Child of Two Worlds (Star Trek: The Original Series) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Greg Cox is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous Star Trek novels and short stories. He has also written the official movie novelizations of War for the Planet of the Apes, Godzilla, Man of Steel, The Dark Knight Rises, Daredevil, Ghost Rider, and the first three Underworld movies, as well as books and stories based on such popular series as Alias, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, CSI, Farscape, The 4400, Leverage, The Librarians, Roswell, Terminator, Warehouse 13, Xena: Warrior Princess, and Zorro. He has received three Scribe Awards from the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers, as well as the Faust Award for Life Achievement. He lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Visit him at GregCox-Author.com. 

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Child of Two Worlds

One

Eighteen years later

“Rigelian fever, Captain. There’s no doubt about it.”

Spock overheard the doctor’s report from his station on the bridge of the U.S.S Enterprise. The young science officer listened intently while simultaneously monitoring sensor readings of the surrounding space. As the ship was presently conducting a routine survey of an uninhabited star system, no other urgent matters required his attention. He suspected that the rest of the bridge crew was also paying close attention to the conversation in the command well.

“How bad is it?” Captain Christopher Pike asked, getting straight to the point. Still in the prime of life, he was a fit Earthman of North American descent, with an athletic build, dark hair, and icy blue eyes that conveyed both keen intelligence and concern. His gold command turtleneck uniform contrasted with the blue science tunic Spock wore. A strong chin rested thoughtfully on his knuckles. “How many crew members are affected?”

“It’s spreading fast,” Doctor Phillip Boyce said gravely. The older man, clad in a standard blue medical jumpsuit, stood by the captain’s chair at the center of the bridge. Thinning silver hair and lean, deeply lined features betrayed that he was approaching retirement age, at least by human standards. An Earth symbol was emblazoned over his heart, indicating that he had received the bulk of his medical training on his home planet. “My sickbay is filling up and more crew members are showing symptoms by the hour. I’ve instituted standard quarantine procedures, but I’m afraid that amounts to locking the barn door after the horse has already bolted. We could be looking at a full-fledged outbreak here.”

“Damn,” Pike muttered under his breath. A serious expression grew even more somber. “Can you treat it, Doctor?”

“I’m trying,” Boyce said, “but this appears to be an unusually virulent new strain of the disease, which is proving resistant to conventional treatment.” He shook his head ruefully. “I might as well be handing out sugar pills . . . or martinis.”

Pike nodded. “What about unconventional treatments?”

“Funny you should ask,” Boyce answered. “I’ve been scouring the medical literature—in my copious spare time, of course—and there are reports of a radical new treatment that has yielded some promising results so far. It’s highly experimental, though, and has barely begun clinical trials on humans.” He frowned. “I’d hate to turn our crew into guinea pigs.”

Spock understood that Boyce was not speaking of a literal metamorphosis, but was merely employing a quaint human idiom. He made a mental note to review the relevant literature on this new treatment at the first opportunity. Medicine was a science, despite the doctor’s occasional protestations to the contrary, and biochemistry was but one of many disciplines in which Spock prided himself on being well-versed.

“We may have no other choice, Doctor.” Pike glanced toward the navigation station. “Mister Tyler, how far to the nearest Starfleet medical facility?”

Spock had already performed the necessary calculations in his head, but let Lieutenant José Tyler carry out his duties. Years of serving aboard the Enterprise had taught Spock that humans sometimes reacted negatively to being “shown up” by another, particularly where their own responsibilities and fields of expertise were concerned. It was an illogical and emotional response—data was data after all—but, in this instance, there appeared to be no compelling reason to answer the captain’s query before Tyler did. The young Earthman was a skilled and highly capable navigator. An extra moment would make no significant difference.

“Starbase 17 is closest,” Tyler reported promptly. Blond hair and boyish features made him seem even more youthful than his actual years. “But even at top speed, it will take us weeks to get there.”

Four point zero eight weeks, Spock thought. To be precise.

“Weeks we may not have,” Boyce said. “We haven’t lost any crew members yet, but you know how nasty Rigelian fever can be if not treated. It can go from basic to pneumonic to septic in a matter of days, leading to shock, seizures, and eventually death.”

“You don’t have to paint a picture for me, Doctor,” Pike said. “All right, then. What do you need to carry out this experimental new treatment, if necessary?”

“That’s where it gets tricky,” Boyce confessed. “The treatment requires significant quantities of a rare mineral substance called ryetalyn, which is not commonly found on Federation starships . . . or most anywhere else for that matter.”

“So where can we get our hands on some of this . . . ryetalyn?” Pike asked, trying out the unfamiliar word. He had never heard of this mineral before, despite all his years exploring the stars.

“The devil if I know,” Boyce said. “Did I mention it was rare?”

“A search of the ship’s computer libraries may yield the nearest source of the mineral,” Number One suggested from her post at the helm. A dark-haired Illyrian woman whose cool composure and formidable intelligence often reminded Spock of his own people, the Enterprise’s first officer turned her gaze toward the science station. “Mister Spock?”

“The computer is processing the request,” said Spock, who had already initiated a search of that nature. A hard-copy printout issued from the computer terminal, and Spock swiftly scanned the document. “According to past surveys of this sector, ryetalyn can be found on Cypria III, an alien colony precisely 61.09 hours from our present location.”

“Good work, Mister Spock,” the captain said. “So what do we know about this place?”

Spock called up a full report on the planet, and was preparing to summarize it, but Number One spoke up first, rendering his efforts redundant.

“Cypria III is a Class-M planet colonized by a humanoid species over a century ago, not long before its parent world abandoned its expansionist space program following a period of political and economic turmoil. The future Cyprians, in particular, emigrated in search of a younger and less developed world that was in a more natural state, as opposed to the heavily mechanized and industrialized culture that had overrun their homeworld. Although they maintain cultural ties to their planet of origin, the Cyprians have been largely independent for generations—and inclined to remain so. Their infrequent encounters with Starfleet have been peaceful to date, but they have expressed little interest in joining the Federation. Deeply attached to their adopted world and its rich natural bounty, they seldom venture beyond their own system and have no significant space force to speak of.”

Pike regarded her with a bemused expression. “And you knew all that off the top of your head?”

“I have an eidetic memory,” she reminded him. “And I endeavor to be informed on the regions of space through which we travel.”

“Of course.” Pike cracked a rare smile. “I expect nothing less from you, Number...