Martyr

by Peter David

  And then the last living being on Alpha Carinae twitched ever so slightly, and stopped moving.

  For a long, long while, not a sound was made on the entire planet.

  Then a shadow was cast over it. A shadow as if the great spirit of death was hovering over the world, examining it carefully to see precisely what had been wrought.

  The shadow came from a great ship, a ship that descended through the atmosphere of Alpha Carinae and did a slow fly-by over selected portions of the planet. The inhabitants of the vessel had been instantly aware of the crisis that had faced the doomed world, but had been forced to allow the disease to do the job for which it had been so thoroughly and mercilessly designed. Having thoroughly obliterated all life on Alpha Carinae, the virus had lingered another twenty-four hours in the air, land, and water, and then, as it had been created to do, the virus simply self-destructed. In no time at all, the surface of Alpha Carinae was perfectly habitable, if one did not mind stepping over all the corpses. Although, on the other hand, there wasn’t that much left of them. The virus was extremely thorough in its rotting properties.

  The great ship cruised over the surface, inspecting the damage that had been done, the wrath that had been inflicted upon the helpless inhabitants. Finally it hovered over the Central Hall of Worship before landing directly in front of it. In landing, the ship crushed the remains of at least fifty bodies, but this was of no consequence to the inhabitants of the mighty vessel.

  A door irised open and the Overlord of the Redeemers emerged. He looked neither left nor right, for the desiccated remains of an unredeemable race were of no interest to him whatsoever. Instead he entered the Central Hall, barely bothering to afford a glance at the fallen bodies except to step over any that happened to be in his way. Very quickly he found the room where the body of the High Priest lay.

  The Overlord had not felt particularly close to this particular priest. He had not been one of those whom the Overlord had trained himself. Nonetheless, there were certain obligations upon the Overlord that came not as a result of personal closeness, but from his position and a sense of loyalty to his fellow Redeemers.

  He stood over the fallen priest and mourned his passing. The Overlord’s personal escort did likewise, their heads bowed and their lips murmuring invocations to Xant that the fallen priest would walk with him in the light.

  Then the Overlord picked up the fallen staff and nodded approvingly to see that the recording device within had been functioning. He looked distastefully at the blood on it, and one of his entourage ripped off a piece of clothing from the body of Saulcram and used it to clean off the staff as best he could. Some of the blood was dried on and there was nothing he could do about it, but the Overlord accepted the staff as it was.

  He returned to the ship without a word, removed the recording chip, and plugged it into the ship’s computer. Immediately the voice of the fallen High Priest filled the control room, and the discussion that had filled his last moments. The Overlord listened dispassionately, no flicker of emotion whatsoever registering on his face throughout the entire recording. When it was done, he played it once more, as if wanting to be sure that no mistake was made.

  Then he turned to his fellow Redeemers and said simply, “I want Calhoun and the Excalibur.”

  And the Redeemers immediately set about to put the order into action.

  XIV

  SOLETA WAS BECOMING extremely worried.

  She paced across the bridge in an extremely un-Vulcan like fashion and then said, “Time, Mister McHenry?”

  “Two minutes later than the last time you asked, sir,” McHenry replied, turning in his chair. “I thought you Vulcans had an internal clock or something.”

  “Perhaps mine needs adjusting,” said Soleta. “The away team is overdue to check in.”

  ’Yes, it is,” affirmed Lefler. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “They’ve got two heavily armed guards with them, and Kebron, who’s the equivalent of five more guards,” McHenry said confidently. “What can happen to them with him along?”

  “I know you intended that as a rhetorical question, Mark, but I’m getting the distinct feeling that I’ve no desire to learn the answer,” replied Soleta. “Lefler, try to raise them.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Lefler, and she immediately set about doing so.

  Soleta stared at the planet as it turned below them. It seemed to calm, so peaceful. And yet there was so much wrong down there, so much that had happened. The captain, missing, perhaps dead, and now the away team having lost touch with the Excalibur. She did not like how this was shaping up at all.

  “Lieutenant,” Lefler said, trying to keep the apprehension out of her voice, “I’m not getting a response from them. I can’t raise Shelby, Selar, or Kebron.”

  “Can you get a lock on them at all?”

  Lefler quickly checked, sending a locate beam through to their communicator badges. “There’s …” She shook her head in frustration. “There’s some sort of heavy interference. I’m not sure what’s causing it. It is the same sort of interference that is impeding our sensor sweep for the captain.”

  “Atmospheric disturbance?”

  “Negative. Seems man-made. Artificial. It’s blocking my primary sweep.”

  “Punch through it, Lefler. I want them out of there.”

  “Out of there, sir?” Robin looked at her in surprise. “Without a distress call or an order from the Commander?”

  “They’re overdue,” Soleta reminded her. “Weighing the safety of the away team against the chance that Commander Shelby might yell at me, I’ll risk the latter. Now get me the away team.”

  “Working on it, sir,” said Lefler. For minutes she adjusted the frequency of the search probe, trying to pull up a contact with the away team, and finally she called out, “Got four of the five, sir! Managed to crack through whatever the local interference is, at least for the moment!”

  “Send it through to the transporter room. Bridge to transporter room, four to beam up, now!” called Soleta.

  “Starting to lose them!” Lefler called.

  “Transporter room, get on it!” Soleta said urgently.

  “Beaming them up now, sir!” came Watson’s voice. “Having trouble reintegrating the signal, but I think I’ve got them cl—”

  There was a pause, and Soleta fancied that she felt her blood chill ever so slightly. “Transporter room, report!” she ordered. “Who have you got? Are they okay?”

  “Bridge, transporter room!” Watson cried out, and there was no mistaking the alarm in her voice. “Medical emergency! Sickbay already summoned! You better get down here! They—oh, God!”

  “On my way!” Soleta called out, stopping only long enough to say, “McHenry, you have the conn!” before dashing into the turbolift.

  McHenry slowly turned and looked at Lefler with clear concern. “I don’t know which is more frightening,” he said slowly. “That something’s happened to Selar and Shelby … or that I have the conn.”

  “Shut up, Mark,” said Robin with no trace of amusement. McHenry, wisely, said nothing.

  Soleta barreled through the corridors of the Excalibur and arrived just as the team from sickbay was hauling the remains of the away team out of the transporter room. It took all of her carefully learned stoicism not to turn away in horror.

  Shelby and Selar looked like hell. Half of Shelby’s uniform was torn away, and there were burns all over her, huge patches of charred skin on her upper body. Her head lolled to one side; she barely appeared to be breathing. Selar had not fared much better. She appeared to have been lashed by some sort of tendril, tearing away her clothing and skin in vicious strips. The tip of her right ear had been torn off, and there was blood all over the side of her face.

  Hecht was dead. Soleta could tell just from looking at him. His body lay on the rolling cart, twisted at an impossible angle. As for Scannell, physically he appeared untouched. But his mind was gone. His eyes stared blankly, although whether it was into the
air or into himself, Soleta could not be sure. His back was arched, and he was babbling inarticulately, shaking his head every so often as if trying to ward off something that only he could see.

  Shelby seemed to be barely conscious, and Soleta ran along side the antigrav gurney as it was rushed toward sickbay. “Commander,” she said urgently, “can you speak?”

  “Lieutenant,” Doctor Maxwell began, trying to shoo her away even as he was putting a stasis field in place, while running, in order to stabilize Shelby’s condition. “Now is not the time—”

  “Commander, what happened?” demanded Soleta, ignoring Maxwell completely. “Did you find the captain? Where is Kebron? What happened down there?”

  Shelby’s mouth moved, but no words came out. Then, with great effort, she formed a word … one word:

  “Borg,” she managed to say.

  Then she lapsed into unconsciousness, leaving a stunned Soleta in the corridor as the gurneys were sent into sickbay.

  Burgoyne looked up from hir work in engineering to see the ashen face of Ensign Ronni Beth. “I take it that further analysis of the energy drain—” Burgoyne started to say, but then s/he saw the look on Beth’s face. “What’s wrong?” s/he demanded.

  “Did you hear?”

  “About the captain? Yes.” Burgoyne shook hir head. “I don’t believe it for a moment. I know this captain. It’s going to take more than—”

  “Not him. He’s still missing,” Beth said quickly, “but I mean, about the away team. The one that was looking for him.”

  Slowly Burgoyne got to hir feet. “What happened?” s/he said slowly.

  “I cannot say that I am surprised,” Killick was saying.

  He was speaking via the screen to Soleta, who was seated in the unaccustomed place of the command chair, her fingers steepled. Si Cwan was standing just behind her. “Why, may I ask, are you unsurprised?” inquired Soleta.

  “From the coordinates you’ve given me, it is my estimation that your away team had trespassed into Ontear’s Realm.”

  “Excuse me?” said Soleta, leaning forward in polite confusion. “Ontear’s Realm?”

  “It is a sacred land,” Killick informed her. “It was there that Ontear dwelt. It is believed by many that he dwells there still.”

  “Ontear,” Si Cwan now spoke up. “That would be the philosopher and seer who died five hundred years ago.”

  “Ontear did not die,” Killick said, sounding just slightly defensive. “He was taken away to join the gods, as anyone who has read the books of—”

  “Fine, then,” Si Cwan saw absolutely no point in disputing it. “Either way, we’re agreed that it’s not terribly likely he would still be around.”

  “Do not underestimate the power of Ontear, or the spirit of Ontear”—and Killick’s voice dropped to a level that was tinged with menace—“or the vengeance of Ontear.”

  “Nor should we underestimate your obsession with saying the name ‘Ontear,’” commented Soleta. “Are you claiming, Killick, that our away team fell victim to some sort of curse?”

  “I would not have put it quite that way, but it is an acceptable summation.”

  “It is not acceptable to me, sir,” replied Soleta. “It is, in fact, illogical. I have an away team with members that are variously injured, dead, and missing. Their intention was to find the commanding officer of this vessel—”

  “If their trail led them truly, Lieutenant,” Killick informed her, “and your captain is within Ontear’s Realm, then you will not be bringing him back. The Realm of Ontear was consecrated after the death of his greatest acolyte, Suti, and forbidden to all Zondarians. Forbidden, in fact, to all who live.”

  “Even the Savior?” asked Soleta drily.

  Slowly, Killick nodded. “Even to one such as He. If He is there, then He is already dead. As for you, Lieutenant, I would consider myself fortunate if I were you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The fact that you got any of your people back alive. That, in and of itself, is nothing short of miraculous. You should thank the spirit of the Savior for your good fortune.”

  “I will be certain to keep that in mind,” Soleta said with more sarcasm than Si Cwan would have supposed a Vulcan was capable of.

  Killick’s image blinked out, and all eyes turned to Soleta.

  “Now what?” said Si Cwan.

  And Soleta—Soleta, who had once resigned from Starfleet when she discovered her Vulcan/Romulan breeding; Soleta, who had until relatively recently been content teaching science courses at Starfleet Academy; Soleta, who, truth to tell, would have been perfectly content never to set foot on a starship again in her life, much less suddenly find herself in a position of command upon one—said the most difficult four words that she had ever uttered in her life.

  “I am not sure,” she replied.

  Burgoyne strode into sickbay like a force of nature. Several medtechs tried to stop hir, but were utterly unsuccessful. Burgoyne pushed them aside, with strength in hir wiry frame that surprised anyone endeavoring to get in hir way. S/he cast a quick, pained glance in the direction of Shelby. S/he had served with Shelby before, thought her a fine officer and a good person, not to mention possessing one seriously fine body from this angle at least. (the latter comment, for reasons of discretion, never having passed through Burgy’s lips). But the majority of hir attention was focused on Selar, who lay nearby, eyes closed and breathing shallowly but steadily.

  Dr. Maxwell stood near her, checking readings, when Burgoyne walked up. Maxwell glanced up at hir and said, “I would appreciate it if you chose to visit at a later hour.”

  Burgoyne fixed Maxwell with a dark stare. “Doctor, out of my way.”

  Maxwell drew himself up, squaring off against Burgoyne. “There is no need, Chief, to be rude.”

  With a flash of hir canines, Burgoyne said, “That, Doctor, depends entirely upon you.”

  Maxwell was prepared to say something further, but wisely decided that it would do him little-to-no good, and possibly even some serious harm. With one more quick glance at the readings, Maxwell walked away, allowing Burgoyne some time with Selar.

  Burgoyne leaned over her, running hir long, tapered fingers over Selar’s battered face. S/he saw a patch of Selar’s head where the hair had been burned away. What could possibly have happened to her? What could have done this to her? Slowly Burgoyne felt a deep, burning anger building within hir chest.

  “They will pay,” Burgoyne whispered to her. “I swear to the gods, whoever did this will pay.”

  Suddenly Selar’s eyes snapped open. She didn’t seem focused on anything, her gaze instead darting around as if looking for something.

  “Selar!” Burgoyne said in a harsh, amazed whisper, and then s/he called, “She opened her eyes! She—”

  Burgoyne’s hand was on Selar’s temple, and then Selar’s eyes snapped into focus on Burgoyne’s. Her hand, down at her side, wrapped around Burgoyne’s free hand, snapping on to it and grasping it like an infant reflexively holding on to anything thrust in its palm.

  Burgoyne gasped as sickbay fell away from hir, and suddenly there was sand and dirt beneath hir feet, hot air burning in hir lungs, and a roar from all around, roaring in hir ears, in hir mind. S/he became aware of the fact that s/he was no longer perceiving things solely through hir own mind, but s/he was having trouble distinguishing hir own state of mind.

  And the roaring … no, it was howling. Like a massive wind rushing, except the wind was alive somehow. It burned into hir, and s/he felt something angry and ancient flailing at hir, trying to beat hir away.

  And Burgoyne would not be intimidated. Instead s/he snarled back, hir canines fully exposed, ready to rend and tear, and s/he howled defiance and swore an oath of bloody vengeance. S/he saw caves and cliffs, and the aged evil bellowed a challenge that Burgoyne eagerly accepted.

  And Burgoyne knew at that point, beyond any question that s/he was suddenly in a war. A war that had become very personal.

  Th
en something seemed to insinuate itself into Burgoyne’s mind, wrap itself around hir, and hir first instinct was to fight it. But then s/he realized that it was Selar. Selar in a way that s/he had never seen her. Selar, desirous, eager, hungry, wanting and striving and trying to reach out from the depths of her injuries, driven by an instinct for self-preservation and by something else as well. Something that Burgoyne didn’t quite understand, but it was a need, a deep, sexual hunger consuming both Burgoyne and Selar as well. Heat seemed to pound through Burgoyne. And just like that, s/he knew Selar, knew her in and out, felt a connection as deep and as full as anything that Burgoyne had ever felt and would ever feel. Burgoyne cried out, and then the creature roared in hir head once more, splitting Burgoyne and Selar from one another. Burgoyne reached out, hearing Selar howling away in the grip of her memories of what she had faced, and then Burgoyne hit the floor.

  As opposed to the subjectivity of what s/he had just seen, the floor was all too real. Burgoyne sat there, feeling rather foolish, hir head swirling even as a couple of medtechs helped hir to hir feet. Maxwell, to his credit, had put aside whatever bruised feelings he might have sustained from his high-handed treatment by Burgoyne before, saying, “Chief, are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Burgoyne said in a voice that was much huskier than s/he was accustomed to. “I’m … I’m fine. How long was I out?”

  “Only a second. From the moment you said her eyes were open to when you hit the floor, it couldn’t have been more than a second.” Maxwell glanced over at Selar, checking her readings. “Her eyes are closed again.”

  “It’s okay,” Burgoyne said, sounding stunned for a moment. Then hir full concentration returned, with an intensity like a beacon. “It’s okay. I … know what I need to know.” S/he headed for the door.

  “Chief,” said Maxwell. “Did she make some sort of … contact with you? A meld or…?”

  “She did something, all right,” Burgoyne affirmed.

  “What did you see?”

  “Enough,” Burgoyne said. “More than, in fact.” And s/he headed out the door and down the corridor.