“It wasn’t my fault,” Greyhorse whispered, though there was no one left to hear it.
But of course, it was.
Having returned from the Antares, Wu was on her way to the brig to speak with Ulelo again when she heard someone call her name. Looking back, she saw that Lieutenant Bender was trying to catch up with her.
“Can I speak with you a moment?” Bender asked.
“Of course,” said the second officer. She gave some thought to the most convenient place. “My quarters?”
“Sure,” said Bender.
A turbolift ride later, they were sitting in Wu’s anteroom, looking at each other across a bamboo coffee table. “What did you want to speak about?” asked the second officer.
“Ulelo,” said Bender, “what else?”
What else indeed.
“I just spent some time with him,” said Bender, “and something occurred to me. If he sent out those transmissions, which I still can’t believe, he couldn’t have done it of his own volition. Someone had to have programmed him.”
Wu weighed the possibility. It made as much sense—or as little—as any other theory she had considered. “I don’t suppose you have any proof of this?”
“Not a shred. But if you know Ulelo, it’s the only explanation for what he’s done.”
“Well,” said Wu, “I am interested in why Mister Ulelo did what he did. However, I’m more interested in the people those transmissions were meant for.”
“The captain asked me about them too,” Bender noted, “but I still don’t have a clue. Ulelo doesn’t seem to be able to keep them straight in his mind.”
Unforunately, Wu knew that from experience. But maybe that would change this time. Maybe Ulelo would shed some light on the Federation’s mysterious assailants.
And help to undo some of the damage he had done.
Chapter Nine
ULELO WAS A LITTLE DISAPPOINTED when Wu came to visit him. He had hoped it would be Emily Bender again.
No—it was too soon for that, he told himself. Emily Bender had just been there a few minutes earlier. She probably wouldn’t come back for some time.
“How are you?” Wu asked, once she had sat down with Ulelo on his side of the electromagnetic barrier.
“Fine,” he told her. “And you?”
“To be honest,” she said, “I’ve been better. Some of our ships have been attacked.”
Ulelo was concerned. “Was anyone hurt?”
“We’re not sure,” said Wu. “We don’t know who did it, either. The ships in question have stopped communicating.”
That didn’t sound good.
“All we know,” Wu continued, “is that the attackers have an advantage over us—some kind of tactical superiority that allows them to defeat us at every turn.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Ulelo. Who wouldn’t be?
His visitor regarded him for a moment. “As I say, we don’t know any more than that. But we’ve made some guesses. You know those transmissions you made?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
Wu leaned forward. “We think that’s where our enemy’s tactical advantage came from. We think they took the information in those transmissions and used it to make their weapons more effective against us.”
Ulelo felt the blood drain from his face. His transmissions had allowed them to do that? But he had sent them to his masters, not a bunch of hostile aliens.
He told the second officer that. But it didn’t seem to make her feel any better.
“Mister Ulelo,” she said, fixing him with her gaze, “your masters and those hostile aliens…they’re one and the same.”
The same? he wondered. How could that be? His masters weren’t enemies of the Federation. They had no reason to launch attacks on Starfleet vessels…or did they?
Ulelo licked his lips as the question echoed inside him. If his masters hadn’t planned on using the information he gave them to attack the Stargazer’s sister ships, what the devil were they going to use it for?
He didn’t think anyone had ever told him. And he also didn’t think he had ever asked.
But now that he thought about it, it made sense that they would use his transmissions against Federation ships. It made perfect sense. So why had it never occurred to him before? What was wrong with him that he hadn’t seen it?
Ulelo had known that he was betraying his friends by transmitting that data. But he had never considered the extent of that betrayal. He had never asked himself if what he was doing might get someone hurt—or even killed.
Emily Bender had asked him if he was being controlled by someone—if he was a puppet. The more he considered the possibility, the more he wondered if she might have been right.
But even if it were true, it didn’t absolve Ulelo of what he had done. It didn’t render him blameless. Starships had been attacked, entire crews placed in deadly jeopardy. They were his responsibility, all of them.
His.
He imagined the remains of a starship floating in space, corpses and spindrifts of blood expanding from one end of the debris field to the other. He wanted to wipe the scene from his mind, but he couldn’t. Helplessly, he watched the dance of death….
“Mister Ulelo?” said Wu.
He looked up, suddenly relieved of his torment, and saw that the commander was watching him.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” she asked.
He did. Or at least he thought he did—it was so hard for him to think at the moment.
“It would help a great deal,” said Wu, “if you could tell us more about the people we’re dealing with.”
“Of course,” he said, eager to lend a hand. He started to describe his masters—and then stopped.
It was strange. Ulelo could still picture them, but he couldn’t find the words he needed to speak of them. He couldn’t even attach a name to them. You named them before, he thought—and he had. But try as he might, he couldn’t name them now.
It made his pulse race. Commander Wu needed his help. How could he fail her this way?
The second officer frowned. “Maybe something will come to you. If it does, I hope you’ll let me know.”
“I will,” he promised. And he would. Just as soon as he could get himself to remember….
“Any luck?” Picard asked.
Wu, who was seated on the other side of his desk, shook her head. “I don’t believe so. Ulelo seems to regret what he did, but he’s still not giving me anything to go on.”
The captain stroked his chin. “I wish we at least knew why he did it. That might illuminate everything else.”
“Actually,” said Wu, “Lieutenant Bender’s got a theory about that. She believes Ulelo was programmed.”
Programmed, Picard repeated inwardly. Like an automaton, dedicated to serving a distant puppet master.
“It would explain a lot,” he conceded.
“Unfortunately,” said the second officer, “there is no way to prove it. At least, not conclusively.”
The captain shook his head. It would help if he knew when Ulelo had become involved with whomever he served. Months ago, perhaps, when he was on shore leave with the Polaris, his previous posting? If that were so, he could have been transmitting information even before he came to the Stargazer.
For all Picard knew, there were moles like Ulelo scattered throughout the fleet, each one assigned to a different starship. Some of them might be com officers, some of them engineers, some of them science officers. And unlike Ulelo, they would still be free to collect information.
It occurred to Picard that he should share this thinking with his fellow captains. He needed to warn them that there might be spies on their vessels as well…
Before the situation got any worse.
Two days into the Iktoj’ni’s passage through the sector Starfleet had warned them about, violence erupted. But it wasn’t the kind Nikolas had expected.
It started in the corridor between the main cargo bay and the engine ro
om. Nikolas and Odzig, a lean, narrow-faced Skezeri, had just finished repairing a dead spot in the gravity grid. They were on their way to repair another one when they passed two other crewmen.
One was a human, a redheaded female named Shockey. The other was Kroda, a Tellarite with a lavish beard and a large, proud snout.
Nikolas didn’t see the intitial contact between Odzig and Kroda. But before he knew it, they were going at it, shoving each other back and forth.
“Hey,” said Nikolas, “what’s going on?”
“This burden-beast thinks he owns the corridor!” Odzig snapped, his already protuberant eyes looking as if they were about to explode from his head.
“Keep your bony hands off me,” Kroda bristled, “or I’ll snap them off at the wrist!”
“Stop it!” said Shockey, forcibly wedging herself between the combatants. But she didn’t see the flash of something metallic, as Nikolas did.
Not certain who was holding the blade, he took a chance and lashed out at the Tellarite. Unprepared for the blow, Kroda staggered and slumped against the bulkhead.
Without Kroda in the way, Nikolas could see that it was Odzig who was holding the knife. Exposed, the Skezeri tried to conceal it again, but Shockey grabbed his arm.
“Back off!” Odzig rasped, trying to pull away from the woman.
“Not a chance,” Shockey told him. “You know we’re not allowed to keep weapons on the ship.”
“Let it go!” Nikolas warned the Skezeri, believing that a warning would be enough. After all, Odzig had seemed like a decent enough guy on their repair detail, the kind who would see reason if given half a chance.
But far from relinquishing the blade, Odzig tore free of Shockey and lifted his weapon as if he meant to slash her with it. Unable to wait any longer, Nikolas lowered his shoulder and launched himself into the Skezeri.
They went barreling down the corridor end over end, both of them scrabbling wildly for Odzig’s weapon. Nikolas felt something sharp and fiery bite into his ribs. Then he got hold of the blade’s handle, twisted it away from the Skezeri, and threw him backward into the bulkhead.
“That’s enough!” Shockey barked.
Everyone stopped. Nikolas, Odzig—even Kroda, who was getting to his feet. They glared at each other, their breath coming fast, but no one went after anyone else.
The Skezeri wiped some spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I wasn’t going to use it,” he told Nikolas. Then he turned to Shockey. “You should have left me alone.”
“So you could poke holes in Kroda?” she asked. “I don’t think so.”
Nikolas tucked Odzig’s knife into his belt. Then he reached under his shirt and felt his ribs where the knife had gotten him. It stung where he touched them. But when he looked at his fingertips, there was hardly any blood on them.
Kroda turned to the Skezeri. “You cut him!”
“Barely,” said Nikolas.
“Let me see that,” said Shockey.
Keeping an eye on Odzig, Nikolas lifted his shirt. He felt the woman’s touch, gentler than he would have expected. She made a sound of dismissal.
“It’s nothing,” she said.
“But it could have been,” the Tellarite pointed out.
They looked at each other for a moment. Then Shockey spoke up again. “I’d advise everyone to go about their business and forget what happened here. Unless someone has an objection, I’m going to take the knife and dispose of it.”
“How?” asked Odzig.
“That’s my business,” she told him.
The Skezeri seemed reluctant to protest any further, and Kroda didn’t protest at all. As far as Nikolas was concerned, Shockey could do what she liked with the knife. He didn’t want any part of it.
Odzig looked at Nikolas like a kid who had done something wrong and didn’t want to admit it. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got a repair to make.”
“You go,” said Shockey. “He’ll be along.”
The Skezeri scowled at the idea, but accepted it. Straightening his shirt, he continued down the hall. And a moment later, Kroda trundled off as well, leaving Nikolas and Shockey standing there by themselves.
He drew the knife from his belt and gave it to her. Then he said, “You’re really going to keep this to yourself?”
“Damned right I am.” She looked at him askance. “This your first haul or something?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
She didn’t comment on it, but her disdain was palpable. “Come with me,” she said. “I’ll bandage that so you don’t bleed through your shirt.”
He went along without comment. As they walked, Shockey said, “Odzig wasn’t lying about the knife, you know. I really should have left him alone.”
“You think so?” asked Nikolas.
“Definitely. He’s not a bad sort. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have flown off the handle that way. But this waiting, this constant peering out observation ports to see if a ship is bearing down on us…” Her jaw muscles worked. “It’s driving all of us out of our minds.”
It was a tense situation, no two ways about it. Nikolas had tried to put it from his mind, and succeeded for the most part. But it appeared to be taking its toll on his crewmates, even more so than he would have imagined.
Unfortunately, things weren’t going to change in the near term. The captain wasn’t going to turn the ship around. She had made that plain enough.
After all, they were in the heart of the danger zone. It wasn’t going to help them to come about. The fastest way to find safe harbor now was to hew to their original course.
And hope their luck held out.
Picard was in his quarters, pulling on his captain’s uniform after a fitful night’s sleep, when he heard his name called via the ship’s intercom system.
Looking up, he said, “What is it, Mister Paxton?”
“Sir,” said the com officer, “they’ve located the Gibraltar.”
Picard tamped down a surge of apprehension. “What sort of shape is she in?”
“Nearly all her systems have been compromised, sir. But there were no fatalities. All hands are alive.”
Just like the Antares. The captain breathed a sigh of relief.
“These aliens…” he remarked, “if they’re conquerors, they’re remarkably accommodating.”
“It seems that way,” agreed Paxton.
And now they knew even more about Federation starship technology, since they had had an opportunity to examine a few specimens firsthand. If the invaders had been formidable before, they might be even more so now.
But why did they need to attack three ships to serve their purposes, when all three were of the same class and design? Wouldn’t one vessel have satisfied them?
And why not destroy the ships of their enemy, as long as they had the chance? By refraining, the aliens had merely increased the odds against them.
It was baffling. And unless the Federation found a way to stand up to the aliens, it might never become less so.
“Any word on Ben Zoma and the others?” he asked Paxton.
“None, sir,” came the response.
Under the circumstances, Picard didn’t know if that was good news or bad. However, he continued to take solace in the knowledge that the Livingston hadn’t reached the Antares yet when the starship was attacked. That meant the shuttle might still be free….
At least for the time being.
Ernesta Rodriguez of the Starship Gibraltar felt a sharp pang of loss as she surveyed her bridge.
Everything was dark—the forward viewscreen, the helm and navigation consoles, the aft stations on either side of the turbolift. And she could have left it that way, with the shadows created by the wide beam of her palmlight only suggesting the damage that had been done there.
But she didn’t want to. It was important to her that she examine everything, that she absorb the sight of it and file it away for future use.
So Rodriguez narrowed her p
almlight’s beam and traced a path, starting with the bulkhead to her left and working her way around, illuminating each section of the bridge in turn.
When she got to the helm console, she stopped for a moment. The enemy’s very first barrage had turned it into a fountain of flames and sparks, forcing the captain to switch to auxiliary helm control—and send her helm officer to sickbay with third-degree burns. Now the console was a slag heap, cold and twisted and useless.
Rodriguez stopped again when she got to the engineering station, which was set into the bulkhead aft of the navigation controls. There was a blotch of dried blood there where Cherry, her first officer, had careered headfirst into the metal-alloy surface.
And she hadn’t been able to get him to sickbay right away, because he got hurt while the enemy was taking control of the bridge. It wasn’t until after the aliens were gone that Rodriguez and her weapons officer were able to get Cherry some care.
In the meantime, the Gibraltar had been left adrift—blinded, silenced, and paralyzed. None of her systems were working except a couple of backup generators, and they were barely enough to maintain life-support.
Of course, it could have been worse. In the end, everyone had survived. And as badly as the enemy had incapacitated the ship, the crew had still managed to get the com system on line.
Without it, they would have been looking forward to another day, maybe more, before a rescue vessel could locate them. As it was, Captain Reynolds and the Zhukov would reach their coordinates in a matter of hours.
It wasn’t that Rodriguez wasn’t grateful for these things. It was just that she thought of her ship as a friend—a very old and dear friend, after fourteen years of sitting in her center seat—and the captain hated to see her gutted this way.
It made her want to strike back at the ones who had done this, to punish them for what they had done. Unfortunately, the Gibraltar was in no shape to accommodate her wish. Besides, there wasn’t any reason to think a second clash with the enemy would produce better results than the first.
Rodriguez still didn’t understand how it had happened. No adversary had ever slipped her phasers that way, or eluded her torpedoes, or pierced her deflector shields. But this enemy had done all those things.
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