by Ron Richard
(Standard disclaimer: Paramount owns all rights and allows us to play in their world.)
Part 1 of 3
*********
The door chimed softly, pulling Beverly out of the tunnel vision that she had focused on a petri dish.
"Who is it?"
"Khan Noonien Singh."
"Come on in, lover."
The door of Cabin 6 hissed open to reveal not the Twentieth Century Augment despot, but Ambassador Jean-Luc Picard, the only other person aboard Mistral. Beverly was not all that surprised.
"Oh, it's you."
"Sorry to disturb you but I could use your surgeon's hands for a moment."
He entered and the door closed behind him. There was an odd chemical smell in the air coming from the myriad assortment of diagnostic computers, protein sequencers, genome analyzers and hundreds of organic samples of all kinds. The ship designers had originally fitted out this cabin to be one of the smaller living quarters for staff or visitors. Beverly had turned it into her own medical research laboratory.
Jean-Luc found the only relatively clear counter space and set down the tray he was carrying. On it were a number of tiny machine parts surrounding a little, half-built model of some kind of ship.
"What's the matter, did you break your toy?"
With feigned indignity, Jean-Luc countered, "It's not a toy, it's a scale model; a distant ancestor of the very ship you're traveling so comfortably in right now."
Beverly squinted at the tiny craft. "It doesn't look at all the same. What did they call that, an autogiro?"
"An aeroplane, actually. If you'd like the details, it is a Douglas VC-118, named the Independence, designed to transport United States President Harry Truman in the mid Twentieth Century. It was one in a long line of Presidential transport ships. This is the vessel that Independence-class ships such as Mistral were named for."
Beverly had the slightest of smiles, "Reliving your childhood by building model ships?"
"Old hobbies never die, my love. The only difference is, now I don't have as steady a hand as I used to."
"And you need my help how?"
Even eighty-something-year-old, worldly Jean-Luc Picard could adopt a childlike demeanor occasionally. It was one of the trillions of reasons Beverly loved him so much.
"I dropped the throttle handle piece between the pilot's legs."
Beverly smiled and peered into the tiny cockpit. It was amazingly detailed and smelled of fresh paint.
"I just couldn't get tweezers past the control wheel without touching it and smearing the pigment. I think that if I can pull this part of the fuselage back, maybe you can maneuver into . . ."
Before Jean-Luc could finish his sentence, Doctor Crusher had picked up the tweezers and unerringly guided them around every minute obstruction. She plucked the offending part out unscathed and dropped it into his hand. The entire process took her just under four seconds.
"Anything else?"
Jean-Luc shook his head in amazement. "Is there anything you can't do perfectly?"
"Putting a French braid in my hair; other than that, no."
"Smart-ass. Even so, I am humbly grateful and impressed." Jean-Luc kissed his partner on the forehead and then glanced at the sample containers and beakers that crowded Beverly's work station. "What are you working on?"
"Nothing too special, I'm afraid; just some grunt work. These are bacteria samples that we picked up on Eebron. I'm doing the standard behavioral and constitutional tests, starting them off in their natural element and then subjecting them to various environments, stresses, conditions, etc. to see how they react, if at all. It's a standard regimen. Every newly catalogued microscopic life form goes through the same procedure. It all just goes into the database. Of course on the Enterprise, the junior members of the Life Sciences Department would be doing this, but here I'm a bit short of staff."
"Find anything interesting?"
"Not this time. Eebronian life doesn't seem to be much different from most known microbes. What sustains them sustains most others and what kills them kills most others, but Starfleet Medical will have its database full and complete." She leaned back, rubbing her eyes. "You stopped by just in time. My eyes were starting to cross."
"Perhaps we should both take a break. Join me in the holosuite for a walk?"
Beverly interlaced her fingers above her head and stretched out to her full length. "Mmm . . . that sounds like a good idea. What'll it be this time, mountains, beach, forest?"
As he perused her sinuous dancer's body, Jean-Luc's eyes glinted with evil. "How about a city?"
This was different. Nature-boy Jean-Luc usually preferred rural settings.
"Did you have something specific in mind?" Beverly responded with a glint of her own.
"I just finished a novel set in pre-turn of the Twenty-First Century New Orleans, French Quarter. Ever been to a Mardi Gras parade?"
"Of course."
"So have I. They're not at all like they used to be."
"Oh?"
"Let's just say they've toned down a little since the Eugenics Wars."
Beverly leaned back farther in her chair and appraised her obviously frisky partner, "I see. Well in that case . . . WHOA!!"
As she leaned her chair back on its rear legs, Beverly nearly overbalanced and fell backwards. She caught herself at the last second with the help of Jean-Luc's quick reflexes as he shot his arm out for support.
"Whew, thanks." Beverly stood, still grasping her partner's arm. She took a couple of quick breaths and seemed just a bit flustered.
"You all right?" Jean-Luc asked.
"Could've broken my neck. Never did like heights."
"Heights? It was half a meter to the deck."
"Einstein proved that all phobias are relative. How would you like it if a harmless herd of preschoolers galloped through here?"
"Touch�, Madam." He offered his arm, "To New Orleans . . . ALLEZ!"
* * * * * * * * *
It was furious. It always had been. It didn?t remember why. It didn?t matter. Its anger was directed at the weak. It was constantly searching. When It found weakness, It exploited it. When It found fragility, It destroyed it. When It found strength greater than Itself, It was destroyed. It was angry because there was little left to destroy other than Itself. So It did.
* * * * * * * * *
"Oh my!"
"Extraordinary, isn't it?"
Beverly had at first been mildly annoyed by Jean-Luc's call. She had been engrossed in her research and was not exactly at a stopping point. The short trip up to the Star Deck had been more than worth it, though.
"I've seen plenty of ion storms in my day, but never one with this ferocity."
Jean-Luc had aligned the roll of Mistral to take full advantage of the view. The storm now raged above them off the starboard bow. Angry, orange and silver swirling vortices formed and dissipated with great, thousand kilometer arcs of plasma energy leaping between them. Matter was annihilated as it was forced into energy. Energy spent itself and retreated back into matter to reenter the battle for supremacy once again.
Beverly's face reflected the interstellar light show as it poured through the transparent aluminum canopy atop Mistral. She was as mesmerized by the deadly beauty as her partner. Her voiced was hushed as though she were afraid to wake it. "How large is it?"
Jean-Luc consulted a console, "Over a third of a light year in diameter. This may at one time have been a newborn star system that failed to form. Something ignited its matter cloud and initiated the plasma cascade."
"Whatever it was must have been mighty hot."
"Agreed; on the order of five million Kelvin I should think. It could have been a protomatter incursion . . . or a subspace rupture . . ."
"Maybe a dark matter saturation explosion," Beverly suggested.
Jean-Luc nodded, "Could be. Whatever it was, it was a long time ago. Readings suggest this structure could be as old as six hundred thousand years."
Beverly's brow furrowed, "I've never heard of an ion storm lasting that long. What's the computer basing that on?"
"The decay rate of the sirillium that's present. It seems this phenomenon is winding down."
"You mean it used to be bigger?"
"Much bigger. Most of the energy has dissipated within the cloud itself, as though it?s consuming itself. What we're seeing is this storm's final moments of life, astronomically speaking. Another millennium and the whole thing will be over with."
Beverly smiled, "Well, we got here just in time, then."
A particularly large bolt of plasma energy in the storm cloud interrupted their musings. This one furiously emerged from the center of a maelstrom of matter, determined to destroy all in its path. The bolt arced and split, creating smaller copies of itself that fumed and fussed on their own missions of violence. The deadly energy continued its destructive path throughout the cloud until finally dispersing when reaching the vacuum of space at the storm's outer rim. The light from its passing flickered through the Star Deck, creating transitory shadows of equipment and Humans.
Mistral was unconcerned. She was keeping a comfortable twenty-thousand kilometers distance from the edge of the storm. There was little chance of it happening, but in the event that any destructive matter or energy was thrown this way, it could be avoided easily. Even so, she was running with standard shields in place as a precaution. The armor technology was also available of course, but hardly called for.
The Humans, on the other hand, both flinched and gasped at the enormous demonstration of uncontrolled violence before them. The humbling display ran shivers through their bodies and raised the hackles on their necks.
Jean-Luc checked his readings again. "That single plasma bolt contained over seventeen-hundred terawatts of energy. The Enterprise-E's reactor never produced more than twelve terawatts."
"Mercy wasn't even capable of half a terawatt. I'd hate to think what kind of damage that storm could cause to a planet or a ship if they came in contact with it." Beverly said with awe in her voice.
"The energy discharges would probably ignite a planetary atmosphere. Certainly no ship could survive in there. I doubt even a Borg cube would have a chance."
"And us?"
"Our armor would be no match for that storm. If one of those bolts hit us, we would be instantly vaporized."
Arms around each other, the two travelers continued to humbly watch the deadly sight in silence. Forty minutes later, the view of the storm had slowly swung around to the stern, decreasing with distance until lost among the myriad of stars. Mistral left for calmer waters and swam elegantly on toward home.
* * * * * * * * *
'You'll be fine,' indeed! Jean-Luc's mind harrumphed at him before it could no longer afford such luxurious thoughts. At first there was no problem. The dance demonstration for the Kiyaadi carried them in small circles about the elevated stage. He could maintain the pattern his feet were describing so long as his concentration held out, but it took every iota to do it. One minute and three seconds into the number, disaster struck. Ironically, emulating his teacher's instruction was what doomed Jean-Luc. He tried to follow Beverly's advice about letting go and allowing his body keep to the rhythm on its own. His body could not be trusted, however. His right foot suddenly and quite unexpectedly moved ninety degrees the wrong way. To his credit, it did so in perfect time with the music; it simply went a completely different direction than what it was supposed to. His foot's journey was not the problem, but rather its final destination, which was directly in the path of Beverly's descending foot. The resulting tangle of limbs became increasingly serious, as each dancer struggled to support the other and keep them from falling. With each partner's attempt to stabilize the other, the situation got worse. Jean-Luc was attempting to grasp Beverly's elbows to keep her from falling. Her natural grace would have prevented that anyway, but Jean-Luc's efforts to catch her caused them both to overbalance. As he moved in, trying to grab her arm, his vision was suddenly and painfully interrupted by Beverly's thumbnail being jabbed into his eye socket. The pain and shock of that accidental injury thrust Jean-Luc into a sideways lurch. Suddenly, his feet found no support under them as he tumbled off one corner of the stage.
Three meters below, Taan-Ugo, the Kiyaadi technician that had assisted Beverly with her presentation was busy monitoring the sound equipment. Suddenly with a crash, the alien Ambassador landed atop his console, cracking the housing. His momentum rolled him off the front of the sound board to collide with Taan-Ugo, sending them both sprawling.
An oily residue glistened on the side of Jean-Luc's face where it had impacted the Kiyaadi. The pain in his eye was quickly forgotten as a dread feeling filled his being. The amphibian neurotoxin entered the pores of his skin. As the compound came in contact with Jean-Luc's cells, protein barriers were instantly demolished, electrical potentials ceased, chemical bonds were broken down. A chain reaction raced through his body, loosening his hold on his muscles and organs. With its battery backup, his artificial heart continued to beat on its own for a time, but his lungs, liver, kidneys and bladder all shut down within half a second. With nothing left to maintain it, the self-contained, complex system of chemical signatures and encoded information that made up the mind of Jean-Luc Picard disassociated. His last conscious thought before all pathways were irreparably scrambled was a curious sensation like that of a bitter taste, except that it permeated his whole body. 'Fascinating!'
Jean-Luc was dead before his body stopped rolling.
* * * * * * * * *
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
* * * * * * * * *
Its anger was roused. It was furious about what It had been made aware of. It became Its other Self. Now Destroy!
* * * * * * * * *
"Warning, energy disturbance ahead; bearing zero mark zero."
The words meant to have the computer elaborate did not have time to form on Jean-Luc's lips when Mistral listed violently to port. His shoulder took a painful hit as he was slammed into the bulkhead. Beverly was hanging on for dear life to the stairway railing leading to the Star Deck. They had both been returning to the lower decks after viewing the awesome sight of an ancient ion storm. An alarm claxon began sounding and the computer voice again demanded attention.
"Warning, spatial stresses are exceeding tolerance limits to the inertial dampeners."
Jean-Luc found his voice, "Computer, what is causing the spatial stresses?"
"Contact with ion storm. Course change recommended . . . Warning, shield strength down to sixty-four percent."
By now, Beverly had managed to make it the rest of the way down the spiral staircase.
"How did we get into an ion storm? We just left one behind us . . . OOF!"
Another jolt rattled Mistral down to her frame. Beverly and Jean-Luc carefully made their way to the command cabin. As they entered the transparent aluminum cockpit, it was brightly lit by flashes of energy discharges outside the ship. The stars were nowhere to be seen, being obscured by swirling maelstroms of matter and energy.
* * * * * * * * *
Beverly had finished her self-imposed daily research regimen. She was now a bit bored and wandered forward, curious as to what her partner was doing today up in the cockpit.
"Trying again?" Beverly looked over Jean-Luc's shoulder as he sat in the pilot's seat.
"I know there is still not much hope at this distance, but it certainly doesn't hurt to try."
Jean-Luc was just putting the finishing touches on the new program he had created for the com system. "There. This time I shifted the frequency spread into a Kobheerian realm. That might just get through." He checked his work one final time and activated the subspace transmitter. The pre-recorded message transmitted on a tight beam along Mistral's course, directly toward the Federation. Jean-Luc watched the tell-tales as the job was completed. "Computer, estimate of effectiveness?"
"Four point two to seven point six percent."
Beverly frowned, "That's not very good."
Jean-Luc agreed, "It's the proximity to Shapely Center. The particle density and radiation count in this region are high enough to make long-range subspace messages degrade at a frustrating rate." He scowled at the disappointing readings on his console, illustrating his frustration.
Beverly moved up behind him to massage his tense shoulder muscles. "Well, we didn't expect anything much more when we started this trip."
"Oh, I'm not expecting anything. I'm just going through the motions."
"You almost sound like you don't want to get back." Beverly's tone was light-hearted.
Jean-Luc's was equally jovial, but his question was one that both had asked themselves over the last eight years, "There are days, my love."
Beverly's interest was peaked, "Really . . . such as?"
"Such as when you wear that particular red ensemble that I'm so fond of . . . I could view that vista for the rest of my life . . ." Jean-Luc's voice dropped; now was as good a time as any to say this, "and when I think that as soon as we make it back, our careers might just rear their ugly heads at us again."
It was what both had been contemplating for the last eight years, but still as something in the future. Now with the edge of Federation explored space becoming nearer and nearer, such things needed to be discussed.
"Well, I have a feeling they've filled our positions by now."
"No doubt, no doubt, but they won't let someone like you rest for long."
Beverly wasn't sure what to make of that, "Someone like me?"
"What I mean is, you're the famous Captain Crusher. Starfleet will want to get you back into the public eye right away." Jean-Luc was absolutely serious, although Beverly still acted like both of her long legs were being pulled.
"Oh, I don't know about that . . ."
"I know you don't like it, but you are solely responsible for preventing a near catastrophe to the Human race from the subatomic algorithms written into our DNA in the Lynaran Sector. That makes you . . ."
Beverly was fighting this tooth and nail, "In the right place at the right time?"
"A hero."
Beverly rose to the friendly debate, "Now wait just a minute. You have no right to talk. Who defeated the Borg over and over? Who stopped Shinzon from sterilizing Earth? Who . . ."
"But I'm retired from tearing around the Galaxy, saving Humanity. That's your job, now."
"Sorry, I prefer to save it one patient at a time. And while we're on the subject, Ambassador, I'm sure the Federation Diplomatic Corps will find something interesting for you to do when we get back."
"Yes . . . well, we do still have a few months of travel time to consider . . ."
In her usual timely way, the voice of the computer interrupted Jean-Luc, "Incoming transmission."
Beverly answered, "Computer, source?"
"Subspace transmission, bearing zero-zero-three, mark three-five-eight."
"On speakers."
A crackling sound accompanied the audio playback, indicating a distant or weak signal.
". . . Sloop Mistral, . . . . is . . . ederation Starship . . . tain Geoffrey Thorpe . . . ommanding; . . . repeat . . . this is the Federation Starship Enterprise . . . come in Mistral. . ."
* * * * * * * * *
"Warning, shield strength down to twelve percent."
"Computer transfer emergency power to the defense systems and deploy armor."
A series of relays engaged as Jean-Luc's order was carried out by the computer. Mistral was enveloped in the powerful, steel-gray energy designed to protect the diplomatic sloop and her important passengers from all attack. This ion storm with its massive energy discharges was another matter, however. The buffeting stopped for the moment after the armor employed, but the sensors told them about the trouble they were still in. Jean-Luc did a rundown on their resources.
"Main power is online, armor is holding and impulse engines are available. Our warp field collapsed when we hit the leading edge of the storm. Until we get out of this chop, we can't reinitialize it, either."
Beverly was rubbing her wrist that she had banged against a railing during the turbulence. "Which still poses the question; computer . . . why didn't the sensors detect this ion storm?"
The computer's tone naturally did not change, but she still sounded indignant, "Sensors detected the phenomenon at one-six-four-two, point three-seven hours. Audible warning was given immediately."
Beverly winced, "Well, it's got me there. Computer, why was there so little warning time before we contacted the storm?"
"Sensor logs indicate the ion storm emerged from a secondary subspace realm directly in the path of this vessel. There was insufficient warning time to change course before contact."
Jean-Luc didn't like the sound of that, "Computer, what is the status of the ion storm we just left behind us?"
"Previous ion storm no longer registers on sensors; Warning, dangerous energy discharges detected, bearing one-four, mark six-eight."
"On screen."
With the armor deployed, Jean-Luc and Beverly could not see out the transparent canopy of the Command Deck. A visual display engaged to show them their situation. There were enormous plasma bolts leaping between the swirling eddies. It all looked very familiar except for the disturbing proximity.
"Computer, is this the same ion storm that we passed ten minutes ago?" Beverly turned to look at Jean-Luc after his question. She had realized it, too.
The tell-tales on the sensor console showed that Mistral was taking another look. The computer answered a moment later, "Probability ninety-eight point two percent."
"We've got to get out of here." Beverly said.
"The sooner the better. Computer, compute heading for shortest distance out of the storm."
"One-one-one, mark one-four."
"Lay in that course and take us out, one quarter impulse power."
The engines engaged. The two human passengers watched the monitor nervously as the computer guided them toward the storm's edge. The ionized matter around them swirled and separated as Mistral maneuvered through it. In the distance they could see the deadly arcs of energy ahead of them. A dark, angry looking area loomed to port. Jean-Luc thought he . . . Suddenly, without warning, a bolt of the destructive force leaped out of the center of the vortex and raced toward them, cutting across Mistral's course. The lights dimmed and the power indicators showed just how much energy it took to fend off that near miss.
"Warning, emergency power reserves down to seventy-one percent."
As if in response to the previous burst of destructive power, several other vortices began to form above and below Mistral as she was slowly guided by the computer toward open space.
Beverly pointed to the display. "I don't like the look of this. Those clouds around us are getting denser. Maybe . . ."
Jean-Luc and Beverly both felt it this time; a deep, primeval kind of apprehension, as if they were being . . . stalked. Simultaneously, both glanced behind them. There was no one else in the ship but them.
* * * * * * * * *
"Just remember, this was your idea."
The last words Jean-Luc had spoken to Beverly kept repeating endlessly in her head.
'As if I could forget . . .'
The delegation of Kiyaadi had been apologetic and gracious enough, but curiously unsympathetic. Death due to accidental physical contact was accepted as a natural part of life here. They had offered (and almost expected) to allow his body to float out to sea to be consumed by the myriad predatory fish that inhabited it, as was their custom. It had been Jean-Luc's wish, however, to be committed to space. Beverly knew that.
"Crusher to Mistral, one person and one . . . container to beam up; energize."
* * * * * * * * *
Within a second of each other, three huge arcs of energy erupted from the clouds they were forming in and converged toward the insignificant speck of a ship. Jean-Luc and Beverly jumped back from the monitor when they saw the display. Two of the bolts impacted each other and careened off to dissipate violently in other parts of the storm. The third, unchecked in its course leapt hungrily toward Mistral. It missed the ship by less than thirty kilometers. Alarm claxons sounded and the computer began to give them warnings about all the systems that were going down and all the trouble they were in.
That was no news to the Humans. They could tell. They could feel . . . It.
Beverly tried to concentrate on something else besides how badly she had to pee at the moment. Jean-Luc provided her with something.
"Computer release helm to manual control! Deactivate armor!"
Mistral's deck heaved sickeningly from the renewed turbulence. The once-again transparent cockpit showed a myriad of eddies and whirlpools, all filled with hatred and fury toward the Humans, who were intensely aware of It.
Beverly cried out, "What are you doing?"
"We'll never make it at this rate. We have to get away and I have to see where we're going!"
She knew that on some level, but the sight of the deadly arcs seeking them out and the feel of the inertial forces buffeting the ship as they fled them only added to her terror. Jean-Luc had taken manual control and now the desperate flight from death was ten times worse. Having a fear of heights, Beverly never was a fan of carnival rides, no matter how safe her rational mind might tell her they were. With no up or down in space, plunging through an angry ion storm was terrifyingly similar to a falling sensation. The knowledge of certain death all around them made it all the worse.
Beverly had engaged her safety restraints and, as an added measure, kept a death grip on her seat. Her face was ghastly pale as, trembling, she watched their near-destruction over and over as the ship looped and veered away from the energy bolts hungrily seeking them. She could also sense Its anger with them . . . Its . . . malevolence . . . Its . . . need to destroy. Another bolt passed frighteningly close off to starboard, buffeting the spacecraft. Feelings of terror and helplessness permeated Beverly's being, becoming part of her . . . becoming her. It was overwhelming, unstoppable; she felt her sanity giving way, her mind beginning to crumble . . .
(The story continues in two more parts.)