by David Mack
Bowen and his two colleagues from the rig approached Kolova’s circle. “Governor? If we might make a suggestion?”
Ready to entertain any notion that might help, Kolova welcomed the rig engineer and his friends with a wave. “I’m all ears, Mister Bowen.”
“Have you considered ordering an evacuation?”
So much for the notion of there being no stupid ideas.
“Yes, we did. But in case you haven’t noticed, that drone is shooting down armed high-speed interceptors. What chance would a slow personnel transport have?”
Medina added, “Not that it would matter, since there are more than three hundred sixty thousand people on this colony, and fewer than a couple dozen working transport ships with a capacity of a few hundred people each. Or did you forget we dismantled our main colony ship to build the capital and other key settlements?”
Bowen nodded, chastised. “All right. So we’re not running, but we’re in no shape for a stand-up fight, either. So what’re we supposed to do now? Lock arms and sing ‘Kumbayah’?”
“Couldn’t do much worse than we have so far,” his associate Chandra mumbled.
This was exactly the sort of situation that Kolova and her senior advisers, not to mention most of the major stakeholders in the Sirsa III colony, had long hoped to avoid. They had known that increased independence from Federation oversight would carry heightened risks, especially in the event that something went catastrophically wrong. Now the question of whether that had been a bad judgment would be brought to the fore—assuming any of them lived long enough to confront the consequences of their choices.
“I think we need to face the truth,” Kolova told the room. “Whatever this thing is, it’s not something we’re equipped to fight on our own. And the longer we wait to ask for help, the greater the chance that it’ll kill us all and raze our colony to the ground.”
Ishii and Le Fevre both tensed. The chief of staff said, “Governor, please tell me you aren’t suggesting what I think you are.”
“I’m sorry, Tojiro, but I just don’t see that we have a choice now. We’ll do whatever is needed to mitigate the damage . . . but it’s time to send out a distress call. And to pray that Starfleet has a ship close enough to respond in time.”
4
* * *
Georgiou was sure she must have misheard the woman whose holographic avatar stood in front of the Shenzhou bridge’s center viewport, beyond which twisted a tunnel of warp-distorted starlight. For the sake of decorum, however, the captain kept her tone neutral in front of her bridge officers. “Could you repeat that, please, Governor?”
“It came up from under the seabed.” Kolova had been on edge at the beginning of the conversation; the longer it continued, the greater her dismay became. “We had a drilling rig out there looking for valuable mineral deposits. The rig manager says the drill head hit something and got stuck. When they tried to pull it free—”
“It sank the rig,” Georgiou said, finishing the governor’s thought. “I see now, thank you. How long after the incident at the rig did the attack on the capital begin?”
“About ten hours.” A muted rumble was followed by a rain of dust on Kolova’s head. “The drone’s been hammering us for over an hour now. If we don’t do something soon, it might pulverize the entire capital.” Another distant boom flickered the lights and momentarily garbled the subspace signal from Kolova’s bunker. “How soon can you reach us, Captain?”
“Very soon.” She glanced at Detmer, who, without looking up from the helm, signaled to Georgiou the ship’s ETA with hand gestures. “Roughly three hours.”
She had considered that good news, yet Kolova grew more frantic. “Three hours? With this thing raining fire and brimstone on our heads the whole time? Are you serious?”
“Governor, be calm,” Georgiou said. “We’ve reviewed your sensor logs and analyzed the drone’s attack behavior. It might inflict some additional property damage before we arrive, but nothing we can’t help you fix. As long as your people stay in shelter, you should all be fine.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Georgiou saw the look on Burnham’s face that suggested her new acting first officer was about to say something unhelpful. Low at her side, below the perception of the viewscreen’s sensor, Georgiou tensed her hand and pointed it toward Burnham, staving off whatever impromptu remark the younger woman might have been concocting.
Then, from the post to Georgiou’s right, Lieutenant Saru opined, “Unless the drone decides to target the capital’s fusion reactor plant. Then the impact to the—” The Kelpien curtailed his grim speculation when he noticed Georgiou’s poisonous stare in his direction.
Hoping to bury her subordinate’s verbal blunder, Georgiou put on her most reassuring countenance and adopted a soothing, almost maternal tone of voice. “Stand strong, Governor. My ship will arrive in three hours’ time, and we will do what is necessary to ensure the safety of your colony and its people. You have my word.”
“Thank you Captain.” Another blast, closer than the ones before, shook Kolova’s bunker and limned her with gray dust. “We’ll try to keep our heads down until then. Kolova out.” The governor’s hologram disappeared.
Georgiou stood from her command chair and moved forward to stand behind and between Detmer and Oliveira. “Keyla, how soon can you get us to Sirsa III?”
The red-haired Dusseldorf native checked her console. “I might be able to shave a few minutes off our trip.” A sly smile. “Maybe more—if I bend a few rules.”
“Bend away, Ensign.” To the ops officer, Georgiou said, “Belin, as soon as we deal with the drone, I want all departments to analyze the Juggernaut that launched it.”
Oliveira nodded. “Understood, Captain. I’ve already cleared the schedule for the main sensor array, and I’ve placed all forensic teams on standby.”
“Well done.” With the fundamentals under control, it was time for Georgiou to focus her chief assets on the main objective. “Number One, Mister Saru: my ready room, please. Lieutenant Gant, you have the conn.” The captain walked aft, to her private office. Gant, the Shenzhou’s new senior tactical officer, handed off his post to a relief officer, then moved to the command chair. Burnham and Saru exchanged wary looks, then followed Georgiou.
Inside the ready room, Georgiou settled into the chair behind her desk. Burnham and Saru stood on the other side, both at attention. Georgiou let them stew for a few seconds. Had she desired a less formal conversation, at the far end of the room there was a meeting table just large enough to seat six people. But she knew that Burnham and Saru were both the sort of officer who responded favorably to a degree of formality. Have to go with what works.
“We have a crisis ahead of us,” Georgiou said. “And not much time to prepare.”
“And not much to go on,” Saru cut in. “The sensor logs of the drone are scrambled, at best. And the colony’s intel regarding the entity it calls ‘the Juggernaut’ is quite sparse.”
A stern look by Georgiou silenced Saru. Satisfied she once again had the floor, she continued. “We are the closest Starfleet vessel to Sirsa III, and those people are counting on us. I, in turn, will be counting upon both of you to make certain we find a swift and successful resolution to this mess. Do I make myself clear?”
Two nods. That was reassuring—until Burnham spoke. “Might I inquire, Captain, why Starfleet is so eager to assist a colony that went to such great lengths to keep it at a distance?”
“Because no matter what the political preferences of any given colony might be, Number One, Starfleet doesn’t play politics when lives are in danger. To be honest, I wouldn’t care if the colony had declared its independence. All I care about is that there are people at risk, and we are their best, closest chance for help. Does that make sense to you?”
Burnham lowered her chin, a sign of both acknowledgment and humility. “Yes, Captain.”
It was to Saru’s credit that he read the moment better than Burnham had. “Assuming Lieuten
ant Oliveira is coordinating our shipboard resources, would I be correct to deduce that you wish me to make a detailed analysis of all sensor data related to the drone and the Juggernaut, and to cross-reference analyses by all of our science specialists?”
“You read my mind, Mister Saru.” To Burnham she added, “Number One, make sure sickbay and engineering are ready for battle. Then have a look at the drone’s combat behavior and work up a tactical-response profile. I want to be ready to engage that target as soon as we make orbit. Understood?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Keep each other apprised of your efforts. I’ll want your status updates in two hours.” As soon as she noted their nods of confirmation, she added, “Dismissed.”
Burnham and Saru left the ready room quickly, each without saying a word to the other. Georgiou could only hope their chilly détente would not be a harbinger of the pair’s working relationship in the years to come. Getting them to function as a unit won’t be easy, she mused. I just hope I don’t end up having to transfer one of them.
She noted the dwindling time remaining to the Shenzhou’s arrival at Sirsa III and switched on her desk’s computer. Just as her senior officers had their preparatory tasks, she had hers—one she would gladly have traded with any of them, if only it were an option.
Her job was to explore any and all options for a diplomatic solution to this fiasco—not just with the Juggernaut, but with the colony itself. It was not a mission to which she looked forward, because her years in Starfleet had taught her there were few things as dangerous as a proudly independent colony being forced to seek help from the government it had left behind.
Too late now, Georgiou imagined telling Kolova and her people. You asked for help, and now you’re going to get it—whether you like it or not.
* * *
An automated alert had roused Captain Christopher Pike from a sound sleep. It was the middle of the night according to the ship’s onboard chronometer—gamma shift according to the duty roster—but as Pike stepped out of the turbolift onto the bridge of the Enterprise, he found its atmosphere of keen readiness no different from that of his normal alpha-shift cycle.
His first officer, Commander Una, was already there, moving from one duty station to the next, gathering intel. As the statuesque, dark-haired Illyrian woman left the communication officer’s side, she noted Pike’s arrival and straightened her posture. “Captain on the bridge!”
“Skip the protocol, Number One,” Pike said. “What’s happening?”
Una met him at the command chair and stood aside as he pivoted into the center seat. “Distress signal, sir. Priority one. Origin, the Sirsa III colony.”
Priority one meant the colony was under attack, which explained to Pike why the ship’s computer had awakened him upon receipt of the message. “What do we know so far?”
Una nodded at the tactical officer, who relayed a sensor feed to the main viewscreen. Pike watched an insectoid craft buzz a prefab-looking colonial capital and harass it with barrages of charged plasma. As the transmission continued, it showed interceptor craft being destroyed when attempting to engage the alien vessel.
He leaned forward, his mind focused, his instincts to defend and avenge aroused. “What do we know about the attacker? Origin? Demands? Capabilities?”
“Not much,” Una said. “The colony’s report suggests the attacker is a drone launched from a larger vessel that surfaced at sea beneath a geological exploration rig.”
“Do we have any intel on the parent ship?”
Lieutenant Spock swiveled his chair away from the sciences console to respond, “None so far, sir. The colony’s drilling rig was lost, along with all of its sensor logs, approximately twelve hours ago.” The half-human, half-Vulcan science officer relayed some data from his console to the main viewscreen. “Analysis of the drone attacking New Astana has yielded no matches in our memory banks for either its hull configuration or its energy signature.”
Pike asked Spock, “How much of a punch does that drone pack, Lieutenant?”
“Its primary charged-plasma emitter is capable of inflicting significant damage on unshielded structures and lightly shielded civilian patrol vessels. However, my analysis of its deflector geometry and overall power level suggests it will pose little threat to the Enterprise.”
“Good to know,” Pike said. “Helm, how far out of our way is Sirsa III?”
“Just over ten hours at warp six,” said Ensign Datlow.
Una leaned in to confide to Pike, “Sir, the Shenzhou has already confirmed it’s en route to Sirsa III and will arrive less than three hours from now. Shall I inform Captain Georgiou that we’re en route to provide assistance?”
His first officer had posed the question with what Pike recognized as exquisite political finesse. She had not gainsaid his anticipated order of diversion to the beleaguered colony, nor had she assumed it to be a foregone conclusion. She had presented her information in a neutral manner, while subtly implying the redundancy of effort that would occur as a consequence of their uninvited involvement in the situation, and reminding Pike that Captain Georgiou was a starship commander whose seniority and experience far outstripped his own.
It was an easy decision to make, but he let the question linger for a few seconds, to convey the impression that he was weighing the matter in earnest.
“Helm,” Pike said at last, “maintain current heading and speed. Number One, instruct all departments to analyze the sensor data from Sirsa III and to prepare response plans, just in case they’re needed. Ensign O’Friel, contact the Shenzhou and let them know we’ll be standing ready in case they need assistance. Mister Spock, monitor the situation at Sirsa III, and notify me of any significant changes in the situation that might demand our involvement.”
He stood and headed toward the turbolift, expecting Una to take his place in the center seat. Instead she followed him and caught up to him as he reached the call button for the lift. “Captain, might it not be prudent to adjust our course to reduce our response time to the colony, just in case the Shenzhou requests backup?”
“I’m sure Captain Georgiou has the matter well in hand, Number One.” He pressed the call signal for the lift. “She was commanding a starship when I was still a deck officer.”
“Be that as it may,” Una said, “this is a priority-one distress signal. And if the data concerning the drone’s parent ship proves to be reliable, this crisis might demand the attention of more than one starship.”
Pike nodded but was not persuaded. “Perhaps, Number One. And if Captain Georgiou asks for our help, she’ll have it. But she’s already called the ball on this one.”
“ ‘Called the ball,’ sir?”
He wondered whether Una had really never encountered that bit of sports-inspired jargon during her time at Starfleet Academy, or if she was merely latching on to it as a means of questioning his judgment. “Once a Starfleet vessel has confirmed its response to a crisis such as this, even to a matter as serious as a priority-one emergency, there is no need for other ships to divert.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “But I don’t need to tell you that, do I, Number One?”
His criticism seemed to make Una uncomfortable. “You might think me foolish for saying so, Captain . . . but I get the feeling this situation is different. That we need to go now.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, Number One.” The turbolift doors parted ahead of Pike, who stepped in, then pivoted to face Una. “Apprise Starfleet of my decision.”
“Understood, sir.”
The lift doors closed, and Pike took hold of the control lever. “Deck five,” he said. There was almost no sensation of motion, but the turbolift accelerated down into the Enterprise’s saucer with a rising hum of auditory feedback, then shifted onto a lateral track for its circuit around the core to the section nearest Pike’s quarters.
Alone with his thoughts, Pike was troubled by Una’s warning that there was something different about this emergency. On its face it was
just a routine distress call, one that had been handled by a closer Starfleet vessel, and that no longer merited his attention.
But even as he collapsed back into his bunk for some desperately needed rack time, Pike was haunted by a nagging sensation that he had not heard the last of the crisis on Sirsa III.
* * *
Above all, Michael Burnham strove to be thorough in her work. Attention to detail had been drilled into her during her childhood, thanks to the rigors of instruction in the Vulcan Learning Center of ShiKahr. Incomplete answers were anathema to the Vulcans. Her mentors and tutors had trained her to be ready to offer up her calculations on a line-by-line basis, or to cite her sources for all answers she proffered during an exam. There had never been any way to know which of her answers would be challenged, so Burnham had learned from a young age to be ready to defend all of her conclusions with precision and tenacity, lest her logic or her intellect be called into question by the criticism of her Vulcan peers.
She approached her duties as a Starfleet officer with the same conviction.
Just as Captain Georgiou had ordered, she had worked with the ship’s department heads to prepare response plans for the Sirsa III emergency. Doctor Nambue, the chief medical officer, was briefing teams of combat medics and nurses, in the event that there were numerous wounded in the capital. Lieutenant Commander Johar, the chief engineer, was already setting up technical teams to conduct forensic analyses of the drone and any other alien technology that might be acquired during the course of the mission. Meanwhile, on the bridge, Lieutenant Gant had tested half a dozen tactical-response scenarios, half of which had been created by Burnham months earlier during her tenure as the ship’s senior tactical officer.
All of which left only the singularly unpleasant task of assessing the readiness of the sciences department, which was under the supervision of Lieutenant Saru.