The Folded World Page 4

  “You’re not alone in that,” Chapel said. “But I expect it’s rare.”

  “Do you think it’s wrong? A problem or, I don’t know, a symptom of a problem?”

  “Do you?”

  “Now you sound like Doctor McCoy. When he talks to me, it seems like he always answers my questions with more questions.”

  “Sorry,” Chapel said. “That’s our psychological training coming out. It’s a way of drawing out the subject.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know.” Chapel offered a warm smile. “I said I’m off duty. So I’ll just answer your question. I don’t think it’s bad, or a problem. It might have to do with what you went through—almost certainly, it does. But I think it’s a very human response to something like that. And at a guess, I’d say it signifies something deeper.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I’m just speculating here, based on the conversations we’ve had, what I know about you. So I might be way off base.”

  “I’ll let you know if you are.”

  “Sounds good. Here goes. Your experience left you with a deep-seated uncertainty. You lived, when everyone around you died. You must have had a few ‘why me?’ moments after that. What would be really troubling is if you didn’t.”

  “Oh, trust me, I’ve had those.”

  “And the way you cope with that uncertainty is to live for the now, for the moment. Tomorrow will take care of itself, if it comes at all. Today’s acts might have future consequences, but since those can’t be known, they can’t be avoided. Does that sound right?”

  “Right? It sounds like you’ve been reading my mind.”

  “Not at all,” Chapel said. “Just making some educated guesses.”

  “I never put it in those terms, but yes. That’s really true.”

  The nurse sipped from her mug. The steam had dissipated, but a spicy aroma drifted across the table. Tikolo thought about Chapel’s words, her observation, and how they applied to O’Meara and Vandella.

  She didn’t want to hurt them, or anyone else. She wanted friends and she wanted lovers. But none of them could be the one and only, and none could claim all her tomorrows. She had not always felt that way, but she did now. If that meant her experience at Outpost 4 had changed something inside her, then so be it. She was who she was.

  “Thank you, Nurse Chapel,” she said after a few minutes. “For the insight.”

  “I hope it’s helpful,” Chapel said. “And please, call me Christine.”

  “Okay, Christine. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. If you’d like to talk, anytime—on or off duty—just say the word.”

  “I will.”

  Chapel graced her with another one of those smiles, then rose and left the table. Tikolo finished her meal, feeling better about herself than she had in a long while. She reported for her shift, and she tried to hold at bay any further concerns about her mental or emotional health. She was young and she was alive.

  That would just have to do.

  • • •

  “I have a theory, Captain,” Spock announced.

  Kirk was standing by the viewscreen, staring at the anomaly, ever-changing except for the cluster of ships that appeared cemented in its center. Spock had been sitting quietly at the science station, the rest of the bridge crew attending to their tasks without speaking, and the Vulcan’s voice sounded loud in the quiet space, startling.

  “We’re all ears, Mister Spock,” Kirk said. “What is it?”

  “I have, as you know, been studying the anomaly, to the extent that our instrumentation will allow.”

  “And you’ve reached a conclusion?”

  “Several, in fact. The first is that we will not know anything definitive until we are inside it.”

  “Inside, Mister Spock?”

  Was that a ghost of a smile flickering across Spock’s face? Impossible to be sure, but it might have been. “Surely you would not readily pass up such a singular opportunity to explore the unknown.”

  “Should I remind you, Mister Spock, that we’re engaged in a diplomatic mission with a critical timetable?”

  “Do you think I might have forgotten?”

  “Never mind. Carry on.”

  “The anomaly can best be described, although not with absolute precision, as a dimensional fold.”

  “Explain.”

  “Physics describes a number of dimensions—more than twelve, but the precise number is uncertain, because by their very nature some dimensions resist being counted or catalogued. Several of them we all interact with on a regular basis; the most common, of course, being the three dimensions of physical space. Imagine, if you would, those common dimensions, and others less easily conceived of, as flat planes. Infinite in every other respect, but having no variation in height.”

  “I think we’ve got it, Mister Spock,” Kirk said. “Perfectly flat.”

  “Yes, Captain. A dozen or more flat planes. Now imagine that they are all slightly skewed, and they all intersect one another.”

  “I think I have it,” Chekov said. He sounded excited. Kirk liked the young man, but boyish enthusiasm occasionally lost its charm.

  “Very well,” Spock said. “Now take your mental image of those intersecting planes, right at the point where they do intersect, and . . . fold it.”

  “Fold it?” Uhura asked.

  “Fold it.”

  “I’m folding,” Uhura said. “It’s making my head hurt.”

  “Aside from that, what would you surmise, Lieutenant?” Spock asked.

  “These dimensions,” Uhura said, “they don’t connect the way they ordinarily would.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Because, for instance,” Kirk said, holding his hands perpendicular, his right bisecting the palm of his left, “while depth and width usually relate like so . . .” He wrapped his hands around each other. “. . . you’re saying that in there, it’s more like this.”

  “The word ‘fold’ lacks a certain specificity,” Spock admitted. “But again, because of the nature of what we are discussing, I doubt that we could do better. Your demonstration, Captain, is as good as any. Only try to imagine not just the three dimensions we know as Euclidean space being folded together, but also time and the other dimensions not so easily conceived.”

  “Now my head hurts,” Kirk said. “What you’re describing would make . . . no sense.”

  “Not in any traditional way, no.”

  “But it’s possible?” Sulu asked. “That sort of fold?”

  “Nothing that is impossible can exist,” Spock said. “This exists; therefore, it is possible.”

  Kirk could tell by the tone of Spock’s voice that he would rather not have to admit that the fold was real. For his own part, he wished that he could wake up and have it be part of a bad dream, because the more Spock described it, the less he liked the idea of venturing inside. “And the McRaven happened to fly right into it,” he said.

  “We might have as well,” Uhura reminded him. “If we hadn’t been reducing speed because we knew we were getting close to the McRaven. At warp speed, by the time we’d noticed that our instruments were acting up, it would have been too late.”

  “And without instruments, getting out could be impossible. Whatever else it might be,” Sulu added, “it’s a most effective trap.”

  The captain thought about the dozens of ships seen in the magnified view of the anomaly—the dimensional fold—all clustered around the single, huge ship at its center. “So it seems,” he said. “Mister Spock, can you tell us anything about conditions inside the fold?”

  “One can only guess,” Spock replied. “It would be safe to say that it would be like nothing any of us have experienced before. Without being inside it, I can speculate that the dimensions do not function in their typical manner, but I cannot begin to say precisely what that would mean. I cannot even say with any certainty that someone inside the fold would be able to comprehend the environment. It might, i
n fact, drive one mad.”

  “Are you suggesting that we not go into it?” Kirk said.

  “I am merely suggesting that we be forewarned when we do go into it.”

  “Are there any precautions we can take?”

  “None that I am aware of.”

  “Are you sure entering the fold is a good idea, Captain?” Uhura asked.

  “Not at all,” Kirk said. “But I’ve acted on bad ideas before, and I’m still here. Sometimes a bad idea is all I’ve got. This just might be one of those times.”

  Seven

  “We do not know if all humans are as stubborn as Kirk,” Minister Chan’ya said. “He maddens us.” She sat with her retinue in her private quarters, speaking in her native Ixtoldan, which was full of harsh gutturals and hard consonants, not at all like the language spoken on the Enterprise. Their tongue was smooth, making it, she believed, a good language for lies but not for much else.

  “Do we feel that he’s a danger, Minister?” Keneseth asked. He was the smallest of the group aside from Chan’ya herself, with a fine face, a mouth full of sharp teeth, and narrow, gold-flecked eyes that seemed to see all, never betraying a moment’s weakness. His voice was deep and commanding, and Chan’ya sometimes wished he used it more often. She understood, however, that when he finally did speak, others listened. “We could take steps.”

  “We don’t feel that is necessary,” Chan’ya said. She knew what steps he had in mind, and they wouldn’t win any friends with the Federation Council. “Not at this time. Perhaps, later . . .”

  Keneseth lowered his eyelids once, in affirmation. Chan’ya turned to the others at the table: Skanderen, Cris’ya, Antelis, and Tre’aln. “When, Minister? If he goes in to explore the ships, he might—”

  “We know what he might do! We can only react to what he does. Need we remind us what is at stake here?”

  “No, Minister,” Tre’aln said, chastened. “We are aware of the importance of the situation.”

  “Then trust us also to be aware,” Chan’ya said, rising from her chair. Even standing, she was barely taller than the seated Cris’ya. She clenched her right fist and slapped it against her other palm, lightly but, she believed, with dramatic impact. “Well and good. We yet have options. As long as we are here, and the Ton’bey is nearby, there are steps that can be taken. Just know this—those steps will be taken, if necessary, whatever the cost to us. At this, we cannot fail, and we will not fail. This we swear.”

  • • •

  “Well, you canna beam over, that’s for sure. Who knows what you’d be on the other side?”

  Kirk had summoned Spock and Scotty into his quarters for a private discussion about how best to reach the McRaven. Scotty was ticking off on his fingers the methods that wouldn’t work.

  Kirk had already written off the idea of using the transporter. They had learned, not that long ago, that transporter technology could go awry under certain circumstances—though he did think Spock looked good with a goatee. Beaming into an environment in which the normal rules of physics didn’t apply seemed like an invitation to disaster.

  They had similarly decided against taking the Enterprise into the fold, since they had no way to control the fold’s effects on the ship’s instrumentation, and being trapped there, like the McRaven, was exactly the fate they were trying to avoid.

  “I do have one idea, Captain,” Scotty said. “It’s risky as the dickens, but it might work.”

  “Don’t worry about the risk,” Kirk said. He was mostly joking, but not entirely. “Chances are we won’t survive the trip anyway.”

  Scotty ignored the comment, which was exactly the response it deserved. “Here ’tis,” he said. “We send a shuttle. Instead of relying on its own propulsion and other systems, which won’t work once it’s inside, I’ll engineer the tractor beam to work in reverse. It’ll repel the shuttle, pushing it on a defined course instead of drawing it in. If anything goes wrong, I’ll just switch back to tractor mode and pull it free.”

  “It could work. Opinions, Mister Spock?”

  “Of the various ideas offered so far, that appears to be the least bad,” Spock said.

  “Of course,” Kirk said, “once we’re inside the fold, there are no guarantees. The tractor beam might be as affected by the dimensional chaos as anything else.”

  “True,” Spock said. “And we have no certainty that any momentum achieved would continue as anticipated. Whatever gravitational pull that big starship exerts, however, would most likely draw us in the rest of the way.”

  “Then our only problem would be getting back.”

  “Correct.”

  “There are electrical impulses on that big ship,” Kirk said. “They’re faint, but who knows how life-forms might read to our instruments from within that dimensional crazy quilt. For all we know, we could be picking up traces of the McRaven’s crew.”

  “Captain, you’re not sayin’ that you’ll be making the bloody trip, without even knowing you’ll be able to get back.”

  “I’m counting on you to figure something out while I’m gone, Scotty.”

  “Sir—”

  “I’ll know you’ll find a way.”

  A broad smile spread across the engineer’s face. “It’s what I do.”

  • • •

  Kirk and Spock were on the bridge plotting out the specifics with Sulu, Uhura, and Chekov when Chan’ya showed up, accompanied by Gonzales, Perkins, and Rinaldo.

  “Captain Kirk,” Gonzales said. “We were hoping to find you here.”

  “What can I do for you?” Kirk asked.

  “Minister Chan’ya would like to know if there’s been a decision about the McRaven.”

  “You know our decision, Minister. The only open question has been how to get to the ship, and we believe we’ve solved that.”

  “The mission will be conducted in a time-sensitive manner, we trust,” Chan’ya said.

  “If there are survivors on that ship, I want to reach them as soon as possible, yes. But if we do find any, then we’ll have to work out how to get them safely back to the Enterprise, and that might take some time.” He had to work to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “You’ve heard all this before, Minister. Nothing has changed except that we’ve figured out how to get there.”

  “We understand, Captain,” Chan’ya said. Her skin was a darker red than he had ever seen it. “We merely hope to encourage the utmost speed. We would rather you accept that it is too late to help anyone on board that ship and continue on to Ixtolde. But if you refuse—”

  “I do.”

  “Well and good. We will file our protest with the Federation and wish for a speedy and successful conclusion to what we feel is an unnecessary and ill-conceived venture.”

  Ill-conceived? You don’t know the half of it, Kirk thought. “Thank you,” he said.

  Chan’ya turned and headed for the turbolift. Kirk was getting used to the move, always executed with the same impatient air. The others followed her. This time, however, Perkins hung back. He approached Kirk with urgency in his eyes.

  “Captain,” he said quietly. “May I meet with you and your command staff?” He glanced toward the turbolift. The door had opened and Chan’ya and the others had stepped on. “It’s urgent. Say, fifteen minutes in your briefing room?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Kirk echoed.

  Perkins turned toward his colleagues. “Thank you, Captain,” he said loudly as he made for the turbolift, covering himself. “I’ll visit there, when I have the opportunity.”

  “What was that about, Captain?” Spock asked when the door had closed.

  “I have no idea,” Kirk answered. “But we won’t have to wait long to find out.”

  Eight

  “There aren’t any giants, you know,” Gillayne said. She and Aleshia were huddled beneath a tin roof, with rain hammering down on it so loud they almost had to shout to be heard. The rain had wet the dry landscape enough to release the locked-in aromas of the plants, sweeten
ing the air against the other, more predominant stink. Where the rain struck the bodies of those who had fallen, it sizzled, and the bubbling flesh gave off a rancid stench, so anything that diluted it was welcome.

  “What do you mean?” Aleshia asked. She’d heard rumors before, of course. But her father swore giants were real, and so did Kalso and Yignay and the other elders.

  “Just that. It’s not giants. Same as this rain is not rain at all.”

  Aleshia looked at where the rain spilled off the roof’s lowest corner and pooled on the ground, yellow and frothy. This was not typical rainwater, that much was true. “What, then? Is it not wet?”

  “Wet, yes,” Gillayne said, tugging at her gray shift, which had been torn, patched, and torn again. “But did you see the clouds gathering before it fell? They were pure white, not dark like the ones that bring rain. And they formed in minutes, not hours.”

  “But . . . Father said—”

  “We’ve been lied to our whole lives, Aleshia. That’s nothing new.”

  “How do you know, then?”

  “I asked.”

  “Asked who?”

  “Margyan,” Gillayne said. She spoke the name so softly that Aleshia strained to hear. But she understood the reason. Nobody spoke of Margyan, not where others could hear. Some called her a wise woman, others a sorceress, but none of them liked her. The villagers let her stay because she spent money in their shops and because nobody was sure how she might react to banishment.

  “You saw her?”

  “Two nights ago, in the dark, I went to her house.”

  “You didn’t! Alone?”

  “Of course alone, do you think I’m mad?”

  “But—”

  “I had questions. I knew she would have answers.”

  “And she told you things?”

  “What did you think she would do? Eat me?”

  “Perhaps. What are they, then, if not giants?”