by David Mack
“Layers of dust and sediment,” Una said. “A lot can collect in nine million years.”
They drifted in slow steps along the wall, transfixed by the elaborate mural. “These illustrations are more advanced than I would have expected,” Saru said. “They demonstrate a keen understanding of parallax, depth of field, and selective focus. Its figures exhibit details beyond the symbolic—I would say this is on par with most cultures’ representational periods.”
“The style is quite sophisticated,” Una said. She pointed out other aspects of the mural. “But what impresses me most is the manner in which these images have been arranged, separated from one another, and placed in relation to one another.” She took a step back to review a broader segment of it at once. “This has all the hallmarks of sequential art. I think we’re looking at more than a simple mural, Saru—I think this is a graphical narrative.”
Looking closer, Saru saw the same thing. “Amazing.” It was a struggle to resist his desire to reach out and touch the art, to make contact with this tangible piece of prehistory. “These remind me of the kinds of drawings my people use to document our lives underground. The engravings, the narrative sequencing. It all feels so . . . familiar.”
Una pointed at a series of images in one corner. “It looks as if it’s made to be read starting at the top, from right to left, and then reversing direction with each row.” She led Saru to the far end of the mural, and together they started walking its length, back and forth, as they parsed its visual tale. “These early panels seem to describe a surface-dwelling culture,” she said.
“Nomads,” Saru said. “Hunter-gatherers. Sheltering in forests and caves.” He directed Una’s attention to a representation of the sun. “Note how the number of dots around it changes. That might suggest years, or generations, or some other unit of time.”
“Possibly.” The images changed to scenes familiar to most students of sentient history. “The rise of agriculture. The formation of stable cities alongside rivers and seacoasts.” Una gestured toward a depiction of three groups of natives, with each group’s helmets demarcated by different symbols. “This might indicate the beginning of trade between different settlements. Or the start of conflict. It’s not really clear.”
There was nothing ambiguous about the next image in the mural’s narrative sequence. It dominated a huge chunk of the graphical real estate on its slab of marble: the Juggernaut, surrounded by pillars of fire or energy reaching into the heavens, and emitting rays that cut down the natives who had gathered around it. “I suppose that rules out any notion that the Juggernaut came in peace,” Saru said.
“It certainly doesn’t paint the vessel in a forgiving light.” They moved together to the next marble slab, on which had been inscribed an image of pairs of natives lined up to enter the Juggernaut through a single opening on its dorsal hull, while it lay half-buried on a beach.
Then the two officers arrived at the last slab in the mural, its final image: an epitaph for a species and its culture. In the center of the image was the Juggernaut, sending out beams and curling waves of energy, all of which seemed to lay waste to the landscape by tearing it asunder and setting it ablaze. A tiny handful of natives—their helmets a jumble of mismatched symbols—were depicted huddled in the darkness deep below the ground, inside a shelter that bore a striking similarity to the bone cathedral in which Saru and Una now stood.
Gazing in horror at the image of a world in flames, Saru felt his species’ gift for sensing impending doom make his tongue taste like tin and set his pulse racing. “That is not good.”
Una’s wide eyes betrayed the same grim understanding. “No,” she said in a hushed voice. “That’s not good at all.”
* * *
“Cave paintings don’t exactly constitute hard evidence of the Juggernaut’s origin,” Georgiou said, having weighed Saru and Una’s report against Starfleet’s unforgiving criteria for intelligence analysis. “However, given your estimations of their age, and the specificity of their graphical content, I’m willing to concede they merit further study.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Saru replied over the audio-only channel. “We’ve discovered another set of illustrations on the exterior of this underground temple. It’s not yet clear if their narrative is related to the one about the Juggernaut, but we need more time to study them.”
Georgiou reclined behind her desk in her ready room. “How much longer do you need?”
“It’s unclear, Captain,” Saru said. “Commander Una and I both feel there is much to learn from this site, but we understand that only mission-critical intel is desired at this time.” There were muffled sounds of conversation as he conferred privately with Una. “We should be able to complete our survey of this temple within the hour.”
“Very well.” Georgiou let her eyes wander from one item to another as she swiveled toward the wall of partitioned shelves behind her desk. Each piece of note was housed in its own angled nook. Geodes, small sculptures, and other artifacts both natural and artificial she had collected from worlds throughout the explored galaxy surrounded a tall central nook occupied by an alien artist’s colorful statue of a warrior-priest. Gazing upon them, she calmed her tempest of conflicting thoughts. “You have exactly one hour, Mister Saru. Then you need to leave those caves and get back to the surface for beam-up.”
“Understood, Captain. Thank you. Saru out.”
She was at least thankful for the change in his demeanor. For the first time since she had told him that he had been passed over for the first officer’s billet, he sounded as if he might actually be excited about something. More than that, he sounded as if, perhaps, he might actually be having fun. Heavens, I hope so, she prayed to whatever power might listen.
Georgiou turned back toward her desk and rested her chin on the fisted column of her arm. To her left, on a small table set against the bulkhead separating her ready room from the bridge, was an antique turntable, complete with a vinyl disc bearing an analog audio recording cut by one needle and waiting to be read by another. The restored antique had been a gift from her ex-husband, Nikos; it and her surname were the only things he had ever given her that she hadn’t discarded in their divorce, both retained in the name of sentimentality.
Perched on the deep sill that fronted her ready room’s aft-facing viewport was an antique telescope. From this low orbit, I could probably take the Juggernaut’s measure with my own eyes, she reflected.
Impatient for signs of progress, she used the panel on her desk to open a channel to the main cargo hold. “Georgiou to Commander Johar.”
“This is Johar,” said the chief engineer. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
“How goes your analysis of the probe debris?”
“Slowly, I’m afraid. We’re mapping out its circuit pathways, but I can’t really claim to know yet how this thing works. But we might have a bit of good news.”
“I’m all ears, Commander.”
“We’ve been investigating a number of unusual trace compounds in the drone’s hull that we also detected in the Juggernaut’s hull. There are some beaucoup strange elements in there, ma’am. Including a few not found naturally on this planet, or on more than a handful of others.”
That sounded promising. “Any chance you could narrow down which other world might have been the source of those elements?”
Johar’s mood brightened. “A very good chance, Captain. But I could answer that for you a great deal faster if I had the help I needed from the sciences division. To be precise, I’d love it if someone would light a fire under the asses of our astrophysics, exogeology, and xenohistory experts. If I had them working this from all sides at once—”
“Say no more,” Georgiou said. She started composing an order on her desktop terminal. “I’m sending out a directive to sciences and to Oliveira to allocate to you and your team any and all personnel and resources you deem necessary.”
She imagined she could hear Johar pumping his fist in a pantomime of v
ictory. “Thank you, Captain. We’ll have something actionable for you inside of an hour, I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Georgiou said, “because if we get caught with our pants down when the next drone attack comes, there’s a serious risk we might all end up dead. So whatever angle you’re working, make sure it includes a plan to neutralize or destroy those drones.”
“Understood, Captain. We’re on it. Johar out.”
The channel closed with a soft click, and once more Georgiou felt isolated in her ready room. Time was bleeding away, yet she felt paralyzed. What more could she do? It was the great paradox of command. Her role was to set objectives, define goals, and let her people work. But once that was done, there was often little she could do but sit back and wait to see whether the dominos she set to falling landed as intended or went askew.
The chrono on her desktop reminded her that Burnham and Lieutenant Spock from the Enterprise now had less than two hours to unlock the mysteries of the Juggernaut. The two of them had either passed out of communications range or were having their comm signals blocked now that they were inside the Juggernaut. None of the myriad technical tricks normally employed by communications officer Fan had been able to raise the duo. Whatever they might have found or encountered inside the Juggernaut, it would remain known only to them unless and until they found some means to restore contact with the Shenzhou and the Enterprise.
Georgiou stood and stepped out from behind her desk. She walked over to the turntable—a device she had once heard her grandfather refer to by its colloquial nickname of a “record player”—and let her hand hover over its activation switch. The analog playback device was delicate, but the vinyl discs from which it replicated sound were downright fragile. Feeling a need for its warm, natural tones in the cold, gray sterility of her ready room, she turned it on.
One touch was all it took. The device activated and followed a precise routine. The flat turntable began to rotate at a speed of thirty-three and one-third revolutions per minute. As it achieved its proper velocity, its arm—a fluid-balanced polymer rod whose angular head housed a precision-cut diamond needle—lifted from its cradle at the side of the machine and swung out to hover above the outer edge of the vinyl disc. Then, with slow grace, it dropped into position. The needle found smooth blank space at the disc’s edge and glided across it, into a steady, continuous, inward-turning groove almost too narrow to see with the naked eye.
From the device’s built-in speaker came a soft crackling—the interference of dust against the needle—and a low hum, a resonance of the turntable’s own motor.
And then there was music.
The bright metallic shimmer of cymbals. A tinkling of piano strings struck by tiny key hammers. The voice of a trumpet and the wailing of a saxophone. Sensual thumps of rhythm from a stand-up bass. All fusing into a sophisticated melody—this was jazz. A vintage recording of Miles Davis and Sonny Rollins, a performance captured over three hundred years earlier.
And it sounded as if it were happening for the first time, there in her ready room.
Apart from live performance, vinyl analog recordings were Georgiou’s favorite way to enjoy music. Rich, warm, and so eerily present—that was the enduring appeal of analog media, the bizarre magic that gave them such cachet among aficionados of jazz and classical music. She had never heard a single digitized recording that had affected her quite so profoundly.
This was how Georgiou freed herself of thoughts that refused to find resolution or order. The music helped her mind make strange connections, discover untapped possibilities, and just learn to process information in unexpected ways. Alone with the solace of jazz, she could allow her mind to go blank and make room for new ideas to flourish.
Or, if that failed, it was her one comfort in, and escape from, a job and a universe she had started to believe really meant to be the death of her.
But not today, she promised herself. Not here . . . and not today.
16
* * *
Soon after Spock and Burnham had moved ahead from the Juggernaut’s first deathtrap, its holographic sprite reappeared to keep their attention fixed in a forward direction. At least, that was the purpose Spock inferred from the orb’s presence and behavior. It did not seem to offer helpful cues to warn of their trials or point the way past them. It merely existed, a technological will-o’-the-wisp to coax them deeper into the shadows—until it rebounded off another closed portal in front of them, again disguised with a holographic image of the corridor beyond.
Then a portal spiraled closed behind them, its final pinhole melting without a trace into the smart metal of the Juggernaut’s hull. Spock regarded their predicament with dry detachment. “It would appear our next test is imminent.”
Burnham eyed the bulkheads around them, and then the overhead. “I have to confess a measure of curiosity. Which will it present first: the riddle, or the threat?”
The hologram on the closed portal ahead of them switched off, revealing a pair of user interfaces at either end of its flattened oval frame. The two panels were similar in configuration to the ones Spock and Burnham had used on the exterior of the vessel, in order to gain entry. “It would appear the riddle has been presented,” he said. He moved toward the blank panel on the right, and Burnham put herself in front of its counterpart on the left.
She dragged her palm across the flank of her uniform, leaving behind a sheen of sweat. “Is it just me,” she said, “or is it quickly getting warmer in here?”
Spock had not immediately noticed the upward shift in temperature, as it was still well within what he considered a comfortable range, but once aware of it, he felt it acutely. “You are not incorrect. The temperature has increased.” He retrieved his tricorder from its half-pocket holster on his belt and checked the device’s running sensor logs. “To be precise, the temperature inside this compartment has risen by six point one degrees Celsius since the portal behind us closed. Current temperature is twenty-eight degrees. If the rate of ambient thermal increase remains consistent, we can expect it to rise approximately six degrees per minute.”
“Now we know the threat. Let’s get to work on the riddle.” She positioned her palm above her smooth panel, and waited until Spock did the same. “On the count of three.” He nodded his understanding, so she started her count. “One. Two. Three.”
In unison they pressed their hands to the interface panels.
Percussive noise assaulted Spock’s ears. It was so loud that he felt the pressure of displaced air on his skin with each bass beat, and the higher-pitched tones were painful to hear. The effect was agonizing cacophony. He pulled his hand from his panel, and the compartment went silent. Burnham removed her hand from her panel. “Are you all right?”
“I am,” he said, masking his discomfort. “I was unprepared for that level of volume. I had hoped that removing my hand might reduce it by some measure.”
Burnham shook her head. “Looks like it’s designed to be all or nothing.” She put her hand back above her panel. “Ready to try again?” She waited until he affirmed his readiness with a nod, then she counted, “One. Two. Three.”
Their hands both pressed down, and the concentration-shattering din resumed. Spock closed his eyes and focused on the panel under his palm. His sense of time melted away while he felt raised shapes manifest on the smart-metal surface—ovals linked by radiating lines to dots and tiny triangles and squares. “The surface under my hand is manifesting shapes,” he shouted over the noise to Burnham.
“I feel them too,” she hollered back. “Simple at first. But getting more complex.”
“I am noticing the same pattern.” The deafening clamor made him wince. Was its purpose to test their ability to focus in spite of distraction? It seemed possible, but did the heat not already serve that function? He forced past the noise to give his full attention to the shapes, and to a matrix of hexagons that appeared on the portal’s holographic surface. Each new shape was reproduced inside its o
wn hexagon after it melted from the smart-metal panel.
He looked over at Burnham, whose face was beaded with sweat that pasted her stylish forelock of dark hair to her forehead. “Are you all right?”
“I’d feel better if it were a dry heat,” she shouted over the noise, which continued to pummel them from either side. “Do you know what these symbols mean?”
Spock searched for significance in the arrangement of the symbols in the hexagons. “The symbols do not fall into uniform rows or columns. They form clusters and branches—some parallel to others, some distinct and separated from the rest.” His voice grew hoarse from shouting as the air became hotter. “I do not believe it represents any kind of simple mathematical progression.” To his surprise, his observations went unremarked by Burnham.
He checked on the Shenzhou’s first officer. She seemed on the verge of wilting as the temperature passed what Spock realized must be close to forty-six degrees Celsius—a not-unusual level of heat on Vulcan. He knew Burnham had spent most of her life acclimating to such heat, but it had been years since she had endured it on a regular basis, and her human physiology was unlikely to deliver her peak performance under such conditions for much longer.
“Burnham!” he called to her. Weakly, she lifted her head to look at him. “Do not succumb to the heat. We must both remain conscious and in contact with the panels in order to complete this test.”
“I’m trying, Spock, but this alien oven has me beat.”
He was about to offer some platitude intended to bolster her spirit, but her words sparked a moment of sudden connection in his thoughts. Yes, he realized, that’s it. It must be.
“Stay with me,” he told Burnham. “I need you to pay attention to the rhythm on your side of the compartment.”
She blinked, then squinted at him. “The what? Why?”
“The tempo,” Spock said. “The rhythm issuing from your side of the compartment is not the same as the one on mine. If I am correct, I believe the time signatures in each percussive pattern hold a key to the solution of this challenge.”