“No one knows,” said Ben Zoma. “Which is why the Stargazer has been dispatched to conduct a search for the Antares—so we can get some answers.”
Garner’s brow knit above the bridge of her slender nose. “If the Antares is missing, and the Stargazer is on a mission to find her…”
“Then we’ve got no one with whom to rendezvous,” said McAteer, finishing the security officer’s thought.
“So where do we go?” asked Ramirez.
Ben Zoma wished he were the one empowered to decide their next move. But he wasn’t—not as long as McAteer remained the highest-ranking officer on the shuttle.
Turning to the admiral, the first officer said, “Sir?”
McAteer shrugged. “I don’t think we’ve got any choice, Commander. We’ll report to the nearest starbase.” He glanced at Paris. “That would be One-Two-Nine, I believe?”
The helm officer confirmed it.
“After all,” McAteer went on, “this is a shuttlecraft, not a starship. If the Cochise and the Gibraltar weren’t able to stand up to our mysterious enemy, I doubt there’s much we can do.”
Ben Zoma had some ideas about that. But, knowing how futile it would be to voice them, he kept them to himself.
Picard gazed across his desk at Wu and Greyhorse. They looked back at him with the same expectant look on their faces, obviously wondering why he had summoned them.
He didn’t leave them in suspense.
“Two of our starships—the Cochise and the Gibraltar—have been attacked by unidentified vessels,” he said. “And we’ve lost contact with the Antares.”
“When did this happen?” asked Greyhorse.
“Command received the distress calls less than an hour ago. And though the fates of the Cochise and the Gibraltar are still unknown, both captains spoke of defending against boarding parties.”
Wu’s otherwise flawless brow creased with concern. “What about our shuttle?”
“I have sent Commander Ben Zoma a message notifying him of the attacks. With luck, he will receive it in time to move the Livingston out of harm’s way.”
Greyhorse frowned. “Why can’t we meet the shuttle ourselves?”
“Admiral Mehdi has assigned us to investigate the fate of the Antares. Besides, the Livingston is probably seeking the shelter of a starbase by now.”
Silence reigned for a moment, as Wu and Greyhorse digested the information. Then the second officer spoke up.
“Whoever attacked them must have had some pretty impressive firepower,” she observed. “Greenbriar and Rodriguez are both formidable combatants.”
Picard leaned forward. “Unless the intruders knew our tactical systems inside and out. Then they could have worked out a way to pierce our defenses.”
Greyhorse looked at him askance. “But how would they have that kind of—” He stopped in midsentence. “You’re not suggesting that Ulelo had something to do with this?”
“I am,” said Picard. “I no longer believe that Ulelo was carrying out a schizophrenic fantasy. I believe he was transmitting data to a group of aliens, who used it in their attack on the Cochise and the other ships.”
Again, his officers took a moment to mull what he had said. This time, it was Greyhorse who reacted first.
“It may yet turn out to be a coincidence,” he said.
“It may,” the captain conceded. “But if it is, it will be a rather large one. On one hand, Ulelo repeatedly transmits data to an unknown party. On the other, an equally unknown party attacks our vessels with remarkable success. It is not much of a leap to suspect that there is a connection.”
Greyhorse sighed. “Perhaps not.”
The captain turned to Wu. “Do you think Ulelo is capable of shedding light on our attackers?”
The second officer frowned. “He couldn’t even keep straight whom he was working for. I doubt he can be of any help to us, even if he’s willing.” She looked from one of her colleagues to the other. “Still, I suppose I can give it a try.”
Picard nodded. “Please do.”
Nikolas was ensconced in the Iktoj’ni’s small, badly ventilated operations center, running a routine diagnostic on her deflector array, when he heard the clatter of approaching footfalls in the corridor outside.
“Nik?” someone called, his voice echoing wildly.
It had to be Locklear. No one else on the cargo hauler called him by that name. For that matter, no one on the Stargazer had called him Nik either.
Not even Obal.
Nikolas’s thoughts turned to the Binderian, as they had almost every day since he set foot on the cargo hauler. And as always, he set them aside.
Obal was a relic of the life Nikolas had put behind him. He was part of the past, like Gerda Idun. And Nikolas owed it to himself to look to his future.
“I’m in here,” he called back, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his readouts.
“There you are,” said Locklear, his voice closer now.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nikolas saw his friend swing into the room. But then, Locklear’s shock of red hair made him hard to miss, even obliquely.
“What’s up?” asked Nikolas.
“You won’t believe this.”
Something in Locklear’s voice made Nikolas turn to him. When he did, he saw the unmistakable expression of concern on his friend’s face.
Locklear wasn’t the type of person to get worried over nothing. If something was bothering him, it was a bigger item than, say, a glitch in his sonic shower.
“What’s the matter?” Nikolas asked.
“While I was up on the bridge,” said Locklear, “Captain Rejjerin received a message—from Starfleet, of all places.”
That got Nikolas’s attention. “Starfleet…?”
“Yes. And it wasn’t just to say howdy. Apparently, someone’s attacking the Federation—or parts of it. But the message didn’t say who was doing it or why. It just advised us to avoid the usual shipping lanes.”
Nikolas whistled. “Rejjerin must be steaming. She promised she would get this cargo to Djillika on time.”
“She still may,” said Locklear. “I heard her say she refused to change course.”
Nikolas looked at him. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not,” said his friend. “She said she’s got a schedule to keep and she’ll be damned if she’s going to let a few troublemakers scare her off.”
Nikolas leaned back into his chair. “Great.”
“Just what I was thinking.”
“Any chance the captain will change her mind?”
“I’ve never known her to, but there’s always a—” He stopped himself in midsentence. “Nah. No chance.”
“So, what do you think? A little mutiny?” Nikolas suggested with a straight face.
Locklear chuckled a little. “Mutiny’s for your fancy Starfleet ships. Around here, we just grumble.”
“Then grumble quietly,” Nikolas recommended. “I’ve got a diagnostic to finish.”
He didn’t love the idea of ignoring a Starfleet alert and remaining on course for Djillika. However, it didn’t look like he had much choice in the matter.
Chapter Eight
PICARD WAS PACING the bridge of the Stargazer like a caged cat when at last he heard what he had been waiting for.
“Sir,” said Gerda, “sensors have identified a vessel. It appears to be the Antares.”
Finally, the captain thought. “On screen.”
A moment later, he saw the ship they had been sent to find. But she wasn’t as Picard had seen her last. Then, the Antares had fairly bristled with power and grace. Now she was hanging in space, her hull dented and charred by what was clearly weapons fire, looking for all the world as if she had been abandoned. Even her observation ports were unlit.
“Life signs?” he asked, less than eager to hear the answer.
“Quite a few,” said Gerda, much to Picard’s relief. “Maybe as many as a hundred.”
It was good news. The Antares
had set out with a crew of a hundred and eight.
“Do they have power?” the captain asked.
Gerda called up another sensor report. “Barely. Enough to run life-support in a few parts of the ship.”
That explained how Vayishra’s crew had survived. But if the Stargazer hadn’t arrived when she did, they might not have survived much longer.
“Try hailing them,” said Picard.
There was no answer.
But then, communications might have been one of the systems damaged in the attack. And if the crew was restricted to certain areas, it would have been difficult to effect repairs.
“Commander Wu,” he said, accessing the ship’s intercom system, “this is the captain. We have located the Antares.”
“What kind of shape is she in?” asked Wu.
“Not as bad as she might have been. I want you to take a team over. Identify the injured and have them beamed back to sickbay. Then assist the others in effecting repairs.”
“Right away, sir,” said the second officer, probably already on her way to the nearest turbolift.
Picard frowned. He was eager to hear what had happened in Captain Vayishra’s own words—assuming the fellow was still alive.
Ulelo had been thinking for a long time about the period he had spent with his masters—thinking hard—when he realized there was someone standing in front of his cell.
And it wasn’t Commander Wu, for a change. Much to Ulelo’s surprise, it was his friend, Emily Bender.
Ulelo looked into her eyes and wondered how she would respond to what he had done. He wondered what she would say.
It was a moment he had attempted to picture long before his treachery was discovered. The prospect of his friend looking down on him as he sat there in the brig had almost kept him from transmitting the Stargazer’s specs.
Almost.
But Ulelo had gone ahead with his transmissions anyway. And now, much to his discomfort, he would have an opportunity to see if the reality of his present situation had anything in common with his expectations.
After a moment, Emily Bender was joined by Lieutenant Pfeffer, who tapped in the code that deactivated the electromagnetic barrier, and let Ulelo’s friend into his cell. Then Pfeffer raised the barrier again and withdrew.
It left the prisoner alone with Emily Bender. Unlike the second officer, Ulelo’s friend sat beside him on his bed. Her expression—one of sadness and uncertainty—almost made Ulelo wish that his visitor had been Wu after all.
But Emily Bender didn’t say the sort of things he had dreaded to hear from her. When she finally spoke, her tone was unexpectedly kind and understanding.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m…fine,” Ulelo told her.
She looked at him a moment longer. Then she said, “Whatever happened, Dikembe, I know it’s not your fault. You would never willingly do what they say you’ve done.”
He didn’t know what she meant. He said so.
“If you sent those messages,” Emily Bender explained, “you must have been under the influence of someone else. You must have been their puppet.”
“Their puppet?” he repeated.
“Uh-huh. Is that what happened, Dikembe? Were you under somebody else’s control?”
He didn’t know what to say.
Emily Bender put her hand on Ulelo’s. “It’s all right, Dikembe. Just remember, I’m still behind you. All your friends are behind you. You’re not alone in this.”
She said other things as well, comforting things. But all the com officer could think about was the possibility that Emily Bender had suggested to him….
“Is that what happened, Dikembe? Were you under somebody else’s control?”
After a while, Emily Bender left, assuring Ulelo that she would be back. Pfeffer restored the electromagnetic barrier and the com officer found himself alone again.
And he had even more to think about than before—because he was no longer just trying to remember the time he had spent with his masters. Now he was also trying to recall why he had agreed to work for them.
But he couldn’t.
He wasn’t drawn to anyone else’s way of life. He didn’t believe he owed anybody anything. And yet, he had felt compelled to do what had been asked of him, to the detriment of his comrades. He had felt it was a necessary endeavor—worth the price of his freedom, not to mention the trust of his friends.
He had been sure of that, if little else. Absolutely sure.
But now that he thought about it, he couldn’t imagine why he had been so sure. And for that reason, he had to entertain the possibility that Emily Bender was right—that he had been manipulated against his will.
That he was, in her words, a puppet.
Avul Vayishra was a tall, darkly complected man with a black goatee. He had been one of Admiral McAteer’s favorite captains from the day the admiral took over administration of the sector. McAteer had described Vayishra as a natural leader, a paragon of Starfleet efficiency.
But Vayishra didn’t look like a paragon of efficiency at the moment. As he sat warming his hands around a steaming cup of coffee, he just looked stunned.
“They cut through our shields as if they weren’t even there,” he said, his voice thinned by cold and fatigue. “And when we fired back, our weapons barely slowed them down. There wasn’t much we could do except try to hold on.”
Picard, who was sitting opposite his colleague in an otherwise empty set of crewman’s quarters, considered Vayishra’s tale. It was very much in keeping with the distress calls transmitted by the Cochise and the Gibraltar.
“Unfortunately,” said Picard, “I may have an explanation for the aliens’ superiority.” And uncomfortable as it was for him, he went on to describe Ulelo’s activities.
Vayishra’s eyes opened wide. “Do you know what you’re saying? The magnitude of it? This could be disastrous.”
“I am aware of that,” said Picard.
The other man looked vaguely accusatory. “I assume you’ve passed this on to Starfleet Command?”
“I have,” Picard confirmed. “I alerted them as soon as I learned of the aliens’ attacks.”
Vayishra looked up at him. “There were others?”
“The Cochise and the Gibraltar seem to have encountered the same aliens you did. They managed to send out distress calls, but that was the last we heard from them.”
“What about your shuttle? And the admiral?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing.”
Vayishra scowled into the depths of his cup. “I hope they got off easier than the Antares.”
So did Picard. He had hoped for good news, but at least he hadn’t gotten any bad.
“It seems a miracle,” he said, “that none of your crewpeople was killed.”
Vayishra shook his head, a look of disgust taking over. “No. Not a miracle at all. If those aliens had wished to destroy us, they would have done it.”
Picard empathized with Vayishra’s pain. “Then what do you suppose they were after? Your cargo, perhaps?”
“We weren’t carrying anything out of the ordinary,” Vayishra told him. “And what we were carrying is still intact. The bastards didn’t so much as pry open a canister.”
“Your weapons, then?” Picard suggested. There was a large, thriving black market for Starfleet ordnance. “Or some component of your propulsion system?”
“They left all of that untouched. Not that there was much left of value when they got through with us.”
It was maddening. “So they crippled your ship, boarded it, and then left? There must be more to it.”
“I’m sure there is,” said Vayishra, with a hint of resentment in his voice.
Picard hadn’t meant to offend anyone. “My apologies,” he said. “I did not mean to imply that you were taking this lightly.”
“Believe me,” Vayishra continued, “it’s not as if I haven’t thought about this over and over again. It’s been on my mi
nd every waking minute.”
“I believe you,” said Picard.
Vayishra looked at him with dark, haunted eyes, and went on as if his colleague hadn’t spoken. “But if there is a rational reason for what they did, I have yet to find it.”
Picard just nodded.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Greyhorse whispered.
Gerda’s expression, as she filled the entrance to his office, indicated that she disagreed. “You’re a physician,” she said, keeping her voice low enough so that no one elsewhere in sickbay could hear her. “You examined Ulelo. And you came to the conclusion that he was acting out a fantasy—which we now know was very real.”
“But I’m not a counselor,” Greyhorse complained. “I don’t have any training in psychodynamics—I told the captain that. He just refused to listen.”
“You were asked to rise to the occasion,” Gerda snapped, “and you failed. Miserably.”
Miserable was how the doctor felt—and not just because Gerda was reviling him. He had given the captain, and in a sense the entire fleet, a false sense of security—one that might eventually end up costing them the Federation.
No one could be sure that a warning would have saved the Antares or any of the other ships that were attacked, or that it would have put the fleet in a better position. But by the same token, no one could say otherwise.
It was a terrible feeling—like a knife in his gut, always twisting. But as deep as it cut, Gerda’s disapproval cut even deeper. She was a Klingon, after all, in every way but blood. She didn’t look kindly on failure, or those guilty of it.
“A warrior doesn’t make excuses,” said Gerda. “It only makes things worse.”
Greyhorse’s mouth clamped shut. But if he couldn’t explain what had happened, how could he regain her trust—her confidence? How could he restore himself in her eyes?
The answer was as clear to him as the rank of biobeds behind Gerda, which were full of sedated crewmen from the Antares: He couldn’t. He could only hope for a chance to prove his courage.
“Will I see you later?” he asked, dreading the answer.
She didn’t say anything. She just stood there, her eyes narrowed in high contempt. And after a moment or two, she left.
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