FOUR

Stardate 4757.6 (1309 hours)

An emotional being might say that he “disliked” the rain. But for Spock, it was a matter of efficiency: a dry, still environment presented fewer obstacles than one where vision was limited, and even his sensitive hearing was impaired by constant noise. The landing party pressed forward in the pouring rain, into the alien town.

Spock had landed the Hofstadter next to a large, flat building, interposing the structure between the shuttle and the source of the wind. He left Ensign Saloniemi to work on analyzing the graffiti sent over by the captain’s team, and assigned Petty Officer Emalra’ehn to stay with him for protection. Spock had then set out into the rain with Commander Scott, Lieutenant Jaeger, Doctor M’Benga, and Lieutenant Kologwe.

Their destination was a tall, spindly structure 310 meters ahead, not as impressive as the needle-like towers the Columbus had discovered in the other city. Scans revealed it to be 55.7 meters high and 20.6 meters wide at its base, tapering to 3.1 meters at the top. Its façade lacked the rough surface of the other buildings. Instead, it was covered in tiles of a reflective and slightly translucent material that looked like glass, even through the rain.

Once the landing party gained access, they would attempt to locate the source of the energy reading. This was the only sign of active technology they had thus far encountered. Could it have something to do with Yüksel’s disappearance? Unknown, but even a single dormant computer with an active information store could prove invaluable.

The group moved along an extensive, straight stretch of road, made from a concrete-like substance that was covered in cracks with plants growing out of them. The conspicuous absence of vehicles on the roadways led Spock to theorize that the worldwide disappearance of the Mu Arigulon sentients had occurred in a relatively ordered fashion. Had the circumstances been chaotic, there would be abandoned vehicles.

The buildings were widely spaced, and the wind buffeted the landing party as it swept across the flat surface. Engineer Scott reeled, his poncho protecting him from the water but not the wind, but he managed to draw even with Spock.

“Mister Spock!” he shouted to make himself heard above the howl of the wind. “I want to know how come we havna seen any bodies? The sensors dinna pick up anything, there’s no trace of remains anywhere.” Wiping the rain from his eyes, Scott continued. “If there had been a planetwide catastrophe at some point, surely there’d be bodies still lying where they dropped.”

“Indeed, Mister Scott. I have been considering the same questions. So far, I am not able to offer any theories.”

“I just hope that whatever took them didna take Yüksel.” The engineer fell silent and continued to walk beside Spock.

“What happened to the population depends on how fast the atmosphere became toxic,” Lieutenant Jaeger explained. “It takes time for anything to spread over an entire planet. If they had enough time to think of measures to save themselves, that could explain why they’re gone.”

“What caused the toxicity?” Lieutenant Kologwe asked.

“There are a number of possibilities, but I think the natives did it to themselves,” Lieutenant Jaeger answered.

As they had seen during their orbital survey, the inhabitants had spread out across the face of the planet. Even though the native flora had begun to reclaim what had been taken from it, the scars left by extensive deforestation were still plainly visible. However, Spock could not rule out natural disasters such as volcanic gases, solar flares, or asteroid impacts.

“It must’ve been very bad,” M’Benga said. “We can consider ourselves lucky that the air’s breathable now.”

Jaeger nodded. “For us, it is. There’s no telling if the same would be true for the natives.” He wiped a hand over his face, futilely. “For all we know, they’d have to wait another two or three centuries before they could live here again.”

“Idle speculation will not help us in our search for answers, Lieutenant,” Spock said, needing to curb the geophysicist’s imagination, “especially since we have very little reliable information.”

“Aye, ’tis true.” Scott had stopped under an unusually shaped building that jutted out and provided some shelter. “I canna wait to get my hands on whatever’s making that reading.”

Spock stopped to let the others regain some energy. He remained in the open, surveying the area with his tricorder. Thanks to the pervasive growing interference, he had not yet been able to lock down any data on the energy reading. “You will soon have the opportunity to do so, Mister Scott,” he said. In Spock’s estimation, they would have to walk for seven minutes to reach their destination if they continued at their current pace. “I am aware that we are operating on a considerable number of untested assumptions. However, I trust our situation will soon change. If Ensign Saloniemi succeeds in interpreting the visuals discovered by the captain, we will be able to gain access to a wealth of information.”

Scott looked at him with an uncertain expression. “I just hope that doodles help us find our man.”

“All information is valuable, Mister Scott.”

Deciding that the brief respite had been enough, Spock gave the order to resume moving. Ahead of them stood the spindly tower, barely visible in the sheets of rain that continued to pour from above.

“It’s very interesting, Captain,” Seven Deers said, motioning at the now-open semicircle. It revealed a smooth and featureless tunnel, curving as it progressed. “It looks like there’s no way in, but it’s just camouflaged. I discovered it accidentally—I leaned against the wall.”

Kirk had to smile at that. “Good work nevertheless. How does it work?”

Seven Deers pointed at a dark blotch on the wall, at hip height and very inconspicuous, next to the semicircle. “This is a touch-sensitive button, sir. Press this, and the section of the wall retracts.”

Kirk wondered if it was subtle for aesthetics, or for another reason. The captain peered into the depths of the tunnel. The walls seemed to be made of the same hyperbonded material as the doors. They were unlit, but his flashlight revealed only a continuous surface.

They would have to go in one of these tunnels if they wanted to find Yüksel. Lacking any better option, Kirk decided to try this tunnel, the one he’d found the botanist’s flashlight in front of. He ordered Tra to relay their discovery about the doors to Spock’s team.

“Let’s go.” Kirk pulled his phaser out, and Chekov followed behind him, waving his tricorder in every possible direction. Giotto assumed the rear.

Every footstep the group took sent echoes up and down the tunnel, and Kirk had trouble differentiating them from noises that might genuinely be coming from the end.

Once they were out of sight of the original chamber, they came across another door, which was easily opened. This led into a smaller chamber, unlike anything Kirk had seen before. During his time in Starfleet, he’d visited many alien planets and seen many strange civilizations, but this was something else. The small room’s walls—all rounded—were dotted with holes leading into small tunnels.

“Be careful,” said Kirk. “We still don’t know what happened to Yüksel.”

With Chekov’s tricorder to guide them, they began to crawl into one of the tunnels. Kirk went first, his phaser in one hand and Yüksel’s flashlight in the other. The only noise was a low hissing sound. “Is that some kind of machinery, Mister Chekov? Pneumatics?”

Chekov fiddled with his tricorder for a moment before admitting, “Unclear, sir.”

Suddenly, Kirk lost his footing and tumbled forward onto the ground. His elbows and lower back ached slightly where he’d landed, but he ignored them and came up into a crouch. Cautiously, he waved his phaser back and forth, but there was nothing. He’d fallen into a small room. The hissing noise was a little louder, but there was nothing else in there.

A moment later, Chekov and the others entered the room behind him. They quickly ascertained that it had four more tunnels leading off in various directions—including one that was a straight vertical ascent.

“Whoever built this,” said Kirk, shining his light up the hole, “must have been very limber.”

Chekov nodded but said nothing, focusing on his tricorder. The captain realized that he was trying to make a good impression, trying his best to find their missing crew member.

“What way now, Chekov?”

Chekov shrugged. “I can find no life signs, Captain.”

Kirk considered for a moment. If they wanted to explore this place efficiently, they’d have to split up. The buddy system would be safest, even if it was a risk. “Tra and Rawlins, you take that one.” He pointed to the leftmost tunnel. “Seven Deers and Giotto, up the right one. Chekov, you’re with me.” He looked at the vertical tunnel above their heads. “We’ll have to wait for a champion rock climber to handle that one,” he said with a smile. “I want everyone to maintain a constant lock on each other’s life signs, and above all,” he added, “stay together.” The groups headed off.

Continuing through the tunnel, Kirk and Chekov soon realized that there was no smooth surface; instead it appeared as though they’d entered a large sponge. Holes and tunnels dotted this subterranean lair, some large enough for Kirk to step into without having to duck, while others were barely big enough for a child to crawl through. There were no flat surfaces anywhere, no angles, no hard edges.

Kirk moved into each new section of the tunnel with his phaser drawn, but there was never anything but that omnipresent hissing noise, not even lights. Finally they entered a room that was slightly larger than normal, with hollow bowl shapes set into the floor.

“What is this place?” Chekov asked. “It reminds me of the old government buildings in Moscow. Laid out to be as confusing as possible.”

“To make it difficult for people to get what they wanted?”

“We Russians invented bureaucracy, Captain.” There wasn’t a hint of irony in Chekov’s voice.

Kirk bent to take a closer look at objects that had been heaped in the hollows. He grabbed one at random and inspected it up close. It was soft and colorful and looked like the graffiti creature—a child’s doll?

Chekov’s tricorder chirped. “Sir, Commander Giotto and Ensign Seven Deers are headed this way.”

The captain nodded and continued turning the doll over in his hand, looking at the other similar ones on the floor. Had beings like this taken Yüksel? A few moments later, a noise caught his attention, and his head jerked up toward the other end of the chamber. Giotto and Seven Deers had squeezed themselves through a narrow hole.

“It’s easy to get turned around in this place,” said the engineer. She was staring at her tricorder, bewildered.

Giotto was holding a bright red cylinder. “Sir. It’s some kind of scroll.” He pressed a button on the end, and a screen popped out. “It’s got text, but even with the universal translator, it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Give it to Mister Chekov. I want scans sent to Saloniemi.”

Giotto handed the scroll to Chekov, not saying a word. Kirk knew that Giotto was taking his frustration at Yüksel’s disappearance out on the ensign. It had been over four hours since they’d received the interrupted message. It had been the scientist’s first time on an initial survey, and he’d been so excited. Kirk dreaded what would happen if they didn’t find him. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Yüksel. I regret to inform you that your son Fatih was lost on a planetary survey mission in the Høyland 5900 sector…

“Any sign of him, Commander?” asked Kirk.

Giotto shook his head. “I don’t think anyone’s been in here for a long time.”

Damn. With a dozen of those doors set off the basement of the tree chamber, they’d be searching a long time. The botanist could be behind any one of them, never to be found.

“Let’s head out and rejoin the others.”

They were going to find him.

She would not close her eyes even for a moment. The temptation was great, but she wouldn’t give in—didn’t dare to. Christine Chapel knew her body—she would try to stay awake, regardless of how tired she felt. People depended on her, patients as well as colleagues.

The situation in sickbay was beginning to come under control. The number of people coming in for treatment had trickled down to one during the past fifteen minutes. That injury had been minor: a broken nose, whose owner had had the misfortune of walking into a door that failed to open. It was easily dealt with, and a once again cheerful Lieutenant Riley walked out of sickbay, his nose showing no evidence of any recent mishap.

Despite the medical staff’s work, sickbay was still full of people who required intensive care. Crew quarters on the same deck were being changed into post-surgery recovery units, or PSRUs. Messier and Brent were out there, arranging the transformation. According to their latest status report, they were about to finish the last two rooms. The entire undertaking had taken only a short time. The medical drills Doctor McCoy occasionally ran were well worth the hassle.

Chapel turned her attention to checking on the skin patch that covered most of Crewman Polk’s right arm. Focusing on the task demanded her full attention. Her thoughts were a total mess, trying to draw her away from her work. It was an indication of how tired she was. However, she’d kept up her resolve not to use a stimulant. That was her final option; if the situation deteriorated enough that she couldn’t function without a hypo, she would have to think about the patients first, and herself second.

Chapel found herself thinking about her past—the people and things she had left behind for a career in space, her teenage ballerina phase that was over after the third lesson, the months of blue-eyed hope after her fiancé’s disappearance and the profound change that followed. It was all so long ago, but—

“Christine!”

She turned to see Cheryl Thomas approaching her. The younger woman had done sterling work today, unfazed by the confusion. “Yes, Cheryl?”

“How’re you holding up? You look like you’re going to fall asleep any moment now,” the nurse asked, her bun losing its ornate curl—evidence of long, demanding hours.

“I’m fine,” Chapel said. “And you’re exaggerating.”

“Look, you’ve done all you can to help these people; the least you can do now is look after yourself.”

“I’ll rest when there are no more patients that need to be treated.”

“Uh, right. So you want to stay up indefinitely, is that it?”

“No, of course not. I—”

“Nurse!” Doctor McCoy’s voice rang out across the ward. Chapel turned her head, glad for the interruption.

Yes, you’re glad because you know you’d lose the argument. How very responsible of you.

Chapel was angry at herself, because her inner voice was right. “Yes, Doctor?” she said to shut it up.

“Could you do me a favor and finish sealing this man’s lacerated eye?” He motioned at the supine figure on the bed next to him. It was Chief Yocum, the Saurian that had been in the recreation room with him during the most recent… shockwave, or whatever the cause of all this was.

It was simple work, perfect for her current state. She didn’t dare show McCoy how tired she really was.

“Christine,” he said softly. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

“Doctor?”

“Get some rest. We’re just about done here, anyway. A few hours of sleep’ll do you a world of good.”

He knew her too well.

The sound of the main sickbay doors swishing open saved her from having to reply. A group of security guards, led by Lieutenant Leslie, trooped in, bearing three redshirted people on stretchers. They swiftly moved them onto empty beds.

“What’s up?” McCoy asked, his short-sleeved arms crossed over his chest.

Leslie sighed, weariness evident in his face. The situation was taking a toll on everybody, in every department. Over the past few hours, security had been instrumental in getting those people to sickbay who couldn’t get there on their own. “Unknown,” Leslie said. “All three were off shift when the distortion hit, and should have reported to damage control. When they didn’t, Lieutenant DeSalle sent Galloway to see what had happened.”

David Galloway was the tall, strong-looking security officer standing next to Leslie. “I thought they were sleeping,” he said. “But it’s obvious they’re not.”

Their monitor readings corresponded exactly to those of Bouchard and Petriello. Doctor McCoy said somberly, “They’re in comas.”

“Sir?” asked Galloway, his forehead wrinkled in confusion and obvious worry. “The inertial dampers were fine on their deck. They didn’t even fall out of their bunks.”

Leslie shook his head. “We’ve already had two coma cases today. The doctor can’t figure out the cause there, either.”

“Not yet, Lieutenant,” the doctor said pointedly.

Nurse Chapel leaned over slightly to glance at the nearest unconscious figure.

“Okay, people,” Doctor McCoy said. “Y’all know what to do. We have three more cases of sudden-onset coma without apparent cause and rapid deterioration of brain functions. I need a steady supply of dalaphaline and three neural stimulators. What’re you waiting for?”

Chapel started toward the drug cabinet, her fatigue now a thing of the past. It was just as well; there’d be no chance for any of them to rest for a few hours.

Gaining access to the tower was simple once Tra had explained the procedure. The strange, semicircular door lifted, and the Hofstadter’s landing party went in. They were straining their necks to take in the interior.

It was breathtaking and unsettling at the same time. Scotty had expected a large space inside, like a hall of sorts. Instead, he was looking at something his mind was busy seeking comparisons for.

There were similarities to what he thought an anthill must look like inside, with tunnels and caverns. Or perhaps, if you happened to find yourself in a large block of Swiss cheese. The door had opened into a reasonably spacious cavern. A number of tunnels led into darkness. The only light they had available came from the open door and their flashlights.

After a quick security sweep by Mariella Kologwe, Spock gave them the go-ahead to search for a route to the energy source, which was near the apex of the building. Unfortunately, the structure was a labyrinth—there was no direct route. Spock, wanting to avoid further disappearances, split the landing party.

Scott and Doctor M’Benga set off to their assigned tunnel. Heads bent, they squeezed into a dark shaft leading gently upward from the entrance chamber. It was low, but wide enough to let them move side by side.

Their flashlights illuminated the passage ahead. Its sides were warped and twisted, creating nooks that could hide anything. Scotty kept glancing at his tricorder to check his surroundings. M’Benga, reticent by nature, kept pace quietly beside him. Scotty listened, hearing at first only their footsteps, but then… a whispering?

It was like someone talking very quietly, out of earshot. Scotty couldn’t pick out individual words—not even alien ones—but he knew language when he heard it.

“Do you hear that?” Scotty stopped and turned to face M’Benga.

The doctor’s face was more confused than fearful. “Hear what?”

Scotty grabbed his arm. “Dinna move,” he said, whispering. “You have to be very quiet.” M’Benga nodded and stopped where he was, waving his flashlight back and forth.

Nothing. Had his worried mind enhanced some small sound? A piece of ancient machinery stirring to life? Or had he imagined it entirely?

Or had the whisperers just fallen silent, hearing their approach?

“Let’s go,” Scott said at last. The silence was more unnerving than the whispering. “Are you picking up anything?”

M’Benga tapped some controls on his tricorder. “Nothing.”

“Aye,” said Scotty, “but I bet that’s what Yüksel thought too.”

After a few more minutes, during which the whispering never resumed, M’Benga suddenly stopped and moved his flashlight around. They’d left the shaft behind and now stood in a chamber. Scotty added his light to M’Benga’s to get an idea of where they were.

The chamber was roughly circular, and it was impossible to say where the floor ended and the walls began, because everything here was sloped and merged into something else. Even the furniture—at least, Scotty assumed it was furniture—was a part of the floor. Unlike the entrance chamber, this one was packed with items of different sizes and shapes. Scotty couldn’t even begin to guess what they’d been used for.

“Are any of these the source of the energy reading?” asked M’Benga.

Scotty checked his tricorder readings. “No,” he said. “It’s farther up. We have to find that energy reading—this can wait.”

They stepped into another tunnel, which rapidly changed from a gentle slope to a tight spiral. Scotty led the way, noticing that the intensity of the reading was growing. “We’re getting close!” he called behind him.

Scotty’s ears strained to hear a reply, but what he heard was more whispering, louder and clearer than before.

“I’m coming!” The doctor’s shout obliterated the whispers.

But they had definitely been real. They were too distinct to be the products of an overactive imagination. The engineer paused his clambering to get out his communicator. “Scott to Spock.”

“Spock here.”“

Commander, we’re getting close. And I keep hearing something—whispering or the like.”

“I have locked onto your current position, Mister Scott. We will join you shortly. Spock out.”

Scotty resumed climbing. They could be only a couple more minutes away at most.

“What are you doing?” asked M’Benga. “We should wait.”

“I want to see what’s up there,” replied Scott. The first working technology on a new planet! Maintaining his engines was Scotty’s passion, but getting to examine an ingenious contraption created by another culture was a close second.

“Mister Scott, I can hear it now. The whispering.”

Scotty listened for a moment. The sounds were more distinct, but they didn’t resemble words. The engineer had heard enough alien languages not to let that fool him. “Keep your phaser ready.” Difficult while climbing. He wasn’t getting nabbed by whatever was up there.

Scotty moved quickly up the last several meters of the spiral. He emerged into a large spherical chamber whose walls were covered screens displaying alien glyphs. A compact bronze-colored gizmo, roughly spherical, stood in the center of the room.

The whispering was everywhere.

Scotty cast around for its source. And there it was—a hole in the metal paneling, near floor level. He drew closer and saw that the noise was coming from damaged wiring inside the hole, which sparked and flashed. That was the source of the sound, not a group of aliens.

Scotty had holstered his phaser and was scanning the alien apparatus by the time M’Benga caught up. “What is it?” the doctor asked.

“Power generator,” Scotty replied. “Not a fusion one, like on the satellite, but a matter/antimatter reactor.”

“A warp engine?” asked M’Benga.

“Aye, but a very small one,” said Scotty. This was the first indication that the inhabitants of Mu Arigulon were a warp society.

“What’s it for?” asked M’Benga.

“That question,” Spock said from the chamber’s entrance, “has a surprising answer.”

Scotty turned to see Kologwe and Jaeger follow Spock into the chamber. “Sir?”

Spock ran his own tricorder over the generator. “Our explorations initially took us downward, where we discovered a massive underground power conduit. This structure is designed to generate power, but all of it is carried somewhere else, seemingly far away.”

“Where?” asked M’Benga.

“That is what I am attempting to ascertain, Doctor,” Spock said. “I see little need for the entire landing party to stand here while Mister Scott and I do technical work. Please join Lieutenants Kologwe and Jaeger in exploring the tower.”

M’Benga nodded and left with the other officers, while Spock resumed scrutinizing the generator.

“Annoyed, Mister Spock?” Scotty asked.

Spock glanced up from his work, but only for a moment. “That would be an emotional reaction, Mister Scott. I merely desired a less cluttered working environment.”

Scott smiled to himself—he knew annoyance when he saw it. He held up his tricorder, letting it take in the images on the wall. The universal translator could tell they related to energy levels and power distribution. But it still couldn’t parse the information; it needed more for a baseline.

The engineer dropped to the floor to examine the pedestal that the warp generator sat on, and quickly located a recessed panel. He tried to pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge. “Mister Spock, can you lend me a hand?”

In a matter of seconds, Spock had the panel open. It clattered onto the floor. Inside, Scotty could see a power conduit descending into the depths of the tower.

“Here, Mister Scott.” Scotty turned to see Spock examining the panel. The back had a diagram of a dilithium crystal, and labels on various lines going in and out of the image. He held the tricorder up to the diagram, and it began to beep as it recognized what some of the labels represented—physical measurements like the crystal’s stress level, goniochronicity factor, fourth-dimensional permeation, and so on. The tricorder matched those measurements with the crystal inside the pedestal, then combined them with the text in the graffiti and the information from the other displays, and soon the rest of the data cascaded into place and the tricorder had enough of a baseline to translate any text in the room.

“Sending the UT program to your tricorder, Mister Spock. Have you seen a master display anywhere?”

“Over here.” Spock directed him to a screen displaying the planet, with several lights set into it. One of them was blue, the rest red. Gray lines connected the red lines to the blue one. The blue light was lit, as were most of the red ones.

Spock ran his tricorder over the image. “Our current position corresponds to this red light,” he said, pointing. “It is labeled ‘generator nine.’”

“The red lights are power generators.” Scotty’s finger traced the line between their red light and the blue one. “What would need an output of almost a dozen warp engines to power it?” asked Scotty. “And why scatter them all over?”

Spock consulted his tricorder again. “It is labeled ‘main projector.’”

“What does that mean?”

“Mister Scott, we must find out.”

Scotty nodded in agreement. “Aye.”

Having retreated to his office, McCoy stared at the medical readouts of the three comatose security guards who had just come in: Salah, Fraser, and Santos. They were all espers—less powerful than Bouchard and Petriello, with ratings in the low 080s and high 070s, but that was still above the human norm. Out of curiosity, McCoy had looked up his own esper rating for comparison, and had found it to be 046, about as average as you could get.

Spurred on by a sudden insight, McCoy then pulled the esper ratings of the rest of the crew. The computer displayed the results as a list, in descending order of esper rating.

Some doctor you are. The first thing you should have done was figure out who could be susceptible to this!

Cron Emalra’ehn, a Deltan in security, was a full-blown empath, but he was off on the shuttles surveying Mu Arigulon. The next highest rating after the five victims was in the 060s, but that was well below the threshold of what was considered esper.

Six espers in a population of four hundred was an unusually large percentage. Three years ago, before McCoy’s time, all of the Enterprise’s espers had been killed on a mission. The doctor was determined not to lose these espers.

Being determined isn’t enough. You need results… and you’re not getting any of those.

He’d looked over the notes Mark Piper, the Enterprise’s previous chief medical officer, had recorded. A “negative energy” the ship had encountered had killed all of the espers on contact, except for two. They had been transformed into dangerously powerful beings. There was no apparent connection between that case and the current one.

McCoy brought up the displays of the five espers. Their decline had slowed, but they were still sinking. If he wasn’t able to find a solution soon, every one of them would die. The doctor was stumped, much as he hated to admit it. He rubbed his eyes. The sound of approaching feet made him look up. It was Chapel. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“Nearly done,” she said.

“No,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“All right. I’ve been worse.”

She didn’t look all right, but McCoy didn’t press the point. He probably looked awful, too, but they still had work to do. “Anything I should handle?” he asked, flicking off his monitor.

Chapel glanced at the list. “There’s Ryerson. Zoology specialist, first degree burns on his torso. Nurse Odhiambo’s treated him, and he’s okay physically, but I feel he might like to see a doctor. Do you think you have a moment to settle his mind? All you’d need to do is tell him he’ll be out of here in a little while.”

McCoy smirked. “I should be able to do that. Not that I’m capable of doing much else.”

Self-criticism? How novel. Funny what you come up with when you have enough time for reflection. Normally, you just keep on moving, moving, moving, leaving yourself no time for anything substantial. You push the past away from you and try to forget it, not because it’s good medicine, but because it’s what you’ve always done to avoid the pain. That’s not doctoring, it’s cowardice.

His thoughts were interrupted by the whistle of the intraship. “Sickbay here.”

“Bridge.” It was Lieutenant Uhura again. McCoy hoped she wasn’t calling to say they were going back to warp speed. That was the last thing he needed now. “Doctor, can you send someone up here? We’ve got a few injuries.”

A few injuries! The incident had been three hours ago. “Why did you wait so long?”

“We’ve been busy,” said Uhura drily. She sounded tired.

In three hours, a lot could go wrong, especially when the injured didn’t receive any medical attention. McCoy wondered what could possibly have been so important that they hadn’t found time to notify sickbay. “I’ll be right up.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Bridge out.”

“Let’s hope it’s nothing serious,” Chapel said.

McCoy gathered up his gear, saying, “Academy graduates don’t have an ounce of common sense. Trying to keep a stiff upper lip, while their arms fall off because they think it’ll impress their commanding officers.”

Sulu’s forehead was covered with a raised purple bruise, the result of an impact with the deck. His cheek and chin were bloody, and his lower lip was split. He looked like he’d been attacked by a mugato. McCoy ran his tricorder’s Feinberger over the lieutenant’s forehead, checking for any kind of internal damage.

“We have a crisis, Doctor,” Sulu said in defense when McCoy asked him to explain his state. “I needed to remain in command. I intend to bring this ship back to Captain Kirk in one piece.”

McCoy’s anger evaporated as he was suddenly struck by the impossibility of trying to live up to the image Jim always projected. Jim wouldn’t have reported to sickbay under these circumstances. McCoy knew that if Sulu didn’t bring the Enterprise back in himself, he’d feel like he’d let down the captain.

He shut off the Feinberger, watching as its analysis streamed into his tricorder. “How do you feel?” he asked.

Sulu shook his head, grimacing slightly. “I’m fine.”

Right. “I’d like you to come down to sickbay nonetheless. Everything looks all right, but it’s better not to take any chances where the brain is concerned.”

And this is a brain problem where you’d actually know what to do, after all. Unlike poor Bouchard and the rest.

Sulu squinted at him, dubious. “So nothing’s actually wrong?”

“No,” McCoy had to admit, “but there’s no sense in—”

“In that case, Doctor, I will remain in command of the Enterprise until the crisis abates. Please give me something for the pain.”

McCoy loaded up a hypospray but didn’t inject it yet. “Mister Sulu, I strongly advise that you come with me to sickbay and let us check you thoroughly.”

“Is that an order, Doctor?” Sulu was usually an open book, but McCoy was finding him hard to read.

Dammit. Under extreme circumstances, the chief medical officer could order a commanding officer to stand down if their ability to command was compromised. McCoy had threatened it on more than one occasion, but he’d never actually gone through with it.

“No,” he said at last, and jabbed Sulu’s arm with the hypo, injecting its contents into his bloodstream. “No, it’s not. But if you pass out up here, it will be.”

McCoy began working his way around the bridge, double-checking that everyone else was fine. He started with science, where Lieutenant Rodriguez was working to coordinate the results from several different labs analyzing the phenomenon. He kept repeating to someone on the comm, “That shouldn’t have happened. It doesn’t make any sense!” He looked harried and didn’t even say anything to McCoy other than a muttered “I’m fine.”

The yeoman on the bridge was Tina Lawton. McCoy didn’t know her well, but this had to be her first time in a crisis. She was handling it with aplomb. The incident had left her with a small gash on her forehead that was easily healed. As so often happened when he talked to young women, McCoy found his Georgia accent becoming a little bit more prominent. She seemed flattered by his attentions, and McCoy enjoyed it.

You would like it, wouldn’t you? Keep your mind on the job.

Rahda and Farrell at helm and navigation were taking readings. The Enterprise hadn’t advanced since hitting the last distortion. McCoy looked at the spatial plot between their consoles, but other than the fact that it was covered in squiggles, which must represent spatial distortion, he didn’t know what to make of it. The unsettling thing was that there were just as many squiggles in front of the Enterprise as there were behind it.

Ensign Harper’s red shirt was soaked with sweat, and McCoy injected him with an antiperspirant, telling him it was a stimulant. No sense embarrassing the man. Harper seemed to have his hands full running the damage control teams, their biggest problem being the power losses that had affected the ship with every distortion. There was no evident cause; none of the Enterprise’s energy systems had taken any damage.

McCoy had set up his journey so that he’d end with Uhura. Sulu was having an animated discussion with Rodriguez and Farrell about what route they should take. The doctor used the opportunity to get information. “Any word from the shuttles?” he asked quietly.

Uhura shook her head. “Every subspace signal we send into the zone of distortion comes right back to us about five minutes later. It’s like something is absorbing them and retransmitting them.”

“We were in contact with the landing party before, though.” McCoy frowned. “What changed?”

“The farther we’ve moved into the zone, the worse the distortions have become. Not just ahead of us, but behind us. We can pick up some really rough ones behind us, but if we’d hit them we wouldn’t be here.”

“So going backward isn’t an option?” McCoy asked.

Uhura took her earpiece out. “No more than going forward.”

“We’re going to continue forward,” said a deep voice close to him. McCoy looked up and realized that Sulu was now standing with the two of them.

McCoy glanced around the bridge, taking in the crew’s frantic discussions and the chirp of instruments. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“We can’t stay still,” Sulu said. “We have no way of getting a signal out. It could be weeks before another starship gets out here to look for us.” Only the very fringes of this sector were charted; there was no Federation presence beyond Deep Space Station C-15.

“We could send out a probe,” said Uhura, “but I’m not convinced it would survive long in the distortions.”

Sulu nodded. McCoy was struck by how calm he looked despite the giant purple bruise across his forehead. “That’s what I thought.”

It became clear that the young officer was looking for validation. He wanted someone to confirm that he was making the right decision. “Well, moving forward seems like our best bet to me,” McCoy said. “I’ll tell sickbay to brace for more casualties.”

Sulu’s spine seemed to straighten up at that, and he looked slightly more authoritative than a moment ago. “We shouldn’t hit any more distortions,” he said. “They’re only in subspace, so as long as we stay out of warp, they can’t affect us.” He glanced over at Rodriguez, who was listening to their conversation. “Correct?”

Rodriguez moved slightly closer to their impromptu conference around the communications console. “Yes, sir. More importantly, we won’t be able to affect the phenomenon. We think they’re feeding on the space-time distortions our engines create.” He rubbed his hand against his face. “It’s not my area of expertise, but Padmanabhan and Bellos in spatial physics are fairly certain…”

Sulu moved back to the command chair and sat down. “Course set, Mister Farrell?”

The navigator checked the plot to the left of his console. “Yes, sir. We are laid in for Mu Arigulon.”

“Maximum impulse, Mister Rahda,” Sulu ordered. McCoy was impressed by how quickly his deep bass voice had regained its authority, given how uncertain he had sounded a few moments ago.

You always mask your own uncertainty in complaints and crabbiness. Sulu masks it in authority and carries it off. Give him time and he’ll be as good as Jim. But everyone will always see straight through you.

“Maximum impulse, aye,” Lieutenant Rahda said. “Engaging engines.”

As she pushed the controls forward, McCoy imagined he felt the ship’s power throb through the deck beneath his feet. He quickly moved to the railing above the command chair—he didn’t quite trust Sulu and Rodriguez’s assertion that nothing would happen, and he wasn’t going to be tossed around again like last time.

As the Enterprise crept up to a significant fraction of light speed, McCoy tried not to let himself relax. He was afraid that whispering voice of self-doubt would creep in when he did.