Ishtar Rising Book 1 Read online

  * * *

  All thirteen stations had been linked, and the simulation was going well. No, perfectly, Pascal Saadya thought, allowing himself a wide smile behind the hands steepled in front of his mouth. He moved from bank to bank, as the many technicians monitored the programs that were regulating the endlessly shifting interactions between the simulated force fields and the faux Venusian atmosphere. Between the presence and advice of the Starfleet engineers, all the preparatory work that Team Ishtar had done, and Saadya’s own elated vigilance, the feeling of success in the room was almost palpable.

  Suddenly the Tellarite bellowed, “Faugh!” Pandemonium followed.

  “We have a cascading node failure commencing northward along meridian number thirty-eight!” said Shaowa Isyami, her usually reserved voice raised in alarm.

  “The field is buckling at points 0456 and 0892,” chimed in Kent Laczmyr. “Now points 2487 and 4511. Now 4582.”

  As Kent bleated numbers, those around him pressed on the screens, trying to correct the problems.

  “Major power surge at Helel Ground Station. Shields are—Oh my God! We’ve lost her!”

  As Saadya rushed toward the monitors, the acidic winds above the chamber—lifted tens of kilometers high by the coordinated force fields—howled and rushed down at them in seconds. “Reinforce the fields at all junctures,” he yelled. “Concentrate power at points 8242 and 2983!”

  But it was too late. The ceilings and walls groaned, and bolts began to scream as they scraped out of their sockets. Even as the station began to collapse around them, Saadya called out, “Computer, freeze program.”

  Instantly, the holographic chaos went both still and silent.

  Saadya looked around the room toward the people at their stations, a grim look on his face. Some of the technicians were rattled by the holographic disaster around them, bringing things too close to home for those who had witnessed the final moments of Hesperus Station at close range.

  “Any idea what went wrong?” he asked, running his hand up and through his hair. “Anyone?”

  The Bynars stepped forward.

  “We believe that—” said 1110.

  “—the presence of a—” added 1011.

  “—contaminant in our—”

  “—thought processes—”

  “—caused a miscalculation—”

  “—which allowed us to—”

  “—deploy an incorrect—”

  “—vector. We have been—”

  “—shamed.”

  Saadya’s eyes widened. The Bynars are admitting they were wrong? Or are they?

  He saw Gomez cast a nasty look toward the Bynars, and she stepped forward. “Doctor, I suggest we take this data back to the da Vinci to study it, and that your people do the same here. How soon can you have another simulation prepared?”

  Time was running out, but Saadya knew that it would be many hours before this data was analyzed. “How about 0830 tomorrow? Would that be a good time?”

  “I think so. I’ll discuss it with my engineers.”

  Saadya saw Soloman step away from his console to rejoin his Starfleet companions. He didn’t even glance at his fellow Bynars, until one of them spouted a few short syllables of code at him.

  Then Soloman squared his shoulders and stalked out of the holodeck, some of his coworkers trailing after him.

  Saadya gave an apologetic look to Gomez as she, too, left. And then he counted to ten. And then twenty. He couldn’t afford to make 1011 and 1110 angry, nor could he risk losing the help of the third Bynar if the project was to stand any chance of success before Bynaus and Starfleet recalled the lot of them. What did those two say to Soloman, anyway?

  Saadya counted to forty, just to be sure he wouldn’t blow up before he turned back around to face his technicians.

  Chapter

  5

  “They called you a what?” Dr. Elizabeth Lense leaned forward, her hands splayed on the desktop.

  “Singleton.”

  Lense looked at Soloman, her eyebrows raised. She was trying very hard not to look amused, realizing that cultural differences gave the term much greater weight on her friend’s homeworld. “And this is an offensive slur on Bynaus?”

  “The worst.” Soloman slumped back in a chair on the other side of her desk, looking for a moment like a petulant, wounded child. “A singleton is not just a person who is unbonded; it is someone who is incapable of being bonded. It is a rejected person. Someone who cannot fit into our society. A perversion.”

  “But you know that isn’t you, Soloman,” Lense said. “You were bonded, and as far as I know, you fit into the society on Bynaus just fine. Not only that, but you are one of the few Bynars who’s integrated yourself into an outside society: Starfleet. You have to understand that their taunts are nonsense.”

  Soloman sighed and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. After a clear moment of reflection, he finally did reply. “I understand that I am not fully the singleton that they have identified me as being. But their comments do give me cause to wonder whether my decision to remain alone does not stem from my fear that I may not be able to become bonded again.”

  Lense wasn’t able to stop herself from a brief laugh, though she quickly smiled in an effort to let the Bynar know she wasn’t laughing at him. “Sorry. I don’t mean to laugh, but you really have been picking up new traits from living among us humans. That’s a very human response, whether it comes from the death of a significant other, divorce, or a breakup. Everyone wonders whether they’re tainted, whether anyone will ever want them again. That’s just something that seems to be built into close human relationships.” She leaned back in her chair and propped her elbows on the chair arms. “Trust me on that one. I know from personal experience. You go through the five stages of grief, and then—if you want another relationship—you just have to get back on the horse.”

  Soloman looked at her quizzically. “The horse? What does a Terran riding animal have to do with human relationships?”

  “It’s a metaphorical horse, Soloman. When you’re learning to ride a horse, if it throws you off, you have two choices. You can either leave and never learn to ride, or you can get back on the horse and try again, until you get it right. That’s what relationships are like.”

  He nodded. “Were you ever…thrown off the horse?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “Almost everybody who comes out of Starfleet Academy has a doomed romance or two in their history. For example, I’ve got a short-lived marriage and an ex-husband in my past.”

  “You’ve never mentioned that before.”

  “No need to. He’s off in some other area of Starfleet and with luck, I’ll never have to see him again.” Lense put a fist under her chin and regarded the diminutive Bynar for a moment. “So, do you want to get back on the horse?”

  Soloman thought a bit before answering. “I do not think so. My relationship with 111 was what made me complete then. Now, I feel that I am complete on my own. I do not feel that I need another person to be the—” he smiled “—the zero to my one.”

  “Then that’s what you need to remember when those rude little Bynars aboard Ishtar Station start in on you again,” Lense said, returning the smile. “You’ve worked very hard to forge an individual identity for yourself, and it’s one that both respects the memory of 111 and helps you grow on your own.”

  The Bynar’s features brightened for a moment, and then a cloud seemed to pass over his face again. “While this solution may help me on an emotional level, I am also concerned about our interaction on a physical level.”

  Lense didn’t want her mind to go where that statement had led it, so she asked, “Could you clarify that physical part, please?”

  “It seems to me that the most effective way to accomplish the task ahead of us in the next few days is to allow a physical data link among the three of us. This would process information faster and reduce the margin for error. And by subjugating our personalities to the link, it wou
ld—”

  “Okay, let me stop you right there,” Lense said, interrupting Soloman. “First, as I understand it, your entire culture and language are dependent on two integers: 0 and 1. By introducing a third element into that equation, don’t you risk blowing a circuit at the very least? I seem to recall from some medical texts that Bynars who tried a three-way link suffered permanent brain damage. A few even died. There’s a sound physiological reason why your people aren’t called Trynars, Soloman.” He started to speak, and she held up a hand, palm outward. “I’m not finished yet. You came to me for advice, so listen to what I have to say.” Once it became clear she had his full attention, Lense continued. “Second, it seems to me that tonight’s show-stopping error came from the paired Bynars. They made the fubars that brought the simulation down because they were so busy condemning you that they didn’t pay close enough attention to what they were doing. So the best way to eliminate those sorts of errors next time would be for them to get over their petty prejudices. Third, how can you even entertain the idea of subjugating your personality? You have come a tremendous distance in establishing your individuality. And that individuality may bring you the solutions that have eluded your paired counterparts so far. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday.

  “Finally, I’m concerned that your joining in any way with this pair might erode whatever protective emotional ‘scar tissue’ you have accumulated while grieving the loss of 111. The process could leave you even worse off emotionally than you were right after 111 died. As this ship’s chief medical officer, I can’t allow you to harm yourself physically or emotionally if I can help it. And Starfleet has given me the authority to help it, let me assure you.”

  Soloman looked at her expectantly, watching as she settled back in her chair. “May I speak now?” he asked. When Lense nodded, he continued. “I am aware of these dangers, and yet, as a great Federation diplomat once said, ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’ This mission needs to succeed for the benefit of the many. It is not just for the sake of my commander and shipmates, nor for Dr. Saadya and his terraformers.” He leaned forward as if to emphasize his point. “I need to succeed for my own people, for Bynaus. It has only been about twelve of your years since the star in our system went nova and wiped out the memory banks of Bynaus. It’s been only slightly less time than that since a quartet of Bynars hijacked the U.S.S. Enterprise and used it to transfer the core data of our civilization back to our inert planet. Bynaus is still a world in turmoil and recovery. My people still desperately need to learn all they can about terraforming and ecosphere reconstitution techniques.”

  Almost absentmindedly, he reached up to scratch the skin around the chip implanted into the side of his head. “No matter what the cost, I will not allow my estrangement from the ways of mainstream Bynar society get in the way of my duty to my homeworld. Just as I would sacrifice myself for my friends here on the da Vinci, so too will I sacrifice myself for my planet if need be.”

  “You don’t need to be either a pariah or a martyr to your people to help them,” Lense said. “You need to find a solution to Project Ishtar’s problems that accomplishes your goals in a way that only you can accomplish them. You. As an individual. Thinking outside the numbers, as it were.”

  Soloman regarded her in silence. Lense wondered whether she had made her point effectively, or if the message had been lost. Time will tell, she thought.

  Chapter

  6

  Soloman squared his shoulders and walked forward toward the pair of Bynars. He had spent most of the night reflecting on his discussion with Dr. Lense. He was determined to find a way to make the situation work, and he would not allow himself to get the worse end of the bargain.

  As the two Bynars stared at him through baleful eyes, he spoke. “Reflecting on the events of yesterday’s trial, it occurs to me that if we create a three-way datalink, we might be able to sift through the data more quickly and accurately.”

  “You want us to—”

  “—allow you to—”

  “—link with us?” The looks on their faces had now switched from contempt to incredulity.

  “We think that’s a great idea.” A voice from behind Soloman forced all three Bynars to look to the side. It was Fabian Stevens, with a pair of the regular Ishtar Station scientists. “Several of us discussed that option earlier, and we believe that Soloman may be on to something.”

  “It is possible for the three of you to link, isn’t it?” asked a sallow-skinned female scientist.

  “It is—”

  “—theoretically possible—”

  “—but hardly an—”

  “—optimal situation.”

  “What is optimal in our situation?” the woman asked with a smile. “Why don’t you guys try it for this simulation and see if it works?”

  Soloman looked over at his fellow Bynars, and saw them opening and closing their mouths like fish stranded on a beach. Finally, 1011 said, “We will attempt it—”

  “—this once, but we—”

  “—do not expect it to—

  “—be a success.”

  Minutes later, the holodeck simulation began again, with most of the same scientists, technicians, and engineers in the same places they had occupied the previous day. Soloman and the two Bynars synchronized the signals to the interfaces on the sides of their heads and the data buffers they carried on their belts.

  The high-speed multiplex language of the Bynars suddenly filled his senses in every fashion, jolting Soloman into a reality from which he had been removed for far too long. The code-language used by 1011 and 1110 began as a low-pitched whine, and Soloman began to speak back to them.

  As they talked, numbers scrolled on viewscreens in front of them. Not only were they keeping track of the columns directly in their sight, but the linked-mind synchronization meant that a residual sense of the columns being studied by the other two Bynars maintained a palpable presence in the consciousness of each.

  Soloman had not spoken like this—had not shared data in this fashion—since before 111 had died. The act had never seemed so intimate before, but perhaps that was because as an adult, he had never linked with anyone other than his bond-mate. Now, the linkage seemed not only intimate, but also euphoric. The information poured in a torrent from the computer screens to their eyes to their brains to each other to their mouths to their ears to their brains…

  He had not noticed the higher pitch that 1011’s and 1110’s chatter had reached until he felt the connections being severed. One by one, faster and faster, he was being blocked. His mind raced to find an entrance, but like a dam constructed midstream in a river, the paired Bynars were now methodically—and quickly—obstructing him. The revulsion they felt at his presence in their link was so strong it almost appeared as a color; not a vibrant bright or dark, but a swirling, muddy, grayed tone.

  Soloman spoke to them in their language, trying to impress upon them the need to cooperate, but it was too late. He felt his ejection from the link like a physical blow. Indeed, his body reacted as if it had been shoved, and Soloman fell backward, his arms pin-wheeling as he fell to the deck.

  His mind still reeling from his expulsion, Soloman became aware that the holodeck simulation had been halted once again. And Dr. Saadya did not look happy as his gaze settled on all three Bynars.

  * * *

  Domenica Corsi was no happier about the da Vinci crew’s involvement in the terraforming project now than she had been when Captain Gold and his staff had first discussed it. She hadn’t expressed it out loud—though she and Stevens had discussed it late last night—but she didn’t feel that altering Venus to support terrestrial life was a priority that the Federation should be expending time and energy toward. As intriguing as Project Ishtar was, thousands of M-class planets already existed, as well as countless other N-and K-class worlds that could be terraformed with far greater ease than this one.

  Stevens had countered her concerns by noting that the proximity
of Venus to Earth was clearly a large part of the reason behind Saadya’s efforts. Fabian’s explanation accounted for why Mars hadn’t been completely terraformed before Venus, if only in an emotional way; Mars was the god of war, and that world had always been called “the angry red planet.” Stevens had argued that the romance of Venus—the goddess of love—probably played an unconscious role in all the decision making.

  Of course, it was fairly common knowledge that it had been the discovery of native Martian microbes in the twenty-first century—and not romantic notions of gods and goddesses—that had jumped Venus to the head of the terraforming line. Even I know that, Corsi thought, smiling just a little. Fabe may have the tactical instincts of Garth of Izar and the soul of a poet, but what he doesn’t know about planetology could fill a library.

  But whatever her personal feelings and misgivings, Corsi knew she had an assignment to fulfill. After the second test run had failed earlier today, she had decided to watch the next simulation from Ishtar Station’s holodeck, instead of just looking over the data after it was collected. She wasn’t the only da Vinci crew member here either; Fabian, Captain Gold, and Dr. Lense were also present, stationed throughout the room and observing discreetly over various shoulders.

  Fabian approached Corsi and spoke in a low tone. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think Saadya’s done the best he can with what he’s got,” Corsi admitted. “But I still have to question the need in the first place.” Under her breath, she quietly added, “To tell you the truth, I’m also pretty much at a loss to understand most of the theoretical science they’re using, too. Weapons I know, and I even get the force-field applications they’re using. But this kind of planetary science is way out of my specialty.” She offered a wry smile, and added, “I mean, what do I shoot if something goes wrong?”

  Stevens chuckled. “You got me there. But somehow I don’t think weapons fire is going to help much if the atmosphere suddenly decides it doesn’t want to be repositioned.”