Star Trek: TNG Indstinguishable From Magic

by David A. McIntee

  He hesitated for a moment, feeling all eyes on him as he crossed the bridge. After a moment, he sat in the center seat. Leah was in the seat on his left, and Carolan on his right. Reg and Qat’qa looked over their shoulders at him, expectantly.

  “Engineering, are we back up to full power?”

  “Everything’s cushti,” Vol’s voice replied.

  “He means the warp core is ready for anything ye ask of it, Captain La Forge,” Scotty added.

  Geordi nodded. “Qat’qa . . . Set course for Starbase 410.”

  INTERLUDE: ROMULUS

  Some weeks ago

  Subcommander Saldis emerged from the elevator on the lowest level of his building’s underground offices. On the surface, the building was a simple ten-story office block for the civilian workers and assistants to the Senate, but below ground level were another twenty floors of offices and workspaces belonging to the Tal Shiar.

  Like all intelligence services across the galaxy, the Tal Shiar was a bureaucracy that generated an immense amount of virtual paperwork, and it maintained several regional offices across Romulus itself, as well as on other Romulan worlds.

  There were no interrogation cells or training facilities in the building where Saldis was based, but there were the offices of analysts, policy-makers, communications experts, and so on. Saldis had his own office on the fifth floor, but had been summoned down to one of the secure communication rooms. Here, the equipment was kept at precisely the correct temperature and humidity levels.

  The technician who had called him was seated at a tightly curved console which controlled the recording telemetry from stealth probes in a range of star systems. She turned as Saldis approached, and made as if to stand. “Subcommander—”

  “It’s all right.” Saldis gestured for her to remain seated. “You said there was a priority downlink?”

  “Communication intercept from Earth to Ferenginar.” She brought up a view of the encoded data. “It has an automated flag for the attention of a qualified case officer on the Short-Change project, and you were the first available.” She met his eye, and Saldis could see that she was glad that he had been the one chosen.

  “Let’s see what we have.” He took the data crystal she offered, and returned to the elevator.

  Back in his own shielded and soundproofed office on floor five, Saldis skimmed through the data on the crystal. Most of it was boring chatter between various Ferengi scheming against each other, but Saldis had a good eye and ear for more important phrases, and picked up the first heartbeat before the computer red flagged it for him.

  “Rasmussen” was the word. Saldis knew it wasn’t a Ferengi name, and it took only a few moments to recognize it as fitting human naming conventions. Humans and Ferengi together was worth keeping an eye on.

  Although it was the first red flag, it wasn’t actually surprising, as the project itself was devoted to monitoring human-Ferengi interactions without Starfleet or FCA boundaries. This Rasmussen’s name had come up several times, in connection with a known Ferengi criminal named Bok. Saldis had spent several days researching both individuals, and was intrigued by the fact that the human, Rasmussen, was from two centuries in the past. That Bok had served time in prison was less interesting, but his connections to the Ferengi underworld were worth looking at. If nothing else, the ability to know who to contact in that circle could prove valuable when trying to place intelligence-gathering assets in Ferengi territories.

  As Saldis kept reading, his blood began to tingle, his instincts telling him that something unusual was happening. Unusual and of possible benefit to the Romulan Star Empire.

  After a couple of hours of searching, he found the thing he knew was there. He had no idea what it would be until he found it, but he had known it was there all the same.

  “Time travel,” quickly followed by “return Rasmussen home. Home to the twenty-second century.”

  The praetor had always had an office in the Tal Shiar headquarters, which was more an operational control room than an office for paperwork or holding audiences. It was ideal for briefings with the Empire’s security experts. Saldis, being an analyst rather than a policy-maker, had only been in a handful of briefings there—enough to be comfortable, and not let the praetor’s presence make him nervous.

  Gell Kamemor’s personal security, however, did make him nervous. She had thus far treated the Tal Shiar well, and the rest of the services fairly, but one never knew when an overzealous bodyguard would misinterpret an innocent motion as the beginning of an assassination attempt. To avoid any such errors, Saldis carried his padd and data crystal in his hand, rather than risk reaching into a pocket in view of the pair of bodyguards.

  The heads of several Tal Shiar directorates were also present, along with the chairman, a general, and an admiral. Saldis smiled at this; it proved to him that he was correct in suspecting that this set of signals was important, and that he was right to bring it to high-level attention.

  “Subcommander,” Kamemor said by way of beginning the briefing. Her hair shimmered as she turned to him. “What do you have for us?”

  “Signal interceptions between Earth and Ferenginar, and subsequently between both planets and a number of vessels. The signals were all routed through various proxies and relay stations, but our systems were easily able to follow the communications.” He held up the data crystal and padd. “Copies of all the relevant signals are here, and I have also compiled a thorough analysis and report that summarizes the relevant details.”

  Kamemor nodded, reaching out a hand. Saldis fancied he could see, or at least feel, the bodyguards tense as he passed the padd over to her. He then slid the crystal into a slot on the workstation before him, bringing up holographic displays in front of the other attendees. “What you’re looking at,” Saldis announced, “is a series of encrypted signals between criminals in both the Federation and the Ferengi Alliance. Most of them are related to matters of little interest to the security of the Empire. However, these”—he touched a control, and some lines being displayed turned from blue to yellow—“are of much greater interest.”

  “Why?” the chairman asked softly. “Because of a human making inroads with the Shadow Treasurers?”

  “No. Because of a human scientist from another century attempting to enlist the Shadow Treasurers’ aid in returning him home. Home, that is, to his time of origin.”

  “Time travel?”

  “It has been achieved several times, in different ways,” the head of the Technical Directorate pointed out. “None really repeatable.”

  “It goes without saying,” the admiral added, “that a Federation ability to conduct a four-dimensional campaign would be a clear and present danger to the security of the Empire. And a Shadow Treasury ability to do likewise would be—”

  “Even more of a threat,” Praetor Kamemor said. “Their services would be for sale.” Heads nodded around the room, Saldis’s included. “And your recommendations?” She looked around at the other faces, her gaze staying away from Saldis.

  “You invite us to suggest the military option,” the general said, “but only so you can tell us why not. Who would we use it against? The Federation? Only one man matters, and it’s easier to simply remove a man in the dark than to go to war for him.”

  “Likewise,” the admiral agreed, “the Ferengi underworld is by definition a hidden society, not one the fleet can engage.”

  “Well spoken,” the praetor said. “And yet we cannot allow this threat to go unchecked.” A chorus of nods circled the room.

  “We need more data,” the technical director mused aloud. “More about where and how these criminals think they can gain such a power. We need to study them, track their movements, and monitor their communications more closely.”

  “Exactly the recommendation Saldis has made.” Kamemor brandished the padd he had given her. “Excellent work, Subcommander. I’m afraid I must punish this good deed by giving you a taxing and dull duty. We shall arrange to send out clo
aked probes to follow the progress of this criminal matter. You shall remain as case officer on the program, and report daily on everything that is discovered, no matter how apparently innocuous.”

  “Thank you, Praetor.”

  “You may go, Saldis. Jolan tru.”

  “Jolan tru, Praetor.” And, with that, Saldis was out of the gaze of the trigger-happy bodyguards, and back to work.

  Three days later

  A D’Deridex-class warbird dropped out of warp in a nameless system through which a number of the intercepted signals had passed. It remained cloaked, and began to launch probes. As the first wave of probes spread out from the warbird’s launchers, it made a short warp-jump to the opposite side of the system. There, it repeated the process.

  After a few moments, during which time its crew checked that the probes were all functioning properly, the warbird leapt back into warp, heading for the next system on its itinerary.

  No sensor on the Ferengi marauder which was orbiting the fourth of six planets registered the arrival or departure of the warbird, or the existence of the probes.

  One month later

  “What does this part of the signal mean?” Subcommander Saldis asked the operative from the Technical Directorate. They were in the downlink room on the lowest level of Saldis’s building, and Saldis had sent the duty officer out so that the pair could converse alone.

  “These are copies of sensor logs. Presumably the ship that transmitted this message had attached them.”

  “Sensor logs . . . Can you interpret them?”

  “Given time. There are two sets of sensor logs here, both Starfleet in origin. One set are two hundred years old, dating from the Earth war. The other is current. These have already been decrypted?”

  “Yes. I just need the sensor data interpreted,” Saddie said.

  “We have emulators for Starfleet systems on floor ten. Join me there in an hour, and we’ll see what they say.”

  Exactly an hour later, a very excited technical operative welcomed Saldis into a computer lab filled with what looked to be Starfleet science computers. “Subcommander, the praetor will shower you with rewards!”

  “I take it that the sensor logs are of some value?”

  “Some value? Have you no idea—no, of course you haven’t, or you wouldn’t have needed me. The sensor logs appear to show something similar to the wake of a slipstream drive in subspace. But not actually slipstream.”

  “How different?”

  “As far beyond slipstream as slipstream is beyond warp.”

  “Trans-slipstream . . .” Saldis murmured to himself.

  PART 2

  MÖBIUS TRIP

  25

  Captain’s Log, Stardate 60214.1. Since Tyler Hunt’s memorial service and the completion of the Challenger’s repairs, we have been on an extended detachment to test a new transporter upgrade that’s intended to provide near-instantaneous transport. No visible materialization phase, just pop, and you’re there. I’m sorry that that doesn’t really sound technical enough, but it’s the most accurate description of that I’ve heard so far. The ideal is that the full dematerialization and dematerialization phases should, together, take no more point zero two of a second. So far, the technology works, but the pressure differential caused by so quick a departure or arrival has—according to the results from testing with human-analog test objects—burst eardrums and caused other pressure-related problems. As a result, the program has gone back to the drawing board at the Daystrom Institute, and Challenger, I hope, will be free to resume a duty that, I don’t mind admitting, I find more appealing.

  Captain Geordi La Forge sat in Scotty’s—no, he forced himself to admit, his—ready room and greeted the on-screen image of Admiral Halliday with a pleasant face. “What can I do for you, Captain La Forge?” the Frenchwoman asked.

  “Admiral, I was wondering if there was any objection to Challenger looking into the source of the trans-slipstream wakes that we discovered while dealing with the Intrepid.”

  “If these are natural phenomena, they may be something we regularly encounter without really noticing.”

  “Perhaps, sir, but given what happened to Intrepid, it looks like there’s something more to them than just a natural phenomenon. I’ve transmitted all the relevant data, and Mister Scott, Doctor Brahms, and our chief engineer all agree that there’s enough evidence that these wakes are being caused by some technological means.”

  “The word wake implies a ship,” Halliday prompted. She canted one eyebrow in an almost Vulcan gesture.

  “That’s exactly what we think, that some kind of vessels are causing these.”

  “So you’re still sure there’s a technological discovery to be made here, then.”

  “We do. At the very least, even if there were no ships and the effects were all natural, the fact that Intrepid was lost to one suggests that, if nothing else, they are a possible navigational hazard. And if it’s the result of the use of a technology . . .”

  “Well, you are the go-to people for drive technologies,” Halliday acknowledged. “Go find your trans-slipstream wake, Captain.”

  La Forge kept the urge for a triumphant exclamation to himself. “Thank you, Admiral.”

  “Halliday out.”

  Scotty sat on a biobed in sickbay, while a nurse adjusted the cellular regenerator over his head, and Alyssa Ogawa read through the results of his latest tests. He had got back into the habit of wearing his old uniform trousers from the 2280s, with the red stripe down the side, and a gray pullover and suede vest. They were definitely more comfortable than the modern uniform.

  “That spleen seems to be coming along nicely,” Alyssa commented. “I doubt it’ll ever be a hundred percent again, but . . . Your heart worries me more. Have you been getting out of breath lately?”

  “I have, yes.” Scotty didn’t need to ask how she knew; she was a doctor and so it was her job to know, or find out, these things.

  “That’s the legacy of your exploits in the Jenolen’s transporter.”

  “Let me guess,” he said, putting on the charm, “the electrical rhythm of the nerves that make the heart pump is out o’ whack.”

  “You should go into medicine.”

  “Nothin’ to it, lass. I know just exactly how much the matter stream in a pattern buffer both affects and depends upon the electrical field of the body. Normally it’s so small it’s harmless, but . . .”

  “Even over nine decades it was fairly harmless, and not even detectable by Doctor Crusher’s examination back on the Enterprise. But it was a cumulative effect, and when you took enough knocks . . .”

  “That’s always been the way.”

  “Don’t worry.” She peeled the backing off of an adhesive patch, and slapped it onto the back of his hand. “There you go. The patch radiates a radiogenic field tailored to your heart. It’ll need to beswapped once a week or so.”

  “Thanks, lass.”

  “So, how are you enjoying being a civilian specialist?”

  “Too bloody much,” he admitted.

  When the day’s treatment was over, Scotty intended to pop into Nelson’s, but he found La Forge waiting for him outside sickbay. “Hi, Scotty.”

  “I was just going for a drink, laddie. You wouldna’ care to join me, would ye?”

  “I think I could put up with that.” So they went in to Nelson’s together. Guinan’s bullet-headed deputy was in charge, so they took a seat by the big windows, safe in the knowledge that nobody was likely to disturb the captain and the legendary engineer.

  “I was hoping we could get together,” La Forge began. “We’re going to go looking for the trans-slipstream wakes again.”

  “I thought we might. They’re a remarkable thing. I didna’ think Starfleet would object.”

  “I wish I could have been so sure.” La Forge looked out of the windows at the distant stars. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to be making those kinds of choices.”

  Scotty understood perfectly. �
�Ah, command decisions. They aren’t as easy as engineering ones.”

  “No . . . At least in engineering there’s a physical result, cause and effect. No need to worry about repercussions of feelings or politics.”

  “Aye. Command is all about harder choices; which means thinking harder.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

  “Ye won’t know, Geordi, until you’re in it. That’s the only way to find out. The first thing I always find myself wondering is: ‘What would Captain Kirk do?’” Geordi chuckled, as Scotty continued. “But then I remember that Captain Kirk would probably be on the landing party that’s in the middle of the trouble in the first place, and I’m too old and too in love with the engines to be in that position.”

  “So then you have to think for yourself.”

  “Aye, but I can count myself fortunate to have learned from the best; Captain Kirk and Mister Spock, both. And it’s not just me; I’m pretty certain that serving under them is what made Mister Sulu such a good captain when they gave him Excelsior.”

  “So, when Captain Kirk was on an away—I mean a landing party—and you had the conn, how did you work things?”

  “By the book, by the captain’s wishes, and—from time to time—by threatening to drop a barrage of photon torpedoes.” Scotty punctuated his remark with a wicked and wolfish grin. “We always find ourselves affected by the commanders we serve under, and they always color our own command styles. You’ll be the same, Geordi.”

  “You mean, ‘What would Captain Picard do?’ ”

  “Aye. Unless, of course, ye deliberately set out to do the exact opposite, you’ll be influenced by how your captain did things, even if only subconsciously.”

  “Well, I’m not Captain Picard . . .”

  “And I’m not Jim Kirk. And Jim Kirk wasn’t Captain Garrovick, but every captain always finds their own voice. You will too, and someday somebody will be askin’ themselves what Captain La Forge would do.”