“Yes, sir, that’s true. But this—the specifics of this attack—I’ve seen this before.”
“Explain,” Kirk said.
“Okay, not seen, exactly. Except in my mind’s eye. But I’ve heard about it.”
“I’m not following you, O’Meara.”
“I’m not describing this well,” O’Meara said. “I’m sorry. It’s all a little disconcerting. But . . . I guess I should start by telling you that I am deeply, unreservedly in love with Miranda Tikolo. Petty Officer Tikolo.”
“I know who she is.”
“Of course you do, sir, sorry.”
“And I hope you don’t think that fact has escaped the notice of anyone on the crew.”
“Really, sir? I mean, I guess I’m not surprised. I’m probably not as discreet as I ought to be. But I do have to disagree with you on one point—I think it has escaped Miranda’s notice. At least, she doesn’t seem to let it affect her.”
“Your point being?”
“Captain, my point is, she has described this whole attack to me.”
“Say that again?”
O’Meara hesitated. Kirk could almost see him trying to formulate a rational sentence. “All of it, sir. Starfleet personnel down below, in this huge warehouse-type space. The darkness. The messed-up doors. Then a Romulan bomb comes bouncing in out of nowhere. It goes off, and there’s a firefight. Romulans shooting down from above, Starfleet trying to return fire, but at a tactical disadvantage.”
“But that never happened to her,” Kirk said. “She wasn’t even on the outpost when the Romulans attacked. And they never left their ship. They vaporized the outposts with the ship’s weapons. There was no close combat.”
“You’re right, sir,” O’Meara said. “I should have been clearer. When she tells me about it, she’s telling me about a dream she has. She’s on the outpost, and the Romulans land, and there’s a battle. She has this nightmare again and again.”
“How does it end, man?” someone else asked.
“She always wakes up before it’s over. Or that’s what she tells me. It’s a nightmare, terrifying for her, and when she recognizes that she’s dreaming, she says she claws herself back to wakefulness.”
“I guess it’s not impossible that she could dream about a similar situation,” Kirk said. He eyed the upper reaches, but nobody fired down upon them.
“It’s not similar, Jim,” McCoy said. “It’s identical.”
“Bones?”
“She’s told me about the same nightmare. In our therapy sessions. One morning, she was in bad shape, clearly hadn’t had enough sleep. I asked her about her dreams, and she told me this one. Same thing she told Mister O’Meara. I asked for details. Since then, when the dream recurs, she lets me know. This whole setup felt familiar to me, but I didn’t know why until O’Meara said something.”
“So you both are trying to tell me that Miranda Tikolo dreamed this exact firefight.”
“Yes,” O’Meara said.
“I can’t explain it, Jim,” McCoy said. “But it’s the truth.”
“She’s not even here.”
“That doesn’t seem to be a factor,” McCoy said.
“It’s just not—”
“What, Jim? Not possible? You want to think twice before you make that claim, given where we are.”
“Point granted, Bones. Still, I don’t get it.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to get,” McCoy said. “This damn ship is bouncing around through dimensions, through universes, playing hell with reality as we know it. I couldn’t begin to imagine the mechanism, but somehow it’s manifesting people and places that those of us on board have known.”
“That’s possible, I suppose,” Kirk admitted. “I mean, I don’t know how it’s possible, but I can’t argue that it isn’t.” He was thinking about his uncle Frank, who had been there earlier, so clearly visible, present even down to his scent. And the green-tinged landscape that Romer had recognized. Those things had to come from somewhere.
“Jim, the laws of physics are meaningless here, we know that. That doesn’t mean that there aren’t some kind of laws at work, which we don’t understand. The universe has order to it, or at least we like to think so. And maybe there’s even order here, only we haven’t recognized it yet.”
“Okay, say that’s true. Where does it get us?”
“What if part of the order here is that the things that are manifested all come from someplace? Or from somebody? What if overwhelmingly strong emotional states can, in essence, create their own reality?”
Kirk considered the idea. No Romulan had fired at them in several minutes. As if—as if the sleeper whose dream had created them had never slept beyond that point. “Go on.”
“These Romulans were here. Literally, physically here. But they were here because they were created from, I don’t know, let’s say the stuff of chaos, by Tikolo’s mind. I mean, we’ve all got thoughts, fears hurtling through our subconscious minds, but hers are more pronounced, maybe. They overwhelm everybody else’s more mundane emotions. And as she interacts with them and becomes more frightened—”
“The manifestations become more widespread. Yes, I guess that’s possible. But the injured—”
“And the dead, Jim. We lost Jensen, a few minutes ago.”
“Beachwood?” Kirk called out.
“He’s hurt, but he’ll live,” Romer said.
“Good.”
“Anyway,” McCoy went on, “yes, Jensen is really dead, and Beachwood is really wounded. The Romulans were real. They didn’t come here in a starship, though, and unless we can get Tikolo calmed down, I’d bet we haven’t seen the last of them.”
“I can do that,” O’Meara said. “If we can find her, I can calm her down. If she’s manifesting these guys because she’s in a distraught mental state, I can help.”
“This is all still very much theoretical,” Kirk said.
“I understand that, sir. But we need to find her, anyway. And the others.”
“Suggestions?” Kirk said.
“Let me talk to her,” O’Meara offered. “If she’s living through this same thing, being chased around this ship by Romulan soldiers, she might be pretty manic.”
“He’s right about that, Jim,” McCoy said. “Fear of Romulans is a continuing stressor for her.”
“If I can get close to her, I can reach her. She trusts me, as much as she can trust anyone right now. I believe that. I know I can bring her around.”
“It’s worth a shot. And the immediate danger seems to be over,” Kirk said. “Can Beachwood travel?”
“Aye, sir,” Beachwood said. His voice was weak, but his determination shone through.
“Good. We’ll come back for Jensen.” Kirk knew that meant two bodies to pick up later, but they couldn’t be slowed by bringing them along. And Jensen was among their heaviest; it would take two to carry him. “Let’s go, people. Let’s get this over and done with.”
Twenty-four
Minister Chan’ya stood at the head of the table in her quarters. The others were seated around it, which she liked because that was the only time she was the tallest. Height did not always equal power on Ixtolde, but there was an undeniable correlation. She had achieved considerable influence on her home planet, but had she been taller, there would have been fewer limits on her potential accomplishments.
Well, she could still achieve things others didn’t dare to dream of. But first she had to negotiate the current crisis. “They have been on the ship far too long,” she said.
“We agree,” Keneseth said. Chan’ya spun toward him, but stopped herself before she blasted his presumptuousness. She did not in the least care that he agreed. The only reason he was here was that his mother had great social standing back home, and the ears of several important Ixtoldans.
“Yes,” Chan’ya said, as pleasantly as she could manage. “We are all in agreement. Who can say what they might have learned in this time? Their presence there was a danger to us, and
now that danger has become transferred to their return here. Should they make it safely back to the Enterprise, all our efforts at winning Federation membership will have been in vain.”
“But how can their return be prevented, Minister?” Cris’ya asked. She picked at a scab on her cheek with the same clawed finger with which she had probably created it.
“That is our greatest difficulty,” Chan’ya said. “We seem to have run out of good options. If we take action—which means destroying the ship and everyone on board—we will lose any chance at Federation membership. We will also, in every likelihood, be subject to disciplinary measures levied by the Federation. We should hate to spend any more time than necessary on Earth, and we have no desire to experience the inside of a Federation prison.”
“But if we don’t,” Skanderen observed, “then Kirk and the others come back. And report what they saw. Which means—”
“Which means, no Federation membership,” Chan’ya replied. “And instead, we will face disciplinary measures from our own. And they will, we are sure, be every bit as harsh.”
“More so,” Cris’ya said. “The peoples of the Federation are soft. They rely on numbers and on the advantages granted them by commerce to do what we would do by force of will.”
“We are in agreement,” Chan’ya told her. “But do not discount the power of commerce. That, all along, has been our reason for seeking Federation membership. Ixtolde is richer than . . . than what we had before, but she is far from rich. She will not support us all for much longer, not without trade.”
Trade was Tre’aln’s area of expertise, and he spoke up. “Chan’ya speaks wisdom. Putting our trade prospects in jeopardy is unthinkable.”
Chan’ya took her seat again. This whole situation had been wearying, and it was far from over. “And yet, we have no choice. Jeopardy exists either way. Act and face the consequences. Or don’t act, and face what might be greater consequences still.”
“Have you reached a decision, then?” Tre’aln asked. “Because we believe something must be done.”
“We see only one possible solution,” Chan’ya said. She placed her palms flat on the table. “The Ton’bey must destroy the ship before the captain and his party can escape it.”
Cris’ya’s golden eyes went wide. “But then—”
“Then,” Chan’ya interrupted, “we declare that the captain of the Ton’bey acted against our express commands. We punish him twice as severely as the Federation would have. Only by placing all blame squarely on him can we hope to salvage anything from this mission. And the cost of failure is not one that we are prepared to pay.”
“Then it is agreed,” Tre’aln said.
Chan’ya looked around the table, at each in turn. Cris’ya, Skanderen, the so-far-silent Antelis, and finally Keneseth. “It is agreed,” each one said.
“Well and good,” Chan’ya said when they had reached consensus. “Keneseth, tell that captain what must be done. And do it quickly; we fear the Enterprise crew is trying to monitor our communications. This one, they must not intercept.”
• • •
“Your name,” Spock said, “is Aleshia.”
He felt the warmth on his shoulders that he could interpret only as affirmation.
“The journal you had me read. It is yours. Your story, your life.”
And there it was again. It was, he had to admit, a pleasant sensation.
“You came onto this ship from Ixtolde. You were an original Ixtoldan.”
Once more, that comforting weight.
“I . . . could not read all of it,” Spock admitted. “Your language is foreign to me, as is your form of writing. I made progress, but there was some that I missed. Yet, I should like to know more.”
That elicited no response. He did not interpret that as opposition, but instead as acceptance. He held his right hand up at about the height of his own head. “Come before me,” he said. “Right here, to my hand.”
What he was about to try was risky in the extreme. It was rarely attempted, even by the most practiced Vulcans. But it was not, he knew, impossible. Not impossible to do, not impossible to survive. He had to cling to that knowledge or chance frightening himself out of trying it. If he didn’t believe, fully, that he could do it, then he would fail.
Failure would be disastrous.
Failure, in this place, in this situation, he might not survive.
“I need to touch you,” Spock said. “I am aware, of course, that you have no physical form. Nevertheless, I can sense your presence. You feel to me as a slight warmth, the very lightest weight imaginable. Perhaps those things are imaginary, existing only in my mind and not in the world of material things. Just the same, I need to be in contact with you.” He twitched his fingers. “Just here, please.”
After a moment, he felt the trace warmth, as if a hand had just touched his palm glancingly and then moved away. But the warmth lingered.
“Thank you, Aleshia,” Spock said. “What I am about to do is a curiously intimate thing. We call it a Vulcan mind-meld. It has not always been accepted, even among my kind, because it can be seen as invasive. I believe that is inaccurate, though. It would be invasive if one of us were to do it to the other. Instead, each of us would be doing it with the other. It is more a sharing than an intrusion. Just the same, you may find it strange, even frightening, at first.”
He did not tell her how frightening it was to him. Such destructive emotions had to be shut down, and his Vulcan psycho-suppression training would allow him to do that. Any element of risk had to be forgotten. This was a somewhat unusual circumstance, but he was convinced that Aleshia had a mind, and any being with a mind could be melded with.
Or so Spock chose to believe.
The thought came to him, briefly, that although Aleshia had consciousness, hers was linked with the others on the ship, part of the group-mind.
Melding with Aleshia might mean melding with that group-mind.
And its madness might be transferable. Contagious. There was no better way to catch insanity than opening one’s mind to it.
Again, thoughts like that had to be suppressed. He could not afford to accept the possibility of danger, or failure, or madness. He had to deny those ideas any foothold, or he should not even attempt this.
But he had no choice. He had read Aleshia’s journal. It had been enlightening, to say the least.
Now he had to understand.
“Are you ready, Aleshia?”
He still felt that trace of warmth against his palm, but at the same time he felt it on his shoulders. Her way of saying “Yes.”
“Then,” Spock said. “Let us begin . . .”
• • •
They met another group of Romulans on the next deck down. O’Meara was out in front, Kirk keeping a close eye on him to make sure his concern for Tikolo didn’t outweigh caution.
The last few encounters had altered the mood of the team. There had been an urgency to find the others and get off the ship, but doing so had seemed to be low-risk. Nobody liked it there, but until the attack on Gao, and then the Romulan skirmishes, danger had seemed like a remote possibility. Now everybody knew it literally could lurk around any corner. Easy banter was gone; instead, they moved swiftly and quietly, weapons drawn and moods bleak.
So far, no one had suggested abandoning the missing crew members. The captain didn’t think anyone would. Certainly not to his face, because everyone in his crew knew what his reaction to such a proposal would be. But although it was possible that some were thinking it, no one who would say it aloud would find a welcome on Enterprise. Kirk couldn’t know every member of the crew before they were assigned to his ship, but once they were there he tried to gauge each one according to how well he or she lived up to the ideals that Starfleet promoted. He wanted people who possessed personal courage, who were willing to put the interests of the whole team above their own, and who would watch one another’s backs as closely as their own. Some didn’t meet that standard, and when he
discovered that, he did his best to either turn them around or transfer them off the ship.
The captain trusted those who had volunteered for this mission, and he would do everything in his power to get them back to the Enterprise alive. But that niggling doubt, that sensation that the conditions existing within the fold made this mission far more dangerous than anticipated, wouldn’t go away. He was not, he knew, superhuman. He was just a man, and men sometimes failed.
Kirk pushed those thoughts into a metaphorical mental box and closed the lid. They were self-destructive, and he had no time for them. Later, if need be, he could take them out and examine them. For now, they were distracting him from the more important task of studying his surroundings.
This deck looked more like a typical starship’s than the warehouse-style one above it. A narrow, utilitarian corridor was lined with doors along one side, leading into various engineering areas. Kirk was convinced they were getting close to the lowest decks. The possibility existed that Tikolo and the others had gone back up, by a different route, and were waiting around the upper decks wondering where everyone had gone. But Spock was up there—aware, Kirk hoped, of the Romulan threat—so if Tikolo’s team found him they would stay close, knowing that reunion would come soon. Kirk worried about Spock, alone on this menace of a ship, but his first officer had proven himself hard to outflank. If he had to leave one member of the crew alone, Spock would be his first choice.
O’Meara had opened a door that led into a warren of machinery, huge, primitive things that Kirk, looking over the security officer’s shoulder, surmised had once provided propulsion and an artificial atmosphere. “This stuff looks ancient,” Kirk said. “Earth passed this sort of technology by 2120 or thereabouts.”
The Folded World Page 15
