Star Trek®: A Choice of Catastrophes

by Michael Schuster

  The intraship sounded, and Sulu’s voice reverberated throughout the room. “Attention, all hands. We will begin the operation designed to remove the Enterprise from this zone of spatial instability. We will eject a shuttlecraft into one of the distortions. The resulting blast from the shuttle’s explosion will push us free. It won’t be a smooth ride. Please stay alert and brace yourselves. With a little luck, we will come out of this safely. All sections, report.”

  “Lawton here. Crew centralized in safe locations.”

  “Harper here. Main systems ready for immediate shutdown.”

  “Leslie here. Inertial dampers set for maximum.”

  “Padmanabhan here. Distortions plotted and course set.”

  McCoy hit the comm button himself. “McCoy here. Sickbay ready.”

  “DeSalle here. Shuttlecraft ready for automated launch.”

  There was a brief pause, then Sulu spoke again. “You are go for launch, Lieutenant DeSalle.”

  “Aye, sir. Shuttlebay doors opening under manual control… open.”

  McCoy looked at Chapel, whose face was creased with worry.

  “Shuttlecraft launching… now.”

  Chapel noticed McCoy looking at her and smiled.

  “Shuttlecraft away. ETA to distortion, seven seconds.”

  McCoy smiled back.

  “Six.”

  He grabbed the closest fixed object to prepare for impact: Petriello’s bed.

  “Five.”

  Chapel did the same with Salah’s.

  “Four.”

  He thought of how brusque he was to her. He’d have to make it up to her.

  “Three.”

  He’d have to make it up to the whole medical staff, really.

  “Two.”

  He wondered how Jocelyn was doing.

  “One.”

  He tried to remember the last time he’d talked to Joanna. He’d have to contact her.

  “Zero.”

  McCoy couldn’t hear the explosion, but he could feel it. The impact shook the deck, and despite holding on to the biobed, McCoy had a hard time staying on his feet. He thought he heard the ship itself scream, its metal wrenching and twisting as it hurtled through space. The lights went out and then came back on, dim, when the battery backups kicked in.

  As McCoy watched, Petriello opened his mouth. The medical monitor began squealing in alarm. Petriello began to scream.

  Moments later, they all did. All five voices slammed into McCoy’s psyche, pushing their way into his mind. He’d never heard anything like it. The screams penetrated his most private defenses, tore down the walls he’d constructed around himself, and slammed into the core of his being, shattering him into a million tiny pieces.

  McCoy’s knees gave way and he collapsed onto the deck.

  Stardate Unknown

  McCoy found himself on a biobed, white, empty space all around him. There was nothing else. From out of nowhere, a voice came: This is your solution? Santos—materialized next to him, as if she had been transported here—looked confused. Subject us to the worst of it?

  “I had to,” McCoy said. “It’s the only way.” All five espers were now arrayed around him, peering down like he was a museum exhibit.

  It’s worse than ever before, Fraser said, her face lined with pain. The Nothing. It’s all we can feel now.

  Far away in the background, outside the emptiness he was in, McCoy could hear Fraser screaming as she spoke. He could hear all of them.

  The Nothing and you. Salah’s burly form loomed over McCoy.

  “Our options were limited,” McCoy said defensively.

  We wanted to get away from the distortions! Bouchard said.

  McCoy was determined to find a way out of this for all of them. He sat up on the bed and picked one of the espers—Bouchard—and looked him in the eye. “I’ve had enough of this.” They recoiled from him, surprised by his sudden resolve. “Any doctor knows that there are times you have to confront your pain. There are times you have to grit your teeth and push through it.”

  McCoy gave them all a hard look. He thought they understood what he was getting at, because they nodded, despite the agony on their faces.

  As one, they opened their mouths, uttering once again a shared scream that overwhelmed his senses. McCoy covered his ears, but he might as well not have bothered. It was impossible to block out the sound. It was everywhere at once—in his mind, in his heart, in his bones.

  The entire ship tilted. It happened so quickly that McCoy wasn’t able to grab the bed’s edge in time. He rolled right off the bed, and then his head hit something.

  He told himself that this was only an illusion. He’d barely finished the thought when he passed out.

  Stardate 4758.4 (0914 hours)

  Kirk felt the entire ship slip underneath his feet, the stars whirling in circles in the display. “Mister Chekov, what’s happening?” he shouted.

  “Attempting to stabilize, sir!”

  Kirk watched as Chekov manipulated the controls, giving occasional orders to Giotto at the next console. The stars stopped swirling and the deck leveled itself out. Kirk let go of the pole he’d been holding on to. “Wormhole effect?” he asked.

  “We have run aground into normal space, sir,” said Chekov. “This is very similar to the phenomenon Lieutenant Uhura reported.”

  “And the other ship?” There was no sign of it.

  “A little bit ahead of us. They did not cut power as fast as we did, and their warp drive suffered greater damage.”

  Neophyte space travelers—like the New Planets Cousins—wouldn’t recognize a spatial distortion, and they certainly wouldn’t know how to deal with it. Thankfully Chekov had his wits about him. The captain asked, “How far did we get?”

  Giotto hit some buttons. “About a hundred light-seconds.” A new view on the heads-up display showed Farrezz behind them, now nothing more than a bright dot.

  “James-Kirk-Enterprise!” Horr shrieked. “Report: engine damage. Functional impairment.”

  “The other ship is worse off,” Chekov said. “However… they are resetting their engines.”

  “Are they insane?” Giotto asked.

  “No,” Kirk said, “just inexperienced. What will that do?”

  “If that ship tries to go to warp in these distortions with a damaged warp drive,” Chekov said, “it will be ripped apart.”

  Killing thousands of innocent Farrezzi. Kirk needed to stop them, without weapons. He looked back up at the HUD, at the small dot of Farrezz. “How much time do we have?”

  “Ten minutes.” Chekov grimaced.

  Something was stirring in the back of Kirk’s mind, even as he strained his neck looking at the tiny little planet. “Mister Chekov, can you magnify the planet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The planet grew bigger, with only a slight jitter that told Kirk the computer wasn’t entirely able to compensate for the spinning. “Increase magnification.”

  Now the planet took up the entire display, the continents clearly visible under the spotty cloud cover. Many island chains dotted the oceans, where submerged mountain ridges poked through the water’s surface.

  “Can you show me the satellites?” Kirk asked.

  “That’s a bit more difficult. They’re small, and fast.”

  Kirk grinned. “My point exactly.”

  McCoy let off an involuntary groan. His body ached all over—he was acutely aware of the number of bumps and bruises it had taken over the past day. What had happened? Everything was still fuzzy.

  He was on the deck. Blocking his field of vision was the broad base of a biobed. With what amounted to a superhuman effort, McCoy propped himself up on his elbows and scanned the room for other victims of the latest incident. Chapel lay on the deck across from him on her side, facing the opposing wall. She was unconscious but breathing steadily.

  Gathering every ounce of strength, McCoy sat up and waited a bit before he tried to stand. His head was still fuzzy. It took a wh
ile, but eventually he was able to wake Chapel. Her eyes snapped open. She ran her hand over her face. “Doctor, what… what happened?”

  “Our patients objected to our actions.” McCoy’s eyes flicked to the nearest monitor—Petriello’s. The man’s levels were improving steadily. Their plan had worked! For Petriello to rally so quickly could only mean one thing: they had put the distortions behind them.

  McCoy inspected the others’ readings. Fraser was improving, her readings climbing back toward normal. Santos, on the bed to her left, was doing the same, though not as quickly. Salah, too. And Bouchard—

  Bouchard’s were sinking. Fast.

  “No, no, no, no!” McCoy shouted, hurrying over to the phaser control officer. Not now. Not after all this.

  “Dalaphaline!” he shouted. Christine was already pressing a hypospray with the stimulant into his hand.

  He’d have to inject it directly into the brain. The hypo-spray hissed as it released the chemicals.

  “Come on, come on!” McCoy’s eyes ran back and forth between Bouchard’s blank face and the medical monitor.

  Nothing happened. Bouchard was bottoming out.

  His mind ran through all the ideas he’d had for saving the espers. Now that they were out of the distort-zone, maybe one of them would work, he just had to figure out which one—

  The medical monitor gave one last bleep and then every readout was at zero: no heartbeat, no respiration, no brain patterns.

  Bouchard was dead.

  They’d moved the ship, but it had been too late.

  Chapel grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry, Doctor.”

  “Computer, time of death: 0921 hours, Stardate 4758.4. Name: Olivier Bouchard, ensign. Cause: the Nothing.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Stardate 4758.4 (0915 hours)

  All Scotty could do was watch as the landing party positioned the phaser rifle. He was startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was M’Benga’s. “Relax,” the doctor said. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Scotty merely nodded. There was a bright flash, then belching black smoke, which was swept away by an intense jet of air to reveal the remnants of the door. An alarm began beeping on his tricorder. “Commander, are you seeing this?” Scotty asked, as he was running a scan to make sure.

  “Yes, Mister Scott.” Spock’s voice was grave. “The power emanating from the tower is fluctuating rapidly. If we do not succeed in shutting it down shortly, it will explode, possibly forcing open a subspace disruption within the planetary atmosphere.”

  “Mister Spock, we’ve only got seventeen minutes,” Scotty said, his voice rising in alarm.

  “I am aware of the situation, Mister Scott. We are moving with alacrity.”

  Captain Kirk’s plan was simple. The ships were still close to the planet. If he reprogrammed the satellites, he could use them to overwhelm the fleeing slavers.

  “A very ingenious idea, Captain,” said Chekov.

  “Let’s see if it works,” Kirk replied.

  “I think it will, Captain.” Chekov, working with Giotto, had connected his tricorder to a partially dismantled communicator that had been wired into the controls of their commandeered ship. “I’ve reprogrammed the control circuits for the Farrezzi satellites, allowing us to transmit to all of them at once. Their reaction control thrusters are under our command.”

  “Well done. Transmit now.”

  “Aye, sir,” Chekov said. He began keying commands into his tricorder. “Captain, did you know that we are continuing a proud Russian tradition?”

  “Do you think this is the time for that?” Kirk asked.

  “Ah… no, sir.”

  Tilting his head back, Kirk could see that the satellites’ thrusters had activated. “Horr,” he called across the command deck, “can you pull the image back? And follow the satellites’ progress?”

  “Affirmation, James-Kirk-Enterprise,” answered the Farrezzi teacher. “Intention of best attempt.”

  Small purple dots now flitted across the display. Horr asked, “Desire: explanation of developments.” A couple of his eyes bent to study Kirk.

  “We’re about to hit the slavers with the satellites your people placed in orbit around Farrezz.”

  “Feeling of surprise. Query: chances of success?”

  “Impossible to say. It should disable them if we aim them right.”

  “Feeling of disappointment. Lack of patience.”

  He wasn’t alone there. “I know that it must be difficult, given that more of your people are—”

  The ship shuddered, then flung him to the deck as everything tilted hard to port. Lights flickered; Farrezzi shrieks mixed with human curses.

  In the darkness, Kirk could only wonder what had gone wrong now.

  When McCoy stepped into his lab, he was surprised to find Padmanabhan and Rodriguez dismantling the computers, and Sulu nowhere in sight. “… we’ll be working with the damage-control party on the bridge, if you need us, sir.”

  “Very good. Carry on.” The monitor showed Sulu in auxiliary control. “Doctor, status?” he asked.

  “Petriello, Santos, Fraser, and Salah are getting better. Bouchard is dead.” McCoy swallowed. “How’s the Enterprise?”

  “She’s fine,” Sulu said. “The ship’s on course, and as we move from the center of the zone, the distortions lessen. There’ll be some turbulence, but the worst is well behind us. We’ll soon be clear.”

  Padmanabhan chimed in unbidden. “Amazing—there’s so much out there, we’ve seen—even in just a brief squirt from the shuttle—it’s just like—”

  Rodriguez put a hand on the ensign’s shoulder. “Okay, Homi.”

  “Can we make it to Mu Arigulon now?” McCoy asked.

  “There are still some distortions I’d like to avoid. I’d say we’re two days out.”

  “Once we’re on course, Lieutenant, you should get some rest. Doctor’s orders.”

  Sulu smiled as he replied, “We’re only here because I listened to you, so from now on, I’ll make sure to follow your orders, Captain McCoy.”

  The tower’s interior thrummed with power. The room was small, barely large enough to contain the landing party. In the center of the circular chamber was an object resembling a cube, its faces covered with protrusions. Lights blinked, signaling the object’s working state. It did not possess an input screen of any kind.

  “How much time do we have?” Saloniemi asked.

  “Eleven minutes, forty-nine seconds,” Spock replied. “We must work quickly if we are to stop the overload. Ensign Seven Deers, have you determined the cause of the fluctuations?”

  “No, sir,” she said, working her tricorder. “It’s almost impossible to get readings in here. Interference is strong.”

  “Ensign Saloniemi, report.”

  Saloniemi was running his tricorder over the glyphs on the device, moving from one to another. “It’s all technical terminology,” he said. “The UT is still working on it. This one”—he pointed to a prominent symbol on the top of the cube—“is marked ‘playback.’”

  Seven Deers was right next to him with her own tricorder. “It connects to a set of holographic circuits,” she said.

  “Press it,” Spock ordered. Saloniemi did, and the lights on the cube dimmed as a hologram appeared above it.

  “That’s a Farrezzi!” Seven Deers exclaimed—unnecessarily, since the image matched the landing party’s recordings.

  The image of the Farrezzi was frozen, but a voice emerged. “Occupants of this chamber have been identified as not of the Community of the Children of Farrezz. This message is for visitors to our world.” The voice stopped, and the image continued to hold still.

  “That’s not Farrezzi,” said Saloniemi quietly. “It’s one of the Orion trading creoles. Yrevish.”

  Spock nodded. It was logical to leave a message for off-worlders in a language that they would likely know.

  The holographic Farrezzi began to move, its tentacles flexing slightly. A new voice,
a little higher-pitched, began: “I am Benshor-Ka-Morafe, head of the Deep Burrow Project. If you have analyzed Farrezz, you have discovered that its atmosphere has grown toxic after centuries of industrial pollution. We traveled into space to find a solution to this problem, but found nothing and no one to help us. We lacked the technology to evacuate our world. The only solution was to avoid further disruption, while returning the planet to its natural state. The entire Community of the Children of Farrezz has gone into hibernation while our satellites work to repair the planet’s atmosphere. When it has been restored, we will return to the surface. We will take care of the planet from that point on. If you have—have—have—”

  The image paused, hanging in place. “It’s trying to continue the playback,” said Seven Deers.

  “The statements of Benshor-Ka-Morafe verify our hypotheses,” said Spock.

  The playback continued. “—have made it here, then you have bypassed the defenses we built before we entered our slumber. Knowing that a world of sleepers would present a tempting target for some of the species we have encountered, we designed a system—powered by warp reactors across the continent—that would project distortions in subspace, making it impossible for any vessel to approach this planet at warp speed. The projector is designed to respond to the warp bubbles it encounters; the more powerful the engines, the more powerful the distortions. We do not know how you managed it, but you have made it here. Please, let the Community of the Children of Farrezz slumber in peace. Do not loot our world. We have gone through much to ensure its continued survival.”

  The Farrezzi raised three of its tentacles into the air, balancing on the two remaining. “Please, go back to the stars. We are defenseless, we have only our pleas. I ask you to go back to your home so that we may keep ours.”

  The image faded out. “This explains a great deal,” Spock said to the assembled team. “The distortions the Enterprise encountered were caused by this device.”

  “Why is the projector so unstable?” Saloniemi asked.

  “The warp engines of a Constitution-class starship are massive,” said Seven Deers. “If the projector tried to match their power, the distortions would be enormous—far more than this system would have been designed to accommodate.” The engineer shook her head. “It’s reached its maximum, and it’s now caught in a deadly feedback loop.”