Star Trek: TNG Indstinguishable From Magic

by David A. McIntee

  Red Alert!

  More alarms went off, and Nog started to announce something. “That was a bloody photon torpedo hit,” Scotty cut him off. “Red Alert!” Qat’qa was already throwing the ship into a roll, but Scotty called out to her anyway. “Evasive maneuvers, Kat!” It was more for the benefit of the rest of the bridge crew, so that they would know he was on top of things. Kat didn’t reply, but Scotty could see her grin from where he was lowering himself into the center seat.

  What the bloody hell are the Klingons playing at? he wondered. Stepping back into history was nice enough, but not when it meant going back to the bad old days of conflict with the Klingons.

  The ship rocked again, less severely this time, and the Klingon warship momentarily flitted across the main viewer, swooping toward Intrepid and her cluster of support shuttles and runabouts. “There’s something a wee bit off about that ship,” Scotty mused aloud. He couldn’t put his finger on it at first, beyond that it was attacking two Federation ships. He still had to remind himself that it was an unusual act for Klingons in this era.

  “Lieutenant Nog, I want a spread of torpedoes up that ship’s jacksie before they can do any more damage. Try to cripple their engines, so we can have a wee chat with them, if we can.”

  “Aye, sir.” Nog glanced across his tactical board.

  The screen tilted, and the Klingon ship weaved across it again. It was a familiar shape, with two drooping warp nacelles and a long neck stretching out from its infernal red and yellow hull. “That’s it,” Scotty snarled. . . .

  Pocket Books

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  I wandered through the wrecks of days departed

  —Percy Bysshe Shelley

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A lot of people deserve a shout-out for this, starting with Marco Palmieri, who gave me my first Treklit assignment, On the Spot; Margaret Clark, who edited Reservoir Ferengi and worked on this; Jaime Costas, who bought this book; and Ed Schlesinger, who saw it completed.

  Also, props to Christopher L. Bennett, Dayton Ward, and especially to the artist at Simon & Schuster who came up with such a great cover.

  PROLOGUE

  Jason Lambert was amongst the stars, and all the happier for it. He knew that most of his crew felt that just being aboard the U.S.S. Intrepid was being amongst the stars, but it wasn’t Lambert’s definition of the term. Wearing a pressurized environment suit, standing on the plating of his ship’s saucer-shaped hull, he was truly amongst the stars.

  Inside the ship, even sitting in the center seat on the bridge, he was just aboard a ship, not really a space traveler. Out on the hull, with just the suit between him and the void, it was more real. This way, he was one with the universe.

  The Intrepid was alone in the darkness, and Lambert was looking astern at the warp nacelles. The two cylindrical engines might be what pushed the Intrepid through the void, but from here it felt more like they were streamers flowing out from behind a kite as it flew.

  Growing up, he remembered looking up at the stars over the Nullarbor Plain. If there was a place on Earth from which the stars were more clearly visible, and less distorted by the Earth’s atmosphere, he had never heard of it. Even so, the view out here made the view from his childhood home seem as if he had been looking at the stars through smoke and fog for all those years. He could feel the grin on his face every time he came outside, and suspected it would be impossible to remove even by surgery. Going back inside was the only, and sadly inevitable, cure.

  He turned, focusing his attention on the engineers who had come out to replace some damaged hull plates with newly fabricated ones. The four of them were clomping around just below the large “X” of the ship’s registry number; NX-07 was emblazoned proudly across the saucer, though from Lambert’s viewpoint it appeared to read “LO-XN” which he supposed might well be a word in somebody’s language. If they ever met a race with such a word in their vocabulary, Lambert hoped it would approximate something closer to “G’day” than to anything more contentious or insulting.

  He walked across to the engineering team, trying not to look too stupid as he carefully engaged and disengaged the soles of his magnetic boots with the hull. The others turned as he approached. His steps were silent in the vacuum, of course, but the vibrations were transferred to the four engineers through the soles of their boots. The copper-colored EV suits worn by everyone out on the hull were totally anonymous, but Lambert would recognize his chief engineer’s stance and bearing anywhere, and he angled himself to face her. “How’s it going, Anna?”

  “Exactly as I said it would, Captain,” she replied. The speakers in Lambert’s helmet flattened her Cuban accent, making her sound tinny rather than musical. “We should be done by the end of this watch, no problem.”

  “Not a difficult job, then?”

  “Replacing a few damaged hull plates? Hell no. Just slow, is all.”

  Lambert nodded, knowing she’d see the gesture through his faceplate. “No worries; take as long as you need. I don’t think anyone will be upset if we’re late getting the decorators in.”

  “I’d hardly call the upgrade program ‘decoration.’ They say the engine upgrades will enable warp six as a cruising speed, and the new transporter firmware has greater safety margins.”

  “Yeah, I don’t doubt it. And warp six sounds pretty handy.” Lambert pointed down at the “X” upon which he stood “Rumor has it that, as well as the transporter and engine upgrades—”

  “And the torpedo yield improvements and crew rotation.”

  “—they’re going to be redecorating the ship.”

  That made her pause. “Redecorating it? You’re serious. . . .”

  “All the NX-ships, and the new Daedalus-class are getting a makeover, or so says Johnny Archer. Painting the hull. Changing the registry. All the bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo and make-work that comes with switching over to being the United Federation of Planets.”

  “A change of government’s a pretty big thing,” Anna pointed out.

  “I hear they’re gonna change our ‘NX’ here to ‘NCC.’ Of course they’ll have to move the Oh Seven round a bit as well, or it’ll be lopsided.”

  “I’d have thought they’d have more important things to
concern themselves with. Like I said, it’s a big thing to become part of a new type of government.” Her brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with lopsided anyway?”

  “Search me. Maybe they think having a ship that wears a half-drunk expression will have a negative effect on first contact situations.”

  “And what does NCC stand for anyway?”

  “I dunno. Could be Not Cloud Cuckoo-land, for all I know.” Lambert made as if to scratch his head, belatedly remembering that he couldn’t, not with the EV suit and helmet on. “I think I’ll ask, next time I talk to—” A flicker out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned around just in time to see a bright flash against the blackness between the stars. It was already fading, and there was nothing to gauge its distance against; it could have been a flashbulb a few meters away, or a supernova a few dozen light-years off. “What the hell was that?”

  “Captain?” Anna was looking in the same direction as he, but she’d turned in response to his exclamation, and by that time there was no more to see.

  “Didn’t you see that? A flash? Right over that way.”

  “No.”

  “Anybody?”

  “Oui, Capitaine,” Georges Toussaint said. “Just for a second.”

  “At least it’s not just my eyes going crook.” Lambert reached for the comm button on his wrist, to call in to the bridge and ask if the sensors had picked anything up, but his crew were way ahead of him. Lieutenant al-Qatabi’s voice filled Lambert’s helmet. “Captain,” the tactical officer said urgently, “lateral sensors have registered an energy spike consistent with the detonation of a Class Four Romulan mine.”

  “So that’s what it was. . . .”

  “Sir?” she asked.

  “I saw the flash, just a moment ago. What was the distance?”

  “Thirty-two thousand kilometers.”

  Well out of harm’s way as far as the Intrepid was concerned, but Lambert knew better than to assume that a mine would be a lone threat. “Go to Tactical Alert; I’m coming in.” He broke off the connection to the bridge, and turned back to Anna. “It might be best if we all—”

  “Hardly, sir.”

  “If there are other mines closer to us—”

  “Then the last thing we want is to risk encountering a proximity detonation with a gap in our hull plating.” She grinned through her helmet’s faceplate. “It will make much more sense to finish the job out here as quickly as possible.”

  “Okay, but no hanging around sightseeing, just in case. Get the plates swapped out, and get your arses back indoors ASAP.”

  “No argument from me, sir.” Anna turned back toward her team. “So, you heard the captain. Let’s get this done.”

  Lambert was out of the pressurized EV suit and back in his uniform jumpsuit in record time. The bridge was busy, but hushed and tense; low voices exchanged urgent updates on sensor readings, weapons readiness, engine status, and the myriad other issues that a Tactical Alert brought to the crew.

  Zeinab al-Qatabi looked up from her control board as Lambert entered. “Any further energy bursts?” he asked.

  The deceptively petite lieutenant shook her head. “I’ve begun charging the phase cannons, but I don’t want to polarize the hull plating while Commander Byelev and her team are still outside.”

  “If the plate replacement was put on hold, how much of a weakness would there be when the hull was polarized?”

  “Overall percentage-wise, hard to tell,” she replied, “but a hole in one’s armor is a hole in one’s armor. Then again, armor with a hole is probably better than no armor. I’d recommend bringing the engineering team back in, and polarizing. Just in case.” Lambert sympathized entirely, but Anna had made a good point also. He took the center seat, and called over to Harry Croft, “Is there any indication that we’re already within a minefield, if that really was a Romulan Class Four that just popped off?”

  The mahogany-skinned Englishman at the science station shrugged his massive shoulders. “No indications either way. I’ve set up a scan to look for gravitional micro-lensing that might indicate a cloaked object, but you know how they are about homing in on the source of active sensors.” He pursed his lips. “I’ll figure out a workaround to get more data out of the passive sensors.”

  “Figure it out quick, Harry.” Lambert next turned to Gustav Larssen, the hefty blond man at the communications seat. “Gustav, get me Starfleet on the blower.”

  Lambert knew that some captains preferred to hold conversations with Starfleet in their ready rooms, but in his opinion anything that concerned the ship concerned the whole crew. He also thought about what al-Qatabi had said, and pushed the button that gave him a link to the work party outside. “Anna, change of plan. Stow your gear and get inside. I’m notifying Starfleet, then I’ll want to release a probe and back off to a safer distance to complete the repairs.”

  “Understood, Captain.” Her voice was professional, but he could hear the disappointment in it.

  After a few moments, Larssen cleared his throat and said, “I’ve got Admiral Collins on the line, sir.”

  Collins looked a little tired on the viewscreen; not bone-tired or woken-in-the-wee-small-hours-tired, but he had that look that desk jockeys wore when there was less than an hour before they could leave the office. Lambert was under no illusions that the admiral’s role was much more than office-based; the admiral was wearing a two-piece variation of the uniform jumpsuit, which had a blazer-type collar. “Jason,” the admiral acknowledged. “What’s troubling the Intrepid?”

  “Romulan mines, Admiral,” Lambert began. “Lieutenant al-Qatabi is transmitting our position back to you now. We’ve observed the detonation of a Class Four cloaked mine, about thirty thousand clicks away. Harry is looking out to see whether there are any more—”

  “They don’t usually go solo,” Collins said with a sigh. “There’s probably a field.”

  Lambert nodded. “I wanted to check with you whether there had been any communication from the Rommies that might throw a light on the mines here. For one, how does their presence tie in with the new treaty?”

  “Well, under the terms of the armistice, they agreed to disable any mines in disputed territories specified in the treaty, and that certainly includes your location.” Admiral Collins paused. “The detonation wasn’t near enough to you to do any damage?”

  “No, sir, but it’s still brown trousers time knowing they’re out there.”

  “Sirs,” al-Qatabi broke in. “Some types of mines are given a finite life span, and others have had remote detonators for decommissioning after a conflict. Is it possible that what we’ve seen here is actually part of the process the Romulans are using to disable their mines? We know they’d rather destroy their matériel than let us take it.”

  That made sense to Lambert, and he could see the admiral nod, all the way back in San Francisco. “I’ll have the diplomatic corps see if they can get a response out of the Romulans,” Collins said, “as to whether this is actually a decommissioning act.”

  “It better be,” Lambert grumbled. “We’ve all got enough medals already, and if Johnny Archer earns any more, his dress uniform will collapse under their gravity.”

  Admiral Collins smiled at that. “I’ll tell him you said that. In the meantime I suggest you mark the limits of the field.”

  “I’ll get Harry on to it. Unless you want to send Enterprise out here to do it, and we’ll—”

  Jason Lambert never even knew that he didn’t get to finish his sentence. He also never felt himself move, and never felt the first or last molecule in his body deform and rupture. All things considered, it was a merciful death.

  Anna Byelev mentally cursed as she gave Lambert a prompt “Understood, Captain,” and shook her head inside the EV helmet. She looked out in the direction in which Captain Lambert had said he’d seen the flash. She didn’t doubt that he’d seen one, but there was no sign of anything there now. Anna half imagined that the stars were flickering: sinc
e there was no atmosphere to refract their light, they were being distorted by cloaking fields. She had never had that much of an imagination; halfway was as far as she went before reminding herself that the human eye couldn’t see a cloaking field that far away, and that being in zero-g meant that the cells suspended in the liquid center of the eye had the chance to move in front of the retina and distort distant tiny pinpoints like stars.

  “All right,” she said to her team, “you heard the captain.” She gestured toward the framework that held a sandwich of four hull plates and the compartments of equipment needed to maneuver them into place and fix them there. “We’ll magnetically secure the plates where they are, and get back indoors out of the cold before any wolves come along to disturb us, eh?”

  Her team chuckled at the comparison, but Anna herself was dismayed at not being able to get the job over and done with. “Georges,” she said to the Frenchman, “Hand me the magnetic drone, and then you take the opposite corner of the support frame.”

  “Here you are, Commander,” he replied, holding out the C-shaped tool toward her. She reached out to take it.

  It wasn’t there, and, suddenly, neither was Georges.

  Anna had just enough time to be baffled, as she realized she was wasn’t stepping across the Intrepid’s hull any more. The stars spun wildly, and she saw an EV suit with a cracked faceplate hurtle across her field of vision. Her ears were ringing with a scream from somewhere, and she couldn’t tell if it was her own, or one coming through the comm system from one of her team. Before she could recognize her situation for what it truly was, or feel any of the terror that would have resulted, the stars flashed white. In fact, the universe flashed white, and, for Anna, that was the last thing that ever happened.

  The sun was getting low over the ocean view from Admiral Sean Collins’s office at Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco, turning the distant horizon to blood. “I’ll get Harry on to it,” Jason Lambert said on the admiral’s wall screen. “Unless you want to send Enterprise out here to do it, and we’ll—” Static snapped out of, the screen, replacing Lambert and the bridge of the Intrepid as completely as if they had never been there. Collins started at the suddenness of the change.