Star Trek: Discovery: Desperate Hours

by David Mack

  Burnham nodded, then closed her eyes. She tapped her foot on the deck to map out one portion of the pattern playing behind her, and she drummed her free index finger against her leg to track the other side of the rhythm. Spock closed his eyes and listened to his side’s pattern. As a trained musician, he did not need to tap out the pattern to isolate it in his thoughts.

  At the same time he and Burnham opened their eyes and faced each other.

  “My side’s time signature is two-five,” Burnham said.

  “Mine is two-three.” He faced the growing tree of symbols inside the hexagons on the holographic display over the portal. “We need to match those figures to these.” Now Spock felt stymied. “Unfortunately, none of those look like fractions to me.”

  Burnham looked ready to collapse. “What if they aren’t supposed to be?” She sagged forward against the bulkhead, but kept her hand on her panel. “What if we’re meant to read the time signatures as whole numbers? Twenty-five and twenty-three?” She threw a lazy wave at the clusters and strings of symbols in the hologram. “Some of those notations aren’t that different from the ones we used to solve the prime factorizations at the first hatchway.”

  “Yes,” Spock said, starting to see the logic in the arrangement before him. “Growing from simple to more complex, arranged in branches and clusters—”

  Burnham blurted out the answer just as Spock thought of it: “It’s the periodic table! Or an alien version of it, anyway. And if they want us to press twenty-five and twenty-three—”

  “Then we just need to identify which of these symbols represents the atomic structures of manganese and vanadium, respectively,” Spock said. “Most logical. Shall we proceed?”

  “Please, before I go from medium to well-done.”

  They lifted their hands from the interface pads and met in front of the oval portal. Burnham touched the symbol for manganese as Spock put his hand to the symbol for vanadium. Both symbols glowed green as the others around them faded away. Then the holographic screen went dark, and the obstruction retreated into its frame, like a fast-melting glacier, to reveal the next leg of the Juggernaut’s central passageway ahead, glowing an intense reddish-orange. Cool air washed over Spock and Burnham, bringing the human woman some clearly welcome relief.

  Spock took Burnham’s arm and helped her over the portal’s frame. After a few moments in the cooler environment, Burnham was quick to recover her focus. “Thank you, Mister Spock.” She cast a half-amused look at the peril they’d just escaped. “And to think . . . I once laughed at Sarek when he told me music was a vital subject.”

  “Odd,” Spock said. “He often seemed to regard my interest in music as a frivolity.”

  Burnham trudged forward, toward the next challenge. “If we live through this, let’s have the Andorian Imperial Drum Corps honor him with a predawn serenade.”

  “I have entertained less reasonable suggestions,” Spock said as he fell into step beside her, not knowing what they would face next, but confident they would overcome it together.

  * * *

  The last thing Saru wanted was to return to the planet’s surface, with its dangerously open spaces, harsh daylight, and free-moving wind full of scents alien yet almost familiar. He had felt nearly at home in the underground caverns, sequestered in the darkness. It had reminded him of his youth on Kelpia, his days of roaming its seemingly endless networks of subterranean passages with his clanmates. Even the pictographic quality of this world’s long-extinct natives had fostered fond remembrances. Though he had long been estranged from his people on Kelpia, this excursion had, for too brief a moment, felt like a sort of homecoming.

  Lost in his thoughts, he led Una out of the catacombs. The climb had been more taxing than the descent, and had left Una a bit short of breath for conversation. Though Saru could have carried on a spirited monologue for the duration of the return, he had elected to keep his silence. Una comported herself like one who eschewed small talk and pointless chatter. Her stoicism was yet another quality Saru admired.

  Soon enough the light of day came into view, a beacon to mark the end of their shared journey. Saru exited the cave entrance first, his gangly legs overstepping the large rocks piled at the cave’s mouth. Una stepped onto the rocks as she passed over them, and then she stopped to bask in the warmth of the afternoon sunlight. “Good to be back aboveground,” she said.

  “I suppose,” Saru said, suppressing his urge to regale Una with every stray factoid there was to know about Kelpiens and their preference for dwelling and traveling underground. He lifted his tricorder just enough to call attention to it. “Before I start my analysis on the Shenzhou, I will transmit a copy of my data to you for independent confirmation.”

  Una offered a smile of gratitude. “And I will do the same from the Enterprise.”

  As she reached for her communicator, Saru sought to postpone their separation. “I expect my analysis will take under an hour, provided I receive priority access to the computer.”

  “That sounds like a reasonable estimate,” Una said. She flipped open the grille of her communicator and was about to activate its ship-to-shore channel.

  Saru took a halting step toward Una. “I just wanted to say, Commander, that I have very much enjoyed making your acquaintance.” He wondered how much he could confess without turning the moment awkward; he gambled on truthfulness. “I have not always found my Starfleet colleagues easy to understand. My attempts to forge meaningful bonds with them—of friendship, or even just simple camaraderie—have often met with rejection or misunderstanding.” Despite the fact that he towered over Una, he felt small as he bowed his head to add, “If only I could change my past, I should very much have liked to have served with you.”

  She took his hand and favored him with a smile. “I’m going to hold you to that if I ever get a command of my own. Because I, for one, would welcome the privilege of serving with a keen, enlightened mind such as yours, Lieutenant. And let me also say that the feeling is mutual: I, too, have greatly enjoyed meeting you.” She let go of his hand and stepped a few meters away from him. “Now let’s hope our commanding officers don’t get one or both of us killed.”

  A sardonic wit and a born realist, Saru swooned. She’d have made a fine Kelpien.

  Una activated her communicator. “Una to Enterprise. One to beam up.”

  “Stand by for transport,” a male voice replied over the comm.

  A wash of sonorous noise, then a shine of golden energy cocooned Una. The particles danced and swam, and they grew brighter as the image of her faded. Then the coruscating light dissipated along with the doleful whine of the transporter effect, and a swirling gust of warm wind became Saru’s only companion in the rocky pass.

  He had been sad to see her go, and now he feared what might happen if Georgiou and Pike’s confrontation escalated. What if I never see her again? he wondered.

  Deep breaths. In through his body’s countless spiracles, then out through his nostrils. It was not the most efficient means of oxygenating his blood supply, but the practice had been proved to have a calming effect on his species. After several seconds he felt in control of his emotions. Equilibrium had been restored, and with it his hard-won air of dignity.

  Can’t let the apex predators see one actually having tender feelings, now can one? One sign of weakness and the meat-eaters go for the jugular.

  He opened the grille of his communicator, resigned to the resumption of his duties in the company of those who would likely never really appreciate or comprehend his true self. “Saru to Shenzhou. One for transport. Energize when ready.”

  “Acknowledged, Lieutenant,” a female officer replied. “Stand by.”

  Within moments he would be safe once again in the comforting embrace of the transporter beam. Its blessing of intangibility would be fleeting, but that made it no less a pleasure for Saru. The first thing that every Kelpien learned was that the essential nature of life and the universe is impermanence: everything changes, and eve
rything ends. Trying to resist that truth is the root of all suffering. Or, as he had learned to phrase it for his Starfleet comrades: Enjoy what you have while you have it. Because any second now, it, and you, might cease to be.

  As the transporter beam enfolded him, he felt perplexed.

  I fail to understand why I am not more popular at social gatherings.

  * * *

  If there was a segment of New Astana’s underground infrastructure less accessible or more remote than the pumping station beneath its central reservoir, Gretchen Kolova didn’t want to see it. There was precious little free space in the control room, barely enough for her and the other resisters to gather in a standing-room-only capacity. Above them was the forbidding shell of the auxiliary reservoir, itself located near the nadir of an abyss of crisscrossed pipes.

  She and her inner circle—which now consisted of her political advisers Ishii and Medina; drilling-rig survivors Bowen, Chandra, and Omalu; ranking police officer Eichorn; Tanzer, the engineer; and Tassin, the mechanic—gathered around the room’s main situation table, which had been designed to control the flow and filtration of water resources throughout the city.

  “This’ll do as a short-term base,” Kolova said. Pointing out tunnel junctions on the table’s water-system map, she continued, “We’ll need to post sentries or intruder-detection devices here, here, and here, and at all the points on sublevel eight, since that’s where they’ll have to make their first incursion to reach the lower sublevels.”

  Eichorn studied the map. “I have enough people and gear to get that done.”

  “Good,” Kolova said. “That brings us to our next issue: monitoring the two Starfleet ships in orbit.”

  Ishii leaned forward, over the table. “Shouldn’t we concentrate on putting people in position to move against the Starfleet medical teams already on the surface? We’re going to need them as bargaining chips.”

  Kolova shook her head. “I’d rather not escalate to violence unless we have to. For now I’m willing to play cat and mouse. As long as we evade capture, we can use ourselves as leverage. We tell Starfleet that if they save the colony, we’ll come quietly.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Bowen grumbled.

  “I’m not proposing we hand ourselves over without taking precautions,” Kolova said. “But saving our fellow colonists has to be our chief priority, or else we’re nothing but fugitives trying to save our own skins. And I plan on making those Starfleet captains share my priorities.” She scanned the faces in the room. “So, how do we monitor the ships?”

  “We’re not equipped to do more than track their movements in orbit,” Medina said. “If we tap into the planetary traffic-control system, we’ll at least have a sense of where they are. Beyond that, the system can’t tell us much. It lacks tactical components, so we can’t know if they’re charging weapons or raising shields unless they announce it on an open channel.”

  Kolova concealed her disappointment. “It’s a start,” she said.

  “It’s not enough,” Bowen said. “Starfleet almost never uses open channels. If we really want to know what’s going on up there, we need to be tapped into their coded frequencies. That’s the only way we’ll know what the two captains are telling each other, what they’re telling Starfleet Command, and what it’s telling them.”

  Tanzer threw some side-eye shade at Bowen. “And how are we supposed to do that? They’ve got military-grade comms, and all we’ve got are what Kayo’s lowest bidders were willing to provide.”

  “It’s just a difference in processing power and speed,” Chandra said. “Scrounge up some spare duotronic chip sets, plug them into an FTL array, and then all you need is the software.”

  Omalu rolled her eyes at her comrade from the rig. “Oh, is that all? Just an operating system for a standard-issue Starfleet-grade communications suite? Why didn’t you say so? I’m sure we can just buy that on a set of data cards in the city’s central market.”

  The only person around the table wearing a hopeful expression was Tassin. “I might know someone who can help,” he said.

  Eager to exploit any good news she could find, Kolova asked, “Who?”

  “Her name’s Kiva Cross,” the greasy mechanic said. “She was a Starfleet comms officer. Trained in code breaking, signals intelligence, and everything in between. She’s been a civvy for a few years now, but if anyone can break into Starfleet’s comms, it’ll be her.”

  Kolova felt encouraged. “Is she with us here?”

  Tassin shook his head. “No, she runs a duotronics repair shop in the Tech Quarter. But she knows me, and I think she might help us if we can make her understand what’s at stake.”

  “All right,” Kolova said. “Then we have two objectives for the next thirty minutes. Tassin, go find your friend and bring her back here—I want to talk to her myself.”

  “On it,” Tassin said, and then he slipped through the crowd and hurried up a staircase toward the surface.

  Kolova continued as Tassin departed. “Bowen, you and your people recon the hospital. See if the Starfleet docs are spread out or clustered. Bring back sensor readings with detailed floor plans if you can.”

  “Copy that.” Bowen nodded at Omalu and Chandra, and the trio left together, up the same stairs Tassin had used.

  That left only the rudiments of defense to be put into place. Kolova faced Eichorn. “Post your guards and intruder alarms, and be quick. If this all goes south, Starfleet will come for us, and I want to make sure we give them a very warm welcome when they do.”

  17

  * * *

  It was difficult for Burnham to know whether she could trust her senses, but with each step forward she and Spock took inside the Juggernaut, she imagined she felt the gravity growing stronger. The effect had been subtle at first. Early on, she had attributed the sensation to oddities of footing or a peculiar slant in the deck. And if truth be told, if there was any difference from one step to the next, it was of such a minuscule degree that the difference could be felt only over time. In other words, she brooded, by the time I’m sure, it will be too late.

  Thumper bobbed through the air ahead of her and Spock. It continued to crackle with superfine filaments of lightning. The hue of its electrical corona shifted from one second to the next—from white to golden to violet, then to chartreuse and white again. Whenever Spock’s or Burnham’s pace flagged, Thumper let out a low beat of reproach. Its latest pulse of criticism was Burnham’s fault. She resented the correction but quickened her step.

  She asked Spock, “Am I the only one of us growing weary of being tested?”

  He accepted her complaint with a show of mild surprise. “I find a small measure of encouragement in its feedback.” It took him a moment to register Burnham’s probing look and take it as a cue to clarify his remark. “If the Juggernaut’s only purpose were to destroy all life on the planet, it would have no logical reason to pose such hurdles.”

  “True,” Burnham said. “It would have just killed us by now. And it still might.”

  “Perhaps,” Spock said. “Though I suspect it would compel us to play a role in our own demise. All of its elements we have encountered so far have been directed toward such an end.”

  Burnham searched the curved bulkheads of the oval-shaped passageway. They, the deck, and the overhead here all glowed with dull red light. “I wonder,” she said, “if all its tests are made to be overcome. After all, why lure us deeper and subject us to new and different threats? What’s to be gained by that? Does the Juggernaut itself benefit somehow? Or would putting us through our paces somehow enrich its makers?”

  Spock regarded their environs with dignified curiosity. “It might be a form of intelligence test,” he said. “One designed to test mental adaptability, problem-solving skills, and the ability to apply esoteric knowledge in uncommon combinations and circumstances.”

  “Yes, but to what end? Is it sizing us up as potential threats?”

  Her question made him stop and think.
She halted and faced him. He met her expectant gaze. “Perhaps this is a form of initiation or recruitment. A gauntlet designed to identify those worthy or capable of performing some task or role that requires exceptional ability.”

  “What role would require the sorts of skills and abilities needed to foil these traps?”

  Spock tilted his head. “One that I doubt few intelligent beings would want to fill.”

  That was a conclusion with which Burnham found no fault. She was about to say as much when the Juggernaut trembled, and a familiar haunting sound reverberated through its bulkheads and deck. Burnham looked upward and listened, trying to differentiate nuances in the din. “Drones,” she said. “That’s the sound they make when they launch.” She held up a hand to forestall Spock’s questions until after the noise abated. “Nine point four seconds. That’s longer than it took last time, which suggests the Juggernaut just deployed at least seven drones.”

  Spock pulled out his communicator and flipped open its grille. “Spock to Enterprise. Do you read me?” He adjusted his communicator. “Lieutenant Spock to Shenzhou, please respond.” Silence reigned over the channel. Spock flipped the grille shut and tucked the communicator onto his belt. “I suspected it would be futile, but we were duty bound to try to warn the ships.”

  “I agree,” Burnham said. “Had my reflexes been faster, I’d have made those hails.”

  Spock glanced upward in a manner that suggested his thoughts were far away, perhaps with his ship and crewmates—a momentary exhibition of sentiment that betrayed his persona of classical Vulcan logic. Burnham couldn’t tell if Spock knew his slip of emotionalism had been observed, but he turned away from her and continued walking. She followed and said nothing.

  “The continued aggression of the Juggernaut compels me to wonder,” Spock said. “If this vessel was somehow linked to the extinction of this planet’s indigenous sentient species . . . was that the end of its mission? The fact that it was roused by the drilling rig suggests the Juggernaut might have been designed to carry on a perpetual assignment.”