by David Mack
Then a flash of white light filled the screen, and when it faded seconds later, the Gibraltar was gone.
“We’re in firing range,” Choudhury said. “Locking weapons.”
“Fire at will,” Worf said.
On the screen, a quartet of brilliant blue projectiles raced toward the Borg cube as it fired again at Korvat’s capital city. The Alexey Leonov tried to emulate the Gibraltar’s self-sacrifice, only to be picked off by a dense fusillade from the Borg cube. Another blinding flare whited-out the main viewer.
All four of the Enterprise’s transphasic torpedoes found their target. Even as they broke the Borg cube into pieces and consumed them in blue fire, the Borg got off one last shot—a massive pulse of emerald-hued energy that arrowed down through Korvat’s atmosphere and laid waste to its capital.
Two fire clouds blossomed like obscene flowers on the screen in front of Picard, who for the second time in one day bore witness to a burning world and its dispersing black halo of collateral damage.
Worf left his chair and prowled from station to station. “Commander Kadohata, scan the planet’s surface for survivors.”
The svelte second officer tapped at her console and sighed. Her dry, Port Shangri-la accent leached the emotion from her voice as she reported, “Isolated life signs in a number of highland regions and on a few antarctic islands.” She filtered the data on her screens. “I’m reading roughly twenty-nine thousand people left alive on the surface, sir.” Picard appreciated her artful omission, her choice to emphasize the number of survivors rather than confirm the deaths of more than ten million people. Then she continued, “Toxins in the atmosphere and water are spreading rapidly. If the survivors aren’t evacuated in the next seventy-two hours, they’ll receive lethal doses of theta radiation.”
“Lieutenant Choudhury,” Worf said, “send Starfleet Command a priority request for evacuation transports.”
Kadohata turned from her station to look at Worf. “Shouldn’t we start rescuing them ourselves?”
“We do not have room for that many refugees,” Worf said. “We also have nowhere to relocate them to.”
The slim human woman looked back and forth in frustration between Worf and the captain. “So we’re just going to leave those people there?”
Picard replied, “We have other mission priorities, Commander.” He looked away from Kadohata’s accusing stare and said to Choudhury, “Any reports from the other four targets?”
“Starbase 234 was destroyed,” she said, “but it looks like they took the Borg down with them. Khitomer’s safe—thanks to a kamikaze attack by the Ranger.” Glancing at her console, she added, “The battles at Starbases 157 and 343 are still in progress.” She frowned. “Starbase 157 is sending a Mayday, sir.”
Against his better judgment, Picard said, “On speaker.”
Crackles of static, wails of feedback noise … and then panicked shouts over the cries of the dying and the erratic percussion of explosions. “… phasers overloaded …” More static. “… hit them with everything we’ve got … still coming …” A scratch of deep-space background radiation noise. “… all power … can’t break our shields …” A screech and a high-frequency tone pitched in and out on a long oscillation. “… coming right at us! They’re on a ramming trajectory!”
A long, loud burst of noise was followed by silence.
“They’re gone,” Choudhury said, her eyes downcast as she closed the channel.
An incoming signal chirruped on Kadohata’s console. She reviewed it in a glance and reported, “Priority message from the Excalibur, sir. They’re signaling all-clear at Starbase 343.”
Choudhury looked perplexed at the news. “How’d they stop the Borg without using transphasic torpedoes?”
“With a miracle, Lieutenant,” Picard said with dry humor. “That’s Captain Calhoun’s ship. I’ve learned to expect the impossible from him and his crew.” He shook his head as he thought of the hotheaded young Xenexian man he’d coaxed into Starfleet all those years ago—and the unorthodox, nigh-infamous starship commander he’d become.
From an auxiliary console, the Enterprise’s half-Vulcan, half-human contact specialist and relief flight controller T’Ryssa Chen heaved a tired sigh. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
Her comment rankled Picard. “Glad what’s over, Lieutenant?”
The young woman recoiled from Picard’s curt response, as usual favoring the human half of her ancestry over the Vulcan. Her reply was hesitant and uncertain. “The invasion. The Borg cubes were destroyed.”
Picard knew that he had to make the situation clear to Chen, and to anyone else who might have made the same, misguided assumption about the outcome of the battle they’d just fought.
“This isn’t over,” he said to her. “It’s only begun.” He got up from his chair and made a slow turn as he continued. “The Borg have been planning this invasion for years, and it won’t end as easily as this. They’re going to keep coming—hammering us every day, week after week, for as long as it takes … until we, or they, are gone.”
His officers watched him with grim, resolute expressions as he revealed what he’d learned in his latest brush with the Collective. “This is a clash of civilizations,” he explained, “and it will end when one of us falls.”
12
Tuvok found the zero-gravity environment of Titan’s stellar cartography lab inconvenient but manageable, though he had to suppress a deep, subtle tinge of envy at Lieutenant Commander Pazlar’s graceful ease of motion.
Envy. The presence of such a petty emotion shamed him, despite being known to no one but himself. Over the years his control of his emotions had been degraded by one incident after another. It had started years earlier, with a mind meld to his Voyager crewmate Lon Suder, a Betazoid man who also had been a violent sociopath. In his effort to stabilize the homicidal Suder, Tuvok had almost unhinged himself.
Other traumas—including a period of brutal incarceration on Romulus before he’d joined the crew of Titan—had exacerbated Tuvok’s difficulties. Most recently, Tuvok’s mind had been telepathically hijacked into the service of space-dwelling life-forms known to Starfleet by the nickname “star jellies.” While in their control, he had assaulted Pazlar and compromised the ship’s security. Under the care of Counselor Troi, he had begun learning Betazoid techniques for channeling and controlling his emotions, but he remained wary of his feelings and the damage that they could do when he failed to master them.
“I have the next set of projections ready,” Pazlar said. The delicate Elaysian reached out, her arms wide, and pulled the holographic image of the galaxy closer, compressing its scale with a balletic drawing together of her palms until they were centimeters apart. She and Tuvok towered like cosmic giants in the midst of the spiral majesty of the Milky Way, which girdled their torsos in a broad band. “That’s the source of the signals,” she said, pointing out a blinking red pinpoint half a meter in front of them. “And here’s a model of the signals’ trajectories.” She waved dozens of pale-blue beams into existence, all of them emanating in a tight, fan-shaped cluster from the pinpoint and reaching toward Federation space.
“Highlight the segments of those trajectories that fall within Federation space,” Tuvok said.
Pazlar sighed. “Sure, since you asked so nicely.” She entered the command into the holographic interface, which left an odd pattern of blue lines cutting through a tiny, red-tinted region demarcating Federation territory. “There’s no way to tell where any of them terminate,” she said as Tuvok patched his padd into the computer and began noting major UFP star systems along the beams’ paths. “For all we know, they’re looking at another galaxy and we just happen to be in their way.”
“That is a possibility,” Tuvok said. “However, unless we investigate it, we cannot know for certain.” A list of star systems appeared on the screen of his padd. He skimmed it and said to Pazlar, “Please enlarge the map of the Federation.”
The simulation zoomed in
on the red patch and expanded it until it surrounded them and all but filled the hololab. At that magnification, the angles between the various beams became far more subtle. “There must be dozens of populated systems within a light-year of each pulse,” Pazlar said.
“Eighty-three, to be precise,” Tuvok said, correcting her careless approximation. “However, I propose that we can limit our search to a specific region.” He transmitted a set of data to the computer, and it appeared in the simulation as a dense cluster of yellow dots in a corner of the three-dimensional map. “Magnify, please.” He waited until Pazlar had enlarged that isolated region, and then continued, “The recent Borg incursions into Federation space have all occurred along the border between the Klingon Empire and the Federation, from Acamar to Ramatis.” Pointing at the lone bold, blue streak that cut through the image, he added, “If these energy pulses are being used by the Borg, then this would likely be their conduit.”
“I don’t see any populated star systems near it,” she said. “But if its terminus opens in interstellar space, that might explain why Starfleet hasn’t been able to locate it.”
“Possibly,” Tuvok said. He paused as he traced the beam’s path through the cloudy stain of the Azure Nebula. A tiny detail snared his attention. Pointing at the nebula’s center, he said, “Magnify again, please.” Pazlar reached out and cupped the nebula in both hands, then she spread her hands and arms apart, instantly ballooning the gaseous cluster to dozens of times its previous size. The narrow beam of blue light cut straight through an astrocartographic marker. “Most curious,” Tuvok said.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Pazlar said, eyeing the image with surprise and wonder. “It passes right through that supernova remnant.” She chuckled. “If the Borg are using that beam as some kind of subspace passage, that remnant’s the end of the line. Even in subspace, if they hit that, they’d be dead.”
“Indeed,” Tuvok said. “And if that is their entry point into Federation space, the radiation from the remnant and the nebula would provide them with excellent cover from the region’s sensor network.” He arched one eyebrow in satisfaction. “We should inform the captain immediately.”
Pazlar mumbled, “Mm-hm,” and she began entering a new series of commands into the hololab’s interface.
Tuvok watched her for a moment, expecting her to explain her sudden burst of activity and inspiration. After several seconds, he concluded that the intensely focused and independent-minded science officer was not going to volunteer such information. He would have to ask her for it.
“What are you doing?”
“Setting up new parameters for the simulation,” she said, still keying in commands. “Seeing that beam run smack into the supernova remnant got me thinking: We cast the net too wide.”
“Explain,” Tuvok said.
She made some minor adjustments via the interface as she answered him. “Well, instead of looking for all the systems that fall within a certain range of the beams, why not just look for the ones that actually intersect? In other words, ignore the near misses and just look for the direct hits. It’s bound to yield fewer results, and if what we saw in the nebula’s any indicator, they might be a lot more relevant.”
“An interesting hypothesis. How long will it take to run the new simulation if you include all known galactic points?”
“Another hour,” she said, “but I think it’ll be worth it.”
“Very well,” he said. “Computer,” Tuvok said, “platform.” He felt the gentle tug of a tractor beam nudge him toward the circular platform below him and Pazlar. He could have navigated his way out of the zero-g environment with minimal difficulty, but because of his lack of recent experience with free fall, the effort might have taken him a few minutes, and he was eager to meet with the captain and continue his work. Allowing the computer to facilitate his exit from stellar cartography was both logical and expedient.
His feet touched down on the platform, and the tractor beam gradually released him into the low-gravity zone. He looked up at Pazlar, who hovered several meters above him. “Notify me when the results are ready for analysis,” he said. “I will continue my research in science lab one after I’ve informed the captain of our discovery.”
“Aye, sir,” Pazlar said. Then she returned to her work, and Tuvok walked toward the exit. As the hatch to the corridor opened, he stole a look back at Pazlar, floating free in her faux heavens, manipulating millions of ersatz stars with waves of her hands, blissfully submerged in her labors.
As he departed into the corridor, Tuvok struggled once again to extinguish that same troubling spark of envy.
* * *
Dr. Shenti Yisec Eres Ree paced on taloned feet, awaiting his patient’s arrival in sickbay. Delivering bad news had never been a pleasant experience for him, and he had found it was often best done as soon as possible and with little or no preamble. All the same, he despised the task. He had considered letting the matter lie until morning, rather than forcing himself to remain awake well into his regular sleep period. Then he had seen the report, realized its importance, and issued his urgent summons.
Caught up in his tests and his analysis, he had missed the scheduled hour for the crew’s carnivores to dine in the mess hall. Hunger burned in his gut, so intensely that he could almost taste the raw meat and the fresh marrow he craved. Despite the lateness of the hour, he knew that he could still use the mess hall and eat as he liked, but he would miss the camaraderie of his fellow flesh-eaters. The omnivores and herbivores on Titan had grown accustomed to witnessing the bloody feeding spectacle of carnivores playing with their food, though the majority of them remained discomfited by the idea of sitting in proximity to it while consuming their own meals.
Too bad, Ree decided. They’ll just have to deal with it. A little bit of splatter never hurt anyone.
The door sighed open and Counselor Troi walked in, attired in civilian clothes. She was bleary-eyed from being woken up, and she appeared anxious, clenching her right hand into a fist and cupping it in her left hand. “You said it was urgent?”
“Yes, Counselor,” Ree said. He turned and led her toward his private office. “Please come in and sit down.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather stand.”
“As you prefer.” He continued inside his office and waited until she was inside before he closed the door for privacy. As it closed, it shifted from transparent to translucent, along with the windows that looked out on sickbay. “I’ve finished my tests. I’m sorry to say the news isn’t good.”
Laying a hand on her belly, she asked, “You know why this is happening?”
He bobbed his long, therapodian head in a rough imitation of a nod. “I do.” He reached over to his desk and scooped up a data padd with his long, clawed fingers. “According to your medical history, sixteen years ago, on Stardate 42073, you became pregnant after contact with an unidentified alien being composed of energy. Hours later, you gave birth to a son.”
“Ian,” she said.
“Yes.” Reviewing her file, he continued, “The boy matured at a remarkable rate—approximately eight years in a single day. At the same time, a sample of plasma plague supposedly in stasis started to grow, its development accelerated by a field of Eichner radiation—the source of which was your son, Ian.”
Troi covered her mouth as if to hold back a cry of alarm. Her eyes were shining with tears, and her voice was a throaty gasp through her fingers. “No, please don’t tell me …”
“I’m sorry, Counselor,” Ree said. “But you should know all the facts.” He handed her the padd. She took it in one shaking hand and stared at it while he continued. “Research conducted a few years ago at the Vulcan Science Academy showed that sustained exposure to Eichner radiation can cause erratic mutations in mitochondrial DNA. For the purpose of their study, ‘sustained’ exposure was defined as anything longer than four hours. You gestated Ian for more than thirty-six hours.”
She covered her face with her hands. “
No,” she said through a keening cry. Struggling for control, she said, “Dr. Pulaski said there were no complications. She said all my readings were as if I’d never been pregnant.”
Ree bowed his head a moment. “Her exam was as accurate as it could have been,” he said, looking up. “But she relied on hormonal data and basic cellular analysis. The damage occurred on a much deeper and more subtle level.”
The counselor’s stance became unsteady, so Ree took her gently by the shoulders and eased her into a chair beside his desk. She was all but imploding in front of him.
“Forgive me,” he said. “There’s more.” The data padd started to fall from her hand, and he plucked it gingerly from her grasp. “The Eichner radiation caused subtle, random genetic defects in all of your unreleased ova.”
Troi peeked out from behind her hands. “But you can fix that, can’t you? Reconstruct the genetic sequence …?”
Where a human might have sighed, Ree stifled a low, rasping growl. “No, I can’t,” he said. “If it were a single, uniform mutation, I might have been able to extract an ovum, resequence its chromosomes, fertilize it in vitro, and reimplant it. But that’s not what has happened here.” He keyed up a screen of visual guides on the padd to illustrate his point. “The damage to your ovaries hasn’t resulted merely in corrupted genetic information. It’s also led to lost information. It would have been extremely difficult to resequence a mutated ova without a healthy specimen as a template. I wouldn’t know where to begin filling in the blanks of an incomplete chromosome.”
The half-Betazoid woman bowed her head into her hands and wept. All that Ree could do was sit in silence and let her cry. Though he found the parasitic nature of mammalian pregnancy to be unnerving, he understood the profound sense of connection that it created between female mammals and their young. This would be so much easier if she were a Pahkwathanh, he thought sadly. Among his kind, when an egg failed to hatch, its mother would break it open and devour both young and yolk, to conserve resources and provide for the next offspring. So much simpler than stillbirth, he reasoned. Not to mention cathartic.