Star Trek: ALL - Seven Deadly Sins

by Dayton Ward

  “The programmers who did the latest iteration of LCARS left behind a security exploit that Starfleet doesn’t know about,” Locarno continued, entering a complex combination of passwords and authentication codes. “If you know where to look, you can use it as a back door into the system.”

  “How did you know about it?”

  “I was on the team that designed it.” He finished the last entry, which unlocked the screen and prompted a welcome message from Norfolk’s library computer. “And that is how we take care of business.”

  “What now?”

  “We keep LCARS busy while we find a port into the wider system.” Locarno snaked around the layers of code that poured through the display, navigating the routing pathways so quickly that Reed could barely keep up—until he found a tiny opening and zeroed in on it. “That’s what we need,” he said, taking a deep breath before going any further. “It’s a straight shot from here into the main computer core—and all their mission data.”

  “Can you make it through?”

  “Sure—at least until the automated countermeasures kick in.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “About eight seconds.”

  Reed grimaced. “What’ll they do once they figure out they’ve been hacked?”

  “They’ll probably let their phasers do the talking,” Locarno said. “Look on the bright side—at least you won’t have to pay my bill.”

  With that, he plunged into the core. A flood of kiloquads immediately filled the pipeline—every scrap of information that Norfolk had gathered during her flyby of the Korso Spanse. Images and impressions flashed before Reed on the small display, nearly overwhelming Celtic’s computer as it tried to keep up with the flow. Her heart pounded faster and faster with each passing second, slowing time until it seemed as if their presence in enemy territory might never be detected; but then the console burst open in a torrent of error messages, a chain reaction that kept building until the display cut out—except for the subspace tether that connected Celtic with her Federation captor.

  “He’s breaking off communications!” Massey shouted. Reed looked up at the viewscreen and saw that Norfolk was on the move, taking a position on their flank. “Assuming attack posture, Captain!”

  Locarno flipped open a cap on his mystery device and rammed the button underneath.

  The engineering console lit up again, processing a burst of energy that forced itself into the collapsing subspace channel. The effect was instantaneous, overloading the console and then causing a cascade of failures. The overhead lights dimmed as every panel went crazy, filling the spaces between the darkness with dizzying strobes. A dozen alarms sounded all at once, pulling the crew in different directions as they scrambled to get control of their stations.

  Reed shoved Locarno out of the way, taking over the engineering station. She reached for the emergency override, but before she could mash down on the hard switch, the console rebooted itself. Reed froze out of sheer astonishment, as one by one the other stations did the same. The alarms that signaled imminent disaster fell silent, the bridge returning to its normal pulse of operations.

  What the hell?

  Recovering herself, Reed flipped through a quick series of status indicators. Everything came back nominal, as though nothing had happened. “All systems are green, Skipper,” she said in utter disbelief. “Maybe if we can focus engine power on their tractor beam, we can—”

  But no one else was paying attention.

  Their eyes were cemented on the viewscreen, where they expected to see their doom coming at them in a barrage of photon torpedoes. Instead, Norfolk appeared to be drifting, her kill strike thwarted, her hold on Celtic gone.

  Walsh looked back at tactical. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Massey replied, checking her own panel. “Norfolk’s shields are down. So are weapons.”

  “Picking up only residual impulse traces,” Thayer added. “Sub-light propulsion is down, Skipper—warp drive, too. Looks like they’re maneuvering on thrusters.”

  Bright chemical plumes erupted from Norfolk’s reaction control vents, pushing the starship away at a painfully slow speed. She tried to put distance between herself and Celtic, not caring which direction she went—on the run, because she was helpless do anything else.

  “Reacquiring target,” Massey said, an adrenaline edge in her voice. “Phasers are locked and ready to fire.”

  “Not so fast,” Walsh cautioned. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.”

  “We have a shot, Skipper!” Massey protested. “We need to take them out while we still have the chance!”

  “I said, stand down.”

  Massey, eager for blood, wasn’t so easily persuaded. She remained poised for a fight, her breath coming hard and fast—but gradually, under a withering stare from Walsh, she took her hands off the fire control. The captain then made his way back over to Locarno, his expression somewhere between gratitude and fury.

  “What was that?”

  “A subspace pulse generator,” Locarno said. “I fed it directly into their computer core—wiped everything clean, paralyzing their systems.”

  Walsh sighed. “You could have told me that in advance.”

  “I wasn’t sure it would work.”

  Walsh shook his head, but managed to come up with a brief smile.

  “Did you get what we needed?”

  “It’s all in Celtic’s core,” Locarno assured him. “The way I figure, the Feds will need two full days to restore everything from backup—and with only sub-light communications, it’ll be at least that long before anybody can hear them calling for help this far out.”

  Reed had to respect the sheer audacity of it. Locarno had thought of everything.

  “Forty-eight hours at Korso, Skipper,” he finished. “All the time in the world.”

  “Then we better not waste any more of it here,” Walsh said, returning to his command chair. “Mister Thayer, plot a course for the Castis system. Tell engineering that I’ll need every last scrap of warp power at our disposal.”

  Locarno took that as his cue, and started to head out.

  “Not so fast, Nicky,” Walsh interrupted.

  Locarno stopped, looking over his shoulder at the captain.

  “Somebody has to work that data,” Walsh said. “I need you.”

  Locarno blinked in surprise, caught momentarily off guard. “Your people are good, Skipper,” he said, motioning toward Reed. “They can handle it.”

  “Not as fast as you,” Walsh replied, then nodded at Reed. She knew exactly what the captain wanted. Leaning over the engineering panel, she called up the emergency release for Celtic’s docking clamps. Locarno caught on to what Reed was doing, and made a dash to stop her, but by then it was too late.

  A loud thump reverberated through the deck as Reed cut Locarno’s shuttle loose. He could only stand there as his one means of escape floated away.

  Reed was deadpan. “Must’ve taken a hit during the attack.”

  “Must have,” Locarno agreed, not hiding his admiration of her technique. Both of them looked out across the bridge and watched the crew resume their normal duties, while the specter of Norfolk’s hull receded into the distance. The void then started to shimmer, stars elongating into dazzling streaks as Celtic made the jump to warp speed, time and space compressed on a relativistic curve. “You guys play a pretty good game. This should be interesting, to say the least.”

  “Is that the way you see it?” Reed asked. “As a game?”

  “Everything’s a game, Jenna.”

  The way Locarno spoke her name gave her pause, if only because she liked hearing it—a dangerous precedent, considering who he was. “And what part do you play?”

  “The same one as always,” he said, staring down the horizon. “I’m just a guy along for the ride.”

  Rendezvous

  Jenna Reed felt the Spanse before she ever saw it, opening as a wide circle of nothing around her
—a sudden dearth of the sensory input she took for granted in the confines of a small ship. She knew her crewmates felt the same thing, a kind of animal intuition that could express itself only in unfocused agitation, though nobody dared speak of it openly for fear of making it that much more real. Instead, they just carried on as if holding their breath—moving in slow motion against a palpable dread, seeking out but finding no solace in the company of others.

  Walking down the corridor from engineering, Reed quickened her pace, not wanting to spend too much time among those faces that now looked to her for reassurance. She did her best not to make eye contact with anyone, acknowledging those she passed with a simple nod and trying to make herself look busy—purposeful, as the captain liked to put it—as if she were part of some greater plan that the rank and file had yet to discern.

  In truth, however, Reed didn’t know much more than they did. She had spent the last six hours helping Nick Locarno sift through all the intercept data, but neither of them had even come close to nailing down any specifics. Norfolk hadn’t done much better than the Bolians in identifying the phantom signal, although they had been able to get a broad fix on its location—a region near the dead center of the Korso Spanse, choked by swaths of gaseous terminium.

  With nothing more definitive to go on, Celtic had simply plunged into the cloud on the most likely bearing Reed could find. The metallic gases, however, reduced sensors to an effective range of less than a hundred kilometers, so they were practically blind, given the vastness of the search area and the small size of the target. The ship could do little more than plow back and forth, overlapping her path, covering as much territory as possible before the clock ran out. Under those circumstances, the chances of actually finding anything amounted to little more than the wildest stroke of luck.

  Still, given where they were and what they were doing, Reed couldn’t help but think that it might be luckier if they found nothing at all.

  “First mate, this is the bridge. Acknowledge.”

  It was the captain’s voice that beckoned her from the intercom. Reed went over and pushed the button to answer.

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  “Jenna, you better get up here—and make it fast.”

  The ominous tone gave nearby crewmen pause. They stopped long enough to let her know they heard before moving on.

  “I’m on my way up.”

  The array of patterns outside the ship was beautiful but menacing. Tendrils of energy carved intricate paths through shimmering clouds, forming a complex latticework that burst into existence one moment and then collapsed the next. What struck Reed the most when she walked onto the bridge was the unnatural silence that accompanied the show—like powerful thunder that hid behind distant lightning, masking the full force of an approaching storm. It held most of the bridge crew in thrall, the same as it did Reed, as all of them searched for patterns amid the chaos.

  Because something was out there.

  The proof of it flashed on Rayna Massey’s tactical display, as sensors tried to coalesce around an object buried deep within the cloud. The contact would just start to take shape, assuming the smooth, engineered contours of intelligent design, before retreating back into the ether. It teased everyone with random flickers, so much that Reed wondered if the thing was even real—until it revealed itself again, stronger and closer than before.

  “I’ve got a definite fix,” Massey said, her eyes darting between the graphic on her screen and the main viewer. “Bearing seven-two-seven, mark three.”

  “We should be right on top of it, Skipper,” Chris Thayer confirmed from ops.

  “All stop,” Walsh ordered, his face impassive. Nick Locarno stood nearby, his presence on the bridge conspicuous, though he remained quiet as the captain called the shots. “Mister Harlow, any changes in the contact?”

  “Negative,” the ship’s engineer replied. Tristan Harlow remained on his feet, leaning over his console as he searched through the dizzying array of energy patterns emanating from the cloud. “No changes in aspect ratio, or any disturbances to indicate active propulsion. Whatever’s out there, it’s dead in the water.”

  Walsh turned back to tactical. “Defensive posture?”

  “No shields or weapons lock,” Massey said. “But we don’t have them either. Too much interference in the surrounding area.”

  “Pay your money, take your chances,” Walsh muttered, as Reed slipped in next to the command chair. She gave the captain an affirming nod, which he returned with a wry smile. “Z-axis thrusters, Mister Thayer. Minus three hundred meters.”

  Thayer nudged Celtic downward, a slow push marked by a quickening series of pings from tactical. In those moments, Reed felt her heartbeat move in perfect synchronicity with that sound, as if it had become the pulse of the entire ship. She leaned into the viewscreen and the mists that buried the heart of Korso, eagerly anticipating a revelation as that ghostly fog lifted.

  Locarno ambled in next to her, brushing an arm against hers as he did the same thing, his expression transfixed. In a space packed with other human beings, his was the only presence Reed felt—and then just barely. Everyone was beyond the confines, out there in the eddies and currents of the Spanse, each wanting to be the first to see what had brought them to the most frigid regions of space.

  And, like the sins of old, it manifested itself to them.

  It arose, a leviathan coming up from the depths, lumbering into view as Celtic descended upon its motionless mass. They dropped in so close that the object quickly filled the entire screen, the details of its surface little more than a blur in the strange haze of volatile gases that enveloped it. Even so, the shapes and lines exuded a strong familiarity to Reed—a feeling mirrored in Locarno’s reaction, which turned ashen with realization.

  “Reduce mag on viewer,” Walsh said.

  “We’re already at one-to-one,” Thayer replied. “This is real size.”

  “Christ, she’s big,” the captain whispered.

  “Trying to get a configuration on her now,” Harlow added. “Sensors are still giving us problems, Skipper. It’s nearly impossible to get a consistent reading through all that terminium.”

  “Then give us some distance,” Walsh said to Thayer. “Let’s see what we’re looking at.”

  With a command from ops, Celtic’s thrusters pushed her away from the object. As its massive dimensions receded, more of its overall design became apparent—and the déjá vu of its initial appearance gave way to a stunning confirmation. Reed followed its structure from bow to stern, starting with an enormous round spaceframe that tapered into an obvious saucer section. That primary hull was mounted on a smaller ventral secondary, which had two elongated engine nacelles that flanked its entire length—a tight, compacted structure topped off by a large weapons pod. The ship listed sharply from Celtic’s point of view, making it impossible to spy her markings from this angle, but of one fact there was no doubt.

  This was a Federation starship.

  “It’s a Nebula class,” Locarno announced, his features rigid as he recited the vessel’s specifications from memory. “Better than four hundred meters long, three hundred meters at the beam. Seven hundred and fifty officers and crew.”

  Reed blinked at him in surprise. “A hobby of yours?”

  “Once upon a time,” Locarno replied, his eyes drifting back to his study of the ship. She was upturned from Celtic’s relative position, which gave an even greater impression of a derelict, her running lights as dark as the viewports that looked in on her lifeless decks. Thayer slowly rolled Celtic over until the two ships matched orientation, then assumed a parallel position on her starboard. Electrical discharges enshrouded the larger vessel in eerie backlight, concealing all but her most obvious features. “What are you doing all the way out here, my friend?”

  “Looks like she’s dead,” Massey said, reading off her panel. “No active power output, no residual energies—just that intermittent signal the Feds picked up.”

  “
Can you isolate it?” Walsh asked.

  Massey piped it in over the speaker. In between bursts of static, a pattern emerged, like some kind of alien Morse code, though nothing like Reed had ever heard.

  “What is that?” she asked. “A distress call?”

  Locarno shook his head. “It’s a seeker signal—a generic broadcast trying to establish a link between computer systems.”

  “Is that standard for a Nebula?”

  “No,” Locarno said, his tone latent with suspicion. “Not for any Federation ship.”

  A grave concern washed over the captain’s face, though he showed no signs of backing off. “Mister Harlow, what’s her condition?”

  “Intact, as far as I can tell,” the engineer replied. He frowned curiously as some of the readings finally began to appear on his screen, profiles that he compared against schematics for that vessel class. “Some alterations to her structure, though.”

  Walsh got up to take a closer look, with Reed and Locarno in tow.

  “Right there,” Harlow explained, running a finger along the starboard nacelle. “The support pylons have been reinforced, probably for improved warp dynamics. And here,” he continued, pointing at the weapons pod mated to the aft section of the primary hull. “The module should be housing a torpedo stack or phaser array, but that looks more like a large, single emitter.”

  “Maybe she’s experimental,” Reed suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” Locarno said, turned toward Walsh. “I know Starfleet designs, Skipper. This doesn’t look like anything on their drawing boards.”

  “She’s obviously undergone a major refit,” Reed persisted. “How else can you explain the modifications?”

  “I can’t,” Locarno admitted. “All I know is that they weren’t done at any Federation shipyards.”

  Walsh took it all in, then returned to his command chair. He stared at the viewscreen for a few moments, as Celtic passed into the shadow of the larger vessel, taking an even breath while he decided what to make of her.