by Greg Cox
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One
Captain’s Log, Stardate 8715.3.
The Enterprise is transporting a shipload of Federation diplomats to an important conference on Musgrave IV. Although many pressing issues and negotiations await the diplomats, I do not anticipate any serious difficulties or complications en route to the meeting. Then again, if nearly four decades in Starfleet have taught me anything, it’s that you never know what might be just beyond the next star.
“Captain on the bridge!”
A yeoman announced James T. Kirk’s arrival as the captain strode onto the bridge, still decked out in his best red dress uniform. He had been hosting a luncheon with the ship’s distinguished guests when he’d been alerted that his presence was requested on the bridge. To be honest, he’d been grateful for the excuse to make an early exit; one could listen to only so much veiled bickering about interstellar tariffs and arcane jurisdictional disputes before a full-scale Klingon invasion would seem a welcome distraction.
“Report, Mister Spock?” he asked crisply.
The Vulcan surrendered the captain’s chair to Kirk. “My apologies for interrupting you, Captain, but—”
“No apologies needed,” Kirk said, cutting him off. “Trust me.”
Spock nodded in understanding. “Be that as it may, Commander Uhura has picked up what appears to be an alien signal originating from a nearby star system.”
“What kind of signal?” Kirk asked, turning toward Uhura.
“Uncertain, Captain,” she reported from her communications station. “I’m detecting a good deal of interference from the source of the transmission, making it difficult to translate. It’s not in any language known to the Federation, but the repetitive nature of the signal, which keeps cycling over and over again, suggests that it’s both artificial and automated.” She fiddled with her earpiece. “I’m trying to clean up the signal so the Universal Translator will have more to work with, but it’s going to take some time.”
“Understood,” Kirk said. “Keep at it.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied.
Kirk had no doubt that Uhura would be able to decipher the transmission eventually; she was the best and most experienced communications officer in the fleet. But in the meantime his curiosity was piqued. An unknown language implied a possible first-contact scenario, a prospect that still got his juices flowing even after all these years. Encountering new life and civilizations was Starfleet’s first and foremost mission.
“So what could we be dealing with here?” he said, thinking aloud. “A distress signal? A greeting? An invitation?”
“A no-trespassing sign?” Chekov added from the nav station in front of Kirk. “Or a lure?”
“Always possibilities,” Kirk conceded. As Chekov was both navigator and security chief these days, Kirk could not fault the Russian for raising the possibility that the signal’s message might not be a friendly one. Kirk glanced over at Spock, who had returned to his customary post at the main science station. “What’s your take on this, Spock?”
“Impossible to formulate without sufficient data.” The Vulcan consulted a display at his terminal. “The signal appears to be emanating from the second planet in the Varba system, approximately 6.74 light-years from our present location.”
“I’m not familiar with that system,” Kirk admitted.
“There is little reason you should be.” Spock looked up. “An unmanned probe, several decades ago, detected no evidence of sentient life in the system, which remains largely unexplored.”
Kirk could believe it. The galaxy was a big place, and this quadrant alone still held vast stretches of uncharted space. Even a lifetime spent traversing the cosmos was not enough to see all the worlds and wonders out here on the final frontier.
Not that he didn’t intend to give it his best shot.
“How long to the Varba system?” he asked.
Spock had already performed the calculations. “Approximately 7.92 hours at warp 6.”
“May I remind you, Captain,” Saavik said from the helm, “that the Enterprise is expected at Musgrave IV?”
The young Vulcan lieutenant had recently rejoined the crew, replacing Sulu as helmsman after the latter’s promotion to captain of the Excelsior. Kirk missed Sulu, but he was glad to have Saavik back aboard and as ready to speak her mind as ever. He appreciated her direct, forthright manner.
“Duly noted, Lieutenant,” he replied. “But, with all due respect to the diplomatic branch of the service, I’m reluctant to let a routine mission ferrying bureaucrats from Point A to Point B get in the way of investigating a signal from an unknown alien species.”
“I am inclined to agree, Captain,” Spock said. “The impending conference on Musgrave IV is significant, but it is not of paramount importance. Wars will not ensue if our arrival is somewhat delayed, depending on what we may, or may not, discover in the Varba system.”
“We might even be able to make up some of the lost time, sir,” Saavik volunteered, “if we increase our current speed and are willing to push the ship’s engines to a degree.”
“Don’t let Mister Scott hear you say that, Lieutenant,” Kirk advised her, grateful that Scotty was presently minding the store in engineering. “But you have a point. We have a new and improved Enterprise on our hands and our engines are in tip-top shape, or so Scotty keeps telling me. We can probably lead-foot it if we have to.”
Saavik gave him a quizzical look. “Lead-foot?”
“An archaic human idiom,” Spock explained, “referring to primitive land vehicles powered by internal combustion engines.” A hint of a smile lifted his lips. “I can testify from bumpy experience that the captain does indeed have a lead foot on occasion.”
Kirk caught the joking allusion to their adventure on Iotia decades before and Kirk’s own initially clumsy attempts to master driving an old-fashioned automobile. I got the hang of it eventually, he thought defensively. More or less.
“I see,” Saavik said, raising an eyebrow.
Kirk smiled. Saavik took after her Vulcan mentor in many ways. The captain felt certain that she would be thoroughly versed on the topic the next time it came up.
“Any indication as to how old that signal is?” he asked, getting back to the matter at hand. “Or how long it’s been cycling?”
“I’m afraid not, Captain,” Uhura said. “At least not yet.”
“In other words, it could be an urgent distress signal . . . or it could wait until later?”
“An accurate assessment,” Spock said. “We also have no idea of how long the signal will continue to be transmitted.” He looked over to the captain, a pensive expression on his face. “It would be a great loss if the unknown beings responsible for the signal perished or simply relocated before we had an opportunity to investigate.”
“A loss indeed,” Kirk said, making up his mind. For all they knew, the signal demanded a prompt response. “Mister Chekov, plot a detour to the Varba system.”
“Aye, sir,” Chekov said.
Kirk rose from his seat and headed for the starboard turbolift. “Mister Spock, the bridge is yours. I need to inform our passengers that there will be a slight delay in their travel plans.” H
e winced in anticipation. “Wish me luck.”
“Vulcans do not believe in luck,” Spock said wryly, “although our own exploits are often compelling evidence to the contrary.”
Kirk paused before the open lift door, in no hurry to face a shipload of unhappy diplomats. He expected the Troyian ambassador to be particularly difficult. “Are you implying that we’ve been getting by on dumb luck all these years?”
“Not at all,” Spock replied. “Merely that you have demonstrated a notable talent for beating the odds.”
Kirk liked the sound of that. “Well, let’s hope that talent holds out when we get to Varba II and find out exactly what this mystery signal is all about.”
Kirk contemplated the bridge’s main viewscreen, where distant stars beckoned from across vast expanses of deep space. He knew that the unknown was always potentially dangerous, especially where first contact was concerned. This excursion was not without risk, as Chekov had done well to remind them. They were heading the ship into uncharted waters to answer a call whose nature and meaning remained an enigma. It was even possible that they were taking the bait and heading straight into a trap.
Here’s hoping this detour is worth the effort, he thought. And the danger.
Two
“Approaching Varba II,” Spock announced. “One minute to entering upper atmosphere.”
Galileo descended toward the planet, whose northern hemisphere filled the shuttlecraft’s forward port. Dense, swirling, mustard-colored clouds concealed whatever seas and continents graced the planet’s surface. The impenetrable mist, which possessed a strange, subtle luminosity, blanketed Varba II and was apparently the source of the peculiar electromagnetic interference garbling the signal from the planet. It also posed a significant challenge to the Enterprise’s sensors and transporters. Hence the decision to employ the shuttlecraft rather than beam blindly down to the planet.
“And I thought Argelius was foggy.” Doctor Leonard McCoy eyed the glimmering vapors warily. “We sure there’s solid ground down there somewhere?”
McCoy occupied a passenger seat in the cockpit, next to Spock, who had chosen to pilot the shuttle himself, the better to trace the signal to its exact point of origin. A Starfleet medkit rested at the doctor’s feet, in the event that they were indeed responding to some manner of distress signal, as well as in anticipation of any possible injuries the landing party might incur. Spock hoped the precaution would prove unnecessary, but he was well aware that exploring an unknown planet often entailed hazards to life and limb. He had taken part in more Starfleet funerals than he cared to remember, including his own. Inadequate data only increased the number of variables.
“We can be certain of nothing,” Spock stated. “The planet’s unusual atmosphere makes detailed sensor readings problematic, but there are indications of a marginally Class-M environment beneath the heavy cloud cover.” The science officer examined an illuminated display on the control panel before him. “I am attempting to zero in on the source of the transmission, which I have already narrowed down to a radius of five hundred kilometers.”
“Five hundred, you say?” McCoy replied, scoffing. “You’re slipping, Spock. I expect something a bit more precise from you, out to a couple of decimal places at the very least.”
“I assure you, Doctor, that my faculties are quite undiminished. As we draw nearer to the point of origin, I have every expectation that we will be able to shrink the search area substantially.”
“I should hope so,” McCoy said. “Keep in mind that we’re not as spry as we used to be. I don’t mind a little healthy exercise, but I’d just as soon not hike all over the planet in search of this blasted signal.” He stretched uncomfortably in his seat, bones and muscles creaking. “We don’t all age as slowly as you Vulcans do.”
“My condolences, Doctor. That must be most inconvenient.”
“Don’t rub it in,” McCoy grumbled, before changing the subject. “It has to be killing Jim that he had to skip this expedition.”
“It was a logical decision,” Spock said. “The captain could hardly abandon the dignitaries in his charge to lead a potentially hazardous landing mission. He had little choice but to remain behind on the Enterprise.”
“Oh, I understand why he couldn’t join us,” McCoy said. “Somebody has to unruffle those VIPs’ feathers after all. But you and I both know that Jim would rather be flying down into that soup with us.”
Spock had to agree with that assessment. “You are undoubtedly correct, Doctor.”
Along with McCoy and himself, the landing party consisted of Chekov and a three-person team of security officers. Saavik had volunteered to join the party, but her particular skills were not required for this specific mission. Moreover, as her mentor, Spock was obliged to avoid even the appearance of favoritism by granting her request without good reason. She was disappointed, no doubt, but disappointment was an emotion and, therefore, something any Vulcan could readily overcome.
Or so he assumed.
Varba II grew ever larger before them. A proximity alert flashed on the control panel.
“Entering planetary atmosphere,” Spock said, raising his voice so that those seated in the shuttle’s passenger compartment could hear him. “We may encounter some turbulence. Brace yourselves.”
“Oh, boy.” McCoy checked to make sure he was securely belted into his seat. “I knew I shouldn’t have eaten breakfast this morning.”
Spock’s warning proved well founded. Although the shuttle entered the shimmering yellow clouds at a gentle angle and velocity—in order to minimize the stress on Galileo’s hull—the planet’s upper atmosphere turned out to be far stormier than the placid vacuum of space. The Galileo’s sleek design was more aerodynamic than the older, boxier shuttlecrafts that had been standard in Spock’s younger days, but the weather conditions were challenging regardless. Violent winds, registering at hundreds of kilometers per hour, buffeted the shuttlecraft, rocking it back and forth. It required all of Spock’s concentration and piloting skills to keep Galileo under control and on course. Loose articles tumbled noisily about the rear compartment. Chekov swore in Russian.
“I never thought I’d say this,” McCoy said, the turbulence rattling his voice, “but I think I’d prefer the transporter.”
Spock found himself in agreement with McCoy once again, but he refrained from saying so, preferring to remain focused on the increasingly difficult task of piloting the shuttlecraft. A cyclonic gust struck Galileo’s port side with the force of a phaser barrage, sending it into a roll. McCoy yelped out loud, and Spock was grateful for both the straps binding them to their seats and the shuttle’s own artificial gravity, which helped to mitigate the dizzying effect of the roll. He coolly but hastily worked the controls to stabilize their flight, despite the riotous winds pummeling Galileo from every direction. The fierce keening of the gale could be heard even through the shuttlecraft’s insulated hull. The sound reminded Spock of the baying of a pack of hungry Le-matyas back on his native Vulcan.
“Raising shields,” he said above the shrieking din. “Deflectors engaged.”
He had hoped that the shields would provide additional protection from the storm, but instead a blinding white flash ignited right outside Galileo, causing Spock’s inner eyelids to snap into place. A thunderous explosion jolted the shuttle. Sparks erupted from the helm controls as vital systems abruptly shorted out. Dust and debris rained down from overhead, and cracks spread alarmingly across the forward port, further obscuring his view. The shuttlecraft’s interior lighting flickered, creating a strobe effect inside the vessel. Bulkheads buckled inward, the straining metal crying out in protest. The smell of smoke and burning circuitry contaminated the shuttle’s pressurized atmosphere. Spock’s ears rang from the noise of the blast. He glimpsed fragments of the hull’s exterior plating flying off outside.
“What the devil!” McCoy exclaimed. “Spock—”<
br />
“Later, Doctor.” Spock was already formulating a theory to account for the unexpected blast, but more urgent matters demanded the bulk of his attention. The explosion had thrown Galileo off course and into another spin. Propulsion had been knocked off-line, causing the shuttlecraft to dive through the storm at a precipitous rate and angle, zooming like a meteor toward the unseen surface thousands of meters below. Spock calculated that he had only moments to avert an inevitably fatal crash. Height times acceleration equaled catastrophe.
Unless I alter the equation, he thought.
Vulcan training and discipline precluded panic. Working swiftly and efficiently, he bypassed burned-out circuits via the auxiliary systems in order to bring the control panel back on-line. An instant survey of the working display screens informed him that Galileo had been severely wounded by the explosion. Its shields had collapsed (which was possibly just as well, he suspected), while insistent red lights and gauges reported damage and malfunctions across the board, affecting critical systems. Artificial gravity and inertial dampers were both down, leaving Galileo at the mercy of Varba II’s own unyielding gravity, which was roughly comparable to that of Earth or Vulcan. Structural integrity had also been compromised, raising the unwelcome prospect of an imminent hull breach, even as the crippled shuttlecraft plummeted toward certain destruction.
First things first, Spock thought.
The primary impulse drive units were disabled, having apparently sustained major damage, so he attempted to engage the landing thrusters. To his relief, the thrusters activated, allowing him some control of Galileo’s headlong dive toward the planet. The helm was sluggish and balky, but at least the ferocious winds seemed to abate as the shuttle descended rapidly and the omnipresent fog began to thin to a degree, offering a modicum of visibility. Struggling with the controls, Spock managed to arrest Galileo’s spin and orient the shuttle right side up with respect to the planet’s surface, which was coming into view all too quickly.
