Seekers

by Dayton Ward

  “One of our communicators? Is it Tormog, or possibly a survivor?”

  Kyris shook her head. “I do not know, Captain.” She paused, studying information on one of her console’s smaller display screens that Kang could not see, before adding, “The transmission appears to have concluded.” Without waiting for further direction, she tapped several controls and the bridge’s intercom system flared to life with a low-pitched buzz that was normal background noise for a ship-to-surface frequency, followed by a feminine voice Kang did not recognize.

  “This message is for the people on the sky-ships above us,” it said, the words spoken in a deliberate, measured cadence that Kang took to be a product of the communications system’s universal translation protocols. “I don’t know where you’ve come from, what you want, or why you’ve involved us in whatever fight you seem to be waging. But know this: you are not welcome on Arethusa, either of you. My name is Nimur, and I rule this world. Tell your people, and anyone else who might be foolish enough to come here: if you trespass on our soil again, you will do so at your own peril. Because as of now, Arethusa, and every living thing that dwells upon it—including your stranded comrades—are now mine. This will be your only warning.”

  A sharp crackle echoed over the speakers and Kang turned to Kyris, who shook her head.

  “That’s the entire message, Captain. Shall I attempt to reestablish a connection?”

  Kang waved away the suggestion. “I suspect this Nimur will understand but one form of communication.” His first instinct was to order his weapons officer to target the source of the transmission and open fire, but movement near one of the sensor stations made him turn to see Mara leaning over the console, her attention fixed on a pair of computer displays.

  “I’m making sure to collect detailed scans of the altered forms,” she said, without looking up from her work. “The data may be useful later.”

  “Do so quickly,” Kang replied, his eyes once more fixed on the blue-green world on the viewscreen. Despite his orders to obtain Tomol specimens for study, he was beginning to wonder if the effort would prove more costly than any benefits the empire might realize. As he ­continued to contemplate releasing the full fury of the Voh’tahk’s ­weapons on the intemperate life-form who dared threaten him, Kang was struck by a new thought.

  “The transmission. Was it heard by the Endeavour?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Kyris replied. “They received it just as we did. If the other Starfleet ship on the surface survived its landing, it may have heard it as well.”

  Her report gave Kang pause. What might the Starfleet captain, Khatami, be thinking at this moment? In all likelihood, her thoughts mirrored his own.

  This situation has just become a great deal more ­complicated.

  2

  Captain Atish Khatami stood before the main viewscreen on the bridge of the U.S.S. Endeavour, arms folded across her chest as she studied the image of the brilliant emerald green world listed in Starfleet data banks simply as Nereus II, but what she now knew its indigenous population called Arethusa. Thanks to the starship’s current orbital path, the planet’s rings cut a diagonal swath across the image, painting a picture of unfettered serenity that Khatami on any other day would find beautiful.

  Today doesn’t look to be that day.

  “Alert the transporter room,” she said. “Tell them not to beam down the landing party, and get Lieutenant Klisiewicz back up here.” Her plan had been to dispatch a team led by the Endeavour’s senior science officer and second officer, Stephen Klisiewicz, to assist the crew of the U.S.S. Sagittarius with repairs to their ship, which had suffered severe damage following a battle with two Klingon vessels and a crash landing on an island near the planet’s primary landmass. That would have to wait, at least until she had time to consider this change to an already odd, rapidly evolving situation. “Where are we on defenses?”

  “Shields at maximum, Captain,” replied her Arcturian helm officer, Lieutenant Neelakanta. “All weapons armed and on standby. All hands have reported to battle stations.”

  The terse communication from the planet’s surface—ostensibly from one of Arethusa’s indigenous ­inhabitants—still rang in her mind. Who was this Nimur individual, and what power did she command that supported the threat just leveled against the Endeavour and any other vessel that dared to trespass on the planet below?

  I may have to throw out some warnings of my own.

  She turned from the viewscreen. “Mister Estrada, can you track the source of that transmission?”

  Seated at the communications console near the rear of the bridge, Lieutenant Hector Estrada inserted a slim, silver Feinberg receiver into his right ear, and the veteran officer’s brow furrowed as though he was dividing his attention between Khatami and the rush of information being fed to him. “It originated near the Klingon ship’s crash site, but I’m not picking up anything now. They’ve either deactivated or incapacitated the communicator.”

  “And we’re sure the message couldn’t have come from Kang’s ship?” asked Lieutenant Commander Katherine Stano, the Endeavour’s first officer. Seeing Khatami’s skeptical expression, she added, “We know they don’t want us here. Could they be trying to get rid of us without a fight?”

  It was an interesting possibility, but Khatami shook her head. “From what I know of Kang, he’s not one for subterfuge. When he’s ready for us to be gone, he’ll tell us himself, or he’ll just start shooting.” The D-7 battle cruiser had been waiting for them upon the Endeavour’s arrival and still lurked in nearby space, ready to unleash the full power of its arsenal at the slightest provocation, just as it had against the Sagittarius. The warship had already sent the Archer-class scout plummeting to the surface of Arethusa, and Khatami held no doubts that Kang was more than happy to visit a similar fate on the Endeavour.

  Focus, Captain, Khatami reminded herself. One potential act of war at a time, all right? Almost without thinking about it, she pulled on the hem of her green wraparound uniform tunic, feeling for some reason as though the garment was hugging her just a bit too tightly. Was it nervousness? She dismissed the thought, even as she caught herself about to rub her palms on her trousers.

  Okay, maybe it’s a little bit nervousness.

  “Iacovino,” she said, “can you tell me if there are any Klingon survivors at the crash site?”

  Working at the science station, Ensign Kayla Iacovino did not look up from the console’s hooded viewer, which was providing her data from the Endeavour’s sensors. “I’m picking up one Klingon reading, Captain, along with numerous other life-forms. One of those looks to have been tagged by a Klingon subspace transponder, and that signal’s coming through loud and clear.” Assigned to bridge duty while Klisiewicz headed up the landing party, the junior officer seemed to have wasted no time settling into what Khatami knew was a demanding role, given the present circumstances. With what appeared to be practiced ease, Iacovino moved her right hand from the viewer and across one bank of controls on the console, her fingers playing across the colored buttons as though possessed of their own will.

  “There’s definitely some similarity to the other Tomol life readings we scanned at the major population center, but these are different. They look to be in some kind of continual growth or flux.” For the first time, Iacovino pulled herself away from the viewer, and Khatami saw the uncertainty in the ensign’s eyes. “Whatever’s happening to them, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

  “Keep tracking that transponder,” Khatami said. “The Klingons obviously tagged that individual for a reason.”

  “Captain,” said Estrada, “we’re being hailed by Captain Terrell. Audio only.”

  Moving to her command chair, Khatami pressed the control on its right armrest to open its intercom channel. “Khatami here, Clark.”

  “Welcome to Arethusa,” replied the Sagittarius’s commanding officer, his vo
ice sounding small and distant as it piped through the bridge speakers, no doubt a consequence of the low-power frequency that was the best the Sagittarius’s damaged communications systems could manage. “And sorry about the reception waiting for you up there. Hope you haven’t been banged up too badly.”

  “Not yet, anyway,” Khatami replied. “If it’s any consolation, I wish I could trade places with you.”

  The sound of Terrell’s dry, tired chuckle drifted through the open frequency, and Khatami pictured the burly captain’s wide grin. “Okay, I’ll call that bluff.” After another laugh, he added, “Are you sending down that repair party? I have to tell you that we’re all pretty tired of looking at each other’s ugly faces down here.”

  “No serious injuries?”

  “Thankfully,” Terrell said. “Pretty much just bruises and lacerations, nothing we can’t deal with on our own, but the ship itself is in pretty bad shape. You know they’re going to bill me for the repairs.”

  Khatami smiled. “I’ll start a collection.” Clark Terrell was known for his easygoing demeanor even in the most stressful situations. To have survived the harrowing plunge from orbit and his ship’s near-catastrophic landing on the planet while maintaining his sense of humor was a testament to the captain’s character. “So, can you tell me what the hell this is all about? You were supposed to survey this planet, not get into a shooting match with two Klingon ships.”

  “It certainly wasn’t what we had in mind when we got here,” replied Terrell. “You’ve probably read the initial survey reports about this system. For the most part, that data’s correct, in that Arethusa’s native population is fairly primitive. They’re centuries away from reaching the technological thresholds for us to even consider first contact. That said, there’s definitely more going on down here than meets the eye.” He paused, then asked, “This frequency’s encrypted, right?”

  Khatami said, “Of course.”

  The sound of Terrell drawing a deep breath carried over the speakers before he said, “We’re still trying to figure out everything, but we think these people, the Tomol, once were controlled by the Shedai, and their ancestors were genetically altered for some unknown reason. The Tomol’s physiology is such that they evolve into something very different once they reach a certain age, maturity, or whatever.”

  “Some kind of metamorphosis?” Khatami asked.

  “You got it.”

  “What?” Stano said, scowling in disbelief. Then, as though realizing her words were loud enough to be picked up by the open comm frequency, she cleared her throat. “Captain Terrell, this is Lieutenant Commander Stano, Endeavour XO. You’re certain about this change the natives undergo?”

  “Like a heart attack,” Terrell replied. “A few of these things nearly tore our rover to shreds with my landing party inside it, and they’ve already shown they can morph at will into other life-forms to suit their environment, including maneuvering underwater.”

  “I’d call that being certain,” Khatami said. “Clark, what about those power readings we scanned as coming from somewhere beneath the main landmass? They’re not consistent with what we know of Shedai technology.”

  Terrell said, “Nope. You’re not going to believe this, but it’s coming from a Preserver artifact.”

  “Preservers?” Khatami repeated.

  Stano said, “Klisiewicz is going to love that.”

  “My landing party found it in an underground cavern not far from the Tomol village,” Terrell continued. “Based on their scans, it’s a near match for a similar object the Enterprise discovered last year.”

  Khatami recalled the report she had read months ago, submitted by the Enterprise’s science officer after that starship had surveyed a world that was uninhabited except for a small colony identified as representing several groups of early humans taken centuries ago from Earth’s North American continent and deposited by a mysterious ancient race known only as “the Preservers.” Little was known about the enigmatic and supposedly defunct civilization, believed to have been at one time a dominant force in the galaxy, which had made a practice of transplanting small segments of humanoid cultures from their home planets to other worlds, in many cases acting to safeguard those selected beings while the rest of their civilization faced extinction due to natural or other means. Such was the case with the humans on “Amerind,” as it had been named in Federation planetary databases.

  “You think the Tomol are another race rescued by the Preservers? A representative sample relocated in order to protect them from some unknown calamity affecting their home world, and this planet is another repository?”

  Terrell replied, “That’s our theory for the time being. However, while the Preservers seemed content to leave the people on that other planet alone to live in peace, there’s definitely something else in place here. The Tomol as a society observe a strict set of rituals with respect to their physiological changes. Once the change takes hold, they turn into wild, uncontrollable creatures. They’re a danger to everyone and everything around them. According to their ancient legends, while they were under Shedai rule, this affliction swept across their civilization and all but destroyed their home world.”

  “And we think the Shedai are responsible for that?” Khatami asked.

  “So far as we can tell from the research we were able to do before everything went to hell. The Tomol living here have a way of dealing with the problem, though. When they reach a certain age, and before the transformation can take hold, they sacrifice themselves as part of an elaborate ceremony.”

  Her eyes widening in disbelief, Stano asked, “They just kill themselves?”

  “Not just kill themselves,” said the Sagittarius captain. “They throw themselves into a giant fire pit, before this change can take place. That’s the way it’s been for as far back as they can remember. Every Tomol is conditioned from early childhood to understand and respect the laws and rituals. Only on rare occasions has someone flouted convention, but it’s just our luck that it had to happen while we were snooping around.”

  Crossing her arms, Khatami blew out her breath. “I think I see now why the Klingons are so interested in this planet.”

  “Exactly,” Terrell said. “They know about the Tomol, and this change they undergo. They obviously think it’s something they can reproduce or exploit in some other manner, and they were trying to capture specimens to take back to the empire for study.”

  Turning to the navigator’s station, where Lieutenant ­McCormack manned the console, Khatami asked, “Where’s that battle cruiser?”

  Consulting her instruments, the young navigator replied, “It’s assumed a geosynchronous orbit over the bird-of-prey crash site, Captain. Its weapons remain armed, but we’re not being targeted, and its sensors look to be trained on the surface.”

  “Any sign they might be looking to beam down, or beam something back to their ship?” The idea that Kang might attempt snatching hostages from the Sagittarius crew or even other members of the indigenous population had not moved far from her thoughts. Contrary to the supposed wisdom of older Starfleet officers with experience against the empire, Klingons could and would take prisoners if there was a tactical advantage to be ­exploited.

  McCormack shook her head. “Nothing so far, Captain. They seem happy enough to observe from orbit. For now, anyway.”

  Moving to stand beside Khatami, Stano asked, “Do you think Kang will try anything if we send down our landing party?”

  “Not if he’s smart,” the captain replied. Despite the warning she had given the Klingon commander with respect to consequences for any hostile acts, Khatami knew that Kang felt slighted not only by the Sagittarius’s attack on the bird-of-prey but also by her own attitude toward him during their last tense communication. He would not go quietly, and neither did Khatami expect him to sit idle while she and her people ventured to the surface.

  Khatami
returned her attention to the open communications channel. “Clark, you need to be aware that you might have other company down there. The Klingons are likely going to be sending a team to their ship’s crash site to retrieve survivors, but they might decide to hop over and pay you a visit.”

  Though she anticipated his concerns over this bit of news, Terrell’s reply was not at all what Khatami was expecting. “Wait. There are survivors? Are you sure? Klingons or Tomol?”

  Frowning at the odd question, Khatami said, “We picked up a single Klingon life reading, along with what looks to be about a dozen Tomol.” Then she realized a possible reason for Terrell’s confusion. “Wait, you didn’t hear Nimur’s message.”

  “Nimur?” Terrell was all but shouting now. “She’s still alive? Are you still scanning those life-forms? Do you know where they are?”

  Stano replied, “We’re tracking a Klingon transponder tagged to one of the Tomol survivors, and they’re still at the crash site.”

  “Listen to me, both of you. Target the wreckage and destroy whatever’s left, then lay a full phaser barrage on the location of that transponder. Do it right now.”

  Taken aback by her colleague’s blunt demand, Kha­tami leaned closer to her chair’s comm panel. “Clark, you’re talking about firing on members of the native population without cause.”

  “And firing on that Klingon ship won’t make Kang happy,” Stano added. “If we—”

  “Damn it!” Terrell barked. “Forget Kang. Whatever these things are, they’re extremely dangerous, and we can’t afford to let a single one of them off this planet. Why do you think we shot down that bird-of-prey? I thought they might die in the crash, but if they survived, then they may be even more powerful than we thought. For all I know, they can turn into something that can survive in space, but I’m not eager to find out. Look, I’ll explain everything later, and our sensor and tricorder data will back me up, but we don’t have time now for debate.”