Enigma

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “Well,” said Urajel, “you were right.”

  Bender was accompanying her friend to engineering before she herself reported to the science section. “You mean about Ulelo,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Urajel, her Andorian antennae bending forward. “You said he couldn’t have committed the crimes of which he was accused. And as it turns out, he didn’t.”

  “He just thought he did,” said Bender, unable to keep a sigh out of her voice.

  Urajel tilted her head to get a better look at the science officer. “Aren’t you happy about that?”

  “Happy that he’s insane?” Bender asked.

  The engineer dismissed the idea. “Happy that he hasn’t transmitted our specs to anyone.”

  Bender swore beneath her breath. “I’m happy for us, sure. We’re safe and secure. But what about Ulelo?”

  The science officer wasn’t sure which bothered her more—the fact that her friend was psychologically impaired, or the fact that she hadn’t had the sensitivity to perceive it.

  Maybe a little of both, she decided.

  It killed Bender to know that Ulelo was sitting in the brig at that moment, as lost as a little child. He had seemed so capable to her, so comfortable in her company. A little reserved, maybe—more so than she remembered from their Academy days—but lots of people were like that.

  She wished someone would tell her that Ulelo was going to be all right. However, she knew that might not happen. Medical science had come a long way in its ability to repair the body, but the mind was a different story. It was still mysterious in many ways, still incompletely understood.

  Poor Ulelo, she thought.

  “Listen,” said Urajel, “I feel the same thing you’re feeling. I wish Ulelo were well. But it’s not as if there’s anything we can do about it.”

  But there was, Bender thought. She couldn’t cure him of what was ailing him, unfortunately. But while he remained on the Stargazer, she could let him know he still had a friend.

  Greenbriar watched the turbolift doors slide open, revealing the sparking, smoking chaos of his bridge. It was empty but for four figures—Hohauser, Bolaris, Cangelosi, and Moy—all of whom had their phasers trained on the captain.

  “Stand down,” said Greenbriar, in case someone was too blinded by the smoke to recognize a friend.

  His officers lowered their weapons. Moy, whose head cut was bleeding profusely, slumped back in his chair and groaned.

  “How are things down below?” asked Hohauser, his face streaked with soot from the smoke.

  “Bad,” said Greenbriar, moving toward Moy and the com console. “The aliens are in charge there.”

  “What are we doing about it?” asked Bolaris, his tone too much like a challenge.

  The captain shot him a glance. “We’re consolidating our forces and trying to hold the more strategically important decks. And we’re maintaining the decorum expected of Starfleet officers.”

  The Andorian recoiled. “Sorry, sir.”

  “No need to apologize,” said Greenbriar, fighting off a wave of vertigo—a lingering effect of the blow he had taken earlier. “Just do your job.”

  Putting a hand on Moy’s shoulder, the captain thanked him silently for his courage. Then he laid his phaser down on the com console and began entering a message to Starfleet Command.

  He had barely gotten through the first sentence when Bolaris shouted a warning. Looking up, Greenbriar saw a blinding-white glow in the center of the bridge, and a handful of man-sized figures taking shape inside it.

  They’re beaming in here too, Greenbriar thought.

  Bolaris and Hohauser poured energy fire into the glow. So did the security officers who had come up with the captain.

  As he picked up his phaser to do the same, he saw a second glow, and a third—and the aliens in the first group were firing even as they fell. Greenbriar gave up whatever thoughts he had had of sending a message from the com panel. His people weren’t going to be able to hold the bridge long enough.

  But he had to get his message off. He couldn’t let the aliens take the Cochise without warning the fleet.

  Fortunately, there was another way. While his officers tried to beat back the invaders, Greenbriar abandoned the com panel and returned to the turbolift.

  He had almost reached it when an energy beam went sizzling by his ear and scorched a bulkhead. Casting a glance back over his shoulder, he saw that one of the aliens was getting ready to fire at him a second time.

  But Cangelosi was quicker. Her phaser blast caught the invader in the shoulder and turned him around. That gave the captain time for a shot of his own, which sent the alien flying.

  He wished he had time to stay and fight, but it wouldn’t be possible. Swinging himself into the turbolift, he punched in a destination and plastered himself against one of the compartment’s interior walls. Then he trained his weapon on the space between the closing doors.

  Come on, he thought, urging the doors to come together faster.

  An energy beam sliced past him and struck the back of the compartment, leaving it a blackened mess. But Greenbriar himself remained unharmed. And a moment later, the doors slid closed, allowing him to release the breath he had been holding.

  As the turbolift began to move, Greenbriar wiped perspiration from his forehead with the back of his free hand. With luck, he thought, there won’t be quite so many of the invaders on deck seven.

  That was where his quarters were. And in them, he would find his computer terminal, which he could use to bypass the com station on the bridge and transmit a subspace message.

  The captain had been in the turbolift for less than thirty seconds when the control readout told him he had reached his destination. He took a deep breath, waited until the doors slid apart, and stuck his head out.

  No sign of an invader in either direction. So far, so good.

  Edging out into the corridor, Greenbriar moved briskly in the direction of his quarters. As before, the curve of the passage cried out for caution. However, time was his enemy. There was no doubt that the invaders would catch him eventually. He just needed to get his message off first.

  With every step he took, he expected to find an adversary lying in wait for him. But he didn’t see any. Unbelievably, it looked like he would reach his quarters uncontested.

  As the captain’s door appeared around the bend of the corridor, there was still no one in sight—neither an invader nor one of his own crewmen. It was too good to be true.

  Placing his hand over the metal security plate on the bulkhead, he triggered the mechanism that would give him access to his quarters. As his door slid aside, he took a last look in either direction.

  Still no one, Greenbriar reflected. Remarkably enough, his luck was holding.

  Entering his quarters, he waited until the door had whispered closed behind him. Then he went to his computer terminal, put away his phaser, and began telling the story of how the aliens had taken his ship.

  He was almost finished when he saw a gob of reflected light appear on his monitor screen. His heart pumping, he grabbed his phaser and whirled about.

  It was the same bright, white glow the captain had seen on the bridge. And in its midst, there were the same sort of shapes, taking on definition more swiftly than he would have liked.

  Grabbing his phaser, he pointed it at the glow and began firing. At first his beams passed through the invaders, because they weren’t substantial enough to absorb the impacts. But when they turned material, Greenbriar started to get results.

  The first one doubled over and collapsed. The second went lurching into a bulkhead. And the third, who actually managed to get an errant shot off, nearly had his head wrenched from his shoulders.

  Three up, three down. The captain would have been satisfied with the outcome if he hadn’t seen the beginnings of another glow hovering beyond his monitor.

  This time, he didn’t fire into it—not right away. He made use of the few seconds he had left to finish h
is account, including as many details as he could. Only after he depressed the stud that would send it off did he grasp his phaser again and look up.

  By then, the invaders were material enough to fire at him. Ducking, Greenbriar saw his terminal explode in a spasm of directed energy. Then he squeezed off a shot of his own, punching the nearest alien in the ribs.

  He hit the next one too, taking his feet out from under him. But he missed the third one—and the alien didn’t give the captain a second chance.

  The invader’s energy blast nailed him square in the solar plexus, feeling like a bolt of hot, heavy metal. It drove all the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath, though somehow he managed to keep from losing consciousness.

  At least for the moment. But as his vision cleared, he saw the alien take aim at him a second time.

  Bastard, he thought.

  Then Greenbriar felt the kick of the invader’s beam, and fell headlong into a cold, black pit.

  Chapter Seven

  PICARD SAT BACK in his center seat and considered the yellow-orange disk of Delta Campara on his viewscreen.

  “We’re getting some impressive readings,” said Wu, who had come to stand at his side.

  “No doubt,” the captain replied. “It is, after all, one of the larger Cepheid variables in Federation space.”

  “With some spectacular prominences,” Wu added.

  “Yes. Quite spectacular.” He frowned. “I don’t suppose they are appreciatively different from the prominences observed by Captain Crajjik twenty-five years ago?”

  The second officer hesitated. “We’ve only been studying Delta Campara for a few hours.”

  “Six,” said Picard. “And thirteen minutes. And have we observed anything Captain Crajjik did not?”

  “Well,” Wu said with obvious reluctance, “no.”

  Picard nodded. “Wherein lies the problem.”

  “Look at the bright side,” said Wu. “In another couple of days, we’ll be finished here.”

  That was indeed the bright side. But by then, McAteer would have some other busywork lined up for them. And beyond that, Picard had a hearing to look forward to.

  “A brave attempt,” he told Wu.

  “But you’re not cheered,” she noted.

  “Not significantly, no.”

  “Sir?” said Paxton from his place at the com station.

  Picard turned to him, hoping that Paxton had something more interesting to offer than Delta Campara. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “It’s Admiral Mehdi calling from Command, sir. He’s asking to speak with you—in private.”

  Mehdi? the captain wondered. He hadn’t heard from the admiral in months. “I will take it in my ready room,” he said. Then he got up from his seat and made his way into his sanctum.

  In a matter of moments, Mehdi’s narrow, pinched face was staring at him from his computer screen. Even on his good days, the admiral wasn’t a particularly congenial man—but at the moment, he looked positively grim.

  “Jean-Luc,” said the admiral.

  The captain inclined his head. “Sir.”

  “We’ve got a problem,” said Mehdi, as succinct as ever. “In the last few hours, two of our starships—the Cochise and the Gibraltar—have been attacked by unidentified assailants.”

  Picard understood now why the admiral had looked so solemn. “Their status?” he asked.

  Mehdi shook his head. “We don’t know. They both got off distress calls, but we haven’t heard from them since.”

  It wouldn’t have been good news no matter which ships were involved. But the Cochise was commanded by Denton Greenbriar, one of the canniest captains in the fleet—and Picard’s friend since their involvement in the White Wolf incident.

  Mehdi scowled. “There’s more. The Antares hasn’t responded to our hails for more than a day now. It’s our guess that she’s been attacked as well.”

  The captain’s throat was suddenly very dry. “Admiral, I dispatched a shuttle to meet the Antares, with Admiral McAteer aboard. And six of my crew.”

  Only Mehdi’s eyes reflected his sympathy. “All the more reason to find out what happened to her—and quickly.”

  “You want the Stargazer to investigate her disappearance?”

  “Exactly. I’m transmitting a set of coordinates—the last known position of the Antares.”

  Indeed, Picard saw the coordinates appear in white characters in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, superimposed on the image of the admiral.

  “You’re to get there as soon as you can,” Mehdi continued, “and let us know what you find out. We need to get a handle on who’s carrying out these attacks and why, before they decide to take another shot at us.”

  “And my shuttle?”

  “Is a secondary concern right now. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” said Picard, however reluctantly. The Antares had to come first.

  “Further instructions will be forthcoming,” said the admiral. “Good luck, Jean-Luc. Mehdi—”

  “Wait,” said Picard, as a possibility occurred to him.

  Mehdi stared at him. “Yes?”

  The captain’s mind raced. Ulelo. He had transmitted the Stargazer’s specs—to no one in particular, if Greyhorse was right about the com officer’s state of mind.

  But what if Ulelo’s transmissions had been purposeful after all? What if someone had received them and studied the technologies employed by the Stargazer? Someone who might have been daunted by Federation firepower for some time—and now had the knowledge to wade through a starship’s defenses as if they weren’t there?

  The Cochise, the Gibraltar, the Antares…they were all Constellation-class, like the Stargazer. Their specs would all be the same. Picard felt the blood rush to his face as the the pieces began falling into place….

  “Admiral,” he said, “I may be able to shed some light on what happened to our ships.” And he went on to tell Mehdi about Ulelo, his transmissions, and the conclusion reached by Picard and his staff. “However, considering what you’ve told me about the Cochise and the other vessels…”

  “You think Ulelo may not have been so crazy after all.”

  “I do,” said the captain.

  “And where is Ulelo now?”

  “In the brig—where he will remain, at least until we determine the truth of the matter.”

  “See that he does,” said Mehdi. “In the meantime, I’ll alert the rest of the fleet that our adversaries may know our ships as well as we do.”

  Obviously, he wasn’t happy about the prospect. However, he also wasn’t blaming Picard for it.

  “Now,” said the admiral, “I have even more reason to wish you good luck. Medhi out.”

  As the older man’s visage faded from the screen and was replaced by the Federation insignia, Picard sat back in his chair. He felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.

  He felt personally responsible for the Ulelo situation. He had been content to accept the notion that the com officer was out of touch with reality, and that his actions had ultimately been harmless.

  Now, it appeared, Ulelo’s actions might have consequences after all—deadly ones. For all the captain knew, the lieutenant had placed the entire Federation in danger.

  And Ben Zoma’s team on the shuttlecraft was as vulnerable as anyone. If something had happened to the Antares, the Livingston might be next.

  Picard felt an urge to go after his people, to reel them in. But Mehdi’s instructions didn’t leave him much wiggle room. He was to look for the Antares—period.

  “Picard to Idun Asmund,” he said, making use of the ship’s intercom system to contact his helm officer.

  “Aye, sir?” came the response from the bridge.

  “We are altering course.” And he gave her the coordinates he had received from Mehdi.

  “Acknowledged,” said Idun.

  Next, Picard summoned Wu and Greyhorse, in order to discuss Ulelo with them in more depth. Then he co
ntacted Paxton and apprised him of their orders.

  “Send a message to the shuttle,” said the captain, “and let Commander Ben Zoma know what is going on.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Paxton.

  Picard sat back in his chair. Before long, he assured himself, the Livingston would be headed for the nearest starbase—McAteer wouldn’t brook any other course of action. Then the shuttle would remain there until the danger had passed.

  That was by far the most likely course of events. Of course, there were other possibilities—grimmer ones—but there was no point in the captain’s worrying about them.

  Especially when he suddenly had so much else to worry about.

  Ben Zoma was going over the shuttle’s latest sensor reports when he heard someone forward of him swear under his breath.

  Looking up, he saw Horombo shaking his head over the com panel, where Ben Zoma had stationed him. The security officer was obviously unhappy about something.

  Joining him, Ben Zoma said, “Something wrong, Mister Horombo?”

  Horombo unfolded himself from his chair and pointed to his subspace message monitor. “Take a look for yourself, sir.”

  Sitting down in Horombo’s place, Ben Zoma inspected the monitor. There was a message from Captain Picard on it. As the first officer read it, he came to understand why Horombo had reacted as he did.

  By then, they had drawn the attention of the rest of the crew. “What’s going on?” asked McAteer, voicing the question that must have been on all their minds.

  Ben Zoma turned to him. “Apparently, a couple of our ships have been attacked and boarded.”

  The admiral’s eyes narrowed. “Which ones?”

  “The Cochise and the Gibraltar,” said Ben Zoma. “And the Antares isn’t responding to hails, so there’s a possibility she was attacked as well.”

  “The Gibraltar?” asked Chen.

  “That’s right,” said the first officer.

  Chen swallowed, and didn’t say anything more—but Ben Zoma knew why the security officer had asked the question. He had a brother on the Gibraltar.

  McAteer looked as if he had consumed something rotten. “Who attacked them?”