A Time to Sow

by Dayton Ward

  Still, he knew that actually getting any victims to the ship still presented a bit of a problem. “What’s the status of the transporters?”

  The engineer turned from his console with a resigned expression, a feeling even seemingly communicated by the man’s artificial eyes. “Sorry, Captain, but we’re still having trouble tuning them to filter out the ambient radiation. Even with portable pattern enhancers, using them to transport people would be very risky.”

  It was not what he wanted to hear, but Picard also knew that it was useless to waste any more time concerning himself with an option currently unavailable to him.

  Moving to the upper deck and the rear bridge stations, Riker said, “Geordi, could we maneuver close enough with shuttles to dock with an airlock or some other form of entry to the outpost?”

  He watched the engineer scroll through screens of sensor data before freezing the image on one display monitor. As he moved closer to Riker and La Forge and studied the screen, Picard saw what looked to be a cylindrical protrusion extending from one rectangular section of the outpost structure.

  “This is an external access point,” La Forge said, “probably a docking port, the only one I can find. Our own airlocks won’t match up perfectly, but we might be able to erect forcefields around the entrance.” Turning in his chair, he added, “Captain, the radiation will affect any focused energy source we activate outside the ship. Even a forcefield will be risky.”

  “Is there any way you can compensate?” Picard asked.

  The engineer shrugged. “If we move close enough to extend our shields to cover that section of the outpost, it might provide some additional protection. But the shields will already be compromised by the radiation before we extend them. Maintaining shield integrity could cause them to overload.”

  “We’ll have to coordinate maneuvering shuttles to and from that docking port,” Riker said, shaking his head. “And even then we can only take a handful of people at a time.”

  “Moving all those people is going to take a hell of a lot longer than a few hours,” La Forge replied, “and that’s if we even have that long.”

  Listening to his people, Picard was already ruling out the option of relying on shuttles. With only four fullsized shuttlecraft and eight smaller shuttlepods aboard, even using the new captain’s yacht to assist in the evacuation would take entirely too long.

  “Can we move the Enterprise herself close enough to link up?” he asked.

  “We can do it using one of the docking ports along deck ten, sir,” the engineer said, “but we’d have the same potential problems with our forcefields.”

  Picard nodded. “Continue your scans, Geordi. See if you can determine whether we can shut down the reactor.” To Riker he said, “We’ll move the Enterprise into position for direct docking. Number One, coordinate with Lieutenant Vale to handle security concerns for getting evacuees to the cargo bays.”

  Riker nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  As the first officer moved to put a hasty evacuation plan into motion, Picard returned to the bridge’s lower level. “Lieutenant Vale, open a channel to the mining outpost.”

  When the security chief nodded to him and reported that the frequency was open, he said to the intercom, “This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation Starship Enterprise. We have received your distress call and are moving to assist you. Please acknowledge if you are able.”

  There was a pause, and Picard flinched at the sharp crackle of static bursting through the com-system speakers before a bewildered male voice responded. “Hello? Who is this? Where are you?” To Picard, it sounded like the same person who had been transmitting the original distress message.

  He said, “We are strangers here, but we are moving to help you. Please stand by.”

  “You mean…you mean you’re not from the colony? Then where did you…?”

  Trying to keep the situation under some semblance of control, Picard cut him off. “We will be happy to answer all your questions once you are safely evacuated. Our ship is moving to link up with one of your external docking ports, and we will move you all to our ship. Are you able to organize your people for the transfer?”

  Rather than a direct response, his ears were assaulted by multiple voices, all yelling within range of the audio pickup and all of them panicked.

  “It’s coming toward us!”

  “Look at it!”

  “Dokaa has damned us!”

  “It’s huge!”

  Gesturing for the audio to be muted, Picard turned to Riker. “Number One, we need to act before the situation over there deteriorates any further. Are you ready?”

  Looking up from where he and Vale were coordinating their plans, the first officer nodded. “I think so captain. We can at least get started, and adapt as necessary.”

  Picard nodded in approval. “Make it so.”

  This is almost too easy, Christine Vale warned herself. Not that I’m complaining.

  Trying hard not to contemplate the narrow, utilitarian tunnel that was all that protected her from the vacuum of space, Vale instead focused her attention on the evacuation that was now well under way. That was fine with her, for the faster they could get the rest of the beleaguered miners off this godforsaken rock and safely aboard the Enterprise, the happier she would be.

  Her duties had not given her the opportunity to inspect much beyond the airlock access passageway, but even a quick look at that had been enough to give her the basic lay of the land. The Dokaalan level of technology looked equivalent to Earth’s during the late twenty-first century at the advent of the first long-duration colonies on the moon and Mars. The corridors here were cold, most likely due to insufficient insulation, and the air was stale thanks to the outpost’s inoperative life-support system. The gravity also was lighter, only one-sixth that of Earth. Vale and her team were able to move about easily enough, but it required an extra bit of attention to keep from bounding around, so the lesser gravity wouldn’t take them by surprise.

  The tunnel and the chamber beyond were surprisingly clean and appeared well maintained. Vale had expected more clutter or other evidence of a people who had lived for an extended period of time within the confines of a habitat not intended for such use. This told the security chief that the Dokaalan had adapted to their situation with remarkable success and composure. These people would have amazing stories to tell, she knew, and Vale was looking forward to hearing them.

  What do you say we get them out of here first?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the signal of her combadge followed by the voice of Lieutenant Jim Peart, her deputy chief of security. “Group three is aboard, Lieutenant.” Static still corrupted the communications link, even though the two officers were separated at most by a hundred meters. “So far the forcefield is holding. Want to send another group?”

  “Absolutely,” Vale replied. “I’m sending them over now, Jim. Stand by to receive.” Nodding to Melorr, the Bolian ensign she had placed in charge of the team at the docking-port hatch, she gave him the signal to commence transferring the fourth group of evacuees to the Enterprise. In response, Melorr opened the hatch to the access tunnel that connected to the rest of the complex and began to usher members of the next group forward. Vale had insisted on keeping the hatch closed in the event the forcefield protecting the airlock failed.

  No sense taking any chances, she thought. Not now.

  It had been a masterly feat of flying, as was usual for Data, to maneuver the mammoth starship into position to link up with the damaged mining outpost via its lone external docking port. That accomplished, Commander La Forge and his group of engineers had next rigged a supplementary power supply to the emergency forcefield generator for the airlock now connecting the ship to the mining outpost.

  Even though the two hatches could not connect, owing to variations in their design, the forcefield acted to create a seal around the gap. La Forge had also taken the extra precaution of setting up a portable generator on the outpost’s
side of the airlock to augment the energy barrier. Though not entirely comfortable with these little feats of mechanical wizardry, Vale figured she could deal with them long enough to accomplish her current task.

  “Thank you,” a female Dokaalan said to her as she passed, part of the fourth group of evacuees being transferred to the ship. “You are a gift from Dokaa.”

  Understandably panicked by their situation, the Dokaalan miners had expressed only momentary concern upon meeting the strange beings who had come to their rescue. There was also the possibility that they were still a bit cowed by the appearance of the Enterprise beyond the windows of the outpost. Vale idly wondered if any of them might be fearful of a superior alien force coming to conquer their civilization.

  Commander Riker had handled the initial contact procedures, where it had been learned that the people living both here and elsewhere within the asteroid field were indeed descendants of those who had survived the catastrophe that had claimed the Dokaalan’s home planet generations ago. According to the miner who had acted as spokesperson for the group inhabiting the damaged outpost, there were even survivors of the original disaster still living among the population.

  Vale’s first thought at the revelation was that this race must have an incredibly prolonged life span, rivaling even other long-lived races like the Vulcans and perhaps even the Trill symbionts. The amazing trials they would have faced in the aftermath of such colossal tragedy boggled the security chief’s mind.

  Riker had done his best to put the miners at ease, his experience in such matters far exceeding Vale’s. That addressed, the first officer had escorted the person in charge of the miners back to the ship, where he would meet with Captain Picard—after Dr. Crusher had examined him, of course. That left Vale and her security team in charge of the remainder of the operation.

  Things had been made much easier thanks to the Dokaalan themselves. While she was sure these people would have countless questions, most of them at least had the presence of mind to hold them until the evacuation could be completed.

  They can’t be strangers to adversity, she reminded herself, or the need to react quickly to a situation.

  Just like the image of First Minister Zahanzei from the centuries-old probe’s recorded distress message, the Dokaalan Vale and her team found on the outpost were essentially humanoid in appearance. Their light blue skin was several shades lighter than the first minister as depicted on the visual recording, undoubtedly an effect of having lived for years inside cramped artificial structures and insulated from the natural light of the Dokaalan sun. Still, their skin and lack of hair made them look vaguely Bolian in appearance, but it was there that the resemblance ended. They were much taller and slight of build, and their skulls were shaped differently. Vale had to wonder how such large, lanky frames lent themselves to the rigors of subsurface mining.

  That’s probably the least of their worries, she thought. Descendants of those who escaped the disaster that had claimed their home planet, these people seemed to have tackled the challenge of surviving for centuries out here among the asteroids. Judging by the evidence all around her, the Dokaalan had hammered out an existence from the very lifeless rock that at one time had most likely been viewed as nothing more than a massive storehouse of resources. Now, that same rock had evolved to be all that separated these people from possible oblivion.

  “Lieutenant Vale,” Peart’s voice called out over her combadge, “group four is evacuating now. No problems so far.”

  “Acknowledged,” she replied, nodding in satisfaction. Yes, she thought, nice and easy. I could get used to this.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “DR. CRUSHER? Dr. Crusher?”

  Beverly Crusher turned away from the prostrate form before her and looked for the source of the voice calling her name from somewhere in the depths of cargo bay four.

  “Over here!” she called out.

  “Another group is coming,” the voice replied, which Crusher now recognized as belonging to Alyssa Ogawa, her typically unshakable head nurse and a valued member of the Enterprise medical staff for more than a decade. Still, even she sounded as though she might be rattled at the prospect of more injured boarding the starship.

  Sighing, Crusher shook her head at the news. The cargo bay had been turned into an emergency field hospital, helping to screen roughly one hundred Dokaalan requiring varying degrees of treatment. However, the evacuees were coming at a rate that she knew threatened to overwhelm the ship’s medical personnel, or at least overrun the physical space of the large room. Other cargo bays were being converted and would be ready soon, but that did not aid her immediate situation.

  There’s nothing you can do about that, she reminded herself. So worry about the problems you can fix.

  Brushing a lock of red hair from her face, Crusher moved to the next emergency treatment bed and activated its array of diagnostic sensors. The Dokaalan lying on the small bed was having difficulty breathing and was holding his abdomen, though there did not appear to be a great deal of blood. An internal injury, most likely.

  “Temperature is 29.4 degrees Celsius,” she said. “Is that even normal for you?” She was not surprised when the Dokaalan merely looked at her in confusion, and she patted him gently on the arm. “Don’t worry,” she offered in her best bedside-manner voice, “we’re going to take good care of you.”

  “Dr. Crusher,” Ogawa called out again. “The next group is arriving.”

  Without looking up from her work, Crusher replied, “Resume triage protocols and I’ll be right there.” Ogawa and the rest of the medical staff were more than capable of assessing injuries and quickly assigning treatment priorities in emergencies, even while under attack. Still, coordinating triage involving beings heretofore unknown to Federation medical science would have tested the mettle of even Starfleet’s best physicians.

  Using the peripheral scanner from her medical tricorder to examine the young man—she assumed he was young, anyway—Crusher compared the unit’s readings with those of the dozens of patients she had already treated. This was most definitely not the way she preferred to practice medicine, knowing that everything they were doing to help these people was, for the moment at least, based purely on instinct.

  While she and the rest of the medical staff continued their efforts down here, data about Dokaalan physiology was streaming constantly into the ship’s computer with each patient they examined. Once the analysis of that data started to yield results, she would be able to determine what pharmaceuticals might be medically effective in stabilizing her new patients and easing their pain. For the moment, however, she was depending entirely on her own abilities, experience gleaned from years of treating new and exotic alien species, and a generous helping of good luck.

  I guess it was too much to ask that the probe carried data files on Dokaalan anatomy and physiology.

  Studying her tricorder’s readings, Crusher now knew that her initial diagnosis of the wounded Dokaalan was correct. The sound of the patient’s labored breathing was unmistakable. A lung had collapsed and what looked to be the equivalent of the spleen in a human had been lacerated. Those, at least, were injuries she understood and which could be treated quickly, here and now.

  Retrieving a hypospray from her medikit, she set it to deliver a mild sedative that would let the Dokaalan sleep through his pain. The effects were immediate as she saw her patient’s pale blue features relax.

  He struggled to speak. “Th-th…thank…youuu….”

  “Of course,” she said, leaning in as the Dokaalan closed his eyes again. “Be still, now.”

  Crusher gave silent thanks for the only advantage she truly enjoyed at this moment: a crumbling communications barrier. The Dokaalan probe’s recording and other data files stored in its small onboard computer had provided enough of a language sample that Federation linguists were able to construct a competent protocol for the ship’s universal-translation subroutines. Those programs were getting a workout now and being give
n the opportunity to improve with each passing moment as they sifted though the reedy, nasal tones of Dokaalan vocalizations and extrapolated them into a semblance of Federation Standard.

  She did not need any of that, however, as she saw the smile on the Dokaalan’s face before he slipped into unconsciousness, his anxieties eased at least a small bit at the realization that he was among friends.

  As she gave the necessary treatment instructions to an assisting medic, she grabbed her gear and made her way toward the triage operation’s makeshift staging area. Stepping past the small line of cargo containers that had been arranged to mark off the staging area, Crusher felt a sudden tug on her entire body, her legs wobbling in momentary disorientation.

  Forgot about that, she realized as her legs took the extra second to reacquaint themselves to carrying her full weight. To accommodate the recovering Dokaalan, artificial gravity throughout the main section of the cargo bay’s triage area had been reconfigured for one-sixth that of Earth, while remaining normal in the staging area so as not to disrupt the workings of the rescue teams and medical staff. Therefore, transitioning to and from the separate gravity fields always came as a bit of a shock.

  At least we didn’t have to change the air mix, too.

  As she steadied herself and resumed her pace to the entrance of the bay, she saw the first of what appeared to be dozens of Dokaalan shuffling through the hatch, some not under their own power. As they entered the bay, they passed through a series of arches that had been juryrigged to act as emergency bioscanners. The sensors were in turn providing preliminary readings that aided the medics with their initial diagnoses.

  Denizens of the outpost seemed so far to be adults of two genders, Crusher noted, with none of them appearing particularly youthful or elderly. By their attire and demeanor, it was obvious that these people were used to living in nothing resembling the lap of luxury.

  “Anything unusual?” Crusher asked Ogawa, who was busily tapping information into a padd.