by Dayton Ward
Not even six minutes. That was the window of time that stood between Mestiko and survival or all but total annihilation. It was how long the probes needed to provide their blanket of protective energy, erected between the pulsar and the endangered planet as both astral bodies made their way through the void.
“Intersection,” Spock called out a moment later. “Now.”
Though the interval that the pulsar’s deadly X-ray emissions would sweep across Mestiko was somewhat shorter, Cameron had calculated a margin for error both before and after the event. Kirk actually felt himself flinch as his first officer provided the report, an almost instinctive reaction for which the captain had no explanation. He was unsure as to what he might have expected once the critical moment arrived, but it was heralded by nothing more than those around him offering tentative glances to one another. Otherwise, the atmosphere of the bridge remained unchanged:
Tense.
“Shield status?” he asked.
His attention focused on the instruments he was monitoring with Professor Cameron, Sulu replied without looking away from his viewer, “Field generators are at maximum output, sir.”
“Shield’s already taking a hell of a beating,” Cameron added. “The enhancements we made are helping, but I don’t know if they’ll be enough.” She looked over to the chronometer that dominated one of the smaller display monitors at her station. “Five minutes, twelve seconds remaining.”
On the main viewer, the computer illustrated the collision of X-rays with the deflector grid as a series of rapid-fire blinking lines, too fast for normal eyes to follow. To Kirk, the display reminded him of training simulations he had studied at the Academy and periodically throughout his career. He had studied vicious, merciless conflicts between spacecraft of the Federation and Klingon Empire, and before that Earth and the Romulans, all reduced to basic, sanitized, computer-generated representations created for the purpose of facilitating the learning of starship combat tactics and strategy.
While Kirk appreciated such training aids for their value in honing those skills—the possession of which was an unfortunate necessity as humans and their allies ventured ever deeper into uncharted space and encountered those who did not take kindly to such visitations—part of him always had taken issue with the cold, antiseptic portrayal of such battles and the apparent disregard for the deaths of hundreds or even thousands of people on both sides of the engagements. He knew the programs held no such imprudent intentions, but it nevertheless was a reaction he always experienced, even if only for a moment.
As he regarded the image on the main viewer, Kirk realized he was feeling the same thing now. He could not help but wonder if, in years to come, Starfleet scientists would scrutinize and dissect the sensor records of this event. Would they analyze it in the interests of furthering science and knowledge with the same tenacity that soldiers studied past battles with an eye toward improving the way they waged war? How would Mestiko’s people, the fate of whom was still in question, factor into what those future students learned?
A sharp, piercing alarm signal echoed across the bridge, startling Kirk from his reverie. It took him an additional instant to realize that it was not any of the alert tones normally used aboard the Enterprise, but instead was something new, emanating from the station Cameron and Sulu currently occupied.
“What is that?” the captain asked as he moved toward them.
Without looking up from the console, Cameron replied, “We’re picking up fluctuations in the deflector grid. One of the probes is showing strain in its field generator.”
“Can we compensate?” Sulu asked, his brow furrowing in concern. “Redeploy the other probes into a new formation?”
Cameron shook her head. “The grid scheme is balanced for six probes working in tandem,” she said as her fingers worked across the rows of controls, entering rapid-fire commands to the console. “Using five to cover the same area will weaken the overall strength of the shield.”
“What about the Enterprise?” Kirk asked, feeling as he did so the eyes of the entire bridge crew turning in his direction as he voiced the question. “Can we channel more power to the malfunctioning probe? Stabilize it somehow?”
The professor turned to face him, pondering the questions for several seconds before replying, “It’d be dangerous. You’d have to position us with pinpoint precision to avoid direct exposure to the pulsar’s emissions.”
“And if we don’t try?” the captain asked.
Sulu answered, “If the problems with the probe worsen, we could lose that portion of the shield, leaving a sizable area through which Mestiko would be exposed to the pulsar’s X-rays.”
That was all the information Kirk needed. So far as he was concerned, there was only one course of action open to him. “Feed the coordinates to the helm, Professor,” he said as he stepped back down into the command well. “Mr. Kelso, stand by to alter course. Put all decks on the alert.”
Casting a glance over his shoulder before setting to work assisting the helmsman, Mitchell said, “It’s going to be a bumpy ride, Captain.”
Kirk understood his friend’s meaning, taking a moment to convey that concern to the rest of the crew via the ship’s intercom system. Then he could only sit and observe as his officers worked to put into place a contingency plan that was being developed as they went. He listened to Sulu conversing with Scott down in engineering, crafting new protocols that would allow the transfer of power from the Enterprise to the troublesome probe’s shield generator while at the same time preventing any compromise in the starship’s own defenses.
“How much time until the pulsar passes the planet?” Kirk asked, trying to ignore the increasing tremble in the deck plates and the arms of his chair.
Cameron replied, “Three minutes, twenty-eight seconds.”
Almost there, Kirk thought. It was simultaneously a hopeful and yet frustrating thought, given how the seconds seemed to be stretching into decades from where he sat. The ship was shaking now, the toll accumulating on the Enterprise’s shields as they continued to combat the pulsar’s gravitational effects.
“We’re in position, Captain,” Kelso called out from the helm.
Nodding at the report, the captain activated the intercom pickup affixed to the flexible arm on the right side of his chair. “Kirk to engineering. Scotty, start the power transfer.”
There was a momentary pause before the chief engineer replied, “Transfer under way now.”
From the science station, Spock reported, “The connection is not stable. It’s being affected by the pulsar’s emissions.”
“Aye, I was afraid of that,” came Scott’s aggravated voice from the intercom. “Too much interference, Captain. I cannot recommend taking us any closer, though.”
Kirk looked up to see Spock stepping down into the command well, moving to stand next to him. “Doing so is the only way to stabilize the connection, sir.”
The captain nodded, not seeing any choice in the matter. Things only had to hold together for a minute, two at most. Surely the Enterprise, which already had performed admirably to this point, could take that limited amount of additional abuse? The people of Mestiko certainly deserved everything that could be done on their behalf, did they not?
Standing before the large, ovoid window that afforded a panoramic view of the night sky above Yabapmat, one hand absently fumbling with the universal translator he carried on his belt and concealed beneath the loose jacket he wore, Nathan Apohatsu realized that at this very moment, he had never felt quite as isolated in his entire life.
He was not actually alone, of course, given the three dozen beings occupying the room with him. Along with the rest of the first consul’s staff, he, Vlenn, and Camila Schiapp had listened as the Gelta leader delivered what he believed was a hopeful speech, broadcast via satellite to almost the entire planet, after which a brief prayer service was conducted by the first consul’s spiritual advisor. Now, the assemblage had begun to splinter into smaller groups,
some huddled in corners while others moved to other rooms, but all of them awaiting the announcement that would call for them to descend into the storm shelter situated nearly a hundred meters below the ground floor of the capitol building. The chamber, recently stocked with foodstuffs and equipment intended to keep them alive following the pulsar’s anticipated sweep of radiation, held little appeal for Apohatsu.
If the worst comes to pass, that place just prolongs the inevitable.
His sense of isolation, the Starfleet cultural specialist decided, almost certainly came from what he observed outside the window. The streets of the capital city, once bustling with activity only to be all but consumed by riotous looters and panic-stricken citizens as the global menace loomed, now were desolate. Broken glass, tattered papers, and other detritus littered the pavement. Buildings that once had housed merchants and services stood mostly as empty shells, smoke-streaked and savaged. Vehicles remained where they had been abandoned in the streets, gutted, wrecked, and overturned.
And amid the chaos, not one person could be seen. Everyone had either been corralled away by security forces or else had left of their own volition, fueled by terror or madness, to places unknown.
Apohatsu turned his gaze toward the sky, clear and starry, hoping against hope it would remain unchanged in the minutes to come. For several hours, by his own reckoning, he had pondered the sight, hoping and praying that deliverance from the pulsar’s effects might come in the form of intervention by the daring plan being put into motion by the Enterprise. News of their success would not be coming by communications signal, not under the circumstances under which the starship currently was operating.
No, Apohatsu knew, the answer would come from the sky.
“Lloben na slu winneden, mos Naythun?”
While not understanding the meaning of the native tongue spoken to him, Apohatsu slipped from his reverie enough to recognize the feminine tone of the voice right away. Realizing that his absentminded toying with the translator on his belt must have turned off the device, he moved to reactivate it.
“I’m sorry, Mino,” he said, turning to the Payav woman who had walked up behind him. The dark circles beneath her icy blue eyes contrasted sharply with her pale skin, and her long neck seemed to bow a bit under the weight of her smooth head. “What did you say?”
“Do you see what you seek, Nathan?” Mino orDresha repeated, herself now looking past the window up toward the night sky.
“Not at all,” he said, “and with any luck, I won’t.”
Mino nodded. “I did not know whether you would prefer the company of your own friends.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Apohatsu saw the other members of his cultural observation team, who like himself had shed their usual prosthetics and other disguising garb in order to be more relaxed in front of those very few Payav aware of their existence.
He located Vlenn in the far corner of the room, the Deltan sitting motionless with eyes closed in contemplative reflection. At one of the room’s two tables was Camila Schiapp, sitting with a pair of older Payav males whom he recognized as peers of Mino’s. The human woman appeared solemn-faced but still attempting to engage her companions in discussion of some sort.
“Not at all,” Apohatsu said, offering a small smile. “We’re all friends now, I should think.”
Pausing as if to consider his words for a moment, Mino asked, “May I confide in you, friend Nathan, as an observer of people?”
Apohatsu heard the hesitation in her voice. “Of course,” he said. “Now more than ever.”
The smile gracing Mino’s petite features was the first one he could remember seeing in weeks, if not longer, and he realized in that moment how much he had missed it. He found it somehow soothing, particularly given the current circumstances.
“One of the first consul’s administrators,” she began after hesitating again, “before he went down to the shelter area, asked if I might accompany him to another part of the building.” She regarded him for a few silent seconds before adding, “Alone.”
Despite his best efforts, the look on Mino’s face coupled with the sincere concern in her voice got the best of Apohatsu, and he found himself releasing an explosive laugh that echoed through the room. Mino’s frantic motions for him to be quiet only made things worse, and within seconds his continued laughter had drawn the attention of everyone around him. Most understandably were startled from their conversations or quiet thoughts, with Schiapp alone offering a puzzled smile in return.
The abrupt release of tension actually felt good, he decided; it was something he’d sorely needed, given the mounting stresses of the past months. Reaching out, he placed a comforting hand on the shoulder of the woman who had become so dear a friend to him so far away from his native home.
“Stop that,” Mino demanded in a hushed voice, her white cheeks darkened as she blushed. “It was discomforting, and a completely inappropriate request!”
“But so male,” Apohatsu said, grinning, “and actually pretty human, too.”
Finally seeing the humor in the situation, Mino returned the smile, though it was a small, tentative one born as much from embarrassment as amusement. After a moment, she said, “I have enjoyed your company these past seasons, but I do not believe I have ever thanked you for your friendship, Nathan. You have given me so much that I never thought I would experience in my life. This has been…a hopeful time.”
“For both of us,” Apohatsu replied.
Neither of them said anything for several minutes, both content to gaze at the stars above them. It was a calm, serene moment, one he would have been happy to share until the sun once more climbed above the horizon.
Then, he saw it.
A barely perceptible flash winking in the night, and Apohatsu felt a shiver down his spine. Was it a trick of light, perhaps an aftereffect of his blinking? He widened his eyes and stilled his breath, staring silently into the starry blackness.
“Nathan?” Mino asked.
The night sky flashed again, more brilliantly this time, like a ripple of sheet lightning across the skies of Earth. It happened again, quicker than before, and now he was sure he noted a steady glow coalescing out of the darkness, casting each star in its own aura among a wavering pattern of rich purples, eerie reds, and warm yellows.
Apohatsu sensed more people gathering at the window alongside him. He heard the gasps as some caught sight of what he was seeing, while others asked what the apparition might mean. As the colors and lights danced, not unlike a most intense show of Earthly aurora activity brought about by the harmless collisions of electrons in its upper atmosphere, Apohatsu’s sinking heart filled him with dread.
“It is happening, yes?” Mino asked.
“‘Not with a bang, but a whimper,’” Apohatsu recited under his breath rather than answering the question, his eyes filling with not only tears but also the cascades of electric color he so much wanted to appreciate for their beauty rather than the portent they heralded.
Reaching for Mino, Nathan Apohatsu slid his hand into hers, squeezing it slightly and pulling her close to him, saying nothing as the colors grew more brilliant and chased the darkness from the sky.
CHAPTER
9
“It’s failing!” Cameron called out. “The probe’s shield generator just gave out!” She uttered the report at the same time a new alert klaxon began wailing across the bridge and Kirk felt a renewed shaking in the very structure of the ship around him. His stomach lurched as the deck shifted beneath his feet. To his right, Spock fell against the railing, and Kirk saw the science officer’s legs dangle in midair as he gripped the red bannister. Kelso and Mitchell somehow managed to keep from being tossed out of their chairs. Then Kirk caught sight of another body being thrown about to his right and turned to see Cameron tossed from her seat and over the railing, landing heavily on her side as she slammed into the deck of the command well.
“Professor!” Kirk yelled as he threw himself from his chair to where
Cameron lay in a crumpled heap, her right arm moving listlessly as she tried to pull herself to a sitting position. “Lie still,” the captain said, kneeling beside her and noting her agonized grimace. His gaze was drawn to her right leg, bent unnaturally beneath her body. “Try not to move. We’ll get medics up here as soon as we can.”
Nodding, Cameron lay back on the deck, her eyes squeezed shut as she fought against the pain of her injuries. “The shield,” she hissed between gritted teeth. “You have to move away from it, now!” Even as she spoke the words, Kirk felt the deck tremble beneath him once more.
“The pulsar’s radiation,” Spock reported, now back at his station. “Our shields will overload if we stay here.”
“Helm!” Kirk shouted above the alarm, turning and pointing toward the main viewer. “Get us out of here!” As he gave the order, the captain’s gaze locked on the image still displayed on the screen, the tactical diagram that had been updated by the Enterprise’s sensors to depict the planet Mestiko, now awash in the partially deflected yet still potent X-ray emissions of the pulsar.
Oh God.
Then there was no time to ponder the misfortune of the ill-fated world as the astrogator console situated between Kelso and Mitchell exploded.
The sound was all but deafening as it enveloped the bridge and Kirk winced as he ducked, draping himself atop the injured Professor Cameron in a desperate attempt to protect her. Glass and sparks peppered his uniform and exposed skin, and he heard the sound of several heavy objects falling to the deck. He looked up as he sensed movement nearby and saw that Kelso and Mitchell had fallen from their upended chairs. Mitchell had rolled away from the still smoldering console, blood streaming from several small wounds on the left side of his face and neck.
“Lee!” the navigator yelled, ignoring his own injuries as he tried to cross the command well to where Kelso lay unconscious near the steps leading to the upper bridge deck. Mitchell only made it a few steps before stumbling over his overturned chair, saved from falling by Kirk as he pulled himself to his feet in time catch him.
