s furnishings since his arrival, more than three decades before, no matter how much Roberta had complained. He liked the orange shag rug, the abstract art, and the vaguely Asian design to the tables specifically because they were so different from the aesthetic sense of the world where he had been raised.

  “Probability of events now set at ninety-two percent,” replied the computer in a brisk tone as it swung out from its hiding place behind a bookshelf.

  Seven nodded gravely. Earlier that morning, the Gamma-3 computer, along with Seven’s own highly trained intelligence, had plotted the events with only an eighty-nine percent confidence rating. The FBI and FAA memos, the field reports of various governments (unread by anyone but him, he feared), and his own clandestine reconnaissance all added up to just one thing. Seven shook his head. No, it only adds up to that if you yourself are the result of an alien breeding and training program and you have a G-3 at your disposal. Realistically, he doubted that anyone else on Earth could have taken the shards of evidence and assembled anything coherent from them.

  “Evidence,” said Seven, and the G-3 began to spell out the details of several bank transactions and driver’s license applications from months earlier that it had just identified as being related to the next day’s attacks. In and of themselves, they would not have set off any alarms. But when added to what Seven and the computer already knew . . . .

  Seven walked over to a window and looked out. The view from the twelfth floor on East Sixty-eighth was outstanding. The first time he had looked down on the street and its people, he had not appreciated it. He had actually found it appalling that people could exist in such crowded, primitive conditions. It was only after years of living here that he had grown fond of the world, its people, and especially this city.

  Eight million people lived in the five boroughs of New York, one and a half million in Manhattan alone. So many people, so many lives, Seven thought. He knew that it was fashionable to refer to Earth as being a “small planet.” People had been calling it “Spaceship Earth” since he had first arrived. By now Seven had seen most of the world, and to him it was huge. And its six billion people led very full, very individual lives. To him they were not masses or numbers. They woke up every morning, went about their days, and dreamed at night. They were what he fought for. He wouldn’t stop tomorrow’s events any more than he would have stopped the bombing of Pearl Harbor or Hiroshima. Things would get a lot worse before they got a lot better. But they would get better.

  Roberta had certainly done her part for that. Over the years, the two of them had spoiled the plans of more than their share of would-be world conquerors and high-tech criminals.

  But this was different.
>
  Seven couldn’t blame his partner for retiring the year before. He had been selectively bred for the demands of his tasks, yet even he was starting to feel the toll on his body. Along with whiter hair and more wrinkles had come slower reflexes and a tendency to tire more easily. After a strenuous twenty-four straight hours spent racing around the globe to make sure that the Y2K changeover happened without a hitch, fifty-two-year-old Roberta had announced she was “giving up the whole enchilada.”

  In a way, he was glad Roberta wasn’t there to share in this particular assignment. She might have tried to talk him into stopping the planes themselves. Saving thousands of lives rather than just one. It had always been hard to explain to her why, when their job was to stop things from going wrong, they occasionally had to allow them to go wrong. Sometimes Seven wasn’t sure himself.

  It was one thing to sacrifice oneself—as Isis had done a few years earlier to protect him and Roberta from a madman threatening to release Ebola into Tokyo’s water supply—but quite another to sacrifice others to a higher good. Seven turned away from the window. He missed them both.

  Glancing at the G-3’s monitor, Seven could see circles of probability, graphic representations of the computer’s statistical analysis, radiating like the proverbial ripples in a lake after a stone has been tossed into it. Tomorrow’s events were a turning point in the planet’s history. They were . . . Seven hesitated to consider them “necessary,” but they were decidedly “important.”

  Seven thought of the people who would die or whose lives would be changed the next day as characters in a story that they were unaware was even being told. He wanted to tell the people of his adopted city that he was still looking out for them, even though it might not seem like it. He really would do everything he could for them: he was their supervisor. Not that that thought alone would help them or their families.

  Seven looked out the window again and down to the teeming population. Earth was his protectorate; his life was devoted to looking after it. The Eugenics Wars weren’t even a decade in the past. There would be more wars to come. And diseases. And natural disasters. It would be a long time before Earth made contact with intelligent life from other worlds.