Star Trek: Discovery: Fear Itself

by James Swallow

  “Sir . . .” Yashae broke in, but Johar kept speaking.

  “They rev up to warp speed, and that nadion pulse reoccurs, the next time it could cause a supercritical failure. It might invert the Cochrane bubble, or worse! Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. We need to know for sure if this was a random anomaly, a systemic glitch, deliberate sabotage, or—”

  “Sir,” Yashae repeated, this time with force, at the same time inclining her head in the direction of the hatchway across the compartment. “Company is coming.”

  Johar turned to find Nathal advancing toward him as if she meant to start a fight, with Riden, the senior Peliar engineer, rushing to keep up with her. “Commander,” he began, unconsciously hiding the data tablet behind his back. “Here you are. I was just about to contact you.”

  “You have worn out whatever small measure of welcome you had on my ship, human,” she began. Her tone was ice cold. “I’ve tolerated you for long enough.”

  “I was out of line before,” Johar said apologetically. “I am very sorry. Heat of the moment and all that.” He looked to Riden for some shared understanding. “You know how it can be! Engineers are overly candid at times, and—”

  “Insolent?” offered Nathal. “Disrespectful?”

  “That’s fair.” He swallowed hard.

  “In our fleet, you would be broken down to the rank of deckhand for talking to a superior officer in such a way.” Nathal glared up at the warp core. “Riden informs me the drives are fully repaired. It’s time for you to go back to your own vessel.”

  “That is sort of true,” Johar replied. “But the work isn’t finished.” Again, he looked to the Peliar engineer for support. “Did Mister Riden also tell you that we don’t have a definitive cause for the nadion pulse that crippled your ship and destroyed the escort drone?”

  “The malfunction has been corrected,” Riden said firmly.

  “No, the damage has been fixed,” said Johar, and he felt his deferential manner starting to slip again. “That’s not the same thing.” He took a chance and pressed on, before he lost control of the situation. “We’re currently running a final diagnostic protocol on your warp subsystems, isn’t that correct, Chief Yashae?”

  He handed back the tablet to the Vok’sha and gave her a hard look. “Yes, we are,” Yashae agreed smoothly, and stepped away before anyone could see that she hadn’t actually started any such diagnostic. “I’ll go check on it right now.”

  Nathal came right up to Johar, and her voice dropped to a low growl. “If I believe that you are making an attempt at subterfuge . . . it won’t matter if you are an engineer, or Starfleet, or Federation. I will have you put out of an airlock and Captain Georgiou can fish you from the void. Is that statement candid enough?”

  “Very much so,” managed Johar, “Captain.”

  The Peliar captain stalked away, with her engineer following closely at her heels. As soon as she was out of earshot, Johar sought out Yashae, who stood with Subin at one of the control podiums.

  “Where’s Zoxom?” He looked around. There was no sign of the Xanno nurse.

  “He’s on the tier above,” explained Subin. “Apparently, a few of the Peliar technicians took a low dose of delta rays during the incident. He’s handing out shots to everyone who was affected.”

  “Get him back down here when he’s done,” Johar told them. “I don’t want any of our people out of my sight.” Then he tapped the data tablet in Yashae’s hand. “And get that diagnostic completed. Quickly.”

  • • •

  There was an unattended workstation in an alcove off the Shenzhou’s landing bay, and Saru secreted himself there, out of sight where he could work at a console and keep one eye on the shuttlecraft on the launch cradle.

  He loaded the contents of his universal translator’s memory into the ship’s computer via his tricorder, and called up a linguistic program to evaluate the dialogue he had recorded while among the Gorlans. Saru was convinced there was more nuance to mine from the data, if only he could find a way to frame it. These were, after all, complex beings with their own spacefaring culture, not some primitive semisentients with little concept of the larger universe—even if that was how some of the Peliars appeared to think of them.

  He didn’t trust Vetch. Something about the speaker made his threat ganglia itch. Saru was certain, if he could just converse with the Gorlans on the same level, all the questions and the uncertainties Captain Georgiou was being forced to overlook would snap into hard focus. They would know for sure what was happening on board the transport ship.

  Leaving that question hanging made Saru despair. He imagined the Gorlans facing some terrible fate, and felt a sting of guilt. He could not stand by and allow those beings to go to an uncertain future, not if there was still a chance to prevent it. “This is not a time for restraint,” he said aloud, recalling Burnham’s comment as he worked through the data. “This is a time for boldness.”

  Saru reviewed the tapes, observing how the translator’s learning software assembled and reassembled the syntax and sounds it recorded into something approximating linguistic communication.

  Anxiety. Waiting. Conflict.

  Basic concepts like these were decoded quickly, but the deeper streams of meaning were harder to reveal.

  Fear. Curiosity. Anger. Panic. Distress.

  He closed his eyes and struggled to recall how he had felt, reaching back to the feel of the air about him, the subsensory crackle of the electrostatic fields generated by the press of the gathered Gorlans.

  Anger. Suspicion. Doubt.

  “It’s not enough,” he told himself, shaking his head. Saru brought up visual representations of word clusters and clouds of possible meaning, watching as the ship’s computer offered up conflicting potentials.

  This alignment of sounds here could mean “friendship” or “group” but it could also be “temperature” or “sustenance.” The Kelpien scowled at the readouts. This one here equates to either the size of a living creature or the age of an inanimate object. Either one of the translations could be correct, he realized, their context modified by location, tone of voice, or the invisible pattern of a neuroelectric field.

  Toward the end of the recorded data, he noted that a single phrasing was repeated several times by many different Gorlan voices. Saru zeroed in on it and highlighted the word cluster. “Computer, concentrate on this particular grouping. Based on all available data, theorize as to the most likely meaning.”

  “Working,” said the synthetic voice. Unhelpfully, the display erupted with a dozen different potential answers. “In descending order: Writing implement. Doorway. Carrier. Mother. Liquid. Grouping. Central. Heart organ. Nexus—”

  “Stop.” Saru waved the computer into silence. “None of those are correct. There’s something more, something missing . . .” His brow furrowed as he struggled to remember what he had sensed when those words had been spoken. How had they made him feel? “That’s close, but it’s not . . . not central, not a nexus . . . a . . .”

  He could feel the concept was almost within his grasp, if only he could visualize it. And then suddenly he understood.

  “Hub. That’s the term. A figurative central point to which all others connect. The Gorlans were talking about a hub.” Saru experienced a rush of excitement at the discovery, an instant of pure enthusiasm as a piece of the alien puzzle locked into place.

  But was this a literal idea or something more symbolic? Again he thought of the female in the grubby white robes and the open curiosity in her eyes when she had seen him. Was he seeing in her what he wanted to see, projecting his own feelings onto an alien being? Or was she what he thought she might be, someone who was willing to communicate outside the boundaries of Peliar oversight?

  Contact with other life-forms and other cultures was always fraught with the possibility of critical misapprehension, of imposing one’s ingrained prejudices on outsiders. The only way to comprehend was to attempt to bridge that gap, and if the She
nzhou left now, Saru would be tormented by the possibility of what had gone unsaid.

  He looked out at the shuttle, seeing Ensign Connor returning with Hekan, Vetch, and the other Peliar crewman trailing behind carrying medical pods. Saru drew himself up and strode purposefully back across the landing bay, smoothly intercepting Connor as the captain’s yeoman gave the aliens a formal send-off.

  “On behalf of Captain Philippa Georgiou and the crew of the Shenzhou,” Connor was saying, “it was our pleasure to host you aboard our ship, and we hope that the Federation can continue to maintain cordial relations with the peoples of Gorlan and Peliar Zel.”

  “Indeed,” said Saru, interposing himself in the conversation. “I’ll take it from here, Mister Connor.”

  “Sir?” The yeoman was going to protest, so Saru cut him off swiftly.

  “You’re dismissed.” He made an after you gesture to the group of visitors, directing them back aboard the Yang. “Allow me to help.” Saru took the medical containers and carried them the rest of the way into the shuttle, securing the hatch behind him as he boarded last.

  Up in the cockpit, Ensign Weeton was talking to the hangar operations officer. “Shenzhou, this is shuttle Yang. Passengers are secure, we are good to go.”

  “We read you, Yang. Cleared for launch.”

  “Thank you . . .” Weeton trailed off as Saru climbed into the copilot’s seat next to him and ran a hand over the controls. “Lieutenant? You’re . . . coming back with us?”

  “That’s right.” Saru said it firmly, as if the answer to the question was obvious. “I will assist Lieutenant Commander Johar with a final check on the repairs before we return with the rescue team.” Weeton hesitated, and Saru pressed on, pulling rank. “In your own time, Ensign.” He nodded at the open launch bay ahead of them.

  “Aye, sir,” Weeton replied warily, and with a slight bump, the shuttle lifted off.

  • • •

  “Is this really necessary, sir?” said Zoxom, his face creasing in a frown. “I’m sure there won’t be any physical danger to any of us.”

  “You didn’t see the look in her eye,” muttered Johar, glancing up at the hatch as the Yang made a hard seal with the Peliar ship’s hull. “I know you think the best of people, Nurse, but I’ll be more comfortable with you waiting in the shuttle.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Zoxom sighed. “But you should know, not all the crew are as . . . prickly . . . as Commander Nathal. Some of them are very personable, in fact.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Johar. Back in the engine chamber, he had seen two of Nathal’s crewmen, both of them wearing the silver vests that seemed to designate security officers. Neither of the Peliars had spoken to him, but it was abundantly clear they were there to keep watch over the warp core.

  Above, the hatch slid back into the ceiling and a ladder dropped down. Hekan was the first to come through, and she gave Johar a loaded look that seemed half sympathy and half irritation. “We talked to your captain,” she told him. “Vetch explained things to her.”

  Johar watched the diminutive, four-armed Gorlan scramble easily down the ladder and slide to the deck. “Did he? And what was that?”

  “We are all going our separate ways,” Hekan replied neutrally as her crewman emerged from the shuttle and stood aside.

  “My technicians, Subin and Yashae, they’re almost done.” Johar decided to play a hunch and made one last attempt to get his point across. “But look, I have to say this, as one engineer to another. The origin of the pulse effect still isn’t clear. With some more time, if we can work together—”

  “I have my orders and so do you,” Hekan cut him off in midsentence. “Don’t make me say it again.” She didn’t seem happy about it, but she walked away before he could press the point.

  “Stand by below, cargo coming down,” said another voice. Johar turned to see Saru’s gangly form descending the ladder with two medical pods balanced awkwardly across his arms. As his hoofed boots hit the deck, Vetch reached up and took one of the containers, feeling the weight.

  “What are you doing back here?” Johar took a step closer to the Kelpien. “I didn’t request you.”

  “I’m here to . . . assist,” Saru offered. “The captain provided the Gorlans with some supplies they requested.”

  Something in the science officer’s reply rang a wrong note with the chief engineer, but he held off on it, glancing back at the Xanno nurse. “Zoxom, get in the shuttle and tell Weeton to be ready to undock.”

  Meanwhile, Saru was already stepping after Vetch along the corridor, carrying the second medical pod with him.

  “Lieutenant!” Johar caught up to him. “You drop that stuff off with the Gorlans and you get back up here on the double, is that clear? Don’t stop to smell the roses.”

  “The Gorlans grow fungus, sir, not flowers. But I will act with alacrity,” he replied, stepping into the cradle of an elevator platform that would descend into the main cargo module.

  As the lift fell away, Johar heard Zoxom calling out to him from the hatchway. “Sir! Is Saru there?”

  “He’s gone below.” The engineer walked back toward the hatch. “Why?”

  Zoxom made a guttural noise that Johar knew was a Xanno curse word, and threw a wary look toward the two Peliar security guards. “Better if we talk in the shuttle, sir.”

  “What now?” Johar grimaced and hauled himself up the ladder, emerging in the Yang’s crew cabin.

  Weeton was waiting for him, and he jerked a thumb at the shuttle’s control console. “As soon as we docked, I reestablished the line-of-sight laser comms with the Shenzhou. The XO wants to talk to you.”

  Johar dropped into the pilot’s chair and saw Commander ch’Theloh’s face on a small holoscreen projected over the control yoke. The Andorian’s usual sky-blue features were a darker cerulean shade, and that did not bode well. His gut sank as Johar opened the channel. “Commander?”

  “Weeton says Saru was on that shuttle,” snapped ch’Theloh. “He wasn’t ordered to return to the Peliar ship. I need to speak to him, right this second.”

  “Ah.” Johar shot a look over his shoulder. “Sir, he just went below. Down to the decks where the Gorlans are living.”

  “And you let him?”

  “I didn’t see any—”

  “Never mind,” the first officer cut him off. “The lieutenant’s actions are both uncharacteristic and unauthorized.” The Andorian leaned into the visual pickup, his face filling the small screen. “Find him, and reel him back in before whatever misguided impulse he has surrendered to causes a diplomatic crisis!”

  5

  * * *

  The elevator platform rattled as it continued its descent into the heart of the massive freighter, and Saru quickly lost count of the levels as they flashed past.

  At his side, Vetch put down the crate he had been carrying and sat upon it, looking up at the lofty Kelpien. “Why you here, alien?” His deep-set eyes fixed Saru with a distrustful glare. “What you hope to grow?”

  “I hope to understand you better,” he said truthfully.

  “Should go home,” Vetch replied. The words were lazy, almost offhand. But Saru couldn’t miss the warning buried beneath them. “You get trouble.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Saru frowned and pulled absently at his uniform. “I’m afraid that I’ve already generated enough of that.”

  The lift rocked and began to slow. Vetch made a spitting noise and rose from the crate. “Say not Vetch warned you.”

  The elevator shaft opened up for the last few meters, and Saru got a glimpse of another area of the cargo-module interior as they came to a halt. Like the other spaces he had seen earlier, it was busy with makeshift dwellings remade from whatever was at hand, all built from surplus plating, suspended cables, and flexible materials. It was one more district in the contained but sprawling bivouac township.

  A group of Gorlans were waiting for them in a small court area near the loading apron in front of the platf
orm, most of them dressed in clothes similar to Vetch’s. Does that make them part of a subgroup, perhaps a tribe within the greater whole? Once again, Saru wished he had Burnham’s eye for the study of alien cultures.

  With a few quick-fire grunts, too fast for Saru’s universal translator to pick up, Vetch directed one of his kinsmen to take the other crate of medical supplies. He handed off his own to a second male wearing a yellow band around two of his biceps.

  “What does that mean?” Saru ventured the question, pointing toward the colored band. “Does it designate status or position in your society?”

  The Gorlan speaker gave him an odd look, and Saru guessed his translator hadn’t clearly rendered the inquiry. Vetch walked away, and he seemed surprised when the Kelpien took a step after him. “Where you go?” He raised all four of his arms, palms flat.

  “I wish to speak to your people,” said Saru. He had his tricorder set in constant scan mode again, recording everything going on around him—not just his interactions with Vetch, but the hushed conversations and furtive glances of the other Gorlans loitering nearby. They milled around, looking up at him and exchanging hushed comments. Saru was very likely the tallest being any of them had ever seen, at his full height towering over even the Peliars with their elaborate headdresses.

  “They not speak you.” Vetch made a dismissive gesture.

  Saru saw an opening and took it. “We can learn to. With this device.” He showed him the universal translator. “I only require time to . . . to grow the knowledge.”

  Vetch made a shaking motion, like a shrug. “Nothing for you here. Better back on Shen-zoo.”

  “Respectfully, I would prefer to stay a while.”

  The Gorlan repeated the shake-shrug again. “Choice yours.” He moved away, and Saru watched him cross the open atrium to a yurt-like enclosure, disappearing inside with the crates.