by Dayton Ward
“We will have to awaken Bohan, and he has been ill, but it will be done.” The voice paused, but as Gold drew breath to speak, it continued. “Thank you, Captain. We have needed help for far too long.”
Puzzlement crossed Gold’s features. “Just how long have you been unable to stop, Daltren?”
“We have traveled this way for forty-seven of our cycles, ever since we encountered what we think was some form of electromagnetic storm.”
Duffy swallowed hard at hearing those words. After moving at close to warp nine for that time, he guessed the ship could be a dozen sectors from its homeworld. Such a journey would be of little consequence for a Starfleet vessel with the latest that twenty-fourth-century technology had to offer, but who knew what kind of effect such a trip would have on the Senuta ship?
Daltren continued. “Our supplies are nearly exhausted, Captain. Our computers have locked us out of many functions. My people are ill from the journey. Three have died. We need your help.”
“Count on it, Daltren,” Gold said. “Get us your information as soon as you can.”
The bridge crew worked in silence as they awaited the Senuta transmission. Before long, Abramowitz noted its reception and Gold waved a finger to indicate he wanted it all transferred to Duffy’s workstation.
Calling the information to his console, Duffy instantly disliked what he saw.
“Captain, this just isn’t good. Their engines are built to travel at about half of the speed they’re moving. I don’t know how it’s even holding together with its low-end structural integrity system.” He paused as he read more. “They don’t have replicators or transporters to speak of. They don’t even have inertial dampers; they use acceleration couches when they travel. No wonder they’re sick. Just moving about the ship during high warp must be hell for them.” He shook his head. “If we’re not careful, any sudden deceleration will turn these guys into paste.”
“Oy gevalt,” Gold muttered, and Duffy could tell that his choice of words had been poor when he saw the glowering expression on the captain’s face. “Then I suggest you start scouring the computer library for ideas if you have none of your own, Commander.” Duffy’s own expression must have revealed too much, because Gold added with a wry grin, “Oh come now, Duffy. Gomez tells me you love research.”
“Oh, yes, sir. I’m your man.” As Duffy began tapping into the ship’s library computer, a thought struck him. “Carol, ask Mr. Daltren to send over ship’s logs or any sensor readings they have on that storm he mentioned. I’ve got a hunch about something.” As he browsed the library, Duffy let his mind wander.
Ion-charged engines thrown into hyperefficiency…locked-up computers…a lack of shielding on the ship…this has to be the result of an ion storm, and a powerful one at that.
He let that idea roll around in his mind as his console blinked to indicate Abramowitz had sent over the Senuta ship’s latest report.
“Their sensors detected ion bombardments at levels that would have wreaked havoc on even a shielded vessel,” he said aloud. It was a storm that experienced space travelers would have done their best to avoid. In this case, sheer misfortune had resulted in the Senuta being flung far from home and powerless to do anything about it.
“Give me a few minutes, Captain,” Duffy said, not bothering to look up from his console. “I think I’m on to something.”
“Good,” Gold said as he moved toward the turbolift. “It’s time to get Gomez out of bed. Once we get this ship stopped, I’m sure she’ll want to beam over and have a look at things for herself. Shall I tell her you’ll have your plan ready for us in, say, twenty minutes?”
“Give me fifteen, sir,” Duffy said. “These people have been at warp long enough.”
“That’s the stuff, Commander,” Gold said, smiling approvingly. “Carry on.”
Duffy turned his attention back to the computer’s library files on ion storm encounters, hoping that past experiences of Starfleet’s finest engineers might spur his thinking. He scanned past more recent entries, dismissing accounts of ships with more advanced shielding than that employed by the Senuta. Before long, the log records began to bear twenty-third-century timestamps and four-digit stardates…and the signatures of someone very familiar to him.
“Well, I’ll be…Montgomery Scott.” Duffy again found himself speaking aloud to no one in particular.
“Captain Scott? Did you call this in?” Abramowitz asked, again tuning in to Duffy’s spoken voice. Members of any of the S.C.E. teams welcomed any contact by Scott. As chief liaison officer for the Starfleet Corps of Engineers, he was the man responsible for assigning their missions and keeping them from running afoul of Starfleet brass when their means of accomplishing those missions turned to the unorthodox.
“No, Carol, sorry about that,” said Duffy. “But I have a feeling that Captain Scott is going to help us out of this jam without his even knowing about it.”
And voices from the past began ringing in his mind….
Chapter
2
Stardate 1197.6
“Mayday! Mayday! This is Outpost 5!”
As the distress signal began to repeat, Commander Alicia Burke touched a control set into the top of the conference room table, silencing the recorded message. Several seconds passed as the group of fifteen Starfleet officers sitting around the table regarded one another silently.
The plot thickens, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott mused to himself. It was a mystery that had begun when, instead of receiving official word of his promotion to chief engineer of the U.S.S. Enterprise, he’d been given orders to board the first transport bound for Starbase 10. No reason had been given for this abrupt change of assignment, one Scott had been assured was temporary. Only now, after being ushered into this room had everything finally started to become clear.
“There you have it,” Commander Burke said, rising from her chair at the head of the table and beginning to pace around the room’s outer perimeter as she addressed the group. “The ion storm swept across the Neutral Zone, enveloping several of our outposts stationed along the border.” The observation outposts had been placed along the Federation side of the Zone more than a century before in the years following the Earth–Romulan War.
In accordance with the treaty that had been enacted to end that bitter conflict, they had served as the first line of intelligence gathering and warning for Starfleet since then. Drifting silently in the void, the outposts watched and waited for the day when Romulan forces attempted to abrogate the treaty by crossing the Neutral Zone into Federation space. So far, no such attempts had been made and in fact there had been only isolated contact with any Romulan vessels in the decades since the war’s end. However, there were those in Starfleet, especially those with relatives who had fought and died in the war, who believed that the Romulans would one day return.
“As tough as those outposts are supposed to be,” Scott said, “that storm must’ve been packin’ quite a wallop.”
Burke smiled, though there was no humor or amusement in her expression. “An understatement, Mr. Scott. Six of the outposts have suffered varying degrees of structural damage as well as a wide variety of onboard systems failures. There have been several injuries but no deaths, fortunately. However, those outpost crews aren’t really equipped to handle this type of recovery and repair operation.” Indicating the assembled group of officers with outspread arms, she added, “That’s why we’re sending you.”
Murmurs of approval greeted Burke’s pronouncement, and Scott could feel the air of pride and confidence filtering through the room. Everyone here, he had learned, was a Starfleet engineer just as he was. A few of the faces were familiar; people with whom he had served on other ships or, in one case, hadn’t seen since his days at the Academy. Also, like him, these people were accustomed to being given all manner of seemingly impossible tasks to accomplish. With Starfleet sending more ships than ever before farther out into unexplored space, those ships needed crews capable of ope
rating for months and even years without outside assistance.
Engineers, especially those posted aboard long-range exploration vessels, often viewed themselves as the epitome of such talent and self-reliance. Scott would admit, if asked, that such attitudes could be perceived as arrogant, but he knew it was nothing more than assurance in one’s own abilities, honed through experience and, on unfortunate occasions, adversity.
“Luckily for us,” Burke said, “you in this group were available when we needed you. Most of you will be transported to the various outposts to help carry out repair efforts.” She paused, her eyes scanning the engineers for a moment before finally coming to rest on Scott. “However, there is an additional problem requiring our immediate attention.”
Uh-oh, Scott thought. Here it comes.
“Outpost 5 has been hit especially hard by the storm,” Burke continued. “Maintaining contact has been next to impossible, but we do know that the station’s primary PXK fission reactor has suffered damage. We’ve since lost communications with them, so we don’t know how bad it really is. If the situation is critical, then our problems are only just beginning.”
“The subspace relay?” asked another of the engineers, a female Alpha Centauran who had introduced herself to Scott as Lieutenant J’lenn.
Burke nodded. “Correct, Lieutenant. Outpost 5, for those of you who do not know, serves as the subspace communications relay center for that region. Without it, our long-range sensor and intelligence-gathering abilities will be crippled for the entire sector.” Looking about the room, the commander’s eyes came to rest once more on Scott. “Mr. Scott, as you’re the most experienced engineer in this group, you will be on the team going to Outpost 5, along with Lieutenant J’lenn. That reactor must be repaired at all costs.”
“Aye, Commander,” Scott replied. “That we will.”
J’lenn leaned forward in her chair. “I’ve been to those outposts before, when I was serving aboard a border patrol ship. Outpost 5’s reactor is two kilometers beneath the surface. If the station’s been as badly damaged as we think, just getting to the reactor might be difficult.”
Scott added, “As I recall, the composition of those asteroids interferes with transporters. Ye can’t beam more than a few hundred meters down before the signal is corrupted.” While there were those who had felt uncomfortable with the notion, the outposts had been deliberately designed with transporter inhibition in mind. At a time when humans were only just becoming used to the idea of having their bodies converted into energy and transmitted across vast distances in the blink of an eye, it was also known that other races were much more accustomed to the process.
More strategically oriented minds in Starfleet saw the tactical advantages transporters could bring, and had therefore decided that any means of defending sensitive installations from attacks by enemy soldiers materializing out of thin air should be employed. This thinking had extended most especially to the isolated and vulnerable observation outposts such as those along the Neutral Zone, and Scott tended to support such practical planning.
“So we’ll have to use turboshafts and access crawlways,” J’lenn said. “There may be damage in those areas as well. We could find ourselves digging our way down to the reactor.”
“We’ve thought of that,” Burke replied. “In addition to those of you in this room, we’re also sending along contingents from the Corps of Engineers. They’ve got the type of heavy equipment that could be needed.”
Scott nodded in approval. “Aye, that’s the ticket.” Though he had never worked with anyone attached to the organization, he’d heard more than a few stories about the Corps of Engineers. These were the people who usually found themselves in such hazardous situations as providing life-support habitats on otherwise inhospitable worlds, or creating the types of underground facilities found on asteroids and lifeless moons throughout the Federation. In fact, it had been the Corps who had originally devised and constructed the line of outposts that Scott and the other engineers in this room were discussing at this very moment.
Corps engineers also had a reputation for approaching their dangerous duties in a much more relaxed fashion than their more “spit-and-polish” contemporaries who served aboard starships and starbases. It was something Scott found almost completely incongruous with the nature of their dangerous and demanding assignments. Part of him was looking forward to seeing the contrast in styles between the Corps and what he considered to be more traditional Starfleet methods.
“As you can imagine,” Burke said, “security on this operation is very tight. If the Romulans find out that we have a potential gap in our communications and sensor network along the Zone, they won’t hesitate to exploit it. We haven’t heard from them in quite a long time, but you can be sure they’re waiting for an opportunity just like this one, and we don’t want to simply drop it into their laps.”
Scott sighed. As if we won’t have enough to worry about.
Starbase 10’s officers’ lounge was a hive of activity, with the changing of duty shifts allowing personnel from all over the station to congregate here and unwind after their workday. Judging by the crowd of people at the bar and those populating the other tables in the room, it was obvious to Scott that this was one of the facility’s more popular gathering places.
And with Scotch such as this, he thought as he raised his glass to his lips, it’s easy to see why. The vile brew that had the gall to pass itself off as Scotch on most starships and bases wasn’t fit to lubricate the fittings on a shuttlecraft’s impulse engine, in his opinion. But the rich, satisfying drink he’d been served here was nothing short of nectar of the gods. In Scott’s eyes, whoever was in charge of requisitioning for this station’s lounge was deserving of a medal.
In addition to the fine refreshments and cozy, welcoming atmosphere, the lounge also afforded a wondrous view of the surrounding space. Just from where he sat, Scott could see a brilliant, multihued nebula, the storms roiling within it giving the spatial phenomenon a savage beauty that he had rarely seen in his travels.
That’s likely to change, however, he told himself.
Though he had spent several years in space aboard nine different vessels during his Starfleet career, none of those assignments had offered the opportunities for exploration and discovery that his next post promised. Indeed, the years he would spend aboard the Enterprise, if what he’d heard about its proposed mission were true, could potentially bring him into contact with sights and wonders that would make the nebula he was observing now pale in comparison.
Not to mention, it would be his first assignment as a chief engineer.
Unlike many of his friends in Starfleet, including Academy classmates, Scott did not aspire to command a starship. His goals had always pulled him in a different direction. Since his childhood, he had been fascinated with the inner workings of spacefaring vessels, from the earliest fragile craft to leave Earth’s atmosphere to those of Vulcans, Andorians, and the other races humans had encountered since first venturing to the stars. Even at a very young age, Montgomery Scott knew that he would never be happy, never be truly fulfilled, until he became the chief engineer of a spaceship.
No, a starship. And at last, his lifelong dream was about to come true.
But, he reminded himself, there’s one last job to finish. This emergency at the Neutral Zone had to be secured first, but he knew that the Enterprise would still be waiting for him when his work there was done.
“May I join you, Commander?”
The question broke Scott from his reverie, and he turned to see Lieutenant J’lenn standing before him, holding a glass filled with an electric-blue liquid that he did not immediately recognize. He did notice, however, that it possessed the same luster as her eyes, which were at this moment studying him as she waited for an answer to her question.
“Oh,” he said, rising quickly to his feet. “Aye, lass, please.” He indicated the other chair at the table. “Have a seat. And please, call me Scotty.”
As they settled into their chairs, J’lenn indicated the row of windows. “Beautiful view, isn’t it?”
“That it is,” Scott replied. “I’m not usually one to spend time starin’ at the stars, but it’s so peaceful here, I couldna resist.”
J’lenn nodded. “It certainly is captivating.” She took a sip of her drink before continuing. “It reminds me, oddly enough, of the Neutral Zone. When we were on patrol, we’d go for weeks without seeing another ship. There’d be an occasional run-in with pirate vessels or the odd Klingon ship, but usually it was just one of our own. Other than that, it was just us and the stars.” She sighed a bit. “Sometimes I miss that duty.”
“Which ship were ye on?” Scott asked.
“The Chandley, a frigate. Not the most advanced ship in the fleet, and it didn’t have a lot in the way of creature comforts, but it was quite the tough little ship in a fight.” She shook her head as if momentarily lost in thought, before adding, “Given what they’re sending us to the Neutral Zone with, I’d love to be on the Chandley right about now.”
Scott chuckled at that. “Oh come now. I dinna think the Corps of Engineers would be usin’ the Lovell if she wasn’t a capable ship.”
Thinking about that for a moment, J’lenn finally shrugged. “Maybe, but a Daedalus-class? Those have been out of service for seventy years. Why would they opt for something so old when there are newer and faster ships available?”
“Available for things like deep-space exploration and border defense,” Scott countered, “but the Corps has never really been a priority when it comes to dolin’ out new equipment, especially ships.” Scott knew that the Corps of Engineers had been given authorization to retrieve its choice of decommissioned vessels from one of the several storage depots maintained by Starfleet, including the facility at Qualor II, in order to transport its heavy equipment from assignment to assignment.
