Delta Anomaly

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. SIMON SPOTLIGHT An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

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  © 2010 Paramount Pictures Corporation. ® & © 2010 CBS Studios, Inc. STAR TREK and related marks are trademarks of CBS Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. SIMON SPOTLIGHT and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com. Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4424-1409-9 (hc) ISBN 978-1-4424-1241-5 (pbk) ISBN 978-1-4424-1425-9 (eBook) Library of Congress Control Number: 2010935106

  Contents

  CH.1.12 Fogbound

  CH.2.12 The Delta Quadrant

  CH.3.12 Two Exams

  CH.4.12 Black Bits

  CH.5.12 Stalked

  CH.6.12 Smart Dust

  CH.7.12 Shadow Hours

  CH.8.12 City Lights

  CH.9.12 Delta Origins

  CH.10.12 Tanika Station

  CH.11.12 Pyramid Scheme

  CH.12.12 After the Dust Settles

  CH.1.12

  Fogbound

  In the summer of 2255, the San Francisco fog was like a living entity. Pushed ashore by ocean winds, it would creep and crawl over the city’s famous hills like a great white leviathan. Most nights that July, the city was smothered in the fog’s wet hide. Twirling white tendrils drifted down streets and alleys.

  But if you could get above the fog layer, it was a breathtaking view.

  At eight hundred fifty feet aboveground, the woman bound and gagged in the beacon cone at the top of the Transamerica Pyramid was well above the fog.

  It was a breathtaking experience—quite literally.

  Jacqueline Madkins—Jackie to her friends—was a tough gal. From her sensible shoes to her sensible haircut, she radiated a no-nonsense air that had served her well in her career. She’d been running security operations in the famous 286-year-old pyramid, the crown jewel of the San Francisco skyline, for almost ten years. She was one of only four people in the world with unrestricted access to the beacon cone.

  So when SecureCam Omega went offline earlier that night, she’d groaned in disbelief.

  Jackie was alone in the security control center on the thirtieth floor. Her security team, a crew of twenty guards, was making its regular rounds. It was quite an operation. She sat at a bank of monitors flickering live feeds from the building’s one hundred sixty surveillance cameras. She started tapping SecureCam Omega’s feed button on the camera control console.

  Blank screen. It was as if the camera went dead, but Jackie knew that couldn’t happen. She shuddered involuntarily as a strange chill ran down her spine.

  The top two hundred twelve feet of the Transamerica Pyramid was a hollow, translucent lumenite spire. Inside the spire, a steep staircase zigzagged up to the cone that housed the one-thousand-watt LED aviation warning light, a flashing red strobe. SecureCam Omega—the one that was apparently on the blink—surveyed the beacon chamber. Getting to it was a long, hard climb.

  Jackie thought about that climb and looked down ruefully at her feet. “It’s not that I don’t like fabulous shoes,” she’d recently explained to her sister, Dawn, “it’s just that they are not exactly practical in my line of work!”

  Suddenly, her comlink buzzed. She hit a button on her belt unit.

  “Talk to me, Will,” she said.

  “Did you just see that?” blurted the voice of Will Rosen, one of her night-team guards. He was just a teenager, and he sounded shaken.

  “See what?” asked Jackie.

  “The flash!” cried Will.

  Jackie swiveled her chair to another console and checked what she called “the big board,” a full schematic of the entire building. Blue glowing icons marked the real-time locations of all twenty team members. Each icon was numbered.

  “Okay, I got you marked up on forty-eight,” she said. “Is that right?”

  The Transamerica Pyramid’s entire forty-eighth floor was a single, spectacular conference room. It offered a full 360-degree view of the city.

  “Confirmed,” said Will. “It was, like, right outside the window.” His breathing was short and shallow. “Very bright, like an explosion.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” replied Jackie.

  “Neither did I,” said Will.

  “This is getting really weird,” Jackie muttered.

  “What’s that?” asked Will.

  Now her red line was ringing. This was a direct emergency hotline to SFPD. “Nothing. Sit tight, Will. I’ll be right up,” she said, and cut off the comlink. Then she picked up the red receiver on the console. “Pyramid security, this is Madkins.” She spoke with professional calm.

  “Yo, Jackie, you okay over there?” said a voice on the line.

  “Hey, Sam,” she said. It was Sergeant Sam Kalar at SFPD’s central district station, just down the street. “What’s up?”

  “We got people reporting a big lightning strike on the pyramid,” replied the voice. “Calls coming in left and right.”

  “One of my guys saw a flash, but no sound,” said Jackie. “I think we’re fine. I’ve got power, all systems running. But we’ll check it out.”

  “Okay,” said Sergeant Kalar. “Let me know.”

  “Roger,” she said, and hung up.

  Time for my workout, she thought grimly.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jackie was still lumbering up the spire staircase. She was in good shape, but this was the equivalent of climbing a twenty-one-story spiraling fire escape. After a few rest stops, she finally reached the landing that supports the final twenty-foot ladder leading up to the beacon platform.

  “Going in,” she said into her comlink.

  “I got you marked, boss,” came the voice of Will.

  Jackie slowly hauled herself up the ladder through a narrow opening into the small cone-shaped room. A glass pyramid cap at the top housed the Halo3000 aviation warning beacon. The red strobe flashed forty times per minute with an intensity of twenty thousand candelas, bright enough to cause retinal damage. But a shield platform underneath the beacon let Jackie scan the chamber without danger.

  “No damage up here,” she said over the comlink, an obvious note of relief in her voice.

  “Copy that,” said Will.

  Then Jackie spotted the malfunctioning camera near the floor. With a simple twist, the unit clicked off of its base. She tucked it into a side pouch she’d worn for just this purpose.

  Nothing to worry about, she told herself, allowing relief to wash over her. She mentally chastised herself for having felt so worried over nothing.

  As she approached the ladder for descent, a slight hissing sound from above caught her attention. She glanced up at the beacon’s shield platform. Wisps of black were slowly drifting downward.

  “What the . . . ,” she said.

  “What’s that, boss?” called Will.

  “I see smoke up here,” she said, puzzled. “Up in the beacon housing.”

  She listened to crackling silence over the comlink. Will was as perplexed as she was. “We’d better get a repair guy up here ASAP,” she said. “There’s a number in the database for Aviation Safety Systems. Call right now and, oh my god . . .”

  Black smo
ke was now pouring into the chamber from above. It shot down in three long plumes. Each plume started circling Jackie and tightening its spiral. She could feel the smoke slithering over her bare arms, face, and throat. The last things she felt before falling unconscious were the distinct sensation of a powerful pressure strapping her arms to her sides, and a thin film spreading across her mouth, sealing it shut.

  “Jackie, do you read me?” called Will over the comlink. “Jackie?”

  Jackie couldn’t reply. Moments later, she lost consciousness.

  CH.2.12

  The Delta Quadrant

  Starfleet Academy life was grueling.

  Weeks of rigorous, unending study. Physical and mental training that no sport could prepare you for. Brutal hours in the tactical simulators, followed by humiliating debriefing sessions filled with failure analyses. And then there was the competition—the finest minds and bodies in the entire galaxy, pitted against one another daily, hourly. It took a toll.

  The Starfleet cadets needed to blow off steam.

  Chestnut Street in San Francisco—where the beautiful people and aliens prowled, mated, and dated—was a favorite hangout. Tonight the city’s infamous fog swirled like a pale fluid. James T. Kirk, Leonard “Bones” McCoy, and a Tellarite cadet named Glorak strolled down Chestnut Street looking for fun while trying to avoid collisions. Visibility was low. The fog was so thick that bodies appeared and disappeared like ghosts—for example, that Chinese lady carrying a huge, live lobster.

  “Good god!” said McCoy, jumping out of the way.

  Kirk laughed and watched the woman pass. The lobster was waving its rubber-banded claws like a symphony conductor. Kirk pointed at the crustacean. “I’ll see you at dinner, Bernstein!” he called. A few steps later the apparition melted back into the white mist and disappeared.

  Glorak wrinkled his piglike snout and said, “Your oceans produce such strange creatures!”

  “Don’t get me started on oceans,” grumbled McCoy.

  Kirk turned to Glorak. “Bones hates oceans worse than he hates space,” he explained.

  “You . . . hate space?” asked Glorak.

  “Yes, I hate space,” said McCoy.

  “Interesting that you’ve chosen a career with Starfleet, Dr. McCoy,” said Glorak.

  “Oh, is it?” said McCoy testily.

  Kirk slung an arm around McCoy’s shoulders. “‘Space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence.’ I believe that’s an exact quote.” Kirk blinked up at a neon sign glowing in the fog. “First words you ever spoke to me, Bones. Kinda makes me nostalgic.”

  McCoy glared at Kirk. “Nostalgic for what?”

  “For simpler days,” said Kirk. “For . . . innocence.”

  “One thing you’ve never been, Jim,” said McCoy, “is innocent.”

  Kirk whacked McCoy on the back. “Speaking of which . . . let’s find girls. I hear they tend to flock in this vicinity.”

  McCoy shook his head. “I can’t even find the damned sidewalk.”

  “I warned you about that Andorian ale, my friend,” said Glorak darkly.

  “I’m talking about the fog, for god’s sake,” said McCoy.

  “Oh,” said Glorak.

  “Come on,” said Kirk. “Let’s find that new club.”

  Word around campus was that a holo-karaoke bar had just opened off Chestnut. It was called the Delta Quadrant, and rumor had it that some female cadets were planning a birthday outing there that evening. Kirk despised karaoke, especially this new version where you could sing your song surrounded by holographic projections of the actual band. But, Kirk loved female cadets. So it was an acceptable trade-off, tactically speaking.

  The three cadets continued up Chestnut, dodging loud groups of bar-hopping pedestrians. Kirk stopped a few people to ask directions to the Delta Quadrant, but everyone he encountered was either a little too drunk—or too eager to get home with that evening’s conquest—to stop and give clear directions. So the trio kept getting lost down side streets. As usual, Kirk pushed ahead of the others.

  “I’m making poor command decisions,” he muttered to himself. Glancing down a dark alley, he spotted several dark entities twirling in the whitish fog. He stopped to watch, mesmerized. Their jerky movements seemed inhuman. Odd, hissing voices wafted toward Kirk, and a chill seized him. But then the entities suddenly evaporated. The figures literally melted away into the fog.

  When the others caught up, Kirk pointed down the alley. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?” asked McCoy.

  “Creepy people dancing and, like, . . . hissing,” said Kirk.

  Glorak snorted loudly. “You sure they were dancing, Kirk?”

  McCoy glared at Glorak. “I hate it when you suck in your snout like that,” he said.

  Glorak smiled at McCoy and sucked in his snout a few more times.

  “Yes, that’s it exactly,” McCoy said, disgusted.

  Kirk stared into the fog. The vision had been unsettling. After a few more seconds, he shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Kirk, McCoy, and Glorak pushed ahead through the night’s white shroud. As they turned the next corner they heard loud music pulsing from an open doorway just ahead. Above the door, a 3-D holograph of the Greek letter delta hovered in the air, spinning eerily in the fog.

  “Ah, that must be it!” cried Glorak.

  As Kirk rolled into the club, he expertly scoped out the room. Within moments, his eyes settled on the lovely Cadet Uhura, sitting at a corner table with the voluptuous, red-haired, green-skinned Gaila. Kirk smiled—this was a triple score. First, like all good Orion girls, Cadet Gaila loved men. Second, Gaila was a computer lab tech, and it always paid to be on good terms with someone who had access to Starfleet guts. And third . . . well, one of Kirk’s favorite pastimes was trying to make the straight-laced Cadet Uhura uncomfortable. She was absolutely adorable when she squirmed.

  “Gentlemen, lock your targets,” said Kirk.

  “Right,” said McCoy. “Every man for himself.”

  “Standard rules of engagement?” asked Glorak.

  “Correct, Mr. Glorak,” replied Kirk. “Rendezvous here at 2200 hours.”

  “But Mr. Kirk, that’s curfew!” said Glorak.

  Kirk nodded. “Good point, Mr. Glorak,” he said. “Make it 2155.”

  “That leaves little room for error.”

  Kirk glanced over at Uhura and Gaila. “I don’t anticipate errors,” he said, grinning.

  Kirk moved across the room like a man with a mission. He passed the club stage where a wobbly Andorian girl with white hair and fishnet tights was making a fool of herself singing an ancient Madonna song. She blew Kirk a kiss as he passed. As he approached Uhura, Kirk was disappointed to see that his fun had been compromised: She looked to be already uncomfortable, and it wasn’t because of him. Next to her, Gaila loudly ordered another drink that she clearly didn’t need.

  “Hello, Cadets!” said Kirk brightly.

  “Jim Kirk!” shrieked Gaila. She pointed at him. “Look! It’s that Jim Kirk!”

  Uhura nodded. “So it is.”

  “He’s hot!” she whisper-yelled to Uhura. Gaila then exploded into a honking laugh that sounded like alarmed waterfowl rising from a lake. The noise was so frightening that Kirk nearly backed away.

  “Wow,” said Kirk, nodding. “Impressive levity there.”

  “S’my birthday,” slurred Gaila. She attempted to lean seductively toward Kirk and almost fell off her stool. “Where’s my gift, Jim Kirk?” She grabbed a handful of his shirt. “Is it in your pocket?”

  “Oh, well, see, I didn’t . . . , ” began Kirk, but Gaila cut him off by waving wildly at a passing cocktail waitress.

  “One more!” she screamed over the thumping music. “Right here! Green drink for green girl!” She pointed at herself, laughing hysterically.

  The waitress glided in close. She said, “I already got your order, hon. But are you sure you want it?”

  “I think it’s a poor
decision, Gaila,” said Uhura.

  “Excellent!” said Gaila. She looked up at Kirk. “I’m excellent.”

  “I can see that.”

  “You’re a little too excellent, Gaila,” said Uhura.

  Nearby, the bartender slung a slushy green drink onto the service stand. As the waitress hustled off to snag it, Gaila suddenly slid off her chair and onto the floor at Kirk’s feet. She started giggling uncontrollably.

  “Whoooops!” she howled.

  People at the next table laughed, but looked a little uneasy.

  “Wow,” said Kirk. “You’re really hammered.”

  “Thank you!”

  As Kirk helped Gaila back onto her chair, she flung her arms tightly around his neck. Kirk was momentarily tempted, but then he caught a look from Uhura—a cross between “Don’t you dare!” and “Please god, help me!” So he unlocked himself from Gaila’s grip and shot off to intercept the cocktail waitress.

  “I’ve got this,” he said, dropping money on her tray and snagging the drink.

  “Don’t give it to green girl,” said the waitress wearily.

  Kirk nodded and quickly slipped the drink to a stocky, jovial Xannon cadet named Braxim at the next table.

  “On the house,” said Kirk.

  Braxim smiled broadly. “Thank you, Mr. Kirk,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it.” Kirk leaned down. “And I mean that literally.”

  Braxim laughed heartily. “I have been watching the Orion girl,” he said, beating his chest for emphasis as Xannons do. “You will need assistance, I am sure. Orion girls can be most unruly. Trust me—I know firsthand.”

  “Thanks, friend,” said Kirk, making a mental note to ask for more information on that firsthand knowledge sometime.

  When Kirk returned to the table, Uhura was trying to convince Gaila to head back to the Presidio, the site of the Starfleet Academy campus. But the Orion girl abruptly jumped to her feet and, without a word, staggered off to the restroom.

  Uhura gave Kirk a dark look. “As much as it pains me to say this to you, of all people,” she said, “I need some help.”

  “Okay,” said Kirk.