EP 10 "RESIGNATIONS" - ACT 3
PASSENGER SECTION. 1730 HOURS.
Ganhedra led the way down the low-ceilinged corridor. It was serene – a dark carpet on the floor, neutral walls with sculptured fixtures floor to ceiling and low lighting. Intermittent double doors were sparsely spaced; each carried a discrete icon or emblem on the central panels of each door.
“This isn’t any kind of arcade,” Lirik commented. “These are places of worship.”
The Vedek stopped, breathing in deeply, a controlled gasp.
“What is it?” O’Hara asked, her tricorder out and at the ready.
“We are very close,” she said, her heart picking up a beat.
Just ahead, the corridor forked into two, a curved t-junction that surrounded a large circular room. A narrow entrance faced them, leading in and to the right and quickly into shadow. The room’s outer wall looked odd, not clean and uniform like the rest of the area they’d seen up to now. Instead it comprised hundreds of thin strips of dark wood from floor to ceiling, all packed closely together, much like the exterior of a traditional Andorian wine vat, Christian thought.They stopped at the junction.
“In there,” the Vedek said in a whisper, pointing into the opening.
“Let’s make a perimeter search first,” the Captain led the way, anti-clockwise around the gently arcing corridor. The internal space of the round room Christian guessed as about fourteen or so metres in diameter, and as they walked around they found two more darkened entrances – one leading in and to the right, the other in and to the left. The outer wall to their right was the same uniform décor of the general area they’d seen so far, and here there were more doorways to sanctums of prayer, worship and meditation. On the opposite side, the central corridor continued forward. They continued on, walking back round to the original intersection.
Again they found more doors to their right and entrances to the circular room to their left: two more, one in and to the left, the other in and with access left and right.
“Captain,” Vedek Ularalis stopped at the last of the entrances. “I would like to go inside. Alone,” she added firmly.
He glanced at O’Hara. “I’m detecting no life signs,” she said, reading her tricorder.
“Maybe you should go in and take a look first,” Christian said to Souveson. “Just to be sure.”
“No,” the Vedek said. “It’s quite safe, I’m sure of it. And I need to do this alone.”
The Captain hoped it was a risk worth taking and reluctantly nodded, trusting his gung ho instinct above his caution. The Vedek stood facing the doorway, shut her eyes in silent prayer, then walked quickly and confidently inside, disappearing around the right hand corner and into the blackness of deep shadow.
A few moments passed without sound or incident. “Anything?” Christian asked O’Hara.
“No,” the red head changed the parameters of the setting, but it was still negative. She looked over at Lirik, standing close to the entrance. “How about you, Yeoman? Feel anything.”
Lirik didn’t reply at first, he was staring into the nothingness of the corridor within. “Hm?”
“Do you feel anything?” the Lieutenant repeated, slightly annoyed. “An electromagnetic force of some kind? A life force..?”
“I’m not sure,” Lirik replied honestly. “Actually, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say the room was heavily shielded.”
The blood ran out of Christian’s face and he raced forward to get inside, visions of a bloodthirsty spider they’d managed to miss in this perfect hiding place. He almost collided with the Ularalis as she appeared suddenly at the doorway, looking slightly upset.
“Vedek!” he grabbed her elbow and led her over to the Nurse. “Are you okay?”
The Bajoran nodded frantically, keen to get something off her chest. “It needs to see you.”
“’It’..?!” Christian was shocked, and wondered if the Vedek was indeed a crackpot. Maybe having delusions, or making it up for some ulterior motive. The android Pim had been constructed as a Bajoran, after all. Why not another? No, the Captain thought to himself, O’Hara had done a preliminary check before they’d set off, just to be on the safe side. “You mean, the … Prophet?”
“No,” the Vedek said sternly, cryptically. “Not a Prophet, not exactly.”
Lirik poked the woman on her shoulder. “Then what is it?” he asked, aware of Bajoran religion and the apparent existence of the fallen Prophets – they were devious, and he knew from experience that Vedeks could be…easily swayed given the right motivation.
“She’s okay,” O’Hara finished her scan. “A little shaken up, but I see no evidence of interaction with a Prophet or any other kind of life form.”
“As I said,” Ganhedra chipped in from the sidelines. “It is merely an entertainment device.”
“No,” the Vedek responded angrily. “It’s more than that. Much more. Captain, I heard no words, I saw no vision, but I know, somehow I know it wants you to go inside.”
“Really…” Souveson was about to go in herself.
“Stand fast, Ensign,” Christian ordered. He sensed no danger here. And he was inclined to trust the Vedek. “I’ll do as it requests.”
*
Standing at the entrance, Christian had a sudden compelling urge to walk in through another doorway. He walked clockwise and came to a door that led in and to the left. He stepped into shadow, instantly seeing the corners of the way ahead, the edges outlined by a faint blue light from further along and to the right. He noticed the walls were decorated as if made of stone. Turning the corner, Christian’s eyes fell onto a circular courtyard type of interior. At the centre, a pool, lined by small white bricks. The courtyard was similarly crafted of irregular bricks.
“Computer, end programme,” the Captain said instinctively. No change. He touched the walls – they felt cold and clammy. Perhaps this was a real, permanent structure, he wondered. Stepping into the courtyard, he saw the light was coming from five blue tinted wall sconces. Around the circumference, open entrances to several small internal rooms and the corridors leading to the outside, he presumed. The ceiling was slightly domed, and constructed of the same dark wood ribs on the outside. He was drawn forward, to the small pool, the only real feature of the space. It was still, save odd ripples from the engine vibration or other nearby plant.
The Captain crouched low, looking into the pool and running his finger into it. He had a sudden instinctive urge to pull away – as if some terrible creature would reach out and pull him under. He stood, wiping his finger on his trouser and looked around. One of the rooms seemed to be lit, a warm orange glow from inside. He walked around the pool toward it – anti-clockwise – and crossed the threshold.
It was hot in here, hot and dry. In the tiny room, a single orange light shone from within in a box grate in the corner of the room. A rickety old wooden stool sat low in the centre of the floor, facing the light. Instinctively, Christian walked over to the chair and squatted down awkwardly onto it.
Instantly, the Captain was standing in the huge yellow paved square on Kedrafin Prime as he had in his childhood. There were no thronging masses of tourists here, or indeed, the five hundred or so suicidal monks. But the air smelt the same, felt the same on his skin. He even felt as youthful, though looking down at himself he saw he was as old as when he last looked.
Christian stared all around him, the electric blue sky, the square disappearing into a dusty heat haze on the three sides that faced him, the row of old buildings behind him, most converted to gaudy retail establishments on the ground level. He turned full circle, suddenly aware of a figure in the distance. It was humanoid, and dark against the bright, shimmering horizon. The Captain walked toward it, bearing toward the centre of the square. As he approached, the figure seemed to grow smaller – tiny even. Only a few paces away, he was standing in front of what looked like a boy, swathed from head to toe in black, like a Ninja. He was reminded of the powerful ‘dream’ he’d had when he’d passed out several weeks ago.
“Who are you?” Christian asked, not unaware of his situation, despite appearances. “Are you the Prophet?”
The boy pulled a slit open in the material on his lower face, revealing a pair of thin, familiar lips. He opened his mouth, and the screams of hundreds of burning, dying men poured out. Christian covered his ears from the cacophony and fell to his knees in pain. The boy stepped over to him, closing his mouth, and the noise went away.
Christian, sitting back on his haunches, looked up into the hidden face of the boy. He pulled at the rest of the facial coverings and revealed a Human beneath – no less, it was Christian himself, as he was when he’d visited this planet many years earlier. But as the boy opened his eyes, he saw instead the burning, raging fires that had consumed the monks. Gradually, there was something else burning there – a myriad colours and flashing lights. Something beautiful and yet something deadly. It was the Medusan energy matrix.
“Nooo!” Christian screamed and covered his face.
“Captain?” the voice was close to him. He was standing at the exit, the same exit, the Vedek had left.
“What did it say to you?” Ularalis asked keenly.
The Captain rubbed his forehead, disoriented – he hadn’t remembered standing and walking out. In fact, most of the experience seemed fuzzy, vanishing as fast as a dream on waking. “I’m not really sure. It was quite confused.”
“But it was a life form?” O’Hara asked, sticking her arm forward into the corridor to try for a more accurate reading, but getting nothing more.
“Honestly?” Christian said, looking at Ganhedra. “I couldn’t say for sure. It felt, almost theatrical, engineered to make me think in a certain way. It’s possible it is some kind of technology, but if it is – it can read thoughts. Memories, at least.”
O’Hara recalibrated her scanner and passed it over him. “If you were scanned, it was by a technology I’m not familiar with. There’s no chemical change in your brain, no sign of any heightened telepathic activity. Perhaps we should go to the Medical Centre, see if the scanners there can pick up anything.”
“You said you didn’t think it was a Prophet,” Christian turned to Ularalis.
She nodded. “Something else. Perhaps, something that is connected to the Bajoran Prophets.”
“Or related?” Souveson offered.
Lirik was intrigued. He was fascinated by divination if truth be known, and he was keen to give this ‘device’ a try for himself. “Perhaps another of us should go in?”
Christian shook his head firmly. “We could do this all day and may be none the wiser.”
“I’ll ask Leonard to take a look at the surrounding decks – below and above. He might be able to work out if there is any technology involved here,” Lirik suggested.
“Yes, but I’d rather no one went back in there for now,” Christian said.
“You don’t think it is harmful, Captain?” the Vedek asked.
The Captain considered his actions and their effect. “Vedek, I wonder if you’ll work with Mr Leonard. Perhaps things will become more clear if you work together.”
The Vedek nodded, and Lirik instinctively smiled in approval. It was a good move to include non-volunteer crew. He studied the face of the Vedek again. If the Yeoman were being cynical, he’d wonder why such a well-educated woman, someone who must have had experience of the Cardassian occupation and the events that had ensued, would not pitch in as a volunteer crewperson. It was all well and good being a spiritual leader, he thought, but at least that Sister Matthew, who was nearly three times the Vedek’s age, was helping out in the sick bay.
“Carry on,” Christian glanced back at the entrance to the ‘temple’. The memory of what happened seemed to be re-forming. Other details popping into his head. The boy, as he remembered now, while wearing black – it had been in layers, and stitched on in patches. In fact, he remembered as he walked to the Turbolift with Souveson and Ganhedra, it had looked a lot like the design of the wildly colourful K’Tani uniforms he’d seen on Helub. Those soldiers had also looked like children.
* * *
MARINA DECK: 1830 HOURS
Reb walked over the threshold into the small birth, the vessel resting peacefully where he’d left it on the deck below. She wasn’t a beauty, or much to compare to many of the other quirky vessels aboard, (let alone his precious and much mourned Pod) but the ‘Aloitious Jones’ was a fair choice, in his opinion. It still needed a good deal of repair, but only utilising the most frugal amount of the Fantasy’s low supplies and mostly his attention in terms of time commitment. While Reb had continued to help out with the rest of the Department Heads, an attempt to keep them off his back until he was ready to go, he’d spent nearly all his spare time preparing this modified Type 15 personnel shuttle for onward flight.
As the rear door to the converted living section slid open, Reb immediately saw Jackson sitting in one of the chairs at a work station, feet casually crossed, a smile firmly on her face.
Reb’s own expression became stern. “If this is a last ditch attempt to persuade me to stay, you can forget it, Commodore.”
Jackson smiled wider and gestured to a seat beside her. Reluctantly, Reb dropped into it, letting out a hard puff of frustration and running a spindly hand through his unkempt hair. Something caught his eye on the deck in the narrow corridor leading to the small service area of the ship – a large crate and of a Ferengi design by the look of it. He frowned, and then looked at the Commodore, still smiling, though slightly less convincingly he thought.
“There’s a hundred bricks of gold pressed latinum there,” she said calmly. “And it could all be yours. That and eleven hundred more.”
Reb gulped, then shook his head and smiled. She was serious. He was shocked. “Bribery, Commodore? I don’t believe it.”
“Oh?” Commodore Jackson folded her arms. “From what I can make out, you’ll be needing it to survive out there. That’s if all those dangers don’t get you first. But of course, you know that, and you’re still willing to take that risk. Well, Rebbik, I admire you. I really do. I think you’re an idiot, but it’s your decision.” She rose, steadily and offered a small padd. “I’m just giving you an alternative, my friend. Stay with us, and either in twelve months, or when our friends are liberated, which ever comes first, all that could be yours. I have the contract ready here. As you may know, Starfleet has the ability to employ staff from time to time, and I have the authority to decide whatever sum you deserve.”
“How much again?” Reb glanced over at the box. Strange, out here in the Outer Zone, it was just a crate. But back home, a hundred bricks could buy him a bigger and better ship, maybe even a crew of sorts.
“Twelve hundred bricks in all, one for every month you stay with us,” Jackson dropped the padd into his lap. “And it’s waiting for you.”
“If I stay,” he added. “Not much use to me if I’m dead, though, is it?”
“Them’s the breaks, kiddo,” Jackson said. “The same odds, I’ll bet, if not slightly better than being out there on your own without all the moola.”
With that, the Commodore exited quickly – once out of eyesight, she swallowed and sighed. She hoped her gamble would pay off.
*
Reb peered through the small side window and watched the portly Commodore struggle up the steep ladder to exit the shuttle bay. What a strange old bird she was, he thought. He looked round at the shuttlecraft and compared it to the USS Fantasy. ‘No’, he thought to himself. ‘Not even I am that greedy’.
* * *
COMMAND SECTION. 1930 HOURS.
“Computer, display location of Chief Purser’s Office,” Lirik said. If the Captain wanted him to be the ship’s Purser, he’d want to do it from the right place, at least. He assumed it was on the Passenger Section, so wanted to see exactly what he’d be missing if they did drop it into a sun.
The Yeoman had thought of finding an office and arranging a staff when the Captain had first given him his gamut of duties while en route to the site of the Collingwood and the other ships. Lirik had subsequently been led to believe he could play a part as a Command Officer, but Christian had recently made it very clear that while his input was expected and appreciated, his first duty was to the Survivors. In spite of his disappointment, Lirik had forced himself to think positively and put any other plans for command on hold. Besides, he still had his ongoing feud with Commander Struckchev to occupy him. So perhaps now if he sought his own surroundings he might be more inspired to get on with the job at hand.
The computer screen showed a very detailed skeleton of the ship – one he’d not seen before; that could only mean Hedrik had managed to use Bel’s decryptor to incorporate more of the data chip memory into the main computer network. Flashing on the top deck of the passenger section, toward the prow, a single red dot showed Lirik where his new home would have been – or still could be, he told himself positively. All the surrounding areas were as yet unsecured, but Lirik assumed his status would allow him to travel there on his own say so.
He strode to the turbolift and entered the brief code that would allow him to cross from the command section into the passenger section. “Chief Purser’s Office,” he stated and the lift gonged obligingly. The doors closed and Lirik began his journey. As he crossed into the Passenger Section, the intercom trilled.
“Bridge to Yeoman Lirik,” Souveson said, “why are you making an unscheduled journey into the Passenger Section?”
“I’m going to take a look at my office,” Lirik stated clearly.
After a short pause: “On whose authorisation?”
“The Chief Purser’s,” Lirik said, then disconnected the commlink. Quickly, he entered a familiar scrambling sequence to render the security ensign’s attempts to further scan him or communicate with him as futile, chuckling to himself thinking of the Canadian’s annoyed expression up on the Yacht’s bridge.
Some minutes later, the turbolift slowed, stopped and then ascended. The doors slid open to reveal a long, wide, low ceilinged reception area, many cream and white leather sofas and tables with lamps strewn around. Two corridors providing more conventional access to the Purser’s Offices swept off to the left and right – just like the layout outside the main entrance to the Medical Centre. The smell of fresh carpet was almost overwhelming, and all the surfaces were as clean and sparkling as when they were first installed.
The long, sweeping reception desk was vacant but apparently ready to receive visitors, surrounded on three wide angled sides by seven sets of glass doors, all clearly labelled: customs, legal, immigration/visa, cargo/baggage, entertainments, general services, and signals and Chief Purser’s Office.
The way to the Chief Purser’s Office was through the central glass doors, via signals, a large open plan area just a short flight of stairs up and behind the reception. The general Signals area was dotted with communication terminals, seating areas, interview desks and private holo projector booths. It was clear that the last owner of the ship had fitted it with state of the art communications devices. Lirik noticed several offices off to the sides, mostly for comms crews and senior purser staff, plus a staff rest room and meeting areas, and the ubiquitous passenger heads. Toward the rear of the room, a large set of open/suspended stairs swept up to the top level above.
Lirik climbed these, walked across a short reception platform furnished with a workstation for an assistant and a small waiting area for guests. Opposite a set of wood and glass double doors. He passed through into a very large oval office, topped by a glass paneled shallow dome made up of thin struts between many ‘petals’ of clear glass that tear dropped out from the centre – this was the Chief Purser’s Office itself, and a grand place it was too.
The office was very tastefully decorated, striking in a masculine chic kind of way in cream, dark leather, dark wood, glass and chrome, otherwise neutral in colour, though hued in natural tones, the darker leather of the seats and sofas exuding a sumptuous earthiness.
To one side, facing directly forward as the ship travelled, a sunken seating area was arranged below a large curved window that provided a view of the forward part of the Passenger Section’s dorsal hull toward its prow. Behind the main desk toward the ship’s aft direction, another slightly smaller curved window showed the dorsal hull to the rear including, beyond several structures including the Starlight Bar, the top of the Command Yacht itself rising up out of the deck.
The office was very plush for his status, the Yeoman thought, much bigger than any he’d seen belonging to a base commander, even. The carpet was quite thick underfoot, though Lirik saw the sunken lounge area had an even thicker carpet. To his immediate right there was a meeting come dining area that could entertain up to eight comfortably.
Around the curved perimeter on both sides were bookshelves, display cabinets, conventional lcars displays, a sophisticated replicator and several doorways leading off the main area on the opposite starboard side. Arranged intermittently around the place were sculptures, paintings and various objects that looked more dressed than part of someone’s individual taste.
Tricorder and phaser in hand, Lirik checked out the passages. These led to an amazing apartment suite of rooms on several levels - restrooms, a kitchen, private turbolift access to a restricted number of locations and even several small quarters, including one it seemed for the Purser himself. This latter apartment was compact but exquisitely decorated: shiny walnut and stained apple wood furniture, fake ivory and ebony fixtures and fittings with the odd splash of smoky Antarian crystal. Even the bed had a large skylight above it.
Lirik explored through drawers and cupboards for at least an hour before finding a couple of ‘hidden’ doorways in the levels below that led to a large ‘playroom’ and a small private holodeck. Finally he returned to the office above and sat at the desk that might have been his under different circumstances.
The door to his office parted, unannounced, and the Captain stood suddenly on the threshold, looking around and up at the intricate skylight that domed over most of the central space. “Now this is what I call an office,” Christian entered, looking down at the thick carpet and around at the stylish furniture. He glanced back toward the office below. “A bit Cardassian in attitude, but it’d do for me.” As he walked over to one of the corridors Lirik interceded.
“Bathroom and private bedroom,” the Yeoman informed him. “For when I work late.”
“Nice,” the Captain said, walking over to a large cabinet. “I have something similar myself.”
Lirik smiled. “I know.”
Christian stood in front of an arrangement of furniture between the corridors and pulled on the delicate little latches opening the richly veneered doors onto an extensive drinks cabinet. In fact, the cabinet extended back into the wall – the draws below the cupboard doors were false, and the whole thing opened out to reveal row upon row of bottles and a myriad glasses, all stowed safely in cushioned pouches held in by silk rope harnesses.
“Wow!” Lirik expressed a little like it was a gift to him personally.
Christian stepped into the alcove, and the whole affair lit up, reflecting off mirrors and the sparkling contents and rainbow colours coming from all the shelves within. There was even a small replicator – and a fridge for storing real ice.
“Now this I don’t have,” Christian was in awe, handling a bottle of vintage Saurian Brandy and reading the label.
“If you’d like to swap…” Lirik jested, watching the Captain suppress a smile in response.
“One thing’s missing,” Christian instinctively grabbed two glasses and exited the booth, closing it behind him. He poured them both a drink, handing one to a shocked looking Lirik and nodded down to the empty office area below, just as Bel had to him not several hours earlier. “Your staff,” he answered his own question.
Lirik didn’t quite get the full ramification at first, but as he stepped down into the comfy seats below the forward window, he read Christian’s body language straight away – relaxed, enjoying the experience of being there, at ease with himself. “You’re going to keep the Passenger Section?” Lirik asked eagerly.
Christian raised his glass. “To the USS Fantasy,” he said. Lirik felt a little uneasy – the Captain wasn’t normally this pally with him. “Long may she keep us safe.”
“I’ll certainly drink to that,” Lirik said and chinked, enjoying the burn of alcohol as it passed his lips, knocked out his tongue and slid effortlessly down his throat in a wicked vapour. “Mmmm.”
“It is rather good, isn’t it?” Christian said mischievously.
“So what made you change your mind?” Lirik asked, glancing out into the now frantic activity of Bel’s drydock – clearly the Captain had told Bel first (or possibly Jackson) and now her men were purposefully attending to this end of the vessel. “Was it the … thing downstairs? Do we know what it is yet?”
Christian cracked a smile – the first time Lirik had genuinely amused him.
“The jury’s still out,” the Captain said. “Though Leonard found no evidence of extensive technology. That’s not to say it isn’t there, but we don’t know where if it is.”
“Vedek Ularalis?” Lirik asked, taking another warming sip.
“Still feels it requires her attention,” Christian said, reflecting on the most recent events. “Seems that a lot of people are beginning to speak up, step forward.”
“Mmm,” Lirik said, adjusting his position to a more officerly pose. “And not all in the best way.” Lirik stood and walked over to the desk, picking up his personal padd. He called up the relevant file and handed it over to the Captain. “We now have 72 people who expressly want to leave the ship. The Tiburonian man you’ve had run ins with, an amusingly and rather appropriately named Yrsel Tyraide, has stepped forward as their ring leader. He is a lot more polite and considerate than previous occasions, but he is also more resolute than ever before that he and his group should be allowed to debark at the first opportunity. Many of them think this is such a time.”
“Hah!” Christian imagined what these people would do, where they would go. “With the K’Tani at large I’m not sure there would ever be such a time.”
“We can’t keep them here against their will,” Lirik stated, almost obstructively. “But then neither can we abandon them to their peril. Can we?”
“It’s a dilemma,” Christian said. “Would the fact we’re keeping the Passenger Section not change their minds?”
“Some, maybe,” Lirik said, recounting his discussions and brief encounters with the troupe. “But not Tyraide and his core group – and the others are strongly susceptible to his influence, I believe.”
“Well they’ll have to get used to life on board for a while yet,” Christian said. “But tell them…tell them I’ll speak to Bel. She might know of a safe haven. I’m not promising anything, mind you.”
“Of course, Sir,” Lirik drained his glass and stared out the window while Christian scrolled down the list of names in silence. It was an odd moment – the Captain, almost content to be working in Lirik’s company, Lirik himself not apparently making the Captain feel sick in his proximity.
Presently, the Captain finished his drink and handed the glass and padd over to Christian. “So,” he said walking to the exit. “Enjoy your first night in your new quarters. Set about allocating accommodation for all passengers and PS crew first thing, plus I’ve got a few arrangements for the crew I’d like you to carry out for me tomorrow. Good night.”
“Good night, Sir,” Lirik said – instinctively and respectfully addressing him, Christian thought, for the first time. His plan had evidently worked, although he’d wanted to puke several times, his action toward making Lirik feel more at ease had equally made him feel more comfortable in his self. As Christian travelled back to the Command Yacht and his own inviting bed, he wondered about his thought processes since his ‘vision’ in the fortune telling rooms. He couldn’t be certain, but he felt strongly that he’d never had made a move to building a bridge with Yeoman Lirik before then.
*
Back in the Purser’s office, Lirik gambled on another glass of the brandy – he’d deserved a small private celebration after all. He knew the Captain and Commodore were about to appoint people to various positions in the crew, and couldn’t help but wonder what his role would be. Then his face sank. The Captain coming here, and the discussions, had all been about the survivors. Perhaps, Lirik thought ironically, the Captain hasn’t that much faith in me after all.
Then another thought distracted him. “Computer,” he called. No response. He tapped his commbadge. “Computer,” he said.
“Working!” the clipped voice responded through the office speakers. “Is this the actual quarters for the Chief Purser?”
“Negative,” the computer responded. “The Chief Purser’s quarters are located on Deck 20, Section One.”
Lirik smiled to himself – not only did he have this suite of offices, but he also had his own quarters, if he wasn’t mistaken, at the very prow of the ship itself.
* * *
MEDICAL CENTER, 2155 HOURS
“I’d offer you a nightcap, but I guess it’s out of the question now,” Jackson stood at the doorway of the CMO’s office in the Medical Centre. “Anyway, I don’t have any alcohol to offer. How about a glass of Krep milk instead?”
The portly senior officer proffered two glasses of thankfully cold milk she’d managed to keep out of site – the Krep fluid wasn’t so nice nearer to room temperature, and smelled a little fishy, O’Hara thought. Despite her feelings toward Jackson, she was glad of the break and wondered if this was the perfect moment to get a few things off her chest.
O’Hara rubbed her eyes and half smiled, leaning back.
“It’s pretty late to be working,” Jackson nodded at the terminal with personnel data.
The Lieutenant finished off the sentence in her head: ‘in your condition.’
“There’s a lot to get through, Commodore,” O’Hara said wearily. “My people can work fast enough, but there’s only a few of them, and we’ve not even scanned a fifth of the people on board yet.”
“Have you found anything?” Jackson sat opposite, trying too obviously to make small talk.
“I’ve found lots,” O’Hara said a little rudely. “But nothing that’s cause for concern. Though I must say, some of the Qovakian physiologies take a little working out.”
“I bet,” Jackson said, sipping her milk too quickly.
O’Hara regarded her for a few moments and had an idea. “Still,” O’Hara stood and walked over to her medical kit. “That’s one of the most interesting aspects of being in Starfleet Medical.”
Jackson looked up as the Lieutenant stood in front of her, medical scanner at the ready. The Commodore couldn’t help but look at her stomach, though there was no sign of her grandchild as yet.
“Would you mind if I examined you now?” the Lieutenant asked. “The Captain requested that all the Heads and as many crew are given medicals before tomorrow.”
“Go right ahead,” Jackson said, as accommodating as she could sound, but it just came out gushy. “Look, Lieutenant,” Jackson licked her lips as the Nurse carried out a general scan, recording all her physical particulars, system after system. “I just wanted to say, I stand by my earlier statement. I’m here for you if you need me. If you … want me.”
The Nurse, standing behind the Commodore hesitated, cursing inwardly. “Look, Commodore, I know you mean well,” this was okay, the red head thought. Not looking into her face is making it easier. “But… well, I’d only recently met your son. Like you said yourself, your son would never have done this knowingly – or willingly. And neither would I.”
“Yes, but-“ the Commodore began to twist round to face her, but O’Hara stepped in the opposite direction, and waved a specialist scanner over her head, making a thorough analysis of her brain functions. She noticed a sudden increase in pulse and temperature.
“This is all as new to me as it is to you,” O’Hara said. “And the fact of the matter is that, well, it’s hardly a convenient time for me to have a child. For this ship’s only medical officer to have a child. Indeed, for a child to enter the universe – in the middle of a bloody occupation, one where its mother could get killed at any moment.”
“What about its grandmother..?” the Commodore said, more emotional than O’Hara had wanted.
The Lieutenant walked round in front of her superior. “Commodore, the truth is I’m not sure that it’s fair for me to keep this child.”
“Oh, my darling,” Jackson surprised O’Hara by standing and grasping her hand between both of her warm, black hands. A tear trickled down one side of her nose, but she was half smiling. “I know this is a choice only you can make for yourself. Trust me, I know. It’s just a little hard for me not to think about the part of my son that’s inside there.”
O’Hara too began to weep. She looked into Jackson’s face and saw there the similarity to her son. The Lieutenant wondered what his reaction might be.
Jackson squeezed her hand tightly. “This is your decision. Your body. All I ask is that you think carefully about what you want. It’s hard, I know, but try not to think of anyone else. Just you, and your unborn, and what would be best for both of you.”
Jackson kissed O’Hara on the cheek and brushed her hair back behind her ear with a free hand, smiling. She nodded, and O’Hara nodded tearfully in response. With that, the Commodore departed, and O’Hara flopped, tired and confused, into the nearest chair.
* * *
PURSER’S QUARTERS, PASSENGER SECTION. 2202 HOURS
As the second most respected and important person on a civilian luxury liner, the Purser’s quarters were as spectacular as the Captain’s. They were less quarters, in fact, and more of a large set of apartments, mostly used for accommodating VIP guests and dignitaries.
At the prow of the vessel, near to the very top, the many rooms snaked around the entire front section, and extended back around to the sides of the vessel for some way. Lirik felt lost amid the many empty rooms. Most of the furniture had been removed on this main level. And he couldn’t shake the feeling of isolation. He realised at that moment that there probably wasn’t another crewman in his vicinity for several hundred metres. He wondered if he should take different quarters, something cosier toward the rear of the vessel where most of the activity took place. Or maybe make his office suite of quarters his permanent locale?
But something inside, a feeling of rebellion and the loner streak in him, made him want to stay. Besides, the rooms were exquisite. He stood in the central entertaining area, a wishbone shaped cavernous space that provided both an inviting reception area to the apartments and a space for many a formal function. The ‘canteen’ as it was known, dramatically sported a continuous bank of long windows that bled off left and right.
The Purser’s personal bedroom was in fact on the deck below, along with a bathroom, study, private kitchen and dining room, and sitting room. This group of private rooms was accessed by an almost hidden private staircase tucked behind a support pillar on the port side of the canteen. In fact, the main upper area, Lirik discovered, was more for entertaining and ship’s daily business than it would have been for the Purser’s personal use. Yet in spite of the splendour above, this smaller suite of private rooms were outstanding. The Yeoman paused, wanting to savour the moment he saw his sleeping space for the first time, and hoped he would find something inviting.
The double doors parted to reveal a wide, low ceilinged boudoir of silky proportions, swathed in deep fur rugs, velvet drapes and ornate objects laid on stylish low tables and chests. The room was illuminated in a peachy hue. Opposite the bed, swathed in sheer gossamer material on either side of the sharp prow of the Fantasy, were two intricate rose windows of plain glass – flanked by curtains, no less.
The bed appeared to be wide and deep. Lirik pushed the mattress through the surrounding drapes, it felt hard and the silk sheets clearly of outstanding quality. Stepping further into the room, Lirik realized the bed was occupied – a shiver ran down his spine, for a moment he froze, and felt a draining blood rush of adrenylin-fed expectation. Was it another dead Qovakian? Or something else entirely…?
In fact, as his eyes got used to the darkness, lying in the bed with the sheets up to his chest was the Helan Fraxon, wearing nothing but a smile.
“Oh,” Lirik has suspected Fraxon offered more than just friendship, but he’d not thought for a moment it would come to this, at least not so suddenly.
It was a crucial point. Everything in Lirik’s reasoning told him that he shouldn’t, but before he could think on he found his feet walking to the door controls, his forefinger selecting the appropriate privacy command.
* * *
COMMAND YACHT. CAPTAIN’S OFFICE. 0700 HOURS
Lirik yawned, long and hard, and read the padd for a second time. He needed confirmation and slapped his communicator. “Lirik to Captain Christian.”
“Christian here, Yeoman, what is it?” the voice was terse, as if last night’s personable chat had never happened.
“Something on your task list Sir, concerning Starfleet Aptitude Tests,” Lirik read from the padd.
“What about them?” still the voice remained annoyed – the Captain had left the padd for the Yeoman on his desk, saying that he wanted to spend the morning in Passenger Section main engineering.
Lirik tried to think rapidly. Clearly the Captain had not made a mistake and the order was as the Yeoman had (disbelievingly) read it: he wanted every crewman, as well as those volunteers about to become crew, to undergo the standard Starfleet Aptitude Test in a group of fully operational Holodecks on the Passenger Section. Starting with Department Heads and leading hands.
Presumably Christian and Jackson had decided to implement the command structure, and wanted to give appropriate field ranks to the volunteers based on tests as well as qualifications and experience. (Seemingly the Starfleet officers were included in the tests, despite having already taken them years before, presumably to make it seem fair and across the board). It seemed the Captain was also keen to make use of the Passenger Section’s holographic ability – no doubt cheering Hedrik up no end.
Lirik knew the Captain would be annoyed at having his orders questioned and he speedily accessed the computer mainframe to try and save face.
“Sir, it’s just…what I mean is..” he was almost there, “..what I wanted to ask was..”, got it, “the computer retains seven variations of the SATs, which would you like me to use?” Phew.
The Captain’s pause indicated either being caught off guard, or considering if the Yeoman had merely been stalling to evade a faux pas. “Use the 7th Level SATs. You’ll find a classified programme under the title Christian SAT Alpha 1, be sure to integrate it into the matrix.”
“Aye, Sir, Yeoman Lirik out,” Lirik sat back thoughtfully. Level 7 SATs were the toughest of all the aptitude tests. It was normally used as an 89% accurate indication for Starfleet Academy’s personnel officers to determine a cadet’s career potential during his final year, and often singled out the most promising future starship captains. Cadets always looked forward to them. They weren’t as rigorously detailed or indeed long-winded as the Academy’s final year individual discipline exams. Also, unlike the plain Bridge Officer and Tactical Simulation programmes, they often jumped from one scenario to another, testing a wider range of ability and knowledge, including those beyond the examinee’s current ability. This also provided an extensive emotional, psychological, career and personal profile. Many people deemed themselves to have ‘failed’ when they didn’t pass the varied and curious tests, but top brass accepted that as normal – it took an exceptional type to pass in all categories and most often it was more about the consideration of choices than finding one true path.
But as for the Captain’s pre-determined file, he wasn’t sure. Presumably he wanted to test his crew on specifics, or maybe had singled out individuals for a particular test. Rocking slightly back in the Captain’s rickety chair, he had no choice but to continue with the Captain’s orders to the letter. He hit his communicator badge once.
“Lirik to Hedrik,” the Yeoman bit his lip waiting for a reply.
“Hedrik here,” the young sprightly voice replied. “Tell the Captain I have the holosuites ready and waiting for him.”
The Yeoman raised an eyebrow. He accessed the command processors via his padd and located Hedrik’s position as being on a recreation level several decks below him. Clearly the Captain had already briefed her. “Very well. You may as well remain where you are and we can test you with the first batch.”
“Me?!” the voice was startled – clearly the Captain had left one point out of his dealings with her.
“That’s right,” Lirik walked up to the bridge, “the Captain wants everyone tested.”
* * *
COMMAND SECTION BRIDGE. 0730 HOURS.
Stepping into the main bridge, Lirik saw Christian standing with Ambassador Narli and Professor Karnak, both patiently waiting beside the turbolift.
“Be gentle with them, Yeoman,” the Captain smiled.
“Hey wait up!” Reb’s voice came from the Helm station, where he’d been sitting, quietly waiting for an opportunity to reveal his decision to stay (albeit for a fee). “Don’t I get to be tested?”
“Oh,” Christian smiled sarcastically humorous. “You’ll be staying then?”
Reb beamed. “For a while. Twelve months, actually.”
“Follow me,” Lirik led them into the lift. As soon as the doors closed, the tension abated somewhat.
“So what’s going on, Lirik?” Reb asked in a friendly manner.
The diplomat decided on a friendly approach. “Sorry, Reb, no talking please.” He was dying to crush the helmsman in a bear hug. Whatever the Commodore had said, he was glad Reb had listened.
Reb half laughed, then sneered. Karnak didn’t facially react, but her body stiffened. Lirik noticed Narli wasn’t phased by the situation, instead taking furtive glances at the woman’s ample bosom. A minute or so later, and they all exited into a wide, colourful corridor lined with holosuite entrances. Hedrik was looking a bit miffed.
“Okay, position yourselves outside a door, “ Lirik instructed. “No, Ambassador, each person has a door to themselves.”
Narli shrugged, Hedrik scowled as the older blue man moved away from her to his own door. Lirik walked over to the holosuite command control pulpit in the middle of the corridor, and set the four suites to the same programme parameters of the 7th Level SAT. He quickly searched the rather blank looking command database and immediately located Christian’s classified (and encrypted) parameters file, integrating the two together.
“I will shortly open the doors to the holosuites where you will be presented with a series of challenges,” Lirik read the prompts from the script, carefully prepared for instructors should they forget. “I cannot tell you what to expect, or how long this will go on for. If you need to egress the suite in a hurry-“
“I’m sorry,” Reb interrupted, “eagless..?”
“Should you need to leave the holosuite quickly, just shout my name, I’ll be monitoring you,” he said. “Good luck everyone.” Lirik pressed the ‘begin’ key and each of the four suites opened.
Hedrik was the last to go inside. She hesitated on the threshold, confounded by the room that had no holoprogram running and looked questioning at the Yeoman. Lirik didn’t react, and he almost thought she was going to walk off. But instead, something forced her inside – perhaps just curiosity.
* * *
The doors closed with a heavy schoomt sound that resonated around the empty deck, not more than eight metres square, brightly lit, the emitters shining in their complex glory all around the walls and ceiling. Hedrik stepped a couple of places forward, shivering from anticipation rather than cold. A single chair materialised in the middle of the room. “Please sit,” it was Christian’s disembodied voice.
“Captain?” Hedrik asked, but sat down nonetheless. “Lirik, what’s going on?”
Silence. Hedrik felt apprehensive, expecting people or a danger to materialise around her at any moment. Seconds passed, then minutes. Hedrik finally relaxed slightly, and sat back – almost bored, in the heavy wooden chair.
It was a comfortable chair. She caressed its smooth, well-polished wooden arms, the filigreed surface massaging her fingertips. It felt almost familiar. She looked down at the carvings, pulling her hands away to see all the intricate detail. Her eyes immediately widened in stark recognition, she panicked and jumped to her feet.
“Sit down,” Christian’s voice ordered from behind her. She whirled around. There was no one there. She looked at the chair again – there was no mistake, it was the type of chair used by an Orion Prince’s Concubine, one her mother had sat in and she might have been destined to inherit one day, had she not chosen an alternative path in life. Was Lirik goading her?
She had no time to speculate as her senses tingled from the photons and light cracking the air all around her. The chair dematerialised, and the room shimmered. The smell of wet bracken filled her nostrils. Wind whipped her hair as the landscape of a barren wasteland enveloped her. Her feet sank into wet, boggy grass. She shivered this time from extreme cold and looked all around for shelter. It was empty, gently rolling plains rippled off to every horizon. Dark, thunderous clouds blanketed the sky. It was the bleakest moor she had ever seen. An Earth scenario, no doubt, she thought.
“Lirik!” she yelled, her eyes watering from the strong wind buffeting her. Still there was no answer – so much for the safeties, she thought. “What are you doing?!” she demanded.
The wind grew stronger, she clenched her eyes shut and crouched down as the noise howled past her ears. Her body was wracked with cold – and now an icy downpour had begun. “Damn you!” she screamed as she felt the needle like effect through her hair.
The noise then stopped, as did the pain. She felt warmer, and saw light through her closed eyelids. She squinted them open. It was the plain holodeck again, and the chair was there once more. Slowly, Hedrik got to her feet, trying to flatten her wet and wind-ragged hair.
“Sit down,” Christian’s voice said again.
Was the Captain toying with her? Showing her what would happen if she didn’t sit down? Hell, she thought, what kind of test was this? Hedrik slowly walked forward, turned, and sat down, her upper body erect and defiant – though appearing somewhat ridiculous in her unkempt windswept form.
This time, the light around her darkened, until Hedrik was bathed in a tight pool of white light from above. In the darkness ahead, she could then begin to make out a group of people seated at a long, concave balcony. The light all around her quickly brightened and detail grew sharper. She was in the centre of a huge, elliptical auditorium. An audience of Starfleet and civilian, mostly Humans, were sitting in three stepped banks that swept up to her left and right and rear, more than a thousand life forms she guessed. Many officials were also seated at small desks on plinths of various heights immediately around her. She seemed to be the focus of their attention.
Hedrik knew the location – the banners and emblems displayed on the high walls almost spelled it out, along with the assortment of flags of many races, nations and denominations, but they were nothing compared to the renowned high arched aluminium ceiling from which they hung. It was the United Federation of Planets Judicial Chamber, looking something like a massive metallic raised game pie from the outside. Hedrik had never visited it herself, of course – she’d never even been to the Solar System – but she’d read about the place in travel guides and seen it on numerous televised reports of show trials over the years.
Seated some four metres before and above her were the assortment of 13 representatives of various nations – the judges and jury. The chair and chair associates gathered in the middle were the finest among Starfleet’s legal top brass. Hedrik recognised a few of them – but then her eyes fell on an Orion man standing tall in the single, raised witness box some metres away.
“You are Hedrik?” a plump, bald headed woman wearing the rank of Admiral suddenly walked before her, placing a delicate hand smothered in rings on the rail in front of Hedrik.
Hedrik flushed, she looked around again. It wasn’t her that was on trial, she realised. It was him. And she was the one in the witness box.
“Answer the question please,” the chair bellowed.
“I am, yes,” Hedrik replied quickly, her voice picked up and amplified around the chamber.
“And can you tell us the identity of the accused, seated over there,” she pointed a long, painted fingernail toward the Orion man.
Hedrik paused. She swallowed, how could she possibly be a part of these proceedings? She was no informer, and she had certainly never contemplated going head to head with the Syndicate. It was too profitable for change, and certainly impossible to destroy. However it was true that as an exile she was automatically in a position of vulnerability, for if caught and charged with a felony, she faced extradition to Orion territory. That was unless she cooperated with the Federation of Planets’ ongoing campaign to bring the Syndicate to its knees of course – namely testifying against the crimes of her people at a trial such as this. But she had decided that should the occasion ever arise it was far wiser to return to Orion and live to fight another day than become a traitor and be assassinated by some horrible means days later. She decided then and there that this test was redundant.
“Miss Hedrik,” the chair bellowed. “May I remind you that you are under oath, and that you are currently under Starfleet’s direct guardianship until your own fate can be decided.”
She shook her head – this was absurd. Besides, this was only a holographic simulation. She could do whatever the hell she liked and it would have no bearing on her real life. That thought gave her a thrill – followed by a pause. What was the Captain up to with this programme? Was he trying to extract information – or was it Lirik? He was, by all accounts, ex-intelligence. Or was the Captain merely allowing her the opportunity to let off steam, swoon in a fantasy that enabled her dream of revenge to come true and without fear of reprisal.
“Yes,” she said firmly, deciding to play along for now. “He is Prince Cucani of Orion Yori Da. He is one of the wealthiest among our people and some say the most ruthless of all our businessman.”
The Admiral nodded; clearly she was the prosecution counsel. “And what is your relationship to him.”
That was not expected. “I am no relation,” Hedrik laughed. “He is Yori Da, born and bred. He may control a large amount of Orion business interests and own a great number of worlds and a great deal more families, but none are even anywhere near mine. Besides, the question would nevertheless be irrelevant, even if this court was for real,” she spat. “I broke all ties with my family many years ago.”
“Miss Hedrik,” the Admiral stepped up to the witness stand and leant forward, her face glowering above the young Orion. The Admiral’s eyes were purple, it seemed, her lips scaly, but coloured in a bright red thin coating. What race was she? Hedrik didn’t know. But she could see a look of conceited power in those eyes. It was clear to Hedrik she was there merely as a tool for Starfleet. “May I too remind you that under Orion law, you never leave your family. Whatever we might think, or you might feel about that law, it nonetheless exists. And if, for some reason or another, you should return to Orion jurisdiction, then you will be bound by that law and return to the fold of your family.”
“I am well aware of that fact,” Hedrik seethed – she tried to remind herself this was merely a fantasy being created by the Captain and/or Lirik and let the anger subside.
“So,” the Admiral snapped. “As an exile you have to do whatever you can to remain a free woman.”
“Objection!” a voice boomed. It was Christian, peeping his head around the pedestal that contained the Prince. Hedrik smiled – what was going on here?
“On what grounds?” the chair yelled.
“Miss Hedrik is not the person on trial here,” Christian explained. “It is his royal highness. Her credibility or otherwise is not in question. As a material witness she is merely here to confirm his identify and bear witness to his common dealings as carried out by her family and her own work as a whore.”
“What?!!!” Hedrik shrieked and stood, looking up at the high, bedecked ceiling. “Hey, you two! You want to come in here and say that to my face?”
“You will refrain from such outbursts!” the chair shouted.
“How dare you!” Hedrik screamed over at the Captain – or the holographic representation of him. “Let me out of her now, you bastard. I’m not here to be insulted by the-“
“Shut UP!” the Admiral, the chair and Christian all bellowed simultaneously. The noise, and their anger – particularly that of the Admiral nearest to her – jolted her into silence.
“Fact!” the Admiral yelled, her breath hot on Hedrik’s face as she stood eyeball to eyeball with her. “You are an Orion slave. That will never change. Look around you. Go on. Look!” she spat. “Every last person in this room knows exactly what that means.”
Hedrik looked around her, all the faces looking at her, some flushed with embarrassment, others with a moralistic glare. Christian concerned, the Chair and his associates looked pitiful, and the Prince wore a crooked leering smile on his face.
“What you had to do,” the Admiral continued. “What you are.”
“Were!” Hedrik shouted, squaring her shoulders to the veteran. “That was a long time ago.”
“Really?” the Admiral said sarcastically and pressed a small keypad device she carried. “Remember him?”
A holographic standard Starfleet mug shot materialised above the court and everyone looked up at the handsome face and then back at Hedrik for her reaction. She swallowed. It was the counsel who had defended her several years ago – the one she’d seduced and convinced to help procure money and equipment to help her rebuild her life. Hedrik stared at him – she still remembered his warmth and softness with her. He had been so kind, and yet she had duped him, disappearing suddenly and without trace as soon as she had what she wanted.
At that moment Hedrik realised that, in order to create this holoprogram, Captain Christian – or another – must have accessed the computer databases they had accumulated thus far and extracted every last piece of information about her. So she now knew for sure that following her rapid departure, Starfleet had indeed found out this poor man. No doubt he had been severely reprimanded, perhaps even court-martialed. She felt bad about that, and quickly imagined that perhaps he’d not been reprimanded at all, or that at least he’d got off lightly. Then she felt angry again – just how much more did Lirik and Christian – and possibly Jackson, Souveson and the others – know about her?
“That was different,” she replied, finally. “And don’t show me any more faces of men and women I may have been with because yes, of course there were others.” She tried to maintain a hard stare into the eyes of the Prosecution. “Many others. As you’ve already intimated, everyone here knows that, as a genetically bred Orion slave, I have very strong sexual needs, all-encompassing hormonal drives that aren’t easily controlled by medication. Yet, despite what my people made me, I’m not ashamed of that, nor do I desire to alter it. It’s true,” she looked down. “I’m luckier than some among my race who they call animal women – they are truly insatiable, built purely with one thing in mind. And in that respect I am grateful to have been genetically engineered for somewhat less tortuous means.” She looked up, stared the Admiral out. “I may have been born a weak, feeble Orion slave woman, groomed to become a royal concubine. But in my heart I have always been an individual. A female, yes, but I have grown from the brainwashed innocent girl that I was into a woman, and one who has the right to live her life as she chooses, not as others do.”
“Thank you,” the Admiral stepped down – without it seemed, making her point or taking the prosecution case any further. It made no sense – until, of course, Christian stood and approached her, she assumed to begin the interrogation proper.
“So,” Hedrik said as he stepped up to the witness stand. “What else do you want to know about me? Other than that you don’t know already?”
“Actually, I have something to tell you,” Christian said sombrely. “You may be wondering: why this court?” Hedrik slowly nodded her head. “That man – that simulation of a man – over there. That Prince Cahuna-“
“Koo-car-knee,” Hedrik corrected his pronunciation.
“Whatever,” the Captain waved her off. “We’ve found that he does in fact now own your world, and your family.” His voice was sincere. Hedrik faltered. Christian waited to let the knowledge sink in.
“This show trial..?” she asked.
Christian shook his head. “Never happened – well, not at least up to the point we all came here. No, I created this scene based on a possible future scenario. One that you may have found yourself in – one that you may still do. I’m sorry to disappoint you - the Prince is not in the custody of Starfleet at all. He is in fact alive and well and thriving, moreover he is now the driving force behind all combined Orion activity.”
“You – are sure?” Hedrik asked. She thought herself well informed on Orion matters, it was certainly a popular enough topic of journalism across the three quadrants to keep her abreast of home news. But then, as Christian suggested, there were several weeks after arriving in the Outer Zone when she had heard nothing. And the war was bringing many sudden and radical changes across all Federation and non-Federation space alike. Could something have happened to her family and her owner’s business interests in that short time? If what Christian said was true, what might have become of her siblings and her mother and their own Lord and masters?
“The Dominion conflict tipped the balance of power across all that Orions control,” Christian explained. “Since the war came to the Alpha Quadrant, Prince Cucani went into safe mode, slowed his businesses, and secured his interests.” That much Hedrik did know. “Then, as other more opportunistic peers took risks and fell, he moved in to acquire what was left. Of course, the war has made a lot of widows and a lot more fallen fortunes, so the good Prince has made a large fortune from it. Perhaps better than even he could have ever expected in peace.” They both turned to see the Prince bow his head in arrogant recognition.
“Then he … he now effectively owns me,” Hedrik finished, looking ashen green.
“I’m afraid so,” Christian concluded. He then slapped the rail enthusiastically. “However. What is important now, as you are hopefully thinking yourself, is not some fantasy projection of the future but the present.” The courtroom rippled and vanished, the holodeck was empty once more, aside from the two of them. “That place isn’t real. All we know is that the Prince now owns your family and so you, too. You had a right to know all that I know – just as I had the right to see how you would deal with the fact.”
“I could have done without all the melodramatics, Captain,” Hedrik stood from the chair and moved past him. “And I have to say that personal remark about me was totally unnecessary.”
“Was it?” Christian asked rhetorically. “You know as well as I that there were Orions here in the Outer Zone before the K’Tani invasion. What if they escaped capture? What if some were under direct orders of Prince Cahuna to find you? What might happen if you were to run into them?”
“I’d guess that would be unlikely,” Hedrik sneered.
“Then what if they had been interrogated by the K’Tani? Our enemy may now know a great deal about a lot of us, personally, including everything about you,” the Captain said. “There’s a chance they might use that information against us.”
“And exactly how much information do you know about me?” Hedrik asked flatly.
“Not a great deal more than the bare bones of your life story,” Christian said. “There are records of your movements and several illegal activities. We know part of your family history. We know you trained as an engineer aboard a notorious merchant vessel. And we know you have extensive holographic prowess, not to mention other ‘skills’ as demonstrated in your part played in the situation concerning Ventax III.”
“And despite all this you still want me to be a part of your crew?” Hedrik asked cautiously.
The Captain smiled. “Are you ready to begin your SAT?”
So, Hedrik realised, this hadn’t even been a part of her assessment.
“I’m ready,” Hedrik replied, happy, no, exhilarated to know that the Captain had faith enough to trust her.
The Captain disappeared. He was more than just cute, she thought. He was strong. The room shimmered yet again and instantly she found herself in the Fantasy’s primary computer core control room.
“Warning,” the computer trilled calmly even though the ship was shaking violently. “Computer Core in cascade failure.”
This was more like it, Hedrik thought, a true test of her abilities.
* * *
ELSEWHERE
BR>
Professor Karnak had been faced with a twelve page mathematical challenge. It was an intriguing scenario to her – a locked chamber of stone and wood with a single window that was a mere slit in the thick, cold rock wall. Peering out, she saw she was high up above a forest and it was a summery season outside. Warm, farmyard smelling air wafted up from the outer part of the castle below. There was no other sign of civilisation.
In the centre of the small, straw-carpeted room, bathed in the crack of light from the window, were a high wooden upright desk and an equally high stool to reach it. Armed only with a quill and some crude ink Karnak took up the position and read through the parchments tied with string with enormous interest. The data involved quantum mechanics, warp theory and wormhole science, though each set of problems were laced with all manner of variables and each were expressed in a range of dialects. Luckily someone had left a cloth covered basket of leavened bread, cheese and fruit, and a clay pitcher of a hauntingly alcoholic apple flavoured beverage – a type of scrumpy, she guessed. The Professor was left in peace for it seemed an eternity in order to complete the difficult task. She had fought to control her emotional state before the test began, so she couldn’t help a pang of relief – she had expected to be set tests she wasn’t used to rather than something in her own field.
Regardless of the intent of the test setter, Karnak thought, this was a relatively easy challenge, and in fact the combined answers all added up to make an overall question, like a quantum conundrum. Suddenly the door opened, jolting Karnak down from her seat. A tall figure walked in from the shadows and closed and locked the door behind. It turned and stepped forward into the light – it was a human man, old, but young bright eyes, and long, straggling white hair. He was bony and dressed in a long grey robe and wore ragged leather sandals. Tied at the waist was a thin cord, and suspended on it several odd shaped leather and suede pouches. He seemed to be chewing something that made his lips black and fussed over to her work.
Karnak stood to one side as he studied it. “It is finished.” She told him.
“Hmf!” the man grunted shuffling the papers and rolling them up into a thick scroll. “Come with me.” He instructed and opened the door. It was a steep descent down the thin, precarious segment shaped steps that wound down between the undulating stone wall and the thin axis in its centre. Smaller slits for windows lit the dark tower only intermittently, and Karnak had to toe test her way forward on many occasions. Countless dizzying minutes later, Karnak alighted the final step into a corridor. She had to grab a corner wall to steady herself as her Human inner ear adjusted.
“Come on,” the old man muttered, shuffling off down the stone hued low ceilinged corridor. Several metres away, a long flight of wide shallow steps descended under a wide low arch and into a huge medieval hall – this also constructed of stone but with a timber and glass roof high above. Dust danced in the shafts of light cast from a bank of high, coloured glass windows, and caused the alcoves and door recesses at the far end to appear as if in mist.
Despite it being summer outside, the interior of the building remained crisply cool. To compensate, at the right of the hall a massive fire was burning wildly in a huge fireplace, the hearth surround some way from the chimneybreast to keep people safely away from its fierce heat. Around the fireplace were three men – two in fine, coloured robes, the other partly in armour. Karnak instantly dated the period – late 12th Century, circa the Crusades.
The old man shuffled over to the most resplendent of the men and whispered something in his ear. The man, bearded with thin swathes of thick black hair that tapered to a point beyond his chin, spread his arms wide and walked toward her. Karnak stepped back apace.
Despite the long hair and the aged look about the eyes, the man was fresh faced and athletic in gait. He wore a thin crown, she noticed, a crude caramel gold colour, tarnished rather than polished, and studded with roughly hewn precious stones. He took another step forward, and she another back. He laughed, almost cruelly, glancing toward his comrades. Karnak afforded a look over at the other men, who seemed jocular about this threatening situation, perhaps even revelling in her apparent fear and/or uncertainty.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?”
The crowned man laughed long and loud. “My dear,” he stretched a hand out toward her. “I think you know what we want.”
* * *
HOLODECK 9
Reb was faring pretty well, considering. His first test had been aboard a 23rd Century Starfleet vessel, the USS Relentless, as the Chief Navigator, rather than a helmsman. Immediately relaxing amid the bright lights of his retro surroundings, he’d soon got a rude awakening.
Until this test, he had always thought the work of the old style Navigator to be mostly administrative and tactical in nature, working to support the Helmsman and provide accurate information for the Captain and the rest of the bridge crew about position, distance and eta’s, not to mention a librarian’s ability to recall information about other races – their worlds, their cultures and their space faring vessels. In fact, he’d soon realised that the job was a lot less automated than he believed, and required the officer to be something of a scientist and mathematician as well.
Still, it had been a challenge that he soon found himself wallowing in, and by the end of his three-hour ‘shift’ even the Helmsman was smiling at him with approval.
As he’d exited the bridge into the Turbolift, it instead led him into a standard configuration Starfleet sickbay scene, circa current day. Expecting scenes of carnage and unrelenting mayhem from the Dominion war, he’d been surprised to find instead a quiet, clean and empty medical suite. As Reb let the turbolift-come-sick bay door close behind him, a pretty nurse had appeared from the Doctor’s office, carrying several heavy satchels of medicine.
“Glad you came, Helmsman,” the Rotaran had said, both sets of lips moving in unison. “See-mo wants you to hold the fort while we’re on the planet surface. The epidemic is a lot worse than we thought, and we need all available medical personnel down there.”
“But I-“ he’d started, but the nurse was already leaving the area.
“Don’t forget the EMH is off-line,” she’d added insult to injury. “The computer should be able to help you with any diagnosis and treatment.” And then he’d been left alone.
Some minutes later a Deltan, with a belly the size of a beach ball, had sidled her way into sickbay complaining of sharp sudden pains in her back. A simple tricorder scan had revealed her to be full term, several weeks earlier than expected. Reb hadn’t balked at the thought of delivering a baby; in fact it was something he’d always wanted to witness. The computer had sort of helped, but he’d done most of it on his own metal.
The only true test in fact had been dealing with the Lieutenant’s four eager husbands, each fussing around her and getting in the way mostly. With their emotions so high, very powerful Deltan pheromones were charging the atmosphere with sexual tension. It was a bizarre experience for Reb.
Once over, as a poignant or humorous denouement by either Lirik or the Captain, the warmly flushed, almost post-coital Deltan had cradled the nine pound baby boy in her arms and stated that she had chosen Reb as the child’s fifth name in his honour.
But now, the situation was quite different. Reb was restrained, immobilised in an electrifying regeneration chamber on a Borg ship, watching the various alien monitors on the opposite wall of the corridor display his erratic vital functions. He hadn’t been assimilated as yet, though several devices had been applied to his head, chest, arms and legs to anylise his current well-being.
As soon as the Borg ship had materialised around him his heckles had gone up, his legs and arms had turned weak with fear, and his heart and head pounded from the anticipation of what was to come.
Surely, he continued to try and reason with himself, Lirik would not allow the holographic programme to simulate the assimilation process? It could be possible, he thought, and so they were probably trying to gauge his control over fear.
Far to his left, he could make out a clanking sound – footsteps. As they neared, he could also hear the pistons and pumps of the mostly-machine legs of a Borg drone whirring and shunting. Finally, a red light, laser thin, pointing straight at him.
Swallowing, and telling himself it wasn’t real, Reb turned to the drone. It was a surprisingly short female, Human apparently, though it was difficult to be completely sure. She opened a flap in her chest and pulled out what looked like a crude mechanical spider. It was Borg by design, yet its flailing ‘legs’ gave the device quite an un-Borg-like animation. Carefully, she reached up and placed the device to his rear, just above his shoulder blade. Reb could feel it there, clinging on to his clothing, and one protrusion poking at his skin – sharp, but not penetrating.
She stepped back and spoke. It surprised Reb, as although the accent was harmonised in that too familiar electronic Borg-like way, it was also lilting, as if laced with threatening emotion. “Do not speak or move. If you do, the assimilation drone will be activated.”
With that she turned, and walked swiftly off in the direction she had come from. Reb swallowed. He resisted the temptation to turn and look at the device, and he could feel its tiny legs adjusting their position each time he breathed or shook uncontrollably from fear.
Minutes passed, and then – voices. Human voices, coming from the opposite direction the drone had approached from. What was this all about? With his exceptional hearing, he could make out Lirik’s voice, and the Captain’s. For the longest time, he heard them get clumsily nearer – it seemed from what they were saying they were looking for him, that they could read his life signs not too far away, though there was a lot of anomalous information coming from the surrounding structure.
Reb turned his head ever so slightly to his left. He stared hard into the complex machinery and could just see, in the deep shadows, a large number of drones standing, waiting. They had been there all along, he realised, probably a plan to ambush the party, with Reb as bait. He felt the spider device clench through his clothing and onto his skin. He turned back to face front, and then afforded a glance to his right. He could see them now, approaching from round a bend, oblivious to what awaited them.
The half-Ferengi had always been able to emotionally remove himself from a difficult situation. This was no different, and he found himself able to reflect on his options – this was a test, after all. Without further consideration, he blurted out a warning, careful not to telegraph his intention to the drone by taking a deep breath or turn his head.
Only one and a half words he managed to get out: Captain and No. Then he felt a prick in his shoulder, and the whole room spun.
When he felt the dizziness subside, Reb opened his eyes. Hot, dry dusty ground bled in front and behind him. A virtually cloudless blue sky contained a high sun, beating down with ferocious heat. On either side of him, stretching some thirty metres, wooden, rickety buildings with raised porch fronts. He felt an unusual pressure around his waist – he looked down, and saw a gun belt, a large, shiny metal gun with a well-worn wooden handle rested in the holster. Pinned to his jacket lapel was a silver star, the tips blunted and round.
“Oh, great,” Reb said, then louder he shouted: “You have a strange sense of irony, Lirik.”
* * *
IN THE HOLODECK NEXT DOOR
Ambassador Narli had been forced to partake in three complex trade negotiations. The first as a Starfleet supply officer conducting business with Norsicans, the second as a Macquis fighter with another faction, and finally a gruelling process with the former Grand Negus of Ferengi himself, though the small man who’d sat in front of him squealing away had been a much much younger version of the great Zek.
Now, Narli was enjoying piloting a shuttlecraft around the moon of Antares 3. It was an unfamiliar course, despite its reputation, and yet he could fly the small craft about it with great ease. He was thankful for the rest after so much talking and thinking, though his ears still rang with the Rules of Acquisition and not just a few Zek-isms in that irritating grating echo of a voice.
The comm panel trilled lightly. “Starbase 18 to Shuttle pod 5,” a rich, deep male voice.
Narli pressed the lit control. “Shuttle pod 5 here, go ahead.”
“We’re receiving a distress signal across a secure channel,” the voice explained. “Co-ordinates are 245 mark 21, distance, seven thousand kilometres. Please investigate.”
“Confirmed,” Narli said, and slowed his craft. He wasn’t about to steam into a potentially dangerous situation without some forethought. He made scans of the coordinates – slap in the middle of an asteroid patch. The rocks there contained minerals and radioactive ores that interfered with all sensor and comm signal, but on the up side were large enough and spaced apart enough to manoeuvre the shuttle pod safely between.
Deftly the Ambassador guided the ship to the border of the patch and keeping one eye on his position and another on proximity sensors, he wound his way through the labyrinthine rock field.
The Andorian slowed the craft to thrusters as he rounded a medium size asteroid and faced his destination – a huge, elongated rock, apparently sheered off at one end by some catastrophic encounter eons ago. Visually he saw no wreckage, no smouldering impact point, no nothing. Carefully he steered the ship forward until he was merely eight hundred metres above. He tried sensors, but they were waveringly inaccurate. He opened the micro scanner and placed his trained eyes against the rubber sockets. Gradually he scanned across the irregular surface. A light trill – the proximity sensor.
But when Narli looked up, he saw not a tumbling rock, but a K’Tani vessel, like those that had pursued them over their weeks of escape. Narli activated thrusters and flew toward it, ramming speed – an Andorian tactic – and at the last, nosed it down and away.
As he passed under it, the entire vessel was enveloped in a thick white fog of static. He couldn’t describe the feeling as he witnessed the ship split apart all around him – but just as soon as he realised what was happening, the scenario had changed. He sat sprawled on the corridor of the Fantasy. Klaxons were sounding, and smoke and fire assaulted his senses.
“All hands abandon ship,” the Commodore’s voice, across the intraship comm channel. “Repeat, all hands abandon ship.”
The Ambassador sprung to his feet – he immediately saw the emergency exit lights shining out from within the carpet and followed them rapidly along the broken and burning corridor. “Help me!” a voice called. Narli turned – it was a female Helan, pinned under a fallen beam.
The ship rocked violently and fire erupted further down the corridor. Narli didn’t hesitate to lend a hand, and with almost super strength, hoisted the beam off the crewman and heaved it to one side. He saw straight away her legs were crushed. He realised the scenario could be hours into a battle, and possibly this crewperson had been trapped for some time. Toxic shock was a real possibility – though he knew he had a short amount of time before that happened.
The Andorian hoisted the woman over his shoulder and sped off as fast as his long legs would carry him under the weight. She was still conscious, though groaning and beginning to flop in his arms. Ten seconds later, they had reached an exit stairwell. Narli cursed as he ran down the flight to an escape pod landing – all three had been deployed. The next level revealed two available. Narli cracked the emergency launch panel and threw his patient aboard. He stepped over the threshold and deactivated the auto launch. He sealed the door and reached for the med kit. He scattered the contents quickly on the floor and found the hypo spray and appropriate chemical mix.
At this point he put the spray in his mouth, braced himself and detonated the explosive release pins – far faster than the auto thrusters. Still travelling at 5Gs, the Andorian plunged the hypo spray into the woman’s neck, hit the zero g and twisted in mid air to face the window through which he could see the Fantasy’s broken, energy spewing length growing more and more distant. He hit the external scan, and detected the anti-matter build up immediately. Narli grabbed the manual steering column and hit the override control, slowing the pod and turning it side on to the Fantasy. He braced himself around his patient as he saw a white flash outside the window, then seconds later felt the pod buffeted by the explosion.
As he turned to the woman and reached for a tricorder, the scene shimmered again.
This time, it was not going to be so easy.
A single Andorian fighter jet stood proudly before him on the departure deck of the Regional Security HQ, just as it had done many years ago. It was sunset on Andoria, a pale blue-green-yellow haze blending slowly into the peppered star lit sky. The huge mother planet was just emerging on the horizon. Narli rose to his feet, brushing himself down.
Unexpectedly, the cockpit opened. Seated in the normally unoccupied rear position sat Captain Christian. “Coming aboard?” he called.
Narli strode over to the jet and he stood, arms folded under Christian’s position. “Is this absolutely necessary, Captain?” he asked. “I’ve had extensive therapy. My nightmare is long since over.”
“Sure,” Christian said. “Just come aboard, will you? I’ve been dying to fly in one of these for years.”
The tall blue man sighed and in three familiar steps he was climbing into the pilot’s seat. The nostalgia and familiarity of it all caused a smile; aside from one fateful evening they had been good, uncomplicated times.
“Paventha Province?” Narli asked the Captain as he donned his helmet and closed the cockpit canopy.
“How did you guess,” Christian grinned.
* * *
OUTSIDE HOLODECK 8, SOME TIME AFTER
Several hours later Lirik stood in front of his own door to a holosuite. He was flanked on one side by a confident looking Commander Struckchev and a slightly more apprehensive Commodore Jackson and on the other by a bemused Lieutenant Commander Leonard and a keen faced Lieutenant O’Hara, each standing before their own respective doors.
“Good luck everyone,” Christian said, though Lirik assumed the words were not meant particularly for him.
The door slowly opened and Lirik immediately entered. As the doors shut behind him, the room went entirely pitch black. A chilling throat rasping sound came from nearby, coupled with nasal whimpering. Lirik adjusted his environment shield and the effect illuminated a different room of some kind – possibly a bridge, given the layout – the chairs, handrail and the bank of consoles behind him. The deck vibrated slightly like that of a starship but one that felt adrift. (If this were a real situation, Lirik knew he would be able to ‘feel’ the space around him, determine if they were near a planet or a sun)
Something touched his boot. He bent down and through the gloom he saw a very badly disfigured female Starfleet officer, still alive somehow, but clearly in great pain and discomfort. Huge, orange liquid filled sacs had formed on her skin like blisters. They covered her body and face and fought for space like quickly expanding bubbles. As they popped, the liquid burned her skin and clothing, bursting other sacs and new cysts formed in the bloody mess underneath.
Lirik instinctively pulled back, and then spied a medical tricorder (conveniently) on a console beside him. Grabbing it, he scanned the female, guessing it could only be Elmo’s Disease, a rampantly contagious virus passed through the air and deadly to any non-reptilian skinned species. His assessment was accurate.
Power suddenly lit the room – it was the bridge of an old Posiedon class scout ship. He and the convulsing female officer were the only two people present, it seemed, though her card was clearly marked. A wisp of smoke from the seal of a nearby support strut indicated that an escape pod had probably just been launched.
“Power back on line, bridge, but still no transporters,” a disembodied voice over static suddenly broke the silence.
Lirik stepped over the dying woman toward the helm and activated the view screen. They were in orbit above Earth – the site of the beautiful world currently out of reach choked him, caused him to hesitate. In the far distance he saw a speck moving away at speed, the slight orange glow of thrusters being engaged as it got closer to the planet’s upper atmosphere.
He accessed tactical. Sure enough, it was a single pod that had just been released from the ship. He scanned it – one occupant, a child, with the symptoms of fully developed Emo’s Disease.
“Escape Pod, come in!” Lirik urged. He stabbed a couple of controls to find out what he was up against: twenty seconds to upper atmosphere.
The disease was so potent, so contagious it would spread almost instantly across hundreds of miles once in the lower atmosphere. He had to get the pod back on board immediately – it was either that or vaporise it. He checked his distance – there wouldn’t be time to reach it, or to activate a tractor beam.
Instinctively, Lirik targeted the pod with a photon torpedo and fired. “This is your last chance, pull up now!” he shouted: he could still detonate the weapon before impact should the pod retreat. No response. And no change of course from the pod. Its fate was as surely sealed as the woman at his feet. Lirik counted the seconds until the blast occurred. He tapped sensors – confirmed, one disintegrated pod, contagion eradicated.
The room rippled and changed. Suddenly he was sitting in a Jem Hadar prison cell. The only other occupant was a madly screaming Human baby. And from the smell of it, its nappy needed changing.
This was going to be a long afternoon of tests.
* * *
ACT 4