"That did not look," Gavron Stannark said, "as if it went entirely according to plan."
Lieutenant Tyzel stared up at him nervously. "Checking the data feeds now," said Karzis, information flickering at terrifying speed across his ocular implants.
"The Tapiola seems to have burst into flames and crashed," said Stannark. "That was not what we expected. True, it is adequately gratifying, but it is not what was in the plan."
"Processing," said Karzis. "Lieutenant. Replay sensor logs between A-220 and C-271, ten per cent speed."
While Tyzel tapped out commands rapidly on the console, Stannark strode up and down the bridge, the deckplates creaking beneath his weight. He looked, from time to time, at the main viewscreen. The spire looked no different, but, just visible near one of its massive legs, there was a faint streak of darkness - the trail of black smoke left by the Tapiola as she crashed.
"Processing complete," said Karzis. His ocular implants settled back to a blank blue-green.
"Well?" Stannark demanded.
"The bad news is, they had a defence," Karzis said dryly. "The good news is, it does not work.... Some particle conversion system aboard the Tapiola, probably a holdover from the basic Tholian design. It intercepted and absorbed the tetryonic pulse, but was catastrophically overloaded in the process. The results rather speak for themselves."
"What of the Tempest and the primate Fallon?"
"Events, there, proceeded according to plan. The biolytic field pervaded the whole of the ship."
"There are no life signs," Tyzel added. "But, sir -"
"Shall we destroy the hulk of the Tempest?" Karzis asked, his voice cutting across the junior officer's.
"Let me think.... No, not for the moment. The Circles of Science may wish to examine it later, to see the final effect of the biolytic field. And it may serve as a stark message to any other approaching mammals - do not interfere with our plans, or this is what will happen. What is the final situation of the Tapiola, though? Is there any potential threat?"
"The ship has crashed into a body of water. Our scans indicate massive damage, complete power loss... the crew is evidently in the process of evacuation. A single volley from our beam banks might destroy the wreck, or wipe out the survivors -"
"No," said Stannark, "no, it is... unnecessary. And inaesthetic."
There seemed to be a frown on the intelligence officer's dark face. "Inaesthetic?"
"The wreck of the Tapiola, too, is a fitting monument to our power. As for the crew - the normal hazards of the sphere will account for them, as they begin their very long walk back to the mammal-occupied territories. If there are survivors, they will have a miserable tale to tell. No, no, we have done enough. To show our superiority, to extinguish our opponents."
"The third ship still remains, though," Tyzel pointed out. "And, sir -"
"The Timor is not important," said Stannark. "We will deal with it and its absurd commander in due course, when we occupy the interior of the spire. Karzis, you and I will discuss our plans for that, now, in my ready room." Stannark turned and strode away.
As Karzis made to follow, Tyzel plucked nervously at his sleeve. The intelligence officer span around, his face forbidding. "What is it?"
"Sir," said Tyzel, "I think it is significant - my sensor logs show - sir, there was something that looked like a transporter signature. From the Tempest, and after the tetryon pulse."
"You think to bother the commander with this?" Karzis glowered down at the cringing lieutenant.
"Sir, it may be -"
"It may be nothing," Karzis snapped. "A sensor error, a false reading. Or perhaps some automated system engaged, to send away a recorder marker. I noted the same detail, Lieutenant. You may rest assured that nothing escapes my notice."
"But, sir, it might be -"
"No," said Karzis, "it might not. Were there life signs on the Tempest when this reading was detected?" Tyzel shook his head. "Well, then. It cannot have been a survivor, can it? It must be some error, or some random mechanical action, and it is of no importance. Do not bother your superiors with it again." Karzis turned and stalked off towards the ready room.
---
"No," Dyegh whispered, and then he screeched, "No!", a loud high-pitched wail which woke echoes from the domed ceiling of the console room.
Siffaith watched, aghast, as Dyegh ran from one console to another, his claws pounding furiously on the glowing icons, his shouts of anger degenerating into an incoherent series of clicks and rattles.
"What is it?" he asked. "Dyegh, what is wrong?"
"A thousand hours of work!" Dyegh shrieked. "They have undone it all - the primary capacitance banks are drained, my power reserves are gone - the settings for the emitter grid, they have been scrambled -" He slammed his claws down hard on the console. "I have to do it all over again! Those fools! Those vandals!" He sank to his knees on the rippling surface of the force-field floor.
"Dyegh." Siffaith went to his friend, lifted him back to his feet. "It is a blow, I can see that. But we must see what is to be done, now."
"Take the console," Dyegh said, waving one claw in a gesture of despair. "See what you can salvage - I cannot face this -" He turned and staggered off, towards his little nest of fabric by the wall.
Siffaith sighed quietly to himself. He studied the console display. He had been watching Dyegh for some time, now, and asking questions whenever he dared - and he had been working, too, with the teachers. His knowledge was growing in leaps and bounds. He reached out and touched the console interface, cautiously at first, then entering commands with gradually increasing speed and confidence.
"The new gods," he said. "They interfered."
From his nest, Dyegh wailed, "I know!"
"But how did they interfere?" Siffaith asked. "If we know how they did it, we might stop them doing so in future...." He turned to another section of the console, started to call up the system's logs.
"Computer intrusion," he muttered to himself. "They have some of our system command codes... not all, they cannot have them all, or this console would be locked out...." His claws rattled on the interface. "Two different classes of intrusion. It makes sense - the new gods fight among themselves...."
He hunched over the console, his eyes intent. "Four vessels. Three moved in concert, the fourth approached from an entirely different vector... and it is attempting to conceal itself with false readings. One of the three sent messages... standard access codes, opening doors, and... hmm. Data transmissions, declarations of peaceful intent, offers of friendship, even. But are such offers to be trusted? They are warlike, we have seen them fighting. But the other...."
He worked for some time in silence, then straightened his back, and went to where Dyegh sat.
"I need some control codes for the main computer," he said.
Dyegh stared up at him. "What codes? Why?"
"Security," said Siffaith. "One group of new gods - one faction within them - sent pre-empt commands into the systems of the Home. They overrode your configuration files, they triggered the capacitance banks and expended the stored energy. I believe we can instruct the Home to prevent them from doing this again - but it requires access to the central security system, and I do not have the control codes for that. Do you know them? And, if so, can you let me have them?"
"I... see," said Dyegh. He rose to his feet, slowly, stiffly. His body was still trembling - even through his robe, Siffaith could see that. "I - When I first accessed the computer core, there were - certain options. Backups and defaults - the original operators have been dead for an immeasurable time. I became registered, automatically and by default, as an authorised user." He started to make his way to the console. "I can add you to the list of authorised persons. It will be no trouble. If you think you can help -"
"I do," said Siffaith firmly. "The intrusion of the new gods has created problems - I can see that. I can see, too, the measures we can take... to make sure they do not trouble us again."
Definitely there are things being played with that are not understood. I hope it wasn't just one survivor on the Tempest - he's a jerk, but hopefully some of the crew as well..
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
We have found shelter, of sorts, in a large rounded structure, whose main entrance lay some three hundred metres from the shoreline. The structure is a large shallow dome, nearly a kilometre in overall diameter, with the roof of the dome removed over the central area. An amphitheatre, open to the sky, surrounded on all sides by shelving tiers of flat surfaces... the suggestion, inevitably, is that of a sporting arena, or perhaps a venue for the performing arts.
Is it possible to imagine the Solanae, or the Iconians, engaged in such pursuits? But, then, why might they not be? Both species were fully civilized beings, with all the trappings of civilization, including, presumably, the need for entertainment.
Our needs are more basic, however. The entrances to the arena are large, but they are few in number; we can establish a security perimeter at each one. It may not keep out whatever force wrecked the Tapiola, but it should be adequate to fend off roving predators or security swarmers. There are no Voth-style dinosaurian cyborgs outside, but there are large animals of some kind - the ecosystem of the sphere is fascinating, and I would be glad of the opportunity to study it, at some more opportune time.
We have set up temporary shelters - survival tents, or simple awnings - at various points inside the arena. We are dealing with our casualties, taking inventory of our supplies, searching the area for further resources. Shocked and disheartened as my crew might be, they are still acting like the Starfleet professionals that they are. I am inclined to regret that I cannot actively display the pride I feel in them.
I rub my forehead as I gaze through the huge circular hole in the roof. A medic ran a protoplaser and a dermal regenerator over my trifling injury, earlier. There is no sign of the cut, now, though the skin of my forehead feels taut and sensitive.
The sky is bright, over the dome. There are a few clouds, but the most obvious feature is the forest of impossibly tall, thin towers that surrounds us on all sides. It is disquieting, and I know why this is so. In any normal situation, on the surface of a planet, those towers would cast shadows, would throw a shade over this structure. But we are inside the sphere, and it is always noon, and the sun is always directly overhead.
There are a few faint wisps of cloud in the sky. We seem to have reached a region of clearer air, slightly away from the polluted industrial zone immediately surrounding the spire. Conceivably, the nearby artificial sea has something to do with this - its effect on the local meteorology must have been carefully calculated. A subject for further study, again.
My boots click on the age-old floor of the arena. There are markings on the floor, but they are in no language that I know, and they are worn nearly to invisibility in any case.
In the middle of the circular floor, Psaz and Pascale are looking upwards, scanning the sky. Psaz has a pair of binoculars; Pascale's metallic eyes need no such augmentation. I walk up to them. "Mr. Psaz. You are fully recovered?"
"Doc Lishin says so. Never mind that, anyway." The Tellarite turns, and hands me the binoculars. "Still haven't found the Tempest, if she's still in the air at all. But there's something, about thirty degrees off the zenith on bearing two-forty - I'm not sure what it is -"
"I haven't found the Tempest yet either, sir," says Pascale. "Possibly, on the course she was last on, she might have drifted to the other side of the spire from us."
"Possibly." I take the binoculars, adjust them, raise them to my eyes. It takes a few moments to find the bearings Psaz has indicated. I catch random glimpses of towers, of free-floating industrial units - the sort of thing one finds in the industrial zones of the sphere. But Psaz is right, there is something else there - something that leaves a trace, a contrail through the air. I take a deep breath, will my hands to be steady, my eyes to be clear. I centre the - thing - in the binoculars' field of view, and, with a cautious movement of one finger, step up the magnification.
The binoculars click, and the thing in the centre of the view seems to jump forward and enlarge itself hugely.
It is a dark shape against the sky, illuminated as it is from above. I am seeing it from beneath, so the small engineering hull is not visible - but the long, rounded shape of the silhouette is unmistakeable, despite that.
"The Voth. A Bulwark-class battleship. It appears to be closing on the spire."
"The Voth?" Psaz sounds aghast. "We can't hold off a Voth attack -"
"It may not prove necessary. I suspect, if they had wished to destroy us, they would have done so already. Still, we shall take what additional security measures we can." Though, as Psaz says, these would probably be futile against an assault by fully-equipped Voth shock troops. The fact is, they can take us or destroy us whenever they please.
"Does that mean the Voth had something to do with the attack on the ships?" asks Pascale.
"We must consider that possibility. The available data indicates that mechanisms inside the spire were employed, though. It may be that the Voth have some ability to manipulate those mechanisms - or that they are in contact with the putative inhabitants of the spire. Either eventuality would be unwelcome news."
"What are we going to do?" Psaz asks. He sounds agitated.
"Our resources are limited. Therefore, we must obtain help. We must contact the Tempest, or the Timor, or Joint Command. I see no immediate way to proceed in any other direction." I pause. "We could, I suppose, attempt to contact the Voth. I would predict no outcome from that except our immediate capture. I should regard that as an option of last resort only."
In truth, making contact with anyone is fraught with problems. We have some portable subspace transmitters, but subspace is riven with interference from the high-energy processes in the spire. The Tempest is almost certainly incapacitated, the Timor is inside the spire's dense energy shielding, and Joint Command is too far away.
I hand the binoculars back to Psaz. "Please continue the visual search for the Tempest," I say, "and also keep a watch on the Voth ship. It would be helpful to have some idea of their plans."
"What are we going to do, even if we do find the Tempest?" Psaz asks. But he takes the binoculars and raises them to his eyes, regardless.
"It will depend on her condition. If there is anything worth salvaging... teams might be able to hand -crank Tapiola's shuttle bay doors. The bay would flood, of course, but we might be able to get a shuttle out... it would be a risk worth taking, if we had a definite destination in mind."
"We'll keep looking, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Psaz. I will now go and check on our other ongoing projects." I turn smartly on my heel and stride away. I think it is important to project an air of military efficiency, for the sake of morale.
I do not feel... military. I feel defeated, afraid, and desperate. But my feelings are not relevant to my actions.
Twosani Dezin and Nelson Karas are kneeling by a hexagonal hatch in the floor of the arena. Twosani has a tricorder in her hand, while Karas is working at the edge of the hatch with a magnetic probe. Both are frowning. Twosani looks up as I approach.
"There's definitely some sort of power flow down there, sir," she says. "It looks like there's something like a service tunnel under the arena."
"That seems a reasonable assumption. A venue such as this, whatever its purpose, must require many different kinds of services. Hopefully, communications were included. We have detected a Voth ship in the area, so alerting someone to our situation has become an even more imperative necessity."
"The Voth?" Twosani sighs, and shakes her head. "I guess there's nothing we can do that we're not already doing...."
"I'm trying to get this open," Karas grumbles. "I think I've cleared the mechanical locks, but... either there's something else holding it, or it's just stuck."
There is a shallow depression at the edge of the hatchway, space for a hand or a tool to be inserted. I crouch down, insert my right hand, brace myself with my left. I pull, hard, using the full strength of my arm, my torso, my legs. Vulcans are stronger than humans or Betazoids.... The hatch makes a grating, groaning noise, and comes free, tilting upwards. Twosani and Karas grab it. It is a simple slab of metal, not on hinges or other mountings, simply lying on top of a hole. The three of us move it aside.
"Simply stuck, I think," I say. I flex the fingers of my right hand.
Twosani is crouching by the hole, her left arm extended, holding her tricorder inside. "Looks like a service tunnel, all right," she says. "Room for a single humanoid to walk down... and surrounded by conduits... piping for fluids, though I couldn't tell you what, and what look like EPS waveguides...."
"Part of the sphere's power systems. There will generally be some sort of communications facility linked in at some point." I sit at the edge of the manhole, and lower myself gingerly into the tunnel. "Let us investigate further. Are there any life signs?"
"Not that I can see," says Twosani. "But, sir -"
"I will exercise caution." I have some equipment in my portable transporter buffer - and, really, I should transfer it all out, before the energy supply becomes depleted and the patterns degrade. I draw out a wristlight, activate it, send a cone of white light down into the tunnel. It is a narrow space lined with tubes of varying diameters, and that is all to be said about it. There are none of the more eccentric features of Solanae architecture - no force-field floors or unguarded high-energy transfer junctions, for instance. I suppose that is something to be grateful for.
By the time Twosani has lowered herself down the manhole, I have taken out my own tricorder and made some preliminary scans. "This tunnel leads to a larger chamber of some kind, roughly thirty-eight meters in that direction." I point down the tunnel, then back the other way. "There is another chamber in the other direction, at a distance of one thousand, one hundred and seventy meters. I believe it logical to investigate the closer one first."
"No argument, sir," says Twosani. Above us, Nelson Karas begins to clamber down.
"I will lead the way." There is not enough room for Twosani to pass me comfortably, in any case. She and Karas follow me closely as I make my way down the tunnel, shining the wristlight ahead of us, frequently consulting my tricorder as we go.
The tunnel debouches into a circular room, with another exit in the wall, directly facing us. There are familiar-looking Solanae consoles around the walls - dark now, though I am confident we can reactivate them. And, in the centre of the chamber -
"It looks like one of those teleporters," Twosani says, somewhat doubtfully.
"I concur." The design is familiar from other ground facilities - a single large raised disc, surrounded by free-standing columns. "We should investigate this," I say, stepping forwards. "If it can be reactivated, and its destination identified -"
I step onto the disc.
It flashes with light beneath me, and the air shimmers, and abruptly I am somewhere else. I blink. I turn quickly in a complete circle, shining the light around me, my tricorder out and scanning.
It is another chamber - larger than the one in the tunnel, with a high vaulted ceiling, round Solanae doors in the walls, and a row of narrow arches along one side of the curving wall. The transport station, though, is identical. I step off the disc.
There is no sign of life. The air seems colder and possibly thinner, here. I touch my combadge. "T'Pia to Dezin. Respond, please."
There is no answer. I am out of range, or blocked. Well, there are other possibilities, and I should try them. I touch the badge again. "T'Pia to Timor. Respond, please. T'Pia to any Starfleet vessels in range, respond, please."
No answer. Truthfully, I did not expect one.
There is a control console beside the transport station. I examine it. Much Solanae technology is still strange to us, but these consoles have become wearily familiar over time. I tap out a sequence, watch symbols glow on the panels - green, yellow, blue. "T'Pia calling Dezin. Respond, please."
There is a brief pause, then Twosani's voice says, "Sir! Are you all right?"
"I am uninjured. I appear to be in another, larger, chamber. I suspect it is some kind of local control station for the chambers in the service tunnel." That is only speculation, but it makes some sense. "At least we know the transporter works," I add.
"It did," Twosani says. "There was some kind of blow-out as soon as you vanished - some component burned out. We can find it and fix it, but maybe you'd better not risk coming back until -"
"That is logical. I will examine this station and see what I can learn, while you repair the unit. I think I am at some elevated location." I look at the row of narrow arches. "There are windows here. I will attempt to open them and get my bearings."
I cross over to the arches. There is a small control panel set into the wall - again, it is a familiar type. I touch the requisite symbols. Beside me, the panels set into the arches swing down and out, letting in more and colder air, and the bright, bleak sunlight of the sphere -
A shadow falls across the arches. I frown. I step to the nearest arch, and look out.
The vast rounded bulk of the Voth ship is blotting out the sun. The grey mass of metals and superdense ceramics is so close that I could almost reach out and touch the engineering hull.
The pads of my feet are starting to ache, as I trudge along yet another slanting tubular corridor, watch another circular door open before me. Beyond is a room, an empty room, with low domed consoles around the sides. Some laboratory, perhaps. The domed things are consistent with Solanae science workstations, the sort of thing we've seen many times before. The control panels are inactive.
I sigh, and it's the loudest noise in the room. The silence is oppressive. This spire is clearly the site of considerable activity... but, again, it's the problem of scale. The main body of the spire is dozens of kilometres across, and it has many, many interior levels... there is room for whole nations in here, and lots of empty corridors and vacant rooms between them. I have trudged a long way since I scrambled out of the escape shaft, and still I have only gone a tiny distance into the spire.
I touch my combadge, more for the sake of hearing a friendly voice than anything else. "M'eioi to Timor."
"Timor here, sir," says Sumal Jetuz's voice. It sounds clearer than before. "What's your situation?"
"Unchanged," I say. "Nothing to report - just making my way through the interior. I'm bound to find a way back down to you sometime.... You sound very clear."
"Signal strength seems to be improving, sir. We're adding filters and processing to clean out some of the interference from the spire's systems - though I'm not sure how well it's working."
"Your voice is coming through strongly."
"Yes, sir, and we're getting some solid telemetry from your tricorder, too. But there still seems to be a problem. With the data we've gathered now, we should be able to get through to the exterior of the spire - maybe not strongly enough to raise Joint Command, but we should certainly be able to get a response out of the Tapiola or the Tempest. But we've heard nothing from either ship."
"Well, I guess all you can do is keep trying." I touch the control panel on one of the consoles, but nothing happens. This part of the spire is deeply asleep, it seems. I look around. "There are two more exits from the room I'm in right now. I'm going to have a look...." I aim my tricorder at each doorway in turn. "Hmm. There's a vertical shaft behind one of them... some kind of elevator, maybe?" I walk over to that doorway, touch the controls. Nothing seems to happen at first, then my ears twitch as a faint sound makes itself heard. An approaching turbolift capsule... maybe?
The door splits into segments and opens for me. Not a capsule, but a simple round platform - well, it will do, provided I keep my arms and my tail well away from the walls. There is a free-floating control console off to one side of the platform. I study the blue glowing readouts. "Nothing as simple as up and down. It's pick a destination time, and I have no idea where any of them are. All right. Timor, do you have a fix on my combadge?"
"We do, sir, but I can't guarantee we'll keep it if you start moving quickly." Sumal's voice is starting to sound tinny again. Additional shielding in the elevator shaft, perhaps.
"Well, if I don't start moving quickly, I'm not going to get anywhere." I tap one glowing icon. The door closes behind me, and I feel a faint pressure before the inertial dampers kick in. "I'm moving up. Pretty fast." The walls of the tube are hurtling down around me. I think I'll stick very close to the centre of this disc.
My combadge emits an unintelligible squawk. I hiss in frustration. I'm going to have to spend some time tuning in, compensating for the additional layers of shielding -
I turn my attention to the tricorder. If I'm passing through more layers of shielding, I'm getting closer and closer to the inside of things - including whoever, or whatever, might be running this place. The tricorder might be able to pick up some actual life signs -
But the tricorder is having the same sorts of problems as the combadge, as, invisible to me, energy fields are changing all around me. I'm still fiddling with the settings, trying to recalibrate, when the disc comes to a halt. I turn around as another door opens beside me.
There's a wide empty space beyond. I step through cautiously. I seem to have come out onto some plaza or concourse, a smoothly curving empty hallway whose far wall is lost in shadow. I check the tricorder. If it's registering properly, I'm about... three thousand metres higher up the spire than I was.
On the minus side, that's not helping me get back to the Timor. On the plus side, there are things moving - within a few hundred metres. Life signs. The tricorder doesn't recognize what sort of life, but definitely something alive.
I try the combadge. Nothing but static.
I advance out, along the empty concourse. I think about pulling my phaser rifle from my transporter buffer... but, no, I need to make peaceful contact, if I can. The tricorder contains subroutines for extending the combadge's universal translator; I cue them up.
Life signs. Consistent with humanoid body mass, approximately humanoid-range temperature and neural activity - but the tricorder still can't make an identification. Not just a new species, but a very different new species. I can only hope the translator is up to the job.
The nearest alien to me is... about two hundred metres away, moving parallel to the concourse wall. It must be in an adjacent corridor. If I can find a doorway, I can get through, find the alien, say hello. The walls, the doors, they are simple physical things - the tricorder has no trouble locating them. I have a rough map in moments, and I make for the nearest door. The alien life sign isn't moving quickly... it seems to be ambling along at a steady pace, as if it's out for a stroll. As if it lives here. As if it belongs here....
There is a doorway. I reach it. The lights are dimmer than usual, here - I don't know if it's a failure of maintenance, or an attempt to simulate a day-night cycle, or just somebody's choice. It's not a problem for Caitian eyes, of course. I open the door. Beyond, a corridor curves around sharply and slopes upwards. I make my way along it. The alien lifesign is quite close, now, according to the tricorder -
I round the bend of the corridor, and I see it, and the words of greeting die on my lips.
It is shuffling past the intersection of this corridor with the next one, and I have only a brief glimpse of its face - but that is enough. That, and the horny carapaced body, and the silhouette of the thing - and the clawed forelimbs. It is wearing strips of fabric instead of a hooded robe, but there is no doubt, nonetheless, of what it is. Even though it's impossible.
Solanae.
---
I stand there, wide-eyed, and watch the creature shuffle out of sight. I don't think it saw me - black uniform, black fur, in shadow, I can't have been noticeable even to its huge eyes. I'm glad of that. It gives me time to think, about the implications of this -
The Solanae. The builders of the Dyson spheres, the original occupants.
I shake my head. But the Solanae are supposed to be gone. The disaster that overtook the sphere forced them out of normal space-time, into subspace -
But this spire is elaborately shielded. A - a survival bunker, of some sort, perhaps. Holding a community of the Solanae, protecting them from the tetryon contamination... letting them survive the disaster. How long have they been living here? Why have we not had signs of them before? How have they survived, how have they lived? And what are they doing now?
Well. The simplest way to find out, of course, might be to ask them.
After all, they can't be tools of the Iconians any more - the Iconians are gone. Though these Solanae might not know that... but, I won't know what they know unless I ask them. Make contact. Not only is it the right Starfleet thing to do, it's the only thing to do.
I wish I could reach the ship, though. Someone besides me needs to know about this... but the interference is too strong, still. So, it's up to me. I square my shoulders and start to march briskly along the corridor, following the path taken by the alien.
Except it's not as simple as that - the architecture of this place is a maze, as usual. Although I can sometimes hear the clacking of chitinous feet on the deckplates, the Solanae stays, maddeningly, out of sight as the corridors twist and turn. I have to proceed slowly, checking with my tricorder's map at every junction - and, even so, I am falling behind, and I'm not sure I haven't got myself crossed up or turned around in the passageways -
I stop walking. I take a deep breath. And think.
Many Solanae. That implies a community. And communities have gathering places, social venues. Instead of following this lone alien, I should be looking for a large space that has a number of them in it. It might make better sense, from a first-contact point of view, too. If there's several of them, and only one of me, they'll be able to see I mean them no harm. Probably. Possibly.
So I consult the tricorder again, and map out a route to a large hall, or something, that's showing several Solanae life signs. Quite a number of them, in fact. At least the tricorder now recognizes them - perhaps, though the readings are still a little confused. So. Up the next ramp, take the next turning but two to the left, then a little way around a curve, then the next right....
I forget my fatigue as I follow the path. This is - this is important.
I come to the end of the path, step up to a big round door. It opens before me. I step through.
I'm in a big round space, with a shallow domed ceiling, and lights pouring down, brightly, onto the centre. In the centre is a flat space, marked out with lines of varying colours, and - there are Solanae on it, going through some sort of rapid movements. Are they... dancing? Playing a game? There are other Solanae, ranged about the room, standing or sitting, looking at the centre.
No one seems to have noticed me, yet. I take another step forward.
I'm about to clear my throat and announce myself when there's a noise, and movement, over to the side of me. I glance in that direction -
Another door has opened, and there are people coming through. Not Solanae. The noise I heard was the tramping of heavy, armoured feet, and the bulky, scaly forms with the elaborate head crests are instantly recognizable.
Even with the power assists built into his battle armour, Stannark moved slowly, ponderously, up the slanting corridor to the position where the advance troopers were waiting at the door. He stopped in the doorway, stood, and stared.
"Are those what I think they are?" he said.
"Confirmed." To his left, Lieutenant Tyzel was fidgeting with a scanner; beyond him, Karzis had a scanner in his hand, too, and seemed to be peering at it intently. "The readings match - um, the hypothetical characteristics established by the Circles of Science - that is, within an acceptable margin of error - They're Solanae, sir. But not from subspace. Biological Solanae."
Stannark turned his head from side to side, deliberately taking in the scene before him. "What are they doing?"
"They're not paying us much attention," one shock trooper muttered. Indeed, though a few of the closer Solanae had turned to look at the Voth group, most still had their attention fixed on the centre of the room.
"It, um - it could be some kind of ritual, I think, sir," said Tyzel.
"Ritual?" Stannark took a step forward. "This was the largest concentration of life signs we could detect! They must be engaged in activity of critical importance! That was the conclusion of our intelligence analysts!"
"Of importance to them, perhaps," Karzis said, in an absent-minded tone, as if his own attention was being drawn elsewhere. "But whatever they are doing, it is not critical to the control of this spire. There are no command or science consoles in evidence, no major power circuits operated from this area, no secure communications lines.... No. We must conclude that this is some sort of - social activity."
"Social activity?" Stannark's voice was loud enough to make a few more Solanae heads turn, now. No expression showed on the immobile chitinous faces, or in the huge eyes, but the creatures made no move, either towards or away from the Voth party. They seemed, Stannark thought, simply - incurious.
"We know the Solanae to be an erratic and foolish species," said Tyzel. "Their, um, their accident with the sphere - their failed attempt to utilize, um, ancient Voth technology which they did not understand - it indicates, um, poor intellectual organization -"
"We are here to take control!" Stannark shouted. "I have no interest in watching the rituals of some debased species! If these - Solanae - cannot assist us, they must not be permitted to impede us!"
One of the nearby Solanae, who had been looking at Stannark, now turned away from him to regard the centre of the room again. The Voth commander's teeth ground together in frustration.
"Useless crustaceans! Clear them away!"
The shock troopers raised their rifles, aiming over the Solanae's heads. Thin scarlet lines of antiproton fire screamed out of the guns, to scar the domed ceiling.
More of the creatures turned to look at the Voth, now. The frantic activity in the centre of the room - the dance, or ritual, or whatever it was - slowed to a halt. The Solanae were not moving, though; they simply stood there, looking at Stannark and his troops.
Stannark snarled, drew his pistol, took deliberate aim at the creature who had turned away from him, and fired. The Solanae made a brief shrieking noise and fell lifeless to the floor.
The Voth troopers dropped the muzzles of their weapons, and fired again. Beams tore through the crowd of Solanae, leaving a dozen smouldering corpses on the deck. Suddenly, the rest of them were in motion, a panicky chittering noise filling the air as they milled in confusion and attempted to flee. The troopers fired again. Stannark aimed carefully and shot down one Solanae, another, a third.
"The Circles of Science would probably appreciate a specimen or two," Karzis observed.
"They may have them!"
"In good condition, I mean. This is a scientific find of some interest. We should not exterminate all of them, immediately."
"We will clear this room and hold it as a staging area." By now, the surviving Solanae were fleeing through a dozen or more exits, dotted around the walls. The troopers fired a few more bursts, casually and without aiming, not caring if they killed or only terrified. Inside a minute, the big room was empty of living Solanae.
Stannark strode over to the nearest corpse and kicked it. Then he turned to Karzis. "What is amusing you?" he demanded.
"A minor detail, but perhaps a fruitful one." The intelligence officer held up the scanner in his hand. "Another life sign, nearby - very nearby, in fact. Not one of these. A mammal."
"Starfleet?"
"Oh, definitely. In fact, I believe it to be the absurd Admiral M'eioi. Certainly, a female of the same species. The creature was nearby when we entered this room, and withdrew almost immediately. She is retreating down the corridors now - she probably imagines herself to be safe." Karzis smiled. "With the Commander's permission, I will go now and retrieve her. She may have useful intelligence to give us, concerning the current status of the Timor."
"We should tie up that loose end." Stannark nodded. "Be quick about it."
Did the Solanae turn hostile, try to fight the Voth? They looked peaceful enough - but our own history with the Solanae isn't one of peace - but, on the other hand, the Voth don't need any excuses to start shooting.
All I hear is the shrill sound of Voth antiproton weapons - and a sort of screaming.
I didn't even bother pulling my gun out of the transporter buffer. There was no way I could take on a platoon of Voth troopers single-handed - but I am sick at heart, now, for the chance I must have missed. And for the deaths behind me.
I reach the end of one tubular corridor, and the round door opens before me. If I can lose myself in this warren, I might be able to make it back to the Timor before the Voth can find me. I don't think they saw me, but I'd be amazed if they haven't spotted me on sensors. Voth technology is good.
Beyond the door is a chamber, big and round and full of machinery. I don't know what any of it's for, but it might just be good for hiding in. I pause to catch my breath, and to take stock of what's around me. There are consoles around the walls, there are snaking tangles of cables between floor and ceiling -
There are soft rustling footsteps behind me. I spin around.
The Solanae is standing in the doorway, goggling at me with those huge eyes. It is crouched, appearing wary, and a loud, rhythmic rasping is coming from its mouth. Out of breath, I realise. Just like me. The creature must have run from the Voth -
I hold out empty hands towards it, hoping it can understand the gesture. "It's all right," I say. "I mean you no harm. I'm a friend." Or, at least, I would like to be. "My name is M'eioi."
The Solanae doesn't respond. I don't know if the universal translator even got my meaning across. But the creature doesn't run, either, and I guess that's a start.
"The Voth - the people who shot at you - they are my enemies, too," I say. "Is there somewhere we can be safe from them?" No answer.
I turn aside and begin to pace, carefully, around the chamber. The cables twine like massive vines, descending from holes in the ceiling, vanishing into matching holes in the floor. There is space to hide among them - there is space to make my way into the holes, though I don't know where they might lead. Behind me, the Solanae shuffles. I dart a glance towards it. It has made its way towards one of the consoles, is standing before it, appears to be puzzling over the interface.
Something moves in the corner of my eye. I turn round quickly, but there is nothing there. Except - is one of those cables swaying, just a little bit? I step forward to investigate -
And the air shimmers and ripples before me, and suddenly there is a black armoured shape in front of me.
Voth. Special ops, using a stealth field. This one is nearly seven feet tall, clad in black battle armour, and with scales nearly as dark. Ocular implants glow blue in its eyesockets, and that is the only touch of colour about it - no, not quite. There is a dull red glow, as of a banked fire, in the antiproton rifle the creature is pointing at me.
"Admiral M'eioi," the Voth says, and it sounds almost amused. "I do hope you can understand me."
"I can," I say, through a suddenly dry mouth. I weigh up my chances of jumping the Voth, or of getting my battle rifle out of the transporter buffer, and decide they're not so hot.
"Excellent," says the Voth. "I am Davrak Karzis, and you may consider yourself my prisoner. We have questions for you."
"I don't doubt it," I say. "M'eioi, Admiral, six four six dash delta dash two niner zero two seven."
Karzis chuckles. "I wonder how long it took to train you to do that? Never mind. We will have more entertainment from you in due course. Where is your ship? Where is the Timor?"
I say nothing. Behind Karzis, one of the cables twitches, again. I look up, involuntarily, and my eyes widen.
"Oh, come now," Karzis says. "Such a silly ruse! I have sensors, I have my implants, and I can see quite plainly that there are no life signs here save you, and me, and that useless arthropod."
"I don't doubt it," I say.
The figure that drops from above onto Karzis's back is clad in Starfleet uniform, is shaped like a human female with ash-blonde hair, but the metal eyes and the exposed circuitry on one side of the face give away her origins. The android grabs the Voth's elongated head crest, and twists with all her might. I am moving, dodging to one side and preparing to fight, but there is no need; the snap of Karzis's neck is clearly audible. The black-armoured form crumples to the ground. The android snatches up the antiproton gun.
"I broke his neck," she says. "It won't hold him for long. We'd better get moving, sir."
"Thanks," I say, a little more shakily than I wanted to. "Who are you, and what the hell's going on?"
"Commander Pearl, sir, from the Tempest."
"One of Fallon's people?"
"I was, sir." She glances back at the doorway. "I don't see more coming, yet, but they'll be on their way as soon as they miss this one."
"What's happening? I need to know, Commander."
"Yes, sir." She aims the weapon at the doorway, and speaks rapidly. "Commodore Fallon was tracking a Voth ship. It hit us with some kind of energy field - I think it was using the tetryon emitters in this spire. The Tempest was flooded with an intense biolytic field. I -"
"Wait. What happened to Fallon?"
The android might not be programmed for emotion, but there is something very bleak in her voice as she says, "He burned, sir. They all burned. Ever seen what thalaron radiation does to organic tissue? It wasn't that pretty."
I have no answer for that.
"I didn't know if the ship was stable. The radiation burned out our bioneural gel packs, the ship's systems took heavy damage. I engaged emergency backups, and they may have stabilized it by now, but I needed to get help, and there was only one thing I could think to try - beam over to the spire and try to reach you and the Timor. I was wandering for a while before I picked up your combadge's signature."
"Wait," I say. There are more urgent questions coming to my mind, and the first of them is - "What about the Tapiola? Why didn't you signal T'Pia for help?"
"The radiation field surrounded both ships, sir." She looks at me hard with those metal eyes. "You served with Admiral T'Pia for some time, didn't you? I'm sorry, sir."
I close my eyes, trying to take it all in. T'Pia is gone. The Voth are here in force, and they have a weapon that will kill our ships - kill us - at a single blow. I don't know what to do, now -
I have to figure something out. Fast. I open my eyes again.
"I got separated from my ship," I say. "We're at least three kilometres away, and I don't yet know the route back. We need to get away from here, find a safe spot where I can work on breaking through the comms interference and contact the Timor. I did it before, I can do it again."
Pearl nods. "Sounds like a plan, sir. Any idea which way to go first?"
I wish I did. The chamber has several doorways; I point to one at random. "Let's try there."
"No," says a new voice, suddenly, and we both turn around.
The Solanae. The Solanae has come forward, away from the console, and is speaking to us. The universal translator has got through to it. "No," it says again, and points to another exit with one claw-like hand. "There. That way leads to the rooms of the old machines. Siffaith is there. He understands the machines, he is helping Dyegh. We must find Siffaith. He will know what to do. He must."
The Voth ship has apparently docked with the spire. This is a logical procedure; it means they can send out troops in force, without relying on possibly compromised transporter operations. True, the Bulwark becomes a stationary target in the process - but, if they have control of the spire's own weapons systems, that need not be a problem for them.
I think furiously, attempting to assess my own immediate danger. The spire is vast, even a Bulwark-class warship cannot carry enough troops to occupy it in any meaningful sense - most likely, they will look for centralized control and communications stations, so that they can take and hold the mechanisms of the spire's operations. The station I am in may be important enough for them to seek it out. I do not have the resources to oppose a Voth military force.
I turn to the communications console. "T'Pia to Dezin."
"Sir." Twosani responds at once.
"The Voth ship has docked with the spire, I estimate not more than five hundred metres from my current location. It is probable that Voth ground troops will shortly take possession of this control station. What is the status of repairs to the transporter?"
"Still offline, sir. I'm sorry."
"No matter. There are other stations accessible from this location. I will transfer myself to some point more distant from the Voth. Perhaps I may even be able to locate the Timor and alert Admiral M'eioi to the situation." Always assuming that the Timor has not already been found and neutralized by the Voth - well, I must make some assumptions at some point. "There is an internal map on the transporter control console. I will consult it."
"How long have you got, sir?" Twosani's voice sounds faint as I move to the other console.
I speak loudly and clearly in reply. "Unknown at this time. I will move as expeditiously as I safely can."
The control console does, indeed, have a map. Unfortunately, it is an abstract thing, representing the correct topology of the transporter nodes on the network, but without giving absolute positions or directions. With only two known nodes to correlate from, my analysis of the network is necessarily incomplete and imperfect.
Worryingly, many of the nodes - not just the one I started from - are inoperative. The sphere's self-repair systems are complex and continually operational, but even so, the vast structure shows some signs of age and wear - this, however, is considerably more damage than I might have expected, given the condition of other spires. Either this spire has, through random factors, suffered unusually heavy damage from the passing of the years... or the activity which led us here has caused the damage in some way. The latter seems more probable. The tetryon pulsations, generated by apparatus of immense age, must have caused high levels of stress, on systems that have been disused for millennia. A level of collateral damage was only to be anticipated.
I study the map, my ears alert for any sound - most importantly, the sound of approaching Voth boots on the deckplates. But there is nothing. Only the occasional faint bleep from the consoles, and the sighing of the wind through the high arched windows.
I select a node which is still functional, and which is shown in emphasis on the map - multiple coloured rings surrounding its icon. If I have judged correctly, it is also distant from this station. Hopefully, not too distant - it would be inconvenient, to say the least, if I were to be transported to the other side of the sphere. "I have selected a destination," I say. "I will attempt to contact you again from there, on my arrival. T'Pia out."
"Good luck, sir," I hear Twosani say, as I engage the controls and step onto the pad.
The world spins and shifts around me. I am somewhere else -
I blink. I am in a round alcove, with the transport pad at its centre. I step forwards, towards the open side of the alcove. It opens onto a hallway - a large hallway - whose walls are lined with similar alcoves -
I advance a few paces further, stop, and look around, taking stock. The hallway appears to be roughly kidney-shaped, and at least five hundred metres along its longest axis. The walls are lined with alcoves, each one perhaps twenty-five metres across. And each one holds a transport pad, as far as my eyes can see. It must be a central interchange for the transport system. The map I consulted must only have shown part of the network - possibly only a very small part.
Nothing like this showed up on any of my tricorder scans, so I am clearly at some distance from the Voth. However, this is a target even more desirable than my previous location. If the Voth can trace me here, they will undoubtedly send troops in whatever strength they can muster.
I pull out my tricorder and scan the area. There must, logically, be a master control station nearby - there would be no point assembling all these transporters in one place, otherwise.
There is considerable electronic activity to my left. I turn in that direction and jog down the hallway, following its gentle curve. At one end, a large dais rises out of the floor, with many free-standing consoles mounted on it and a massive display screen hanging down from the vaulted ceiling overhead. As I near it, ramps extend from the floor along the sides of the dais, affording me access. Typical Solanae design - useful, if disconcerting.
I stop at the foot of one ramp, and listen. The room has, up till now, been quiet - my footsteps the loudest sound. But now I can hear something else. Not footsteps - certainly not the tread of Voth armoured boots - but something else. A faint hissing sound, almost like slithering -
It is coming from above me. I look up.
Shapes flow through the air under the curve of the ceiling - gleaming white metallic shapes trailing tendril-like cables behind them. The noise of those metal tentacles is the sound I hear. The sphere's security swarmers. They are emerging from vents in the ceiling, criss-crossing the upper air of the hallway, their blunt mechanical faces turning this way and that.
An individual swarmer is a danger to unarmoured personnel. And there are dozens - no, hundreds - of them here.
Evidently, the Voth incursion has alerted the sphere's automated security systems. In the abstract, this may be a good thing. Here and now, though, it is a problem. The swarmers respond to unauthorised personnel with deadly force, and I am no more authorised here than the Voth.
First one swarmer, then another, dips its blunt head to face me. They are nearly featureless - it is only imagination which attributes malignancy to them.
They do not fire their weapons. In an instant, I realize why not. I am surrounded by the sphere's machinery, in the form of the transporters. The swarmers must be programmed to avoid risking damage to those machines from missed shots.
But the swarmers have a high degree of artificial intelligence - they will adapt their tactics, and swiftly. Already, some more of them are arcing through the air, seeking a vantage point from which they can fire at me without endangering the transporters.
I cannot fight so many swarmers. I have seconds to act, at most, before they cut me down. I turn and dash for the nearest alcove. Movement whispers in the air behind me, and I anticipate, at every instant, the scarlet blaze of an antiproton beam cutting into my back. I reach for the transporter pad, for the controls -
I have no time to select a destination. I must go anywhere, so long as it is away.
The control panel bleeps its assent to me. The pad glows to life. I leap onto it -
I see nothing that can possibly go wrong with T'Pia's plans.
Man, Starfleet's resources are getting knocked down fast with a whole Bastion full of troops on one side, swarmers on the other, and Solanae getting killed in the middle.
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
"An error on my part," said Davrak Karzis. "I had forgotten the mammals supplement their forces with mechanical units." The spec ops analyst was sprawled, half-sitting, on a domed console, while a white-suited medic checked the readouts from his battle armour. Occasionally, his limbs twitched, as the armour's nanotechnology completed the job of rebuilding his vertebrae and repairing his brain stem.
"The, um, the transporter signature," said Lieutenant Tyzel. "The one we detected. From the Tempest. It must have been - "
"Yes," snarled Karzis. "The last survivor of the Tempest. These Starfleet androids are of some interest - this one should be dismantled for study by the Circles of Engineering." His right hand closed in a fist. "I will take pleasure in attending to that matter personally."
"All in due time," said Gavron Stannark. He lumbered over to his aide, looked down on him. "We have not been entirely idle during your misadventure. This chamber, at least, has been secured - though it seems to serve no useful purpose." He cast a brief, dismissive glance at the coloured lines that marked the centre of the arena. "Our thinking is that it is a sporting venue, a place of amusement. However. We are using it as a staging area, and our advance parties have already located some more promising machinery rooms."
"What progress has been made interrogating the residents?" Karzis asked.
"As yet, none." Stannark kicked casually at the charred remains of a Solanae. "We have taken none alive, or even reasonably intact. They know these corridors, this locale, as we do not. They have fled, and gone to ground. No matter. We will take some of them in due course, and learn whatever we can."
"Is it confirmed that they are - what they appear to be?"
"Organic Solanae. Yes. The members of the Circles of Science are processing the data now, but it appears the ancestors of these creatures survived the initial disaster, somehow. Possibly the heavy shielding on this spire was designed to protect against such mishaps. Of course, we may never know the whole story. It is very likely these creatures are the descendants of generations of inbreeding. Degenerates. That would account for their staggering incuriosity at our arrival. Dissection of the brains of some of the corpses might confirm this."
"I admit," said Karzis, "I am in a mood to dissect some brains." He shrugged off the medic and rose, unsteadily, to his feet. "With the commander's permission, I will join the teams examining the machinery. If we can identify some of the control circuitry, I have special operations software packages that should make it... amenable to our wishes."
"This structure," said Stannark, "poses a challenge, simply by virtue of its sheer size. I could call for more ships from Command, but... our military forces are stretched already. No, I think it better that we identify the local command centres and take control of them. If you are fit for duty, by all means, take command of the search teams."
"I am not one to malinger over a minor injury," said Karzis. He looked up, and his ocular implants flashed and rippled with data. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Stannark demanded.
"I'm reading something," Tyzel said. He had a scanner in his hand, was studying it intently. "Motion in... it looks like some kind of ducts overhead. Motion, but no life signs. There might be power sources -"
"There are," said Karzis grimly. "And my devices tell me there are gravitic fields in operation - flight units. All this suggests one thing to me - Watch out!"
Fifty metres distant, a circular hatch irised open in the ceiling, and the first shape glided through. The security swarmer made a leisurely sweep through the air, seemingly getting its bearings, then turned towards the nearest group of Voth. A scarlet beam lashed out from its front section, and a security trooper yelled in shock and fright as his personal shield flared and wavered. The swarmer shot forward, its tentacles trailing behind it, and fired again.
Behind it, a second swarmer emerged from the hatch, and a third. And other hatches were opening in the ceiling, in the walls.
Red light threaded the air. The shrill sound of the antiproton beams was drowned out by Stannark's roar of anger. A swarmer had targeted him, was firing repeatedly, but its shots simply bounced off the Voth commander's heavy-duty shield. "This is insupportable!" Stannark shouted, levelling his handgun at the swarmer and firing back. Now, it was the turn of the swarmer's shield to flicker under the onslaught. The machine turned to flee, and Stannark pursued it, his hand weapon glaring viciously in his fist. Sparks shot from the swarmer's body as one shot punched through the shield and hit home - and the machine dropped to the floor, its tentacles a hopeless tangle, smoke pouring from its forward section.
But there were more of them, and still firing. Lieutenant Tyzel screamed as his shield blew out - and his scream ended abruptly as a sustained beam from one swarmer struck his head and burned downwards, bisecting him from head to crotch. Karzis aimed his weapon at that swarmer, blasted it out of the air with a series of long bursts. The Voth troops, startled by the sudden onslaught, were starting to coordinate their responses. Lightly armoured technicians fled for cover while the armoured troopers formed fire teams and shot down the swarmers with concentrated barrages, overwhelming their shields. Shattered and burning hulks of machinery crashed to the deck.
The attack was over as quickly as it had begun. The hatches in the walls and ceiling closed, and the remaining swarmers, outnumbered and outgunned, were quickly disabled.
Stannark strode back towards Karzis, his expression furious. His battle armour was scorched in a few places where swarmers had breached his shields. He looked down at the two halves of Lieutenant Tyzel, then shot a questioning glance at a nearby medic.
"Not recoverable," the medic said shortly. "Too much damage to the central nervous system. We can't work miracles, sir."
Stannark nodded curtly. "To die in the service of Doctrine is... no bad thing. His relatives may be consoled by that... but he was Voth. These creatures and their robot functionaries have no right to kill Voth. They must be made aware of that. Forcefully, if need be."
"We have numbers here sufficient to withstand an assault," said Karzis. "The smaller exploratory teams, now, they may be in graver danger. We should take steps to protect them."
"We shall," said Stannark. "I will order up some heavier ordnance. And we will redouble our efforts to locate and take over the control centres. Once we hold those, these swarmers will answer to our will. As it should be."
---
"I have thousands of swarmers," Siffaith muttered, "but they are dispersed, scattered into many small groups.... I do not know if I can coordinate all of them together, swamp the intruders with too many swarmers to hold off.... Dyegh, where can I obtain more swarmers? There must be repair stations for the damaged ones, or fabricators to make replacements...."
He straightened up. He felt twinges of pain in his carapace - he had been crouched over the security console for too long. He turned to face Dyegh, who was standing a little way off, clicking his claws irresolutely.
"Dyegh. Fabricators. I have many swarmers, but they are in finite supply - if the new gods destroy them all, my defences will fall. How do I access the fabricators?"
"There are security fabricators." Dyegh spoke slowly, reluctantly. "I... could give you access... I think. But my work - "
"This need not affect your work," said Siffaith.
"How can it not?" demanded Dyegh. "The fabricators demand power! Resources! Scarce elements, which must come from my stockpiles, or must be made by transmutation, which takes more power! You are taking things that I need for my work!"
"Temporarily," said Siffaith. He fixed his large eyes on the other's face. "Dyegh, see reason. Your work will be stopped if the new gods take control of the Home. Let me have what I need to drive them out, and you will only be delayed. Neither is good, I admit, but my way is the lesser of the two evils."
Dyegh turned away. He walked slowly to the other side of the control room, and paused, leaning over a console. Siffaith could see him trembling, even beneath his robe.
"I have a goal," he said in a dull voice. "I have an aim in view... I want to restore the sun, to bring the Land back to its full glory and power. Why must it be so difficult? Why must so many people try to stop me? Even you...."
Siffaith came to stand beside him. "I do not want to stop you, Dyegh. I want to help. But we must keep the new gods from interfering, and to do that, I will need the Home's resources. For a time. For as short a time as I can make it."
Dyegh made a faint moaning noise. Then, "Do what you must," he said. "Go to the primary console and the security menu, and enter access code Gold, Gold, Cyan, Red, Gold. You will have control of the second-tier security responses, then, and those include permission to queue replicator requests. You will have all the swarmers you need. And other capacities besides."
"Thank you," said Siffaith. "I will do what I can - I will drive off the intruders and let you do your work in peace."
"I hope so," Dyegh muttered.
Siffaith turned and went back to the security console. "The new gods are divided into two factions," he said. "One is unquestionably hostile, but the other... the other spoke words of friendship. If we could enlist the help of that side against the hostiles, we could use their resources, perhaps."
"No," said Dyegh. "No. If we become enmeshed in the gods' squabbles, we will never make our way out again. It will be temporary alliance after temporary alliance, and no end in sight."
Siffaith nodded. "Perhaps you are right." His claws touched the console, entering the colour-code sequence. "Well, then. Both factions of the gods have sent ships, have entered or docked with the Home...." On the console screen, command menus opened up, symbols indicating a wealth of new possibilities to Siffaith's eyes. "Perhaps I should give some thought as to how those ships might be destroyed."
It is dark. That is my first sensory impression, and it is not a particularly useful one.
I look down. There is a dim glow... I am on a transport pad, as I expected, and there is a control board beside it, as normal. But the light from the Solanae control panels is usually brighter than this - and there are normally other lights, besides, set high on the curving walls.
There are no sounds. The air is cool, but there is a faint smell of something - burning, perhaps? My footsteps break the silence as I step off the pad. I go around to the side of the transporter, and study the console.
Half the board is blank, dead. There are a few icons visible on the other half, but they are dim, and even as I watch, they flicker. I check. The system seems to be in an emergency standby mode. There is no way to activate the communications system, and - though it is clearly viable as a destination point - the transporter pad lacks capacity, at present, to transport anyone out. And the board is still flickering. This is not normal for Solanae technology. It suggests, to me, serious damage, somewhere.
I pull out my tricorder, and set it to display a blank test screen, then turn up the image brightness as high as it will go. As an improvised flashlight, it is... acceptable. I shine my light around the walls, trying to work out what sort of a place this is.
I am in a small hemispherical chamber, not unlike the one where I first found myself, though this one lacks windows. There is one doorway - I frown at the sight. It has a standard Solanae round door, but the panels are retracted part-way into the frame. The door is jammed, about two-thirds open.
There are lighting elements in the walls, but they are dark and dead. The corridor beyond the doorway, too, appears to be dark.
I have no choice but to explore the corridor. There is no other exit, and I cannot remain here indefinitely. I could wish for more information.... I risk an active scan with the tricorder. If I am reading its data correctly, I am still within the main body of the spire, somewhat lower down than the chamber with the windows, and - unfortunately - well within the interfering energy screens. There is no way I can contact my crew through my combadge, and the transporter pad's communications are out. I must, therefore, explore further.
The tricorder tells me the corridor opens onto another, larger, chamber in a hundred metres or so. I clamber over the frozen segments of the door, and set off.
The corridor slopes down gently. Again, the lighting elements are dead. As an experiment, I shut off the tricorder, and wait for a while, until my eyes have had time to grow accustomed to the dark. But there is nothing. No light at all - I am too far along the curve of the corridor to see the weak glow of the control panel, and there is no other light source. There are only the vague, amorphous forms of phosphenes slowly surging across my vision. It is disturbing. I snap the tricorder open again; in the darkness, its screen seems dazzling.
There is another doorway at the end of the corridor. As with the first, the door is partly open. There is a vast empty space beyond, but I can make out no details. I climb past the segments of the door. The smell of burning is quite strong, now. Dimly, I hear a gentle surging sound, and air currents move on my face. This empty space may be large enough to support its own air circulation.
I shine the tricorder around me. I am on a walkway, apparently running around the wall of a large spherical chamber. From the curvature of the walls, I estimate its diameter somewhere in the neighbourhood of three hundred and twenty metres. There are vague shapes out towards the centre, but I catch only glimpses of them in the light of my tricorder; I can make out no details.
But there is another shape nearby, on the walkway: the semi-ovoid form of one of the sphere's free-floating information terminals. Except this one is not floating freely, but lying, inert, on the walkway. I make my way over to it, treading cautiously. This area has clearly sustained damage, somehow, and though the walkway seems secure enough, my imagination is painting pictures of a vast yawning gulf beneath me.
The information terminal appears dead, but I can see no external signs of damage. I touch the hard white outer shell; it is cold, nothing more. I turn the device over, so that I can see where its control panel and holographic display globe should be -
My fingers brush against the glassy surface of the control panel, and suddenly the terminal shivers. There is a series of clicks and a low hum, shockingly loud in the quietness. Lights glimmer and flash on the panel, and the terminal stirs beneath my hands. I stand up, and step back. The control panel flashes and pulses with light, and the terminal rises off the walkway, and turns itself upright in mid-air. Evidently, I have triggered some sort of hard reset. But what disabled the device in the first place?
We have some experience of the Solanae data projectors, by now. I step up to the terminal, tap out a sequence on the panel. The holographic display globe forms in the air above it. There are few icons available on it, but I decipher a sequence I have seen before. I tap in another set of commands, whose functions can be summarized as engage local backup systems.
For a few seconds, nothing happens; then, the light comes.
It is dim; only a few of the lighting elements inside the spherical chamber come alive. But they are sufficient. The walkway goes all around the waist of the vast sphere, and from three points radial catwalks extend out to the centre. And, running vertically from round floor to domed ceiling, there are cables. Dozens of them, some the thickness of my arm, some the thickness of my body, twining about each other - and all of them charred and blackened, as if subjected to intense heat.
I pace slowly around the wall of the chamber until I reach a catwalk, then step cautiously onto it. It bears my weight... though, now I look closely, there is scoring and oxidation on the bare metal of its floor plates and guard rails, as if it too has been in a fire. I make my way along until I reach the nearest of the thick cables.
The charring on it is deep and extensive; the outer layers are black and flaking away. I scan with my tricorder, and frown at the results. The outer layer, as one might expect, is - or was - an insulator; it has denatured and oxidised under the influence of an intense energy release. The inner core of the cable -
I sit cross-legged on the walkway, and try to interpret the results I am seeing, using the tricorder's data libraries for comparisons and cross-checks. A picture emerges - a picture that I do not like.
The core of the cable is a fused conglomerate of rare-earth isotopes, and the data libraries have tentative matches for what it might have been like before it fused. A rare thing, in fact - a high-temperature superconductor. High-temperature being a relative term, naturally; this substance should have retained superconducting properties up to some three hundred Kelvin.
But it has not. Somehow, even this material has been subjected to a power surge which destabilized its molecular structure... or, to put it simply, it has been burned out.
A cursory scan confirms that the others are the same.
Superconducting cables, burned out. The one before me now could channel the full output of a starship's warp core without overloading - and it is by no means the largest one here. The forces at work in this chamber have been... indescribable. Too much, even, for Solanae materials and engineering.
Was it from the energy pulse that wrecked the Tapiola? Or, earlier, when the energies of the ion stream were diverted away? I have no way to tell. But a more important question now engages my mind. Whatever happened, it was arranged either by the Voth or the directing intelligence within the spire.
What will happen, now, if they try the same thing again?
The Solanae's name, it seems, is Tyonovon. The universal translator gives it - her - a feminine voice. I'm not sure how conventional ideas about gender correspond to Solanae ones, but that's probably the least of my worries, just now.
Tyonovon is leading us - I don't know; I think it's upwards, but we have been through a dizzying maze of corridors and halls and machine rooms, and my sense of direction - such as it was - is thoroughly jumbled up. Pearl seems no better off. The android seems tense, almost nervous, even though she can't be. She turns the gaze of those metal eyes - and the muzzle of the Voth gun - on every doorway we pass.
"How much longer now?" I ask Tyonovon, as we pause in a small round room. The bulbous shape of a Solanae console dominates one wall, but I am far too tired to investigate it now. The adrenaline from the discovery of the Solanae, and the flight from the Voth, has worn off, and I am acutely aware of how far I have walked.
"Not far," Tyonovon says. "I am leading you by back ways, though, in case the other gods try to pursue us. No one knows the passages of the Home as we do." She moves towards another round doorway. She is showing no sign of fatigue. And Pearl, of course, can't feel fatigue. I am the only one with sore feet and drooping whiskers, it seems.
"The other gods?" I ask.
"She must mean the Voth," Pearl murmurs.
"Does that make us -?" But Tyonovon opens the door and steps through before I can finish the question.
I exchange glances with Pearl. I certainly don't feel like a god.
We follow Tyonovon into another passage, one that winds in a steep spiral around a semi-transparent tube, several metres thick, lit by a pulsating blue glow. "Tetryon conduit," says Pearl, and Tyonovon stops and turns around to face us.
"You understand this?" she asks.
"Some of it," Pearl says. "Commodore Fallon made a study of another spire. It's how we - well, how he kept ahead of the Voth. Until now."
I look at the glowing tube. I'd have pegged the blue lights as some sort of Cherenkov emission, certainly, but Pearl seems very sure about what sort of particles are involved. "Is there anything else we should know?" I ask her.
"Commodore Fallon managed to interpret a lot of Solanae data signals. He - was - a talented man, sir. We were able to decipher a lot of low-level data output - the sort of automatic signals the machines send. I told him, sir, that he should have submitted this to Science Division - that they could have made a lot more of it. But he said he didn't want to send in his findings until he had more data - that he wouldn't bother Science Division with preliminary results -"
"I'll bet," I mutter. "Commodore Fallon always wanted to keep his edge over everyone else, yes?"
"That's not the reasoning he gave, sir," says Pearl.
Tyonovon steps a little closer to us. "Do you... fight... amongst yourselves?" she asks. The translator makes her voice sound puzzled.
"We have - differences of opinion, I guess," I say. "Doesn't everyone? Don't you?"
"Sometimes," says Tyonovon. I can't read the expression, if any, on her rigid chitinous face. "The People... argue amongst themselves. I have had some words with Siffaith... but it is strange. To think of you... arguing...."
"We're just people," I say.
Tyonovon turns from me to Pearl, then back again. It seems she is on the verge of saying something - then she turns abruptly, and starts again upwards, up the spiral corridor. "We must reach Siffaith," she says.
I trudge after her. Out of the corner of my mouth, I say to Pearl, "Is that data still aboard the Tempest?"
"It'll be in the computer core. Assuming the Voth haven't destroyed the ship."
"I don't think they have. This place is shielded, yes, but a core breach this close would have registered on my tricorder." I'm starting to think about this. Can I scrape together a skeleton crew for the Tempest? I don't have many people aboard the Timor - but if the Tempest is still intact, if we can get enough people to work that ship, we may stand a better chance against the Voth. There's no way, though, that I could spare enough people to run the Tapiola.... T'Pia is gone. I still find it hard to believe.
"Not far now," says Tyonovon. She's said that before, damn her.
Two more revolutions around the spiral, and then the corridor stretches out, straight and level, ahead of us, to another door. Tyonovon goes up to it, and it splits open for her.
Beyond it is a big room, clearly some sort of engineering or control room. There are low, humped Solanae consoles and free-floating data terminals everywhere, and semitransparent screens hanging in the air, displaying data that's incomprehensible to me. Some of the floor - isn't floor; it's made of force fields with that disturbing liquid rippling look. And there are two robed figures in among all the consoles - two figures who turn with startled speed at our entrance. They are wearing loose hooded robes with a metallic sheen. Solanae. These ones look like Solanae.
"Siffaith," says Tyonovon. "Dyegh. We need your help. The new gods came -"
"You have brought them with you," says one of the Solanae. Masculine voice. And he doesn't sound pleased.
"Not the bad ones. Siffaith, there are these, and there are the others. The other ones - they were at the game - they killed, Siffaith. They killed - oh, they killed many, before we fled. Siffaith, we need help."
My gaze darts from one to the other of the robed Solanae - trying, I suppose, to work out which one is which. I think the one called Siffaith, the one doing the talking, is slightly taller - or the other is slouching or slumping, perhaps.
"I have already engaged the spire's security systems," says Siffaith. "I did not know - so much harm had been done." He turns towards me and Pearl. "We do not involve ourselves in your conflicts. You should leave."
"Easier said than done." Perhaps it's not a diplomatic thing to say, but I'm tired and fearful and irritable.
"We do not take sides in the wars of the gods -" the shorter one begins.
"Can we get one thing straight?" I snarl angrily. "We are not gods. My people have a law, a strict law, that says we can't even pretend to be gods. We're just people." With an effort, I bring myself back under control. I take a step forwards. "My name is M'eioi. This is Pearl. And Tyonovon is right, we need your help. And just maybe, you need ours too."
Siffaith and Dyegh both stare at me. It's an uncomfortable moment, two expressionless masks with great round eyes, looking at me from under those cowls.
"The others killed, Siffaith." Tyonovon sounds obstinate. "These did not."
"We would have helped, if we could," I say. "We have no quarrel with you." Probably.
"The others have no quarrel with us, either," says Siffaith.
"Tell them that," I say.
Siffaith takes a step towards me, now. His huge eyes seem intent. "You claim there is a difference between you and them. Explain."
I swallow, hard. "We're explorers. Mostly. We - happened - on this place, while we were investigating some relics of an ancient race called the Iconians."
Siffaith turns to glance at Dyegh. "The name of the old gods," the smaller Solanae says. "If this machine of theirs is translating correctly -"
"That sounds about right," I say. "The Iconians don't have a problem claiming to be gods. It turned out we were... at war with them. Half the time, we never even knew it. But it's over now." Probably. Again. "You people are descendants of the original Solanae who built this sphere, yes?"
"The Progenitors," says Siffaith. "They are... gone. I do not understand, entirely, how or where they are gone."
"Driven into subspace by the runaway tetryon field," I say. "Converted into a life form that can't exist in normal space. The heavy shielding on this facility must have protected your remote ancestors -"
"Millions upon millions of hours ago," says Dyegh. "The Progenitors - they still survive? Transformed like that?"
"Their remote descendants, I suppose, yes. Perhaps that's one way we could help each other. Now the Iconians have gone, you might be able to help us make peaceful contact with those Solanae. If we can all get out of our present difficulties."
"With the other new gods," says Siffaith. "Why are they our enemies, then? When you are not?"
"The Voth," I say. "They're called the Voth. They arrived here around the same time we did. The trouble is, they are convinced of their own superiority. Their right to rule. It's a cultural thing.... Among other things, they think their people built this sphere."
"We built the Land!" Dyegh shrills.
"The Voth think differently. They think they own the sphere. And they're prepared to back that claim with force."
"That is true, Siffaith," says Tyonovon. "I saw."
"And what about you?" Siffaith asks me. "You are surely more than just explorers. You have weapons of your own, I have seen that for myself. You say you pose no threat, but I must be convinced."
I sigh. "We're not supposed to interfere with other cultures. It's an ideal... sometimes, in the real world, it's hard to hold to ideals. When we arrived here, the Voth were harvesting the Omega particles the sphere creates - if you know anything about the sphere's purpose, you know how dangerous that is. We had to stop them, before they caused some sort of catastrophe -"
"You destroyed the control systems which could transport the Land through subspace," says Dyegh. "This much, I know. Was that deliberate?"
"Sort of. It's - complicated. Taking out the control centre activated a fail-safe, opened a gateway to another sphere. And then another enemy used that to attack us... all part of the Iconians' manipulations. The gateway opened up access to another part of the galaxy, and we got involved there, too - involved enough for the Iconians to take an active part against us." I sigh again, and put a hand to my forehead. "There's been too much war already, and no end in sight."
"Complicated," says Siffaith. "Yes, it sounds complicated, truly. What complications brought you here? To our home?"
"We detected unusual power surges, tetryon emissions, other things. It was clear someone was doing something with the sphere's systems. We had to find out what it was - in case it was something, well, potentially dangerous -"
"The Voth must have picked up the same readings," Pearl chimes in suddenly. "They had enough control to use your tetryon generators -"
"They put my work back hundreds of hours!" Dyegh shouts.
"They are the enemy," says Tyonovon. "Siffaith, I do not think these - people - are."
"We came here in science vessels," I say. "Not unarmed, we can't go completely unarmed - but light ships, designed for exploration and research. You can probably scan our ships, you can check that for yourselves. The Voth -"
"Bulwark-class cruiser," says Pearl. She steps forward now. "Also, I have one of their guns in my hands, right now." She levels the weapon at Siffaith. "If we were hostile -"
There is a short, pregnant silence. Then Pearl flips the gun over in her hands and offers it to Siffaith. "There."
Siffaith reaches out one claw-like member and takes the gun. It dips and wobbles alarmingly as Pearl lets go, then steadies as Siffaith realizes the weight of it. The red-glowing muzzle wavers, pointing at me, at Pearl, at nothing in particular -
"I do not know how to use it," says Siffaith. He offers the gun back to Pearl. She takes it.
"They're pretty simple, really," she says. "Killing often is."
"Especially for the Voth military," I say. "If you have some way to clear them out, you'd better use it. Afterwards -" If there is any afterwards. "- afterwards, we would like to negotiate. Freely and openly. We want to know about you, learn from you. And you could learn from us, too, if you chose."
"I am... here to learn," says Siffaith. "If you are here for that, too... perhaps we have something in common."
"Can you secure this area?" I ask. "How safe are we, here?"
"I have brought the security swarmers to full alert status," says Siffaith, "and activated biometric lockouts on the main access routes. Anyone who is not of the People will find difficulties in traversing the Home. I was about to investigate other methods when you arrived." He glances over at Dyegh. "Understand this. Our main purposes must be to protect the People, and to interfere as little as possible with Dyegh's work. It is his goal that drives us."
"All right," I say. "But perhaps you can explain, now... this work, this goal, it's got to be the reason behind the energy fluxes and the tetryon signals we detected. The things that brought us here." I decide to go straight to the source - I turn towards the smaller Solanae. "Dyegh. What are you doing here?"
"It is very simple," says Dyegh. "I am trying to repair the sun."
Just trying to turn this dying brown dwarf, this thing that's barely a star anymore, back into a thriving (and hopefully unusually stable) red dwarf, with fusion processes and everything. No big deal, really. Eeek!
After approximately half an hour of walking through dark tunnels, I come to a region where the wall lights still work. I close the tricorder. The power cell has considerable, but not infinite, endurance, and I may well need the device later.
I am not clear what my goals are, at this point. To evade the Voth and the security swarmers, certainly; beyond that, I must take whatever opportunities offer themselves. It would, naturally, be helpful to make contact with the Timor, or the survivors of the Tapiola - I hope no one has been so ill-advised as to follow me onto the transport pad, assuming that Twosani Dezin has managed to reactivate it.
The possibility of making contact with whatever agency controls this spire... is an intriguing one. However, I see no immediate prospect of this. I have seen no living things in all my walking.
In the circumstances, the isolation is - oppressive. There are tasks which I need to perform, urgently, and I have no way to go about them. It is frustrating. And that, too, demands that I reprove myself. Frustration is an emotional reaction; it accomplishes nothing; it should not be permitted to influence my actions.
Just because I am alone, with no one to see or judge me, is no reason to allow my mental discipline to lapse. It might be argued, in fact, that discipline is most essential when its absence might go unobserved.
I am still musing on this matter when I come to another round door, which opens before me in the normal manner.
The room beyond is brightly lit, not just by the light sources in the walls and ceiling, but also by glowing screens and holographic displays. It is a circular chamber, with a pit-like depression in the centre, and rounded consoles all around the walls. My eyes narrow. Evidently, this is an active control centre of some kind - I must be on my guard for security swarmers, or for the unknown occupants of the spire.
But there is no sign of life, or of swarmers. The displays constantly change, updating themselves, but that flickering is the only illusion of motion in the room. I step forwards, warily.
The central pit has a transparent floor - perhaps a force field, though there is none of the watery rippling that characterizes Solanae force fields. It could be transparent aluminium, or some variant thereof. I walk towards it, and look down.
There is an immense space beneath me, and some way down - it is hard to estimate how far, exactly - there is a flat platform jutting out of the wall. And on that platform -
I kneel down, then bend forwards, bringing my face as close to the transparent floor as possible. There is something, in among all the grey and black and matte-finished Solanae technology, that gleams, down there, on the platform. Something shaped like a rounded dart.
It is the Timor. I am - certain of it, within acceptable limits of error. I have come to some sort of control station above the internal spacedock where M'eioi's ship has come to rest.
I stand up, slap my combadge. "T'Pia to Timor. Come in, please. This is Admiral T'Pia calling the USS Timor."
No response. My combadge should have automatically detected Timor's comms carrier waves, tuned itself to the other ship's network... but there is no response.
I chide myself. Obviously, this control station must be carefully shielded against unauthorized transmissions. But if I can find a way through those shields -
I turn to inspect the consoles ranged along the walls. I have no idea what most of the data streams are telling me. I move from console to console, looking for something - anything - that I recognize.
One workstation is showing a schematic of the docking platform below me, and there is no doubt left, now. On the 3-D display, the inarguable shape of a Dauntless-class starship appears, surrounded by a cloud of status icons, some of which I can read. The system has registered the Timor as an unauthorized but harmless intrusion. I am inclined to worry over what these automated devices might do, if they decided the ship was other than harmless.
Communications. This area must have communications. If it is the local traffic control station for the spacedock, then there must be a way to communicate with visiting ships.
I know what Solanae internal communications stations look like. I find this one, on the fourth console I check. I touch the glowing symbols on the panel, tapping out the sequence to activate comms -
A red icon glows in the air before me. Security lockout. The system is demanding a passcode, one that I do not have. And I dare not tamper with these systems, in case I draw hostile attention either to myself or the Timor.
I repress the urge to slam my fist onto the console in frustration.
Alternative channels. Any comms station has backups, has spare capacity, unused frequencies - I set to work, exercising the utmost caution. I key in another sequence, and a panel pops open at the edge of the console, revealing another set of controls. An emergency backup of some kind? That is hopeful - such a system would, necessarily, have little or no security, once engaged.
I touch the controls, searching the available frequencies. The control readouts are calibrated in an unfamiliar notation - I find what must be a subspace channel, one which is showing significant activity. I punch in codes to transmit on that frequency.
For a moment, there is no response, and then there is a terrible squealing and snarling of electronic interference. I suspect the communicator is trying to send an automated handshake using protocols which the other system does not recognize. Possibly, one or the other has adaptive systems which can resolve the problem. If not, I must consult my tricorder and hope that I have data libraries on file which will enable me to make manual adjustments.
The squealing stops, and I hear a voice. "- clear this channel! I repeat, you are encroaching on Joint Command subspace traffic, you are directed to clear this channel!"
Joint Command. The device is an emergency comms system, for reaching out beyond the spire itself - and Joint Command's subspace comms were the first active frequency it found. I suppose I am fortunate: I could be talking to the Voth instead. "This is Admiral T'Pia of Starfleet," I say. "I am declaring an emergency. Connect me with Subcommander Kaol, immediately, maximum priority."
"Admiral T'Pia? What -?" The voice falls silent for a moment. Then it demands, "What is going on?"
"I am declaring an emergency. I have accessed this channel using a Solanae comms station. I do not know how long I can keep this channel open." If I have drawn attention, I could be running from swarmers or the Voth at any moment. "The situation is grave. Connect me with Subcommander Kaol, immediately."
The voice - it sounds like a Romulan male - evidently belongs to someone with some degree of intelligence. "Calling Subcommander Kaol now. I hope, for your sake, this is not a hoax."
"It is not. Thank you for your prompt action."
Another pause, agonizingly long. Then, finally, a voice I know. "Admiral T'Pia?" Kaol demands. "What is happening? Where are you?"
"I am at a control station in the anomalous spire. The situation is grave. The Voth are here, and they, or some other agency, have disabled the Tempest and the Tapiola. I was attempting to contact the Timor, but happened upon Joint Command frequencies instead."
"We can send an immediate relief force. What do you require?"
I have to phrase my response carefully, bearing in mind Kaol's informal authority. "I would not recommend that course of action. Whatever forces were used against our ships might be used against any number of others, with equal efficacy. Any relief force might well be incapacitated in its turn."
"What is the nature of the weapon? Is there a defence?"
"Someone - most probably the Voth - is using the technology of this spire to generate intense tetryonic fields. The Tempest was subjected to the field, and is most probably disabled, with total crew casualties. The Tapiola's particle converter protected the crew, but exploded in the process, damaging the ship itself, possibly irreparably. It is conceivable that a vessel with a massively reinforced particle converter might be able to approach the spire safely, but to my knowledge we have no such ships or converters available."
"What about the Timor?"
"The Timor entered the spire and is intact, but I am unable to make contact due to the high levels of internal energy shielding. Contacting the Timor will now be my first priority. They must be made aware of the danger, and the resources of the ship may be invaluable at this stage."
Kaol's voice sounds anguished. "What can we do?"
"Regrettably, Subcommander, I do not see any immediate way you could be of assistance at this point. If you have sufficient stealthed troopships, it might be possible for you to mount a discreet rescue mission to the base of this spire, and retrieve the crew of the Tapiola. Even that, though, would require you to be very sure that your stealth systems were equal to the task. I mean no disparagement of your people's cloaking technologies, but -"
"But Voth sensors are superior to ours. I know." Kaol sighs. "What is the Voth strength?"
"At least one Bulwark-class vessel. Their military resources, though, are probably a secondary consideration, if they have control of the spire's systems. I should note that the spire appears to have suffered significant internal damage, perhaps from misuse or overloading of its systems."
"Oh, this gets better and better!" Romulans have no philosophical requirement to contain their feelings of exasperation. "You tell me the situation is grave, but there is nothing I can do -"
"But you should be informed, Subcommander. I would suggest immediate research regarding the nullification of tetryon discharges. If I can contact the Timor, I can use her data transmission channels to send you the records of the Tapiola's incapacitation. This Solanae system, I regret to say, does not have such capacity. I submit to you that my priorities must be to gather what information I can, and to contact Admiral M'eioi's ship and arrange for you to receive that information. With that, and the resources of Joint Command, I am sure you will be able to formulate an appropriate response." I pause, then add, "Also, I must make what arrangements I can to protect my crew."
"Of course, of course," says Kaol. "I suppose you are right - some spire-based weapon could wipe out a fleet as easily as your two ships. I will have to, ahh, refer this matter upwards. If the Voth gain the capacity to disable our ships at will -"
Then our hold on the sphere - and our lifeline to the Delta Quadrant - would be gone. "The situation, as I have said, is grave. I will do all that I can to assist. I should not delay much longer - this channel is not secure, and if my transmission is detected, my own situation is apt to become untenable."
"Are you even sure you can reach the Timor? That the ship is still intact?"
"I can actually see the Timor from this room. The spire's internal shielding prevents me from making contact. I will confess that I find that... disagreeable."
I hear Kaol mutter something; it is indistinct, but sounds very like "Vulcans!"
"I will go now," I tell him. "I cannot say when next I will contact you - I hope that, next time, it will be from the comms station of the Timor. However, I cannot risk further discussion at this time." Actually, I simply have no more stomach for argument. Kaol has to be informed, but there is nothing he can do to help. He must be as frustrated as I am -
I switch off the transmitter, pace back to the centre of the room, and look down. Perhaps not quite as frustrated as I am. The Timor is beneath my feet - no more than two kilometres down. I can see her, but I cannot talk to her.
I kneel down on the transparent floor. Perhaps there is some way to generate a visual signal - if they see a bright light blinking in a regular pattern from above, they may investigate. There must, surely, be a way I can create a bright light.
I raise my tricorder. The imaging function can be used as a visual magnifier - if I can get a good look at the Timor, I should be able to aim a light where someone will notice it. But the tricorder is not designed, ergonomically, for this sort of application. The image wavers and trembles as I try to point it at the starship. I take a deep breath and hold it; I wrap my left hand around my right wrist, steadying it; I aim the tricorder's sensor head at the Timor; I discover I have misaligned it, and am looking at a stretch of wall instead....
There are windows in the wall, and shapes moving behind them. I frown. With a careful, awkward motion of my right thumb, I increase the magnification.
The shapes are not security swarmers. Nor are they Starfleet. They are big, lumbering, reptilian; some with scales, some with shining alloy armour. Dinosaurs, and saurian battlemechs.
Siffaith glanced around. The two aliens were some distance off, hunched over a console together, apparently conferring. The dark, hairy one, M'eioi, was checking some hand-held device, while the mechanical, Pearl, studied the console readouts. They looked strange, alien... but were they dangerous? Though that weapon still rode on Pearl's hip....
"I am not sure we have a choice," he said to Dyegh. "They are here now, and I do not see how to eject them."
"It is as I said it would be. Temporary alliance, followed no doubt by another, and then another, until -" He was visibly trembling. Siffaith reached out and touched his arm.
"Until what, Dyegh?"
"Until they become as the old gods. The Iconians. The Iconians owned the Progenitors, Siffaith."
Siffaith looked from him to the two aliens, and back again. "That will not happen, Dyegh," he said firmly.
"How can you prevent it? You cannot trust them, Siffaith!"
"I can prevent it very easily," said Siffaith. "We tell them no, Dyegh. That is all we need to do. Even if they threaten with their weapon, they cannot follow through on that threat. They need our specialist knowledge of the Home's systems, and if we withhold it, they can do nothing."
"They are learning," said Dyegh. "They are not like the People, Siffaith." He made a swift, dismissive gesture in Tyonovon's direction. "They have quick minds and a willingness to acquire knowledge. How soon will it be before they no longer need us? How soon -"
"I think they can be trusted," Tyonovon said suddenly. Siffaith and Dyegh both turned towards her. "They did not kill. The others, the Voth, they killed, wantonly... People, who had offered them no harm. But these two - I do not believe they take pleasure in killing. I think they are what they say they are - peaceful people, perhaps driven to violence if the need arises, but not killers by nature."
"They killed one of the Voth, if your account is correct," said Dyegh.
"But the Voth was a killer. It is -" Tyonovon waved her claws, searching for words. "It is different, Dyegh."
"Self-defence," said Siffaith. "We are killing in that cause, Dyegh. Or, at least, I am sending the swarmers out to kill on our behalf, and that amounts to the same thing."
"Even if that is true," said Dyegh, "their own self-interest may lead them to take control of the Home. To use it for their own purposes, not for ours."
"They have laws -" Tyonovon began.
"They say they have laws," said Dyegh. "Can we believe them? Can we believe they will hold to these laws, if they see advantage in breaking them?"
Tyonovon made another exasperated gesture. "We do not know. We cannot know. But perhaps - perhaps we must trust, Dyegh. One thing we do know. The Voth will take the Home if they are not stopped."
A footstep sounded on the deck plates nearby. It was the dark-furred alien, M'eioi. "I hope I'm not interrupting," she said.
"What is it you want?" Dyegh was fairly vibrating with suspicion, Siffaith saw. Did the alien notice? She was so very different from the People....
"We've finished setting the security measures in place around your populated sectors," said M'eioi. "I think the force shields will hold against any portable weaponry the Voth can bring to bear - unless they use the firepower of their ship against the spire, in which case all bets are off anyway. But the shields will stop antiproton fire from a personal weapon, or the larger cannons mounted on a cyborg dinosaur or a battlemech." She touched one black, hairy hand to her face, smoothing the long whiskers that grew above her mouth. "Part of the problem, I guess, is going to be persuading the rest of your people to stay in the safe areas. You'll have to talk to them yourselves, I think. They won't want to take orders from weird aliens like me and Pearl, that's for sure."
"That can be arranged," said Siffaith. "There are communicators, we can make announcements."
"Even so," M'eioi continued, "the secure areas will only stay secure if we can maintain the force fields, which means keeping the power running throughout the spire. If the Voth can hit critical distribution nodes or generators, we're in trouble. Pearl and I have been running some scans, and, well, there's some stuff we'd like your thoughts on."
"What is it?" Siffaith asked.
"There seem to be some problems already, balancing the power load on the spire's systems. It's as if some parts of the distribution network - your equivalent to our EPS grid - has failed already. Like - sections of it burned out, or something."
Dyegh made a wordless sound. M'eioi started at it, and stared at him. "It is - possible," he said. "It is something I feared - the Home's systems are very old, the whole of the Land is very old - it is possible that the Voth damaged something when they subverted my systems -"
Or that Dyegh's ambitious project had already stressed the Home to its limits, Siffaith thought but did not say.
"If you could come and take a look at our sensor readings," said M'eioi, "you might be better able to identify the problem areas and work around them. You're the ones who know this place and its systems, after all."
"Yes," said Dyegh, "it is our Home." He shuffled towards the console, M'eioi walking at his side, Siffaith and Tyonovon following.
The mechanical, Pearl, turned to face them, metal eyes gleaming. They looked deeply forbidding to Siffaith. "I've set up the power flow diagrams," she said. "You can probably see the problem areas already -"
"The north-east capacitor banks at level 22372," Dyegh muttered. "Always a problem - I will initiate automatic reset.... There are others, though, more than there should be. And what is that?" He tapped the display with one claw. Siffaith leaned in, peered at the images, tried to make sense of them.
"Self-contained power sources," said M'eioi. "Not part of your network, but they're registering anyway. That one is almost certainly the Voth ship."
"There are others. Smaller ones. Let me refine this...." Dyegh's claws almost caressed the icons on the console. Siffaith could not quite make out the sequence of instructions, but a schematic of the Home glowed to life in mid-air, speckled with bright dots in seemingly random patterns. There was a brilliant group of them in one place... a smaller grouping lower down, inside the Home... individual dots moving about....
"Voth battlemechs," said M'eioi, "they must be. Dyegh, this is invaluable. It's giving a complete real-time readout of the disposition of Voth forces inside the spire."
"What is that group there?" Dyegh asked, indicating the smaller grouping. "It is radiating on somewhat different frequencies from the Voth...."
"It must be my ship, the Timor. If we could get a message through to them," said M'eioi, "it'd be a big help."
"Your communicators do not work?" asked Siffaith.
"I can't break through all the additional interference since we raised the internal defensive shielding. If we could interface our combadges with your comms net, now -"
"It should be possible," said Dyegh. He gave a wheezing sigh. "It will divert more computer resources from what should be our main aims... but it should be possible."
"Let's try it," said M'eioi. "Please."
"Another thought, sir," said Pearl. "If we can extend this scan outside the spire, we might be able to locate the Tempest and the Tapiola."
M'eioi's head bobbed; a gesture of assent, Siffaith realized. "Those ships will have resources we can use, too."
"You ask much," Dyegh complained, but he started to tap in commands on the console. "I will set up the display to discriminate between you and the Voth... and I will extend the range.... That is strange." He pointed with one claw. "Very faint, but... one of your power sources. Not ours, and not Voth. And some distance from your ship... I do not see how they can have reached that point, with the security fields up...."
M'eioi peered at the tiny glowing point near the tip of Dyegh's claw. "A straggler, maybe. Lost like I was. If we can open comms, maybe we should talk to them, guide them home...."
---
"We are encountering heavy resistance from swarmer groups." Davrak Karzis was using a light pointer to place icons within a three-D schematic of the spire. Stannark glowered at the display. A depressing percentage of the map was still blank - unexplored, and outside Voth control. "We have also encountered force-field barriers, at the following locations." The spec ops analyst sprinkled a different set of icons about the map. "The fields are resistant to even our heaviest mobile weapons. I am forced to an annoying conclusion."
Stannark grunted. "Which is?" He turned around, to pace irritably across the command deck of the Gendratis.
"That the Starfleet primates and the Solanae arthropods are combining forces. Starfleet cannot have command of the spire's systems, cannot erect these force shields... but the Solanae appear very well informed as to our troops' capabilities."
Stannark's scowl deepened. "Our capabilities are insufficient. I should have been assigned a Viriosaurus Rex for this mission."
"The heavy dinosaurians are needed for combat missions on the ground. And I do not think a Viriosaurus could easily traverse some of these tunnels."
"It would have the capacity to defeat any force shield! And in situations like these, they can make their own tunnels. It is no secret that I am unhappy with the management of the ground battle zones. I was discussing this matter with General Folluma, during his last hospitalization -" Stannark stopped. He took a deep breath. "Well. I must work with what I have. What are our options?"
"Computer subversion, of the type which gave us control of the tetryon emitters. It will be slow and chancy, though. The Solanae will be alert to the possibility, and Starfleet can advise them on some of our protocols. They have experience, painfully gained."
"Implement what measures you can. What other choices are there?"
"Our troops can secure segments of the spire's power generation and distribution network. They cannot generate force shields if they have no power - and, if we shut down their replicators, they will eventually run out of security swarmers, too."
"Eventually," Stannark repeated, in tones of contempt. "No. The spire is too large, my troops too thinly spread. Striking at their power supplies would take too long."
Karzis turned his head. There was something quizzical in his expression, even though his eyes were hidden behind his implants. "Then I am bereft of suggestions, Commander."
"I have an idea," said Stannark. "Hostages. Take a substantial number of the Solanae arthropods prisoner, and use them to compel cooperation."
"A wise move, Commander, but I fear it may be impractical. I would be, frankly, amazed if the bulk of the arthropod population was not already safely hidden behind those force shields."
Stannark stomped across the command deck once again. "Then we will try a different approach. You suspect Starfleet is cooperating with the Solanae?"
"It make sense. And I did see Admiral M'eioi in company with one of them." Karzis rubbed his neck with a rueful expression.
"Then we will break that cooperation by taking Starfleet hostages. One of the advance scouting parties reported radiation emissions and comms chatter consistent with the mammals' activities. I believe we have a provisional location for the absurd Admiral M'eioi's ship." Stannark turned, and stabbed one taloned digit into the holographic map. "Somewhere near here. We will send a squadron, in force, and we will find the Timor, and take it."
Man, finally some good news - M'eioi may be understating the value of the Voth dispositions if they can get communicators up, though I suppose it's a race to get a line to the Timor before the dinosaurs come a-knocking.
I guess it's coming down to whose cavalry can come over the hill first.
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
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It's a relief to hear Marya Kothe's voice. "We've been trying to get through the interference for a while, sir," she says. "Since you, um, vanished, we haven't made any moves to explore the spire - all we've done is set up a secure perimeter around the docks, and got to work on the local data systems."
"All right," I say. "Secure perimeter is good, because the Voth are here, and they've destroyed our two consorts already. I want you to hold that line and look for a way out. Worst case, we will have to exit the spire and make a run for safety."
"The Voth?" Marya sounds startled.
"At least one Bulwark-class battleship. They have troops inside the spire right now." And some of them, if I'm reading the Solanae display correctly, are dangerously close to the docking platform. "The other big development is this. I've made contact with the inhabitants of the spire. They're Solanae, descendants of survivors of the initial disaster. The Voth are attacking them, too, and we've got... something of an alliance going. I'm at a Solanae control centre now, and we're trying to contain the Voth. We need to evolve some kind of tactical plan for that."
"If there's even one Bulwark here, sir, then we're heavily outgunned and outnumbered," says Marya.
"I know. But we have the spire's own defensive systems to work with, and that's got to count for something. Maybe it'll even count for enough." I frown. "One more point. Who else have we lost?"
"Sir?" Marya sounds puzzled. I wish I could see her face, but the Solanae console doesn't have a workable video link.
"We're picking up one Starfleet comms signature, some distance away from the ship. Who else wandered off, besides me?"
"I'll run a check, sir, but I've had no reports of any losses...." Marya's voice fades away. I look up from the console, glance at Pearl, at the twitchy shapes of the three Solanae... at the map.
The Voth forces are... frighteningly widespread. I can see our barriers, can see the markers for security swarmers... and it doesn't even begin to look enough. Scale, I remind myself. A sense of scale. The spire is huge, it would take an army of Voth to control it - not just one ship. I hope.
That one Starfleet signature is bugging me. It's definitely there, and it's definitely Starfleet, though we can't get a specific ID off it. Too much interference. Still.
"Ah." Dyegh speaks. "I have something for you... one of your missing ships." He shuffles over to the map console, does something to it. The map shrinks a little bit, and a glowing shape appears, some way off to the side. The image is a bit rough and basic, but it's clear enough. A Pathfinder-class science vessel. The Tempest.
"Just the one ship?" I ask.
"Oh, I am sorry if it is insufficient!" Dyegh snaps at me.
"I'm just - a bit puzzled. The Tapiola is larger, has a bigger emissions profile - she should be easier to find than that one."
"I will continue to search," Dyegh says. I'm not sure how much I can trust the universal translator for emotional nuance - but I'm pretty sure he is not happy.
Meanwhile, the other two, Siffaith and Tyonovon, have been conferring in an undertone, and now Siffaith comes over towards me. "A possibility," he says. "We have the frequencies for your communicators, now, and Tyonovon remembers, once, dealing with our own comms system. I think we can link your network directly to ours."
"Thanks," I say, "but it looks like we've got comms with our ship already -"
"Yes," says Siffaith, "but our system is hardened against the interference from our shields. A direct link will make it much easier to talk to your ship, or to contact -" he points at the dot on the map "- detached elements like that one. We could even link in your matter transporters to our own transport network. That would give us a significant advantage in mobility over the Voth."
"That's a good idea," I say. "We need all the advantages we can get. Thank you, Siffaith." I look at Dyegh. "I hope that won't cause you any problems."
"My problems," says Dyegh, "are clearly not an issue. Set it up."
I sneak another glance over at Tyonovon. I'd rather got the impression that she was nothing but an idler - it seems that most of the Solanae have settled down into a sort of lotus-eater mentality, with the spire serving all their basic needs, so they have nothing much to do but play. Dyegh and Siffaith appear to be exceptions to that... but it seems Tyonovon, too, has her uses, her specialist knowledge. Just goes to show, I suppose. You should never write anyone off.
"Sir, can you hear me?" Marya's voice again. The comms channel is kind of staticky, at that.
"I'm here," I say.
"All personnel accounted for, sir," says Marya. "Whoever that is, it's not one of ours."
I look at Pearl. "Another survivor, then?"
The android shakes her head. "No one on the Tempest survived, sir, except me. I'm certain of that."
"Then maybe it's someone from Tapiola - wait. T'Pia did have an android officer assigned to her - maybe she survived and beamed over to the station, just like you did."
Siffaith has been working at the console, claws tapping rapidly on the panels, while we've been speaking; now, he looks up. "I think I have the comms connection... perhaps you can test it, by signalling that one. Amplified through our comms net, your device should reach them without problems."
I pull my combadge off my uniform tunic, use my tricorder to check the settings. "Let's give it a try." I touch the badge. "This is M'eioi calling Starfleet personnel operating solo within the spire. Please report your status."
A brief pause - and then, a voice I thought I'd never hear again. "This is T'Pia. I am relieved to hear your voice - I have been trying for some time to establish communication with the Timor."
I find my own voice. "T'Pia? Sir, we thought you were dead."
"Self-evidently, that is inaccurate." Yes, that is definitely T'Pia. "The Tapiola and the Tempest were hit by an intense biolytic field. In the case of the Tapiola, our particle conversion equipment prevented it from being fatal to the crew, but the ship herself is disabled, perhaps irretrievably. Circumstances have led me to become separated from my crew. What is your status?"
I explain, as quickly as I can - which isn't all that quick; there is a lot of detail for both of us to assimilate. At the end of it, T'Pia says, "The situation, overall, is fractionally less grave than I had envisaged. May I speak with one of your Solanae associates?"
"They're here, now. They can hear everything we're saying."
"Very well," says T'Pia. "If the situation were less difficult, I would be glad of an opportunity to discuss your history and society, and the history and workings of the sphere, with you. This is a fascinating opportunity for our two cultures to reach a rapprochement. Unfortunately, the presence of the Voth constrains us to consider matters of urgent practicality. How reliable is your communications and sensor network?"
"The Home's communications are... usually reliable," says Siffaith.
"But there have been disruptions," Dyegh adds. "Disturbances."
"That is unsurprising. I noted significant damage to regions of the spire during my own travels. My concern is a practical one. It would be helpful to extend your communications radius to the exterior of the spire, along the surface of the sphere, for the purposes of establishing contact with my crew. They represent a resource which would be of value in this conflict, and I am, naturally, anxious over their safety. Currently, they are gathered in an amphitheatre on the sphere's surface, which can hardly be considered defensible against Voth assault."
"I... see," says Siffaith. "If we can find that building -"
"I know the one she means," says Dyegh. "We can connect with our own transporters."
"The transport pad at that location failed after transporting me," says T'Pia.
"That need not matter," says Dyegh, "I can make adjustments...." His voice descends into a muttering that the translator can't process.
"Sir." Pearl speaks up. "I have an idea. If we can link in the Solanae transporters, we could try transferring your crew to the Tempest."
"A viable suggestion," says T'Pia. "Conditions would be crowded, but it would be useful to have the resources of another operational starship at our disposal. How badly damaged is the Tempest?"
"By now, the auto-repair systems should have cleared the burned-out bio-neural gel packs," Pearl says, "and that's the only significant structural damage she took. I have her prefix codes, I can transmit them as needed."
I think about this. It seems kind of ghoulish, with whatever's left of Tempest's crew still littering the decks - but the situation might compel us to be ghoulish, and anyway, an emotional argument like that will cut no ice with T'Pia.
"I will put the matter to my crew," she says now. "In any case, it will be helpful to have the Solanae transporters at our disposal. We will need the mobility advantage."
"We can try beaming you over here, or to the Timor, sir," says Pearl.
"Contra-indicated. The Voth are moving, and they are very close. It is probable that they will take some action against the Timor, and in the confined space of the docking bay, the heavy weapons on their battlemechs will be effective against her. I am currently in what appears to be a control and oversight station for the docking bay. There are available resources here, and I will attempt to deploy them."
With the help of M'eioi and the Solanae, it is relatively simple to open the requisite communications channels. The situation is - somewhat - improved. We can coordinate our efforts, and - if M'eioi can be sufficiently diplomatic - we can enlist the assistance of the Solanae.
Even so, the Voth force is substantial. Our ships are not primarily military, and the Solanae do not appear to be combat effective. I place little reliance on the security swarmers, no matter how many of them the Solanae can field. Both we and the Voth have long since developed tactics for dealing with the swarmers - they are a threat to isolated, individual units, but only an annoyance to an organized force.
And the Voth are certainly organized.
Twosani Dezin sounds relieved, when I finally make contact with her. She is dubious, at first, about reclaiming the Tempest, but the apparent advantages eventually outweigh her emotional reluctance. She has already deciphered most of the control protocols for the transporter network, so it does not take long, with the aid of the Solanae and Commander Pearl's prefix codes, to link the transport pad to the Tempest's transporter room.
"Though I don't know how we're going to test it - we don't have any standard transporter test masses," she says. I make no reply. After a moment, she adds, "We could improvise something - rig a tricorder to one of the cargo containers, maybe -"
"That suggestion has merit," I say. And I am glad she thought of it for herself; her initiative and intelligence have not been completely suppressed by shock from her recent experiences. "Program a round trip, and study the tricorder readouts. It would be helpful to make the personnel transfer expeditiously."
"I'll get on it. Sir, what about you?"
I look around me. "For the present, I will remain in this control room. There are bound to be assets here which I can utilize."
"Surely Admiral M'eioi and the Solanae could run things remotely from their control centre?"
"They have many other calls on their attention. Please proceed with the transporter tests." I turn away from the comms console and stride to the centre of the room, where I look down to watch the docking platform and the Timor.
There is definitely movement nearby. I can see the shifting of lights in the windows near the platform; shadows passing, which can only be cast by large moving objects. The Voth are making their way through the corridors, towards the Timor.
I consider plans, assess strategies, discard unworkable options. There are entirely too many of those last.
The comms console bleats for my attention; I return to it. "Transporter tests check out," Twosani reports. "We are cleared for personnel transfer."
"Excellent. Transport medical staff first, then the wounded needing attention. The facilities of Tempest's sickbay will undoubtedly be superior to our own improvisations."
"Yes, sir."
"I must attend to other matters." I cut the channel, switch in another. "T'Pia to Timor."
A human female voice responds in clipped tones. "This is Commander Kothe aboard the Timor. Good to hear from you, sir."
"Do you have Admiral M'eioi's tactical data feed?" I see no reason to waste time on pleasantries.
"Yes, sir. There's a whole lot of Voth armour coming our way." Kothe sounds concerned, but not agitated. This is good.
"I have considered the tactical possibilities. You cannot maintain a defensive perimeter against a concerted attack by Voth battlemechs."
"I agree, sir. We've already pulled the security teams back aboard the ship. We've left minefields and automated turrets, but those won't slow the Voth down for long. We're going to launch the ship, raise shields, and put her into free-float, keeping station maybe half a kilometre above the platform."
That was one option I had considered. "I regret that your plan may not be sufficient. The Voth have substantial ground-based firepower. If the Timor remains in range of their battlemechs, they may have enough resources to breach even your shields."
"We'll destroy them before they can mount a coordinated assault," says Kothe.
"Contra-indicated. You cannot discharge the Timor's plasma weapons and torpedoes without risking collateral damage to the docking platform, which in turn would identify the ship as hostile to the spire's automated defences. You observed, I believe, the internal antiproton batteries on your way in."
There is a pause. "If we can exit the spire completely -" Kothe begins.
"You would evade the Voth ground forces. But they have a Bulwark-class battleship at their disposal - it is currently docked to the spire, but it can undock at a moment's notice."
There is another pause. Kothe's voice sounds more stressed when she speaks again. "The Voth mechs are getting awfully close, sir. If you have a workable suggestion, I'd be glad to hear it."
I look around me, at the glowing consoles in the command centre. "I believe I do."
---
The Voth attack is swift, sudden, and well-planned.
The first wave consists of heavy Polyonax-class mechs, stomping towards the Timor. Their heavy-duty shields simply shrug off phaser fire from the light turrets, and those shields have built-in repulsor fields which clear the turrets and the minefields as effectively as a bulldozer.
Behind them come other battlemechs - lighter Ceratopsid-classes and some of the huge Dacentrus mechs - and the dinosaurs; dankanasaurs, leaping into position to fire their antiproton barrages, and the larger lumbering forms of furiadons. I repress a shiver at the sight of them. I have been in the mind of a furiadon, I know how they think....
A ring of firepower is forming around the Timor as she squats on the docking platform. Although the Voth mechs have powerful weaponry, it is probably not powerful enough, in itself, to bring down Timor's Reman-designed shields. But, behind the heavy advance troops, Voth technicians and specialists are moving in. Protected by the mechs and saurians, the techs will be able to generate electromagnetic effects: polycyclic drills that will pierce even a starship's shields.
Given time. Time which Commander Kothe and I do not propose to allow them.
I study the tactical readout fed from the Solanae command centre, compare it to what I can see on the ground, far below. M'eioi and her new friends continue to gather reliable intelligence on the Voth movements. I have all the information I need. I turn to the next console.
"Incoming fire," Kothe's voice reports. "Shields holding." I expected nothing else, at this stage.
"Commencing," I say. "First target is Polyonax-class at bearing two two zero from your location. Please confirm."
"Got him. Ready when you are, sir."
"Activating." I touch a control.
This is the command centre for the docking platform, and it has... appropriate resources. From this console, I can control tractor arrays powerful enough to handle full-sized starships. Not only that, the controls are fine-tuned - necessarily, to move components or freight containers during loading or maintenance procedures. The tractors are more than adequate to handle the Voth.
So, I touch the control - and, hundreds of metres below me, a Voth battlemech rises into the air, its antiproton weapons suddenly falling silent. It is not damaged - the mechs are not so fragile - but its occupant is, understandably, startled at this development.
The Polyonax rises into the air, and, as it reaches the height Commander Kothe and I have agreed, the Timor's dorsal plasma array opens fire. A Polyonax-class mech has robust and resilient shields, but they offer only brief resistance to a starship's weapons banks. The mech flares and explodes; I turn off the tractor, and the remains of the mech fall as burning, molten rain onto the platform.
I am already targeting the next mech.
The Voth line of battle wavers, the dinosaurs scurrying back and forth as the primaeval dread of fire overrides their cyborg control devices. A Ceratopsid-class snaps off an energy bolt - aiming at what, I do not know. The tractor beam emitters are outside their effective range; even if they are lucky enough to hit one or two, there is a great deal of redundancy in the system, and I have many spares.
Again, Timor's plasma beams lash out; again, a mech dies in a blast of flame.
The Voth are suddenly in disarray, firing randomly in all directions... and this is sufficient to gain me additional allies, as damage to the spire alerts the security swarmers. I concentrate; I must avoid hitting the swarmers with my tractors, or more automated responses may take control of the beams away from me. But the swarmers are small, fast-moving targets, and it is no trouble to pick out the Polyonax and Dacentrus-class mechs from among them.
There is a dim glow of orange light on the platform. Timor's ground security troops, firing from prepared positions within the ship's shields, targeting the Voth technicians who are now exposed as the front line shatters in confusion. The swarmers are harassing the Voth techs, too, and many of them have already been injured by the falling remains of the destroyed mechs. I continue to pull the larger mechs into the air, where Timor picks them off with relentless accuracy.
A furiadon, maddened beyond any sort of cybernetic control, rushes through the Voth lines and hurls itself off the edge of the docking platform. Other dinosaurs are fighting each other, or leaping onto battlemechs, or retreating under cover and savaging any Voth personnel who attempt to stop them. It is an ugly sight. I force myself to remain calm, to target the heavy enemy units, to drag them into Timor's line of fire -
After what seems like no time at all, there are no enemy units to target. The Dacentrus and Polyonax-class mechs have all been destroyed. There are substantial casualties among the other Voth forces. I narrow the focus of the beams and pick up a Ceratopsid-class mech. It is a smaller target, but the Timor's gunners cope with it quite adequately.
But one missed shot from Timor will identify her, too, as a hostile to the spire's systems.... I consider, and instead of narrowing the focus, I broaden it, and switch the tractors to repulsor mode. A swift movement of one finger sends a beam sweeping across the platform, smashing everything beneath it into the deck. Several Ceratopsids stagger to their feet after the beam's passage. The dinosaurs, and the Voth techs and footsoldiers, do not.
The remaining Voth have quite clearly had enough. They break and run, heading for the corridor entrances from which they emerged. A few crazed dinosaurs are still wandering the platform; Timor's security troops cut them down.
The docking platform is a grisly sight, covered in burning debris, smashed war machinery, Voth corpses and Voth blood. The Timor sits behind her shields, untouched.
"No damage! No casualties!" Commander Kothe's voice is exultant. "We did it, sir! We beat them!"
For emotional reasons, it is not the time to disillusion her. But the Voth will not like being beaten. They will regroup, they will make plans, they will attack again, with different tactics. We must consider our response.
Still reading and enjoying. Need to remember to orbital strike more against Voth mecha, though.
Something that struck me as applicable. There's an offshoot universe of Star Trek, where as a reminder of using all the ship's capabilities, "Use your tractors!" was above the door to the simulators.
T'Pia may be the patron saint.
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
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Comments
EDIT: Will the next story feature her shopping for a Tarantula?
Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.
I dare you to do better.
Lieutenant Tyzel stared up at him nervously. "Checking the data feeds now," said Karzis, information flickering at terrifying speed across his ocular implants.
"The Tapiola seems to have burst into flames and crashed," said Stannark. "That was not what we expected. True, it is adequately gratifying, but it is not what was in the plan."
"Processing," said Karzis. "Lieutenant. Replay sensor logs between A-220 and C-271, ten per cent speed."
While Tyzel tapped out commands rapidly on the console, Stannark strode up and down the bridge, the deckplates creaking beneath his weight. He looked, from time to time, at the main viewscreen. The spire looked no different, but, just visible near one of its massive legs, there was a faint streak of darkness - the trail of black smoke left by the Tapiola as she crashed.
"Processing complete," said Karzis. His ocular implants settled back to a blank blue-green.
"Well?" Stannark demanded.
"The bad news is, they had a defence," Karzis said dryly. "The good news is, it does not work.... Some particle conversion system aboard the Tapiola, probably a holdover from the basic Tholian design. It intercepted and absorbed the tetryonic pulse, but was catastrophically overloaded in the process. The results rather speak for themselves."
"What of the Tempest and the primate Fallon?"
"Events, there, proceeded according to plan. The biolytic field pervaded the whole of the ship."
"There are no life signs," Tyzel added. "But, sir -"
"Shall we destroy the hulk of the Tempest?" Karzis asked, his voice cutting across the junior officer's.
"Let me think.... No, not for the moment. The Circles of Science may wish to examine it later, to see the final effect of the biolytic field. And it may serve as a stark message to any other approaching mammals - do not interfere with our plans, or this is what will happen. What is the final situation of the Tapiola, though? Is there any potential threat?"
"The ship has crashed into a body of water. Our scans indicate massive damage, complete power loss... the crew is evidently in the process of evacuation. A single volley from our beam banks might destroy the wreck, or wipe out the survivors -"
"No," said Stannark, "no, it is... unnecessary. And inaesthetic."
There seemed to be a frown on the intelligence officer's dark face. "Inaesthetic?"
"The wreck of the Tapiola, too, is a fitting monument to our power. As for the crew - the normal hazards of the sphere will account for them, as they begin their very long walk back to the mammal-occupied territories. If there are survivors, they will have a miserable tale to tell. No, no, we have done enough. To show our superiority, to extinguish our opponents."
"The third ship still remains, though," Tyzel pointed out. "And, sir -"
"The Timor is not important," said Stannark. "We will deal with it and its absurd commander in due course, when we occupy the interior of the spire. Karzis, you and I will discuss our plans for that, now, in my ready room." Stannark turned and strode away.
As Karzis made to follow, Tyzel plucked nervously at his sleeve. The intelligence officer span around, his face forbidding. "What is it?"
"Sir," said Tyzel, "I think it is significant - my sensor logs show - sir, there was something that looked like a transporter signature. From the Tempest, and after the tetryon pulse."
"You think to bother the commander with this?" Karzis glowered down at the cringing lieutenant.
"Sir, it may be -"
"It may be nothing," Karzis snapped. "A sensor error, a false reading. Or perhaps some automated system engaged, to send away a recorder marker. I noted the same detail, Lieutenant. You may rest assured that nothing escapes my notice."
"But, sir, it might be -"
"No," said Karzis, "it might not. Were there life signs on the Tempest when this reading was detected?" Tyzel shook his head. "Well, then. It cannot have been a survivor, can it? It must be some error, or some random mechanical action, and it is of no importance. Do not bother your superiors with it again." Karzis turned and stalked off towards the ready room.
---
"No," Dyegh whispered, and then he screeched, "No!", a loud high-pitched wail which woke echoes from the domed ceiling of the console room.
Siffaith watched, aghast, as Dyegh ran from one console to another, his claws pounding furiously on the glowing icons, his shouts of anger degenerating into an incoherent series of clicks and rattles.
"What is it?" he asked. "Dyegh, what is wrong?"
"A thousand hours of work!" Dyegh shrieked. "They have undone it all - the primary capacitance banks are drained, my power reserves are gone - the settings for the emitter grid, they have been scrambled -" He slammed his claws down hard on the console. "I have to do it all over again! Those fools! Those vandals!" He sank to his knees on the rippling surface of the force-field floor.
"Dyegh." Siffaith went to his friend, lifted him back to his feet. "It is a blow, I can see that. But we must see what is to be done, now."
"Take the console," Dyegh said, waving one claw in a gesture of despair. "See what you can salvage - I cannot face this -" He turned and staggered off, towards his little nest of fabric by the wall.
Siffaith sighed quietly to himself. He studied the console display. He had been watching Dyegh for some time, now, and asking questions whenever he dared - and he had been working, too, with the teachers. His knowledge was growing in leaps and bounds. He reached out and touched the console interface, cautiously at first, then entering commands with gradually increasing speed and confidence.
"The new gods," he said. "They interfered."
From his nest, Dyegh wailed, "I know!"
"But how did they interfere?" Siffaith asked. "If we know how they did it, we might stop them doing so in future...." He turned to another section of the console, started to call up the system's logs.
"Computer intrusion," he muttered to himself. "They have some of our system command codes... not all, they cannot have them all, or this console would be locked out...." His claws rattled on the interface. "Two different classes of intrusion. It makes sense - the new gods fight among themselves...."
He hunched over the console, his eyes intent. "Four vessels. Three moved in concert, the fourth approached from an entirely different vector... and it is attempting to conceal itself with false readings. One of the three sent messages... standard access codes, opening doors, and... hmm. Data transmissions, declarations of peaceful intent, offers of friendship, even. But are such offers to be trusted? They are warlike, we have seen them fighting. But the other...."
He worked for some time in silence, then straightened his back, and went to where Dyegh sat.
"I need some control codes for the main computer," he said.
Dyegh stared up at him. "What codes? Why?"
"Security," said Siffaith. "One group of new gods - one faction within them - sent pre-empt commands into the systems of the Home. They overrode your configuration files, they triggered the capacitance banks and expended the stored energy. I believe we can instruct the Home to prevent them from doing this again - but it requires access to the central security system, and I do not have the control codes for that. Do you know them? And, if so, can you let me have them?"
"I... see," said Dyegh. He rose to his feet, slowly, stiffly. His body was still trembling - even through his robe, Siffaith could see that. "I - When I first accessed the computer core, there were - certain options. Backups and defaults - the original operators have been dead for an immeasurable time. I became registered, automatically and by default, as an authorised user." He started to make his way to the console. "I can add you to the list of authorised persons. It will be no trouble. If you think you can help -"
"I do," said Siffaith firmly. "The intrusion of the new gods has created problems - I can see that. I can see, too, the measures we can take... to make sure they do not trouble us again."
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
We have found shelter, of sorts, in a large rounded structure, whose main entrance lay some three hundred metres from the shoreline. The structure is a large shallow dome, nearly a kilometre in overall diameter, with the roof of the dome removed over the central area. An amphitheatre, open to the sky, surrounded on all sides by shelving tiers of flat surfaces... the suggestion, inevitably, is that of a sporting arena, or perhaps a venue for the performing arts.
Is it possible to imagine the Solanae, or the Iconians, engaged in such pursuits? But, then, why might they not be? Both species were fully civilized beings, with all the trappings of civilization, including, presumably, the need for entertainment.
Our needs are more basic, however. The entrances to the arena are large, but they are few in number; we can establish a security perimeter at each one. It may not keep out whatever force wrecked the Tapiola, but it should be adequate to fend off roving predators or security swarmers. There are no Voth-style dinosaurian cyborgs outside, but there are large animals of some kind - the ecosystem of the sphere is fascinating, and I would be glad of the opportunity to study it, at some more opportune time.
We have set up temporary shelters - survival tents, or simple awnings - at various points inside the arena. We are dealing with our casualties, taking inventory of our supplies, searching the area for further resources. Shocked and disheartened as my crew might be, they are still acting like the Starfleet professionals that they are. I am inclined to regret that I cannot actively display the pride I feel in them.
I rub my forehead as I gaze through the huge circular hole in the roof. A medic ran a protoplaser and a dermal regenerator over my trifling injury, earlier. There is no sign of the cut, now, though the skin of my forehead feels taut and sensitive.
The sky is bright, over the dome. There are a few clouds, but the most obvious feature is the forest of impossibly tall, thin towers that surrounds us on all sides. It is disquieting, and I know why this is so. In any normal situation, on the surface of a planet, those towers would cast shadows, would throw a shade over this structure. But we are inside the sphere, and it is always noon, and the sun is always directly overhead.
There are a few faint wisps of cloud in the sky. We seem to have reached a region of clearer air, slightly away from the polluted industrial zone immediately surrounding the spire. Conceivably, the nearby artificial sea has something to do with this - its effect on the local meteorology must have been carefully calculated. A subject for further study, again.
My boots click on the age-old floor of the arena. There are markings on the floor, but they are in no language that I know, and they are worn nearly to invisibility in any case.
In the middle of the circular floor, Psaz and Pascale are looking upwards, scanning the sky. Psaz has a pair of binoculars; Pascale's metallic eyes need no such augmentation. I walk up to them. "Mr. Psaz. You are fully recovered?"
"Doc Lishin says so. Never mind that, anyway." The Tellarite turns, and hands me the binoculars. "Still haven't found the Tempest, if she's still in the air at all. But there's something, about thirty degrees off the zenith on bearing two-forty - I'm not sure what it is -"
"I haven't found the Tempest yet either, sir," says Pascale. "Possibly, on the course she was last on, she might have drifted to the other side of the spire from us."
"Possibly." I take the binoculars, adjust them, raise them to my eyes. It takes a few moments to find the bearings Psaz has indicated. I catch random glimpses of towers, of free-floating industrial units - the sort of thing one finds in the industrial zones of the sphere. But Psaz is right, there is something else there - something that leaves a trace, a contrail through the air. I take a deep breath, will my hands to be steady, my eyes to be clear. I centre the - thing - in the binoculars' field of view, and, with a cautious movement of one finger, step up the magnification.
The binoculars click, and the thing in the centre of the view seems to jump forward and enlarge itself hugely.
It is a dark shape against the sky, illuminated as it is from above. I am seeing it from beneath, so the small engineering hull is not visible - but the long, rounded shape of the silhouette is unmistakeable, despite that.
"The Voth. A Bulwark-class battleship. It appears to be closing on the spire."
"The Voth?" Psaz sounds aghast. "We can't hold off a Voth attack -"
"It may not prove necessary. I suspect, if they had wished to destroy us, they would have done so already. Still, we shall take what additional security measures we can." Though, as Psaz says, these would probably be futile against an assault by fully-equipped Voth shock troops. The fact is, they can take us or destroy us whenever they please.
"Does that mean the Voth had something to do with the attack on the ships?" asks Pascale.
"We must consider that possibility. The available data indicates that mechanisms inside the spire were employed, though. It may be that the Voth have some ability to manipulate those mechanisms - or that they are in contact with the putative inhabitants of the spire. Either eventuality would be unwelcome news."
"What are we going to do?" Psaz asks. He sounds agitated.
"Our resources are limited. Therefore, we must obtain help. We must contact the Tempest, or the Timor, or Joint Command. I see no immediate way to proceed in any other direction." I pause. "We could, I suppose, attempt to contact the Voth. I would predict no outcome from that except our immediate capture. I should regard that as an option of last resort only."
In truth, making contact with anyone is fraught with problems. We have some portable subspace transmitters, but subspace is riven with interference from the high-energy processes in the spire. The Tempest is almost certainly incapacitated, the Timor is inside the spire's dense energy shielding, and Joint Command is too far away.
I hand the binoculars back to Psaz. "Please continue the visual search for the Tempest," I say, "and also keep a watch on the Voth ship. It would be helpful to have some idea of their plans."
"What are we going to do, even if we do find the Tempest?" Psaz asks. But he takes the binoculars and raises them to his eyes, regardless.
"It will depend on her condition. If there is anything worth salvaging... teams might be able to hand -crank Tapiola's shuttle bay doors. The bay would flood, of course, but we might be able to get a shuttle out... it would be a risk worth taking, if we had a definite destination in mind."
"We'll keep looking, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Psaz. I will now go and check on our other ongoing projects." I turn smartly on my heel and stride away. I think it is important to project an air of military efficiency, for the sake of morale.
I do not feel... military. I feel defeated, afraid, and desperate. But my feelings are not relevant to my actions.
Twosani Dezin and Nelson Karas are kneeling by a hexagonal hatch in the floor of the arena. Twosani has a tricorder in her hand, while Karas is working at the edge of the hatch with a magnetic probe. Both are frowning. Twosani looks up as I approach.
"There's definitely some sort of power flow down there, sir," she says. "It looks like there's something like a service tunnel under the arena."
"That seems a reasonable assumption. A venue such as this, whatever its purpose, must require many different kinds of services. Hopefully, communications were included. We have detected a Voth ship in the area, so alerting someone to our situation has become an even more imperative necessity."
"The Voth?" Twosani sighs, and shakes her head. "I guess there's nothing we can do that we're not already doing...."
"I'm trying to get this open," Karas grumbles. "I think I've cleared the mechanical locks, but... either there's something else holding it, or it's just stuck."
There is a shallow depression at the edge of the hatchway, space for a hand or a tool to be inserted. I crouch down, insert my right hand, brace myself with my left. I pull, hard, using the full strength of my arm, my torso, my legs. Vulcans are stronger than humans or Betazoids.... The hatch makes a grating, groaning noise, and comes free, tilting upwards. Twosani and Karas grab it. It is a simple slab of metal, not on hinges or other mountings, simply lying on top of a hole. The three of us move it aside.
"Simply stuck, I think," I say. I flex the fingers of my right hand.
Twosani is crouching by the hole, her left arm extended, holding her tricorder inside. "Looks like a service tunnel, all right," she says. "Room for a single humanoid to walk down... and surrounded by conduits... piping for fluids, though I couldn't tell you what, and what look like EPS waveguides...."
"Part of the sphere's power systems. There will generally be some sort of communications facility linked in at some point." I sit at the edge of the manhole, and lower myself gingerly into the tunnel. "Let us investigate further. Are there any life signs?"
"Not that I can see," says Twosani. "But, sir -"
"I will exercise caution." I have some equipment in my portable transporter buffer - and, really, I should transfer it all out, before the energy supply becomes depleted and the patterns degrade. I draw out a wristlight, activate it, send a cone of white light down into the tunnel. It is a narrow space lined with tubes of varying diameters, and that is all to be said about it. There are none of the more eccentric features of Solanae architecture - no force-field floors or unguarded high-energy transfer junctions, for instance. I suppose that is something to be grateful for.
By the time Twosani has lowered herself down the manhole, I have taken out my own tricorder and made some preliminary scans. "This tunnel leads to a larger chamber of some kind, roughly thirty-eight meters in that direction." I point down the tunnel, then back the other way. "There is another chamber in the other direction, at a distance of one thousand, one hundred and seventy meters. I believe it logical to investigate the closer one first."
"No argument, sir," says Twosani. Above us, Nelson Karas begins to clamber down.
"I will lead the way." There is not enough room for Twosani to pass me comfortably, in any case. She and Karas follow me closely as I make my way down the tunnel, shining the wristlight ahead of us, frequently consulting my tricorder as we go.
The tunnel debouches into a circular room, with another exit in the wall, directly facing us. There are familiar-looking Solanae consoles around the walls - dark now, though I am confident we can reactivate them. And, in the centre of the chamber -
"It looks like one of those teleporters," Twosani says, somewhat doubtfully.
"I concur." The design is familiar from other ground facilities - a single large raised disc, surrounded by free-standing columns. "We should investigate this," I say, stepping forwards. "If it can be reactivated, and its destination identified -"
I step onto the disc.
It flashes with light beneath me, and the air shimmers, and abruptly I am somewhere else. I blink. I turn quickly in a complete circle, shining the light around me, my tricorder out and scanning.
It is another chamber - larger than the one in the tunnel, with a high vaulted ceiling, round Solanae doors in the walls, and a row of narrow arches along one side of the curving wall. The transport station, though, is identical. I step off the disc.
There is no sign of life. The air seems colder and possibly thinner, here. I touch my combadge. "T'Pia to Dezin. Respond, please."
There is no answer. I am out of range, or blocked. Well, there are other possibilities, and I should try them. I touch the badge again. "T'Pia to Timor. Respond, please. T'Pia to any Starfleet vessels in range, respond, please."
No answer. Truthfully, I did not expect one.
There is a control console beside the transport station. I examine it. Much Solanae technology is still strange to us, but these consoles have become wearily familiar over time. I tap out a sequence, watch symbols glow on the panels - green, yellow, blue. "T'Pia calling Dezin. Respond, please."
There is a brief pause, then Twosani's voice says, "Sir! Are you all right?"
"I am uninjured. I appear to be in another, larger, chamber. I suspect it is some kind of local control station for the chambers in the service tunnel." That is only speculation, but it makes some sense. "At least we know the transporter works," I add.
"It did," Twosani says. "There was some kind of blow-out as soon as you vanished - some component burned out. We can find it and fix it, but maybe you'd better not risk coming back until -"
"That is logical. I will examine this station and see what I can learn, while you repair the unit. I think I am at some elevated location." I look at the row of narrow arches. "There are windows here. I will attempt to open them and get my bearings."
I cross over to the arches. There is a small control panel set into the wall - again, it is a familiar type. I touch the requisite symbols. Beside me, the panels set into the arches swing down and out, letting in more and colder air, and the bright, bleak sunlight of the sphere -
A shadow falls across the arches. I frown. I step to the nearest arch, and look out.
The vast rounded bulk of the Voth ship is blotting out the sun. The grey mass of metals and superdense ceramics is so close that I could almost reach out and touch the engineering hull.
Matters are, it seems, becoming yet more urgent.
The pads of my feet are starting to ache, as I trudge along yet another slanting tubular corridor, watch another circular door open before me. Beyond is a room, an empty room, with low domed consoles around the sides. Some laboratory, perhaps. The domed things are consistent with Solanae science workstations, the sort of thing we've seen many times before. The control panels are inactive.
I sigh, and it's the loudest noise in the room. The silence is oppressive. This spire is clearly the site of considerable activity... but, again, it's the problem of scale. The main body of the spire is dozens of kilometres across, and it has many, many interior levels... there is room for whole nations in here, and lots of empty corridors and vacant rooms between them. I have trudged a long way since I scrambled out of the escape shaft, and still I have only gone a tiny distance into the spire.
I touch my combadge, more for the sake of hearing a friendly voice than anything else. "M'eioi to Timor."
"Timor here, sir," says Sumal Jetuz's voice. It sounds clearer than before. "What's your situation?"
"Unchanged," I say. "Nothing to report - just making my way through the interior. I'm bound to find a way back down to you sometime.... You sound very clear."
"Signal strength seems to be improving, sir. We're adding filters and processing to clean out some of the interference from the spire's systems - though I'm not sure how well it's working."
"Your voice is coming through strongly."
"Yes, sir, and we're getting some solid telemetry from your tricorder, too. But there still seems to be a problem. With the data we've gathered now, we should be able to get through to the exterior of the spire - maybe not strongly enough to raise Joint Command, but we should certainly be able to get a response out of the Tapiola or the Tempest. But we've heard nothing from either ship."
"Well, I guess all you can do is keep trying." I touch the control panel on one of the consoles, but nothing happens. This part of the spire is deeply asleep, it seems. I look around. "There are two more exits from the room I'm in right now. I'm going to have a look...." I aim my tricorder at each doorway in turn. "Hmm. There's a vertical shaft behind one of them... some kind of elevator, maybe?" I walk over to that doorway, touch the controls. Nothing seems to happen at first, then my ears twitch as a faint sound makes itself heard. An approaching turbolift capsule... maybe?
The door splits into segments and opens for me. Not a capsule, but a simple round platform - well, it will do, provided I keep my arms and my tail well away from the walls. There is a free-floating control console off to one side of the platform. I study the blue glowing readouts. "Nothing as simple as up and down. It's pick a destination time, and I have no idea where any of them are. All right. Timor, do you have a fix on my combadge?"
"We do, sir, but I can't guarantee we'll keep it if you start moving quickly." Sumal's voice is starting to sound tinny again. Additional shielding in the elevator shaft, perhaps.
"Well, if I don't start moving quickly, I'm not going to get anywhere." I tap one glowing icon. The door closes behind me, and I feel a faint pressure before the inertial dampers kick in. "I'm moving up. Pretty fast." The walls of the tube are hurtling down around me. I think I'll stick very close to the centre of this disc.
My combadge emits an unintelligible squawk. I hiss in frustration. I'm going to have to spend some time tuning in, compensating for the additional layers of shielding -
I turn my attention to the tricorder. If I'm passing through more layers of shielding, I'm getting closer and closer to the inside of things - including whoever, or whatever, might be running this place. The tricorder might be able to pick up some actual life signs -
But the tricorder is having the same sorts of problems as the combadge, as, invisible to me, energy fields are changing all around me. I'm still fiddling with the settings, trying to recalibrate, when the disc comes to a halt. I turn around as another door opens beside me.
There's a wide empty space beyond. I step through cautiously. I seem to have come out onto some plaza or concourse, a smoothly curving empty hallway whose far wall is lost in shadow. I check the tricorder. If it's registering properly, I'm about... three thousand metres higher up the spire than I was.
On the minus side, that's not helping me get back to the Timor. On the plus side, there are things moving - within a few hundred metres. Life signs. The tricorder doesn't recognize what sort of life, but definitely something alive.
I try the combadge. Nothing but static.
I advance out, along the empty concourse. I think about pulling my phaser rifle from my transporter buffer... but, no, I need to make peaceful contact, if I can. The tricorder contains subroutines for extending the combadge's universal translator; I cue them up.
Life signs. Consistent with humanoid body mass, approximately humanoid-range temperature and neural activity - but the tricorder still can't make an identification. Not just a new species, but a very different new species. I can only hope the translator is up to the job.
The nearest alien to me is... about two hundred metres away, moving parallel to the concourse wall. It must be in an adjacent corridor. If I can find a doorway, I can get through, find the alien, say hello. The walls, the doors, they are simple physical things - the tricorder has no trouble locating them. I have a rough map in moments, and I make for the nearest door. The alien life sign isn't moving quickly... it seems to be ambling along at a steady pace, as if it's out for a stroll. As if it lives here. As if it belongs here....
There is a doorway. I reach it. The lights are dimmer than usual, here - I don't know if it's a failure of maintenance, or an attempt to simulate a day-night cycle, or just somebody's choice. It's not a problem for Caitian eyes, of course. I open the door. Beyond, a corridor curves around sharply and slopes upwards. I make my way along it. The alien lifesign is quite close, now, according to the tricorder -
I round the bend of the corridor, and I see it, and the words of greeting die on my lips.
It is shuffling past the intersection of this corridor with the next one, and I have only a brief glimpse of its face - but that is enough. That, and the horny carapaced body, and the silhouette of the thing - and the clawed forelimbs. It is wearing strips of fabric instead of a hooded robe, but there is no doubt, nonetheless, of what it is. Even though it's impossible.
Solanae.
---
I stand there, wide-eyed, and watch the creature shuffle out of sight. I don't think it saw me - black uniform, black fur, in shadow, I can't have been noticeable even to its huge eyes. I'm glad of that. It gives me time to think, about the implications of this -
The Solanae. The builders of the Dyson spheres, the original occupants.
I shake my head. But the Solanae are supposed to be gone. The disaster that overtook the sphere forced them out of normal space-time, into subspace -
But this spire is elaborately shielded. A - a survival bunker, of some sort, perhaps. Holding a community of the Solanae, protecting them from the tetryon contamination... letting them survive the disaster. How long have they been living here? Why have we not had signs of them before? How have they survived, how have they lived? And what are they doing now?
Well. The simplest way to find out, of course, might be to ask them.
After all, they can't be tools of the Iconians any more - the Iconians are gone. Though these Solanae might not know that... but, I won't know what they know unless I ask them. Make contact. Not only is it the right Starfleet thing to do, it's the only thing to do.
I wish I could reach the ship, though. Someone besides me needs to know about this... but the interference is too strong, still. So, it's up to me. I square my shoulders and start to march briskly along the corridor, following the path taken by the alien.
Except it's not as simple as that - the architecture of this place is a maze, as usual. Although I can sometimes hear the clacking of chitinous feet on the deckplates, the Solanae stays, maddeningly, out of sight as the corridors twist and turn. I have to proceed slowly, checking with my tricorder's map at every junction - and, even so, I am falling behind, and I'm not sure I haven't got myself crossed up or turned around in the passageways -
I stop walking. I take a deep breath. And think.
Many Solanae. That implies a community. And communities have gathering places, social venues. Instead of following this lone alien, I should be looking for a large space that has a number of them in it. It might make better sense, from a first-contact point of view, too. If there's several of them, and only one of me, they'll be able to see I mean them no harm. Probably. Possibly.
So I consult the tricorder again, and map out a route to a large hall, or something, that's showing several Solanae life signs. Quite a number of them, in fact. At least the tricorder now recognizes them - perhaps, though the readings are still a little confused. So. Up the next ramp, take the next turning but two to the left, then a little way around a curve, then the next right....
I forget my fatigue as I follow the path. This is - this is important.
I come to the end of the path, step up to a big round door. It opens before me. I step through.
I'm in a big round space, with a shallow domed ceiling, and lights pouring down, brightly, onto the centre. In the centre is a flat space, marked out with lines of varying colours, and - there are Solanae on it, going through some sort of rapid movements. Are they... dancing? Playing a game? There are other Solanae, ranged about the room, standing or sitting, looking at the centre.
No one seems to have noticed me, yet. I take another step forward.
I'm about to clear my throat and announce myself when there's a noise, and movement, over to the side of me. I glance in that direction -
Another door has opened, and there are people coming through. Not Solanae. The noise I heard was the tramping of heavy, armoured feet, and the bulky, scaly forms with the elaborate head crests are instantly recognizable.
Not Solanae.
Voth.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
This is one very tall tree...
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Interesting approach, that. I should remember it.
Beam them out of the tree.
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
"Are those what I think they are?" he said.
"Confirmed." To his left, Lieutenant Tyzel was fidgeting with a scanner; beyond him, Karzis had a scanner in his hand, too, and seemed to be peering at it intently. "The readings match - um, the hypothetical characteristics established by the Circles of Science - that is, within an acceptable margin of error - They're Solanae, sir. But not from subspace. Biological Solanae."
Stannark turned his head from side to side, deliberately taking in the scene before him. "What are they doing?"
"They're not paying us much attention," one shock trooper muttered. Indeed, though a few of the closer Solanae had turned to look at the Voth group, most still had their attention fixed on the centre of the room.
"It, um - it could be some kind of ritual, I think, sir," said Tyzel.
"Ritual?" Stannark took a step forward. "This was the largest concentration of life signs we could detect! They must be engaged in activity of critical importance! That was the conclusion of our intelligence analysts!"
"Of importance to them, perhaps," Karzis said, in an absent-minded tone, as if his own attention was being drawn elsewhere. "But whatever they are doing, it is not critical to the control of this spire. There are no command or science consoles in evidence, no major power circuits operated from this area, no secure communications lines.... No. We must conclude that this is some sort of - social activity."
"Social activity?" Stannark's voice was loud enough to make a few more Solanae heads turn, now. No expression showed on the immobile chitinous faces, or in the huge eyes, but the creatures made no move, either towards or away from the Voth party. They seemed, Stannark thought, simply - incurious.
"We know the Solanae to be an erratic and foolish species," said Tyzel. "Their, um, their accident with the sphere - their failed attempt to utilize, um, ancient Voth technology which they did not understand - it indicates, um, poor intellectual organization -"
"We are here to take control!" Stannark shouted. "I have no interest in watching the rituals of some debased species! If these - Solanae - cannot assist us, they must not be permitted to impede us!"
One of the nearby Solanae, who had been looking at Stannark, now turned away from him to regard the centre of the room again. The Voth commander's teeth ground together in frustration.
"Useless crustaceans! Clear them away!"
The shock troopers raised their rifles, aiming over the Solanae's heads. Thin scarlet lines of antiproton fire screamed out of the guns, to scar the domed ceiling.
More of the creatures turned to look at the Voth, now. The frantic activity in the centre of the room - the dance, or ritual, or whatever it was - slowed to a halt. The Solanae were not moving, though; they simply stood there, looking at Stannark and his troops.
Stannark snarled, drew his pistol, took deliberate aim at the creature who had turned away from him, and fired. The Solanae made a brief shrieking noise and fell lifeless to the floor.
The Voth troopers dropped the muzzles of their weapons, and fired again. Beams tore through the crowd of Solanae, leaving a dozen smouldering corpses on the deck. Suddenly, the rest of them were in motion, a panicky chittering noise filling the air as they milled in confusion and attempted to flee. The troopers fired again. Stannark aimed carefully and shot down one Solanae, another, a third.
"The Circles of Science would probably appreciate a specimen or two," Karzis observed.
"They may have them!"
"In good condition, I mean. This is a scientific find of some interest. We should not exterminate all of them, immediately."
"We will clear this room and hold it as a staging area." By now, the surviving Solanae were fleeing through a dozen or more exits, dotted around the walls. The troopers fired a few more bursts, casually and without aiming, not caring if they killed or only terrified. Inside a minute, the big room was empty of living Solanae.
Stannark strode over to the nearest corpse and kicked it. Then he turned to Karzis. "What is amusing you?" he demanded.
"A minor detail, but perhaps a fruitful one." The intelligence officer held up the scanner in his hand. "Another life sign, nearby - very nearby, in fact. Not one of these. A mammal."
"Starfleet?"
"Oh, definitely. In fact, I believe it to be the absurd Admiral M'eioi. Certainly, a female of the same species. The creature was nearby when we entered this room, and withdrew almost immediately. She is retreating down the corridors now - she probably imagines herself to be safe." Karzis smiled. "With the Commander's permission, I will go now and retrieve her. She may have useful intelligence to give us, concerning the current status of the Timor."
"We should tie up that loose end." Stannark nodded. "Be quick about it."
Sounds of death follow me as I run.
Did the Solanae turn hostile, try to fight the Voth? They looked peaceful enough - but our own history with the Solanae isn't one of peace - but, on the other hand, the Voth don't need any excuses to start shooting.
All I hear is the shrill sound of Voth antiproton weapons - and a sort of screaming.
I didn't even bother pulling my gun out of the transporter buffer. There was no way I could take on a platoon of Voth troopers single-handed - but I am sick at heart, now, for the chance I must have missed. And for the deaths behind me.
I reach the end of one tubular corridor, and the round door opens before me. If I can lose myself in this warren, I might be able to make it back to the Timor before the Voth can find me. I don't think they saw me, but I'd be amazed if they haven't spotted me on sensors. Voth technology is good.
Beyond the door is a chamber, big and round and full of machinery. I don't know what any of it's for, but it might just be good for hiding in. I pause to catch my breath, and to take stock of what's around me. There are consoles around the walls, there are snaking tangles of cables between floor and ceiling -
There are soft rustling footsteps behind me. I spin around.
The Solanae is standing in the doorway, goggling at me with those huge eyes. It is crouched, appearing wary, and a loud, rhythmic rasping is coming from its mouth. Out of breath, I realise. Just like me. The creature must have run from the Voth -
I hold out empty hands towards it, hoping it can understand the gesture. "It's all right," I say. "I mean you no harm. I'm a friend." Or, at least, I would like to be. "My name is M'eioi."
The Solanae doesn't respond. I don't know if the universal translator even got my meaning across. But the creature doesn't run, either, and I guess that's a start.
"The Voth - the people who shot at you - they are my enemies, too," I say. "Is there somewhere we can be safe from them?" No answer.
I turn aside and begin to pace, carefully, around the chamber. The cables twine like massive vines, descending from holes in the ceiling, vanishing into matching holes in the floor. There is space to hide among them - there is space to make my way into the holes, though I don't know where they might lead. Behind me, the Solanae shuffles. I dart a glance towards it. It has made its way towards one of the consoles, is standing before it, appears to be puzzling over the interface.
Something moves in the corner of my eye. I turn round quickly, but there is nothing there. Except - is one of those cables swaying, just a little bit? I step forward to investigate -
And the air shimmers and ripples before me, and suddenly there is a black armoured shape in front of me.
Voth. Special ops, using a stealth field. This one is nearly seven feet tall, clad in black battle armour, and with scales nearly as dark. Ocular implants glow blue in its eyesockets, and that is the only touch of colour about it - no, not quite. There is a dull red glow, as of a banked fire, in the antiproton rifle the creature is pointing at me.
"Admiral M'eioi," the Voth says, and it sounds almost amused. "I do hope you can understand me."
"I can," I say, through a suddenly dry mouth. I weigh up my chances of jumping the Voth, or of getting my battle rifle out of the transporter buffer, and decide they're not so hot.
"Excellent," says the Voth. "I am Davrak Karzis, and you may consider yourself my prisoner. We have questions for you."
"I don't doubt it," I say. "M'eioi, Admiral, six four six dash delta dash two niner zero two seven."
Karzis chuckles. "I wonder how long it took to train you to do that? Never mind. We will have more entertainment from you in due course. Where is your ship? Where is the Timor?"
I say nothing. Behind Karzis, one of the cables twitches, again. I look up, involuntarily, and my eyes widen.
"Oh, come now," Karzis says. "Such a silly ruse! I have sensors, I have my implants, and I can see quite plainly that there are no life signs here save you, and me, and that useless arthropod."
"I don't doubt it," I say.
The figure that drops from above onto Karzis's back is clad in Starfleet uniform, is shaped like a human female with ash-blonde hair, but the metal eyes and the exposed circuitry on one side of the face give away her origins. The android grabs the Voth's elongated head crest, and twists with all her might. I am moving, dodging to one side and preparing to fight, but there is no need; the snap of Karzis's neck is clearly audible. The black-armoured form crumples to the ground. The android snatches up the antiproton gun.
"I broke his neck," she says. "It won't hold him for long. We'd better get moving, sir."
"Thanks," I say, a little more shakily than I wanted to. "Who are you, and what the hell's going on?"
"Commander Pearl, sir, from the Tempest."
"One of Fallon's people?"
"I was, sir." She glances back at the doorway. "I don't see more coming, yet, but they'll be on their way as soon as they miss this one."
"What's happening? I need to know, Commander."
"Yes, sir." She aims the weapon at the doorway, and speaks rapidly. "Commodore Fallon was tracking a Voth ship. It hit us with some kind of energy field - I think it was using the tetryon emitters in this spire. The Tempest was flooded with an intense biolytic field. I -"
"Wait. What happened to Fallon?"
The android might not be programmed for emotion, but there is something very bleak in her voice as she says, "He burned, sir. They all burned. Ever seen what thalaron radiation does to organic tissue? It wasn't that pretty."
I have no answer for that.
"I didn't know if the ship was stable. The radiation burned out our bioneural gel packs, the ship's systems took heavy damage. I engaged emergency backups, and they may have stabilized it by now, but I needed to get help, and there was only one thing I could think to try - beam over to the spire and try to reach you and the Timor. I was wandering for a while before I picked up your combadge's signature."
"Wait," I say. There are more urgent questions coming to my mind, and the first of them is - "What about the Tapiola? Why didn't you signal T'Pia for help?"
"The radiation field surrounded both ships, sir." She looks at me hard with those metal eyes. "You served with Admiral T'Pia for some time, didn't you? I'm sorry, sir."
I close my eyes, trying to take it all in. T'Pia is gone. The Voth are here in force, and they have a weapon that will kill our ships - kill us - at a single blow. I don't know what to do, now -
I have to figure something out. Fast. I open my eyes again.
"I got separated from my ship," I say. "We're at least three kilometres away, and I don't yet know the route back. We need to get away from here, find a safe spot where I can work on breaking through the comms interference and contact the Timor. I did it before, I can do it again."
Pearl nods. "Sounds like a plan, sir. Any idea which way to go first?"
I wish I did. The chamber has several doorways; I point to one at random. "Let's try there."
"No," says a new voice, suddenly, and we both turn around.
The Solanae. The Solanae has come forward, away from the console, and is speaking to us. The universal translator has got through to it. "No," it says again, and points to another exit with one claw-like hand. "There. That way leads to the rooms of the old machines. Siffaith is there. He understands the machines, he is helping Dyegh. We must find Siffaith. He will know what to do. He must."
And I'm not sure I buy Lewis's story.
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The Voth ship has apparently docked with the spire. This is a logical procedure; it means they can send out troops in force, without relying on possibly compromised transporter operations. True, the Bulwark becomes a stationary target in the process - but, if they have control of the spire's own weapons systems, that need not be a problem for them.
I think furiously, attempting to assess my own immediate danger. The spire is vast, even a Bulwark-class warship cannot carry enough troops to occupy it in any meaningful sense - most likely, they will look for centralized control and communications stations, so that they can take and hold the mechanisms of the spire's operations. The station I am in may be important enough for them to seek it out. I do not have the resources to oppose a Voth military force.
I turn to the communications console. "T'Pia to Dezin."
"Sir." Twosani responds at once.
"The Voth ship has docked with the spire, I estimate not more than five hundred metres from my current location. It is probable that Voth ground troops will shortly take possession of this control station. What is the status of repairs to the transporter?"
"Still offline, sir. I'm sorry."
"No matter. There are other stations accessible from this location. I will transfer myself to some point more distant from the Voth. Perhaps I may even be able to locate the Timor and alert Admiral M'eioi to the situation." Always assuming that the Timor has not already been found and neutralized by the Voth - well, I must make some assumptions at some point. "There is an internal map on the transporter control console. I will consult it."
"How long have you got, sir?" Twosani's voice sounds faint as I move to the other console.
I speak loudly and clearly in reply. "Unknown at this time. I will move as expeditiously as I safely can."
The control console does, indeed, have a map. Unfortunately, it is an abstract thing, representing the correct topology of the transporter nodes on the network, but without giving absolute positions or directions. With only two known nodes to correlate from, my analysis of the network is necessarily incomplete and imperfect.
Worryingly, many of the nodes - not just the one I started from - are inoperative. The sphere's self-repair systems are complex and continually operational, but even so, the vast structure shows some signs of age and wear - this, however, is considerably more damage than I might have expected, given the condition of other spires. Either this spire has, through random factors, suffered unusually heavy damage from the passing of the years... or the activity which led us here has caused the damage in some way. The latter seems more probable. The tetryon pulsations, generated by apparatus of immense age, must have caused high levels of stress, on systems that have been disused for millennia. A level of collateral damage was only to be anticipated.
I study the map, my ears alert for any sound - most importantly, the sound of approaching Voth boots on the deckplates. But there is nothing. Only the occasional faint bleep from the consoles, and the sighing of the wind through the high arched windows.
I select a node which is still functional, and which is shown in emphasis on the map - multiple coloured rings surrounding its icon. If I have judged correctly, it is also distant from this station. Hopefully, not too distant - it would be inconvenient, to say the least, if I were to be transported to the other side of the sphere. "I have selected a destination," I say. "I will attempt to contact you again from there, on my arrival. T'Pia out."
"Good luck, sir," I hear Twosani say, as I engage the controls and step onto the pad.
The world spins and shifts around me. I am somewhere else -
I blink. I am in a round alcove, with the transport pad at its centre. I step forwards, towards the open side of the alcove. It opens onto a hallway - a large hallway - whose walls are lined with similar alcoves -
I advance a few paces further, stop, and look around, taking stock. The hallway appears to be roughly kidney-shaped, and at least five hundred metres along its longest axis. The walls are lined with alcoves, each one perhaps twenty-five metres across. And each one holds a transport pad, as far as my eyes can see. It must be a central interchange for the transport system. The map I consulted must only have shown part of the network - possibly only a very small part.
Nothing like this showed up on any of my tricorder scans, so I am clearly at some distance from the Voth. However, this is a target even more desirable than my previous location. If the Voth can trace me here, they will undoubtedly send troops in whatever strength they can muster.
I pull out my tricorder and scan the area. There must, logically, be a master control station nearby - there would be no point assembling all these transporters in one place, otherwise.
There is considerable electronic activity to my left. I turn in that direction and jog down the hallway, following its gentle curve. At one end, a large dais rises out of the floor, with many free-standing consoles mounted on it and a massive display screen hanging down from the vaulted ceiling overhead. As I near it, ramps extend from the floor along the sides of the dais, affording me access. Typical Solanae design - useful, if disconcerting.
I stop at the foot of one ramp, and listen. The room has, up till now, been quiet - my footsteps the loudest sound. But now I can hear something else. Not footsteps - certainly not the tread of Voth armoured boots - but something else. A faint hissing sound, almost like slithering -
It is coming from above me. I look up.
Shapes flow through the air under the curve of the ceiling - gleaming white metallic shapes trailing tendril-like cables behind them. The noise of those metal tentacles is the sound I hear. The sphere's security swarmers. They are emerging from vents in the ceiling, criss-crossing the upper air of the hallway, their blunt mechanical faces turning this way and that.
An individual swarmer is a danger to unarmoured personnel. And there are dozens - no, hundreds - of them here.
Evidently, the Voth incursion has alerted the sphere's automated security systems. In the abstract, this may be a good thing. Here and now, though, it is a problem. The swarmers respond to unauthorised personnel with deadly force, and I am no more authorised here than the Voth.
First one swarmer, then another, dips its blunt head to face me. They are nearly featureless - it is only imagination which attributes malignancy to them.
They do not fire their weapons. In an instant, I realize why not. I am surrounded by the sphere's machinery, in the form of the transporters. The swarmers must be programmed to avoid risking damage to those machines from missed shots.
But the swarmers have a high degree of artificial intelligence - they will adapt their tactics, and swiftly. Already, some more of them are arcing through the air, seeking a vantage point from which they can fire at me without endangering the transporters.
I cannot fight so many swarmers. I have seconds to act, at most, before they cut me down. I turn and dash for the nearest alcove. Movement whispers in the air behind me, and I anticipate, at every instant, the scarlet blaze of an antiproton beam cutting into my back. I reach for the transporter pad, for the controls -
I have no time to select a destination. I must go anywhere, so long as it is away.
The control panel bleeps its assent to me. The pad glows to life. I leap onto it -
And I am... elsewhere.
Man, Starfleet's resources are getting knocked down fast with a whole Bastion full of troops on one side, swarmers on the other, and Solanae getting killed in the middle.
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"The, um, the transporter signature," said Lieutenant Tyzel. "The one we detected. From the Tempest. It must have been - "
"Yes," snarled Karzis. "The last survivor of the Tempest. These Starfleet androids are of some interest - this one should be dismantled for study by the Circles of Engineering." His right hand closed in a fist. "I will take pleasure in attending to that matter personally."
"All in due time," said Gavron Stannark. He lumbered over to his aide, looked down on him. "We have not been entirely idle during your misadventure. This chamber, at least, has been secured - though it seems to serve no useful purpose." He cast a brief, dismissive glance at the coloured lines that marked the centre of the arena. "Our thinking is that it is a sporting venue, a place of amusement. However. We are using it as a staging area, and our advance parties have already located some more promising machinery rooms."
"What progress has been made interrogating the residents?" Karzis asked.
"As yet, none." Stannark kicked casually at the charred remains of a Solanae. "We have taken none alive, or even reasonably intact. They know these corridors, this locale, as we do not. They have fled, and gone to ground. No matter. We will take some of them in due course, and learn whatever we can."
"Is it confirmed that they are - what they appear to be?"
"Organic Solanae. Yes. The members of the Circles of Science are processing the data now, but it appears the ancestors of these creatures survived the initial disaster, somehow. Possibly the heavy shielding on this spire was designed to protect against such mishaps. Of course, we may never know the whole story. It is very likely these creatures are the descendants of generations of inbreeding. Degenerates. That would account for their staggering incuriosity at our arrival. Dissection of the brains of some of the corpses might confirm this."
"I admit," said Karzis, "I am in a mood to dissect some brains." He shrugged off the medic and rose, unsteadily, to his feet. "With the commander's permission, I will join the teams examining the machinery. If we can identify some of the control circuitry, I have special operations software packages that should make it... amenable to our wishes."
"This structure," said Stannark, "poses a challenge, simply by virtue of its sheer size. I could call for more ships from Command, but... our military forces are stretched already. No, I think it better that we identify the local command centres and take control of them. If you are fit for duty, by all means, take command of the search teams."
"I am not one to malinger over a minor injury," said Karzis. He looked up, and his ocular implants flashed and rippled with data. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Stannark demanded.
"I'm reading something," Tyzel said. He had a scanner in his hand, was studying it intently. "Motion in... it looks like some kind of ducts overhead. Motion, but no life signs. There might be power sources -"
"There are," said Karzis grimly. "And my devices tell me there are gravitic fields in operation - flight units. All this suggests one thing to me - Watch out!"
Fifty metres distant, a circular hatch irised open in the ceiling, and the first shape glided through. The security swarmer made a leisurely sweep through the air, seemingly getting its bearings, then turned towards the nearest group of Voth. A scarlet beam lashed out from its front section, and a security trooper yelled in shock and fright as his personal shield flared and wavered. The swarmer shot forward, its tentacles trailing behind it, and fired again.
Behind it, a second swarmer emerged from the hatch, and a third. And other hatches were opening in the ceiling, in the walls.
Red light threaded the air. The shrill sound of the antiproton beams was drowned out by Stannark's roar of anger. A swarmer had targeted him, was firing repeatedly, but its shots simply bounced off the Voth commander's heavy-duty shield. "This is insupportable!" Stannark shouted, levelling his handgun at the swarmer and firing back. Now, it was the turn of the swarmer's shield to flicker under the onslaught. The machine turned to flee, and Stannark pursued it, his hand weapon glaring viciously in his fist. Sparks shot from the swarmer's body as one shot punched through the shield and hit home - and the machine dropped to the floor, its tentacles a hopeless tangle, smoke pouring from its forward section.
But there were more of them, and still firing. Lieutenant Tyzel screamed as his shield blew out - and his scream ended abruptly as a sustained beam from one swarmer struck his head and burned downwards, bisecting him from head to crotch. Karzis aimed his weapon at that swarmer, blasted it out of the air with a series of long bursts. The Voth troops, startled by the sudden onslaught, were starting to coordinate their responses. Lightly armoured technicians fled for cover while the armoured troopers formed fire teams and shot down the swarmers with concentrated barrages, overwhelming their shields. Shattered and burning hulks of machinery crashed to the deck.
The attack was over as quickly as it had begun. The hatches in the walls and ceiling closed, and the remaining swarmers, outnumbered and outgunned, were quickly disabled.
Stannark strode back towards Karzis, his expression furious. His battle armour was scorched in a few places where swarmers had breached his shields. He looked down at the two halves of Lieutenant Tyzel, then shot a questioning glance at a nearby medic.
"Not recoverable," the medic said shortly. "Too much damage to the central nervous system. We can't work miracles, sir."
Stannark nodded curtly. "To die in the service of Doctrine is... no bad thing. His relatives may be consoled by that... but he was Voth. These creatures and their robot functionaries have no right to kill Voth. They must be made aware of that. Forcefully, if need be."
"We have numbers here sufficient to withstand an assault," said Karzis. "The smaller exploratory teams, now, they may be in graver danger. We should take steps to protect them."
"We shall," said Stannark. "I will order up some heavier ordnance. And we will redouble our efforts to locate and take over the control centres. Once we hold those, these swarmers will answer to our will. As it should be."
---
"I have thousands of swarmers," Siffaith muttered, "but they are dispersed, scattered into many small groups.... I do not know if I can coordinate all of them together, swamp the intruders with too many swarmers to hold off.... Dyegh, where can I obtain more swarmers? There must be repair stations for the damaged ones, or fabricators to make replacements...."
He straightened up. He felt twinges of pain in his carapace - he had been crouched over the security console for too long. He turned to face Dyegh, who was standing a little way off, clicking his claws irresolutely.
"Dyegh. Fabricators. I have many swarmers, but they are in finite supply - if the new gods destroy them all, my defences will fall. How do I access the fabricators?"
"There are security fabricators." Dyegh spoke slowly, reluctantly. "I... could give you access... I think. But my work - "
"This need not affect your work," said Siffaith.
"How can it not?" demanded Dyegh. "The fabricators demand power! Resources! Scarce elements, which must come from my stockpiles, or must be made by transmutation, which takes more power! You are taking things that I need for my work!"
"Temporarily," said Siffaith. He fixed his large eyes on the other's face. "Dyegh, see reason. Your work will be stopped if the new gods take control of the Home. Let me have what I need to drive them out, and you will only be delayed. Neither is good, I admit, but my way is the lesser of the two evils."
Dyegh turned away. He walked slowly to the other side of the control room, and paused, leaning over a console. Siffaith could see him trembling, even beneath his robe.
"I have a goal," he said in a dull voice. "I have an aim in view... I want to restore the sun, to bring the Land back to its full glory and power. Why must it be so difficult? Why must so many people try to stop me? Even you...."
Siffaith came to stand beside him. "I do not want to stop you, Dyegh. I want to help. But we must keep the new gods from interfering, and to do that, I will need the Home's resources. For a time. For as short a time as I can make it."
Dyegh made a faint moaning noise. Then, "Do what you must," he said. "Go to the primary console and the security menu, and enter access code Gold, Gold, Cyan, Red, Gold. You will have control of the second-tier security responses, then, and those include permission to queue replicator requests. You will have all the swarmers you need. And other capacities besides."
"Thank you," said Siffaith. "I will do what I can - I will drive off the intruders and let you do your work in peace."
"I hope so," Dyegh muttered.
Siffaith turned and went back to the security console. "The new gods are divided into two factions," he said. "One is unquestionably hostile, but the other... the other spoke words of friendship. If we could enlist the help of that side against the hostiles, we could use their resources, perhaps."
"No," said Dyegh. "No. If we become enmeshed in the gods' squabbles, we will never make our way out again. It will be temporary alliance after temporary alliance, and no end in sight."
Siffaith nodded. "Perhaps you are right." His claws touched the console, entering the colour-code sequence. "Well, then. Both factions of the gods have sent ships, have entered or docked with the Home...." On the console screen, command menus opened up, symbols indicating a wealth of new possibilities to Siffaith's eyes. "Perhaps I should give some thought as to how those ships might be destroyed."
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It is dark. That is my first sensory impression, and it is not a particularly useful one.
I look down. There is a dim glow... I am on a transport pad, as I expected, and there is a control board beside it, as normal. But the light from the Solanae control panels is usually brighter than this - and there are normally other lights, besides, set high on the curving walls.
There are no sounds. The air is cool, but there is a faint smell of something - burning, perhaps? My footsteps break the silence as I step off the pad. I go around to the side of the transporter, and study the console.
Half the board is blank, dead. There are a few icons visible on the other half, but they are dim, and even as I watch, they flicker. I check. The system seems to be in an emergency standby mode. There is no way to activate the communications system, and - though it is clearly viable as a destination point - the transporter pad lacks capacity, at present, to transport anyone out. And the board is still flickering. This is not normal for Solanae technology. It suggests, to me, serious damage, somewhere.
I pull out my tricorder, and set it to display a blank test screen, then turn up the image brightness as high as it will go. As an improvised flashlight, it is... acceptable. I shine my light around the walls, trying to work out what sort of a place this is.
I am in a small hemispherical chamber, not unlike the one where I first found myself, though this one lacks windows. There is one doorway - I frown at the sight. It has a standard Solanae round door, but the panels are retracted part-way into the frame. The door is jammed, about two-thirds open.
There are lighting elements in the walls, but they are dark and dead. The corridor beyond the doorway, too, appears to be dark.
I have no choice but to explore the corridor. There is no other exit, and I cannot remain here indefinitely. I could wish for more information.... I risk an active scan with the tricorder. If I am reading its data correctly, I am still within the main body of the spire, somewhat lower down than the chamber with the windows, and - unfortunately - well within the interfering energy screens. There is no way I can contact my crew through my combadge, and the transporter pad's communications are out. I must, therefore, explore further.
The tricorder tells me the corridor opens onto another, larger, chamber in a hundred metres or so. I clamber over the frozen segments of the door, and set off.
The corridor slopes down gently. Again, the lighting elements are dead. As an experiment, I shut off the tricorder, and wait for a while, until my eyes have had time to grow accustomed to the dark. But there is nothing. No light at all - I am too far along the curve of the corridor to see the weak glow of the control panel, and there is no other light source. There are only the vague, amorphous forms of phosphenes slowly surging across my vision. It is disturbing. I snap the tricorder open again; in the darkness, its screen seems dazzling.
There is another doorway at the end of the corridor. As with the first, the door is partly open. There is a vast empty space beyond, but I can make out no details. I climb past the segments of the door. The smell of burning is quite strong, now. Dimly, I hear a gentle surging sound, and air currents move on my face. This empty space may be large enough to support its own air circulation.
I shine the tricorder around me. I am on a walkway, apparently running around the wall of a large spherical chamber. From the curvature of the walls, I estimate its diameter somewhere in the neighbourhood of three hundred and twenty metres. There are vague shapes out towards the centre, but I catch only glimpses of them in the light of my tricorder; I can make out no details.
But there is another shape nearby, on the walkway: the semi-ovoid form of one of the sphere's free-floating information terminals. Except this one is not floating freely, but lying, inert, on the walkway. I make my way over to it, treading cautiously. This area has clearly sustained damage, somehow, and though the walkway seems secure enough, my imagination is painting pictures of a vast yawning gulf beneath me.
The information terminal appears dead, but I can see no external signs of damage. I touch the hard white outer shell; it is cold, nothing more. I turn the device over, so that I can see where its control panel and holographic display globe should be -
My fingers brush against the glassy surface of the control panel, and suddenly the terminal shivers. There is a series of clicks and a low hum, shockingly loud in the quietness. Lights glimmer and flash on the panel, and the terminal stirs beneath my hands. I stand up, and step back. The control panel flashes and pulses with light, and the terminal rises off the walkway, and turns itself upright in mid-air. Evidently, I have triggered some sort of hard reset. But what disabled the device in the first place?
We have some experience of the Solanae data projectors, by now. I step up to the terminal, tap out a sequence on the panel. The holographic display globe forms in the air above it. There are few icons available on it, but I decipher a sequence I have seen before. I tap in another set of commands, whose functions can be summarized as engage local backup systems.
For a few seconds, nothing happens; then, the light comes.
It is dim; only a few of the lighting elements inside the spherical chamber come alive. But they are sufficient. The walkway goes all around the waist of the vast sphere, and from three points radial catwalks extend out to the centre. And, running vertically from round floor to domed ceiling, there are cables. Dozens of them, some the thickness of my arm, some the thickness of my body, twining about each other - and all of them charred and blackened, as if subjected to intense heat.
I pace slowly around the wall of the chamber until I reach a catwalk, then step cautiously onto it. It bears my weight... though, now I look closely, there is scoring and oxidation on the bare metal of its floor plates and guard rails, as if it too has been in a fire. I make my way along until I reach the nearest of the thick cables.
The charring on it is deep and extensive; the outer layers are black and flaking away. I scan with my tricorder, and frown at the results. The outer layer, as one might expect, is - or was - an insulator; it has denatured and oxidised under the influence of an intense energy release. The inner core of the cable -
I sit cross-legged on the walkway, and try to interpret the results I am seeing, using the tricorder's data libraries for comparisons and cross-checks. A picture emerges - a picture that I do not like.
The core of the cable is a fused conglomerate of rare-earth isotopes, and the data libraries have tentative matches for what it might have been like before it fused. A rare thing, in fact - a high-temperature superconductor. High-temperature being a relative term, naturally; this substance should have retained superconducting properties up to some three hundred Kelvin.
But it has not. Somehow, even this material has been subjected to a power surge which destabilized its molecular structure... or, to put it simply, it has been burned out.
A cursory scan confirms that the others are the same.
Superconducting cables, burned out. The one before me now could channel the full output of a starship's warp core without overloading - and it is by no means the largest one here. The forces at work in this chamber have been... indescribable. Too much, even, for Solanae materials and engineering.
Was it from the energy pulse that wrecked the Tapiola? Or, earlier, when the energies of the ion stream were diverted away? I have no way to tell. But a more important question now engages my mind. Whatever happened, it was arranged either by the Voth or the directing intelligence within the spire.
What will happen, now, if they try the same thing again?
The Solanae's name, it seems, is Tyonovon. The universal translator gives it - her - a feminine voice. I'm not sure how conventional ideas about gender correspond to Solanae ones, but that's probably the least of my worries, just now.
Tyonovon is leading us - I don't know; I think it's upwards, but we have been through a dizzying maze of corridors and halls and machine rooms, and my sense of direction - such as it was - is thoroughly jumbled up. Pearl seems no better off. The android seems tense, almost nervous, even though she can't be. She turns the gaze of those metal eyes - and the muzzle of the Voth gun - on every doorway we pass.
"How much longer now?" I ask Tyonovon, as we pause in a small round room. The bulbous shape of a Solanae console dominates one wall, but I am far too tired to investigate it now. The adrenaline from the discovery of the Solanae, and the flight from the Voth, has worn off, and I am acutely aware of how far I have walked.
"Not far," Tyonovon says. "I am leading you by back ways, though, in case the other gods try to pursue us. No one knows the passages of the Home as we do." She moves towards another round doorway. She is showing no sign of fatigue. And Pearl, of course, can't feel fatigue. I am the only one with sore feet and drooping whiskers, it seems.
"The other gods?" I ask.
"She must mean the Voth," Pearl murmurs.
"Does that make us -?" But Tyonovon opens the door and steps through before I can finish the question.
I exchange glances with Pearl. I certainly don't feel like a god.
We follow Tyonovon into another passage, one that winds in a steep spiral around a semi-transparent tube, several metres thick, lit by a pulsating blue glow. "Tetryon conduit," says Pearl, and Tyonovon stops and turns around to face us.
"You understand this?" she asks.
"Some of it," Pearl says. "Commodore Fallon made a study of another spire. It's how we - well, how he kept ahead of the Voth. Until now."
I look at the glowing tube. I'd have pegged the blue lights as some sort of Cherenkov emission, certainly, but Pearl seems very sure about what sort of particles are involved. "Is there anything else we should know?" I ask her.
"Commodore Fallon managed to interpret a lot of Solanae data signals. He - was - a talented man, sir. We were able to decipher a lot of low-level data output - the sort of automatic signals the machines send. I told him, sir, that he should have submitted this to Science Division - that they could have made a lot more of it. But he said he didn't want to send in his findings until he had more data - that he wouldn't bother Science Division with preliminary results -"
"I'll bet," I mutter. "Commodore Fallon always wanted to keep his edge over everyone else, yes?"
"That's not the reasoning he gave, sir," says Pearl.
Tyonovon steps a little closer to us. "Do you... fight... amongst yourselves?" she asks. The translator makes her voice sound puzzled.
"We have - differences of opinion, I guess," I say. "Doesn't everyone? Don't you?"
"Sometimes," says Tyonovon. I can't read the expression, if any, on her rigid chitinous face. "The People... argue amongst themselves. I have had some words with Siffaith... but it is strange. To think of you... arguing...."
"We're just people," I say.
Tyonovon turns from me to Pearl, then back again. It seems she is on the verge of saying something - then she turns abruptly, and starts again upwards, up the spiral corridor. "We must reach Siffaith," she says.
I trudge after her. Out of the corner of my mouth, I say to Pearl, "Is that data still aboard the Tempest?"
"It'll be in the computer core. Assuming the Voth haven't destroyed the ship."
"I don't think they have. This place is shielded, yes, but a core breach this close would have registered on my tricorder." I'm starting to think about this. Can I scrape together a skeleton crew for the Tempest? I don't have many people aboard the Timor - but if the Tempest is still intact, if we can get enough people to work that ship, we may stand a better chance against the Voth. There's no way, though, that I could spare enough people to run the Tapiola.... T'Pia is gone. I still find it hard to believe.
"Not far now," says Tyonovon. She's said that before, damn her.
Two more revolutions around the spiral, and then the corridor stretches out, straight and level, ahead of us, to another door. Tyonovon goes up to it, and it splits open for her.
Beyond it is a big room, clearly some sort of engineering or control room. There are low, humped Solanae consoles and free-floating data terminals everywhere, and semitransparent screens hanging in the air, displaying data that's incomprehensible to me. Some of the floor - isn't floor; it's made of force fields with that disturbing liquid rippling look. And there are two robed figures in among all the consoles - two figures who turn with startled speed at our entrance. They are wearing loose hooded robes with a metallic sheen. Solanae. These ones look like Solanae.
"Siffaith," says Tyonovon. "Dyegh. We need your help. The new gods came -"
"You have brought them with you," says one of the Solanae. Masculine voice. And he doesn't sound pleased.
"Not the bad ones. Siffaith, there are these, and there are the others. The other ones - they were at the game - they killed, Siffaith. They killed - oh, they killed many, before we fled. Siffaith, we need help."
My gaze darts from one to the other of the robed Solanae - trying, I suppose, to work out which one is which. I think the one called Siffaith, the one doing the talking, is slightly taller - or the other is slouching or slumping, perhaps.
"I have already engaged the spire's security systems," says Siffaith. "I did not know - so much harm had been done." He turns towards me and Pearl. "We do not involve ourselves in your conflicts. You should leave."
"Easier said than done." Perhaps it's not a diplomatic thing to say, but I'm tired and fearful and irritable.
"We do not take sides in the wars of the gods -" the shorter one begins.
"Can we get one thing straight?" I snarl angrily. "We are not gods. My people have a law, a strict law, that says we can't even pretend to be gods. We're just people." With an effort, I bring myself back under control. I take a step forwards. "My name is M'eioi. This is Pearl. And Tyonovon is right, we need your help. And just maybe, you need ours too."
Siffaith and Dyegh both stare at me. It's an uncomfortable moment, two expressionless masks with great round eyes, looking at me from under those cowls.
"The others killed, Siffaith." Tyonovon sounds obstinate. "These did not."
"We would have helped, if we could," I say. "We have no quarrel with you." Probably.
"The others have no quarrel with us, either," says Siffaith.
"Tell them that," I say.
Siffaith takes a step towards me, now. His huge eyes seem intent. "You claim there is a difference between you and them. Explain."
I swallow, hard. "We're explorers. Mostly. We - happened - on this place, while we were investigating some relics of an ancient race called the Iconians."
Siffaith turns to glance at Dyegh. "The name of the old gods," the smaller Solanae says. "If this machine of theirs is translating correctly -"
"That sounds about right," I say. "The Iconians don't have a problem claiming to be gods. It turned out we were... at war with them. Half the time, we never even knew it. But it's over now." Probably. Again. "You people are descendants of the original Solanae who built this sphere, yes?"
"The Progenitors," says Siffaith. "They are... gone. I do not understand, entirely, how or where they are gone."
"Driven into subspace by the runaway tetryon field," I say. "Converted into a life form that can't exist in normal space. The heavy shielding on this facility must have protected your remote ancestors -"
"Millions upon millions of hours ago," says Dyegh. "The Progenitors - they still survive? Transformed like that?"
"Their remote descendants, I suppose, yes. Perhaps that's one way we could help each other. Now the Iconians have gone, you might be able to help us make peaceful contact with those Solanae. If we can all get out of our present difficulties."
"With the other new gods," says Siffaith. "Why are they our enemies, then? When you are not?"
"The Voth," I say. "They're called the Voth. They arrived here around the same time we did. The trouble is, they are convinced of their own superiority. Their right to rule. It's a cultural thing.... Among other things, they think their people built this sphere."
"We built the Land!" Dyegh shrills.
"The Voth think differently. They think they own the sphere. And they're prepared to back that claim with force."
"That is true, Siffaith," says Tyonovon. "I saw."
"And what about you?" Siffaith asks me. "You are surely more than just explorers. You have weapons of your own, I have seen that for myself. You say you pose no threat, but I must be convinced."
I sigh. "We're not supposed to interfere with other cultures. It's an ideal... sometimes, in the real world, it's hard to hold to ideals. When we arrived here, the Voth were harvesting the Omega particles the sphere creates - if you know anything about the sphere's purpose, you know how dangerous that is. We had to stop them, before they caused some sort of catastrophe -"
"You destroyed the control systems which could transport the Land through subspace," says Dyegh. "This much, I know. Was that deliberate?"
"Sort of. It's - complicated. Taking out the control centre activated a fail-safe, opened a gateway to another sphere. And then another enemy used that to attack us... all part of the Iconians' manipulations. The gateway opened up access to another part of the galaxy, and we got involved there, too - involved enough for the Iconians to take an active part against us." I sigh again, and put a hand to my forehead. "There's been too much war already, and no end in sight."
"Complicated," says Siffaith. "Yes, it sounds complicated, truly. What complications brought you here? To our home?"
"We detected unusual power surges, tetryon emissions, other things. It was clear someone was doing something with the sphere's systems. We had to find out what it was - in case it was something, well, potentially dangerous -"
"The Voth must have picked up the same readings," Pearl chimes in suddenly. "They had enough control to use your tetryon generators -"
"They put my work back hundreds of hours!" Dyegh shouts.
"They are the enemy," says Tyonovon. "Siffaith, I do not think these - people - are."
"We came here in science vessels," I say. "Not unarmed, we can't go completely unarmed - but light ships, designed for exploration and research. You can probably scan our ships, you can check that for yourselves. The Voth -"
"Bulwark-class cruiser," says Pearl. She steps forward now. "Also, I have one of their guns in my hands, right now." She levels the weapon at Siffaith. "If we were hostile -"
There is a short, pregnant silence. Then Pearl flips the gun over in her hands and offers it to Siffaith. "There."
Siffaith reaches out one claw-like member and takes the gun. It dips and wobbles alarmingly as Pearl lets go, then steadies as Siffaith realizes the weight of it. The red-glowing muzzle wavers, pointing at me, at Pearl, at nothing in particular -
"I do not know how to use it," says Siffaith. He offers the gun back to Pearl. She takes it.
"They're pretty simple, really," she says. "Killing often is."
"Especially for the Voth military," I say. "If you have some way to clear them out, you'd better use it. Afterwards -" If there is any afterwards. "- afterwards, we would like to negotiate. Freely and openly. We want to know about you, learn from you. And you could learn from us, too, if you chose."
"I am... here to learn," says Siffaith. "If you are here for that, too... perhaps we have something in common."
"Can you secure this area?" I ask. "How safe are we, here?"
"I have brought the security swarmers to full alert status," says Siffaith, "and activated biometric lockouts on the main access routes. Anyone who is not of the People will find difficulties in traversing the Home. I was about to investigate other methods when you arrived." He glances over at Dyegh. "Understand this. Our main purposes must be to protect the People, and to interfere as little as possible with Dyegh's work. It is his goal that drives us."
"All right," I say. "But perhaps you can explain, now... this work, this goal, it's got to be the reason behind the energy fluxes and the tetryon signals we detected. The things that brought us here." I decide to go straight to the source - I turn towards the smaller Solanae. "Dyegh. What are you doing here?"
"It is very simple," says Dyegh. "I am trying to repair the sun."
Still reading and loving this, as always.
M'eioi's honesty is impressive in the situation - her banners indeed haven't fallen.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
After approximately half an hour of walking through dark tunnels, I come to a region where the wall lights still work. I close the tricorder. The power cell has considerable, but not infinite, endurance, and I may well need the device later.
I am not clear what my goals are, at this point. To evade the Voth and the security swarmers, certainly; beyond that, I must take whatever opportunities offer themselves. It would, naturally, be helpful to make contact with the Timor, or the survivors of the Tapiola - I hope no one has been so ill-advised as to follow me onto the transport pad, assuming that Twosani Dezin has managed to reactivate it.
The possibility of making contact with whatever agency controls this spire... is an intriguing one. However, I see no immediate prospect of this. I have seen no living things in all my walking.
In the circumstances, the isolation is - oppressive. There are tasks which I need to perform, urgently, and I have no way to go about them. It is frustrating. And that, too, demands that I reprove myself. Frustration is an emotional reaction; it accomplishes nothing; it should not be permitted to influence my actions.
Just because I am alone, with no one to see or judge me, is no reason to allow my mental discipline to lapse. It might be argued, in fact, that discipline is most essential when its absence might go unobserved.
I am still musing on this matter when I come to another round door, which opens before me in the normal manner.
The room beyond is brightly lit, not just by the light sources in the walls and ceiling, but also by glowing screens and holographic displays. It is a circular chamber, with a pit-like depression in the centre, and rounded consoles all around the walls. My eyes narrow. Evidently, this is an active control centre of some kind - I must be on my guard for security swarmers, or for the unknown occupants of the spire.
But there is no sign of life, or of swarmers. The displays constantly change, updating themselves, but that flickering is the only illusion of motion in the room. I step forwards, warily.
The central pit has a transparent floor - perhaps a force field, though there is none of the watery rippling that characterizes Solanae force fields. It could be transparent aluminium, or some variant thereof. I walk towards it, and look down.
There is an immense space beneath me, and some way down - it is hard to estimate how far, exactly - there is a flat platform jutting out of the wall. And on that platform -
I kneel down, then bend forwards, bringing my face as close to the transparent floor as possible. There is something, in among all the grey and black and matte-finished Solanae technology, that gleams, down there, on the platform. Something shaped like a rounded dart.
It is the Timor. I am - certain of it, within acceptable limits of error. I have come to some sort of control station above the internal spacedock where M'eioi's ship has come to rest.
I stand up, slap my combadge. "T'Pia to Timor. Come in, please. This is Admiral T'Pia calling the USS Timor."
No response. My combadge should have automatically detected Timor's comms carrier waves, tuned itself to the other ship's network... but there is no response.
I chide myself. Obviously, this control station must be carefully shielded against unauthorized transmissions. But if I can find a way through those shields -
I turn to inspect the consoles ranged along the walls. I have no idea what most of the data streams are telling me. I move from console to console, looking for something - anything - that I recognize.
One workstation is showing a schematic of the docking platform below me, and there is no doubt left, now. On the 3-D display, the inarguable shape of a Dauntless-class starship appears, surrounded by a cloud of status icons, some of which I can read. The system has registered the Timor as an unauthorized but harmless intrusion. I am inclined to worry over what these automated devices might do, if they decided the ship was other than harmless.
Communications. This area must have communications. If it is the local traffic control station for the spacedock, then there must be a way to communicate with visiting ships.
I know what Solanae internal communications stations look like. I find this one, on the fourth console I check. I touch the glowing symbols on the panel, tapping out the sequence to activate comms -
A red icon glows in the air before me. Security lockout. The system is demanding a passcode, one that I do not have. And I dare not tamper with these systems, in case I draw hostile attention either to myself or the Timor.
I repress the urge to slam my fist onto the console in frustration.
Alternative channels. Any comms station has backups, has spare capacity, unused frequencies - I set to work, exercising the utmost caution. I key in another sequence, and a panel pops open at the edge of the console, revealing another set of controls. An emergency backup of some kind? That is hopeful - such a system would, necessarily, have little or no security, once engaged.
I touch the controls, searching the available frequencies. The control readouts are calibrated in an unfamiliar notation - I find what must be a subspace channel, one which is showing significant activity. I punch in codes to transmit on that frequency.
For a moment, there is no response, and then there is a terrible squealing and snarling of electronic interference. I suspect the communicator is trying to send an automated handshake using protocols which the other system does not recognize. Possibly, one or the other has adaptive systems which can resolve the problem. If not, I must consult my tricorder and hope that I have data libraries on file which will enable me to make manual adjustments.
The squealing stops, and I hear a voice. "- clear this channel! I repeat, you are encroaching on Joint Command subspace traffic, you are directed to clear this channel!"
Joint Command. The device is an emergency comms system, for reaching out beyond the spire itself - and Joint Command's subspace comms were the first active frequency it found. I suppose I am fortunate: I could be talking to the Voth instead. "This is Admiral T'Pia of Starfleet," I say. "I am declaring an emergency. Connect me with Subcommander Kaol, immediately, maximum priority."
"Admiral T'Pia? What -?" The voice falls silent for a moment. Then it demands, "What is going on?"
"I am declaring an emergency. I have accessed this channel using a Solanae comms station. I do not know how long I can keep this channel open." If I have drawn attention, I could be running from swarmers or the Voth at any moment. "The situation is grave. Connect me with Subcommander Kaol, immediately."
The voice - it sounds like a Romulan male - evidently belongs to someone with some degree of intelligence. "Calling Subcommander Kaol now. I hope, for your sake, this is not a hoax."
"It is not. Thank you for your prompt action."
Another pause, agonizingly long. Then, finally, a voice I know. "Admiral T'Pia?" Kaol demands. "What is happening? Where are you?"
"I am at a control station in the anomalous spire. The situation is grave. The Voth are here, and they, or some other agency, have disabled the Tempest and the Tapiola. I was attempting to contact the Timor, but happened upon Joint Command frequencies instead."
"We can send an immediate relief force. What do you require?"
I have to phrase my response carefully, bearing in mind Kaol's informal authority. "I would not recommend that course of action. Whatever forces were used against our ships might be used against any number of others, with equal efficacy. Any relief force might well be incapacitated in its turn."
"What is the nature of the weapon? Is there a defence?"
"Someone - most probably the Voth - is using the technology of this spire to generate intense tetryonic fields. The Tempest was subjected to the field, and is most probably disabled, with total crew casualties. The Tapiola's particle converter protected the crew, but exploded in the process, damaging the ship itself, possibly irreparably. It is conceivable that a vessel with a massively reinforced particle converter might be able to approach the spire safely, but to my knowledge we have no such ships or converters available."
"What about the Timor?"
"The Timor entered the spire and is intact, but I am unable to make contact due to the high levels of internal energy shielding. Contacting the Timor will now be my first priority. They must be made aware of the danger, and the resources of the ship may be invaluable at this stage."
Kaol's voice sounds anguished. "What can we do?"
"Regrettably, Subcommander, I do not see any immediate way you could be of assistance at this point. If you have sufficient stealthed troopships, it might be possible for you to mount a discreet rescue mission to the base of this spire, and retrieve the crew of the Tapiola. Even that, though, would require you to be very sure that your stealth systems were equal to the task. I mean no disparagement of your people's cloaking technologies, but -"
"But Voth sensors are superior to ours. I know." Kaol sighs. "What is the Voth strength?"
"At least one Bulwark-class vessel. Their military resources, though, are probably a secondary consideration, if they have control of the spire's systems. I should note that the spire appears to have suffered significant internal damage, perhaps from misuse or overloading of its systems."
"Oh, this gets better and better!" Romulans have no philosophical requirement to contain their feelings of exasperation. "You tell me the situation is grave, but there is nothing I can do -"
"But you should be informed, Subcommander. I would suggest immediate research regarding the nullification of tetryon discharges. If I can contact the Timor, I can use her data transmission channels to send you the records of the Tapiola's incapacitation. This Solanae system, I regret to say, does not have such capacity. I submit to you that my priorities must be to gather what information I can, and to contact Admiral M'eioi's ship and arrange for you to receive that information. With that, and the resources of Joint Command, I am sure you will be able to formulate an appropriate response." I pause, then add, "Also, I must make what arrangements I can to protect my crew."
"Of course, of course," says Kaol. "I suppose you are right - some spire-based weapon could wipe out a fleet as easily as your two ships. I will have to, ahh, refer this matter upwards. If the Voth gain the capacity to disable our ships at will -"
Then our hold on the sphere - and our lifeline to the Delta Quadrant - would be gone. "The situation, as I have said, is grave. I will do all that I can to assist. I should not delay much longer - this channel is not secure, and if my transmission is detected, my own situation is apt to become untenable."
"Are you even sure you can reach the Timor? That the ship is still intact?"
"I can actually see the Timor from this room. The spire's internal shielding prevents me from making contact. I will confess that I find that... disagreeable."
I hear Kaol mutter something; it is indistinct, but sounds very like "Vulcans!"
"I will go now," I tell him. "I cannot say when next I will contact you - I hope that, next time, it will be from the comms station of the Timor. However, I cannot risk further discussion at this time." Actually, I simply have no more stomach for argument. Kaol has to be informed, but there is nothing he can do to help. He must be as frustrated as I am -
I switch off the transmitter, pace back to the centre of the room, and look down. Perhaps not quite as frustrated as I am. The Timor is beneath my feet - no more than two kilometres down. I can see her, but I cannot talk to her.
I kneel down on the transparent floor. Perhaps there is some way to generate a visual signal - if they see a bright light blinking in a regular pattern from above, they may investigate. There must, surely, be a way I can create a bright light.
I raise my tricorder. The imaging function can be used as a visual magnifier - if I can get a good look at the Timor, I should be able to aim a light where someone will notice it. But the tricorder is not designed, ergonomically, for this sort of application. The image wavers and trembles as I try to point it at the starship. I take a deep breath and hold it; I wrap my left hand around my right wrist, steadying it; I aim the tricorder's sensor head at the Timor; I discover I have misaligned it, and am looking at a stretch of wall instead....
There are windows in the wall, and shapes moving behind them. I frown. With a careful, awkward motion of my right thumb, I increase the magnification.
The shapes are not security swarmers. Nor are they Starfleet. They are big, lumbering, reptilian; some with scales, some with shining alloy armour. Dinosaurs, and saurian battlemechs.
The Voth are moving.
Siffaith glanced around. The two aliens were some distance off, hunched over a console together, apparently conferring. The dark, hairy one, M'eioi, was checking some hand-held device, while the mechanical, Pearl, studied the console readouts. They looked strange, alien... but were they dangerous? Though that weapon still rode on Pearl's hip....
"I am not sure we have a choice," he said to Dyegh. "They are here now, and I do not see how to eject them."
"It is as I said it would be. Temporary alliance, followed no doubt by another, and then another, until -" He was visibly trembling. Siffaith reached out and touched his arm.
"Until what, Dyegh?"
"Until they become as the old gods. The Iconians. The Iconians owned the Progenitors, Siffaith."
Siffaith looked from him to the two aliens, and back again. "That will not happen, Dyegh," he said firmly.
"How can you prevent it? You cannot trust them, Siffaith!"
"I can prevent it very easily," said Siffaith. "We tell them no, Dyegh. That is all we need to do. Even if they threaten with their weapon, they cannot follow through on that threat. They need our specialist knowledge of the Home's systems, and if we withhold it, they can do nothing."
"They are learning," said Dyegh. "They are not like the People, Siffaith." He made a swift, dismissive gesture in Tyonovon's direction. "They have quick minds and a willingness to acquire knowledge. How soon will it be before they no longer need us? How soon -"
"I think they can be trusted," Tyonovon said suddenly. Siffaith and Dyegh both turned towards her. "They did not kill. The others, the Voth, they killed, wantonly... People, who had offered them no harm. But these two - I do not believe they take pleasure in killing. I think they are what they say they are - peaceful people, perhaps driven to violence if the need arises, but not killers by nature."
"They killed one of the Voth, if your account is correct," said Dyegh.
"But the Voth was a killer. It is -" Tyonovon waved her claws, searching for words. "It is different, Dyegh."
"Self-defence," said Siffaith. "We are killing in that cause, Dyegh. Or, at least, I am sending the swarmers out to kill on our behalf, and that amounts to the same thing."
"Even if that is true," said Dyegh, "their own self-interest may lead them to take control of the Home. To use it for their own purposes, not for ours."
"They have laws -" Tyonovon began.
"They say they have laws," said Dyegh. "Can we believe them? Can we believe they will hold to these laws, if they see advantage in breaking them?"
Tyonovon made another exasperated gesture. "We do not know. We cannot know. But perhaps - perhaps we must trust, Dyegh. One thing we do know. The Voth will take the Home if they are not stopped."
A footstep sounded on the deck plates nearby. It was the dark-furred alien, M'eioi. "I hope I'm not interrupting," she said.
"What is it you want?" Dyegh was fairly vibrating with suspicion, Siffaith saw. Did the alien notice? She was so very different from the People....
"We've finished setting the security measures in place around your populated sectors," said M'eioi. "I think the force shields will hold against any portable weaponry the Voth can bring to bear - unless they use the firepower of their ship against the spire, in which case all bets are off anyway. But the shields will stop antiproton fire from a personal weapon, or the larger cannons mounted on a cyborg dinosaur or a battlemech." She touched one black, hairy hand to her face, smoothing the long whiskers that grew above her mouth. "Part of the problem, I guess, is going to be persuading the rest of your people to stay in the safe areas. You'll have to talk to them yourselves, I think. They won't want to take orders from weird aliens like me and Pearl, that's for sure."
"That can be arranged," said Siffaith. "There are communicators, we can make announcements."
"Even so," M'eioi continued, "the secure areas will only stay secure if we can maintain the force fields, which means keeping the power running throughout the spire. If the Voth can hit critical distribution nodes or generators, we're in trouble. Pearl and I have been running some scans, and, well, there's some stuff we'd like your thoughts on."
"What is it?" Siffaith asked.
"There seem to be some problems already, balancing the power load on the spire's systems. It's as if some parts of the distribution network - your equivalent to our EPS grid - has failed already. Like - sections of it burned out, or something."
Dyegh made a wordless sound. M'eioi started at it, and stared at him. "It is - possible," he said. "It is something I feared - the Home's systems are very old, the whole of the Land is very old - it is possible that the Voth damaged something when they subverted my systems -"
Or that Dyegh's ambitious project had already stressed the Home to its limits, Siffaith thought but did not say.
"If you could come and take a look at our sensor readings," said M'eioi, "you might be better able to identify the problem areas and work around them. You're the ones who know this place and its systems, after all."
"Yes," said Dyegh, "it is our Home." He shuffled towards the console, M'eioi walking at his side, Siffaith and Tyonovon following.
The mechanical, Pearl, turned to face them, metal eyes gleaming. They looked deeply forbidding to Siffaith. "I've set up the power flow diagrams," she said. "You can probably see the problem areas already -"
"The north-east capacitor banks at level 22372," Dyegh muttered. "Always a problem - I will initiate automatic reset.... There are others, though, more than there should be. And what is that?" He tapped the display with one claw. Siffaith leaned in, peered at the images, tried to make sense of them.
"Self-contained power sources," said M'eioi. "Not part of your network, but they're registering anyway. That one is almost certainly the Voth ship."
"There are others. Smaller ones. Let me refine this...." Dyegh's claws almost caressed the icons on the console. Siffaith could not quite make out the sequence of instructions, but a schematic of the Home glowed to life in mid-air, speckled with bright dots in seemingly random patterns. There was a brilliant group of them in one place... a smaller grouping lower down, inside the Home... individual dots moving about....
"Voth battlemechs," said M'eioi, "they must be. Dyegh, this is invaluable. It's giving a complete real-time readout of the disposition of Voth forces inside the spire."
"What is that group there?" Dyegh asked, indicating the smaller grouping. "It is radiating on somewhat different frequencies from the Voth...."
"It must be my ship, the Timor. If we could get a message through to them," said M'eioi, "it'd be a big help."
"Your communicators do not work?" asked Siffaith.
"I can't break through all the additional interference since we raised the internal defensive shielding. If we could interface our combadges with your comms net, now -"
"It should be possible," said Dyegh. He gave a wheezing sigh. "It will divert more computer resources from what should be our main aims... but it should be possible."
"Let's try it," said M'eioi. "Please."
"Another thought, sir," said Pearl. "If we can extend this scan outside the spire, we might be able to locate the Tempest and the Tapiola."
M'eioi's head bobbed; a gesture of assent, Siffaith realized. "Those ships will have resources we can use, too."
"You ask much," Dyegh complained, but he started to tap in commands on the console. "I will set up the display to discriminate between you and the Voth... and I will extend the range.... That is strange." He pointed with one claw. "Very faint, but... one of your power sources. Not ours, and not Voth. And some distance from your ship... I do not see how they can have reached that point, with the security fields up...."
M'eioi peered at the tiny glowing point near the tip of Dyegh's claw. "A straggler, maybe. Lost like I was. If we can open comms, maybe we should talk to them, guide them home...."
---
"We are encountering heavy resistance from swarmer groups." Davrak Karzis was using a light pointer to place icons within a three-D schematic of the spire. Stannark glowered at the display. A depressing percentage of the map was still blank - unexplored, and outside Voth control. "We have also encountered force-field barriers, at the following locations." The spec ops analyst sprinkled a different set of icons about the map. "The fields are resistant to even our heaviest mobile weapons. I am forced to an annoying conclusion."
Stannark grunted. "Which is?" He turned around, to pace irritably across the command deck of the Gendratis.
"That the Starfleet primates and the Solanae arthropods are combining forces. Starfleet cannot have command of the spire's systems, cannot erect these force shields... but the Solanae appear very well informed as to our troops' capabilities."
Stannark's scowl deepened. "Our capabilities are insufficient. I should have been assigned a Viriosaurus Rex for this mission."
"The heavy dinosaurians are needed for combat missions on the ground. And I do not think a Viriosaurus could easily traverse some of these tunnels."
"It would have the capacity to defeat any force shield! And in situations like these, they can make their own tunnels. It is no secret that I am unhappy with the management of the ground battle zones. I was discussing this matter with General Folluma, during his last hospitalization -" Stannark stopped. He took a deep breath. "Well. I must work with what I have. What are our options?"
"Computer subversion, of the type which gave us control of the tetryon emitters. It will be slow and chancy, though. The Solanae will be alert to the possibility, and Starfleet can advise them on some of our protocols. They have experience, painfully gained."
"Implement what measures you can. What other choices are there?"
"Our troops can secure segments of the spire's power generation and distribution network. They cannot generate force shields if they have no power - and, if we shut down their replicators, they will eventually run out of security swarmers, too."
"Eventually," Stannark repeated, in tones of contempt. "No. The spire is too large, my troops too thinly spread. Striking at their power supplies would take too long."
Karzis turned his head. There was something quizzical in his expression, even though his eyes were hidden behind his implants. "Then I am bereft of suggestions, Commander."
"I have an idea," said Stannark. "Hostages. Take a substantial number of the Solanae arthropods prisoner, and use them to compel cooperation."
"A wise move, Commander, but I fear it may be impractical. I would be, frankly, amazed if the bulk of the arthropod population was not already safely hidden behind those force shields."
Stannark stomped across the command deck once again. "Then we will try a different approach. You suspect Starfleet is cooperating with the Solanae?"
"It make sense. And I did see Admiral M'eioi in company with one of them." Karzis rubbed his neck with a rueful expression.
"Then we will break that cooperation by taking Starfleet hostages. One of the advance scouting parties reported radiation emissions and comms chatter consistent with the mammals' activities. I believe we have a provisional location for the absurd Admiral M'eioi's ship." Stannark turned, and stabbed one taloned digit into the holographic map. "Somewhere near here. We will send a squadron, in force, and we will find the Timor, and take it."
I guess it's coming down to whose cavalry can come over the hill first.
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My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
It's a relief to hear Marya Kothe's voice. "We've been trying to get through the interference for a while, sir," she says. "Since you, um, vanished, we haven't made any moves to explore the spire - all we've done is set up a secure perimeter around the docks, and got to work on the local data systems."
"All right," I say. "Secure perimeter is good, because the Voth are here, and they've destroyed our two consorts already. I want you to hold that line and look for a way out. Worst case, we will have to exit the spire and make a run for safety."
"The Voth?" Marya sounds startled.
"At least one Bulwark-class battleship. They have troops inside the spire right now." And some of them, if I'm reading the Solanae display correctly, are dangerously close to the docking platform. "The other big development is this. I've made contact with the inhabitants of the spire. They're Solanae, descendants of survivors of the initial disaster. The Voth are attacking them, too, and we've got... something of an alliance going. I'm at a Solanae control centre now, and we're trying to contain the Voth. We need to evolve some kind of tactical plan for that."
"If there's even one Bulwark here, sir, then we're heavily outgunned and outnumbered," says Marya.
"I know. But we have the spire's own defensive systems to work with, and that's got to count for something. Maybe it'll even count for enough." I frown. "One more point. Who else have we lost?"
"Sir?" Marya sounds puzzled. I wish I could see her face, but the Solanae console doesn't have a workable video link.
"We're picking up one Starfleet comms signature, some distance away from the ship. Who else wandered off, besides me?"
"I'll run a check, sir, but I've had no reports of any losses...." Marya's voice fades away. I look up from the console, glance at Pearl, at the twitchy shapes of the three Solanae... at the map.
The Voth forces are... frighteningly widespread. I can see our barriers, can see the markers for security swarmers... and it doesn't even begin to look enough. Scale, I remind myself. A sense of scale. The spire is huge, it would take an army of Voth to control it - not just one ship. I hope.
That one Starfleet signature is bugging me. It's definitely there, and it's definitely Starfleet, though we can't get a specific ID off it. Too much interference. Still.
"Ah." Dyegh speaks. "I have something for you... one of your missing ships." He shuffles over to the map console, does something to it. The map shrinks a little bit, and a glowing shape appears, some way off to the side. The image is a bit rough and basic, but it's clear enough. A Pathfinder-class science vessel. The Tempest.
"Just the one ship?" I ask.
"Oh, I am sorry if it is insufficient!" Dyegh snaps at me.
"I'm just - a bit puzzled. The Tapiola is larger, has a bigger emissions profile - she should be easier to find than that one."
"I will continue to search," Dyegh says. I'm not sure how much I can trust the universal translator for emotional nuance - but I'm pretty sure he is not happy.
Meanwhile, the other two, Siffaith and Tyonovon, have been conferring in an undertone, and now Siffaith comes over towards me. "A possibility," he says. "We have the frequencies for your communicators, now, and Tyonovon remembers, once, dealing with our own comms system. I think we can link your network directly to ours."
"Thanks," I say, "but it looks like we've got comms with our ship already -"
"Yes," says Siffaith, "but our system is hardened against the interference from our shields. A direct link will make it much easier to talk to your ship, or to contact -" he points at the dot on the map "- detached elements like that one. We could even link in your matter transporters to our own transport network. That would give us a significant advantage in mobility over the Voth."
"That's a good idea," I say. "We need all the advantages we can get. Thank you, Siffaith." I look at Dyegh. "I hope that won't cause you any problems."
"My problems," says Dyegh, "are clearly not an issue. Set it up."
I sneak another glance over at Tyonovon. I'd rather got the impression that she was nothing but an idler - it seems that most of the Solanae have settled down into a sort of lotus-eater mentality, with the spire serving all their basic needs, so they have nothing much to do but play. Dyegh and Siffaith appear to be exceptions to that... but it seems Tyonovon, too, has her uses, her specialist knowledge. Just goes to show, I suppose. You should never write anyone off.
"Sir, can you hear me?" Marya's voice again. The comms channel is kind of staticky, at that.
"I'm here," I say.
"All personnel accounted for, sir," says Marya. "Whoever that is, it's not one of ours."
I look at Pearl. "Another survivor, then?"
The android shakes her head. "No one on the Tempest survived, sir, except me. I'm certain of that."
"Then maybe it's someone from Tapiola - wait. T'Pia did have an android officer assigned to her - maybe she survived and beamed over to the station, just like you did."
Siffaith has been working at the console, claws tapping rapidly on the panels, while we've been speaking; now, he looks up. "I think I have the comms connection... perhaps you can test it, by signalling that one. Amplified through our comms net, your device should reach them without problems."
I pull my combadge off my uniform tunic, use my tricorder to check the settings. "Let's give it a try." I touch the badge. "This is M'eioi calling Starfleet personnel operating solo within the spire. Please report your status."
A brief pause - and then, a voice I thought I'd never hear again. "This is T'Pia. I am relieved to hear your voice - I have been trying for some time to establish communication with the Timor."
I find my own voice. "T'Pia? Sir, we thought you were dead."
"Self-evidently, that is inaccurate." Yes, that is definitely T'Pia. "The Tapiola and the Tempest were hit by an intense biolytic field. In the case of the Tapiola, our particle conversion equipment prevented it from being fatal to the crew, but the ship herself is disabled, perhaps irretrievably. Circumstances have led me to become separated from my crew. What is your status?"
I explain, as quickly as I can - which isn't all that quick; there is a lot of detail for both of us to assimilate. At the end of it, T'Pia says, "The situation, overall, is fractionally less grave than I had envisaged. May I speak with one of your Solanae associates?"
"They're here, now. They can hear everything we're saying."
"Very well," says T'Pia. "If the situation were less difficult, I would be glad of an opportunity to discuss your history and society, and the history and workings of the sphere, with you. This is a fascinating opportunity for our two cultures to reach a rapprochement. Unfortunately, the presence of the Voth constrains us to consider matters of urgent practicality. How reliable is your communications and sensor network?"
"The Home's communications are... usually reliable," says Siffaith.
"But there have been disruptions," Dyegh adds. "Disturbances."
"That is unsurprising. I noted significant damage to regions of the spire during my own travels. My concern is a practical one. It would be helpful to extend your communications radius to the exterior of the spire, along the surface of the sphere, for the purposes of establishing contact with my crew. They represent a resource which would be of value in this conflict, and I am, naturally, anxious over their safety. Currently, they are gathered in an amphitheatre on the sphere's surface, which can hardly be considered defensible against Voth assault."
"I... see," says Siffaith. "If we can find that building -"
"I know the one she means," says Dyegh. "We can connect with our own transporters."
"The transport pad at that location failed after transporting me," says T'Pia.
"That need not matter," says Dyegh, "I can make adjustments...." His voice descends into a muttering that the translator can't process.
"Sir." Pearl speaks up. "I have an idea. If we can link in the Solanae transporters, we could try transferring your crew to the Tempest."
"A viable suggestion," says T'Pia. "Conditions would be crowded, but it would be useful to have the resources of another operational starship at our disposal. How badly damaged is the Tempest?"
"By now, the auto-repair systems should have cleared the burned-out bio-neural gel packs," Pearl says, "and that's the only significant structural damage she took. I have her prefix codes, I can transmit them as needed."
I think about this. It seems kind of ghoulish, with whatever's left of Tempest's crew still littering the decks - but the situation might compel us to be ghoulish, and anyway, an emotional argument like that will cut no ice with T'Pia.
"I will put the matter to my crew," she says now. "In any case, it will be helpful to have the Solanae transporters at our disposal. We will need the mobility advantage."
"We can try beaming you over here, or to the Timor, sir," says Pearl.
"Contra-indicated. The Voth are moving, and they are very close. It is probable that they will take some action against the Timor, and in the confined space of the docking bay, the heavy weapons on their battlemechs will be effective against her. I am currently in what appears to be a control and oversight station for the docking bay. There are available resources here, and I will attempt to deploy them."
With the help of M'eioi and the Solanae, it is relatively simple to open the requisite communications channels. The situation is - somewhat - improved. We can coordinate our efforts, and - if M'eioi can be sufficiently diplomatic - we can enlist the assistance of the Solanae.
Even so, the Voth force is substantial. Our ships are not primarily military, and the Solanae do not appear to be combat effective. I place little reliance on the security swarmers, no matter how many of them the Solanae can field. Both we and the Voth have long since developed tactics for dealing with the swarmers - they are a threat to isolated, individual units, but only an annoyance to an organized force.
And the Voth are certainly organized.
Twosani Dezin sounds relieved, when I finally make contact with her. She is dubious, at first, about reclaiming the Tempest, but the apparent advantages eventually outweigh her emotional reluctance. She has already deciphered most of the control protocols for the transporter network, so it does not take long, with the aid of the Solanae and Commander Pearl's prefix codes, to link the transport pad to the Tempest's transporter room.
"Though I don't know how we're going to test it - we don't have any standard transporter test masses," she says. I make no reply. After a moment, she adds, "We could improvise something - rig a tricorder to one of the cargo containers, maybe -"
"That suggestion has merit," I say. And I am glad she thought of it for herself; her initiative and intelligence have not been completely suppressed by shock from her recent experiences. "Program a round trip, and study the tricorder readouts. It would be helpful to make the personnel transfer expeditiously."
"I'll get on it. Sir, what about you?"
I look around me. "For the present, I will remain in this control room. There are bound to be assets here which I can utilize."
"Surely Admiral M'eioi and the Solanae could run things remotely from their control centre?"
"They have many other calls on their attention. Please proceed with the transporter tests." I turn away from the comms console and stride to the centre of the room, where I look down to watch the docking platform and the Timor.
There is definitely movement nearby. I can see the shifting of lights in the windows near the platform; shadows passing, which can only be cast by large moving objects. The Voth are making their way through the corridors, towards the Timor.
I consider plans, assess strategies, discard unworkable options. There are entirely too many of those last.
The comms console bleats for my attention; I return to it. "Transporter tests check out," Twosani reports. "We are cleared for personnel transfer."
"Excellent. Transport medical staff first, then the wounded needing attention. The facilities of Tempest's sickbay will undoubtedly be superior to our own improvisations."
"Yes, sir."
"I must attend to other matters." I cut the channel, switch in another. "T'Pia to Timor."
A human female voice responds in clipped tones. "This is Commander Kothe aboard the Timor. Good to hear from you, sir."
"Do you have Admiral M'eioi's tactical data feed?" I see no reason to waste time on pleasantries.
"Yes, sir. There's a whole lot of Voth armour coming our way." Kothe sounds concerned, but not agitated. This is good.
"I have considered the tactical possibilities. You cannot maintain a defensive perimeter against a concerted attack by Voth battlemechs."
"I agree, sir. We've already pulled the security teams back aboard the ship. We've left minefields and automated turrets, but those won't slow the Voth down for long. We're going to launch the ship, raise shields, and put her into free-float, keeping station maybe half a kilometre above the platform."
That was one option I had considered. "I regret that your plan may not be sufficient. The Voth have substantial ground-based firepower. If the Timor remains in range of their battlemechs, they may have enough resources to breach even your shields."
"We'll destroy them before they can mount a coordinated assault," says Kothe.
"Contra-indicated. You cannot discharge the Timor's plasma weapons and torpedoes without risking collateral damage to the docking platform, which in turn would identify the ship as hostile to the spire's automated defences. You observed, I believe, the internal antiproton batteries on your way in."
There is a pause. "If we can exit the spire completely -" Kothe begins.
"You would evade the Voth ground forces. But they have a Bulwark-class battleship at their disposal - it is currently docked to the spire, but it can undock at a moment's notice."
There is another pause. Kothe's voice sounds more stressed when she speaks again. "The Voth mechs are getting awfully close, sir. If you have a workable suggestion, I'd be glad to hear it."
I look around me, at the glowing consoles in the command centre. "I believe I do."
---
The Voth attack is swift, sudden, and well-planned.
The first wave consists of heavy Polyonax-class mechs, stomping towards the Timor. Their heavy-duty shields simply shrug off phaser fire from the light turrets, and those shields have built-in repulsor fields which clear the turrets and the minefields as effectively as a bulldozer.
Behind them come other battlemechs - lighter Ceratopsid-classes and some of the huge Dacentrus mechs - and the dinosaurs; dankanasaurs, leaping into position to fire their antiproton barrages, and the larger lumbering forms of furiadons. I repress a shiver at the sight of them. I have been in the mind of a furiadon, I know how they think....
A ring of firepower is forming around the Timor as she squats on the docking platform. Although the Voth mechs have powerful weaponry, it is probably not powerful enough, in itself, to bring down Timor's Reman-designed shields. But, behind the heavy advance troops, Voth technicians and specialists are moving in. Protected by the mechs and saurians, the techs will be able to generate electromagnetic effects: polycyclic drills that will pierce even a starship's shields.
Given time. Time which Commander Kothe and I do not propose to allow them.
I study the tactical readout fed from the Solanae command centre, compare it to what I can see on the ground, far below. M'eioi and her new friends continue to gather reliable intelligence on the Voth movements. I have all the information I need. I turn to the next console.
"Incoming fire," Kothe's voice reports. "Shields holding." I expected nothing else, at this stage.
"Commencing," I say. "First target is Polyonax-class at bearing two two zero from your location. Please confirm."
"Got him. Ready when you are, sir."
"Activating." I touch a control.
This is the command centre for the docking platform, and it has... appropriate resources. From this console, I can control tractor arrays powerful enough to handle full-sized starships. Not only that, the controls are fine-tuned - necessarily, to move components or freight containers during loading or maintenance procedures. The tractors are more than adequate to handle the Voth.
So, I touch the control - and, hundreds of metres below me, a Voth battlemech rises into the air, its antiproton weapons suddenly falling silent. It is not damaged - the mechs are not so fragile - but its occupant is, understandably, startled at this development.
The Polyonax rises into the air, and, as it reaches the height Commander Kothe and I have agreed, the Timor's dorsal plasma array opens fire. A Polyonax-class mech has robust and resilient shields, but they offer only brief resistance to a starship's weapons banks. The mech flares and explodes; I turn off the tractor, and the remains of the mech fall as burning, molten rain onto the platform.
I am already targeting the next mech.
The Voth line of battle wavers, the dinosaurs scurrying back and forth as the primaeval dread of fire overrides their cyborg control devices. A Ceratopsid-class snaps off an energy bolt - aiming at what, I do not know. The tractor beam emitters are outside their effective range; even if they are lucky enough to hit one or two, there is a great deal of redundancy in the system, and I have many spares.
Again, Timor's plasma beams lash out; again, a mech dies in a blast of flame.
The Voth are suddenly in disarray, firing randomly in all directions... and this is sufficient to gain me additional allies, as damage to the spire alerts the security swarmers. I concentrate; I must avoid hitting the swarmers with my tractors, or more automated responses may take control of the beams away from me. But the swarmers are small, fast-moving targets, and it is no trouble to pick out the Polyonax and Dacentrus-class mechs from among them.
There is a dim glow of orange light on the platform. Timor's ground security troops, firing from prepared positions within the ship's shields, targeting the Voth technicians who are now exposed as the front line shatters in confusion. The swarmers are harassing the Voth techs, too, and many of them have already been injured by the falling remains of the destroyed mechs. I continue to pull the larger mechs into the air, where Timor picks them off with relentless accuracy.
A furiadon, maddened beyond any sort of cybernetic control, rushes through the Voth lines and hurls itself off the edge of the docking platform. Other dinosaurs are fighting each other, or leaping onto battlemechs, or retreating under cover and savaging any Voth personnel who attempt to stop them. It is an ugly sight. I force myself to remain calm, to target the heavy enemy units, to drag them into Timor's line of fire -
After what seems like no time at all, there are no enemy units to target. The Dacentrus and Polyonax-class mechs have all been destroyed. There are substantial casualties among the other Voth forces. I narrow the focus of the beams and pick up a Ceratopsid-class mech. It is a smaller target, but the Timor's gunners cope with it quite adequately.
But one missed shot from Timor will identify her, too, as a hostile to the spire's systems.... I consider, and instead of narrowing the focus, I broaden it, and switch the tractors to repulsor mode. A swift movement of one finger sends a beam sweeping across the platform, smashing everything beneath it into the deck. Several Ceratopsids stagger to their feet after the beam's passage. The dinosaurs, and the Voth techs and footsoldiers, do not.
The remaining Voth have quite clearly had enough. They break and run, heading for the corridor entrances from which they emerged. A few crazed dinosaurs are still wandering the platform; Timor's security troops cut them down.
The docking platform is a grisly sight, covered in burning debris, smashed war machinery, Voth corpses and Voth blood. The Timor sits behind her shields, untouched.
"No damage! No casualties!" Commander Kothe's voice is exultant. "We did it, sir! We beat them!"
For emotional reasons, it is not the time to disillusion her. But the Voth will not like being beaten. They will regroup, they will make plans, they will attack again, with different tactics. We must consider our response.
Something that struck me as applicable. There's an offshoot universe of Star Trek, where as a reminder of using all the ship's capabilities, "Use your tractors!" was above the door to the simulators.
T'Pia may be the patron saint.
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My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
There is no kill like overkill!
Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.
I dare you to do better.