Star Trek - NF - 005 - Martyr

by Peter David

 

  Words that had only partly found their way into the sacred texts of Zondar.

 

  Ramed had never been entirely certain just how the original, unexpurgated text had wound up in the hands of his family. It had been given him by his father, who had in turn been given it by his, and so on. It was not as if Ramed was a direct descendant of Suti himself; to the best of anyone's knowledge, Suti had never married, never produced any offspring. The

 

 

 

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  words of Ontear and the spiritual well-being of the Zondarians was the sum and substance of his entire life. He had never seemed to need anything more than that.

 

  Perhaps he had passed the complete text to a trusted disciple, and he had held onto it until his passing was near, and in turn had given it to a trusted individual. It was nothing short of miraculous, really, that the scroll had found its way through the centuries to Ramed without word of its full contents filtering outside of the sphere of its caretakers.

 

  There was something else that was in the same secret compartment as the scroll had been. It was a cylinder, about a foot long and made from wood. One side was closed off, the other end open. On the handle, a small emblem that looked like a flame was carved on it. He ran a finger over it lightly, as he had so many times before.

 

  He extended the cylinder straight out in front of himself and pushed in firmly on the flame. And with a quiet shak noise, a sharpened rod snapped out of the end of the handle. It was telescoped in three places and extended to about a yard in length. As always, it felt incredibly light. Ramed swung it about him experimentally, satisfied at the whistling sound it made as it passed through the air. Then he lunged forward once or twice, and wondered what it would be like to drive it through the chest of a living, breathing being. Would it be possible? When the time came, would he have the intestinal fortitude to do what had to be done?

 

  He thought of what he had just said to his wife. "All of us have our places in the grand scheme, my wife. Sometimes we are aware of them, and sometimes we are not. Nonetheless we fulfill our purpose."

 

  He had his purpose. He had his own role that had been handed down to him. How would he be viewed,

 

 

 

 

 

  he wondered? As one of the great heroes of Zondar? As one of the most memorable traitors? Would he be a martyr to a great ideal that he, and only he, knew to be the truth? What would they say to his wife? What sort of torment would his son be subject to?

 

  Perhaps the course upon which he was embarking was the wrong one.

 

  He began to tremble. Whether it was in fear, in excitement, or in religious zeal over the Tightness of his actions, he couldn't begin to say. All he knew was that he was trembling so violently, he couldn't even hold on to his weapon. It clattered to the floor, although the noise was minimal since the staff was so lightweight.

 

  He dropped to his knees, waiting until the spasms passed. And all during that time, he prayed. Prayed to the shades of Ontear and Suti. Prayed for guidance.

 

  "Please," he whispered to them. "Please . . . help me do the right thing."

 

  He paused a long moment, then picked up the spear. He envisioned the Savior standing against the opposite wall. Standing there strong, confident. Ramed then drew his arm back, as he had so many times before, and hurled the spear. It flew lightly through the air and thudded into the far wall, the shaft quivering, the point squarely in the heart of the Savior.

 

  "May the fates help me," he whispered. "And may the Savior, even in His death throes, have mercy on my soul."

 

  ") else document.write("

 

  words of Ontear and the spiritual well-being of the Zondarians was the sum and substance of his entire life. He had never seemed to need anything more than that.

 

  Perhaps he had passed the complete text to a trusted disciple, and he had held onto it until his passing was near, and in turn had given it to a trusted individual. It was nothing short of miraculous, really, that the scroll had found its way through the centuries to Ramed without word of its full contents filtering outside of the sphere of its caretakers.

 

  There was something else that was in the same secret compartment as the scroll had been. It was a cylinder, about a foot long and made from wood. One side was closed off, the other end open. On the handle, a small emblem that looked like a flame was carved on it. He ran a finger over it lightly, as he had so many times before.

 

  He extended the cylinder straight out in front of himself and pushed in firmly on the flame. And with a quiet shak noise, a sharpened rod snapped out of the end of the handle. It was telescoped in three places and extended to about a yard in length. As always, it felt incredibly light. Ramed swung it about him experimentally, satisfied at the whistling sound it made as it passed through the air. Then he lunged forward once or twice, and wondered what it would be like to drive it through the chest of a living, breathing being. Would it be possible? When the time came, would he have the intestinal fortitude to do what had to be done?

 

  He thought of what he had just said to his wife. "All of us have our places in the grand scheme, my wife. Sometimes we are aware of them, and sometimes we are not. Nonetheless we fulfill our purpose."

 

  He had his purpose. He had his own role that had been handed down to him. How would he be viewed,

 

 

 

 

 

  he wondered? As one of the great heroes of Zondar? As one of the most memorable traitors? Would he be a martyr to a great ideal that he, and only he, knew to be the truth? What would they say to his wife? What sort of torment would his son be subject to?

 

  Perhaps the course upon which he was embarking was the wrong one.

 

  He began to tremble. Whether it was in fear, in excitement, or in religious zeal over the Tightness of his actions, he couldn't begin to say. All he knew was that he was trembling so violently, he couldn't even hold on to his weapon. It clattered to the floor, although the noise was minimal since the staff was so lightweight.

 

  He dropped to his knees, waiting until the spasms passed. And all during that time, he prayed. Prayed to the shades of Ontear and Suti. Prayed for guidance.

 

  "Please," he whispered to them. "Please . . . help me do the right thing."

 

  He paused a long moment, then picked up the spear. He envisioned the Savior standing against the opposite wall. Standing there strong, confident. Ramed then drew his arm back, as he had so many times before, and hurled the spear. It flew lightly through the air and thudded into the far wall, the shaft quivering, the point squarely in the heart of the Savior.

 

  "May the fates help me," he whispered. "And may the Savior, even in His death throes, have mercy on my soul."

 

  ") if( !cssCompatible ) document.write(" X .

 

  BURGOYNE SAT IN HIR OFFICE in engineering and studied the reports compiled by Ensign Beth, looking over them again and again until it felt as if the numbers were blurring in front of hir. S/he became aware that Beth was hovering nearby, probably looking rather concerned. S/he couldn't blame her, because the information that s/he'd been handed was less than useful. "So let me see if I understand this," Burgoyne said slowly. "We not only do not know what is causing this energy wave, but now it's causing a drain on the engines."
>
 

  "Not exactly a drain, Chief," Beth said. "Look, follow the power curves. The energy reserves begin to build up exponentially. They reach a maximum point of somewhere around eighteen percent above the norm, and then they drain off, reaching standard levels. As if someone were topping off a glass of water and then sipping off the top so that it doesn't overflow. Bringing it down to a more reasonable level."

 

  "But what's causing the overage?" asked Burgoyne

 

 

 

 

 

  in frustration. "And when it's being drained off, where is it going? You don't think . . ."

 

  "Think what?" asked Beth.

 

  Burgoyne sat back, studying the readouts with just a touch of visible apprehension. "What if we've some . . . thing . . . living in there? Something sentient."

 

  "A sentient energy creature?"

 

  "We ran from one not too long ago," Burgoyne pointed out. Beth was forced to agree with that reminder. "If this is somehow connected with that . . ."

 

  "Is there any way that we can determine it?"

 

  "I'm not quite sure," said Burgoyne. "At the very least, we keep observing it. Also, we'll probably want to bring Soleta in on this. She's the science officer, after all."

 

  "How about medical?" asked Beth. "If there's a living creature rooting around in our energy transfer ducts somehow, then maybe Doctor Selar can"

 

  "Let's leave Doctor Selar out of it for the time being," Burgoyne said after a moment's thought.

 

  "Are you sure? Perhaps if we"

 

  Burgoyne turned, and hir canines were extended as s/he said, "Are you questioning my orders, Ensign?" Hir voice was very sharp, hir eyes narrowed and genuine anger was flashing within them.

 

  "No! No, sir!" said Beth quickly.

 

  There was such clear alarm in her voice that Burgoyne immediately felt chagrin. "Sorry, Ensign," Burgoyne said, the ire passing as quickly as it had made its presence known. "It's not your fault."

 

  "I was hoping it wasn't." Beth paused a moment, and then said, "Chief . . . I hope I'm not overstepping myself here, but is everything okay between you and the CMO?"

 

  "Okay?"

 

 

 

  ") else document.write(" X .

 

  BURGOYNE SAT IN HIR OFFICE in engineering and studied the reports compiled by Ensign Beth, looking over them again and again until it felt as if the numbers were blurring in front of hir. S/he became aware that Beth was hovering nearby, probably looking rather concerned. S/he couldn't blame her, because the information that s/he'd been handed was less than useful. "So let me see if I understand this," Burgoyne said slowly. "We not only do not know what is causing this energy wave, but now it's causing a drain on the engines."

 

  "Not exactly a drain, Chief," Beth said. "Look, follow the power curves. The energy reserves begin to build up exponentially. They reach a maximum point of somewhere around eighteen percent above the norm, and then they drain off, reaching standard levels. As if someone were topping off a glass of water and then sipping off the top so that it doesn't overflow. Bringing it down to a more reasonable level."

 

  "But what's causing the overage?" asked Burgoyne

 

 

 

 

 

  in frustration. "And when it's being drained off, where is it going? You don't think . . ."

 

  "Think what?" asked Beth.

 

  Burgoyne sat back, studying the readouts with just a touch of visible apprehension. "What if we've some . . . thing . . . living in there? Something sentient."

 

  "A sentient energy creature?"

 

  "We ran from one not too long ago," Burgoyne pointed out. Beth was forced to agree with that reminder. "If this is somehow connected with that . . ."

 

  "Is there any way that we can determine it?"

 

  "I'm not quite sure," said Burgoyne. "At the very least, we keep observing it. Also, we'll probably want to bring Soleta in on this. She's the science officer, after all."

 

  "How about medical?" asked Beth. "If there's a living creature rooting around in our energy transfer ducts somehow, then maybe Doctor Selar can"

 

  "Let's leave Doctor Selar out of it for the time being," Burgoyne said after a moment's thought.

 

  "Are you sure? Perhaps if we"

 

  Burgoyne turned, and hir canines were extended as s/he said, "Are you questioning my orders, Ensign?" Hir voice was very sharp, hir eyes narrowed and genuine anger was flashing within them.

 

  "No! No, sir!" said Beth quickly.

 

  There was such clear alarm in her voice that Burgoyne immediately felt chagrin. "Sorry, Ensign," Burgoyne said, the ire passing as quickly as it had made its presence known. "It's not your fault."

 

  "I was hoping it wasn't." Beth paused a moment, and then said, "Chief . . . I hope I'm not overstepping myself here, but is everything okay between you and the CMO?"

 

  "Okay?"

 

 

 

  ") if( !cssCompatible ) document.write("

 

  "It's just that any time she's mentioned for some reason, you seem to tense up. Personality conflict?"

 

  Burgoyne considered several possible answers, but finally said, "You could say it's something like that."

 

  "I know how it is," Beth said by way of commiseration. "Sometimes you just meet someone, and for absolutely no reason you can think of, you just connect on a negative level. You take an instant dislike to them. It's as if you have a bad history that goes back before the two of you even met."

 

  "That is an . . . interesting way to look at it."

 

  "Sometimes two people just clicklike Christiano and I did," admitted Beth with a grin. "And other times, well, two people can't even work together without getting on each other's nerves."

 

  "You're very likely correct, Ensign. It would probably serve us best if we didn't discuss it anymore." S/he went back to the energy wave readouts. "Look at this. This is interesting."

 

  "What do you see, Chief?"

 

  "During those periods when the energy drain slows down, it occurs when the Excalibur speeds up. The faster we go, the slower the energy drain. And when we go in excess of warp five, there's never any drain at all. Those are the points at which the energy wave indicates growth."

 

  "That's right," Beth said slowly.

 

  "Of course that's right," Burgoyne said archly. "I said it. Therefore, by definition, it's right." S/he drummed hir fingers in annoyance. "I should be able to figure this out more expeditiously," s/he said. "I've just got to get my mind clear."

 

  "What's on your mind, Chief?" asked Beth.

 

  And for just a moment, Burgoyne allowed hir thoughts to stray to a face that had a perpetual stoic pout, framed by the loveliest pointed ears.

 

 

 

 

 

  "Just someone I can't work with," Burgoyne said with a trace of sadness.

 

  On the bridge of the Excalibur, Calhou
n leaned forward in the command chair and said, "ETA at

 

  Zondar?"

 

  "Three hours, eleven minutes, sir," McHenry said crisply. As always, he didn't even bother to check his instruments. The first several times, it had been a bit disconcerting to Calhoun, and extremely so to Shelby, but by this point they were accustomed to it.

 

  "Keep her steady on course, Mister McHenry," Calhoun told him.

 

  "Steady on, sir."

 

  Lefler glanced at the captain, who seemed to become involved in conversation with his first officer. Then, very casually, she sidled over from her post at Ops and murmured, "Haven't seen you around much after hours."

 

  "Hmm?" He looked up at her, apparently surprised that she had come over. "What?"

 

  "I said you're something of a stranger off-duty these days. Don't see you in the team room, or any of the usual haunts. What have you been up to?"

 

  "Oh, that," said McHenry. "I've been busy."

 

  "Busy . . . how?"

 

  He shrugged as if it was no big deal. "I've been spending a lot of time with Burgy."

 

  "'Burgy,' is it? Very friendly nickname to be

 

  using." "Is it?" McHenry seemed unimpressed. "I didn't

 

  think so especially."

 

  "So what do you guys do? Talk?"

 

  "No, we have sex," McHenry said matter-of-factly.

 

  Now, Lefler didn't fancy herself as a prude, but nonetheless she was still caught a little flat-footed by

 

 

 

  ") else document.write("

 

  "It's just that any time she's mentioned for some reason, you seem to tense up. Personality conflict?"

 

  Burgoyne considered several possible answers, but finally said, "You could say it's something like that."

 

  "I know how it is," Beth said by way of commiseration. "Sometimes you just meet someone, and for absolutely no reason you can think of, you just connect on a negative level. You take an instant dislike to them. It's as if you have a bad history that goes back before the two of you even met."

 

  "That is an . . . interesting way to look at it."