Assignment: Eternity Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  The Best and the Brightest Excerpt

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Art Wallace and Gene Roddenberry for making “Assignment: Earth” one of my favorite episodes of the original Star Trek series, not to mention Robert Lansing and Teri Garr and, of course, Isis.

  Thanks also to John Ordover, for letting me bring all these characters back; to Sumi Lee, for Russian profanities; to Patrick Nielsen Hayden, for going to amazing lengths to install a balky ditto drive; to Howard Weinstein for beating me to the punch with a Gary Seven comic book; to Tor Books, for letting me make a graceful exit (of a sort); and, most of all, to Karen, for hours of careful reading and contemplation.

  Prologue

  Camp Khitomer, Khitomer Outpost

  United Federation of Planets

  Stardate 9521.6

  A.D. 2293

  THE TRAITOR’S BLOOD still pooled on the tile floor. Excitement, and a nearly palpable sense of relief at the disaster so narrowly averted, suffused the assembly hall. Ambassadors, ministers, and delegates from a dozen different worlds looked on in shock and amazement.

  “It’s about the future, Madame Chancellor,” Captain James T. Kirk declared as he helped the President of the Federation back onto his feet. The President held his hand over his heart, shaken by his close brush with death only moments before. “Some people think the future means the end of history. Well, we haven’t run out of history quite yet.”

  Kirk stepped away from the podium and the President, addressing his explanation to a regal-looking Klingon woman standing nearby. Chancellor Azetbur, daughter of the martyred Klingon leader Gorkon, listened gravely.

  Near the back of the spacious chamber, amidst the stunned onlookers, a lone Romulan went completely unnoticed. All eyes were on Kirk and Azetbur. Good, Commander Dellas thought, savoring her apparent anonymity. It was just as she’d planned.

  “Your father called the future ‘the undiscovered country,’ ” Kirk continued. “Some people can be very frightened of change.”

  Only a few meters away from Kirk, Commander Spock stood guard over his prisoner, the disgraced Starfleet officer Valeris. Slowly, cautiously, Dellas began to work her way through the crowd towards the elevated stage where Spock and his comrades-in-arms now stood. Her eyes zeroed in on the unsuspecting Vulcan.

  Azetbur weighed Kirk’s words, then nodded somberly. “You’ve restored my father’s faith,” she said.

  High above the heads of the delegates, a shattered glass skylight testified to the location of the failed sniper’s former perch. A difficult shot, Dellas decided, coolly evaluating the traitor’s attempt to shoot the Federation President. I will not make the same mistake. Easing and elbowing her way through the throng of spectators, keeping to the left to avoid the sizable Klingon delegation, she drew ever nearer to Spock and his crewmates. The Vulcan remained unaware of her approach, intent on the historic drama unfolding before him.

  “And you’ve restored my son’s,” Kirk replied to Azetbur. Throughout the assembly hall, ministers and ambassadors from many different worlds rose to applaud Kirk and his companions. Dellas clapped as well, the better to blend with the crowd. She quickened her step, a determined look upon her face, until only a single row of applauding delegates stood between her and the platform occupied by honored Starfleet heroes. Ironically, she found herself standing directly behind Sarek of Vulcan, her target’s legendary father, and a young Romulan delegate. Pardek, Dellas thought grimly, recognizing his face from her preliminary research for this mission. Was it just her imagination, or was the future senator already eyeing Spock with a thoughtful, scheming expression on his face?

  She glanced about quickly to see if anyone was watching her, but all eyes remained on Kirk and Spock and the others as they accepted the gratitude of the entire assembly. Excellent, she thought. There would never be a better opportunity. Ceasing to clap, she slipped her hand beneath her grey civilian robes and drew out a compact, palm-sized disruptor. The metallic weapon felt cool in her hand.

  Spock stood less than seven meters away from Dellas, a few steps to the left of his captain. His calm, impassive face offered no clue to his feelings at this moment. Dellas considered his poise and dignity. Just like my father’s. She experienced a twinge of regret at what she had come to do.

  Then she raised her weapon, took aim, and fired.

  A coruscating beam of hot, blue energy flashed through the gap between Sarek’s and Pardek’s heads. Kirk gasped in horror as the beam zipped past him to strike Spock. The Vulcan’s stoic expression betrayed only momentary surprise before the disruptor beam dissolved his molecular cohesion. The destructive energies suffused his body, consuming it entirely. For an instant, there was a glowing blue silhouette where Spock had stood, then nothingness. “No!” Kirk cried out as he watched his friend disintegrate before his eyes.

  The assembly erupted into pandemonium. Dozens of delegates, humanoid and otherwise, shouted and cried out as they fought each other to reach the exits. Dellas heard Spock’s father emit a single, strangled sob before letting the crowd’s desperate flight carry her away. She deftly slipped her weapon back into her robes. Done, she thought. She felt calm, relaxed, almost Vulcan in her serenity. It doesn’t matter if they catch me or not. I’ve done what I had to do.

  Spock was dead, and the future had been changed forever.

  Chapter One

  811 East 68th Street, Apt. 12-B

  New York City, United States of America

  Planet Earth

  A.D. 19 July 1969

  AS USUAL, she felt lost in the fog. The glowing azure mist, swirling and luminescent, enveloped her completely. She could see nothing but blue all around her, hear nothing but her own rapid heartbeat. No matter that she had entered this unnatural fog dozens of times before and emerged safely each time; part of her always worried that this time she would disappear into the mist forever.

  Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. You use elevators, don’t you? You don’t worry about crashing down twenty-five floors every time you step into an elevator, right?

  Yeah, another part of her psyche replied, but elevators are normal. Traveling by radioactive smoke is just too freaking out-of-this-world!

  She stepped forward, deeper into the mist, which did not feel cold or moist like real fog; it was a seething cloud of energy that tingled like static electricity and seemed to pass beneath her skin and between each individual molecule of her body. For a heart-stopping second, she felt as if she was dissolving into the fog, as if there was no longer any difference between her and the swirling mist, and she hastily frisked herself to make sure she was all still th
ere. She ran her fingers over the rough denim of her jeans, her soft, cotton, tie-dyed T-shirt, the bangs of tinted, honey-blond hair just above her eyes. Still solid. Still intact. Thank God.

  Was this trip taking longer than usual? Although she had only entered the fog moments ago, it felt like centuries. “Hello?” she called out. “Are we there yet?”

  As if in response, the fog grew thinner before her eyes. Through the churning blue haze, she glimpsed a darkness beyond—and a blinking green light somewhat further on. She rushed forward and suddenly the fog was gone. She stumbled onto a carpeted floor, tripping slightly as if she had encountered an unexpected step, but managing to keep her balance. She shook her head, torn between exasperation and relief. After the fog, coming back to reality—any reality—was always a bit of a jolt.

  At first, all she could see was a translucent green cube, about three inches wide, floating in the darkness a few feet away. A chartreuse glow lit the cube from within, flashing even more brightly for an instant just as the cube emitted a curiously feminine “beep.”

  Then, as if summoned by the beep, the overhead lights came on, revealing a neat and tidy office decorated with contemporary furniture. The green cube sat atop a large black desk, next to a silver pen and pencil set. The carpet turned out to be a pale orange color, matching a couch and plush chair across the room from the desk. Framed paintings, landscapes mostly, hung on the walls, except where cedar bookshelves occupied one entire wall of the office. Encyclopedias, atlases, and other hardcover reference books filled the bookshelves.

  The room’s ordinary-looking furnishings were reassuringly familiar. “Home sweet home,” she murmured, then turned around to look back the way she’d came.

  What she beheld provided a jarring contrast to the mundane appearance of the rest of the office. A shining steel door, more suitable to an airlock or a bank vault, stood wide open, exposing a darkened chamber in which the luminescent fog continued to swirl and billow, seeming to come from nowhere yet never spreading beyond the rectangular boundaries of the doorway. No matter how hard she strained her eyes, she could not see beyond the fog; for all she could tell, the shadowy tunnel behind the fog could have stretched to infinity—and probably did. I am never going to get used to this, she thought.

  Her sneakers, a new pair of P.F. Flyers, tapped impatiently against the carpet as she peered into the fog. “C’mon,” she muttered. “What’s taking you so long?”

  The mist refused to answer her. She glanced over at the flashing green cube on the desk, wondering if she should risk interrupting the process by consulting the cube. “I’ll give them five more seconds,” she decided. Four, three, two . . .

  Just as she was about to give up, a figure appeared in the mist, hazily at first, but quickly gaining form and definition. Unlike her, he emerged from the fog with the calm and confidence of one completely at ease with the procedure. He was a tall, slender man dressed in a conservative gray suit. His neatly trimmed brown hair was edged with gray at the temples, while his light brown eyebrows faded, almost to invisibility, against his craggy features. The man’s face wore a grim, sober expression, lightened somewhat by a hint of ironic amusement. His right hand gently stroked the head of a sleek, black cat he held securely against his chest.

  Always the cat, she thought. So how come kitty can’t come through on her own? I did.

  The cat let out an inquisitive mew. A collar of silvery fabric glittered around its neck. Its eyes were brilliant yellow ovals pierced by thin slits of black.

  “Yes, Isis, we made it,” he murmured to the cat. Behind him, the fog faded into nonexistence, leaving not even a stray wisp to linger in the office. The empty space beyond the doorway now looked merely dark and featureless, like an unlit closet. The green cube beeped again, and the heavy steel door began to close automatically. Wooden panels slid out from hidden recesses in front of the doorway, concealing the gleaming metal door behind three shelves of cocktail glasses. Within seconds, all traces of the enigmatic fog chamber had vanished from sight.

  The blond woman was no longer surprised by the office’s transformation; she’d witnessed the change too many times before. “About time,” she protested, crossing her arms as she leaned back against the sturdy desk. “What kept you?”

  “A few last-minute details,” he replied, “but I think I can now safely guarantee that Col. Armstrong will take a very remarkable walk tomorrow.”

  “Really?” She let out a long sigh of relief. Her eyes widened as the full enormity of the man’s statement sunk in. “Wow. Man on the moon. Even after all I’ve seen in the past year, I can still barely believe it.”

  “Welcome to the Space Age, Miss Lincoln,” said the man who called himself Gary Seven. He placed the cat gently onto the carpet. “Trust me, this is only the beginning.”

  Roberta Lincoln, age twenty, walked across the office and dropped onto the orange couch. Isis, her furry black nemesis, hopped onto the couch as well, and Roberta scooted down to the other end of the couch, putting at least one full cushion between them. “The beginning,” she repeated. “That’s what that spaceman from the future, Kirk, said, too.” She sunk deeper into the couch, her gaze drifting heavenward as if she could probe the depths of interstellar space right through the ceiling of the office. “Good thing me and you got to help out a bit.”

  Isis made an indignant squawk.

  “Oh yeah, you, too,” Roberta conceded. Sheesh, now even I’m talking to the cat! Bad enough that the boss keeps Kitty better informed than me. . . .

  Seven, also known as Supervisor 194, allowed a bit of a smile to curl his lips, apparently amused by the byplay between Roberta and Isis. He removed his jacket and hung it neatly over the black metallic chair behind his desk. “All part of the job,” he said, loosening his necktie. “The human race has enormous potential, but it still needs a little help now and then.”

  Some job, Roberta thought. Tearing her gaze away from the ceiling, she glanced around Seven’s unassuming office. When she’d first started working here, for Seven’s immediate predecessors, she’d had no trouble accepting that “encyclopedia research” was all that was going on. Boy, was I in for a surprise. If I told anyone else half of what goes on in here, they’d think I was pulling their leg—or that I’d lost my mind.

  “You know,” she said, “the way you talk, sometimes I think you forget that you’re part of the human race, too.”

  The wry smile disappeared from Seven’s face, replaced by a more pensive expression. “Very perceptive, Miss Lincoln,” he said, a touch of melancholy deepening his voice. “You may have a point there. Knowing what I do, having been where I’ve been, there is a bit of a . . . distancing effect.” He gave her a serious look from across the room. “I’ll have to count on you to keep me in touch with the rest of my species.”

  “Uh, sure,” Roberta said, uncertain how to respond. How do you relate to a guy whose ancestors have been trained by aliens for six thousand years? “Say, that 2001 film is still playing a few blocks away. I haven’t seen it yet.” Had Seven (she could never think of him as Gary) ever gone to the movies? She had no idea. “Maybe we can hit a matinee sometime?”

  Isis hissed and gave Roberta a dirty look. She scratched her claws on the arm of the couch.

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” Roberta said. “It’s not my fault they don’t let cats into the movies.” Of course, Isis wasn’t always a cat, but Roberta tried not to think about that. It was just too weird. “So, what do you say?” she asked Seven. “I’ll even spring for popcorn. Dutch treat.”

  Seven opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a piercing, high-pitched whistle from the cube on his desk. The glowing cube flashed urgently, and Seven reacted as if jolted by a live electrical wire. Movies and moon landings were instantly forgotten as Seven snapped to attention. He was out from behind the desk in an instant, striding across the floor toward the bookshelves. “Computer on,” he said sharply.

  “What is it?” Roberta asked, quickly catch
ing Seven’s mood. Isis sprung from the couch, landing on all four paws only a few inches away from the bookshelves. The fur along the cat’s neck lifted itself in alarm.

  “Emergency beacon,” Seven explained, his gaze glued to the wall containing the bookshelves, which now began to swing outward, rotating a concealed computer bank into view. Flashing horizontal and vertical lines, in various combinations of colors, formed changing patterns on the surface of a gleaming, high-tech computer that was the size of a large refrigerator. Seven called it a “Beta-5” computer, although Roberta had no idea what exactly distinguished it from, say, a Beta-4 or a Beta-6. She only knew that Seven’s computer, based on an ancient alien technology, was smarter than any other machine on Earth, circa 1969. She wondered if the rest of the world’s computers would ever catch up with the Beta-5. Not in my lifetime, she thought.

  A circular viewscreen, smaller than the average television, occupied one section of the apparatus. “Computer, identify distress signal,” Seven instructed.

  The Beta-5 responded to his vocal command. “Executing,” the machine reported. Its voice, although identifiably feminine, had a distinctly inhuman echo. “Signal is fragmented due to transtemporal interference.”

  “Transtemporal?” Seven said. Judging from the tone of his voice, Roberta decided that was not good news. Transtemporal she thought, as in time travel? She hopped off the couch and hurried to join Seven and Isis by the computer.

  “Confirmed,” the Beta-5 stated. “Tracking source of transmission. Location: Romulan Star Empire, coordinates 83-62-171. Date, by current Earth chronology: 2269 A.D.”

  Roberta’s jaw dropped. 2269? Three hundred years from now?

  Seven merely nodded grimly in response to the computer’s startling revelation. “Can you reconstruct the content of the transmission?”

  Illuminated lines flashed in sequence. “Attempting to integrate signal.” Visual static appeared on the view screen. Roberta looked over Seven’s shoulder, trying to discern some sort of recognizable image from blurry electronic snow. She wished she knew what she was looking for.