by Dayton Ward
So, Kirk thought, how do we prevent that from happening? He held no real desire to see injury or death inflicted upon those who considered him their enemy, even when circumstances allowed no other option. So long as alternatives to taking life existed, he would seek them out and exploit them. “Spock,” he said, “what can you tell me about getting control of the system and maybe even shutting it down? Or at least being able to redirect or countermand any actions it might take against perceived threats?”
“We have not yet gained access to those processes, Captain,” the Vulcan replied. “The entire system is rigidly compartmentalized and therefore does not lend itself to easy access by unauthorized parties. If not for the knowledge we gained from the other Kalandan outpost, as well as the talents of Mister Boma and Lieutenant Uhura, we would not have made it this far.”
From behind Kirk, Uhura said, “Captain, I think you need to see this.” When the group turned to her, the captain saw that she had moved back to the console she had been monitoring during the attack on the Romulan vessel. She pointed to one of the monitors, which once again displayed row after row of what Kirk could describe with utmost generosity as gibberish.
Echoing his thoughts, McCoy said, “That looks worse than Scotty’s technical journals.”
Kirk ignored the comment as he stepped closer to the console. “What’ve you got, Lieutenant?”
“This monitor is displaying an extract from what Lieutenant Boma and I have determined to be—for lack of a better term—an activity log. There are entries here for all of the different tasks, actions, queries, and results processed by the computer network, including the defense system.”
“So,” Kirk said, “you’re able to tell me everything this thing’s been doing since it came on line?”
Boma replied, “If a complete archive of the system activity is recorded in that data storage beneath our feet, we should be able to tell you every action this computer has taken since it was first activated.”
Setting aside the idea of what thousands of years of recorded computer data might look like, how long it might take to access it, or how much storage space such a massive amount of information might require, Kirk looked to Uhura. “I’m guessing you’ve got something to show us from the recent past, Lieutenant?”
The communications officer nodded as she gestured once more to the monitors. “Yes, sir. According to this, and if I’m translating the date and time computations correctly, the defense system recorded the actions it took when confronting the Huang Zhong and the Romulan ship. From what I’m seeing of the sensor data, the Romulan vessel was not destroyed.”
“What?” Sortino asked, her eyes widening in surprise. “Are you sure?”
Uhura replied, “Not one hundred percent, but from the recorded data, the ship seemed to disappear just seconds before the final attack.” She looked to Kirk. “Sir, I think they activated their cloaking device and managed to escape.”
“Escape to where?” McCoy asked. “We’d have heard from the Enterprise if they had gone back through the rift, right?”
Spock said, “The sensor data recorded during the engagement noted the damage inflicted upon the Romulan vessel. If it did survive the attack, then it likely would require extensive repairs.”
“If that’s true,” Kirk said, “we may have ourselves some party crashers, after all.”
SIXTEEN
Standing at the foot of the ramp leading into her ship, Commander Vathrael looked toward the sky and noted the beginnings of the color shift signifying the onset of nightfall. Unlike the mauve tinge cast over everything during daylight hours, the effect of the energy field encompassing this world now was beginning to radiate a pale violet glow across the surrounding landscape, a hue Vathrael had come to find soothing. Though the barrier prevented the penetration to the planetoid’s surface of direct sunlight as well as light reflected from the two moons orbiting the nearby inhabited planet, the light refracted from the barrier itself did a serviceable job of compensating for that loss. Vathrael wondered if those responsible for the energy field had intended such an effect, or if it was simply an odd consequence of the technology they had seen fit to place here.
An interesting question, she conceded. It was but one of many queries she had considered with respect to the planetoid as well as the technology it seemed to harbor and those who created it. The weapons certainly commanded her interest, given how it had disabled and—if not for the timely intervention of her engineer—nearly destroyed the Nevathu, and brought about its forced landing here. Despite any personal desire Vathrael might have to further investigate such mysteries, they would have to be set aside while she and her crew tended to the more immediate problems they faced.
Footsteps on the ramp behind made her turn to see her engineer, Subcommander Mylas, descending toward her from the ship. His face and hands, along with his uniform—a standard gray one-piece coverall designed for wear by crew personnel when performing labor-intensive tasks where the regular duty uniform was inappropriate—were smudged with grime. Thinning, stark white hair dampened with perspiration and bloodshot eyes rounded out his disheveled appearance, testifying to the extended period of time he had spent in the bowels of the Nevathu.
“You look tired, my friend,” Vathrael said as she regarded him.
Mylas nodded as he came to a stop at the foot of the ramp. “I’ll rest when the work is completed, Commander.” Despite his words, he leaned against one of the ramp’s support struts, a breach of protocol that Vathrael would never have tolerated from anyone but him.
Unable to resist a small smile, she said, “If you’d let Fleet Command give you the promotion you’ve already earned several times, by my count, you wouldn’t have to crawl around in the belly of my ship trying to fix everything.”
“I much prefer my present duties, Commander. I’m not a creature of politics, or even polished military bearing. My place is with the machines, and I am happy to continue serving in that capacity so long as the empire will have me.”
Vathrael replied, “Fleet Command’s loss is my good fortune.” She first met Mylas when she was but a young centurion, recently graduated from the military academy on Romulus and having been posted to her first assignment to the warship Bloodied Talon. Mylas had been that vessel’s engineer, and she recalled that even then he had projected the same attitude toward promotion or any other offer that might remove him from the position for which he was without question ideally suited. The two had become friends during that assignment, and continued to correspond even after duty and circumstance saw to it that they were separated and dispatched to different ships. Several fvheisn later, having been promoted several ranks herself and after receiving her orders to take command of the Nevathu, Vathrael learned that Mylas had not yet retired and asked him to transfer to her ship to serve as its engineer. It was a request he had obliged without hesitation, much to her delight, and in addition to his duties overseeing the scout ship and its systems, Mylas also resumed the other role he had taken on during her early career: that of her mentor, sympathetic listener, and even her conscience.
“How are the repairs progressing?” Vathrael asked.
Covering his mouth with one hand to stifle a yawn, Mylas nodded. “As well as can be expected, Commander. Life support is fully operational. The sensors are still off line, but we should be able to test the impulse engines by this time tomorrow.” He paused as though considering his remarks, before adding, “Most of the actual repair work there is complete, but I wish to execute some tests and a computer simulation before we attempt to employ the engines.”
“Have you no faith in your own skills?” Vathrael asked, suppressing the urge to smile once again.
Mylas shook his head. “I simply have an aversion to dying in an expanding ball of fire and gas, which is what will happen if our repairs to the impulse drive are incorrect, incomplete, or careless.”
Trusting her friend’s judgment, Vathrael replied, “Very well. It’s not as though we will be
in any hurry to depart.” Then, realizing how her words could be interpreted, she added, “I’m sorry, Mylas. That was an inconsiderate remark.”
Rather than appearing offended, the elder Romulan instead released a small, quiet chuckle. “Worry not, Commander. I understood your meaning. Of course, I do regret that there are limitations to what we can repair.”
“You saved the ship,” Vathrael countered. “Would you not agree that to be the primary concern?”
Mylas nodded. “In light of that, I bow to your wisdom, Commander.” He punctuated the remark with another tired laugh.
The attack on the Nevathu from the mysterious defense system buried beneath the planetoid’s surface had come within moments of being disastrous. From the pitched battle’s beginning, Mylas had been taking steps from the depths of the engineering section. Though he was not fast enough to prevent the initial damage to the ship, it was his quick thinking and resourcefulness that had seen to the deactivation of all weapons systems as well as the haphazard deployment of the Nevathu’s cloaking device. The cloak’s reactivation had come at the precise, necessary moment, rendering it invisible to the planetary defenses and allowing the ship to drop undetected from orbit.
Damage to the impulse engines, sensors, and life support systems had necessitated landing on the planetoid in order to effect repairs, anyway. Not for the first time, Vathrael was thankful she commanded a scout vessel capable of such action rather than one of the empire’s larger and more prestigious warships. Otherwise, she and her crew might already be dead.
“You’re certain there’s nothing you can do about the warp drive?” she asked.
Mylas shook his head. “The ship will require dry-dock facilities and perhaps a complete system overhaul, which means that we will need assistance to return home.”
“A not inconsequential obstacle, given our current predicament.” Thanks to the Nevathu’s repaired cloaking device, the ship was able to maintain stealth. This allowed Vathrael some measure of relief while her crew continued the other repair efforts in a bid to return to space and, if they were fortunate, issue a call for aid. While that was a desirable goal, Vathrael knew that their paramount objective was to avoid revealing their presence to the Enterprise, which might still be outside the rift, monitoring the field and its effects. In addition to the potential danger it represented on its own, the Federation starship could also summon help, and there was a distinct possibility that any reinforcements it called would arrive here ahead of any Romulan vessels. Her standing order, identical to those given to every ship of the empire, was to destroy her ship in order to avoid capture once all other methods of evasion were exhausted. Vathrael would carry out that directive without hesitation, but also with a great deal of regret. Her obvious failure to the praetor would of course weigh on her conscience, but her last thoughts would be how she had betrayed the crew who had given her their trust and loyalty, and who would do so until the end.
We are not there just yet, she reminded herself.
“So long as the impulse engines are operational,” she said, “we can address the other considerations later, if necessary.” She looked about the terrain, which stretched to the horizon in all directions. Taking a deep breath, she savored the gentle, enticing aromas cast off from nearby vegetation. Based on what her sensor officer had told her, this region of the planetoid had recently emerged from its short, mild winter, and the plant life here was currently in the stages of its seasonal bloom. “I think I speak for the entire crew when I say that regardless of how pleasant this little planet would appear to be, we do not want to spend the next few fvheisn here.” How much time remained before the energy field surrounding this world became inaccessible again? Though Vathrael knew the situation would be temporary, if long-term, and as inviting as the surroundings might be, she had no desire to stay here, hiding from the indigenous population until rescue arrived or another opportunity for escape presented itself.
Mylas nodded. “I understand, Commander. I have no desire to spend what little life I might have left wandering about this place. I prefer to enjoy my retirement in the small house I recently purchased in the mountains north of Dartha—close enough to the city that I am not completely isolated from the best civilization has to offer, and yet far enough away that no one will bother me.”
Laughing at the image that evoked, Vathrael shook her head. “Retirement? You? Considering how long I’ve known you, I would think you to be immortal.”
“Only in spirit, Commander,” the engineer replied, smiling.
Vathrael released a small sigh as she shook her head. “Mylas, you’ve been my closest friend since I was an untested centurion. You’ve more than earned my undying devotion and trust. You’re allowed to address me by my name, at least when we’re alone.”
“I will take that under advisement, Commander,” Mylas said, chuckling again.
Any protest Vathrael might have made was silenced by the sound of new footsteps on the ramp. She turned to see her executive officer, Subcommander Sirad, and her sensor officer, Centurion Betria, descending from the ship. Like Mylas, both officers looked tired and dirty from extended efforts as they contributed to the ongoing repair activities. The look on Sirad’s face was enough to tell her that something was troubling him.
“Commander,” Sirad said, offering a formal nod before extending a similar greeting to Mylas. “Our sensors have detected the presence two Starfleet transport craft.”
Surprised at this, Vathrael eyed Betria. “The sensors are functioning?”
The centurion nodded. “Partially, Commander, but enough to show us what may be the source of the attack on our vessel. It’s some distance from here, but still within the range of our transporter system.”
“So, the humans are conducting their own investigation?” Vathrael asked.
Sirad nodded. “It’s what they do, Commander. They investigate, discuss, document, and categorize anything and everything to the point of exhaustion.” He paused, shrugging. “In that respect, they are quite formidable.”
“That was difficult for you to admit, yes?” Mylas asked.
His expression remaining fixed, the subcommander replied, “It evokes a pain unequaled in my lifetime.”
Laughing at that, Vathrael allowed the welcome feeling to linger for a moment before her smile faded and she returned to the matters at hand. “If the Starfleet group finds anything of value, they’ll take samples or scan records of it back to their superiors.” Based on the intelligence reports she had been given upon being given this reconnaissance assignment, she knew that Starfleet and the Federation already had made diplomatic inroads with the Dolysians. That relationship would only continue to grow and strengthen with time, and Starfleet ultimately would benefit from any advanced technology its officers might find while conducting their own survey missions here. During the attack on her ship, she thought the Dolysians themselves may have been responsible, but it was becoming obvious to her that the weapons employed against the Nevathu were far beyond the technology of the planetoid’s current inhabitants. The more she considered that aspect of this evolving situation, the more she was coming to realize that another course of action was beginning to take precedence. Learning about this unknown technology and perhaps seizing it for the empire might well end up superseding the Nevathu’s need to depart the planetoid and escape the rift before it closed.
“Whatever is here,” Sirad said, echoing Vathrael’s unspoken thoughts, “we must find it first, and deny it to our enemies.”
Mylas nodded. “That would seem to be the prudent course, even though doing so likely will threaten any stealth we might currently enjoy.”
“Then that is the price we will pay for carrying out our duty,” Sirad countered, his voice firm. Then, as though remembering his place, he directed his gaze to Vathrael. “Commander?”
After a moment spent in silence as she contemplated her options even as her three officers regarded her, Vathrael drew a deep breath. “Yes, it is our duty.” T
o Betria, she said, “Provide the relevant location information to the transport officer. I will lead a scouting party to the source of the readings, and see what there is to find.” If whatever alien technology she might discover could not be collected and returned to the Nevathu, Vathrael knew it would have to be destroyed.
Whether that course of action might require her own death, or those of her crew, was a question that for now would remain unanswered.
That will be dictated by duty, as well.
SEVENTEEN
The reconstituted scrambled eggs looked real enough, Pavel Chekov conceded as he studied the clump of egglike mass perched atop his eating utensil. The color and texture, so far as he could tell, approximated the real thing. On the other hand, whatever the ship’s food processors had decided this was supposed to be possessed nothing even close to the flavor he tended to associate with eggs.
Just eat, and get it over with.
“Ours is not to reason why,” Chekov muttered before shoving the eggs into his mouth and doing his best to chew while not allowing the offensive pseudo-food to contact his taste buds. As he swallowed, he grimaced while making a mental note to report the possible food synthesizer malfunction to engineering at his earliest opportunity.
“Ensign, are you all right?”
Only when he heard the question did Chekov realize that his eyes were closed. Opening them, he looked up to see Lieutenant M’Ress standing on the other side of his table. The Caitian communications officer was holding a tray identical to his own, atop which was a plate stacked with some sort of green vegetables he did not recognize. A data slate was tucked under her left arm, and her coat of orange fur gave off a sheen thanks to the recessed lighting of the officer’s mess, making Chekov wonder if she had recently finished grooming herself.
