Strange New Worlds IX
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Star trek. Strange new worlds 9 / edited by Dean Wesley Smith, with Elisa J. Kassin, and Paula M. Block.
p. cm.
1. Interplanetary voyages—Fiction. 2. Space ships—Fiction. 3. Star Trek fiction. 4. Science fiction, American. I. Title: Strange new worlds 9. II. Title: Strange new worlds nine. III. Smith, Dean Wesley. IV. Kassin, Elisa J. V. Block, Paula M.
PS648.S3S65966 2006
813’.0876208—dc22 2006041618
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-2538-7
ISBN-10: 1-4165-2538-6
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com/st
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Contents
Introduction
Dean Wesley Smith
Star Trek®
Gone Native
John Coffren
A Bad Day for Koloth
David DeLee
Book of Fulfillment
Steven Costa
The Smallest Choices
Jeremy Yoder
Star Trek
The Next Generation®
Staying the Course
Paul C. Tseng
Home Soil
Jim Johnson
Terra Tonight
Scott Pearson
Solace in Bloom
Jeff D. Jacques
Star Trek
Deep Space Nine®
Shadowed Allies
Emily P. Bloch
Living on the Edge of Existence
Gerri Leen
The Last Tree on Ferenginar: A Ferengi Fable From the Future
Mike McDevitt
The Tribbles’ Pagh
Ryan M. Williams
Star Trek
Voyager ®
Choices [Second Prize]
Susan S. McCrackin
Unconventional Cures
Russ Crossley
Maturation
Catherine E. Pike
—Star Trek®—
Enterprise
Rounding a Corner Already Turned
Allison Cain
Mother Nature’s Little Reminders
A. Rhea King
Mestral [Third Prize]
Ben Guilfoy
Speculations
Remembering the Future
Randy Tatanox
Rocket Man
Kenneth E. Carper
The Rules of War
Kevin Lauderdale
The Immortality Blues
Marc Carlson
Orphans [Grand Prize]
R. S. Belcher
Contest Rules
About the Contributors
Introduction
Dean Wesley Smith
After I turned in my selections of wonderful stories for Elisa and Paula to judge for this year’s anthology, Elisa and I were discussing ideas for my introduction. She suggested that maybe I should talk about the fortieth anniversary of Star Trek: The Original Series.
My initial reaction was: Forty years? Wow. That’s fantastic!
Then a second thought came to mind. That’s not possible. I’m not that old.
But I am. I can recall every Friday evening during my high school years. I would always be home to watch Star Trek. (Okay, that should give you a pretty good idea of what my social life was like when I was a teenager, but let’s not go there.) Suffice it to say, Star Trek was an important element in my life during those years.
In hindsight, I realize that the reason I would insist on watching the show every week was clear: I didn’t like being where I was during those high school years. What kid really does? Star Trek gave me an escape, in much the same fashion as the shelves and shelves of Andre Norton, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and Robert Heinlein books in my basement bedroom. Star Trek and all of those other books took me out of that house—out of that teenage life that everybody hates—to strange new places, distant planets, and awesome adventures. Science fiction, with its wonderful worlds, futures, and messages of hope, was what I turned to for a few hours of not thinking about the world around me. More importantly, though, it let me believe that a better future was possible.
Remember the world in which Star Trek was born? The cities of this country were going up in flames, and bombs were going off so often that only the regional ones were reported. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Bobby Kennedy were shot. Nixon was elected to his first term. And the war just kept getting bigger and bigger. I believed from almost the moment I understood what Vietnam was about that I would be drafted, when I got out of high school. To me, it also meant that I would eventually be shot at and maybe killed.
That I would be drafted in the fall of 1969 seemed inevitable. It was a fact that all guys thought about a great deal in those days. We didn’t talk about it much, though. It was just too scary to talk about.
I was one of those who didn’t believe the war was right, but I also didn’t believe in copping out by cutting and running. So there I was, stuck in a life I didn’t much like, with a future of war and likely death facing me.
So, you can see why I made it home every Friday night to watch the original Star Trek. And I have a pretty good memory of writing a letter when they tried to cancel the show in 1968.
I can’t imagine what I would have thought if some time traveler had walked up to me during those years and said, “In forty years, you will have managed to stay out of Vietnam. You will have written over twenty Star Trek novels, edited several Star Trek anthologies for new writers, and written a few Star Trek scripts.” I’m sure I would have just laughed. Being a part, even a minor part, of such a unique show would never have crossed my mind in 1966.
About thirteen years ago, my wife and I got the chance to join in creating some of this wonderful universe, and we jumped at it. Writing under the name Sandy Schofield, we wrote Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Big Game. Suddenly, I was a Star Trek writer. And it’s such a high for me that I get to give new writers out there the same chance.
In nine volumes, there have been almost two hundred new Star Trek stories. Over one hundred different writers have joined in inventing Star Trek, the Next Generation, Deep Space Nine, Voyager, and Enterprise. I’m sure every one of them, since they are all fans, can talk about the influence Star Trek, in every incarnation, had in their lives, just as I can. The shows, now shown in syndication, continue to influence future generations as well.
With the world becoming a little rougher than it has been the last few decades, we now need the wonderful vision of the future that Star Trek brings us even more. We need the escape, the hope, and the belief that mankind goes forward.
At the moment, we only have the books and games that can bring Star Trek
and its hope and vision to all of us. You hold it in your hand. You are the cutting edge of Star Trek—written by the fans, people like you and me, who love this universe almost more than our real one.
For forty exceptional years, Star Trek has given us all a look ahead, a wonderful escape into a great universe. So sit back, turn off the news, and let a few of your fellow fans take you away on twenty-three wonderful trips into the future. You won’t want to come home.
Star Trek®
Gone Native
John Coffren
“No, no, no. This simply won’t do.”
The creature deftly shuffled his papers with hook-clawed appendages in a swirl of activity as the multitasking arms wrote, turned papers over, absently scratched behind his blowhole, brought a drink up to his beak, and restlessly tapped the wooden table we both sat at.
My own hands were rough; callused and worn from the winter harvest and appeared quite fragile compared with his rubbery tentacles. I turned my attention to the golden rows of quadrotriticale whipping in the afternoon breeze.
“I don’t want the report on seedless, waterless crops, the reclamation of plasma-polluted soil and other such wastes of my valuable time. Where is your forward command center? Why has the Klingon Empire been left intact? What happened to establishing a military presence beyond this meaningless speck of dust with zero tactical importance? You should have pushed clear across to the Delta Quadrant by now. You’ve had more than sufficient time to accomplish your mission. In short, what have you and your agents been doing for the past three hundred years?”
I decide to answer his question with another question.
“You received the Federation’s proposal welcoming us to this region of space?”
“Oh, they sued for peace. Excellent, we’ll set up interim camps and disposal facilities in central locations: Alpha Proxima Two, Arvada Three and Ivor Prime.”
“You mistake their meaning,” I said.
“Did you say something, Rojan?”
The language barrier was twice as thick as deuterium. I remained silent for a time. My gaze drifted back to the upper fields where a curl of smoke wafted from the wreckage of Prefect Tamar’s ship. His vessel, like mine before, sustained critical damage after crossing the galactic divide. He put down not fifty meters from the original landing site.
“I believe the Romulans are best suited of the locals to help us process the Federation worlds and races,” he said.
I laughed. I could barely understand half of what he was saying. It had been a long time since I heard so much of the mother tongue spoken to me at once.
What I could gather from this alienspeak pointed to questions of a military nature. This centipod before me knew nothing of combat. I could tell just by looking at him.
He had all one hundred of his tentacles intact. Any soldier worth his monthly stipend is missing five, ten, arms at least.
I used to be like him. So full of pomp and ceremony that I couldn’t see past my own uniform. I stood up and dusted off my coveralls.
“My fields need tending,” I said. “We can talk after supper. My wife sets a fine table if you care to join us.”
I turned and walked away before our guest could issue protests in any language. I can’t be sure, but I think he shouted out a long string of obscenities at me. I turned to face him again and tossed the spare belt atop the picnic table.
“Put this on for dinner,” I said. “You’ll starve inside of a month without it. Our world can’t sustain you in your current condition.”
I returned home late, as was my custom, after putting in a full day’s work. The welcome sight of our modest adobe hut and the enticing smells of rich spices from our kitchen greeted me as I entered.
“Where’s our dinner guest?” I asked.
“Waiting for you outside,” Kelinda said. “He keeps pinching and pulling his flesh like it’s some ill-fitting, tailored suit that he can just return and get his old skin back.”
“I bet he wishes he could,” I said.
“But you and I both know that’s not possible.”
She rested my hands atop the belt weapon and looked directly into my eyes before speaking.
“There’s no other way,” Kelinda said. “You and I both know it. It’s best to just get it over with now.”
“I want to talk to him before resorting to that,” I said.
“There’s no talking to that one,” she said. “Remember how we used to be? Given half a chance, he and his kind will do the exact same thing here. Don’t give him that chance.”
Kelinda was one of the first to embrace her emotions, good and bad. Her courage in sampling the elation of joy and the misery of sorrow helped to enrich all our lives. Through her careful instruction, I learned to deal with these complex and often competing feelings.
But I had not completely discarded the cold, calculating ways of my forefathers. And it was at times like these that I was grateful for my prudence and old-fashionedness.
Tamar did not hear my approach, the perfect opportunity to carry out Kelinda’s wishes. No. I thought it best to interrupt his stargazing by announcing my presence.
“We generally take our meals indoors, unless it’s a particularly warm evening.”
The prefect had been staring off into the general direction of our galaxy. I had been doing that myself every night for the first hundred years or so that we lived here. You can’t wish yourself home, though. It took me a while to learn that one.
“We produce very little artificial light here,” I said. “It makes for spectacular views of the Milky Way, as good as or better than from the bridge of any starships wandering the cosmos.”
“The bridge of a starship is where I belong. Launching a devastating attack on the denizens of this spiral arm of the galaxy,” the prefect replied. “Our code of honor demands nothing less than the complete and utter subjugation of these worlds and complete and utter loyalty from subjects. We both know the penalty for treason.”
Subtle he wasn’t. I pushed through.
“I’m curious. Did you get a chance to review any of the data I dispatched through robot probes sent to Andromeda?”
He attempted a smirk, but it came across as a frown. The mastery of human emotions takes time and practice, which he was either unwilling or unable to give.
“Your first probe reached the homeworld and was reviewed by the High Command. They ordered the subsequent destruction of any and all drones sent forthwith from this outpost. It is an order that I carried out with pleasure. I chased one of your more elusive messengers into the heart of a proto-star to insure its annihilation. They rewarded my diligence with this assignment.”
“So you think you’ve been sent here as a reward?” I said. “You’re here to help prepare the way for the great invasion fleet from Andromeda, when it drops out of warp complete with waving banners and rolling drums to restore the Kelvan Empire to its former glory?
“Well, it’s not happening. And if you bothered to scan and download those drones I launched before you gleefully vaporized them you’d know the reason why. I suspect your shooting tentacle wanted to get in a little target practice. Hard as duck soup.”
“What’s duck soup?” the prefect asked.
“A human expression. It means…never mind what it means. Did you know that the radiation levels in our home galaxy are accelerating at an exponential rate and the previous forecasts could be easily termed as dangerously optimistic?”
“That is precisely why the Empire must expand,” Tamar said.
“The beast must be fed or it will die,” I said.
“Overly simplistic, but correct,” he said.
“There is another way for you and for Kelva,” I said. “Join the United Federation of Planets. There is strength in numbers.”
“The Federation,” he said with disgust. “That assortment of weaklings will bow down before the might of the Kelvan Armada. They will grovel before us as we obliterate entire systems they once held in their feeble
grasp.”
“The Armada will be crippled when it tries to ford the galactic barrier,” I answered. “You know it and I know it and if you hadn’t so eagerly atomized the data drones, the High Command would know it too.”
“Lies!” Tamar screamed.
“The proof is smoldering in my Kaferian apple orchard,” I said. “Your own escort vessel was disabled by the negative energy field.”
“Centuries of masquerading as a human have made you one. You are a traitor and an enemy of the State. I’ve been sent to pass judgment on your crimes.”
The prefect produced a belt weapon, a more recent model than mine, deadlier of course. I let a smile turn up the corners of my mouth. Drea launched the rocket right on cue. The explosive takeoff shook the ground as the exhaust ports left a crop circle a mile in diameter. The night sky lit up as the missile headed for the stratosphere and beyond.
“Another drone,” the prefect said.
“No, a galaxy bomb headed for Kelva.”
“You will abort the launch now,” he said and leveled the weapon at me.
“Too late, Prefect,” I said. “The rocket will pierce the galactic barrier, cross the great void, and strike right into the heart of the Andromeda Galaxy. There it will deliver its payload into the massive central black hole. The detonation will widen the hundred-and-forty-million-solar-masses maw of the abyss wide enough to swallow Kelva, its satellites, and eventually Andromeda itself. M32 and M110 will follow in another millennium or so. And your empire will be no more. My galaxy bomb will finish the job that the radiation levels started, just sooner than expected.”