Enigma

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Ulelo understood. It was difficult to trust someone who had done what he had done.

  He cast a glance back over his shoulder at Lieutenant Pfeffer, who had been assigned to keep an eye on him. Prior to his arrest, he, Pfeffer, and Emily Bender had belonged to the same circle of friends. Under the circumstances, however, Pfeffer was compelled to put that relationship aside.

  He turned back to Emily Bender. “If I think a little longer, another image may come to me.”

  His friend looked sympathetic. So did Kastiigan, who was sitting at the next workstation and looked up at Ulelo’s remark.

  “Unfortunately,” said the sciences chief, “the captain’s instructions were quite specific—when you ran out of places to describe, you were to be returned to the brig.”

  Ulelo felt his heart sink. “Of course.”

  Kastiigan regarded him a moment longer. Then he gestured to Pfeffer, indicating that Ulelo’s time there was done.

  As the security officer came for him, Ulelo turned back to Emily Bender. “Visit me,” he said.

  “I will,” said his friend.

  But it didn’t fill the hole that was growing inside him. Ulelo desperately didn’t want to be returned to the brig. His feelings were so intense that they scared him.

  “I can’t go back,” he muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Kastiigan.

  But Ulelo couldn’t answer him. His emotions were so strong, they were choking him. He could barely breathe.

  “Something’s wrong,” said Emily Bender, her eyes wide with apprehension.

  Something was wrong. Ulelo couldn’t let himself be returned to the brig. He had to find a way to prevent it.

  If only I could think of another image, he told himself. If only I could come up with another—

  “Kastiigan to sickbay,” someone said. “We have an emergency here in the science section! Hurry!”

  Whatever else was said, Ulelo missed it, because his mind was suddenly full of alien landscapes—not just the ones he had seen and described already, but an army of new ones. A barren, brown valley stabbed by a boiling river. A blue-veined mountaintop sprinkled with black ash. Clusters of red ice exploding in midair…

  And a hundred others, assaulting him all at once, slashing through his brain like a storm of alien wings.

  Ulelo pressed his fists against his temples, trying to stanch the flow, trying to make it stop. But it kept coming, one tableau after another, pushing him to the limits of his sanity.

  Off in the distance, someone screamed. It seemed strange to him that someone else should be in so much pain. Then he realized that it was he who was screaming.

  For mercy. But none was forthcoming.

  Ulelo lurched, staggered, fell. He felt the press of hands, and in the distance a promise of help. But still the images kept coming, a torrent of them, a cascade. And little by little, he was drowning under the terrible weight of them….

  Chapter Seventeen

  CAPTAIN SESBALLA STOOD beside his bed in his sleeping clothes, and listened to his com officer over the Exeter’s intercom system.

  “It didn’t come from any Starfleet vessel,” said Ottamanelli. “In fact, it wasn’t transmitted by any communication system I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Can you read it?” the captain asked.

  “I already have,” said Ottamanelli. “Not all of it, of course, but enough to know how important it could be.”

  She had piqued his interest. “What does it say?”

  There was a pause. “You won’t believe it.”

  “Do you know Dikembe Ulelo?” asked Otholannin.

  Ben Zoma felt that he was building trust. He decided to give a little to get a little. “I do. He’s an officer on my vessel. Why do you ask?”

  “Because he is one of us,” said the alien.

  Ben Zoma looked at him, finding it hard to digest the answer. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Several months ago, my people snared the true Dikembe Ulelo at what you would call a ‘shore leave’ site, identified through our trading contacts in this sector. Since it catered to a wide variety of species, our operatives had been able to remain there for an extended period of time until an appropriate subject appeared.”

  “And Ulelo was an appropriate subject?” Ben Zoma asked, trying to understand.

  “Yes, because he was of your species. After our operatives abducted him, they again called on our trading partners to transport Ulelo to our forwardmost facility. That was where he was interrogated. But he refused to give my people the information they required of him.”

  Ben Zoma was starting to get it. “So you sent Starfleet one of your people instead—someone surgically altered to look like Ulelo, who could get the information for you.”

  “That is correct. And he did. He collected information on your vessel’s various systems—in particular, the tactical ones—and periodically transmitted it back to those who dispatched him. And to make it easier for him to deceive you, he was programmed to forget his true identity—to believe that he was, in fact, a human named Dikembe Ulelo.”

  Ben Zoma’s mind raced with the implications. If Ulelo was a D’prayl, an alien had been in their midst for months without their knowing it.

  This was getting harder and harder to believe. Then it dawned on Ben Zoma…the ease with which the aliens had handled the Federation’s ships, hardly taking any damage in the process…

  It could have come from an intimate knowledge of Starfleet technology. And that knowledge could have come from Dikembe Ulelo, a man the first officer had seen a hundred times and never suspected of anything underhanded.

  No, he corrected himself, not a man. An alien disguised as one, as strange as that seemed.

  “This espionage,” the alien continued, “was part of a plan to conquer your Federation and take over its territories.”

  Tell me something I don’t know, thought Ben Zoma. “I hope you don’t think we’ll be as easy to take apart as those first few ships you encountered.”

  “We encountered no ships, nor did we take any apart,” Otholannin explained. “Those who did are members of a different D’prayl subspecies. Its leaders, who have long been known for their aggressive ways, were in power at the time.” He thrust his chin out. “But they are in power no longer.

  “My own subspecies has chosen not to continue the others’ plans. We have no desire to conquer your territories. However, we need to retrieve the one you call Ulelo, whom we know as Rethuin, as he is a kinsman of our highest leader, our First of Firsts.”

  It sounded like a strange choice for such a risky mission. The human said so.

  “My subspecies,” said Otholannin, “the one of which Rethuin is a member, is the one that resembles your own. So it had to be one of us who was planted among you. As for why Rethuin was conscripted…we still do not know. Maybe because the other subspecies wished to give offense to our First of Firsts.”

  “So your attacks on our ships…have been attempts to find and retrieve this Rethuin?”

  The First One confirmed it.

  “But why,” asked Ben Zoma, “didn’t you just ask?”

  Otholannin grunted. “Had we parlayed with you, we would have risked the possibility that you would have used Rethuin as a pawn against us.”

  “Is that what you would have done?”

  “Were our situations reversed,” said the D’prayl, “we would certainly have considered it.”

  Well, thought Ben Zoma, that’s honest.

  “You can call off the attacks,” he said. “If Ulelo is who and what you say he is, we can work out a peaceful way to restore him to you.”

  “It may be too late for that,” said Otholannin. “At this very moment, we are preparing to attack a large cluster of your ships. Until now, we have attempted to avoid fatalities. But in a battle of this magnitude, there is certain to be blood shed.”

  It wasn’t a boast, as far as Ben Zoma could tell. It was just the way Otholannin saw the situation.

/>   “There must be a way to prevent it,” he said.

  “We need to retrieve Rethuin,” the D’prayl replied.

  “I can take care of that,” Ben Zoma told him. At least, he added silently, I think I can. “But if I do, I need you to stop your people from proceeding with their attack.”

  The D’prayl frowned. “It is not my decision. It is for the First of Firsts to decide. But I warn you—he will only relent if he is absolutely certain that his kinsman will be placed in his hands.”

  “He will be,” said Ben Zoma. “I’ll see to it myself. But I’ll need a vessel of some kind, and some instructions on how to pilot it. And a few…supplies.”

  As Picard eyed the image on the viewscreen, he felt strangely compelled to sit back and laugh.

  With more than thirty ships at Sesballa’s disposal, the Starfleet defense formation had hoped to enjoy at least a numbers advantage when the enemy appeared. But Picard could see now that even that would be denied them.

  The invaders depicted on the screen were every bit as numerous as those lined up to oppose them. And of course, they hadn’t lost a single engagement yet.

  Hence, the compulsion to laugh—which, of course, the captain resisted. He didn’t want to spoil what little chance he had of bringing his crew through the battle alive.

  “Captain,” said Paxton, “Captain Sesballa would like to speak with you in your ready room.”

  No doubt, thought Picard, to prepare me for what is ahead. He wondered if Sesballa was contacting all his colleagues, or just the youngest one.

  “Inform him that I will be there in a moment,” he said, and made his way to his ready room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  PICARD STILL COULDN’T BELIEVE what Sesballa was telling him.

  “We don’t know where it came from,” the Rigelian said, his ruby eyes twinkling as he stared out at Picard from the monitor screen in the captain’s quarters, “but if it’s what it appears to be, we may be able to meet the aliens on an equal footing.”

  Picard understood his colleague’s excitement. The data gave them all kinds of insight into the aliens’ tactical systems—weapons, shields, thruster timing, all of it. It was impossible not to get excited about it.

  Of course, they couldn’t trust it entirely, given the anonymity of its source. But Simenon had already decided that it had the ring of authenticity, and no one knew more about engineering theory than he did.

  Besides, they didn’t have a great many other options.

  “Rest assured,” said Picard, “we will make the necessary adjustments.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said the Rigelian. “Sesballa out.”

  Picard sat back in his chair. Suddenly, he was feeling better about facing the invaders. A lot better.

  “Do you see her, sir?” asked Paris.

  Ben Zoma studied the bright, eye-shaped monitor in front of him, embedded in a console covered with serpentine reliefs. “How could I miss her?” he asked ironically.

  Unfortunately, the Stargazer was one of more than thirty starships amassed in front of them, more than the first officer had ever seen in one place. Under a different set of circumstances, he might have supposed that it was the enemy who was in for a beating.

  But not now. Not with what the D’prayl knew about Starfleet’s tactical systems.

  “No one’s fired yet,” said Paris. “Otherwise, there would be residue in the vacuum.”

  Ben Zoma nodded. “Good.”

  They were making their move in time. However, they still had a few small obstacles to overcome.

  First off, they were in a D’prayl scout vessel, which—as it bore down on the Starfleet formation—had to have the look of a ship on a very determined suicide run. And they couldn’t send a message to their comrades to disabuse them of that notion, because the D’prayl were jamming Starfleet communications.

  Worse, their borrowed ship’s shields and weapons were humming along at full power, an unavoidable consequence of the way the vessel was designed. So it would not only look hostile, it would prevent anyone from scanning it to see who was inside.

  On top of that, the scout ship had a remote self-destruct device—which Otholannin had said he would use in a heartbeat, if he even began to suspect that Ben Zoma might betray him. After all, the First One didn’t want his people’s tech secrets delivered to the Federation—not any more than the Federation had wanted its secrets delivered to the D’prayl.

  Of course, the odds were that Ben Zoma and Paris would be reduced to space dust by their colleagues long before Otholannin might be tempted to use his self-destruct option. However, the stakes were high enough that both Starfleet officers had been willing to take the risk.

  Besides, Ben Zoma had an idea.

  “We’re almost in weapons range,” said Paris.

  That was the first officer’s cue. Getting out of his seat, he made his way aft, where their cargo was waiting in the scout ship’s cramped little hold.

  It was a roll of the same flat, pale foodstuff that he and his team had discovered in the D’prayl supply vessel. As he wrestled it over to the scout’s hatch, which was about two meters tall and a bit more than two meters wide, he was forcefully reminded of how badly the stuff smelled.

  However, he had put up with it in the supply ship, knowing what it meant to the future of the Federation. And for the same reason, he would put up with it now.

  Carefully, Ben Zoma eased the roll to the floor. Then he swiveled it around a bit, lining it up until its long dimension was parallel with the hatch in the side of the vessel.

  Only when he was satisfied with its positioning did he stand up and press a bulkhead control, opening the hatch. Then he returned to his cargo and sent it rolling out into space.

  But he didn’t let it go all at once. He held onto one end, anchoring it as it began to unravel. Slowly, propelled by nothing except the momentum Ben Zoma had lent it, the length of foodstuff extended itself into the void.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing to stop the air in the ship from whistling out as well—a fact that was hardly conducive to the survival of the craft’s human occupants.

  Ben Zoma would have loved to be wearing his containment suit at a time like this. However, the D’prayl had destroyed all the stowaways’ suits in an expression of disdain, long before Ben Zoma and McAteer got a chance to speak with Otholannin.

  It was getting impossible to breathe, and cold too. But the first officer didn’t dare close the hatch for fear that the ribbon wouldn’t unravel all the way.

  Only when it had unfurled completely did he toss the rest of it away. It continued to move away from him, vaguely snakelike in appearance, an unexpected ripple against the stars. And as it undulated out there, it displayed something that he had written on it with a dark dye made of fruit juice. It wasn’t much, but he believed it would do the trick.

  If it was seen by the right person.

  Getting to his feet, Ben Zoma lurched for the hatch control and pushed it again. But there was hardly any air left in the cabin, and it was colder than any place he could remember.

  Groaning with the attempt to draw oxygen into his lungs, he dragged himself to the tiny port in the hatch and peered through it. The roll was still undulating, slowly and awkwardly, making its way through space.

  Ben Zoma bit his lip. A lot was riding on this stunt. He could only hope that his friend got the message in time.

  Picard was regarding the enemy, waiting for them to make a move, when he saw a single vessel break ranks and start to cover the distance between the fleets.

  “Scan her,” he told Gerda.

  The navigator shook her head. “I can’t, sir. Not without disabling her emitters.”

  Picard frowned. It wouldn’t take long, but they didn’t have the time. “Ready phasers.”

  “Phasers ready,” said Vigo.

  The vessel wasn’t very big—not nearly the size of the alien warships lined up against them. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t a threat.


  And Sesballa would see it the same way—the captain was certain of it. At any moment, the Rigelian would give the order to fire. This is it, Picard thought.

  “Captain…” said Gerda, her normally assured tone riddled with uncertainty.

  His curiosity piqued, he moved in the direction of her console. “What is it?”

  Gerda muttered something to herself, her face caught in the glare of her monitor. Then she turned to him and said, “There’s something coming out of her, sir.”

  “Something…?” the captain echoed.

  Gerda pored over her instruments. “It doesn’t appear to be a weapon. Or a probe.” She turned to Picard again, looking more confused than he had ever seen her. “It reads as something…organic.”

  “Magnify,” he said.

  A moment later, the image jumped a level of magnitude. But he still couldn’t make out what he was looking at.

  “Again,” he said.

  This time, the captain saw it clearly. It was a ribbon of something, long and flat and thin. And there were markings on it, too small for him to make out.

  “One more time,” he told Gerda.

  The image leaped at Picard again, looking close enough now for him to see what was written on the ribbon—and what he saw was shocking in its familiarity. A brief series of characters—two letters from the Standard alphabet, followed by a punctuation mark and a couple of Arabic numerals.

  CP ’32.

  What’s more, he knew what it meant. CP stood for Chateau Picard. It was printed on every bottle that came from the vineyard where the captain had grown up.

  And ’32? That was last year’s vintage—the best the vineyard had ever produced, if the reports from his mother were accurate. But, beside Picard himself, only one other individual was likely to know that.

  That was Ben Zoma, who had heard the captain make reference to the ’32 before he departed with Admiral McAteer. Obviously, Picard’s friend had a hand in this.