SIX

Twenty-one Years Ago

Leonard McCoy sits in the back of Doctor Ducey’s philosophy class and complains a lot. He doesn’t think he’s complaining loudly—just loud enough for Kotchian next to him to laugh at every one of his jokes. However, four weeks into the class a girl three rows in front of him turns around and says, “What is your problem?” She is a bit shorter than Leonard, with shoulder-length brown hair and a round face. Pretty cute.

“My problem,” Leonard says, “is that I have to take Introduction to Extraterrestrial Philosophy. If I wanted to know what The First Song of S’task was, I’d buy the album.” Leonard hopes she’s not a philosophy major, because then she’s only going to become more annoyed with him.

“It’s not that kind of song!” she hisses back. “It’s a long-form philosophic poem that tells—”

“And if I’d wanted to know all that,” replies Leonard, “I’d be paying attention instead of complaining.”

Kotchian taps Leonard on the shoulder, nodding toward the front of the class, where Doctor Ducey is staring pointedly at him. He clams up for the rest of the class, but the next time it meets, he moves down a couple of rows, sitting right behind the girl.

“What are you doing?” she asks, turning around. She acts exasperated, but there is a twinkle in her eye.

“Since you seem so interested in extraterrestrial philosophy, I figured I’d see if some of that could rub off on me.” Leonard hopes he’s right about her. Meeting someone in class seems to be his best bet, given how little time he has for socializing these days. He hasn’t been on a date since his freshman year.

“Good luck with that,” she says. “It’s plain you’re not interested in hard work.”

“I work hard every night,” he replies. “On things that are actually important and interesting. It’s not my fault that zh’Mai and Shran of Andor are so blasted dull.”

“And what do you find interesting?” she asks. “Crabbing and Whining 101?”

“You, my dear,” he says with a wink.

She rolls her eyes and turns to face forward with a sigh, but Leonard continues to sit there every class. In two weeks, they’re “study buddies”—in another two, they’re dating.

Her name is Jocelyn Darnell.

Stardate 4757.7 (1604 hours)

Kirk watched the smooth walls of the elevator shaft move past them, slowly picking up speed as the open cage made its descent. “How long until we enter the cavern?” he asked Chekov.

The ensign was studiously peering at his tricorder. “Thirty seconds, sir.”

The captain nodded and checked the setting on his phaser. With the level of interference they were getting, there could be anything down there. He knew Giotto thought Yüksel was dead, but Kirk was not going to leave this planet until they found him. With the Enterprise delayed by unknown forces, they were on their own.

The mottled gray rock of the shaft edge suddenly vanished, and Kirk found himself looking into a vast cavern from above. Thanks to a soft blue glow that seemed to come from everywhere, he could see thousands—tens of thousands—of cylindrical objects, roughly three meters high and one meter wide. They dotted the floor in the same confusing spiral patterns as the city streets above. The platform continued its rapid descent, and the capsules had already grown bigger, enough that he could make out details.

Chekov’s tricorder was beeping busily. “They are all powered, sir,” he said, reading the scan results. “And I believe I am picking up… life signs.” He looked up, a smile forming. “Something is alive down here!”

Kirk nodded. “Careful, Mister Chekov.”

They had nearly reached the floor of the cavern, and Kirk could finally see the capsules up close. They were silver, a blue light emanating from their insides through transparent paneling all around their circumference.

Inside each one was a tall octopus-like creature, resembling something out of a particularly imaginative child’s nightmare. Each sleeping alien had a fat body with protrusions on top, limp tentacle-like appendages serving as legs, and possibly as arms, too. Difficult to say more, since they didn’t move, calmly standing in the blue light, immersed in a transparent liquid—maybe water.

With a loud clang the platform hit the ground of the cavern and stopped. “Are those things cryopods, Mister Chekov?”

“Yes, sir,” said the ensign. “The creatures’ life signs are slowed down. They are in suspended animation.”

Kirk put his hand on the gate of the cage. “We’re going out there,” he said. “Behind me, phaser and tricorder out. Send the elevator back up. I’m calling the rest of the landing party down here.”

The Hofstadter shook and rattled, the wind from above buffeting it time and again. Scotty sat in the navigator’s seat and sent course corrections to Spock as they attempted to continue their journey south, toward the hub of the reactor network. Scotty’s scans were frustrated by the ever-worsening interference.

“Commander,” Jaeger’s voice came from the back, “my projections show there’s a high danger of lightning up ahead.”

“Thank you, Mister Jaeger,” said Spock, not looking up from his controls. “Please feed the data to Mister Scott. Mister Scott, please locate a safe landing site.”

“Aye.” Scotty grimaced as the data came in. The storm kept on growing larger; it now covered half the southern continent. They had to go to ground now—the interference to the shields was increasing.

A shock of white light filled the cockpit of the Hofstadter. A second later, the entire shuttle jolted to starboard, nearly knocking Scotty out of his seat. “Mister Scott,” Spock said, unflappable as ever, “a safe location, if you please.”

“I’m working on it!” The Vulcan might be ineffably calm, but it was almost impossible for Scotty to concentrate. He hadn’t had to do his own navigation in conditions like this since he was a young lieutenant. Finally, he located a nearby metropolis with a number of low buildings that would shield them from the wind, worked out a course, and submitted it to Spock’s console.

Spock nodded in acknowledgment as the data flooded in. “Thank you—”

The world exploded then, and Scotty was flung forward. His eyes and ears were overwhelmed, leaving him in a light daze. It took him precious seconds to react; his hands flew out barely in time to stop his face from smashing into the console. The controls hurt his palms, even as his mind wondered why the inertial dampers weren’t working. He struggled to move back into his seat, but the shuttle was careening out of control in the wind and the rain. The g forces were pulling him down, whirling him out of his chair and onto the floor.

On all fours, he barely managed to turn his head to look for Spock. Like himself, the commander had been knocked to the floor of the shuttle, but he managed to pull himself up slightly against the overwhelming force. However, even with his Vulcan strength he was only able to peer at his readouts. “Lightning strike!” he shouted, barely loud enough to be heard over the roar of the storm and the straining of the engines. “Main controls have shorted out.”

Scotty reasoned fixing that problem was more important than reaching the navigation console, so he stopped trying to get to his feet, and instead began crawling aft. Most of the shuttle’s crew had also been knocked out of their seats, and as Scotty passed Lieutenant Kologwe, he tapped the security officer on the shoulder. “Take navigation!” he shouted above the din.

“I can’t get up there!”

“Do it! Spock needs your help!” Thankfully she was professional enough to shut up and go, inching forward by gripping the bases of the seats as she passed them. He did the same in the other direction.

M’Benga and Jaeger had been fortunate enough to remain in their seats, but they had a hard time holding on to them, looking as though they might get thrown off any moment. Onward—no time to gawp. The engineer was making progress, but he had to use up his last reserves of determination and strength. Eventually, he reached the aft wall of the compartment, where he’d be able to gain access to most of the shuttle’s controls. The access panel he wanted was near deck level, easy to reach from his position. It opened without a hitch, revealing a twisted mass of cables and circuits that let off a whiff of burnt connections.

Behind him, Scotty was aware of more shouting from Kologwe as she and Spock attempted to get the shuttle under control. Saloniemi yelled something indiscernible.

The transtators beneath the access plate were burnt out, leaving Scotty no choice but to yank them all out as fast as he could. They went flying over his shoulder, now useless. There was no time to replace them all; he needed to bypass them in order to get the signals to the correct junction.

Where could he get a spare transtator now? Yes! Grinning, he yanked his communicator from his belt and pushed the release that opened the back of the device. Its innards were arranged around a transtator. Carefully, he unhooked it and slotted it into one of the empty spots.

“You should have engine control now!” he yelled. Well, some control, anyway. Enough for the moment. Scott briefly wondered if the others could even hear him, but then he felt his chest lighten, the painful forces no longer threatening to squash him. The shuttle had stabilized.

Losing no time, he pulled himself to his feet. Forward, Spock was once again seated at the pilot’s controls as if nothing had happened, with Kologwe next to him. The noise of the straining engines had eased off, leaving only the storm to shout over.

“Excellent, Mister Scott,” said Spock, loud enough to be heard clearly. “Can you restore full engine control?”

“Aye. I’ll have to bypass the mains six ways from Sunday.”

“I would prefer that you did not wait until Sunday, Mister Scott. Speed is of the essence, given that shields now seem to be completely inoperative.”

Scotty wanted to know how the interference could have grown so much worse so quickly, but he needed to focus on the matter at hand. He ran some quick mental calculations. Even leaving some leeway for unexpected difficulties, it would take him about ten minutes to finish the job.

“Half an hour, Mister Spock.”

“Hold her steady, Lieutenant.”

Hikaru Sulu winced. Had he really just said that aloud? There was no order a helm officer hated more. It wasn’t as if Lieutenant Rahda needed a reminder to do her job.

“Aye, sir.”

This was his first time in command during a crisis since the Klingon war, and that had been over a year ago. When Captain Kirk and Mister Spock were off ship, Scotty was usually in command. Sulu wanted to show that he was up to the challenge. He wanted a command of his own.

Flying the ship was what he did best. But he knew better than to try to fly the ship and command.

Lieutenant Rahda was doing an excellent job. The Enterprise was moving forward at maximum impulse, and hadn’t encountered a single problem. Without the warp drive active, the ship was in normal space.

Smooth sailing.

Yeoman Lawton crossed from her console to hand him a data slate—fuel consumption reports, damage requisitions. Even in the middle of a crisis, there was still paperwork to be pushed. He skimmed the reports, his eyes drawn to that line at the bottom. “COMMANDING OFFICER, U.S.S. ENTERPRISE.” Someday, that would really be—

A quiet beeping from the front of the bridge drew his attention. The red warning light between the helm and navigation consoles was blinking insistently. “Report,” he said.

Farrell at navigation pressed some buttons and inspected the spatial plot. “I’m not sure, sir.”

Sulu turned his chair to face the science panel. “Rodriguez?”

The science officer looked at the display on his console. “Distortion ahead, sir.” Rodriguez gulped noticeably as he studied the readout. “Real-space distortion ahead, sir.”

“Full stop!” Sulu called out the command before Rodriguez had even finished his sentence, but it was too late.

The deck dipped forward, knocking him into the chair’s armrest. Holding on to it, he could only watch as Rodriguez tumbled and fell.

A moment later, the science console fizzled, gentle sparks flying out in every direction. All its screens went dark. The briefest of moments later, it exploded, fragments of metal and plastic pelting Rodriguez, who was lying on the deck, moaning.

Sulu swiveled forward to discover with horror that both Rahda and Farrell had been thrown face-first into their consoles by the phenomenon’s force. Farrell was slumping backward in his chair, apparently unconscious. Rahda’s face was resting on her controls, a bright stream of blood trickling down them.

Sulu vaulted out of the captain’s chair and pulled Rahda upright in her chair. Her body was limp, her face covered in blood.

As he hurried to cut all power to the forward engines, another loud explosion from the front starboard corner of the bridge overpowered his senses for an instant. Very quickly, smoke filled the air. Lawton had been thrown from her station, and the console was on fire.

“Stay away from all the controls!” Sulu shouted. “Harper, get Farrell!”

As the engineer moved, Sulu finally succeeded in canceling forward thrust, but it didn’t look like it was going to be enough. He put the ship into reverse, building up the power as fast as he could. The Enterprise needed to get out of this distortion before—

The navigation console sparked and then belched out an enormous gout of smoke. Sulu hadn’t noticed Ensign Harper grab Farrell, but the navigator wasn’t there anymore, thank goodness. The force of the explosion knocked the unconscious Rahda out of her chair, and Sulu had to hold on tight to maintain his footing.

The Enterprise was pulling out of the distortion, but it was careening out of control now. He had to stabilize it, had to stop it from spinning off into space and even more trouble.

His hands sped over the controls as fast as they could. He didn’t have much time. The explosions had worked their way across the bridge from starboard to port.

There was a sudden flash of light and a loud noise. And then Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu didn’t see or hear anything at all.

Despite the stunning sight before him, Jim Kirk was frustrated. Their discovery of a sentient species cryogenically hidden from prying eyes would redefine the Enterprise’s mission of exploration in this sector, but that didn’t help them find their missing crewman.

Tricorders picked up thousands of Farrezzi life signs—Chekov estimated there were thirty-four thousand cryopods in this chamber alone. Who knew how many more of these chambers were hidden away beneath the planet’s surface, but there were no human life signs. None at all. Part of Kirk wanted to wake one of the aliens up and yell at it, demanding the location of his missing man. But, rationally, he knew that would be absurd.

“Captain.” Chekov’s voice rang out from around the other side of a row of pods. The landing party had fanned out, but Kirk had ordered everyone to stay in visual range of one another.

“Over here, Mister Chekov,” he answered. “Not too loud, remember.” Giotto had advised caution until he and Tra could ascertain that they were truly alone.

The ensign squeezed between two pods to join his captain. Barely able to contain his excitement, Chekov pointed at the pod in front of him. “Captain, this is remarkable. These beings are perfect pentamerian organisms!”

“Excellent, Mister Chekov.” Kirk waited a beat. “Now assume I don’t share your expert knowledge of biology.”

He had kept his voice light, but it still looked like the ensign was actually turning red. “Sorry, sir. They are radially symmetrical, in five roughly equal parts, like many species of Earth starfish, for example. That’s why we can’t pick a front or a back side, sir. There’s little about sentient pentamerians in our scientific literature, but what’s there leads me to think the Farrezzi can move in any direction without changing their orientation.”

“Remarkable.” Completely nonhumanoid sentients were rare. Kirk peered at the alien closely. “I don’t see a mouth.”

“That’s because we would expect it at the front, which doesn’t make sense from an anatomical standpoint.”

Chekov was clearly enjoying himself. Maybe the ensign would stop beating himself up over what had happened to Yüksel.

Chekov explained, “If you have five limbs and can move in any direction, the only parts of you that stay more or less the same regardless of where you’re facing are the upper and lower ends of your torso. If you look closely, you can see a… an aperture, there on top. Given that it is ringed by five eyestalks, I am tempted to say this is the Farrezzi’s mouth.”

The captain had a closer look, and he could see what Chekov was pointing at. The protruding eyes were closed, but it was clear what they were. Looking almost like the eyestalks of a crab, only many times bigger and equipped with eyelids, they were placed equidistant around the central torso. There was no clearly definable head, at least none that the captain could make out, since the torso, almost as long as Kirk, started out wider at the top and grew thinner at the bottom. The five limbs were attached below the torso’s halfway point. He imagined they could serve as both arms and legs.

“Good work, Ensign. Continue your scans. I’m going to talk to Ensign Seven Deers.”

A minute’s walk brought him to where Seven Deers was investigating a pod. However, she was more interested in its machinery than its inhabitant. Tubes ran along the floor of the chamber, connecting to each pod, and she was crouched on the floor, scanning them. “Report.”

“These are complete environments, Captain,” she said, not looking up. “Supplying the Farrezzi with water, air, and nutrients.”

“Air?” Kirk asked. “Were they designed to protect them from the planet’s toxicity?”

She nodded. “I think so. They slow the body’s metabolism through a chemical means. The system also seems to need a constant supply of water. All of the pods are connected to a system drawing water from elsewhere, probably subsurface.”

The entire population had fled underground to avoid their planet’s environmental collapse. It was a risky move, but Kirk had seen civilizations that had destroyed themselves. “Impressive.”

“One more thing, sir,” Seven Deers said. “It looks like the control mechanisms for this facility are at the north end of this cavern, the area beneath the launching complex. If Yüksel is down here—”

“Then he might have headed—or been taken—in that direction.” Kirk flipped open his communicator. “All hands, this is the captain. Converge on my location. We’re heading to the part of the chamber beneath the launching complex. If Yüksel is down here, that’s where he’ll be.”

“Who would have taken him, sir?” asked Rawlins. “Everyone down here is asleep.”

“Good question, Lieutenant.” Kirk mulled over the possibilities. “My instinct is that it’s some Farrezzi, who stayed awake to guard this place. Yüksel may have set off some alarms.” The captain looked at the rows of pods, the bluish light illuminating the life-forms within them. Too bad this survey had to turn into a manhunt. “We can explore this place after we get him back.”

McCoy didn’t understand how the Enterprise could have encountered another of those space-time ripples at sub-light. Nevertheless, he’d made sure to keep himself safe this time, clinging to his desk at the first sign of trouble. This quick reaction meant, of course, that he was ready to spring into action once the bucking stopped.

One minute after the Enterprise hit the distortion, he ordered the nurses to go through sickbay and discharge anyone remotely fit for duty, anticipating more casualties. Thank goodness they’d already sent quite a few of them to their quarters early on. His comatose espers would have to wait. As McCoy changed into a clean surgical smock, he briefly considered what effect yet another delay in finding a treatment for their affliction might have, but pushed the thought aside.

Easy to ignore problems you’re not capable of handling, isn’t it?

There was Jocelyn’s voice. What was wrong with him? He’d been in stressful situations before, but he’d never heard voices.

I told you—you’re out of your depth this time, Leonard.

He’d have liked nothing more than to shut the voice up, but finding out how would have to wait. For now, he needed to get to work. McCoy rounded up the med techs and told them to double-check every cart and every tray, and if there was some item missing, they were to replace it. He couldn’t afford to waste time during emergency surgery.

Two minutes after the Enterprise hit the distortion, the first casualty was at his door: Petty Officer Carriere, who’d been flung by an exploding computer console. What the hell was going on out there? Dozens of lacerations all across the face, where little bits of metal had buried themselves with enormous force.

This was going to be ugly.

Burns, broken arms, cracked ribs, concussions, the gamut. McCoy was fairly certain that there wasn’t a single type of crash injury he hadn’t seen today. Injury reports kept on coming in over the comm, but they were having trouble just keeping up with what was already in sickbay.

Ten minutes after the Enterprise hit the distortion, he was examining a bruised lieutenant from the history department. She was sitting in a chair in his office, since all the biobeds were full—even those in the examination room. The incident had left her with a nasty cut on her forehead, but he’d have that healed in no time.

“So, Lieutenant Watley,” he said as he moved the regenerator over her wound, “anything else you feel the need to report?”

The young woman regarded him with a quizzical expression. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, even though he did, “anything out of the ordinary. Are you hearing voices, for instance? Imagining things? Memories suddenly come to life, that sort of thing?”

Her expression grew confused. “Uh, no, sir. Should I? I mean, it’s only a minor head wound.”

“Are you a doctor, Lieutenant?” he said, though the accompanying smile took the edge off his words. In fact, McCoy was asking her these questions not because he believed her injury could cause her to hallucinate, but because he was unsettled by what was happening to him.

“No, sir,” she said, suitably chastised. “I haven’t heard or seen anything unusual. Sorry, sir,” she added when she saw his face.

“Don’t worry about it. Routine questions in head wound cases. Everything can be a symptom of something, and I’d hate to miss it because I failed to ask a stupid question.”

Maybe he was losing his mind, then. For now, the only thing he could do was keep on working.

Sixteen minutes after the Enterprise hit the distortion, Ryan Leslie returned bearing an injured comrade. His guards were bringing injured personnel here. It was Abrams who suggested going with them to either treat people on the spot or get them to sickbay. McCoy couldn’t spare many of his staff, but he also couldn’t afford for injured personnel to be lying out there, helpless, so he sent Abrams and Thomas out with the security people, telling them to cover the ship from top to bottom, checking names against the crew roster and making sure nobody was lying alone and helpless in their quarters, in need of immediate medical attention.

Only those who really needed the help were coming into sickbay, and many of them had been given first aid by their comrades.

Twenty-two minutes after the Enterprise hit the distortion, Uhura and Harper came hurrying into sickbay, the body of Lieutenant Sulu slumped between them.

“Uhura! What happened?”

Sulu’s face was covered in first- and second-degree burns, his uniform shirt partially blackened. A massive bandage on the back of his head was evidence that he’d apparently been thrown backward onto the deck. McCoy handed the dermal regenerator he was using on a crewman to Messier and went to give the two of them a hand. Together, they lifted Sulu onto a biobed that had been vacated only a few minutes before.

Uhura was covered in soot but seemed physically unharmed. “The distortion we hit was the biggest so far.” She was breathing heavily. “Normal space. Most of the bridge consoles… exploded from some kind of energy surge.”

McCoy was listening, but his mind was focused on the readings on the monitor above Sulu’s head. If he worked quickly, Sulu would be fine. But the doctor couldn’t afford to waste any time at all.

Uhura was now telling Harper to go back up to the bridge and get Rodriguez to help with Rahda and Farrell.

“What about Lawton?” asked McCoy, as he began loading up a set of hyposprays.

“She’s fine,” said Uhura. “Completely shaken, but physically okay. I told her to help out in the physics lab.”

“Good,” was what McCoy meant to say, but it sounded more like a grunt. Uhura’s breathing had slowed back down, and she seemed fine. But poor Sulu. So much for bringing the ship back to Mu Arigulon under his own command.

A realization hit him. “Wait a blasted minute! Who’s in command, now?”

Uhura thought for a moment that struck McCoy as uncharacteristically long. “Lieutenant DeSalle—he’s in auxiliary. I’m going to relieve him.”

“He’ll have his hands full in engineering,” said McCoy.

Uhura began to walk away, toward the exit.

“Wait!” McCoy grabbed a hypospray from his tray. “You should have thought of this yourself.” He jabbed the hypo into her arm. “You’ll need a stimulant. It’s been a long day, and it’s only going to get longer.”

Her eyes brightened almost immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be in auxiliary control if you need anything.”

McCoy watched her go, her upright frame indicating her confidence. She would handle the situation to her utmost abilities.

If only you were capable of the same.

He ignored Jocelyn’s voice and went back to working on Sulu.

Thirty-four minutes after the Enterprise hit the distortion, he lost his first patient.