He stifled a yawn. It was hard work being a captain, telling people what to do. He would look at those reports tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that.
“But the reports are ready,” Snollicoob protested. He stood before the captain, holding out a padd full of data. Like the captain, he was a heavyset humanoid clad in a layered brown uniform made of thick, quilted fabric. Bushy brown eyebrows, meeting above his nose, climbed toward a receding hairline, giving him a perpetually bemused expression. What little hair he had was slicked back from his forehead. Squinty brown eyes were sunken beneath the heavy brows. Horizontal facial folds creased his cheeks. A tool belt girded his waist. Typical of Pakleds, his verbal abilities were distinctly limited. “You should read them. Now.”
“Later.” Aadnalurg disliked repeating himself; it was too much work. A medallion upon his chest proclaimed his rank. He took the padd from Snollicoob and put it aside, atop a stack of navigational reports and sensor readings he was going to look at sometime soon. When he found the time. The padd teetered precariously atop the pile. “My eyes are tired.”
Maintenance reports always put him to sleep. Besides, he would rather play with his pet slug. Snirgli wriggled upon his lap. Its tentacles protruded over the edge of the desk, sniffing the captain’s lunch. Aadnalurg plucked a tiny morsel of blubber from the tray and fed it to the greedy mollusk. Its mottled yellow skin glistened wetly. Over ten centimeters long, from head to tail, Snirgli stretched eagerly for the treat. Aadnalurg chuckled at the slug’s appetite. He licked his greasy fingertips. The replicated blubber tasted almost as good as the real thing.
“You said that yesterday,” Snollicoob reminded him. “And the day before.”
Aadnalurg frowned. The engineer was smarter than average. Maybe too smart. He could be exhausting.
“I am worried about the warp engine,” Snollicoob persisted. He appeared to be in no hurry to leave the captain alone with his meal. “It is getting old. We should replace it.”
Warp technology was new to the Pakleds. Rorpot had stolen its engine from a derelict Cardassian scout ship abandoned during a border skirmish with the Federation. Aadnalurg did not really understand how the engine worked, but Snollicoob had always made it go before. Replacing it would be hard. The captain groaned at the prospect, but he supposed he would have to get around to it someday. Snollicoob was smart. He understood how the ship worked better than anyone. Aadnalurg wondered if maybe he should listen harder.
“Will it go?” he asked.
“Yes,” Snollicoob admitted. “But it is old. It needs repairs. And new parts.”
“Soon,” the captain promised. The tantalizing aroma of the raw blubber tickled his nostrils; he wanted to stop talking and eat. His stomach rumbled. “You think too much. Relax.” He gestured at the tray of food. “Sit down. Help yourself.”
Snollicoob hesitated. He glanced briefly at the ignored padd. But, as Aadnalurg had hoped, the generous offer—and the enticing odor of the fatty blubber—proved too tempting to resist. The engineer pulled over a stool and sat down opposite his captain. He licked his lips. “Thank you. I am hungry.”
“Uh-huh.” Aadnalurg fed Snirgli another bite of leviathan. He grinned at the engineer, pleased to have changed the subject at last. Buck teeth protruded from his upper lip. “You are a good crewman, Snollicoob. Later we play a game of broogola.” The demanding board game, copied from a Terran game known as tic-tac-toe, was a favorite pastime aboard the ship. “All right?”
Snollicoob grinned back at him. “Yes. I will enjoy that.”
The captain looked forward to the game. Maybe he would even beat Snollicoob for once.
The two Pakleds dug into their meal. They tore lumps of blubber apart with their bare hands, disdaining utensils, and talked with their mouths full. Snirgli squirmed onto the table, leaving an adorable trail of mucus behind. Both men laughed at the pet.
The engine could wait. . . .
“Sub-captain?”
First officer Frojuhpwa awoke with a start upon the bridge. Disoriented, he looked about in confusion, momentarily uncertain where he was. He had been dreaming about a sunny beach on Risa, before the intrusive voice snatched him back to reality. His bleary eyes took in the familiar sights and sounds of Rorpot. A soothing orange light radiated from the glowing power column at the rear of the bridge, illuminating the rust-colored steel bulkheads. A low ceiling gave the bridge the feel of a cozy den. Arched doorways led to adjoining corridors and compartments. Crewmen huddled around scattered control pedestals, looking over each other’s shoulders as they stood at their stations. The only chair upon the bridge, which Frojuhpwa now occupied, was behind the command console in the center of the chamber. The forward viewscreen displayed the inky blackness of interstellar space. Stars and nebulae sparkled in the distance. They looked very far away.
Uh-huh, Frojuhpwa thought, rubbing his eyes. He realized that he must have dozed off in the command chair. Hope nobody saw.
The equipment on the bridge was awkwardly cobbled together from a wide variety of sources. A Jaradan-style keyboard was hot-wired to an Andorian transducer matrix. The knobs and switches on the control panel in front of Frojuhpwa were cannibalized from a twenty-third century Bajoran sleeper ship; minuscule prayer symbols were still etched on the components. The Pakleds had figured out long ago that inventing their own technology took too long. It was faster—and easier—to “borrow” their hardware from other civilizations and species. People thought this meant that Pakleds weren’t smart, but they were wrong. It was the humans and the Vulcans and the Klingons and the others who were stupid. Pakleds were smart enough to let everyone else think up new things. It was a good plan. A smart plan.
If you could stay awake when you were supposed to be in charge.
Frojuhpwa thought he heard the crew chuckling at his expense. “What is it?” he bristled, sitting up straight in the chair. He tugged his rumpled tunic into place. “You interrupted my thinking!”
“Sorry, Sub-captain,” a helmsman named Byzeppoz apologized. He kept his eyes on his display panel. “We crossed into Sector 004-B. I wanted you to know.”
“Uh-huh.” Frojuhpwa settled back into his seat. “How far to Deep Space 9?”
The helmsman counted on his fingers. “Four more cycles. I think.”
“That is too long,” Frojuhpwa grumbled. They were taking a shortcut through an unfamiliar region of space, but he was already bored with this run. The sooner they reached their destination and dropped off their load of unprocessed magnesite ore, the sooner he could take some time off. He shifted impatiently in the chair. “Increase speed to warp four.”
“Uh-huh,” Byzeppoz assented. A burst of acceleration trumped the inertial dampers, shoving Frojuhpwa back against the seat cushions. The bridge vibrated in a somewhat worrying manner, but the crew was used to such minor wobbles. The helmsman grinned. “Warp speed four, you bet.”
“Good.” Frojuhpwa squinted at the tiny stars, willing them to get bigger soon. Confident that he had not missed anything important while napping, he allowed his mind to wander. Let the crew steer the ship; he would rather daydream about what he would do while on shore leave at Deep Space 9. Probably plant himself in Quark’s bar, he expected, and not budge until it was time to report back to the ship. Maybe play a little dabo or visit a holosuite. It had been a long time since he had visited the space station; there would probably be some fun new programs by now. Or perhaps he would just sit at the bar and catch up with his friend Morn. The Lurian pilot was good to drink with. Frojuhpwa thought Morn was the most interesting talker he had ever met.
Mostly, though, he just wanted to do nothing.
Being first officer is hard, he thought. I need a break.
Warp four was too slow. They needed to go faster. He leaned forward. “Increase speed—”
Before he could complete the order, however, a tremendous shock jolted the entire ship. Frojuhpwa was thrown forward, smashing his torso into the edge of the command console hard enough
to bruise his ribs. He grunted in pain, even as the other crewmen were hurled across the bridge. They slammed into the bulkheads and viewscreen, landing in heaps upon the floor. Startled curses competed with fearful cries. White-hot sparks erupted from the command pedestals. Jagged shards of steel and crystal flew like shrapnel. An emergency klaxon wailed like a Caldonian banshee. The overhead lights flickered on and off. Energy surges caused the transparent power column to strobe alarmingly. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling, bouncing off the first officer’s head and shoulders. A smoky haze filled the bridge. Injured Pakleds, sprawled upon the floor, whimpered out loud. Thin pink blood smeared the bulkheads. The floor bucked violently. Rubble rolled across the bridge.
Huh? Frojuhpwa grabbed onto the console for dear life. The jarring impact caused him to bite down on his own thick tongue. He tasted blood. The floor tilted forward, which could only mean that the artificial gravity was not working the way it was supposed to. Dazed, the first officer looked around in confusion. He did not understand what was happening. It was like Rorpot had suddenly crashed into a wall of solid duranium. What did we hit?
A guilty expression came over his face. “I was not sleeping! I was not!”
Or was he?
The rocking stabilized for a moment. The blaring siren, added to crackling flames and moaning crewmen, hurt his ears. He reached out to silence it. A stubby finger stabbed a button. It is too loud. I need to think!
Mismatched circuits shorted. Sparks flared from the console. A high-voltage jolt caused his whole body to stiffen in shock. Short brown hair stood on end. The smell of burnt hair further polluted the smoky atmosphere. A hoarse gasp tore itself from his lungs. His eyes rolled upward until only the whites were visible. Smoke rose from his uniform. His jaws clenched together involuntarily. Convulsions shook him from head to toe.
Ouch! That hurts!
Frojuhpwa toppled backward into the captain’s chair. His eyelids drooped shut. A low groan escaped his lips. Froth trickled from the corner of his mouth. The spasms subsided, leaving him limp and motionless. Unconscious once more, he would not be waking up anytime soon.
The bridge went away. A lightning storm raged over a beach in Risa.
“What is it?”
Captain Aadnalurg lumbered through an archway onto the bridge. His head was ringing. Blood seeped from an ugly gash on his scalp, where he had smacked his head into his desk. Spilled raktajino stained the front of his uniform. His face was smeared with blubber grease. Snirgli perched upon his shoulder; the frightened slug waved its feelers in alarm. It squealed in the captain’s ear. He placed a hand over the slug to keep it safe.
“Uh-oh.”
He looked about in dismay. The bridge was in shambles. Small fires danced atop broken pedestals and consoles. Gases vented from ruptured conduits. Battered crewmen were strewn across the chamber. Smoke obscured his vision. The screaming klaxon scraped at his nerves. Rubble littered the floor. Rorpot looked as though it had been struck by a photon torpedo—or something.
No one answered his initial query, so he shouted louder. “What did this?” He spit a broken tooth onto the floor. “What hit us?”
“Nothing!” Byzeppoz sat up on the floor. His face was bruised. One eye was swollen shut. Soot blackened his face. Wincing, the helmsman grabbed onto the nearest pedestal and pulled himself to his feet. He teetered unsteadily before pointing at the viewer. “Look! Nothing is there!”
Aadnalurg squinted through the haze. A wounded crewman was slumped at the foot of the viewer. The screen was cracked right down the middle, but still working . . . sort of. Visual static distorted the image on the viewer, which wavered like a malfunctioning hologram. Despite the problems, however, he could still make out the view. There was nothing but empty space ahead of them for light-years. He blinked and rubbed his eyes to make sure they were working right.
Where is it? What did we hit?
He had expected to see the shattered remains of an asteroid or comet or something, but Byzeppoz was right. There was nothing in front of them. He noticed that the distant stars were stationary now. Rorpot was not moving anymore. The ship had come to a halt, but its captain had no idea why. He scratched his head.
Maybe they had hit a cloaked Klingon warship? Or a Romulan?
“Explain!”
He searched for his first officer, only to find Frojuhpwa slumped in the command chair. His short hair and bushy eyebrows were singed. Scorch marks charred his uniform. His mouth hung open slackly. Drool trickled down his chin. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was still breathing. Aadnalurg was almost disappointed.
“Stupid, not-smart person!” He glared at the unconscious sub-captain, furious at Frojuhpwa for letting this catastrophe take place on his watch. He had to blame someone, and the other Pakled was the easiest target. “What did you do to my ship?”
Frojuhpwa merely gurgled in response.
The more Aadnalurg looked, the worse it was. The automated fire-suppression systems were working erratically, forcing the crew to put out the flames with portable extinguishers and loose sheets of debris. Disheveled crewmen tended to their more injured comrades, applying hyposprays and bandages. A junior navigator was carted away on a stretcher. Another shrieked as a broken leg was splinted into place. There was no medical officer aboard, only a handful of crewmen trained in the rudiments of first aid. A quick glance around revealed no actual fatalities on the bridge, but it was hard to be certain. And what about the rest of the ship?
“Emergency stations! Fix broken things!”
He stumbled across the bridge, almost tripping over a fallen ceiling tile. None too gently, he shoved Frojuhpwa out of the captain’s chair onto the floor. The first officer’s inert form landed with a thump upon the chipped ceramic tiles. Aadnalurg took his seat behind the smoking command console. A well-meaning midshipman sprayed the top of the console with a fire extinguisher, splattering the captain with chemical foam. He choked and sputtered. Acrid fumes stung his nostrils.
“Report!” He pounded his fist on the armrest, which promptly broke off and clattered onto the floor, only a few centimeters from Frojuhpwa’s head. Aadnalurg wiped the foam and grease from his lips. “Somebody give me a report!”
“Uh-huh!” Snollicoob followed the captain onto the bridge. He limped over to one of the few control pedestals still in one piece. The engineer himself was in need of repairs. A split lip thickened his voice. He favored his left leg, flinching with every step. His brown uniform was torn at the collar. “Just a minute!”
Panting, he worked the knobs and dials. The klaxon fell silent, much to the captain’s relief. Snollicoob called up a status report on the pedestal’s display screen. He shook his head dolefully as he scanned the readouts. “It is bad.”
Aadnalurg did not like the sound of that. “How bad?”
“Propulsion is gone. We cannot go.” That was bad enough, but Snollicoob kept on reading from the screen. “Shields are weak. The hull has buckled belowdecks. There are breaches. We have lost some of our air.”
“How much?”
“Too much.” Snollicoob fidgeted uneasily. “Life support is breaking down. The air generators will not work.”
“Fix it!” the captain demanded. Was he just imagining it, or did the air on the bridge already seem stale and thin? He tried not to breathe too deep. “Make it go!”
Snollicoob gulped. “I can try. But things are broken. It will be hard. Maybe too hard.”
An energy surge lit up the power column, causing it to flare more brightly than it ever had before. For a moment, the bridge was as sunny as Vulcan’s Forge at noon. More light leaked through a web of hairline cracks in the vertical cylinder. Snollicoob threw up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare, lowering it only when the flash faded back to normal. He shook his head. Watery eyes widened in alarm. “That is not good.”
Bright blue spots danced in the captain’s vision. He was going to ask Snollicoob what he meant, but another jolt r
ocked the ship before he had the chance. Aadnalurg clutched his remaining armrest to keep from being thrown from his chair. Crewmen staggered across the bridge, grabbing the nearest convenient handholds. The second jolt was less severe than the first, more like an aftershock, but it was enough to knock the ship for a loop. Fresh gusts of coolant burst from pipes. The viewer went dark for several seconds, then rebooted itself. Random gravity fluctuations caused Aadnalurg’s stomach to flip. Byzeppoz vomited onto his boots. The captain could barely keep his own blubber down, let alone conceal his frustration. Snirgli lifted off from his shoulder. He grabbed onto the levitating pet to keep it from floating away.
Star Trek: Seven Deadly Sins Page 46