by Dayton Ward
“What the devil’s with the Red Alert?” Scott asked, stepping from the upper bridge deck into the command well as Sulu rose from the captain’s chair.
Indicating Chekov at the science station, the helm officer replied, “Sensors tell us they picked up a cloaked vessel entering the system.”
“Romulan?” Scott asked, his frown deepening.
“That’s what it looked like, sir,” said the ensign, “though our sensors registered the reading only for a moment.”
Casting a brief glance back to the viewscreen, Scott folded his arms across his chest. “Status?”
“Our shields are up and weapons are on standby,” Sulu reported. “We’re continuing to conduct full sensor sweeps of the area, but except for the initial contact, we’ve found nothing, which doesn’t make any sense if that new program you installed to detect cloaked ships is working.”
Scott appeared to consider that before saying, “Unless the Romulans, or whoever we think might be out there, have found a better way of hiding themselves.” Moving away from the captain’s chair, the engineer made his way to the science station. “Mister Chekov, show me the sensor readings that triggered the alert.”
It took the younger officer a moment to recall the data and display it on one of his console’s monitors before stepping aside and allowing Scott to sit at the station.
“What are you thinking, Scotty?” Sulu asked, moving to stand at the red, curved railing separating the command well from the upper deck. It required physical effort on his part to keep from repeatedly looking over his shoulder at the viewscreen. Part of him kept wondering when the Romulan ship—or whatever could be out there—might choose to reveal itself.
Grunting, Scott replied, “That either I or my cute little program isn’t as clever as I thought we were.” As he began to input instructions to the workstation, his fingers tapping various buttons and controls spread across the console, he glanced over his shoulder. “I tried to make the detection algorithm broad enough to account for variances in the energy surge created by the cloaking field generator when interacting with different power systems.”
“It’s not hard to think the Romulans found some way to either alter or conceal that energy signature for their ships,” Chekov said, “particularly after we stole one of their cloaking devices.”
Scott nodded. “Exactly. The trick now is to find a way to expand the program’s search parameters and recognition protocols to better distinguish variations in the range of potential energy signatures, and do it in such a way that it doesn’t trip a false alarm.” He shrugged as he continued to work. “Of course, it’s likely that whatever trick I come up with will only be a temporary solution.”
“I’d be happy if it just worked once,” Sulu said.
“Aye,” replied the chief engineer. “I’ll see to it, lad.” His fingers paused in their work, and his hands hovered over the console, as though he was conducting a mental review of what he had just done. When he resumed tapping the controls in seemingly random sequences, he said, “There’s only so much I can do without going in and reviewing the entire routine, but we don’t have that kind of time.” He punctuated his statement with a final stab at one of the controls, and in response the monitor on which his program code was displayed flashed a column of green indicators. Rising from the chair, he gestured toward the station’s hooded scanner. “All right, Mister Chekov. Let’s see what that does.”
The ensign moved to the scanner and peered into its viewfinder, and without looking reached out with his right hand to adjust the unit’s settings. It took only a handful of seconds before an alert tone sounded from the console. “Picking up a minor energy disturbance,” he reported. “It’s faint, but it’s there, consistent and repeating.” Looking up from the scanner, he looked to Sulu and Scotty. “It’s definitely a ship. The profile’s still obscured, but I’m fairly certain it’s Romulan.” He then nodded toward the viewscreen, and when Sulu glanced in that direction, he still saw nothing but open space.
“Can you track it?” Sulu asked.
Chekov replied, “The readings are still erratic, but I think it’s on a direct course for the rift.”
Exchanging glances with Scott, Sulu saw heightening concern on the engineer’s face, and decided the expression had to be a match for his own.
“Lieutenant M’Ress,” Scott said, his voice stern, “open a channel.”
ELEVEN
Commander Vathrael noted the nervousness of the centurion standing before the sensor controls, despite the young officer’s best efforts at maintaining his composure while keeping his attention on his instruments. Vathrael was sure that the subdued lighting of the Nevathu’s cramped bridge, along with the room’s increased warmth as power for the ship’s environmental control system was routed to more essential operations to serve the current tactical situation, only served to heighten the man’s unease. There was no mistaking the rapid blinking of the eyes and the clenching of the jaw, but the single bead of perspiration running from beneath the centurion’s helmet and down the side of his face was the obvious clue. Even with the seriousness of the current situation, Vathrael could not help but smile as she stepped close enough to the centurion so that she would be heard only by him.
“You are remembering to breathe, yes?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper. “It is easy to forget such things during times like this.”
Centurion Betria’s body went rigid for the briefest of moments in response to his commander’s proximity, but Vathrael was satisfied to see her words having the intended effect as the sensor officer snorted, just a bit, under his breath, before nodding. “Yes, Commander, I am.” He paused, uncertainty evident in his eyes as he added, “I apologize for my conduct.”
Vathrael shook her head. “Your apology is unnecessary, Centurion. Such reactions are to be expected from one so young and untried. Confidence comes with experience, which you will gain in time. For now, it is commendable that you are working to set aside any fear you might feel and concentrating on your duty.”
“Thank you, Commander,” Betria replied. Along with a handful of other personnel, he had joined the Nevathu as part of a normal crew rotation during the ship’s last stopover at a resupply base. Fresh out of the military academy, the sensor officer was on his first true deep space assignment, his head doubtless swimming with unchecked thoughts of honorable service to the praetor and the people of the Romulan Empire. Though training scenarios at the academy endeavored to offer simulations that were as authentic as possible, nothing in that controlled environment could ever hope to recreate the uncertainty and unpredictability of actual ship operations in potentially hostile situations such as the one Betria now faced.
From the other side of the Nevathu’s cramped bridge, Subcommander Sirad called out, “Weapons officer, what is the status of the cloaking field?”
“Operating at full capacity, Subcommander,” answered Centurion Terius from where he stood before the bridge’s tactical station. “Weapons and defensive shield generators are on standby, ready to engage the moment we disengage the cloak.”
His hands clasped behind his back as he walked a circuit around the narrow pathway situated between the bridge’s perimeter stations and the control hub at the center of the room, Sirad nodded in apparent approval. “Very good.”
Raising her voice so that it could be heard by the other bridge personnel, Vathrael said, “Centurion Betria, what do your sensors tell us about the Starfleet vessel?”
“It is maintaining position approximately forty thousand mat’drih from the edge of the anomaly, Commander,” the young officer reported. “Its defenses are not active, though our readings indicate the ship is conducting an intensive sensor scan of the area.” He raised his head from his workstation and turned to regard Vathrael, his expression one of concern. “Is it possible they know we are here?”
Vathrael crossed her arms, reaching up with her right hand to stroke her chin. “One thing I have learned, Centurion, is th
at when it comes to Starfleet, anything would appear to be possible.” Using the knowledge of Starfleet technology she had gained from direct experience, the commander had ordered the Nevathu’s entry to the Kondaii system on a course that would use the inhabited fourth planet and the mysterious energy phenomenon to mask their approach.
“Maintain course for the anomaly,” Vathrael ordered, stepping away from Betria and making a circuit of the bridge, her eyes missing nothing as she studied the different stations and the officers presiding over them. No doubt their thoughts mirrored her own and they too were wondering if the Federation ship might be wise to their presence in the system. Even traveling while cloaked, there could be no guarantees that the Nevathu’s approach would escape detection by the Starfleet vessel’s sensors. Since the theft of a cloaking device by a Federation spy some khaidoa previously, an effort was under way to develop a new generation of cloaking field generator, as a means of mitigating the tactical ramifications that might come from whatever knowledge Starfleet gleaned from their study of the stolen technology. What might they have learned already? Without the benefit of information obtained by covert agents working within the Federation, the only practical means of ascertaining how far Starfleet might be exploiting whatever temporary advantage they possessed was to face off against one of their ships. Of course, that notion ran contrary to the orders Vathrael had been given to maintain stealth during this mission and to avoid contact with the enemy if at all possible. While she understood the directive, the commander’s curiosity remained unsatisfied. Such was the way of duty, she reminded herself.
“Centurion Betria,” Sirad said, “what do sensors tell us about the energy field?”
The young officer replied, “It is not like anything previously encountered, Subcommander. The energy it emits does not conform to any natural or artificially occurring patterns on record.”
Directing her attention to the small viewing screen positioned on the bridge’s forward bulkhead, Vathrael regarded the odd energy field it displayed. Though she had never seen with her own eyes any spatial phenomena such as wormholes or interspatial rifts, she knew such things existed, thanks to reports and computer simulations created from the sensor logs of vessels that had run across such bizarre manifestations. In keeping with what Betria had reported, the thing on the screen before her did not resemble anything listed in those logs.
“And our scans cannot penetrate it?” Vathrael asked, without turning from the viewing screen.
“No, Commander.” Betria turned from his console. “All scanning beams disperse upon contacting the field. As a result, we are unable to ascertain what lies beyond the field’s outer boundary.”
Vathrael nodded at the report. “Perhaps that will change once we move past that boundary ourselves.” If the anomaly was, as Fleet Command believed, the product of some kind of alien technology, then it made sense that effort would be extended to make the energy field appear as something other than an artificial construct, at least from the outside. It also made sense that the Dolysians, lacking the sort of advanced sensors carried aboard Romulan and even Federation ships, would not be able to make such a determination for themselves. What secrets might be revealed once the Nevathu made the transit to the other side of the rift? Had the Starfleet crew already made the discovery for themselves? If that was the case, then it would likely have at least some effect on the direction of political discourse between the Romulan Empire and the Federation. Currently, the Kondaii system was in nonaligned space, but that could change in short order if the Dolysians accepted the Federation’s overtures for trade agreements, which would certainly lead to protectorate status and, eventually, possible admission to the interstellar “cooperative.”
Those are problems for diplomats, Vathrael reminded herself, not soldiers. Mind your duty, Commander.
Before she could issue her next order, a telltale tone sounded from the bridge’s communications station, and when the centurion manning that post, Odera, turned to face her, Vathrael saw confusion in the young officer’s eyes.
“Commander, we are being hailed by the Starfleet ship.”
It took an extra moment for Vathrael to process what she had just heard, though she did not go so far as to ask the centurion to repeat his statement. Instead, she asked, “How is that possible?”
Odera shook his head. “I do not know, though it appears to be a repeating message.”
Stepping closer to the communications station, Sirad said, “Perhaps they are not certain of our presence, and are simply sending out a standard hail?”
“If not to us,” Vathrael countered, “then to whom?” She nodded to Odera. “Play the message, Centurion. Standard translation protocols.”
The communications officer nodded before turning to carry out the order, and a moment later a male voice emanated from the bridge’s intercom system.
“Unidentified Romulan vessel, this is Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott of the Federation Starship Enterprise. Be advised that we are able to track your ship even with your cloaking device, and we know that you are on an approach course for the spatial rift. The rift has proven hazardous to vessels possessing warp drive. We have already lost one of our own ships after it attempted to enter the region. Do not enter the rift, as we cannot predict any effect it might have on your ship.”
Sirad scowled. “It is a lie. They cannot possibly be tracking us.”
Her eyes narrowing as she listened to the message play a second time, Vathrael shook her head. “If we are to assume they are not lying about their identity, then this is the vessel responsible for the theft of the cloaking generator from one of our ships. If anyone in their Starfleet were to possess knowledge on how to exploit or defeat our cloaks, it would be this ship and its captain.” The vessel’s commander, a human named Kirk, figured prominently in the report Vathrael had read detailing the device’s theft. Unconfirmed accounts also named Kirk and the Enterprise as having engaged other imperial ships on several occasions over the past three fvheisn, including one incident when a warship’s commander had been forced to engage his vessel’s self-destruct protocols in order to avoid capture. If the information Vathrael had read told her anything about this human and his crew, it was that they were not to be underestimated.
And where was Kirk? No doubt he was busy ingratiating himself with the Dolysians, doing his level best to convince the primitive species that life under Federation rule was infinitely superior to the banal existence they currently enjoyed. So far as the Romulan Empire was concerned, the Kondaii system held little intrinsic value, with the possible exception of whatever technology might be responsible for the energy field the Nevathu now approached.
“Do we respond?” Sirad asked, prodding Vathrael from her brief reverie.
She reached up to wipe perspiration from her brow, noting that the power reduction to the environmental control systems was now quite noticeable. “No,” she said. “Maintain communications silence and proceed on course for the rift.” She did not need to look about the bridge to know that members of her crew, doubtless still thinking of the warning from the Starfleet ship, were now sharing expressions of concern. Was the message a ruse, intended to lure the Nevathu out of hiding? It was a calculated risk, Vathrael knew, but one she believed was worth taking. Still, despite her own confidence, her subordinates, doubtless imagining all manner of repercussions for daring to take the Nevathu into the anomaly, might not be feeling the same level of self-assurance.
She should have guessed that Sirad would not be so affected.
“Attend your stations,” the subcommander snapped, eliciting a small smile from Vathrael. “The inhabitants of this system have been traversing the rift for more fvheisn than some of you have been alive,” he continued, every word echoing off the bridge’s angled bulkheads and low ceiling, “and doing so in spacecraft I would not trust to carry away our garbage. I should like to think that a vessel of the empire would fare somewhat better.”
“Quite right,” Vathrae
l said, nodding in approval. Sirad’s words seemed to have the desired effect as everyone on the bridge seemed to turn to their duties with renewed energy and focus. Though she might not always agree with his views and methods, if there was one thing at which the subcommander excelled, it was ensuring that the Nevathu and its crew maintained efficiency and discipline.
From her left, the centurion manning the helm reported, “We approach the rift’s outer boundary, Commander.”
“Slow to one-quarter speed,” Vathrael ordered. “Full power to the defensive screens, and I want a detailed sensor sweep as we pass through the boundary. Transfer power from any system except the cloaking field, if necessary.”
At his station, Centurion Betria turned and called out, “Commander, the Starfleet vessel is now moving along what appears to be an intercept course with us. Their defensive screens are active, as are their weapons, though I am detecting no evidence of our being targeted.”
“Well,” Sirad said, “that would seem to remove any doubts as to whether they can track us. Shall we engage our own defenses?”
“No,” Vathrael replied. “They will not fire on us unless provoked. Will we reach the rift boundary before they intercept us?”
Standing at the helm console, Centurion Janotra answered, “Not at our present speed, Commander.”
“Increase to three-quarter speed,” Vathrael said, and she heard the omnipresent hum of the Nevathu’s engines shift in pitch as they responded to the increased power demands. Moving to a secondary systems station, she reached for the console and tapped a series of controls, in response to which a display monitor flared to life and offered her an image of the Starfleet ship. The vessel seemed to be moving with singular purpose, growing larger on the screen with every passing moment.
They will not fire.
“Crossing the outer boundary now,” Janotra reported, an instant before the entire ship seemed to react to contact with the rift. The first clue that something might be amiss was the flickering of the bridge’s overhead and recessed lighting, partnered with a noticeable warbling in the reverberations cast off by the Nevathu’s engines. Still leaning against the console, Vathrael was able to feel the first vibrations carrying through the bulkheads—vibrations that were already growing in intensity.
