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Noonday Sun (story)
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in Ten Forward
Siffaith made his way slowly up the long, curving, tubular corridor. As he approached the round door, it separated into segments that twirled aside and into the walls. He flinched as the light of the Eternal Noonday fell upon him. His huge eyes were not well adapted to the light. He shuffled forwards, out onto the upper surface of the Home.
Just outside the doorway, a teacher was hovering. Siffaith reached out with one claw, touching the controls, seeing the information globe form above them. Most of the People thought nothing of the teachers and their globes - they saw only that the globes were insubstantial, and they dismissed them as unreal. Dyegh had taught Siffaith otherwise. The teachers' globes held knowledge, and there was nothing more real than knowledge.
Dyegh.... Siffaith shaded his eyes with his hood, and after a while made out the figure of his mentor, standing on the smooth metal surface, some tens of paces away. Dyegh was standing quite still, his robed and hooded shape erect, black against the white metal of the Home. He looked, Siffaith thought, for all the world like one of the Progenitors themselves.
Siffaith made his way over to where Dyegh stood. His mentor acknowledged him with a wave of his claw, but said nothing, and did not turn his gaze away from... whatever he was looking at. Siffaith peered in that direction. Everywhere, there was the complex surface of the vast Land of Eternal Noonday... conglomerations of buildings, parklands, fields and spires stretching out into the distance until they blurred into mist and blended with the sky. But that was always the same... what was it, that had caught Dyegh's attention?
Then he saw it. Somewhere in the middle distance, brief pinpricks of dazzling whiteness, and threading lines of coloured light - scarlet, and blaze orange.
"The new gods are angry," he said.
"The new gods are always angry," Dyegh replied. "And they are futile. Paltry." His rasping voice carried with it complete conviction as he added, "In the days of the old gods, the whole sky was darkened by their might, and the only illumination came from the lightning of their anger. Compared to that -" He waved a dismissive claw at the lights in the distance. "Paltry."
"Some day, though," said Siffaith, "we must talk to the new gods. There must be much we could learn from them -"
"Perhaps," said Dyegh. He turned to face Siffaith. "It is gratifying to me that you still seek knowledge. So few of the People do. In three hundred thousand hours of Eternal Noonday, you are the only one I have found who still questions, who still thinks -" He gripped Siffaith's upper arm with one claw. "The spirit of the Progenitors is in you, my friend and student. It is in us both. Together, we may accomplish much."
Siffaith looked at him. "You have... found something?"
"Another teacher. So many teachers, standing patiently around the Home, and I swear none of the People has disturbed them in uncounted millions of hours. Not since the Progenitors fell and the sun turned cold."
Siffaith shuddered. Long hours of poring over the teachers' globes had taught him that the fall of the Progenitors, the cooling of the sun... these were not myths. Dyegh was older, had learned more... how much more, Siffaith could only guess.
"The teacher... has told me things," said Dyegh. "Things that the new gods cannot know. How the People survived, here in the Home, when the Progenitors fled to the places that are not places. And the ultimate purpose of the Land itself. Though that purpose may no longer be fulfilled...."
"Why not?" asked Siffaith.
"Interference. The meddling of the new gods. But that does not matter - the Land served the purposes of the old gods, and the old gods have gone. But what does interest me, my friend, is the other possibilities the teacher has shown me. The engines of the Land are many and various, and their powers may be used in many ways. Come. Let me show you." He tugged, insistently, at Siffaith's arm. Siffaith allowed himself to be led away, up the gently curving, domed surface of the Home.
Behind them, many kilometres away now, the Voth scout ship fired a final volley of antiproton fire into the USS Northwood's aft section. The frigate's port nacelle exploded in flames, and the Voth ship turned away, leaving the Northwood hanging crippled in the Dyson Sphere's sky, as it departed on some unguessable business of its own.
Just outside the doorway, a teacher was hovering. Siffaith reached out with one claw, touching the controls, seeing the information globe form above them. Most of the People thought nothing of the teachers and their globes - they saw only that the globes were insubstantial, and they dismissed them as unreal. Dyegh had taught Siffaith otherwise. The teachers' globes held knowledge, and there was nothing more real than knowledge.
Dyegh.... Siffaith shaded his eyes with his hood, and after a while made out the figure of his mentor, standing on the smooth metal surface, some tens of paces away. Dyegh was standing quite still, his robed and hooded shape erect, black against the white metal of the Home. He looked, Siffaith thought, for all the world like one of the Progenitors themselves.
Siffaith made his way over to where Dyegh stood. His mentor acknowledged him with a wave of his claw, but said nothing, and did not turn his gaze away from... whatever he was looking at. Siffaith peered in that direction. Everywhere, there was the complex surface of the vast Land of Eternal Noonday... conglomerations of buildings, parklands, fields and spires stretching out into the distance until they blurred into mist and blended with the sky. But that was always the same... what was it, that had caught Dyegh's attention?
Then he saw it. Somewhere in the middle distance, brief pinpricks of dazzling whiteness, and threading lines of coloured light - scarlet, and blaze orange.
"The new gods are angry," he said.
"The new gods are always angry," Dyegh replied. "And they are futile. Paltry." His rasping voice carried with it complete conviction as he added, "In the days of the old gods, the whole sky was darkened by their might, and the only illumination came from the lightning of their anger. Compared to that -" He waved a dismissive claw at the lights in the distance. "Paltry."
"Some day, though," said Siffaith, "we must talk to the new gods. There must be much we could learn from them -"
"Perhaps," said Dyegh. He turned to face Siffaith. "It is gratifying to me that you still seek knowledge. So few of the People do. In three hundred thousand hours of Eternal Noonday, you are the only one I have found who still questions, who still thinks -" He gripped Siffaith's upper arm with one claw. "The spirit of the Progenitors is in you, my friend and student. It is in us both. Together, we may accomplish much."
Siffaith looked at him. "You have... found something?"
"Another teacher. So many teachers, standing patiently around the Home, and I swear none of the People has disturbed them in uncounted millions of hours. Not since the Progenitors fell and the sun turned cold."
Siffaith shuddered. Long hours of poring over the teachers' globes had taught him that the fall of the Progenitors, the cooling of the sun... these were not myths. Dyegh was older, had learned more... how much more, Siffaith could only guess.
"The teacher... has told me things," said Dyegh. "Things that the new gods cannot know. How the People survived, here in the Home, when the Progenitors fled to the places that are not places. And the ultimate purpose of the Land itself. Though that purpose may no longer be fulfilled...."
"Why not?" asked Siffaith.
"Interference. The meddling of the new gods. But that does not matter - the Land served the purposes of the old gods, and the old gods have gone. But what does interest me, my friend, is the other possibilities the teacher has shown me. The engines of the Land are many and various, and their powers may be used in many ways. Come. Let me show you." He tugged, insistently, at Siffaith's arm. Siffaith allowed himself to be led away, up the gently curving, domed surface of the Home.
Behind them, many kilometres away now, the Voth scout ship fired a final volley of antiproton fire into the USS Northwood's aft section. The frigate's port nacelle exploded in flames, and the Voth ship turned away, leaving the Northwood hanging crippled in the Dyson Sphere's sky, as it departed on some unguessable business of its own.
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I find it hard to shake the feeling of fundamental wrongness.
We move through the jungle, brushing aside huge elephant's ear ferns, and crushing grasses into the rich loam beneath our booted feet... and then, as often as not, we come to a solid ceramic-metal wall, or a descending ramp, and it becomes blindingly apparent that this wilderness is a made thing, an artifact. The sun shines, brightly, overhead, making our shadows inky pools beneath our feet. It has been shining overhead for hours, and it always will. It never moves.
Whatever our cultural and ethnic backgrounds, all of us are members of species that evolved on planets... planets with regular day-night cycles, with genuine, authentic wilderness. The constant noon inside this gigantic artificial world is... psychologically unsettling.
It is a minor point, perhaps. It does not seem to be affecting my companions, at present. Perhaps, in the longer term, studies should be done on adjustment to these conditions. It is not a priority for the Alliance at the moment; there are too many other calls on our resources.
And the psychological effect is not affecting me, because I will not let it. I am trained in the discipline of Kolinahr, and my mind is mine to command. I have a mission to carry out, and the suspension of the diurnal cycle is not relevant.
The six of us advance cautiously into the jungle, anonymous in silver-white MACO armour and reflective helmets. Actually, that is not strictly accurate. Lieutenant Vasque is identifiable by the specialist equipment strapped to his back. And Commander Chalha, our local guide from Solanae Alliance Command, is easily spotted by her typical Tellarite physique. But the rest of us - myself, Twosani Dezin, and Chalha's two assistants, Lieutenants Curnow and Lerner - are simply mirror-masked white shapes, intimidating in our sameness.
Fortunately, our mission parameters do not include public relations.
Chalha stops, and holds out a hand, palm out, indicating that we are to halt, too. The six of us crouch down. "Got something," the Tellarite's voice says quietly through my earpiece.
"Our target?"
"Something bloody big, anyway. Careful, now."
I engage the motion tracker on my HUD, and the virtual screen of my helmet shimmers in a riot of colours before the computer filters out the random movements of vegetation in the breeze. Chalha is right - there is a large creature, moving slowly, some ninety metres from our current position. I flip open my tricorder and tie in the specialist sensor package. "Confirmed," I say. "Proceed to intercept."
We unsling our phaser rifles and edge cautiously forwards. It would be best to take the creature by surprise, but I doubt that will be possible. Even without their cybernetic augmentations, the Voth dinosaurs are predators, with keen senses and hunting instincts.
"It's a big one," Chalha mutters. "Rex Carcer?" I do not know why people find it necessary to name the large furiadons encountered in the wilderness, but it seems to have become a custom.
The motion tracker shows the beast abruptly coming to a halt. "I think it has scented us," I say.
"Move in, fast!" Chalha orders. We abandon caution and sprint forwards.
We meet the beast in a clearing among the trees. The furiadon is massive, at least four metres tall, and heavy enough that I can feel the ground shake as it lumbers towards us. Slit-pupilled reptilian eyes glare at us, and the cybernetic implants beside them flash with light.
"Fire!" Chalha yells.
Six MACO battle rifles blaze out as one, sizzling ropes of golden light lashing out at the beast's hide. The furiadon bellows, a hoarse blaring sound. We fire again. The high-intensity stun beams would suppress the neural activity of a humanoid target, permanently. The beast seems - no more than stung.
The head turns from side to side, and then its gaze locks on me.
It is assessing the situation correctly. My MACO gear has been the subject of several experimental enhancements which, among other things, increase the energy output of the battle rifle. The furiadon has correctly identified me as the most significant threat facing it. I suppose it is a testimony to the efficiency of the Voth cybernetic systems.
The furiadon roars again, its rank carnivore breath now distinctly perceptible to my sense of smell. It bares teeth as long as my hand, but they are not the threat. I fling myself forward as the skull-mounted cannons try to lock onto me and fire. A scarlet blaze of antiproton energy sears over my head, to turn the vegetation behind me into steam and ash.
It is a clear danger, but also an opportunity. As I land on the grass, I bring the rifle to firing position. I have only a fraction of a second, and the target is not a large one - but I succeed. The beam from my rifle passes between the fearsome teeth and straight into the furiadon's mouth. The dinosaurian skull lights up like a jack o'lantern, and then it topples and slumps sideways. The stun beam must have directly transected the brain stem; there was no way it could fail to render the creature unconscious.
Briefly unconscious - from what we know, very briefly. I rise to my feet. "Mr. Vasque. Suppression systems. Now."
Vasque reacts quickly. He unslings the backpack and places the suppression unit on the furiadon's head, just behind and below the metal skullcap that supports the cranial implants. If we are correct in our analyses of the salvaged Voth technology, this will temporarily override the neural signals from the implants, disabling the creature's built-in weaponry, eliminating the Voth's programmed control over the furiadon's brainwaves, while at the same time paralyzing the creature's voluntary muscles. If we are correct. If we are not, we will shortly be in the presence of a fully aware, fully armed, and extremely irritated furiadon.
It would be preferable to be correct.
"I think we've got it, sir," says Vasque. "Readouts are... nominal."
"Excellent." I kneel down beside the furiadon's head. This close, the smell of meat on its breath is almost overpowering. I take off my helmet, draw off my suit's gloves. "Brainwave activity?"
"Thirty per cent of normal," Vasque says. "Rising."
"Sir." A touch on my shoulder: Twosani Dezin. I turn towards her. My exec's face is concealed beneath the mirrored MACO helmet, but I know there is concern showing in her black Betazoid eyes. "Sir, are you sure -?"
"I am," I say. "This needs to be attempted by a telepath trained in strict mental discipline. Your skills lie in other directions, Commander."
"Stupid idea anyway," I hear Chalha mutter under her breath. It is typical Tellarite behaviour, from a culture which values argument and dissent. It is not a meaningful criticism, and I ignore it. I flex my fingers.
"Brainwave activity now at sixty percent," Vasque reports. "I'm getting some spikes in the limbic system - don't think they're natural - backup system is trying to bring the cybernetics back online -"
It will probably soon succeed. Voth technology is highly advanced, and we do not yet understand it fully. The furiadon's eyelids flicker - an involuntary response, as it nears wakefulness. I reach out and put my hand on the scaly head, between the eyes. The hide of the furiadon is tough, pebbly in texture, surprisingly warm. I focus my mind.
One reptile eye flutters open.
"Your mind to my mind," I murmur, "my thoughts to your thoughts...."
And there is PAIN and RAGE and NO ORDERS THERE ARE NO ORDERS BUT THERE ARE ALWAYS ORDERS BUT NOW THERE ARE NO ORDERS and I am filled with HUNGER and ANGER and the urge to KILL AND EAT -
Something made of meat is holding me and I struggle. I bare my fangs at it and it makes a noise I do not understand. The meat thing is silver and white and it has no face, but in the gleaming surface of its head I see something distorted, pink and red -
Focus.
The pink thing is my face, the red is my hair, reflected in Twosani Dezin's helmet. The noise is speech... most of it is speech, but some is an inarticulate roar, and that is coming from my own throat. Focus. The discipline of the Kolinahr is ingrained within me, I am master of my own mind, my own thoughts.... I push the animal thoughts of the furiadon away, and the fury and hunger subsides within me, and the roaring stops. I can make out Twosani's words.
"- control, sir, get control! T'Pia! Are you all right?"
"I am," I croak. I clear my throat with a cough. "My apologies, Commander. The furiadon's mind is an intense experience. I have regained control."
Again, I cannot see her eyes behind the visor, but I can feel them searching mine. "Sir, are you sure?"
"I am." My voice and gaze are both level. I have control. My thoughts are my own, my mind is my own. I straighten up. Twosani has been holding me; now, a little reluctantly, she lets go.
The furiadon is lying on the ground, twitching slightly. Between the phaser stun, the suppression device, and now the aftereffects of the mind-meld, its nervous system must be in poor shape.
"It is not sentient," I say. "I can confirm that, now. The intelligent stratagems the creatures have employed... these must be ascribed to the expert systems in the onboard cybernetics. The furiadon itself is - not sentient. It is low even on animal scales of consciousness, merely hunger and... anger."
Twosani's helmet tilts; she is studying the creature. "If someone did all that to me," she says, "I'd be angry, too."
"The cybernetic implants must frequently overrule the furiadon's natural instincts," I say. I pick up my gloves and helmet, draw on the gloves. "That must cause intense frustration." I settle the helmet on my head, and become faceless and anonymous like the others.
If there is any strain in my face, any emotion in my eyes, it will not show, now.
"The furiadon is an animal. Its strategic thinking is governed by its onboard computer. The systems synergize, to some extent, with the creature's innate hunting instincts - there would be no point to using an animal, otherwise, instead of a pure mechanism - but they do not depend on any sentient brain function of the animal's own. In fact, the implants must tend to suppress the development of the furiadon's own intelligence and initiative." I look down at the twitching creature. "Those are not qualities which the Voth value in a servitor.... The mechanisms, and the consciousness of the furiadon, are consistent with Admiral Sturak's earlier observations of the smaller dankanasaurs. Clearly, this is the preferred Voth methodology in cyborgizing dinosaurs." I take a deep breath. "This being the case, I will advise Alliance Joint Command not to make any especial effort to administer sapience tests to a Viriosaurus Rex."
"It's just an animal," says Chalha.
"That is a sufficient summary."
Chalha says nothing. She makes an adjustment to her phaser rifle. I know what is coming: I step back.
Chalha brings the rifle to her shoulder and fires. The weapon is set for destructive force. She plays the beam over the length of the furiadon, back and forth, for several seconds, until the animal is reduced to nothing more than a heap of smoking meat.
From the suffering I saw in its rudimentary mind, it might even be grateful. I say nothing.
"We should get back to the forward base, sir," says Twosani. "And then beam back to the ship - and then, sir, I think you should be fully checked out in sickbay. I know about your Kolinahr discipline, but -"
"It is a reasonable precaution," I say. "I concur with your assessment. Mr. Vasque. Please recover any undamaged equipment from the creature, and we will then return to base."
Timor falls gracefully out of the sky.
On the screen, I can see the inner surface of the sphere, its features expanding slowly before my ship's sleek rounded prow. I am spellbound, as ever. The interior of the sphere is larger than I can comprehend; a mind-boggling complexity of buildings, mountains, forests, deserts, oceans - each area resolving, as I study it, into a fractal swarm of smaller features. Each pixel on my viewer, at the moment, represents an area the size of a small continent. Over all, there is a faint whitish haze, the sign of weather systems in the sphere's interior atmosphere. There are storms out there the size of planets... and all I see is a faint haze.
The geography - for want of a better word - of the sphere is incomprehensible. Timor is mapping, as she drifts slowly back towards the surface. We have seen roadways a million kilometres long, we have seen oceans large enough to swallow a planet, and from here they are just threads and dots in the immense tapestry of the landscape below us. We can make maps, but I don't think we will ever understand them - the sphere's interior is just too huge for anyone's mind to take in.
"Starting to get some atmospheric friction," Commander Joaj reports from the engineering console.
My whiskers twitch, and I turn in my seat to face her. Joaj's narrow face, with its skin like tree bark , its antennae bristling from her forehead, is set in concentration. I still don't know what species the little engineer is - I suppose it must be on her personnel file, but I've never looked it up. All I need to know, really, is that she's reliable. Nonetheless, I'm surprised. "This far up?" I say.
"Confirmed," says Joaj. "Not much - less than one kilopascal - but enough to warm up the hull. Compensating now."
Something must have sent a cloud of gas out from the surface.... Inside the sphere, there is essentially no gravity; all the local forces cancel out. There are localized grav generators on the sphere - billions of them - but the main force governing the atmosphere is radiation pressure from the central sun. It's not much of a force, but it's enough, over time, to keep the sphere's air pressed against the interior surface, and to keep the star itself - mostly - in the centre of the sphere. There's some drifting, both of the star and the air... and it seems we've run into a cloud that's come free from its moorings and floated off into the sky. For some reason. Who knows what? The sphere's mechanisms feed off the entire output of the star; it juggles forces we can't even begin to handle.
Some - short circuit, perhaps - releases energy, or a weather control machine malfunctions briefly... and a gust of wind the size of Jupiter is hurled a few million kilometres into the interior. This sort of thing must happen all the time, inside the sphere.
"Pressure dropping," Joaj reports. "We're through it... back to normal air density at this altitude. Shouldn't be hitting air again for... three hours, on current course and speed."
"Thank you, Commander," I say formally, and settle back down in the command chair. I don't settle as well as I'd like. The engineers do their best, but there's a solid wall behind the command chair, and there really isn't enough space for my tail. Perhaps we should switch to a different standard design for the bridge - but, the last time the Timor refitted, that really wasn't my biggest priority.
A buzzer sounds. "Cartographic sweep completed," Onguma reports from the science console. The Saurian science officer is calm and composed, like so many of her people. "No significant megastructures or anomalies detected. We're moving out of optimum range for detail scans of unsurveyed territories, now, sir." The sphere is big, but we are approaching the area that's already been mapped by Alliance Joint Command. It's an area that exceeds the surface of Earth by several orders of magnitude. If you made a model of the sphere, the size of a football, the mapped area would be a dot.
"Thank you," I say. "All right, let's not worry any more. Shut down the cartographic scans, and let's just... enjoy the rest of the ride home."
"Yes, sir." Onguma's huge slit-pupilled eyes turn to her console. "Terminating cartographic survey. Reconfiguring sensor arrays for normal mode and -" She blinks. "I have something at extreme range."
"What sort of something?" I ask.
"Trying to resolve now...." Her head snaps up; her calmness has vanished. "Bearing one one seven, range about one triple zero, antiproton and nadion discharges."
"Helm. On that heading. Combat speed. Red alert." The human, Marya Kothe, is already on the helm controls. Alarms sound, and the deck vibrates beneath me as the Timor goes to full speed.
Nadion discharges - phaser fire. And antiproton fire too, which can only mean one thing. A Starfleet vessel in combat with the Voth. I repress a growl. The Voth.... The dinosaurians arrived at the sphere roughly the same time we did, and that has got to be down to the machinations of the now-departed Iconians. They have been fighting us for control of the sphere's mechanisms, for the insanely dangerous Omega particles it generates, since our explorations started. By now, they can't win - the controls for the sphere's subspace jumpers are shut down, the Voth themselves decimated by Undine attacks; they no longer have the resources to gain control of a device that doesn't work anyway. But the Voth have a rigid social structure and a devotion to dogma. Just because they can't win, that doesn't mean they will ever stop fighting.
And individual Voth ships can fight, and fight hard. If there's a Starfleet ship out there, in trouble with the Voth, it's my duty to assist.
"Starting to get transponder reads and tactical info," Marya reports. "Looks like a single Voth ship, mass and radiation profile consistent with a Bastion-class cruiser. Starfleet... one ship. USS Tempest. Pathfinder-class science vessel."
"Signal the Tempest that we're on approach to assist. Charge all plasma banks. Ready the singularity charge. Photonics, stand by." Timor has been substantially overhauled, her systems upgraded, since the mauling she took at the hands of the Vaadwaur. The Dauntless-class experimental science vessel is not, still, a warship... but anyone who takes us on will know they've been in a fight.
The same might be said for the Pathfinder class... a science vessel, yes, but a modern upgrade to the Intrepid-class spaceframe, and ships like Voyager could handle themselves in a fight. I call up the tactical feed on my command console. This one, the USS Tempest, is certainly not acting like a meek little laboratory ship. Even as I watch, she comes about in a tight turn, evading the stabbing scarlet flashes of the Voth's weapons, finding gaps in the enemy's shields and searing its hull with phaser fire.
Who's flying that ship? Whoever it is, they're good.
"No response on comms," Onguma reports. Well, it's not surprising. The Tempest is a little busy at the moment.
"Weapons range in five minutes," Marya says. I lean forwards, and my ears fold flat to the sides of my head.
The Voth ship is firing furiously, but the Tempest is running a fast evasion pattern. Antiproton bolts raise a glare as they glance off the Starfleet ship's shields, but those shields are holding... and, now, a sudden volley of phaser fire opens another gap in the Bastion's shields, and the Tempest takes full advantage. Photon torpedoes scream out of her launchers at point-blank range, and the impacts are too much for the Bastion's already scorched and battered hull. The Voth ship's port nacelle explodes, and the main hull is enveloped in flames and starts to crack open, venting air and electroplasma. It should be all over -
"Ward repair ship on sensors!" Onguma shouts.
Damn. Some of the Voth ships have these things - automated repair drones that lurk in subspace, loaded with nanotechnology and transporter buffers that can restore a wrecked ship to combat capability in seconds. I snarl as the dot comes up on the tactical display. This one won't help the wrecked Bastion - it is outside the Tempest's range, but we can reach it -
"Lock all weapons and open fire!"
Plasma beams reach out in blinding ribbons of green light to savage the Ward. The hull armour burns and vaporizes; white-hot fragments fly out across the sky. The singularity charge is probably overkill... but I fire it anyway. The repair craft is swallowed up in a twisting whorl of green-black light, is spat out again as flaming debris. The battle is over -
The battle should be over. But Onguma is staring at the scans. "Sir, the Tempest is still firing."
"What at?" The Bastion has collapsed into a smouldering wreck; there is nothing on the screens but debris and escape pods -
Phaser light bursts from the Tempest's beam arrays, and I feel the fur stand upright all over my body. "They're shooting down the Voth escape pods! Comms! Get me a link to that ship now!"
"Sending urgent priority signals," says Sumal Jetuz. The tall blond Betazoid is impeccably groomed as ever, and his voice is imperturbable - but the pallor of his face, the rapid movements of his black eyes, betray the emotions he's feeling at what we're seeing on the screen. "The Tempest's commander of record is Rear Admiral Daniel Fallon -"
"This is Commodore Fallon," a voice says from the comms unit. "Thanks for your assistance, Timor, we have everything under control."
The voice is clipped, brisk, matter-of-fact. I doubt mine is. "This is Admiral M'eioi! You're firing on Voth escape pods! Stand down! Now!"
"Ah, right." If Fallon has any reaction to my words, it doesn't show in his voice. "Apologies, sir. Our sensors are reading kemocite demolitions charges ejected from the wreckage. It might be a false reading - the Voth ship hit us with sensor scramblers. Ceasing fire."
On the screen, the Tempest's weapon arrays go dark.
"Helm," I order. "Move us in. Recover any remaining Voth survivors. Commodore Fallon." I strive to keep the anger out of my voice. "Prepare for transport to my vessel. We need to talk."
---
In the flesh, Fallon is... impressive. He is human, very tall - two metres, I think - and solidly built, his body and limbs showing sculpted musculature even in a standard Starfleet uniform. His craggy face is tanned, his brown hair cropped short, and his grey eyes are cold and flinty as they look me up and down. Although he commands a science vessel, the division stripe across his uniform tunic is red, and his combadge too shows tactical insignia.
"Commodore Fallon," I say, as the door of my ready room closes behind us. He prefers the obsolete title to the correct, but cumbersome, Rear Admiral Lower Half. I can understand that. What I can't understand is -
"Admiral." His voice is still completely calm. Authoritative. He looks and sounds like someone born to command. I stalk around to the chair behind my desk, but I don't sit. My tail is switching too much for me to sit. And I think he sees it.
"I don't need to remind you, Commodore," I begin, "about the standing orders regarding survivors from disabled enemy craft."
"No, sir. You don't." Still completely calm. "However, as I told you, sir, our sensors read those escape pods as enemy weapons. We acted accordingly. As soon as you informed us of the actual nature of those pods, sir, we ceased fire immediately. Your own log, sir, will bear that out."
I know he's lying, and he knows I know. How good, and how loyal, are his science officers? Can they fake sensor logs well enough to pass a determined enquiry by the JAG's office? Can I even get the JAG's office out here? "It's a very unusual sensor error," I say.
"Yes, sir. Voth sensor spoofing throws up all sorts of unusual readings. It's often difficult, sir, in the heat of battle, to recalibrate properly. As you will doubtless know, sir, from your own combats with Voth forces. On this occasion, sir, the enemy's own electronic warfare had tragic consequences. It's unfortunate."
"Not just for them," I say. "We have prisoner exchange and repatriation processes in place - the Voth survivors could, and should, have been traded for some of our own people -"
"There will be other chances for that, sir, I'm sure."
"You should get those sensor systems thoroughly checked out. Ideally, by experts at joint command."
"That's a sound suggestion, sir, and I'll bear it in mind."
"Do so." My eyes narrow slightly.
He is unfazed. "I remind the Admiral, sir, with all proper respect, that she is my superior officer, but not my commanding officer."
"That's why it's a suggestion, Commodore, not an order. But bear it in mind."
He gives a minimal nod. "Duly noted, sir."
"The last thing either of us wants," I say, slowly and deliberately, "is a repetition of today's... tragic mishap."
His lips thin, just a little. If I hadn't spent so long living among humanoids, I wouldn't notice it. "Indeed, sir." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other for a moment. "Though there are, perhaps, matters that might have escaped the Admiral's attention...."
"Such as?" Is he going to give me his reasons? To justify himself?
"You saw that Ward repair ship, sir. The Voth have similar systems in place on the ground. Their medics are well in advance of our own, sir, they can restore soldiers who've suffered injuries our own people would find fatal. I've seen Voth shock troopers, sir, come back after being apparently disintegrated by phaser fire. Our best guess is that the energy discharge triggers a modified transporter buffer which preserves their patterns until a medic can restore them." His eyes, icy to begin with, are hot, now. "Our people don't have these advantages, sir. If they're killed, they stay dead. To the Voth, as often as not, death is... a time-out, nothing more. It's nothing to fear, for them. Sir."
"So?" I say.
"So," he says, "the Voth who perished in today's tragic mishap, sir, won't be coming back. And I can't bring myself to regard that as a wholly bad thing, sir. Because if the Voth start to feel less sure about coming back alive when they go into combat, sir, they might just start to wonder if they're doing the right thing. If they have to pay the same price we do for this war, sir, they might start to ask themselves whether it's worth paying. Just a hypothetical thought, sir."
"I hope it stays hypothetical, Commodore," I say, as softly and levelly as I can. "Starfleet regulations, the Articles of War, and Federation law are all very clear about enemy survivors from destroyed ships. Anyone in an unarmed escape pod is a non-combatant, and we do not deliberately target non-combatants. Not now, not ever."
"Not while those laws are on the books, sir," says Fallon.
"Changing them is above either of our pay grades, Commodore."
"Yes, sir. I assure the Admiral that I will bear all her remarks very carefully in mind. If that's all, sir, I'd like to get back to my ship. I have repairs to put in hand, and casualties who - deserve my attention."
It sounds good to me, because the only way I want him on my ship - is in the brig. And I don't have enough to put him there... even though I know, deep down in my bones, that's where he ought to be.
"All right," I say. "No doubt you'll submit a full incident report to Joint Command at the earliest convenient opportunity."
"Yes, sir."
"So will I. Thank you for your time, Commodore."
His salute is impeccable. He turns on his heel, and marches out.
But that was many years ago, and the exercise of authority produced physical changes among the Voth. Dominance hormones flooded the bloodstream, darkening and reddening the skin, lengthening bone and bulking out muscles, until senior commanders like Stannark were immense, carrying with them the literal weight of authority: Voth Doctrine made flesh.
Stannark strode onto the bridge of the Gendratis, and settled himself on the command chair. Reinforced though it was, it creaked beneath him. His yellow-eyed gaze swept across the bridge of the Bulwark-class battleship. All seemed well.
"Status?" he asked.
"Ship is holding station at designated rendezvous point, one seven point five gigametres from central command," a lieutenant reported. Someday, Stannark reflected, they would have to rebuild central command - or move it to an intact spire. The treacherous Undine attack had interfered with Voth organization. "Ship is in readiness at alert level two. No hostiles on local or long-range scan." The lieutenant appeared nervous, though, somehow. "There is, ahh, as yet no sign of the Sartulphus...."
"Hmm." Stannark shifted his vast weight slightly in his seat, and stroked his chin in thought. His fingertips rasped on his scales. "Commander Varrotz is not often unpunctual. Signal command. Make enquiries."
"Yes, sir!" The lieutenant turned to a comms console. Stannark leaned back and thought. His ship was adequate, itself, for the planned investigation - but it would be useful to have the Bastion-class cruiser Sartulphus as a backup. What could be causing the delay?
He busied himself with routine reports and preparations. There was always much to do, and his ship was a model of correct organization and discipline. Stannark took great pride in his attention to detail.
The lieutenant at the comms console was joined by another figure, now: the dark and sinister shape of the Special Ops intelligence analyst, Davrak Karzis. Stannark looked down on the two, quizzically. Karzis bent his black-scaled head over the console, the ocular implants glowing blue-green in his eye sockets. Stannark frowned. If Intelligence was involved, something was amiss....
"We have reports from forward monitoring stations towards the primate incursion area." Karzis spoke in clipped and precise tones. "The Sartulphus detected a primate vessel and engaged it in a routine act of pre-emptive self defence. Unfortunately, primate treachery on this occasion overcame the Sartulphus's natural advantages, and the ship was damaged beyond utility. A repair vessel was activated, but it was intercepted and destroyed by another primate vessel. Any survivors are captives of the primates. I have additional information."
"Speak," growled Stannark. His benevolent mood was punctured. The primates had destroyed the Sartulphus? How dared they?
"Level three security. For the Commander's attention only," Karzis said.
Stannark muttered irritably and stood. "My office, then." He stomped off to the ready room, and the Spec Ops analyst followed silently at his heels.
"Well?" Stannark demanded, as the door hissed shut behind them. Karzis turned, checking the door seals, then stood at attention.
"We have intercepted communications traffic between the Federation ships involved in the action, and Alliance Joint Command. We have something of a picture of the individuals involved." He held out a datapad. "The senior officer, supposedly, is one Admiral M'eioi...."
"What sort of a name is that?" Stannark demanded. He took the datapad, studied the images. "What? This must be a deception... some servitor species, perhaps."
"Conceivably," said Karzis. "There have been incidents before where the primates have claimed to use feline species as officers of rank. I have heard reports concerning an 'Admiral Bobo', but I am unable to confirm any details of that one. This may be another of the same."
"It must be a front," said Stannark. "No furred primitive carnivore could command a starship. This is some mockery, some farce - the animal M'eioi is displayed for show, and there is a primate somewhere taking the real decisions. Do they think we are so easily deceived?"
"In this connection," said Karzis, "we should look at the other officer, the one primarily involved in the destruction of the Sartulphus. A primate, a human. One Commodore Daniel Fallon." He leaned closer to Stannark. "Intel analysis division has a file on this particular primate. He has drawn our attention... and this is another incident in his career. Comms traffic analysis suggests that this Fallon has acted deliberately to maximize loss of life among our people."
"What?"
"He has deliberately set out, not just to thwart our benevolent objectives, but to kill us," said Karzis. "He is consciously determined to destroy Voth lives. He has done so on this occasion, and it is not the first time."
"This is insupportable!" Stannark roared.
"Quite."
Stannark slammed his fist down on the desk. "Something must be done."
"Intelligence agrees," said Karzis. "In this context, I note something which touches on our current mission. The Circle of Particle Physics has an interest in the anomalous tetryon pulses we are to investigate -"
"How does this bear on the matter of the primate Fallon?"
"Our physicists have entertained certain conjectures, relating to the tetryon pulses and the historical catastrophe which overwhelmed the Solanae interlopers within the sphere," said Karzis. "They have, indeed, devised a mechanism which might take those anomalous pulses and use them to re-create that catastrophe - on a smaller and more manageable scale." Karzis's eyes were unreadable behind the ocular implants, but there was quiet satisfaction in his voice as he continued. "Some insolent primate - this Fallon, for example - might make an ideal test subject for this mechanism."
I are condemning Anglespeak, too.
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
If memory serves, he was portrayed by a Sehlat.
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
I'm assuming that Voth military intelligence is good, but not perfect - which is why they suspect "Admiral Bobo" of being real. (Or, of course, in my headcanon, Starfleet is desperate for personnel... I suppose a bloodthirsty sehlat might have made flag rank, if Quinn was having a really bad day....)
Subcommander Kaol is a typical piece of Romulan misdirection.
People assume that the commanding officer of Alliance Joint Command must be of high rank - they therefore assume that this harassed-looking officer of intermediate rank is only a representative of higher command, and merely passing on decisions arrived at by some superior body. They do not, therefore, argue with or question Subcommander Kaol, since it is not worth their time to deal with a mere representative.
Of course, Kaol is largely responsible for the whole of Joint Command's policy, and he has the shortest chain of command of any subcommander in the Republic Navy - he reports to Admiral Kererek, who reports to D'Tan. It is an enviable arrangement - I could wish that I, too, had so few superiors. Persons who try to assert authority over Kaol - to "pull rank" - are referred up to his immediate superior. This rarely works as well for them as they might wish.
Now, Kaol taps on his desk console, and an image of the sphere forms in his holoprojector. I lean forwards in my chair to study it closely.
A pulsing green dot marks a spot on the interior surface. At this scale, there is no meaningful detail to be seen. The location is some millions of kilometres from the spire appropriated by Joint Command, and well outside the - optimistic - boundaries of the area we have surveyed in detail.
"This is where the anomalous tetryon pulses originate," Kaol says. "So far, they are at relatively low power - but the tetryon frequency is unusual, and there appears to be some attempt to modulate it. Our experts are unable to decipher any meaningful information, but the mere fact of the modulation implies some sort of intelligent direction."
Someone, or something, is deliberately creating a tetryon pulse. I study the hologram. "That point is well outside our own area of operations," I say. "We cannot be absolutely sure about Voth explorations, but it is also outside the known extent of their territorial claims."
"Their defensible territorial claims," says Kaol. The Voth, of course, continue to lay claim to the sphere as a whole.... "The most likely inference is that some third party has gained access to the sphere, and is engaged in some experiments with the Solanae tetryon generators." He frowns. "Naturally, this is cause for concern. The power levels are comparatively low, so we need not immediately fear a repetition of the Solanae, ahh, mishap. But we need to investigate this situation, to find out who is generating this signal, and to, ahh, dissuade them from any incautious experimentation."
The disaster created by the Solanae's failed rift experiment devastated the sphere, significantly dimmed the central star, and contaminated the Solanae themselves with so much tetryon radiation they were unable to exist in normal space any more. As Kaol suggests, a repetition of this disaster would be... unwelcome. "What resources will you devote to the investigation?" I ask.
"We were certainly hoping," Kaol says, "that Starfleet would handle this one. The situation may call for diplomacy, and that is, ahh, Starfleet's forte, I think. Obviously, we also need experts in high-energy particle physics - I understand that is your background?"
"That is correct," I say. "The Tapiola can certainly be made available. It might be preferable, venturing into an unknown area, to have additional support."
"The Dauntless-class USS Timor has recently returned from a survey mission, and is, ahh, at a loose end, as far as my records indicate. Commanded by an Admiral M'eioi, whom I believe you know...?"
"Indeed. She was my junior in Stellar Survey Group 247 up until the Undine incursion, during which she distinguished herself and was promoted and reassigned. She is a competent officer with a suitable scientific background. Her assistance would be welcome, if you can obtain it."
"I will coordinate with your Director of Operations to -" Kaol suddenly looks past me, and stiffens. Something has alarmed him. I turn in my chair and look.
Kaol's "office" is no more than a section of a larger compartment - it is not even walled off, and there are always numbers of people around. At present, their attention seems to be monopolized by status screens displaying information about the local environment within the sphere.
I study those screens myself, and I understand why.
"If I am interpreting the visual data correctly," I say, "the ion stream appears to have shut down."
"That, ahh... would seem to be correct," says Kaol.
I stand up. "I will return at once to the Tapiola. You will require detail scans of the stream's waveguides. Also, this incident is liable to draw interest from other quarters, and it would be as well to be fully prepared."
"Yes," says Kaol in a blank voice. "Quite. Yes."
---
The ion stream is a conduit of exotic high-energy particles flowing through huge circular waveguides, hanging in the interior of the sphere, passing near Joint Command's spire. It has not been fully charted - like so many things - nor has its behaviour been fully explained. The idea that it is, in effect, a part of the sphere's power systems - like an EPS conduit inside a starship - does not bear closer examination; the ion stream generates many unusual energy effects, and we do not know how they could be used.
Usually, it generates many unusual energy effects. Currently, as Tapiola makes a cautious approach to one of the waveguides, it is generating nothing whatsoever.
"No signs of damage or malfunction." The Saurian science officer, Bildua, speaks in abstracted tones, as he tries to assimilate the data flooding into her console. Given that the waveguides are not currently operating, we should attempt to take detailed scans of them - something which is not possible while the energy stream is producing vast quantities of sensor noise. "It's just... shut down, I think, sir. We're getting a data signal which is consistent with Solanae comms chatter - I think it's just repeating 'standby mode', over and over."
"Patch that through to my command console," I say. "I want some warning if that changes. Mr. Psaz. Tactical report."
"Nothing yet," the Tellarite at the weapons station replies. "That'll change, though. Scanning on all Voth frequencies. I've got positions on allied ships in the vicinity - huh. One we know, nearby. Elachi Monbosh-class battleship with KDF privateer transponder. The Goroke."
"Excellent. General Bl'k' is a competent tactical commander, and her ship is a significant combat asset."
Normally, the Voth are deterred from probing too close to Joint Command by the minefield, an automated defence network... which, in fact, works rather better than it should. The minefield is vast, but it is, in the end, a fixed defensive line in a three-dimensional and unbounded strategic environment; such things are usually circumvented. It is, perhaps, a function of Voth rigidity of outlook, that they should respect a notional boundary line....
Most of the time. "Contacts bearing three eight seven," Psaz reports. "Here they come."
"I'm receiving a general hail." This from Pascale, the green-haired android at the operations console. "Putting it through -"
A craggy scaled face glares at us from the viewscreen. "This is Science Commander Katzik aboard the Madractis. This phenomenon is now a subject of study by the Voth Circles of Science. Mammalian vessels are to depart immediately. No further warnings will be given."
"This is Admiral T'Pia aboard the USS Tapiola," I say. "Intelligent cooperation in this matter will undoubtedly yield better results -"
The screen goes blank. To be honest, I did not expect otherwise.
"Mammalian," Bildua mutters. "I should take offence."
"Can't get a read on all the Voth," says Psaz. "They're throwing out some fierce sensor jamming. We've got a Bastion-class for sure, though, coming our way." He glares at me. "I don't think he's got intelligent cooperation in mind."
"I concur. Red alert. Battle stations. Ready all projection systems."
"Goroke is moving in," Psaz says, "but that cruiser will reach us first unless we go max evasive now."
Options flash through my mind. "Better to bring the Voth to action immediately," I decide. "Comms. Signal the Goroke and patch through tactical telemetry." I touch a control. "All hands. We are about to engage a Voth cruiser. Stand ready." My voice booms back at me through the Tapiola's internal speakers.
"Weapons range in two," says Psaz.
"Forward shields to maximum."
I have a visual. Against the blue haze of the sphere's atmosphere, the Bastion cruiser is a small, malevolent black blotch. A blotch that grows, and suddenly flares with red -
Tapiola shudders in the antiproton barrage. "Forward shield down thirty-five per cent!"
"All projectors, fire. Steer two seven two mark three, emergency evasive."
My ship shudders again with the fury of her own barrage. Tetryon fire from the forward blades, yes, but most of my energies are expended on more exotic weapons systems. Lines of light reach out from our hull, spread out, and shimmer into holographic warships, fuelled by energy from our warp core. Ahead of us, the Voth ship suddenly slows and trembles, caught in an induced gravity well - and then is surrounded by an icosahedral cage of golden light, as our Tholian web generators come into play. In the sphere's atmosphere, the web lines sparkle and crackle vividly.
The Bastion has tried a trick of its own, creating an energy-sapping spatial rift at our location - our desperate burst of speed tears us loose from it, just in time. My power levels are depleted, though, and the initial barrage took my shields down lower than I would like. But the Voth ship is temporarily trapped, and I have the opportunity to pummel it with tetryon fire and thermionic torpedoes. I have the opportunity, and I take it.
A thunderstorm of energies rumbles around the Bastion cruiser, and I see a brief flash of flame from a minor hull breach. Tapiola comes about once more, to present her substantial forward armament. Still, the Bastion is a larger and more powerful ship than mine, and the odds are not in my favour - or would not be, if I did not have support.
"Goroke is in range," Pascale reports. "Her auxiliary vessels are spoofing the Voth's sensors. General Bl'k' is targeting their engines."
"We will follow suit. Mr. Psaz. I find that cruiser's port nacelle aesthetically displeasing. Kindly remove it."
The Tholian web implodes, its mesh scoring deep grooves in the Bastion's hull - but releasing it, at the same time. Scarlet antiproton fire raves out from its every gun port. Tapiola shivers again, and there is a flash-bang from a secondary console as a transient surge is damped out in our EPS grid. Our combat holograms are firing, but the Voth ship's wide-area barrage has caught them and destabilized their matrices - they flicker and wink out of existence.
There is the grunt and whine of energy banks discharging below me. Cherenkov-blue light sears out from our blades, tearing at the stumpy rounded shape of the Bastion's port nacelle. And, on the other side -
The Goroke's approach should have been obvious, but the battleship is accompanied by her specialist auxiliary craft, and one of those is projecting a jamming beam that blinds the Bastion's sensors. Anyone looking out of a porthole, of course, could see the goat's-skull shape of the battleship - but it seems the Voth were not looking. Now, the first intimation they get of Goroke's arrival is a vicious blast of crescent-wave disruptor fire, virulent green light scything through the armour of their starboard nacelle. A vivid flash marks the impact of a subspace torpedo, at the same time as one of our own thermionics pierces the Bastion's failing shields and strikes home on the port side.
"Yes!" Psaz shouts in triumph. "Cruiser's drive is out! Shields dropping, power failing! We've crippled them!"
"Hail from the Goroke," says Pascale.
"On screen."
The face that appears in my viewer is dark green, thin and feral, with glittering silvery eyes, and a bony crest on the forehead that is remarkably similar in shape to the Goroke herself. R'j Bl'k's voice is a thin rasping whisper; her species has difficulty with vowel sounds. "Reasonably well done," she says. "But there is a problem. S-s-s-s-s. One of your ships has engaged the Voth's command battleship, range two fifty kellicams, bearing nine six. They will need immediate support, and we are closest."
"I see. Commander Pascale. Get me a channel to the Bastion." I look hard at R'j. "We must secure the situation here, quickly."
"I hope you do not plan to be overly sentimental. S-s-s-s-s."
"I have the Voth captain, sir," says Pascale.
R'j's face is replaced on the screen by another harsh reptilian one - perhaps not quite as ferocious as Commander Katzik's, but still not the face of someone easily amenable to reason. "Eject your warp core," I say.
The Voth glares at me. "I do not take orders from mammals!"
"I will rephrase. Please eject your warp core. Our attention is needed elsewhere, but we must ensure that your ship no longer poses a threat. If you eject your warp core, you will no longer pose a threat. If we open fire and destroy you completely, you will also no longer pose a threat. Please choose logically. I have no desire to inflict unnecessary loss of life."
The Voth captain's expression is - hard to describe. He turns and makes a gesture to someone off-screen. Seconds pass, and then something drops out of the Bastion cruiser's hull, to tumble off on a random course in the air of the sphere.
"Warp core ejected," the Voth says in a choked voice. Even if they restore auxiliary power, it will take many hours to retrieve and reinstall the core - by which time prize crews from Joint Command will have taken the ship in charge, in any case.
"I congratulate you on a sound decision," I say to the Voth, and close the comms channel before hearing his response. "Helm. Flank speed to the coordinates supplied by the Goroke. Reinforce shields, and give me status reports on urgent repairs."
The damage to Tapiola is insignificant, and Goroke was never touched. We remain fully functional and combat-ready. As I study the situation ahead of me, I am glad of that.
"One Pathfinder-class science vessel, USS Tempest," Psaz reports. "Voth ships - three Palisades and a Bulwark. Bulwark's got to be their command ship, the Madractis." He scowls. "Stupid names the Voth give their ships."
Palisade-class scout vessels are depressingly capable enemies - though Tapiola and Goroke should not be challenged too severely by three of those. The heavy Bulwark-class battleship, though, is another matter. Looking at the tactical display, I am amazed that the Tempest has survived as long as she has.
"That Pathfinder is luring them," R'j's voice says over the link to Goroke. "Your ship's commander is pulling them in like ll'hhyrst'ni after a gh'dr'st. But luring them where?"
"Hopefully, the Tempest will survive and we can ask them," I say. The Pathfinder-class vessel is showing several damage icons in my display, though. The Palisades are showing little damage, the Bulwark none at all. "Who is the commander of the Tempest?" I ask.
"Records indicate... Rear Admiral Daniel Fallon," Pascale answers. "Unusual. Tempest is a long range science vessel, but Rear Admiral Fallon is a tactical division officer."
Intriguing. However, my primary concern, when it comes to Admiral Fallon's personnel record, must be to make sure it does not end today.
"Signal the Tempest. Inform them that we are on approach to assist." I study the range display. We can see flashes of golden phaser light - and more vivid flashes of Voth antiproton weapons - but we are still a long way from effective weapons range. Especially in atmosphere - atmosphere is a problem anywhere near the interior surface of the sphere.
The Tempest dodges another barrage of beams from the Madractis. Fallon is clearly a skilled ship handler - but he cannot keep this up indefinitely. He is an experienced officer and he must know this. Logically, therefore, he must have a plan. But what is it?
"Five minutes to weapons range," Psaz reports.
The Tempest changes course. Ignoring the attack from the nearest of the Palisades, the Pathfinder loops around and through one of the ion stream's inactive waveguides, then dives out again, turning towards the surface of the sphere. The Voth ships turn in a curve to follow, but they are less nimble -
And I see Fallon's plan. I glance at an indicator on my console - something I had neglected, until now. Fallon must have something like it on his bridge.
The automated message from the waveguide has changed. "Hail the Voth," I order, "tell them to -"
I do not have a chance to finish before the ion stream turns itself back on.
The atmosphere is thin, here, but it still flames and glares with a million cracks of thunder all rolled into one. My displays white out in a burst of sheer noise. When they come back, I can see that Fallon's trap has worked, just as he evidently intended. The energy is flowing through the waveguides of the stream... and the Voth ships are squarely in its path.
The Palisade scout ships stand no chance; they glow and flame and vanish in the white-hot flashes of core breaches, and those explosions themselves are taken by the stream and stretched, endlessly, into the distance. But the Madractis -
The Bulwark's shields are failing, true, but they are still there, for the moment. The armoured hull - I do not know what is happening to it. Energy is bleeding through the shields, and there is still a soft vacuum within the stream - I am not sure if the hull is ionizing, or vaporizing, or oxidizing, or some combination of the three. I can see that it is glowing white, and seems to steam, almost, as the outer layers are ablated away.
Is there any way the crew can possibly survive? Escape pods would disintegrate in an instant. Transporter operations - I can only imagine what those energies would do to a transporter signal, and I would far rather not. Perhaps, if the Bulwark is capable of a subspace jump -
The ship's hull changes. Now, hairlike lines of light are shooting out of it, bristling in all directions. I repress a shudder. Energy is bleeding through the shields in greater quantity, and some of it is being refracted or reflected through the crystal structure of the hull. Random energies, blasting outwards - blasting in all directions, including inwards -
The ablation of the outer layer of the ship might keep its interior cool enough to survive in. Now, however, all the crew has to worry about... is a random barrage of plasma fire, coming out of the walls themselves.
The Madractis changes course, angling more steeply towards the boundary of the ion stream. It must be in response to some automatic mechanism. Nobody could possibly be alive on that ship now.
The shields finally fail, and the question is rendered irrelevant. Unimpeded by the shield, the stream's forces tear what remains of the Madractis down to nothing. There is a white glare as the core goes, and then the Voth ship is gone.
I find my voice. "Contact command. Establish the overall battle situation, find out if we are needed anywhere else." I swallow. "Then contact the Tempest. Offer any necessary assistance with repairs."
"Did he do that on purpose?" Psaz asks. I am not sure what emotion is in his voice.
"It seems most likely. An effective stratagem, certainly... not, perhaps, one I would have chosen." Whatever else, Fallon is clearly not concerned with minimizing loss of life. The Voth casualties will be... total. Not even bodies left to bury.
"Receiving strategic data across Joint Command occupied zone," says Pascale. "The Voth forces are withdrawing at high speed. We're reading three more cripples - Joint Command is sending prize crews - and our own losses seem to be minimal so far." She turns her metallic gaze towards me. "Do you think they ran because they lost the command ship, sir? Or just, well, because the ion stream came back?"
"It could be either," I reply. "If the latter, their action is... premature. There is still a mystery here."
The ion stream takes power. Petawatts of power, at least - power enough to blast a battleship into nothingness. For a time, all that energy was being - diverted. Energy does not simply disappear, and the abrupt cessation and equally abrupt reappearance of the stream... suggest, to me, that its generators, wherever they might be, were still running. But the power those generators create was... needed elsewhere.
Needed where?
Seems like Fallon just abused the bad guys' plan...
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Siffaith shuffled forwards. Beneath him was the rippling glassy surface of a force field, and beneath that, machinery descended, downwards, until it vanished in darkness. Most of the People were terrified of the floors-that-were-not-floors, would not willingly set foot on one. Siffaith had been scared of them, once. Now, he paid no attention. He reached out with his left claw and touched Dyegh's shoulder. "You cannot monitor it all," he said.
Dyegh shrugged off his touch.
"The teachers store the data," Siffaith said. "You can read it back at your leisure. You can take all the time that is needed."
Dyegh rounded angrily on him. "We have wasted too much time!"
Siffaith stared at him. Dyegh was visibly trembling, the shudders showing even under his loose metallic-cloth robe. His eyes were glaring. "Dyegh," Siffaith said, "what is wrong?"
"Everything," snapped Dyegh. "Or nothing. Nothing is wrong, if you live among the People and have no interest in the world around you. Everything, if you -" He stopped, and turned back to the screen with a gesture of exasperation.
"I cannot follow all the details of your tests," said Siffaith. "I do not know how to - to interpret the displays. Yet. But I know, whatever you are doing, it is a complicated thing. It is -"
"It is simple," said Dyegh. "I am trying to turn the sun back on. Simple."
"Simple to say, perhaps," said Siffaith. "But not, I think, simple to do."
"The Progenitors could manipulate the sun," said Dyegh. "We know that. We know it, because they reduced its output. I am simply trying to reverse that."
"The Progenitors made a mistake. They - they broke the sun, Dyegh. It is much easier to break something than to fix it. You know that."
"You do not understand."
"No. No, I do not. But I am trying to learn, Dyegh."
A rusty sighing sound emerged from Dyegh's beak-like mouth. "To increase stellar output back to pre-catastrophe levels, I must undo the effects of the runaway tetryon cascade, then provide a substantial energy surge to reinitialize the fusion cycles in the star's interior. The Land has the energy reserves I require, but it is not enough just to have energy, I must direct it intelligently. This means restoring many of the Land's systems to full operational capacity, and synchronizing the output modules to gain a synergistic boost. This boost must then be tuned to the correct frequency ranges to harmonize with the star's own cycles. If I had a quantum phase manipulator, the process would be simple, trivial... but I do not have a quantum phase manipulator, I do not even know if such a tool exists...."
"You must reach out across the whole of the Land?"
"Distance is not important! The Home was configured as a control centre, it can send commands for remote access to any part of the Land. But so many systems do not respond - I must adapt, improvise, work around the many, many problems...." Dyegh seemed to shrink inside his robe. "That is why I say we have wasted too much time. Millions upon millions of hours of Eternal Noon, during which the People grew placid and indolent, and the machinery, the systems I need... decayed. Time. Simply time, that is the worst enemy of all. The inexorable process of decline and decay."
"Dyegh." Siffaith's voice was firm. "I have not learned as much as you, but there are things I do know, and one of them is that, sometimes, patience is needed. That, and to work effectively, you must be in a fit state to work. How many hours has it been since you have rested? Or eaten?"
"I... I do not recall. Such things do not seem important...."
"But they are." Siffaith looked around the vast, dark chamber with its mushroom-like outcroppings of round control consoles. Off by one curving wall was a pile of fabric, where Dyegh had made a sort of nest for himself. Siffaith reached out and clasped his friend's upper arm, drawing him gently but firmly towards the nest. Dyegh allowed himself to be led.
"Rest," said Siffaith. "Rest for a few hours, at least. I will return to the lower levels and bring food for you. You must rest and eat, or you will not be able to work."
"You are right," Dyegh said, with another harsh sigh. He settled himself amidst the fabric. Siffaith watched as he curled himself into a sleeping position. "You are right...."
"Rest now," said Siffaith. "I will bring food. It will be ready for you when you awake."
He made his way to the chamber's round doorway. As the door opened, he turned to look back at the nest. Dyegh had not moved, was apparently sleeping. That was good, Siffaith thought.
---
It took some time for Siffaith to follow the gently sloping corridors down into the main body of the Home. It might have been quicker to cut across the upper surface of the structure, but that meant going outside, into the harsh light of Eternal Noonday, and none of the People liked to do that. What would it be like, Siffaith wondered, if Dyegh were to succeed, were to bring the sun back to its full strength? Why had the Progenitors settled the People here, under a light that burned and blinded? Siffaith shook his head. So many questions... and the teachers did not always have answers....
By the time he reached the main levels of the Home, many of the People were moving around the central chamber - engaged, it seemed, in some kind of game. Siffaith shuffled around the outer perimeter, ignoring them, and being ignored in return. He had joined in the games, once... he had been good at them, because he studied them, studied the rules and the settings until he understood what was needed to win. And, once he had done that... there was no challenge to the games any more, so he stopped playing.
There was shouting from the central arena - someone had scored a point. Siffaith shuffled to one of the provider alcoves, reached out a claw, engaged the interface. He studied the glowing menu as it appeared in midair. He would need food which could be eaten cold, he would need a generously sized container of water - he would have to devote some thought to figuring out Dyegh's requirements -
"Siffaith."
He turned at the sound of the voice. Tyonovon had come up behind him, and now she was looking at him with her big lustrous eyes. "You do not join the game?" she asked.
"No," he said. "No, I must bring food to Dyegh. He is busy."
"Why?"
"Why must I bring food? Because he will neglect to eat if I leave him to himself. Why is he busy? He has great plans."
Tyonovon stared at him. "You and Dyegh both wear those robes," she said. "Why? Do you want to look like Progenitors?"
"It is... practical." Like most of the People, Tyonovon had wrapped her limbs and her carapace in strips of multi-coloured fabric, ornamented with little jewels, things given out apparently at random by the provider machines. On her, the fashion looked attractive... and, Siffaith noticed, her carapace and her scales shone with a delicious iridescence, and the clicking of her voice was strangely soft and musical.... He reproved himself. This was surely no time for such thoughts.
"Practical," said Tyonovon. "Why are you concerned? For Dyegh, for - practical? You always played the games well, why do you no longer join us?" She reached out with one claw, touched his face, stroked it gently. "We miss you, Siffaith. I miss you."
"I -" Siffaith found himself at a loss. "What Dyegh is doing... is important. For all of us. Once he has succeeded, then I will join you... perhaps...."
"What is important?" asked Tyonovon. "We have all we need, in the Home. The provider machines give us food and clothes and jewels, the Home is safe and keeps out the light and the wind. What else might matter? I know," she added in impatient tones, "I know, that is not enough, you must know how everything works."
"Yes," said Siffaith, his voice finding strength. "Yes, I must, or someone must. Suppose the provider machines were to break, Tyonovon? What would happen then?"
"The provider machines do not break," said Tyonovon.
"But suppose they did? Who could fix them?"
"Nobody. That is why they do not break."
"They have not, yet," said Siffaith.
"And they never will. If they did, do you know how to fix them?"
"No," said Siffaith. "No, not yet. But I am learning, Tyonovon."
Tyonovon made a gesture of annoyance. "And while you learn, you neglect the games, and the talk among the People, and - and those who care for you. Why does your learning matter more than those?"
"I -" Siffaith stopped. Did he even have an answer for her? "What Dyegh is doing - it is - it matters to all of us -"
"Oh, Dyegh," said Tyonovon. "Go, then. Go to Dyegh, if he is so important." She turned in a swishing of fabric, and stalked away.
---
Siffaith was in a foul mood as he climbed wearily back up to Dyegh's laboratory chamber. Tyonovon... oh, she was wrong, of course, Dyegh's ambitious plan could revolutionize the world - Siffaith had only the vaguest conception of what the Land could do, with its full power restored, but it would change everything, and the People would control it, the People would reap immeasurable benefits....
But how much did that matter, he thought, compared to Tyonovon's touch?
The round door opened before him, and he stepped through. Dyegh was still curled up in his nest. As Siffaith trudged towards him, though, he heard a vague mumbling.
"… have to channel everything through the tetryon emitters... the comms waveguides, millions of miles of them, all choked with filth, nests for vermin, no use any more... but control nodes still respond on the subspace channels, tetryon modulated emissions get through, get a back-channel response... but so slow, so slow and so noisy...."
Dyegh was still asleep, but the People's multi-cameral brains sometimes did not all sleep at once; he was dreaming, or remembering, in his sleep, and verbalizing the thoughts that passed through that part of his brain. Siffaith stood still and listened. There was a chance he might discover more, that Dyegh might unconsciously explain something that was still not clear to him.
"… tetryonic pulses travel at subspace speeds, damped by the diffractor layers at the outside of the sphere of course... inside, that's another matter... but I have to use them, no way to wake up the machinery without them, unless I travel to each site in person... would take a lifetime, a thousand lifetimes, millions of hours... but the pulses, the pulses... so much risk... the new gods, the new gods might hear, they might even understand...."
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
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The face on the screen is that of a human woman, very pale, very gaunt, with dark spiky hair, a patch over one eye, and the remains of Borg implants around her temple and her mouth. "Um, yeah," says Admiral Veronika Grau. "Dan Fallon, yeah, as it happens, I do know him."
I don't know if that's good or bad. I'm pretty sure I'm presuming on too slight an acquaintance here, in any case. "Any insights you can give me into his way of thinking, Admiral -"
"Oh, call me Ronnie, everyone does. Yeah. What's he done now, exactly?"
I sigh quietly to myself. I'm taking this call in my ready room, with no one around to see me - and I don't know if I'm being politely discreet, or... furtive. "Firing on Voth escape pods. He says it was due to a sensor error."
Ronnie Grau's thin-lipped mouth twists into an unappealing shape. "Right, yeah. That, well, kind of sounds like Dan Fallon, actually. What's he up to? Um, besides killing Voth, that is."
"He's in command of the USS Tempest. Pathfinder-class vessel attached to Joint Command's survey teams." I take a deep breath. "Apparently, he was previously assigned to Fifth Tactical Wing under Admiral Kuliv, but he was detached on a roving commission when Kuliv reorganized his tactical structure -"
"Ah. Right. That was kind of the same deal he had when I met him," says Ronnie. "We'd both been, um, detached from our command frameworks at the time. Me, I'd sort of been getting in Admiral Sarlik's hair a bit, and he thought it logical that I should go off and exercise my tactical initiative elsewhere. Preferably a long way elsewhere, if you get my drift. This was a few months after the Vega Colony dust-up, I'd only just got my Borg mind control unscrewed and my backside planted in a command chair again. Dan had been rotated out of Third Fleet's active wings in more or less the same way. We were both operating in Romulan space - officially, I was under his command, actually, though he never really pushed it."
"So... you and he were doing what, exactly?"
"Patrols, mostly. Discouraging the Tal Shiar and the various warlords from interfering with Federation shipping in and around Psi Velorum. Independent patrols. Dan didn't much care for my methods, and I didn't much care for his." There is a thoughtful look in her one brown eye.
"What did you disagree over?"
"Look," says Ronnie, "I take a lot of chances. I mean, I know that. Most of the time, they pan out, because I've been around the block a few times and I know what I'm doing. But there's no denying it, I'm a bit of a chancer. I mean, you've seen me in action, you know what I'm like."
At Andoria, during the Hegemony attack - where her desperate chances paid off, to be fair. "Commodore Fallon didn't like that?"
"I think you have to be a bit crazy, one way or another, to be a good tactical officer," says Ronnie. "OK, it's possible I'm overdoing it a tad, but you know what I mean. Advancing bravely into a hail of enemy fire, cannon to the left of them, cannon to the right of them, it's not something that sensible people do. But I like to think I'm the right kind of crazy. I take risks, but they're calculated ones, not stupid ones. Now, Dan -" She falls silent.
"I don't understand," I say. "Are you saying Commodore Fallon does take stupid risks?"
"No," says Ronnie. "No, he thinks I do. Because Dan Fallon is not a risk-taker. Dan Fallon never gets in a fight - if he can help it - without a cast-iron guarantee that he'll win it. Dan likes to have an edge. And he's not, um, all that particular about how he gets one. Or uses one. Ever heard of Coventry?"
I frown. "I think I've heard of a ship by that name...."
"Oh, right, yeah, I mean no. It's a place. Town on Earth. Back in the twentieth century, it got bombed to blazes in one of the wars... thing is, the government, of the country it was in, they knew it was going to get bombed. They'd broken the enemies' comms encryption, you see. But if they took steps to defend the town, the enemy would know their comms weren't secure, and the government figured, well, they still needed that edge, for the rest of the war. So they let the bombers get through."
"It sounds like... a pragmatic decision. But not a very moral one."
Ronnie says nothing for a moment. Then she speaks, slowly, in serious tones. "There were a number of Rom warlords preying on systems near the Federation border. I managed to take out one of them, that got Admiral Gref's attention and he pulled me into Sixth Fleet. But Dan Fallon.... Another one of the warlords pulled a raid on a Reman mining settlement, and they were heading back for the Star Empire, fat and happy, when Dan bushwhacked 'em in a nebula out by 74 Cygni. Dan only had one heavy escort and a couple of frigates, so he wasn't able to make much of a dent in the Rom battle group - but he trashed the freighters in their convoy, so the entire proceeds of the raid went bang." She draws in a breath. "Thing is, the Romulan, T'Seridus, he was relying on that raid, he urgently needed some refined pergium to get his singularity core production back online. Without it, well, the Tal Shiar rolled into his home system a couple of months later and pacified it. Thoroughly. T'Seridus himself wound up as peaceful as you can get. Resting in it, you might say."
"And you think -"
"I don't know for sure. But Dan knew exactly when and where and why to hit T'Seridus. He had to have know in advance what the raid was about, and everything that hinged on it. So he lined up all the dominoes and they fell just the way he wanted them to, and one more petty Rom dictator got it in the neck, and everyone slept a little easier in their beds. Except for eleven hundred Reman miners who had to learn how to breathe vacuum, but I guess those are the breaks. Just like Coventry." Her gaunt face is very grim.
I think about it. "Do you think... ultimately... it might have saved more lives than it cost?"
"I don't know. I do know those Remans didn't get an option. We sign up to put our lives on the line. Civilians don't. Maybe this was the cheapest way to stop T'Seridus, maybe it wasn't, I don't know, maybe nobody will ever know. But Dan Fallon isn't losing any sleep worrying about it, I can tell you that much. Dan is all about pragmatic decisions."
---
The operations centre in Joint Command is always a place of chaos. Dozens of people, in Starfleet uniforms and KDF ones and Republic ones, jostling and talking in excited groups, holograms glowing in the air, showing maps and diagrams and Omega molecules... I remember the days when Omega was a deadly secret, restricted information known only to ship commanders and above. Now, it's out in the open, because now everyone has to know what they're dealing with, and what the risks are.
The hulking shape of a decommissioned Voth battlemech dominates one curving wall. And the tall lancet windows are all open, letting in the eternal sunshine and the thin cold air of the sphere. It's necessary, because with all the people in here, the air would be stifling, otherwise.
By the side of one of those windows, I catch a glimpse of red hair, and I aim for that, weaving around a group of Romulan scientists, a scarred Klingon commander, and a lost-looking Cardassian.
T'Pia is standing by the window, looking out at the impossible landscape of the sphere. She turns to face me as I stand to attention and salute.
"Such formalities are no longer necessary," she says. "You are technically at the same rank grade as me, now."
"You've still got time in grade, sir." Besides, T'Pia was my commander for a long time... it would feel wrong, not to salute her.
She nods, and returns my salute. With her habitual stiff carriage, she doesn't need to come to attention. "It is agreeable to see you again," she says. For a Vulcan, that's pretty warm, really. "I am glad to have your assistance in this mission." She looks around. "I suggest we find a quieter location to go over the mission parameters."
"Yes, sir. But before we do -" I take a deep breath. "There's another matter I'd like your advice on."
She quirks one eyebrow at me. But I want her opinion - it's liable to be very different from Ronnie Grau's, but I've learned to trust T'Pia's objectivity. She is intelligent and Kolinahr-trained and almost frighteningly Vulcan, and if there's a logical perspective to be had, I'll get it from her.
Quietly, I give her the same brief description I gave Ronnie. She purses her lips a little, and then leads me to a corner of Joint Command's mess hall. There's a table free, somehow; we take it. "You have further details?" she asks.
I hold up a PADD. She takes it from me. "Very well. I will assimilate this information. Perhaps you could bring me a mineral water while I do, and obtain some refreshment for yourself." She taps at the PADD's interface, her green eyes intent. I lope away to the replicator.
By the time I return, carrying a glass of mineral water and a hot raktajino, T'Pia has already scanned the PADD and is sitting with her hands steepled in front of her, her elbows resting on the table. "Disquieting," she comments, as I take my seat.
"Yes, sir."
"It would be difficult to prove deliberate wrongdoing without an extensive investigation of the Tempest's automated log recordings. The Judge Advocate General's office would wish to be sure of its grounds before proceeding with any such investigation."
"I know, sir. But -"
"The situation concerns you. I understand this. I have myself seen Rear Admiral Fallon in action. He operates with considerable skill, and achieves his tactical objectives with precision. I might characterize it, though, as ruthless precision." She sips the mineral water. Her gestures... her movements... they are always precise. But I have never seen T'Pia be ruthless.
"So... is there anything we can do?" I ask.
"I believe there is." T'Pia takes another sip of water. "You believe Rear Admiral Fallon to be acting improperly, and I can understand your reasoning in that respect. Other opinions may differ, though. His opinions, as relayed by you, are consistent with certain traditional military doctrines - more prevalent in the KDF, though, than in Starfleet."
"Even the Klingons wouldn't fire on escape pods," I grumble.
"Quite. The logical course of action, it seems to me, is to obtain more information. If necessary, we can then present that information to the JAG's office. The logical method of obtaining information would be to observe Rear Admiral Fallon's behaviour in more detail."
"How could we manage that? He's operating more or less independently, on detached duty -"
"That need not necessarily continue to be the case. After the last Voth incursion, Subcommander Kaol has suggested that I obtain additional support for this upcoming mission." Is that a hint of a smile on her lips? Surely not. "I will, therefore, accept that suggestion. The USS Tempest, now on detached duty under Joint Command's overall authority, will serve the purpose admirably. At the very least, we will know exactly what Rear Admiral Fallon is doing."
So I've been going through all my stuff in order, and I've got up to Vectors, so I've temporarily unpublished that one and will be putting it back up, properly tagged and with the chapters in the right order, which might help. I don't even know if the blog sends automated notifications when associated comments get unpublished, but if it does and anyone gets one, that'll be why.
History pedantry (Though of everyone, I could see Ronnie knowing the dramatic version better) - Ultra intercept archive indicates while they knew there was a raid that night, not the target specifically.
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"Commander Brinkman," he said, "signal to flag: ready to proceed at your order."
"Aye, aye, sir." John Brinkman turned to the comms console. He looked rather like an older version of Fallon himself; tall, craggy-featured, balding. "Transmitting to Tapiola and Joint Command now... acknowledgements received."
"Very well," said Fallon. "Maintain readiness."
"So," Tom Kowalski spoke up from the helm, "are we just waiting on prissy kitty now, or what?"
Fallon's mouth twitched. "Admiral M'eioi remains a senior officer," he said mildly.
"Science division," Kurt Hoffman chimed in from the ops station. The two younger men always seemed to take each others' part, Fallon reflected. "Probably spent her career analysing gas clouds and counting asteroids."
"I reviewed her personnel file," Fallon said mildly. "She's seen action. She was promoted after the Undine incursion, and she was plenty busy before that. She and Admiral T'Pia were both at the defence of Andoria against the Hegemony."
"Running tachyon readings for cloaked Roms," said Hoffman dismissively. "I've read all the files on that action."
"Which reminds me," said Fallon. "Get me the latest meteorology readings from Joint Command, will you, Mr. Hoffman?"
Hoffman raised his eyebrows, but complied at once. He stood, crossed the bridge to an unmanned console, and reached for the control panel to tap in commands -
A bolt of golden light seared past him, striking the panel, and he jumped back. "Hey!" Another phaser beam streaked past his head, close enough that his fine blond hair lifted in the static discharge. "What the -?" He turned to face Fallon, his fair-skinned face flushing red.
Fallon slipped the phaser back into his belt. "Not so easy, is it," he said, "taking readings under fire?"
Hoffman gaped at him for a moment. Then his expression changed to a rueful, awkward smile. "Point taken, sir." He hesitated for a moment, hovering by the console. "Do you... um... still need those met reports...?"
"Take your station, Mr. Hoffman," said Fallon. "We'll worry about the weather later." The door to the bridge hissed open, and a security team burst in, weapons ready. "Stand down," said Fallon. "Just a little... exercise, that's all."
The security lieutenant stared for an instant, then holstered his weapon, saluted smartly, and led his team back through the door. Fallon swept the bridge with his gaze. "Admirals T'Pia and M'eioi," he said, "may have the wrong ideas about fighting the Voth. But they are still Starfleet officers, and senior, experienced officers at that, and you will accord them the same respect that you do me. Are we clear on this?"
There was a muttered chorus of assent. Fallon unbent slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smile. "However, if we get a chance to show them how it's done, properly, we'll take it. Mr. MacAndrew. Any more details on our destination?"
"Joint Command has nothing we don't already know, sir." Allan MacAndrew, Fallon's exec, was a slightly-built man with a sharp foxy face and tightly curling dark hair. "I'm concerned about this, sir. It's pretty much certain that the spire we're investigating is the source of the readings we've been tracking -"
"Well," said Fallon, "someone else was bound to notice it, eventually."
"We'll lose our ace in the hole, sir."
"Then we'll just have to find ourselves a new one," said Fallon. "We can do that."
"Technically, sir," a new voice spoke up, "the anomalous readings and the correlations with sphere activity should have been reported to Joint Command as soon as we detected them."
Fallon turned his head to look at the speaker. She was shaped like a woman, but the too-smooth skin, the impossibly white hair, the blank metal eyeballs, all betrayed her artificial origin. "Technically, you're correct, Pearl," said Fallon. "Duly noted." He turned back to the main screen.
The android looked for a moment as if she were going to say some more, but just then Brinkman spoke. "Sir, I'm receiving data transmissions from Tapiola - departure vector and course details, transferring to helm now - and Admiral T'Pia has obtained clearances from traffic control, we have an immediate outbound slot -"
Fallon allowed himself another thin smile. "The one good thing about this situation," he said, "is that T'Pia has to do all the wrangling with the bureaucrats. Mr. Kowalski. Course details check out?" Kowalski nodded. "Very well, then. Engage."
The spire is... unusual. In many ways.
Our three ships are cruising slowly towards it, now, the Tapiola in the lead, myself and Fallon flanking. The spire looms up ahead of us. Or down, which is one way to think of it... the spire, the buildings, all hanging down like stalactites from the inner surface of the sphere, with the sun deep, deep below us at the the bottom of everything.
It's one way to look at things. It gives me a brief flash of vertigo, though, so I decide not to pursue it.
The spire is taller than the average, and it has three massive curving legs supporting a bulky, domed central body with an overhanging ledge. Most of the spires we've surveyed have either two or four legs. And, all around this one, lesser buildings rise up, long narrow tower blocks wreathed in a haze of exhaled gases, like the construction units in the industrial zones.... The spire lifts out of these towers like... like a three-legged giant striding through long grass....
"Signal from Tapiola," Sumal Jetuz reports. The impeccably-groomed blond Betazoid is at the comms station today. "All stop, commence detail scans."
I nod. "All stop. Link in telemetry to Tapiola and Tempest, let's see what we've got."
The science consoles, and my own repeater screen, come alive with data feeds. Our sensors, passive and active, are sweeping the spire and the volume around it on every available level - from visible light down to subspace contour mapping. My ship's sensors are first rate, and I know T'Pia's meticulous attention to detail of old... I'm less sure about Fallon, of course. At least, with our own telemetry tied in to his, we will know if he gets another sensor glitch.
"Lots of activity in the surrounding industrial complex," Onguma mutters.
The sphere is an artificial construct - the industrial zones, essentially, are recycling centres, breaking down material at one point and repurposing it for other tasks. As yet, we don't fully understand how the sphere's internal systems work... there seems to be a lot of spare capacity in it, reserves against some hypothetical future - crisis, perhaps? At any rate, the industrial zones can produce rare materials at an enormous rate, and stockpile them for whatever purpose the sphere has. The Ferengi commercial concerns, among others, are anxious to get hold of these stockpiles....
But others - myself among them - are anxious over other things. The sphere is not just a big static object, it is a system, with an ecology, or an economy, of its own. We have to be very sure of the consequences, if we start to divert its resources.
Someone, or something, here, though, is sure enough of - its - ground. I can see patterns emerging from the raw data, even this soon. The industrial zones are feeding material into the spire. Power metals, exotic compounds, crystalline lattices grown in zero-g - these seem to be the main products. I frown. "Get me a channel to the Tapiola," I say to Sumal.
In a short time, T'Pia's face appears on the main viewer. "Your thoughts?" she asks.
"The industrial zones are making some pretty specific stuff," I say. "I've seen some of these compounds before - used in high-energy subspace research. Mostly, shielding material against tetryon emissions."
"I concur. One moment," T'Pia adds. "I will link Rear Admiral Fallon in to this conversation. He should be kept apprised of our analyses."
The screen splits, and Fallon's recruiting-poster face appears on one side. I repeat what I've told T'Pia. He looks - bored, if anything.
"It makes sense," he says. "We noticed this thing because the spire was putting out unusual tetryon emissions. Obviously, whoever or whatever is making those wants to be shielded from any dangerous energy spikes. And it needs the radioactives and the focus crystals to generate the tetryon waves in the first place."
"The crystalline material is a synthetic polarized composite with roughly 114% of the efficiency of a comparable mass of dilithium," says T'Pia. "Intriguing, though in normal circumstances the difficulty of manufacture would offset any overall benefits from using this substance. We may safely assume that dilithium itself remains a limited resource within the sphere, whereas the energy and technology required to create this synthetic is... abundantly available."
The sphere can harness the entire power of a sun - a weak sun, admittedly, but still a sun. "The question remains," I say, "who is doing all this, and why?"
"The logical assumption," says T'Pia, "is a directing intelligence based in the spire itself."
"Yes," says Fallon. "Well, I've had a look, and that's not going to be easy to prove. The interior of the spire is massively shielded. I can't get any sort of readings from the main body - sensor pulses don't penetrate. In fact, I doubt if my phasers would penetrate. Whatever it is, it's a secure installation."
"I have directed my communications staff to hail the spire in all frequencies, using all available first contact protocols," T'Pia says. "We have yet to elicit a response. It may be possible to access the Solanae automated communications channels and transmit a message by that means. I am concerned, however, that any interference in the spire's normal communications may be misinterpreted."
Fallon looks at something off the side of the screen. "Yes," he says absently, "better not interrupt them in the middle of something.... I'm reading something that might be life signs in there, or it might not. Whatever it is, it's elusive."
There is something about his eyes that bothers me. As if he's looking at something I can't see.
"My own readings indicate only the normal flora and fauna at the nominal ground level of the sphere," says T'Pia. "Rather less of both than is usual, in fact, no doubt because of the heavy industrialization of this particular area."
I tap out commands on my console, calling up more data - specifically, passive-reflection neutrino scans of the spire. As Fallon says, the main body shows up as little more than a solid black blank - its contents are carefully hidden behind layers of particle screening. But the three legs are more interesting. I can see flows of material, and energy. And - I lean forward, and concentrate on the images on the console.
"If this is some sort of fortification," Fallon is saying, "we need to be very careful not to trip any automated defences. Getting jumped by packs of swarmers, well, it's not pleasant."
"There is no conclusive indication that this structure is primarily military," says T'Pia. "Particle shielding may be required for any number of purposes."
"It's very thoroughly shielded, sir, so that means it has military applications, whatever its official purpose," says Fallon. But his attention still seems to be elsewhere.
As is mine, now. My eyes narrow, my whiskers twitch. The maps of the spire's legs are taking shape - they are fantastically complex, but there is something I can see, now -
"I don't think it is military," I say. "If it was military, it wouldn't have an easily spotted back door."
Fallon's gaze snaps over to me and sharpens. "Explain," says T'Pia.
I put the three-d maps onto the main channel. "Look at that dark line in the leg," I say. "It's an empty space, and one with no significant energy flows. It's a tube, almost, reaching up from the base of the leg to the underside of the main body. And it's got a branching accessway here-" I indicate with a light pencil. "That's like one of those access ports in the Joint Command spire's legs. And we've deciphered the command structures for those. If that's got compatible comms protocols -"
"You could sneak a commando team up through the leg and into the main body?" says Fallon. "It'd be one hell of a climb...."
"That's not what I'm thinking," I say. "It's a matter of scale - always is, when you're thinking about the sphere. That looks like a thin little tube on the map, but it's easily wide enough to admit a heavy shuttle, or even a small starship." I sit back in the command chair. "The Timor, for instance."
T'Pia's green eyes take on a calculating look. "Risky," Fallon comments.
"But feasible," says T'Pia, "though there are some bends in this - access tube - which look as though they will be a tight fit, even for the Timor. Certainly neither the Tapiola nor the Tempest would be able to negotiate the passage."
"If it's a particle waveguide," says Fallon, "and it goes live, you're going to be in a world of hurt."
"No reason to assume it will go live," I say. "There's already a hundred or so conduits that are live, in that one leg alone. No, I think that one is spare capacity, or maybe even an oversight in the design. As you say, sir, it's got some tight kinks in it, and you wouldn't want that in an energy-channel waveguide."
"I concur with that assessment," says T'Pia. "Still, the risks must be considerable."
"But the benefits are pretty considerable, too, sir," I point out. "We'd have the full resources of the Timor right up close against that particle shield - we'd be ideally placed to find a way through, or to get better readings on the inside, or maybe even make contact with whoever's running this thing. I think it's worth the risk, sir."
T'Pia nods. "Very well. We will make a preliminary assessment, in any case. Timor should approach the access port and determine whether the control protocols permit entry. If we can enter without causing damage or raising an alarm, then it may be useful to pursue this option."
---
Timor slips out of sunlight, into shadow. The cavernous bay is like the ones at Joint Command; a deep hole carved into the inner surface of the spire's leg, flanked by mechanisms... more mechanisms that we don't yet fully understand.
"Thrusters only. Station keeping," I order.
Timor floats freely, a little above the flat floor of the bay, riding on thrusters and antigravs to cancel the local grav generators. Sumal Jetuz bends over the comms console, his expression intent. "Beginning comms handshake sequence now," he says.
I wait. Before me is a black curving wall. We have learned to transmit code pulses that open doorways in such walls - at Joint Command, anyway. Do the same codes work here? We're about to find out.
The wall fills the main viewscreen. On my command console, I have an image of T'Pia's face, over the link to Tapiola. "We're knocking on the door," I tell her.
"I see," she says. "A metaphor."
"What's the Tempest up to?"
"Rear Admiral Fallon has requested to take his ship out some twenty kilometres, to provide a wider baseline for further sensor scans. I see no reason to refuse this request."
He won't be around to back me up... but, then, if I get inside the spire, he wouldn't be able to anyway. But I can't shake the feeling that there's something he's not telling us... but it's an obscure, emotional, fuzzy sort of feeling, there's no point talking to T'Pia about it.
"Handshake complete," says Sumal. "I'm reading - hmm." He peers at the console. "That was odd. A little... stutter, almost, in the data response." He shakes his carefully groomed head. "Some sort of internal blip, at a guess, sir. These systems are old. Response coming through.... Codes accepted. We have access."
"All right. Open the door, let's see what we've got."
On the main viewscreen, vertical cracks appear in the black wall... and then the section between them slides upwards, revealing another wall beyond, and a circular doorway, like the doorways we see so often inside the spires - only bigger, much bigger, nearly seventy metres across. As I watch, its segments split open and retract, and the way is clear - a tubular passageway, reaching into the interior of the spire.
I take a deep breath. "It worked. We're in," I say to T'Pia.
"Very well. I suggest you proceed with all appropriate caution. Signal your peaceful intentions in linguacode on all channels. And please maintain this communications link for as long as you are able."
"Will do." I turn to Marya Kothe at the helm. "We're going in. Take us in slowly, and kill the proximity alarms now, or they're going to get noisy." Marya nods, and reaches for the controls.
The portal expands on the screen as Timor moves towards it. Beyond it... smooth metal walls with occasional ribs, and dotted with... lights, I suppose... at regular intervals.
"Transmit linguacode contact messages on continuous loop. All passive sensors to maximum. Let's get as much detail as we can, here."
There is a vague sound in the air as we enter the passageway, a dim booming noise, like ocean surf far off.... After a moment, I realise what it is: our own engines, the sound of reaction mass jetting from our RCS arrays, echoing back from the walls of the tube. I'm still not entirely used to operating a spaceship in atmosphere -
I grin, quietly, to myself. Never mind atmosphere. Now, we're flying a starship indoors.
The passageway is comparatively short, only three hundred metres or so, and then it joins up with the vertical tube that threads its way up the spire's leg. I see Marya's back muscles tense as she negotiates the junction. It's a tight fit - but Timor is through. We turn upwards, confronting another echoing metal tube. There are markings on the wall, opposite the junction: circles and oblongs and triangles in some sort of arrangement - I don't know what they mean, if they mean anything.
Timor moves upwards, along the tube, surrounded by the dim roar of her own engines.
"No problems so far," I tell T'Pia. "We got through into the main passage all right - the next tight spot is about thirty kilometres further along."
"Noted," says T'Pia. "Your comms signal is slightly attenuated. This can be ascribed to the shielding effect of the spire's own mass, and to random interference from the other energetic processes in adjacent conduits."
The tube curves as we ascend, following the line of the leg. It's still an absolutely smooth ride; we're protected, even, from the random atmospheric buffeting we'd get on the outside. The lights in the walls shed a dim glow all around us - and, as we approach that sudden sharp bend on the map, I see more markings on the wall ahead, more circles, oblongs and triangles -
"I'm getting an idea," I say.
Sumal turns towards me; Marya sneaks a quick glance back over her shoulder. "Specify," says T'Pia.
"Lights inside this thing. And markings on the wall. Signage. Why would you put signage on a wall, if not for somebody to read it? This isn't some waveguide or disused energy conduit. This tube is exactly what we're using it for. A service access, for ships."
T'Pia nods, once. "There are some implicit assumptions in that hypothesis, but in the absence of contradictory evidence, it is internally consistent and logical."
It's a weight off my mind, in any event. Timor is moving towards that tight spot, now, and I can see... things. Devices, mechanisms, structures, whatever you might call them, extending from the walls of the tube - which swells out, in fact, at this point, into a spheroid cavern. It would be easy to get through, if we didn't have to pick our way through the clutter....
"A pit stop. A service station - somewhere to repair and refuel on the way into, or out of, the main body," I muse.
"Conceivably," says T'Pia. Her image on the screen is getting a little fuzzy. Interference from the shields and the energy flows is becoming stronger.
Marya threads the ship between the probing fingers of three complex gantries, and we are back in the tube, heading out along a gradually tightening curve.
"If I'm right," I say, "we could figure out a lot about the vessels the Solanae used, just from looking over the equipment back there. This place could be a gold mine of information."
"Certainly no other structures of this nature have been investigated in other spires," says T'Pia. "Of course, this spire is unusual in several ways. Of the 154,702 spires thus far registered on our cartographic surveys, only 627 have a tripedal structure, and none of those has previously been studied. As for the intensive surrounding industrial zones -"
I'm listening to her with only half an ear. T'Pia's always been a good CO, but she's a Vulcan, and Vulcans love their statistics.
"Next kink's coming up, sir," says Marya. More signage on the wall of the tube - a different arrangement of circles, oblongs and triangles - and then -
My ears fold flat to my skull, and my fur bristles. There is no mistaking that shape.
"High-energy antiproton discharge arrays," says Onguma. "No energy buildup, but -"
I think. Raise shields? But that might be interpreted as a hostile act - and I barely have room for shields in here, anyway. "Maintain course," I order. The emitters of the arrays look terrifying, spiky and menacing.
"A security checkpoint?" Sumal wonders aloud.
"That would be consistent with M'eioi's overall hypothesis," T'Pia says. She sounds absolutely calm, as ever. Of course, she's not the one staring down the barrel of an antiproton gun.
Timor threads her way between the menacing shapes, and every random reflection looks like the first flash of the light that will kill me.
"We're through," says Marya, and I see the tube open up before me. I breathe in deeply, and force my ears to unclench.
"Any sort of response?" I ask.
"Nothing," Onguma replies.
"Any answer to our signals?" Maybe the security checkpoint heard our linguacode transmissions, and its automatic systems flagged us as harmless because of them. Or maybe the whole thing is dead, deactivated. I don't know.
"Nothing on any comms channel, sir," says Sumal. "We're starting to get some really heavy interference now."
T'Pia's face is monochrome now, and severely blurred. "Your data transmissions are no longer intelligible," she says, and her voice hisses and pops with static.
"We'll keep going as long as we can," I tell her. "Maybe we'll be able to filter out the interference once we're close enough to get good reads on the particle shields."
And suddenly, there is something on the screen, rising over the curve of the passageway: another circular portal. I turn to Sumal. "Send some codes to that, please. And, Marya, in case they don't work, reduce speed. Joaj, boost the inertial dampers." I don't want to ram the doorway, and I certainly don't want to damage the ship if we do.
But Sumal's codes work - the portal separates into segments that twirl away into the walls. Beyond... is a huge empty space. We've reached the main body of the spire, and we're at... the hangar, or the terminus, or whatever you would like to call it.
Timor passes through the portal - and T'Pia's image blinks out, to be replaced by a blank screen. We're in the outer fringes, at least, of the heavy-duty particle shields. We won't have external communications until we figure some way past that jamming. Never mind.
The - hangar - is huge, and irregularly shaped, and full of echoes. Points of light twinkle on shadowy walls. There is a big, round, flat deck visible, marked out with lines - parking spots, I'd guess, for Solanae ships. Each section is illuminated by a brilliant spotlight, shining down from somewhere high above.
"Marya. Take us in for a landing."
Timor slows and swoops downwards. The echo of our thrusters is quieter and hollower, now. There are dull clunks as landing gear unfolds from our nacelles and engineering hull. We slow to a halt, hover for an instant, then descend. A loud boom resonates through the hangar as our pads hit the deck.
"All stop."
Silence falls as the last echoes die away. The Timor is standing on the pad... and when was the last time, I wonder, that a ship occupied this spot? A thousand years ago? A hundred thousand?
All around us is the spire, filled with arcane devices, filled with power and secrets. Somewhere, there is an intelligence, someone or something driving all this.
I stroke my whiskers with one claw. "All right," I say softly, "let's see what's in there."
Note to devs: please add a garage to the Fleet Spire.
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"Outside weapons range of the Tapiola," Tom Kowalski reported. "If we get jumped now... no support from her, certainly none from the Timor...."
"Any signal from Timor?" Fallon asked.
John Brinkman shook his head. "Nothing, sir. All channels are jammed solid, inside the spire."
"Only to be expected," said Fallon. He glanced at the main viewscreen, then turned his attention back to his tactical console.
"Signal from Tapiola, sir," said Brinkman.
"On screen."
T'Pia's face appeared on the viewer. "Rear Admiral Fallon. Your ship is out of weapons range of the Tapiola. In the event of combat, we will not immediately be able to support you. What is the reason for your action?"
"We have a reading on some anomalies in the industrial towers," Fallon said easily, "and we're moving to investigate more closely. Is there any immediate sign of enemy activity? We can be back with you in minutes at the most."
"What is the nature of these anomalies? Tapiola's sensor equipment should be able to supplement yours."
"Sir," said Fallon, "I think it might be best if one of us held station near that entrance hole, ready to support the Timor if she needs it. Now, we could break off our current investigation, or we could swap places with you, but -" He spread out his hands. "We spotted this thing, I thought we'd follow it up." He glanced at the science station. "Pearl, transmit our sensor data to the Tapiola."
"I follow your logic," said T'Pia. Her green eyes were calculating and unreadable; like so many Vulcan eyes, Fallon thought. "There is no imminent danger of combat, so I think it reasonable that you should pursue your own objectives for the present. Please keep me informed of your planned movements. Tapiola out." The screen blanked out, changed back to the exterior view.
"Vulcans," Allan MacAndrew muttered.
"She's keeping her eye on us," said Fallon. "Very commendable. It's what I'd do, in her position."
"She's wrong about the imminent danger of combat, though," MacAndrew remarked.
"Sir," said Pearl. "We should inform the Tapiola of our sensor contact and its probable significance."
"Probable significance," said Fallon. "I don't think we'll bother her with a mere probability. Tactically, we're better off with the Tapiola in a long backstop position, anyway. We can hardly catch the Voth between her and us, if we're bunched up together with her."
"Sir, Admiral T'Pia needs to know," the android persisted.
"No," said Fallon. "She's good, but she's not a tactical commander. If things come to a fight, we will have to win it, and never mind about ranks and formalities." He tapped his forefinger on the tactical repeater, on the bright zig-zag line of the energy signature. "Besides, if she doesn't already know that's a Voth sensor-spoofing signature, she doesn't have the experience she needs to direct combat operations. She can see that reading just as plainly as we can."
"Sometimes, that worries me, sir," said MacAndrew. "The Voth must surely be learning from their mistakes. They must have figured out that we can spot their stealth signatures by now."
"Well," said Fallon, "only some of us can spot their stealth signatures. And besides, the Voth are hidebound. Static. Even if they do figure it out, their command structure is so moribund, it might take them years to change their procedures." He smiled. "And, in the meantime, we get to kill them."
---
"The primate Fallon has taken the bait," Davrak Karzis reported.
"Good." Gavron Stannark stood, and lumbered across the bridge of the Gendratis to the specialist science station. "What of the others?"
"The Tapiola is maintaining position. It is possible they have not detected the decoy drone, or that Fallon has not chosen to inform them of his sensor readings." Karzis raised his head, briefly, from the console displays. Information was flickering across his ocular implants, too fast for Stannark to make sense of it. "That would be consistent with our assessment of Fallon's personality. He is not necessarily respectful of his superiors. It is not an uncommon failing among the Starfleet primates."
"He surely cannot hope to overcome a Bulwark-class battleship without Tapiola's support," said Stannark.
"He is vainglorious, he might... but I judge that he is trying to obtain an optimum tactical position for himself. Caught between Tempest and Tapiola on opposite sides, even we might encounter difficulties." There was a faint smile on the intelligence officer's face. "If this were actually the situation Fallon envisages... he might cover himself in glory. What a pity, for him, that it is not."
"What of the third vessel?" Stannark asked.
"Still inside the spire. It will not be a factor in our operations. It would not amount to much, in any event. A tiny laboratory vessel, commanded by a feline primitive."
"We will need to... roust it out, afterwards," said Stannark. "If this test is successful, we will need to secure our position on that spire. Occupy it. It might even make a suitable replacement for our operational command."
"That is a suggestion well worth making to higher authority," said Karzis.
"Indeed." Stannark turned to an adjacent console. "Lieutenant Tyzel. What is the status on the special systems?"
Tyzel was small, brown-scaled, inoffensive; he looked up at the towering bulk of his commander and answered, "We have secured comms access to the spire's emitters. There is substantial data traffic, not all of which we have completely analyzed... but we have control over the primary tetron antennae."
"Show me," Stannark ordered.
Tyzel punched commands into his console. "The anomalous tetryon pulses have been generated here," he said, indicating a spot on a three-D map. "We still do not have full details of the spire's interior arrangements, due to the heavy shielding... but we have identified that emitter array as one of type L-16-D, and we have command and control protocols for this type -" he indicated another panel. "There have been some glitches and stutters in the system as our data subversion packages were inserted, but there has been no response from the primates. Commander Karzis has the details on, on -"
"The specialist weapon," said Karzis. "Yes." He leaned over, put his hand on Tyzel's console, then rapidly tapped in a string of commands. "There. Data unlocked... and the program is initialized."
"Give me the specifics," said Stannark.
"All of them?" asked Karzis.
"The basics. The exact technical details, I can do without - and what is classified, will remain classified. What will it do?"
"The Solanae were forced out of normal space, into subspace, by an intense biolytic tetryon field," said Karzis. "It flooded the whole interior volume of the sphere... we do not have enough power for that, not from that one emitter array. But we do not need, or even want that widespread an effect. We can deliver a smaller, concentrated burst, in a spherical or ellipsoidal volume -"
"The Solanae committed an error," said Stannark. "No doubt because they were unfamiliar with the ancestral Voth technology they were meddling with."
"No doubt," said Karzis. "But we are in a position to replicate their error, only in a manner controllable - by us. We cannot generate the field at too great range from the spire itself, but our enemies have been obliging enough to come to us...."
He turned back to his own console, and called up a tactical map. "I have set up for an ellipsoidal field," he said. "The Tapiola is not changing position, and so it is neatly placed at one focus of the ellipsoid." One black claw clicked against the map screen. "The other focus is here...."
Stannark leaned over, peered at the screen, at where Karzis was pointing... and at the bright dot nearby. "The primate Fallon is rapidly approaching that position."
"Indeed he is. Following our decoy, in search of his ideal tactical situation. He will be in optimum position in only a few more seconds."
Stannark smiled. He raised his right arm, closed his taloned hand into one massive fist.
"Execute."
Sounds like Fallon's in trouble.
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
It's also their greatest weakness, which saves time.
Fallon's hubris is becoming really evident; especially his unwillingness to expand the value of knowledge by sharing it. It sounds like it's about to go very bad for him.
Or possibly unleash the Solanae into the Sphere, hard to say.
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The change comes with shocking swiftness. One second I am sitting on my command chair, the next I am sprawling on the deck, and the air is full of sparks and smoke and flickering lights.
I roll and jump to my feet, and I jump too high, my body is too light - the artificial gravity is failing. The ship is shuddering, and there is an ominous groaning sound beneath the crackling of electrical fires and the spasmodic wailing of alarms. "Status report," I say, with as much force and authority as I can muster.
I look around the bridge. Twosani Dezin is there, and working furiously at a functional console; Pascale, the android, is at the helm; Psaz is at the tactical console - but the tactical console is in smoking fragments, and the Tellarite himself is lying motionless on the deck. I move towards him.
"Sir." Twosani's voice is choked with shock. "Sir - we have - " She swallows. Her black Betazoid eyes are twin pits in a paper-white face. "Some sort of massive explosion. Systems offline everywhere - structural integrity reads zero -"
"Evidently a rounding error," I say, kneeling by Psaz. He is unconscious, but still breathing; a developing bruise on his head suggests he has been struck by a piece of the exploding console. "Commander Pascale. When the USS King Estmere suffered critical damage at the Stygmalian Rift, Admiral Shohl was able to effect temporary repairs by cross-circuiting the structural integrity fields and the EPS grid. This required the aid of a crew member with exceptional strength, though. You possess physical strength exceeding the humanoid norm -"
"On my way, sir!" The green-haired android leaves the bridge at a run. Beside me, Psaz stirs; his eyelids flutter, then open, and he utters some weak Tellarite curses. I touch his shoulder. "Remain calm. We will obtain medical assistance as soon as is practicable."
I stand up. In the fluctuating gravity, it is not easy to make my way over the trembling deckplates to where Twosani is working. Her emotional tone is fearful and anguished; unconsciously, she is radiating this into the nearby area. I am the only person close enough to be affected, though, and I steel myself to remember my discipline, to put it from my mind. "What happened?" I ask.
"I don't -" She draws in a deep, ragged breath. "Too many systems are out - I can't get a clear picture - but it looks like there's been a massive explosion in the starboard blade. Drives are out, shields down - no chance of weapons -"
"Sensor contacts?" I peer past her, at the console display, but can make little of the readings.
"Nothing on scan. But something must have hit us - maybe a cloaked ship -"
"Futile to speculate, at this stage." I reach past her to work the control crystals. The Tholian interface flickers and sputters for a moment, but the display stabilizes. It is not telling me anything I am glad to know.
"Drives, as you say, are down. We are no longer maintaining station keeping - we are in free fall, under the influence of the spire's generated gravity. At our current rate of acceleration, we will soon strike the inner surface of the sphere itself. It is extremely doubtful that Tapiola will survive this impact. We must find an alternative, quickly."
"What alternative?" There is an unhealthy, panicky edge to her voice.
"Commander Dezin," I say sternly. "This is a crisis situation, and I require your assistance."
"I -" She stiffens. "Sorry, sir."
It looks as though she is about to say more, but at this point the deck lurches again beneath our feet - and then steadies. Weight presses down on us; the gravity is no longer failing. My combadge chirps at me - the badges have automatic systems which network them peer-to-peer in a disaster situation. "T'Pia," I say.
"Engineering here, sir." Nelson Karas's voice. "We've patched SI through the EPS grid like you suggested, but we're in a lot of trouble, still."
"Specify."
"Whatever hit us wrecked most of the starboard blade. Warp core has scrammed, gone to cold shutdown. Fusion reactor is offline. We still have the auxiliary battery, but that won't get us far. And, sir, our EPS grid isn't reinforced to the same standard as King Estmere's. We have maybe half an hour, at most, before the conduits fuse under the additional load."
"Thank you, Commander. That last factor is not relevant. We will hit the surface of the sphere in substantially less time." Ideas, options are flashing through my mind - mostly, to be dismissed as impractical.
My ship is wrecked. There are very few resources left, with which to survive this. I do not know if I am feeling Twosani's panic, now, or my own.
"Do we still have power for the RCS thrusters?"
"RCS arrays are at about sixty per cent capacity," says Karas. "But with the ship in the shape she's in - we don't have enough to keep us stationary, and we'd shake her apart if we tried -"
"We have sufficient to modify our course." An idea has occurred to me - a very risky one, but there are no others. "Bring as much auxiliary power as possible to supplement the inertial dampers. There is going to be an impact, and we must cushion it as best we are able." I cross the bridge to the helm console. The controls appear still to be operational.
"What are you going to do, sir?" asks Twosani.
"We cannot arrest this fall. And the SI field will fail, which will result in the ship breaking up in flight, or on impact. Logically, we must therefore attempt a soft landing." I consult the helm display. It is shaking and filled with interference, but I can see what I need. The question is, do the thrusters have enough reserves to reach it?
"Sir, this ship was never designed to land! We don't even have landing gear!"
I grasp the control crystals and twist them. Tapiola's girders groan as she responds. "There is a body of water on the surface of the sphere, perhaps thirty kilometres from our current location. I will attempt to splash down in that. If we can protect against the initial impact, the water itself will support the ship to some extent, perhaps for long enough for us to make repairs." A wavering line shows on the course display, marked out with proximity warnings and unacceptable-hazard icons.
"You can't -" Twosani stops, takes another deep breath, then says, "What do you want me to do, sir?"
"Initially, get me a public address channel. Then, download all available data onto a PADD. We have to know how this happened, and we cannot guarantee the computer core will survive. And see if you can get external signals out to the Tempest or to Joint Command."
"Yes, sir." She turns back to her console. There is purpose showing in her mind, now, and I hope it is enough to override her fears. As to my own fears... they are my problem, and I will not make them anyone else's.
The ship shudders again - some random turbulence in the atmosphere, or perhaps a glitch in the RCS arrays. I make the required course correction.
"Channels open, sir," Twosani reports.
I touch my combadge. "Attention." My words echo back at me from the bridge's speakers. "All crew. The ship has suffered critical damage from an unknown source. We are attempting to soft-land in a body of water on the sphere's surface. Personnel should evacuate the lower decks of the ship, which may become flooded. Make pickup on injured crewmates wherever practical, and assist Engineering in making repairs." I glance at the proximity warnings on the helm console. "Do not abandon ship. We cannot safely deploy escape pods, there are too many structures in the vicinity. Otherwise, follow your assigned disaster procedures. I have every confidence we will survive this. T'Pia out." I hope it is enough to calm panic among the crew.
"No communication with Tempest," Twosani reports. "I've sent a message to Joint Command, but I don't know if we can receive an acknowledgement, even.... Sir, I have something. A remote telemetry probe - I can access its sensors, get a visual on this area -"
It might help. "On screen."
The main viewer, which had gone completely blank, glows into life. I see the spire, standing amid the forest of towers on its three legs - I see something beneath the spire, a streak of darkness -
"Magnify sector two seven by three four."
The image expands, and I see my ship.
Orb Weavers like Tapiola consist of three narrow, elongated pyramidal structures - the "blades" - linked to a small engineering hull. The topmost blade contains most of the crew quarters; the longer, larger ones below house warp nacelles and other essential systems. Now, though, black smoke is pouring from Tapiola's starboard blade, and even through it I can see the hull armour is ravaged and shattered. The ship is plunging through the atmosphere, trailing a long line of smoke, like an ancient fighter aircraft being shot down in flames. But Tapiola is no mere aircraft, she is a starship -
Or she was. The image of the ship vanishes behind an obscuring tower.
"The problem of abandoning ship in a built up area," I remark, "has not been fully addressed by Starfleet. It is a matter of some procedural complexity, I think."
"I'm sure it is, sir," says Twosani.
I glance at her. "I intend," I say, "that we should all survive to raise this issue with the appropriate authorities."
Twosani smiles. It is a small, faint smile, but it is undeniably there, and - irrationally - the sight cheers me.
"Data download?" I ask.
"Completed. Sir, what should we -?"
On the helm console, I can see the water. Part of the landscaping of the sphere, a small sea. I do not know if it is deep enough to support us - or deep enough to drown us all - I do not know if the ship will survive the splashdown -
There are many things I do not know. I must trust to random factors at this point. I touch my combadge again. "All hands. Splashdown imminent. Brace for impact." I turn to Twosani. "Channel all available power into the forward deflector. We must lengthen the period of deceleration as much as possible." My hands reach for the helm controls. "Firing all retros now."
Still trailing black smoke, Tapiola hurtles out from between the towering buildings, towards the glittering surface of the water. Flames shoot from her RCS arrays as I expend the last of the reaction mass.
On the main viewer, the telemetry probe is still relaying images of our descent. I have a brief glimpse of white water, rooster-tails thrown up as the edges of our blades touch the surface -
The impact rumbles through the whole of the ship. The deck lurches. I am improperly braced, and am thrown forwards, my head striking a glancing blow on the helm console. The noise is indescribable - a compound of crashing and roaring as we slide into the water, mixed with explosions and alarms from all our remaining systems. Sparks are shooting from the consoles, from access points to the EPS grid - the deckplates are thrumming with vibrations -
I stand, and am knocked down again by another sudden jolt. There is blood running down my forehead, into my eyes - I blink it away. I stand. This time, I do not fall again.
Tapiola's deck is canted sharply to one side. The main viewer is blank. The helm console is dead. The only illumination on the bridge comes from dying fires and a few remaining red emergency lights.
I touch my combadge again. "Splashdown completed. Commence evacuation, immediately."
---
Tapiola has just enough positive buoyancy that the upper blade is clear of the water. The ship is listing to starboard at an angle of some fourteen degrees - with its hull breached in many places, the starboard blade flooded almost as soon as we hit the water.
Now, a makeshift flotilla stretches between the ship and the nearby shore. We do not have watercraft in any quantity, the replicators are offline, and the shuttlebay doors are under water, even if we had power to open them. So, we have commandeered lightweight sheeting, empty cargo containers, anything that will float - and made rafts, to carry our people off the ship, towards the gently shelving artificial shoreline.
I am standing in an open airlock, watching them go. Beside me are Twosani Dezin and Nelson Karas. The crop-haired human engineer is haggard and exhausted.
We are the last.
"That repair lash-up held - as long as it needed to," says Karas. "But -"
"But?" I say.
He holds up a PADD. "Complete readouts are on here, sir, but... the EPS grid was breached like everything else, when the starboard blade blew open. When we touched down - water was driven into it. And this damned stuff is salt water, sir. We're talking about mineral content, impurities of all sorts - vaporized and blasted through every centimetre of the EPS conduits. Sir, even if we could pump it out, we'd have to replace the entire grid to be operational again. It's a job for a shipyard, sir, if it's even possible at all."
Tapiola, then, is... dead. My ship is wrecked. The thought unsettles me in ways I had not thought possible.
"The warp core is contained, though?" I say.
"Scrammed to cold shutdown. Its own residual power is keeping the antimatter bottled." Karas shakes his head. "One thing we don't have to worry over...."
I reach out, run my fingers along the cold ceramic-metal composite of Tapiola's hull. Twosani can no doubt read my emotional tone. She says nothing. I am grateful for that.
"Well," I say. "There is nothing to be gained by further delay."
The last of the rafts is a simple affair, a floor panel from the nearby corridor lashed in place over two empty deuterium canisters. There is room for the three of us and a small pile of emergency supplies. We clamber cautiously down the slanting hull, onto the raft. I pick up the paddle - another improvisation, a tray from the galley welded onto a length of metal tubing.
"Sir -" says Twosani.
"I will paddle. I have greater physical reserves than either of you."
"You're injured, sir."
I touch the cut on my forehead. "Superficial only. Scalp wounds invariably bleed disproportionately to the severity of the injury." She reaches for the paddle. I show no intention of letting go of it. "If you wish to be useful, please review the data download while I propel us."
Twosani's hand drops to her side. She sighs. "Yes, sir." Nelson Karas sits down cross-legged on the raft. He looks exhausted. He has worked prodigiously, of course.
I push off from the Tapiola, following the procession of rafts on its way to the shore. Above us, the shrunken sun shines down in its perpetual noon.
There are a great many improvised rafts. It is one consolation. Twenty-three crew members died in the initial explosion and its immediate aftermath. A further sixteen were unable to escape when the lower compartments flooded. Drowned, aboard a starship. It is possibly not unprecedented, but it is certainly unusual.
But I cannot dwell on those casualties. I must think, instead, of the more than eleven hundred crew who survived, and who continue to be my responsibility.
I move the paddle through the water with the figure-eight motion necessary to provide regular straight-line motion.
"This is weird, sir." Twosani is poring over the PADD. Evidently the data is not susceptible of easy interpretation. I make no comment.
"Massive tetryonic field... and not like those signals we spotted before. This was more powerful by several orders of magnitude. And the parameters...." Twosani frowns and mutters to herself.
"A deliberate attack, then." Tetryon fields do not occur in nature, certainly not at magnitudes sufficient to devastate a starship.
"Must be, sir. There are some sensor readings, maybe suggesting a cloaked ship nearby - and then, this huge tetryon pulse. But tetryon fields usually suppress energy, and this was a tremendous energy release -"
"Possibly it was modified or converted somehow?"
Nelson Karas suddenly snaps his fingers. "That's it! Sir, the explosion - the centre - it was where we'd installed that Nukara particle converter."
"That makes some sort of sense," says Twosani. "The Nukara converter is designed to channel tetryon fields - but this one was way, way above its design specs. It overloaded. Blew out."
I raise one eyebrow. "Effectively, converting an exotic tetryon field to a blast of conventional energies. What would have happened if it had not been converted?"
"Don't know, sir -" Twosani draws in a sharp breath. "But I think we might find out." Her face has turned white again.
"Explain."
"The field was a narrow ellipsoid in shape. We were at one focus of the ellipsoid. The Tempest was at the other."
"The Tempest was not equipped with a Nukara particle converter." And we have heard nothing from Fallon's ship - even if our distress call failed to get through, they must surely have seen us burst into flames and fall out of the sky -
"It has to have been a deliberate attack," says Twosani. "It was aimed at our ships. But who by?"
"The most likely immediate possibility," I say, "would appear to be the occupant or occupants of the spire. It is even more urgent, then, that we regain some form of communications. The Timor is inside the spire, and must be presumed to be in grave danger."
"So are we, sir," says Twosani.
I dig the paddle into the water, perhaps more forcefully than is strictly necessary. "Our attackers will presumably consider us little or no threat, with our ship neutralized." Though there are additional dangers to consider... wildlife, both Voth-modified and natural... and the remnants of the Solanae sphere's defensive mechanisms... these are common hazards on the surface of the sphere. "I intend to prove them wrong on that score."
"How, sir?"
I thrust with the paddle again. "Unknown at this time."
---
It does not take much longer before we reach the shore. The shoreline is an artificial construct, of course, but over the millennia a substantial deposit of natural-looking mud has built up on it. It squelches beneath my boots as I step off the raft.
I am tired, and hurt, and I can feel the presence of my dead ship, looming out of the water behind me. We are stranded in hostile territory, close to a murderous and unknown enemy.
My crew has spread out along the shoreline. Medics have already erected some portable shelters, and are tending to the many injured. Others are sorting through the gear that we have salvaged from the Tapiola. In the short time since the first raft came ashore, the beginnings of a refugee camp have started to take shape.
Nearby, a long concrete breakwater runs down into the water. I clamber up onto it. I turn to face my crew.
"May I have everyone's attention!" I shout at the top of my voice.
Heads turn towards me. They gather closer, looking up at me, a sea of expectant faces. I take a deep breath.
"Our position is serious, but by no means hopeless." I am projecting my voice as loudly as I can - and trying to project, too, a feeling of determination, of purpose. "We must, first, see to the immediate needs of our injured crewmates. Then, we must find more resources. The sphere has facilities. We will find and secure a defensible location, we will access the sphere's replicators and communications systems. We will contact Joint Command, and the Timor. Perhaps we will be rescued, perhaps we will rescue ourselves." I search their faces with my gaze. "There will be obstacles, there will be dangers. But we will meet them and overcome them. We will prevail. You will prevail. Thank you all."
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
...Oh, baby, you know, I've really got to leave you / Oh, I can hear it callin 'me / I said don't you hear it callin' me the way it used to do?...
- Anne Bredon
It was an attack by the Voth from the previous chapter. Most likely, Tempest is now adrift, its crew killed by the tetryon burst as the Voth intended - that, or it crashed into the sphere like the Tapiola (an unlikely event, given the circumstances that saved T'Pia and her crew).
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
"Deck Eight."
Deck Eight is normally just a notional thing, a shallow bulge at the base of the engineering hull. Now, the turbolift drops down the shaft... to emerge from the bottom of the ship, sliding down the forward landing pylon. The door hisses open, and I step out, walk down the slope of the pylon's splayed foot... and step down, onto the surface of the Solanae landing dock.
The science teams have spread out already, deploying scanners and portable lab facilities. Alert-looking security people are patrolling the notional perimeter, though so far we haven't seen anything that might count as a hostile. I spot a white-clad figure bending over a heavy-duty scanner, and walk over to him. "Dr. Islim. Anything to report?"
The Andorian medic straightens up, his stern-featured face thoughtful. "No biological or biochemical hazards that I can detect. There's a lot of sensor interference, still, though. But biological agents don't seem to have been a Solanae thing.... As far as I can tell, it's safe enough to proceed into the interior, on that count anyway."
"Thank you." I pause for a moment, then ask, "There are definitely life signs of some kind, though?"
Islim sighs. "There are life signs in the megastructure, yes. What kind of life, I can't say. I'm working on filtering out the sensor distortions, but - even so, it looks like some life form we're not familiar with. Sorry, sir. There is just too much noise, I can't get you any specifics yet."
I nod. "Thanks, anyway. Keep trying."
And I walk further out, onto the ancient Solanae dock. The surface is dark grey, featureless; my boots make dull thudding noises as I walk. Behind me, Timor gleams brilliantly in the beam of light from high, high overhead. Other beams make pools of brightness on the dock, but there are no other ships, no signs of life.
I walk up to a security patrol; three humans, carrying MACO battle rifles, looking tense. "Perimeter secure, sir," the commanding lieutenant reports. "No signs of life."
"Thank you." I look around. We seem to be at the end of the dock; off-white Solanae walls curve up, ahead of me, and there are doors, circular portals - "Do we have any scans beyond those doorways?"
"Not yet, sir. Too much sensor interference."
"Well," I say, "let's take a look. We have to see if we can open them, at least." If we are to get any further into the structure - and what else are we here for? I stride off towards the nearest portal, the security team following in my wake.
The circular portal is... typical Solanae design. Smaller than the one we used to enter the spire, larger than the normal personnel doorways we've found in other spires. Maybe it was used for service machinery, or auxiliary craft, or... something else that I haven't thought of. I raise my tricorder, send a standard pulse code. The portal rumbles and splits open, its segments twirling away into the walls. "Standard pattern," I comment, and step forward.
"Sir," says the security lieutenant, "should we wait for backup?"
Probably we should, but I'm curious - and there is no sign of life in the space beyond the doorway. "It won't hurt to take a look," I say, and continue on forwards.
On the other side of the door is a sort of hallway, a hemispherical space with things hanging from the ceiling. "Looks like holo-emitters," I say. "Maybe for control panels, maybe for the sort of map displays we've seen before." Opposite the entrance, a low archway gives out onto another space. Solanae architecture is weird, by our standards - lots of curved shapes, lots of wasted space, lots of features that change - extending walkways and ramps, extending staircases, force fields that appear suddenly to take the place of floors. The Solanae design aesthetic is... peculiar.
There are markings on the floor before that archway. More signage? I stroll over to look at it, but it tells me nothing. I look through the arch, then step through. I'm in another big, irregularly shaped, empty space, lit by scattered spotlamps in a distant ceiling. The floor is rough, patterned with blocky shapes, and there are fluted columnar shapes descending from that ceiling. I kneel down, trace the outline of one block with my fingertips -
- and there is a sudden grating noise, and everything moves.
The floor is in motion. Blocks are rising out of it and turning over, folding themselves into new shapes. "Stay back!" I yell at the security team, and glance desperately around. All of a sudden, this place is reconfiguring itself - and I have scant seconds to find a way out of it, before it crushes me.
Beneath my feet, the block I'm standing on rears up.
I leap, muscles driving me upwards in a prodigious bound. My outstretched fingers find the surface of one of the descending columns, and I scrabble for a handhold while a sea of machinery roars and rumbles beneath me. I grab hold of a projecting spike, but it is moving, too, turning and starting to retract. I swing and leap again, my tail windmilling in the air to balance and guide me, and I reach another precarious handhold on another column, and have a second or two to gather myself and leap again -
The columns are turning, projections extending, spinning, retracting. The air is full of sound - and energy. There are electrical charges here, powerful enough to set my fur crackling.
Something catches my eye, a dark shape in a nearby wall - a dark, stationary shape. I look more closely. It's a - niche, a cubbyhole of some kind. The projection I'm holding is turning, and beneath me, another one is coming into view, counter-rotating around the main column. Sparks crackle from my whiskers. I drop, feel the impact of my feet on the lower projection, use it to thrust off, leaping for the cubbyhole. I crash into the wall, but my hands have found the lip of the hole - I pull myself up, scramble inside. It is barely big enough to hold me. I curl up, panting, while the machinery outside crashes through its revolutions.
It seems to take an age.
When the last echoes of the last crash have died away, I stick my head, cautiously, out of the hole. At first glance, the view is - much the same. Irregularly patterned floor, columnar shapes descending from high above. But that is only the first glance. I snarl, as I realise that the floor has risen, overall. There is no sign of the archway I came in through.
I slap my combadge, irritated. "M'eioi to Timor."
There is no response. I try again. "M'eioi to Timor, come in, please." Nothing but a vague hiss in reply.
I swear to myself. Interference, noise from the spire's systems, is blocking my comms channel. I pull out my tricorder. The ship itself is only a few hundred metres away, and I'm supposed to be an expert in high energy physics - I can identify this interference, filter it out, and get my communications back. In theory.
In practice, it takes several rather fraught minutes of cursing and fiddling with the tricorder before the hissing and popping on the badge resolve themselves into a tinny voice saying "Admiral M'eioi, this is Timor calling, please respond," over and over again. Sumal Jetuz's voice; it's clear enough that I can recognize him, at least. "M'eioi here," I say.
"Good to hear you, sir," says Sumal. "What's your situation?"
I look around again. "Safe enough for the present, but my route back is blocked. I'll have to find an alternative." With comms in this state, transporter operations are not recommended. "Any idea what set that lot off, or was it just my own blundering?"
"I don't think it was just you, sir," says Sumal. "Something happened in the spire - maybe outside it as well. Our best guess is that there was some sort of energy discharge. We can't tell what sort, because the spire's own internal shielding seems to have stepped up a notch. As if something - went live. There's a lot of data traffic in the Solanae systems, too, but we can't interpret it."
"Keep on trying. Oh, and get Linguistics department to look again at that signage. I have a possible translation."
"Sir?"
I grin, ruefully. "I think I walked over a bit that translates as 'caution, heavy machinery in operation beyond this point.' Well, never mind." I study the walls of my little cubbyhole. "I think I'm actually in some sort of survival space, somewhere to take shelter if you're caught up in this lot. If that's the case -"
I press hard on the back wall of the cubbyhole. For a moment, it resists, and then it swings free, revealing a tubular passageway, slanting sharply upwards. "I'm right. An escape hole." The tube is steep, but not too steep to climb. "Sort of like a Jeffries tube. I'll scan as much as possible on my way. Some close-up readings on the Solanae shield devices might help."
"What are you going to do, sir?" Sumal's tinny voice asks.
"Looks like I'm going further into the spire." I glance up the tube, but its ending is lost in shadows. "I'll find my way out of this, then see if I can circle round and make my way back to the landing dock. Don't worry, Commander, I'm sure I'll be fine." I start to climb.