He inspected the chronometer located behind the astrogator between Sulu and Chekov. He shook his head in wonder.
“I still can’t believe you got us here,” Kirk said to Gary Seven, “let alone two hours ahead of our scheduled arrival time.” Seven and Roberta Lincoln stood to the port side of the command module. Both had changed back into their garb from the twentieth century, which Kirk found distinctly reassuring; he had never truly been comfortable with the sight of Gary Seven in a Starfleet uniform, regardless of the circumstances. Roberta stared in open amazement at the vapor-swathed orb upon the screen. The cat, Isis, whose name Kirk was now never likely to forget, was cradled, as usual, within Seven’s arms. She looked merely decorative, and deceptively harmless.
“I don’t suppose,” Kirk asked, “that you’d care to explain exactly how that wormhole trick works, not to mention how your furry little friend there managed to beam us out through the Romulans’ shields?”
Seven gave his cat a gentle pat on the head. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Captain. Trust me, your culture is not ready for those technological breakthroughs yet, which is why I took care to remove all records of the procedures from your ship’s computer banks. Just be thankful that Isis was able to make do with the equipment at hand to beam the four of us to safety, as well as the remaining Romulan soldiers.” Seven permitted himself a faint smile. “I suppose I could mention, without going into any of the details, that warp technology and transporter science are not as unrelated as you might think. Both involve an artificially induced translocation within the space-time matrix itself. . . .”
Seated at the engineering station, Scotty leaned forward avidly. Isis let out an outraged squawk.
“There, there, girl,” Seven murmured to the animal, smoothing down the ruffled fur along the cat’s spine. “I was being careful. I wasn’t going to spill all the beans.”
Just our luck, Kirk thought. The cat subscribes to the Prime Directive.
“I still say it’s bloody impossible, all of it!” Scotty fumed. Once he got over the shock of the cat/woman’s miraculous intervention, the chief engineer had been acting personally offended that both Seven and Isis could make his beloved Enterprise do things he’d never even dreamed of. “There’s some manner of trickery afoot, you can be sure of it.”
Seven tactfully changed the subject. “Captain, if I might ask, what do you intend to do with our prisoners?”
Commander Dellas and Dr. Vithrok remained confined in the brig, pending the proper disposition of their cases. Although Kirk had been content to leave the other Romulans stranded on the jungle planet until a rescue ship stumbled onto them, which probably wouldn’t be long now that the planet’s cloaking device had been destroyed, Dellas and Vithrok presented a trickier problem, especially with all they knew of what was yet to come. The ruthless commander, in particular, was too dangerous to let run around loose.
“I’m not sure,” Kirk admitted. “Once our relief mission here is completed, I expect I will turn them over to Starfleet Intelligence, at which point they will undoubtedly end up as a bargaining chips in our ongoing dealings with the Romulan Empire. I wouldn’t be surprised if one or both of them were eventually returned to the Romulans as part of a prisoner exchange, although not until Starfleet thinks they’ve wrung every last piece of valuable info from her or him.”
“I thought as much,” Seven stated, all business once again. “There may be more we can do to avoid a replay of this near disaster.” He turned his head toward Spock. “Mr. Spock, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that most Vulcans possess the ability to delete specific memories from a subject’s mind via a telepathic mind touch?”
Spock’s eyes found Kirk, then looked away quickly. “That is true,” he admitted. “I have done so myself . . . under special circumstances.”
Kirk wasn’t sure exactly what Spock was referring to, but he had to concede that Seven’s suggestion had some merit. There was something inherently disturbing about the idea of tampering with anyone’s mind like that, but something had to be done about these Romulans’s frighteningly prophetic knowledge of the future. Certainly it was a far more humane solution than any the commander herself would have conceived. “Don’t worry, Mr. Seven,” he said. “I’ll see to it that they can’t try this again. Is that an acceptable option to you, Mr. Spock?”
“Yes, Captain,” the Vulcan said solemnly. More than anyone else, he had the most to lose if Commander Dellas or Dr. Vithrok retained their unnatural understanding of Spock’s possible destiny. He’s taken this all even better than anyone had a right to expect, even from him, Kirk thought, although, when you think about it, we don’t know a whole lot more than we did before. I always knew Spock was a singularly unique individual, with a lot to offer the universe. Commander Dellas’s bizarre assassination scheme only confirms that.
“Any more loose ends you’re worried about, Mr. Seven?” Kirk asked. He left his chair to join Seven and Roberta by the railing.
“Not that I can think of, Captain,” Seven said thoughtfully. “I regret the deaths of both Septos and Osiris, but unfortunately their fates fell within the natural progression of the time line. They were apparently meant to die now, in their own time, unlike the anomalous threat Dellas posed to Mr. Spock in your own future. I’m afraid I must content myself with the knowledge that our time travel technology has been kept out of the hands of the unready.”
“You know,” Kirk said, “I could point out that you seem to have little or no qualms about using your own time machine.”
“That’s different, Captain,” Seven stated without a trace of humor. “I know what I’m doing.”
Some things never change, Kirk thought, and Gary Seven’s maddening self-assurance seems to be one of those things. No wonder he’s so fond of that cat. They both were accustomed to acting superior to everyone around them.
“Well, Miss Lincoln,” he said, “I hope you enjoyed your trip to the twenty-third century.”
Roberta threw up her hands in the air. “It hasn’t been the most mellow trip I’ve ever taken, but, boy, has it been a mind-blowing experience!” She gazed again at the alien world on the viewer. “Are there really human-type people living there?”
“7,323,501,” Spock confirmed.
“Give or take a newborn baby or two,” McCoy added. “Maternity wards seldom take time off for floods.”
Isis meowed loudly and Gary Seven nodded in agreement. “If you no longer have need of our assistance, Captain, we should return to our own era.”
“Can’t we stay and look around a little longer?” Roberta asked in a beseeching tone. “I still haven’t figured out what a tribble is.”
Isis licked her lips.
“Maybe another time,” Seven said simply. “Captain?”
Kirk shook Seven’s hand, then did the same with Roberta. “Mr. Chekov, if you would please escort our guests to the nearest transporter room.”
The young Russian eyed the man, woman, and cat suspiciously. Evidently, he had not forgotten the way Seven had waylaid him with a tranquilizer beam earlier. “After you,” he said sullenly, patting the phaser on his hip and gesturing toward the turbolift.
Kirk watched as the three time travellers, along with their reluctant chaperone, disappeared within the turbolift. He strolled back to his chair and slowly settled in. There was still much to do to aid the hard-pressed settlers on Duwamish, and he was anxious to get to work.
And yet . . .
“I have to admit, gentlemen,” he said to Spock and McCoy, “that I’m a trifle uneasy about letting a self-righteous wild card like Gary Seven run around through history.” He rested his chin on his palm. “Do you think it was wise just to let him go like that?”
Spock rose from his science station and approached the command module. “I’m afraid we had no choice, Captain. I have continued to probe the historical records for evidence of both Gary Seven’s and Roberta Lincoln’s activities in the past. Aside from the instances I discussed
with you earlier, I have uncovered yet another episode that provides a most compelling reason for allowing our recent guests to fulfill their destinies.”
“Which is?” Kirk asked.
“Yes, cough it up, Spock,” McCoy said impatiently. “Don’t leave us hanging.”
If Kirk didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Spock paused for nothing more than dramatic effect. How very human, he thought.
“It seems,” Spock said finally, “that, almost three decades after the time they have just returned to, Mr. Seven and Miss Lincoln, as well as their remarkable feline ally, will be instrumental in the eventual defeat and overthrow of one Khan Noonien Singh.”
Even McCoy was impressed. “Well, I’ll be,” he muttered.
Khan, Kirk thought gravely, remembering the indomitable warlord who had tried to extend his conquests to include the twenty-third century, and at the height of his power. The trio had quite a task ahead of them. Better them than us, I guess. One clash with Khan was enough for a lifetime.
“That’s a fascinating bit of historical trivia, Mr. Spock,” he said. Captain Kirk turned his attention back to the tempestuous atmosphere of the planet upon the screen. “Now then, I believe we have a flood to handle. . . .”
Chapter Twenty-two
811 East 68th Street, Apt. 12-B
New York City, United States of America
Planet Earth
A.D. 20 July 1969
THEY GOT BACK in time to watch the moon landing on TV, or rather on the circular monitor of Gary Seven’s Beta-5 computer. Roberta was surprised at how indistinct and scratchy the black-and-white images were, especially compared to all the high-tech scanners on the U.S.S. Enterprise. She hoped she hadn’t been spoiled forever by the conveniences of the next, next, next century.
“One small step for man . . . a giant step for mankind,” Neil Armstrong intoned, no doubt uncomfortably aware of the millions and millions of ears back on Earth listening in on this megahistoric moment. Does he have any idea, she wondered, where that big step is going to lead? She sure did, and it gave her renewed hope for the future of that struggling, feuding, fussing species known as the human race. A United Federation of Planets, she marvelled. Imagine!
“Do you ever think we’ll run into Spock and Kirk and that bunch again?” she asked. She was stretched out on the couch watching the footage from Apollo Eleven. Gary Seven sat behind his desk, jotting down some notes on their completed mission; later, she knew, he would dictate a fuller report to the automatic typewriter in the next room. Isis was curled up on the plush orange jar opposite the couch. She alone seemed profoundly disinterested in humanity’s first walk on the moon, preferring to devote all her attention to cleaning her paws.
“Who knows?” Seven replied. “I am certain that the aegis will assign a new operative to that era eventually, but the obligation to preserve and nurture civilization, as you have surely noted, can lead one down the most unexpected paths. Certainly, the crew of the Enterprise, and those that follow them, will frequently find themselves at the cutting edge of history.”
“So what happens to them anyway?” Roberta asked. “Do you know?”
“The same thing that happens to all of us, Miss Lincoln, if we’re lucky. A mixture of tragedy and triumph that eventually passes into the realm of memory.” He lowered his pen to the desktop and loosened his tie. “So, are you still interested in attending the motion picture you mentioned earlier?”
Roberta heard a hissing sound from the overstuffed orange chair. Glancing across the office, she was surprised—but not too surprised—to see an exotic, dark-haired woman looking back at her with an aloof, almost haughty expression on her elegant features. Roberta blinked involuntarily, and when she opened her eyes again, the woman had vanished, as usual. Isis the cat turned her back on Roberta and coiled up into a ball of shining black fur.
Not again, Roberta thought. She’d lost track of how many times this had happened to her over the past twelve months or so, and never when Seven was looking! Fine, she decided, big deal. After jumping three hundred years in the future, and piloting a starship, it was going to take more than a smug, sneaky cat-lady to rattle her. “A movie sounds great,” she enthused, giving Isis her best this’ll-show-you look. “But how ’bout we hit Funny Girl instead of 2001? After the trip we just took, I’m afraid it won’t live up to the real thing!”
Epilogue
Camp Khitomer, Khitomer Outpost
United Federation of Planets
Stardate 9521.6
A.D. 2293
THE TRAITOR’S BLOOD had been washed away at last.
Spock considered the busy assembly hall. Now that the stain of death had been efficiently disposed of, and Valeris and her fellow conspirators escorted away by the president’s personal security team, there was little evidence of the violence that had briefly marred the proceedings, except for, paradoxically, a more receptive and convivial atmosphere among the gathered ambassadors, ministers, and delegates. It seemed odd to conclude that attempted murder and subterfuge could increase the probability of peace, but that appeared to be precisely the case. Fascinating, he thought.
He walked past the podium and, for a moment, felt a peculiar chill along his spine, almost as if, to use a typically colorful human expression, someone had “walked on his grave.” Then the moment passed and Spock went on his way, barely missing a step. Although it looked as though the reception might endure for hours, he did not intend to linger further. There was much work to be done; among other duties, he needed to provide Starfleet officials with a complete report on the events of the past few hours before returning to the Enterprise.
His father, as grave and imposing as always, stood a few meters away, conversing with a Vulcanoid individual whom Spock did not recognize, although he deduced from the man’s attire that he was some manner of Romulan official, perhaps a senator or consul. Sarek observed Spock’s approach and beckoned him over with a minute motion of his hand. The gesture was so subtle and controlled that it was unlikely that anyone who was not born of Vulcan would have even been aware of the summons. Even Spock thought that, at times such as this, his father resembled a marble statue more than a living entity; nevertheless, he dutifully joined Sarek and the other man in one of the aisles leading to the back of the hall.
“My son,” Sarek spoke, “I should like to introduce you to an individual with whom you may find much to discuss.” The other man, whose prominent jowls suggested a dignified visage just beginning to succumb to age, appraised Spock with his eyes. He had an alert and confident manner with just a hint of calculation; more like a statesman, Spock judged, than a starship commander. “Let me present Senator Pardek, of the Krocton Segment of Romulus.”
Spock raised his hand in the traditional Vulcan greeting. “Live long and prosper, Pardek of Romulus.”
“And you as well,” the senator replied. “You would be surprised at how long I have been looking forward to this meeting.”
JAYME WAS RIGHT—no one paid any attention to three orange-clad workers opening the access port in the alleyway. Kids were running past, women were hanging clothes out overhead, and antigrav carts laden with warehouse goods or fresh produce trundled by on both sides.
Closing the portal overhead, they stood in a rounded dirt-floor chamber similar to the one shown on the media broadcasts—where Data’s head was found. Titus felt a sinking feeling, wondering if all the caverns had been reconditioned by the workforces over the years.
“This way,” he ordered, keeping his worries to himself. At the rear of the chamber was a long ladder leading down. Here the walls were more jagged and the black pit was too deep to be illuminated by their hand lights. Titus began to feel a little better. “Down we go!”
“Wait,” Jayme said, unslinging her pack. “We have to put these on.”
She held out the white jet-boots issued by Starfleet.
Titus took one look and groaned. “We don’t need those!”
“I’m not going
without safety gear,” Jayme insisted. “And I’m not going to let you two go, either. This is supposed to be fun, not life-threatening.” She glanced down into the shaft. “And those rungs look slimy.”
Bobbie Ray checked the two pairs she set out for them. “You brought my size!”
Jayme slipped her white boots on and tightened the straps. With a little puff of dust, she activated the jets and lifted a few inches off the ground. “Good for thirty hours use.”
Bobbie Ray buckled his boots on and was soon lifting himself up to the ceiling. “Maybe we should skip the ladder and go down this way.”
“Maybe you want to give up now and go back to the Quad!” Titus retorted. “What’s the use of exploring if you might as well be in a holodeck?”
Both of them hovered silently, staring down at him. After a few moments, Titus flung up his hands. “Have it your way, then! But we only use the boots in an emergency or I’m quitting right now.”
Jayme sank back down to the ground. “That’s why I brought the jet-boots. For emergencies.”
Titus waited until Bobbie Ray also slowly floated down before jerking on his jet-boots and tightening them in place. “I think if you can’t manage to hang on to a ladder, then you get what you deserve.”
Bobbie Ray laughed. “Then you go first, fearless leader.”
Titus had the satisfaction of hearing the Rex’s laughter abruptly end as they started down the ladder. For most humanoids, any sort of vertical drop offered a test of nerves. Especially when you couldn’t see the bottom.
The light at the opening dwindled as they descended. He skipped the side tunnel that went in the direction of the Presidio and Starfleet Academy, choosing to go as deep as they could. The fracture widened at the bottom, becoming more rugged and raw. They went through a steeply inclined crack, into an underground canyon that stretched as far across as the Assembly Hall. A stream had eroded the bottom into a gorge, and they had to edge along the wall, brushing their hands against the slippery, calcified coating on the rocks. Titus could imagine the tremendous force of earthquakes breaking open the crust around the San Andreas Fault, leaving behind a network of caverns and crushed rock.