“As for the reversal of the sequence, they could be systematically backtracking through their prior contacts—or there could have been some form of temporal inversion in the original transmissions Uhura and Shastri sent to them. Again, the relation between our time flow and theirs is arbitrary.”
President Lorg wrinkled his snout in puzzlement. “But why choose our time to focus on?” the middle-aged Tellarite asked in his folksy Martian accent. “If they were trying to contact beings in the later universe, they could have done it with any number of other civilizations over billions of past and future years.”
“They, or others like them, may indeed have done so, Mister President,” Spock replied. “It is quite possible that more civilizations—if that term can be meaningfully used for societies of such a profoundly alien physical nature—rose and fell within the several minutes of the nucleosynthesis era than have existed in the subsequent thirteen point seven eight billion years of the far cooler, more diffuse universe we occupy. Many such species throughout space and time may have made similar contacts in the past, or may do so with other primordial plasma civilizations in the future.”
Uhura was finally compelled to speak. “Which doesn’t diminish the importance of preserving this civilization’s distinct culture and history, if we can renew contact.” She paused, glancing apologetically between Spock and the dignitaries on the wall screen. “I’m sorry, sirs. But if there’s one thing recent events have made clear to me, it’s that no one deserves to be forgotten. In the end, how we’re remembered—or whether—is all we have. These beings are pleading with us to be heard, Mister President. We owe it to them to listen.”
Morrow and Lorg looked sympathetic, but Cartwright’s steely gaze didn’t waver. “That’s all well and good, Commander, but it’s hardly our priority right now. The flares in the Sol system are still coming, growing larger and more frequent. The last two have struck in empty space, but the second missed engulfing Luna by only a couple of million kilometers. We’re relying on luck here—we still haven’t found a way to modify deflector shields to keep the damned wormholes out.”
Commander Scott shook his head. “That’s a futile effort, sir. They pop right out of the fabric of space itself, anywhere they like, even inside a ship and its shields.”
“We know that, Mister Scott, but what else do we have?”
The burly, gray-haired engineer narrowed his eyes in that thoughtful way he had. “I’ve been thinking about that, Admiral. Maybe we need to be thinking less about walls and more about oil on the water.”
Cartwright frowned, but it was Morrow who answered. “Oil, Commander?”
“Aye, you know. Mariners as far back as Aristotle knew you could calm a turbulent patch of water by spreading oil over the surface. The surface elasticity of the oil helps dissipate the wave energy—”
“Yes, yes, we know, Commander. I take it this is an analogy for something relevant?”
“Certainly, sir. The micro-wormholes in the vacuum flares—they’re basically churned up by the turbulence created in the quantum foam on our end when those plasma folks pour energy into it from their end. So if we could permeate that volume of space with something like, oh, a dense field of polarized verterons… it might overwhelm the fluctuations creating the turbulence, damp them down like spreading oil on stormy water.”
Spock was nodding now. “Yes. While the analogy is crude—no oleaginous wordplay intended—the principle is sound. It would be unlikely to prevent the flares, not at their current level of intensity, but it could ameliorate the intensity of a flare outburst, with fewer, less energetic microflares emerging in the affected area.”
President Lorg snapped his thick fingers. “Verterons. Back about a century ago, the early Martian colonists used verteron arrays to divert comets to Mars for terraforming. If there are still some of those around, could they create a big enough field to protect a planet?”
“Doubtful,” Spock said. “Any protective effect would be limited in range and efficacy; the wider the field, the weaker the damping.”
“Still, any damping is better than nothing,” Cartwright said. “At least we could try to protect vital areas, like the capital and Starfleet Headquarters.”
Scott spoke up. “I think I can rig the Enterprise’s warp reactor to generate a verteron field inside the ship.” He shook his head unhappily. “I don’t like what it’d do to the warp coils, though.”
“Mister Scott,” Spock pointed out, “if we were in the midst of a vacuum flare, we could not engage a warp field in any case.”
“We might not be able to afterward either, Captain.” He sighed. “But if Earth is to be our last stand, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
On the screen, Cartwright straightened. “Transmit your engine modifications once you’ve computed them, Mister Scott. Hopefully they’ll let the patrol ships last longer if they have to fly into a flare for rescue ops.”
“Aye, sir!” Scott’s eyes gleamed in a way Uhura knew very well.
“This is encouraging news,” Admiral Morrow put in. “But there’s one more serious problem we need to address. Our physicists have detected some alarming effects on local subspace as the flares have gotten larger. Instabilities are forming, as if subspace is being eroded by the flares. If they continue to grow and get more energetic, the damage could become great enough to tear open rifts in the fabric of space. Not unlike what happened about a decade ago with Professor Kettaract’s botched experiment in the Lantaru sector. You were there, weren’t you, Captain?”
Spock nodded. “Indeed. Such a permanent disruption of subspace could render warp travel, subspace communication, and transporters unusable within the affected portions of the Sol system.
“Worse: If the rifts are created by quantum wormholes transmitted from the primordial plasma, they could allow that plasma to emerge directly into Solar space. A plasma denser than neutronium with a temperature of billions of degrees. It would be tantamount to a supernova occurring within the system. Not only would all life on Sol’s planets and moons be destroyed, but the radiation could eventually endanger Alpha Centauri, Procyon, and perhaps other core Federation systems.”
Cartwright turned to Lorg. “Mister President, I insist you evacuate to a safe location.”
“Now, let’s have none of that, Lance. I didn’t get where I am by backing down from an argument. We can do something about this, right? Now that we know the cause, we’re that much closer to a solution. We just need to contact these plasma creatures, reassure them that we can hear them, and ask them to kindly stop shouting.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mister President,” Uhura said. “Shastri and I were working in secret, so we didn’t keep written records. We relied on my eidetic memory—if you’ll forgive the irony. I’ve forgotten how we compensated for the scattering effect of the quantum foam to reconstruct a coherent signal—while Shastri has spent the past dozen years trying to forget. The signal reconstruction protocols were more my department than his anyway; he mainly helped to configure the equipment.”
The president and the admiral exchanged worried looks. Spock turned to Uhura. “Nonetheless, Commander, you were able to contact them once—to deduce their very existence from nothing but a nigh-undetectable pattern in the noise. That scientific ability is still within you, even without your memories. And you are beginning at a more advanced stage. You know what you are trying to contact, and you know that contact can be achieved. You have been studying the signals for weeks now, no doubt recapitulating much of your original work.
“More fundamentally, we simply do not have any other options. You and Rajendra Shastri are the only ones alive with the necessary knowledge to make contact with the plasma life-forms. You must try.”
Uhura held his gaze and nodded. “Aye, Captain. I’ll do my best.”
“Then I am confident we will succeed.”
She smiled, appreciating his praise, even as she doubted it. The work itself would be challenging enough—re-cr
eating years of research under the pressure of a time bomb counting down. But having to work with Rajendra Shastri added further complications. The rift between them was deep—and she no longer knew him well enough to have any idea how to mend it. Was there any chance they could recover the rapport they had once had?
Or would picking at those old scars create a rupture as explosive as the one they were trying to prevent?
McCoy residence
San Francisco
Leonard McCoy smiled across the dining room table at Ashley Janith-Lau. He’d invited her over for a private dinner to celebrate her exoneration, and to introduce her to some Southern cooking, insofar as he could manage between his limited culinary skills and her strict vegetarianism. The meal was mediocre, but the company was exquisite.
“You must be relieved,” he said. “I know how it feels to be accused of a crime you didn’t commit. Once on Dramia— Well, never mind.” It was not the best example, since he had feared he might actually have been guilty of gross malpractice and homicidal negligence until Spock had proven him innocent. He didn’t want to make the conversation about his own past anxieties; he was here to support Ashley. “Let’s just say that spending time with Jim and Spock tends to get a fellow thrown in an inordinate number of prison cells. I guess some of that rubbed off on you too.”
She chuckled. “Give me some credit, Len. I’ve led protests on a dozen planets in my time. I’ve probably been jailed more often than you have. It’s a good sign that you’re making the right people uncomfortable.”
“Most of those were Federation worlds, weren’t they?”
“The Federation isn’t perfect. We’re better than most, but we only got that way because of past generations of protestors who pushed for a better world. And we do backslide now and then—our leaders get complacent and lazy and need a kick in the pants to remind them what we stand for.”
McCoy nodded. “Good point. There have certainly been times when I needed to remind Jim what he stood for when he got blinded by duty or pride or whatever. Everyone needs a kick in the pants from their friends sometimes.”
She grinned wider. “Did Jim ever throw you in the brig for arguing with him?”
“No, but I’m sure he was tempted.” They both laughed.
Janith-Lau tilted her head thoughtfully. “Of course, it’s different on a starship. There, the captain has supreme authority. Here, the people do—at least when they remember that they do. It’s easy for people to lower their guard and trust their leaders to take care of the decisions for them. But leaders make mistakes, and people need to be aware of them. Seeing protestors get arrested when we stand up for what should be basic Federation values… it’s an effective way to get the public to notice when the authorities lose their way.”
“Well, that’s another thing to be grateful for. You’ve pretty much been proven right about the Warborn. Their own patron…” He shook his head.
His dinner companion looked anything but satisfied. “I never wanted Rakatheema’s agenda to end this way. I wanted us to find a reasonable solution together.”
“Of course—I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
She barely seemed to hear him. “And Portia… I don’t know. She’s aggressive, to be sure, but there was something about her… a sincerity, even a vulnerability.” Her eyes focused on his again. “But also a, a clarity. Intelligence too. It’s hard to believe she’d do something so… chaotic, so self-defeating.”
McCoy pondered her words as he took a bite of his grits. “I’ve found over the years that people with a mind to do violence can create all sorts of rationalizations that seem sensible in their own heads. We like to think we’re rational creatures, but much of what we do is just animal instinct that we invent justifications for after the fact.”
Her lips twisted at the sourness of his words. “I prefer to think people are better than that.”
He shrugged. “Before we can get better, we have to admit our flaws to ourselves. It’s like Jim says—we know we’re killers, but we decide we won’t kill today.”
“Then Jim is cynical too. It’s not that simple. Most humanoids evolved cooperation as their primary survival strategy. It’s how we have complex language and the ability to organize into societies, pass down knowledge, build civilizations. The idea that we’re innately savages with a thin veneer of self-control was discredited centuries ago. Cooperative, selfless behavior is every bit as innate to us as aggression.”
McCoy tilted his head. “For us, maybe. But can you really say the same about the Warborn? A people literally bred to be nothing but killers?”
“I don’t accept that they’re so fundamentally different from other Arcturians. The differences are more epigenetic, hormonal.”
“Epigenetics can have a profound influence on brain development. You know that.”
“But given how differently they’re raised, how can we know what’s nature and what’s nurture? Len, the Warborn I’ve met and spoken to are as diverse and individual and complicated as anyone else. I liked them. Including Portia. I just can’t believe she’s a murderer.”
He furrowed his brow. “What other explanation is there? Who else has a motive to kill Rakatheema? Or the ability to frame Portia for it?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. I just know I want to believe in her.”
McCoy reached over and touched her hand. “You want to believe in everyone. It’s a wonderful quality. But it means you’re bound to be disappointed sometimes.”
After a moment, she pursed her lips and tilted her head. “Well, I guess you’re right. For instance, I believed you’d be a better cook than this.”
He feigned offense. “My dear lady, I am a doctor, not a restaurateur.”
Starfleet Academy
“Did you kill him?”
A moment after Bertram asked the question, Portia had him forced against the wall of Horatio’s dorm room, where the Warborn had gathered to discuss matters in private. The others showed little reaction, for clashes between the two most aggressive members of the group were not uncommon. But Bertram merely spread his hands and gave a casual shrug, as well as he could with Portia’s hand around his throat. “Just asking. I’m fine with it if you did.”
Portia gave his neck one last angry squeeze, then jerked away. Bertram folded his arms and relaxed against the wall as if he’d wanted to be there all along. His careless manner disgusted her. “No,” she insisted to the group as a whole. “I didn’t kill Rakatheema. That would ruin all our chances of a real life.”
Viola frowned. “But he wanted to use us for the Federation’s battles.”
“As an advocate, he could be countered. As a martyr, he’s a far greater threat to us.” Portia hissed through her teeth. “And Starfleet’s as good as abandoned us already. Even Kirk wouldn’t stand up for me when I told them I didn’t do it. Nobody’s going to question the false evidence.”
Viola and several others muttered in sympathetic anger. But Horatio put a calming hand on her shoulder. “Give them a chance, Portia. They have to follow procedure. If you didn’t do this, they won’t be able to prove you did.”
She stared at him, jerking away from his touch. “ ‘If’? You don’t believe me?”
“I want to believe you. But you have said you wanted to fight for your own goals.”
“Not like they say I did! If I choose to start a fight, it will be one I believe in, one I’m proud of. One I have no reason to deny.”
“That’s laudable. But it will be your word against the evidence, unless you can provide something more solid. An alibi, an eyewitness.”
“I was alone. I wanted to be. You know I was always the best at stealth.”
Horatio tilted his head. “You understand why that won’t be seen as a point in your favor.”
“Nothing will! Don’t you get it? They’ve feared the worst from us all along. They were eager to have their suspicions confirmed. Proven or not, even the insinuation will harden people against us. We’ll never
be allowed to remain.”
She smacked her fist into her palm. “This has got to be Janith-Lau’s work. Her people have been against us from the start. Killing Rakatheema and making us look responsible for it solves all their problems.”
Benedick looked confused. “But… they arrested her. Why would she frame herself?”
“She must have been sloppy when she framed me. She got caught in her own trap at first.”
Horatio shook his head. “Listen to yourself, Portia. Practitioners of nonviolence using murder to advance their cause? That’s contradictory.”
Portia held his gaze evenly. “No, Horatio. It’s hypocritical. Not everyone’s as pure in their ideals as you.”
He took a breath. “I’m just saying it’s best to avoid these rash accusations. If you’re concerned about what people think of us, then it’s best not to play into their expectations.”
“Forget that,” she said over the end of his sentence. “I’m done caring what other people think of me or intend for me. If Starfleet won’t trust me, if it won’t accept me, then I want no more part of it. I’m leaving.”
Horatio caught her arm, and she glared at him dangerously. “Where will you go? You’re under restriction.”
“Like I said—I’m good at stealth.” She looked around. “We all are. We’re trained in infiltration and survival in hostile territory. Plus we have the sensor and comms interference from these vacuum flares in our favor.”
Benedick still appeared lost. “But the Federation isn’t our enemy.”
“If they think we’re the enemy, it’s the same principle. We need liberty to act. To gather intelligence and strategize the defeat of our real enemies. We can’t do that if we stay here.”
He considered for a moment, then straightened. “I like it here, Portia. I have friends here.”
Horatio nodded, placing a supportive hand on Benedick’s shoulder. “Many of us do. We are not without support. We should rely on that support, win more allies—not risk alienating the friends we have, sacrificing their trust by going renegade.”
Living Memory Page 22
