“Attention all decks,” he called out. “Sensors are indicating that the storm level is decreasing. The worst of it should be over in less than a half hour. We will then proceed to do a first level diagnostic run to repair any damage. Until then, however, I would like to remind everyone not to use any equipment until it has been checked out by one of the engineering staff. Once the ship has been thoroughly checked out and everything is in working order, we will proceed to Starbase 112 for personnel transfer—and a healthy dose of shore leave. Picard out.”
Even through the soundproof decks he thought he could hear the cheers. The Enterprise had been in space for some time, and everyone needed to blow off a little steam. The ship had become quite a pressure cooker, too, since the holodecks and other amusements had to be shut down because of the storm. He wouldn’t mind a little jaunt into fantasyland, himself, he decided. Another case as Dixon Hill, perhaps—
“Captain,” Wesley said. “The probe we launched is picking up some sort of signal. Pretty regular. It could be another ship; it’s hard to tell. It’s probably just the storm, but . . .”
“. . . but better safe than sorry,” he said. “Start a passive sensor search. Open hailing frequencies as soon as the storm permits. If there’s another ship in the area, it might not have been as lucky as we were.”
“The storm’s intensity is falling off logarithmically, Captain,” Data said. “It should be possible to transmit on subspace frequencies immediately.”
Picard turned his attention to the viewscreen. It was true. The murky cloud that had been the epicenter of the Gabriel had almost entirely dissipated as quickly as it had begun.
“Stand down from red alert,” the captain ordered. “Mr. Worf, try and isolate Mr. Crusher’s signal.”
The Klingon nodded, and turned his attention to his console. While Worf worked, Picard mentally reviewed the list of spacefaring races native to this sector—and came up empty.
They were well past the borders of Federation space at this point—had been, in fact, for the last week. Stars, and therefore habitable planets, were few and far between out here. It was light-years to the nearest inhabited world. This far out in the sector, he would not expect to run into any of “the usual suspects”—the Romulans, Catellox, or Cardassians. More likely, it was an exploratory vessel of some sort—which could mean a Ferengi trading ship, or simply a nonaligned vessel.
“I have isolated the signal,” Worf said. “It is definitely another ship—minimal energy output. No matches with any known ship configurations.”
“Hmm,” Riker said, turning to face him. “I would have bet on the Ferengi.”
Picard nodded. “We’ll soon find out who they are, Number One.” He stood, turning to Worf as he did so. “Open hailing frequencies.”
“This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise. We are an exploratory vessel on a peaceful mission in this sector of the galaxy. Please identify yourself.” He turned to Worf again. “Put them on screen when they respond.”
“Aye, sir.” The Klingon hesitated. “Their signal is very weak, Captain. The image will be fuzzy,” he warned.
True to his words, a vaguely humanoid image replaced the contracting dust cloud that surrounded the ship. There was a slight pause as the translators picked up the alien signal and transformed it into something he could understand.
“This is Captain Jared of the Freedom. Where are you from, Enterprise? Are you in need of assistance?”
Picard smiled. Thank God they were friendly—the last thing his ship needed right now was a confrontation.
“We are from the Federation. And I think we have things under control,” Picard assured the alien captain. The low energy readings Worf was getting from the alien ship—the Freedom—made him wonder if they’d been damaged themselves by the storm. “And yourselves? Are you in need of assistance?”
There was an extended pause. Picard thought he could see the other captain consulting with someone offscreen, but the disruption made it unclear.
“The Federation—I don’t believe I’ve heard of it,” Jared said. Though relayed almost at a monotone, Picard felt he detected a trace of suspicion in the other man’s voice. Or maybe it was the translator . . .
“The formal name is the United Federation of Planets. We’re an interplanetary organization made up of several hundred cultures. Starfleet is the exploratory arm of the Federation, and the Enterprise is a Starfleet vessel. Where are you from, Freedom?”
There was more hesitation, and perhaps more offscreen discussion—the image was so distorted that Picard couldn’t tell for certain. “Worf, get them clearer,” he said with quiet urgency.
“Aye, Captain,” Worf returned in a low growl. The picture did become clearer, though whether because of Worf’s fiddling or the slacking storm, Picard couldn’t tell. Now he got his first look at Captain Jared, and the Freedom’s crew.
They were human—perfectly human.
Jared was seated in the middle of an area that looked shockingly like their own bridge—a handsome young man with longish dark hair, probably a few years younger than Riker—flanked by an extraordinarily beautiful woman on his right. Both were wearing nondescript tan coveralls. Picard also noted the machinery in the background was archaic and bulky by Federation standards.
“We have some significant damage to our ship, Enterprise,” Jared said. “Three out of seven of our reactors are shut down, and we believe we have a lot of external damage. The storm we encountered played havoc with our internal electronic systems. The readings were so wild we thought we were under attack when it first began. We aren’t going very far very fast unless we get them fixed.”
“Acknowledged, Freedom,” said Picard. He exchanged a quick glance with his first officer—Jared had neatly dodged the question he’d just asked by responding to his previous one. “We call the phenomenon we have mutually encountered a Gabriel Effect—they are very rare, but very dangerous. We are both lucky to survive intact.” He paused. “Perhaps we can assist you in repairs. If you let us know what kind of drive you’re using—”
“Condorite fusion reactors, Enterprise,” the alien captain said. “State of the art.”
“Condorite?” Riker said quietly, coming up behind his captain. “Sounds like an old ship. Nothing Geordi couldn’t handle in his sleep.”
Picard nodded. “Captain Jared, I think we might be able to spare an engineer or two.”
There was a long pause, as Jared spoke again offscreen. In only seconds, he was back. “That would be very much appreciated, Captain. We are short of manpower and supplies. I haven’t even properly assessed how badly we were damaged.”
“Do you need medical help? My medical staff—”
“No, we have an excellent medical staff,” Jared interrupted. “And no one was seriously injured. No problem there. But our reactors are damaged severely.”
“I’m curious,” Picard began carefully. “What brings you this far out in the middle of nowhere?”
“Exploring,” Jared explained after a moment’s hesitation. “We’re looking for a place to settle. Our world was devastated by war, and my ship was one of the few to get away.”
“Devastated?” That would certainly explain the youth of the Freedom’s commander. Emergency situations often called for emergency measures, and less experienced men might be pressed into service. “I’m sorry to hear that. I assume you are carrying refugees?”
The younger man paused, then nodded, his face stretched by the now only occasional static. “Refugees. Yes. Over four hundred, Captain.”
Picard nodded. “Captain, I didn’t get the name of the planet you were from.”
Jared nodded, tight-lipped. “That’s because I didn’t say it.”
Beside him, Picard felt Riker tense. Again, he hoped there was nothing more to Jared and his ship than met the eye.
“We’re from Vemla, Enterprise. A small planet at the other end of this sector. Have you heard of it?”
“Data?” Pica
rd prompted, turning to his second officer, thankful again that one of Data’s more useful abilities was his enormous and accurate storehouse of information. While he had nowhere near the capacity of the Enterprise’s powerful computer library, he had the capability to pull at least basic information on many billions of subjects and present it in a form more digestible—and therefore more useful—to his human companions.
“Vemla,” he said, almost instantly, his eyes seeming to read the information his brain retrieved. “Some small references in the logs of the Saren Trading Corps, several centuries ago. Due to Vemla’s isolated position and lack of noteworthy or valuable merchandise, visits have been sporadic. Class M planet, humanoid race, technologically underdeveloped culture. Little else is known about the inhabitants or culture of the planet.”
Picard noted Jared and the woman by his side watching Data with frank interest, and wondered if they had ever seen an android before. “Captain Jared—what happened to your world? Were you invaded?”
Jared paused, then shook his head. “No. I am distressed to say that internal warfare destroyed us. There just wasn’t enough left to salvage after the last battle, so we thought we’d start over.”
A sad tale, but one Picard had heard all too often. That at least partially explained his initial evasive behavior. Hard times often bred suspicion. “I wish you luck, Captain. I’ll have a party sent over to begin repairs as soon as we’re within range.”
“Perhaps you’d like to come yourself, Captain. I’d be honored to give you a tour of my ship, battered though she is.”
“Another time, Freedom. I shall send my first officer in my place, however. Any courtesy extended to him will reflect on me.”
Jared nodded. “Shall I send a shuttle for your party, or do you have one of your own?”
“Shuttles?” Picard smiled tiredly. Jared had a lot to learn about real state-of-the-art technology. “We don’t need shuttles.”
Chapter Two
ON ANOTHER SHIP, quite far away, Force Commander Sawliru sat in his cabin, examining telemetry reports from the last few reconnaissance missions. His head ached tremendously, but he bore the pain with great fortitude, just as he bore the reason for his headache, Mission Commander Alkirg. She was constantly calling him on the ship’s intercom to ask for an update on the status of the mission that she was commanding.
Each time she had called, Sawliru had told her the same thing: Nothing yet, I’ll call you when I have something. He had repeated the litany once each half-hour for the last five days. Yet she persisted in disturbing him for the most trivial of reasons. This last one, something about disciplining two young officers for speaking out against the mission and “spreading general dissatisfaction” while off-duty, was typical of the inane drivel that he had been subjected to in the last few weeks. Unfortunately, he would have to give them some summary discipline to appease her, which would just add to his troubles. As the mission dragged on longer and longer, the men under his command had time to think, always the bane of any military organization. They grew more and more restless and anxious about the Objective, with a capital O (as Alkirg was constantly reminding all of them) and the purpose of the whole mission. Now they just wanted to go back home. Where, he reminded himself, there was an even bigger mess.
He couldn’t blame the two young men for speaking out. He wanted to get rid of the entire thing and go back home, too. But he was a military man, and military men followed orders. It was quite possible that the success of the entire mission might come down to his ability to follow orders, for if he had his druthers, Alkirg’s Objective would be destroyed, saving a considerable amount of useless and self-serving energy.
But Alkirg didn’t see it like that. She wanted a relatively peaceful conclusion to the mission. He could see her point, of course; if she could pull this off, she would be assuring her political future. Failure would condemn her to obscurity—and he was sure he would go down with her. The friends she had left would ruin his military career. The issue was just too valuable to trust to a civilian, in Sawliru’s opinion. It should have been a purely military matter from the beginning.
On top of his problems of mediating between his crew and his commander, one of the recon scouts had reported a slight aberration in the spectrographic analysis of one sector. It might have been the Objective. On the other hand, given the freak storm conditions the region had been experiencing, it was probably a chunk of cometary matter or a leftover probability whirl from the storm. But Alkirg would insist on close inspection, just as she had everything else. That could be dangerous—two of their recon craft had been found totally destroyed in that area, with large pieces of them, including their unfortunate pilots, turned to mercury by the demonic storm. If she insisted on searching the area, none of them would ever see home again. If they survived the aftereffects of the storm, they would just keep flitting from one node of junk to the other, until even their home star was invisible against the rest of the galaxy. His crew might mutiny, aliens might attack, any number of bad things might happen. And they were running out of food, water, fuel, and other supplies.
Force Commander Sawliru sighed, and reached into the top drawer of his desk for an aspirin.
They were running out of those, too.
Riker shimmered back into existence, and the interior of the Freedom took shape before him. The lighting here was dimmer than on their own ship, the air colder, with a sweetish odor to it. Not unpleasant, just a little cloying. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the lesser illumination, and in a few seconds he could see normally. He couldn’t do anything about the odor. It wasn’t like a Klingon ship, but still . . .
They had materialized in a large, comfortable-looking chamber. Several padded seats and tables were arranged in an efficient fashion. Alien works of what he guessed was art, and a detailed model of the Freedom, hung from the surrounding walls. Four Vemlans—two men, two women—stood in a loose reception line before them.
Captain Picard had instructed him to find out as much as possible about the Vemlans. There was something about them that made Picard wary—and a man who had sat in the big chair as long as Jean-Luc Picard had learned to trust his hunches. Will devoutly wished ship’s counselor Deanna Troi could have come with them—she was an expert on alien/human relations and was well versed in reading the subtle body language that often gave away what a person thought. In the Gabriel’s aftermath, though, she was still needed back on the ship, and he would have to muddle through as best he could.
The Vemlans looked as human in person as they had on the viewscreen. Each was wearing a simple tan coverall garment, and a wide fabric belt with several pockets attached to it. The only symbol of rank or insignia he could see on their uniforms seemed to be different colored sashes running from left shoulder to right hip.
Jared was the tallest of the four facing them. Up close, his well-chiseled chin and a slightly hooked nose gave him the appearance of long-lost nobility, and the bright green sash he wore set him apart from the others. He stepped forward and held out his hands, and, in the second before he spoke, Will saw his eyes were filled with a strange, unforgiving intensity, very different from the calm eyes of their own captain. He’d seen the look before: It was the look of someone who thought that there was nothing that could frighten him, or remain in his way very long.
“I am Jared, captain of the Freedom,” he said, as if his name were a title of nobility. His voice was deep and throaty. “I thank you for your offered assistance. We did not think anyone was going to find us. While you are here please consider my people at your disposal; do not hesitate to ask for anything you need.” His speech, his manner, his attitude seemed designed to impress them, as if he were doing them a favor by letting them on his vessel.
Riker remained unaffected. He’d led countless away teams and diplomatic missions, and had been greeted in as many different ways by as many different kinds of leaders as there were worlds in the galaxy.
He took a step forward and gave the un
iversal gesture for peace—empty, outstretched arms.
“I greet you in the name of the United Federation of Planets, Captain. I am Commander William Riker, first officer of the USS Enterprise. Captain Picard would have been here himself, but his shipboard duties prevented that.”
Jared nodded knowingly. “I quite understand, Commander. Running a ship is not easy even when you have the best of crews. This is my executive officer, Kurta. We do not utilize rank as such,” he added, informatively.
The woman who had stood by Jared’s side during their initial contact now stepped forward from the reception line as she was introduced. She wore a blue sash, and a matching blue band tied back her long brown hair. A light smile, so much in contrast to Jared’s stern manner, played around her face. She bowed her head slightly, her eyes taking Will’s measure as he took hers.
“She actually runs this ship. She is my right arm. More importantly,” continued Jared, with obvious pride, “she is my wife.”
“You are very fortunate, on all accounts,” Riker said, bowing.
“It is good to meet you, Commander,” said Kurta. “I hope we can speak about the rigors of being the captain’s right arm, sometime.”
Riker smiled his best in return. He sensed a kindred soul, yet something here was putting him on edge. “I look forward to it; I’d love to talk shop.”
Jared indicated a smaller man to his left. “This is Dren, my chief engineer. Without him, we would never have survived the storm. We all owe him our lives.”
Dren looked slight but able. His eyes were piercing and touched everything as if he were trying to figure out how the visitors worked. He stepped forward and smiled warmly. “He says that now, but he howls like a demon when the comm system goes awry.”
“And this is my librarian, Maran,” Jared continued. The other woman stepped forward and bowed. She was not as beautiful as Kurta, by Riker’s admittedly biased standards, but she was every bit as striking. Regal, he decided. Like a high priestess meeting a nonbeliever. He made a conscious effort to bow just as graciously as he had with Kurta.
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