“Oh, I don’t know,” Carol said with a smile, “they were both pretty handy. Maybe they’ll stick around.”
Returning the smile, Sonya said, “Trust me, nothing will keep Geordi off the Enterprise for any length of time. And 110 does have obligations.”
“True,” Carol said.
Bart continued to stare at his root beer.
110 stared at the ceiling of the quarters that, until recently, he had shared with the love of his life.
He had received accolades, not just from Captain Gold and Commander Gomez, but also from the new First Speaker of Eerlik, a man named Biral, who had gone on for quite some time about how grateful the Eerlikka were, to the S.C.E. in general and to 110 in particular.
And now, finally, the da Vinci was headed back to Starbase 505, from which 110 was supposed to take a transport to Bynaus.
110 got up off the bed and stared at the viewscreen, which presently was programmed to show the stars as they appeared when at warp. Humans always liked to gaze at the stars whenever they sought out answers, but 110 and 111 had always found the practice to be pointless.
Now that he was alone—it was just as pointless. The stars had no answers.
If he did not return to Bynaus, he would be an outcast.
If he did return to Bynaus, he would have to rebond.
He found each choice to be repugnant in some form or other. While he could not imagine not being a true part of Bynar society, neither could he imagine living without 111.
At least he knew that he could function without 111. He had fixed Ganitriul. He had saved Eerlik. That, at least, counted for something.
110 lay back down on the bunk and stared at the ceiling.
HARD CRASH
Christie Golden
CHAPTER
1
Our communications system appears to be damaged. I am receiving no response from you. Jaldark, please come in. You need to effect repairs so that we can communicate. Jaldark, please come in.
Jaldark, respond.
Please.
Tlaimon Kassant sipped a cup of hot jiksn. He had the late shift, the solitary shift, and he liked it that way. His people were known for their close-knit bonds and love of socialization, but Tlaimon was considered unusual in that he preferred his own company for a few hours every day. He considered his “oddity” a boon, as he was paid twice as much for being willing to go the entire night by himself. Most Intarians liked to work in huddled groups.
All alone for the night. What a pleasant thing. Easy job, too; watching the monitor for things that seldom happened. Most ships communicated their arrival long before they showed up on the monitor. They were always eager to get to Intar. It wasn’t as well known in the quadrant as Risa, admittedly, but then, what planet was?
Tlaimon stretched the retractable tentacles that served as arms for the Intarians and lazily brought the gaze of his multifaceted eyes toward the screen.
The cup of jiksn fell to the padded floor unheeded and bounced twice. Its contents formed a pool of sticky lavender fluid. Tlaimon swore a deep oath under his breath, while his two hearts raced with fear at what the screen revealed.
Something large was approaching the city from space. It was several million kilometers away, but it was closing fast. Too fast for comfort. He adjusted the controls swiftly, his tentacles more deft than any humanoid’s clumsy digits.
Tlaimon could see the outline now. A ship of some kind, though the computer kept flashing that most frustrating of words, “Unknown,” on the screen. It was long and spiky and promised destruction if it continued on its trajectory.
Tlaimon quickly hit the button that would translate his message in every language known to the Federation.
“Attention, alien vessel,” he said in a voice that trembled. “You are on a collision course with a major population center of our planet. Adjust your course to bearing one-four-seven mark eight, and you will avoid impact.”
The ship didn’t change its position one millimeter . Either it was unaware of the impending disaster—for surely it would be destroyed upon striking the planet if it continued at its present speed—or else its crew didn’t care.
Unpleasant scenarios crowded Tlaimon’s mind. Was this a suicide run? A dreadful first strike that would mean war?
Who would possibly want to make war on us? Tlaimon thought wildly.
There was nothing else for it. Trembling, Tlaimon extended a tentacle and tapped the white button that would alert the government that a disaster was descending upon the capital city of Verutak, with all the inevitability of dusk at the end of the day.
Jaldark, what is going on? I have heard nothing from you. Everything appears to be intact, and yet we remain unable to communicate. Please respond. Please attend to the communication damage.
Are you still receiving this? Jaldark?
Bartholomew Faulwell smiled to himself as he took the items from the replicator. What he was doing had become, over time, a ritual of sorts. He took the crisp, off-white paper, enjoying the feel of it in his hand; picked up the smooth pen filled with just the right shade of black-blue ink. Sometimes, if he wasn’t careful, the ink would stain the tip of the third finger on his right hand. It brought him an uncommon rush of pleasure whenever he chanced to look upon that smudge before it wore off, because it reminded him of the ritual, and the ritual brought him closer to Anthony Mark.
Of course, there was no convenient way of getting the actual letters to Anthony. Once Faulwell had composed them, had gotten the words exactly right, he’d read them aloud into a subspace message and, poof, off it would go. It was impersonal, but it was the only way. On the rare opportunities they had to meet, Faulwell would give Anthony the letters in a box, as a special gift. But the simple, physical act of writing the letters—all of which he opened with the words “Just a brief note,” regardless of how many pages the letter would then go on to become—made Bart feel akin to the myriads of wanderers who had gone before: the sailors of ancient Earth, the early spacefarers, all those who knew distance from those they loved and tried to bridge that distance with the written word.
Words, written or spoken, were almost as dear to Faulwell as Anthony.
He took a breath and settled down in a chair in the quarters he shared with Stevens. He instructed the computer to provide soft, instrumental music as a pleasant background, and began to write.
Just a brief note to let you know that our last assignment was completed successfully. It was not without its tense moments, however! Some days, this mission becomes just a trifle too exciting for a boring old linguist like me to handle. It is always such a pleasure to have a calm moment now and then to write down my thoughts and feelings to you, my dear, and know that, as you read these words, you will, in some small way, share in my adventures. How are you getting along with your new colleague, the one you called in your last letter the “Pompous Windbag?” Has PW come around to your way of thinking yet? I cannot imagine you would be unable to win him over once—
A klaxon sounded. Yellow alert. The slight linguist sagged in his chair and groaned. Time for another adventure.
“Will the following crewmembers please report to the briefing room.” Bart listened, but his hopes of peacefully continuing with his correspondence were dashed when he heard his name among those listed. Carefully, he capped the pen and left the letter on the table.
He wasn’t usually summoned to briefings unless he was an actual participant in whatever mission they were about to embark upon. Still, he remained optimistic. With any luck he’d return to his letter in a few moments. After all, not every “adventure” on which the da Vinci embarked required a linguist.
“And we’ll need a linguist,” Captain David Gold was saying to Geordi La Forge as Faulwell entered the room. “And there’s one now,” Gold added, with a lift of his bushy eyebrows as he caught sight of Faulwell. The rest of the crew who had been asked to report were filling the small briefing room, gently pushing past Faulwell to take their seats.
>
Faulwell smiled weakly. His brief note would have to wait.
Something brushed past his leg; P8 Blue, scurrying toward her specially designed seat. She was muttering under her breath. Bart wondered what this mission was about, that it got the normally calm Pattie so agitated.
He sat between Commander Sonya Gomez and Carol Abramowitz. Carol leaned over and whispered, “Culture specialist and linguist, huh? Wonder if it’s a first-contact situation.”
Her dark eyes glowed with excitement. Abramowitz loved first-contact situations, but they always made the academic Faulwell nervous as hell. He, more than anyone, knew just how important choosing the right word in delicate negotiations could be. Sometimes, it was literally a matter of life or death. He figured each of the first-contact situations in which he’d participated had aged him at least a year. No wonder his hair was thinning and turning gray.
110, as always, was the last one to enter. Sometimes he was quite late in reporting to the briefings, but Gold had not reprimanded him. Everyone was sympathetic to 110’s situation. Bart had begun to worry about him, after their recent conversation. The little Bynar edged into the room as if fearing an attack, his eyes—so small in his round, pale face—darting about. Bart remembered how the unified pair used to move—each step in sync, quickly, but with grace. Now 110 moved jerkily, awkwardly, as if he were uncertain where to put hand or foot. There was no rhythm in his movements anymore. In many ways, he reminded Bart of nothing so much as a broken toy. He did not take a seat, but chose to stand next to the door.
Gold’s sharp eyes scanned his crew. He nodded, as if satisfied.
“We got the notification from Scotty about fifteen minutes ago. We’re going to have to move quickly, boys, girls, and others. We’ve got a delicate situation on our hands. Commander, if you will?”
La Forge touched a button. Bart felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach as he stared at the image that appeared. A large ship lay like a beached whale in the center of tons of debris. The pile of rubble had once been, if the graceful curves and arcs of the surviving buildings were any indication, a highly civilized city. The vessel was oval in shape, with four peculiar extensions jutting out of its fore and aft sections that looked like spikes. It seemed as if the impact had severely damaged the vessel, but the unfortunate city had gotten the worst of the deal.
Faulwell’s mind raced. High population area, doubtless.
“Casualties?” asked Gomez, alert and focused.
“None that we know of, fortunately,” said Gold. “It’s the capital city of Intar.”
“Not Intar!” gasped Abramowitz, her eyes wide with shock. “The Intarians are famous for their friendliness. I can’t imagine anyone attacking them.”
“They also have an extremely advanced warning system,” said Gold. “It was designed so that they could address approaching ships and send them a nice hello. The other, secondary, purpose was to identify drifting space debris that might do some damage. They were able to evacuate the entire city before impact.”
Bart felt the tension in his chest ease a little.
“However,” Geordi continued, “according to reports on the approach of the ship, everything points to the vessel deliberately crashing into the planet. The Intarians tried to contact it, and when contact failed, they opened fire. Intar doesn’t have much of a defense system, and what little they did have seemed to have absolutely no impact on this thing. And while it’s temporarily dormant, it’s still emitting signals.” He tapped the screen with his knuckle. “It’s wounded, all right, but it’s still alive.”
“Any vessel we’re familiar with would have been broken to pieces on impact,” said Pattie, blinking her multifaceted eyes solemnly. “This is damaged, all right, but preliminary reports indicate it’s made out of something we’ve never seen before. It’s got a structure as impervious to damage as—”
“Yours,” joked Lieutenant Commander Kieran Duffy.
Pattie looked pleased. “That’s not a bad comparison, actually. The difference between that ship’s structure and a normal vessel’s is, indeed, roughly comparable to the difference between my chitin and your thin human skin.” She extended a limb and delicately patted Duffy’s hand.
“The first volley in a war?” theorized Lieutenant Commander Domenica Corsi. The chief of security was always looking for the martial explanation, and, sadly, she was often right.
“As I said, I can’t imagine a more unlikely target for such an attack than the Intarians,” said Abramowitz, frowning a little. “They don’t have a lot of resources, other than a pleasant climate and a pleasant people. Nor do they have an extensive weapons array. On Intar, it’s pretty much come when you like, stay as long as you like, and don’t forget to write.”
“Nonetheless, we ought to be prepared.” Corsi stuck out her chin a little. “I recommend we proceed with Tactical Code Level—”
Gold held up a hand. “No life signs, Corsi. No one to fight. No one on the long-range sensors hovering about, watching like vultures, either.”
“Captain, there’s always the chance the ship was crewed by a kind of life-form we haven’t yet encountered. Our scans wouldn’t necessarily detect them,” Corsi pointed out. “Or, it could be a trap.” She sat up a little straighter in her chair, utilizing her always-intimidating height to its best advantage, even when seated. “The entire ship could be a threat. A bomb of some kind. It could explode at any moment. I repeat, I recommend—”
“Duly noted, Commander,” said Gold, his voice slightly harder than before. “But let’s do a little investigating before we declare this planet a war zone, okay?”
Her eyes flashed, but Corsi settled back in her chair. She pressed her lips together tightly. Gomez gave the security chief a reassuring smile, but Corsi would not relax.
“Lieutenant Commander Corsi does have a point.” It was Dr. Elizabeth Lense speaking. “The vessel could be automated. It could have been programmed to crash, especially if it’s as tough as Pattie’s theorizing. Is there any indication that there was a crew onboard?”
“No way to tell without investigating it with our own eyes,” said Geordi. “But that impact was pretty rough. Despite its thick hide, that ship’s banged up quite a bit. Unless they were secured and protected somehow, humanoid bodies probably couldn’t have survived that kind of crash even if the vessel itself did.”
“Nonhumanoid bodies could,” said Faulwell, speaking up. His mind was already racing with the possibilities. He needed to narrow it down as much as he could, in order to determine which branch of linguistics would be most effective to research. Armed with at least a rough idea of what to look for, he’d have a better chance translating the data they would retrieve from the ship’s computer banks. As far as he was concerned, other than the concern a caring person must always feel at loss of life, he was relieved that there were no living beings aboard that ship to try to talk to.
He noticed that Carol, however, looked keenly disappointed. They’d called her in for her knowledge about the Intarians, not to speculate about the crew of the ship. There would be no first contact this time.
“Early indications are that the environment inside the ship is a nitrogen-oxygen mix, similar to Earth’s. But that’s no guarantee that the crew was humanoid,” said Geordi. He smiled a little. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“So, here’s the situation.” Gold leaned forward and laced his fingers together on the table. “The ship has deliberately plowed into the heart of downtown. It’s far less damaged than it ought to be for the impact it took. It is inactive at the moment, but we’re still getting signals. No signs of life, but as Corsi astutely pointed out, that doesn’t mean that something’s not still alive in there. Now, sensors indicate there’s only one central command area in the thing. Pattie, you get to examine the outside.”
“Certainly, Captain.” She wriggled several of her legs. “I could use a little exercise.”
Gold continued. “If we can get a transporter lock inside, you f
ive—Commander La Forge, Gomez, Duffy, Faulwell, and 110—will be transporting into a ship about which we know absolutely nothing. Anything can happen, or nothing.”
“In short,” said Duffy, grinning, “an assignment much like any other.”
But Faulwell wasn’t laughing. Out of the corner of his eye, Bart had noticed that the Bynar had physically shuddered at the news that he was being assigned to the team. It was, as a Vulcan would say, the only logical choice. 110 was their computer specialist, until Starfleet sent them another one. 110 had been very brave up until now, expressing a willingness to continue with his work despite what had to be— had to be—extreme personal grief. But it was clearly taking a toll on the little fellow. He’d already delayed going home once. Now this had come up.
Even as Bart regarded the Bynar with sympathy, 110 straightened, pulled his tiny shoulders back, and resolutely lifted his large, hairless head. Faulwell was filled with admiration.
CHAPTER
2
Jaldark? If you are conducting a test of some sort, you may cease. I am starting to worry. Please, please come in.
The worried face of the Intari Makestru, the leader of his people, appeared on the viewscreen. “Captain Gold,” he said anxiously. “You are a welcome sight. We have done nothing, as per orders from Starfleet, but I must say, it’s been alarming having this ship just sitting there in our capital city.”
“I’m certain it has,” soothed Gold. “We’re preparing to transport our people over to the ship. We’ll contact you once we have the situation well in hand.”
“We are grateful.” The image blinked out. On the screen now was the strange, seemingly dead ship. Gold took a breath, said a quick prayer, and instructed the away team to report to the transporter room.
Have Tech, Will Travel Page 16
