I just wanna see Mur die in a fashion fit for a North Korea-style evil dictator.
That is, slowly, painfully, and with everything that he's built burning around him.
Death by exploding starship is too good for him. His little toady, the so-called heretic, is culpable as well; he should get the Klingon treatment. Tal, Aun, and the rest should probably be executed as well for mass crimes against sentience.
Will you please give it a rest. Please, just let Shevet write. Please
Will you please give it a rest. Please, just let Shevet write. Please
I fail to see how letting Shevet write has anything to do with commenting on the writing. Besides, given who Mur is, I'd say worffan's comments are a sign that he/she is doing a good job writing him. :P
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
I fail to see how letting Shevet write has anything to do with commenting on the writing. Besides, given who Mur is, I'd say worffan's comments are a sign that he/she is doing a good job writing him. :P
Yes, but it would be nice to not see the repeated calls for torture/brutal justice :P
Yes, but it would be nice to not see the repeated calls for torture/brutal justice :P
I say the same things about Kim Jong-Un and Bashar al-Assad, and Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. And not one single being else.
The number of people who cause that stark, vicious reaction in me is VERY small. Hell, not even the Borg makes me that mad.
Let's just say that I have my limits. And Mur, not to mention the entire Siohnin social order, flagrantly tramples on those limits so many times it isn't even funny.
To put it another way: Siohnin females have no rights at all. Think about what it must be like to be female and have no rights in a society that already shows callous disregard for the lives, health, happiness, safety, and rights of a vast majority of its population.
Yeah. I may not the best person in the world, but Even Evil Has Standards, and R*pe Is A Special Kind Of Evil.
Mur's very existence is offensive to the deepest of my core values. I think that Shevet's done a very good job making an utterly vile and unforgivably despicable villain, who I want to see die in a hole of some excruciatingly painful disease as everything that he's built burns around him. I do not intend to be offensive towards shevet; rather, my intent is to show my appreciation, as it takes real, professional-grade skill to write a villain this vomit-inducingly horrible without seeming ridiculous.
I say the same things about Kim Jong-Un and Bashar al-Assad, and Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. And not one single being else.
The number of people who cause that stark, vicious reaction in me is VERY small. Hell, not even the Borg makes me that mad.
Let's just say that I have my limits. And Mur, not to mention the entire Siohnin social order, flagrantly tramples on those limits so many times it isn't even funny.
To put it another way: Siohnin females have no rights at all. Think about what it must be like to be female and have no rights in a society that already shows callous disregard for the lives, health, happiness, safety, and rights of a vast majority of its population.
Yeah. I may not the best person in the world, but Even Evil Has Standards, and R*pe Is A Special Kind Of Evil.
Mur's very existence is offensive to the deepest of my core values. I think that Shevet's done a very good job making an utterly vile and unforgivably despicable villain, who I want to see die in a hole of some excruciatingly painful disease as everything that he's built burns around him. I do not intend to be offensive towards shevet; rather, my intent is to show my appreciation, as it takes real, professional-grade skill to write a villain this vomit-inducingly horrible without seeming ridiculous.
Oh for sure, it's just a bit jarring to see someone that references acts of animal kindness calling for vile restitution (on an admitedly vile individual) and is a bit repetitive
Oh for sure, it's just a bit jarring to see someone that references acts of animal kindness calling for vile restitution (on an admitedly vile individual) and is a bit repetitive
Yeah, like I said, VERY few people make me this mad. As in, Assad, who had children tortured, Jong-Un, who is culpable for the inhumanly awful North Korean gulag system, and al-Baghdadi, who's the head of ISIS.
I'm normally quite mild-mannered and wouldn't hurt a fly. But some very, very few monsters go too far.
Yeah, like I said, VERY few people make me this mad. As in, Assad, who had children tortured, Jong-Un, who is culpable for the inhumanly awful North Korean gulag system, and al-Baghdadi, who's the head of ISIS.
I'm normally quite mild-mannered and wouldn't hurt a fly. But some very, very few monsters go too far.
In that regard, I agree, there are those who go too far, but I've also noticed in similar cisrumstances where people call for harsh punishments (even on those who legitimately deserve them) it's an interesting insight into their own dark sides... But enough said, I don't want to derail the thread any further :cool:
Well, for whatever it might be worth: not being E. E. "Doc" Smith, I tend to view genocide and torture as strictly the prerogatives of the bad guys.
(And I know I've got one character who's been known to indulge in torture for the sake of artistic revenge... but, though Shalo is not a bad guy in her own head, she is in mine.)
Sometimes, hard choices are forced upon people, and they may make ethically questionable decisions, or even be put in a situation where there are no good choices. The obvious real-life example I always quote here is the Second World War - I take the view that war is always and necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes all the alternatives can be worse.
Anyway. Enough of my catharsis of spurious morality. My protagonists have now, even by my harsh standards, suffered enough adversity, and I should probably think about getting them out of it.
I scramble to my feet. The bridge is a chaos of flames and screaming alarms - and screaming people.
A foul smell catches my nostrils, and I turn my head. F'hon Tlaxx is lying by the comms console, his torso torn open by a jagged piece of metal, astonishment in his dead face. F'hon - he's been with me since the start, since the very earliest days -
No time to think of that now.
"Biochem alert!" I scream at the top of my voice. "Bolian blood in the atmosphere! Clear the bridge! Move!"
I don't know who's still alive. The bridge is a wreck, the artificial gravity is fluctuating, the lights are down to red emergency, and even they are dying. I grab someone, hustle them out into the corridor.... The corridor is just as bad.
I look at the person whose shoulder I'm holding. It's Anthi. I'm briefly heartened to see her still alive.
"Sir -" she says, and stops.
I have to take charge. Somehow. "Get to aux control and take stock," I tell her.
"That was the Siohonin warp cannon -"
"I know. Get to aux con! I'm heading for main engineering - try to stabilize the situation - let's go!"
She stumbles off into the smoky corridor, hesitant at first, then moving with swift confidence as her military background kicks in. I wish I had some of that myself.
I turn the other way, begin to run towards Engineering. The corridor looks skewed, somehow, twisted out of true - what I can see of it, in the smoke and the dim lighting. I run. My feet leave the floor as the gravity plating wavers, sending me gliding along the deck, a dozen metres with every stride. Alarms are screaming. There are explosions, distant and close, and the terrible moaning wail of a massive atmosphere leak.
In my mind's eye, a merciless picture emerges, a picture I've seen so many times before; a starship, rolling helpless in space, wreathed in flame where escaping air mixes with escaping warp plasma, armour shattered, hull breached, until the brilliant flash of an exploding warp core puts an end to it all -
No. Not me. Not my ship.
The turbolifts are down, but I know the King Estmere so well by now, I find a route, down side passages and auxiliary Jeffries tubes... all filled with smoke and red light. I still don't know who's alive and who's dead. No point trying my combadge.
I slide down a Jeffries tube and into the hell that is Main Engineering. No shortage of light, here; the glare from the madly pulsating warp core brings all the wreckage into sharp relief.
Dyssa D'jheph, my chief engineer, is on the deck, face down and moaning. Nearby, the two Jolciots, Thirethequ and Jeroequene, are struggling with consoles. Jeroequene is hammering at the fire suppression system, and finally it comes online, and cold mist blasts into the air around us, quenching a dozen small blazes around the big room.
Jeroequene turns to me. "Noble Admiral!" she cries, her purple face suddenly alight with relief. "It is indeed felicitous to have your inspiring presence in this perilous situation!"
Nothing, apparently, can stop the Jolciots from using flowery language. "Situation report," I snap at her.
"It is most grave, esteemed leader. The warp core is heavily damaged and destabilizing. Ejection is not possible, since the structural integrity field has failed under the reprehensible suddenness of the Siohonin assault. System failures are endemic throughout our mighty vessel."
Thirethequ is slamming commands into the emergency warp core management console. The Jolciots are good, but maintaining a damaged warp core is beyond anyone's ability. If structural integrity has failed, the ship will come apart in short order -
I'm thinking faster than I've ever thought before, and a solution comes to my mind. "Jeroequene. I'll need you."
"At your orders, most excellent commander!"
I leap for one side of the engineering room, aided again by the failing gravity. I grab a cover hatch and wrench it free. "Primary SI links." Tholian design is weird, a whole bunch of essential systems run closer to each other than I'd like - normally. "Jeroequene. That one there." I point to another cover. "We're going to be violating a couple of hundred safety regs -"
"In a good cause, I doubt not," says Jeroequene. "And besides, a desperate stratagem is clearly called for in this situation." She frees the hatch cover with one jerk of her long anthropoid arms. The stocky, long-armed Jolciots have immense physical strength. That's one thing I'm counting on.
"Main SI field inductors." I yank a handful of sparking leads loose from the hatch. "Need to link them in to -"
"Ah! I perceive. Bold, but innovative!" Jeroequene grabs the leads from me. "The safety interlock will engage mechanically, though -"
"That's why I need you. Stop it."
"I shall attempt it to the uttermost limits of endeavour!" And she braces herself, while I make the cross-connections.
Blue sparks a metre long flash about us, amid an acrid reek of ozone. The circuit breakers trip, and meet Jeroequene's long arms. The little engineer groans and strains, and the servos whine against her tremendous Jolciot strength, and finally fail. I ram the last connection home.
The deck shifts under my feet - and steadies. Jeroequene and I exchanged stunned looks. "Success!" she cries.
I hurry over to the console where Thirethequ is working. He glances up at me, his bearded purple face gleaming with sweat. "Magisterially ingenious, revered commander!" he says. "But ejection is still blocked by the lamentable disarray of our vessel. Section thirty-one has shifted and is obstructing the ejector tube -"
Section 31. Oh, that would be the one that kills us. "Keep trying," I tell him, and hurry over to Dyssa.
She is trying to stand, getting to her hands and knees and then falling again, and when I look, I can see why. Some random piece of flying metal has crushed her left antenna. Losing one is painful enough, but a crushing injury... it floods the brain with pain and disorientation.
I steel myself. There are plenty of cutting tools available in engineering. I find a laser cutter and I use it.
Dyssa screams. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight, ignoring the pain as she hits me, fists thumping my back over and over. "I'm sorry," I whisper to her, "I'm sorry...."
After a minute or two, she calms down. I let her go, and she turns her homely face towards me, now twisted with pain and streaked with tears. "What the hell did you do?" she asks in a hoarse voice.
"Cross-patched the SI fields to the EPS network." Essentially, running the structural integrity fields through the electro-plasma conduits - tying the ship back together with its own power system.
"But -" Dyssa's face screws up further. "That won't work, the EPS net can't take the load, the conduits will fuse -"
"Yes, eventually. All I've done is buy time for real repairs. Come on, Thirethequ is trying to stabilize the core."
Dyssa clambers uneasily to her feet. With one antenna gone, her depth perception and balance will be off, until it grows back. Not to mention the pain. I support her as we go back to Thirethequ.
"It does not look hopeful, sirs," the Jolciot says. When even Thirethequ can't get as far as three syllables to a word, things have got to be bad.
"Dilithium focus assembly is shot to hell," Dyssa mutters. "Crystals fractured, way out of alignment...." She looks up, towards the top of the shuddering warp core. "We have spares. But there's no time to fit them. Not before -"
With no way to channel energy out of the warp core, our power system is down to the auxiliary batteries. And those batteries are being drained, steadily drained, by the core itself. The biggest single need for power, now, is the antimatter containment system. The antimatter in the core has to be kept contained, or it will come into contact with normal matter... and we will have energy in plenty. Like a sun going nova in our faces.
So, we need an alternative source of power, before the battery is completely depleted. I check the energy levels; that will be soon. "What about the auxiliary fusion reactor?"
"Offline," says Dyssa. "I'll... I'll try to get it on."
"Do that. What about running a line to one of the Mesh Weavers?" If we can connect a frigate's power supply to our own, we can sustain containment with its reactor while we repair the core.
"Hangar bays are breached to vacuum," Thirethequ reports. "I have no details on the status of the frigates themselves." He is obviously stressed. Jeroequene reaches out to him and takes his hand.
My combadge chirps at me. I hit it. "Shohl."
"Sir." It's Anthi's voice. "I'm at auxiliary control. Sir, we've been punched clean out of the Rift, we have massive hull breaches and systems failures. I don't know what you did to stabilize us, but it's helped a bit. We're still non-operational, though. I have lines to some decks, some facilities -"
"Can you give me ship-wide address?"
"I can put you through to most decks, sir."
"Try it."
"Yes, sir." A pause. "You're on, sir."
"This is Vice Admiral Shohl to all crew." My voice booms back at me through the speakers in Engineering. "King Estmere has sustained critical damage. Engineering is working to rectify the situation, but we must prepare for the worst." There's a lump in my throat; I talk around it with difficulty, trying to stay calm, trying to project control and confidence. "All personnel, report to your assigned disaster stations. Make pickup on injured crewmates wherever you can do so without jeopardizing your own safety. If you cannot reach your designated escape pod, report to the nearest one with available seating space. Abandon ship. I repeat. Abandon ship."
"Admiral." Thirethequ has recovered some of his composure. "It is of the highest degree of unlikelihood that I should be able to traverse the route to my assigned departure station, Main Engineering being so deeply ensconced within the ship's architecture as it is. With no wilful disobedience to your wise and compassionate orders, therefore, I deem it my duty to remain and assist. With your permission, estimable leader."
"I - Glad to have you. Thank you, Mr Thirethequ."
"Where my beloved remains," says Jeroequene simply, "I remain."
"Glad to have you both," I say. "Let's see if we can help Dyssa get the fusion reactor back online."
But Dyssa's face has fresh tears gleaming on it. "No good," she says. "It's no good." She sobs.
"What's the problem?"
"The fusion initiator. It's gone." She sobs again. "I can see it on the video link. It's come free, dropped out of a hole in the aux power room. It's gone."
I think, for half a second. Then I turn and run for the equipment locker. It's been half crushed, a girder is sticking into it. I grab the warped door with both hands and wrench it loose, then dive in. Smashed gear confronts me, and I sort through it frantically.
One suit. We still have one intact EV suit. It will have to be enough. I start to struggle into it.
"What are you going to do?" Dyssa asks.
"The initiator's outside the ship, right?"
"It fell through the hull. What are you going to do?"
I fasten the suit, pull the helmet into place. "Go out there and get it."
---
The ship's corridors are still in chaos as I lumber grimly down them. My trick with the EPS network has steadied things a little - the grav plating is no longer flickering on and off, the emergency lights are steady - but the ship is still leaking air at a frantic rate, and the situation is still desperate.
Dyssa's right, the EPS net can't take the load, it will melt in a few hours. It's academic. The auxiliary battery will give out a lot sooner, and when it does, containment goes in the core, and the ship blows. We could drain remaining auxiliary power from other sources - and gain an extra thirty seconds or so, at the expense of what's left of life support, command and control, communications....
I just hope enough people are reaching the escape pods.
My way is blocked by a collapsed bulkhead. I swear, and turn down a side passage. I need to get outside the ship... I might not need an airlock for that. Ahead of me, I can see stars; a hull breach, this one covered by an emergency forcefield. At least some of them are still working.
I turn to a control panel in the corridor wall, gloved fingers clumsy, punching in the commands. I can't worry about losing another corridor's worth of air. I press the last button, and the forcefield blinks out, while another one powers on behind me. The tug of air pulls me off my feet, hurls me out through the gap in the hull -
I am outside the ship.
I spin slowly in space, getting my bearings, trying to assess the situation. King Estmere is turning listlessly, trailing streamers of fire and smoke, still, from more hull breaches than I can count. Her gleaming hull is scored and warped and shattered, she is surrounded by a cloud of debris. As I watch, there is a stab of flame as an escape pod launches from somewhere above me. Maybe they can clear the blast radius before the warp core goes. Maybe. I hope so.
I have my own problems. A mechanical voice chirrups in my ear: "Auxiliary battery now at thirty per cent capacity. Warning. Depletion rate above normal permitted parameters." The voice sounds almost cheerful about it. I hate it.
I engage my suit's thrusters, and start to turn. I know what I'm looking for. The suit's sensors are good enough to pick it up. The thrusters should have enough reaction mass to move it. I hope.
I angle down, swooping through space, dodging the fragments that have spilled from my ship's wounds -
Something comes towards me.
My eyes widen, my breathing stops. It's a body. It's one of my people -
The corpse drifts past me, limbs splayed out against the backdrop of stars, sightless eyes covered with a film of frost. I recognize her. Zazaru. My chief science officer since I don't remember when - I think of the sights those soft brown eyes of hers saw, and my own eyes fill with tears at the thought that she will never see anything again.
With an effort, I put it from my mind. I have work to do.
"Auxiliary battery now at twenty-five per cent capacity. Warning. Depletion rate above normal permitted parameters. Warning. Reduce power drain before critical level is reached."
The fusion initiator is in front of me, now. I can see it. The module hasn't travelled too far from the ship - it is moving slowly, slowly enough that I can stop it with my suit's thrusters, can push it back into place, can reconnect it, fire up the fusion reactor, get power back online, save the ship.
I can do this. I have to do it, so I can do it.
The initiator is a bulky truncated cone, basically, about four metres high, about five metres base diameter. I circle it, trying to size up the situation without burning too much reaction mass. The initiator is massively heavy, but it is moving slowly. I can generate enough delta-v to push it back into the ship.
I program the line I need into the suit helmet's head-up display, find a likely couple of handholds, and fire the thrusters.
Simple. Straightforward application of Ytsay's Third Law of Motion; every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Except... there is give in this system, the flexion of my body as the thrusters fire. The initiator slows its motion, comes gradually to a halt, starts to drift, at a few millimetres a second, back towards the ship.
But the line on my HUD is off, way off. I grit my teeth, shift position, fire the thrusters again and try to hold my body absolutely rigid. The initiator swings around... the line on the HUD flashes green, then amber, then red again. Off, in another direction. I grind my teeth in frustration. I can get this right - given time. But the auxiliary battery is steadily draining, and the reaction mass in my suit's thrusters is limited, too. I have to start getting this right, first time.
"Auxiliary battery now at twenty per cent capacity. Warning. Depletion rate above normal permitted parameters. Warning. Reduce power drain before critical level is reached. Warning. Reserve power now below regulation permitted level."
Suit thrusters have fifty-seven per cent remaining capacity. It's got to be enough. Unless I rupture the suit and use the escaping air to push me - but if I lose consciousness, there's no one to reconnect the initiator -
Someone taps me on the shoulder, hard enough that I can feel it through the suit.
I look round in astonishment, and my heart nearly stops. For a second, the dark-haired figure in science division uniform, floating beside me, looks like Zazaru's ghost. Then the electronic panels in the cheeks register, and the eyes - the eyes are metal, not frozen. Amiga. The android motions to her combadge. I click on the suit's short range comms.
"I'm glad to find you, sir," says Amiga's voice. Her lips don't move while she's speaking. It seems strange.
"Can you help with this?" I ask.
"I believe so, sir. I made my way to Engineering shortly after your departure. Since I don't need to breathe, I don't need an EV suit either."
"Do you have thrusters? We need to move this -"
"I found some hyperfilament cable in the equipment locker, sir. I've rigged lines from the hull breach over the fusion reactor. If we can link them up, we can just reel this thing in."
Damn it, that's the sort of solution I should have thought of. "OK," I say. "Can you tie lines on to the grip bars? We've got limited time."
"No problem, sir." The initiator is, at least, well provided with handholds and attachment points. Amiga scoots off, moving from one handhold to the next, quick and mechanically efficient. "My hands aren't gloved, sir, so I'd better handle the knots."
"How did you get here, anyway? I didn't know we had any portable thrusters -"
"We don't, sir. But, well, every time you visit New Romulus, you seem to pick up another can of insect repellent, and there are plenty of those still in the equipment locker. Or were."
"You're flying around on cans of virhanen repellent?"
"Don't knock it, sir, it works. Those cans need plenty of pressure to knock out those bugs. If you can give this thing a nudge, sir, on vector, umm, nine five two from your position -"
I line it up, fire the thrusters. "If it's any help, sir," says Amiga, "I doubt I could do that on the insect repellent." Well, it makes me feel marginally less useless, at least.
"Engaging winch motors," says Amiga. She rigged up powered winches, as well? I should retire, I'm just taking up space.
The initiator starts to glide, slowly, towards the ravaged bulk of King Estmere. "We'll need to give it some more nudges along the way, sir," says Amiga. "The ship is rotating slightly."
"OK," I say.
"By the way, sir," says Amiga, "I was with your uncle in weapons bay two when we were hit. He's all right - I just thought you'd like to know."
"Thank you." Uncle Kophil is all right. At least someone is. "Did he get to an escape pod?"
"He didn't try, sir. Last I saw, he was trying to reinitialize the power couplings for the plasma arrays."
"Stubborn old fool," I mutter.
"With respect, sir," says Amiga, "I don't see you rushing for an escape pod, either."
"Of course not," I snap. "This is my ship."
"Yes, sir."
---
By the time we ease the initiator through the gap in the hull, the warning voice has taken us down to ten per cent. I think the drain rate is fluctuating. Perhaps Dyssa is working on some way to stabilize the core by itself - I don't know, I can't find out, the patchy communications don't work this far from Engineering.
Gravity is out in the fusion power room, so shifting the initiator module back into position over the fusion reactor is... well, not as complicated as it might have been. With the main force of my thrusters, and Amiga's patient work on the motorized winch, we swing it into place, using more hyperfilament cable to replace the sheared docking latches, tying it in place.
There remains the job of reconnecting the wiring and restarting the fusion reactor, and I am painfully aware that time is ticking down. Very nearly the last gasp of my suit thrusters takes me to the wall of the chamber, and I fumble with a console, manage to reactivate an emergency forcefield over the hole in the hull, and engage repressurization. I can't do this in gloves.
Air puffs out of my suit as I release the catches and draw off the gauntlets. The pressure in the chamber is very low, and my hands are bitterly cold. I kick off from the wall and float over to the initiator.
"Skip the safety checks," I order Amiga. Either it works first time, or we're dead. The unit is robust, it's meant to take a pounding... it's had a pounding, though. I open the main inspection cover, start toggling in the start-up sequence.
"Positioning checks out," says Amiga. "I am skipping the auxiliary circuitry, and reconnecting the EPS main directly."
"OK - wait!" I yell.
Too late. There is a brilliant flash, and Amiga is hurled away from the unit, to slam into the wall of the chamber. For a moment, I think she's out - damaged or dead. Then she twitches, pulls herself off the wall, and jumps carefully back to the unit. "That was unexpected," she says.
"The SI field is running through the EPS conduits," I explain. "There was an energy surge when you re-linked -"
"Ah. I see. Ingenious, sir." The android looks faintly rueful. "I will endeavour not to be caught like that again."
"It's worked... so far. Running initialization now."
The unit shudders. Amber lights flash on the panel... no red ones. Good enough. Fine adjustments can wait, we just need to get the fusion reactor up and running -
"Alert. Alert. Auxiliary battery drain now at critical level. Disengage all power drain or reinitialize external power supply. Alert. Alert." The mechanical voice no longer sounds smug about it.
"We're out of time. Skip all remaining checks and hit it."
"Yes, sir." Amiga's hands move over the controls faster than I can follow them.
The fusion reactor groans and shudders. Red lights flash on the panel now. "Hold it!" I yell. "Something's out of alignment...."
"Checking." Amiga's metal eyes are faster than mine, too. "Coolant unit. Piping is out of true. I'm on it, sir." She scrambles across the unit's housing, opens an inspection cover. "I think I can -"
She grips the pipes and squeezes, her hands moving with micrometer precision. "- bend it back into shape," she finishes. I can hear the squealing and grinding of the metal as she works her way along the duct. "Try it now, sir," she says, inspecting her shredded fingertips with distaste.
I punch in the initialization sequence. The lights on the panel flash - green and amber -
Then the lights in the chamber come on, and gravity suddenly snatches at me. I'd forgotten, or maybe I never knew, which way down was in this room.
Amiga snatches for me, and I feel her fingertips brush mine, but not close enough. I fall -
I slam into the floor of the chamber. The suit takes some of the impact, and the gravity plating isn't back to full power yet, but the blow is quite bad enough. I feel something snap in my chest, and a roaring tide of black pain surges up to engulf me.
But the lights are on, the gravity is on, the power must be coming from somewhere - the reactor is online.
Amiga is scrambling down the wall to reach me. I fight back the blackness, call up the details on my suit HUD.
"Plenty of time," I mumble. "Seventy-three seconds left... before the battery failed... couldn't even make a good holovid drama with a margin like that... plenty of time...."
"Lie still, sir." I wasn't going to do anything else. "I'm calling medical - there may be someone who can answer." She bends over my chest, reading my medical status on the displays there. "And actually, sir, you are a couple of decimal places out. The battery was 0.73 of a second away from total depletion." She pauses. "Still an ample safety margin by my standards, of course."
If she says anything else, I don't hear it, as the blackness rises up to take me away.
This level of writing is why I've been a fan of Shevet's writing since I discovered "Fallout" last year. Enjoyed going back to the first Ronnie story ("The Long Road") to read where it all began, and have reread that one several times. Need to read all the companion stories about the other main characters (mentally adds those stories to my Star Trek Online fanfic reading list).
It's always good to get into Tylha's head during a serious situation, she's good at covering a lot of angles (so that's where all that insect repellant goes ).
Intense segment.
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
If there's anything amusing in this, it's the entity's presumption that reconnecting Two of Twelve to the Borg Collective is a *good* thing.
Sure, *maybe* you take Ronnie out of the picture. All that means is that there's a hive intelligence sharing the same head the entity is connected to, that's ruthlessly dedicated to assimilate anything useful or threatening. I think the entity qualifies on both counts.
So, what could make this little scenario even worse? How about a Borg cube appearing in the Rift and adapting to whatever Mur's ship can throw at it while the entity is engaged in a mental struggle with the whole freaking Collective?
Boring they may be, but they're awfully persistent and very adaptable. And I can imagine Ronnie managing to do something unexpected in all the chaos.
No idea how Shevet's going to let this play out. Hopefully nothing so predictable as Ronnie going full Borg drone and assimilating everyone around her so Mur can take his shot.
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And I can imagine Ronnie managing to do something unexpected in all the chaos.
No idea how Shevet's going to let this play out. Hopefully nothing so predictable as Ronnie going full Borg drone and assimilating everyone around her so Mur can take his shot.
With Shevet, always expect the unexpected. Transwarp nexus deep inside Rift. Multiple cubes and spheres pour out of it. Mur demands that his "god" help him. The "god" may decide to or not to. The Borg Queen may put her feet into some seriously hot water. Ronnie and 2 of 12 start doing war-songs as duets. Who knows?
*/*situation assessment---
control centre of species 5618 starship---
unsupported by other collective elements---
assimilation nanoprobes offline---
---queue assimilation nanoprobes for regeneration [0%]---
precautionary adaptation--- species 5618 typical armament--- nadion radiation---
---adaptation [0%]
[11%]
[36%]
[54%]
[73%]
[91%]
[complete]
interface with starship computer---
release infiltration software---
---[38%]
---[79%]
---[complete]
neutralize hostile elements for later assimilation
engage hostile element subject 1: species 4464
---initiating physical combat protocol 2561-Beta [76% chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---damage within parameters
---subject not neutralized--- reassess---
---initiating physical combat protocol 3002-Delta [81% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
subject not neutralized
---neural capacitance charge at 74%
---engage neural shock
---engaging
---subject neutralized
---rebuild capacitance charge [0%]
engage hostile elements subject 2: species 5618, subject 3: species 4464
---initiating physical combat protocol 1178-Alpha [36% chance to disable multiple opponents in humanoid species range]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---damage within parameters
---initiating physical combat protocol 2876-Alpha [47% cumulative chance to disable multiple opponents in humanoid species range]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---assessing damage
level: minor
release analgesia for organic components
realign structural members for increased resistance
---initiating physical combat protocol 205-Zeta [66% cumulative chance to disable multiple opponents in humanoid species range]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---subject 2 neutralized
---subject 3 not neutralized
---assessing damage
---level: moderate
continue analgesic and structural resistance process
---initiating physical combat protocol 1654-Alpha [74% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---reevaluate: subject 3
neural capacitance level: 1% [insufficient]
armament not installed
assimilation nanoprobes still queued for regeneration [0%]
---initiating physical combat protocol 1976-Delta [96% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---initiating physical combat protocol 2343-Alpha [99% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---submit request for reevaluation to central data storage: species 4464
resistance to physical combat protocols exceeds expectations
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---initiating physical combat protocol 1987-Beta [99% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: im[act amaage
---damage critical
---damagee critical
switch drone to regeneration mode
OFFLINE */*
Tallasa staggered over to the helm console and leaned against it, supporting her aching body with both hands. The lights on the bridge were flickering in a rapid, disturbing rhythm. She looked down to the deck, where Jhemyl had been felled by the Borg's neural blast. Her sister was groaning and stirring feebly, starting to recover consciousness. Leo Madena, too, was getting slowly to his hands and knees, blood oozing from a gash over his temple.
"Status," she managed to rasp.
"Borg data warfare packages have been inserted into our command structures," said Saval. He was tapping rapidly on his console. "I am implementing countermeasures, but ship's functions will be disrupted while the threat is neutralized."
Tallasa let go of the console and straightened up with a wince. "How bad is it?"
"Containable," said Saval, "in time. The Vice Admiral's Borg programming is several years out of date, and her own knowledge of our computer systems is... inadequate to affect matters. It is simply a matter of time... though it may yet be several hours before we are able to restore functions."
"If we have several hours," Tallasa muttered. She helped Leo Madena to his feet. "Get in touch with the Tapiola. Let them know what's happened. All of it."
She turned to where Ronnie lay unmoving on the deck. Even in that short time of reassimilation, Borg circuitry had spread like shadowy veins beneath her skin. Much of her hair had already fallen out. Tallasa touched her combadge. "Bridge to medical."
"Sickbay here," Zodiri's voice replied. "What the hell are you playing at, up there?"
"The Admiral was reassimilated. We've managed to take her down, but she released Borg viruses into the computer. I need you up here with a field liberation kit, now. You can't trust the turbolifts, so use the emergency accessways. OK?"
"On it." In a crisis, Zodiri didn't waste words. Tallasa appreciated that.
She turned back to Jhemyl, helped her sister to her feet. The two exchanged a brief, wordless hug. It hurt Tallasa's back. Ronnie had hit her so hard -
No. Not Ronnie. The Borg. Ronnie was gone. Maybe they could get her back... and maybe not.
"We should kill her," said Jhemyl.
In response to the shocked looks of everyone on the bridge, she held up her hands and said, "It's what she wanted. Isn't it?"
"It's what she asked for," said Tallasa slowly. "But... look at her. Could you do it?"
Jhemyl looked at the motionless form. She didn't answer.
"In my opinion," said a new voice from the screen, "it would be inadvisable to make the attempt."
Tallasa turned. T'Pia's face was on the screen, wavering and shot through with interference. "Sir," she said.
"There are two reasons behind my conclusion," said T'Pia. "Firstly, if Mr Madena has correctly informed me about the role of the Rift entity in this matter, that entity would certainly act to preserve Vice Admiral Grau's life. Althought it may have limited ability to affect her, there is no reason to suppose that it would be similarly limited with regard to you. My second reason is a more selfish, pragmatic and immediate one. Vice Admiral Grau is the only person able to perceive the energy fields that surround us. Without her assistance, we are unable to move safely from our current location."
Tallasa shot a glance at Saval, who looked up briefly from his work, said "That is logical," and turned his attention back to the console.
"Very well," said T'Pia. "Your primary objectives are therefore clear: to restore the Falcon to operational status, and to bring Vice Admiral Grau back to herself. Tapiola will stand ready to offer whatever assistance is practicable in these matters. So far, the Warhammer has not moved in pursuit, and is holding station at extreme sensor range. We believe Mur is -"
Her voice was suddenly lost in static, and her image smeared sideways and dissolved in a haze.
"Sorry, sir," said Leo. "My board is... doing stuff."
"The Borg viruses are outmoded," said Saval, "but they are still adaptive and highly efficient. It will be some time before any ship functions can be relied upon."
"Ship functions including life support?" Tallasa demanded. "Or antimatter containment?"
"I appreciate that the situation presents causes for concern," said Saval. "The logical course of action, therefore, is to allow me to work without distraction towards its alleviation."
"All right," Tallasa snapped. A noise made her turn, and wince with pain. The emergency access door to the bridge slid open, and Zodiri stepped through, medical packs in both hands, another one strapped to her back.
"Let's see the patient," she said.
"Over here," said Tallasa. "Do what you can."
Zodiri knelt beside Ronnie's body, ran a diagnostic scanner over her, swore softly to herself. "This is not going to be easy," she said. "Damn it, she had too much Borg junk in her system already -"
"Do the best you can," said Tallasa.
"I will." Zodiri looked up at Tallasa. "And then I'm going to take a look at you, because from where I'm sitting, you're in bad shape."
The lights on the bridge flickered again. Tallasa regarded them grimly.
The image of the Falcon's bridge vanishes abruptly from the screen, to be replaced after a moment by a picture of the stricken ship herself, hanging in space. No one on the bridge speaks.
After a few seconds, I say, "Unfortunate."
With more than a little asperity, Twosani Dezin replies, "Yes, sir, you could say that."
"I believe I just did." I think for a second, then I touch the intraship address button on my command console.
"Your attention, please." My voice echoes back through the bridge's speakers. "This is Vice Admiral T'Pia. The USS Falcon is incapacitated by Borg computer viruses. With this, and the destruction of the King Estmere, we are effectively alone against Enteskilen Mur and his ship."
I take a deep breath, forcing myself not just to remain calm, but to project it in my voice. "I will not lie to you; our situation is a desperate one. However, I know I can trust you, all of you. I know that you will follow whatever logic of your mind, or your heart, or your spirit, that made you Starfleet. I know you will do your duty - and that, in the face of our efforts, Mur and his Siohonin cohorts will not prevail." Another pause. "We have more facts, possibly the key facts for this situation. We will redouble our efforts to interpret them and develop countermeasures against the Rift entity. This is not a war we can win with weapons, but with our intellects - and there is no finer crew in Starfleet when it comes to such a struggle. Thank you all. T'Pia out."
I stand up. Twosani looks at me, long and steadily. Then she nods. "Thank you, sir," she says.
"If you need me," I say, "I will be in my ready room, reviewing the available data."
---
Words are easy. Results are hard. Hours pass, and I am no nearer my goal.
I am surrounded by a litter of PADDs; it is inelegant and inefficient, my father would reprove me for it. There are urgent queries outstanding to six separate science departments aboard the ship; their answers may or may not help me. The problem obstinately refuses to take shape, in my head, on my PADDs.
I am sighing over the refutation of another hypothesis when the door opens and Twosani enters. "Haven't you slept, sir?" she asks.
"I do not believe there is time for sleep."
"Maybe, maybe not," says Twosani. "Mur still hasn't moved, but the Warhammer is doing something. Main astrophysics say its engines are generating some sort of subspace harmonic. Best guess is, it's opening some sort of channel in spacetime."
"To bring in reinforcements, perhaps."
"That'd be my guess. It would be nice to think that Mur is planning to beat a quick retreat, but -" She shrugs. "We've had another temporary contact with the Falcon. They're still working on the Borg virus, and they've been through standard Borg liberation protocols with Vice Admiral Grau. Still too early to say how well she's responding."
"They are doing all that is possible, then. As are we."
Twosani steps forward, her dark eyes surveying the chaos on my desk, now spilling over onto the floor. "Are you getting anywhere, sir?"
"Candidly, no. The problem is... an intractable one."
"I wish I could help," she says. "But, well, my training is mainly in tactical division...."
"Yes. Your strengths complement mine effectively. On most occasions."
There is a pause. Twosani looks at the PADDs again, and shakes her head. "It looks a mess, sir."
"It is. And it should not be. There is an elegance in physics, in mathematics, just as there is in music. But I cannot find any note of elegance in this data set."
Then I pause. A fugitive thought has just struck me... a flash of insight, half-glimpsed, then gone.
"Music," I say aloud.
"Sir?"
"A thought occurred to me, relating to music. It is relevant...."
I take a deep breath, hold it, concentrate on the mental disciplines. I am Vulcan. I am not just Vulcan, but a Vulcan trained in the Kolinahr. My mind is mine to command. My thoughts are part of me, they cannot flee me or hide from me.
I concentrate, and I focus, and my mind becomes as a temple of clearest glass, and there is no nook or cranny that is hidden from me. All things that I know are known to me.
The flash of memory, of insight, returns, and comes into clear focus, and I know it and understand it.
I pick up a PADD, and begin work, based on the new hypothesis. Twosani says nothing, but leans forward to watch me, her eyes thoughtful. I sketch in equations, compare the results with our known data. The outcome is as I expect. I punch in more equations, following the logical process deriving from the insight, facts and thoughts and consequences falling into place with remorseless, crystalline clarity -
"That looks - weird, sir," says Twosani, after a while. "I mean, I'm no expert in subspace theory, but -"
"It looks wrong," I say. "Yes. That was the crucial insight. Something Tylha Shohl said to me, about music, by that human musician she admired... something about a rhythm that looked wrong, but proved to be right. This set of equations... I believe we have the frequencies of the spatio-temporal warp through which the Rift entity connects with this world. And if that is so -"
I input more parameters on my console, and order, "Run simulation."
Twosani and I watch as wave-forms appear on the screen, merge, and subside into a dead flat line.
"Like the entity at Tiaza Zephora, which was undone by contact with a molecule made in the mirror image of its own key frequency," I say. "This entity's link is stronger, will require more from us than mere contact...."
"Power requirements... look on the high side, sir."
"We are in a position to attack on two fronts. The entity is irretrievably linked to this area of space - because it has been here, and it is non-temporal in essence, it is always here, to some extent. And it is linked to Vice Admiral Grau - the Falcon's crew can rig local generators to surround her with the negative wave. We will need to devote much of Tapiola's power output to this, but it can be done."
"Thank you, Vice Admiral Shohl," murmurs Twosani. I might say the same myself.
"Communicate with main engineering. Establish the technical parameters for generating this waveform via the main deflector dish. We must also attempt to regain contact with the Falcon."
The ready room door hisses open again. Pascale comes in. "The Warhammer is moving," she says.
"In what direction?"
"Towards us, slowly. And it appears to be towing something."
"Towing what?"
The android shakes her head. "I think you'd better take a look for yourself, sir."
---
All fatigue is forgotten as we race back to the bridge. On the main screen, the ominous dot of Mur's ship has grown, until details become clear at even moderate modifications. It is pursuing an odd, indirect course, generally in our direction - testing for, and avoiding, the invisible energy fields.
Behind it is a shimmering ring, many kilometres wide, obviously insubstantial, equally obviously real... a vast torus of shaped energy fields, through which the starlight beyond is stretched and blurred.
I study the sensor analysis. "Not a wormhole... not quite. A tunnel through spacetime, though, a subspace conduit that will significantly reduce transit times between here and its terminus."
"Wherever that is," says Twosani.
"The energy expenditure involved in maintaining it must be prodigious," I say. "Likewise, the computational power needed to stabilise it. It is beyond our current technology, certainly well beyond that of the Siohonin. The Rift entity must be directly involved. Please program the modifications to the main deflector along the lines I have indicated. And try to raise the Falcon."
"Falcon here." The voice is hoarse, gravelly, but still recognizable, and it is a relief to hear it.
"Vice Admiral Grau. Are you fully recovered?"
"Nowhere near," Ronnie's voice says, "but I'm enough me to fight this thing. I've got a phaser - if it will let me use it...."
"That is a desperate remedy," I say, "and it may yet prove unnecessary. I have the parameters to generate a wave-form that I believe will dissipate the Rift entity. If you can open a data channel to your bridge, I will transmit it."
"Are you kidding?" says Ronnie. "If you've got a - a cure for this damn thing... I'll open the data channels myself."
"Preferable, I think, to let your communication officer handle it. Transmitting on a repeating loop. With luck, you will be able to receive and reconstruct all the data, even if you suffer intermittent connectivity losses."
"Which we might," says Ronnie. "Ship's still in a worse state than I am... and what the hell is Mur dragging after him?"
Nothing good, I strongly suspect. "We must assume it is for summoning reinforcements."
"Well, y'know," says Ronnie, "normally, I'd be, like, hey, skeet. But this is not the best time for shooting. Have we tried talking to him?" There is a sudden burst of static on the channel. Another problem on the Falcon, most probably.
"Perhaps we should try," I say. "Mur might continue to find me amusing."
"Would that actually help, sir?" asks Twosani.
"Possibly, if it gives us time to implement our countermeasure. In any case, I anticipate Mur will wish to communicate at some point soon. He is of that type. He enjoys the sound of his own voice."
"Programming the main deflector," says Nelson Karas. "Sir, this looks... weird."
"It does. It is, nonetheless, correct." And I hope the Falcon has received the data transmission.
"Sir," says Pascale, "there is something in the... tunnel... behind the Warhammer."
I raise an eyebrow at her. "Specify."
"Unable to at this time, sir. I am reading low power output, but considerable mass. Whatever it is, I do not believe it is another ship."
"Signal from the Warhammer, sir," says the comms yeoman.
"You were right," Twosani murmurs.
I nod. "On screen."
The viewer shows the Warhammer's bridge; Mur stands in its centre, his face feral in its excitement. "You will surrender Veronika Grau," he says.
"Inaccurate," I reply. "We will not."
Mur glares. "You are ceasing to be amusing, Vulcan. You will surrender Veronika Grau to me, and your destruction will be brief and comparatively painless. If you continue to obstruct me, you will find that there are worse things than death."
"Damn right." Ronnie's voice. The Falcon's comms are back. "And I have a phaser in my hand now, Mur, and I promise you I will take my own life before letting you do what you want."
"You cannot! The god has told me this. You will be stopped."
"Stopped how? The Rift entity can't control me directly. It can't stop me. And I've been through the liberation protocols, it can't pull that stunt again."
"The true god assures me," says Mur, "that you will be prevented from harming yourself."
I think. "If what you both say is true," I say, "the Rift entity must be exerting its power and control to the utmost in order to preserve Vice Admiral Grau's life. It is already heavily taxed in supporting your space-time tunnel, and whatever other demands are being made of it by your priesthood. I do not believe it has sufficient capability remaining to neutralize the Tapiola."
"My ship is adequate for that minor task," says Mur.
"Really?" I say. "I suspect you overestimate your capacities. Against a fully operational Federation starship, without your special weaponry to rely on, your chances are, in my estimation, remarkably poor."
"You do not have the power to defy the god!" thunders Mur. "And now, his tabernacle approaches!" He makes a theatrical gesture at the screens behind him.
"Something's coming through the tunnel, sir," says Pascale. "I have a visual. Sir - there's something else in there, too, a little way behind it. There's a lot of interference, but I think this new one is a ship."
The visual display changes. Behind the Warhammer, a gigantic black sphere is emerging from the subspace conduit. It is caged in an icosahedral framework of metal girders, which is studded with impulse engines, clearly to provide motive power for the sphere itself. I check my readings. No life signs, no energy output except for the impulse engines -
"You are no doubt confused, Vulcan." Mur reappears on the viewer. "This is the tabernacle of the god. Within this crystal sphere, accessible only through a special transporter frequency vouchsafed to me by the god, Veronika Grau and I will meet, and the god will move from her unworthy form to mine -"
"Like hell it will!" Ronnie's voice rasps. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love to get this filthy parasite out of my head, but I'm not letting it loose on the galaxy inside an unbalanced religious maniac!"
"Your insults mean nothing to me. The god will not be denied."
"I will open fire on your vessel before you reach transporter range of the Falcon," I say. "The Tapiola will destroy you."
"Filthy females and unbelievers!" Mur shouts. "You pit your feeble will against the god?"
Then he turns, and his shaggy eyebrows are raised in surprise. "Then you will die," he says. "Fortuitous. Gamariden Tal has evidently sent a ship to accompany the tabernacle on its voyage. That vessel will eliminate you, while I fulfil my destiny. Open a channel to that ship!" he shouts at some off-screen minion.
Behind him, one of the many screens flashes and fills with static. After a second or two, a vague shape becomes discernible. I can see a humanoid silhouette, with two protrusions on the head.
"Clear that interference!" Mur bellows. "You! Ship captain! Engage and annihilate this Federation upstart!"
The interference clears, and I am not ashamed to say that my jaw drops. The protrusions are not Siohonin horns - they are antennae -
Yay, Tylha! (Although I am mildly upset by some of the character deaths on the King Estmere) Either way, I should have known that something as trivial as a crippled ship and a concussion wouldn't stop Tylha Shohl.
I just got caught up reading this, and I have to say, I am really enjoying it, as usual. Reading your STO novellas always puts me in a writing mood of my own. Its a pity that I'm going to be stuck doing exam prep all weekend, though...
Regarding the story so far, I am in agreement with all the other commentators that I would dearly love to see Mur defenestrated, shot out of a cannon, beat over the head with a book on basic sentient rights, and thrown into a chamber full of targs in heat. You have outdone yourself in creating a villain so despicable that we love to hate him.
Also, your description of the Siohonin capital ships reminds me a lot of the Amarr Titans from EVE. Which I guess is fitting, given that the Amarr are also a faction of ultra-religious, enslaving jerkwads.
Definitely looking forward to see how this pans out, especially now that the Estmere is back in action.
Now would be an excellent time for the Siohonins' many enemies to mount a coordinated counter-offensive-slash-distraction. (Although if push comes to shove, I've no doubt it will abandon all other battlegrounds to focus its attention here... if it can.)
Speaking of the Siohonin's enemies... I wonder who exactly is manning the Warhammer apart from Mur. If the Rift entity should go offline, that might be a rather important point (for Mur).
The auxiliary control room seems hot and crowded. The main bridge, of course, is still unusable - King Estmere is only just operational... and several of our hard-won repairs were undone by the turbulence when we breached Mur's subspace conduit. We had to do it - when it formed, close by us, we knew it was the only way back to the Rift in time - but the cost was high.
I'm still wearing the EV suit. I think it's the only thing holding me together. My chest is a solid knot of pain, that worsens with every jolt transmitted by our damaged inertial dampers.
Ahead of us... is Tapiola, and Falcon looking stricken, and Mur's ship, and - the globe. Whatever it is.
"Sir." The comms console is manned by Cordul, a dark-haired male Trill with a body-builder's physique. "Mur has cut communications, but I have a link to Tapiola... I think the Falcon's trying to get through, too -"
"Try and get Ronnie," I say, and each word hurts, "and put T'Pia through."
T'Pia's face appears on the screen. "Vice Admiral Shohl," she says. "I am gratified to see you survived. I will summarize the situation. The Rift entity is linked to Vice Admiral Grau; it is attempting to transfer itself to Enteskilen Mur by means of the large crystalline sphere ahead of you. The Falcon is disabled by a Borg virus released when Vice Admiral Grau was temporarily reassimilated. I have devised a countermeasure against the Rift entity, and I am transmitting the details on your data channel now."
I turn to Amiga at the science console, ignoring the burst of pain the movement causes. "I'm receiving something, sir," the android says dubiously. "It - doesn't immediately make sense."
"It will not," says T'Pia. "It is based on an insight you yourself supplied - do you remember telling me about a rhythm that seemed wrong, but sounded right? The solution proved to be - something similar."
"We don't have time to test this, sir," says Amiga, "and it will put quite a strain on the main deflector -"
"Don't worry," I say. "T'Pia's never let us down yet. And neither has Gustav Holst, come to that. Set it up."
"Thank you," says T'Pia. I could almost imagine there was some emotion in her voice. But I remember the defence of Andoria, where we trusted her with my people's homeworld, and she came through for us... I have a feeling T'Pia is a safe pair of hands.
"First things first," says Anthi Vihl. "We are five minutes from weapons range with Mur's ship, and we will not survive another hit from his warp cannon. The sphere is already in range."
"I will occupy Mur," says T'Pia. "If you eliminate the sphere, that will deal a significant blow to his plans."
Something to shoot at. I would lean back in the command chair, if my back would let me. "Consider it done."
"Sir," says Cordul, "I have a link to the Falcon."
"Split screen, link Ronnie in," I order.
Ronnie's face appears next to T'Pia's. She is holding a phaser to her temple, she is half bald, she looks about a week dead. "Good to see you, kiddo," she rasps at me. "I'm keeping the entity busy, neutralizing this phaser. I press the stud, it blocks the beam, keeps it occupied at least. Now, you kick it where it hurts - I want this beast out of my head and back out of my universe, all right?"
"Sometime soon, you're going to have to explain what's going on," I say. Ronnie laughs wildly.
"Firing solution locked," says Kophil Phohr. My uncle is the best energy beams officer I've got, and that's only one reason I'm glad he's lived through this business - or he has, so far.
"Let's do it," I say. "Open fire."
We have less than a dozen plasma torpedoes left, and we can't launch the Mesh Weaver frigates without shaking the ship apart... but our plasma beams are still fully functional, and they blaze with green-hot fury across space to the dark mass of the globe.
The Warhammer springs to life, turning towards us with sudden frightening speed. Tapiola leaps forward, tetryon beams spitting from her forward blades, a thermionic torpedo shooting out to crash into Warhammer's shields. Green disruptor light flashes back from the Siohonin ship towards T'Pia.
King Estmere's beams rip through the structure surrounding the globe, scattering it in blazing fragments across the sky.
"Something's wrong," Kophil mutters.
"What?" I ask.
"That - whatever it's made of - it's not reacting to the beams. They're just reflecting off it. I don't think I'm even heating it up," Kophil says. He sounds almost indignant.
"Steer two nine mark four," I say. "Keep the globe between us and Mur." The Warhammer is still on a heading towards us, though it is taking a pounding from T'Pia's assault on its flank.
King Estmere seems to groan as she angles away from the Siohonin ship's approach. Kophil is swearing under his breath as the plasma beams lash out again, only to splash uselessly back from the black glassy surface of the globe.
Then, "Wait," says Kophil, "wait...."
"What is it?" I ask.
"There's something... there's just a spot," says Kophil. "One spot where the reflection isn't complete. There's a tiny, tiny flaw in this thing, and if I can hit it just right...."
The enormous black shape seems to drift across the screen, eclipsing the oncoming Warhammer. Kophil is not swearing any more. He is hunched over the weapons console, hardly breathing, his fingers moving in the tiniest of increments, trying to wield King Estmere's massive plasma arrays with the precision of a jeweller's tool.
"Yes," says Kophil, almost crooning the word, "yes...."
On the screen, the black shadow of the globe is suddenly broken by a dimly glowing spot of red. Kophil hits the firing controls again. The plasma beams blaze at the red spot... and it brightens, and spreads, from a single dot to a sudden lake of molten gold.
The sphere rolls, molten crystal flying out in great gobbets to freeze solid again in the deeps of space. Fractures start and spread from the ruined section, and suddenly it is no longer a sphere, but a hurtling mass of jagged fragments, breaking apart and colliding again in a dizzying chaotic storm.
But it's just a thing, and Enteskilen Mur can make another one, given time. "Target the Warhammer!" I snap. The wreckage of the globe is no longer protecting us, and Mur is going to be angry.
"Please engage the countermeasures for the Rift entity." T'Pia's voice. She sounds completely calm, though Tapiola has taken some shrewd knocks from Mur's disruptors. "I will hold Mur immobile while we proceed."
Golden specks fly across the sky from the Tapiola. The Orb Weaver's web generator is undamaged - and Warhammer is suddenly caged in an icosahedral web of shimmering golden threads. It will hold Mur - maybe for long enough.
"Ready on my bridge," Ronnie says. "Do it."
"Engaging main deflectors," says T'Pia.
"Hit it," I tell Amiga.
A deep pulsing drone sounds from somewhere within King Estmere, a sound with unsettling harmonics, weird notes that set my teeth on edge. Light is flickering from Tapiola's main deflector. On the screen showing the Falcon's bridge, Ronnie Grau stiffens into immobility as light plays around her.
"Frequencies building," says Amiga. "I'm still not clear what frequencies," she adds.
Whatever they are, they're having some effect on my ship, if on nothing else. The vibration seems to seep into me, setting off fresh pains in my back, my chest. There is a sudden sputter of sparks from one console. Transient surge in our much-abused EPS grid.
On the screen, Ronnie Grau is surrounded by a glowing nimbus. Sparks are flying from her Borg implants.
Another burst of sparks, this time from the weapons console, and Kophil curses. "Lost fire control for the plasma arrays," he says. "Trying to reroute it now -"
The next jolt hits me like a kick in the spine. King Estmere is groaning all around me. Ronnie is a blazing figure in the middle of Falcon's bridge, the sparks now branching in torrents from her implants. She screams -
The golden web collapses. Warhammer is scorched and battered - and free -
"Plasma torps!" I yell, and something tears loose in my chest.
King Estmere shudders again as the torpedoes fire - and again, and a third time - and then nothing, as the magazine runs dry at last.
Tapiola fires her tetryon banks, pounding at the Warhammer's shields - and there is a weak spatter of fire incoming from the Falcon, too -
It's enough. Before Warhammer can fire the warp cannon, its shields go down, and our plasma torpedoes punch through. The first salvo turns that massive domed prow into a flaming molten ruin; the next two plough through, into the body of the ship. The cylindrical hull swells and bursts with fire, and then the warp core goes, and Warhammer is nothing more than a shower of blazing dust. Whatever happens, Sebreac Tharr needs another high priest.
The lights go out on the screen. King Estmere steadies. Ronnie Grau is lying very still on the deck of her bridge. The only moving thing about her is a wisp of smoke, curling up from the ruined implant over her left eye.
"T'Pia!" I yell, and something has given way inside me, because blue blood sprays from my mouth as I speak. But only one thing matters now. "Did it work? Did we do it?"
The sphere going bye-bye was nice, but Mur got off waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too easy. This was really the only thing that disappointed me about "Fallout", as well; Klur should've been captured and taken for trial, whether to face Federation justice and a life in 4028, or Klingon justice and a knife in the ribs.
Death by exploding starship was too good for that vile cult leader Mur. Besides, the Klingons are going to want to get their hands on at least one of these big bads soon...
The sphere going bye-bye was nice, but Mur got off waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too easy. This was really the only thing that disappointed me about "Fallout", as well; Klur should've been captured and taken for trial, whether to face Federation justice and a life in 4028, or Klingon justice and a knife in the ribs.
Death by exploding starship was too good for that vile cult leader Mur. Besides, the Klingons are going to want to get their hands on at least one of these big bads soon...
The sphere's destruction actually has a somewhat inaccurate bit in it, if I'm not mistaken. Vacuum does not conduct heat, and near-vacuum (which is what space is) isn't much better. (Which is why keeping stuff like engines cold on a starship is so tricky.) The 'molten crystal flying out in great gobbets' should (if, of course, I'm right) not have frozen nearly as quickly as the text suggested.
That said, Mur's death seemed somewhat anticlimactic as a whole. Perhaps this is a sign of things to come...
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
It may all be about Ronnie, at least as the Rift entity is concerned, but this one's a victory for the little people, even if no one will ever really know of a single act of courage. (And of course, all the other victories of the crews and the three flavors of captains, working together too).
Sure, it may be outside our flow of time, but that doesn't mean the entity knows everything.
Though I really doubt everything's done except for the cleanup and the war crime trials.
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Well, the rate at which the crystal re-solidifies is dependent on a number of factors, such as its melting point, its specific heat capacity, the ratio of volume to surface area for each of the "gobbets", possible evaporative cooling as the surface layers vaporize away.... All these physical characteristics are defined, by me, as "whatever makes for a cool visual effect in the story". :P
As to Mur... hmm, I might have to be serious for a moment. Suppose he (or, as worffan pointed out, Klur from "Fallout") were brought to trial... what then? These people are responsible for millions of deaths, how could they possibly atone for their actions? What conceivable punishment would be appropriate, or even feasible? And - importantly, to my way of thinking - at what point does the intensity of the punishment make us, in inflicting it, as bad as them? "An eye for an eye" makes two people eye-gougers, after all.
Must admit, too, that I'm not quite getting all the hate for Mur - though he is a thoroughly nasty piece of work, he isn't the actual villain of the piece in my eyes. That spot is reserved for the Rift entity. Mur is, to some extent, the product of his background and his upbringing - he was born into Siohonin society, and therefore doesn't notice its many flaws. The entity doesn't even have that rather feeble excuse. It has come to an understanding of our universe, has looked around, has seen (because its superpowers make it close enough to omniscient as makes no difference) every culture in the galaxy, and has said to itself, "Hmm... the Siohonin... arrogant, ignorant, oppressive, irretrievably sexist... hey, these are my kind of people!" Mur, at least, was born a Siohonin. The entity chose them.
Besides which, in story terms, three beaten-up Federation starships weren't going to be able to capture the guy neatly anyway. Sometimes, an exploding starship is the readiest tool to hand.
"Permission granted, sir." The burly Andorian saluted crisply. "Welcome aboard the Enterprise."
Admiral Quinn stepped off the transporter pad and strode onto the Federation flagship's bridge. "Thank you, Captain Shon. What's the situation?"
"Fleet's holding station six AUs from Lambda Cygni. The Siohonin forces are massing - and I do mean massing," the Andorian added dryly. "Estimates have them at nearly a quarter of a million frigates. They've been busy."
Two hundred and fifty thousand ships... every one of them with weaponry capable of pounding a cruiser to ruins, any three of them capable of one-shotting a dreadnought... Quinn steeled himself, put the thought from his mind. "What about our allies?"
"We have direct contact with J'mpok on the Bortasqu', Commander Jarok on the Lleiset, Obisek on the Zdenia. I have them on your flag chair console now, sir."
Quinn took his seat, nodded to the row of faces on the miniature screens. "Quinn," growled the Klingon Chancellor. "Welcome to the fray."
"Still working on tying in Legate Murcenn aboard the Ninth Order's flagship, sir." Lieutenant Jav, the ops officer, took over smoothly. "And, sir, DaiMon Trok say's he's waiting for a confirmation code -"
"Patch him in," said Quinn. A fourth panel lit up, showing an expectant, fang-toothed, huge-eared face. "DaiMon. My receipt code is Qayliph-Alpha-Shul two seven four."
DaiMon Trok glanced at something outside Quinn's range of vision. "Checks out, Admiral. The forces of the Ferengi Alliance acknowledge receipt of your payment and stand ready to receive your orders."
"Good. Tie into our tactical command net and stay ready," said Quinn. The Ferengi grinned and vanished from the screen.
"How much did it cost?" asked Captain Shon.
"The Grand Nagus took me for everything I had," said Quinn. "At the time. Six strips of gold-pressed latinum."
Shon glanced at the tactical display, at the swarm of squat orange crescentric warships. "Special discount rates?" he asked.
"One-off bargain," said Quinn. "Just so he could say truthfully that the Ferengi never fought without payment -" He stiffened. "What's that?"
"Unknown, sir," said Lieutenant Commander Tem from the science station. "Sensor contacts approaching from two different vectors. Attempting analysis now -" Her face turned suddenly pale, and she uttered a loud Bajoran oath.
"Um, Admiral," said Lieutenant Jav. "I have... incoming hails. From the, umm, the Zlan'tirgri and the, the Naskatk...."
"The who? Put them through," Quinn growled. "Let's see what else we've got to deal with."
Two faces appeared on the main screen - or shapes, at any rate. One was a red-gold glittering crystal in which eyes glowed like fires. The other was a metal mask with a steaming respirator, surmounted by a cycloptic visor.
The crystal spoke first. <Admiral Quinn. I am Admiral Atene, aboard the Tholian Assembly dreadnought Zlan'tirgri. It is the judgment of the Assembly that the Siohonin present a clear and present danger, not only to your Federation and its allies, but to all species within their potential sphere of influence. The Assembly has therefore decided to offer military support towards ending this threat. Please transmit your requirements to coordinate my ships with your tactical computer net.>
"I - thank the Assembly for its cooperation," said Quinn. He turned to Lieutenant Jav. "Make it so." Then he turned to the masked Breen. "And you?"
"Thot Trel," the Breen rumbled.
Quinn frowned. "I thought you were dead?"
"No, no, that was Thot Trel, I'm Thot Trel." The masked figure shifted - in irritation or amusement, Quinn couldn't tell. "Anyway, what the chatty crystal said goes for us as well. These lunatics are a threat to everyone, the Confederacy included. My fleet will coordinate with yours, and if it all works out, the Siohonin are going down."
Quinn blinked in bemusement. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "Welcome, Thot Trel." He turned to an increasingly harassed-looking Lieutenant Jav. "Try and keep a couple of command channels open," he said, "just in case the Dominion or the Hirogen show up."
"I'll try, sir. Um, the Cardassian fleet contingent is linked in now -"
"Let me have full tactical display," Quinn ordered.
The main viewer lit up with the fleets marked in. Starfleet, KDF, the Romulans... the Cardassians on one flank, the Ferengi on another... and now, more forces, Tholian and Breen, linking into a network of terrifying firepower. Tholian Tarantulas and Breen Rezreth Destroyers... having ships like that on his side, for once, should make a difference, Quinn thought.
But against the oncoming wall of Siohonin warships, even this fleet looked paltry by comparison. Quinn settled into the flag chair, and studied the screen. The faces of his fellow commanders regarded him from the console.
"Incoming hail from the Siohonin, sir," said Jav.
J'mpok glared and made a contemptuous noise. "Ignore it," he suggested.
"We may as well hear what they have to say." Legate Murcenn was a heavy-jowled elderly Cardassian with an unexpectedly smooth, silky voice. "It may buy us time, at least."
"Put them on," said Quinn, wearily.
He knew the face that appeared now. "Admiral Jorel Quinn," said the Siohonin. "I am Grand Marshal Gamariden Tal. The Federation has seen fit to ignore some reasonable requests made by our lord the Theocrat. My orders, therefore, are to implement the Theocrat's requirements. You and your wretched mob are in my way, Quinn. Get out of it."
Quinn looked at Tal, looked at the arrogant carriage, the glowing triumphant eyes of the man. He thought very hard about what to say.
"No," he said, and cut the channel.
J'mpok laughed. "Admirably direct."
Quinn turned to the Tholian and the Breen. "Have you assimilated our tactical plan?"
"Got it," said Trel.
<Your late Vice Admiral M'Azzur seems to have judged well,> said Atene. <Swamping their defences with auxiliary craft seems the best way to negate their special weapons. Even so, their numbers are colossal - Still. The Assembly is ready to follow your plan.>
Quinn nodded. The Siohonin fleet was closing faster now, there was no more time to delay. "All ships," he said, "launch auxiliaries."
From the launch bays of every carrier in the fleet, from the shuttle bays of every other ship, fighters, frigates, and shuttles shot out. The tactical display flickered on the verge of overload at the huge number of units now involved in the battle. A blizzard of auxiliaries swept out from the allied fleets, to interpenetrate the Siohonin formation, to snipe and harass the enemy from every angle.
M'Azzur's plan had been the best option, they had decided. The harrying fighters would disrupt the Siohonin's already limited tactical coordination - the Siohonin couldn't use their warp mirror defence against attacks from multiple vectors simultaneously - the fighter harassment would prevent groups of three frigates from linking up to use the devastating warp cannon -
In theory.
That theory was about to be put to the test. "Fighters in weapons range," Tem reported. "Engaging."
To the naked eye, it would have seemed as though a multi-coloured haze was spreading across space. Half a dozen different kinds of energy weapons, spitting from thousands of small ships, turned the starfield into a shifting, glimmering glow. Here and there, a bright gleam announced the first deaths, the first breaches of warp cores....
"Confirming... Siohonin casualties," said Tem. "Sir, I don't think... I can't be sure, but I don't think we've lost any allied fighters yet."
Quinn frowned. The Siohonin frigates were individually feeble, outclassed by the Tholians' Mesh Weavers, Cardassian Hidekis, or even Starfleet's Delta Flyers and runabouts... but surely some of the auxiliaries must have run into the path of those deadly kinetic lances, by now?
"I have Captain M'urra from Atrox's fighter wing reporting now," said Lieutenant Jav.
"Put her through."
The Caitian figher commander appeared on screen. "They're not using the lances!" she cried. "No sign of their special weapons! They only have standard disruptors, and they're not even good with those! We're swarming all over them! If we get main fleet support, we can finish them!"
"It could be a trap," said Tiaru Jarok, thoughtfully. "To lure in our heavy units and take them out."
"Our lead escorts are already in range," said J'mpok. "If it is a trap, they must spring it soon, or it will be all over for them."
Quinn thought furiously for a moment. The Siohonin weren't disciplined, weren't experienced - under the fighter assault, he was sure, a Siohonin frigate commander would have used the kinetic lances... if he was able....
He decided. "Quinn to fleet. All ships. Commit to full engagement."
Enterprise surged smoothly forwards in the vanguard of the Starfleet contingent. Quinn tried to block his ears to the sound of Klingons singing behind J'mpok.
"Attack Pattern Eta Nine," Captain Shon ordered. "Wide angle barrage, target as many opponents as you can. Reinforce forward shields." He glanced at Quinn. "If our firepower's divided between multiple targets - it might get reflected back in increments we can survive."
"Targets in weapons range," someone announced.
"Fire!"
The Federation flagship trembled as her phaser arrays sent out beams of golden energy like the questing fingers of a giant - and what those fingers touched, they broke. A half dozen luckless Siohonin frigates died within seconds, shields blasted to nothing, hulls vaporizing under the Enterprise's phasers.
"Torpedo tubes, scatter pattern, fire!" And more Siohonin ships died, torpedoes piercing their shields and smashing through to wreak havoc on their hulls.
"Slaughter them!" J'mpok was shouting. "Send them to Gre'thor! Avenge every insult to Klingon honour!"
"The Siohonin have a small number of genuine starships," said Quinn. "Their command and control battleships."
J'mpok looked at him, and the light of battle faded briefly in his eyes, to be replaced by a calculating look. "Yes," he said, "yes, if we take those, the rabble of frigates will be forced to surrender."
Quinn nodded. "Let's find them."
"I have partial ID for the Siohonin heavy units already," said Lieutenant Commander Tem. "Sir - the closest one to us is the enemy flagship. The Glaive."
Quinn smiled, just a little. "Signal Escort Group Alpha to accompany us and keep Siohonin light elements out of the way," he said. "Let's go deal with Gamariden Tal."
---
"Warp cannon inactive. Warp mirror inactive. Kinetic lances offline," the weapons officer repeated in tones of weary desperation.
Gamariden Tal whirled round to stab an accusing finger at Nyredalit Amm. "Still nothing! Where is the god's aid, Amm? Where is it?"
Sweat had broken out on the priest's brow; he clung to his rod of office like a lifeline. "The god must be testing us - testing our devotion - Our faith must not waver!"
"Faith is not helping my ships!" roared Tal. He made a sweeping gesture to the status board that dominated one side of the bridge - where he could see his forces dwindling, his fleet melting away, like a sandcastle in the rain, under the apocalyptic barrage from the Allied ships. "We need the special weapons, Amm! Intercede with the god, Your Holiness - if not on our behalf, then on your own!"
"Movement among the infidel ships, sir," the Glaive's tactical officer reported. "Some of their heavier elements have changed course - they are -" He swallowed. "They are moving to intercept our capital ships. Sir, the USS Enterprise is coming towards us."
Tal swore loudly. He took rapid stock of his available forces, and strode to the communications console. "Twelfth Assault Armada! Defend the flagship! Engage and destroy the Enterprise!"
"There is other movement," the tactical officer continued. "The infidel fighters are withdrawing from battlefield sector two eight by three seven -"
Tal looked at the screen. "Their forces are thinly spread in that area! Concentrate the fleet! We will break through and outflank them!" He turned to Amm. "We may win through yet."
"If our faith is strong -" the priest began, and Tal turned away from him with a dismissive oath.
The comms channels were humming with orders and distress signals already - now, new messages were coming in, on the priority channels reserved for the Siohonin capital ships.
"This is the Ranseur, we have a Tholian dreadnought inbound, request urgent support -"
"Demilune engaging the Cardassians, we are outnumbered by their Galors, request support -"
"This is the Corseque! We have the Bortasqu' on scan, contact imminent! Evading now! Assistance needed!"
"Partizan calling. We are under attack from the Nausicaan vessel Anar. We will sweep this mercenary scum out of the sky -"
That voice broke off. Tal called up a visual image from that sector, and winced. The Nausicaan Guramba destroyer was spinning away from the fight, its spines reconfiguring after firing its disruptor javelin - and the Partizan, pierced from stem to stern, was collapsing into a blazing hulk -
But his forces, now, were concentrating in the battlefield sector that had been cleared of enemy fighters. That one was dominated by the Romulans and the Remans, Tal noticed. His lip curled. They were cowards who preferred to strike from hiding, it was no wonder they had no stomach for a real fight.
"Ships at sector two eight by three seven, prepare to advance," he ordered. "Punch through the Romulans and fall on the Federation from the flank. Glorious victory - in the name of Sebreac Tharr!" There. That should please the god, perhaps even enough to awaken him.
The Siohonin ships, obedient to his orders, advanced. And then space shimmered before them -
Scimitars. Romulan and Reman Scimitars, too many for Tal to count at one glance, and all of them decloaking with their weapons spines raised and charged. They fired their thalaron barrages in concert, in one devastating blast, planet-wrecking weaponry aimed squarely at the dense mass of Siohonin ships.
The light frigates simply evaporated as the blast wave swept over them. The capital ships - Bardiche, Voulge, Pilum, Kontos, a half dozen others - resisted only a few seconds longer before they, too, burned. Tal screamed with rage and frustration as he realized that a full twenty per cent of his forces - his remaining forces - had perished at one stroke.
He rounded on Amm. "With the warp mirrors, we could have blasted the Romulan filth with their own weapons! Where is the god?"
If Amm had an answer, it was lost in the sudden screaming of alarms, the flash-bangs from consoles, the shuddering of the ship from impacts. "Enterprise in weapons range!" yelled the tactical officer. "Shields down to forty per cent! Hull breach, deck seventeen!"
"Return fire!" Tal shrieked. He turned to Amm again. "We need the warp mirror, the warp cannon! We need them now! Or your god has failed us!"
"The god does not fail," said Amm, almost plaintively. "We must trust that this is part of his plan -"
The ship shuddered again. "Port weapons offline! Shields failing!"
"This is not part of a plan!" screamed Tal. "Your god has abandoned us! Sebreac Tharr has failed!"
"No! No!" Amm wailed in reply. "You cannot say that! You cannot defame the god!" He waved his flame-tipped rod of office at Tal. "In the name of Sebreac Tharr, I rebuke you!"
The stylized flame pointed straight at Tal's heart. Nothing happened.
Tal swore loudly, drew his laser pistol and fired. Nyredalit Amm toppled backwards, his face a picture of horror and woe, around the smoking crater drilled between his eyes.
Tal had one moment to exult, and then the deck leaped away from under his feet. The lights went out. The noise and glare of exploding consoles filled the bridge. Tal landed heavily on the bucking deck, scrambled to his feet. Red emergency lights came on.
"Dorsal nacelle ruptured," someone was saying in a weak voice. "Hull breaches, all decks. EPS grid fluctuating, main power down. Shields down. Structural integrity at twelve per cent."
Tal looked wildly around him. The comms console, somehow, was still intact. He dropped his pistol, ran towards it, opened all the hailing frequencies with one smash of his hand against the switches.
"Glaive to Enterprise!" he screeched. "Glaive to all ships! This is Grand Marshal Tal! Stand down! We surrender! Tal to fleet, all ships, surrender! Surrender! We surrender! We surrender!"
Well that was epic. It was a pleasant enough surprise seeing both the Cardassians and the Ferengi aiding the usual Federation/Klingon/Romulan alliance, but the addition of the Tholians and the Breen was completely unexpected and awesome (although I half expected the Dominion to show up as well at that point). That big an alliance was probably overkill, given how quickly the Siohonin fleet just dissolved.
I can imagine that the Siohonin are going to have to pay some heavy reparations now (doubly so, once the Federation learns about the atrocities committed on its colony worlds...) To say nothing, of course, of how the Klingons are going to react when they learn about the massacres against their own people...
Comments
Will you please give it a rest. Please, just let Shevet write. Please
I fail to see how letting Shevet write has anything to do with commenting on the writing. Besides, given who Mur is, I'd say worffan's comments are a sign that he/she is doing a good job writing him. :P
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Yes, but it would be nice to not see the repeated calls for torture/brutal justice :P
I say the same things about Kim Jong-Un and Bashar al-Assad, and Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. And not one single being else.
The number of people who cause that stark, vicious reaction in me is VERY small. Hell, not even the Borg makes me that mad.
Let's just say that I have my limits. And Mur, not to mention the entire Siohnin social order, flagrantly tramples on those limits so many times it isn't even funny.
To put it another way: Siohnin females have no rights at all. Think about what it must be like to be female and have no rights in a society that already shows callous disregard for the lives, health, happiness, safety, and rights of a vast majority of its population.
Yeah. I may not the best person in the world, but Even Evil Has Standards, and R*pe Is A Special Kind Of Evil.
Mur's very existence is offensive to the deepest of my core values. I think that Shevet's done a very good job making an utterly vile and unforgivably despicable villain, who I want to see die in a hole of some excruciatingly painful disease as everything that he's built burns around him. I do not intend to be offensive towards shevet; rather, my intent is to show my appreciation, as it takes real, professional-grade skill to write a villain this vomit-inducingly horrible without seeming ridiculous.
Yeah, like I said, VERY few people make me this mad. As in, Assad, who had children tortured, Jong-Un, who is culpable for the inhumanly awful North Korean gulag system, and al-Baghdadi, who's the head of ISIS.
I'm normally quite mild-mannered and wouldn't hurt a fly. But some very, very few monsters go too far.
In that regard, I agree, there are those who go too far, but I've also noticed in similar cisrumstances where people call for harsh punishments (even on those who legitimately deserve them) it's an interesting insight into their own dark sides... But enough said, I don't want to derail the thread any further :cool:
(And I know I've got one character who's been known to indulge in torture for the sake of artistic revenge... but, though Shalo is not a bad guy in her own head, she is in mine.)
Sometimes, hard choices are forced upon people, and they may make ethically questionable decisions, or even be put in a situation where there are no good choices. The obvious real-life example I always quote here is the Second World War - I take the view that war is always and necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes all the alternatives can be worse.
Anyway. Enough of my catharsis of spurious morality. My protagonists have now, even by my harsh standards, suffered enough adversity, and I should probably think about getting them out of it.
I scramble to my feet. The bridge is a chaos of flames and screaming alarms - and screaming people.
A foul smell catches my nostrils, and I turn my head. F'hon Tlaxx is lying by the comms console, his torso torn open by a jagged piece of metal, astonishment in his dead face. F'hon - he's been with me since the start, since the very earliest days -
No time to think of that now.
"Biochem alert!" I scream at the top of my voice. "Bolian blood in the atmosphere! Clear the bridge! Move!"
I don't know who's still alive. The bridge is a wreck, the artificial gravity is fluctuating, the lights are down to red emergency, and even they are dying. I grab someone, hustle them out into the corridor.... The corridor is just as bad.
I look at the person whose shoulder I'm holding. It's Anthi. I'm briefly heartened to see her still alive.
"Sir -" she says, and stops.
I have to take charge. Somehow. "Get to aux control and take stock," I tell her.
"That was the Siohonin warp cannon -"
"I know. Get to aux con! I'm heading for main engineering - try to stabilize the situation - let's go!"
She stumbles off into the smoky corridor, hesitant at first, then moving with swift confidence as her military background kicks in. I wish I had some of that myself.
I turn the other way, begin to run towards Engineering. The corridor looks skewed, somehow, twisted out of true - what I can see of it, in the smoke and the dim lighting. I run. My feet leave the floor as the gravity plating wavers, sending me gliding along the deck, a dozen metres with every stride. Alarms are screaming. There are explosions, distant and close, and the terrible moaning wail of a massive atmosphere leak.
In my mind's eye, a merciless picture emerges, a picture I've seen so many times before; a starship, rolling helpless in space, wreathed in flame where escaping air mixes with escaping warp plasma, armour shattered, hull breached, until the brilliant flash of an exploding warp core puts an end to it all -
No. Not me. Not my ship.
The turbolifts are down, but I know the King Estmere so well by now, I find a route, down side passages and auxiliary Jeffries tubes... all filled with smoke and red light. I still don't know who's alive and who's dead. No point trying my combadge.
I slide down a Jeffries tube and into the hell that is Main Engineering. No shortage of light, here; the glare from the madly pulsating warp core brings all the wreckage into sharp relief.
Dyssa D'jheph, my chief engineer, is on the deck, face down and moaning. Nearby, the two Jolciots, Thirethequ and Jeroequene, are struggling with consoles. Jeroequene is hammering at the fire suppression system, and finally it comes online, and cold mist blasts into the air around us, quenching a dozen small blazes around the big room.
Jeroequene turns to me. "Noble Admiral!" she cries, her purple face suddenly alight with relief. "It is indeed felicitous to have your inspiring presence in this perilous situation!"
Nothing, apparently, can stop the Jolciots from using flowery language. "Situation report," I snap at her.
"It is most grave, esteemed leader. The warp core is heavily damaged and destabilizing. Ejection is not possible, since the structural integrity field has failed under the reprehensible suddenness of the Siohonin assault. System failures are endemic throughout our mighty vessel."
Thirethequ is slamming commands into the emergency warp core management console. The Jolciots are good, but maintaining a damaged warp core is beyond anyone's ability. If structural integrity has failed, the ship will come apart in short order -
I'm thinking faster than I've ever thought before, and a solution comes to my mind. "Jeroequene. I'll need you."
"At your orders, most excellent commander!"
I leap for one side of the engineering room, aided again by the failing gravity. I grab a cover hatch and wrench it free. "Primary SI links." Tholian design is weird, a whole bunch of essential systems run closer to each other than I'd like - normally. "Jeroequene. That one there." I point to another cover. "We're going to be violating a couple of hundred safety regs -"
"In a good cause, I doubt not," says Jeroequene. "And besides, a desperate stratagem is clearly called for in this situation." She frees the hatch cover with one jerk of her long anthropoid arms. The stocky, long-armed Jolciots have immense physical strength. That's one thing I'm counting on.
"Main SI field inductors." I yank a handful of sparking leads loose from the hatch. "Need to link them in to -"
"Ah! I perceive. Bold, but innovative!" Jeroequene grabs the leads from me. "The safety interlock will engage mechanically, though -"
"That's why I need you. Stop it."
"I shall attempt it to the uttermost limits of endeavour!" And she braces herself, while I make the cross-connections.
Blue sparks a metre long flash about us, amid an acrid reek of ozone. The circuit breakers trip, and meet Jeroequene's long arms. The little engineer groans and strains, and the servos whine against her tremendous Jolciot strength, and finally fail. I ram the last connection home.
The deck shifts under my feet - and steadies. Jeroequene and I exchanged stunned looks. "Success!" she cries.
I hurry over to the console where Thirethequ is working. He glances up at me, his bearded purple face gleaming with sweat. "Magisterially ingenious, revered commander!" he says. "But ejection is still blocked by the lamentable disarray of our vessel. Section thirty-one has shifted and is obstructing the ejector tube -"
Section 31. Oh, that would be the one that kills us. "Keep trying," I tell him, and hurry over to Dyssa.
She is trying to stand, getting to her hands and knees and then falling again, and when I look, I can see why. Some random piece of flying metal has crushed her left antenna. Losing one is painful enough, but a crushing injury... it floods the brain with pain and disorientation.
I steel myself. There are plenty of cutting tools available in engineering. I find a laser cutter and I use it.
Dyssa screams. I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight, ignoring the pain as she hits me, fists thumping my back over and over. "I'm sorry," I whisper to her, "I'm sorry...."
After a minute or two, she calms down. I let her go, and she turns her homely face towards me, now twisted with pain and streaked with tears. "What the hell did you do?" she asks in a hoarse voice.
"Cross-patched the SI fields to the EPS network." Essentially, running the structural integrity fields through the electro-plasma conduits - tying the ship back together with its own power system.
"But -" Dyssa's face screws up further. "That won't work, the EPS net can't take the load, the conduits will fuse -"
"Yes, eventually. All I've done is buy time for real repairs. Come on, Thirethequ is trying to stabilize the core."
Dyssa clambers uneasily to her feet. With one antenna gone, her depth perception and balance will be off, until it grows back. Not to mention the pain. I support her as we go back to Thirethequ.
"It does not look hopeful, sirs," the Jolciot says. When even Thirethequ can't get as far as three syllables to a word, things have got to be bad.
"Dilithium focus assembly is shot to hell," Dyssa mutters. "Crystals fractured, way out of alignment...." She looks up, towards the top of the shuddering warp core. "We have spares. But there's no time to fit them. Not before -"
With no way to channel energy out of the warp core, our power system is down to the auxiliary batteries. And those batteries are being drained, steadily drained, by the core itself. The biggest single need for power, now, is the antimatter containment system. The antimatter in the core has to be kept contained, or it will come into contact with normal matter... and we will have energy in plenty. Like a sun going nova in our faces.
So, we need an alternative source of power, before the battery is completely depleted. I check the energy levels; that will be soon. "What about the auxiliary fusion reactor?"
"Offline," says Dyssa. "I'll... I'll try to get it on."
"Do that. What about running a line to one of the Mesh Weavers?" If we can connect a frigate's power supply to our own, we can sustain containment with its reactor while we repair the core.
"Hangar bays are breached to vacuum," Thirethequ reports. "I have no details on the status of the frigates themselves." He is obviously stressed. Jeroequene reaches out to him and takes his hand.
My combadge chirps at me. I hit it. "Shohl."
"Sir." It's Anthi's voice. "I'm at auxiliary control. Sir, we've been punched clean out of the Rift, we have massive hull breaches and systems failures. I don't know what you did to stabilize us, but it's helped a bit. We're still non-operational, though. I have lines to some decks, some facilities -"
"Can you give me ship-wide address?"
"I can put you through to most decks, sir."
"Try it."
"Yes, sir." A pause. "You're on, sir."
"This is Vice Admiral Shohl to all crew." My voice booms back at me through the speakers in Engineering. "King Estmere has sustained critical damage. Engineering is working to rectify the situation, but we must prepare for the worst." There's a lump in my throat; I talk around it with difficulty, trying to stay calm, trying to project control and confidence. "All personnel, report to your assigned disaster stations. Make pickup on injured crewmates wherever you can do so without jeopardizing your own safety. If you cannot reach your designated escape pod, report to the nearest one with available seating space. Abandon ship. I repeat. Abandon ship."
"Admiral." Thirethequ has recovered some of his composure. "It is of the highest degree of unlikelihood that I should be able to traverse the route to my assigned departure station, Main Engineering being so deeply ensconced within the ship's architecture as it is. With no wilful disobedience to your wise and compassionate orders, therefore, I deem it my duty to remain and assist. With your permission, estimable leader."
"I - Glad to have you. Thank you, Mr Thirethequ."
"Where my beloved remains," says Jeroequene simply, "I remain."
"Glad to have you both," I say. "Let's see if we can help Dyssa get the fusion reactor back online."
But Dyssa's face has fresh tears gleaming on it. "No good," she says. "It's no good." She sobs.
"What's the problem?"
"The fusion initiator. It's gone." She sobs again. "I can see it on the video link. It's come free, dropped out of a hole in the aux power room. It's gone."
I think, for half a second. Then I turn and run for the equipment locker. It's been half crushed, a girder is sticking into it. I grab the warped door with both hands and wrench it loose, then dive in. Smashed gear confronts me, and I sort through it frantically.
One suit. We still have one intact EV suit. It will have to be enough. I start to struggle into it.
"What are you going to do?" Dyssa asks.
"The initiator's outside the ship, right?"
"It fell through the hull. What are you going to do?"
I fasten the suit, pull the helmet into place. "Go out there and get it."
---
The ship's corridors are still in chaos as I lumber grimly down them. My trick with the EPS network has steadied things a little - the grav plating is no longer flickering on and off, the emergency lights are steady - but the ship is still leaking air at a frantic rate, and the situation is still desperate.
Dyssa's right, the EPS net can't take the load, it will melt in a few hours. It's academic. The auxiliary battery will give out a lot sooner, and when it does, containment goes in the core, and the ship blows. We could drain remaining auxiliary power from other sources - and gain an extra thirty seconds or so, at the expense of what's left of life support, command and control, communications....
I just hope enough people are reaching the escape pods.
My way is blocked by a collapsed bulkhead. I swear, and turn down a side passage. I need to get outside the ship... I might not need an airlock for that. Ahead of me, I can see stars; a hull breach, this one covered by an emergency forcefield. At least some of them are still working.
I turn to a control panel in the corridor wall, gloved fingers clumsy, punching in the commands. I can't worry about losing another corridor's worth of air. I press the last button, and the forcefield blinks out, while another one powers on behind me. The tug of air pulls me off my feet, hurls me out through the gap in the hull -
I am outside the ship.
I spin slowly in space, getting my bearings, trying to assess the situation. King Estmere is turning listlessly, trailing streamers of fire and smoke, still, from more hull breaches than I can count. Her gleaming hull is scored and warped and shattered, she is surrounded by a cloud of debris. As I watch, there is a stab of flame as an escape pod launches from somewhere above me. Maybe they can clear the blast radius before the warp core goes. Maybe. I hope so.
I have my own problems. A mechanical voice chirrups in my ear: "Auxiliary battery now at thirty per cent capacity. Warning. Depletion rate above normal permitted parameters." The voice sounds almost cheerful about it. I hate it.
I engage my suit's thrusters, and start to turn. I know what I'm looking for. The suit's sensors are good enough to pick it up. The thrusters should have enough reaction mass to move it. I hope.
I angle down, swooping through space, dodging the fragments that have spilled from my ship's wounds -
Something comes towards me.
My eyes widen, my breathing stops. It's a body. It's one of my people -
The corpse drifts past me, limbs splayed out against the backdrop of stars, sightless eyes covered with a film of frost. I recognize her. Zazaru. My chief science officer since I don't remember when - I think of the sights those soft brown eyes of hers saw, and my own eyes fill with tears at the thought that she will never see anything again.
With an effort, I put it from my mind. I have work to do.
"Auxiliary battery now at twenty-five per cent capacity. Warning. Depletion rate above normal permitted parameters. Warning. Reduce power drain before critical level is reached."
The fusion initiator is in front of me, now. I can see it. The module hasn't travelled too far from the ship - it is moving slowly, slowly enough that I can stop it with my suit's thrusters, can push it back into place, can reconnect it, fire up the fusion reactor, get power back online, save the ship.
I can do this. I have to do it, so I can do it.
The initiator is a bulky truncated cone, basically, about four metres high, about five metres base diameter. I circle it, trying to size up the situation without burning too much reaction mass. The initiator is massively heavy, but it is moving slowly. I can generate enough delta-v to push it back into the ship.
I program the line I need into the suit helmet's head-up display, find a likely couple of handholds, and fire the thrusters.
Simple. Straightforward application of Ytsay's Third Law of Motion; every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Except... there is give in this system, the flexion of my body as the thrusters fire. The initiator slows its motion, comes gradually to a halt, starts to drift, at a few millimetres a second, back towards the ship.
But the line on my HUD is off, way off. I grit my teeth, shift position, fire the thrusters again and try to hold my body absolutely rigid. The initiator swings around... the line on the HUD flashes green, then amber, then red again. Off, in another direction. I grind my teeth in frustration. I can get this right - given time. But the auxiliary battery is steadily draining, and the reaction mass in my suit's thrusters is limited, too. I have to start getting this right, first time.
"Auxiliary battery now at twenty per cent capacity. Warning. Depletion rate above normal permitted parameters. Warning. Reduce power drain before critical level is reached. Warning. Reserve power now below regulation permitted level."
Suit thrusters have fifty-seven per cent remaining capacity. It's got to be enough. Unless I rupture the suit and use the escaping air to push me - but if I lose consciousness, there's no one to reconnect the initiator -
Someone taps me on the shoulder, hard enough that I can feel it through the suit.
I look round in astonishment, and my heart nearly stops. For a second, the dark-haired figure in science division uniform, floating beside me, looks like Zazaru's ghost. Then the electronic panels in the cheeks register, and the eyes - the eyes are metal, not frozen. Amiga. The android motions to her combadge. I click on the suit's short range comms.
"I'm glad to find you, sir," says Amiga's voice. Her lips don't move while she's speaking. It seems strange.
"Can you help with this?" I ask.
"I believe so, sir. I made my way to Engineering shortly after your departure. Since I don't need to breathe, I don't need an EV suit either."
"Do you have thrusters? We need to move this -"
"I found some hyperfilament cable in the equipment locker, sir. I've rigged lines from the hull breach over the fusion reactor. If we can link them up, we can just reel this thing in."
Damn it, that's the sort of solution I should have thought of. "OK," I say. "Can you tie lines on to the grip bars? We've got limited time."
"No problem, sir." The initiator is, at least, well provided with handholds and attachment points. Amiga scoots off, moving from one handhold to the next, quick and mechanically efficient. "My hands aren't gloved, sir, so I'd better handle the knots."
"How did you get here, anyway? I didn't know we had any portable thrusters -"
"We don't, sir. But, well, every time you visit New Romulus, you seem to pick up another can of insect repellent, and there are plenty of those still in the equipment locker. Or were."
"You're flying around on cans of virhanen repellent?"
"Don't knock it, sir, it works. Those cans need plenty of pressure to knock out those bugs. If you can give this thing a nudge, sir, on vector, umm, nine five two from your position -"
I line it up, fire the thrusters. "If it's any help, sir," says Amiga, "I doubt I could do that on the insect repellent." Well, it makes me feel marginally less useless, at least.
"Engaging winch motors," says Amiga. She rigged up powered winches, as well? I should retire, I'm just taking up space.
The initiator starts to glide, slowly, towards the ravaged bulk of King Estmere. "We'll need to give it some more nudges along the way, sir," says Amiga. "The ship is rotating slightly."
"OK," I say.
"By the way, sir," says Amiga, "I was with your uncle in weapons bay two when we were hit. He's all right - I just thought you'd like to know."
"Thank you." Uncle Kophil is all right. At least someone is. "Did he get to an escape pod?"
"He didn't try, sir. Last I saw, he was trying to reinitialize the power couplings for the plasma arrays."
"Stubborn old fool," I mutter.
"With respect, sir," says Amiga, "I don't see you rushing for an escape pod, either."
"Of course not," I snap. "This is my ship."
"Yes, sir."
---
By the time we ease the initiator through the gap in the hull, the warning voice has taken us down to ten per cent. I think the drain rate is fluctuating. Perhaps Dyssa is working on some way to stabilize the core by itself - I don't know, I can't find out, the patchy communications don't work this far from Engineering.
Gravity is out in the fusion power room, so shifting the initiator module back into position over the fusion reactor is... well, not as complicated as it might have been. With the main force of my thrusters, and Amiga's patient work on the motorized winch, we swing it into place, using more hyperfilament cable to replace the sheared docking latches, tying it in place.
There remains the job of reconnecting the wiring and restarting the fusion reactor, and I am painfully aware that time is ticking down. Very nearly the last gasp of my suit thrusters takes me to the wall of the chamber, and I fumble with a console, manage to reactivate an emergency forcefield over the hole in the hull, and engage repressurization. I can't do this in gloves.
Air puffs out of my suit as I release the catches and draw off the gauntlets. The pressure in the chamber is very low, and my hands are bitterly cold. I kick off from the wall and float over to the initiator.
"Skip the safety checks," I order Amiga. Either it works first time, or we're dead. The unit is robust, it's meant to take a pounding... it's had a pounding, though. I open the main inspection cover, start toggling in the start-up sequence.
"Positioning checks out," says Amiga. "I am skipping the auxiliary circuitry, and reconnecting the EPS main directly."
"OK - wait!" I yell.
Too late. There is a brilliant flash, and Amiga is hurled away from the unit, to slam into the wall of the chamber. For a moment, I think she's out - damaged or dead. Then she twitches, pulls herself off the wall, and jumps carefully back to the unit. "That was unexpected," she says.
"The SI field is running through the EPS conduits," I explain. "There was an energy surge when you re-linked -"
"Ah. I see. Ingenious, sir." The android looks faintly rueful. "I will endeavour not to be caught like that again."
"It's worked... so far. Running initialization now."
The unit shudders. Amber lights flash on the panel... no red ones. Good enough. Fine adjustments can wait, we just need to get the fusion reactor up and running -
"Alert. Alert. Auxiliary battery drain now at critical level. Disengage all power drain or reinitialize external power supply. Alert. Alert." The mechanical voice no longer sounds smug about it.
"We're out of time. Skip all remaining checks and hit it."
"Yes, sir." Amiga's hands move over the controls faster than I can follow them.
The fusion reactor groans and shudders. Red lights flash on the panel now. "Hold it!" I yell. "Something's out of alignment...."
"Checking." Amiga's metal eyes are faster than mine, too. "Coolant unit. Piping is out of true. I'm on it, sir." She scrambles across the unit's housing, opens an inspection cover. "I think I can -"
She grips the pipes and squeezes, her hands moving with micrometer precision. "- bend it back into shape," she finishes. I can hear the squealing and grinding of the metal as she works her way along the duct. "Try it now, sir," she says, inspecting her shredded fingertips with distaste.
I punch in the initialization sequence. The lights on the panel flash - green and amber -
Then the lights in the chamber come on, and gravity suddenly snatches at me. I'd forgotten, or maybe I never knew, which way down was in this room.
Amiga snatches for me, and I feel her fingertips brush mine, but not close enough. I fall -
I slam into the floor of the chamber. The suit takes some of the impact, and the gravity plating isn't back to full power yet, but the blow is quite bad enough. I feel something snap in my chest, and a roaring tide of black pain surges up to engulf me.
But the lights are on, the gravity is on, the power must be coming from somewhere - the reactor is online.
Amiga is scrambling down the wall to reach me. I fight back the blackness, call up the details on my suit HUD.
"Plenty of time," I mumble. "Seventy-three seconds left... before the battery failed... couldn't even make a good holovid drama with a margin like that... plenty of time...."
"Lie still, sir." I wasn't going to do anything else. "I'm calling medical - there may be someone who can answer." She bends over my chest, reading my medical status on the displays there. "And actually, sir, you are a couple of decimal places out. The battery was 0.73 of a second away from total depletion." She pauses. "Still an ample safety margin by my standards, of course."
If she says anything else, I don't hear it, as the blackness rises up to take me away.
This level of writing is why I've been a fan of Shevet's writing since I discovered "Fallout" last year. Enjoyed going back to the first Ronnie story ("The Long Road") to read where it all began, and have reread that one several times. Need to read all the companion stories about the other main characters (mentally adds those stories to my Star Trek Online fanfic reading list).
Intense segment.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Why do you think I read all the stories leading up to this in under 48 hours when I realized just how good it all was? :P
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Bravo, Shevet. Fantastic, as always.
Sure, *maybe* you take Ronnie out of the picture. All that means is that there's a hive intelligence sharing the same head the entity is connected to, that's ruthlessly dedicated to assimilate anything useful or threatening. I think the entity qualifies on both counts.
So, what could make this little scenario even worse? How about a Borg cube appearing in the Rift and adapting to whatever Mur's ship can throw at it while the entity is engaged in a mental struggle with the whole freaking Collective?
Boring they may be, but they're awfully persistent and very adaptable. And I can imagine Ronnie managing to do something unexpected in all the chaos.
No idea how Shevet's going to let this play out. Hopefully nothing so predictable as Ronnie going full Borg drone and assimilating everyone around her so Mur can take his shot.
Link: How to PM - Twitter @STOMod_Bluegeek
With Shevet, always expect the unexpected. Transwarp nexus deep inside Rift. Multiple cubes and spheres pour out of it. Mur demands that his "god" help him. The "god" may decide to or not to. The Borg Queen may put her feet into some seriously hot water. Ronnie and 2 of 12 start doing war-songs as duets. Who knows?
*/*situation assessment---
control centre of species 5618 starship---
unsupported by other collective elements---
assimilation nanoprobes offline---
---queue assimilation nanoprobes for regeneration [0%]---
precautionary adaptation--- species 5618 typical armament--- nadion radiation---
---adaptation [0%]
[11%]
[36%]
[54%]
[73%]
[91%]
[complete]
interface with starship computer---
release infiltration software---
---[38%]
---[79%]
---[complete]
incoming: nadion radiation
---adaptation successful
neutralize hostile elements for later assimilation
engage hostile element subject 1: species 4464
---initiating physical combat protocol 2561-Beta [76% chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---damage within parameters
---subject not neutralized--- reassess---
---initiating physical combat protocol 3002-Delta [81% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
subject not neutralized
---neural capacitance charge at 74%
---engage neural shock
---engaging
---subject neutralized
---rebuild capacitance charge [0%]
engage hostile elements subject 2: species 5618, subject 3: species 4464
---initiating physical combat protocol 1178-Alpha [36% chance to disable multiple opponents in humanoid species range]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---damage within parameters
---initiating physical combat protocol 2876-Alpha [47% cumulative chance to disable multiple opponents in humanoid species range]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---assessing damage
level: minor
release analgesia for organic components
realign structural members for increased resistance
---initiating physical combat protocol 205-Zeta [66% cumulative chance to disable multiple opponents in humanoid species range]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---subject 2 neutralized
---subject 3 not neutralized
---assessing damage
---level: moderate
continue analgesic and structural resistance process
---initiating physical combat protocol 1654-Alpha [74% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---reevaluate: subject 3
neural capacitance level: 1% [insufficient]
armament not installed
assimilation nanoprobes still queued for regeneration [0%]
---initiating physical combat protocol 1976-Delta [96% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---initiating physical combat protocol 2343-Alpha [99% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---submit request for reevaluation to central data storage: species 4464
resistance to physical combat protocols exceeds expectations
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: impact damage
---initiating physical combat protocol 1987-Beta [99% cumulative chance to disable: species 4464]
---incoming: impact damage
---incoming: im[act amaage
---damage critical
---damagee critical
switch drone to regeneration mode
OFFLINE */*
Tallasa staggered over to the helm console and leaned against it, supporting her aching body with both hands. The lights on the bridge were flickering in a rapid, disturbing rhythm. She looked down to the deck, where Jhemyl had been felled by the Borg's neural blast. Her sister was groaning and stirring feebly, starting to recover consciousness. Leo Madena, too, was getting slowly to his hands and knees, blood oozing from a gash over his temple.
"Status," she managed to rasp.
"Borg data warfare packages have been inserted into our command structures," said Saval. He was tapping rapidly on his console. "I am implementing countermeasures, but ship's functions will be disrupted while the threat is neutralized."
Tallasa let go of the console and straightened up with a wince. "How bad is it?"
"Containable," said Saval, "in time. The Vice Admiral's Borg programming is several years out of date, and her own knowledge of our computer systems is... inadequate to affect matters. It is simply a matter of time... though it may yet be several hours before we are able to restore functions."
"If we have several hours," Tallasa muttered. She helped Leo Madena to his feet. "Get in touch with the Tapiola. Let them know what's happened. All of it."
She turned to where Ronnie lay unmoving on the deck. Even in that short time of reassimilation, Borg circuitry had spread like shadowy veins beneath her skin. Much of her hair had already fallen out. Tallasa touched her combadge. "Bridge to medical."
"Sickbay here," Zodiri's voice replied. "What the hell are you playing at, up there?"
"The Admiral was reassimilated. We've managed to take her down, but she released Borg viruses into the computer. I need you up here with a field liberation kit, now. You can't trust the turbolifts, so use the emergency accessways. OK?"
"On it." In a crisis, Zodiri didn't waste words. Tallasa appreciated that.
She turned back to Jhemyl, helped her sister to her feet. The two exchanged a brief, wordless hug. It hurt Tallasa's back. Ronnie had hit her so hard -
No. Not Ronnie. The Borg. Ronnie was gone. Maybe they could get her back... and maybe not.
"We should kill her," said Jhemyl.
In response to the shocked looks of everyone on the bridge, she held up her hands and said, "It's what she wanted. Isn't it?"
"It's what she asked for," said Tallasa slowly. "But... look at her. Could you do it?"
Jhemyl looked at the motionless form. She didn't answer.
"In my opinion," said a new voice from the screen, "it would be inadvisable to make the attempt."
Tallasa turned. T'Pia's face was on the screen, wavering and shot through with interference. "Sir," she said.
"There are two reasons behind my conclusion," said T'Pia. "Firstly, if Mr Madena has correctly informed me about the role of the Rift entity in this matter, that entity would certainly act to preserve Vice Admiral Grau's life. Althought it may have limited ability to affect her, there is no reason to suppose that it would be similarly limited with regard to you. My second reason is a more selfish, pragmatic and immediate one. Vice Admiral Grau is the only person able to perceive the energy fields that surround us. Without her assistance, we are unable to move safely from our current location."
Tallasa shot a glance at Saval, who looked up briefly from his work, said "That is logical," and turned his attention back to the console.
"Very well," said T'Pia. "Your primary objectives are therefore clear: to restore the Falcon to operational status, and to bring Vice Admiral Grau back to herself. Tapiola will stand ready to offer whatever assistance is practicable in these matters. So far, the Warhammer has not moved in pursuit, and is holding station at extreme sensor range. We believe Mur is -"
Her voice was suddenly lost in static, and her image smeared sideways and dissolved in a haze.
"Sorry, sir," said Leo. "My board is... doing stuff."
"The Borg viruses are outmoded," said Saval, "but they are still adaptive and highly efficient. It will be some time before any ship functions can be relied upon."
"Ship functions including life support?" Tallasa demanded. "Or antimatter containment?"
"I appreciate that the situation presents causes for concern," said Saval. "The logical course of action, therefore, is to allow me to work without distraction towards its alleviation."
"All right," Tallasa snapped. A noise made her turn, and wince with pain. The emergency access door to the bridge slid open, and Zodiri stepped through, medical packs in both hands, another one strapped to her back.
"Let's see the patient," she said.
"Over here," said Tallasa. "Do what you can."
Zodiri knelt beside Ronnie's body, ran a diagnostic scanner over her, swore softly to herself. "This is not going to be easy," she said. "Damn it, she had too much Borg junk in her system already -"
"Do the best you can," said Tallasa.
"I will." Zodiri looked up at Tallasa. "And then I'm going to take a look at you, because from where I'm sitting, you're in bad shape."
The lights on the bridge flickered again. Tallasa regarded them grimly.
"I think we all are," she said.
The image of the Falcon's bridge vanishes abruptly from the screen, to be replaced after a moment by a picture of the stricken ship herself, hanging in space. No one on the bridge speaks.
After a few seconds, I say, "Unfortunate."
With more than a little asperity, Twosani Dezin replies, "Yes, sir, you could say that."
"I believe I just did." I think for a second, then I touch the intraship address button on my command console.
"Your attention, please." My voice echoes back through the bridge's speakers. "This is Vice Admiral T'Pia. The USS Falcon is incapacitated by Borg computer viruses. With this, and the destruction of the King Estmere, we are effectively alone against Enteskilen Mur and his ship."
I take a deep breath, forcing myself not just to remain calm, but to project it in my voice. "I will not lie to you; our situation is a desperate one. However, I know I can trust you, all of you. I know that you will follow whatever logic of your mind, or your heart, or your spirit, that made you Starfleet. I know you will do your duty - and that, in the face of our efforts, Mur and his Siohonin cohorts will not prevail." Another pause. "We have more facts, possibly the key facts for this situation. We will redouble our efforts to interpret them and develop countermeasures against the Rift entity. This is not a war we can win with weapons, but with our intellects - and there is no finer crew in Starfleet when it comes to such a struggle. Thank you all. T'Pia out."
I stand up. Twosani looks at me, long and steadily. Then she nods. "Thank you, sir," she says.
"If you need me," I say, "I will be in my ready room, reviewing the available data."
---
Words are easy. Results are hard. Hours pass, and I am no nearer my goal.
I am surrounded by a litter of PADDs; it is inelegant and inefficient, my father would reprove me for it. There are urgent queries outstanding to six separate science departments aboard the ship; their answers may or may not help me. The problem obstinately refuses to take shape, in my head, on my PADDs.
I am sighing over the refutation of another hypothesis when the door opens and Twosani enters. "Haven't you slept, sir?" she asks.
"I do not believe there is time for sleep."
"Maybe, maybe not," says Twosani. "Mur still hasn't moved, but the Warhammer is doing something. Main astrophysics say its engines are generating some sort of subspace harmonic. Best guess is, it's opening some sort of channel in spacetime."
"To bring in reinforcements, perhaps."
"That'd be my guess. It would be nice to think that Mur is planning to beat a quick retreat, but -" She shrugs. "We've had another temporary contact with the Falcon. They're still working on the Borg virus, and they've been through standard Borg liberation protocols with Vice Admiral Grau. Still too early to say how well she's responding."
"They are doing all that is possible, then. As are we."
Twosani steps forward, her dark eyes surveying the chaos on my desk, now spilling over onto the floor. "Are you getting anywhere, sir?"
"Candidly, no. The problem is... an intractable one."
"I wish I could help," she says. "But, well, my training is mainly in tactical division...."
"Yes. Your strengths complement mine effectively. On most occasions."
There is a pause. Twosani looks at the PADDs again, and shakes her head. "It looks a mess, sir."
"It is. And it should not be. There is an elegance in physics, in mathematics, just as there is in music. But I cannot find any note of elegance in this data set."
Then I pause. A fugitive thought has just struck me... a flash of insight, half-glimpsed, then gone.
"Music," I say aloud.
"Sir?"
"A thought occurred to me, relating to music. It is relevant...."
I take a deep breath, hold it, concentrate on the mental disciplines. I am Vulcan. I am not just Vulcan, but a Vulcan trained in the Kolinahr. My mind is mine to command. My thoughts are part of me, they cannot flee me or hide from me.
I concentrate, and I focus, and my mind becomes as a temple of clearest glass, and there is no nook or cranny that is hidden from me. All things that I know are known to me.
The flash of memory, of insight, returns, and comes into clear focus, and I know it and understand it.
I pick up a PADD, and begin work, based on the new hypothesis. Twosani says nothing, but leans forward to watch me, her eyes thoughtful. I sketch in equations, compare the results with our known data. The outcome is as I expect. I punch in more equations, following the logical process deriving from the insight, facts and thoughts and consequences falling into place with remorseless, crystalline clarity -
"That looks - weird, sir," says Twosani, after a while. "I mean, I'm no expert in subspace theory, but -"
"It looks wrong," I say. "Yes. That was the crucial insight. Something Tylha Shohl said to me, about music, by that human musician she admired... something about a rhythm that looked wrong, but proved to be right. This set of equations... I believe we have the frequencies of the spatio-temporal warp through which the Rift entity connects with this world. And if that is so -"
I input more parameters on my console, and order, "Run simulation."
Twosani and I watch as wave-forms appear on the screen, merge, and subside into a dead flat line.
"Like the entity at Tiaza Zephora, which was undone by contact with a molecule made in the mirror image of its own key frequency," I say. "This entity's link is stronger, will require more from us than mere contact...."
"Power requirements... look on the high side, sir."
"We are in a position to attack on two fronts. The entity is irretrievably linked to this area of space - because it has been here, and it is non-temporal in essence, it is always here, to some extent. And it is linked to Vice Admiral Grau - the Falcon's crew can rig local generators to surround her with the negative wave. We will need to devote much of Tapiola's power output to this, but it can be done."
"Thank you, Vice Admiral Shohl," murmurs Twosani. I might say the same myself.
"Communicate with main engineering. Establish the technical parameters for generating this waveform via the main deflector dish. We must also attempt to regain contact with the Falcon."
The ready room door hisses open again. Pascale comes in. "The Warhammer is moving," she says.
"In what direction?"
"Towards us, slowly. And it appears to be towing something."
"Towing what?"
The android shakes her head. "I think you'd better take a look for yourself, sir."
---
All fatigue is forgotten as we race back to the bridge. On the main screen, the ominous dot of Mur's ship has grown, until details become clear at even moderate modifications. It is pursuing an odd, indirect course, generally in our direction - testing for, and avoiding, the invisible energy fields.
Behind it is a shimmering ring, many kilometres wide, obviously insubstantial, equally obviously real... a vast torus of shaped energy fields, through which the starlight beyond is stretched and blurred.
I study the sensor analysis. "Not a wormhole... not quite. A tunnel through spacetime, though, a subspace conduit that will significantly reduce transit times between here and its terminus."
"Wherever that is," says Twosani.
"The energy expenditure involved in maintaining it must be prodigious," I say. "Likewise, the computational power needed to stabilise it. It is beyond our current technology, certainly well beyond that of the Siohonin. The Rift entity must be directly involved. Please program the modifications to the main deflector along the lines I have indicated. And try to raise the Falcon."
"Falcon here." The voice is hoarse, gravelly, but still recognizable, and it is a relief to hear it.
"Vice Admiral Grau. Are you fully recovered?"
"Nowhere near," Ronnie's voice says, "but I'm enough me to fight this thing. I've got a phaser - if it will let me use it...."
"That is a desperate remedy," I say, "and it may yet prove unnecessary. I have the parameters to generate a wave-form that I believe will dissipate the Rift entity. If you can open a data channel to your bridge, I will transmit it."
"Are you kidding?" says Ronnie. "If you've got a - a cure for this damn thing... I'll open the data channels myself."
"Preferable, I think, to let your communication officer handle it. Transmitting on a repeating loop. With luck, you will be able to receive and reconstruct all the data, even if you suffer intermittent connectivity losses."
"Which we might," says Ronnie. "Ship's still in a worse state than I am... and what the hell is Mur dragging after him?"
Nothing good, I strongly suspect. "We must assume it is for summoning reinforcements."
"Well, y'know," says Ronnie, "normally, I'd be, like, hey, skeet. But this is not the best time for shooting. Have we tried talking to him?" There is a sudden burst of static on the channel. Another problem on the Falcon, most probably.
"Perhaps we should try," I say. "Mur might continue to find me amusing."
"Would that actually help, sir?" asks Twosani.
"Possibly, if it gives us time to implement our countermeasure. In any case, I anticipate Mur will wish to communicate at some point soon. He is of that type. He enjoys the sound of his own voice."
"Programming the main deflector," says Nelson Karas. "Sir, this looks... weird."
"It does. It is, nonetheless, correct." And I hope the Falcon has received the data transmission.
"Sir," says Pascale, "there is something in the... tunnel... behind the Warhammer."
I raise an eyebrow at her. "Specify."
"Unable to at this time, sir. I am reading low power output, but considerable mass. Whatever it is, I do not believe it is another ship."
"Signal from the Warhammer, sir," says the comms yeoman.
"You were right," Twosani murmurs.
I nod. "On screen."
The viewer shows the Warhammer's bridge; Mur stands in its centre, his face feral in its excitement. "You will surrender Veronika Grau," he says.
"Inaccurate," I reply. "We will not."
Mur glares. "You are ceasing to be amusing, Vulcan. You will surrender Veronika Grau to me, and your destruction will be brief and comparatively painless. If you continue to obstruct me, you will find that there are worse things than death."
"Damn right." Ronnie's voice. The Falcon's comms are back. "And I have a phaser in my hand now, Mur, and I promise you I will take my own life before letting you do what you want."
"You cannot! The god has told me this. You will be stopped."
"Stopped how? The Rift entity can't control me directly. It can't stop me. And I've been through the liberation protocols, it can't pull that stunt again."
"The true god assures me," says Mur, "that you will be prevented from harming yourself."
I think. "If what you both say is true," I say, "the Rift entity must be exerting its power and control to the utmost in order to preserve Vice Admiral Grau's life. It is already heavily taxed in supporting your space-time tunnel, and whatever other demands are being made of it by your priesthood. I do not believe it has sufficient capability remaining to neutralize the Tapiola."
"My ship is adequate for that minor task," says Mur.
"Really?" I say. "I suspect you overestimate your capacities. Against a fully operational Federation starship, without your special weaponry to rely on, your chances are, in my estimation, remarkably poor."
"You do not have the power to defy the god!" thunders Mur. "And now, his tabernacle approaches!" He makes a theatrical gesture at the screens behind him.
"Something's coming through the tunnel, sir," says Pascale. "I have a visual. Sir - there's something else in there, too, a little way behind it. There's a lot of interference, but I think this new one is a ship."
The visual display changes. Behind the Warhammer, a gigantic black sphere is emerging from the subspace conduit. It is caged in an icosahedral framework of metal girders, which is studded with impulse engines, clearly to provide motive power for the sphere itself. I check my readings. No life signs, no energy output except for the impulse engines -
"You are no doubt confused, Vulcan." Mur reappears on the viewer. "This is the tabernacle of the god. Within this crystal sphere, accessible only through a special transporter frequency vouchsafed to me by the god, Veronika Grau and I will meet, and the god will move from her unworthy form to mine -"
"Like hell it will!" Ronnie's voice rasps. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love to get this filthy parasite out of my head, but I'm not letting it loose on the galaxy inside an unbalanced religious maniac!"
"Your insults mean nothing to me. The god will not be denied."
"I will open fire on your vessel before you reach transporter range of the Falcon," I say. "The Tapiola will destroy you."
"Filthy females and unbelievers!" Mur shouts. "You pit your feeble will against the god?"
Then he turns, and his shaggy eyebrows are raised in surprise. "Then you will die," he says. "Fortuitous. Gamariden Tal has evidently sent a ship to accompany the tabernacle on its voyage. That vessel will eliminate you, while I fulfil my destiny. Open a channel to that ship!" he shouts at some off-screen minion.
Behind him, one of the many screens flashes and fills with static. After a second or two, a vague shape becomes discernible. I can see a humanoid silhouette, with two protrusions on the head.
"Clear that interference!" Mur bellows. "You! Ship captain! Engage and annihilate this Federation upstart!"
The interference clears, and I am not ashamed to say that my jaw drops. The protrusions are not Siohonin horns - they are antennae -
"I don't think so," says Tylha Shohl.
Mur really is going down fast.
I just hope that he gets Klingon justice, death by exploding starship is far too good for him.
I just got caught up reading this, and I have to say, I am really enjoying it, as usual. Reading your STO novellas always puts me in a writing mood of my own. Its a pity that I'm going to be stuck doing exam prep all weekend, though...
Regarding the story so far, I am in agreement with all the other commentators that I would dearly love to see Mur defenestrated, shot out of a cannon, beat over the head with a book on basic sentient rights, and thrown into a chamber full of targs in heat. You have outdone yourself in creating a villain so despicable that we love to hate him.
Also, your description of the Siohonin capital ships reminds me a lot of the Amarr Titans from EVE. Which I guess is fitting, given that the Amarr are also a faction of ultra-religious, enslaving jerkwads.
Definitely looking forward to see how this pans out, especially now that the Estmere is back in action.
The auxiliary control room seems hot and crowded. The main bridge, of course, is still unusable - King Estmere is only just operational... and several of our hard-won repairs were undone by the turbulence when we breached Mur's subspace conduit. We had to do it - when it formed, close by us, we knew it was the only way back to the Rift in time - but the cost was high.
I'm still wearing the EV suit. I think it's the only thing holding me together. My chest is a solid knot of pain, that worsens with every jolt transmitted by our damaged inertial dampers.
Ahead of us... is Tapiola, and Falcon looking stricken, and Mur's ship, and - the globe. Whatever it is.
"Sir." The comms console is manned by Cordul, a dark-haired male Trill with a body-builder's physique. "Mur has cut communications, but I have a link to Tapiola... I think the Falcon's trying to get through, too -"
"Try and get Ronnie," I say, and each word hurts, "and put T'Pia through."
T'Pia's face appears on the screen. "Vice Admiral Shohl," she says. "I am gratified to see you survived. I will summarize the situation. The Rift entity is linked to Vice Admiral Grau; it is attempting to transfer itself to Enteskilen Mur by means of the large crystalline sphere ahead of you. The Falcon is disabled by a Borg virus released when Vice Admiral Grau was temporarily reassimilated. I have devised a countermeasure against the Rift entity, and I am transmitting the details on your data channel now."
I turn to Amiga at the science console, ignoring the burst of pain the movement causes. "I'm receiving something, sir," the android says dubiously. "It - doesn't immediately make sense."
"It will not," says T'Pia. "It is based on an insight you yourself supplied - do you remember telling me about a rhythm that seemed wrong, but sounded right? The solution proved to be - something similar."
"We don't have time to test this, sir," says Amiga, "and it will put quite a strain on the main deflector -"
"Don't worry," I say. "T'Pia's never let us down yet. And neither has Gustav Holst, come to that. Set it up."
"Thank you," says T'Pia. I could almost imagine there was some emotion in her voice. But I remember the defence of Andoria, where we trusted her with my people's homeworld, and she came through for us... I have a feeling T'Pia is a safe pair of hands.
"First things first," says Anthi Vihl. "We are five minutes from weapons range with Mur's ship, and we will not survive another hit from his warp cannon. The sphere is already in range."
"I will occupy Mur," says T'Pia. "If you eliminate the sphere, that will deal a significant blow to his plans."
Something to shoot at. I would lean back in the command chair, if my back would let me. "Consider it done."
"Sir," says Cordul, "I have a link to the Falcon."
"Split screen, link Ronnie in," I order.
Ronnie's face appears next to T'Pia's. She is holding a phaser to her temple, she is half bald, she looks about a week dead. "Good to see you, kiddo," she rasps at me. "I'm keeping the entity busy, neutralizing this phaser. I press the stud, it blocks the beam, keeps it occupied at least. Now, you kick it where it hurts - I want this beast out of my head and back out of my universe, all right?"
"Sometime soon, you're going to have to explain what's going on," I say. Ronnie laughs wildly.
"Firing solution locked," says Kophil Phohr. My uncle is the best energy beams officer I've got, and that's only one reason I'm glad he's lived through this business - or he has, so far.
"Let's do it," I say. "Open fire."
We have less than a dozen plasma torpedoes left, and we can't launch the Mesh Weaver frigates without shaking the ship apart... but our plasma beams are still fully functional, and they blaze with green-hot fury across space to the dark mass of the globe.
The Warhammer springs to life, turning towards us with sudden frightening speed. Tapiola leaps forward, tetryon beams spitting from her forward blades, a thermionic torpedo shooting out to crash into Warhammer's shields. Green disruptor light flashes back from the Siohonin ship towards T'Pia.
King Estmere's beams rip through the structure surrounding the globe, scattering it in blazing fragments across the sky.
"Something's wrong," Kophil mutters.
"What?" I ask.
"That - whatever it's made of - it's not reacting to the beams. They're just reflecting off it. I don't think I'm even heating it up," Kophil says. He sounds almost indignant.
"Steer two nine mark four," I say. "Keep the globe between us and Mur." The Warhammer is still on a heading towards us, though it is taking a pounding from T'Pia's assault on its flank.
King Estmere seems to groan as she angles away from the Siohonin ship's approach. Kophil is swearing under his breath as the plasma beams lash out again, only to splash uselessly back from the black glassy surface of the globe.
Then, "Wait," says Kophil, "wait...."
"What is it?" I ask.
"There's something... there's just a spot," says Kophil. "One spot where the reflection isn't complete. There's a tiny, tiny flaw in this thing, and if I can hit it just right...."
"Warhammer approaching weapons range," says Anthi. "But we're getting behind the globe now...."
The enormous black shape seems to drift across the screen, eclipsing the oncoming Warhammer. Kophil is not swearing any more. He is hunched over the weapons console, hardly breathing, his fingers moving in the tiniest of increments, trying to wield King Estmere's massive plasma arrays with the precision of a jeweller's tool.
"Yes," says Kophil, almost crooning the word, "yes...."
On the screen, the black shadow of the globe is suddenly broken by a dimly glowing spot of red. Kophil hits the firing controls again. The plasma beams blaze at the red spot... and it brightens, and spreads, from a single dot to a sudden lake of molten gold.
The sphere rolls, molten crystal flying out in great gobbets to freeze solid again in the deeps of space. Fractures start and spread from the ruined section, and suddenly it is no longer a sphere, but a hurtling mass of jagged fragments, breaking apart and colliding again in a dizzying chaotic storm.
But it's just a thing, and Enteskilen Mur can make another one, given time. "Target the Warhammer!" I snap. The wreckage of the globe is no longer protecting us, and Mur is going to be angry.
"Please engage the countermeasures for the Rift entity." T'Pia's voice. She sounds completely calm, though Tapiola has taken some shrewd knocks from Mur's disruptors. "I will hold Mur immobile while we proceed."
Golden specks fly across the sky from the Tapiola. The Orb Weaver's web generator is undamaged - and Warhammer is suddenly caged in an icosahedral web of shimmering golden threads. It will hold Mur - maybe for long enough.
"Ready on my bridge," Ronnie says. "Do it."
"Engaging main deflectors," says T'Pia.
"Hit it," I tell Amiga.
A deep pulsing drone sounds from somewhere within King Estmere, a sound with unsettling harmonics, weird notes that set my teeth on edge. Light is flickering from Tapiola's main deflector. On the screen showing the Falcon's bridge, Ronnie Grau stiffens into immobility as light plays around her.
"Frequencies building," says Amiga. "I'm still not clear what frequencies," she adds.
Whatever they are, they're having some effect on my ship, if on nothing else. The vibration seems to seep into me, setting off fresh pains in my back, my chest. There is a sudden sputter of sparks from one console. Transient surge in our much-abused EPS grid.
On the screen, Ronnie Grau is surrounded by a glowing nimbus. Sparks are flying from her Borg implants.
Another burst of sparks, this time from the weapons console, and Kophil curses. "Lost fire control for the plasma arrays," he says. "Trying to reroute it now -"
The next jolt hits me like a kick in the spine. King Estmere is groaning all around me. Ronnie is a blazing figure in the middle of Falcon's bridge, the sparks now branching in torrents from her implants. She screams -
The golden web collapses. Warhammer is scorched and battered - and free -
"Plasma torps!" I yell, and something tears loose in my chest.
King Estmere shudders again as the torpedoes fire - and again, and a third time - and then nothing, as the magazine runs dry at last.
Tapiola fires her tetryon banks, pounding at the Warhammer's shields - and there is a weak spatter of fire incoming from the Falcon, too -
It's enough. Before Warhammer can fire the warp cannon, its shields go down, and our plasma torpedoes punch through. The first salvo turns that massive domed prow into a flaming molten ruin; the next two plough through, into the body of the ship. The cylindrical hull swells and bursts with fire, and then the warp core goes, and Warhammer is nothing more than a shower of blazing dust. Whatever happens, Sebreac Tharr needs another high priest.
The lights go out on the screen. King Estmere steadies. Ronnie Grau is lying very still on the deck of her bridge. The only moving thing about her is a wisp of smoke, curling up from the ruined implant over her left eye.
"T'Pia!" I yell, and something has given way inside me, because blue blood sprays from my mouth as I speak. But only one thing matters now. "Did it work? Did we do it?"
The sphere going bye-bye was nice, but Mur got off waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too easy. This was really the only thing that disappointed me about "Fallout", as well; Klur should've been captured and taken for trial, whether to face Federation justice and a life in 4028, or Klingon justice and a knife in the ribs.
Death by exploding starship was too good for that vile cult leader Mur. Besides, the Klingons are going to want to get their hands on at least one of these big bads soon...
The sphere's destruction actually has a somewhat inaccurate bit in it, if I'm not mistaken. Vacuum does not conduct heat, and near-vacuum (which is what space is) isn't much better. (Which is why keeping stuff like engines cold on a starship is so tricky.) The 'molten crystal flying out in great gobbets' should (if, of course, I'm right) not have frozen nearly as quickly as the text suggested.
That said, Mur's death seemed somewhat anticlimactic as a whole. Perhaps this is a sign of things to come...
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Sure, it may be outside our flow of time, but that doesn't mean the entity knows everything.
Though I really doubt everything's done except for the cleanup and the war crime trials.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
As to Mur... hmm, I might have to be serious for a moment. Suppose he (or, as worffan pointed out, Klur from "Fallout") were brought to trial... what then? These people are responsible for millions of deaths, how could they possibly atone for their actions? What conceivable punishment would be appropriate, or even feasible? And - importantly, to my way of thinking - at what point does the intensity of the punishment make us, in inflicting it, as bad as them? "An eye for an eye" makes two people eye-gougers, after all.
Must admit, too, that I'm not quite getting all the hate for Mur - though he is a thoroughly nasty piece of work, he isn't the actual villain of the piece in my eyes. That spot is reserved for the Rift entity. Mur is, to some extent, the product of his background and his upbringing - he was born into Siohonin society, and therefore doesn't notice its many flaws. The entity doesn't even have that rather feeble excuse. It has come to an understanding of our universe, has looked around, has seen (because its superpowers make it close enough to omniscient as makes no difference) every culture in the galaxy, and has said to itself, "Hmm... the Siohonin... arrogant, ignorant, oppressive, irretrievably sexist... hey, these are my kind of people!" Mur, at least, was born a Siohonin. The entity chose them.
Besides which, in story terms, three beaten-up Federation starships weren't going to be able to capture the guy neatly anyway. Sometimes, an exploding starship is the readiest tool to hand.
And, speaking of exploding starships....
"Permission granted, sir." The burly Andorian saluted crisply. "Welcome aboard the Enterprise."
Admiral Quinn stepped off the transporter pad and strode onto the Federation flagship's bridge. "Thank you, Captain Shon. What's the situation?"
"Fleet's holding station six AUs from Lambda Cygni. The Siohonin forces are massing - and I do mean massing," the Andorian added dryly. "Estimates have them at nearly a quarter of a million frigates. They've been busy."
Two hundred and fifty thousand ships... every one of them with weaponry capable of pounding a cruiser to ruins, any three of them capable of one-shotting a dreadnought... Quinn steeled himself, put the thought from his mind. "What about our allies?"
"We have direct contact with J'mpok on the Bortasqu', Commander Jarok on the Lleiset, Obisek on the Zdenia. I have them on your flag chair console now, sir."
Quinn took his seat, nodded to the row of faces on the miniature screens. "Quinn," growled the Klingon Chancellor. "Welcome to the fray."
"Still working on tying in Legate Murcenn aboard the Ninth Order's flagship, sir." Lieutenant Jav, the ops officer, took over smoothly. "And, sir, DaiMon Trok say's he's waiting for a confirmation code -"
"Patch him in," said Quinn. A fourth panel lit up, showing an expectant, fang-toothed, huge-eared face. "DaiMon. My receipt code is Qayliph-Alpha-Shul two seven four."
DaiMon Trok glanced at something outside Quinn's range of vision. "Checks out, Admiral. The forces of the Ferengi Alliance acknowledge receipt of your payment and stand ready to receive your orders."
"Good. Tie into our tactical command net and stay ready," said Quinn. The Ferengi grinned and vanished from the screen.
"How much did it cost?" asked Captain Shon.
"The Grand Nagus took me for everything I had," said Quinn. "At the time. Six strips of gold-pressed latinum."
Shon glanced at the tactical display, at the swarm of squat orange crescentric warships. "Special discount rates?" he asked.
"One-off bargain," said Quinn. "Just so he could say truthfully that the Ferengi never fought without payment -" He stiffened. "What's that?"
"Unknown, sir," said Lieutenant Commander Tem from the science station. "Sensor contacts approaching from two different vectors. Attempting analysis now -" Her face turned suddenly pale, and she uttered a loud Bajoran oath.
"Um, Admiral," said Lieutenant Jav. "I have... incoming hails. From the, umm, the Zlan'tirgri and the, the Naskatk...."
"The who? Put them through," Quinn growled. "Let's see what else we've got to deal with."
Two faces appeared on the main screen - or shapes, at any rate. One was a red-gold glittering crystal in which eyes glowed like fires. The other was a metal mask with a steaming respirator, surmounted by a cycloptic visor.
The crystal spoke first. <Admiral Quinn. I am Admiral Atene, aboard the Tholian Assembly dreadnought Zlan'tirgri. It is the judgment of the Assembly that the Siohonin present a clear and present danger, not only to your Federation and its allies, but to all species within their potential sphere of influence. The Assembly has therefore decided to offer military support towards ending this threat. Please transmit your requirements to coordinate my ships with your tactical computer net.>
"I - thank the Assembly for its cooperation," said Quinn. He turned to Lieutenant Jav. "Make it so." Then he turned to the masked Breen. "And you?"
"Thot Trel," the Breen rumbled.
Quinn frowned. "I thought you were dead?"
"No, no, that was Thot Trel, I'm Thot Trel." The masked figure shifted - in irritation or amusement, Quinn couldn't tell. "Anyway, what the chatty crystal said goes for us as well. These lunatics are a threat to everyone, the Confederacy included. My fleet will coordinate with yours, and if it all works out, the Siohonin are going down."
Quinn blinked in bemusement. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "Welcome, Thot Trel." He turned to an increasingly harassed-looking Lieutenant Jav. "Try and keep a couple of command channels open," he said, "just in case the Dominion or the Hirogen show up."
"I'll try, sir. Um, the Cardassian fleet contingent is linked in now -"
"Let me have full tactical display," Quinn ordered.
The main viewer lit up with the fleets marked in. Starfleet, KDF, the Romulans... the Cardassians on one flank, the Ferengi on another... and now, more forces, Tholian and Breen, linking into a network of terrifying firepower. Tholian Tarantulas and Breen Rezreth Destroyers... having ships like that on his side, for once, should make a difference, Quinn thought.
But against the oncoming wall of Siohonin warships, even this fleet looked paltry by comparison. Quinn settled into the flag chair, and studied the screen. The faces of his fellow commanders regarded him from the console.
"Incoming hail from the Siohonin, sir," said Jav.
J'mpok glared and made a contemptuous noise. "Ignore it," he suggested.
"We may as well hear what they have to say." Legate Murcenn was a heavy-jowled elderly Cardassian with an unexpectedly smooth, silky voice. "It may buy us time, at least."
"Put them on," said Quinn, wearily.
He knew the face that appeared now. "Admiral Jorel Quinn," said the Siohonin. "I am Grand Marshal Gamariden Tal. The Federation has seen fit to ignore some reasonable requests made by our lord the Theocrat. My orders, therefore, are to implement the Theocrat's requirements. You and your wretched mob are in my way, Quinn. Get out of it."
Quinn looked at Tal, looked at the arrogant carriage, the glowing triumphant eyes of the man. He thought very hard about what to say.
"No," he said, and cut the channel.
J'mpok laughed. "Admirably direct."
Quinn turned to the Tholian and the Breen. "Have you assimilated our tactical plan?"
"Got it," said Trel.
<Your late Vice Admiral M'Azzur seems to have judged well,> said Atene. <Swamping their defences with auxiliary craft seems the best way to negate their special weapons. Even so, their numbers are colossal - Still. The Assembly is ready to follow your plan.>
Quinn nodded. The Siohonin fleet was closing faster now, there was no more time to delay. "All ships," he said, "launch auxiliaries."
From the launch bays of every carrier in the fleet, from the shuttle bays of every other ship, fighters, frigates, and shuttles shot out. The tactical display flickered on the verge of overload at the huge number of units now involved in the battle. A blizzard of auxiliaries swept out from the allied fleets, to interpenetrate the Siohonin formation, to snipe and harass the enemy from every angle.
M'Azzur's plan had been the best option, they had decided. The harrying fighters would disrupt the Siohonin's already limited tactical coordination - the Siohonin couldn't use their warp mirror defence against attacks from multiple vectors simultaneously - the fighter harassment would prevent groups of three frigates from linking up to use the devastating warp cannon -
In theory.
That theory was about to be put to the test. "Fighters in weapons range," Tem reported. "Engaging."
To the naked eye, it would have seemed as though a multi-coloured haze was spreading across space. Half a dozen different kinds of energy weapons, spitting from thousands of small ships, turned the starfield into a shifting, glimmering glow. Here and there, a bright gleam announced the first deaths, the first breaches of warp cores....
"Confirming... Siohonin casualties," said Tem. "Sir, I don't think... I can't be sure, but I don't think we've lost any allied fighters yet."
Quinn frowned. The Siohonin frigates were individually feeble, outclassed by the Tholians' Mesh Weavers, Cardassian Hidekis, or even Starfleet's Delta Flyers and runabouts... but surely some of the auxiliaries must have run into the path of those deadly kinetic lances, by now?
"I have Captain M'urra from Atrox's fighter wing reporting now," said Lieutenant Jav.
"Put her through."
The Caitian figher commander appeared on screen. "They're not using the lances!" she cried. "No sign of their special weapons! They only have standard disruptors, and they're not even good with those! We're swarming all over them! If we get main fleet support, we can finish them!"
"It could be a trap," said Tiaru Jarok, thoughtfully. "To lure in our heavy units and take them out."
"Our lead escorts are already in range," said J'mpok. "If it is a trap, they must spring it soon, or it will be all over for them."
Quinn thought furiously for a moment. The Siohonin weren't disciplined, weren't experienced - under the fighter assault, he was sure, a Siohonin frigate commander would have used the kinetic lances... if he was able....
He decided. "Quinn to fleet. All ships. Commit to full engagement."
Enterprise surged smoothly forwards in the vanguard of the Starfleet contingent. Quinn tried to block his ears to the sound of Klingons singing behind J'mpok.
"Attack Pattern Eta Nine," Captain Shon ordered. "Wide angle barrage, target as many opponents as you can. Reinforce forward shields." He glanced at Quinn. "If our firepower's divided between multiple targets - it might get reflected back in increments we can survive."
"Targets in weapons range," someone announced.
"Fire!"
The Federation flagship trembled as her phaser arrays sent out beams of golden energy like the questing fingers of a giant - and what those fingers touched, they broke. A half dozen luckless Siohonin frigates died within seconds, shields blasted to nothing, hulls vaporizing under the Enterprise's phasers.
"Torpedo tubes, scatter pattern, fire!" And more Siohonin ships died, torpedoes piercing their shields and smashing through to wreak havoc on their hulls.
"Slaughter them!" J'mpok was shouting. "Send them to Gre'thor! Avenge every insult to Klingon honour!"
"The Siohonin have a small number of genuine starships," said Quinn. "Their command and control battleships."
J'mpok looked at him, and the light of battle faded briefly in his eyes, to be replaced by a calculating look. "Yes," he said, "yes, if we take those, the rabble of frigates will be forced to surrender."
Quinn nodded. "Let's find them."
"I have partial ID for the Siohonin heavy units already," said Lieutenant Commander Tem. "Sir - the closest one to us is the enemy flagship. The Glaive."
Quinn smiled, just a little. "Signal Escort Group Alpha to accompany us and keep Siohonin light elements out of the way," he said. "Let's go deal with Gamariden Tal."
---
"Warp cannon inactive. Warp mirror inactive. Kinetic lances offline," the weapons officer repeated in tones of weary desperation.
Gamariden Tal whirled round to stab an accusing finger at Nyredalit Amm. "Still nothing! Where is the god's aid, Amm? Where is it?"
Sweat had broken out on the priest's brow; he clung to his rod of office like a lifeline. "The god must be testing us - testing our devotion - Our faith must not waver!"
"Faith is not helping my ships!" roared Tal. He made a sweeping gesture to the status board that dominated one side of the bridge - where he could see his forces dwindling, his fleet melting away, like a sandcastle in the rain, under the apocalyptic barrage from the Allied ships. "We need the special weapons, Amm! Intercede with the god, Your Holiness - if not on our behalf, then on your own!"
"Movement among the infidel ships, sir," the Glaive's tactical officer reported. "Some of their heavier elements have changed course - they are -" He swallowed. "They are moving to intercept our capital ships. Sir, the USS Enterprise is coming towards us."
Tal swore loudly. He took rapid stock of his available forces, and strode to the communications console. "Twelfth Assault Armada! Defend the flagship! Engage and destroy the Enterprise!"
"There is other movement," the tactical officer continued. "The infidel fighters are withdrawing from battlefield sector two eight by three seven -"
Tal looked at the screen. "Their forces are thinly spread in that area! Concentrate the fleet! We will break through and outflank them!" He turned to Amm. "We may win through yet."
"If our faith is strong -" the priest began, and Tal turned away from him with a dismissive oath.
The comms channels were humming with orders and distress signals already - now, new messages were coming in, on the priority channels reserved for the Siohonin capital ships.
"This is the Ranseur, we have a Tholian dreadnought inbound, request urgent support -"
"Demilune engaging the Cardassians, we are outnumbered by their Galors, request support -"
"This is the Corseque! We have the Bortasqu' on scan, contact imminent! Evading now! Assistance needed!"
"Partizan calling. We are under attack from the Nausicaan vessel Anar. We will sweep this mercenary scum out of the sky -"
That voice broke off. Tal called up a visual image from that sector, and winced. The Nausicaan Guramba destroyer was spinning away from the fight, its spines reconfiguring after firing its disruptor javelin - and the Partizan, pierced from stem to stern, was collapsing into a blazing hulk -
But his forces, now, were concentrating in the battlefield sector that had been cleared of enemy fighters. That one was dominated by the Romulans and the Remans, Tal noticed. His lip curled. They were cowards who preferred to strike from hiding, it was no wonder they had no stomach for a real fight.
"Ships at sector two eight by three seven, prepare to advance," he ordered. "Punch through the Romulans and fall on the Federation from the flank. Glorious victory - in the name of Sebreac Tharr!" There. That should please the god, perhaps even enough to awaken him.
The Siohonin ships, obedient to his orders, advanced. And then space shimmered before them -
Scimitars. Romulan and Reman Scimitars, too many for Tal to count at one glance, and all of them decloaking with their weapons spines raised and charged. They fired their thalaron barrages in concert, in one devastating blast, planet-wrecking weaponry aimed squarely at the dense mass of Siohonin ships.
The light frigates simply evaporated as the blast wave swept over them. The capital ships - Bardiche, Voulge, Pilum, Kontos, a half dozen others - resisted only a few seconds longer before they, too, burned. Tal screamed with rage and frustration as he realized that a full twenty per cent of his forces - his remaining forces - had perished at one stroke.
He rounded on Amm. "With the warp mirrors, we could have blasted the Romulan filth with their own weapons! Where is the god?"
If Amm had an answer, it was lost in the sudden screaming of alarms, the flash-bangs from consoles, the shuddering of the ship from impacts. "Enterprise in weapons range!" yelled the tactical officer. "Shields down to forty per cent! Hull breach, deck seventeen!"
"Return fire!" Tal shrieked. He turned to Amm again. "We need the warp mirror, the warp cannon! We need them now! Or your god has failed us!"
"The god does not fail," said Amm, almost plaintively. "We must trust that this is part of his plan -"
The ship shuddered again. "Port weapons offline! Shields failing!"
"This is not part of a plan!" screamed Tal. "Your god has abandoned us! Sebreac Tharr has failed!"
"No! No!" Amm wailed in reply. "You cannot say that! You cannot defame the god!" He waved his flame-tipped rod of office at Tal. "In the name of Sebreac Tharr, I rebuke you!"
The stylized flame pointed straight at Tal's heart. Nothing happened.
Tal swore loudly, drew his laser pistol and fired. Nyredalit Amm toppled backwards, his face a picture of horror and woe, around the smoking crater drilled between his eyes.
Tal had one moment to exult, and then the deck leaped away from under his feet. The lights went out. The noise and glare of exploding consoles filled the bridge. Tal landed heavily on the bucking deck, scrambled to his feet. Red emergency lights came on.
"Dorsal nacelle ruptured," someone was saying in a weak voice. "Hull breaches, all decks. EPS grid fluctuating, main power down. Shields down. Structural integrity at twelve per cent."
Tal looked wildly around him. The comms console, somehow, was still intact. He dropped his pistol, ran towards it, opened all the hailing frequencies with one smash of his hand against the switches.
"Glaive to Enterprise!" he screeched. "Glaive to all ships! This is Grand Marshal Tal! Stand down! We surrender! Tal to fleet, all ships, surrender! Surrender! We surrender! We surrender!"
I can imagine that the Siohonin are going to have to pay some heavy reparations now (doubly so, once the Federation learns about the atrocities committed on its colony worlds...) To say nothing, of course, of how the Klingons are going to react when they learn about the massacres against their own people...