Star Trek Prometheus - in the Heart of Chaos

by Christian Humberg

  “Override code Omega-178-Z of Emergency Medical Holographic program accepted,” the computer said. “Please state your orders.”

  “Block all consoles aboard the Prometheus for manual or voice control. Restart shield systems. All sections: heading 270-Mark-10. Full impulse. Initiate reintegration sequence.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Adams’s temples were pulsating, and he was pounding his command chair’s backrest. Kill, kill, kill, echoed through his mind.

  “Not today,” he whispered hoarsely, watching both secondary hulls passing on the main screen, swerving and speeding up. “Not today.”

  * * *

  Raspin crawled on all fours across the rusty deckplates on the Bortas bridge. Blood covered his bald head, trickling down his face. All around him, his Klingon crewmates wrestled with madness and with each other. Chumarr fired every weapon that the attack cruiser had to offer, and Rooth tried to reason with Kromm, who was flanked by two bodyguards—one of them was trying to restrain the captain, and the other one wanted to club the first one for that. On the far end of the bridge, Klarn and Toras pummeled L’emka, but she hissed and gave as good as she got. It was utter chaos.

  Fortunately, nobody cared about Raspin, as usual. Besides, a Rantal crawling along the floor provided much less of a target than a belligerent Klingon.

  Still, his heart hammered wildly. If one of them actually took notice of him, he was dead. Raspin had no doubt about that whatsoever.

  Breathing heavily, he pushed past the smoldering corpse of Bekk Koddoth. The soldier had tried to restore order on the bridge with a disruptor and he had laid waste to large parts of the bridge until Rooth shot him in self-defense, more or less. Although the body had been burnt to a nauseating crisp and had been definitely dead a minute ago, his arm suddenly twitched slightly. Raspin averted his eyes, horrified.

  He had witnessed something similar a few minutes ago when L’emka had slit open Toras’s throat with her d’k tahg. The pilot’s blood had gushed out of the wound all over Raspin, but only moments later Toras returned from the dead with renewed fury in his dark eyes. Sto-Vo-Kor has closed its gates, Raspin thought, and we’re living in a dimension of pure madness. These horrific images would haunt him until the end of his days, he knew that much.

  He reached the empty niche containing the helm. A black singe was visible across the base, but the console and the displays seemed to be intact. They indicated that the Bortas was still in high orbit around Iad.

  Quickly, Raspin looked around one final time. Toras had slumped onto the floor again with a d’k tahg in his chest, but not much else had changed during the past few seconds. Furtively, the Rantal made the necessary course adjustments. But when he reached for the button to confirm them, he hesitated.

  Bekk Raspin, it’s in your hands. The Starfleet captain’s voice echoed in his mind. He had the opportunity to bring Kromm, Klarn, and everyone else who had mistreated him during the past few months to justice. All he had to do was to wait and do nothing. The Klingons would just keep killing each other. Or he could do as Adams had asked—as Adams had ordered—and plot a course to the periphery of the system. Then everything would return to normal.

  Was that really what he wanted? Did he want them to come to their senses so they could continue to treat him like a leper, although he had never asked for anything and had done everything to live up to the proud heritage of the former flagship? Didn’t he deserve better?

  Save your ship!

  He gazed over to L’emka, doubled over after being hit by Klarn, and he looked at Rooth, who at least had treated him somewhat decently and had punished violations against his dignity and privacy. There were beings aboard who hadn’t forgotten what honor really meant. There is me, he thought. I might be jeghpu’wI’ but I know what honor is.

  He would save the Bortas. Because it was his duty as officer of the Klingon Defense Force. Besides, the knowledge that he had saved them all would be far more uncomfortable for his crewmates than the eternal fight on the brink of delirium. This revenge for all the physical and mental abuse would be much more rewarding.

  Raspin confirmed the heading before activating the engines. The Bortas left the orbit of Iad, and the humming of the engines increased when she lurched into warp.

  It’s done, the Rantal thought, satisfied.

  In the next second, Klarn whirled him around. His face was in ruins. One eye had swollen up and closed, the nose was broken, and blood covered the grim features. The other, good eye was screaming for murder, and his split lips formed a bloody grin. “And now it’s your turn,” Klarn said, and stabbed his d’k tahg into Raspin’s stomach.

  * * *

  “This is all your fault!” Evvyk ak Busal screamed furiously at the other Renao who occupied the same cell on the Bortas. “If you hadn’t gotten mixed up with that preacher with his nonsense about dragging the galaxy into war, we wouldn’t be here getting tortured! We’d be safe and sound in Konuhbi if it wasn’t for you.”

  “Safe and sound?” Moadas ak Lavoor rose from his metal bed and angrily pointed an accusatory finger at Evvyk. “There’s no place safe and sound. The sphere defilers took that away from us. Their ships are flying between our stars, their crews are violating the purity of our home. They even corrupted Konuhbi itself! The fight against them is not only just, it’s our duty!”

  “Look where your wretched duty has taken us!” Evvyk was furious, overwhelmed by the urge to kill him. “We have been abducted, imprisoned, questioned, and tortured. We’ve been treated worse than animals! If it wasn’t for the Vulcan and the first officer, we would have died an agonizing death. And you’re still talking about fighting?” Clenching her fists, she spat at him with all the contempt she could muster.

  In truth, their situation had improved some. After the first officer and the Vulcan diplomat had seen them, they had been provided with fresh clothing, medical treatment, and food. But Evvyk was unable to feel gratitude for their improved circumstances as her mind was entirely overwhelmed by her anger at Moadas. He was gullible enough to believe false prophets and to plunge headfirst into disaster—dragging her down with him.

  Slowly, the man whom she had taken as her companion two years ago in an apparent fit of madness wiped the saliva from his face. His expression changed to pure hatred. “You selfish piece of dirt. All you can think about is your worthless excuse for a life. You can’t see the big picture!”

  Evvyk laughed derisively. “You don’t even have your own life, worthless or otherwise. You just do what others tell you to do. ‘Stand on one leg, little Griklak. Dance for me, little Griklak. Die for me, little Griklak.’”

  Screaming incoherently, Moadas hit her face with the back of his hand, sending her sprawling.

  Evvyk cried out in pain as she fell to the floor. Her cheek stung, and tears of pain and fury shot into her eyes. The hatred burned hot inside her, and she thought the fire would evaporate the tears. Her hand clutched a club that had suddenly appeared next to her.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she whispered. “You destroyed my life, and I will destroy yours.”

  “Oh really?” He looked down on her mockingly. “I’d like to see you try.” He took a step back, beckoning her as a challenge.

  Growling, she lunged forward, swinging her club. But Moadas blocked the blow with his left arm, before planting his fist into her face.

  Evvyk staggered backward, her head colliding hard with the cell bulkhead. Colorful specks danced before her eyes, and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

  Squinting, she raised the club again, but Moadas knocked it aside and then closed his hands around her throat. “If you’re not with me,” he uttered with clenched teeth as he throttled her, “you’re against me. And I have to kill those who are against me.”

  Evvyk groaned, gasping for air and trying to wriggle out of his grasp, but he was too strong. Black mists encroached on her vision, and the fear gripped her.

  Suddenly, she felt a piece of me
tal in her hand. Looking down, she saw an old-fashioned projectile weapon of a type that hadn’t been used on Onferin for more than five decades. Without thinking, she pressed the muzzle against Moadas’s lower abdomen.

  And suddenly, it was all over. Just like mist at sea that had been blown away by strong winds, the red veil of fury dissipated. With a terrified gasp, Moadas released his grip on Evvyk, staring at his bloodstained hands in utter disbelief. Finally, he looked up into her face, and his eyes widened even more.

  “E-Evvyk…” he stammered.

  Struggling for breath, she slid down the wall to the ground. Her neck hurt, and when she wanted to wipe her lips with her left hand, she found blood all over her fingers. In her right hand she still held the gun, and she quickly dropped it.

  “Moadas,” she croaked.

  “By the spheres, Evvyk.” Shocked, he fell to his knees, brushing her neck with his fingers. It was a gentle, caring gesture, but instinctively she backed away. He withdrew his hand instantly. “What was that? What happened to us?”

  Without a word, she shook her head. She remembered everything, but she didn’t understand any of it. The dispute, the unforgiveable words, the physical violence. I was prepared to kill him, she thought, mortified. I wanted to kill him—and he me.

  It didn’t make any sense. They had had good times and bad, but they loved each other!

  Again, tears welled up in her eyes. She tried to meet his gaze. “Moadas, I’m scared.”

  Shifting close to her, he embraced her. This time, she didn’t pull away.

  “Everything will be all right, Ev.” He spoke in a soothing tone meant to reassure her, comfort her—but all Evvyk heard was desperation.

  4

  NOVEMBER 26, 2385

  U.S.S. Prometheus, on the periphery of the Souhla system

  The three segments of the Prometheus hovered in space on the edge of the Souhla system, outside of the Kuiper belt. Parts of the ablative plating showed some disruptor-fire damage, but overall the ship was none the worse for the encounter with the Son of the Ancient Reds and the Klingons.

  The same could not be said for the crew. Adams’s gaze wandered around his ship’s bridge. Nurse Chu walked from one station to the next with her medkit, attending to the wounds his people had sustained during the brief moments of unbridled fury.

  Mendon had been hit hardest because he had been unfortunate enough to clash with Roaas. The Caitian had clawed across the Benzite’s chest with his strong hands, leaving the scientist’s uniform in tatters. Long, bloody scratches showed on the Benzite’s thick, smooth amphibian skin. All these details were proof of the fact that the usually placid and level-headed Caitians were a force to be reckoned with during a fight—especially at close range.

  Right now, Mendon—who didn’t have his own seat on the bridge—sat waiting in the chair at the environment controls, while Chu methodically moved her dermal regenerator over the injuries. Roaas stood next to them, looking chagrined.

  “I’m so sorry, Mendon,” he said for the third time. “I really didn’t want to harm you in any way.”

  “I already told you that there’s no need to apologize, Commander. You weren’t yourself.” Mendon shifted slightly and grimaced.

  “Please sit still,” the nurse said.

  “Still, it shouldn’t have happened,” Roaas said. “A Starfleet officer should be in better control of himself. I should be in better control of myself.”

  “It just proves how dangerous our opponent really is,” Adams said. “And how powerless we really are…”

  “Lieutenant ak Namur’s idea to use the energy-dampening beam was excellent,” Mendon said quietly. “However, it’s unfortunate that it failed so miserably.”

  The captain gazed at the conn, where Jassat ak Namur sat, crestfallen.

  “What’s even more unfortunate,” Mendon continued, “is that I have absolutely no alternative ideas how to defeat the Son.”

  Adams put his hand on the Benzite’s shoulder. “We’ll find a solution. We simply have to—not just for the benefit of the Renao, but for the benefit of the entire galaxy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sickbay to bridge,” a female voice came from the intercom. It belonged to Doctor Calloway, the deputy chief medical officer.

  “Adams here,” he said.

  “Captain, it might be a good idea if you could make some time to come down here.”

  “What’s the matter, Doctor?”

  “The empaths and telepaths among our crew are not doing so well, sir. I need to confer with you about their condition.”

  Adams’s query as to why the chief medical officer wasn’t making this call died on his lips upon hearing the term empath. “Is Doctor Barai among them?”

  Calloway hesitated long enough that he knew the answer before she gave it. “Yes, sir. And he’s in critical condition.”

  “I’m on my way.” He turned to his first officer. “Mr. Roaas, you have the bridge. Keep patching up whatever damage has been done. And try to find out what happened to the Bortas. If we lost it, I need to dispatch a communiqué to Headquarters.”

  “I’ll do my best.” The Caitian made his answer sound as serious as a sacred oath. Maybe it was for him. Adams suspected that his old friend would engage in this mission with even more zeal than before, just to make up for what had been a brief moment of failure in his eyes.

  * * *

  In sickbay, Adams was confronted by a horrific scene. He hadn’t seen sickbay so full since the Borg invasion four years ago, after the desperate battle to defend Vulcan. Admittedly, the outcome above Vulcan had been a lot bloodier. Even the Prometheus with her reinforced shielding and ablative armor had suffered enough damage from the Borg to leave dozens of crewmembers severely injured. Crewman Sears had lost his left leg beneath the knee when a duranium beam had crashed down on him, and Lieutenant DeCandido—gamma shift’s chief engineer—had almost died from radiation poisoning after the polaron modulator’s containment field had failed.

  Today’s suffering was less physical, but no less devastating for that. And the victims were more specific in terms of species: Vulcans, Napeans, Deltans, Betazoids. Lieutenant Commander Senok, Lieutenant T’Shanik, Crewman Uardo Nama, and the others had no injuries to their bodies.

  Their minds were another story. Some were screaming and wailing. Others stared at the ceiling with glazed eyes. Several tried fighting off an invisible enemy with such ferocity that they had to be restrained.

  A large percentage of the medical staff were among the patients. Adams saw doctors Oana Pena and Casserea and Nurse T’Sai. And right at the back of the room he found Geron Barai.

  The only ones still standing were the human personnel and Trik.

  Maddy Calloway approached Adams, a grave expression on her face. “Captain, thank you for coming.” She had joined Prometheus from the Enterprise-E five years earlier.

  “How bad is it?” Adams looked at Barai, who rested with a feverish red face and twitching limbs on his biobed. Trik attended to him.

  Calloway took Adams aside into the small office allocated to the doctor on duty.

  “As you can see, the influence of that alien being has been traumatic for our telepathically gifted crew members. One bit of good news is that the Vulcans are all showing signs of recovery, and should be fit for duty again before too long.”

  “I didn’t notice Ambassador Spock,” Adams said.

  “He’s in his quarters. We treated him there, and he’s currently meditating. I must say, his mental resilience is remarkable. His body may betray his age, but his mind is able to cope with a lot more strain than you would expect.”

  “And what about the others?” The captain made a vague gesture towards sickbay.

  Calloway stared at the floor, grimacing. Finally, she looked up again and met Adams’s gaze. “I don’t know, Captain. Medical science can do wonders for the body, but the mind remains a difficult field. Of course, we’re doing our best. Unfortunately, Geron has bee
n hit particularly hard because, unlike Vulcans, Betazoids embrace the emotions of others. Of all patients the only one who is in worse condition is Doctor Casserea.”

  Adams wasn’t the least bit surprised that the young Deltan woman had taken the brunt of the Son’s assault. She was not only renowned as one of the most sensual people aboard, but as one of the most sensitive. He knew several of his crew preferred to turn to Casserea with their problems rather than Counselor Courmont. Now, the bald woman with the dark brown eyes lay motionless and quietly whimpering on the biobed, saliva dribbling from the corner of her mouth.

  “However,” Calloway continued, “that isn’t why I asked you to come down here. I would like to ask your permission to relocate them to their quarters. Our primary sickbay is small and designed for short-term treatment, and the med bays in the secondary hulls are even worse. Tending to a dozen mentally impaired patients whose recuperation might take weeks will put a strain on our capacity, especially given how many of our medical staff are ill.”

  “Do you consider it safe to leave them to their own devices in their quarters? I don’t want anyone to injure themselves inadvertently.” Adams thought of the Renao who were sometimes completely out of control. Also, the movements of both Napean crewmembers, Uardo Nama and Oana Pena, seemed to be motivated by panic—despite sedatives and fixation.

  “I have already spoken to Lieutenant Tabor from engineering. He thinks it’s possible to surround their bunks and beds with containment fields. We will use the holoprojectors, which are installed in every room.”

  “And you can treat them just as effectively in their quarters?”

  “Yes, Captain. Sedatives can be applied in any location, and we can hook them up to bio-monitoring. That’s all we can do anyway. We need to rely on the mental self-healing powers that most telepathic species have.”

  Adams mulled the suggestion over, and an idea came to him. “Listen, Doctor, would it help if we rendezvoused with one of the other ships on the edge of the cluster and transferred our personnel there? The Venture and the Bougainville are patrolling the outer cluster.” Both the Galaxy-class ship and the Nebula-class ship were significantly bigger than the Prometheus.