Star Trek: The Next Generation - 114 - Cold Equations: The Body Electric

by David Mack

  A blur like a buzzsaw tore through Davila, spraying blood and bits of the man’s EVA suit far and wide. A sextet of mechanical arms, each tipped with talons, pulled Jutron to pieces. A black cloud descended upon Meidat and consumed him in a vicious flurry of nanocybernetic hunger. Hundreds of spikes shot up from the deck and pierced Obrecht from more angles than Giudice could count. Pinkman was three steps ahead of Giudice in his retreat until the deck retracted under his feet, and the chemist plunged into an endless pit of darkness, his cries of terror still crystal clear long after he had passed from sight.

  Then the deck vanished ahead of Giudice, and he spent a terrifying half second in free fall before he slammed against a rough edge. Slipping toward oblivion, he clawed for purchase but found none. He knew he had only seconds left. “Ally! Dust off! Now!”

  “What about the away—”

  “NOW! GO!”

  His fingers slipped across the blood-slicked metal for a fraction of a second, and then he saw the Machines converge upon him—blades, flames, spikes, and cloud, all moving as one. He let go, hoping to fall and deny them their torments. Then the steel whipcord around his middle tightened its hold and pulled him back up to meet his doom.

  * * *

  Ensign Ally Scagliotti had forged her reputation by wearing a brave face when she did dumb things, like daring other cadets to slalom races through debris clouds, but as she listened to the gruesome death-cries of the away team, her bravado faltered. In the face of bloody death and mindless slaughter, she froze. Her instructors had warned her about combat paralysis. Until now, she had laughed at the idea; suddenly, it was no longer funny.

  Giudice’s voice broke through the clamor of terror. “Ally! Dust off! Now!”

  The clarity of a direct order snapped her free of fear’s hold. “What about the away—”

  “NOW! GO!”

  Her hands reacted before she knew what she was doing: engaging thrusters, lifting off in reverse, putting as much distance between herself and the Machine’s core as she could. Ahead of her but shrinking fast, the away team flailed and writhed, then fell still. As her console confirmed the Cumberland was clear of the core’s main structure, she changed the ship’s heading in one smooth pivot and punched the impulse engines. Accelerating to even one-quarter impulse in such tight spaces was insanely dangerous, but she wanted out of the Machine.

  Hard turns came at her faster than she’d ever seen before, but adrenaline plus training carried her past one, then another. Then the path came to an end, and she slammed the ship to a halt. What the hell? Did I take a wrong turn?

  She checked the sensors. Her position was correct; the path ahead should have been clear. Then she noted readings of motion and shifting mass—and realized the Machine was altering its internal configuration to trap her inside. Oh, hell no. She swung the ship hard to starboard and accelerated. Have to find a new way out.

  High-energy interference scrambled her sensor readings, leaving her chasing shadows and echoes into one dead end after another. The faster the Machine closed off potential routes of escape, the faster Scagliotti flew the runabout and the more daring her maneuvers became. If only we hadn’t ripped the weapons out of this thing, I could almost blast my way through a few of these tight spots. She considered using the transporter to beam herself in an environmental suit out into the cloud beyond the Machine’s shell, but dismissed that as little better than suicide.

  Then she saw it—a sliver of space between two sections of the Machine’s outer shell. It was already scabbing over with mechanical tissue, weblike filaments of wire and carbon tubing, but there was enough space that she could imagine the runabout powering through it like a battering ram through a picket fence. There was no time to waste thinking it over. She raised the runabout’s shields, angled them all forward, and pushed the little ship to full impulse.

  Bright eruptions filled the crevasse ahead of the Cumberland, which rattled like a tin shack in a tornado as it smashed its way through random obstructions. The shield integrity gauge plummeted faster than Scagliotti had ever thought possible. Then came a final bone-rattling jolt of collision and a thunderous roar. The helm console stuttered into darkness as the runabout broke free and tumbled in a wild rolling spin through the lightning-laced nebula.

  Smoke filled the cockpit, and she heard the hiss of escaping air. She snatched her helmet from the empty seat next to her, slammed it on, and fastened its seals as quickly as her gloved hands could work the clasps. The HUD engaged, rendering the dark cockpit in frost-blue night-vision. She tried to link her helmet’s transceiver with the runabout’s onboard systems, only to find the ship was adrift and its main computer was off line. Great.

  She switched her transceiver to the Starfleet general frequency and triggered her suit’s emergency rescue beacon. Assuming this thing can get a signal through the nebula, a rescue team should be here to get me in less than an hour.

  A fork of blue lightning slashed through the clouds and stabbed at the runabout, whiting out Scagliotti’s HUD. Instrument panels above her seat burst apart and showered her with sparks, which she swatted away. When her HUD returned to normal, she stared with wide eyes at the smoldering scar the bolt had cut across the Cumberland’s nose.

  I just hope I’m still here in an hour.

  * * *

  Šmrhová reported, “I have a lock on Ensign Scagliotti’s emergency beacon, Captain.”

  Picard didn’t need his security chief to fill in the unspoken details. That the beacon was being transmitted by the pilot’s EVA suit rather than the runabout itself was a dire signifier. Adding to his black mood was the obvious fact that the away team’s strike had not gone off on schedule. He knew it by intuition alone: the mission had gone grotesquely wrong.

  “Helm, take us back to our previous coordinates, two AU from the Machine. Number One, as soon as we’re in position, launch the rescue teams.”

  Faur laid in the course. “Aye, sir.”

  Worf opened an intraship channel from his panel. “Bridge to shuttlebay. Rescue teams, prepare for departure. Shuttle control, stand by to launch shuttles Mendel and Riess.” He switched to a second channel. “Bridge to sickbay. Prepare to receive wounded.” He closed the channel, caught Picard’s eye, and directed his attention with a glance toward Šmrhová.

  The security chief’s expression was bitter and her eyes downcast. Picard recognized the look; it was one that had darkened his own countenance as a young officer, and the face of nearly every officer who had ever served under his command during times of battle.

  He left his post and discreetly sidled over to the thirtyish woman. “Lieutenant?” When she looked up, he ushered her away from her station to an unoccupied corner of the auxiliary control center. It wasn’t nearly as private as his ready room would have been, but it would have to suffice. He lowered his voice. “Are you all right?”

  “I . . . I just . . .” She struggled to find words but came up with pained silence.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “It was a solid plan, and the best option we had.”

  She shut her eyes and closed her hands into fists. “They trusted us.” Then she looked at him with guilty rage in her eyes. “And we got them killed.”

  “It’s always hard to lose people in the line of duty. And it’s human nature to second-guess ourselves when it happens. But there’s too much at stake for us to give in to doubt.” He found it hard to tell if he was getting through to her. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  A grudging nod. “Yes, sir.” As he watched, she expunged all traces of emotion from her bearing. After a long, calming breath, she was able to look him in the eye. “I’ll be okay, sir.”

  He found her ability to control her emotions both admirable and a bit unnerving. For the moment, however, he accepted it for the gift it was. “Very well. Return to your post.”

  Šmrhová walked back to the security console, and Picard returned to Worf’s side. The first officer acknowledged his return with a sim
ple report. “Ten minutes to launch range.”

  “Thank you, Number—”

  “Something’s happening!” shouted Dygan. He magnified the image of the Machine on the viewscreen. The dark sphere crackled with energy, and flashes of lightning inside its nebula increased in frequency and ferocity. “A sudden rise in energy output from the Machine!”

  Picard tensed with grim anticipation. “A response to our attack?”

  “If so, we should retreat,” Worf said. “We are still without shields.”

  “Running won’t make any difference,” Picard said. “The Machine can snatch stars from across the galaxy. If it wants to retaliate against us, I doubt there’s anywhere we could hide.”

  Dygan’s voice pitched upward with alarm. “It’s emitting a subspace distortion field!”

  “All hands to battle stations,” Worf bellowed.

  A massive, rippling disruption impaired the Enterprise’s view of the Machine. Picard imagined an invisible hand of energy seizing his crippled ship like a toy and flinging it into the grip of the black hole. For a moment, he thought of ordering all nonessential personnel to the lifeboats, in case he had to give the order to abandon ship, but then he dismissed the notion. What would be the point of launching the lifeboats when they would have no chance of ever reaching a safe landing site or being recovered by another starship? No, if the hour had come at last for them to fall, they would all go down together.

  The distortion blazed brightly enough to blanch the viewscreen for more than a second. When the blinding glow faded, he saw that the Machine had opened yet another wormhole, the largest one he and his crew had seen so far. Moments later, a red giant shot from its mouth like a shell from a cannon, and the dull crimson orb plunged into Abbadon’s merciless fires. Brilliant pulses of light, which Picard knew were billions of times brighter than their filtered approximation on the viewscreen, blotted out the darkness of space for half a minute as the singularity’s accretion disk ripped the star into burning streaks millions of kilometers long.

  A host of planets followed the red star into oblivion, but their deaths provided only fractions of the spectacle generated by the obliteration of their parent.

  “Stand down,” Picard said, satisfied for the moment that the Machine’s actions, as before, had nothing to do with his ship. “Helm, stay on course to the launch coordinates. Glinn Dygan, I want our pilot back aboard as soon as possible. Prioritize all resources necessary for the rescue.”

  Faur and Dygan’s replies of “Aye, sir” overlapped as they continued working.

  Worf glared at the mechanical terror on the viewscreen. “So . . . we try to destroy it, and it ignores us. I do not know whether to feel relieved or insulted.”

  “I’d call it a cause for worry, Number One. If our attack isn’t enough to merit a response, then it must think even less of us than we’d realized.”

  The Klingon sighed. “If only we knew where Data was.”

  Picard was about to comment on how much that sentiment sounded like a wish when the notion sparked a memory from long ago. He looked at Worf and smiled.

  “I think I know how to find him.”

  15

  To push a button seemed like the simplest thing in the world, but T’Ryssa Chen stood frozen in front of the door to Taurik’s quarters, her finger poised in front of his visitor signal. Just press it, she told herself, but her hand refused to obey. Her mind was too busy trying in vain to visualize the moments that would come afterward. What will I say to him? How do I do this? Where do I start? All she had were questions without answers, wrapped in anxieties about the unknown.

  The door opened. She pulled back her hand as if she’d been burned.

  Taurik looked confused to see her. “T’Ryssa?”

  “That’s me,” she said a bit too brightly for her own liking. She was overcompensating, something she had promised herself she wouldn’t do. Deflecting her own awkward feelings, she pivoted as if to move from his path. “On your way out?”

  His apparent suspicion deepened. “No, I was preparing to sleep for a few hours.”

  It was her turn to be perplexed. “Then why were you . . . ?”

  “I heard footsteps stop outside my door. When they did not resume, I wondered if someone was there.” He arched one steep eyebrow. “And here you are.”

  A nervous smile. “Here I am.” Dammit, what am I doing?

  He took a small step to one side. “Do you wish to come in?”

  “Yes,” she said, moving past him in quick strides, lest she lose her nerve.

  His quarters, like those of many Vulcan officers, were dimmer, warmer, and more arid than standard crew accommodations aboard a Federation starship. The gravity, however, had been left at Earth-normal, though she didn’t know if that was Taurik’s preference or a limitation of the ship’s environmental system. There were few decorations, and its furnishings were sparse. If there was a guiding aesthetic to Taurik’s personal spaces, it was simplicity. His only obvious concession to sentimentality was a single holographic portrait displayed on a shelf in the main room; it depicted his mate, L’Del, and young daughter, Talys, both of whom had perished three years earlier in the Borg attack on the Vulcan capital city of ShiKahr. Aside from that, the room was devoid of personal touches. No artwork, no instruments, no evidence of hobbies. If his name and rank hadn’t been posted on the sign beside his door, Chen might have thought these compartments unoccupied.

  He gestured to the sofa. “Please, sit.” As she settled onto the standard-issue couch, he sat down in a chair facing her. No sooner had his butt touched the cushion when he started to stand up again. “I apologize. I forgot to offer you a beverage.”

  She waved him back down. “It’s all right, I’m not thirsty, really.” She took a long breath, stalling for time to collect her thoughts. Finally, she said, “We need to talk.” The banality of the expression was almost enough to make her wince, but she kept a straight face.

  “What do you feel we need to discuss?”

  “Well, it’s about . . . I mean, I’ve been thinking—well, feeling, actually—that we . . . that we just aren’t working out the way I’d hoped.”

  A small frown looked out of place on his Vulcan face. “I do not understand.”

  Probably because I have no idea what the hell I’m saying. “Taurik, you’re a wonderful guy. Very thoughtful”—she wondered for half a second if that counted as a lie, then added—“in your way. But lately I’ve been feeling like you . . . well, that you’re just not interested in me.”

  Surprise animated his features. “Quite the contrary. I continue to find you a most intriguing individual. I did not realize my enjoyment of our conversations was so one-sided.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. Our talks have been great, really.” Why the hell do I sound like I’m apologizing to him? She struggled to focus. “But almost all we’ve done is talk. Whenever I’ve tried to move things in a more . . . physical direction, I feel like you shut down.”

  As if she’d uttered a self-fulfilling prophecy, his demeanor chilled. He folded his hands on his lap and looked at her as if she were a lab experiment. “Could you be a bit more precise?”

  “Remember a few nights ago? When we were having dinner with Geordi and Tamala?”

  “I have full recall of our evening with Commander La Forge and Doctor Harstad.”

  “Then you remember the look you gave me when I tried to hold your hand.”

  A half-shrug. “As I did not have a view of my own reflection, I cannot say I recall my own expression, as I did not in fact witness it.”

  She wanted to throttle him, but she wrestled her temper into another momentary submission. “Let me rephrase. Do you recall how you reacted when I took your hand?”

  “Yes. Is that to be the subject of our discussion?”

  “More of a catalyst,” Chen said. “That, and a dozen other moments like it, have led me to wonder if we speak the same language.”

  “I believe we are bot
h conversing in—”

  “I’m speaking figuratively, and you know it. But the point is, I’ve been trying to steer us toward a more physically oriented relationship, and I feel like all I get from you is resistance.”

  He frowned. “Such overt displays of affection are discouraged in Vulcan culture.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Were you aware of it when you initiated our private social interactions?”

  It sounded like a rhetorical question but felt like a verbal trap. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Then why are you now surprised to find that I disdain such public gestures?”

  She recoiled. “What the hell is this? A cross-examination?” She got up from the sofa, as if being on her feet would make her less of an easy target for his damnable logic. “Okay, look. I know what I came here to say, and this is it: I think we should see other people.”

  His reaction was the very essence of blasé. “If I might seek a point of clarification: Does your suggestion mean that you wish us to revert to a nonromantic and less intimate mode of friendship, and in the future seek out such assignations with other individuals?”

  “I guess that pretty much sums it up.”

  “Very well.” He nodded politely, stood, and raised his hand in a Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, T’Ryssa, daughter of Sylix and Antigone.”

  “No, no, no!” She cursed him for his endless reserve of cold courtesy. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Aren’t you even gonna try to talk me out of it?”

  “Why should I wish to do so? You have already stated your desires quite clearly. The most logical and respectful course of action is to honor your request in good faith.”

  She pushed her fingers through her hair while fighting the urge to tear out locks of it in frustrated rage. “For the love of God, you can be clueless!”

  “My apologies again. Do you still wish me to try to dissuade you from this action?”

  Her exasperated sigh became a growl of rage as she headed for the door. “Never mind.”

  He said nothing more as she made her exit, leaving her to stew in her own thwarted desire for closure and catharsis. First he botches the relationship, then he mangles the breakup, she fumed. And I thought dating girls was a headache.