STAR TREK: TOS - The Janus Gate, Book One - Present Tense Read online

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  First Pocket Books printing June 2002

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  About the e-Book

  Chapter One

  THE GREAT STARSHIP TREMBLED, frame and struts wailing in distress as she careened into her own attenuated warp field. Behind her, the ice-blue sphere of Psi 2000 shattered like a bursting bubble, filling the Enterprise’s main viewscreen with glittering fragments that evaporated almost as soon as they were made. A planet in its death throes, chasing after a starship who just might be dying herself.

  James Kirk gripped the arms of his command chair so hard his hands hurt. He’d never heard a ship howl like this before. As many times as he’d pushed this girl to her limits—and sometimes beyond—he’d never truly, in his heart, believed for a moment that she could fail him. But he’d also never imploded a small universe inside her belly, never sling-shotted all hundred tons of her [2] through a dying planet’s gravity well and flung her back out into space. Never felt her surge so convulsively ahead of herself as the fabric of space all around her thinned, stretched, twisted into a bright spinning whiteness that teetered just on the edge of comprehension—

  Then, just that suddenly, it was over.

  Kirk felt as though he bolted awake from a dream. Solidity returned with an almost audible pop!, and all around him his bridge crew stirred at their stations, casting half-glances at each other and touching the edges of panels and screens to make sure they were really still there.

  Kirk forced himself to uncurl his grip on the command chair and straighten his shoulders. No matter how distracted the crew might seem by their duties, they would be aware of their captain’s mood, just as he was always aware of theirs. They didn’t need to sense any uncertainty in their commander after the chaos they’d all suffered these last few days. The movement made his upper arm throb where McCoy had only moments ago injected him with a dose of antiviral serum as he came aboard the bridge. Not for the first time, he wished the doctor hadn’t ripped open his uniform sleeve to administer the injection. Sitting bare-shouldered in front of the crew made him feel ill-kempt and undignified.

  “Are you all right, Jim?”

  Kirk glanced aside at Spock, worried for just an instant that the Vulcan had somehow sensed his spasm of insecurity. He sketched a self-conscious nod as his first officer stepped up to the arm of the command chair. “You?”

  The Vulcan paused a moment, as if it had only occurred to him to consider his condition because his [3] captain asked. Then he nodded as well. A blur of surreal light still throbbed at the center of the viewscreen, and the ship beneath them thrummed in dangerous sympathy.

  “We found a cure.” McCoy, out of Kirk’s view behind the shoulder of the command chair, sounded definitive but grim. As though his intellect knew this to be true, but his emotions weren’t quite so sure despite the empty hypospray in his hands. “We’re over that part of it.”

  It was the only part McCoy could influence, not to mention the part that had first gotten them into this mess. Kirk didn’t have the heart to tell the doctor that developing an antiviral inoculation to counteract the infection they’d brought up from Psi 2000 was probably the least of their worries now. He still hadn’t moved his eyes from the viewscreen, where blurred light had replaced the usual streaming view of stars, almost as if they had somehow all congealed into that formless glow. At first, Kirk thought the viewscreen had sustained some unspecific damage in their flight from the dying planet, ruining its ability to show them the space outside. Then a single spinning star, coiled almost like a tiny galaxy, peeled away from the mass and slid swiftly underneath their bow. That was when Kirk realized he was seeing the space outside, twisted until it was unrecognizable.

  “Obviously, we were successful.” Spock no doubt read Kirk’s thoughts on the captain’s all-too-expressive human face. His own face was impassive, dark eyes flicking over the maelstrom outside as though counting every misplaced star. “The engines imploded.”

  Unless what we’re racing toward is the afterlife. Only minutes before, they’d been screaming through Psi [4] 2000’s upper atmosphere, plummeting toward the planet’s disintegrating surface with half the ship’s crew incapacitated by a neurogenic virus for which they hadn’t yet devised a cure. One of those infected crewmen had shut down the ship’s main reactor hours before, for reasons known only to his own fevered imaginings. The engines had been left powerless, her matter/antimatter cores too cold to ignite by the time Chief Engineer Scott discovered the full extent of what had been done. If they didn’t want to end up just another cloud of detritus amid the planetary rubble, they had to be willing to dare a drastic gamble.

  Theory said they could throw matter and antimatter together without the usual quantum physics introductions, so long as there existed a magnetic bottle of such perfect mathematical shape that the resultant explosion could be turned back in upon itself, collapsed into a microsecond’s singularity, and all of its raging energy channeled into a reactor ready to cast it back out again in an instantaneous leap to light speed.

  “It’s never been done,” Spock had objected when Kirk explained the plan to him.

  As far as Kirk knew, no one had ever pulled a 190,000-ton starship out of a planetary nosedive before, either, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying. “We might go up in the biggest ball of fire since the last sun in these parts exploded, but we’ve got to take that one in ten thousand chance that we’ll succeed.”

  And taking that minuscule chance had flung them here. Wherever “here” was.

  “Captain!” Sulu twisted around at the helm, straining [5] to look at Kirk and his panel all at the same time. His face was still drawn and pale in the aftermath of viral infection. “My velocity gauge is off the scale!”


  Kirk leaned forward, hands clenched, and flashed keen eyes across Sulu’s console. He couldn’t see the numbers, but the play of lights across the panel told their own story.

  “Engine power went off the scale, as well,” Spock told the captain as the readouts began to fall into some kind of strange sense in Kirk’s mind. “We are now traveling faster than is possible for normal space.”

  Faster than Kirk had dreamed possible, even at warp speeds. Middle-school conundrums inspired by Einstein, Hawking, and Cochrane came rushing back like a badly distorted echo, and he heard himself saying, “Check elapsed time, Mr. Sulu,” before his conscious mind even realized why he wanted to know.

  Yet, somehow, he wasn’t entirely surprised by the shock in his young helmsman’s face when Sulu complied. “My chronometer’s running ... backwards, sir ...”

  Of course it was. Kirk settled back into his command chair with a slow nod. They’d performed the impossible intermix, flooded the engines with nearly infinite power, and roared away from Psi 2000 in full reverse. Back the way they’d come. “A time warp. We’re going backward in time.” Kirk’s agile mind was already racing through the implications, rehearsing how he would word his report to Starfleet Command, worrying about just how much he should tell them, then feeling guilty when his first instinct was to withhold as much of the details of how they accomplished this as he could. Starfleet itself could be trusted with the knowledge, of course, but if [6] anyone else ever found out about it and gained the ability to travel through time, changing the past and destroying the future, there was no telling where the havoc would end.

  Kirk dragged himself back to the moment. He wouldn’t have to worry about explaining anything to Starfleet if they didn’t first shake loose from their accidental time slip. He thought about the trajectory Spock and Scotty had so carefully planned for their slingshot around Psi 2000, and about the surge in engine power Enterprise had experienced just following her warp core implosion. “Helm, begin reversing power.” Sometimes, the most obvious course of action looked that way for a reason.

  Sulu’s nimble hands flew across his panel. Kirk understood the basics of the language his pilot used to coax the ship to his bidding, but had never met anyone who employed it so instinctively and well. A dim sense of movement, so ghostly it was almost a sound, slid along the length of the vessel in response to Sulu’s commands. The distorted image on the main screen bled a few microns closer to resolution; the moment felt suddenly less attenuated, tasted faintly of metal and ozone. When Kirk felt some unexpected resistance buck through the ship’s frame, he startled more sharply than he intended. “Slowly,” he reminded Sulu through clenched teeth.

  The helmsman had the grace not to glance away from his work. “Helm answering, sir,” he reported in his usual steady, professional tone. “Power reversing.”

  The blurry corona on the forward screen seemed to throb, draw inward like the fiery heart of an event horizon, then folded so swiftly in on itself that its brightness [7] snuffed into black like a candle flame in the fist of a god. With an almost bashful slowness, individual stars blossomed one-by-one across the fresh darkness. Tiny diamonds in red, blue, and yellow, washed over by the familiar gauzy veil of the Milky Way.

  Spock had gone back to his science station, and was bending intently over his viewer. Kirk heard McCoy release an unsteady breath from behind him, and wondered how long the doctor had been holding it.

  “We’re back to normal time, Captain,” Spock announced, somewhat unnecessarily.

  Kirk nodded absently. The stars were too comforting to turn away from just now. “Engines ahead.” He was a little surprised at how relaxed he sounded. As though he accidentally hurled his ship backward in time every day. “Warp one.”

  “Warp one, sir,” Sulu echoed.

  And just that simply, they were back to business as usual. Kirk almost thought he could take the ship through time every day, and his crew would follow without question as long as their captain said everything would be okay. It was a frightening power to hold over them all, but a reassuring one, as well.

  “Mr. Spock ...” He finally pulled his gaze away from the viewscreen, knowing that its return to a familiar starscape didn’t solve the problem of where—and when—they were.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The time warp—” Kirk swivelled the command chair to face Spock as the science officer descended the steps from his station. “What did it do to us?”

  [8] “We’ve regressed in time seventy-one hours.” Then he elaborated, as though the humans listening to him might not appreciate the full impact of what they’d done. “It is now three days ago, Captain. We have three days to live over again.”

  Thinking about the mental and physical anguish Scott’s engine implosion had only barely wrenched them free of, Kirk had to suppress a sudden urge to laugh. “Not those last three days.” Why was it that you were never given the opportunity to relive your three best days of shore leave? Was that part of the price Fate extracted for letting humans pull off such outrageous feats as time travel to begin with?

  “This does open some intriguing prospects, Captain.” Spock’s brows knit into what would have been a worried frown for anyone else. “Since the formula worked, we can go back in time. To any planet, any era.” Apparently, his own imagination had finally begun to catch up to Kirk’s.

  “We may risk it some day, Mr. Spock.” Kirk hadn’t forgotten the misgivings that had swept over him when they first realized what they’d done. “Resume course to our next destination, Mr. Sulu.”

  “Course laid in, sir.”

  “Steady as she goes.”

  Lingering beside Kirk’s command chair, Spock stirred. “Captain, if I may ...”

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Spock?”

  Spock seemed to seriously consider his captain’s question before answering, even though his hesitation lasted barely a heartbeat. “Potential complications,” he finally said. Another brief pause that Kirk suspected no one but he actually noticed. “Given our current [9] situation, continuing on to our next destination may be ill advised.”

  McCoy gave a little snort from behind Kirk. “You’ve got something against arriving early?”

  Spock lifted his eyebrows in a semblance of Vulcan surprise. “Indeed, Doctor, arriving early is precisely the problem.” He turned his attention back toward Kirk, tacitly more concerned with his captain’s understanding than with the doctor’s. “We are presently at stardate 1704. Again. According to Starfleet—according to history—the Enterprise’s next scheduled destination is Psi 2000 for the retrieval of the geological survey team.”

  “So if we show up three days early for our rendezvous with the Antares, there will be questions about why we aren’t where we’re supposed to be.” Just as it had when he first realized what they’d done, Kirk’s agile mind immediately leapt through the tangle of implications.

  “Questions,” Spock stressed, “which would be received—and answered—by two separate Enterprises, the first with no knowledge of the second.”

  McCoy shrugged, twisting the empty serum vial off the hypospray in his hands. “So we explain the situation, tell Starfleet what happened.” He fitted the vial back into the medikit at his hip.

  “Except we didn’t.” Kirk waited while McCoy frowned, then stilled as the doctor began to realize where the conversation was going. “We went to Psi 2000, Bones. We stayed there through the destruction of the planet, and we never once heard from Starfleet. Not about Enterprise being out of position, not about anything. Which means either something happens to us [10] now, and we never make the early rendezvous with the Antares—”

  “Or we never tried to make the early rendezvous in the first place.” McCoy rubbed his mouth thoughtfully.

  Kirk clapped him on the shoulder in an effort to lighten the mood. “I know which of those two options I’d prefer.” But he was serious about his concern, despite his wry smile.

  “So we do what?” The doctor looked between
Kirk and Spock with a scowl the captain recognized as being worried frustration rather than the irritation it resembled. “Hang out in deep space and hope nobody stumbles across us?” He gave an almost petulant grunt. “Seems like an awful waste of three perfectly good days.”

  “I don’t see why being displaced in time should mean we have to waste any.” Kirk stood to lean over the railing between his command chair and Spock’s station. “Mr. Spock, we left a planetary survey team back in the Tlaoli system, in sector alpha nineteen.”

  Spock nodded slowly. “They are scheduled for retrieval immediately after our rendezvous with the Antares.” Kirk had a feeling his first officer already knew where he was heading.

  “I’m sure they’ll be delighted to have a little company for the next three days. And limiting ourselves to planet-side research on a previously uncharted planet—” Not to mention a little judicious shore leave. “—ought to minimize our potential impact on the timestream. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Spock crossed his arms in what might have been Vulcan displeasure, but the curious arch of his eyebrows [11] made his expression hard to quantify. “It could be argued that our very existence at this moment in time has already altered history in ways we cannot yet recognize. Therefore, any action we take—even inaction—unavoidably impacts the current timestream.”

  McCoy made a wry face. “And if a butterfly flaps its wings in Tibet?”

  Spock frowned and cocked his head, obviously ready to address the doctor’s apparent non sequitur, but Kirk stepped between them to head the discussion off. “Unfortunately, we can’t go back and take ourselves out of this timestream,” he said to Spock, “so we have to work with what we’ve got.”

  “True,” his first officer conceded. “Then no doubt sequestering ourselves on Tlaoli 4 is our most ... productive option.” He said “productive” as though congenitally incapable of understanding the human need for almost constant activity.