by Peter David
"'Behold my works, ye mighty, and despair,'" he said softly.
Thompson looked up from the distress probe with polite confusion. "Pardon, sir?"
"An old poem, Lieutenant," said Harriman, unable to tear his gaze away from the far-off ruins. "A man traveling in the desert discovers the broken remains of a statue. And there's an inscription that reads, 'I am Ozymandias, king of kings. Behold my works, ye mighty, and despair.' The point of the poem was the transitory nature of man's accomplishments. Here was this great and powerful 'king of kings,' who apparently had ruled a vast empire … and there was nothing left of him or anything that he had done except a ruined statue. The rest of it had been lost to time."
"We all get lost to time, sir," said Thompson matter-of-factly. She had flipped open her communicator. "Z'on? You got it?"
"Got it," came Z'on's voice. "Analyzing now."
Thompson turned to Harriman. "I fed the images of the markings into the tricorder, and from there up to Lieutenant Z'on."
"Good work, Lieutenant." Harriman looked in the direction that Hernandez and Tobler had gone. He frowned a moment in concern and then spoke into his communicator once more. "Harriman to Hernandez." What Harriman found a bit daunting is that he had absolutely no idea what he would do if Hernandez failed to answer. That would mean that he had more than a lost crewman on his hands; he had a genuine situation. Couldn't anything go routinely for him at any time?
Fortunately enough he was spared having to concern himself. Hernandez's voice came through immediately in that customary, laconic tone of his. "Hernandez here."
"Any sign of Ensign Sulu?"
"We found her tracks, sir. Following them now. But they seem to just go in a circle. We're trying to find another possible trail."
"Keep me apprised," said Harriman as he closed his communicator. Thompson looked away from him quickly, obviously trying to mask her own concern and maintain as much as possible her professional demeanor.
Thompson's own communicator beeped and she flipped it open. "Thompson," she said crisply.
"Got a translation for you," Z'on's voice came back with no preamble. "Two problems: It's somewhat rough, and it's somewhat useless."
"What does it say?"
"It says, 'If found, please return.'"
Thompson and Harriman exchanged looks. "That's it?" she said incredulously.
"Yes, ma'am," Z'on said. "None of the symbols were anything vaguely Terran. I managed to cross-reference it off similar, already translated symbols from digs on Minox Nine and Alpha Prime Twelve. It corresponds to the known written language of an ancient, apparently long-dead race called …"
He paused. Thompson frowned. "Called what?"
"The Blumbergs."
Harriman stepped over. "Say again?" He couldn't quite believe he'd heard it correctly.
"The Blumbergs, sir," said Z'on with an air of resignation.
"The Blumbergs?" Despite the dreary atmosphere, despite the concern over the missing Ensign Sulu, it was all Harriman could do not to laugh. "What kind of a name for an alien race is that?!"
"Apparently, sir, the kind of name given them by the man who first discovered traces of their existence and has written all the major papers and studies regarding them. That man, as one might guess, being Dr. Matthew …"
"… Blumberg," both Thompson and Harriman said in unison.
"Correct."
"All right. Thank you, Lieutenant. Thompson out." She snapped off the communicator and looked to Harriman, who shrugged expansively. "I don't know," said Thompson after due consideration. "Kind of a different name for a race, when you get down to it."
"Oh, absolutely, Lieutenant. The Klingons, the Romulans, the Blumbergs. All of them names to strike terror into the hearts of millions." He sighed, looked around once more. "This is a waste of time," he said finally. "There's no sign of habitation here, or any sign that there ever was habitation. No sign of a crashed ship, no sign of natives, no sign of anyone attending to this distress beacon. Whoever left it here is long gone. Let's find Ensign Sulu and get the hell out of h—"
There was a low growl behind them.
Harriman knew, even without turning around, that the life scans of the planet had been wrong. There was indeed some sort of indigenous life on Askalon V. And from the sound of it, it was big … it was most likely covered with very thick fur … it probably had teeth the size of steak knives … it was very hungry … and it was long past its dinnertime.
Both Thompson and Harriman, as was standard for landing parties, had their phasers strapped to their belts. The growl seemed to be coming, best guess, from about twenty feet away. For a predator about to spring, that distance was nothing at all. It could cover it in one leap, and Harriman's first inclination was to turn and shoot as quickly as possible. But if he moved fast and rushed the shot—and in so moving, spurred the creature to spring instantly—he or Thompson (or both) could be down beneath its claws before there was time for another action to be taken.
The creature growled again. By this time both Harriman and Thompson had their hands resting on their weapons. Their gazes were locked on each other and Harriman mouthed the word Slowly to Thompson. She gave a nod so slight that her head didn't even move, but the acknowledgment was there all the same.
Slowly, ever so slowly, they turned to face the creature who threatened their lives.
Their jaws dropped in mutual astonishment.
It was Demora. Not only was she barely recognizable as herself, she would barely be recognized as human.
She was crouched on a boulder overlooking them. Her uniform was gone; she was stark naked, her hair so wildly askew that her eyes were barely visible beneath it all. But when the hair did blow aside enough to reveal her eyes, there was nothing in them but a feral, animal gleam.
Her lips were drawn back and her teeth were bared. Spittle was hanging from the corners of her mouth. Her fingers were spread in a palsied, clawlike manner. Her entire body was trembling, like a barely restrained missile wanting to tear itself loose from its moorings.
They froze there for a moment, the three of them, like some bizarre tableau from an alternate universe where humans were stalked, not by animals, but by animalistic humans. The only sounds were the whistling of the wind and the distant rumbling of the seething sky.
Thompson could barely get a word out. "D … Demora?" she stammered.
The word broke the spell, and Demora leaped.
Incredibly, impossibly, as if she'd been possessed by a puma, Demora covered the entire distance in one leap. She crashed into Thompson, knocking her back, sending her head slamming into the distress beacon. Thompson went down, the beacon crashing atop her. With the howl of a wild beast, Demora leaped upon Maggie, and at that moment she looked completely capable of ripping Thompson apart with her teeth.
Harriman brought his phaser up and fired.
The blast hit Demora squarely in the small of her back, knocking her clear of Thompson. Thompson didn't get up, and Harriman saw a trail of blood from her forehead.
He started toward Thompson, taking for granted that Demora was out cold. The first and only warning he had of his error was the full-throated roar that ripped from Demora's throat, and then Demora plowed into him, bearing him to the ground.
He couldn't believe it. From that distance, with that intensity, the phaser blast should have knocked her unconscious. The only indication that Demora seemed to register from having been shot was to go even more berserk.
Her fingernails raked across Harriman's forehead. He screamed as they drew blood, and Demora's howl of triumph was earsplitting. If he'd heard a recording of it, there was no way he would have thought any human at all could ever produce such a sound, much less an eminently civilized, charming, and witty human such as Demora Sulu.
And even as the thought flashed through his mind, even as he saw that Demora's frothing mouth was poised directly over his throat, he realized that he was still clutching his phaser in his right hand. He angled it ar
ound, jammed it directly against her bare skin, and fired.
The blast knocked her clear of him. The pressure momentarily gone, Harriman tried to get to his feet. He grunted in pain, his leg twisted back around, and then, oh God, she was getting back up. A little bit less steady, but no less angry, no less dangerous.
Blood poured into his eyes from the cuts on his forehead and he heard her roar once more, sensed rather than saw her charge. Blinded by his own blood, he desperately thumbed the power level on his phaser, jacked it up, and fired in the direction of the sound coming toward him.
The whine of the phaser combined with the shriek of its target, and Harriman couldn't see what the result was. He scrambled back across the ground, trying to put some distance, however meager, between himself and his frenzied helmswoman. He drew an arm quickly across his eyes to clear them of blood and then brought his phaser up, doublehanding the grip to keep it level.
That was when he saw Demora.
She lay on the ground, sprawled on her back. Her head lay still and lifeless, her eyes staring at nothing. Her torso was dark with burns from the close-range phaser blasts. Her legs lay twisted.
Harriman's breath was ragged in his chest. He couldn't believe it. He simply couldn't believe it. What had happened? What the hell had just happened?
He heard movement from just above the ridge, whirled with his phaser, and came within a hair of firing blindly before he realized it was Tobler and Hernandez.
They skidded to a halt, appalled at the scene before them. The captain, his face smeared with blood as if he'd been in a war. Thompson, down and unconscious. And Demora … dear God, what had happened to Demora.
Tobler's communicator was already in his hand, however. "Tobler to Enterprise! Medical emergency. Beam us all directly to sickbay!"
Harriman nodded in acknowledgment of the order, and said nothing else as they vanished from the surface of Askalon V.
Chapter Three
THERE WERE MANY "firsts" in Dr. Metcalfe's career in which he could take genuine pleasure. The first operation he performed … the first life he saved … the first child he delivered …
But now he had to pronounce the first death aboard the Enterprise.
Oh, certainly, the ship was associated with calamitous death and destruction. But Metcalfe hadn't been there for any of it. He, along with the rest of the medical personnel, had not come aboard until after the debacle of the ship's launch. Technically many had died, but it hadn't happened under Metcalfe's watch. Indeed, he felt a small degree of guilt (nothing major—he was too old a hand at this—but small nonetheless) over not having been there at the time of the ship's first crisis. Perhaps in some way he might have managed to save some lives.
But there was no great point in contemplating the past. Only the future at this point was of any interest to him. Unfortunately, it was a future that did not include the young woman laid out on the table in front of him.
Metcalfe was an older gentleman, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a gleaming bald head. He was studying the readouts that his instruments were making, speaking softly and for the record that was automatically entering his words into his medical log. Standing nearby was a stone-faced Captain Harriman, his arms folded resolutely across his chest. His forehead had been cleaned and a thin layer of plasticskin had been applied against it to seal the wound.
"Deceased died from catastrophic cellular disruption caused by a series of phaser blasts in increasing grades of intensity," Metcalfe said tonelessly. "One in the small of the back … shot from behind," and he glanced at Harriman with eyebrows raised in apparent reproof. Harriman met his gaze levelly and said nothing. Metcalfe continued, "One in the side positioned squarely between the third and four ribs … and the third, the most intense blast, in the solar plexus. Blood flow was halted in—"
Harriman couldn't stand there and listen anymore. He turned and strode out of the lab area of the sickbay, into the main area. Thompson was lying there, still unconscious, but breathing steadily. Her injuries had likewise been attended to and her condition had been stabilized. Tobler was looking over readings and noticed Harriman looking on.
"She's going to be fine, Captain," Tobler offered tentatively.
Harriman nodded once, briefly, and then started for the door. He stopped and turned as Tobler said to him, "Captain?"
"Yes?" His arms were still folded resolutely across his chest. Clear body language telling anyone who might be looking on to keep their distance.
Nonetheless Tobler said rather gamely, "Sir, maybe I'm out of line, but … I just want you to know, you saved Lieutenant Thompson's life."
Harriman said nothing for a moment. Then he asked flatly, "Is that it, Tobler?"
"Yes, sir. I guess it is."
The sickbay doors slid shut behind Harriman's retreating figure.
* * *
Commander Dane entered Harriman's quarters, taking immediate note of the fact that it was rather dim. She could barely make him out. "Captain?" she said with just a trace of uncertainty.
"Yes," came Harriman's voice from the darkness.
Dane straightened her shoulders a bit, mentally remonstrating herself for slouching. "We're still in orbit around Askalon Five. Awaiting your orders on how to proceed." He said nothing at first, and Dane continued, "I have another landing party selected, if you wish to continue exploring the planet surface."
"That's easy enough, I suppose," Harriman said after a moment. "A crewman dies, at the hands of her captain. So bring in another crewman to fill the slot. That's all they are, after all. Slots to be filled. Life goes on, doesn't it, Dane."
"Yes, sir. It does."
"Except for Demora Sulu. Life isn't exactly going on for her, is it."
Dane paused a moment. "I'll take that to be rhetorical, sir."
Harriman laughed softly, and it was not a pleasant sound. "God, you are a cold one, aren't you, Dane. They offered me a Vulcan first officer, you know. It was down to you and him. I went with you. Vulcans … fine people. Brilliant minds. I admire the hell out of them. But, provincially, I felt more comfortable with a human at my side. And you know what? You give me the creeps sometimes."
She looked down.
"I'm sorry," he said softly after a moment. "I've spent the past hour tearing at myself. Now I'm starting on you. It's not fair and it's not appropriate."
"It's understandable, sir. Losing a crewman under any circumstance is difficult."
"I didn't lose her, Dane. That makes it sound like she was misplaced and might turn up if I check under the seat cushions. I killed her."
"You had no choice."
"That doesn't exactly mollify it, does it."
"No, sir. It doesn't."
He said nothing for a moment and once again Dane prompted, "The planet, sir? Askalon Five. How shall we proceed?"
"You want to know if I'm interested in risking more of my people in the exploration of a world that turned one of them into a homicidal berserker … all in the hope of rescuing nonexistent people in distress."
"I wouldn't have phrased it in quite that way, but yes, sir. That's basically the question before us."
"No, I am not interested in doing that. Slap a quarantine on Askalon Five, inform other ships to keep away, and have done with it."
"With all respect, sir, the ruins down there shouldn't be made off-limits to—"
"Which is more important to you, Dane? Ruined buildings? Or ruined lives?"
She opened her mouth with an immediate answer, but then thought better of it and instead simply said, "Yes, sir. I'll order course set for Starbase Nine. We can transfer the … Ensign Sulu … to them, and proceed from there to the Donatti system."
"Take us home."
She blinked. "Pardon?"
"The statement seems self-explanatory, Commander. Set course for Earth."
"Sir … we're due in the Donatti system. You're scheduled for a reception with the—"
"Set course … for Earth."
"As you wish,
sir. I feel constrained to point out that Starfleet's orders as to our expected arrival date in—"
And Harriman rose from his chair, his body trembling with barely contained fury. His jaw set, his voice a low growl, he said, "I don't give a damn about what Starfleet's orders are. I don't care if they came via subspace, or appeared on the main monitor screen in flaming letters two feet high! Demora Sulu was the daughter of Hikaru Sulu, and I killed her, and I will show her the respect that both her parentage and the circumstances of her death dictate! I don't care if the only way we have of setting course for Earth is having you go outside and push! If that's the case, then the only question I have for you is, How long can you hold your breath?!"
"Actually, sir, holding one's breath in a vacuum would hasten the …" Then she saw his expression and cleared her throat. "I'll give the orders, sir."
"You do that."
She walked out, leaving Harriman behind with his grief.
At Starfleet Academy, they had tried to mentally steel trainees on the command track for that inevitable day when people under their command went down and didn't come back up. The decisions that had to be made which might sometimes result in the death of crewmen.
But there were some things that somehow didn't quite make it into the curriculum. Things such as how you deal with it when a living legend dies on the maiden voyage of your greatest command.
And how you deal with informing one of the oldest, most dedicated associates of that selfsame living legend that you killed his daughter.
Chapter Four
CAPTAIN HIKARU SULU woke up trembling and covered with sweat.
"Demora," he murmured.
He sat in the darkened quarters for a moment, and then said, "Lights." They came on in prompt response.
He felt an absurd sense of relief. He was, naturally, still within the confines of the Excelsior. No reason he wouldn't be; that was, after all, where he'd gone to sleep at the end of his shift.
