Star Trek: That Which Divides

by Dayton Ward

  It was Scott, having moved from his station and stepped down into the command well to stand next to Kirk, who replied, “I wouldn’t think so, sir. Our warp engines would likely provoke the same kind of reaction. That’d be risky, even dangerous. I’d like to take a better look at the data for myself. I may be able to do something to reduce or eliminate the risk; alter plasma flow or modulate the warp field generators, perhaps. We could even deactivate the warp engines entirely, though that wouldn’t be my first choice.”

  “Nor mine,” Kirk said. “So, how close is too close?”

  The engineer frowned. “Based on what I’ve been able to dig out of the sensor data so far, I’d say a hundred thousand kilometers is a nice buffer, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Mother hen, that’s what you are.” Sighing, Kirk nodded. “Okay, Scotty, look into that. See if you can find a way to let us pass through, but without doing anything to upset the field’s natural stability.”

  “It’s likely that ‘natural’ is an inappropriate descriptor in this case, Captain,” Spock said. “The readings collected by the Huang Zhong sensors indicate a repeating modulation in its waveform, one precise enough that the odds of it occurring naturally are quite remote.”

  “Remote?” Kirk echoed.

  McCoy asked, “Remote enough that the Huang Zhong’s science officer might’ve had it right all along?”

  “Not now, Bones,” Kirk snapped. “All right, so if it is artificial in origin, how is it the Dolysians haven’t been able to figure that out for themselves?”

  Spock replied, “The readings are such that very sensitive equipment would be required to detect the patterns, Captain. Current Dolysian technology precludes the existence of such equipment.”

  Before the conversation could proceed, an alert tone sounded on the bridge, and McCoy looked past Kirk to see the alarm indicator at the center of the helm-navigation console flashing bright red. Ensign Chekov turned in his seat, and McCoy saw the concern on the younger man’s face.

  “Captain, we’re picking up the approach of a vessel. It looks to be a Dolysian transport, sir. It came out of the rift and is heading in our direction.” Looking toward the main viewscreen, McCoy now was able to discern a small, dark shape highlighted by the intense illumination of the energy field. It was short and stout, resembling at least in some respects the sorts of low-warp long-haul freighters that were in common use from Earth during the previous century.

  His attention also on the screen, Kirk hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Uhura, broadcast a standard hail on all frequencies.”

  “Aye, Captain,” answered the communications officer as she input the instructions to her console. After a moment, she reported, “We’re receiving a reply to our hail. Audio and visual, sir.”

  “On-screen,” Kirk ordered.

  The image of the energy field on the main viewscreen faded, to be replaced by that of two figures—a Dolysian and a human male—standing in what to McCoy looked to be the transport craft’s bridge. The Dolysian, also a male, wore what the doctor presumed was a sort of simple uniform, with a broad-shouldered dark green coat tailored to the alien’s slender physique. His human companion was a dark-skinned man, sporting what McCoy noted was a nasty abrasion on one cheek and a large cut on his chin. Though he wore a simple gray tunic instead of a uniform, his hairstyle and sideburns identified him as a member of Starfleet.

  As he was wont to do in such situations, Kirk spoke first. “I’m Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation Starship Enterprise. May we be of assistance?”

  On the screen, the Dolysian replied, “Greetings, Captain. I am Renchir Thay na Berrong of the Unified Police Force, and I bid you welcome. As it seems our names can be somewhat cumbersome for humans to pronounce, Thay will suffice. I have been sent to assist you. I have been ordered by the leadership council to escort you through the Pass and on to Gralafi, and to lend whatever support you may require due to the unpleasant circumstances which have brought you to us.”

  “Unpleasant and certainly unintentional,” Kirk said. “On behalf of the United Federation of Planets, I welcome your assistance. We hope to remedy the situation as quickly as possible so as not to pose any further inconvenience.”

  McCoy sensed Sortino leaning toward him, and then she spoke just loud enough for him to hear, “He makes quite the first impression. Are you sure you even need me on this mission?”

  “We are eager to help in any way possible,” Thay continued, before indicating his human companion. “We have brought with us one of your comrades, as we felt it appropriate that you hear from him directly.”

  Although he recognized the man’s face from his review of the Huang Zhong personnel files, it still took McCoy an extra moment to recall the crew member’s name. He stepped forward so that Kirk could see him in his peripheral vision, then said in a low voice, “That’s Ensign Suresh Kari, Jim—one of the engineers.”

  Kirk nodded, acknowledging the doctor’s report before turning his attention back to the screen. “Ensign Kari, it’s good to see you. How are you feeling?”

  “Bruised and a bit beat up, sir, but ready for duty,” Kari replied. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Only three of us survived the crash, and our injuries are fairly minor. The ship itself is a total loss.”

  McCoy forced himself not to offer any visible emotional response to the report. Three survivors meant eleven casualties. Based on Kari’s report, there would be no need for his trauma team on Gralafi.

  It was obvious that Kirk also was disheartened by the report, but he drew a deep breath before asking Kari, “Captain Arens?”

  The ensign shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. He died of his injuries, along with Commander Hebert. Our science officer, Lieutenant Boma, is the highest-ranking survivor.” McCoy noted how Spock and Kirk exchanged knowing glances, each recognizing the name.

  Thay added, “Those who survived the crash were transported to the medical facility at the Havreltipa colony on Gralafi, Captain. None of their injuries are life-threatening, but you likely will be better able to treat them.”

  “We’ll be doing that very shortly, sir,” Kirk said. “Ensign Kari, we’re going to beam you aboard the Enterprise for a full debriefing. Thay, we have some final preparations to complete before we’ll be ready for your escort through the rift. Please stand by.”

  The Dolysian nodded. “Yes, of course. We shall maintain station here until you are ready.” As the transmission ended, the image of Thay and Kari dissolved and the energy field once again was visible on the main viewscreen, serving as a wondrous backdrop for the transport ship.

  Turning to face Spock once more, Kirk asked, “How much time do we have?”

  Without any apparent need to consult his instruments, the first officer replied, “Three point six two standard days, Captain.”

  “Three days to get in and salvage as much of the ship itself as you can,” Sortino said. “It’ll be tight. You may end up having to destroy the wreckage, rather than leave behind anything you can’t remove before our window closes.”

  Kirk nodded. “I know. We’ve already exposed the Dolysians to enough advanced technology just by being here. The last thing we need is them digging around through the Huang Zhong wreckage and finding something dangerous, or something they’re just not ready to deal with yet.” He cast a somber look in McCoy’s direction. “It looks like there’s not much work for you, Bones.”

  “At least we can help the survivors,” the doctor said. “That’s something, anyway.”

  Pausing as though to process that grim reality, Kirk closed his eyes and rubbed his temples for a moment before looking to Scott, who still stood near the railing in front of McCoy and Sortino. “Okay, Scotty; taking the Enterprise through the rift is off the table, and our safety cushion rules out transporters. What about our shuttlecraft? Can they be rigged to make the transit?”

  The engineer replied, “Aye, we can deactivate their warp engines. From what I can tell, impulse drive doesn’t seem
to pose a problem with the energy field, but we can install extra shielding for added protection.”

  “How long?” Kirk asked.

  Frowning, Scott said, “Five hours, I’d think.”

  The captain gestured toward the turbolift. “Make it less, if you can.”

  “Right away, sir.” Offering nods to the captain as well as Sortino, Scott turned and made his way toward the alcove at the rear of the bridge.

  Leaning against the red railing, Kirk said, “Bones, it looks like you and your team will be getting a taxi ride through the rift. Have Scotty allocate a shuttle exclusively for medical transport use. Treat your patients there only if you have to. Otherwise, bring them back to the Enterprise.”

  McCoy had already been thinking along those lines from the moment the notion was raised to make use of shuttlecraft. “You read my mind, Captain.”

  “Good,” Kirk said. “Spock, take another shuttle and see what you can find out about the rift. If it is artificial, then maybe it and whatever brought down the Huang Zhong are related, somehow.”

  “Where are you going to be, Jim?” McCoy asked.

  Indicating Sortino, the captain replied, “I’ll be accompanying the ambassador to meet with the Dolysian leadership.” He paused, tapping the railing. “We’ve got three days to do our jobs, people. Otherwise, whoever’s on the other side of that rift when it closes will get to enjoy a rather extended vacation, courtesy of the Dolysians and who or whatever else might be on that planetoid. I want answers, and I’m sure the Dolysians do, too. “Any questions?”

  “How soon do we get started?” McCoy asked, anxious to reach the Huang Zhong survivors and get on with helping them. His comment earned him a smile from the captain as he offered one final, curt nod.

  “All right, then,” Kirk said. “Let’s go to work.”

  FIVE

  Vathrael felt the sting of the lirash across the back of her right hand as she twisted her own weapon in a failed attempt to parry the strike. Her opponent grinned as he pulled his staff back, holding it with both hands across his body while sidestepping from left to right as he searched for another opening. Gritting her teeth to force back the pain from her hand, Vathrael turned and maneuvered to keep her adversary in front of her.

  “Very nice,” she said, returning the smile and nodding in approval. If the lirash had been the actual weapon with its bladed head and spiked base, rather than the wooden replicas used for training, she might well have lost her hand during that attack. As it was, Vathrael could see where the pale green skin across her knuckles was already beginning to darken.

  “Thank you, Commander,” replied Terius. Perspiration ran from the centurion’s face and down the bare skin of his muscled chest, the only outward sign of exertion that the younger man displayed. Vathrael felt her own pulse racing and her breathing coming fast and shallow, the first signs of fatigue beginning to assert themselves. The sparring match had already gone on longer than she had anticipated, her poor estimate of the time needed to dispatch the centurion made worse by her gross underestimation of her weapons officer’s prowess. Terius’s skill with the lirash and his command of the Ch’Vashrek personal combat method was impressive, particularly for someone so young. While Vathrael was pleased to see such interest in the ancient fighting arts and old-style weapons, she had not expected to be challenged with such verve, especially not by someone under her own command.

  Perhaps you grow complacent in your advancing age?

  The teasing thought was not enough to distract Vathrael as Terius made his next move. Feinting right, the centurion changed direction, bringing up the lower end of his lirash and attempting to swing in underneath Vathrael’s guard. The commander saw the move for what it was and adjusted her own stance, dropping her staff to parry the attack. The sound of polished wood smacking together echoed off the curved bulkheads of the Nevathu’s exercise chamber, first once and then a second time as Vathrael swung her lirash’s opposite end up and around. Terius’s reaction was swift and precise, parrying the strike with his own weapon before launching a counterattack.

  There it is.

  Terius’s enthusiasm was betraying him, and Vathrael now saw her adversary’s weakness. Lunging forward, she released her right hand from her weapon’s grip, using her other arm to push up and away. Terius raised his arms in defense to meet the upward swing, a maneuver which forced him to shift his stance. That one move, needed to block what was little more than a distraction, provided Vathrael the opening she needed. She struck with her right fist, landing a solid punch to Terius’s unguarded left flank. The centurion grunted in surprise and pain, his lirash lowering as he attempted to adjust to the new attack. It was an unfortunate move that left his face exposed, and Vathrael took full advantage of the opportunity, jabbing with rigid fingers to the side of Terius’s neck. Designed as a killing blow when delivered with full force, even something less than half-strength was enough to make the younger officer stagger backward before falling to one knee. The lirash in his hands dropped to the exercise mat, and Terius sat down, grimacing as he reached for his neck.

  “Are you all right?” Vathrael asked, concerned that she may have injured her subordinate in the excitement of the moment.

  The centurion nodded, coughing as he rubbed his neck. “Yes, Commander. I’m fine. You simply caught me by surprise.”

  Unable to resist a small chuckle, Vathrael stepped forward and extended her hand. “It was I who was surprised. You demonstrate exceptional skill, but you lost your focus. Had you not done that, you may well have bested me.”

  Terius took the commander’s proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “You honestly think so?”

  “No,” Vathrael replied, laughing before she turned and crossed the exercise floor to a bench where she had left a towel and a bottle containing a pale blue liquid. After first leaning her lirash against the bench, she retrieved the bottle and—with no small amount of reluctance—drank from it, doing her best not to grimace at the unpleasant taste while in the presence of Terius and other subordinates in the exercise area. She should not have bothered, as her effort proved futile.

  “You do not like the matnaral?” Terius asked, offering a knowing smile.

  Vathrael shrugged as she forced herself to take another long drink from the bottle. “It has its uses.” Matnaral had been engineered to replace fluids and minerals that the body lost during prolonged exertion and perspiration. Designed as a dietary supplement for shipboard crews, it also served to reduce the demand for drinking water during protracted missions in deep space. Unlike water, it possessed a bitter tang that only grew stronger as a consequence of the ship’s reclamation and recycling systems, which of course were impacted by the amount of time the Nevathu stayed out on patrol far from home. Vathrael knew that drinking the concoction served a purpose so far as contributing to the health of her crew while conserving the precious water supply, but one of the promises she had made to herself was that upon her retirement from the service, matnaral would never again touch her lips.

  Reaching up to wipe her mouth, Vathrael asked, “You understand I was only joking about our sparring match? You honestly do possess formidable talent. I hope you will continue your studies.”

  Terius nodded. “I am honored and humbled by your words, Commander. Your reputation as a master of Ch’Vashrek is well known, after all.”

  “An artifact of my youth, Centurion,” Vathrael said, retrieving her towel and using it to wipe perspiration from her face. Though hand-to-hand combat was taught at the military academies, their preferred style was an amalgam of different martial arts that had been blended and simplified for ease and efficiency of instruction on a large scale. Vathrael had acquired an interest in Ch’Vashrek while still a cadet, studying under the watchful eye of her maternal uncle—himself an acknowledged master of the ancient fighting art—during whatever fragments of otherwise unoccupied time she could bring to the endeavor. Upon graduating from the academy and receiving her commi
ssion as an officer, Vathrael had continued her studies, even going so far as to enter various competitions devoted to the discipline. Her uncle’s ample, often grueling tutelage served her well, allowing her to win most of those contests. Though she had long ago given up such pursuits, her affection for Ch’Vashrek and the benefits it provided her mind and body continued unabated.

  Reaching for her lirash, Vathrael began wiping the weapon’s grips with her towel as she eyed Terius. “With your abilities, you should consider competing. I daresay you would thrive in such an environment.”

  “I have thought about it,” the centurion replied, retrieving his own towel and proceeding to wipe his hands. “Perhaps if I had a tutor, someone with a passion for the sport and hard-won experience, to guide me, I might consider it.”

  Well, it certainly appears as though young Terius can add servility to his list of skills. Vathrael schooled her features so as not to reveal a betraying smile as the errant thought echoed in her mind. Despite the centurion’s penchant for easy, transparent flattery—a talent seemingly developed by all officers with familial ties to influential people in the Romulan government—Vathrael was forced to admit that she found the idea of acting as a teacher to a student of Ch’Vashrek carried with it an appeal she could not easily dismiss. She had not even attended competitive matches since making the decision to refrain from participating, but she still retained her taste for the excitement to be found at such events. Given that she was approaching the end of her military career, the idea of dedicating time and energy to some other pursuit was something she had been considering for a while. Perhaps she could find some new fulfillment as a mentor, not only to Terius but to other young students seeking to master the revered fighting art. It was a notion, Vathrael decided, that would require further reflection.

  Her attention was drawn to the sound of the exercise chamber’s door sliding open, followed by a set of fast-moving footsteps echoing across the deck plating. Vathrael looked up to see Subcommander Sirad, her executive officer, enter the room while carrying a computer data tablet. As always, Sirad presented the epitome of a well-groomed Romulan officer. He did not walk so much as marched, his every movement a testament to military precision. His uniform was tailored to an exacting degree around his trim physique, to the point that Vathrael often wondered if the subcommander had himself sewn into the garments each day. His hair was cut in a short style that left the sides of his head exposed, trimmed to what Vathrael was certain was mathematical exactitude. The boots he wore were polished to a shine so bright that other officers joked about being able to see their reflections in them, though such observations were of course never made in Sirad’s presence.