by David Mack
“Confirmed,” Conlon said. “The planet is returning to its fully compressed state.”
Gomez flipped the cover of her tricorder closed. “Okay, folks, I want to know what the hell just happened.” Pointing at Stevens, she said, “Get me sensor logs, see if the ship encountered anyth—”
“The expansion was caused by a tetryon pulse,” Tev interrupted. Four angry faces looked back at him. “There is no cause for alarm. My experiment confirmed that the compression geometry is fractal in nature, and that the critical threshold for—”
Her eyes shining with fury, Gomez cut in, “Everyone who isn’t Tev, get out.”
A deadly chill filled the room as Stevens, Haznedl, and Conlon hurried out of the lab to the corridor. Gomez waited in silence while they exited, and fixed her enraged glare on Tev.
The door swished shut, and Gomez snapped.
“Does the word ‘insubordination’ mean anything to you, Tev? How about the phrase ‘chain of command’? Or ‘standard procedure’?”
“It was a simple experiment,” Tev protested. “I assessed the properties of the—”
“That’s just it,” she said. “You assessed the risks of your little stunt, but you didn’t confer with the group, or with me, your commanding officer. You can’t just—”
“My efforts were successful,” he said. “We learned more about its—”
“What part of what I’m saying are you not hearing? I don’t give a damn if your test revealed the meaning of life—you ran a potentially disastrous experiment without telling the rest of us what the hell you were doing. Didn’t you think we might have been able to help?” Sarcasm crept swiftly into her voice. “Or were you afraid we’d just slow you down? Maybe you think the da Vinci crew is just so much dead weight, a millstone Starfleet put around your neck to keep your brilliance in check.”
“Quite the contrary,” Tev said. “You’re all exceptionally competent.”
“Well, thank you so much for your stamp of approval,” she retorted. “‘Exceptionally competent.’ That ranks right up there with ‘superbly adequate’ and ‘remarkably acceptable’ in the backhanded compliment hall of fame.” In two quick steps she put herself nose-to-snout with Tev, thoroughly encroaching on his personal space. “You do not work in a vacuum aboard this ship. I know you’ve made efforts to ingratiate yourself with the crew—”
“As long as I have their respect,” Tev cut in, “I don’t require their friendship.”
“Let me give you the same advice. The next time you step out of line with me, I’ll have your ass in front of a court-martial at warp ten. Do you get me?”
Tev was shocked by Gomez’s assertion of her absolute authority over him. When he had first come aboard the da Vinci months earlier, she had seemed indecisive, hesitant, gun-shy after the death of her lover—who also happened to be Tev’s immediate predecessor as second officer. But now she was brash, aggressive, confident…and, apparently, openly hostile to him.
He tried to suppress a grin, but the more his façade cracked, the angrier Gomez became. Every uptick in her fury widened his smirk and deepened his pity for her, because he knew he could never requite the rawness or intensity of her passion.
Poor, deluded woman, he mused. She obviously wants me.
Rounding the corner into the lower-deck corridor, Corsi was surprised to see Stevens, Haznedl, and Conlon loitering several meters away from the lab door. The trio conferred in hushed tones and halted their discussion when they noticed Corsi.
She joined their huddle. “Do I want to know?”
“Gomez is tearing Tev a new orifice,” Conlon said.
“Maybe two,” Haznedl added.
About time, Corsi decided. Looking at Stevens, she said, “Details?”
“It’s been getting worse by the minute.”
Straining to hear Gomez’s shouts through the acoustically insulated bulkhead, Corsi nodded. “Sounds like she’s having fun. What did he do?”
Conlon raised her eyebrow and shook her head in dismay. “You don’t want to know.”
“That bad, huh?” Noticing the padd in Stevens’s hand, she asked, “Unlocked the pyramid’s mysteries yet?”
Stevens shook his head. “We don’t even know what it’s made of.”
Corsi had hoped that the research team would have found at least a modicum of physical evidence that she could analyze. In the absence of anything that even remotely resembled proof, she was at a loss for how to carry out her orders to determine whether Araneus or his foes—or both—were lying to the captain.
She was turning back toward the turbolift when the lab door opened. Gomez stepped halfway out and said, “You can come back in now.” The foursome in the corridor traded brief expressions of reluctance, then ambled back toward the lab.
Before Corsi had taken more than a few following steps, she heard the swish of turbolift doors opening around the corner, followed by the frantic patter of running footsteps. Faulwell turned the corner at a fast jog. He waved the padd in his hand toward the group. “Stop! Don’t touch the pyramid!”
Gomez moved quickly out into the corridor and intercepted the lumbering cryptographer. “Bart, what’s going on?”
“I might know how to find its key code,” he said, speaking quickly. “But you have to stop messing with that thing, and we need to brief the captain. Now.”
Although the commander was fairly informal in her dealings with her S.C.E. team, she seemed to bristle at the tone Faulwell had just taken with her. “This had better be good, Bart.”
“I know who made the pyramid,” Faulwell said excitedly. “Trust me, Commander—we’re way out of our league.”
Chapter
4
Captain Gold settled in behind his ready-room desk as Gomez and Faulwell walked in behind him. The petite first officer moved off to one side, giving Faulwell center stage. Uploading data from his padd to the station on Gold’s desk, Faulwell said, “The Starfleet historical database was able to match the symbols on the pyramid.”
Symbols filled the screen, which was split into two parallel images. On the left was a detail from the pyramid that Araneus had brought aboard. On the right was an image from the archives. Even a cursory examination confirmed their similarity.
“This is from an artifact, an obelisk, that was found by the crew of the Starship Enterprise in 2268 on planet FGC-351772 III.”
Gomez looked simultaneously amused and skeptical. “That’s the planet’s name? Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?”
Faulwell shrugged. “Apparently, its official name is still pending. Prime Directive issues.” He switched to a wider image of the obelisk. “The device protected the planet from asteroid impacts. The Enterprise’s science officer deduced that the symbols on the structure’s exterior were from a complex tonal alphabet and served as instructions for using and repairing the device.”
Gomez held up a hand to interrupt. “Hold on—whose alphabet? You said you knew who built the pyramid.”
“I do,” Faulwell said. Gesturing toward the screen, he continued, “That’s the language of the Preservers.”
Gold let out a long, low groan. As far as he was concerned, the Preservers were the working antithesis of the Prime Directive. Though no one knew who they were, where they had come from, or even whether they were even a race unto themselves or some kind of multispecies coalition, the fruits of their labors were well known to Starfleet. In a word, they were meddlers.
Just like that, Gold had a headache.
“Tell me one thing, Faulwell—can you make heads or tails out of those squiggles?”
“Yes, Captain. It’ll take a few hours, but—”
Pointing to the door, Gold said, “Get to it.” As Faulwell stepped quickly out to the bridge, the captain turned his attention to Gomez. “The Silgov are going to catch up to us any minute, and they don’t seem inclined to talk this out.”
She thought for a moment. “How do you want to handle it? Run or fight?”
Rising from
his chair, he said, “Whichever one gets us to Mu Arae in one piece.”
At Narjam’s bidding, Maleiras entered the viceroy’s inner sanctum aboard the Silgov flagship Justice Maker. She stepped cautiously, as if fearful of despoiling hallowed ground. After months confined in the cramped quarters of the Starlit Wing, Maleiras felt strangely vulnerable in such wide-open spaces.
Space-time twisted past the wide, wraparound windows on either side of Narjam’s home-in-exile. His desk had reconfigured its normally blank surface into a detailed report from Silgos Prime. Judging from his expression, Maleiras concluded that the already bleak situation back home must be growing worse.
“Bad tidings, my lord?”
“Sadly, yes.” With a wave of his hand he blanked the desktop and looked up at her, his expression serene once more. “Your message sounded urgent.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Emerging from behind his desk, he said, “Speak.”
“I humbly request your permission to be candid, lord.”
Shooting her a wary look, he said, “Granted.”
“Forgive my impertinence, lord, but I think we might be pursuing the wrong strategy with regard to the Federation.”
His mood quickly grew defensive. “In what way?”
“Rather than make a foe of the Federation, could we not court them as allies instead?”
“Preposterous!” Narjam circled her like a predator. “Their ships are bulky and slow, at least a century behind ours. Such a backward civilization is of no use to us.”
Maleiras replied hotly, “I disagree, my liege.” She took a moment to rein in her temper. “Their propulsion is unrefined, but their weaponry is formidable. Even a remote civilian outpost was able to disable my vessel with a single volley. Such armaments would strike terror into the Vekhal.”
Passing behind the anxious woman, Narjam asked, “What are you proposing?”
“A trade, my lord. Our propulsion secrets for their armory knowledge. And perhaps an alliance.”
“Entrust our fates to an unknown interstellar power? Are you quite mad?”
“The Koas have sought them out in a time of distress—a telling detail. They did not seek refuge with the Danteri, or the Breen, or the Romulans. Why travel so much farther to reach the Federation?”
Halting in his circuit of the room, Narjam seemed to consider that for a moment. Then he shook off the notion like a winter chill. “When we disable the Federation vessel, its weapons will be as available to us as the pyramid.” He returned to his desk and sat down. “Our mobility is the only thing that has kept our rebellion from being crushed by the Vekhal. I won’t give away our most precious tactical asset to strangers.” Calling up a map of Silgos Prime on his desktop, he added, “Once the pyramid is ours, no weapon in the galaxy will be able to stand against us. And our people will be free.”
Armed with the complete Koas gene-sequence, Dr. Lense had just finished administering a series of stabilizing agents, painkillers, and tissue-regenerative compounds into Araneus’s battered body. Only after she’d determined what its outer carapace was supposed to look like was she able to see that Araneus had, in fact, been terribly burned. Why the stubborn Koas hadn’t shared this information with Dr. Safford after being transported aboard Varkala Station, she hadn’t a clue.
Through all of her labors, Rennan Konya had sat quietly with Araneus, projecting soothing moods into the patient’s central nervous system and alerting Lense when her treatments provoked distress. Amazing, she thought. All these gadgets, and not one as sensitive or as accurate as this security guard.
The doors swished open and Captain Gold entered sickbay, followed closely by Corsi. The two officers split up and took positions facing each other from either side of Araneus’s octopus-like cephalothorax. Gesturing toward the dazed Koas, Gold asked Lense, “He’s stable, you said?”
“For the moment,” Lense said.
“Wake him up, Doctor,” Gold said. “It’s life or death for us and him, and we’re out of time.”
Nodding to Konya, Lense instructed, “Carefully, Rennan.”
Concentrating behind closed eyes, Konya reached out and placed his fingertips gently against Araneus’s head. Seconds later, the Koas’s faceted eyes swiveled a small bit, then its voice ushered from its maw like a note from a whispering bassoon. “Captain…”
“Araneus,” Gold said. “Can you speak?”
Groaning with the effort, Araneus said, “Yes.”
Gold nodded to Corsi, who took over the questioning. “We’re being pursued by the Silgov,” she said. “They claim the pyramid belongs to them.”
“Lies,” Araneus said.
Lense noted the mutual eye-rolling between the captain and the security chief. Corsi continued, “We think we’ve identified the writing on the pyramid. Where did your people get it?”
Araneus hesitated. Its eyes shifted from one person in the sickbay to another. Konya, apparently sensing that Corsi was becoming suspicious of the Koas’s reluctance, gestured subtly for her to be at ease. The Koas spoke at last. “A visitor. Looked like one of us. An alien, from another star and ages past.”
Gold jumped back in. “Who was this alien?”
“Preserver,” Araneus said. “Called his people Preservers.”
Knowing glances and satisfied nods passed between Gold and Corsi. Meanwhile, Araneus continued. “Said his people made a vow to the Koas six million years ago. Their kind…almost gone. But honored their pledge. Kept their promise. Saved my people.”
Corsi leaned closer to Araneus. “The Silgov think they can make the pyramid into a weapon.”
“No,” Araneus said, drawing out the word for several seconds. “Works only once. Pyramid gone when my world is free.”
Gold straightened and motioned for Corsi to follow him out of sickbay. Lense watched the pair hurry out, then looked to Konya for a report on Araneus’s condition. Before she even had to ask, he reassured her with a careful thumbs-up.
Friendlier than my tricorder, that’s for sure, the doctor mused—while wondering if there was any way she could convince Konya to study medicine.
Gold and Corsi exited the turbolift onto the bridge, which was awash in the crimson glow of battle-stations lighting. Moving to his chair, he relieved Piotrowski, who resumed her post at tactical. Corsi situated herself behind the captain’s right shoulder. Typically, that would be the first officer’s post, but with Gomez and Tev both belowdecks leading the effort to thwart the Silgov attack, Gold was happy to have Corsi there in their stead.
Leaning forward with a cold gleam in his eye, Gold commanded, “Hail the Silgov flagship.”
Piotrowski keyed in the transmission and was answered seconds later by a beeping signal on her console. “Viceroy Narjam responding, Captain.”
“On-screen.”
The delicate features of Narjam appeared on the main viewer. “You wish to surrender, Captain?”
“Not quite,” Gold said. “But I see now that I might have been hasty in not acknowledging the possibility that your claim of ownership is genuine.”
“I see. How do you propose to remedy this slight?”
Denying himself the pleasure of sarcasm or the catharsis of harsh language, Gold said, “A simple parley, Viceroy. To avert unnecessary violence.”
“Most sensible, Captain,” Narjam said, his smug pretension galling to Gold even from several light-years away.
“If your lordship would be so kind as to indulge my explorer’s curiosity,” Gold said, “could you share with me the significance of the markings on the pyramid?”
Despite the fact that Narjam had rebuffed a similar request less than an hour ago, Gold hoped that by adopting a more subordinate tone he might induce the Silgov leader to elaborate on his assertion of proprietorship.
The viceroy did not disappoint him.
“Those symbols are part of the Silgov language, Captain,” Narjam said. “Read in sequence, they tell the history of my people.”
Wrinkling h
is brow in mock confusion, Gold countered, “You told your people’s entire history in just twenty-one symbols?” As trick questions went, it wasn’t a subtle one. Even a fleeting examination of the pyramid had made it obvious to Gold that there were many dozens of symbols on the pyramid, and he was fairly certain that no two were alike. Time to see if Narjam can call my bluff, he thought.
Narjam neither hemmed nor hawed; he simply kept the same vacant look of drab politeness plastered onto his bland, soft-featured face. “Silgov is a subtle language, Captain. Though it might look to you as if there are only twenty-one symbols, they contain myriad subtle differences, which, read together, lend nuance to the overall inscription.”
Gold turned to Piotrowski and symbolically slashed his fingertips in front of his throat. The dark-haired young woman muted the ship-to-ship channel. Looking at Corsi, Gold saw that she had recognized Narjam’s lie, just as he had. “He’s never even seen that box,” he said to her.
“Permission to kick his ass?”
“Granted.”
“Think faster, folks,” Gomez said to the da Vinci personnel who were gathered in the main shuttlebay while donning their specialized environment suits for damage-control duty. “The Silgov are going to start shooting any second now.”
“We know their shields are subpar,” Stevens said, shimmying into his gear. “If we hit them hard enough—”
“There’s too many of them,” Hawkins interrupted. “We’d get flanked, then fried.”
Powering up her suit, engineer Brenda Phelps said, “Let’s just ditch ’em, then.”
Security Guard Madeleine Robins shot back, “How? We’re in deep space, there’s nowhere to hide.”
Engineer Chris Turpin piped up. “Maybe we could jury-rig a cloaking device.”
Winn Mara laughed out loud. “Sure, and while we’re at it, let’s reinvent the Tholian Web.”
Stevens inspected everyone’s suits and repair kits as the debate continued. Lauoc and T’Mandra argued over whether the da Vinci’s shields could be reconfigured for metaphasic operation, enabling them to take cover inside a solar mass—until Gomez pointed out that there wasn’t a star close enough for the ship to reach before the Silgov would surround them. Rizz and T’Nel from engineering, meanwhile, vetoed several outrageous ideas in a row by security guard Makk Vinx, who then vexed the Bolian man and Vulcan woman by implying that a “tommy gun” was somehow the solution to every problem. Gomez resolved to find out one of these days what a tommy gun was.
