STAR TREK - TOS - 15 - Corona

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CORONA

By Greg Bear

Synopsis

"just a small-planet girl" may hold the key to the future of the

Universe! Join the crew of the Enterprise as they struggle against

weird aliens, the fourth estate, and Star Fleet monotirs as they once

again try to save the Universe!

Spock controlled his writhing and opened his eyes... "I need help," he

said.

Mason backed away, hands clutching her throat.

"I am about to be controlled by Corona," Spock said. "I only have a few

minutes of resistance left. I can feel it in my mind. I can hear its

thoughts... It does not respect us. We are here only for its use...

And it is about to destroy... everything!" His eyes widened.

He's afraid, Mason realized. He's seen something and it terrifies him.t

POCKET BOOKS London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

are either the product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any 'resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster

Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

portions thereof in any form whatsoever For information address Pocket

Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN 0-671-74353-8

First Pocket Books printing April 1984

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Printed in the U.S.A.

For the Saloon

Acknowledgments

My wife, Astrid, and friends Karen Schnaubelt Turner and Kelly Turner

were particularly helpful. Always useful for reference and authority was

Bjo Trimble's and Dorothy Jones Heydt's Star Trek Concordance, which,

incidentally, I helped illustrate in its original publication. Does

that mean I'm a trekkie?

You bet.

Alan Brennert has always been helpful, especially when we bearded the

producers of Star Trek's abortive second TV series in their dens during

story conferences. The idea for Corona arose during one such session.

The glaring errors--if any remain--are my own. More subtle differences

from the canon are probably matters of interpretation.

Prologue

From horizon to horizon, the sky was filled with a dark purple glow,

broken by wisps of milky white and luminous green. T'Prylla felt the

crunch of ages-old pebbles beneath her boots, the only sound besides

that of her breathing and the space-suit's instrumentation. She had

left the station to be by herself for a while, and to watch the rise of

the new suns, suns barely a year old.

Station One sat on a planetoid on the outer edges of the Black Box

Nebula. The station's crew consisted of T'Prylla, her husband Grake,

their two children and two research assistants, Anauk and T'Kosa. In

reservemthat is, in the cold storage of suspended animation, to save

limited resources--were thirty volunteers, whose expertise ranged from

astrophysics to space medicine. T'Prylla herself had once been the most

renowned physicist on Vulcan, quite a rarity for her youthful sixty

years; but she had run afoul of the Vulcan Science Academy by using

unorthodox methods of logical analysis--methods which had brought

charges of heresy--and had imposed this kind of self-exile on herself

and her family to avoid an even more painful confrontation.

Ultimately, then, she was the one to blame for all that had happened.

Discoveries had been made---but not in time to save the thirty in

cold-storage, who were as good as dead. She had learned more about

Ybakra radiation than any previous scholar--but at what a cost! And she

had learned other things she might never be able to tell.

Forty-eight hours earlier, Grake had broadcast the normal-space message

they had prepared together. They had deliberately concealed their action

from the children. Day by day, the children grew stronger, more

willful, directed by a force neither she nor Grake understood; the power

the children had over their parents and the station crew was disturbing,

to say the least. Had she been human, she might have been near panic.

But there was nothing more they could do. In ten years, the message

would reach a Federation buoy far beyond the nebula's outpouring of

radiation. The buoy would re-broadcast Grake's words and the science

report by the faster medium of sub-space radio. Shortly thereafter,

perhaps...

But it was too much to hope for. She thought briefly of her distant

relative, Spock, a science officer aboard a Federation starship. What

would Spock do in a situation like this? She had never had the chance

to know Spock well. Despite his human ancestry, he had always been held

up to her as an example of what a Vulcan could be, could achieve.

The glow on the horizon brightened. The asteroid was turning inexorably

toward the source of their new knowledge, the source of their

difficulties--the infant stars.

One by one they appeared, huge oblate reddish blobs of light, their

edges diffuse and irregular. They were triplets, collapsed from the

nebular dust and gases. Gravity had drawn them into mutual orbits,

their own growing mass finally cooking off the fusion of hydrogen deep

within the stellar envelopes.

The final stages of their birth-4he final collapse into true

protostars--had taken less than a month, catching the researchers by

surprise. Theory had predicted a much longer period; the discovery of

huge sub-spacial mass anomalies in the region of the triple stars had

come late, and the intensity of Ybakra radiation had not been foreseen.

The resulting interference completely ruled out sub-space communications

and all but the most concentrated

tight-beam radio signals.

"Mother."

T'Prylla turned as quickly as her suit and the low gravity allowed,

facing her son, Radak. He was live years old, too young even for the

most basic ritual of Vulcan maturity, ka nifoor. His expression was

peaceful, contented.

"Mother, we know what Father has done."

He motioned for her to follow, and they returned to Black Box Nebula

Station One. There would be no further messages.

And no answers, for at least ten years.

Chapter One

Rowena Mason stood transfixed at the window of the personnel transport.

She had spent her entire life on the small, yellow-orange planet Yalbo,

more known for its spacedock facilities and mining colonies than its

natural beauty. Yet now Yalbo, rotating slowly below, was the most

beautiful thing she had ever seen. Banks of dusty yellow clouds drifted

over the tan and pink Erling Mineral Massif, casting umber shadows

across the rills and valleys where her family had labored for three

generations. She had never been off-world before, and pictures could

not compare with reality.

The personnel transport rolled to face the huge orbiting spacedock, a

spider-web-delicate framework of thin cylindrical supports laced

together by lateral beams. Huge banks of work-lights were being

switched off and spacedock work crews were withdrawing from the U.S.S.

Enterprise. Mason had researched the Enterprise thoroughly after

receiving her assignment the first Constitution-class ship to be

equipped with warp drive, on a continuing mission

of research and exploration, she was easily the most famous ship in

human history.

The quarterdeck of the Enterprise seemed to be the only peaceful

location on the ship. Officers and crew had already boarded, but stores

were still being loaded through the shuttle bay, and preparations were

being made for casting off. Rowena Mason stepped off the transport,

uncertain, as she walked through the passageway, exactly at what moment

she boarded the Enterprise.

She was greeted by the Officer of the Deck in Spacedock, a shiny-faced

junior lieutenant who, to Mason's relief, was quite human. Starfleet

tended to group humanoid oxygen breathers together as crews to avoid

expensive ship refitting; non-humanoid types were grouped in various

other categories, aboard ships appropriate to their needs. She could

not have met, say, a Medusan (she had had nightmares about them as a

child), but she was none too sure what she would do when she encountered

a Vulcan or Andorran, both reputedly stationed aboard the Enterprise.

She was glad for a brief reprieve.

She presented her credentials to the OD, who smiled with formal courtesy

and passed them through the security device mounted on one side of his

podium. "Permission to come aboard?" she asked, unsure of the

procedure.

"Permission anted, Mister Mason. Welcome to the Enterprise.

That was another thing she'd have to get used to. By calling her

"mister," they were extending her a courtesy sually reserved for

officers, both male and female.

"Thank you. I'd like my arrival announced to the Federation News

Service as soon as possible. And when do I meet the quartermaster?"

"Uh... quartermaster? I'm sorry. You must mean Army usage. There is

no 'quartermaster' aboard the Enterprise. All quarters are allotted by

the ship's computer. Your escort will meet you in a few minutes. You're

a bit late." "I know," Mason said. Only six hours before, she had been

happily at work on her history of twenty-second century approaches to

quantum electrodynamics, her major at the very small Yalbo University

of Humanities. She had managed a fairly stiff curriculum despite her

work as an FNS reporter. Mason's parents had disapproved of her

academic pursuits, preferring that she immediately join her father in

the Union Rare Earths C ompany as a filial apprentice; her decision to

continue at the university had resulted in their cutting off all

support. She had gone to work as a stringer for the Federation News

Service to keep off the despised Student's Dole, and had gradually

worked her way up to a staff position, one of only two in Yalbo's FNS

Bureau. The other was held by her boss, a crusty ex-demolisher and

closet philosopher named Evanric. Yalbo supplemented its mining income

(and kept its chronically idled mining engineers employed) by serving

the Federation as a repair and outfitting station. It was no small

story when the Enterprise was ordered to put into spacedock around Yallo

for new equipment installations. Mason had covered what aspects of the

story she could from planetside. When FNS had asked Evanric to release

her for an off*planet assignment, she could have refused, but she had

been sitting around, calm and happy, for entirely too long... and she

was, after all, a reporter. Reporters were supposed to be in the thick

of things, not puttering on academic projects in the middle of nowhere.

If FNS thought her small-planet articles were good enough to merit such

an assignment---and if she happened to be the only reporter in the

vicinity other than Evanric, who adjudged himself too old and set in his

ways--who was she to refuse? "There may be some confusion at first,

Mister Mason," the OD said. "We've just spent twenty days undergoing

repairs and refit. New installations." "That's why I'm here," she said.

"To catch us while we're vulnerable?" Ah, the military mind resenting

the intrusion of the press, she thought. "No. To report on the new

monitors, observe the reaction of the crew. How the Enterprise

behaves." She smiled. The junior lieutenant returned her smile. Such

discipline, she thought sarcastically. He didn't exhibit a trace of

masculine interest in this new addition to the ship's female population.

Correct and polite in every particular---except, of course, for that

brief probe of her intentions. "Mister Mason?" a woman asked. It took

her a second to recognize her own name. She wondered if she would always

assume someone was asking for her father. She turned and saw a

dismayingly beautiful woman in a red regulation uniform standing in the

quarterdeck elevator. "I'm Lieutenant Uhura," she said, stepping

forward and offering her hand. "Communications officer. Star-fleet

thought since we'd be working together off and on, we might as well

share quarters." Mason blinked. No wonder the OD hadn't shown any

interest in her. Were all Starfleet women so depressingly, exotically

gorgeous? "Lieutenant Uhura is your escort, Mister Mason," the OD

explained. "Yes, I understand, thank you." She shook the communications

officer's hand and followed her into the elevator. "My luggage--" "It's

coming through the shuttle bay," the OD said behind them. "It's all

taken care of." "It better be," she said, half under her breath. "There

are two FNS mobile recorders, and if they're damaged it'll take me four

years to pay for them." As the elevator door closed, Uhura looked Mason

over quickly. Her smile seemed quite genuine,

something of a contrast with the OD. "You're going' to do a story on

the Enterprise's new monitors?"

"Partly. I'm also interested in the new medical equipment."

"Looks like we'll have quite a shakedown ahead of us. If we ever get to

the shakedown... Starfleet keeps us very busy, you know. Most of our

training and shakedown cruises have turned into the real thing. I don't

see any reason this time should be different."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for a real adventure," Mason admitted. She

could look forward to a nice, safe bit of investigative reporting---but

life among mining engineers had taught her that adventure was a

euphemism for serious injury or death. "If an emergency comes up, will

I be put off at an outpost or starbase?"

"Not on your life. The captain will make sure you're with us every step

of the way. If Starfleet wants monitors, and the Federation wants press

coverage, they'll have both, and he won't blink an eye or complain

once... or let them off the hook. You'll see. You could write a whole

book just about Captain Kirk."

"You seem to admire him."

"Seem? Honey, he's the captain. I don't think there's a man or woman

on board who wouldn't

follow him down the mouth of a naked singularity." "And how does he feel

about the press?"

"I don't think the question's ever come up. At any rate, l'rn happy to

see you. They've upped my quarters allowance and lowered my mess bill,

just to show you around, duty permitting. And I've already worked my

way up to the best quarters in junior officers' country. Plenty of room

for two. Privacy, even."

"Sounds like a luxury cruise."

Uhura shook her head. "Like I said, Mister Mason--"

"Rowena, please."

"Rowena. Like I said, I don't think there'll be much time for luxury."

"Ship's quarters, junior officers' sector," the elevator announced. The

doors opened with a wheep, revealing a stark .white and gray corridor

with impressively massive bulkheads outlined in red.

"Welcome home, honey," Uhura said, leading the way.

Chapter Two

"Jim, I swear, if I'd wanted to be a lawyer, I'd have gone to Tharsis

University and transferred to Star-fleet Internal Affairs." Dr. Leonard

McCoy pulled all the homey lines of his face into an exaggerated scowl

and shook his head. "Ten thousand new rules and regulations." "It's

just a watchdog, Bones." "I feel more out of my element every year.

First they change my tools, then they tell me the computers can run

surgery betterwand what's that make me, an electrician?--and now they

say that a starship medical center has--" he assumed an air of great

dignity and self-importance, "has a 'potential for social disruption.""

His eyes protruded slightly as he stared at Captain James T. Kirk,

demanding a response. Kirk's look of sudden humor and mildness was

almost equally exaggerated. "It's all part of the new Federaticm

monitors. They just don't want you to become a god, Bones."

McCoy's explosion of breath showed he didn't appreciate his friend's

humor. Kirk walked between the banks of equipment in the rebuilt medical

center. Starfleet had shipped the Transporter Emergency Recovery unit

to Yalbo's spacedock months before the Enterprise had finished her last

mission--along with the command and medical monitors. "If I'm going to

have a Federation-programmed watchdog system breathing down my neck, why

should you get off--with our chief engineer's pardon--Scot free?" He

stopped, turned to look at McCoy, and gestured at a man-sized

cylindrical vat filled with transparent green fluid. "If it's any

comfort to you, I find it all a bit much, myself. This... this..." He

shook his head. "In my day, the TEREC would have been called a miracle.

But now, if there's a transporter accident, you--you, Bones! Good o1'

country doctor--you can direct the last memory bank impression of a

transporter passenger into this machine, and a virtually exact duplicate

can be recreated. No more transporter deaths, Bones." "It could be a

damned nightmare." "Yes, indeed. A mad doctor could ransack the memory

banks for impressions of passengers, combine them, run them through the

TEREC... create entirely new people. So we have the medical monitors,

and the new regs." Kirk knew all too well that McCoy was simply blowing

off steam. McCoy's pretended distaste for new medical equipment, new

techniques for saving lives and preventing misery, was a front, behind

which the doctor carefully adjusted all his past medical experience.

Kirk played along with the theatrics, but not without having some fun of

his own. "Why, without the new regs, you could make your own nurse,

Bones. She would "Sexist," McCoy accused. "She," Kirk reiterated,

"would be about five feet ten, an excellent physical specimen, brainy

and 'as obedient as a Tau Cetian fawnbird. And when you were done

creating her, you'd promptly marry her, and Starfleet would lose its

best ship's doctor."

McCoy seemed about to either laugh, become apoplectic or prepare a

lengthy defense whefi the corn chimed and Kirk answered. "Quarterdeck

to Captain Kirk. Wellman, Captain. Mister Mason is aboard and all her

equipment is stowed."

"Why should that concern you, Jim?" McCoy asked, puzzled.

"Thank you, Mister Wellman," Kirk replied to the OD. "You may secure

the quarterdeck and resume your space duties." Kirk drew up the right

corner of his mouth ruefully. "We have a member of the fourth estate

aboard the Enterprise, Bones. We are now under surveillance. Watch

your language."

"I'm a Southern gallant from way back," McCoy said.

"She's here to see how we react to the monitors, and I understand she

wants to do a story on the new sickbay."

"I have nothing to hide," McCoy said, making a magnanimous sweep with

his arm. "Except my doubts."

Kirk toggled the intercom switch. "Lieutenant Uhura's quarters," he

instructed the unit. "Leave a message. I request the company of Mister

Mason .. no, make that Miss Mason... at the captain's table in the

officer's mess this evening for dinner. Extend my compliments."

"Quite the gallant yourself, eh, Jim?" McCoy's grin was almost

indetectable.

Chapter Three

The Enterprise's crew facilities were clean, comfortable and slightly

worn-looking. Past refittings had concentrated on updating equipment

and not redecoration.

Lieutenant Uhura's quarters were a notable exception. They were richly,

tastefully decorated with hanging fabrics, a non-regulation assortment

of pillow-couches and a chair made especially for the extremely

sensitive skin of a Deltan--a chair which was sheer heaven for a human.

Sculptures ranging in size from a few centimeters to one meter betray ed

Uhura's particular obsession, collecting surrealistic and totemistic

modem African ebony carvings.

Mason had settled into Uhura's cabin, looked over the diagrams of the

ship Uhura brought up on the room's video display, and received the invi

laugh, become apoplectic or prepare a lengthy defense whefi the corn

chimed and Kirk answered. "Quarterdeck to Captain Kirk. Wellman,

Captain. Mister Mason is aboard and all her equipment is stowed."

"Why should that concern you, Jim?" McCoy asked, puzzled.

"Thank you, Mister Wellman," Kirk replied to the OD. "You may secure

the quarterdeck and resume your space duties." Kirk drew up the right

corner of his mouth ruefully. "We have a member of the fourth estate

aboard the Enterprise, Bones. We are now under surveillance. Watch

your language."

"I'm a Southern gallant from way back," McCoy said.

"She's here to see how we react to the monitors, and I understand she

wants to do a story on the new sickbay."

"I have nothing to hide," McCoy said, making a magnanimous sweep with

his arm. "Except my doubts."

Kirk toggled the intercom switch. "Lieutenant Uhura's quarters," he

instructed the unit. "Leave a message. I request the company of Mister

Mason .. no, make that Miss Mason... at the captain's table in the

officer's mess this evening for dinner. Extend my compliments."

"Quite the gallant yourself, eh, Jim?" McCoy's grin was almost

indetectable.

Chapter Three

The Enterprise's crew facilities were clean, comfortable and slightly

worn-looking. Past refittings had concentrated on updating equipment

and not redecoration.

Lieutenant Uhura's quarters were a notable exception. They were richly,

tastefully decorated with hanging fabrics, a non-regulation assortment

of pillow-couches and a chair made especially for the extremely

sensitive skin of a Deltan--a chair which was sheer heaven for a human.

Sculptures ranging in size from a few centimeters to one meter betrayed

Uhura's particular obsession, collecting surrealistic and totemistic

modem African ebony carvings.

Mason had settled into Uhura's cabin, looked over the diagrams of the

ship Uhura brought up on the room's video display, and received the

invitation to the captain's table for dinner. There was little time for

anything beyond a quick cleanup.

She greatly appreciated the Enterprise's lavatory facilities. They were

perhaps ten years more modem than the general run of bathrooms on Yalbo.

She

wondered how she'd adjust when they returned her to her home. Perhaps...

and it was just an idle fantasy... perhaps this story would be her

ticket to better things. In the officer's mess, she seated herself at

the end of the six-place table, where her name was illuminated in

ghostly green beside a setting of ship's stainless and a dimpled plastic

plate. It wasn't her style to be early, but she had miscalculated the

time it would take her to get to the mess. The elevatormalso called a

"turbolift," she reminded herself--was very fast. A few minutes later,

officers began to come in. From the pictures Uhura had shown her, she

recognized the chief engineer, Scott; the chief helmsman, Sulu; the

science and first officer, Spock, and the computer officer in charge of

the monitors, Veblen. Seated at another table was an Andorran

lieutenant, an expert in navigation, like many of his race. The sight

of the Andorran and Spock made her stiffen. There were no aliens on

Yalbo, only humans--no indigenous life forms, no visitors or advisors or

tourists. She had heard stories from her mother and father about aliens

carrying strange diseases, preaching strange and perverse

philosophies... and while she had rejected much of that during her years

in school, enough of it had taken to make her uneasy. There was, first

and foremost, Spock's severe handsomeness and his ears. The color of

his skin---a warm, light brownish-green---was disconcerting, but not

that unusual. She had met humans from other star systems who hadn't

looked much different. But she knew. He was half human... half

Vulcan. And he was seating himself at the same table, in the seat next

to Kirk's on the right, directly across from her. While she examined

Spock, Scott sat on her left. To Spock's right was a stocky,

boyish-looking lieutenant who introduced himself as Jan Veblen. Next

came Dr. Leonard McCoy. McCoy sat at the end opposite Kirk's place,

greeting her with a nod and a warm smile. "Welcome aboard," he said.

She took to McCoy right away. He reminded her of her father--or rather,

of her father on one of his better days. "I hope. you're finding

everything to your satisfaction." "I haven't been aboard very long," she

said. "It seems fine." "The food here is quite tasty," McCoy said. "But

I wouldn't order whatever Mr. Spock is having." Spock surveyed Mason

coolly. "Dr. McCoy is well aware I take my meals in my quarters. I am

here purely for the social aspects of dinner with one's fellow

officers." "Spock is a very social fellow," McCoy added. Spock raised

one eyebrow but said nothing more until the arrival of the captain. As

Kirk approached the table, everyone in the mess rose. She slowly

followed suit. Kirk approached her and held out his hand. "On behalf

of the officers and crew, may I extend a formal welcome aboard the

Enterprise?" "My pleasure," she said. Kirk was roguishly handsome,

perhaps forty-five or slightly older. He seemed fit and looked perhaps

eight years younger. He took a seat at the head of the table. The rest

of the officers resumed their seats and a mechanical steward began

carrying a column of stacked plates from table to table, starting with

theirs. "Tonight," McCoy said, "we have the boon of the ship's best New

Orleans chicken gumbo. One of my favorites, if I must choose." "We

regret not having the time to visit your planet or allow any sort of

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CORONAByGregBearSynopsis"justasmall-planetgirl"mayholdthekeytothefutureoftheUniverse!JointhecrewoftheEnterpriseastheystruggleagainstweirdaliens,thefourthestate,andStarFleetmonotirsastheyonceagaintrytosavetheUniverse!Spockcontrolledhiswrithingandopenedhiseyes..."Ineedhelp,"hesaid.Masonbackedaway,hand...

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