by David Mack
In one word, Captain Alex Terapane fell on his sword.
“Go.”
* * *
Ione Kitain’s whole world was on fire.
Great peals of thunder overpowered the screaming that seemed to fill every corner of Lacon City. The street outside her residential tower heaved like a chest expanding with breath, and then it cracked and collapsed into itself, swallowing dozens of people who had been fleeing without direction.
Millions of people all around her, throughout Deneva’s lush Summer Islands, were panicking, descending into a communal terror that assailed her keen Betazoid senses like a tsunami.
Every animal impulse in her brain told her to run, to seek shelter, but she knew there was no point. There were no hiding places to be found. So she huddled in the arched entryway of her apartment complex and focused her psionic senses through the maelstrom of fear to find her husband’s mind amid the mayhem.
Sickly green pulses of energy fell from the heavens. Titanic mushroom clouds billowed skyward at multiple points around the horizon, turning the dusk to darkness. Every detonation rocked the city with the force of an earthquake.
From high overhead, Ione heard the mournful whine of a failing engine. She looked up in time to see a damaged personnel transport spiral out of control and slam into a commercial tower, several blocks from her home. Its impact shattered the entire façade of the building, and the transport exploded in a flash, followed by gouts of flame. With the tower’s center all but obliterated, its upper portion swayed like a wounded giant before it plunged at an angle, crushed the lower half, and toppled into the streets. A toxic cloud of pulverized debris, atomized bodies, and glass and metal shards spread through the artificial canyons of the urban center.
Lacon City reeked of smoke, death, and sewage.
The buzz of emergency-service aircars and other antigrav vehicles ceased all at once. At first, Ione thought they had gone—and then she heard the dull thuds and crunches of hundreds of vehicles falling to Earth and caroming off buildings and the elevated pedestrian walkways above the streets. Her best guess was that an energy-dampening field had blanketed the city.
That means our shield’s completely gone, Ione realized. It won’t be long now. Fear began to cloud her thoughts and dull her telepathic senses. Then her husband’s thoughts touched her own.
I am near, wife. I am at the fountain.
She bolted from the archway and sprinted through streets littered with broken, burning vehicles and mounds of smoldering debris. I’m coming, my love, she projected to her Imzadi.
Another blast, closer than all the others. A deathly silence washed over the street. Ione flattened herself against a pile of shattered asphalt and covered her head with her arms as the shockwave hit. It ripped through the upper sections of the buildings on either side of her. A delicate music of destruction lingered behind it and deluged the boulevard with a storm of broken glass. Most of it was sandlike, tiny abrasive granules, but a few substantial chunks gouged her back and thighs.
She tried to be stoic, to contain the sharp agony of her wounds rather than accost her husband’s own telepathic mind with them, but her control was compromised by anguish and fear. Minuscule fragments of glass bit into her palms as she forced herself up from the ground. Then a pair of strong brown hands gripped her forearms and lifted her to her feet.
He’d found her.
“Elieth,” she said, smiling sadly at her husband.
He responded with typical Vulcan stoicism. “We must move,” he said, pulling her into motion beside him. He ushered her out of the street and toward the space beneath the overhang of an elevated promenade. His peace officer’s uniform was ripped and stained with dust and blood. One of his ears was mauled and bloodied. She reached toward it in sympathy. “You’re hurt.”
“Quickly,” he said, applying gentle pressure with one arm on her back, until they were sheltered under the promenade. A moment later, she understood the reason for his urgency.
Bodies began falling into the street.
The sounds were more horrible than anything Ione had ever imagined. Her stomach heaved in disgust with every wet, muffled impact, every dull slap of flesh meeting stone. Just meters from where she stood, the street became an abattoir.
When the grotesque percussion ceased, Ione realized she was weeping into Elieth’s shoulder. At any other time, he would have radiated intense disapproval for such an overt exhibition of emotion. Instead, he imparted comforting thoughts.
Don’t be afraid. The worst is over.
Staring out at the apocalyptic cityscape, Ione replied, I sincerely doubt that, my love.
Despite all the times that Elieth had argued to her that regret was a worthless emotion, Ione wished that they had been on the last transport out of Lacon City.
When the order had come from Deneva’s president to evacuate the planet, however, she and Elieth had stayed behind to lend their expertise to the Civil Defense Corps. She had applied her skills as a particle physicist to improve the city’s defensive shields, to buy more time for the transports to be loaded and launched. Elieth’s job had been to maintain order at the launch site and make certain that the most vulnerable citizens had been given priority, especially families with young children.
The plan had been to meet back at home after the last transport was away. Looking back, she saw their apartment tower being consumed from within by a raging blaze.
“We could have left,” she said, knowing it wasn’t true.
“There was insufficient room on the transports,” Elieth said, calm in the face of calamity. “We also did not fit the criteria for prioritized rescue.”
Spite and selfishness surged inside her. “I’m a daughter of the Fourth House of Betazed, and you have a badge. We could have left.” As soon as she’d said it, she felt ashamed.
Elieth let her remarks pass.
A deep rumbling resonated in every solid surface, and the city was bathed in a terrifying monochromatic green radiance.
Ione trembled, and her heart pounded furiously. Adrenaline coursed through her, but she had no use for it. Embracing her Imzadi, she opened her mind to his. What will you miss most?
I will not be aware of any loss after I have ceased to exist, Elieth responded. So I will miss nothing.
Unswayed by his resolute devotion to logic, Ione shared, I’ll miss music. And you.
It was only a blink, a micro-expression that vanished almost as soon as it manifested, but Ione saw the crack in Elieth’s façade. Beneath his carefully trained discipline, he was grieving just as deeply as she was—and perhaps far more. He made a silent confession: If it were possible for one with no awareness to miss something … I would miss you most of all.
He tightened his embrace, and Ione shed grateful tears for that one last moment of proof that Elieth, youngest son of Tuvok and T’Pel, truly loved her.
Her tears cut trails across her grime-covered face. Then the viridian glow from above brightened, and she cringed. “I didn’t think it would end like this.”
Nor did I.
A pulse of light and heat penetrated every atom of the city, and then there were no more tears.
* * *
The sun was sinking below the horizon and painting all of Paris with a single shade of salmon-pink light, when President Nan Bacco heard her office door open behind her.
She turned to face her lone visitor, Esperanza Piñiero. Tears ran in streaks from Piñiero’s dark brown eyes. The chief of staff crossed the room to the president’s desk. Agent Wexler remained outside and closed the door behind her. By the time Piñiero reached the desk, she looked too distraught to speak. She bowed her head and struggled to control her breathing.
Bacco anticipated Piñiero’s news with deep anxiety. She didn’t want to know the truth; she didn’t want to make the disaster real by allowing its tragedies to be spoken. But what she wanted didn’t really matter anymore.
“Esperanza,” she said. “Tell me. In simple words.”
A churning tide of sickness and a destabilizing feeling of emptiness struck Bacco at the same time. Overwhelmed, she sank into her chair, faltering like an invalid. There had been no surprise in Piñiero’s report, but it was still devastating to confront it as a hard truth. Billions more dead. Billions.
“What’s coming next?” Bacco said.
“Regulus is under siege now, and an attack on Qo’noS is imminent,” Piñiero said. “Martok’s fleet is gone. All he has left is a rear guard at the Klingon homeworld.”
Even if it would amount to merely going through the motions, Bacco was determined to serve a purpose until the bitter end. “Do we have any forces close enough to help them?”
“Admiral Jellico redeployed the Tempest and its battle group from Ajilon to Qo’noS six hours ago. Admiral Akaar can’t guarantee they’ll get there in time to make a difference.”
Bacco felt like a chess player who knew she had already been checkmated but was obliged to continue until the endgame. “Which worlds are getting hit next?”
“Elas and Troyius are both facing attacks in two hours,” Piñiero said. “So are Ajilon, Archanis, Castor, and Risa.”
I feel like I’m drowning. Bacco closed her eyes for a moment. “What about the core systems?”
“Borg attack groups are on course for Vulcan, Andor, Coridan, and Beta Rigel. ETA five hours.”
It would be negligent of me not to ask, Bacco reminded herself. “And Earth?”
“Eight hours, Madam President.” Despair loomed over Piñiero like a black halo. “Ma’am, this might be a good time to consider moving your office into the secure bunker at Starfleet Command.”
Bacco sighed. “I think it’s a bit late for that.” She reached forward and activated the comm to signal her assistant. “Sivak, round up the cabinet members and the senior staff, and have them meet me in the Roth Dining Room in one hour.”
“Certainly, Madam President. Should your guests inquire, shall I tell them that formal dress is demanded or optional?”
“They can show up naked, for all I care. And tell the chefs I want to see the best of everything they’ve got. If they’ve been waiting for a chance to impress me, this is it.”
“Yes, Madam President. I’m sure the kitchen staff will find your enthusiasm for their work deeply inspiring.”
“And have them set a place for you as well, Sivak.”
She savored the moment of stunned silence that followed. It was rare that Sivak spoke without sarcasm or a subtle jab of wit, so hearing him reply with courtesy was a rare delight. “Thank you, Madam President,” he said. “The dining room will be ready to receive you and your guests in one hour.”
“Thanks, Sivak,” Bacco said, and she closed the channel.
Piñiero planted one hand on her hip and gesticulated with the other. “Ma’am, what was that about?”
“Dinner,” Bacco said. “If you have a special request, I suggest you send it to the kitchen sooner rather than later.”
The chief of staff blinked. She looked as if Bacco had just swatted her in the back of the head with a baseball bat. “Do you really think an impromptu state dinner is what we need right now? We’re eight hours away from seeing Earth get turned into a glowing ball of molten glass.”
“Exactly,” Bacco replied. “It’s an old Earth tradition. The condemned get to enjoy a final meal, so they can savor what it means to be alive one last time before they die.” She stood and circled around her desk to join Piñiero. “This might be our last supper, Esperanza—so let’s dine with style.”
A bittersweet smile broke through Piñiero’s veil of gloom. “I like the way you think, ma’am.”
Bacco shrugged. “It’s my job.”
4527 B.C.E.
14
Pembleton and the other human survivors pushed into the middle of their shelter, closer to the pile of fire-heated rocks, and listened with unease and suspicion as Lerxst answered their questions about the Caeliar’s bizarre proposal.
“Help me understand,” Graylock said, holding out his empty palms. “You want to use us as batteries?”
Lerxst replied, “Engines would be a better analogy. Even that falls short of the mark, however. What we are suggesting is a fusion of our strengths, for our mutual survival.”
Thayer narrowed her eyes at Lerxst. “But you did say that you’d be using our bodies as a source of power.”
“In the short term, yes,” Lerxst said.
Steinhauer, who kept his hands busy threading fibers into the loop of a snowshoe, looked up and said, “Why not use one of those creatures that killed our man Niccolo?”
“It is not merely biochemical reactions that we require,” Lerxst said. “The interaction of our catoms is similar in many respects to the synapses of your brains. To sustain ourselves and maintain the integrity of our consciousness, we would need to bond with a sentient being, one with enough neuroelectric activity to power our catoms. Mere animals will not suffice.”
Pembleton said, “So we’ve established why you need us. Why do we need you?”
The Caeliar lifted his arm and made a sweeping gesture at the confines of the shelter. “Your current situation appears to speak for itself,” he said. Directing their attention to the ailing Crichlow, he added, “Our catoms could enhance your immune systems and enable you to adapt to this world’s aggressive pathogens.” He pointed at Thayer’s mechanically augmented foot. “They would also speed your recovery from injuries and prolong your ability to survive a famine.”
“I presume that’s a best-case scenario,” Graylock said.
Lerxst bowed slightly to the engineer. “Yes, it is.”
Graylock shook his head slowly. “Now let’s hear the worst-case scenario.”
“The fusion of our catoms and gestalt with your organic bodies does carry significant risks,” Lerxst said. “Normally, we would not attempt anything so complex without first conducting extensive research and testing. Given the primitive nature of our surroundings and the urgency of our respective crises, we would have to attempt this bonding without such preparations.”
Thayer’s anger put an edge on her voice. “Get to the point. What happens if it goes wrong?”
Tense silence followed her question. Lerxst’s demeanor was subdued as he replied, “An unsuccessful fusion could result in the death of the intended host, the dispersal of the Caeliar consciousness, or both. It could also inflict brain damage on the host, turning him or her into an automaton under the control of the bonded intelligence; or the bonded entity might prove incompatible with the host and would become corrupted. It is also remotely possible that your bodies’ immune systems might reject the catoms as foreign tissue and treat the fusion as a form of infection. Any or all of these outcomes might occur.”
“Great,” Steinhauer said. “Just great.”
Graylock scowled at the grousing private before saying to Lerxst, “Brain damage? Death? It sounds as if the risks of this ‘fusion’ far outweigh the benefits.”
“The alternative is death,” Lerxst said.
“For you, maybe,” Pembleton replied. “As soon as we have enough snowshoes to go around, we’re going south.”
“Or north,” Graylock said. “Whichever way the equator is.”
The Caeliar turned his inscrutable visage toward Pembleton. “How far do you think you’ll get? Shall I draw you a map of what lies ahead?” Lerxst hadn’t raised his voice, but there was something smug and angry in his manner. “This is an island, Gage, more than a hundred kilometers from the nearest major continent. You and your friends can no more flee from your predicament than we can from ours.”
Pembleton looked at Graylock. “Your call, sir.”
The lieutenant’s brow tensed, and a V-shaped wrinkle formed between his thick eyebrows. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “To hell with rank for a minute,” he said. “This is all of our
lives on the line. We’ll put it to a vote, a show of hands. Who wants to risk becoming a Caeliar meat puppet?”
A look around the room revealed not a single raised hand.
“All right,” Pembleton said. “Who votes to look for a way off this island?” He lifted his own arm, and four others reached for the drooping fabric ceiling.
Graylock nodded, and they put their arms down. “The ayes have it,” he said to Lerxst. “Escape, five; meat puppets, zero.”
“Please reconsider, Karl,” Lerxst said. “If we don’t join together now, while my people still have the strength to control the process of the fusion, we might never have another chance.”
“Sorry,” Graylock said. “We’ve made our decision.”
“Then both our peoples will die,” Lerxst said.
The Caeliar envoy stood and walked out of the shelter. As he exited through the overlapping flaps of the shelter’s portal, a gust of subfreezing air slipped past him and momentarily cut through the pungent miasma of body odor, bad breath, and mildew.
Graylock got up, tied the flaps closed, and returned to the heated rocks with the other survivors. He reached forward, picked up the makeshift cooking pot, and poured himself a bowl of bitter bark soup. He had a worried look on his face as he confided to Pembleton, “If Lerxst is telling the truth about this being an island, we’re in big trouble.”
“Relax, sir,” Pembleton said, pretending to be confident. “We’ll be fine. After all, you’re an engineer, aren’t you?”
Exhausted and perplexed, Graylock replied, “What does that have to do with anything?”
Pembleton shrugged. “So there’s an ocean. How hard can it be to make a raft?”
The lieutenant sipped his soup and winced. “Harder than you think, Sergeant. A lot harder.”
“Didn’t Thor Heyerdahl cross an ocean on a raft?”
“Yes, he did,” Graylock said. “But that was the Pacific in high summer, not an arctic sea in deep winter. Also, Heyerdahl built his raft in Peru, where he had access to the right kinds of wood and fabric. At the rate we’re going, we’ll probably end up drifting out to sea on ice floes, like dying Inuit.”