Except for Casden.
Killed by one of his own, and perhaps with reason. Kirk didn’t want to consider it, but he couldn’t help wondering if Bones was right. The doctor had put forth a disturbing theory before they’d split up to search the ship, suggesting that Casden had shut off life-support and then been tracked down and shot by a survivor, the engineer. It would certainly explain a few things, a mad captain destroying himself and taking his ship and crew with him—madness needed no motive—but it also raised even more questions, the logistics alone giving pause . . . and although he had nothing to back him up, no clear evidence, Kirk’s instincts were telling him there was much more to the story behind the catastrophe, behind the terrible silence that had greeted their arrival.
He turned away from the pathetic trio in the supply closet, saddened and frustrated at the terrible waste, his heart pounding with it. The cold and poorly lit room was completely devoid of life, except for the mute blinking of the life-support controls across from him, a small handful of lights in a wall of equipment that should have been glittering with power. Knowing that the entire tragedy could have been avoided with just twenty minutes of work by a trained engineer, three of them trapped less than four meters away—it was intolerable.
An entire crew, dead, no accident and no explanation. Kirk walked slowly toward the live panel, thinking about the erased computer banks, wondering what they could have learned from the lost files. Spock had made it clear that it hadn’t been a straight-across wipe, that some thought had gone into it . . .
. . . and it doesn’t fit. The kind of psychotic personality it would take, to commit mass murder and destroy your own ship—would that kind of man take the time and effort to selectively delete files? And if you meant to blow up your own ship, why bother deleting them at all?
He stopped in front of the panel, staring down at it without really seeing, suddenly thinking about the routine physicals that McCoy was going to be conducting over the next few days. Thinking about the standard dermal-optic test required for all personnel, a test that would provide ample warning of an impending psychosis. People didn’t just snap and turn violent, not without some lead-up, not unless it was some kind of an affliction or disease . . . but the tricorder readings showed nothing unusual. With the medical files erased, there was no way to tell when the Sphinx crew had last undergone any kind of psychiatric evaluation, but certainly not more than six months, and most starship captains had them quarterly—
His communicator signaled. Kirk flipped it open, its gentle cricket sound overly loud in the silent room.
“Kirk here.”
“Spock here, Captain. The doctor and security personnel have returned to the bridge, reporting thirty-two deaths in addition to the two men here.”
“Add three more to the count, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said heavily, gazing at the repaired life-support system as he spoke. “I’m on my way now . . .”
He trailed off, peering closer at the console. The controls that regulated atmosphere and temperature, basic life-support, seemed barely damaged . . . though the panels next to it had been smashed to pieces, what could only be the reaction-chamber overrides—
—as though life-support wasn’t the target at all.
“Spock . . . have Mr. Scott bring a team over to assess the physical damage to the ship,” Kirk said slowly, not sure what he was looking for, not yet. “I want everything checked, bow to stern—and have him run tests for unusual energy fields or readings, anything out of the ordinary. Kirk out.”
He took a final, lingering look at the three people curled together in death, hoping that there had been some comfort for them in not dying alone—and as he turned to leave engineering, he realized that he was angry, furious, in fact. Someone, some black and twisted mind, had plotted and carried out this senseless nightmare, making these people die cold and in the dark.
Kirk
wouldn’t—couldn’t—let it go unpunished. If it was within his power,
he would find out who was responsible and see that they were
brought to justice, whatever it took. If it was Casden, he got off
easy.
Although he was certain of his findings to a negligible percentage, Spock went through the entire process a second time—accessing the personnel files for each crew member of the Sphinx and cross-referencing them with Dr. McCoy’s DNA samples, collected in their search of the small ship.
The science officer sat alone in a seldom-used conference room on deck nine, methodically reviewing each match with the computer. His presence was not required on the bridge, and though his quarters were certainly more comfortable than the room he’d chosen, he often preferred to work in such settings— the bland environment provided no distraction, and while his concentration skills weren’t lacking, he’d found that the complete absence of aesthetic quality frequently enhanced his ability to focus.
When Spock had concluded his task a second time, the results undeviating, he left the conference room and started for the bridge to tell the captain. The information was important, perhaps crucial to the Sphinx investigation, and Spock also wanted leave to return to the ship; his discovery required another search.
He reached a turbolift and stepped on, requesting the bridge. Alone on the lift, his thoughts centered around several interesting possibilities he hadn’t yet explored, as to the creation of the Sphinx’ s current circumstances. Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough information to fully consider any one of them—and though a number of his theories were highly improbable, he couldn’t decisively exclude any, either. Engineer Scott’s report would undoubtedly change things.
The atmosphere on the bridge was subdued, certainly an emotional reaction to the loss of life. The captain sat stiffly in his chair, resting his chin in one hand as he stared at the main screen, at the powerless Sphinx floating nearby. When he noted Spock’s appearance, he quickly stood.
“What have you got?”
“Assuming that Dr. McCoy’s DNA samples from the Sphinx’ s crew were properly gathered—and I have no reason to believe they were not—the human male responsible for shooting Captain Casden was not a member of his crew, nor is he registered in any Starfleet database. At present, I am unable to identify him.”
The captain frowned, considering the information. The Enterprise’ s medical library was extensive, maintaining a current DNA database for all Starfleet personnel, as well as a vast, ever-growing medical catalogue of Federation members. Anonymity was not rare, but an unidentified human on a starship was. Starfleet required that all non-Federation passengers on warp-capable vessels be reported.
“What about the rest of the crew?” the captain asked.
“All accounted for. Thirty-seven, including Jack Casden.”
“Last assignment?”
“That is unclear,” Spock said. “It appears they were due for ship leave, following a routine equipment drop for the Vega colony. The closest Federation stations to their last reported location were Starbase 19 and Deep Space Station R-5, but they are not listed as having docked at either.”
The captain’s frown deepened. “That’s a long way from here. Have you estimated their point of origin?”
“Uninhabited space, deep in the Lantaru sector,” Spock replied. “No colonies or planets capable of sustaining life within two light-years.”
The captain shook his head, an expression of frustration on his face. “It sounds like our best bet is to figure out who their mystery guest was, wouldn’t you agree?”
A logical conclusion. “Indeed. I would like permission to return to the Sphinx, to see if I can ascertain the unidentified man’s quarters. Perhaps a search of his belongings—”
“Permission granted. And see if you can help Mr. Scott hurry things along while you’re over there, I expected his report twenty minutes ago.”
Spock nodded assent and turned to leave, just as the captain’s intercom signaled. It was Mr. Scott, calling from the Enterprise transporter room.
“Report,” the captain said, and Spock stopped to listen, curious. The unusual developments thus far had been most interesting, and it was reasonable to anticipate further irregularities in their investigation. What the engineer had to say, however, was entirely unexpected.
“Captain, the damage inside her wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, mostly what we already thought,” Mr. Scott said, his tone one of barely restrained excitement. “Subspace communications were knocked out, and it does look like warp and navigation controls were the main targets . . . but you’ll never guess what we found on her hull—”
“Scotty . . .” The warning was inherent in the captain’s irritable interruption.
“The Sphinx has recently been exposed to a graviton field,” the engineer said, sounding as though he believed his statement was of unusual importance.
The captain cocked an eyebrow at Spock, who took the initiative. “Mr. Scott, naturally occurring graviton fields are extremely common, and quite harmless. That a ship traveling over such a distance might be exposed to—”
“Aye, aye, I’m not daft, Mr. Spock,” the engineer said, with great exasperation. Spock was about to state that he wasn’t trying to insinuate otherwise when Mr. Scott expanded on his original statement.
“It’s the type of graviton field. A while ago, when we met up with the Romulans and, ah, borrowed their cloaking device—for a short time after we used it, the hull of the Enterprise had the same kind of readings. Exactly the same, and the readings are like no other, there’s no mistaking them for something else. There’s not any evidence of such a device being used by the Sphinx, but I’d bet my own mother’s good name that she’s been inside a Romulan cloaking field, and recently.”
In spite of the confusing grammar—obviously, “she” was the Sphinx, rather than Mr. Scott’s mother—the revelation was significant, to say the least. Whatever the circumstances in which the Sphinx was exposed to a cloak, the implications, for the Federation as well as for Captain Casden, were potentially devastating.
“Fascinating,” Spock
said, and from the look on the captain’s face, he wasn’t the only
one who thought so.
Ever since the Enterprise’ s trip to the Gamma Hydra IV colony, and his fortunate resistance to the accelerated aging disease, Pavel Chekov was basically unnerved by even routine visits to sickbay. Not that he would ever admit to it, of course, he had his pride to think of, but those long, torturous hours of playing specimen had been hard to shake. And although he liked Dr. McCoy well enough, the words “just one more sample, Chekov” still haunted him occasionally, usually in anxiety dreams that also included him forgetting where his final Academy exam was being held.
Well, at least I’m near the beginning. Less time to dread it, he thought, standing outside sickbay. Right after Chase, just before Chesterton; five to ten minutes of physical and psychological testing and he could go back to the bridge, finished for another six months. It was where he wanted to be, anyway, considering what Mr. Spock and the captain had been talking about when he’d left—
The doors to sickbay swished open and Steve Chase stepped out, almost walking right into him. Embarrassed, Chekov excused himself, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside before the doors closed.
Christine Chapel was standing near the exam table, writing something on a clipboard. She looked up and smiled at him, her eternally sincere kindness easing some of his apprehension. A very nice lady, Nurse Chapel.
“Right on time, Mr. Chekov,” she said, and nodded toward the table. “Dr. McCoy is just making some notes, but we can go ahead and get your blood pressure and weight . . .”
Chekov held his head high as he approached the table, reminding himself that Russia was the birthplace of modern medicine, that his own ancestors had no doubt helped create the diagnostic pad he was about to lie down upon. He boosted himself onto the table, the medical indicators coming to life as his head hit the pillow, loudly beeping and bleating his vitals into the room. Even he could tell that his heart rate was high, the skittering thum-thump audibly betraying his nervousness.
“Relax, Pavel,” Nurse Chapel said, her voice soothing. “Breathe evenly, and try to think of someplace nice.” She pressed a button on her clipboard and started recording.
“I am relaxed,” he grumbled, but took a few deep breaths anyway, forcing his muscles to unclench.
“Let me guess—the Russians invented meditation,” Dr. McCoy said amusedly, entering from the next room.
Chekov shook his head. “No, but they perfected it, on Earth in the early twenty-first century. We are a very spiritual people, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it,” McCoy said, picking up a tricorder and scanner from the nearby countertop and stepping closer to the table.
Chekov cast about for something to say, to keep his mind from dredging up anxious memories. “So . . . does the medical staff also have their physical tests alphabetically?”
Nurse Chapel answered, smiling. “Actually, no. We just fit them in somewhere along the way. I had mine this morning, when Dr. M’Benga was filling in. Right between A and B.”
“That’s right—you were on the Sphinx, weren’t you?” Chekov asked McCoy, curiosity outpacing his nervousness. “Did you hear about the stranger, the one who killed the captain?”
McCoy nodded, though his nurse seemed confused. “Captain Kirk just called,” McCoy explained, frowning slightly at Chekov. “It seems there was no DNA match for one of the men on board . . . though I’m sure gossiping about it isn’t going to help matters along.”
“Yes, sir,” Chekov said, though he wasn’t quite ready to give up. “I am going to help, though, just as soon as I leave here. I’ll figure out who he is, no problem.”
“Sit up and take off your shirt,” McCoy said, holding up his tricorder. Chekov was pulling his shirt over his head when the doctor caved. “And just how do you propose to do that, when he’s not in the database?”
Chekov smiled proudly. “I have connections . . . and I’m also very good at tracking people down, through assignment files and reports. Everyone leaves a trail somewhere. It can be time-consuming, tracing someone like that, it takes patience and perseverance . . . but some of history’s greatest detectives were Russian, you know, and—”
“And I’m sorry I asked,” McCoy said, scowling. “Hop off, and let’s get you on the treadmill before you blow yourself out.”
Nurse Chapel made a coughing sound and turned away, but Chekov wasn’t offended, smiling at the doctor as they moved toward the endurance test, a prone treadmill exercise. Really, having something to talk about allayed much of his fear, even if it did spark a reaction in Dr. McCoy. Jealousy came in many forms, and Chekov had learned long ago to accept and transcend it; not everyone could take pride in their heritage, but after all, they couldn’t help their own ancestry.