Lost Time (4 page)

H
e drifted the way one did in the cold vacuum of space. Soloman’s first EVA had been over Byanus, and he remembered the moment he and 111 stepped from the lip of the ship. Everyone said that the first time, they expected to fall. But 110 and 111 did not; 110 recalled that the sight of their world—steel-gray oceans and dusky landmasses glimmering with yellow lozenges of light—made their heads balloon. They were at once very small and quite huge, and the feeling was so expansive they could describe it as nothing short of ecstasy.

And yet there was this now, this second chance, and it was almost more than Soloman could bear. There was no describing it, really, but it reminded him a bit of the moment immediately after stepping out into space, expecting to fall and yet not. He hovered, watching the blaze of information passing between the two Bynars—and yes, it was 110, and there, his own heart. And he studied what they were able to do with each other that went far beyond anything Bynars of his universe knew—
but how perfect; a logical extension of our abilities
—and then, he found his opportunity and dropped into the datastream.

In an instant, he was submerged. The sensation was like leaping into a whirlpool, only the water was made of light above, around, below: a cocoon of sensation that was at once totally alien and utterly familiar. He sensed two things at once: 110’s instinctive flinch at his intrusion, and 111’s hesitation. A slight stutter to her datastream, as if her mind had tripped.

He longed to touch her mind but first things first. He folded himself into 110, seamlessly, not unlike an anomalous bit of code that instantly mutates. And then, he reached for her with thoughts both eager and tentative….

Do not be afraid. It is I. I am 110 and yet my own person. I am…

But he was not fast enough. Maybe it was that he was, truly, alien. She was terrified and even as he soothed, cajoled, pleaded, she kicked back, pushed, tore away so violently that 110’s mind shrieked in agony—because it was not just a datastream from which he was being ejected; it was more complicated than that; and it hurt so much, their minds bled, and they were flailing now, the way drowning men snatch at a passing twig just before they go over the falls; she was gone, winging away, leaving chaos in her wake, and he/they left behind in a strong current that pulled him/them under…

Do not be afraid. Come back. Please…

…into the blackness…into an empty…

Gomez squatted next to the Bynar. Swathed in the cocoon of his suit, Soloman sat, perfectly rigid. His gray-white skin was still as a waxen statue. He didn’t blink. His breathing was so slow and shallow Gomez checked his suit’s readings just to make sure he was still alive. She moved her gloved hand up and down in his line of sight. Soloman didn’t twitch, didn’t blink, didn’t move. The readings scrolling on the computer panel were reflected on his faceplate and mirrored in the blue, still pool of his irises. The embedded chip on his right temple winked in a rapid staccato. “How long has he been like this?”

“About twenty minutes now.” Nog nibbled the left corner of his lower lip as he studied his tricorder. “Started about three minutes into it. Like he tripped into something, or got sucked in.”

“Has his buffer failed?”

“No. His neuropeptides are sky-high, like his brain is overloaded, or multitasking: serotonin, GABA, VBC, psilosynine. I wish I knew if all that’s good or bad.”

“If he’s not responding, I’d say that’s bad.”
Gold’s voice, attenuated through the intercom in ops. Gomez and Conlon had gotten life support working in this room at least, so they had removed their helmets. (Soloman’s was still on, though; Gomez though it best not to disturb him.) In the background, Gomez heard Tev barking orders to reinforce
da Vinci
’s stabilizers. Shields were up, so there was no way to beam Soloman off Empok Nor—or even know if she should. The interval between distortion waves was shorter, and Nog’s readings confirmed what Gomez feared: that Soloman’s interface was the trigger.

Like he’s opened a gateway he can’t close…

“It’s getting pretty rough up here,”
said Gold.
“Tell me what you do know, and let’s go from there.”

“It’s like he’s frozen, sir. He’s still receiving input,” said Nog.

“To what? This twin? Himself?”

“Yes, sir, a quantum twin,” said Gomez. She was about to say more when she took a second to really think about what she’d just said.
A quantum twin…and if this twin is Soloman before he became unbonded, then…
“Oh, my God.”

“What?”

She said, very carefully, “Maybe, sir, it’s that he can’t terminate the connection, or maybe…he doesn’t want to. Or both.”

A fizz of static. Then, Gold said,
“Come again?”

“A coma?” Gold frowned across 110’s body at Dax and Kane. The Bynar had been moved to a biobed, and 111 had been sedated. “What do you mean a
coma?
”

Dr. Tori Kane was a small woman, a strawberry blonde with freckles and green-gray eyes, and a head shorter than Gomez. She gave Gold a fierce, moderately contemptuous look: an expression that screamed
nu, what, I’m speaking Swahili?
“I mean,” she said with the type of enunciation a teacher might use on an exceptionally slow student, “that 110 is unresponsive. His autonomic functions—blood pressure, pulse, respiration, temperature control—they’re fine. But he won’t come out of it. Or, maybe, he can’t.”

Salek stood at Gold’s left elbow. “Do we know why, Doctor?”

“It’s his chip. He’s…latched on to something the Bynars found when they communed with that device you brought on board.” Her head jerked left to a cylindrical object made of shiny metal and bristling with nasty-looking quills. “I still say this is one cockeyed plan.”

To Kane’s right, Dax stiffened. “It’s necessary.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kane waved Dax’s comment away. “And I’m just the hired help.”

“Kane,” Gold warned.

“Fine, okay.” Kane gave a noisy exhale. “Captain, for all you know the Androssi hid something inside, like a computer virus.”

“Then why wasn’t 111 affected?”

“Beats me. Maybe the plan was to knock out one of them. Just as effective; neither one can function without the other.”

“Then why don’t we just shut it down?” asked Gold.

“Because I don’t know what that would do to 110, and if I understand the mission right, you need the Bynars.”

This was, unfortunately, true. Gold said, “But
another
Bynar? In the datastream? How? I didn’t think Bynars could exist as singletons.”

“What I don’t understand is how a singleton could interface with this device at all,” said Dax. Her long, dark brown hair was pulled into the ponytail she habitually sported, but errant strands straggled here and there, giving her a frayed look. Backhanding hair from her forehead, she sighed, and the cuffed earring in her right lobe jingled. “For that matter, where is he?”

“Perhaps,” said Salek, “this device is contaminated with something that can mimic a Bynar’s neural patterns. We know that the Androssi are exceptionally skilled at developing booby traps. Although one fails to understand how sabotage equates to the capture of an unintelligent bird.”

Dax ignored the Vulcan. Her eyes were that color of intense, concentrated brown that bordered on black, and now she drilled Gold with a look. “This is our last chance. The Bajor Assembly formalizes its treaty with Cardassia in less than a day. We have to find the wormhole before then. If we can’t access this device with the Bynars, then we have to go back to Terok Nor and find another way.”

Gold shook his head. “Not on your life, or mine for that matter. Treaties can be broken. You find this wormhole, and the religious faction is as big as you say? Then Bajor’ll come around. Now either the Bynars can access these…these Prophets with this device, or they can’t. That’d be tough from your end, but that doesn’t mean we can’t adapt the technology for ourselves. You’ll find another way.”

“But too late to be of any practical benefit.” Dax pulled herself to her full height and looked down at Gold, who was shorter by half a head. “Once that treaty is formalized, then the Cardassians have every excuse to round up the religious sect, herd them into camps and out of public view. Then the Cardassians wait. Enough time passes, people forget, and then the Cardassians get rid of the religion because they won’t want dissension. It will be genocide, Captain. You can’t allow that to happen.”

“The galaxy’s full of nasty people and bad things happen all the time. Once the Bajorans formalize that treaty, Starfleet won’t want to interfere in a civil dispute.”

“And pray tell, what is this?” Dax swept a hand around to include the ship, the stolen device. “What, this is just us passing through? Or is it perfectly all right for the Federation to interfere before the treaty’s finalized?”

Gold shrugged. “You make your opportunities. One of those diplomacy things.”

“Don’t you mean that the Federation sees an opportunity to develop Bajor as a resource? Uridium brings in a lot of money. Surely, I wasn’t
mistaken
in my impressions about the Federation being strapped for resources?”

It was an open secret that the majority of the Federation’s seventy member systems were resource-poor. The Federation had to expand if it was going to survive, and they’d poured much of their available resources into a fleet of starships: window-dressing and a show of force since there weren’t replacements to back them up. The whole thing reminded Gold of mid-twentieth-century Earth with the A-bomb. Drop two and pretend you have a bunch more. On the other hand, the fleet would, at the very least, have a fighting chance at grabbing what planets it could. With its uridium ore and the peculiarities of a loosely worded agreement, Bajor was prime real estate: a jewel in the Cardassian crown that the Federation wouldn’t mind stealing.

“Yeah, there’s that. But I can imagine a universe without the Cardassians, that’s for damn sure. I’d be tickled pink if the Androssi crawled back under whatever rock they came from. Hell, for that matter, I’d like to get paid more.” Gold planted his fists on his hips. “Starfleet’s in this because we’re allies with
Kira.
Personally, I don’t care what religion the Bajorans get; they can believe in the Tooth Fairy, for all I care. All we want is Bajor….” He stopped, realizing that last remark had been a mistake.

Dax’s eyes slitted. “The only reason Kira’s allied with the Federation is that your record of tolerance for others is better than the Cardassians’. You actually seem to care about civil liberties. As long as we’re allowed to devote ourselves to the Prophets…”

“You? Dax, you’re a
Trill.
These aren’t your people.”

“That’s irrelevant. I’m the only one who’s ever communed with an Orb—something you cannot know or understand—and the Prophets have spoken to me. The wormhole is in Bajoran space, somewhere, perhaps in a subspace pocket, and once opened, it will remain stable. All we have to do is find it. Now whether you like it or not, the organized resistance on Bajor is a religious one. It’s that simple. If Kira hadn’t vouched for the Federation, you’d be out of the equation. You need
me.
”

“I’d say the need is pretty damn mutual.”

“Yes and no. Bajor requires what I can bring them. You want a slice of Bajor’s wealth, and we want the right to worship as we please. We want the wormhole, and the wormhole is prophecy, Captain. The
truth
is in prophecy.”

Gold barked a nasty laugh. “Yeah? Well, I prophesize that we’re gonna end up as a big plasma smear if we go back anywhere near Terok Nor right now without confirmation of where this wormhole really is. Now I’m glad you’ve gotten religion. I’m ecstatic that you’ve gotten the word that your Prophet buddies are waiting on you to break them out. But get this straight: We take a breather. We make repairs; we meet up with Kira. We hope that 110 there wakes up. Then we’ll see.”

“You mean that you’ll see if furthering the Bajoran resistance’s goals and those of Starfleet are the same.”

“Yeah, I think I just said that.”