by Dave Stern
She sees Urmstran, in a room by himself, looking at her, and smiling.
“You’re growing,” he says. “Do you feel it?”
And she tries to nod, but of course she can’t, she has no body, so instead she speaks, the same metallic voice. “Yes, I can feel it,” she says. And then the memory shifts again, to explosions once more, the Barreon are at war, and she is trying to help, but the others are so many, and their weapons so powerful, their attacks so coordinated that for all she knows, and sees, and is capable of, she can do nothing.
She sees Urmstran one last time, smoke billowing in the air behind him. He coughs, leans over her and smiles, a different kind of smile, a sad smile.
“You will outlive us all,” he says, and then there is another explosion and he is gone and she cannot see. There is nothing but the dark.
Nothing for a long, long time.
Archer was down on his hands and knees, the access panel next to the helm console pulled off, the optical cables pulled from the junction box, and his UT plugged in a trunk line off the main computer.
“It won’t work, you know.”
He glanced over at Sen, shackled, arms and legs, to the chair at the science console, and glared.
“Shut up,” Archer said, and resumed work.
Sen shut up. For a time. Then, “I assume you’re attempting to manually restablish software control. Now admittedly, I don’t know much myself about how these things work, but I do know that the Klingon systems…”
Without turning, Archer picked up the control device for the punishment collar, which he’d put around Sen’s neck while the governor was unconscious, and pressed the button.
The governor screamed.
Archer put the control box down.
“Sadist,” Sen snapped.
“Quiet,” Archer said, keeping his eyes glued on the UT’s little screen. His hope was that the translator might be able to take input directly from the Klingon subsystems and let him at least establish partial control using that interface. Nothing yet. No signal of any kind.
He hoped he had it hooked up correctly.
He stood and stretched.
Sen glared at him.
“Your Starfleet protocols, if I am remembering correctly, forbid the use of torture.”
The captain smiled at him.
“It’s not even connected.”
“What?”
“The collar. The device isn’t active.”
Sen was quiet a long moment, simmering.
“It’s a joke,” Archer said. “The famous human sense of humor. Remember?”
The anger in Sen’s eyes was indeed something to behold. The captain smiled, and shrugged.
“I thought it was funny.”
“Laugh while you can, Captain, because the day will come when…”
The governor’s eyes grew suddenly wide, his gaze shifting from Archer to a point over the captain’s shoulder. Archer turned to see what he was looking at.
An Antianna ship filled the viewscreen.
The captain cursed, and got to his feet. Where the hell had they come from? He crossed the bridge to the com station. There was an earpiece lying on the console; he picked it up and heard a very faint, very familiar sound. It took him a second to place it.
The fifty-seven pulses. Damn.
He looked down at the operator screen, hoping to spot something—anything—even vaguely familiar. A transmit key, a “We come in peace” message…
He cursed again, and turned to Sen.
“Tell me what you remember about the weapons systems on this ship.”
Sen smiled.
“I thought you wanted me to shut up.”
“Don’t play games, Governor. If they decide to shoot us, you’re just as dead as I am.”
“Of course they’re going to shoot us, Captain. We’re in their space.”
And whose bright idea was that? Archer felt like asking, but held his tongue.
“What do you know?” he asked again.
“Nothing that would be of assistance,” Sen said. “The only way I was able to interface with the Klingon system, of course, was using Roia, and since Roia is gone…”
Useless, the captain thought, and bent down to check the UT he’d jury-rigged to the main data feed. Still nothing.
He looked again at the main viewer.
The ship was getting closer. And bigger. Much bigger. Maybe it was his imagination, but compared with the vessel Enterprise had encountered…
“Cheer up, Captain. At least we will die in battle. A warrior’s death.” Sen shrugged. “More or less, since it doesn’t appear we’ll be able to fire weapons of our own.”
“I have no intention of dying,” the captain snapped.
“No one ever intends to die, Captain. But it seems to happen all the same.”
It was Sen’s turn to smile, then.
“You find that funny, do you?”
“All the trouble we both went to, to get to this point, and now this…you have to admit it’s amusing, at the least. Ironic.”
“Not yet I don’t.”
“Come now, Captain. What happened to the famous human sense of humor?”
Now it was Archer’s turn to glare.
One of the consoles began making a harsh, blaring sound. The captain strode over to it and saw the screen flashing red.
“That is, I believe, the defense station. Alerting the operator of a nearby power buildup, most likely. Perhaps a prelude to weapons fire.” Sen frowned. “Or is that the auxiliary com station? I really can’t remember. So much information flying by, so fast…I wish I could be of help, Captain. I really do.”
Archer would have told him to shut up again, but he was too busy thinking.
He was trying to remember something about Enterprise’s computer system. How Trip had wired in the command center so that every station on the bridge could be controlled, in an emergency situation, by a single console in the command center. Something about identifying critical response systems, as opposed to normal ops, which could be assigned to computer control in such cases with no significant loss of functionality. Enterprise’s systems were different, but if the principle was the same here—
“Captain? Did you hear me?”
Archer turned and glared at him.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t, and I don’t want to. Hear you, that is.”
“It will only take a moment of your time, and could be of significant value.”
The captain shook his head.
“Let me put it a different way. I’m trying to save our lives here, so why don’t you stop chattering for one minute and let me think in…”
“Our lives are done,” Sen said. “My money, however, can still be of use. I would offer your heirs ten percent of the total sum, if you will see that the rest is diverted to…”
Archer grabbed the control device for the punishment collar up off the deck, and held it up for Sen to see.
The governor snorted. “Please. You’ve already told me that’s not active. Why should I…”
Archer crossed the bridge in three swift strides, leaned over him, and pressed a button on the collar.
“It’s on now,” the captain said.
Sen closed his mouth, pursed his lips, and frowned.
“Hold that pose,” the captain said.
And then he went back to work.
Light.
Theera’s eyes, fixed on hers.
Theera’s hands, on her forehead.
Pain.
Hoshi blinked, and stepped backwards. The step turned into a stagger.
She tried to regain her balance, and couldn’t. Fell backwards, and hit the wall. Slumped to the floor.
Theera loomed over her.
“Input modification is necessary,” the Andorian said.
“Input modification? What does that mean?” Hoshi managed, and shook her head. “What did you do to me?”
Theera frowned.
“Language barrier?” the An
dorian asked. “Incorrect assumption? Ondeanna?”
Hoshi shook her head again.
Ondeanna. Join. The images from her past, from Theera’s, the ones belonging—the ones that seemed to belong, at least—to the Barreon, from long, long ago…
They’d just joined, all right, but she didn’t understand exactly how. There was something called a mind-meld, a Vulcan kind of consciousness-merging, but as far as she knew Andorians didn’t have any telepathic abilities, unless you counted the Aenar, and Theera wasn’t Aenar, that was obvious, although maybe, it occurred to her, the ability wasn’t limited to that particular subspecies of the race, maybe the gene was just recessive in the larger species, or maybe Theera was part Aenar, or maybe—
She stopped that train of thought before it ran away with her. Her head was still pounding, not where the Andorian had touched her, but inside, behind her eyes, the worst migraine she’d ever had times two.
Hoshi took a deep breath then, and got to her feet.
“Listen, Theera. I don’t understand what you just said. I don’t understand what you’re doing here, or what you just did to me, how you did it, but…”
Hoshi stopped talking, because the Andorian wasn’t listening. Her expression, her eyes, were completely blank, her attention elsewhere.
“What’s the matter with you?” Hoshi asked.
Silence, for a good few seconds.
Theera blinked then, and looked her in the eye.
“Input modification completed. Systems interface to resume.”
She raised her hands, and Hoshi took a step back.
Systems interface. She had a good idea what that meant.
“No,” she said. No way was she going through that again. “Tell me what you want to know, what you’re trying to do, and we can—”
“Ondeeana,” Theera said again, and began walking forward. Hoshi backed away.
“Theera, no,” she said more firmly. “Don’t come any closer.”
The Andorian ignored her.
Hoshi spun, and slammed her foot smack into Theera’s chest, harder than she’d meant to. She thought she heard something crack.
Theera didn’t blink.
She just kept coming.
Hoshi kicked again, landed a heel on the side of the Andorian’s face. No reaction.
She heard Jaedez’s voice in her mind.
“It took three of my men and their weapons to subdue her,” the general had said. “That strikes me as unusual.”
“Unusual,” Hoshi thought, wasn’t the word for it.
“Impossible” came to mind.
Theera took another step forward. Hoshi met her with the heel of her hand, square in the chest.
Theera grabbed Hoshi’s wrist as it shot past, and held her in place.
With her free hand, she reached out. Hoshi twisted away.
Theera drew her closer. The Andorian was unbelievably strong.
Fingertips touched forehead.
Hoshi gasped involuntarily, bracing herself for the pain.
But there was none.
The images began again.
Urmstran, the engineer, the soldier, the creator.
“You’re growing.”
The blue of the Barreon uniforms, their ships exploding, the crews dying. Urmstran, dying. Oblivion.
And then life.
A single spark, in the blackness. Electricity reaching out, sending current across dead metal, restoring function. A single solar collection panel, turning toward the home star. The process repeating a second time, and then a third, and over and over and over again, across dozens, hundreds of years. Energy, knowledge, perception, growing, until…
Movement. Modification. Metal taking on familiar form, the husk of a Barreon cruiser flying through space, returning to the homeworld.
Dead. Toxic. Biosigns, negative. Spectral matrix scan, negative.
Energy surges across the atmosphere. Memory banks power to life.
Awareness grows.
Urmstran, the creator, is dead. The Barreon, too, are dead. But their creation lives on. Their creation, creates.
Metal takes form, once, twice, a thousand times, yet remains a unified whole. A single consciousness. Metal discards form as well, in favor of fluidity, of the ability to adapt.
The homeworld is a sheet of shimmering silver, reflecting the stars. Looking upward, and wondering if somewhere out there, out among all the stars in the vastness of the universe…
The Barreon, perhaps, still live.
Metal takes form once more. Not the shape of the Barreon cruisers, but a familiar shape nonetheless. The streamlined silhouette of the Antianna ships.
In her mind, Hoshi shivers.
Machines. The Antianna are machines.
The ships surge into space, dozens flying at once, in countless different directions. All joined together in a single consciousness, a single directing intelligence.
She is aboard one, she is aboard all of them. She is all of them, all at once.
Some light-years away from the homeworld, a ship appears before her. An alien vessel. Unfamiliar to the Antianna, but Hoshi recognizes it.
A H’ratoi merchant vessel. The Olane.
An ancient code is sent—the fifty-seven pulses. There is no response. Spectral matrix scan initiated. Negative as well. Sensors indicate bipedal life-forms. Memory banks are scanned. Similarities noted, and processed.
The Allied Worlds. The enemy has returned.
The enemy is destroyed.
The process repeats itself, across a span of light-years, across a span of time. A Thelasian freighter, a Klingon warship, a Conani destroyer. Trespassers on Barreon territory. Defilers of Barreon civilization. Borders must be restored, reestablished.
Metal triumphs, at times; at times metal is annihilated. The enemy is strong, still.
An Andorian vessel appears, identified by the letters etched on the primary hull. Lokune.
Spectral matrix scan negative. Bipedal life signs confirmed. The enemy has returned. The enemy is destroyed. Except…
In the wreckage, a survivor. An idea.
Imitate. Infiltrate. Communicate.
Hoshi watches in horror as understanding begins to dawn.
Okay, Archer thought.
If he was going down, he was going down fighting.
“What are you doing?” Sen asked.
The captain stood in the middle of a disaster area, a pile of panel covers, and conduit sheathing, and optical cable strewn about the bridge. In his hand he held a single strand of cabling, half as thick as his wrist. It had taken him twenty minutes to find it, twenty minutes and half a dozen dead-end tries, but the second his hand closed around this particular cable, and he felt the energy thrumming within it, he knew he’d found exactly what he was looking for.
He was pretty sure about that, anyway.
“I may not be able to override software control of the helm, but I damn sure know how to build a bomb,” he said.
“What???”
“I’m turning this ship into a bomb,” the captain repeated. “Short-circuiting the power relays, which ought to set off a pretty good-sized explosion along the firing conduit, which I hope will trigger off some of their torpedoes, and take out that behemoth,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the viewscreen, now entirely filled by the Antianna ship, “right along with us.”
“That’s suicide.”
“Better to go down fighting, wouldn’t you say? A warrior’s death, and all that?”
“I would note they have yet to fire on us,” Sen said.
Which is just a matter of time, the captain thought, if history was any guide, which in his experience, it always was.
It was kind of strange, though, that the Antianna had let them come this close, and hadn’t reacted at all. No warning shots like the ones they’d given Enterprise, no further messages, nothing.
He wondered what they were waiting for.
A space capable of life-support is created, within the hull. A
dome of silver metal. Gases are produced, a particular mixture of oxygen and carbon dioxide. The chamber is prepared, the chamber is ready.
The body is transported from the wreckage.
Theera.
Bleeding, broken, dying, in wordless, moaning, agony.
Metal shimmers, extrudes from the dome floor.
A piece of the body is cut off, and absorbed.
Horrified, Hoshi tries to turn away, and cannot. Tries to shut out the moaning, and the screaming, and cannot.
The organics are studied, dissected, broken down to their subatomic components. The electromagnetic patterns that make up the individual’s consciousness are scanned, duplicated, analyzed, absorbed.
At some point in the process, the moaning stops, and Theera dies.
Metal shimmers, and she is reborn. Reconstituted, re-created, once, twice, a dozen times.
Each of them identical, each a perfect replica of the original. A duplicate.
An android.
Aboard each vessel, all at the same time, possessed of the same consciousness, in constant communication until…
One is ripped away.
And now familiar images appear in Hoshi’s mind, images from her own past, from the tape Elder Green had shown her, a high-ceilinged, dimly lit room. A raised platform at one end of it. A transporter platform. Two Conani in full body armor flanking it. A column of energy appears, a beam of sparkling light that coalesces almost at once. Theera. A naked and obviously terrified Theera, who collapses on the platform, looking up at her rescuers in disbelief and shock.
And begins screaming a single word, over and over again.
Antianna.
The images pause—and then begin again.
More from her time aboard S-12—the analysis chamber, the mind-sifter, sickbay, General Jaedez, Elder Green…
Another pause.
And again, a resumption. Images familiar, and yet somehow different. Herself, and Teraven, and General Jaedez, and it is then that Hoshi realizes these images are somehow coming from Elder Green’s mind. Her consciousness has been absorbed as well, and Hoshi is Green, walking down the corridor toward the analysis chamber, pulled suddenly aside, and…
