by David Mack
Even through multiple layers of synthetic anonymity, the shadow’s suspicion was evident. “Why do you want to know?”
“It is a family matter,” Data said. “Can you help me find him or not?”
Data’s brusque reply seemed to put the shadow on the defensive. The projection turned silent as the dark ghost turned away, perhaps to confer with someone unseen. Then he turned back toward Data and said in his filtered voice, “We should discuss this in person.”
“Very well. Is Rhea McAdams with you? I would prefer she be the one to meet me.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” said the shadow. “Stay where you are. One of our ships will pick you up in approximately twenty-six hours and nine minutes.”
He nodded. “I understand. I will be here.”
The projection faded, leaving only the lonesome howls of the desert wind. Then the spider disintegrated and became a dark cloud of deactivated nanobots. A strong gust scattered them into a thinning black mist that faded like the old memories of an organic brain.
This outcome had also been among Data’s predictions. He calculated an 89.9 percent chance that this rendezvous would turn out to be a trap or some other manner of deception by the Fellowship of Artificial Intelligence, but he had already decided that the risk was outweighed by the potential gain. If he was wrong, and the Fellowship proved to be his ally, then so much the better. His caution would do no one any harm.
But if, as he suspected, the Fellowship had set itself against him in some way, then it was about to learn a terrible and lasting lesson: what it meant to have him as their enemy.
6
If not for the inflexible demands of Starfleet protocol, Beverly Crusher would have skipped the last month of morning briefings for the Enterprise’s senior officers.
“Let’s move to the next item on the agenda,” Picard said to Worf, his deep and commanding voice resounding in the close confines of the Enterprise’s observation lounge.
The Klingon first officer nodded down the conference table at Glinn Ravel Dygan, a Cardassian exchange officer currently serving as the Enterprise’s senior operations manager. “What is the status of stellar cartography’s present assignment?”
Dygan used the touch-panel interface in front of his seat to call up a star chart on the forward bulkhead’s master systems display screen. “As you can see, yesterday’s full-spectrum sensor reconciliation revealed a number of promising main-sequence clusters in Sector 579-R. However, we’ve detected surprisingly low concentrations of lighter metals in those star’s cores, prompting additional scans that . . .”
He kept talking, but Crusher had stopped paying attention. The crew’s mapping and sensor-analysis operations had made for an unusually placid period in the ship’s operations, one during which there was little call for the services of the medical division. Sickbay had been all but deserted for weeks, with only routine crew physicals and the occasional minor work-related injury to break the monotony.
The regulations, however, dictated that she attend the morning briefings. Each day from 0815 to 0845 she sipped her black coffee and hoped that the latest round of stellar surveys had led her husband—the captain, she corrected herself—to order an away mission. Even a routine planetary visit to gather biological samples for lab analysis would be more interesting than her current role, which amounted to little more than serving as a silent spectator.
Rows of bobbing heads accompanied the end of Dygan’s spiel of technobabble, and Picard turned his attention to the head of the ship’s sciences division, Lieutenant Dina Elfiki. “Where do we stand with preparations for tomorrow’s chroniton-integrator tests?”
The lithe young Egyptian woman, whose fashionably styled dark brown hair framed her dramatically high cheekbones and symmetrical features in the most flattering way possible, called up her own screen of data on the MSD panel behind her seat. “Right on schedule, sir. New sensor protocols have been uploaded to the operations and flight-control consoles.” She nodded politely at La Forge. “As soon as engineering reports ready, we can proceed.”
“I’ll have main engineering wired and ready by 1700 today,” La Forge said.
Across from Crusher, Lieutenant Aneta Šmrhová cast a stare so blank at the tabletop that Crusher wondered whether the security chief had gone brain-dead from boredom. Her blue eyes seemed to be gazing through the table into deep space, and her lean, pale countenance was slack. At times like this, the security division had even less to do on a daily basis than the medical division did—a fact for which both groups were quietly thankful; the one trait most surgeons and security officers in Starfleet had in common was that they both spent much of their time hoping that their services would not be required.
Expecting she would be the next one asked for her report, Crusher sat up and drew a breath. Then a low thump and a rush of displaced air interrupted the dull routine of the meeting, and everyone was suddenly looking directly past her, toward the far end of the lounge from the captain. She swiveled her chair toward the disturbance—and marveled with joy at the sight of her firstborn child. “Wesley!” Crusher sprang from her chair and wrapped her adult son in a bear hug. Clutching him to her, all she could think was, When did he get so big?
He greeted her with a warm smile and a quick kiss on her cheek. “Hi, Mom.”
She let him pull back from their embrace and took the moment to study him. He had grown out his hair into a wild, brindled mane, and his graying beard, once so neatly trimmed, now had the unkempt look of a hermit’s bramble. His clothes seemed odd to her, as well—loose, flowing robes reminiscent of those she’d seen in illustrations of ancient Rome or Athens. He looked more like a figure from the pages of history than a man of the twenty-fourth century.
Picard, Worf, and La Forge gathered around their long-absent friend and former shipmate. “Welcome home, Wes,” La Forge said, shaking the younger man’s hand.
The captain gave Wesley’s shoulder a quick clasp. “Good to see you again, Wesley.”
Worf looked him in the eye with obvious mock intensity. “Nice beard.”
“Thanks. I made it myself.” Wesley’s mien turned serious as he faced Picard. “I really am happy to see everyone, but I’m here for a reason, Captain. I need your help.”
Adapting instantly to the shift in tone, Picard motioned everyone back to their seats at the conference table. As he settled back into his own chair, he asked, “What’s this about?”
“A threat to the future of the galaxy.” Wesley moved to stand beside the MSD. He started keying commands into its central panel, and a sparsely detailed map of the galactic core snapped into view on the main screen. “There’s something at the center of the Milky Way, an artificial construct the size of a planet. To save time, I’m just going to call it ‘the Machine.’ ”
From inside his robes he produced a small isolinear chip, which he plugged into an open slot on the panel. With a few taps, he changed the image on-screen to show the fearsome spherical Machine surrounded by a nebula wracked by violent energy discharges. “It’s currently lingering just beyond the accretion disk of the supermassive black hole known as Abbadon. And this is what it’s been doing.” He played a vid of the Machine spawning an artificial wormhole with a diameter many times greater than that of a red giant, and then pulling an entire star system through and hurling it—planets, moons, and star—into the annihilating fury of the black hole.
“My God,” Picard whispered, his horror apparent.
Elfiki stared, dumbfounded. “How is it generating that wormhole?”
“Never mind that,” La Forge cut in. “Where’s it getting that kind of power?”
Crusher, unlike the others, was watching the dark emotions animating her son’s face rather than being sucked in by the spectacle on the screen. “Guys, I think you’re missing the point. . . . Wesley, were any of those planets inhabited?”
Tears glimmered in his eyes as he nodded, momentarily unable to speak.
That news hardened Worf’s
glare. “How many systems has it destroyed?”
“Thousands,” Wesley said, fighting to retain his composure. “Tens of thousands.”
Alone among the senior officers, Dygan seemed entirely relaxed and detached in his observation of the Machine. “It wouldn’t make sense to create something this large, this powerful, and this advanced just to destroy things. Why is it doing this? What’s its objective?”
Wesley shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The Cardassian’s questions appeared to have engaged Šmrhová’s natural curiosity. “Do we know if it’s going to stop? Or how many more systems it’ll destroy before it does?”
Another silent head shake from Wesley made La Forge frown. “So, if we don’t know what it’s doing, how can you be sure it’s a threat to the future of the galaxy?”
“Because the Travelers have seen it before,” Wesley said. “And it scares them enough that when I told them it was here, their response was to get as far from this galaxy as possible. They say it’s destroyed countless galaxies before ours, and everything they’ve ever done to stop it has failed. Which means that if we don’t want to be its next victim, it’s up to us to find a way.”
Picard wore the grave visage of a reluctant soldier who knew that war had once again found him. “How can the Enterprise be of assistance?”
“Let me take you to the Machine.”
Worf glanced at the captain. “I suggest we alert Starfleet Command.”
“Agreed. We can’t keep a threat like this to ourselves. I’ll contact Admiral Nechayev.” He snapped orders quickly down the table. “Glinn Dygan, all survey projects are suspended until further notice. Restore the ship’s systems to a combat configuration.
“Lieutenant Šmrhová, make ready for a potentially hostile encounter. Mister La Forge, prep engineering for maximum power output. Doctor, have all sickbay personnel standing by, just in case. Lieutenant Elfiki, have any specialists from your division whose areas of expertise seem relevant to the Machine reassigned to bridge posts. Number One, show Mister Crusher to guest quarters.” He nodded at everyone and stood. “That’ll be all. Dismissed.”
Crusher got up and followed the other officers and her son out of the observation lounge. They exited into a short passageway. Picard, Dygan, Šmrhová, and Elfiki continued forward to the bridge; Crusher, Worf, La Forge, and Wesley stopped to wait at the nearest turbolift.
In that awkward moment of silent delay, Wesley shrugged sheepishly in Crusher’s direction. “Sorry to drop in again without calling first.”
Recalling the embarrassment that had attended her son’s last visit, when he’d popped in for what he’d mistakenly assumed would be the Betazoid-style wedding of William Riker and Deanna Troi, she patted his broad back and smiled. “At least this time you’re not naked.”
As Worf and La Forge slowly turned to shoot quizzical looks at Wesley, he sighed, looked Crusher’s way, and cracked a pained smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
* * *
Right on time at 0930, the ready room’s visitor signal trilled, and Picard set aside the padd on which he’d been reviewing the latest readiness report from Dygan. “Come.”
The door slid open with a soft hiss. Worf led Wesley inside, and the two stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Picard’s desk as the door closed behind them. The Klingon stood at ease, his hands folded loosely behind his back. Wesley crossed his arms, as if he were grappling with himself to contain the anxiety that he communicated so clearly with his eyes.
“We’ve spoken with Admiral Nechayev,” Picard said to Wesley. “Starfleet Command agrees that the Machine represents a clear and present danger, not only to the Federation but to all populated worlds in the galaxy. Accordingly, we’ve been authorized to accompany you there, and to take whatever action we deem necessary to neutralize the threat. A diplomatic solution would be preferred, but we’ve been ordered to use force if absolutely necessary.”
Wesley looked relieved. “Glad to hear it, Captain. When can we leave?”
Picard deflected the question with a look at Worf. “Due to the size of the Machine,” the first officer said to Wesley, “Starfleet Command wants us to fall back and rendezvous three days from now with eight ships that will act as our combat escorts.”
“That’s not gonna work,” Wesley said. “First of all, I’m not sure we have three days to spare. Second, as much as I’d love to meet that thing with a fleet, I can only guide one ship at a time through hyperwarp. And on a trip like this, even that’s gonna be a strain.”
Perplexed by the limitations in Wesley’s talents, Picard said, “I was under the impression that you’ve frequently crossed far greater distances—that you’d even visited other galaxies.”
“I have—when I’m alone.” Trying to explain the difficulty seemed to frustrate him. “It’s one thing for me to shift myself extradimensionally. When it’s just me and maybe my own small ship, I can go almost anywhere I want. But when I have to help something as large as the Enterprise make that kind of a jaunt—not to mention the hundreds of conscious minds inside it—well, it’s like trying to swim while dragging an anchor.”
Picard nodded. “I take your meaning.”
Worf appeared discomfited by Wesley’s bad news. “Why not ask your fellow Travelers to guide our other ships?”
“If there were any Travelers left in this galaxy besides me right now, I would. But as far as I can tell, they’re all too concerned with saving themselves to do us any favors—and they aren’t exactly taking my calls.” He shrugged. “I guess they think I’m tilting at windmills here.”
“Which leaves us going alone into harm’s way,” Picard said.
Worf projected quiet fortitude. “Familiar territory.”
“Indeed, it is.” Picard decided the time for action had come. “Number One, take the ship to Yellow Alert and start preparing the crew for what they’ll face when we reach Abbadon. Mister Crusher, can I trust you’ll be able to assist Commander La Forge in making any needed upgrades to our propulsion systems for the hyperwarp jump?”
“Just give the word, Captain.”
“The word is given.” He stood. “The galaxy’s counting on us, gentlemen. Let’s not keep it waiting.”
* * *
Main engineering resonated with the low, soothing pulse of the warp core, whose steady cadence suffused the lower decks of the Enterprise even when the ship was cruising under impulse power. Its womb-like ambience made La Forge feel at home; even the comforts of his quarters felt mundane when measured against the reassurance of the ship’s antimatter-fueled heartbeat.
The only aspect of main engineering that La Forge liked better than its sonic embrace was its crew. He thought of his engineers as his extended family, and he looked forward each day to their company and camaraderie. From his assistant chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Taurik, to the newest enlisted personnel serving on the damage-control and firefighting teams, he made a point of getting to know each of them by name as well as by their quirks and interests.
Part of his inspiration for this style of leadership was a truism that he had learned from Worf: In times of danger and combat, soldiers often fight not for their people, or their ship, or even their unit, but for their friends and kin who stand beside them. With that in mind, La Forge had made a point of forging bonds of friendship among all his personnel so that when calamities came, every one of his engineers would be willing to face anything for any of the others.
His friendship with Wesley Crusher, however, existed on a different level, as it did with all the senior officers with whom La Forge had served on the Enterprise-D before it was lost in action. Wesley had been barely a teen when La Forge first met him twenty years earlier. The chief engineer had become one of the young man’s best friends, as well as his de facto mentor in engineering and science, just as Will Riker and the captain had acted as the lad’s role models in matters of leadership and command. They all had watched Wesley grow up with alarming speed, and then he’d left the
ship to attend Starfleet Academy—only to abandon his studies during his final year, when his nascent Traveler abilities were revealed.
Looking at him now, as he moved from station to station in main engineering, offering advice and corrections to the engineering staff with quiet confidence, La Forge was forced to admit that the awkward, uncertain boy he’d once known was long gone, replaced by a man of tremendous abilities and esoteric knowledge.
Wesley stopped to inspect the dilithium crystal articulation frame housing, so La Forge took the opportunity to sidle up to him. “Are we good to go?”
“Almost.” Wesley checked the system’s basic diagnostic report. “I’ve asked Lieutenant Sakrysta to increase the frequency on the EPS transfer nodes, to make sure they don’t overload when I help push the ship into hyperwarp. And Lieutenants Scholz and Morello are adjusting the subspace field geometry so that we don’t induce a feedback surge in the warp nacelles.”
La Forge gave a nod of approval. “Looks like you’ve got everything under control.”
Wesley shrugged off the compliment. “I don’t want to say this isn’t difficult, but after some of the things I’ve learned how to do, this kinda feels like paint-by-numbers.”
The offhand comment stoked La Forge’s curiosity. “What sort of things?”
“Well, not to brag . . .” A sly smile. “A few years ago, I wanted to study a supernova at point-blank range. So I let my thoughts lead me to one in a galaxy a few hundred million light-years from here, and then I shifted myself and my ship out of temporal sync with the universe—so that when the star detonated, it happened for me in ultraslow motion. What would normally have been over in nanoseconds I made last for hours. I was able to document the supernova with a resolution that captured almost every unique subatomic reaction.”
It was hard for La Forge to tell what part of the anecdote had left him speechless: the details of the event, or the jocular and offhand manner in which Wesley had related it. He masked his unease with a polite smile. “Sounds like a hell of a talent.”
